certified Kana-Hoe

You shift under the covers to reach for him: for the warm body beside you breathing just that little bit too fast. Though you can tell beneath his shirt he’s slick with sweat, which is new this month, and that his limbs give into your gentle manoeuvring with far less resistance than they used to, he still smells and feels like safety to you. Like home.

“Shh…”

Your whisper is absorbed into the black bedroom surrounding you both, where only a moonbeam leaking in through a crack in the middle of the curtains grants you enough light to make out his shape in the bed. As ever – but increasingly so since his world turned upside down – you find his quivering form already curled into yours, so all you have to do is run insistent fingers along his spine, across his shoulders, among the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He whimpers once more at the touches.

“Sweetheart, wake up. You’re having a bad dream. Come back to me.”

For a man no longer gifted with enhanced hearing, the unique cadence of your voice still seems to work like a honing signal. He wakes in similar fashion to you – completely, all at once – with a shuddering gasp that has him jolting in your arms. There he is. You feel him freeze up like something cornered and small, hear his breath hitch to almost nothing, and then he’s trying to tug himself free from your hold as though it might belong to someone else.

Your chest tightens automatically – there’s an unpleasant surrealism to witnessing him react this way to you, which helps you better understand why being feared was always so intolerable to him – but you release his body before he can truly start to panic. In a well-practiced motion, you grasp his chin in one hand to tilt his face up to yours. It’s as easy as positioning a doll, and he gasps again.

“Hey, hey – look at me. You’re okay. You’re safe.” You find his eyes by focusing on the glint of unshed tears in the darkness. “It’s just me. We’re in bed. You were dreaming.”

You stroke your thumb over the trembling line of his jaw, where the prickle of hair greets you. He hasn’t shaved since Easter morning. Mirrors have been avoided like Medusa’s stare. In the dark, his damp eyes widen as they try to focus on yours in return. There’s recognition there, you’re relieved to notice. You pay attention when his mouth opens and closes, faltering on half-formed words.

“Can’t feel– M–My head–”

That fucking crowbar.

You shush him softly, your gaze drifting above the fearful caverns of his eyes to his forehead. It’s too dim to make out right now, but the dip in the centre you’ve often doted on in quiet moments is marred by an unmissable gash. It reminds the both of you what very nearly happened a month ago. The mark is healing at a snail’s pace – some last act of spite from its inflictor, you imagine – and your mouth twists at the memory it dredges up. Your eyes sting.

That fucking crowbar.

Still cradling his jaw, you lean in and kiss the place where William Butcher tried to pierce Homelander’s skull.

“Can you feel this?” you ask, voice so quiet you worry he might not hear you.

Feel me. Feel how much I love you.

He whines in response, gulping in air. His arms lock themselves around you rigidly, clinging like he’s in danger of falling from some great height – but you know he’s already done that. You don’t mind the greedy way his fingers dig into your back; you’re privately glad he no longer has to be so mindful of his strength when seeking comfort. More than anything, you’re thankful he remains a physical presence in the world. That he is alive. You kiss his forehead again and again and again.

“Your head is just fine, see?” you continue between your kisses. “Same as when you went to sleep. I promise.”

As far as you’re concerned, no one else is getting this close to his head for the rest of his life. You don’t care what their intentions are. You couldn’t possibly risk it.

Swallowing the urge to cry, you trail more kisses up into his hairline – where in the lighter hours his grey roots are becoming increasingly visible. His scalp is a touch greasy, his hair unkempt and un-styled like he’d never have let it remain for long before Easter, but you really don’t care. What’s a bit of grease compared to blood and brain matter? Sniffling, both of your hands shift to cradle his face properly, mindful of the still-healing bones and bruises. You return to the mark at the centre of his forehead, nuzzling it.

“This place was made for me to kiss, nothing more,” you tell him, practically embedding the words into his skin. “It belongs to me.”

You feel him nod against you. He burrows silently into your neck.

He knows.

With your assurances, his posture has gradually loosened, his shaky breaths growing steadier, tickling your neck. His eyes flutter open when you draw back enough to peer at him again in the dark. He fixes his gaze on you like you’re some sort of life raft. An angel, perhaps – though the religious connotations of that have you instantly suppressing a shudder. His lips part in an unspoken afterthought, tongue resting at the opening of his mouth.

You take this as your sign you can wrap your arms around him safely.

There is no ego to him when he’s in this state: he becomes an unworldly deer caught in the headlights of a vehicle he can’t compel or even discern will stop in time to spare him. You breathe with him, because it’s all you can do, and one of your hands resumes its gentle tracing along his spine. The other strokes the hair at his temple, and he leans into it, eyes fluttering.

He is alive right now, you think, and that is the only fact that matters. His heart beats with yours; you feel it thrumming against your chest.

After a long moment, he sighs. You recognise it as a transitory sound, one of frustration and relief. You watch awareness flicker and burn inside his damp eyes, which he scrunches shut as tears begin to leech out.

“Fuck.”

His voice is choked, crushed by the weight of losses so all-encompassing that part of you is amazed he can bear them at all. But this man of yours is a survivor – you’ve always known that – so you simply nuzzle your nose to his, kissing away the salty tracks wherever they form.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I’ve got you.”

It’s only when he leans in too and starts mirroring your kisses that you realise you’ve also started crying. You let yourself enjoy the sensation of his exploratory softness against your cheeks, thinking back through all the times and places you’ve felt his lips upon your skin before and the feelings that inevitably follow. Meanwhile, he’s moving on to your nose, kissing a path to your forehead.

Yours is a stubborn, sometimes infuriating man, but he is safe in your arms. You hum, sliding your hand at his temple into his hair. His scalp is warm and comfortingly solid under your palm. You try not to cry harder.

“You know I love you, right?” you ask stupidly.

He pauses in his efforts long enough to tilt his head back and offer you a nonplussed look. “And here was me thinking you slayed my archnemesis just to be nice. You’re telling me you had an ulterior motive?”

He kisses you on the lips, and you roll your eyes.

“Asshole.”

“Hm. Guilty as charged.”

He returns to his trail of kisses, finishing at your forehead, where his lips briefly tremble. His arms are still locked around you, so you wrap one of your legs over his hips and are rewarded with a chuckle.

“You got me?” he whispers.

“I got you.”

