Homelander X You - Tumblr Posts

Importance

a/n i don't even feel the need to justify my taste in evil men anymore lmao, here's a drabble as i try to figure homelander's 'voice' :))

Summary: Homelander begins to reflect on your sort of friendship when you come over to watch a scary movie.

Warnings/info: me writing for a character for the first time so pls be nice

----

Humanity's connection to fear has always been a subject of fleeting interest to him, a concept that's only occasionally managed to become more than a shift of hormones and heart rate.

Now, though, with your legs pulled beneath you on his couch, body angled towards him, yet eyes still glued to the screen, Homelander can't believe he's never given this kind of adrenaline a second thought.

"You okay?"

The question seems to bring you back, your head turning towards him. "Yeah." What the response lacks in certainty, it makes up for in determination. He can see it in your soft nod, in the way your fingers press into your knees.

The nerves you're doing your very best to hide are so different from your usual demeanor. An investigative journalist who's always running headfirst into danger, who never lets fear of retaliation get in the way of your writing, can't get through a scary movie. It's such a prevalent dichotomy, Homelander has to work at keeping himself neutral, at remaining focused on what's in front of--

"Stop," you mumble, the word far from harsh.

He lifts a shoulder in a partial shrug without removing his arm from the back of the couch. "Stop what?"

You tilt your chin downwards, your lips pulled into the start of a pout as you attempt a glare. The expression is so particularly you, it briefly seizes some remote, unnamed aspect of his being that lives deep inside of his chest. "Stop making fun of me--I told you, horror movies make me so jumpy, none of my other friends will watch them with me anymore."

Other friends. The reminder of the others that get to be recipients of your kind smiles and reassuring glances is usually enough to taint his mood, but there's a warmth to the phrase that redeems the sentiment entirely. He's more than a friend, he's the only one that's here for you.

Homelander straightens slightly, arm shifting forward until his fingertips are against your shoulder. For the briefest second, there's an increase in your general tension, a stillness that doesn't suit you. The implication of tension digs at him--he's been this close to you before, closer even.

Before the thought of rejection can fully latch onto him, you're easing, spine relaxing against the couch's cushioning. The new position is enough encouragement for him to continue, his palm coming to rest against the fabric of your shirt, the loose collar letting the side of his hand feel the warmth of your bare collarbone.

He remains steady, leaning into what he knows as he offers you one of his more subtle, yet openly heroic smiles. It's the kind of look he'd use to comfort an almost-victim, the gentle curve of his lips a silent promise. I'm here. You're okay now.

You watch him in that way of yours--eyebrows drawn together and eyes bright yet not exactly admiring in the way that he's accustomed to. His inability to understand that particular look is what drew him to you in the first place.

"I'm not making fun of you," he says, voice leaving no room for argument, "I'm just making sure you're okay. It's why you wanted to watch this with me, right?"

It's not so much an exaggeration as it is a stretching of context. You had mentioned wanting to watch the movie, but not loving the idea of watching it by yourself. You hadn't meant anything by mentioning it during your coffee shop catch up, you never do. Your words are usually free of both probing and placating subtext.

"I wanted to watch this with you because we're friends." There's a genuineness to the correction that jabs at him. He has no response, but you don't seem to mind the silence.

A high pitched scream and a flash of color has your attention drifting towards the screen. Your adrenaline spikes, a fact you attempt to dismiss by leaning into his touch. "It's nice of you to check in, though."

The acceptance leaves him feeling a little warmer than he did a moment ago. You have a way of doing that. "It's what I'm here for."

You look away from the screen, the corner of your mouth tugging itself upwards. "All in a day's work for America's favorite hero."

"This is top priority."

You let out a breath that feels like more of a laugh. "I feel important."

The movie steals your focus, a fact that a part of Homelander is grateful for. You're too distracted to think of what contemplating your value might do to him. He swallows, a pointed dismissal of the uncomfortable feelings probing at his chest.

You move slowly, legs straightening and feet finding the floor. Before Homelander can overthink the changes, you lean towards him, your head coming to rest against his shoulder.

Chapter 5: Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

There is no love for a woman out of her mind - except a man who's lost his as well.

The woman sat across from Homelander in the café, blowing gently on her drink as he cut a plain croissant into eighths, before sticking a portion onto his fork. The scent of coffee, earthy and mellow, wafted around them in thick plumes, mingling with his scent. She sniffled to disguise the deep inhale she took, breathing him in. He smelled... clean, like the scent of rain. A hint of ozone lurked beneath the fresh note, a bolt of lightening on a clear blue sky. Homelander set his knife and fork on the plate as he chewed, the metallic clink of the utensils delicate against her ear.

They'd more or less been silent for the past five minutes, subtly sizing each other up, asking benign questions and giving superficial answers; the Seven, the Expo, what it was like to fly. She'd tried her hand at humor, (a shy, "So, how is the weather up there?"), but he'd only given a tight, "Cold," in response, so she'd abandoned that attempt in favor of a pensive nod, considering his reply. 

Cold, she thought with distaste. Winter was her least favorite season.

"You always make it look so... effortless," she said, keeping her mind focused on not leaning in. It wouldn't do, to spoil this after everything was going so well. He'd invited her, for coffee. He'd wanted to see her. She thought back to what he'd said at the Expo, face growing warm at the memory.

'I actually care about my fans'

His fans. His.

She... was his.

She willed him to hear it somehow, but Homelander only gave a soft smile, though not as genuine as before. He looked... disappointed, she saw; he kept his eyes from her, cast just above her face, or on his croissant, her hands. But never her eyes. Her hand twitched; she wanted to bring it to his jaw, angle him to meet her gaze. She shifted in her seat.

