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Your life was complete and utter shit. You were poor before, yes, but you still had respect for yourself and a moral code that you tried to uphold. Now, you were nothing but a government prop at best and a walking fleshlight at worst.
You had always hated Supes. Sure, maybe as a kid you had a slight crush on Drummer Boy, but as far as you were concerned, it was just plain creepy that superhuman freaks were uplifted and idolized by greater society. It seemed, in your eyes, an atrocity against God. Blasphemy in the flesh, decorated in capes, stripes, and armor. Even now, you still held your beliefs: Supes were strange.
Especially your husband, The Deep, or Kevin, as you strictly referred to him as.
Seeing his stupid, perfect face on magazine covers and those terrible commercials made you cringe. Everything about him disgusted you. His polished smile—veneers, by the way—his overly sharp jaw, and those evil, beady eyes meant to look "approachable." Vought had spent millions trying to rebrand him in the public's eye after a sexual scandal involving an aquatic animal of sorts. It took a lot of work to transform his image from beastiality craving pervert to lovable scamp, but thanks to you, they made it work.
Who knew all he needed was a wife? A pregnant one, at that. You were the perfect fresh start, a redemption arc. God, the thought made you sick, but what were you to do? A poor, struggling woman in a big city with nothing but your good looks and a hunger for better to your name?
You weren't chosen specifically, really. You were needed and you were found, and that was the end of it. When Vought fat-cats handed Kevin a folder labeled "Relatable Family Image," he had the city searched for someone desperate but still fuckable.
Did you want to say yes? Obviously not. Life with Kevin was as close to hell as a living person could get, but now you had a lovely penthouse, filled with expensive furniture, jewelry, and enough money to physically burn without worry.
You hated yourself for how quickly your desire for survival and comfort overpowered your dignity, but hey, a girl has to eat, doesn't she?
Every day with him, though, reminded of you why you so dearly hated Supes. They were arrogant, narcissistic, self-absorbed, impatient, overgrown toddlers with super strength. They were far from Gods. Just demons wearing designer cologne and despite how much you hated your husband, you knew he was far from the worst of them.
-
Your were beyond irritated at this point. Kevin had left his phone at home, again. You noticed it as soon as you walked into the kitchen, his homescreen was impossible to miss. Some selfie he took at the beach, trying to look sexy. What a narcissist.
Normally, it would be fine. He quite was busy at work anyways, usually never having time to be on it. Today, though, he had called you about twenty times from some poor intern's phone, each voicemail growing concerningly more impatient and angry. Something about important classified information and "secret Seven business." The fact that he thought you gave enough of a fuck to want and explanation nearly made you snort.
Either way, you found yourself nearly eight months pregnant, exhausted, and sitting in the back of a Vought-issued SUV, glaring out the tinted windows in jealousy of the simple passers-by. Not to mention your poor swollen feet! You promised yourself that once you had this baby, you would set the whole city on fire in honor of pregnant women everywhere.
Once you arrived at the Vought Tower, you were faced with twenty excruciating minutes of questioning by security personnel that looked at you like a convicted terrorist.
"Identification."
You slid your I.D. over, wincing at the last name that stared back at you from the shiny little card. Moskowitz. Mrs. Moskowitz. Honestly, you wished one of the guards would have just shot you where you stood. It would have been better than being Mrs. "The Deep."
"Purpose of visit?"
You sighed and held up the cellphone. "Just bringing my husband his phone."
The guard looked at another, then nodded. They ran you through a few metal detectors and screenings before escorting you to a large elevator. You rode your way up to the ninety-ninth floor, feeling like you had just escaped some type of work camp.
There security was nearly suffocating. There went your dream of someone coming to assassinate your dumbass husband. They'd never make it past the lobby, damn it.
-
You knocked on the thick, tall door hesitantly, almost afraid that the wood might swallow you whole if you got too close. "Kevin, honey," you called, tasting grime left behind by the disingenuous nickname, "are you in there? You had left your phone at home, so I brought it for you."
The second the door opened, all conversation stopped right in its tracks. You tightened your grip on Kevin's forgotten phone. The room somehow felt colder than the rest of Vought Tower. Every member of The Seven looked mildly irritated to find a civilian standing in the doorway.
