Chapter 11: Ultraviolence

Chapter 11: Ultraviolence

gm!! Homelander and Reader FINALLY say I love you!! Ignore the gif, this is a love story!

The woman clung to Homelander as he breezed above the crowd at Voughtland, grinning alongside him as the cameras flashed and the masses screamed his name. She didn't need them, but watching the world give him the praise he deserved filled her heart to bursting. Yes, she thought, pressing a kiss to Homelander's cheek. This is exactly how it should be. The two of them, soaring above them all, collecting their worship and kissing the traces of it from his mouth. The people below could spend the rest of their lies trying to match her devotion to him, to see what she'd seen in his eyes, but they'd never do it. Still... it warmed her from within to watch them try.

As he lowered them smoothly to the ground, she kissed him one more time, an indulgent grin lighting up her face as Homelander dipped her dramatically for the crowd, giggling when his lips graced her throat. He could feel the spike in her pulse, Homelander marveled, nibbling at it lightly. She was excited - not even for her own brush of fame, but for him, finally receiving his dues. She was happy, for him.

They rose to a standing position, looking around the amusement park, a mile-long bundle of tickets in her hand. Homelander had scoffed ('I can get us into any part of Voughtland,'  he'd said, exasperated), but the woman had insisted, fixing him with a puppy dog gaze that had broken down his defenses ('yes, but it's about you having the most tickets!' she'd cajoled) And so he'd bought $500 worth of them, fighting the boyish grin on his face as the Voughtland attendant had to replace the ink in the machine to print them all.

She grabbed his hand, making a beeline for the photo booth and slipping inside, feeding the tickets into the machine and selecting the romantic border, Homelander's hands hot on her waist.

Snap! Homelander and the woman, beaming into the camera.

Snap! The woman's mouth opened in mock surprise, pointing at him as if to say, Can you believe it?

Snap! The couple, wrapped in an embrace.

Snap! Homelander, his face the picture of delight and surprise, as the woman turned to him, drawing her tongue up his cheek, the lascivious glint in her eyes unmistakable. 

Homelander turned to her, a growl building in his throat, pressing her against the wall of the photo booth, his hungry gaze raking over her fully. "Don't start," he whispered dangerously, licking his lips when her pulse raced in response.

"I can't help it," she murmured, taking him into her arms, kissing him deeply. "You'll have to take me in hand.. make sure I behave myself..."

Homelander kissed her hard, fingers tangled in her hair - but the moment would not last. At the sound of a child's petulant whine, they parted, rolling their eyes, and exited the booth, collecting their photos, Homelander's copy burning brightly in his pocket.

The woman unfolded the map of the amusement park, pursing her lips. "Where to, Captain?" she asked him playfully. Homelander grinned.

"Hmm... I don't know, my intrepid explorer. What say you to... the Whack-A-Moles?" A flash of something dark crossed over her eyes when she grinned, and Homelander felt his own pulse jump. She really was... just like him. They walked over to the Whack-A-Mole station, pushing past people in line, each grabbing a mallet and smiling warmly at each other, before attacking the moles with a voracity that made the attendant eye them warily. The woman set forth valiantly, smashing down on the plastic moles like her life depended on it, eyes narrowed, a cruel little quirk on her lips. Homelander paused in his appraisal of her; the way her hair flew around her, the chaotic glimmer in her eyes, the thud of her heartbeat... it was like he was watching a mirror of himself, incensed from the heat of battle. She panted out her breaths as she raised the mallet high above her with both hands, bringing it down with a force that rattled the machine.

Not to be outdone, he smashed the moles on his side in turn, teeth bared in a wolfish grin as he heard the squeal of the metal beneath. The woman looked over at him, breath catching. He looked like a god of war, like Mars' reincarnate. A vision of him, covered in blood, flashed before her eyes, and she swallowed down a moan. There would be plenty of time to divulge this fantasy to him later, she thought, returning to her mission.

Finally, the game was over, and the attendant handed them their tickets, which, added to their comically large reserve, slipped out of her hands as she reached for it. A child behind them watched, eyes wide - and the woman was struck with an idea, turning to give him her share of the tickets.

Homelander quirked a brow. "Why'd you give him our tickets? He didn't even win," he pouted. The woman graced his arm with her hand. "Because... I'm with the richest, kindest, most generous man alive, who takes such good care of me. I don't need to worry. And besides," she said, jerking her thumb in the boy's direction, "Look how grateful he is." Homelander looked, annoyance fading, as the child jumped up and down, waving heartily at Homelander, eyes shining. 

"Better to let them see you provide - it's good for them, in the long run."

Homelander felt something within him swell at her words, her acknowledgement, and licked his lips, and the thought came to him that she'd picked such a public place for Valentine's Day on purpose, to tease him until he lost control, and pulled her into a dark alley somewhere. He grinned darkly, hand snaking around her waist. There would be time for that later, he thought, pressing a kiss to her temple as they carried on.

They visited the hot dog eating contest, their lips curled in equal parts fascination and disgust at the contestants, cheering all the same when the man they'd betted on won, sat in on the theatrical rendition of the Seven's first battle as a team (' I hit that guy way harder when it happened,' Homelander whispered into her ear, grinning when she laughed), and won another bushel of tickets that Homelander made rain from the sky when they guessed the weight of Porkchop, the city's largest pig: 2,500 pounds. Homelander reveled in the sound of the crowd's cheers, thinking that maybe the woman had been right about letting the masses see him as benevolent; it was different from their fear, or their subservience. It was almost akin to... love. Adoration. He twirled in the air, the woman's arms wrapped around his neck, drinking in their cheers, kissing her deeply as the descended.

I'm in love with you, Homelander thought, the force of it shaking him - and he pulled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and onto his back, her weight solid against his back, a shimmer of something softer in his eyes as he faced the amusement park.

When she'd suggested coming here for Valentine's Day, at first, Homelander had been derisive - almost angry. She'd claimed to know everything about him, tracked his every move for years... and yet, she'd wanted to go to a place that only filled him with the memory of his solitude, his exclusion from public life. He'd been to Voughtland so many times that he thought the idea of returning would make him sick; all those events he'd hosted, leaving backstage because he couldn't stand to see the couples embrace... all the times he'd watched the Seven huddle into that photo booth without him... he would have chosen to get as far away from this place as he could. But she'd changed that ugly memory into something precious, something worthwhile. Maybe that had been her plan - to bulldoze over the memory of those who'd hurt him, and plant the garden of their love in its place. To tear it all down, to make room for the effigy of their union.

She'd done this for him, as much as she'd done it for herself, Homelander realized. The world seemed to go silent as the thought travelled through him. He looked up into her face, the back of her head eclipsing the sun, closing his eyes contentedly when she bent to kiss his forehead.