Look at me... I can't stand this. Please.

"I don't know if I could manage flying - I hate the cold," she continued, pulse quickening when he finally glanced up at her, his eyes softening the smallest degree. The memory of her apartment, warm, home, echoed in his bones. He shifted, leaning in the tiniest amount.

I know, Homelander thought. I do, too.

The confession seemed to melt the layer of frost around him somewhat; he scooted closer, eyes suddenly glowing with a soft, boyish excitement.

"I don't feel the cold in the same way a regular person might... but the gloves do help. They're good for cutting through wind resistance," Homelander said, bringing his hand to the table. He gestured toward it with his head, a lopsided little smile on his lips.

The woman's heart pounded, eyebrows raised slightly. An invitation... to touch him? Slowly, she brought her hand to his, a light tremor running through her as she graced a tentative palm against the back of his hand, admiring the leather, the strong feel of his tendons underneath. Brushing her fingers against his palm, she felt the ribbed material, the minute flexing of his hand, and her mouth watered, the urge to take his fingers into her mouth sudden and demanding.

She raised his hand to her eye level, an undeniable longing radiating off her in waves - but she simply turned his hand, back and forth, before placing it on the table, and smiling at him.

"Yeah, I'm sure! Is that... full-grain?" Homelander gave a surprised "Hm!", nodding.

"Yes, actually. Do you... work with leather?" She shook her head, a woeful expression on her face.

"Oh, no... the last time I tried was a disaster. I looked at a YouTube video, so I'm basically an expert; I don't know what went wrong," they laughed together, the chill of their earlier conversation forgotten.

Homelander eyed her as she giggled, the subtle shifting in her seat making the gears turn in his mind. She clearly wanted to lean in, move closer to him - so why didn't she? He'd even taken the plunge first, scooting in, letting her know: It's safe. You can lean into me.

Please, lean in to me.

He'd been... a bit put out, by her banal attempts at conversation at the start of this little test. She'd showed promise at the Expo, a hint of that fervent longing she'd voiced during New Year's. But as soon as they'd arrived at the coffeeshop, it was over; Homelander watched the chance of them kissing whip through the wind, too fast for him to catch. He couldn't help the dismay that overtook him. Where was that girl, the one who'd wanted him? He'd misjudged her, he thought, morose, as she prattled on about the Seven, about the fucking weather... had he really been so foolish?

Even the thought of killing her brought no joy - he just wanted to go home, and lie under the covers. Spend the day at Everest. 

But then... once again, she'd surprised him, with that little bite of contempt: 'I hate the cold' - and he'd looked up, the memory of her apartment, warm and comforting, flashing to his mind.

She was being... honest. He thought back to her whispered confessions, her absence on her mother's account. Perhaps... she knew what the cold was like. Perhaps she'd even caught his disdain for it, as well. The thoughts tumbled in his mind, and a slow smile crept across his face as he raised his hand to her, scooted closer.

He hadn't expected her to bring his hand to her face - he'd sucked in the quietest breath as she did, studying the palm of his hand like she might commit it to memory, her eyes molten, pulse racing.

For a second, Homelander thought she might kiss him there; he willed her to know that he would let her, but so intense was her gaze, that she missed the near pained look in his eyes - one he quickly stuffed away. 

They met each other's gaze for a beat, a tentative understanding forming between them, like threads being woven to fabric. She leaned in - and Homelander let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Do you wanna... get out of here?" he asked, the flash of nervousness leaving him entirely as she'd nodded before he'd even finished his sentence. He smiled, genuinely.

Sage paced the perimeter of her room, Maeve watching her through the corner of her eye. The laptop they'd just been huddled over now sat forgotten on the desk. What they'd just seen could mean disaster for Vought, the idea sending their minds into chaotic spirals; Sage's, brain teemed with plans, while Maeve's settled into quiet apathy. 

The moment they'd arrived at the Tower, she'd dragged Maeve by the arm into her quarters, and started clicking away on her laptop, plugging her phone in and transferring the camera footage she'd hacked from the Expo's security system.

They'd watched silently; Homelander, expression dark and lost - before he left for... who knows what. Then, fast-forward five minutes later, his return; he'd looked angry, jaw snapped tight as he walked on stage. Sage fast-forwarded through his speech, the Q&A... and let the video roll, hearing Maeve's soft gasp.

A woman, her demeanor shy, was making her way to Homelander as he sat, head in his hands. The two women watched as he flew down to her, the way they both seemed to careen toward each other, like underwater plants. Sage paused; Homelander, almost imperceptibly, had raised his hand - just an inch, but the implication was clear. Maeve looked at Sage, eyes wide, disbelief etched onto her face.

"A girlfriend?" she breathed. "No," Sage murmured, her tone heavy with dark realization. "I don't think so."

Sage bounded for the door, Maeve scrambling to meet her, the two swiftly making their way down the hall. "Where are you going?" Maeve's tone was hushed.

"Stan Edgar. We have to alert him."

Stan Edgar sat in his office, fingers steepled as the two women flanked him behind a large mahogany desk. The glow of the laptop cast an eerie whiteness onto his face, Sage thought, averting her gaze. His tone, as always, had been polite, if a bit cold, as he'd let them in, listening patiently as Sage relayed their investigation to him. Finally, after a moment of silence that hung on too long, he'd asked to see the footage, a faint smile gracing his lips.

"So, you posit that this woman... may hold some significance.. to Homelander," he started, looking up at Sage from beneath the rims of his glasses. She nodded.