Approval rumbles in his chest, and you feel him relax against you properly. There may no longer be a Homelander flying high above New York city, but there is a man snuggled up to you in bed. A month ago, you wouldn’t have placed a bet on experiencing even this fragile instance of normality ever again.

~*~

The irrevocable events of the day don’t come to a head until Easter evening, after the sun has withdrawn her golden light, leaving the world an impenetrable abyss.

“Happy Easter.”

When they do come to a head, you’re both on the floor of this cabin’s modest-sized bathroom: a couple of exhausted ants spotlit under a fluorescent bulb. The stark white highlights only too keenly the bloody christening the space has undergone since you arrived the best part of two hours ago.

“A day commemorating Jesus, who, as we all know, was tortured, stripped of his dignity, and killed.”

Considering the day you’ve both had, you’ve done well to make it this far without addressing any of it. He sits before you, bare-chested, hugging his knees in silence, the odd twitches of expression on his injured face sluggish and strange as you disinfect his wounds. He hasn’t so much as whimpered while you’ve been tending to him.

“And that’s all well and good.”

He’s been trying to be good, you think.

Only twelve hours ago, the tender skin you feel under the pads of your fingers was near unbreakable – few souls could’ve pried the blood eagerly nestling into your pores from his veins, in fact – but today these elements of him that were supposed to be sacred were split and spilt like they were nothing by the unrelenting fists of one human man.

One now dead human man, you remind yourself. And may the powers that be grant you the luxury of wiping away his wrathful mark, though you know his ghost will have to linger for some time yet. The beatdown was bad.

Above you, just to the side, the tap at the sink drips once in taunting.

In your peripheral vision, you can still see pink smears inside the basin, where you got him to rinse his mouth out upon first staggering in here. His laboured breathing had hitched at the sight of his own semi-congealed blood splattering the enamel, and he’d whined out a quiet “Oh, God…” as you hushed him gently and wiped the excess from his face with a damp cloth.

That single whimpered phrase remains the most coherent speech you’ve gotten from him since the White House broadcast went dead this afternoon. You’ll admit a distant part of your mind finds his choice of words hopeful.

“America, I am the Lord. Your saviour.”

How do you console a man who has fallen so violently from grace?

“I am your God.”

Since then, he’s taken his aforementioned position on the floor, and so have you. You have a vague recollection of halting your attempts to clean up the gash on his forehead to help him out of the top half of his suit; his trembling hands had started pulling at it uselessly, and you’d pivoted without thought. It is a strange new world the two of you inhabit in this bathroom, where his hands are weak and yours are strong. You wonder, fleetingly, if he already resents you for it.

You also remember realising – around the time you were dabbing carefully at the mark by his right eye – that the reason he’s chosen to curl up on the floor, rather than claim the slightly more dignified position on the closed toilet seat, is because he’s avoiding the mirror above the sink.

You can’t remember the last time he put in a proper appearance.

If the situation were less severe – if you could tolerate leaving him huddled alone for five minutes – you’d dash around the cabin right now to cover up every reflective surface there is, but becoming America’s most wanted fugitive in the course of one afternoon has not made an ER visit so feasible for the country’s former sweetheart-turned-overlord, and you don’t want to take your eyes off him with the shape he’s in.

But he’s not fainted, you remind yourself. He hasn’t been sick. His pupils, whenever he deigns to grant you a glimpse at the bloodshot blue of his eyes, are the same size, and you’ve observed them react normally, if slowly, to the light.

While you’re certain the man currently folding into himself in front of you has never bled so much in his entire life, you’re also certain he’s still very much alive beneath his concussion. He is not dying as an afterthought to all that horror on your watch. You simply will not let him.

Maybe, despite it all, everything will actually end up alright. You press another cotton pad doused in antiseptic over his left cheek, and he flinches. It’s the barest reaction, and so is the whimper that sneaks out amidst the focused breathing he’s been doing, but it’s enough to trigger that memory for you.

“Pleeeease...”

You don’t need this now, for heaven’s sake.

“Please stop!”

Not even after the worst of his nightmares about the lab have you ever seen him as young and scared as he was this afternoon. The first impression you got on entering the Oval Office was that his lips were coated so thickly with blood they appeared black. You wondered for a split second if you were existing in some kind of sick alternative reality funhouse.

“Madelyn, you promised me… it’s not real…”

The sight and sounds of what happened in that room will probably be scorched on your retinas and pounded into your eardrums for the rest of your life. This will be the cross you bear for loving him.

“You can’t fucking do this!”

What had his last words been before you fired the gun? You can’t… you don’t think you can remember. What if he’d died and you couldn’t fucking remember?

“No, no…”

Your hand shakes as you withdraw the pad from his face, the white cotton now blooming red with yet more of his precious blood. His left cheek twitches. You stare at the split skin on the swell of the cheekbone. He probably needs stitches there, and a proper splint for his nose, and scans of his head, and real doctors. The best you can offer are band aids, medical gauze, and antiseptic.

Your mouth is dry when you swallow. You can hear your heart beating in your ears.

You realise very suddenly that all you really want to do is drag the both of you to bed and hold him as close as you can.

Tonight, the two of you will be safe from immediate danger. You should be after the number of getaway vehicles you coaxed him in and out of to get out here, not to mention how long you’ve been quietly planning in case of something like today. It would scare you how much easier this safety net has been to orchestrate without his knowing since… certain things occurred… if his distractedness hadn’t turned out to be such a blessed relief.

Yes, you are safe.

Part of him must know it too, of course. Enough time has passed for the initial adrenaline to wear off. You can hear the soft breaths he’s taking in through his mouth slowly becoming less deliberate, more natural. Really, then, it makes sense that another part of him – the part that reared up to defy William Butcher and deny reality, even as it came swinging straight for his face – feels emboldened to rationalise the truth away once again now.

And as tired as you are, you should’ve seen this coming.

The events of the day finally come to a head when you reach for the laser wound on his chest, over his heart. He frowns and pulls away from you, hugging his blue-padded knees closer.

“No.”

Praise be, he talks. You thought you’d lost him for a moment. You’re used to this man’s petulance at the best of times, but right before the night’s last hurdle is testing. The part of you that loves him enough to go through this hell for him tries on a sympathetic smile.