The woman pointed then, eyes sparkling at the scene before them; the kiosk section, a mini marketplace within the amusement park. Homelander craned his neck, looking to see what had caught her eye, when he finally saw it, a slow grin lighting up his face. He lifted them off the ground, speeding towards the stands.

"I'll take this one, please!" the woman said, pointing to the biggest shirt on the rack, a replica of his suit, with matching shorts - and Homelander almost pulled her off of him and laid her on the concrete. His suit. She'd wanted to show the world she was his.

The man at the kiosk traded her the shirt for her tickets, and she bent down again, lips grazing Homelander's ear. "We should go somewhere more private. I don't want to wear anything else," she whispered to him, tone dark and honeyed. Homelander swallowed, flying them into the changing stations.

They clambered into the changing room, shooing guests out of the stalls and locking the door behind them - and instantly, they were on each other. Homelander stripped the clothes off her body, letting them flutter to the ground, when he felt a spike of anxiety grip him at she worked at the collar of his suit. At his reticence, she relented, and he let out a small, relieved sigh. It wasn't that he didn't want to; he did. It was just... he was Homelander. The thought of shedding his suit, especially in public, filled him with a deep sense of unease. In the dark of her apartment, it had been different - safe. But under the fluorescent lights of the Voughtland changing room, he stopped cold. A flit of worry crossed his mind - would she push him? Or worse - not see his disquiet and try to strip him anyway? Homelander buried the panic in his eyes, waiting.

But she didn't push; she kissed him, slowly, removing her hands from his collar and pulling him close instead, and he moaned out his relief, pressing a hand to the wall as she mouthed at his pulse, her lips kitten soft. She palmed at the tent in his suit, eyes ravenous now, bending low to kiss him there, too, before the whisper of her pants sliding off her body, like sand in the wind, sounded in his ears. She stepped out of them smoothly, tongue laving across him as he shuddered, licking up to his neck as she rose to her full height, before she looked him in the eye.

"I want you to burn it off of me," she whispered, tugging at her shirt. Homelander licked his lips, a question in his eyes. Use his lasers? On her? He almost refused, imagining her flayed corpse, smoking and gruesome, crumpled on the floor beneath him, the idea like a nightmare. But then she reached forward and kissed him, murmuring of his power, her desire to see it, to feel it... and he felt that hunger from before return, swirling viscous in his eyes. She trusted him.

So, fixing her with a heated glance, he started, the red glow of his eyes dancing across her face, between her eyes, down her cheek, her lips... settling onto her pulse, growling when she bit her lip.

Come on... she thought, rubbing her legs together. Please...

Homelander let out a gusty sigh, kissing her once, before pulling back, and painstakingly dragging his lasers down the front of her shirt, the hint of heat grazing her flesh as he went. He couldn't stop the gasp that left him as the article ghosted off her body, peeling from her skin and onto the floor, his lips parted as she stood bare before him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and he unzipped himself quickly then, sliding into her and chasing the moan that poured out of her with his lips, kissing her open-mouthed and reckless.

Cradling her in his arms, he rutted into her, her hands in his hair, gracing his cheek, her lips all over him - he nibbled her earlobe, pressing into her tightly. She moaned for him, the sound unrepentant, as he worked them to the edge and back. Usually, he wouldn't go so far as to take her in public - but she'd wanted this, wanted him. Pushed him, really, Homelander thought ruefully as he tweaked her nipple. She was right; he would have to take her in hand  - she was trouble. 

"Burn them," the woman whispered hotly, gesturing to her clothes on the floor. "I never want to see them again."

Homelander's jaw dropped, brow furrowed as she pulsed around him, voice threadbare and reedy. He held onto her tighter; in that moment, as he looked into her flushed, gleaming face, he saw the rising of the sun, eclipsing all else - and he pressed his lips to her jaw, floating away from the tangle of fabric, before incinerating the last vestiges of her clothing into dust, biting his lip till he tasted blood when she moaned into his ear at the sight. He kissed her, once, twice, three times, the room's tension fading with the delicate curl of smoke, dancing from the ashes of what once was.

They stilled then, breathing in each other's pants, before he deposited her lightly onto her feet, smiling dazedly as she donned the Homelander set, delivering a small steam of saliva onto the pile of ash before they unlocked the changing room door and left, laughing boisterously at the long line of patrons who'd clearly heard the commotion in their wait.

Homelander carried the woman bridal-style in his arms, sweeping her into a dizzy circle, her laughter weaving around him. "I can't believe we did that!" she squealed, grinning wildly. Homelander chuckled. "Me, neither - you're a terrible influence," he teased. She batted her eyelashes. "Who, me?" He dipped his head to kiss her, lips soft. "Yes, you..." he murmured, sighing when she looped her arms around him. "Just terrible... downright rotten, really. Someone should stop you."

The woman feigned remorse, pouting her lip as she looked up at him. "There must be some way to resolve this..." she said teasingly. Homelander pecked her on the lips again. "Maybe there is," he breathed, lowering his feet to the ground and looking up at their destination: the Tunnel of Love. "But... we'd have to negotiate at a location of my choosing... that's standard business practice, after all."

The couple made their way to the Tunnel's seats, and strapped in, the woman's eyes glowing with warmth as the soft, rosy lights engulfed them. They sailed slowly along, the faint churn of the water beneath them, and the woman faced Homelander, taking his hand in hers.

"You know... I've never told anyone this, but... I've never celebrated Valentine's Day before." Homelander raised a brow. "Really?" 

He remembered, in the beginning, in those searching days, imagining a life for her in the wake of her absence online. She had no following, no platform but a lonely blog, her voice faint as vestiges of perfume on the breeze - and so he'd crafted, envisioning the full image of her. She was... private. Quiet. Loyal. Perceptive. Perhaps she owned a cat - something to love. Enjoyed sipping her coffee on the balcony in the early morning, had a favorite book store, rapport with the employees. That had angered him - the thought of a shy smile shared between her and this mystery bookkeep, maybe one day, his number scrawled on her receipt, in the corner of the book's page. 

But as he'd come to know her, to let her know him... he realized: It wasn't true. None of it. She hadn't been the girl he'd imagined, the one with the warm get-togethers, the bookkeep lover... she walked into an apartment that she'd stuffed with furniture that would hold her, because nobody else would. A vision of him, frozen and alone, on his Mount Everest settlement, played through his mind. She held him close, because she knew the bite of the winter.

"I... me, neither," Homelander said quietly, holding her close. He sat his chin on her crown. "This... was the best Valentine's Day I could have asked for. You.. really did this for me, didn't you?"

The woman nodded, her smile soft. "I wish I could give you everything," she breathed. Homelander felt his eyes grow hot.

You do. You already do.

I love you, she thought, pressing him closer.