"Yes. The nature of their relationship remains unclear - it's possible she's a Supe with powers of interest to him. We believe that he might be planning some form of alliance." Maeve's eyes widened.

A team up... that was the last thing they needed: Homelander joining forces with someone who was not only willing to work with him, but seemed to enjoy his company, on top of that - she had to have been just as unstable as he was.

"I appreciate your insights," Stan said smoothly, "but rest assured: Vought has been keeping tabs on Homelander from the outset. This footage, while... informative... doesn't serve to change much, in regards to our plans for him. The situation is well under control. You needn't concern yourselves with this... investigation." Sage felt her blood boil at the dismissal, but Stan had already closed the laptop and was pressing it into her hands, that same smile hinting around the corners of his mouth.

"I'll let you know if we ever require your assistance," Stan told her, and, thoroughly dismissed now, she and Maeve left his office, Sage's brain sparking.

"He... already has a plan?" Sage was confounded. Maeve pat her on the back, her face calmer since the meeting; Stan's words, though condescending, had dissipated the worry that had been brewing within her. She could imagine being talked to in such a way would infuriate the world's smartest person - and the lack of consultation on this plan Stan had was bound to sting -  yet for Maeve, Stan's assurance meant she could finally relax. Stan would handle Homelander, as he'd done for years. 

"Of course he does. Stan is the only one Homelander has ever really respected. He's more or less the only thing keeping him in check."

Sage grimaced. "I just don't like the way he dismissed me," she muttered. Maeve put a hand on her shoulder, fighting a smile; she'd been right. - Sage was moody. She rubbed her shoulder as Sage pouted, her voice assuring. "Well, he's a business man. You know he'd never ask for help... and besides - he knows how smart you are. It's a matter of when he asks you - not if."

Sage gave an appreciative smile, eyes warm on Maeve's face. "Thank you," she said, a little ruefully, though Maeve's words did little to calm the barrage of questions that flashed through her brain. What did Stan know about this, that he was so calm? Was he calm, or was it just a front? And what did he intend to do?

But Maeve smiled down at her then, offering to treat her to lunch, and she tried to put her anxieties to rest. "I'm thinking... Polynesian. What about you?" Sage nodded.

"Mmm... that does sound good."

Homelander walked side by side with the woman, the heat of her body a whisper away - yet he kept his hand firmly by his side. They'd been out since 10; getting coffee, strolling around town, even stopping by a good truck. Homelander, never one for greasy foods, looked on disapprovingly as she dug into her street tacos, but couldn't say no when she'd offered to share. She'd wanted to share with him.

They passed by a thrift shop, and he looked down as they grinned in excitement. "Oh, I love this place! I get all my figurines from here!" they exclaimed, and unthinkingly, she grabbed his hand as she headed for the door, the cheery door chime like church bells in Homelander's ears.

Homelander took in the shop; it was a bit shabby, with warm but flickering bulbs, with  a trail of fairy lights adorning the celling. Strange décor littered the space, from a wall full of Garfield memorabilia, to a collection of Victoria Neuman bobbleheads. He'd never seen anything like it, he marveled. Vought only ever took him to high-end boutiques, and all of his furniture was shipped straight to his room. He tried to recall the last time he'd been into a store at all... and came up blank. The woman touched his arm, the softness rippling under his skin.

"I have an idea," they said. "You... find something, and I'll find something. Then, we can trade!" She smiled, pleased with her idea.

Homelander returned the gesture, though his heart felt as though it might burst through his chest with the way it was hammering. A gift? She wanted to find something... for him?

He nodded. "Alright," he said, easy tone belying the tremor of his hand, watching as she bounded off for the tchotchkes. 

Homelander swept across the humble establishment, trying to envision her here, on her off days, after work, looking wistfully through the windows after closing - and found that he could, quite easily. She was in her element here, looking through the knick-knacks with practiced ease; he looked on as she picked up two near identical figurines, deliberating. Homelander focused. One was porcelain, the other cheap glass; he raised a brow as she looked, gaze steely, before choosing the porcelain one, slipping it into her basket.

Returning to his search, he sifted through the fluttery scarves and baseball caps, lips pursed in concentration. Something... Homelander's mind came up blank, followed by a flash of irritation. How vague...

Something... what? Homelander paced now, shuffling through the jewelry that called to him with its glinting allure - though he refrained from looking closer. Even now, he knew that would be a bit much - and besides, he assured himself, she hadn't proved she was worthy of such a gift. He nodded. 

Soon, he found his way to the ornaments, and he soon understand why she'd chosen to start here. This section was chock full of intriguing little baubles; a miniature set of shepherd boys, crowded around a sleeping lamb, a glass mermaid filled with some sort of blue liquid that gurgled when Homelander tipped it upside down... slowly, a sense of subdued curiosity wound through him, and he searched earnestly, unaware that the woman had already made her choice, and was looking over at him, expression fond.

Homelander lost himself in the perusal, turning over ornate silver pans and antique-looking desk clocks, genuinely enjoying himself. He found a piggy bank that had been painted to look like a clown, a pair of bunnies sharing a carrot, a cat lapping at a bowl of cream... before he finally found it: a duck, maybe a swan. The figure was made of alabaster, soft white and creamy to the touch. It lay on its stomach, a dark downward flick painting its eye closed, while its neck swooped in a graceful bend. It was perfect. Homelander plucked it from the shelf, excitement racing in his veins.

They walked up to him then, a smile in their eyes. "The cashier compted us! She said you'd saved her son last week - the bus-jacking on 5th and Walker?" Homelander vaguely recalled, a shy grin lighting up his face. "Oh!" he said, waving a hand at the woman behind the register, who grinned - and a thought came to him. Looking around, he searched for the marker he always kept on him for times like this, and found an old portrait. 

