Cozy Corner Events Archive

Madelyn opens the elegant box Homelander handed to her and blinks, thoughts racing.

She's about to walk a tightrope. 

Gently declining the gift will make him sulky and she hates, absolutely hates having to deal with days of his sarcasm and barbs and childish lashing out when he thinks no one else at Vought will hear or know. 

Accepting this gift was going to cross a major boundary, and was going to make her life even more volatile than it is now. Madelyn lives in a man's world. She may not be Homelander's boss in the org chart sense, but she needs to maintain a certain authority over him. If she gives in to him testing this type of boundary, who knows where she will be in six months' time. Maybe dead and gone without a trace, some of the darkest parts of her mind supply an answer to a question she meant to be entirely rhetorical. Regardless, she needs to handle this with poise and just the right reaction.

She lowers the box, fixing her facial expression into something as neutral as possible so he can't brace for what she says next.

"You don't like it…?" he asks, and thank god, her pause thinking about her next move was long enough to make him antsy and nervous, but not long enough to get him over the hump into irritated, defensive territory.

"No, Homelander, I don't like it." Her tone is severe even to her own ears, cold and flat. "How did you think this was going to go? That I'd be happy my work colleague is gifting me lingerie for Christmas? That I'd, what, strip down and model it here for you in my office?"

"I just– I thought women enjoyed that kind of thing…" he says, looking down at the floor. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it."

She tilts her head giving him a skeptical look. "You didn't mean anything by getting me the exact brand of lingerie that I like?"

Homelander's eyes rise back up to her face, clearly questioning why this particular detail was offending her.

"I know you can ogle anyone you like through their clothes. Maybe not everyone out there realizes," she gestures vaguely towards the wall to ceiling window and the New York night skyline visible through it. "Maybe not even everyone who works in this tower knows these things about you, but I'd have to be pretty naive and pretty bad at my job to not know why this lingerie is my favorite brand, and the correct size."

"I'm sorry," he grumbles. But he's not sorry. No– he still thinks he's in the right and she's being unreasonable and needlessly strict with him. She needs to push him more on the backfoot at this point. He always argues at first, she just has to push through it. The key to keeping him in line is not letting him walk away still thinking he's been unfairly scolded.

"It's not the looking that I mind. It's that you think it's appropriate to bring to my attention the fact that you're looking."

"I'm sorry!" he repeats, voice rising in pitch a bit, and he grabs the box out of her hands, clumsily closes the lid as best as he can, before shoving his arms behind his back so it's out of her sight. "I'm sorry, okay? I just wanted to give you something you'd like. For Christmas, jesus. Sorry that I use my powers to try to figure out what to gift you. Sorry. It was stupid. Can we just forget about this?"

Madelyn looks at him, his face just a little bit red, his nostrils flaring with deep breaths because he's in distress– this evening did not go how he envisioned, clearly, and he's scrambling to find his footing again, try to assert himself, gaze cast on the floor. She needs to pull him back a little bit, keep him off-balance. Here's the trickiest part of this tightrope walk. She needs to give him hope again, reel him back in, but not lick his wounds. Not yet.

"You want to give me something I'd like for Christmas?" she asks, and his eyes flick back up to her face, maybe faster than he wanted.

"Yes," he says, his voice quiet, unsure, almost as a question. He knows her well enough that he senses it might not be a straightforward request. But he watches intently as Madelyn leans back against her desk, pushes herself up with her hands and seats herself on its edge, her pencil skirt constricting her pose, so she crosses her legs, hands still on the desk on either side, nails painted a juniper green, not too matchy-matchy with her emerald green and red plaid outfit meant to acknowledge what day it is, but still tasteful and understated. Homelander's eyes jump from the loose neckline of her blouse to her cinched waist, to what must be flashes of the red soles of her Louboutins, hanging in the air and moving impatiently as she taps her foot in mid-air. He returns to her face, remembering himself and realizing he might be caught staring. She knows she's posing for him, but it's still classy, and she has plausible deniability. She's just making herself comfortable. She may not be able to hear people's heartrates speed up or smell their adrenaline like her charge can, but she knows him well enough to see the signs of interest in him– interest he's trying his utmost to keep under wraps, having just been slapped on the wrist for trying to push their relationship into a realm where it doesn't belong. She needed him to let his guard down before saying the next thing, and sexually enticing him just a little bit accomplishes that.

"I want you to strip down."

Homelander doesn't make a sound. Doesn't move a muscle. Or maybe he moves a couple of muscles– his mouth scrunches up for a split second, and she's not sure that was under conscious control. She's pleased that he doesn't waste her time asking "what?", doesn't verify, doesn't say a thing before he starts to follow her request, slowly, mechanically. 

She notes how his cock bobs around, flaccid, as he's working his pants and underwear down his thighs. He's too confused to be aroused, apparently. He folds his pants and puts them carefully on the couch, soon followed by his cape and his belt. He looks back at her, but wisely doesn't ask if he needs to go further, just anticipates her answer, takes off his gloves, and starts opening his chest flap and shrugging out of his top, unzipping his wrists before pulling his arms out of the sleeves one after the other.

He looks back at her after he's organized everything into neat piles. Madelyn wonders if he's so fastidious in his own apartment or if he's just terrified of making a wrong move in her office when he's already in the proverbial doghouse.

She's seen him completely nude before. She's punished him like this a couple of times over the years– for some of his larger transgressions. The first time she resorted to this method was after he took it into his head to argue with her in front of the board during a discussion ("You can argue with me in my office all you want, I will always listen to you. But outside these doors we present a united front. Do you understand how weak and ineffective it makes me look in front of all these board members? Do you want them to lay me off?"). He was in his early twenties then and he never repeated that mistake again. Another time it was because she woke up one night and saw his unmistakable silhouette right outside her curtained window. She's sure he still watches her sleep sometimes, but she doesn't want to be able to see him doing so, and she certainly doesn't want anyone in her nice Long Island neighborhood to report seeing a superhero hovering outside people's windows like a creep. All of this was for his own benefit, honestly. Her success was his success and vice versa. He seemed to know that she was looking out for him, in a way, because he always gets over his sulking.

Madelyn has deliberately stayed quiet, just looking him up and down, because although she's seen him nude a couple of times, it's still a rare sight, and his body looks a little different than when she last saw it a few years ago– more prominent veins on his hands, a little more flesh around his middle and thighs, and he seems to have taken to shaving his chest. He has an endearing insecurity about the way his body looks without the padded suit, crossing one arm over to hold the opposite elbow, then sliding it up to his shoulder, like he's a shy teenager and not someone in his thirties. Covering up his chest, trying to obscure the actual proportions of his shoulders as much as he can when there's nothing to hide his body behind. 

"Stand up straight. I like how you look without the suit on," she says, her tone gentle and reassuring, as if this isn't the middle of a punishment at all, and watches him reluctantly draw his arms to his sides.

"Now put on what you bought," she says, as deadpan as she can.

This time Homelander does question her. "... What?"

"Just go take the stuff in that nice fancy giftbox you brought me and put them on."

"But… Madelyn…"

Homelander fidgets, but she won't repeat herself yet another time. His eyebrows knit upwards, he looks worried as he picks up the lacy, frilly underwear. That cut of underwear is meant not to cover the cheeks completely. She will never know how much they'd cover of Homelander's ass, because he can't pull them up far past his knees. He looks at her for her guidance.

"They'll rip."

"Keep them there then. Put on the bra."

Homelander obeys, picking up the brassiere and staring at it before trying to pull it across his chest, managing to wrestle his arms into its narrow confines, but he doesn't even bother trying to clasp the 30C bra in the back. He just stands with the panties halfway up his legs,  squeezing his knees together, and the unfastened bra hanging off his shoulders, cups dangling in front of his pecs. She wonders if he knows that the body underneath the suit that he's so insecure about actually looks incredibly muscular when he's trying to squeeze it into women's apparel.

"Looks like you got the wrong size," she says, tone gentle, indulgent, making sure not to sound mocking.

Homelander looks down at himself and shrugs his shoulders as much as he can in the pose he's having to hold.

"Well, don't worry about it." She hops off the desk and approaches him, and she sees him swallow hard and even move back just a little bit, wary of her next move. Homelander wary of her. Now that's a feat that makes her both proud and amused. She gingerly pulls the bra off his arms, and works the panties down his legs for him. She pretends not to notice how his body starts showing interest as soon as she's close and touching him, even though the excitement is right in front of her when she kneels down to help him step out of the panties.

She rises to her feet, tilting her head up to look at him, but he's looking straight ahead at the wall, pointedly not looking at her, probably trying to fight his arousal back down.

He does look down at her when Madelyn clears her throat, a strained smile on his face, maybe wary, maybe hopeful that she'll grant him some intimacy after all if she's gotten this close to him. She knows that this shy unsure exterior doesn't really negate the fact that he could pick her up and have his way with her, and it would cost him no effort– if he had the nerve to hold her accountable for how she's teasing him right now. She feels like one of those lion tamers sticking her head into a giant set of jaws to show off her control of the situation, somehow quite sure those jaws won't come clamping down and decapitating her.