Homelander felt a quaking within him, the same as when she'd shut the door on New Year's. He'd wanted her to see him then, he recalled, chest tightening. Even now, even as they'd merged into a new being entirely, he felt that longing, resting heavy on his heart. He bent to kiss her instead, a soft croon escaping him at the feel of her pulling him in.

Call me John, he thought, heartbeat crashing into hers. Say it now. Please.

They lost themselves in each other, her hands carding through his hair, murmuring her love for him into his mouth, the hushed whisper of his fingers across her skin making her shiver. She held him in her arms, first with him resting his head on her chest, the lull of her heart melting him - and then, with his head in her lap, eyes closed as she smoothed his hair.

The ride came to a gentle halt then, and Homelander reluctantly rose, his face warm as she smiled at him. He stood, offering his hand to her, and they walked out of the tunnel together - to be met with a swarm of fans, cheering, applauding. 

They clamored for them, shouting their support, their love, Homelander thought, face split in a genuine grin as he took photos with the fans, the woman. He held children on his shoulders, kissed babies, posed with men and women dressed as him - but in the hoard of the Americana-colored commotion, something caught his eye: a flash of darkness, a glint of black steel. All of a sudden, all was wrong; one moment, the woman was in his arms, grinning up at him, and in the next - she was gone, whisked away and banished from his sight, like she hadn't been there at all.

Homelander wheeled around at once, the once-wanted throng of fans now suffocating in their unwelcome embrace. He spun wildly, pushing past them, calling out the woman's name - but to no avail. She was nowhere to be seen.

Not that the fans, the fucking fans, seemed to notice; they clambered for more of his time, someone even having the gall to touch his face in their desperation. He bored his gaze into them, shoving them away and stalking hurriedly through the crowd, heartbeat racing.

Where had she gone? Homelander craned his neck, bursting free from the masses and into the sky, scouring the area. Fuck! They were all wearing that damn costume - she was wearing the costume. Regret pooled in his gut, cold and suffocating. Why had he burned her clothes? It had seemed so sensual before, but now she was just another face in the crowd. He swooped lower, calling for her again, fist clenching at the crack in his voice.

Had this been her plan? To teach him the meaning of love then disappear, like some fucking Ghost of Christmas Past? 

Had someone taken her?

Was she even fucking real?

The thought pierced him, and suddenly he saw it - him, sitting at the coffeeshop alone. No wax warmer on his mantle. Him, lying his head on the cold seat in the Tunnel of Love, his heartbeat the sole, lonesome sound echoing in the rosy chasm.

His eyes burned hot for the second time that day - and fueled by that monstrous ache within, he unleashed a torrent of aether from them, the warmth radiating from him like rays of the sun. Instantly, blood erupted onto the scene beneath him. He veered dangerously low, shutting off the blast, searching for her again, finding nothing, and hissing in rage. His vision sparked red as he zoomed by, skating a hand along the ocean of carnage as he went.

The screams of the patrons rang in his ears, so similar to the praise from before - just as useless. He listened for her voice, her call - and grit his teeth only when the terror of the people answered him.

He blasted through the crowd, viscera flicking across his face and into his hair, and for a dark moment, the thought that it was her blood raced through him. He bit back a moan, a sob, and fired on, a growl building in his throat.

None were spared from his wrath in the wake of this theft - theft of joy, theft of love. Theft of her. Homelander hovered then, a dying remnant of his soul begging her to call to him, pleading with his thoughts, lip just shy of quivering. 

Please, answer me.

Please, at least have been real.

But no answer came, the silence ripping him apart, leaving him mauled and bloody. Homelander climbed higher, his face twitching, eyes trained on the roller coaster thirty feet away - and sent a jet of heat in its direction, the thunderous echo of its collapse tinny in his ears. All at once, the screams stopped.

Homelander let out a ragged breath, running a slick hand through his hair as he took in the destruction, gray smoke billowing into the sky. He sat on a ruined chair, head in his hands, the orange sky the sole witness to his despair, when the cry came, desperate in its shout.

"Homelander!"

Homelander whipped his head around, heart clambering up his throat, and rose at once, eyes wild. He hovered, calling out the woman's name, the ghost of hope flickering on his voice.

"Homelander!!"

He flew to the sound of her voice, skidding to a stop before her, taking her in with disbelieving eyes. She walked to him slowly, her wide eyes trained on him. She looked hesitant - afraid.

No. Please.

She couldn't be afraid - she'd promised him. And yet, there she was, shivering and withholding - scared to touch him.

No...

Homelander closed the distance, hands on her cheeks, his plea just shy of bursting from his lips, when she launched forward, kissing him hard, wrapping him in so tightly he could feel the pulse in her wrist against his neck.

"Where did you go?" he whispered frantically, eyes searching hers. She panted into his mouth. "The Seven. They took me. Just outside of the Tunnel of Love. Sage, Maeve, Noir, Deep... they took me, and told me all of these horrible things, told me I shouldn't have come here... trying to take me home. Trying to take you away from me."

Homelander darkened, his grip on her tightening. 

"That won't happen. Never."

But even as the thought calmed him, the memory of the horror on her face unsettled him, left him raw. It had been one thing, to tell her stories of his destruction, fables of the monster within... but now she had seen it, smelled the rotten tang of blood in the air as he pressed her to him.

She thought back to just moments earlier, the fantasy of Homelander as Mars, adorned in blood like so many droplets of rubies, clinging to his face, running down his chin. Had this really been what she'd wanted? Was this the fantasy, actualized?

No, she thought, wiping a freckle of blood from his cheek. It was better.

Because she hadn't lied to him - not once. Not about the asylum, or her hatred for the cold, or the shrine... but especially not about the murders.

Maybe she saw it as inevitable, she remembered, taking him into a kiss, the shower of blood sprinkling around them, turning the world rosy. Maybe she was angry for him.

Or maybe, she considered, pulling back to face him, heart pounding. Maybe...

"I love you," she breathed, eyes shining like the birth of stars. Homelander exhaled, crushing her to him. Her heartbeat found his then, and they stood, the slickness of the blood clinging them together.

"I love you," Homelander whispered, nodding. He pressed his forehead to hers.

The woman took a deep breath before she spoke again, eyes... almost amused. "You know... there's still one last thing we didn't get to do," she said, looking up at him. Homelander quirked a brow. She pointed to the Ferris Wheel.

"I also didn't win you that teddy bear..." he said almost sheepishly. She chuckled. "That is true... but I seem to recall someone saying something about getting me the world's largest teddy bear." Homelander laughed. "Oh, you recall, do you?" The woman pecked him on the cheek, face glowing.

Homelander wrapped his arms around her again - she was real, he thought, soothed - and flew them to the top of the Ferris Wheel, where the faint sound of sirens reached them. The woman turned to him, worried.