“I know it hurts. I’m sorry. But this is the last one. Just this and you can rest.”

You know the wound isn’t as bad as it could be – he sustained it while still a supe, after all – but it’s been mushed together with sweat and grime and microfibres in the hours since then. You wouldn’t say so to him, but you’re sure it’ll scar. It’s an angry, bubbling thing.

And it’s his parting gift from Ryan.

He’s shaking his head, scoffing now.

“No, no – you think I need...? No.”   

His voice has that slightly slurred quality to it you recall from the Oval Office, like he’s talking to you through a faulty connection. He smiles without humour, and the lines around his eyes cut into the inflamed, swollen skin currently making up much of his face. The action looks painful; if you’re not mistaken, it makes him wince.

“I don’t need any of this,” he says.

You sigh and shift from your knelt position into a sitting one. You might as well spare your knees. “What don’t you need, huh? Please enlighten me.”

He narrows his eyes at you over the top of his legs, as though you’re playing a trick on him.

“This, obviously.” He gestures vaguely around you both. “What? You think I of all people need– need saving? Think you’re better than me just ‘cos…”

You should probably be more concerned about him losing his train of thought, but your world has gone eerily, dangerously still. In any case, it doesn’t seem he’s so much lost his train of thought as had to stop talking to rub his aching jaw. He exhales in curt frustration.

“I’m a fucking superhero.”

You can’t tell if that’s your heart beating in your ears now or the screams of a thousand silent women stood beside their delusional men.

“I’m– I’m God! God doesn’t need this!”

He meets your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt the full force of his contempt barrelled in your direction, but it doesn’t feel quite real, somehow. Like you’ve unknowingly stepped into a pocket reality where nothing matters anymore. The rules have changed.

“Those who accept my truth will be welcomed into a land of milk and honey, for I am your fath–”

You laugh. You actually laugh at him.

It’s loud enough that he flinches, his superior façade faltering for a flicker. Have you ever made him flinch before today?

What the fuck are you doing?

“Right,” you hear yourself saying. “Right. God. We’re still going with that, are we? Okay. Well, tell me then, does God want to die of sepsis?”

His jaw clenches, but you can tell he’s confused now as much as he is pissed off. You raise your eyebrows.

“What– Why are you saying it like that?” he asks. “I am God. You witnessed my ascension.”

You sigh. “Homelander–”

“No! No, for Christ’s sakes, you were one of the first fucking people I told!” He’s growing pale again, like he was in the Oval Office, even as his own words betray him. His eyes have gone wild animal scared. “You– You believe in me. You have to.”

“Babe, it’s… it’s over now. You have to stop.”

“Excuse me!?”

This is not how you’d hoped this conversation would go. You had hoped he’d be on the mend, calmer, and not concussed, for a start. You had hoped you’d be feeling nothing but sympathy – you know he’s not been well, you know that – and you had hoped this simmering rage for all the time you’ve spent walking on eggshells around his mania would be but a bad memory. But you are so, so tired. You are human.

And the indignation in his expression is driving you up the wall.

“Oh my God, I fucking killed a man for you today, and you still don’t get it!”

He frowns, proving your point. Your eyes stray, unbidden, to the crimson gash in his forehead where William Butcher’s crowbar glanced him as his dead body fell. He opens his mouth to reply, and you hold up a finger.

“And don’t you dare fucking tell me that means nothing to you. I am talking now, alright? Me. And you are going to listen. For once in your life, you will listen.”

Your eyes blur with tears, and you growl under your breath. Fortunately, for both your sakes, his mouth snaps shut. You close your eyes, trying to organise how you’re going to say this.

“Madelyn Stillwell–” You can barely get her name out without retching. “–did not come and visit you about your destiny. She is no fucking angel. You had a psychotic break.”

There. You’ve said it.

You open your eyes and force your gaze to remain on his, even as his eyes empty of everything, their light receding far away. The bathroom fills with a noxious silence that seems to stretch on and on – then his lips part, and he scoffs a little too lightly.

“Wow. Even you, huh?”

His voice strains low and bitter, his jaw working despite whatever discomfort it brings him. You catch a flash of one of his pointy canines as his face oscillates between fake smiles and trembling sneers. He settles on a thin-lipped mask of barely concealed rage, his eyes filling back up again with hot tears.

“How dare you. How fucking dare you. All this time I thought you understood my calling, that you accepted my truth as your own, when really you’ve been planning for this.” A deep hurt flashes over his face before he wrestles it under control. His expression darkens, teeth baring. “You lied to me.”

You count to five in your head.

It’s not that you’re particularly shocked by his reaction, but the unfair sting of it – after everything you’ve been through today, yesterday, the past you don’t know how many months – isn’t something you could’ve ensured you were immune to. Not completely. You’re half-surprised he hasn’t called you Judas yet. Why not make this the ultimate melodrama? His blue eyes are full of impotent hellfire, but you’re feeling pretty volcanic yourself.

“I did what I had to do to make sure you wouldn’t get rid of me,” you shoot back, unapologetic. “That is the only reason you’re still alive right now.”

And that is the truth.

He shakes his head and groans instantly at the movement, then chuckles: a wheezing, hysterical sound that catches as much in your chest as his, no matter how mad you are at him. He’s slipping again, and you’ve not even got near his chest wound. What a fucking rotten evening to suit a fucking rotten day.

His head tilts back until he can stare at the ceiling, evidently reaching for something beyond the cheap plasterboard to ground him – for her, your mind supplies unhelpfully – but you and he both know his eyes don’t double as x-ray machines anymore. The heavens are blocked from him. An uneasy furrow forms between his eyes as he seems to realise this.

“Look. I know you’re in shock.” You sigh, casting your eyes over the pitiful first aid supplies you’ve been working with. “If you let me clean up your chest, I’ll–I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night. I just want you to rest.”

Another lie, you reflect glumly – there’s no way you’re leaving him totally unmonitored with the injuries he’s sustained. But, as ever, he doesn’t appear to be listening.

You watch him curl impossibly tighter into himself. The padding in his trousers creaks with how hard his left hand is squeezing his leg, while his right hand grasps at the tender skin of his brow without thought, then jolts away gingerly. His breathing hitches, turning shallow and fast.