"Return this one and get the right size next time," she whispers up at him, towards his ear even though she can't really reach high enough, even in heels. His breath hitches, and his body tenses. He starts getting dressed and walks out of her office in a relative hurry, and Madelyn realizes she hasn't finished some of what she absolutely has to get done before tomorrow.

~~~

This new VP of Hero Management position is wearing her out. There's just too much to do, now that she has to take care of so much more than just Homelander and his team (which she still has to micromanage from time to time because Ashley doesn't have the authority nor the institutional knowledge to do everything she used to). So Madelyn works late every day, and this day is no exception just because it happens to be Christmas Eve– still on a call with another workaholic based on the west coast when she sees Homelander saunter into her office uninvited. She gives him a wan smile but doesn't acknowledge him any further and glances at the clock on the wall. It's already 11 pm, and she does want to be able to leave this office sometime before midnight, so she dreads what he's come back in for.

She continues talking to the branch manager in San Diego, Homelander annoying her out of the corner of her eye, because he's looming over her desk. Thankfully he doesn't interrupt her. But Madelyn does almost choke on her words when after a couple of minutes of waiting Homelander seems to lose patience and turns sideways, pulls his pants down a few inches, exposing something lacy and ruffly and a gaudy bright red.

Madelyn raises her index finger as he turns back to face her, and she finishes out the call as quickly as she can.

"You already got them?" she asked incredulously. When she'd sent him out of her office earlier, she wasn't expecting him to take her seriously and do it. Maybe she doesn't know him as well as she thinks she does.

"Yep," he says, giving the last 'p' a playful pop with his lips. 

"How did you get them at this hour? On Christmas Eve?" she revises her question.

"You asked for it didn't you? You were planning to take the day off tomorrow, and I assume you didn't want me visiting you."

She's floored. As intrusive, as unnerving as Homelander can be, he is incredibly hard-working and loyal to her. She should recognize that more often– the man lives for praise.

"You're wearing them right now?" It's a dumb question. She knows he is, by his self-satisfied grin. Being put on this mission completely brought back his sense of purpose, gave him grounding. He's no longer apologetic and shy.

He undresses, more rapidly this time, doesn't seem as concerned about his body being on view this go-around. Madelyn catches herself gawking. His cock couldn't fit entirely into the panties, but that was the only thing off about the fit, wrapped perfectly around his ass, only half of each cheek covered. The bra was even more mystifying.

"What the hell size is this?" Madelyn approaches him from the back, incredulous that it's clasped properly.

"LIke a… 42A I think I settled on?" he says, without moving, letting her make the full turn around his body. "It's the closest I could find. I tried a few."

"Where did you find these? At this hour!" She can't make sense of how he managed to do this before the evening was over.

"Just went right to the source of where they make these. It's morning in Bangladesh right now, you know. And they don't take days off apparently."

"You paid for them?"

"Yes," Homelander says, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure I overpaid and they were happy to have American dollars. What, you think I'd rob a place? "

"You've done less rational things," Madelyn says, but her mind is racing. Sometimes she forgets just how different his world is than hers. Of course. She told him to get some niche items. Of course he'd just fly across the globe to fulfill something she requested as a joke. Maybe she'll wake up to news tomorrow that the Homelander showed up at some obscure Bangladeshi sweat shop for no discernable reason. But that's a PR swirl she's willing to deal with and take full responsibility for. Chalk it up to last minute Christmas shopping, which wouldn't even be a lie.

"So do you like this better?" he asks, arching his back subtly enough that he probably thinks she won't notice. He's clearly fishing for praise, eager to get some leverage back in their relationship, and she'll have to give it to him. She's been quiet only because she's stunned. Who else in the world could revise a Christmas present error so promptly?

"You look amazing," she grants him, dipping her hand into his panties in the back. Maybe her inhibitions are down by this point in the night, without the help of any alcohol. She probably shouldn't be crossing this boundary, but she can't help it. She doesn't love him– certainly not in any traditional sense– but she does absolutely adore what he gives her and how hard he works for her. She's worked hard on her own, but her meteoric rise in Vought's ranks has a lot to do with who she was put in charge of early on in her career.

"Didn't know you were into this shit," he says, trying to sound aloof, cooly amused, but his voice rises in pitch and volume at the end of the sentence because she's come up behind him and hugged him, one of her palms grazing his junk, pretending to be an accidental touch.

"I am very much into someone going the extra mile for me," she murmurs as she runs her hands up his ribcage until she gets her fingers under the two bra cups and touches his nipples– nothing too lewd, but he gasps and his body shivers against her.

She almost wishes she'd requested something more ridiculous: garters, stockings, high heels, the whole nine yards.

"Madelyn, are you satisfied?" he asks her, and his tone is different than before, earnest, needing more affirmations and praise. Hasn't she given him enough?

"I will be when you finger yourself," she says.

He hesitates, reaches down and tentatively takes himself into his hand, but doesn't stroke up and down, await confirmation that this is what she wanted.

"I mean finger yourself," she says, releasing her embrace. "Here!" she adds as she swats him across his ass. She didn't swat hard. He wouldn't feel the difference anyway, but she's sure her hand would sting. It gets the point across.

She walks back around to face him. Was she pushing it too far? Would he wake up to the fact that she's treating him unreasonably at some point this evening? Not at this point, apparently, as he reaches back, hand delving into his underwear, his face giving away how uncomfortable he is with the proceedings but forging ahead anyway.

"Which finger are you using?" she asks, and Homelander winces.

"I don't think… it's not going in. I don't think I'm built for that."

"You might have to push harder. But you should probably get it wet first."

Homelander blinks at Madelyn, maybe wondering how it is that she got him to be on the backfoot again.

"Lick your finger," she says, not sounding impatient or angry, but a bit pedagogical, as if teaching him how to plumb his ass is a very important task. He takes her advice, eyes locked with hers as his middle finger disappears into his mouth and comes out glistening. "And now try it again."

His face has reddened a little bit, but he continues to do as she says, holding his breath and bracing, not realizing it would be easier to accomplish if he did the exact opposite.

"Is it in?" she asks and he nods quickly. "And does it feel good?" she adds. He pauses and nods more slowly. "You like doing as you're told, don't you?" she queries onward. "You don't trust many people, but you trust me, don't you?"

He's nodding along to everything she's saying, and she wonders how carefully he's listening at this point versus just trying to get along and survive this situation with his ego intact.

She does something against her better judgement, but she can't help it. Maybe it's being tired at the end of a long day at the office, maybe it's feeling lonely during a week where she got more Best Holiday Wishes from colleagues than any friends or family, relationships that have stagnated over the years of her working harder and harder at her job. Maybe it's just boredom, but she feels like she needs connection almost as much as her charge does. She reaches forward, and touches him and he gives her exactly the hyper-sensitive, dramatic reaction she wanted– face turning up toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut.

"Keep working the back and I'll take care of your front," she murmurs softly, surprised at how her tone doesn't sound all that different from when she instructs him to work half of a roomful of VIPs while she tackles the other half, or to go out on a rescue mission while she makes sure to wrangle the right newsteams to show up on site to take pictures of the successful outcome. She loves having him as her right hand man. They have the perfect division of labor between them, the perfect team, and the perfect symbiotic relationship– he gets her glory, she gives him intimacy and a sense of belonging. 

Madlyn feels a bit light-headed, these thoughts swirling in her mind even as she feels the warm, firm-soft length of him, warming and firming up more as she continues to touch him. She had vowed not to ever escalate it to this level– to have him strip down was one thing, but to touch him was quite another–  but he caught her offguard, flying around the world like that to fulfill one of her silliest requests, because it didn't matter if she was joking or not. Homelander knows her well enough to know what will surprise and impress her. 

She brings her left hand in, gently reaching for the balls spilling out of the ridiculous panties, and he groans when she gives them the lightest of squeezes, something between a grope and a caress, and Homelander throws his head back again, as if he wants to stare upwards instead of making eye contact with her. Maybe he's taking precautions for her sake, making sure that if he burns a hole through something it will be a ceiling tile and not her head. Her hand continues traveling back, massaging his taint in passing, almost as an afterthought but he jerks as if she's tased him. Her fingers keep going until she encounters his hand. He was true to his word– one of his fingers buried as deep as it could go into himself.

"Very good." she said, barely above a whisper, her finger circling around where he has lewdly entered himself, somewhere she wouldn't dare do, because she's not sure how much of this part of his body is under voluntary control.

"M-Mad-d..el.." he stutters, but nothing coherent follows. She finds it amusing that in all their years together he's never once tried to shorten her name for his convenience. But then she supposes she never shortens his either. She's distracted by these idle thoughts, and her hands are still fondling him when his hips suddenly jerk forward a few times and strings of come land on her forearms and her expensive winter dress.

"S-sorry…" he mutters, licking his dry lips as he looks down and surveys the damage.

"It'll wash out," Madelyn says, smiling, and reaching for the box of tissues on one of her bookshelves, and wiping off what she can. "Thank you for a lovely Christmas gift, at the end of the day." It really is the end of the day– almost half past 11.

"I don't want to," John says woodenly, staring at the small plastic cup Vogelbaum is holding. It has milliliter gradations and a bright blue screw-on lid, the same color as the caps of a lot of other disposable plasticware in the lab. 

"John, we don't have all day, and the people upstairs are waiting for this sample."

John scoots back on the mattress until his back hits the wall, pulling his bare feet off the floor and hugging his knees. "I don't want to. I don't do that kind of stuff."

Vogelbaum sighs and sits down next to him. John can tell he's not going to have his way. They wouldn't bring Vogelbaum in here unless they really cared about something.

"John, when they were telling you not to do that, they meant we didn't want you doing it all the time. You know, aimlessly. This… we need this sample."

Vogelbaum extends the cup to him and John holds it by the top, but his arms are still wrapped around his legs, head tilted down, mouth pressed to his knees.

"Why are you even here?" he grumbles, barely understandable because he's saying it without lifting his face. "You haven't visited me in years."

Vogelbaum shrugs. "They told me you were refusing to do what they asked."

"That never made you come visit before." It was true. When John threw a tantrum– which didn't happen often, and usually because they'd kept him in the room too long, not because they pushed him too hard in experiments– the best he could hope for was Barbara paying him a visit and giving him a stern talk to about not acting like a child. It was never Vogelbaum. John knew Vogelbaum visited the lab, he'd hear his voice on other floors sometimes, but he never showed his face on the floor John was on– he hadn't dropped by since John had turned ten, probably. So now John is full of resentment and aggravation, but he's also overwhelmed by a feeling that he doesn't want Vogelbaum to leave, that he wants to keep him here as long as possible, that maybe he even wants to hug him despite how angry he is at him, although he knows that's out of the question.

"Why did you stop working with me?" John asks, almost certain he'll get some evasive answer, and not even sure what answer he wants to hear.

Vogelbaum sighs. "I just got busy with other projects. And I did get regular reports about you. I heard you were making really good progress, so it didn't seem necessary to make the trip out here."

"So you just didn't care enough to visit. Didn't care about me at all."

Vogelbaum shakes his head very slowly, as if trying to evaluate his own feelings at the same time. "I do care about you. But you probably wouldn't understand why that would translate into me not coming down to see you here."

"Bullshit," John says, partially because he's angry and partially because he's fishing for a reaction at this point.

"Oh they've expanded your vocabulary I see. Anyway, I don't blame you for not understanding that part. I wish I had come to visit you, in retrospect."

John's anger melts into a sadness that is very imminently threatening to turn into tears. "I told them I wanted to see you! And they kept saying you didn't have time," John says. "So after a while I stopped asking. But were you really too busy to even just drop by?"

"I do have a lot of work, John."

"For years?"

"John–" Vogelbaum presses his lips together as if trying to decide what to say. "It's not about you."

"How is not visiting me not about me? And now suddenly you're here, asking me to do something gross."

"'Gross' is not a word intelligent people use. Now stop being stubborn– they need a sample from you."

"For what," John grumbles.

Vogelbaum sighs. "That's not for you to worry about," he says instead of explaining anything, and somehow John missed this tone, this patronizing, calm way Vogelbaum has of cutting off any questions which takes the responsibility off of John, and it's comforting somehow. "I'm visiting here because of the important work that's going on upstairs. And that work hinges on you doing your part and helping us. You understand now?"

"I don't want to do it," John reiterates. 

"I'm not asking you to want to, I'm telling you you need to do it, otherwise all the scientific work can't move forward."

John chews his bottom lip. "I don't want to do it while everyone watches and laughs."

"No one's going to laugh," Vogelbaum says. 

John sighs through his nose. Vogelbaum wasn't around to know about how Marty from the nightshift caught him in the middle of the act about a month ago. He wasn't around when Barbara told him everyone would stop working with him and he'd be left alone in the Bad Room forever if he didn't stop touching himself, even if it was during the short showers they allowed him to have. Vogelbaum isn't around enough to know about anything, or understand anything about John's current life.

"No one's going to laugh," Vogelbaum repeats. "It's a normal thing to do."

"Then why do people tell me not to do it?" John is exasperated, and he can't keep it out of his tone. "Then why do they…" he chokes up, not wanting to finish the phrase. He can't see through the walls of the Bad Room but he can hear people talking on the outside of it quite clearly, all the way through the building. They don't realize he can hear them even when they're not in the room outside his door. They don't think he can hear them when they're up on some higher floor judging by what they're saying, and he doesn't really want to give that fact away, because listening to them is the only way he has of knowing when they lie to his face later.

Vogelbaum nods. "Well, I'm telling you to do it. You have my permission."

John shakes his head, not lifting his face because he can feel tears welling up in his eyes and that's the last thing he wants Vogelbaum to see. He's not even sure why he's crying. Maybe because it feels like they're taking the last thing he used to enjoy away– twisting it into something humiliating and just another task, another test for him to complete.

"John. Look at me."

John shivers. That's a command he gets from very few people in charge of him. Most of the time, the request is the opposite, to keep looking away or staring at a fixed point when there's someone inexperienced coming into his room, nervous about what they've heard or the footage of accidents they've reviewed for training. John knows they keep a record of every person who died in this room and analyze it with new recruits to avoid repetition of the same mistakes. He looks up, blinking away his tears.

"You can do it on your own, or they'll have to come up with ways to help you, but trust me, it'll go much better if you can just do it on your own."

The warning sounds ominous and John looks down, tempted to ask how they'd do it, but he knows Vogelbaum's patience has already worn thin by his tone.

Vogelbaum rises off the bed. "I'm going to leave you, we'll shut the cameras off, and you can do it in privacy. But please just do it."

Privacy isn't a word John has really heard used before. Maybe he's read it but skipped over it without knowing exactly what it means, but he can guess now.

"I'm counting on you," Vogelbaum says as he walks out the room. "Be good and do what we're asking you to do."

That last phrase feels like it locks something in John's mind, like he reverts to an earlier age, and he feels compelled not to let Vogelbaum down. He stares up at the camera in the corner of the room.

"We're turning the camera off, don't worry," Vogelbaum's voice says over the intercom.

John stares up into the lens and waits for the quiet whir to fall silent. He's heard them shut the cameras off before, for maintenance, so he knows what it sounds like. They're just telling him they're shutting them off without doing it. Lying to him– he doesn't understand why people lie to him so often. It doesn't even seem to be about important things most of the time, but they probably think it makes things easier. Maybe it used to work when Vogelbaum was still involved. John didn't use to question what they told him as much as he does nowadays.

He sighs and curls up in bed in the fetal position, still holding the cup, not doing what they're asking him to do. He stopped touching himself after being caught by Marty, feeling nauseous about doing it, and he's certainly not going to do it on command when they're recording him. He lies there and listens to the technicians outside, but no one is talking. When they're not talking, it's usually a sign that they're communicating in writing, so that he can't eavesdrop on them. John lies there patiently. He doesn't hear talking but he hears shuffling of feet around. One of the noises he picks out is different than all the rest. A woman's shoes. So Barbara's there too. Are they going to bring Stan Edgar in just so they have everyone important watch him do this? 

Several people take the elevator two floors up and think they're in the clear so they start talking.

"He's not doing it."

"He thinks we're giving him some sort of behavioral test."

"No. He's out of sorts." John can easily pick out Vogelbaum's voice among the others. "You've raised him with some sort of hangup about this. I thought we agreed to let him develop like a normal teenager as much as feasible."

"Oh we try," Barbara responds, and John is surprised to hear her sound defensive, maybe the first time he's heard that tone from her. "But once he discovered the art he started spending all his time alone doing that."

"It was probably just stress relief," Dr. Park's voice says. John likes Dr. Park well enough. He's young, and more responsive than Barbara when John says he can't do something. But John also respects him less, because he can see he's lower down in the hierarchy and chain of command.

"He was doing it incessantly, though," Barbara goes on. "Every free moment he had to himself."

She's exaggerating, John thinks sullenly. But it's true that once he discovered he could soothe himself, he'd do it whenever the testing and ordeals were over. It helped him stay calmer. It even made him feel less lonely.

"You keep him in the room too long," Vogelbaum tells her. "You've seen the footage. He talks to himself. Not surprised there's other self-pacifying behaviors that take root."

You're perfectly fine. They don't know what they're talking about, the voice in his head tells him, but John doesn't respond to it out loud. The last thing he wants is to be caught on camera looking like he's talking to himself and reinforcing Vogelbaum's point.

John can hear Barbara sighing and even though he can't see her, he can perfectly picture how she's tilting her head because that's how she looks when she sighs at him. "Whatever it was, we had to put a stop to it, shame him about it. He was still doing it on the sly, like a normal teenager."

John breathes hard, feeling his cheeks start to burn, and he doesn't want them to know he can hear them, so he tries to will the heat away from his face. But it's painful to hear that there's no secrets, nothing he can really hide from them.

"And why didn't you start collecting samples then?" Vogelbaum asks.

"I don't see why you want to start so early. I'm sure it's too early for him to be making quality samples at fourteen." Barbara replies, and once again John is surprised to hear her sound on the back foot, explaining herself and sounding unsure. 

"Why would you assume the normal rules apply here?"

John has no idea what a quality sample means, and wonders what will change in the future. He wishes they'd tell him about things they know are coming. He was surprised and even scared when he first discovered the ability to make something new come out of this part of his body. It caught him completely off guard the first time. He had been touching himself idly in bed under the covers, his underwear suddenly flooded with something that felt viscous between his fingers. He got up, heart racing, told the people on the night shift watching him, sure it was some sort of strange new power manifesting. But everyone else was less surprised than him, told him that it was perfectly normal, to change his underwear, wash his hands in the small sink in the room, and go back to bed.

There's lab techs discussing him on another floor.

"Maybe we just wait for his bedtime and he'll do it on his own?"

"The lab needs it by the end of the afternoon, before all the scientists in Repro go home."

"Lazy 9 to 5 assholes."

"He's not going to randomly jizz in a cup for you during the night shift."

"Can you shut the light off?" John asks, realizing that listening to these discussions is worse than just getting it over and done with.

There's a pause in everyone's conversations. There must be speakers from his room on every floor.

"It's not straightforward to shut the light off in that room," Barbara's voice tells Vogelbaum, but John knows it can be shut off. They've cycled the power once or twice, when doing something with the backup generator, and he's been plunged into pitch dark before. He can see in the dark just fine, at least the outlines of everything, just as he sees when he looks into sealed containers that have no light inside, even if he doesn't power his lasers on. But all the people taking care of him don't seem to see anything at all, and that's what he wants right now.

"You don't shut it off when he sleeps?" Vogelbaum asks.

"He only sleeps about three out of twenty four hours. And we'd rather keep the CCTV on. I don't think it matters to someone with his type of eyesight."

"John, it's not really feasible to switch off the lights right now," Vogelbaum tells him over the intercom. "Nobody's watching you."

"Fine," John says under his breath, softly enough that the microphones probably don't pick it up. He climbs under the covers, under the sheets, where their human eyes and cameras can't see, closes his eyes, and focuses on the softness of the bedding, tries to think about something relaxing, thinks about being held, about how it feels to have his hair brushed on the rare occasion when he gets his hair cut, even thinks about the time they kept him in a boiling container of acid and he felt extremely sick afterwards, so sick that one of the nurses was tasked to sit with him and pet his hand when he was lying in bed, and John wonders if that would be the kind of help he would have gotten if he refused to do this on his own. He would have liked that.

What if she didn't just pet your hand, what if she started touching–

John cuts off his own thoughts. He gets disturbed by what the voice in his head comes up with sometimes. He doesn't want to think about Nurse Heather that way. He was feeling sick and she was just there to calm him down.

You were feeling so sick and yet you still had the energy to stare at her chest through her clothes–

John shakes his head, pretends not to remember how her body looked under the nurse's uniform and frilly bra. He didn't stare. He snuck a peek, almost accidentally. Most of the people working here know John can see through things. He didn't want her to know how much he wanted to stare at her body.

"He's getting close," someone in the outer room says and John is thrown off, still stroking himself but now acutely aware of his depressing surroundings again. "When his eyes power up…"

John squeezes his eyes shut tight, and wishes he could drown sounds out as well. He finishes, biting his lip not to make a sound that would air across all the CCTV screens, almost forgetting to catch it in the cup, shoving it up close when he remembers himself, jabbing the hard plastic rim against his body. He breathes hard, cracking an eye open, pulls the cup away and screws on the lid before he forgets and spills this sample that's oh-so-important to them for some reason. They can't complain now. He's done what they've asked.

John half expects one of the lowly orderlies to come in and collect, or maybe them asking him to put the sample near the door to be collected later, but it's Vogelbaum who enters the room. 

"Thank you," Vogelbaum tells him. "I'll talk to them about shutting off the lights for you next time." John is shocked to feel his hair get tousled, and it brings him back to his early childhood, maybe ten years earlier, when he had no question that Vogelbaum was his father and that he loved him more than anything else in the world.

"Next time?" he asks.

"They'll probably ask you to do this once in a while," Vogelbaum says. "Let's see how this one turns out."

John still has no idea what 'turning out' would mean in this case. Barbara said it has to be a certain quality, but for what he doesn't really know. It just looks like a thin layer of white stuff at the bottom of that plastic cup. But he nods anyway, feeling bereft as he watches Vogelbaum leave his room. If they really plan on asking John to do this stupid thing again, maybe he can demand a visit from Vogelbaum before he complies.

~~~

Vogelbaum doesn't ever end up visiting again of course. John hoped but he didn't expect it.

They ask John for a lot of samples, more and more leading up to his fifteenth birthday. John is idly curious about what they're doing with so many of them– maybe just analyzing them the same way they do stool and urine specimens they collect while running experiments to see how he metabolizes poisons, but they collect them separately, more often, and seem to treat them with much more urgency than they do anything else, rushing them upstairs, as if these samples are much more important.

He overhears bits of conversations that sound like something about what they're trying in the lab isn't working, but it's never clear what that is.

John hasn't completely lost his sense of shame about touching himself, but it's become such a routine, almost daily request that he doesn't bother worrying about privacy so much anymore. They never did bother to switch off the light for him, nor the cameras anyway. Why should he care about it if they don't seem to?