None more than your husband. Homelander was a close second, though. Eyes slightly twitching at the sound of the door creaking open. His fist clenched slightly, jaw growing tight, until his gaze shifted downwards towards your stomach. Interesting.
"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something—?"
Kevin's face twisted. "What are you doing in here?"
You swallowed back an eye-roll. You hated him, but you would never embarrass him at work. "You told me to bring it to you." You held the phone up. "Don't you need it?"
Kevin crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "I obviously meant leave it at the front desk. Seven meetings are strictly confidential."
Several members of The Seven looked away awkwardly. You weren't surprised; Kevin loved an audience, especially when Homelander was watching. Anything to impress him.
"Just leave it, and go home. There's no room for a civilian here, alright?"
You knew him far too well, could read all of your precious Kevin's signs. He wasn't talking to you, he was performing and trying to get a laugh. Trying to prove he wasn't whipped, to prove he was still one of the guys, one of The Seven, and not some married pansy whose entire image was being rehabilitated through forced family branding.
Heat rose to your cheeks, anger flooding your mind. Not a hint of gratitude, not a speck! If you did not have so much restraint, you would have snapped his phone in half and hurled it at him, but you were smarter than that. Just barely.
You opened your mouth to speak, but another voice cut you off.
"Enough," Homelander said. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. The energy of the room obeyed him, which was helpful, but Jesus, it was off putting.
"Homelander, I—"
"I know what you're doing. Enough." He leaned back in his chair, expression shifting slightly. He looked at you again. You wished it was a look of anger or disgust, but it was worse. It was intrigue.
It made your skin crawl.
"You know," he said, looking back at your husband, "most men would be grateful."
Kevin blinked, absolutely dumbfounded. "What?"
"A gorgeous, pregnant wife kind enough to drive across the city to hand deliver something you stupidly forgot."
The room remained deathly silent.
"And you're yelling at her in front of everyone, right?" Homelander tilted his head. "Right?" he asked again, sharper.
"Yes, Homelander."
"Stand up." The order rang out like a gunshot, clear and precise.
"What?"
"Stand."
When Homelander's expression did not falter, Kevin slowly rose from his chair.
Homelander extended his hand forward and gestured him out of the way. "Give her your chair."
You thought for a second Kevin might have argued—he wouldn't piss on fire to put you out, after all—but then you remembered who he would be arguing with, and it didn't seem so possible anymore.
With a clenched jaw, he moved to the side. Homelander wordlessly urged you to sit, and though your body screamed for you not to, you did.
The meeting had technically resumed, but nobody was paying attention anymore, not after Homelander's interruption.
You sat awkwardly at the conference table, clutching Kevin's phone in your lap and wishing a meteor would strike you down.
The discussion continued around you, something about quarterly projections or crime statistics.
You weren't really listening, mostly because you were painfully aware of Homelander's attention drifting back toward you every few minutes. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be noticed.
You adjusted slightly in the chair and Homelander immediately spoke, interrupting A-Train.
"Comfortable?"
Every head turned towards you, again, and you suddenly wanted to die.
"Uhm, yes. Of course."
His brow furrowed. "You don't sound sure."
"I'm fine."
"Hm." Homelander leaned back, still unconvinced. His eyes dropped toward your feet. "Have you been standing all day? The security checkpoint, elevators, walking across the building."
"Well, yes. I suppose so."
His expression became one of mild disapproval. "You poor thing." You would have taken his tone for mockery if he weren't staring directly at your tits while he said it. Then, he looked toward Kevin.
"Your wife should be relaxing."
Kevin immediately straightened. "Right."
"And yet she's sitting here in heels."
Honestly, you'd forgotten you were wearing them, but they certainly weren't the most comfortable shoe ever.
Kevin opened his mouth and closed it again.
Homelander smiled and looked at you. "Take them off." He gestured casually. "You'll be more relaxed. You must be exhausted," he said, something about his tone making you nauseous. "You should get more comfortable, especially after such a long drive."
"I'm okay, I promise," you said, trying and failing to sound reassuring.
"Nonsense." His smile widened, but never touched his eyes. A vacant, painted look that drilled into you. "A woman who's expecting deserves to be pampered. Take your shoes off."
Everything he said sounded less like a suggestion and more like a direct order, so, reluctantly, you slipped your shoes off beneath the table.