“Homelander…”

“No, no. It’s alright,” he mutters. “This is a test. Madelyn–”

“Never loved you,” you interrupt evenly, earning a venomous glare in response – one you’re sure would’ve proved fatal if he’d delivered it earlier in the day.

Your heart knocks at your ribs, but his glares aren’t fatal now, and you know you can’t let him sink into another fantasy just because challenging it might cost you his love. Not any longer. The time for bathing selfishly in his good grace is over. You push on.

“She was afraid of you – she told you that herself.”

His screws his eyes shut and turns his head away from you.

“Stop it.”

Shifting back on to your knees, you edge closer to him. “Everything she ever did was to further her own career, to keep you exactly where Vought wanted you. You know that.”

“I said–”

“Why on earth would she come back to help you? You murdered her in front of her own son.”

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N! ENOUGH!”

His beaten face whips back in your direction, and suddenly his ragged breath is warm on your cheeks. His damp eyes are chasms.

“But no matter what I do, some of you people will never accept me into your hearts.”

His left hand is at your throat.

“Never love me, never believe in me.”

You blink. For a moment, even he looks surprised that the instinct still comes so naturally to him, though he’s never done this to you. His wide eyes are furious and devastated as they flit rapidly over your face. You keep expecting him to ask you why, why are you making him do this, but he doesn’t. His hand flexes weakly around your throat. He’s so weak.

Instead, he smiles at you. You can see every line, every wrinkle, every cut and bruise and pore of his skin.

“And to such heretics, I offer oblivion.”

“This is a test, Y/N,” he says again, like he’s trying to convince a young child.

His voice is softer now, but this isn’t the seething hiss from earlier; it wavers as he blinks back the moisture gathering on his lash lines. You see it: there is no fire burning underneath this declaration, just the cracking of a divine flame sputtering out.

“A test. Like Ryan was, and m–my– and Soldier Boy, and–and–”

“And those who seek to destroy me? You will die the most horrible of deaths, as befits your wickedness.”

His smile flickers out as you reach with both hands to take hold of his slender forearm, where your fingers inadvertently brush the bumpy scar his lasers and the V1 injection have left on his inner wrist. He brought today on himself, you’re well aware. Your eyes still water when he twitches at the contact.

“And know this – I will prevail.”

“Not everything in life is a test from above,” you tell him.

You think about the boy in the lab waiting for merciless doctors to announce if his pain meant he’d passed or failed as you swallow against his grip. One of your hands settles over the back of his, caressing the veins you find there, the taut joints of his fingers. You watch a tear breach containment and leak steadily down his cheek.

“This is real, Homelander. You have to face it.”

“My reign will last forever and when this world is cold and dead, I shall remain.”

His hand slips away from your throat with little fanfare, his fingers still flexing aimlessly. You’re not sure which of you pulled it back. You let go of him.

“Eternal.”

For one awful second, his face goes blank, and he stares at you like you’ve seen him do countless other inconveniences he’s deliberating squashing. For one awful second, you weigh up how best to subdue him if he tries to attack. For one awful second, he is a stranger to you.

“God of the ashes.”

You hold your breath.

And then, without warning, his face crumples into pure, unguarded misery. The gearshift change is so abrupt it temporarily jams up your own reactions, and you find yourself crouched in front of him in startled incomprehension. He’s sobbing before he’s even choked a word out, his voice pitching high.

“You hate me.”

…What?

He sounds like that young child he was trying to convince of his higher purpose only a minute ago. There’s nothing accusatory to his tone – he isn’t lashing out at you – he’s simply aggrieved. Massively, inexplicably, aggrieved.

“I’m sorry?” you splutter.

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

“I know you do, ‘cos you saw,” he whines, gagging on the last word, as though there’s some deep meaning embedded there that you’re both privy to.

“Hold on–”

But his gagging has already turned into dry heaves. His legs flop down flat on the bathroom floor beside him, so he can double over properly.

“You saw everything,” he whines between empty retches, one hand pressed against the tiles. “You– You know – oh, God – I tried to keep it from you – from everyone – but now–”

Your brain finally kicks into action despite the emotional whiplash, and you reach over with the intention of rubbing his back. Whatever anger and exhaustion you’ve been feeling has evaporated, your worry for him returning with a vengeance. He isn’t speaking clearly, but you think you’ve got an inkling of what he’s referring to. It makes your guts twist.

“Hey, hey – slow down – you’re gonna make yourself sick–”

But at the mere suggestion of your approaching hand, his body twists to latch on to your elbow first. Your arm freezes in midair where he clings to it, a crazed terror swallowing his watery eyes as he gazes up at you.

What the fuck?

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, hiccupping. “Please don’t turn me in. They’ll fucking kill me, Y/N. Please, no.”

His throat convulses on a sob, and he lowers his head from your gaze like he can’t bear the weight of it, his eyes and broken nose both running. You can’t believe what’s happening. He surely can’t think you’d ever do that? You got him out of the White House!

“Homelander.”

You say his name incredulously, trying to reel him back to whatever sanity he has left. He only flinches, like the name itself is a weapon, and releases your elbow to sink further down and clutch desperately at your legs. You hear his breath catch on another sob.

“Please, please. I love you. You’re my– my life – you’re my soul.”

The love of your life is grovelling at your knees.

Your spine goes ramrod straight. You can feel those weak, shaky hands trembling on your thighs, the face you’ve been working so delicately to patch up nuzzling just as insistently wherever he can make contact, as though pain doesn’t even register. He kisses frantically just above your knees.

“I–I can still be good for you, even like this. I’ll do whatever you want, Y/N, anything – please – just tell me!”

That does it.

“Just tell me!”

You heard this tune mere hours ago. You don’t want a personalised rendition.

“I’ll fucking suck your dick! Please! I'll do anything.”

You vision tunnels at the memory. You think you might be sick. Why does your mind insist on remembering it so vividly? Why is he insisting on re-enacting it? Does he really think he has to?

“You want me to eat shit? I’ll eat your fucking shit! I’ll eat your fucking shit on live TV!”

He thinks you hate him for this. He thinks you didn’t know how scared he’s always been beneath that corporate veneer. He thinks he’s disappointed you. Isn’t Homelander supposed to be the strongest man in the world?

“Stop,” you plead.

It registers as barely a whisper, and his ears are no longer that adept.