He's thought of a lot of different things to get himself to the brink, but his most trusted go-to are still thoughts about Nurse Heather. Nurse Heather has already left the job, so it seems like a safe person to fix on, but John's fantasizing about her has escalated to imagining her touching him everywhere. Sometimes his fantasies turn to him touching her everywhere, and that's a more disturbing line of thought, because he remembers what usually happens to people he touches. And somehow, those thoughts get in the mix and he's turned on by them too. He touches himself but thinks about touching others, and they don't always survive his touch in his fantasies. He knows it's wrong to think about that over and over again, but it makes it easy to submit a sample quickly.

~~~

The small group of scientists that takes care of John doesn't seem to celebrate many holidays, at least not inside the lab. He overhears them talking about attending a Christmas party for employees in the middle of the city in some big building. He asked once if he could go, not knowing what 'employee' meant exactly, but they told him he'd have to wait until he was older and then they were sure he could attend them.

But there's one annual tradition they do always celebrate– they mark John's birthday as a special day. They bring John out of the room and he's allowed to stay in the common area with them. Nobody gets too near him, but they still sit at a table together, sing Happy Birthday to him, and eat cake. They're proud to mark off the time they've raised him, and they act almost as if they genuinely like him. John is cautious to believe that, but he appreciates their effort.

On one of the cement columns in the room, they mark off how much he's grown each year. This year, he gasps when he steps back to see.

"That's a solid 5'6 and a half!" Dr. Park says after applying a measuring tape and writing the number on the cement surface. "I think you're officially going through a growth spurt."

John smiles. He wonders if he'll grow taller than all of the people here some day. He also wonders if he's allowed to ask for a second piece of ice cream cake as he goes back to his seat at the table, this year's tastes so good, but decides not to push his luck since no one else seems to be going for seconds. Sometimes he has to pick up etiquette by just mimicking other people, and he certainly doesn't want to break the illusion that he's just one of the group.

"And here's your gift, John." Barbara extends a thick paperback book to him. John appreciates that they wrap his annual gift even though all of them know he sees right through something like that.

"Thank you," he says, unfolding the paper carefully and hugging the book to his chest. Ever since John heard about a book that has all the words of the English language and their definitions, he's wanted to have one. So that's what he requested for his fifteenth birthday– a dictionary.

"Well, back to work," Barbara says, and the scientists all follow her lead and start getting up and going back to their workstations, and the magical moment where John feels like he's part of the group is over. It won't happen again until next year.

John is back in the Bad Room, but he's got free time for now and lies in bed on his stomach, kicking his legs idly while flipping through the book. He looks up a lot of words he overhears from this floor and others. Some of them are close to what he thought they meant, but some are quite different.

"Oh and John, please provide a sample for upstairs today," he hears someone's voice over the intercom and a plastic cup is shoved through the door slot.

He looks over at the cup on the floor but then looks away, leafing through the book until he finds the word Sample. It's not helpful. He tries to remember all the other words he's overheard about this.

spunk noun

1 Woody tinder : punk

2 Mettle, pluck

3 Spirit, liveliness

He has to look up some of the words in the definition, but none of it seems to make sense.

seaman noun Sailor, mariner.

No other strange meanings listed. But he sees another word further down the page. 

semen noun A viscid whitish fluid of the male reproductive tract consisting of spermatozoa suspended in secretions of accessory glands (as of the prostate and Cowper's glands).

John's heartrate speeds up, because "whitish fluid" sounds like the right thing, but he'll have to look up most of the other words.

spermatozoon noun A motile male gamete of an animal usually with rounded or elongated head and a long posterior flagellum

"... What?" John accidentally says out loud, completely confused at this point, but he forges on.

gamete noun A mature male or female germ cell usually possessing a haploid chromosome set and capable of initiating formation of a new diploid individual by fusion with a gamete of the opposite sex

John feels like he's nearing a dead end, because no matter how many words he looks up, the definitions just get more and more complicated. Not to mention, 'sex' is a bad word, and it's right there in the definition. But his eyes rove over the definition, back and forth, trying to make sense of any of it. Whatever they're doing up in the lab, it's probably complicated.

"Are you enjoying your gift?" Barbara's voice startles him because it's over the intercom and very loud compared to the hum of conversation going on behind the door.

John nods, hoping that it's not obvious through the camera which words he's looking up. There are a lot of words on each page. There's no way she'd know, but he still breaks out in a sweat.

There isn’t much air that moves inside the space the rag-tag bunch occupy. It’s a constant stagnation of unwashed bodies, blood, mud, and all that follows from the street outside. MM, being the homemaker he is, keeps a gel air freshener on his neatly organized desk for that exact reason. Of course, lavender only gets so far when half your team hasn’t showered in a week.

Briefly, Homelander had registered that as he slipped inside. That desk is the only slightly commendable thing inside the pathetic excuse for a hideout. He’d breathed the room in calmly without even so much as crinkling his nose. Hovering perfectly above the old floorboards so they wouldn’t creak, he carefully scooped his cape in his arm one last time as he sat down. 

For a moment, he considered tarnishing himself by sitting on it, just so there would be a barrier between his pristine suit and the mildew. But then he remembered why he was here. He’d woken up, and simply decided today was the day it would be over.

 Across the room, Hughie lightly snores like a prey animal might with its belly up. The Frenchman murmurs confessions, and the female beside him is silent. Butcher’s chest rattles in his sleep, from years of smoking and who knows what. John has picked him to sit cross-legged in front of. Soon, the sun will rise, and they will wake up one by one. He knows it’ll probably be Hughie first, briefly rubbing his eyes as if he’s seen a mirage, and then subsequently screaming for his life. The rest of the rapscallions will jump up ready to fight, and Butcher will calmly wake, and find him right here in front of him. 

It’s naturally the most foolproof plan. He knows Butcher won’t give such a trophy to the authorities, the government, and subsequently Vought again. He’s betting on that. It’s his only promise of some sort of self preservation, some sort of autonomy in his demise. No one will ever know what happened to the great Homelander, who grew tired, and simply fell from grace.

For once in his life, his destiny lies in his own uncalloused hands. He’s nothing but a stringless marionette, he always has been. It has to be someone else who commands him. And there’s no one else he would rather it be, than the free man stinking of rotgut whiskey in front of him.

When the early morning sunlight brushes his face, it starts to fully dawn on him what he’s doing. No, what he’s done. He’s a man of absolutes. There is no backing out, no quitting. The thought alone puts a sick smile on his face. The fact that it’s over, and he’s finally experiencing freedom.

Surprisingly, it’s the Frenchman that wakes first. Silent aside from his sharp intake of breath and subsequent scramble up the couch. It wakes the female to his left, and with a shaky hand he absolutely hammers Hughie awake. Then, Homelander’s long awaited chain reaction finally reaches its crescendo when that pathetic excuse of a man screams.

“Butcher!” 

He doesn’t bother to blink–as if he’s ever needed to– instead continuing his staredown with nothing in particular. No, he doesn't even follow the motion–but he still tracks every second of the other man’s rude awakening. All the temp V has fried him so horribly, or maybe the whiskey. So much so, it takes him a moment to recognize the stars and stripes practically splayed at his feet in sweet surrender. 

The initial moment passes too quickly. Butcher looks him over with that same calm, casual, and calculating gaze as the first time they’d discussed their sweet little scorched earth. Such understanding. For Butcher to be so keen right off the bat is exhilarating, but he doesn’t react aside from that placid grin he's worn since the sun rose. Not yet.

He doesn't even speak to him first, as if he’s nothing but an animal. “What the fuck’s gotten into him?” 

Oh, how he's craved this level of love. Like he's nothing more than a dog. A good, docile pet. His icy eyes finally flick to Butcher's, and the man gets his silent answer.

In all Butcher’s years, all his stents, and all his escapades– he's seen many a man fall. Some do it in some great last fight– one big bang to give them and only them– the peace of mind that it all might've been worth it. Some take as many as they can down with them. And some silently give in, and wait for the old man to come knocking. Sometimes it's a barstool, sometimes it's a curb, but this time, it's the ground at his feet.

It takes serious convincing to persuade the rest of the boys to leave the two men alone in the same room.

They're all convinced it's some plot, some Trojan horse– but the strongest weapon is before them, disarmed. There is some truth to Homelander’s lunacy. Butcher can’t understand, no one can. But he knows him better than any other handler ever has.

He pours himself a glass of that vile rotgut whiskey he drinks–even though it's barely graced 7–and falls back into the same dent in the couch. Only then, does Homelander finally blink. Slowly, like a cat showing trust. His eyes follow Butcher's arm as he sips from the cracked glass, tracking the motion of the liquid as it pools into his mouth and down to his stomach. Observant, but not necessarily present. The lights aren't on, but someone's home. 

Homelander has to swallow his own pride before he can muster the words. He's particularly dedicated as he pushes through when his voice cracks under the pressure. “I've always wondered what you really know.” 

“About what?" William almost laughs, "How to properly shag a broad, or-” 

“About me,” John interrupts him. “I've always seen it in your eyes.”

For the first time in a long time, Butcher’s almost surprised. This break might be worse than he previously had anticipated. “if you're talking about Maeve, or-”

“I know that you know about the lab, William.”

The other man huffs, but he doesn’t smirk. “I might've found a file or two. Maybe a dozen.”

“I need you to– It… It has to be you.”

At that, the other man cracks a smile. “I'm not sure if my ovens quite the right size. Can say I own a pair of stirrups either.” 

“Not- not that again,” John blurts out like he’s pleading. “I need-”

“You regret biting the hand that held your leash.” William finishes for him with absolute certainty, like he’s already comes to terms with the inevitable. “Mindless direction. That’s what you’re after.”

Madelyn’s wretched name doesn’t need spoken. Regret isn’t the right word, but some days when John doesn’t have a weaker hand to gently caress his face, or something warm and white to drink he feels like nothing but an empty chasm. It is part of what drew him here. He can’t deny it. There’s something the other man can’t deny either, especially knowing the animal at his feet can’t take no for an answer.

William outstretches his free hand, and coaxes him forward with a single finger. Testing the water, in the most careless way. “Come ‘ere.”

And at that first command, John obeys. He basks in the attention, so much so in fact, that he bursts just as the other man makes first contact. Pathetically, soaking the crotch of his once pristine suit.

The other man was simply checking if he was actually tangible, on his feet before him. That’s all it had taken. William might realize, he might not. It doesn’t matter to John, because he's preoccupied with each pulse of the veins in Williams' filthy, calloused digits. they feel like purpose. Meaning. All those other pathetic words he’s eternally hungered for. It’s no wonder he always felt like it was all just out of reach– everything he ever desired was here, just a touch away. He just couldn’t see it. Like all those times before, he needed guidance. To be led and forced to water.

When the other man’s fingertips trail close enough, he's unable to tolerate it longer. He wraps his lips around both William's index and middle finger. Gently, as if he doesn't posses the strength in his jaw to bite clean through them. The other man doesn’t pull away, and the blow in retaliation Homelander’s anticipating never comes either. So naturally, he bobs his head, and starts to suck. After all, he needs to thank him, to express everything he can’t say.

Why the other man doesn't stop this all now–or at least make an attempt to–he doesn't know. He's always wanted power over this inhuman man that ruined his life, who took everything from him. This disgusts him, and leaves a taste more horrid than the whiskey in the back of his mouth.

But to John, the man’s fingers taste like safety and belonging. They feel like a ghost of something he never quite received. It’s a good ending to all his fruitless toil. He’s willingly fallen from the chains of the heavens to his place, splayed before William in total surrender.

It’s been weeks since his homecoming. But it still smells like bleach and the enzymatics they’d had to douse the walls and ceiling with. For as thorough as the cleanup crews have always been, this time was nothing short of sloppy. He can still find minute decomposing traces in the nooks and crannies. If he thinks about it, he can smell the sweat that got past their yellow hazmat suits.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be staring at the flecks left in the oven or the Sharpie scribbles on the wall to mark his height from a time when he was still growing. Back when they’d hurt him just for fun. To see how loud he could scream in pure agony.

“John.”

Like he’s been jolted with electricity, his attention goes right back to where it should be. To the current moment. The new reality he’s made for himself, one that’s nothing like this place. Where he’s in control above all else.

This isn’t the first time he’s wandered somewhere familiar when he couldn’t sleep. He knows it as well as the reflection in the steel table he’s picked to stare down at. He’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, guilty again.

“What are you doing here, buddy?”

What’s he supposed to say? That he just wanted to see it empty, like a pathetic child peeking under his bed, to make sure the monsters are gone? That he couldn’t sleep, again? Before he can even muster words with his suddenly too-thick tongue, he’s tsk-tsk-tsked. “They’re gone. It's not like when we were kids. We’re in control now. It’s just you and me.”

It’s true, as if his only friend would ever lie to him. There isn’t even a soul left to man the cameras in the corners and spy on them.

As nice as it is to hear it from a voice of reason, he can’t shake whatever brought him down here. “I still don’t…”

“Why don’t we have a little fun while we’re down here, Tiger? You and me.”

His first thought is what fun could there be, besides what he’s already had, strewing innards and tearing judgmental faces from skulls. But then the reflection bobs his head and gives him that devilish little smirk that leaves nothing to the imagination. It isn’t as if he’s got stage fright. They’ve been familiar like this since the beginning. All the times he’d strip himself bare, to either be judged or praised. But he still hesitates.

“This will help you get over those pesky little nerves. Besides, it’s all just going to waste unused now, isn’t it?”

And then, his second thought is of the more brutal tests they’d subjected him to. He already looks pathetic, watery-eyed and glancing around as if there’s something here capable of truly harming him. His eyes flick to the cold steel drawer that houses the torch and then to the one that the scalpels still call home. The sound of metal being pulled out—as they’d tried to keep him calm as if he didn’t know what was coming—sounds far too clear in the back of his mind.

“Not those, buddy, no. We know those don’t feel any good.” The reflection predictably grounds him before his feathers can be too ruffled. “You remember back when you didn’t wanna go in the cup?”

Oh, does he? It was too often of an occurrence before he learned better. If he didn’t provide whatever flavor of specimen they wanted, they went in and got it themselves. The worst part was, they caught on that he wasn’t doing it out of some sort of rebellion.

No, he started to like it when they’d shove things inside him, as much as it embarrasses him to admit.

Predictably, they couldn’t let that go on. Just like how they started hosing him down to wash him when they found out he liked being scrubbed so roughly. Or worse, when they realized he liked being zapped. It was nothing but starving for scraps. Of acceptance, praise, and pleasure. Anything good, distracting from his miserable painful existence. What barren times those were.

He didn’t start off liking exactly what the mirror knows he's thinking of, no. Initially, they tried to see if they could stretch him any way they could, which proved futile, of course. But he did get to feel full when they’d try. From tip to deep inside, where he crooks upwards through the sensitive bundle in the back. It’s what made him stop fighting it.

“What are you waiting for? We both know exactly where they hid that stuff.”

He can’t help but avert his eyes elsewhere. “But it’s… wrong. I shouldn’t—”

“What, you shouldn’t feel good? Oh Tiger, we have been through that far too many times.” The reflection gives him that pitying and simultaneously disapproving smile in turn. The one that can move mountains, the one that can manipulate him into doing whatever he’s trying to find excuses for or denying himself of. “No one's here, as if we wouldn't do it for a captive audience. Don’t you want to feel in control of it for once? It’ll be so good for you.”

Again, hesitation. "I know you inside and out, John; you don't need to hide from me. I want the best for you, truly. You know that, don’t you?"

“O-Of course.” It’s fodder John can’t resist.

“Good. Now quit being a sniveling pussy, and open the fucking drawer.”

Being programmed the way he is, it’s exactly what he needs to force his muscles to finally move. His wide eyes find exactly what he’d been eyeing across the room almost immediately, tucked in the back where they’d likely hoped he’d be too distracted to see. An assortment of cold and unforgiving steel, the kind intended for torture, that he’d found pleasure in.

It’s pure ecstasy the way they can suddenly trigger an orgasm. He always was touchy and far premature. But this is an even more unpredictable game. One slip of his gloved hand, and gravity might force it too fast. As much as he enjoys the uncontrollable pleasure of suddenly bursting, he has something to prove. That he’s the one in command.

The thought alone is so exciting, he bites his lip. If he’s careful—if he’s good—maybe he can use his strength to feel a bit more of that stretch they’d tried to force.

“Now you’re getting the right idea. Prep work is for pussies. I say, have at it, Tiger. Show me you’ve learned you’re the one in control. You’re allowed to feel good. Let's start small.”

He can’t help the pathetic whimper. Permission and guidance. How could he not obey? He's already leaking; it's not as if he needs lube anyway.

There isn’t a better reflective surface besides the slightly scratched steel tables. A walk to the one-way glass in the bad room would make him lose the need in his grasp. This is enough. While his reflection watches, he hovers above and eases the first thin metal rod most of the way down. Which, surprisingly, is anticlimactic. So much so, he fears he’s done something wrong.

“It’s good that it doesn’t hurt, John. Pull it back out.” The mirror image smiles approvingly, still fully dressed to watch, like always, of course. “You’re big, and you know it. You’ll need something thicker.”

He bites his lip and reaches for the next size up. Only to be stopped. “You heard me. Thicker. Up two more sizes. It’s nothing you haven’t taken before. You want to feel it, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Then let me help you feel it. Up two sizes. Same slow descent down. You’re good with it. You're doing great."

When he follows the directions in earnest, he finally gets what he’s searching for. It feels like being split in the best way, somewhere that's seldom been stimulated before. But it’s just the start. He knows the further it goes, the better it gets. And the reflection can’t help but agree. “Bend yourself down a bit, John. Take it deep all on your own.”

He’s flushed now, a rare sight. Carefully, gently, he tilts his cock down until he can push deeper, closer to the bundle of nerves he knows he can light up like the 4th of July. The muscles inside start to protest. Quivering, and only intensifying things.

For a moment, he has to stop entirely just to breathe. He’s close from just sinking it in once.

“Why are you stopping? You’re allowed to feel good, John. No one is looking. No one is judging.”

“But I—I can’t yet. I can’t—”

“Why not? Because you watched some numb-dicked pornstar go for hours? You’re in control, John. It’s your body. Nobody else's. Make yourself feel good.”

“Tell me I—oh fuck, please—” he gasps desperately, trying his best not to jerk too badly as he keeps pushing. When he glances down, the sight of the unforgiving metal deep inside gives him the confidence he always pretends to have, and his tone changes entirely, like he's possessed. “I’m allowed. I am.”

“That’s right. You are.” The reflection agrees, pleased.

Without another shred of sanity to cling to, he comes harder than he has in years. An uncontrollable release, both mental and physical, long and drawn out, from the metal sitting so deep it blocks the actual gush. Only when he eases it back out through his oversensitive length does it dribble out across the cold table he’s been hovering above.

His reflection isn’t there to congratulate him, to coddle him. No, it’s just John this time. Holding his softening cock with one hand and a tool that they used to torture him with, now coated in cum, in his other. He doesn’t need his friend to tell him he’s done what he needed to.

The monsters are gone. He’s in control.

And most importantly, he’s allowed to feel just as good as he fucking wants to.

But Homelander doesn't make any movement to take his top off– just sits motionless on the bed. "I get wanting the eagles off since they tear up your bedding or whatever, but I really don't understand your obsession with me taking off the top itself."

"Just weird to be scoring all of 'em homeruns for weeks now without ever touching second base."

"Thought you didn't know anything about baseball," Homelander grumbles.

"I know sod all about your baseball. But I know a lot about tits."

"So why do you need to see them if you know so much about them?" Homelander snaps.

Butcher watches him, trying to figure out what the real issue is. Homelander will strip down below the waist in the blink of an eye, and did even the first time Butcher propositioned him and they began this mad chain of trysts. But the top half has never come off, and now Homelander's chest has begun to feel like some sort of holy grail for Butcher.

"You got somethin' horrifying under there that you don't want people to see?"

"No," Homelander says, peeved.

"Caved in chest? Sixteen nipples? A big ol' hole where your heart's supposed to sit?"

"Haha, fuck you." Homelander doesn't bother to feign laughter. "I just don't like being ogled."

"Now we both know that can't be true."

"It's true when it comes to you practically drooling wanting to see my 'tits'. What do you think you're going to see? There's nothing special under there."

"If there's nothing special, what's all your fussing then? Why're you acting like the girl with the ribbon around her neck?"

"Like who?"

"That daft story about the girl whose head falls off if you untie the red ribbon round her neck."

"It's a green ribbon," Homelander mutters.

"So you know the story. So why're you asking me like I'm talking nonsense?"

"Because you are! What the fuck does that story have to do with me?"

"Well, I'm beginning to think your head will just come clean off if I remove–" Butcher tries his luck, thinking Homelander might be distracted. His fingers pry open the chest flap, but Homelander slams his palm up against his own chest protectively, the magnets snapping right back together with a clack.

"Oh come on, luv. What can you possibly have under-" Butcher tries again, but this time gets his wrist grabbed and twisted away painfully.

"Don't touch me. I'm going to take it off."

"Do you just never take it off at all?"

"Obviously I take it off! How the fuck do you think I shower, idiot?!" Homelander has apparently lost his patience and devolved into shouting, although Butcher would argue he's the only one in the room who has reason to lose patience.

"Don't rightly know," Butcher answers, voice even and calm, and Homelander seems to bristle, annoyed that he's the one getting hysterical.

"Well I shower like everyone else, taking my clothes off."

"Alright!" Butcher raises his hands up in surrender. "You're just like everyone else. Everyone else who refuses to take their shirt off during a nice romantic evening."

Homelander shoots him a scathing look but at least it's not accompanied by any heat.

"I'll take the top half off. For you. And I don't wanna hear any comments about it. I swear I'll laser you if I hear you laugh."

"Mate, I already know the suit's not form-fitting to your body. What the hell do you think I'm expecting under–"

"Shut up," Homelander hisses. But he's finally going through with it. He's undone the magnetic buttons, pulls the stiff shell of the suit open and shrugs out of it.

Butcher squints, not sure exactly what he's looking at, not quite managing to stifle a chuckle despite really trying to.

"What." Homelander snarls, eyes boring into Butcher as he throws the top half of the suit on the bed behind him. "I said I didn't want to hear your opinion."

Butcher can't help grinning. "Luv, that's not fair. I said I wouldn't laugh at your body, but what the hell are you wearing?"

Homelander's chest is exposed, but he has something that looks like just the sleeves of a red muscle shirt, with one red elastic band across his clavicles connecting them. There's padding there too, quite clearly, so the shoulders look broad and the arms still look comically buff.

"It's an undergarment," Homelander says, looking away.

"Luv, you're wearing gay lingerie. That's the kind of stuff people wear to raves."

"I don't know where you're getting that from," Homelander says, now working to remove his pants.