The meeting continued for approximately thirty seconds before Homelander spoke again.
"Deep." He spat. "Why are you still standing there?"
Kevin frowned softly. "What do you mean?"
"Your wife's feet hurt."
The realization slowly dawned across Deep's face. Seeing Homelander's face start to sour, he immediately crouched beside your chair.
You almost felt bad for him. Keyword: almost.
-
Now, Kevin had never once hit you, but after that display, he was uncomfortably close. Once the meeting had adjourned, he gripped your wrist tight enough to bruise and dragged you out into the hallway, ignoring stares from the others who walked by. You barely had time to slip your shoes back on before he grabbed you.
"What the hell was that?" he barked, holding your wrist against the wall.
"What was what?"
"Don't play stupid," he said, voice growing sharper. A few interns scrambled away after seeing the scene, suddenly deciding they were needed elsewhere. "You made me look pathetic in there. Do you know how humiliated I am? Rubbing your fucking feet in front of everyone?"
With a scoff, you ripped your hand out of his grasp. "Me? I didn't do anything wrong, Kevin." You pointed your finger at him, tip-toeing your way into his face. "I do everything you ask of me, and you decide to treat me like shit in front of your little band of costumed creeps? Don't blame me because your boss is unstable, at best."
"I can't stand you, you—" before he could fix his mouth to finish, a blur of red and blue flashed from your peripherals.
One moment, your husband was bitching at you, the next, he was slumped on the ground with a busted lip.
You gasped softly and your hands flew to your stomach instinctively, terrified for your unborn baby.
"You never stop whining, do you?" Homelander stood next to you, looking down at Kevin with a disgusted sneer.
As Kevin struggled to push himself up, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, Homelander pressed the heel of his boot against his side, sending waves of paint through Kevin's gills.
Just moments ago, your husband was screaming at you, and now his eyes were lowered to the floor and his jaw was clenched in pain.
"Go clean yourself up, cocksucker." Homelander waved him away, curling his lip. "Get out of my sight."
Kevin didn't argue or complain, he didn't even look at you. He staggered to his feet and limped away as quickly as his injuries allowed, and within seconds he was gone, leaving you alone with Homelander.
The realization settled heavily in your chest and suddenly the hallway felt far too empty for comfort.
The sound of your own heartbeat pounding filled your ears when Homelander's attention shifted from the retreating Deep back to you, or rather, back to your stomach.
You slowly tightened your arms around it, clearly uncomfortable with how he stared at you. Your movement caught his attention immediately.
It was strange for him to see first hand. He knew that mother's were meant to protect their children with their lives, to fight for them and love them with all their might, but it was foreign to him. Exotic, like a tropical fruit in a desert. He wanted a piece of that himself, a sliver of protection and love from the most divine creature there was: a mother. He got everything he wanted, and easily, except for one of those.
Maybe he just had to take it for himself. Patience, of course, was a virtue. He had nothing but time.
"Everything alright?" he asked in that overly saccharine, too-good-to-be-true voice. It was fake and sappy, dripping over you and coating your nerves in discomfort like honey.
"Fine."
"Are you sure? Things seemed a little tense before I showed up."
You swallowed thickly and gave an equally fake smile. "Certain."
His gaze started to linger and he stepped forward, confidently. He was a couple of feet away. Close enough to make you sweat, but not enough to be fully afraid. Not yet, at least.
"How far along are you?"
The question sort of caught you off guard. It was the kind of thing old women in the grocery store asked you, not the world's "greatest" superhero. Especially not with his eyes trained on your tits.
"Seven months."
"Hm." He nodded slowly, letting his tongue dart out to wet his lips. "Boy or girl?"
"We don't know yet. We wanted it to be a surprise."
A strange smile appeared, thinly veiling slight annoyance. He hated how you said "we," how you even associated yourself with a pathetic worm like The Deep. So what if he was your husband, he wasn't here. He wasn't important.
"That's nice," he said, the words sounding rehearsed, as if he was trying to imitate what a normal person would say. "When are you due?"
You answered this and a few more of his seemingly regular questions, but each time you were met with the same thing. That same thoughtful hum. The same unbroken stare.
You were becoming increasingly aware and disturbed by it all. He hardly ever blinked, and when he did, his eyes flashed. His chest was unmoving, and you could not hear a single breath escape him. It was terrifying.