“Whatever– Whatever you want–”

He’s still begging, like the televised horror show never ended. His head is still bowed, pressed to your knees. When you said he had to face reality, you did not mean this.

“I–I promise. I can learn. I can be better!”

Your mind flashes to another Homelander: a crucial pebble down the mountain leading to this.

“I am BETTER!”

You need to fucking do something. You can’t just sit here and let this play out in front of you like a TV episode you have no control over. The tears are coming and your throat is burning. All you can smell is blood and ash and–

“No – no – stop it!”

Your voice comes out harsher than you mean for it to, and he freezes at once. Your own stuttering breathing is the loudest noise in the bathroom now. You hate that you don’t automatically know how to end this madness, how to calm him and yourself, how to tell him this is not what you want. He shakes like he’s expecting some terrible verdict to match the height he has fallen from, and you want to scream and scream and scream.

You swallow and glance down at him: really take in the cowering body crouched prostrate at your knees. He’s all exposed, this man of yours; he’s lost. He can’t find his way home. What’s worse, he thinks he’s alone in this, and that – that is unacceptable.

“My poor, sweet man,” you murmur. “Shh… don’t be afraid.”

Because all you’ve really wanted to do since he lost his powers is hold him, you settle for the closest thing you can think of in this moment and rest one hand on top of his head. He whimpers as your fingers thread through the dishevelled locks of his hair and leans into the touch like it’s a blessing. And it is. You try to blink yourself back into normality. You can fix this. It’s just a bad, bad day.

“Look at me – properly.”

He raises his head with an obedience that unnerves you. Your hand moves from his head to cradle his jaw, where your thumb strokes along the inflamed skin there as gently as you can. He relaxes a little. His breathing is still too shallow, still too fast, but you notice his eyes are actually searching yours now rather than looking through you into some endless abyss. You wonder if he can see the same wild fear in you.

“Stop treating me like I’m him,” you say. You can feel your resolve to be the strong one crumbling. “Please. I can’t stand it.”

His tongue moves, almost peeking from his mouth like he plans to speak, but nothing comes out. In its place, his brow pinches, and you wonder how a man in his mid-forties manages to look so young sometimes. You suck in a breath and cradle his face with both hands, leaning closer.

“I don’t hate you. Christ. I love you. I love the fucking bones of you.” His lower lip wobbles at your quiet ferocity and more tears slide down his cheeks. You have a feeling you’re a mirror image. Your voice sounds thick and shaky, even to your ears. “You don’t have to beg like that. Not ever. You understand? C’mere…”

You slide back into a sitting position and your hands shift to pull him towards you. To your relief, he crawls into your lap more than willingly, claiming his spot in paradise before any mirage can fade. He slumps against your chest where you support him, your arms slipping around his trembling, broken body as naturally as they did when he seemed to be made from steel. His bare skin is not as warm as you remember it being yesterday, and it gives more under your fingers. Even so, he presses into you, starving.

He’s your fragile doll of a man: red with blood, white with fear, blue with bruises. You’re both crying while the warmth of him finds home again in the warmth of you. It feels like forever since you last held him and knew he was present. Unlike a doll, he is alive. You stroke along his shuddering back and kiss the top of his head. He is alive.

“I love you,” you whisper, wishing that sentiment alone could be enough to soothe all that has happened to him.

He responds by kissing your collarbone. He knows. In this moment, he knows.

Drop by drop, your tears collect in the brittle blond strands of his hair. You know there are grey roots buried beneath them and that they have never been as well-hidden as he’d like. Today has been a dye stripper on his soul; your tears won’t cool that burn, no matter how many you cry. You swallow around the lump in your throat. What was it he called you amidst his panic?

“You’re my soul.” You kiss his head again, inhaling the scent of him deeply. He doesn't smell like ash to you. “I can’t live without my soul.”

He smells alive.

You sense your words have settled when the whimpering against your chest softens into a quiet gasp. His hands rise up together to clutch the front of your shirt, childlike – or maybe in prayer. He whispers your name like it’s a revelation, and you whisper his name back to him. You try to fill it up with personhood.

He is alive tonight. His heart beats in time with your own. He is imperfect, but he is here, and that is all that could possibly matter.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper.

Homelander blinks once, then glances across the table at you.

You don’t look smug about it. You don’t even look defiant. You simply smile, tapping your pen against the corner of your script, like you haven’t just lobbed a live grenade into the middle of his morning.

“No kissing,” Homelander repeats slowly, as if testing the words for cracks.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even, still smiling. “Hugs, touches, dramatic eye contact—all good. But no lip contact.”

You say it with the kind of calm that can’t be mistaken for defensive or shy—just matter-of-fact. Like you’d set the boundary a hundred times before with your other co-stars and never had to explain yourself.

He should probably leave it there. Shrug and let the professionals handle the blocking. Instead, he finds himself leaning back in his chair, studying you over the rim of his coffee like you’d just become the most interesting problem in the room.

“You’re supposed to be my first non-supe romantic love interest in this movie,” he says. “How are we supposed to convey romance if we can’t kiss?” 

You smile at the director in your naive, charming way. “I’m sure they’ll do an excellent job of conveying love without it. The emotions, the almost feeling, the glances… that would make the dynamic hotter, I think.” 

Homelander isn’t convinced, primarily because he doesn’t want to be convinced. Since the second you walked into the room, he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of you. Your dark eyes, your glossy hair, your breasts, hips made for him to hold… you’ve taken away his candy. 

Crossing boundaries has never been a problem for him, but something about you gives him pause. What an oddly specific thing to have a problem with. Most actresses will cringe at full frontal nudity; you stop at kissing. Actually, not even that. 

“May I ask why?” Homelander asks, leaning forward, eyeing you like a predator might watch a prey. 

You shrug. “It would be hugely disrespectful to the man I marry in the future. Neither of us would like a video of me out there kissing another man.” 

You were known for having this boundary in the film industry. Hiring you was, therefore, excellent for Vought’s optics. A young woman with strict personal boundaries playing Homelander’s love interest? The conservatives would be thrilled (family values). The liberals would be thrilled (women’s autonomy). 

It was like printing money. 

Homelander, however, doesn’t see it that way. 

He scans you, head to toe, imagining all the ways he’s going to make you cross your own boundary. 