"You tellin' me that's not lingerie when it's color matched to your underwear?"

"All my undergarments are red, genius. It's part of the brand."

"Who is even gonna see you in this part of the brand, hm?" Butcher asks, crawling closer and caressing Homelander's face, because seeing nude skin, even if– or maybe especially while– it's partially covered up, is exciting. 

"Stalkers. Obsessive fans. All kinds of lowlifes like you," Homelander says breathily, not protesting as Butcher's hands trail down his neck, touching his exposed chest, then travel further to his abs, stopping when his finger tips reach the waistband of the red bikini underwear. 

Homelander watches Butcher calmly as he works the skimpy underwear down his thighs and eventually completely off of his body, but when Butcher attempts to pull the red spandex up over his head, Homelander clamps his arms to his sides, and crosses them to emphasize that's not part of the program.

"Nutter," Butcher mumbles but their conversation is dwindling as he unbuckles his belt and unzips. Butcher doesn't have any more interest in arguing about whether this really counts as Homelander taking his top off. His chest is exposed, at least, and Butcher takes full advantage of new, previously hidden terrain, eager to make Homelander forget his strange shyness over his body. Homelander's arms uncross eventually and he writhes underneath him as Butcher's tongue brushes over each nipple. This cunt's body is dangerous when he's on the verge of losing control, and Butcher is keenly aware of the peril as Homelander's knee spasms with pleasure underneath him, threatening to knee straight through him if Homelander forgets himself. But Butcher hasn't gotten into an accident yet. He's seen Homelander's eyes light up close to orgasm, but he has yet to let his control unravel and burn a hole in the apartment ceiling.

"Why do you come here?" Butcher asks, trying to be intelligible even as he's picking up Homelander's legs and positioning himself between them. The first few times he was sure Homelander would snap his cock off. And he probably could, if he was so inclined. But Homelander seems to like to lie back and if anything, relax as much as possible, take whatever Butcher has a mind to give him that night.

"Wha-" Homelander mouths. Maybe Butcher's grunts were less understandable than he hoped, but Homelander also looks only half conscious as he says it, eyes half lidded, drooling slightly.

"Why d'you like coming here so much?" Butcher repeats, this time hooking his elbows into the insides of Homelander's knees, pushing forward until he's buried as deep as he can go and hovering over Homelander's chest, folding Homelander's body until his knees are pressed back into his ribcage. The top of the suit is on the mattress, right above Homelander's head, where he threw it earlier.

"I like you." Homelander says, and Butcher thinks that's all he's going to get out of him tonight, but he adds. "You keep me honest."

Butcher keeps thrusting. "If I'm keeping you honest, tell me what the fuck this is," he says, squeezing his padded shoulders.

Homelander shrugs, as much as he's able to shrug while being pushed back and forth on the mattress. "It's undergarments."

"You wear this lingerie all the time?"

"Of course not." Homelander rolls his eyes. "I wore it for today. Don't say I don't do anything for you."

"So what's wrong with your arms?" Butcher asks after a few more thrusts.

"I told you, nothing! I just don't like showing off what's underneath. I don't have nice shoulders and arms like you do."

Butcher stops mid-thrust, not sure why it surprises him to hear it. Maybe because he never imagined Homelander examining himself critically, let alone comparing their bodies.

"You're a nutter. No one cares about that."

"I care about it," Homelander mumbles quietly, not making eye contact.

Butcher doesn't want to be a dick about it, but it's just too tempting. While Homelander is looking away, Butcher takes advantage, slips his index finger underneath the red elastic band connecting the sleeves and snaps it. 

For only god knows what reason, that makes Homelander shudder and finish explosively between their chests.

"Oh!…" Homelander sighs, looking down, studying the mess he made on himself, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Turn over," Butcher tells him as he pulls out, watching as Homelander obeys. He wants to see what's in the back of this bizarre sleeve garment, only to find that it's a pretty solid wide back that covers his entire upper shoulders.  "Come now, raise your arse up towards me."

Homelander obediently cants his hips, and Butcher gives him a slap that resounds across the room before pushing in again, Homelander moaning at what's probably overstimulation, rubbing his face into the mattress.

"You like being stretched open?" Butcher mutters as he leans forward closer to Homelander's ear and Homelander flinches.

"Ye-yes…" Homelander's word comes out haltingly.

Butcher doesn't know where the impulse comes from, but he grabs the red spandex with both hands and yanks it so hard that it tears open. Before Homelander has a chance for any groggy reaction, Butcher grabs the edges and pulls them off Homelander's shoulders, upper arms, lower arms… white stuffing spilling out everywhere like he's eviscerating a stuffed animal.

Groggy or not, Homelander can move fast when he's angry. Before Butcher knows what hit him, he's already flipped over, lying supine on the mattress, blinking up at the ceiling, Homelander perched on top of him, his hand around Butcher's throat, not quite tight enough to cut off air, but there's an obvious threat of added pressure at any moment. Butcher stares at his handiwork, the red sleeves now just tatters of red cloth and clumps of stuffing still clinging to it, hanging down around Homelander's elbows, everything above them bare. Homelander's shoulders do look different without the cover of padding– sloped downward, noticeably narrower, less intimidating if Butcher's going to be honest, although that's all just visual illusion. The arm holding him down into the mattress is no less superhumanly strong after the preposterously large biceps have been peeled off.

Neither of them says anything, the night air feeling hot and suffocating, but maybe that's Butcher's imagination now that he can't fully breathe in.

"Well, your head didn't fall off," Butcher finally croaks out, as well as he can with Homelander's fingers still wrapped around his throat.

Homelander shakes his head. "Just couldn't leave it alone. Bastard."

"Just keeping you honest," Butcher says. "Nothing wrong with how you look, in any case."

Homelander's face softens just as his hand releases most of the pressure around Butcher's throat.

They go back to missionary, Homelander not quite primed for round two, so he lies underneath, watching Butcher move, looking both weary and indulgent as he waits for Butcher to finish. Butcher finishes, despite the recent close brush with death, or maybe because of it.

Butcher rolls off, and lies on his side to face Homelander, tracing his fingers along Homelander's exposed clavicles, feeling up his real deltoids, his real biceps and triceps.

"You owe me another shrug," Homelander says.

It's Butcher's turn to have no idea what the other man is talking about. "Shrug?"

"Yeah. That's what it's called. A long-sleeved shrug."

The next morning, when Homelander is already gone– he stays the night, but staying the night means only until dawn for him, returning to Vought Tower before some passerby can snap a photo of his flight of shame– Butcher gets on his laptop to find the thing he ripped. He's a man of honor, he'll replace it. But he almost spits coffee all over his screen when he finds where to buy the replacement:

Butcher isn't sure exactly when the seed of it got planted. 

Maybe it was the night when Homelander broke down in hysterics the night his funeral aired on TV, and though Butcher thought the emotions were completely overwrought, he did find himself feeling oddly empathetic– empathetic enough not to leave him to grapple with his emotions on his own that night, to take charge, and even find himself feeling proud that he managed to distract and dislodge Homelander out of that state with nothing but words and sex.

Maybe it was the day when Homelander lured him back to the house by feigning illness, and even though the physical sickness was a lie, his neediness and loneliness were all too real, and Butcher ended up healing that pain by making Temp V double as a way to punish Homelander but also to be able to well and truly fuck him into the mattress like he seemed to crave.

Maybe it was the evening after Ryan declined to see him, when Homelander broke down into tears at the unfairness of it all, and only seemed to calm down when Butcher immobilized him and had his way with him, realizing Homelander's crying looks that much more alluring when his eyes aren't hidden behind a metal plate.

It's become a pattern without either of them realizing.

Butcher desperately wants to think seeing Homelander's tears rolling down his cheeks, hearing the convulsive sobs and intakes of breath that come only with the hardest of crying, arouses only a sense of triumph in him, because it's evidence that his enemy is suffering.

But Homelander is less an enemy than an uneasy, not quite predictable ally at this point, and seeing him suffer makes Butcher aroused only because he's come to associate those tears with sex in the near future.

He's not proud of this association, but at one point during sex there's an intrusive thought that what would make this perfect would be Homelander bursting into tears, or at least quietly weeping. The thought alone speeds up Butcher's orgasm.

"You ever cry on cue?" he asks Homelander after he's already rolled over to his side of the mattress, and rolled back to face him, taking the liberty of squeezing Homelander's inner thigh, gentle but possessive, already thinking about a second round.

Homelander blinks, still staring up at the motel room ceiling and not looking over. "... What?"

"You worked in Hollywood. Did they ever have ya crying onscreen?"

"If you'd ever bothered to watch those movies, you'd know the answer is no," Homelander grumbles, but turns on his side to face Butcher. "Why?"

Butcher doesn't know how to phrase it.

"I was just thinkin' I wanted to see you cry," Butcher says, pressing his forehead to Homelander's, hand moving off his thigh to run his fingers through Homelander's still fresh haircut.

"Haven't you seen enough of it?"

"Haven't seen it today," Butcher says.

Homelander blinks several times and Butcher starts to wonder if he's really going to summon up tears just to please him. But apparently it's disbelief.

"You're sick, you do know that, right?" Homelander asks after a pause.

"Now, now, I didn't say I wanted to see you suffer," Butcher says, almost offended because he's not entirely sure what he wants either.

"Then what."

"Well, you're a stunner when you cry." Butcher smiles, wondering if flattery will smooth this over.

"So… the aesthetics?" Homelander looks incredulous. "Or do you just enjoy swooping in and saving me from myself."

Butcher's breath hitches. Maybe he's right. Maybe it's the sense that when Homelander cries, he's his responsibility. Even now, when he's no longer locked in a cage, Butcher feels accountable for his well-being. "Maybe that's it. Maybe I just want someone to take care of." He doesn't say the rest of what he's thinking. That seeing people crying might just vaguely remind him of Lennie, giving Butcher a false sense of hope that he can still fix the unfixable thing that's haunting his past– that he can still do something important that matters.

Homelander stares at him in the dark, studying his face, brows furrowed, and Butcher finds himself unnerved, feeling like his mind is being read by the supe when he's not laying everything out. But Homelander is probably just thinking about something else, because he doesn't seem to be reading Butcher's cues about having a second round. He moves Butcher's arm off of his body, and sits up, cheap mattress dipping. He sits there for a moment, palm against his forehead, before swinging his legs over the side and walking to the small bathroom that's part of this motel room.

Butcher can't really hear what he's doing in there. Maybe cleaning himself off, maybe sitting on the toilet and waiting for things to clear out of his body. There's no sound of running water. There's also no flush before Homelander comes back into the room, and lies down in bed, looking stiff, Butcher not even immediately noticing that his eyes are full of tears.

"Oi luv, what the fuck did you do?"

Homelander looks over at him. "You said you wanted tears didn't you?" and despite the acerbic tone, there's also a note of sadness, a quiver in his voice that proves that he's either a great actor, or that he's summoned real tears somehow.

"I just said I found you fetching when you cry," Butcher says, and it's working, his protective instinct kicking into high gear, but accompanied by a strong sexual arousal as well. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Nothing." Homelander rolls his eyes, but the tears are still coming, eyelashes getting stuck together with salty water when he blinks. "Sometimes all it takes is one look in the mirror and the tears come."

Butcher wants to laugh but he can't– not when they're lying together in the dark, souls bared. He strokes the other man's face, kissing his wet cheeks, Homelander's face screwing up and his eyes squeezing closed when Butcher drags his tongue along some of his skin. "What am I gonna do with you?"

"Fuck me, I was hoping," Homelander says when Butcher lets up with the kisses. He's desperate to sound dismissive, but fresh tears still keep coming and they look real.

"What's the matter," Butcher asks, face hovering close above Homelander's, noses almost touching. At this point he regrets the request he didn't even explicitly make.

Homelander spreads his legs and bends his knees up, encouraging Butcher's body to settle in between his thighs.

"That's not an answer," Butcher mutters, even though his body is raring to go.

"Crying because my partner is turned on by my unhappiness."

Partner. Butcher feels a shock to hear the word for some reason, even though what are they if not partners. Homelander's been calling it a partnership ever since he chose to stay together with him. Homelander watches him through his tears, sees a hesitation, sees Butcher sit back on his heels. He must see it as an opening or a threat to withdraw, and makes some acrobatic motion that is probably only possible through having the power of flight to turn over face down, legs on either side of Butcher again, shoving himself backwards until he's ass up in Butcher's lap.

"Come on," Homelander says, nudging up against Butcher, and Butcher's only human, or maybe not even only human anymore, but nobody could resist that sort of invitation. He spits on his hand, applies it, pushes in, the resistance from Homelander's body only goading him to press further. He searches blindly underneath to find Homelander's cock, not finding it immediately, because it's already flush against Homelander's abs, hot, pulsing. Butcher knows him enough to leave it alone when he's this ready on his own, and opts to settle his hand on the small of Homelander's back instead.

"Still don't know what you tell yourself in the mirror." Butcher's voice is raspy and halting as he moves his hips. Talking and doing this is more multitasking than he can usually manage.

Homelander's face is pointed down in the mattress, forehead pressed against his folded arms, and he mumbles something quietly, but Butcher can't hear him over the creaks of the mattress springs. He stops, breathing hard, trembling with the effort of not moving.

"Whadja say?"

"That nobody's ever going to love me," Homelander says in a tone that's clearly annoyed at having to repeat the sentence. "That's usually enough."

It's been a long day of appearances where the rest of the Seven spoke propaganda into microphones and Noir did his best to stand next to them and think propaganda into the microphone someone had uselessly put up before him. He felt dizzy from lack of oxygen by the time he arrived in the conference room later that evening and took off the mask to finally take a deep breath. And sure, maybe this is on him, that he ends up in the situations he does, because he should know better by now than to spend his free time in the conference room, the place Homelander likes to wander past any time of day or night. There's a nine-out-of-ten chance his team captain simply tells him to be quiet and ignores him as soon as he complies, but as of late, especially after the hug, Noir has been (un)lucky in cracking that one-out-of-ten jackpot and putting Homelander in that strange mood where he starts to reminisce as soon as he lays eyes on Noir's masked face.

He has to admit that, at first, he believed Vought's narrative that Black Noir was on a secret mission and would eventually return. That he was only a replacement. That it didn't matter who was under the mask as long as they had roughly the same height and similar mannerisms. Only one of these things is correct: it does not seem to matter who is wearing the mask. The Seven treat him like he's made of air, invisible and uninteresting. The thing that Noir figured out is a lie is this: Black Noir may be on a secret mission, but the memory of a gloved fist grinding its knuckles gently, but insistently against his abdomen tells Noir that his predecessor might be on the kind of secret mission that leads to the one place nobody ever returns from. In short: the man was murdered, presumably by Homelander, and now Homelander has taken a keen interest in his successor.

Too keen an interest, Noir thinks, as he tries to merge into the conference room wall behind him, back pressed against the concrete. Homelander is undeterred. The man is gently nosing along Noir's neck, inhaling the scent of leather, cotton, and wool that has become Noir's constant companion under the mask.

"I can't sleep," Homelander mumbles, like that's a good enough explanation for walking in and ambushing a man who was just trying to enjoy a post-work Almond Joy in peace. "You know, it always helped when we…"

Noir can't answer, and he reminds himself of that, swallowing down all the questions he wants to ask, the protest that has to go unsaid. It's not like it matters. Homelander isn't talking to him. The motto remains "WWND" - What Would Noir Do? And it's pretty clear from the "always" that Noir used to either consent enthusiastically or at the very least lean back and think of Buster Beaver. He isn't quite sure he can do either of these, so he simply stays quiet, but does lean into Homelander's touch.

Look, he's an actor. Depending on the time of day, most of them swing both ways. He's tried things, even if men aren't his preference. This isn't foreign territory, and Homelander is a good-looking man. He's always been a heartthrob, and age has been kind to him so far, the new lines on his face adding to his dignity. He's attractive, so long as you don't look into the icy-blue eyes. "Eyes are the window to man's immortal soul", Noir's old acting teacher used to quote, and if that's true, then someone should probably call a priest in here sometime soon, but Noir can't see all that well through the goggles of his costume, and Homelander is thankfully busy with nuzzling into Noir's neck.

Homelander is unparalleled when it comes to raw strength, and that's not usually something that becomes apparent unless the man actually gets close enough. Which, let's be very clear here, he is. Where before Noir has been trying to become one with the wall, by now he's being quite insistently pressed against it, trapped by Homelander's body, and that might as well be another slab of concrete. There's no give anywhere, and Noir briefly panics, breath catching in his throat. He exhales with a soft sigh.

Homelander bristles, draws back. "You're right," he replies to something Noir never said. "This is risky. I'll take care of it." And with that, he walks over to the V-shaped table and presses the button underneath. There's a small click that locks the double doors and seals Noir's fate. He'd like to say he's still scared, but his cock is throbbing against the plastic crotch piece of his costume. This is an acting exercise unlike any other. An opportunity! It's unplanned and unexpected, but he can't imagine a way to get closer to Noir than this! If he manages, his performance can only become better for it, and if he fails, then… well, then he dies a painful death. It speaks to his experience in the Tower that this doesn't make his cock flag one bit. He can feel it. He's started to become one with Noir during the purge, and now this will be a culmination of his efforts and-

"I want you down on your knees," Homelander rumbles as he walks back over to him, hands behind his back, cape swaying behind him hypnotically.

Noir wants to ask if this is shorthand for "I'd like to have my dick sucked", but he can't use his words, so he makes do with a hand gesture that is very obviously shorthand for "I'd suck you off if you want".

Homelander stops in his tracks, brows furrowed. Then, he seems to understand. "No, no." He shakes his head. Breathes out a laugh. "That'd be a bit difficult with the mask, wouldn't you say, old chum?" It sounds genuine, but Noir can hear the subtle threat, can feel it in the way his arms are beginning to tingle with the sudden spread of goosebumps: don't make stupid suggestions, toe the line, stay quiet. "No, on your hands and knees. Face the wall."

He does as he is told, too excited to feel any humiliation. Facing the wall means facing one of the Homelander statues, his position making him a supplicant to a marble idol. The real Homelander kneels down behind him, busies his hands (Noir doesn't dare turn around and check, but are these his naked ungloved hands, how utterly thrilling) with the costume. His fingers are steady and sure of what they're doing. How often did he undress Noir, to learn how to do it so quickly?

Homelander exposes only as much skin as necessary, on both of them. Noir can hear the clink of the golden eagle belt, and tries to spread his legs somewhat invitingly, which is difficult with the tight tactical pants tugged down to around his thighs.

With a small groan, Homelander drapes himself over Noir, a solid, warm weight of super strength. "Good thing you can't feel pain," he whispers in Noir's ear, breath hot and ragged. "I always did envy that about you." Then he pushes in.

The breath that leaves him Noir him as he's entered almost has sound behind it, and Homelander pauses immediately. A hurt little noise leaves his team captain's throat, maybe from the pain of having to stop moving when the twitch of his hips tells Noir he wants to move very much, or maybe - and Noir hopes it isn't that - from feeling betrayed. That wasn't a noise! That wasn't even a sigh.

Noir doesn't feel pain, he notes down on the whiteboard of his mind and, in the same thought, erases the white-hot burn of being fucked too roughly too quick with no prep and no lube. Noir doesn't feel pain, so he doesn't, clenches his fists, and focuses on the pleasure blooming from the feeling of fullness and heat of Homelander's rock-hard cock.

Homelander, originally extremely tense, is starting to relax in increments, a little more with each thrust. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good," he moans, fingers gripping Noir's hips. Noir is having a very hard time trying to remind himself that this isn't praise of him, but his body takes it personally anyway, clenches down in gratitude. His cock is drooling onto the conference room floor. The floor is hard and unforgiving, and it's not even the hardest and most unforgiving thing in this room! There's a "thank you" lingering on his tongue, and he just barely manages to save his life by biting down. He's started to enjoy the taste of blood a good while ago, so it doesn't bother him, only serves to make him hornier.

"WWND" has him coming up empty, but keeping the position stoically seems to be doing the job because Homelander's moans are increasing in volume, certainly to the point of echoing in the hallway of 99 by now. Noir can practically feel the bruises bloom on his hipbones, little trophies of a gig well-acted.

"I miss you", Homelander confesses, repeating it like a mantra to the rhythm of his thrusts. "I miss you, I miss you, I miss you-"

Noir is panting like a dying dog, but makes sure it's all air, no sound. He's rocking this! He's doing this! He's… honestly pretty close.

Homelander beats him to it, however, sobbing out a question that, with a bit of artistic interpretation, might be "Why'd you have to leave?", before he stills and fills Noir with liquid heat.

The murder boner was one revelation. The sudden and inexplicable (never happened before) ability to come completely untouched from the sheer thrill of whatever the fuck just happened is another. He is absolutely sure, in this moment, that this is what Noir would do.

He acts on pure instinct, channeling the guttural feeling in his throat that is threatening to turn into a groan into his hand instead to blindly grab for Homelander's head, threading his fingers through the blonde strands. A surprised noise leaves Homelander, but he goes willingly, allows Noir to kneel upright and bring their foreheads together. The goggles of Noir's mask are fogged up, but he can make out two things: there's tears on Homelander's cheeks, and he is smiling serenely.

"Remember who taught me that?" Homelander whispers not five minutes later (they're still on the floor, but no longer fucking, and Noir doesn't know when it's polite to leave) and taps a playful rhythm on the breastplate of Noir's supersuit with his fingers. Noir doesn't remember, but it doesn't take a PhD in astrophysics to come to a conclusion here, so he nods.

Homelander just sighs happily and rests his head on Noir's shoulder.

You wake up at the sound of footsteps and squint at the light streaming through the oversized glass windows. Your muscles ache from the curled position that you had fallen asleep in. You figured you’d be used to it by now. Your space has been cramped for so long that sleeping this way isn’t just second nature, it’s necessary. You poke around at your bed, fluffing it and adjusting it into a more comfortable position. Once you’re satisfied, you stretch as best you can in the small area. A pleased sigh escapes your lips as your cramped muscles begin to release.

“That was a big stretch, Puppy!” You hear a smug cheerful voice ring out through the apartment. You peer through the bars of your cage. Sage strolls towards you, a metal bowl in each hand. Your stomach growls as you smell the steam coming off the left bowl. She opens the door to the kennel and you behave. You sit and heel as she places the bowls into the small space that isn’t taken up by your dog bed. You wait for her signal which she luckily gives promptly. You look down and grin happily at the contents of your food bowl. You’ve been exceptionally well behaved lately and your hard work has paid off. Your breakfast is a yummy bowl of cheesy scrambled eggs with bacon bits scattered throughout. You give Sage a grateful look before diving in.

Despite how long this has been your routine, you still feel shy at being watched while you eat. Little flecks of egg cling to your cheeks as you eat directly out of the bowl. Sage and Homelander don’t like it when you use your hands. You try to reduce the mess by taking dainty bites and it helps keep any food from escaping and dirtying the floor of your kennel but your face is a lost cause. The food is much better this morning than you’re used to and your discomfort soon fades as you enjoy your treat. It’s not a huge portion but Sage maintains that responsible owners do not overfeed their pets. It should be enough to hold you over till lunch.