Thanks so much! he wrote in looping cursive.

You're the real hero

Homelander

He looked around, before placing the portrait in the employee's office, taking the woman's hand and smoothly striding out, giving the cashier another wave. 

Maybe "New year, New Homelander" was right, he mused, looking into her smiling face with a brighter one than he'd given in ages.

The sun was going down as Homelander and the woman walked down the street. He looked over at her, to see that she'd been looking at him, and he gave a teasing grin when she flushed, caught staring. 

"I don't think I've ever enjoyed myself this much before," she said, taking his hand. Homelander squeezed, and nodded.

"I've never been to a place like that before. Thank you. I... I liked it."

They took their seats on a park bench, where she sat the thrift store bag, then looked to him with a cheeky grin. "Okay. Are you ready?" Homelander nodded. "Ready."

He looked, eyes expectant and a little nervous, as she rustled through the bag, breath catching in his throat when she gave a dramatic turn, his gift perched in her hands. She grinned.

"Ta-da! It's a little wax warmer!"

Homelander looked it over, taking it from her with a gentle hand and turning it this way and that. It was a sturdy little contraption, built to resemble a small fireplace, complete with a cheery assortment of stockings that hung from the mantle, the enamel coating smooth against his gloves. He looked up, curiosity piqued. "What do I do with it?" 

"You put scented wax in it! And it makes the room smell good."

"Oh," Homelander said simply, brow furrowed. "But... I don't have any wax." 

"That's okay! I have a bunch, at my apartment - if you'd like to come? You can look through what I have, and see if there's anything you like."

Homelander snapped his gaze to her, heartbeat thudding hard in his chest. Come to her apartment?

This wouldn't be like last time he'd been there, which he tried to wipe from his mind. He'd had to get rid of the weakness she'd imbued him with, he thought. But now, that was over - she was inviting him over this time. Letting him in, where once she'd closed the door. He imagined the warmth that would envelop him the minute they stepped through the door, sitting on the couch that seemed to pull him into its deep recesses like a hug. The soft glow of her lamps, the scent of dinner on the stove... He imagined coming home to the scene, night after night, the business of the Seven and Vought irrelevant. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed, the upturn of his mouth soft.

"Yes," he murmured. "I'd like that."

Hand in hand, they walked to her door - the knob had been replaced, Homelander noticed - and, just as he'd hoped, a cloud of heat wrapped around him in a thick, welcoming plume as they entered her apartment. Homelander looked around, though he'd already committed the layout and design to memory, and made his way to the couch, sinking down into it, eyes sliding shut. It was just like his Everest recliner - except the warmth wasn't confined to the seat. It billowed around him, carrying the woman's scent, the smell of her home, into his nose. Her apartment smelled like brown sugar, and books - the scent of a freshly blown out candle. He felt a contended rumble sound in his throat.

The woman joined him then, bringing her tub of wax warmers. "Okay, I have apricot, leather, wool, vanilla, birthday cake - which is different," she said sternly. "I'm sure," Homelander chuckled, his hand brushing hers as he inspected the variety of melts. He brought the two to his nose: vanilla and birthday cake. She was right; they were different. While the vanilla had an earthy note to its sweetness, the birthday cake melt possessed a depth the other didn't, and a slight nutty undertone. She held a melt up for him to smell, her eyes warm. He leaned in, the room silent, save for the whisper of his inhale. 

Leather. 

Once again... warmth. The scent was smoky, and earthen, deep -  with a faint metallic tang. He took another sniff, and then another, his thoughts whirling in his head, hand beginning to shake - and just as she was about to ask him what he thought, he was leaning in, and kissing her, gently placing the melt on the table next to them and holding her face in his hand. 

She leaned into him, head inclined, a lock of her hair brushing his cheek. Moving to kiss him deeper, she pressed him into the back of the couch, and - Homelander gasped into her mouth - settled onto his lap, her arms around his neck. She kissed him slowly, savoring the taste of him, tongue almost shy against his. He cradled the back of her head, pressing into her, before sliding his hands down, to wrap around her waist. She moved to kiss his neck, his jaw, the brush of her tongue against his pulse making him tremble, before returning her mouth to his, their movements languid as the couch enveloped them both in an embrace of its own. 

They pulled from each other slowly, the charge of the kiss still running through them, though it cooled to a calm domesticity as she slid to rest her head on his chest. "I'm guessing you liked the leather one, then," she joked, and he laughed, the sound rumbly against her ear. He brought a hand to her back, holding her close - and hoped she could hear more than his heartbeat.

In front of them, on the table, sat their gifts - Homelander's new wax warmer, and the swan he'd picked out for her, the small duck he'd returned resting within the loop of its neck.

Chapter 6: Psycho Killer

Gm! Here is Chapter 6!

Sage sat in bed, the live feed from the woman from the Expo's apartment serving as the only source of light in her room. She'd found her almost instantly, enhancing that now-infamous still image to capture her face, then tracking her down from there. Sage ticked off the facts in her head. She wasn't a Supe. She worked in a nondescript little office, had a few friends but mostly kept to herself. She didn't come from money, or have any connections that could benefit Homelander... she was, for all intents and purposes, a nobody. A nobody, who, somehow, had Homelander sequestered away from the rest of the world since 10am - and in her apartment since 7pm, she thought, gears turning in her mind. The shock of movement from the window made her squint her eyes, then widen them in shock; Homelander was letting the woman hold something to his face, and then - Sage gasped, dropping the phone before scrambling to catch it - leaning in to kiss her, letting her press him into the couch. Sage's jaw dropped.