"Vought will likely stage the scene - oh, look! There they are!" he said, pointing down at the Vought personnel who'd arrived, cleaning up scorch marks, framing the carnage into something new.

"Probably a terrorist act," Homelander mused. The woman giggled. "They're like... worker bees," she said thoughtfully. Homelander felt something in his heart give at her words, the glow of the setting sun ethereal behind her head.

He leaned to kiss her one more time, the hint of blood on their lips, and she melted into his arms, sighing into him.

Best Valentine's Day ever, indeed.

Chapter 8: Love and Happiness

Ok, you know the drill - 5 chapters, and then I be quiet! (I'm still writing this fic, so once we get to Ch 13, we'll be caught up, so read slowly!!/j)

TRIGGER WARNING FOR "SOMNO"!!

Homelander brushed a lock of the woman's hair from her sleeping face, the sounds of the city acting as a quiet backdrop as he gazed at her. Her lips, swollen from kisses, parted gently, a soft sigh escaping them; Homelander ducked to inhale it, chasing the air into his lungs. They'd spent all night in each other's arms, locked in an embrace that nothing but the call of sleep could break. He'd wanted to take her then - he'd stripped her naked, under the glow of the candlelight - but they'd been too worn from the exertion of both of their respective revelations. So he'd been content, for now, to hold her as they drifted off.

Underneath the bed rang his phone; the woman shifted, her brow furrowing lightly - and Homelander reached frantically for it, the name "Stan" blaring before his eyes, before crushing it in his grasp, the sound like bones snapping. He felt a dark satisfaction curl around him at the feel of the ruined metal, and smiled. That would teach Stan to call him on a weekend.

Turning his attention back to her, Homelander let his eyes roam her body, from the hill of her hip beneath the duvet, to the delicate slope of her neck... and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. She pressed into his touch, the haze of slumber turning her movements smooth and surreal. Her arm fell across his waist, and Homelander held his breath. 

Could she feel him, even in sleep? A burst of excitement pulsed in his core.

Leaning in further, he tested the theory and graced his lips against hers, eyes trained on her face. She didn't move further - but he caught the sound of her heart picking up in speed, his mouth turning up at the corners. 

Homelander shifted into a sitting position and then hovered above the woman now, the tip of his nose buried in her hair. Settling on top of her, bracing himself on hands and knees, he lowered himself incrementally, until his hips met hers with a brief kiss, eyes locked on her downswept lashes. He let his hips dip low again, half willing her awake with the sweet heat of this contact - but she did not stir. Homelander bit his lip, and, assured that she was asleep, lowered his head to her breast, seeking out the bud of her nipple with his mouth and granting it a tentative flick, and then another.

He grew greedy then, undulating into her as he rolled her nipple with his tongue, his panting echoing in the room like that of a crazed beast. The slick silk beneath him shifted in a way that made his toes curl; he released her from his mouth with a quiet pop, focusing on the feel of her warmth beneath him as the gentle rocking of his hips threatened to fall into a rut. He looked up, expecting a faint flush on the woman's sleeping face, but gasped, body stilling to a cold halt. She was staring at him, eyes glinting in the moonlight from the window. He stared at her, too shocked at being caught to hide his look of surprise, the hint of mortification.

"Do you want to?" she whispered, the sleepy tilt of her eyes making Homelander worry his lip. He swallowed heavily, and nodded. She smiled, letting out a soft coo and cupping his face in her hand, before rolling onto her stomach. Homelander raised his brows, heart pounding.

He waited for a stretch of time, steadying himself and letting her drift back into sleep, then slowly joining her under the duvet, blanketing her with his body, and let it seal them in, resting on his forearms on top of her. He brought his hands to her hips, kneaded her there, slowly, before lifting the sheer silk of her nightgown, the sound of the fabric against her skin like a gentle breeze.

Pressing his weight onto her fully - he felt a twinge of excitement at her deep exhale - he rocked his hips into her again, no barrier between them now. The feel of her skin against his was electric in its intensity; he looked, and saw that the hair of his arms was standing on end. Clamping his jaws onto her pillow, he sent his hips back slowly, then brought them to meet her, pressing hard when he'd filled the gap with their union.

She gasped then, and he brought a hand to her mouth, tracing a finger against her lip, hips surging forward when she took the digit into her mouth, the sensation wringing a stuttered groan from his lips.

She turned, eyes half lidded, and pulled him into a kiss with one hand, interlacing her fingers with his with the other, and in the snatches of air between their kisses, she whispered, hot and fervent, into his skin, "You can have this, any time." Homelander felt the explosion of stars beneath his closed eyelids, her words taking root and holding him firm against the pliant softness of her body.

He lost himself then, his grip on her tightening as he drove into her harder, the desperate clash of his body against hers loud in the room. At the feeling of her squeezing his hand, he let out a soft cry and spilled inside her, holding her in his arms and listening to the race of their heartbeats, marveling at the way his sweat glinted on her skin. Homelander let out a gusty sigh, tucking his chin into the crook of her neck, warmth bleeding into him when she entangled her legs with his and pressed his hand to her lips, before wrapping it around herself. He melted - she'd wanted him close.

She wanted him, he thought, smiling softly as sleep pulled him under now, too. She wanted him.

Stan watched the couple with a patient boredom in his eyes; he'd rolled his eyes when Homelander had crushed his phone to dust when he'd called, but felt himself slide back into apathy as he crept on top of the woman's sleeping form. She'd given him everything, and yet he still felt the need to take. It was typical Homelander, he thought, sweeping his eyes away. Even he didn't wish to see what was about to unfold.

He brought his gaze up, though flickering with faint curiosity, when the woman stopped Homelander with that innocuous question, that froze him in his tracks.

Do you want to?  Stan leaned in.

So this was her angle, then; the illusion of choice, redemption. She'd pretended to sleep, kept still until he'd lost himself, and then presented him with her compliance, drawing him in deeper. Stan couldn't help but feel a little impressed. Clever girl.

But... to what end? She hadn't asked him for money, hadn't stolen anything from Vought when he'd brought her - she hadn't even posted pictures of the inside of the Tower, though this last thought was less surprising. The woman had no social media, save for a blog she posted updates to occasionally. 

He couldn't bring himself to read another post - it was all the same depressive drivel, the same unsettling longing. She liked villains, monsters. Stan supposed, then, that this next one, the one in her bed, wasn't so far a leap to make.

It was Saturday, but Stan always stayed late, seven days a week. He tucked his chair in closer, studying the segment he'd rewound; the woman, wrapping Homelander's arm around her, pressing a kiss into his open palm.

What did she want from him?

He picked up his phone, messaged Noir to confirm that he was in position, ready to act - and a moment later, Noir replied with a picture of the woman's front door. Stan nodded, shut the laptop, and made his way to the window of his office, looking outside with a contemplative air.