Sage dresses as soon as she wakes up. But Homelander prefers not to put on his suit until it’s almost time for him to prepare to leave for the day. He walks up naked as a jaybird and wraps his arm around Sage’s shoulders fondly. You’ve become numb to his nudity. Like everything else, it’s merely become a part of your routine. You finish licking up any bits of cheese and egg remaining in the bowl. Once you finish, you return to heel.

“Our puppy is messy this morning. I think it’s time for a bath.” Homelander exclaims as he looks you over, immediately noting the bits of breakfast clinging to your bare body. Dogs don’t wear clothes after all. But his gaze isn’t sexual, just practical. Homelander and Sage genuinely see you as their little pet, and unlike The Deep, they don’t tend to indulge in fucking animals.

“Good idea, we don’t want our little pup dirtying up the furniture.” Sage gives you another gesture and you crawl out of your cage. They walk to the bathroom and you follow on your hands and knees. You look around the penthouse. It looks like the warehouse of a museum. Portraits and statues peek out amid the stacks of books that Sage brought over when she decided to move in. Homelander complained about the clutter initially but Sage made it clear that it was a non-negotiable. He seems to have made peace with it.

This is your life now. You intend to make the best of it.

———————————————————————

It didn’t start out like this. You didn’t wake up one morning being forced naked into a kennel. No, at first you were merely a terrified survivor of the Vought purge. You were so insignificant to the company that you didn’t have any information of note that would make you a threat. You lived and quickly adapted to the new regime because you were smart and knew how to keep your head down. You quickly rose through the ranks. It was an easy task with the workforce so reduced. Most positions were filled with loyal supes of course, but many felt above menial office work so there was wiggle room for upward mobility to an extent.

You hadn’t necessarily wanted to be upwardly mobile. The more a human employee learns about the company, the more dispensable they are in the event of another “mass lay-off”. It certainly doesn’t help that the higher up the ladder one goes, the more assertive one has to be, and being assertive to supes is a big NO in the new regime.

You tried to step as carefully as you could to hopefully avoid landing on anyone’s toes. But there was no amount of careful you could be to avoid the target on your back.

So sure Sage grooming you into her little “pet” project would no doubt have been horrifying to anyone else. Most people couldn’t have endured the slow degradation of humanity that you went through. From the day she gave you the collar and ordered you to crawl, it was one thing after another. Another new humiliation.

Most people would have failed.

You’re not most people.

——————————————————————

You obediently sit in the tub as Homelander cleans you off with a soapy rag. He moves with a clinical thoroughness as he makes sure not to miss an inch of skin. You relax into the touch. The combination of the perfectly heated water and the tender brush of the washcloth has you dozing off slightly. You love bath time. When you were still fully human, showers were your escape from the anxieties and stresses of the day. That hasn’t changed, even if your biggest worries nowadays consist only of playing your canine role to perfection. They wanted a dog? Well, you quickly learned how to bark.

You twitch and whine as Homelander gently runs the cloth over your chest and between your legs. He’s efficient with it, he doesn’t leer or linger. But you’re still sensitive and the sensation makes you jolt. A tiny splash of water splatters onto the floor. Sage was observing the bath from the bathroom corner but she frowns at the puddle of water and walks sternly over to you and tugs your ear sharply.

“Bad dog! You know not to make a mess.” She chastises you and you shrink away. You plead with your eyes, hoping she understands that you didn’t mean to. She lets go of your ear but doesn’t retreat. She just watches.

Homelander chuckles and reaches out to pat your head. He coos as you look at him with wide eyes, happy that at least he isn’t upset with you. In a surprising turn of events, he’s become the indulgent one. He likes spoiling you and loves to bask in the subsequent affection. Ever since he was a boy, he’d always craved a companion animal that could give him all the unconditional love he could want. That’s what he told you during one of his sentimental rambles. To him, the fact that you used to be a human is irrelevant.

Sage is strict. She likes to challenge you. She keeps you to a schedule, gives you rules, coaches you to be obedient. She doles out the punishments when you misbehave. She decides when you’ve earned more privileges. She’s much harder to please but that makes you even more eager for her approval. When she tells you to fetch then you fetch. You aren’t even ashamed when she sends you on errands around the tower anymore. No supe dares touch or mock you now, even when you are more vulnerable to them than ever. Your collar might mean subjugation to most. To you it means safety and salvation.

“Awww c’mon Sage. She didn’t mean it. Look at that face.” He pouts and squeezes your cheeks until your lips pucker. Sage is unimpressed and grabs a cup on the edge of the tub so she can start rinsing you off. Homelander releases you and you lean over to gently bump Sage on the arm with your forehead. She huffs.

“Don’t think acting cute means that you can misbehave. We have rules for a reason. You don’t want to go back to your kennel for the rest of the afternoon do you?” She arches an eyebrow and you whine but stay still for the rest of the bath until all of the soap has been methodically rinsed off. Once she’s satisfied by your level of cleanliness, she gestures for you to get out of the tub and then proceeds to dry you off with a towel. You shake your head quickly, making sure you don’t have any water in your ears. Water flies everywhere and while Sage leans back to try and avoid it, she doesn’t chastise you this time. It’s mostly theatrical anyway. They appreciate the little touches you make to really sell the illusion.

At least she doesn’t lock you in the kennel again.

———————————————————————

It’s your favorite time of day. The afternoon sun floods the apartment just right and the most perfect sunbeam lingers on the leather couch. It always feels delicious on your bare skin. The tv is usually turned on low and is a pleasant backdrop to the lazy naps that you take. Sage and Homelander take this time to debrief and discuss what needs to be done next as they execute their plans. While you’re not allowed to otherwise, as long as you’ve been good, they’ll let you doze on the couch next to them.

It’s part of your daily schedule and it should be happening right now.

You give a disgruntled sigh from your uncomfortable position on the ottoman across from the bed. You try to shift to get more comfortable but the surface is too small for you to really settle. It’s nothing like the nice comfortable couch you wish you were on right now. Normally such a noise would earn you a reprimand. But not even Homelander can hear you over the explicit moaning and loud banging of the headboard as Sage rides him into oblivion.

You’re not sure why it’s happening now? What is the point of a schedule if no one ever sticks to it? You’ve been very well behaved today and you deserve what few creature comforts that they give you. You shouldn’t have to wait like this!

A pathetic whine leaves Homelander’s lips as he grips her hips desperately. Her movements are aggressive and assertive. While he could now doubt control her movements if he wished, he appears to be more than enjoying letting her take the lead. It fascinates you how the more pleasure he feels, the more his expression becomes pained. He bucks up and Sage moans loudly. She wraps her hand around his jaw and jams her thumb into his pulse point. He flashes his fangs and Sage laughs breathlessly. She turns to look at where you lay on the ottoman. She seems deeply amused by your waiting. You suspect that this is another test. She doesn’t break eye contact even while Homelander is still pumping into her. You meet her gaze back. You’ve learned she likes it when you watch.

You used to be scared when they’d fuck. You felt intrusive and uncomfortable. Especially on the nights when they would go for what felt like forever. You still had human conventions then. Being trapped in an apartment with people having wild sex was not something you were used to. You worried it was a trap. You worried that they would try to involve you somehow. Your mortification was so great it made you ill.

Now…you don’t even flinch. You’ve become so accustomed to your new life that it doesn’t phase you anymore. It isn’t your business. Watching is no longer a shameful thing. You’ve evolved beyond that.

Homelander gives another whine and reaches up to grab Sage’s jaw and pull her attention back to him. He doesn’t mind you watching. But he doesn’t like when you take Sage’s focus away. She huffs and grabs his wrist, slamming it down into the mattress and leaning over him. You can’t see his face anymore but by the way his leg is twitching, you can bet he’s trying to hold off. Sage always chastises him when he comes too early and he hates to disappoint. You can hear him mumbling something low and intimate to her although you can’t make it out.

Next thing you know, Sage reels back and smacks him hard across the face. You jump and fight the urge to run and hide. You worry that Homelander will fly into a rage. Lasering Sage and you along with her. You’ve seen the aftermath of his wounded ego. But that is not at all what happens. As the loud slap echoes through the open penthouse, Homelander lets out an undignified noise and spasms under Sage. The twitching of his leg becomes a full on shake and there is no way his grip on her hips isn't bruising. Sage doesn’t seem to care. She keeps up her pace, her hand dipping between her thighs to finish herself off while she wrings Homelander dry.

Eventually Sage collapses to the side, leaving Homelander laying hot and sticky on the sheets catching his breath. He reaches out for her. But Sage isn’t one for cuddling or afterglow. She’s already walking to the bathroom with a change of clothes. You’d suspect that she wasn’t interested at all if it wasn’t for the amorous look she shoots him before she disappears out of sight.

Homelander follows her with his keen gaze even after she disappears out of sight. He’s no doubt looking through every wall that keeps her from him. He sighs. As much as Sage likes to get back to business after, Homelander craves affection and closeness after sex. It’s become a sticking point between the two of them.

That’s where you come in.

“C’mon puppy! Come join me.” Homelander says with a lazy satisfied smile. He leans back on the pillows with his eyes closed, clearly enjoying the buzz of endorphins. The room smells like sex. You hesitate for only a moment. Something in your hindbrain still understanding how fucked the whole thing is. But that part gets smaller and smaller everyday. You’re happy to help. You truly are. You climb onto the bed and Homelander pulls you on top of him and holds you close as he pets your head. He likes using you for closeness after a romp. He enjoys the skin to skin contact and affection even if he holds no desire for you himself. You’re his beloved little pet. You’ll always be here for him. You can’t leave.

You close your eyes and soak in the gentle touches. You hear approaching footsteps and the bed depresses under you as Sage crawls in as well. She settles in on the other side, her t-shirt tickling as it brushes your skin. She proceeds to scratch softly behind your ears and you melt into the bed. You’ve already forgiven them for denying you your couch time. Being allowed on the bed is an even rarer treat.

“We have a surprise for you!” Sage leans down and whispers in your ear. You perk up. You tilt your head curiously as she opens the bedside table drawer and pulls out a package. Homelander stops petting you. He simply looks down at you indulgently. Sage gestures at you to sit up and you oblige happily. You can’t remember the last time you earned a surprise. Homelander chuckles at your excitement, his expression is pleasant and relaxed in a way that only happens after sex.

You whine with impatience as Sage opens the box. Your mannerisms having adapted to your new role. When she pulls out a beautiful leather collar, you can’t help but to reach out and pull her into a hug. It doesn’t last long before Homelander grabs you by the nape of the neck and tugs you back sternly.

“No jumping!” He huffs while poking your chest hard with his index finger. You bow your head in apology. You broke the illusion for a moment. You need to remember to be your place despite your excitement. You wait for Sage to lecture you as well but she seems content to let Homelander deal with you this time. She reaches out, unbuckling the uncomfortable nylon collar that you’ve been wearing the past year. You feel naked as the cool air of the apartment brushes over the irritated skin where the harsh material rubbed you raw.

“Good puppy.” Sage croons as you sit still for her to place the new collar around your throat. The leather is a rich brown and buttery soft. It feels incredibly comfortable and you have to resist the urge to hug her again. If you actually had a tail then it would be wagging like crazy right now. Your hips wiggle as you sit on your heels. There is a charm on the front with your name engraved. Your real name. There is a spark of recognition as you see it and for a moment you get a flash of the person you used to be. But in this moment, you find that you no longer miss her.

The charm shimmers and it reminds you of what you have now. You are safe and taken care of. You have no responsibilities and nothing to worry about. You are fed, bathed, cuddled, and mercifully kept apart from the current regime which used to have you so terrified. Most people would find you disgusting for your eagerness to submit. You’ll never be like most people. Your freedom doesn't look like much but it’s yours. You realize that you are happy here against all odds.

“Look how excited she is! I knew she’d like her present. A pretty collar for a pretty dog.” Homelander coos, stroking between your shoulder blades affectionately. Careful not to jump, you lean into him and nuzzle against his cheek without fear. You’re so grateful. You’re so grateful to them for choosing you and saving you.

“I think she should sleep with us at night from now on. She can curl up right at the foot of the bed. What do you think, Boo?” Sage asks pleasantly, reaching out to join Homelander in petting you. You turn and give her a nuzzle as well, hoping you can express your gratitude for all they have done for you.

Homelander hovers above the big lawn at Godolkin U. He didn't really want to draw attention to himself, but he also couldn't for the life of him figure out which campus building Sage is summoning him to. At least students seem to be mostly studying or partying inside at this time of night, so there's no one outdoors to notice him and make an annoying commotion.

"Where the hell are you?" he snaps without a greeting when he sees Sage calling him.

"The building with the dean's office in it. The smaller building behind the library."

"You say that like I'm supposed to know where that is…" Homelander says, but then he finally spots her while scanning through every roof. She's sitting in a room with another man… no, two other men. Homelander squints, puzzled. One of them looks like an invalid or some grotesque burn victim. "I see you, never mind."

"Great, go in through the front door, it's unlocked."

Homelander ends the call without a reply, annoyed that Sage feels the need to tell him to walk in through the door. Like he was planning to crash in through the roof and several floors above them? Crawl in through the window?

He doesn't like being on this campus, because despite having his statue prominently featured in the courtyard, he never spent any time here. He doesn't understand why Vought never sent him here, either. When he debuted he didn't think much of it, and everyone assured him he wouldn't learn anything useful that he hadn't already learned in the lab, but now he knows that was a lie. Grateful as he is to have Sage as his right-hand advisor ever since they essentially took over the US government, Homelander has also been reminded on a daily basis of how many things about business, politics, and world affairs he has no grasp of. He had been bright as a child, whether Sage believes him or not. He could have gotten educated. She'd respect him more if he could at least know the lingo and the concepts of whatever Economics and Political Science classes teach you. Nowadays he just doesn't have the time or patience to learn everything while also running this country, shaking hands and being in incessant meetings and social functions. His days are full enough, and now Sage is requesting that he show up at a random place past midnight. He has very little patience.

"So?" he says, walking in, not bothering with pleasantries. "Who's this?" he points to the man with the beard seated in a chair. "What's the occasion?"

Instead of answering, Sage smiles and throws a glance at the disfigured invalid in the wheelchair.

Homelander is about to say something else when a very strange sensation comes over him, as if his body is becoming paralyzed, and disconnected from his mind. His tongue feels thick and immovable and he can't say anything. He blinks, trying to move his jaw and to ask what the fuck is going on, but he can't.

"So you are able to," Sage says. Homelander doesn't know what she's talking about, her large brown eyes are locked with his.

And then Homelander feels sick when he feels his mouth start to move of its own accord, breath coming out of his lungs through his larynx, forming words– none of which he's thinking. "You owe me fifty."

Sage smiles and nods.

"Oh he's fighting me tooth and nail though," Homelander's voice says and Homelander can't understand what's happening, can't understand who's talking for him, can't understand why he's unable to control his body, panicking and yet unable to feel his heart speed up, nor breathe heavily.

"Yeah, his eyes are darting back and forth," Sage says. "Homelander, it's fine. Chill. Nothing's gonna happen to you."

Homelander feels like he's locked away, unable to move, and yet at the same time can also feel himself moving, paradoxically.

"Oh this is fun," whoever's controlling him says using his mouth, as Homelander feels himself lifting an inch or two off the ground. It must be the guy with the beard that Homelander can't will his body to turn and look at. This must be some new supe Sage dug up whose power he's never encountered and it frightens him to no end. He suddenly feels his body accelerate upward until his head hits the ceiling, some plaster coming loose as dust.

"Don't– " Sage says, eyes following him as he slowly descends back down. "Stop testing if he's indestructible."

"I wasn't. It's hard to have fine control when it's an unfamiliar power," someone says using Homelander's mouth and Homelander wants to regain the use of his body just to throttle both Sage and this self-satisfied supe who's just sitting there watching– maybe collide their heads together into one mess of mashed brains. But he can't voluntarily move a muscle.

"So you want him to do something out of character while I have him? Test the limits of control here?" Homelander's voice asks, while Homelander's mind races and panics.

Sage rubs her chin thoughtfully, and before she says anything, Homelander feels himself getting down on all fours on the floor.

"Oh please," Sage says. "That's not even that far out of the repertoire of what he might do."

Homelander barely knows what she means, but feels insulted anyway. 

"Don't make him do anything humiliating," Sage adds. "This is just supposed to be a test."

Homelander hasn't gotten up from his position, and feels someone swivel his head and look up at Sage. He starts speaking in what might as well be tongues for all Homelander understands. "Nicht nur das Universum ist seltsamer als wir denken, es ist seltsamer, als wir denken können."

"Oh, very nice! No American accent even."

"On ne naît pas femme, on le devient."

"Well now that's even more out of character!" Sage laughs. "You're just picking my favorites."

Not only does Homelander have zero control over anything, now he can't even understand what someone is ventriloquizing him to say. Maybe the amount of anger he has welling up inside him by this point gives him some sort of mental strength so that he manages to wrest back control of his body for a brief second. That second is enough time to lunge at the bearded man sitting there impassively, watching the entire proceedings. Homelander is angrier at Sage but this mysterious supe is the one that has to be incapacitated. But before his hand can close down around the stranger's throat and rip his head clean off his body, control slips away again.

"Don't be mean," Sage says and at first Homelander thinks she's talking to him, still irate but powerless, but then he realizes she's talking to whoever is controlling him. "And don't push him."

"Well I have to push him a little," Homelander's voice says. "He's a lot tougher to hold than the college kids, I'll admit, but I didn't think I'd even have a chance with someone this strong."

"Physically strong," Sage says, shrugging.

"It's a nice body."

"A very nice body," Sage echoes, and approaches him and Homelander feels her arms wrapping around him, feels himself leaning down, meeting her lips, even though he's not directly participating, feels his arms wrap around her softer, smaller body and lift her up. Some of Homelander's anger is replaced by confusion as he senses his body reacting. It's someone else's arousal, but now it's his too. He feels it as a completely separate physical sensation somewhere far away from him, out of his control, but his mind begins to feel it too.

"Hang on," whoever's controlling his body says, and lifts up, turning his body in the air. The motion is graceless-- whoever is moving him has no idea what he's doing. He's suspended upside down and slowly moves towards Sage's face. Homelander doesn't even understand what this person is trying to do until they're just about to lock lips.

"Gimmicky," Sage says when they come apart from the kiss. "But a nice gesture."

"Had to try it while I was in here," Homelander's voice says as he lands himself back on the ground, and Homelander has the bizarre urge to punch this supe? himself? in the face for using his body for stupid tricks.

"Fuck me," Sage whispers into his ear. His ear? Homelander certainly hears her but he doesn't understand how he's experiencing anything right now. His body moves and talks of its own accord. "Fuck me on the bed. And try not to kill me please."

Fuck her he does. Homelander doesn't even have the mental bandwidth to be fully angry at his circumstances. It feels like he's watching himself have sex, but instead of seeing himself, he feels it without participating, just along for the ride. He's taking Sage from behind, his hands gently caressing her hipbones, moving slowly and languidly, and it doesn't feel like the pace he would choose for himself at all, but Homelander can't wrestle for control while also feeling these sensations. He empties into her with a loud groan, and whoever is puppeteering him doesn't understand the first thing about controlling his lasers, and burns a hole in the wall as he comes.

"Shit," Sage mumbles. "Forgot to warn you about that."

Homelander's body mutters some token apology in what might be German. Sage looks to her right again-- she keeps looking over there, and Homelander wants to know what she keeps stealing glances at.

Homelander can't control much, but the easiest thing to take a bit of control over is his eye muscles, and he uses all his willpower to will himself to glance over and see what's in his peripheral vision. He's taken aback when he sees that it's the old burn victim watching him and Sage with unmistakable, voyeuristic lust. Or would be taken aback if he could move anything beyond his eyes. 

Sage turns around and stands up, tapping her index finger against Homelander's nose affectionately. "Did you like that?"

"I always like it with you,"  Homelander's body replies, and Homelander begins to understand that it must be the old man who's somehow managing to run his body remotely, and the other catatonic guy in the room is just some red herring. He wonders how many other bodies have been used to do the deed with Sage. He's never done it with her before, even though she seems to fuck every living breathing male in her vicinity, as far as Homelander can tell, and now his lucky day has finally come. He's not sure this counts though. 

"Wh-at- the FUCK is- going on-" he suddenly manages to say, not articulating well, shocked that he succeeded at all though. His jaw still feels locked in place, but at least some of his mouth is moving the way he wants it to. He feels like he's managing to push something out of him, regaining a feeling of mastery over his body in a slow wave. Before he's regained full control, Sage guides him to walk about the room and into the hallway, getting about halfway down before Homelander regains full control and stops dead in his tracks.

"There you are," Sage says, and it takes Homelander a moment to realize she's addressing the real him now, not whoever has been inhabiting his body parasitically.

"I'm going to fucking murder you," Homelander says, feeling his lasers powering up, now that his body is entirely unlocked.

Sage shakes her head. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was curious if he could control you. Looks like you figured out how to kick him out eventually."

"Figured what out."

"Didn't it become easier to get control back once you knew who was working your body?"

Homelander shakes his head in disbelief and grabs Sage by the neck. "You think this is funny?"

"I'm finding you the best and the most powerful people to surround yourself for phase 2 of the coup," Sage says, voice still pretty flat thought Homelander detects her heart rate ticking up. "You have to admit he's powerful, although I don't think he poses a threat to you personally."

"That geriatric vegetable in there?" Homelander's grip tightens around Sage's throat. "The one you let crawl into my skin and then proceeded to fuck? That's the best and brightest?"

"He is actually. That's Thomas Godolkin."

Homelander pauses, rage yielding slightly to curiosity. "Thomas Godolkin as in the guy worked with Frederick Vought? Hasn't he been dead for decades?"

"No, he's alive and… well, not well, but certainly alive," Sage says, rubbing her throat when Homelander finally releases her. He's going to remember her coming back to him in his hour of need, when Victoria Neuman's death was announced and his whole world seemed to be crumbling. He's wanted to kill Sage several times since then, but never follows through, and has forgiven her things he wouldn't forgive anyone else. 

"I should still kill you for pulling that stunt. Literally ambushing me," he mutters, his anger welling up again.

"You weren't going to get hurt in that room. I wouldn't put you in harm's way."