_________________________________________

The first scene you run isn’t supposed to be intimate at all. On paper, it’s a cheap piece of melodrama—Homelander saving a civilian from a terrorist attack, only for the civilian to tremble and thank him with an overstuffed monologue about “bravery” and “hope.” 

The kind of dialogue that belongs in a soap opera, not a blockbuster. Typical Vought bullshit. 

Still, you make it work.

The set around you is chaos: smoke machines coughing out thin gray clouds, debris scattered in perfectly “accidental” piles, extras moaning on the ground. You’re in scuffed jeans, a blood-stained shirt, hair pulled back just enough to show the fake graze wound on your temple. The camera finds you in the middle of the rubble, and you’re steady. Calm in a way the script doesn’t deserve.

“You saved my life,” you say, voice low, almost flat—but there’s something under it. A weight. You don’t lean into the words; you let them hang there, and it’s enough to make every person holding a boom mic shut up and listen.

The director calls for “closer,” so you step toward Homelander without hesitation. Most people—actors or not—leave a buffer when dealing with him. 

You don’t.

Your shoes crunch over fake glass. Your fingers come up, light against his jaw as if you’re making sure he’s real. It’s not in the script. The gesture is too human for something this badly written. But you do it anyway, and the cameras love it.

You’re close enough that he can see the grain in your irises, the flecks of light catching there. You’re not playing it coy. You’re not trembling. You’re just… here. 

“Are you alright?” you whisper, tenderly. With concern and fear and reverence. 

It’s not in the script, but it hits him harder than it should. 

You are asking the Homelander if HE is okay? 

People look at him and see power, danger, and invincibility. They want something from him, or they want to prove they don’t. But you—right now—you don’t want a thing. You’re just holding your ground, palm against his cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And that—God help him—is worse than when you explained your no-kissing rule.

“Cut!” the director yells, and the set exhales all at once. You drop your hand, step back, and smile politely before heading toward the monitors to check playback.

He stays where he is, his upper lip ever so slightly twitching. 

Two things are already clear:

One, he is going to think about that moment more than he should.

And two… he is going to make you break your own rule. 

_________________________________________

It starts small.

On set, Homelander begins adding things to the scenes—little unscripted moments that force proximity. His hand finds your wrist when he’s meant to let you walk away. His palm lingers between your shoulder blades a second too long. When he delivers a line, he leans in close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your ear. The words stay the same, but his tone changes, curling around them until they sound nothing like the script.

The director doesn’t call him out. The crew doesn’t either. They just keep rolling.

Between takes, he appears beside you under the pretense of “working the scene.”

“Want to run lines?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe of your trailer like he owns it. One arm propped above his head, the other resting on the frame, blocking the view behind him. He’s not in the full suit—just the navy base layer that clings too well, hair still perfect.

You let him in, because why wouldn’t you? You’re professional, friendly—even when his questions start straying from character motivation to personal preference.

“What’s your type?” he asks once, as though it’s somehow relevant to the emotional beats of the next scene.

You smile without missing a beat. “People who know when to stick to the script.”

It makes him laugh—real laughter, sharp and a little incredulous. He likes the way you throw things back at him without trying to land a blow.

He finds reasons to linger. Drops the script pages on your desk, picks them up again like he’s changed his mind, then sits anyway. He leans in when you’re mid-sip of tea, crowding the small space until your knees nearly touch.

“Are you seeing anyone?” The question is casual in tone, not in intent.

You glance up from your cup. “No.”

His smile tilts. “Nobody you’d want to marry someday?”

You shake your head. “Not right now.”

A spark of something—interest, challenge—flares in his eyes. “So… if we got married, you could kiss me on-screen?”

You don’t answer with words. You just smile, light and polite, because what the hell else are you supposed to say?

It becomes a pattern. 

He’ll drift into your trailer under flimsy excuses—missing glove, needing your opinion on a blocking change—and every visit turns into a soft interrogation. He asks about your favorite late-night food. Whether you’d ever live outside the city. If you like traveling. 

He’s looking for an opening. Something to make you stumble.

But you never do. You answer what you want to, sidestep what you don’t, always with that same easy calm. And the longer it goes on, the more obvious it becomes: it’s not just that you’re resisting him. 

It’s that you’re winning.

And that, for him, is infuriating.

On set, he invents moments that put his hands in your hair, tilt your chin up, make you look at him longer than necessary. He watches for the tiniest crack—eyes widening, breath hitching, any sign you’re rattled. But you never give him one. You match him beat for beat, gaze steady, voice light.

The longer it goes on, the more he feels it—that restless frustration curling into something else. 

Fascination.

You’re not immune to him. He refuses to believe that. But you are… disciplined. 

What breaks a woman out of discipline? 

_________________________________________

It’s an accident at first. 

He’s in his trailer, going over his lines, when he catches you walking by your trailer window. A pair of cotton shorts and a simple black tank top. 

Inside, music thumps low, tinny from a portable speaker—something warm and alive, a Brazilian beat threaded with deep percussion. You’re in front of the mirror, hair loose, barefoot. It’s not rehearsed. It’s not for anyone else.

One hip cocks to the rhythm, your bare feet gliding over the rug as if the floor itself is carrying you. There’s no one else in the room—just you, the mirror, and the pulse of the song.

You start slow, letting the beat curl around your body. Your palms skim the line of your waist, your fingers trail over the dip of your hips before sliding up your ribcage. You roll your shoulders back, tilt your head, and watch yourself in the mirror, drinking in the movement, the way your own reflection meets your eyes.

It’s not a performance for anyone else. You’re seducing yourself.

It’s your pre-shoot ritual. You dance before big scenes, sometimes to Indian tracks, sometimes to Brazilian, always with that same slow, indulgent heat. It isn’t about pleasing anyone, but about inhabiting your own body so fully it’s impossible not to notice.

But now, he notices. 

Homelander stops mid-stride. His hands curl into fists at his sides before he forces them to relax.

The music swells, and you turn, hair sweeping across your cheek. Your hips sway in tight, deliberate circles, the subtle twist of your knees keeping time. You catch your own eye in the mirror, smirk, and flip your hair back with a snap that feels like punctuation.

He drags a chair and sets it directly in front of his window. The metal legs scrape against the faux-wood flooring, sharp and loud. 

He sits.

The air between his trailer and yours feels charged, a private channel no one else can tune into. He doesn’t blink. 