The woman snuggled in closer to Homelander, feeling his breath ruffle her hair and smiling. This was exactly how it should be. She thought back to the fear of last night - that blind terror that he'd see the shrine, recoil in disgust, and fly out of her life forever. A future of being barred from all events he hosted, blacklisted from the store she got his news clippings from - maybe even walked away in handcuffs for collecting his gum, flashed through her mind.

She thought of the day she'd created the shrine; Vought had cancelled an event she'd bought tickets to, four months in advance, and then it happened. One moment, she was staring at the message they'd posted, ears ringing - and the next, before she knew it, she was taking a hammer to the wall, screaming as chunks of drywall flew back at her. When the dust settled, she'd looked in horror at the mess, before stuffing the cavern full of her Homelander memorabilia, a dark peace washing over her as she lit the candles. Even then, she knew it was... intense. Maybe too intense to show him. But he'd needed her to, she thought, remembering the faint tremor in his voice when he'd asked why she'd been okay with the overseas massacre.

Why?

She considered, tracing his cheek with her index finger. Maybe she'd just seen too much; the world, even before Homelander, was an abysmal, wretched place, and each tragedy only felt like the same news, repeated on a loop in her mind. There was no need to fear a superhero who could level cities to the ground, when the politicians on Capitol Hill hovered around the Big Red Button, daring each other to push it like teens at a sleepover. The ocean was heating up and would boil them alive, anyway -what did it matter if Homelander sped things up a bit?

Maybe it was because she was angry for him. Angry that he felt the need to act on their behalf, chained to their puny wills, when he should be free, as any person was, to live a life of his own choosing. Even if China hadn't raised Homelander to the heights he stood at now... they most likely would have, if they'd had the chance. And besides - it would only be a matter of time before they did. China would never let an affront like this go unpunished. But Homelander would be waiting, as he always was. The thought comforted her.

Another thought tapped at the forefront of her brain - one that she didn't often engage with, because it unsettled her, if only briefly. As she looked into Homelander's sweet, sleeping face, her heart swelling, she thought maybe she hadn't cared... because nobody else mattered to her. He could give whatever answer he wanted - he'd said it 'needed to be done', she recalled with an affectionate roll of her eyes  - but the answer wouldn't have changed things. For as long as she could remember, she'd never been extremely concerned with the sanctity of human life. An old woman dying, surrounded by friends and loved ones... a man, bleeding out in the street after a mugging gone wrong... it was the same to her. And if the one behind the gun was the man who'd seen the apathy in her eyes, kissed away her tears? How could she care?

So she'd told him that she believed him, and it was true.

Rising up on her knees to straddle him, she laid her cheek on his, humming contentedly when he wrapped his arms around her, his eyes sweeping open. Homelander looked into her face and smiled, feeling her trying to press herself as deeply onto him as possible. "Morning," she chirped, winding her hips against him, kissing his cheek, his neck.

Homelander growled, sliding his hands to her waist and pressing into her in turn. "Don't start something you can't finish," he teased darkly, nipping at her earlobe. She kissed him then, her lips hot on his mouth. "Never," she whispered.

The couple folded into the embrace, Homelander's fingers teasing at the waistband of her panties - when a sharp knock jolted them out of the moment. The woman frowned, reaching for her robe, and Homelander strode toward the door, eyes narrowed, swinging it open - and staring into Noir's masked face. He was holding a sign, Homelander noted with irritation.

'Stan says you don't have enough vacation days for this "excursion" '  Homelander felt the muscles in his face twitch. He nodded minutely, before stepping back into the apartment, gesturing toward the couch. 

"I'll be just a minute," he grumbled at Noir, before meeting the woman. She was standing in the hallway, a mix of surprise and wariness on her face.

"Who is that?" she whispered, eyeing Noir with distrust. Homelander smiled at her pouting expression. "That... is your ticket to a trip to Vought Tower. Hosted by yours truly, of course." He winked at her when she beamed, stepping into her room to pull the suitcase from under her bed. He smacked her lightly on the behind. 

"Get packing," Homelander said cheerily, loud enough for Noir to hear, "and bring your lingerie," he murmured in her ear, chuckling at her gasp.

Maeve watched Homelander and the woman fly through the doors of Vought Tower through the slats in the blinds, the headache she'd been tending to re-emerging with a vengeance at the sight of the woman's lilac suitcase. He was holding her in one arm, the luggage in the other. She scoffed. How much says he sees them as the same thing? 

She'd stayed gone from the last three Seven meetings, ignoring Ashley's frantic texts, spitting cutting remarks at Deep when she passed him in the halls... but nothing could seem to mend the void Sage had left inside her that night. 

She hadn't been clingy with her - she hadn't. But it hadn't mattered to Sage. She thought of their hazy bar crawl, the flush on the shorter woman's face when Maeve had teased her - and she'd really believed it... she'd believed that Sage had wanted her. Maybe not in the traditional sense... but in some way. Why lean in, then, when Maeve dipped her head to kiss her? Why lead her to her bedroom, hands in her hair?

Had she really been unable to distinguish passion from the need for control? 

The wet ragged squelch of Sage's brain, coming apart under the lobotomy wand, suddenly rang through her mind - Maeve jerked up, clambering for the trash can she'd left by the bed, the splatter of vomit loud in her ears. She rinsed her mouth out, before rising to her feet, and putting the thought from her mind.

This woman would be staying with them, for who knows how long, Maeve thought. It wouldn't do well to show weakness - not while this new dynamic was unfolding. So she stood, checking herself in the mirror, before stepping out of her room for the first time in days, the crisp air of the hall raising the hairs on her arms.

As she walked by, she caught a glimpse of The Deep, who instantly tried avoiding her path. Too late; she caught up to him on the way to the meeting room, gaze venomous.

"Something smells fishy," she snarked. "Letting Ambrosia hit third base already?" Deep blanched. "It's 'Ambrosius,' ", he mumbled, rubbing his arm and looking away. Maeve smirked, making her way to the table. Hell yeah. She wouldn't let petty one-night stand gone wrong ruin her.

Stan sat at his desk, eyeing Sage with a cold gaze that made her straighten her spine. He'd actually gone out of his way to consult her this time around, in regards to a plan he'd crafted. As she listened, a whisper of incredulousness tangled in her mind, until the last word he'd said had made her outright snort with laughter. Stan stopped at once, eyes somehow even shrewder.

"Something amusing?" he asked. Sage shook her head.

"No, sir. It's just... therapy? With all due respect... are you sure? It seems a bit... late for that." Stan shook his head.

"Sage, you've seen your... teammates. Deep, with his fixation on that octopus he thinks I don't know about... Maeve, drinking herself into a coma. Starlight, cracking under the pressure of what it truly means to work for Vought. They're all children, equipped with the power to make their issues the world's problem. Vought's problem." Sage shivered, the unspoken tail of that sentence menacing in her brain: My problem.