"'Harm's way'?! How do you know what harm even means to me? You're a sociopath, you know that?"

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "I should have given you a heads up. But I just wanted to test–"

"Don't EVER test anything on me, ever!" His voice rises to a fever pitch, and hopefully there are no students in this building at night because his voice echoes through the hallways.

"You're right," Sage says.

"About what!" Homelander snaps.

"You're right. I was wrong to do it. I shouldn't have tested his powers on you. I know you've been put through your fair share of tests. I know you didn't have much control growing up. I'm sorry that I didn't consider that."

"You don't know shit," Homelander says through gritted teeth, feeling his blood pulsing at his temples. Knowing her, he also finds it hard to believe that there was anything in this world that she would forget to consider. "Did you recruit some mindreading supe to rifle around in my brain without my knowledge so you could know everything about my past? How many parasites have I had inside me since I made your acquaintance, hm?"

Sage shakes her head. "Don't be paranoid, nothing like that. Once I got access to classified Vought files, I just read what they had about your history, how they raised you."

"What the fuck for. So you could manipulate me like you're doing now?"

Sage shakes her head again. "Mostly just curious about you."

"Well, great. Good for you. I'm sure you're putting all that knowledge to great use. Fucking me over. I may not be as smart as you Sage, or as smart as that useless eater in there that you're so head over heels in love with, but I still know when someone is fucking with me."

"Fucking you was great, actually."

"That wasn't even me!" Homelander shouts.

"Well… part of it was you. And that part was great," Sage says, offhandedly, still looking down at the floor. "I wouldn't mind doing it again."

Homelander wonders if this is just a transparent attempt to flatter him and get back in his good graces by appealing to his ego and his dick at the same time. "I don't know Sage! I'm not gonna be able to woo you with all that German French voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir garbage or whatever he was puppeteering me to say."

Sage cracks a smile. "Your version works for me."

Homelander's angry. "Don't patronize me. I'm not an idiot."

"Who said you were. Why would I want to collaborate closely with an idiot?"

Homelander shakes his head, jaw set. If Sage expects him to forgive her for such a profound violation immediately, she's got another thing coming.

A few hours later in Vought Tower.

Homelander lies staring up at his ceiling mirror, looking at the reflection of his and Sage's naked bodies next to one another.

"You've got a really nice cock," she says, gently reaching over and cradling it in her hand, rubbing her thumb over his slit. "It's got, like, a nice heft to it, but not… you know… impractical."

Homelander isn't attracted to Firecracker.

She isn't physically repulsive, and her obsequious behavior is annoying but he's less frequently irritated by her than by Ashley. Her powers are certainly subpar– Homelander asked her for a demonstration during the three minute interview she had with him prior to joining the Seven and they were so unspectacular he doesn't care to remember what they are. But it's not the reason he's put off by her. No, the thing that annoys him the most is her lack of intelligence, which is evident every time she opens her mouth. So while it's nice to have a staunch unwavering ally in his group, it also depresses him that the person most enthralled with him in the Seven is no better than the crowds of mouthbreathing fans that gather at his rallies.

It annoys him that her costume and character have a similar patriotic theme to him, feels like it tarnishes his brand– the brand he's trying to pass on to Ryan wholesale, if Sage would just let him. His lip curls in disgust whenever he's browsing social media for news and sees people rooting for them to be an item, or making AI family portraits placing Firecracker in next to him as if she were Ryan's mother.

It annoys him that her milk soothes him and that it's never as good cold out of a glass as it is body temperature, straight from the source. It annoys him that it takes him more than a quarter of an hour to drain both breasts at the beginning and end of a workday, because if he sucks harder to make the milk comes faster, she gasps in pain and he's forced to ease off.

It annoys him that despite being soothed by having a nipple in his mouth, her mouth is free to talk. She used to stay quiet, or just murmur random endearments softly, and he could put up with that, but now she occasionally starts talking about work, or worse yet, decides it's a good moment to update him on how her inane TV show is faring, and he's a captive audience as he feeds. It gets bad enough one evening that he unlatches, gives her a scathing look and says "Could you shut the fuck up when I'm trying to eat?" She looks terrified and nods frantically, and that problem gets solved at least.

The problem that's not solved is that her supply seems unsteady. She pumps whenever he doesn't have time for her to keep her volume up, but apparently that's not enough and she's  been increasing her medication doses too. Her breasts are swollen large, getting more and more veiny with time, her areolas getting darker and still changing size, but that's all tolerable. He doesn't care about the aesthetics. But she's still coughing incessantly and looking worse for the wear. She knows he hates her coughing. When he's laid out across her lap, he can feel her straining, when he cracks his eyes open he can see her eyes watering from trying to suppress the coughing, trying to hide it from him unsuccessfully, but at least he appreciates her effort. But this night, she can't seem to hold it in, starts coughing with her mouth closed, then busts out coughing explosively and uncontrollably while he's still in the middle of a feeding, only just having moved on to the second breast. He grimaces, feeling her saliva flying everywhere despite trying to cover up her mouth, feeling a tiny drop landing on his face. He reaches his gloved hand up, places his palm across her mouth and turns her face away to the side so he can continue nursing in peace.

He's not really afraid of contagion of any kind, but he absolutely despises the sound of coughing– has ever since his childhood days. Sometimes he wonders if her breast milk might be tainted when she looks and sounds to be in such wretched health. The milk tastes good enough, so he puts the thought out of his mind.

She's still coughing, unable to stop, Homelander feeling the bursts of air against the pleather of his gloves.

"Homelander… I'm sorry– cough–… can we pause... - cough- could I just – cough– get a glass of water," she says. He's in a foul impatient mood, wondering why she didn't think of getting that for herself earlier, before they started. He doesn't make any motion to get up, just starts sucking harder to try and drain the second half of his meal quickly, so he can get up and get out of there and go about the rest of his business without needing to wait for her to stop and tend to her damned coughing.

She cries out, a scream combined with a cough, but he doesn't pay attention, eyes closed, a metal tangy flavor suddenly flooding his mouth, mixing with the milk. He doesn't bolt up, but his eyes fly open, and he sees what he's done– her breast is half torn off, maybe more than half, maybe hanging on by a thread, blood everywhere, on her uniform, on the couch, on his uniform, spatter all the way down as far as his waist. She's screaming in agony, and he feels a bit sheepish about having forgotten his own strength while trying to be over and done with his meal.

He doesn't know what to say, takes the nipple out of his mouth, pushes the breast back to hold it more or less in place with his hand, blood and milk– mostly blood– dribbling out of the nipple, but gushing fast everywhere else.

"They can probably fix that, I'll… call the doctors," he says, sitting up, waiting for her to take over holding the breast to her chest so it doesn't completely tear off, so he can get up and make the call, but Firecracker is too hysterical to hear him, and in a few moments passes out. She's losing a lot of blood, he notices, so he carefully lays her out on the couch, propping a pillow up against her side so the mostly detached breast stays in place. There's no good way to tourniquet that area, so he doesn't know what else he can do before help arrives.

He makes the call to Ashley so she can call the right people and heads out, eager to get his apartment and change his suit and wash his face. A couple of Vought employees he doesn't know the name of encounter him in the hallway, eyes turning as big as saucers, but he can't be bothered to explain what is ultimately a workplace mishap. "Line of duty," he tells them and they nod quickly, glancing at each other. Maybe they'll put two and two together if Firecracker's injury makes the news or at least the office gossip. Everyone allowed up on 99 is under a strict NDA just for this reason.

He comes back into his apartment after scanning to make sure Ryan isn't playing video games in the living room. Ryan isn't in his room upstairs either though. Of course he's nowhere to be found. His son doesn't seem to want to stay put. Homelander will have to look for him later, even though he's tired of having to do it. He's upset enough, that his thoughts turn reflexively toward breast milk, but doesn't want to dwell on the fact that he may have lost his source of it— or at the very least likely lost half of his supply.

He goes into the bathroom, taking stock of himself in the mirror. He certainly looks ghastly, blood spattered all over his head, already coagulated and caked in his hair and eyelashes, and a lot of it centered around his mouth.

He strips off his suit, eager to get in the shower, but pauses when he glances in the mirror again, frowning. His pectoral muscles have been anything close to what the suit padding suggests they look like, so it's strange to see them looking larger than usual. He brings his hand up cautiously and touches one side of his chest. It doesn't feel like muscle, not really all that firm, and the whole area feels a bit sore when he presses on it to test the firmness. Blood pounds in his ears as he squeezes and watches a tiny white bead materialize at the tip of his nipple.

Homelander can pick out the distinct sound of Billy's shitty car from all other traffic. He hasn't seen it, and he never cared to learn much about any motor vehicles as they had very little importance in his life, so he has no clue what make or year it is. But he can recognize its specific rumble, a characteristic rattling noise the engine makes, and the sound of worn out tires even when Billy is still miles away from the house.

Hearing the sound feels like all his bodily functions start turning on again after hibernation. Suddenly he's hungry, thirsty, and desperately needs to piss. Earlier in the captivity, he used to release whenever he felt the slightest inclination. Making his enclosure filthy seemed like the one form of protest against confinement still available to him. But now he usually holds it in all day, eager for Billy to untwine the wire wrapped tightly around his legs, eager to be allowed to walk down the hallway under his own power, a hallway he's never seen but knows well by now by touching its walls with his shoulder, by hearing how sounds echo, eager to navigate blindly but accurately to the toilet, and yes, eager for Billy's calloused hand to take him and aim for him. It's not arousing, not when his bladder is so full and his mind is preoccupied with release and the touch is so practical, decidedly unromantic, but it's still intimate touch, caring touch, sometimes accompanied by words of appreciation about how kind it was of Homelander not to give his keeper more cleaning tasks in the living room. The tone has a touch of sarcasm, but Homelander will drink up praise in any form he can get.

The car is in the driveway, and Homelander shifts in discomfort, barely able to contain his eagerness to be allowed to get up and stretch his legs. Billy walks in and greets his dog, and Homelander knows it's pathetic but he feels jealous that he's never been the first one greeted, despite being a human being. There's always a brief bizarre image that passes through his brain-- that if only he were allowed out of his enclosure, he'd be happy to crawl over to the door before Billy's arrival, he'd push the annoying wheezy mouth-breathing pup out of the way, and then Homelander shudders, realizing how far gone his mind is that he feels competitive with an animal and wants to take its place being patted on the head like some damn housepet. It's really rather disgusting, but Billy won't be privy to these thoughts, so Homelander takes silent, private pleasure in them.

"Ya need the pisser?" Billy asks him and Homelander nods eagerly, only slightly disappointed that that's the way he's greeted. It's better than the nothing Billy used to give him earlier during this ordeal.

Billy fumbles with the keys and the door of the enclosure– Homelander refuses to call it a cage nowadays, even though it's the same damn construction Billy placed him in once they moved into this godforsaken CIA owned outpost. Homelander does his best to sit up even though the position impinges on his full bladder and sighs happily when he feels Billy's hands on him, untwisting the wire binding his legs together.

Homelander's pulled up to standing and makes his own way from there, shoulder brushing against the wall to guide him, his brain having mapped out a lot of the interior. At least the interior that Billy has let him touch. His bare feet feel tile underneath them, he pivots, and his shins brush up against the porcelain bowl.

Homelander waits, doesn't ask, Billy walks in behind him and takes him in his hand. Homelander sighs in relief, releases, but tenses up again when he hears Billy cursing right next to his ear.

"What?" Homelander asks, wary, but he can guess what happened by the sound.

"Nothing-- just didn't expect ya to shoot off like a fucking water cannon."

"I've been holding it in," Homelander says, less defensive than apologetic.

"Just get in the tub and kneel," Billy says and Homelander feels disappointed that he won't be touched after all, almost promises to go slow, but realizes it sounds needlessly crazy. He follows instructions and gets in the tub, still taking care to not release all the floodgates at once so there's no chance of a mess.

"Can you shake me out?" Homelander asks quietly. He can't stand the feeling of that last drop or two lingering and leaking out later at random, and he can't do it well without his hands.

He can hear Billy smirking, somehow. It's some very faint scoffing sound, but Homelander feels like he can see his facial expression perfectly clearly, even though he's not even sure he remembers Billy's face accurately anymore after imagining it many times. Billy does shake him out, and then, as usual, doesn't turn on the faucet at all, and Homelander can hear him wipe his hands against his jeans.

"Why don't you ever wash your hands?" Homelander asks. It's an idle question, rhetorical really.

"What's it to you?" Billy shoots back and Homelander doesn't rightly know. Maybe he asks because he feels like he has no choice but to live in some level of filth all the time, has to beg for permission to take a shower or sit in the bath, and washing his hands feels like a luxury he'd desperately want to partake in, but maybe it's just the wish to have his hands in front of him for once, after months of having them tucked back, restrained and useless.

"You care so much about my hands, you can clean them yourself," Billy says, and the blood rushes to Homelander's cheeks because he can guess what that means.

He's still standing in the tub, not any more blind and naked than usual, but somehow he feels vulnerable when Billy jabs what must be his index and middle fingers against his lower lip. Homelander doesn't hesitate, opens his mouth, and pulls Billy's fingers in with gentle suction. They taste like they haven't been washed– dirt under his fingernails, mostly cigarettes, but there's also the smell and taste of the leather of the steering wheel, Terror's dog food, and what must be a faint note of his own unwashed chemistry since Billy was just handling him. He sucks without grimacing, because even though the flavor isn't particularly pleasant, he still loves feeling those thick fingers resting against his tongue, all bony knuckles, and sinewy, hefty segments between those bones, not like Madelyn's prim manicured thin fingers that tasted like her perfume and warm breast milk mixed together. Having them in his mouth still puts him into a trance where he feels light-headed, disoriented, but incredibly safe all at once. He's in good hands, or good hands are in him, it's all the same in the end.

The fingers pull out, Homelander lost enough in the pleasure that he protests for a moment and sucks harder, before remembering that he probably doesn't want to get them ripped off and sucked down his throat. He doesn't know if he can do it while wrapped in this metal, and he doesn't want to try to find out.

"Don't get greedy– still need these fingers you know," Billy says, but he's in a good mood, joking about getting maimed, and Homelander relaxes.

"Want me to fingerbang you up the bum while you're up?"

Homelander nods slightly.

"Turn around if you want it," Billy says.

Homelander wonders if he should feel degraded, wonders if he's lost all sense of shame during this captivity when he turns around, sticks his ass out and feels nothing except eagerness to be touched in a loving way.

"Tell me you want it," Billy says. The man has a fetish for getting Homelander's consent, often to the point of annoyance because it forces Homelander to articulate how desperate he feels.

"Yes I fucking want it," he mutters, trying not to sound irritated because he really does just want to be touched.

He wonders if it scares Billy when his wet fingers slip inside him easily but then Homelander's body shudders and convulses and tenses at the sensation.

He’s standing in front of her, pants down, trying to get one up — just for her, because she likes to watch. Or so she said. Her heart rate is normal, but Homelander has always found it hard to read her vitals. It’s frustrating, but then again, maybe that’s part of the appeal: he has no clue what she’s thinking or feeling, much less what she’ll do next. It’s equal parts disorienting and enticing.

Normally, Sage spends the day sitting behind her desk, watching the news and listening to her own voice notes while scribbling into her notebook or typing up missives for people Homelander has never heard of but who —apparently 🙄— occupy important roles inside the US government.

Today, she’s done him the courtesy of taking off her headphones and relocating to the couch, leaving her computer and notebooks aside.

Homelander is resisting the urge to ask her how he’s doing, but he ends up looking down at the sad state of his erection instead. He’s at half-mast, but that’s as far as it’ll go. At least Sage didn’t insist on him taking his top off, too. And she hasn’t shooed him out of her office yet, like she always does eventually when he hovers around her for too long or she tires of his running commentary. (“I like you,” she told him once. “But you talk too much.”)

When he first asked her out, she didn’t exactly say yes, but she didn’t say no, either. That was encouraging. After all, they were spending their days together, plotting their little coup. It was only natural to take their relationship to the next level.

That’s where he was met with uncharacteristic resistance though. Whenever he tried to initiate physical intimacy, she always found a way to shut it down. It was becoming quite vexing, especially given her history with the other members of The Seven (though Homelander knew better than to confront her about that). When he finally found the courage to ask her what she liked, he didn’t expect her to shrug and casually say, “I think I’d like to watch you.”

At first, he thought she meant watching him with another woman, which was a somewhat unusual request, one he was happy to indulge. When he finally realized she meant watching him pleasure himself, he could feel his head turn hot red. He’s always felt strangely self-conscious, and the thought of having watch his every move and listen to every single little noise that escapes his mouth made it so much worse. He almost bailed right then and there.

He still feels like bailing now. Who are you kidding, she’s only asking for this because she’s scared of you, that familiar voice at the back of his head tells him. She’s scared of what might happen if she agrees to anything other than watching you. Homelander pushes the thought from his head. It’s not helpful. He can feel himself shrinking again.

She came back, he reminds himself, she came back for you. That’s all that matters. They’re in this together. Not just that: their little project is succeeding beyond his wildest expectations. Sure, there’s the occasional protest here and there. But all those people who were yelling about Vought or “war crimes” or whatever they liked to accuse Homelander of for saving the day, well, they’ve been surprisingly quiet lately. Even Sage seems surprised sometimes at the speed at which they’re moving, the lack of resistance.

Homelander looks up to meet her eyes. For once, he has her full attention: she’s watching him intently now through her glasses, occasionally licking her lips as her eyes follow his moving hand almost obsessively. He’s never seen her so focused on anything except her work — perhaps she does like to watch after all.

“How am I doing?” Homelander doesn’t like how desperate he sounds, but she’s asking a lot of him, and he needs her to do her part to speed things up.

“Shhh,” Sage shushes him. “You’re doing well. Keep going.” It hardly counts as praise, but coming out of Sage’s mouth, it’s the best he can hope for. Better yet, it does the trick, and he comes into his palm with a final, half-suppressed moan.

It’s a mess, but when he looks up, Sage is smiling. “Well done,” she says.

Homelander pulls up his pants, waiting for her to beckon him over, maybe have him rest his head in her lap, or at least let him sit with her for a bit. “Right,” he says when she doesn’t offer. “I’d better go check up on the deputy chief of staff, make sure he’s doing his part.”

“Give me a readout when you’re back,” Sage says. She’s already back at her desk, headphones back on, skimming a document on her computer. But she’s still smiling.

She trusts him. And she wants him to come back to tell her all about his meeting. That’s all that matters.

What Becca hates the most about Homelander's visits is having to try and act as calm as she possibly can for Ryan's sake. Homelander has taken to visiting almost every morning and every evening. At least he disappears during the day to do whatever it is that Vought has him doing, and he thankfully never spends the night once Ryan goes to bed.

She tells herself she can learn to put up with it. She got over the trauma of what happened eight years ago. She had to work hard at it, forcing herself to watch the news, seeking out every broadcast that featured Homelander prominently so she could train herself to see his face and not to panic, not to think of the same face, the same smile in his office, still open and friendly even as things started to go south. She trained herself until her heart rate wouldn't jump, her palms wouldn't grow clammy when she heard his silky baritone voice on talk shows or at the podium in front of the press. And she can overcome her fear again.

But seeing him on TV is one thing. Seeing him in the flesh, and feeling his gaze fixed on her, brings back many of her buried fears to the surface of her consciousness. Even though he never stays the night, Becca has begun to have vivid, recurring nightmares about what happened and what could easily happen again. She wakes up in a cold sweat from one of these nightmares– the kind that is hardest to recover from because they are set in your bedroom and you can't immediately be sure they didn't happen. Becca realizes it's raining hard and there's a thunderstorm, which was what probably woke her up. Ryan is standing in the doorway to her bedroom in his pajamas. He's not a nervous child, and he doesn't have night terrors. But he asks Becca why her heart is beating so loudly, and she realizes that's what may have prompted him to get out of bed. Becca invites Ryan into bed and hugs him close, reassuring him, but also feeling protected by his presence. As long as Ryan is with her, Homelander keeps up his friendly mask. And now at night, with her mind clouded by sleepiness and irrational fears, she feels more secure that Homelander won't walk into the house in the middle of the night, won't show up in her bedroom uninvited, won’t creep into her bed if Ryan’s there.

In some ways, Ryan makes it easier to justify to herself why she isn't putting up more of a resistance against this invasion of her home, why she isn't yelling and openly arguing with the man who completely changed the course of her life and made her lose everything she had before. She worries about how much Ryan senses the tension between them even without any outward drama.

"Does Dad scare you?" Ryan asks her once he's safely tucked under the covers next to her.

"What? No," Becca says, willing her heart rate not to jump, willing herself not to grimace when Ryan calls him 'Dad', and forcing a smile instead. "No, why would you think that."

Ryan shrugs.

"Does he scare you?" Becca asks, partially deflecting, partially curious about her son's impression of Homelander.

"N-no. I just get shy because I don't know him very well."

"That's understandable," Becca tells him, combing through Ryan's hair, and burying her nose in her child's hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo, feeling calmer, already forgetting all the details from her nightmare.

But Ryan isn't done asking questions. "Why doesn't he live with us?"

"Your dad is just a very busy man," Becca says, careful to keep any loathing out of her voice. "He has a lot of responsibilities at his job. He can't just stay here."

"But you never told me about him," Ryan says, and Becca knows he's too smart to completely believe her lies and glossing over of the facts. "And he comes to visit a lot now."

"That's right," Becca says, scrambling to come up with a coherent explanation. "I wasn't sure he'd come to visit us, so I didn't want you to wait for him. I didn't want to disappoint you if he didn't have the time. You understand, right?" Becca feels bad asking her son for confirmation that he believes her flimsy lie when she sees him nod hesitantly.

"But now he's visiting us," Ryan says, a hint of a question in his voice, which Becca chooses not to answer.

"Yeah. Turns out he has time after all."

"Are you married to him?" Ryan asks, and Becca regrets letting him watch so many romance movies with her and inadvertently setting his expectations for adult relationships to follow a certain script.

"I-... It's a bit complicated with famous people."

Ryan nods understandingly. "And Dad's really famous."

"Exactly," Becca says, wondering how many years, or months, or weeks it would be before Ryan realized there was something wrong in this arrangement.

"And what about Billy–"

"That was before," Becca cuts him off sharply. "That was before your dad."

"Oh." Ryan says sheepishly, probably sensing that she wanted to get off the topic.

