Only A Few More Fluff Chapters - Tumblr Posts

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.