"To that end... I suggest that we stop pretending that this is something else. We meet them at their level - and maybe they'll even feel the need to rise above these measures, prove they're not as immature as they come across." Stan gestured to her.

"That's where you come in. You have insight on the Seven that even I don't; what they like, what makes them tick... their idiosyncrasies. Using that knowledge, we can craft a series of sessions that will prove to be more effective than previous attempts others have made."

Sage looked at him, thoughts swirling. "So... you want to... speak to their inner children?" Stan smiled. "Precisely." 

"I expect your findings by end of day. We start this effective immediately; I already have therapists waiting in the wings, ready to act." Stan made to dismiss her, but the worry that had blossomed in her gut refused to let her leave. "But sir... surely Homelander will object to being... analyzed like this. What do we do if he... rebels?" Stan ushered her to the door anyway, a frosty glint in his eyes, that polite smile pointed at the edges of his mouth.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked. "This is a therapy session for the entire Seven. Not everything revolves around Homelander, you know." 

Kinoko Shibari

Valie Expor, I beat it II, 1980

Chapter 7: For Better or Worse (In Sickness...)

06/06/2020:

Journal,

I saved for months to get front-row tickets to his V51 event; I'd planned to finally say something to him, though I don't know what. I just wanted... to see him. To feel the brush of his cape as he turned to go. He'd been staring into the cameras, though, never looked at the audience - but as much as that hurt, I understood. I hadn't wanted to look at the audience, either; the way they clamored for photos, begged for autographs when it was nearing midnight, and he must be busy tomorrow. He couldn't have known that somewhere in that crowd, was someone who at least tries to see. Tries to understand. Someone who also comes home to a lonely house - one that, for all my decorating, I can't seem to make less empty. 

I read up on his time with  Maeve, just to see, to imagine what it might be like to date him... it was hours of work; someone had wanted to keep it hidden. But I finally found an article, where Maeve had discussed it herself. The interviewer had asked her to summarize her relationship with Homelander in one word. She'd said "overwhelming".

I was angry. I was so, so, unbelievably angry - because I would do anything to be smothered, anything to be overwhelmed. To be loved so totally that there isn't room for anything else. I thought to myself - how could she appreciate that kind of love, when she had no idea what it took for someone to offer it? I love like I want to devour, to be devoured. And that day, I knew that he felt the same. 

Homelander... I want that kind of love. It's not too much for me. I want you to wrap me in it, subsume me. Hold me by the waist, kiss me, then drag me into your abyss. 

Hold me close, until I can't tell which heartbeat is mine, and which is yours.

Noir hung upside down from the rope in the center of his room, feeling the blood pool in his skull. He couldn't take off the mask to smoke, or drink - not that he'd cared for such vices - and so, in light of a particularly stressful meeting, he'd found his own alternative. Everyone in the Seven had a vice, he supposed. Everyone had their demons.

As he closed the woman's journal Stan had given him, he took a deep inhale, exhaling slowly. This... was worse than he'd thought. When he'd first been tasked to investigate the woman, he'd set off earnestly, hearing Sage and Maeve's plans of tailing Homelander and realizing that this developing romance had gotten out of hand. It was good that all of them were aware to the danger this union could bring. It almost felt like teamwork.

But as he'd spied, creeping into her apartment at night, he'd gotten a horrible feeling. Immediately, upon entering, he was struck with the force of the temperature. The entire place was sweltering, the very air shimmering with the heat. He'd actually had to pull off his mask for a moment, and rinse his face, before carrying on.  The way the apartment was decorated, firstly, filled him with a deep sense of foreboding, of unease. It was saccharine in its sweetness - an armoire full of porcelain figurines, flanked by two antique-looking lamps. A pastel floral wallpaper with vintage-looking teddy bears, pasted in the living room. A large glass table which held more figurines, old cards, a stack of magazines that all featured Homelander, another framed photo of him on the wall. A bearskin rug lay underneath the table, the eyes vacant and unseeing. Noir had sniffed, recoiling in disgust. It had been real. And the couch... that couch... Noir remembered looking at it, feeling an inescapable pull to rest in its embrace -  and, upon doing so, feeling like it was pulling him into its downy recesses, never to return. He gave a rare shudder.

What really interested him, though, was the small space behind the bookshelf in her bedroom. He'd been looking for more articles to take to Vought, possibly something with her DNA, when he'd moved the shelf, expecting a lip gloss - and finding a hollowed out space in the wall, where she'd set up a shrine.

Candles, articles - even a piece of old, hardened gum in a jar labelled "His", in deliberate print. And, of course, the pictures. So, so, many pictures. He looked through them, a vague sense of horror crawling under his skin, trying to piece together who she was, really - when he'd seen the most disturbing piece of her collection: a candid photo of Homelander, poised for flight, his cape billowing, and his head pointed high.

But he wasn't truly worried. Homelander and this girl... it would all be a disaster. But that was because she and Homelander were disasters, and there was no way for them to be anything else. Maybe, he considered dryly, it was fate that they met. Noir remembered watching John grow, from that spindly boy in the hospital gown, into the creature he was now. It had been like watching a supernovae; one bright flash, the hurling of all that molten rock and gas through space... and then the settling in of biting, unrelenting cold. If he never met her... Noir couldn't imagine things going any differently.

Sliding quickly into an upright position, he wobbled on his feet, watching the room around him warp and swirl, the hint of nausea in his gut making him hold a hand to his mouth. He waited for a moment, then uncapped the water bottle he'd placed on the desk nearby, pulling the water through the straw and his mask, taking a deep swig. Finally, he let out an inaudible sigh. 

Today would be a long day.

Homelander raced down the halls, his feet pointed to add a boost of speed as he flew, zipping past Vought personnel and ducking around groups of people. He had plans to meet her today, and he would not be late. She was going to cook him dinner, she'd said, the thought making him zoom faster. His mouth watered; he hadn't eaten since she'd given him the news, but he liked the way the hunger sharpened his focus, turned him into an icy dagger.

Breaking free of the doors of Vought, he skidded to a stop, landing lightly on his feet, considering the past few days with a smile that was almost serene. He'd been so ready to give up on them during their coffee date, he chastised himself, shaking his head. But she'd shown him, hadn't she? Shown that she was honest, that she understood. At least... he thought she might. He could never be too sure. Madelyn had seemed to understand, too. 

Pushing the thought of her from his mind, Homelander stepped into the florist's shop, a grin blooming on his face. He'd indulge her, for now, though he expected - no, deserved - some further proof soon, that she was exactly who she professed to be.