~~~

Becca had been foolish to hope things could continue the way they had been, of course. Homelander relentlessly pushed her boundaries about parenting at every single visit, so she shouldn't have been caught so off guard when he started pushing other boundaries. It started with light touches, brushing up against her, and she kept telling herself it was all accidental even though it was obvious he was testing out her reaction.

One evening, instead of flying off after putting Ryan to bed he decides to overstay his already nonexistent welcome, going to the kitchen and helping himself to a glass of milk. She follows him into the kitchen, arms crossed, less to keep an eye on him than to make sure he knows she's waiting for his departure.

"This Vought crew haven't let you out of here for years, have they," he says, looking around, then honing in on her. "Everyone else working in this fake little village gets to drive out the gate, but not you. You're in a beautiful suburban little cage here, wasting away."

Becca shakes her head, not making eye contact.

"I could have them let you out, you know. You think I want my son growing up isolated from the world?"

"You're not taking him away from me," she hisses, hoping her child is asleep won't hear her with his superhuman hearing.

"And why would I?" Homelander sets down the glass, and wipes the back of his hand across his upper lip. "You misunderstand me."

"Just go please," Becca says, throwing the gloves he left on the kitchen counter at him, and he catches them with one hand before setting them right back down on the table next to him.

"Not sure why you're playing dumb and pretending not to hear," Homelander says, shaking his head, grinning wide enough that Becca sees both rows of teeth, an expression that makes her feel dread she tries not to show. "I’m offering to rescue you. They're keeping you here, like some exotic animals. And you're not the only victim here. They lied to me, made me miss half of my son's childhood. They screwed us both over."

Becca begins to feel both a retort and bile rise in her throat. You didn't 'miss' anything from Ryan's childhood. You didn't know he existed. And should never have found out. But she says nothing, just stares at Homelander pace around the cramped kitchen, cape brushing lightly against the fridge and cabinets as he keeps talking about how poorly Vought has treated him when it comes to Ryan.

"It doesn't have to be this way though. I can bring you out. I can protect you from these 'child-rearing experts' as they seem to consider themselves. You'll want for nothing."

"Nothing?" Becca repeats. "I doubt I'll want nothing."

"What would you– Oh. Oh yes, you'd probably want to go back to your old life, your self-important little career, your pedestrian husband 'Billy' and all that. Go back to taking selfies on your stupid little vacations." Becca wonders if the photo she's kept in her dresser drawer is still there or if this jealous monster got rid of it out of spite. She won't check until he's gone. "Yes, you'll be missing out on all that if you want to be in Ryan's life. You could work your old job or some better one, I suppose. We'd get married, and I will want more kids. Kids I can actually watch grow up this time, be involved with from day one."

It takes everything in Becca not to run over to the sink and vomit. "I'm already married."

"I suppose that's technically true. I'm sure we can get the paperwork sorted."

Becca stands there, arms crossed defensively, shaking her head in disbelief. She's acted way too cordial around him if he thinks there's a chance in hell she'd agree to this.

Homelander pours himself another glass, and Becca makes a mental note to ask for more milk to be delivered so Ryan can still have it with his cereal. She's been running out of milk repeatedly but some part of her is in denial that Homelander will keep visiting, and she refuses to increase her usual order of weekly groceries to account for another person's presence.

"That's if you want to be Ryan's mother in the public sphere, of course. We could keep it private, if you really want. But you'd see less of him, and I'd still have to keep you close. Not sure I can let you pretend to be his nanny or whatever you're envisioning."

"I'm envisioning nothing. I want none of it."

Homelander tilts his head. "You'd rather stay here?" he asks incredulously.

"If those are my only options, then yes." Becca tries to breathe slowly, tries not to get emotional, but Homelander's words are sending her into a tailspin– mostly because she's not sure how much leverage she has left by threatening to set Ryan against his father.

Homelander approaches her and she doesn't back away despite every fiber of her being screaming to move back, to try to stay out of his reach. It's futile anyway. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to shrug off his hand when it lands on her shoulder, turns her head violently when she feels his fingertips against her cheek. She makes a pained sound when she feels his arms lifting her up without any effort, not squeezing hard by any means, but she knows she can't extricate herself out of this grip.

"Shh," he whispers, close to her face, and she opens her eyes, before closing them again, in denial that she's in this vile man's arms and that there's no one in the world who could help her. "It won't be like last time."

Becca has no idea what he means by that, and she starts hyperventilating as she senses being carried her into her bedroom, Homelander closing the door behind them with his foot.

"Tell me what you like," he says as he lays her out on the bed. She immediately scrambles and crawls to the furthest corner. She doesn't want to flee, she doesn't want to turn her back to him, it feels as futile as trying to outrun a dangerous predator on its own turf, but panic and feeling trapped are making her thoughts irrational.

Homelander chuckles as he walks over to sit closer to her. SHe doesn't look at him, just feels the mattress dipping underneath her hands and knees, her heart beating out of her chest. Her animal brain is telling her to lash out, to try to hit him, to claw at his eyes, but her fear and her higher faculties tell her all of it would be completely useless. But when he reaches out to touch her face, she bucks away violently, holding a pillow to her chest defensively.

Homelander sighs. "Rebecca. I thought we were on better terms than that, but my mistake. But you do understand right? Whether I keep you here, or take you out into the real world, or take you for private safekeeping somewhere else..." Becca's heart jumps at this new threat. "You understand that I'll want to try to have more, right? And I'm not going to let someone else do it in some petri dish, none of that bullshit. It’s going to be the same way Ryan was conceived."

Becca is breathing hard, staring at him in the darkness of the room, only faint moonlight illuminating it through the window.

"It might've been some fluke all those years ago. But you can't fault me for wanting to try again, can you? Maybe you're special Becca."

If that's what he thinks she can't fault him for, she's not sure what civil conversation they can possibly have. He's just a man when it comes down to it. A man with all the power in the world, both physical and figurative in this case, but he's just a man who couldn't be bothered figuring out his social media presence, and apparently can't read a room or take a hint. He's just a man– she had to convince herself of that if she was going to love Ryan. So why do her limbs feel locked in place and why does she want to cry?

"Oh, now, now," he says, and Becca only realizes her tears have started falling when he leans closer again and wipes them with his thumb. "I'm not here to torture you. Come on. Tell me what you like." He smiles so amiably, and without his sharp teeth visible she can almost believe that he's a benevolent presence in her lonely life. "You must miss it. I've seen the guys working in this joke of a diorama, all old and ugly. I see the tiny vibrator those Vought bastards allowed you to have, tucked away in your sock drawer. Don't you miss something with a... more personal touch?" he asks, leaning his head in to get into her field of view even though she is resolutely staring at the pattern on the bedspread. "With maybe a bit more, you know… girth and length?"

Becca has to swallow down whatever is rising up from her stomach, and she tries to do it without visibly gagging.

"Come on, tell me what you enjoy. What did your erstwhile knight in shining armor Billy used to do to get you off?"

The question snaps her out of her misery and terror, and against all better judgement she slaps Homelander across the face. Her palm immediately starts to smart, and Homelander is completely unfazed of course, even amused.

"I can try to guess if you won't tell me. I got you off pretty easily when you were younger."

"You didn't get me off," Becca hisses through gritted teeth. "You didn't get me off, you self-satisfied idiot." The last words come out with so much vitriol– and Becca has no idea why this of all things is the battle she's picking to wage, but Homelander seems taken aback for the first time in the whole exchange.

"What're you saying, you faked it? Multiple times?"

"It was only multiple times because each time I was hoping that might end it. That your ego would get satisfied. I was wrong."

Homelander gives a scoffing little laugh. "I think I know when a woman comes. I can read your physiology. I can tell you started ovulating yesterday." She cringes, once again feeling like the thing in the room with her is not entirely human, and something she wants nowhere near her. But he chews his lip, and for a moment she can see he feels unsure of himself. "Your heart was pounding every time you came that afternoon."

"My heart is pounding right now," Becca retorts, wondering if she's just escalating the situation, because she can see Homelander's jaw setting and his eyes narrowing, and it feels more and more like staring down the barrel of a gun when she looks him directly in the eye, but she has to. She has to act braver than she feels. She has to act braver than eight years ago.

"Well maybe it's because you're in love," he says, derisive, no longer trying to sound kind, and Becca thinks she prefers that. At least it's clearer where they both stand. And even if he goes through with the same thing he did eight years ago now, she feels stronger, braver, more jaded maybe, but certainly no longer weighing whether she should try to be pleasant and professional, no longer stupidly worrying about preserving her career– only her life and dignity.

She glances at the camera in the corner of the room. Homelander follows her gaze. "Want me to fry the thing, or you want to let them watch?"

"Let them watch and record. Maybe one day the world will see what a fraud your whole persona is," Becca says. 

Homelander rolls his eyes and smiles. "The only thing the world is going to see is me servicing a bored housewife who hasn't gotten laid in almost a decade."

Becca glares at the ceiling as Homelander drags her down bed by the legs, pulling her jeans off.

"Don't worry, I'll go down on you first, and you can fake orgasms all you want. Or you can let me get you to a real one. Your choice. Just do it quietly."

His tone, his voice, his ugly sneering face, it all makes her feel so much rage that it feels like a superpower in its own right coursing through her. And even as he's pulled her pants off, starting to tug down her not-at-all-sexy Hanes boyshorts underwear, and kissing under her navel and around where her hipbones jut out, his words "just do it quietly" echo in her mind. She certainly did it quietly eight years ago.

Becca calls out "Ryan? Honey?" in a voice entirely too loud for this house and its inhabitants. Homelander freezes in place, deer in the headlights expression, before dissolving into an ugly chuckle and pulling away from her. Becca quickly manages to pull her pants back on just before Ryan opens the door to the bedroom, rubbing his eyes.