The way they moved... it was all so fluid, so natural. The thought sprang to her mind: How long had this been going on? The inherent ease with which they embraced suggested familiarity, intimate knowledge of one another... but Sage had taken to tracking Homelander's mental decline months ago, after an outburst at a dinner that led to around 50 casualties. She'd simply never seen the woman before this. 

A notification popped up on her phone - Maeve. Sage groaned, not bothering to read it. After their lunch meeting (Sage refused to call it a date), they'd gone bar hopping, starting down 1st and Parker, then travelling down the block until they were too lightheaded with alcohol-induced laughter and the buzz of too many cocktails to stand upright, calling Noir to drive them home and laughing at the imagined annoyance in his face.

They'd started kissing five minutes into the drive, she recalled, face heating and brow furrowing. Sage groaned, slapping a hand to her face. Maeve had been telling her just how much she'd enjoyed finally going out with someone else for a change, and Sage had agreed, looking up at her...

She tasted like whiskey, with the sweet undercurrent of a maraschino cherry, tender and tantalizing, coated in all that thick, viscous syrup. Sage sighed.

Maeve kissed like...  a lover, like Sage was her lover, like she desperately wanted her to be. She remembered the moment she realized it; Maeve had brushed her hair from her face, looking down into her with those big, sad eyes... and she felt something she'd rarely experienced before that moment: Fear. Pure, unrelenting fucking terror.

She couldn't lose the fight - couldn't admit defeat. So she'd grabbed her by the hair, not letting an inch of her skin go untouched, leading Maeve into a backward-stepped march into her bedroom, the darkness enveloping them when she shut the door.

Maeve had sat on her bed, legs splayed, blush creeping up her face, and, Sage could see due to the dress she'd worn, down to her chest. She'd pulled Sage on top of her, the smooth undulation of her hips so achingly sweet that she felt the stirrings of nausea slowly start to twirl in her gut. 

She couldn't lose. Couldn't admit. Sage squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the memory away.

"Wait," Sage had moaned. She'd pulled herself off of her, reached for the nightstand - Maeve had taken the opportunity to mouth at her breast, her mouth like rose petals.

She'd pulled out the lobotomy wand, its sinister glint reflecting across Maeve's flushed face. She looked up at Sage, not comprehending. "What's this?" she'd asked.

Now Sage had abandoned the phone entirely, in favor of covering her head with the comforter. The phone buzzed again - another notification. 

She'd asked Maeve to use the wand on her - to jab it in her eye, wriggle until the felt her brain come apart. It was supposed to scare her. It was supposed to say, "Walk away from me." But Maeve hadn't walked; she hadn't flinched. Maeve descended into the depths of that depravity for her, called her bluff, without a hint of disgust in her eyes.

She saw the look she did give her, though - not of horror or shock... but of deep sadness, and worse - understanding.

But she couldn't lose - and so she'd fucked her, and sent her off after, in the middle of the night.

Maeve sat in the closet of her bedroom, head between her knees, the faint glow of her phone lighting up the otherwise dark space. After she'd thrown her out of her bed, Maeve had stood there for a second, lips parted in shock, before marching resolutely to her room, stomach in knots - and vomiting soon after. She stared into the screen, eyes glinting with hot tears, the words she'd typed shaking in her hand. 

I'm sorry

Can we... talk?

Sage hadn't replied.

Homelander wasn't at the meeting, Deep noted with a mix of surprise, worry, and relief. He'd joked with A-Train that he'd finally win their bet of Homelander being late at least once this year, but A-Train had scoffed. "You're dreaming, man. It's not gonna happen. Find someone else to finance your octopus girlfriend's calamari diet." But 9:30 came and went, and there was no sign of their leader -and so A-Train would be paying after all, Deep thought, satisfied. A-Train brushed him off.

But, really... where was he?

Starlight spoke up, voice tentative. "Should we... wait a few more minutes? Maybe take 10?" 

Ashley nodded, sighing in relief. "Good idea. Everybody - take ten!" The Seven rose from their seats, filing out, all except Noir, who had taken a nap during the wait, and slept peacefully, his quiet snore echoing throughout the room.

Homelander wasn't here, Sage wasn't here, Maeve wasn't here... that last one wasn't too surprising, but the three empty chairs still unnerved Kevin. He slipped from the room quickly, and into his quarters, where, as he walked past the window, he saw a flash of red and white. Not in the air... on the ground - in a chair, specifically. 

Homelander was... eating a donut? With a woman?! Deep did a double-take, rubbed his eyes, but the image was clear as day. Homelander was... on some sort of date, it seemed. And the girl... who was she? The way he looked at her... she couldn't be a fling. Maybe a secret wife? Deep didn't recognize her, but Homelander certainly did; he held her hand, took a sip of her coffee... and, to Deep's wide-eyed shock, pecked her on the cheek, before rising to his full height, preparing to leave... and looking Deep straight in the eye.

Terror.

Deep held still; it would do no good to hide, now that he'd been caught. Instead, he gave a timid little wave, praying to any god out there that Homelander would see his submission for what it was, half preparing for the consequences if he didn't. But, miracle of miracles, Homelander didn't hover to his window and laser him in half. He instead gave a curt eye roll, before walking, not flying, to the steps of the building. Deep let out a shaky sigh, spinning on his heel to return to the meeting.

Ashley re-organized the spread she'd had her assistant do before the meeting, face drawn tight. If you want something done right... she thought, irritated. She'd spent the last ten minutes telling her off, which had helped, but then Homelander had decided to go AWOL. That had triggered her migraine.