In one smooth, practiced motion, he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants. 

His hand drops.

God, the way you dance — it isn't choreographed. It’s wild. Unrehearsed. Personal. He watches your fingers trail up your own arms like they belong to a lover. Your smile when you close your eyes — blissful, unguarded — undoes him more than any scream of adoration from his fans ever could.

He strokes slowly, trying to match the rhythm of the music, of your hips. But he falters.

You turn.

Just a glimpse of your face in the mirror inside, eyes half-lidded, lip between your teeth — and his rhythm shatters like glass. He jerks too hard, hips bucking, precum slick on his knuckles already. He growls low in his throat, swallowing a curse. 

He's not supposed to lose control like this. Not him.

But there’s this animal part of him that’s imagining you dancing like that for him. Only for him. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, dragging him into your rhythm. Lips parting on his name, his real name — not the one the world chants like gospel, but the one he never lets anyone say.

His grip tightens.

You're twirling now, hair whipping around you like a halo. The music builds, the heat of it like a slow fever licking through him. He tries again to keep time, stroking in sync with your undulations — but your top rides up and he chokes, fist stuttering, body tensing.

You don’t even know he’s there. And that just makes it worse.

It makes it better.

He imagines you catching him watching — your gasp, the heat in your cheeks, the shock giving way to something else. Would you stop dancing? Or would you keep going? Slower. More deliberate. Letting him see everything you’d never show anyone else on camera?

He moans, soft and strangled, biting it back like it’s sacrilege. His knees damn near buckle.

The bass drops — and so does his self-control. He grits his teeth, hand jerking faster, chasing that final image burned into his mind: you, face turned up toward the ceiling, fingers at the hem of your top, dragging it slowly upward…

He comes with a grunt, hot and helpless, eyes still fixed on the gold-lit frame of your window.

The music comes to an end. You run your hands through your hair, letting it tumble over your face before tossing it back and tying it into a sensible ponytail. 

The language of your body stays unhurried—you have all the time in the world. 

He cleans himself up with a towel, muttering under his breath that he needs to do something about you. Like you’re a problem to be solved. Not a co-star. Not even a temptation. A complication that’s been allowed to grow unchecked.

Through the narrow line of sight from his trailer, he sees you wipe your brow, sling a pair of earphones around your neck, and push your door open.

You step into the open space between trailers, thumbs brushing the wire as you slip the buds into your ears. The world narrows to the quiet thrum of “That’s What I Like” by Bruno Mars—warm, bright, a fun beat. 

Your voice isn’t loud. It’s almost a mutter, an absent-minded echo to the beat:

“Sex by the fire at night, silk sheets and diamonds all white…”

And then—he’s there.

You collide with something unyielding, chest-first into blue and red Kevlar. You yelp, stumbling back a step, eyes wide. His hand catches your elbow in an almost lazy reflex.

He’s not complaining.

“Easy,” he says, and his voice is softer than you expect. The corner of his mouth curves—not quite a smile, not quite not.

“Sorry,” you breathe, pulling one earbud free.

His eyes flick down to it. “What are you listening to?”

“Bruno Mars,” you say, as if it’s the most innocent thing in the world.

His head tilts. “Bruno Mars, huh? That the lyrics you were just singing?”

You blink at him, caught for a second, then let a small smile ghost across your lips. “I guess so.”

“Sex by the fire at night?” he smirks. 

“What, you’ve never tried it?” you throw back, causing his brain to visibly short-circuit. 

The two of you start walking toward the set, his pace matching yours exactly. The conversation stays polite—call times, upcoming shots, the weather—nothing with sharp edges. You keep your tone light, your body language open.

But he’s only half listening.

In the space between your words, the lyric plays back in his head, looping: Sex by the fire at night… silk sheets and diamonds all white.

Your voice on the syllables. The unguarded ease of it. The faint smile you’d given him.

It lodges itself there, unwelcome and unshakable.

_________________________________________

That night, the city is a blur beyond the glass of his penthouse. The skyline burns gold under the last slant of the setting sun, but he’s not looking at it.

He’s sitting in the dark, suit jacket tossed aside, drink untouched on the table.

Replaying it.

You dancing. The bump of your body against his, the startled sound you made, the warmth of your arm almost touching his bicep. The way you’d sung those lyrics, like it wasn’t a provocation at all.

Again. And again.

Somewhere between the third and fourth replay of his entire evening, his jaw sets. You carry words and expressions and actions without even knowing the trouble you cause.

Sooner or later, he’s going to make sure you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

_________________________________________

It’s just past midnight when your phone buzzes.

You’re curled on the couch, hair damp from a shower, half-asleep in the glow of the TV.

Unknown Number: Still awake?

You frown at the screen. It doesn’t take much to guess who it is.

You: Yes. Who is this?

Unknown Number: Take a wild guess.

Your lips twitch. You type slowly.

You: Shouldn’t you be asleep? Early call tomorrow.

Him: Can’t sleep.

Three dots blink. Pause. Blink again.

Him: You make it hard to sleep.

You stare at the screen longer than you mean to. The words aren’t explicit, but they’re not harmless either.

You: I don’t know what you mean.

Him: Sure you do.

The exchange drips with careful control—his words never crossing the line, but skating so close you can feel the heat rising through the glass of the phone.

Him: What are you doing right now?

You: Watching TV.

Him: What’s on?

You: Some bad romcom. It’s background noise.

Him: You’d be better company than that.

You type, delete, retype.

You: We spend all day together on set.

Him: Not the same.

The three dots appear again, stop, then appear once more.

Him: Goodnight.

It’s polite. Harmless.

But you know it isn’t.

You’re left staring at the screen, pulse picking up, because beneath the civility there’s an undercurrent—thin ice over deep water—and you’re not sure which one of you will break it first.

_________________________________________

The scene is meant to be intimate, but not romantic—at least, not on paper. Your character is meant to patch him up after a near-fatal battle, hands moving over wounds and bandages in quiet concentration. The script calls for minimal dialogue, the silence doing the work.

But in the space between “Action” and “Cut,” something else slips in.

You kneel beside him, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. The stage blood on his suit stains your fingertips as you press gauze to his side.

“Hold still,” you murmur, soft and low, threading comfort through the words even though they’re scripted.