You shifted uncomfortably, but his eyes followed your every movement. Something about the way he was looking at you just felt plain wrong, dangerous and invasive.
You folded your arms across your chest to try and soothe yourself, and you felt it. A wet warmth beading through your top. A dark stain had begun to spread through the fabric of your shirt. Pregnancy had gifted you with countless humiliations and apparently it had decided to add another to the tally.
Your eyes widened. "For fuck's sake!" You crossed your arms tighter over your shirt, feeling your face flush in embarrassment. "Please excuse me, I need to go."
You had barely taken a step backwards when an eerily strong hand wrapped around your waist.
His gaze dropped briefly to where your arms were folded across your chest before returning to your face. "Stay." The word was gentle and soft, which made it all exponentially worse.
Despite how much you abhorred Kevin, with his stupidly handsome face and immature, self-righteous, narcissistic bullshit, you wished he hadn't left.
Standing alone with Homelander felt infinitely worse than tolerating your douchebag husband.
-
"If they didn't taste so good, I'd wanna stick my dick between these beauties," Homelander said between brief pauses, suckling away at your tender breasts. "Can't waste a drop."
You didn't want this, at all. The slight ache from his overly eager mouth was nothing compared to the hot embarrassment that came with him violating you right in the hallway. Luckily, nobody had yet walked by, but dozens of offices and break rooms sat on this floor.
It was only a matter of time before some intern or security guard spotted you and looked away, unwilling to help you despite you sobbing. The idea made you sick, but you couldn't blame them. Who in their right mind would challenge this psycho?
This strangely attractive, forceful psycho?
You mentally told yourself that if you weren't pregnant, if you did not have so much to lose, that you would have tried to fight back or push him off. You knew that was a lie, though. He was far stronger than any man you had ever encountered, there was no universe in which you would be able to escape from under him.
He wasn't Kevin. When he tried to take you, you were almost always able to fight him off: he had his weak spots. You could shove your fingers down his gills and whatnot, but Homelander? Impenetrable.
So, you accepted your fate and watched helplessly as he groped your left tit and sucked sloppily on the right.
You felt your body be pushed back against the wall. Not the harsh shove you were expecting, but a gentle movement, with hands softly guiding your hips back. Homelander shifted and got on his knees, looking up at you from the floor.
His face—God, you didn't know how to explain how it made you feel. He was chiseled like a marble statue, built to perfection by Vought. Behind those disgustingly perfect features, though, you could see the faintest outline of pain. For a brief second, when he looked up at you, your instincts screamed "protect him," which was ridiculous! Not only was he a perfectly capable grown man, he was the one actively hurting you, taking advantage of you, but somewhere in your brain, your weak, empathetic pregnancy hormones were churning about.
He started to look less like a man and more like a defenseless child the longer those sad, blue eyes watered. Damn your motherly disposition! This whole pregnancy thing really ruined your self-preservation skills.
With deep hesitation, your hand glided down to cup his face. His skin was freezing, like he had never once felt another person's touch, but he leaned into the warmth of your palm.
He mumbled something under his breath about you being a good mommy while he rubbed his face into your hand. You figured this scene would look insane to any outsider. The Homelander on his knees, crying, being petted by a topless pregnant woman in the middle of a hallway.
He pressed his forehead against your bump, leaning into it as he did your hand. He let one palm raise up to grope your tit, and rolled the milk droplets between his fingers.
A voice echoed down the corridor, followed by sluggish, slow steps and pained groans.
"Homelander?" The Deep moaned from down the hall, still bleeding profusely. "Are you still there?"
Homelander looked up at you, still bleary eyed and tugged your shirt, like a little kid. You sighed and wiped his face with your blouse, wiping off all his spit and tear streaks. He rose to his full height, but not before stealing another mouthful of your milk. Greedily, he lapped your breast before gesturing for you to fix your shirt.
Kevin practically crawled down the rest of the hallway, a look of pure pain and confusion on his face when he saw how close you two were standing. Homelander walked over to him and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, which, of course, was much harder than it needed to be.
"You're a lucky man, Deep," he said coyly, smirking down at him. He hadn't even bothered to wipe the last of your milk that dribbled down his chin.
And just like that, he whistled away, parlaying down the hallway like he owned the place.
He basically did, didn't he?