As she re-arranged and shifted the flowers and cards, she heard the shuffling sound of footsteps, and turned to meet Deep's wide-eyed gaze. Oh, no. This was the look he'd reserved for when he'd done something unbelievably stupid - like buying alcohol for an underage influencer on a livestream, or committing biological warfare by releasing 100 pounds of frog spawn into the the wishing fountain downtown ('But my wish was to for the fountain to be filled with frogs!' he'd defended himself earnestly)  Ashley pinched her nose between her index finger and her thumb, eyes screwed shut.

"What. Deep." Deep flinched. "I didn't even do anything!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, cupping his hand to her ear and muttering urgently, too fast for her to shut out the flow of unwanted information.

"I saw Homelander kissing some lady. He was on a date."

Ashley abruptly shoved him off of her, horror and anger rolling across her face. "And so your first thought was to make me culpable?! You asshole!"  Ashley hissed out her rage, eyes harried. This was bad. She leaned in. "Where?" she asked despite herself. "The coffeeshop next door."

Ashley looked like she was on the verge of asking more, when the doors of the meeting room swept open, and the Seven filed in, each taking their seats, save for Sage and Maeve. Deep made to take his seat, Ashleys eyes communicating that the conversation wasn't over... when the sound of boots - and another pair of feet -rang through the hall, growing closer. Everyone in the Seven turned, the room stilling to a hush. Ashley worried her lip.

The door swung open, and in Homelander stepped - flanked by her. The woman from the coffeeshop. Ashley's eyes widened, then shot toward Deep's for a fraction of a second. 

"Morning, everyone!" Homelander said cheerily, sitting at his spot, and, to the shock of the Seven, wrapping his arm around the woman's waist and leaning into her awaiting kiss. She delivered a chaste peck to his cheek, then shyly waved as Homelander introduced her.

"You'll be seeing more of her from now on - I just thought now was the time you meet her." 

Starlight's eyes widened as the woman gave her name, told everyone it was nice to meet them, then scampered off like a deer in the forest. The room was silent, save for the sound of the door as she left, Homelander smiling after her.

"So," Homelander said, looking around the room, eyes bright, "What's on the docket today? Saves? Any events?" 

Stan Edgar watched in the Security Vault as the woman left Vought, with a curious gleam in his eye. So, this was the girl Sage had been so worried about, he mused, looking over the files he'd requested on her. Medical records. Employment records. Her digital footprint. A worn print of her birth certificate - the original, that her mother lost years ago... the list was endless, resulting in a formidable stack of papers that nearly brushed his nose when he walked by. He'd been thumbing through this journey through her life, categorizing the information in his mind, storing it away.

A 2 year stint in a psychiatric ward after one too many suicide attempts. Photos of her on picture day, leaked from her schools' databases. Her social security number, written in black marker on the inside of his arm. An array of school records, utility bills - she'd been all over the country before she'd even turned 18. Deeply unstable, profoundly lonely, and desperate for connection. 

This would not bode well. This would not bode well, at all. Stan pursed his lips, a flicker of pity crossing his face as he picked up one of her journals, dog-eared and yellowed. This one picked up where the last one, lost to time, had left off, on a particularly troubling note - the first time she'd missed a Homelander hosted event, ten years ago. He read it again, though the words had already been metabolized into his brain.

2/14/14- ...I can't believe they made him host the Valentine's Day Parade, after Maeve had broken up with him. How heartless... it's like they hate him - like they really, truly hate him. I cried watching that - he'd smiled, waved, flew in the air and made hearts with the skywriting planes, made the sky rain roses. But it wasn't enough for them. It's never enough for them.

Everyone got a rose - except for him. They made him go backstage as everyone kissed, probably to brief him on the next event they were making him host. Vought, the fans... The Seven... they're all so greedy with his time. So ungrateful for it. It makes me sick... I hate my boss for making me missing this event; he was practically on the ground with the rest of the crowd. I could have seen him. I could have touched him... I was busy at work, so I couldn't go - but never again. He is worth so much more than any money I could make. I would burn every dollar in the world for him. I would turn the world to ash, lay him down and kiss him atop their bodies.

Homelander... wherever you are. I will never put ANYTHING before you. Never.

I can't find any records of his human identity. No first name. No last name. Did Vought... kidnap him? Is he some CEO's son? He moves through these events with a practiced grace - but of course he does. He's Homelander. He has to. But I can't help but think... what if he'd be happier in a house? What if he doesn't want the crowds? What if he wants someone to play with his hair, kiss his brow, spoon-feed him chicken noodle?

I would spoon-feed you chicken noodle, Homelander <3 I would kiss it into you mouth, and lick the broth from your lips. Homelander... Homelander... Homelander... Homelander. His name is like ambrosia on my tongue. If I could, I wouldn't drink anything else.

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.

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." 

Chapter 10: Controlla

Sage and Maeve talk it out. Stan reads up on his most valuable asset. And tee hee! Homelander and Reader plan a date for Valentine's Day! What could go wrong?

Sage walked briskly down the hall, pulse hammering in her ears. After that shit show of a therapy session, she'd stormed to her room, and stared herself down in the mirror, gaze hot as lava as she shook, hands gripping the counter.

That fucking Dr. Rangel... Sage's mind churned violently, imaging the therapist's gruesome demise; her face, caved in, bones jutting out like icicles. Homelander, lasering into her skull until her entrails spilled out at her feet. 

Fuck. Her. 

For a moment, the rancor washed over her, dark and molten, and she sat under its plunge, head bowed. It surged through her like electricity, until she'd been burnt out; when she faced her reflection again, her eyes were tired. Extinguished. 