The woman stirred the white sauce she was making with a soft look in her eye, bringing the spoon to her lips to taste. Oldies music played smoothly in the background, and she hummed along, imagining the feel of Homelander behind her, turning to offer him the spoon. One day, it really might be like that - him, coming home to her, sweeping her into his arms, the tail of his cape enveloping her. She thought back to the kiss they'd shared, a grin lighting up her face. The way he'd held her... 

Too many times, other people had told her that her love was too much, that she was too much. They couldn't bear the weight of her embrace, and so they'd pushed her away each time she'd offered. She was on the verge of believing that there was no-one alive that matched her intensity, wanted that same intensity given back to them. He hadn't been interested in the façade she offered to everyone else, she considered. But was it really true? She wanted so badly to believe that it was, that she could present to him that dream of subsumption, and he'd accept - no, reciprocate.

"Oh, Homelander... I've just been hurt so many times," she sighed, taking the ground beef out of the oven and the sauce into the meat. She seasoned liberally, adding a dollop more of cream, before tasting again, a soft, satisfied sigh leaving her. The dinner was hearty, and cozy - solid; everything she'd wanted, everything she hoped to give him. She hoped he'd understand.

A knock on the door startled her, and she leapt for the door, a grin splitting her face. She checked her makeup in the mirror quickly, and looked around to make sure everything was just right; she'd switched out a few of the bulbs in her lamps for soft pink ones, and dropped a few leather and vanilla melts into her wax warmer, filling the air with a thick, rich scent. She'd adorned herself with a hint of perfume - the Yves Saint Laurent she saved for special occasions - on her neck, her breasts, her inner thighs. Tonight was the night, she'd decided when she'd told him about her plans. 

Taking a deep breath, she swept open the door, looking up into what should have been Homelander's face - but instead, she stared into a bouquet of roses so large they blocked out the outside. She gasped, pulling him in. "Oh, my goodness! Homelander!" She gently took the roses from him, inhaling deeply, satisfied to find a trace of his scent among the petals. She placed them into the vase on the table. "These are beautiful," she murmured, looking up at him, and taking him into a gentle kiss.

He pulled her in immediately, lifting her off her feet and pressing into her, the shift of their bodies guiding them to the couch. She relaxed onto its pillowy surface, pulling him on top of her and gasping when he pressed his lips to the shelf of her jaw. Lips parted, she sighed out contentedly as his hands roamed her body, squeezing, pulling her. Needing her. She explored his body in turn, drawing him closer with her arms, the brush of her thighs against his waist making him shudder.

Finally, they pulled apart, a dopey smile on each of their faces. "Hi," Homelander greeted her, the tip of his nose glowing a faint pink. She kissed the spot, her answering greeting just as shy. "Hi," she breathed, ending in a soft laugh.

Reluctantly, they moved off of the couch, though a spark of hunger still lingered in the air; Homelander raked his eyes over her, the feline curve of her spine, the shelf of her collarbone. She breezed over to the kitchen, ladling their dinner into bowls, a large mixing bowl for Homelander, a smaller one for herself. "I hope you're hungry!" she called. Homelander grinned.

You have no clue, he thought, rising to meet her.

Joining the woman in the kitchen was like stepping into another world, Homelander marveled. She'd carried that same warmth from the living room here, the frilly decorative towels and fluffy coasters making him feel... fuzzy. He'd gotten better about being angry at her for inspiring these feelings as of late; he still felt the unease, that this was somehow a cruel trick - like she might be some Vought honeypot cooked up by Stan to get him to comply. But he'd found out everything about her; she'd never set foot in Vought until he brought her. She worked at the office downtown. Despite the violent churning in his brain that told him not to trust her, not to grow weak... he couldn't help but feed the belief that she just might care. 

But had she made him weak? It certainly had felt like it, in the beginning. But now... that the thought that this wasn't like the other times clung to him fiercely, like a sticky wrapper on a piece of candy. She really might just... want him.

She looked up at him then, brandishing a spoon, offering him a taste - and his body immediately lit up with an intensity that set his nerves singing, vibrating. Dinner, just as she'd promised him.

He opened his mouth, letting her guide the spoon to him, closing his eyes as the flavors danced on his tongue. 

Savory. Hearty. Indulgent. Rich.

Homelander moaned, the sound shocking his eyes open - but when he looked down at the woman, she was staring into him with a voracity that made his stomach seize. She caught her lip in between her teeth, before subtly licking her lips, eyes half drawn in a hypnotic gaze. "That good, huh?" she asked him softly. He nodded, flexing his hands. 

But they'd have to eat; Homelander's stomach grumbled, and she laughed in response, patting his stomach gently. "Alright, alright! I'll get on it," she told it teasingly, setting their plates on the living room table with Homelander close behind. They sunk into the couch, letting a show run in the background as they ate.

"What did you do today?" she asked him. Homelander thought, brow furrowed as he finished his bite. "You know what? I think was actually on autopilot until I came here," he said. "I feel the same way," she said, scooping a bite into her mouth. "I woke up, got the ingredients for our dinner, then went to work... and I couldn't tell you a single thing I did." They laughed together.

"This is delicious, by the way," Homelander mumbled around a bite of pasta and ground beef. "Family recipe?" 

A tinge of pain flitted across her eyes - nearly too quick for him to notice. "No," she said, "I made this one myself, actually! I'd been experimenting with recipes I already liked, then I added truffle one day, and it finally clicked."

Tell me why that made you sad, Homelander urged. Tell me who hurt you.

"My little chef," he said instead, pressing a kiss to her forehead, purring when she melted against him.

It was too perfect, the both of them eating this cozy meal, in this dollhouse replica. Things were easy, Homelander thought, as long as they kept the mask on. But then, what was he doing here, if he was only going to pretend, and let her pretend? Pretend that they weren't lonely, pretend that there wasn't a darkness festering - at least, within him. Maybe she did share that darkness... but as long as she played the perfect girl, he'd never know. This couldn't go on. Homelander sat up straight, his eyes now sharper as he looked at her.

"I lied. Just now. I do remember what I did today." he faced her, daring (begging) her to meet his gaze. She did, and did not waver.

"I flew to China... and set fire to a rival company's manufacturing plant. I burned it to the ground. There were a total of 200 casualties."

A beat of silence passed as she looked into him, her gaze unflinching. Any moment now, he thought, would come the rejection, the horror. He'd torn them to pieces, just as he'd tear her apart for rejecting him after promising so much...

She cocked her head. "Why?" she asked simply, confusion coloring her tone. Homelander started. "What?" "Why... do it? Is Vought struggling? Were you under orders?"

Homelander struggled to process her question, so abruptly had it brought him up short. She was asking him why. Not running in fear, or begging for her life - but asking why he'd done it, as if she were asking if he'd like to go out for dinner. Homelander opened his mouth, then closed it.