"Mom?"

"Ryan, I'm so sorry to wake you sweetie, but have you seen your dad's gloves anywhere? He was just leaving, but we couldn't find them. Maybe he left them in your room?" she starts hastily prattling off something that barely makes sense.

Ryan blinks, but he believes her, pads away to his own room to check.

"It's not nice to wake children up at night," Homelander mumbles.

"Don't come near me and it won't happen." Becca's gaze is cold, her arms crossed again.

Homelander looks at her, shrugging. "You'll warm up to it."

Becca shows him the middle finger, walking out of the room.

"I found them Mom!" Ryan shouts to her. "They were in the kitchen."

"Great, honey," she says. "Go give them to him so he can get on his way." Her voice still unnaturally loud, even though she knows Homelander can hear every rustle and murmur in the whole compound.

She hears him fly away, sits there and listens, half-expecting to hear him return and try his luck again once Ryan is back asleep, but he doesn't. She drives out to the booth at the entrance, all her fear transmuting into anger as she drives.

"You have to hide us somewhere else," Becca yells at the security man in the booth. "This was not the deal I agreed to."

"We can't risk angering him like that, Ms. Saunders. And he won't give up looking for you now that he knows," the man says.

"Then give me birth control pills at least," she hisses.

The guard looks at her, almost sympathetically she thinks, but none of them really care or they wouldn't be working this job. He calls someone, has a very brief exchange and hangs up the phone.

"He'd find out Ms. Saunders," he says, oh so helpful. Someone in the upper chain of command has clearly decided it isn't such a dire situation, that Ryan isn't in danger, and maybe it's a good idea for her to have more.

Becca cries herself to sleep on the floor of Ryan's room.

~~~

Just think of how happy Ryan will be to have a sibling.

That's the singular thought that usually gets Becca through this, staring at the ceiling as her body is pushed into, sometimes staring all the way up at the headboard behind her if his face happens to come into view above her.

She can divorce herself from what's happening to her, dissociate what her body is feeling from what her mind is thinking. It doesn't take very long if she doesn't put up a fight. She only has to deal with reality once his hips jerks erratically at the end, the same stifled undignified pained sounding little whine escaping through his nose, every single time, his attempt to try to stay quiet. He ends up lowering himself onto her, not with his full weight, but just enough to make it harder for her to inhale fully, reminding her she's not alone with her thoughts. She feels his hair strands falling across her neck, feels his breath across whichever bare breast he's facing.

"I love you," he whispers, his fingers circling her nipple, like he's started saying after the fifth or sixth time he forced himself on her, and Becca dreads that even if a pregnancy takes, he won't leave her alone now, that he's come to believe the charade they put on for Ryan's sake. At least he doesn't insist on her saying it back like he expects Ryan to.

He turns over, always falls asleep before she does, and Becca fantasizes about being able to kill him when he's in this vulnerable unconscious state. He's less imposing without his suit, and looks quite mortal lying next to her in the dark, breathing evenly, face serene, conscience infuriatingly clean. Sometimes it feels like she could take him, like she could get up, pick up a chair and bash his skull in. But she doesn't get up, just falls asleep to these dark fantasies. She doesn't have nightmares about him anymore. Or maybe she does, but now that he's always here reality and nightmares all blend together. He's there when she falls asleep, he's there when she wakes up, and he's there when she serves breakfast, a wide friendly smile on his face, chatting it up with Ryan. He's having the time of his life, apparently.

Ryan follows her with his eyes as she moves about the kitchen. Her child knows her too well not to notice the dark mood she's desperately trying to hide.

Once Homelander has launched away, Becca tries to get them back on a normal schedule, hands Ryan his math and geography workbooks, and tries her best to smile genuinely.

"...Is Dad being mean to you?" Ryan asks her, already sensing that she won't be happy with the question, but he's worried about her and that kills Becca.

"No. It's just harder with someone else in the house, disrupting our routine a little bit. You know. I'm just getting used to it."

Billy didn't suspect he was different from other people in his earlier years. Sure, he noticed that many people around him seemed enthusiastic about flavors of food and strong opinions about different brands of cologne and perfume, while he could barely tell anything apart. It largely seemed like a blessing not to be picky over food in the school dining hall. 

It wasn't until moving to the States with his new wife Becca and coming across supes for the first time that Billy began to realize there was a peculiarity about his senses. While he couldn't smell much of anything, he could always pick a supe out of a crowd by smell. It was a nice aroma, one he'd be tempted to follow just to sense more of it. But when he brought it up to Becca, she didn't seem to understand what he was talking about. When he tried to google whether this was a common phenomenon, he did find a small group of people who seemed to sense what he sensed. He felt vindicated that supes must have some sort of different body chemistry, even if not everyone could pick up on it. Reading further, he slowly realized that for these people, supes had become an obsession, a fetish, and they all seemed hell-bent on finding a supe to shack up with, because one of the main goals seemed to be to taste anything and everything that supes exuded. Billy slammed his laptop shut when he came across confessions to using the dark web to get access to supe flesh. That was enough internet for the day and he tried to put it out of his mind. It was probably only the far gone loonies who were discussing this online. There had to be more people out there who could tell that supes smell different than regular people, and they were just not hanging out on obscure message boards to discuss this fact.

Billy went about his life, but living in New York City did irritate him, because it had the highest concentration of supes per capita. Commuting to work on the subway, dining out at a restaurant, or out on a stroll in Central Park with his wife– he never knew where a random supe might turn up. What annoyed him was that his attention would refocus entirely on that distinct smell, and sometimes he'd find himself nodding and pretending to listen to Becca while his mind would get glued to figuring out which person in his surroundings was superpowered. Moving somewhere else was out of the question, however– Becca's career was taking off, and she had to be within commuting distance of Manhattan to work in Vought's marketing department. Billy didn't want to confess to what was increasingly becoming a problem, lest Becca do the same internet searches and find the same disturbing online discussions that he came across. He was going to ignore the problem and hope it would go away with time and repeated exposure.

When Becca told him she wanted him to come to her company's Christmas shindig, Billy wanted to refuse but had no good excuse. Despite the large room with its tall ceilings, Billy's senses were still being overpowered by the smell of several high-powered supes who were hanging about various spots. He sipped on his beer and hovered around Becca, not interested in mingling and making small talk when his mind was reeling with the intoxicating smell.

It was all relatively bearable until Homelander made his appearance. Billy knew Homelander, of course– not only the most famous supe in the world, but one he had specifically looked up to understand what all the fuss was about when Becca got a promotion to run his social media. But he had never encountered Homelander in person.

Billy hardly knew what hit him. He could feel the air grow thick with the most pleasant scent, even before he saw what the source of it was. But then Homelander walked down the staircase, and it became almost unbearable, like Billy was suffocating. Whatever Billy could smell on other supes, Homelander seemed to have thousands-fold more of. He tried to act calm, but the smell was so powerful, so enticing, that Billy felt like he was having an allergic reaction, eyes watering, and having to sniff heavily at the olfactory assault as Homelander came over right to them, striking up a conversation with Becca.

Billy eyed him up and down. He had never really been one for blokes, despite trying it a few times in the army. But Homelander's smell was hypnotizing him into a reverie that was both pleasant and disturbing in how graphic it was– his mind conjuring up a very clear picture of pushing the supe up against a wall and attacking his mouth, drinking up his saliva, unwrapping him out of the silly superhero suit, getting on his knees and sucking his cock, sucking down anything and everything that came out of this body, turning him around, spreading that perky, plump ass and tonguefucking his delicious hole whether the supe liked it or not. Through the haze and the blood rushing in his ears, Billy realized Becca had just introduced him and Homelander said something to the effect of "Great to meet you," while extending his hand to shake.

"Billy Butcher," he croaked, quickly swallowing down the saliva that had been pooling in his mouth.

They shook hands, and Billy discreetly reached up to scratch his nose while Becca and the supe continued talking, but Homelander was wearing gloves and there was no lingering pleasant residue to smell. Billy was completely tongue-tied, just staring as Becca and Homelander turned the conversation to some digital marketing campaign that he couldn't care enough to parse. All too soon Homelander excused himself and walked away, and Billy couldn't take it. It was painful to think he couldn't bottle up this amazing aroma, and even more painful to think he might never even have the chance to smell it again since this was a top tier celebrity. Becca seemed giddy at the fact that he stopped to talk to them at all, excitedly whispering in Billy's ear. 

"He's amazing, isn't he? Can you believe he knew who I was?" She was acting like a teenage fangirl, and it would have annoyed Billy except he couldn't fault her for it when he couldn't look away, following Homelander's path across the large room to join Queen Maeve like a hawk.

"Are you starstruck?" She laughed, apparently only noticing his gaze. Billy hoped that she hadn't noticed his erection starting to tent the nice suit slacks. He needed to say something quippy, to snap out of this smell-drunk stupor.

"How the fuck does he walk around in that sweaty fucking wetsuit all day long, balls mashed up against his-" 

Becca shushed him, smacking him with her clutch, laughing, fortunately not even close to guessing how badly Billy wanted to rip that wetsuit off and smell, lick, bite to his heart's content. And though he had desperately wanted to go home as early as possible, now Billy didn't want the party to end, hoping for another run-in even though it seemed less and less likely as the night wore on. He didn't want to stare directly, but he was keenly aware of Homelander's position in the room at all times, keeping his gaudy costume in his peripheral vision and trying to slowly wend his way closer.

"Thank you for staying so long, I know it's a drag but this is good for my networking," Becca murmured to him at one point.

Billy nodded, eyes darting back to meet hers. "'Course."

At one point, without looking directly, Billy saw that Homelander was making his way out of the room, cape billowing behind him. Billy glanced around, seeing that Maeve must have left earlier. He waited a few beats and then excused himself, Becca giving him the briefest acknowledgement before turning back to her conversation with her colleagues.

Billy forced himself to walk slowly, but as soon as he was in the hallway he picked up his pace, following Homelander down the corridor, no real plan in his mind when he saw that the supe was probably headed to a lift, but turned to look back.

"Can I… help you?" Homelander said, arching his eyebrow.

"Eh, yeah. You don't happen to know where the toilets are?"

Homelander's mouth curved into a small smirk, apparently amused that he was the point person for such a question. "There's one just down the hall and to the right, I think."

"Yeah, I tried that one but they locked it," Billy said, baffled at how easily he improvised a lie just to prolong this conversation.

"Oh," Homelander said with disinterest. "Well then I wouldn't know."

"You heading out?"

Homelander smirked again. "Sort of. Heading home, which means going to the top floors for me."

"Ah yeah, some of you lot live here, I forgot. Are there toilets upstairs?"

He could see Homelander bristle just a tiny bit.

"Sorry, the beer just ran right through me. I wouldn't be askin' otherwise."

Homelander's expression relaxed into his habitual teeth-showing smile, although there was still tension in his expression. Billy did have a real urge to use the pisser at this point, but much less pressing than the urge to pounce on Homelander and devour his smile.

"Uh, sure, I guess. There's a common bathroom that's always open on the 99th."

Billy was filled with both joy and dread when he realized he was about to ride the lift with this supe of all supes. Dread that he was about to lose all control in an enclosed space.

Homelander looked him up and down when the doors closed. "I'm so sorry… I'm sure we talked in that room at some point, but I don't recall your name…"

"Oh it's Billy Butcher," he replied, half-hoping Homelander wouldn't remember who he is, given what he desperately wanted to do.

"Ah, Becca's husband. That's right," Homelander said, snapping his fingers. Billy wasn't surprised he hadn't remembered him, since he had barely said two words. And now there was all the more reason not to do anything stupid, since it would not only jeopardize his marriage but Becca's job as well, he kept reminding himself. What was he even hoping for here? It didn't seem to matter, he just wanted more time with the supe.

The elevator had flown up to the top floor swiftly enough that Billy found himself working his jaw to rebalance his ear pressure. Homelander not only helpfully showed him to the bathroom, but came in with him.

"Sorry, I don't mean to hover, but I don't think we can let non-employees wander around the building by themse–" Homelander said, but got cut off mid-sentence by Billy's mouth meeting his as soon as the door swung closed. Billy was prepared to be shoved off, maybe even flung across the room and smashed into the tile wall with life-ending force, but Homelander seemed to do nothing except try to lean away, backing up until Billy had him pressed up against the wall, neither fighting back nor reciprocating. His mouth had an incredible texture, velvety but completely unyielding when Billy tried to bite down on it. And try he did, because the flavor of Homelander's mouth was possibly even more incredible than how he smelled. Billy realized nothing had any taste whatsoever compared to the luscious potency of tasting this supe's lips, tongue, roof of his mouth, everything. He didn't want it to end, and Homelander wasn't ending it for him. He pulled away reluctantly, dreading how his stupid impulsiveness was going to ruin Becca's life.

"What the fuck..?" Homelander wheezed out, bringing a fist to his lips, but it seemed to be closer to a laugh than anything else.

Billy had nothing to say for himself, but he wasn't moving away, breathing hard, hands still planted against the tile wall on either side of Homelander's head, staring back into the blue eyes with small pupils.

"Are you serious right now?" Homelander asked, now accompanied by a definite laugh.

"Dead serious," Billy replied and leaned in again, finding Homelander strangely frozen in place, not really participating but Billy realized that parting his lips was already a sort of cooperation, since he would never be able to coax that mouth open on his own.

"You taste so mouthwateringly good…" Billy found himself moaning when he pulled away again, out of control enough that it felt like it wasn't even him saying those words.

"You're one of those supetasters…" Homelander said, Billy recognizing it as one of the nicer terms for the type of person he had so desperately tried not to be.

"If you say so," Billy said, trying out the taste of Homelander's neck and finding it nearly as delicious as his mouth, resisting the urge to bite into it, partially because it was probably rude to do such a thing, and partially because he didn't want to chip a tooth. "You've had many of them approach you, I take it?"

Homelander shook his head. "No, actually, never met one before. Wasn't even sure if all supes register."

"Oh you register," Billy said. "Never had one register so strongly. Drove me up the wall in there, meeting you."

"Interesting..." Homelander narrowed his eyes.

Billy started to pull at the flap of the suit, but Homelander seemed to draw the line, pressing his hand across his chest defensively.

Billy wasn't about to be deterred though and crouched down, tugging at Homelander's pants.

"I can't- I don't engage in that kind of thing," Homelander said, but his voice sounded anything but certain.

"I don't either," Billy said, managing to tug down his pants, revealing small red briefs. "And yet here we are. I'm not about to deny myself the most delectable tasting morsel on the planet."

"The fuck are you saying," Homelander whispered, his face flushed, staring down. "Get up off the floor."

Billy ignored him, pulling down the red briefs as well, pleasantly surprised to see Homelander's cock was not indifferent to the unfolding situation. "I'm going to lick every inch of you, every crevice, every divot, every curve, every dimple. Eat you out like no one's ever eaten you out."

"Stop," Homelander said, breathing getting heavier, and Billy was trying to force himself to get up and give up this chase, he was being rebuffed in no uncertain terms and he was probably already looking at a lawsuit for what he had done to this point. But then, like the most melodious music to his ears, came the words "Not in here."

Homelander pulled his pants back up and quickly left the room. Billy followed close behind, drawn by the appetizing aroma like a physical tether so strongly it felt like he was floating off the floor. Homelander led him into his apartment, and Billy took no time to start stripping him as soon as they had crossed the threshold. Homelander stepped out of his pants and briefs, walking away, Billy following him all the way to the bed, insisting on taking off Homelander's top even though the supe seemed coy about taking everything off.

Without the suit, Homelander's body smelled that much better, that much stronger, and Billy wasted no time tasting every part of him, lingering on parts that tasted best, which happened to be the parts that elicited the the loudest mewling and groaning.

"Fuck…" Homelander gasped when Billy pulled his thighs apart and kissed and licked teasingly all around his cock before taking it into his mouth.

"I come fast…" Homelander warned him, sounding mortified, as if it was something worth warning about. Homelander's semen tasted just as good as the rest of him– better because it was something Billy had the satisfaction of swallowing. He could drink that nectar up all night.

"Stop…" Homelander batted him away as Billy stayed on his cock, desperate to suck up every last drop. "It's too sensitive."

Despite being the most powerful supe on earth, Homelander's body was not particularly large nor heavy, and Billy easily flipped him over, easily spread his cheeks before delving in with his tongue. He met with no protest and only more moans. Homelander's body was remarkably relaxed, like putty in Billy's hands, letting himself be arranged however Billy saw fit. He wouldn't have guessed America's top superhero would be so yielding, but he loved it, brought Homelander to orgasm twice before realizing that his phone was going off and that it was almost midnight and Becca must be wondering where the hell he disappeared to.

"You must have a lot of practice…" Homelander said, rolling over on his side, still panting from the most recent orgasm. "I had no idea Becca is a supe."

"She isn't," Billy grumbled, arranging his hair in one of the many mirrors in this strange bedroom, trying to get himself to look proper again. He hadn't taken off any of his clothes, but his suit was rumpled and his shirt collar was sweaty, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

Homelander blinked at him a few times. "I thought… So you two have an understanding? You pursue this on the side?"

"No. No, I'm just a shit person. Didn't realize what I was before we got married."

"So you just fuck supes on the sly? As long as you don't take off your pants it doesn't count?" Homelander looked amused, but Billy wasn't sharing the sentiment.

"You're the first supe I've ever touched," he grumbled.

"Really." Homelander sounded incredulous. "You said I tasted better than any other supe."

"Said you smelled better than any other supe. Haven't had the pleasure of tasting any others, and not sure they'd live up to how you taste."

"And what do I taste like?"

Billy winces at having to make a comparison when there's none to be made for him. "I don't know. I got no idea how to describe it. Like the best delicacy. Like stuff you only read about in books, in fucking epic poems, ambrosial or whatever. Like the best thing on earth."

"But is it sweet, savory, salty, spicy, like mint, what?"

Billy’s senses were getting so much stimulation that he was experiencing some intense synesthesia. The words that kept coming to him when he tried to describe how Homelander smelled and tasted were ‘sapphire blue’ but he knew that would make no sense to anyone.

"Genuinely couldn't tell ya."

Fortunately, the supe seemed to be taking all of it as one big compliment. There was something irritating about the way Homelander was sprawled out on the bed, head propped up by his hand, watching Billy walk out the door, smirky and unaffected while Billy's entire world had turned upside down in one night.

"Take the elevator down to the lobby. That's where Becca's looking for you," he said, offhand, and Billy wondered how he would know without any CCTV screens in his apartment, but he turned out to be right.

"Where were you!" Becca asked when he finally caught up with her. "I thought you went outside to smoke. Almost everyone's gone home already."

"Just got lost," Billy said when he could see she wasn't asking rhetorically and was waiting for an explanation.

"You're such a bad liar," Becca said, shaking her head, and Billy wondered if it was obvious by the sweat that had soaked into his shirt that he had been up to no good, but was relieved to learn that she assumed he had gone snooping around the building out of boredom.