They didn't listen to her, she thought. None of them did. They all thought of her as this arrogant know-it-all, who was only good for spouting knowledge or words they couldn't understand, and so they shunned her. She couldn't find solace in the other women of the Seven - not Second Coming Starlight, or Southern Belle Firecracker, or...

Sage turned on her heel, and left the bathroom, away from that train of thought, and onto the next one, sorting her thoughts and shoving that one toward the bottom.

Fuck her, too.

Sage sighed, disgusted with herself, before striding out of her quarters - and landing solidly into Maeve, who caught her before she could crash headfirst into her armor. Sage struggled out of her grasp, walking faster. Maeve caught up to her in one long bound, matching her pace.

"Where are you going?" Go away.

"To see Stan. About Dr. Rangel. It doesn't concern you."

"Yes, it does. I hate her, too."

Sage let the moment lie, marching to Stan's office, the sound of their boots on the linoleum grounding her. Maeve's boots on the linoleum, she thought, before banishing the thought.

Eventually they reached their destination, only to be stopped by Vought Security. The guard held a hand out, halting them. "Mr. Edgar has requested complete privacy for the next 2 hours. He is not to be disturbed by anybody." Sage furrowed her brow, mouth open in a retort, when the guard interjected, his voice hardening, and his stance turning offensive. 

"He is not... to be disturbed... by anybody."  

The two woman listened from the other side of Stan's office, as the faint sound of pages turning wafted under the door. Sage looked at Maeve, who nodded.

"That's fine. We live here. We can wait for two hours." The guard nodded, watching them until they left, and passed the corner.

Maeve and Sage walked silently to the plaza outside, and a waiter soon appeared with glasses of water. Sage held up her hand, reaching for her canteen instead. The two sipped quietly, the idle chatter of Vought personnel cutting through the icy silence between them.

"It was incredibly  fucked up, to ask me to do that to you," Maeve finally said, setting down her glass. Sage set her jaw. "Well... you did it." Maeve scoffed.

"Yeah - and you put me out after, like I was some whore."

"I would never treat a whore like that."

Maeve looked at her in disbelief, an incredulous upturn on her open mouth. Sage felt the deep burn of regret roil through her; she tightened her grip on her canteen, though she couldn't feel the cold.

"Does it make you feel good? To make me feel this way? To treat me like a toy, instead of facing that you did it because you were scared?" Sage leaned away, a bitter smirk twisting her mouth.

"Taking notes from Rangel?" Maeve rolled her eyes. "You know what? I think you hate her... because she was right about you. You'd do anything to feel like you're a part of a unit, except make any real effort to do so." Sage raised her brow.

"Are you really going to pretend you're anyone to make that point? Like she didn't read you for filth in that session, too?" Sage heard the last word before she said it, and bit the inside of her cheek. Fuck.

Maeve heard it, too; she felt her hackles lower despite herself, and felt the anger fade from her body. The two sat at the table pensively, dismissing the waiter when he came asking for their orders. The wind gusted gently around them and wafted Maeve's hair, the scent of it wisping toward Sage. Lilac. Sage felt a terrible quaking within her, and looked up.

"I'm sorry, Maeve," Sage said quietly, her voice cracking.

Maeve gazed into the raw umber of her eyes, and felt a pulling sensation in her chest, though she remained upright. She let out the exhale she'd been holding and nodded, the hand on the table flexing minutely, towards Sage. She nodded again, frost blue eyes brighter in the wake of a ray of sunlight, that burst from behind the clouds.

Stan sat in his office, the glow of the lamp casting a gentle shadow on his face as he read. The old, leather notebook in his hand was soft and pliable; its surface weathered with pockmarks, the stories of which were lost to time. He leaned forward in his chair, the words echoing in his mind.

04/19/2000

Journal:

Today is... day five of the sleep deprivation trial. I think it's day five, anyway. Mr. Vogelbaum says not to think of it as "sleep deprivation". He says to think of it as a test of my endurance. I said that if it was a test, then I'd pass it. I heard a kid say that on television once, and the adults had laughed, ruffled his hair. I waited, but Mr. Vogelbaum only smiled. No ruffle.

I'm not hungry, I'm not even tired anymore; I told Barbara, and she looked proud of me. I don't know if she was. I wanted her to be. But there's something wrong with my bedroom, I tried telling them. At night, these... centipedes fall from the ceiling, crawl towards me. When I told them, they'd just said that I was so much stronger  than a centipede - so why was I scared?

Last night, one of them actually dropped onto me, and I screamed, lasered a hole in the ceiling, the wall. I heard them talking this morning, about calling off the experiment, and I almost cried. They sounded disappointed in me.

Stan closed the notebook, a sigh blowing through him. Some moments, it had seemed to be only days ago that John was that scared little boy, whose tears had sizzled his cheeks when he used his lasers. He looked at the man before him now on the laptop as he slow-danced with his woman in her apartment, the faint hint of music tinny through Vought's microphones. 

It would have been easy, Stan thought, to let him be, to abandon the project. But he knew better; John had died sometime during the experiments and the torture, and stepped out of that broken shell crystalized. There was no boy named "John", and there would never be again.

Even still, as the thought settled over him, something akin to... remorse? No... regret, lapped at his insides, the dull lick of its fiery burn making him shift in his seat. There would never be the return of a boy named John - but he thought of the boy in the entry, and considered what might have been. He buried the thought.

There would be no Vought, no Stan, without Homelander - and so the boy had been the sacrificial lamb. From his mangled body sprouted the first greenery of Spring, and by Winter, beneath the thicket of trees, lied the husk of his remains. Cold, unyielding - just like the frost in his eyes.