"I..." Why had he done it? Some need to prove his godhood, his usefulness to Stan? Homelander grit his teeth. Even if it were true, he wouldn't tell her that. But the question bared answering; that was only fair. He'd confronted her with it - and she'd called his bluff.

"Because it needed to be done," he'd answered finally. There. That was true enough, he thought, a little irritated by the way she'd put him on the spot... but secretly relieved all the same. She resumed her dinner, a curious hint of amusement in her eyes.

You big silly, she thought, wanting to kiss him. You don't scare me.

"Then... I guess it was a good day for Vought," she said cheekily. Homelander narrowed his eyes.

"That doesn't bother you? I razed a building to the ground, with innocent people inside... and you're joking?" She set down her bowl and looked him fully in the face now, levity gone from her eyes. 

"Everyone has to die sometime," she murmured. Homelander gave a low growl.

"But - not like that! That... why are you okay with this?! Why are you okay with..." with me?

She leaned in, as though she'd heard the unfinished plea, and pressed a kiss, achingly slow, to the tip of his nose, looking back at him with that impossibly warm expression.

"Because... you'd said... it needed to be done. I believe you."

 A moment of disbelief, the Sword of Damocles hanging sharp in the air above them - and then he was kissing her, pulling her by the hips again, pulling her on top of him and pressing enough that he could feel the faint twinge of her heart against him. She felt it, too, moaned loud in his ear, kissing him breathless and coming up ragged for air. She kissed him like she wanted to make her home in between his ribs, merge into him completely; she wrapped her arms around him, gasping in the scent of him, feeling that perfect blanketing of her body when he flipped her onto her back, wrapped her in the cocoon of his cape. 

He pressed into her, insistent and hot, desire drawn all over his face, and she licked a slow stripe up his neck before taking him into another, slower kiss, melting into his touch, pressing herself into him at every point.

Homelander was murmuring into her skin, reverent snatches of words she felt rather than heard, each one binding something that had been broken inside her. He stitched her together on that couch - and suddenly, she knew what she had to do, to stitch him up in turn.

Lightly, she pushed him off of her, gathering her breath, her heart suddenly jittery in her chest. She hadn't wanted to do this - wanted to keep kissing, doing more - but he'd been honest with her tonight, done his part; now it was her turn.

"I want to show you something," she whispered, fear coloring her tone. Homelander's brow furrowed. 

This was it, then. She'd go into the other room, reveal that she'd been recording all along, that all the news stations would be reporting of his overseas massacre - and he'd have nothing left to lose. A vision of him, soaring through the sky and raining hell down on the city, flashed through his mind... and Homelander felt at peace. This was inevitable, he thought, letting her lead him away from the couch, and into her bedroom. It had been nice while it lasted.

He leaned down, to press one last kiss to her lips, as she opened the door. "Sorry for the mess," she apologized weakly. Homelander looked up, and gasped.

The room... was impossibly cozy. There was a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, casting a rosy glow over the room, and pink and cream candles adorned the bookshelf and sewing desk. A dramatic coral canopy hung above her bed, and he flexed his fingers at the sight of the sheets, the duvet. Even from here, he could tell - it was real silk. A framed print hung above her desk, a zoomed in segment of the Creation of Adam, focused solely on their hands. She had painted over it; instead of empty space, the fingers now touched.

"This... is beautiful," Homelander murmured despite himself. The woman flushed. "Thank you! I've been decorating for years, it seems." Her face turned somber, a note of apprehension in her eyes.

"But... that's not what all I wanted to show you," she whispered. Homelander flicked his gaze over to her at the sound of unshed tears in her voice, and he suddenly felt the sense that this revelation would be something not even he had expected.

"Homelander..." she breathed. He took a step closer, eyes searching. "What is it?" he murmured, drawing her face to meet his with the tip of his finger. She took a deep inhale.

"All my life... people have called me... intense. Overwhelming. Suffocating. And for so long, I felt like there was nobody who would accept me, as I am. But that changed... when I met you. Oh, Homelander..." he kissed her, quickly, pulling away with an urgency in his eyes that froze her.

"What are you saying?" he whispered. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "If you're disgusted... if you... if you want to pull away from me..." she choked back a sob, "I'll understand."

The couple stared at each other, hearts racing. She looked up at him again, fear and resignation draining the color of her face. In the flickering candlelight, she looked like a tragic painting, all shiny eyes and swollen lips. Homelander fought the urge to kiss her tears away.

"I want you... to move the bookshelf." she said it like she wished she hadn't, wished she could snatch the words back... but it was too late, the air tinged with their weight.

Homelander shifted his gaze to the oak shelf, curled ornately at the top, a frilly doily draped across it. He peered inside at the miniature figurines inside, these more sensual than the idyllic ones in the living room. Two figures lay on their side, tangled in a heated embrace. Another set depicted a couple, engaged in the act of undressing each other. A book stood proudly on the top shelf, clearly thumbed through, a leather Kamasutra. Homelander raised a brow, but moved on, lifting the shelf, listening to the anxious racket of her heart as she watched him, eyes wide.

Leaning down, Homelander felt all the air escape his body in a sharp exhale as he took in the scene before him, kneeling to peer at eye level. Behind him, the woman tried to muffle the sound of her tears.

She'd built a shrine to him.

Homelander looked closely, plucking the small booklet of articles she'd handbound imperfectly, feeling the ripples of the leather cover. He thought back to their coffee date, and his heart seized. She'd wanted to tell him, all along. 

Flipping through, his heart racing, he saw every gesture, every kiss, every moment she'd professed her devotion... all proven to be true. The first article was dated to 2012. He'd been 24, young, lost. Alone, with Mirror John as his only confidant. He'd left the Bad Room behind, left Vogelbaum behind... but the emptiness still lingered. Vought had just proposed the idea of a league of heroes, and he'd been excited - only to have it all dashed upon meeting them. His lip curled at the memory.

But she'd been watching... saving these moments, revisiting them, this whole time. He looked up, saw the jar of what could only be gum that he'd chewed, and felt a sense of wholeness so complete that it nearly rocked him. He rose to his feet, resolute, and turned to face her.

Tears rolled down her face, the apples of her cheeks hot as she tried her best to keep from crying out. Homelander closed the distance between them, and held her in his arms, lifted them off the ground, and onto the bed, the duvet whispering against her back. He looked down at her, the coldness that had lurked before cracking open, revealing the breaking of dawn in his eyes.

 "You don't ever... have to hide from me," he whispered. "You will never... be too much for me." And leaning down again, he took her into a kiss, melding into her once more.

In the haze of their tearful union the couple kissed, the salt of her tears lingering on his tongue, the shuddering of his breaths rocking her body. Above them, Vought's hidden camera watched on, nestled securely in the corner of her ceiling, beneath the drywall.