Homelander turned the woman in a slow spin, cradling her close, cheeks touching. Stan sighed. It would be cruel, to the world, he thought, to let them keep up the charade for much longer. 

The woman melted into Homelander's embrace, the feel of his hand at the small of her back steadying her. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, the sound deep and comforting, that intimate rumble of his voice as he sang into her hair.

Close your eyes, I'll be here in the morning. Close your eyes, I'll be here for a while.

She looked up at him, eyes shining, the words burning to escape her:

I love you.

She reached up to kiss him, tears transferring onto his cheek, the melody wrapping around them both in a tight embrace.

I love you, Homelander thought, brushing her lip with his thumb when he pulled away.

They swayed in place for a moment, the warmth of the apartment making their movements slow and dreamy, when Homelander pulled away to head into the kitchen, kissing her on the forehead as he went. He returned with a bucket of ice that housed a bottle of champagne, and two glasses. He kissed her again on the way to the couch, waiting for her to join him before he focused his lasers on the cork in the bottle, grinning when the woman gasped as it soared into the air, then applauded, kissing him on the cheek.

"What's the occasion?" she asked, clinking her glass to his. He took a sip, eyes dancing. "Well... you know, Valentine's Day is in two weeks," Homelander said, his voice carrying a note of excitement.

The woman's heart raced. Their first Valentine's Day...

She'd never celebrated the holiday before. There had been the schoolyard passing of notes, the conversation hearts. The lonely, bitter tears of high school, of college. And then those two years in the asylum, the lobby hall filled with pairs of patients, medical gowns ghostly in their sway. It hadn't seemed to matter, until she met him.

But, then, he'd never had a real Valentine's Day, either, had he?  she thought. But this year would be different; they'd have each other.

"Two weeks? You big romantic," she teased, though she was just as excited. "What should we do?"

Homelander considered. 

There was dinner, which, of course, he loved - but they could do that anytime. He could fly her to Paris, kiss her atop the Eiffel Tower. Cliché, yes, but it was a cliché for a reason: it was damn effective.

And romantic, he thought shyly. He gave a thoughtful little noise, and looked at her.

"I don't know. Where's somewhere you've always wanted to go?"

The woman pursed her lips in thought, before gracing Homelander with a shy smile. "Well... I've always dreamed of going to Voughtland for Valentine's Day..." she said wistfully. Homelander wrinkled his nose. "Voughtland?" he said, incredulous. The woman playfully tapped his arm.

"Yes, Voughtland," she said, mimicking his tone before her eyes grew soft again. "You know... kissing at the top of the Ferris Wheel, or in the tunnel of love... you knocking down the tower of bottles and winning me a big teddy bear..." she batted her eyelashes at him. Homelander rolled his eyes, fighting the smile that tugged at his lips.

"I can buy you the world's largest teddy bear. Have you seen it? It's the size of your bed - bigger, I think!" The woman set down her glass and slunk into his lap, playing with his hair. 

"Yes... but this would be one that you won for me, because you're just so strong... and your aim is so accurate... you're like a bow and arrow, personified," she murmured, her voice dipping and setting Homelander's insides dancing. He kissed her, hungrily, hands roving up and down her body, mouth hot against her lips, her neck. Homelander growled low into the hollow of her throat, bouncing his hips into her with a mischievous glimmer in his eye.

"Okay..." he sighed in mock resignation, rolling his eyes dramatically. The woman peppered his face in kisses, grinning all the time. "Yay!" she squealed, pulling him into her as she let herself fall back on the couch, kicking her feet and giggling. Homelander chuckled quietly in response, and pressed himself closer, her laugh resounding in his bones.

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.

Boops

Homelander x reader, gender neutral i think. i hope so. no use of y/n

Summary: Fluffy fic about booping homelander and him being confused about it because i can. besides i doubt he's ever gotten booped.

Homelander might be a tad out of character or maybe hes in character

literally inspired by the boop feature.

Homelander looked up at you from his position on your lap. Your attention was on the movie playing on the tv. He'd long forgotten about the movie instead choosing to watch you which he found miles more interesting then some stupid action flick. He nuzzled his face against your stomach causing you to look at him with a smile. You carded your fingers through his hair lightly scratching against his scalp while he smiled up at you. You began lightly scratching along the shaved sides of his hair, Homelander letting out a content hum as you do so.

"You're adorable." You say with a grin. "Adorable? Seriously?" He questioned though with a smile preening at the attention. "Very." You affirm before lightly tapping the tip of his nose while you said boop. "Boop?" He echoed a mildly confused look on his face. You nod lightly speaking as you trail your finger down the slope of his nose before tapping again the movie forgotten as you admire him. "Yep, you're just so adorable i just had to boop ya." You ran your hand through his hair again. "It's like a sign of affection, when you like someone or find them cute." You further explained noting his still present look of confusion.

"So.. You 'booped' me.. because it's a sign of affection?" Homelander questioned raising his hands and putting air quotes around the word booped causing you to laugh quietly. You nodded as Homelander raised his hand again tapping your nose with the pad of his finger with a smile. You smiled as he proceeded to trail his finger down following the curve of your lip to which you playfully nipped at. "I love you." You said quite happily, scratching his scalp lightly. "I love you too." He returned still a bit surprised that you did. He laid his hand back across his stomach, seeming content. For now at least, you think fondly before looking back to the movie.

i suck at endings, always have, probably always will

anyways enjoy

@mommy-mortis

@blindmagdalena

i want this man in me or maybe i want to be in him i cant decide