“I am,” he says quietly, almost distracted. His eyes don’t leave your face.

The scene is supposed to be silent after that. It’s written to rely on the weight of the moment, but you ad-lib without thinking.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not when you do it.” The reply isn’t in the script. The tone isn’t either.

Your brows knit in focus as you secure the bandage. Your thumb steadies the tape with a practiced care that has nothing to do with the cameras. He watches you like you’re the only thing on set worth looking at.

It’s the little things that undo him—the way your head tilts just enough to meet his gaze, not in awe or fear but in quiet assessment. The faint crease between your brows. The careful, deliberate touch of your hands.

For a man used to worship, it feels like the rarest thing in the world: being seen as human.

The proximity makes something in his chest ache, sharp and unrelenting. You’re so close he can feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek, the warmth of it sinking under his skin. He catches the faint scent of your lotion—something light, clean, and maddeningly human.

“You should rest,” you say softly, smoothing the last piece of tape into place.

“You’ll stay?” Again—off-script.

There’s a pause, the kind that makes time feel thick and heavy. “If you want me to.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth before he catches himself. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, almost too low for the boom mic to catch. “I want you to.”

But your hands are steady, your eyes are calm, and the invisible line between you holds.

“Cut!”

The word snaps the thread, but only barely. Homelander doesn’t move. He could almost laser the director in half for interrupting the moment.

You begin to pull back, but his hand closes around your wrist, gentle but firm, holding you in place. For a moment, it feels like the set falls away—just his grip, your pulse against his fingers, his gaze locked on yours like he’s on the verge of saying something that would change everything.

You look at him, not with fear, not even with suspicion. Just… confusion, curiosity, and something softer underneath. Kindness. It kills him. 

Why can’t he just take from you the way he takes from anyone else? It would be so easy. 

You’re so close. 

So defenseless. 

And so, so fragile.

And beautiful.

And maddeningly sensual in ways you don’t even seem to realize.

“Are you okay?” you ask, leaning closer, dropping your voice further. “Did that… bring up a real memory for you?” you ask quietly. “Of getting hurt, I mean?”

For a split second, he almost laughs. The softness of it, the absurdity of this mortal woman asking if a god has ever been injured. The stupidity of it—no, not stupidity. Something else.

Are you really concerned? Or—

Do you love him?

The thought lands heavier than he expects.

His grip stays on your wrist, but he doesn’t answer. He just stares, jaw tight, the question sitting between you like a live wire.

Around you, the crew begins to shuffle—shoes scuffing the floor, whispered exchanges, a cough from somewhere behind the cameras. It’s a polite kind of impatience, but it’s enough to cut into the moment.

He releases you.

You stand, brushing fake blood from your palms, and offer a polite nod before walking past him without another word. No glances to the crew. No chatter with the director.

Straight to your trailer.

He stays where he is, eyes fixed on the empty space you’ve left behind, pulse still pounding. Anger curls low in his gut—not at you, but at himself.

_________________________________________

It’s 11:02 PM when your phone lights up on the nightstand. The room is quiet, city hum tucked behind the window, the last lamplight painting your ceiling gold.

H: You still up?

You watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then return like a tide that can’t decide.

You: A little. Why?

H: Thought I’d say goodnight. Early call, remember?

The politeness is suspicious. The window he leaves open is deliberate.

You: Goodnight, then.

A beat.

H: …That’s it?

You: You started with goodnight. I’m honoring the tone.

Another bubble. Another silence.

H: Fair. But maybe I wanted you to ask me something.

There’s a heartbeat of consideration. You pull your duvet to your chin, phone warm in your palm.

You: Okay. Why did you linger after “Cut”?

No dots. No answer. Then:

H: Doesn’t everyone enjoy a good performance?

You: I asked if it brought up a real memory of getting hurt.

A full minute passes. Somewhere outside, a car door thumps shut. Your screen finally wakes again.

H: Hasn’t happened. I don’t get hurt.

You: Ever?

H: Ever.

You: That can’t be true. Everyone has a weakness. You know, like… 

H: If you say “Superman,” I’m blocking this number.

You smile. The butterflies arrive on cue.

You: Touchy subject?

H: Incredibly. Offensive, really. Superman wears a cape like it’s his permission slip.

You: And you wear yours like…?

H: A promise.

The answer lands warmer than it should. You exhale.

You: So no weakness? None?

H: Not one you can name in a text.

He lets it hang there—careful, clean, threaded with implication. You find your pulse in your throat.

You: Now I’m curious.

H: Good. Curiosity keeps people careful.

You tip your head against the pillow, smile at the ceiling.

You: Careful isn’t the word people use for me.

H: That’s not true. You’re very careful. You draw lines and then you keep them. Efficiently.

You: You mean the no-kissing clause.

The typing stops. Starts. Stops again.

H: Why do you have it?

You: Keeps the work clean.

H: Not an answer.

You: It is to me.

You consider leaving it there, but the warmth in your chest says to keep going.

You: I put it in after the first job. I was new. People thought the intimacy belonged to them off-camera, too. It didn’t. Clause makes it simple.

H: So it began as self-preservation.

You: It began as respect. For the work. For me.

Silence stretches into a soft thread. Then:

H: You realize this just makes things hotter.

You read it twice, hear the quiet in it—the restraint that feels like thin ice over deep water.

You: For you or for the cameras?

A full thirty seconds pass. Forty. You count without meaning to.

H: Yes.

You laugh, small and helpless, alone in your room.

You: That’s not an answer.

H: It’s the only honest one. The line exists. Everyone sees it. They wait to see if it breaks. You don’t let it. That does something.

You: To who?

H: To the room. To the screen.

A heartbeat more. Then the veneer slips a fraction:

H: To me.

You go still.

You: I think we spend too much time together on set.

H: And somehow it isn’t enough.

The words are simple. The meaning is not. The butterflies lift and wheel.

You: You’re good at sounding harmless when you’re not.

H: I’m being very harmless right now. You have no idea how much effort it takes.

You picture him somewhere impossibly high above the city, window glass throwing back his reflection, jaw tight with control. The image arrives uninvited and refuses to leave.

You: Then don’t text me at 11 PM.

H: I tried “goodnight” first. You were the one who asked about pain.

You: And you were the one who pretended it doesn’t exist.

A pause. Something shifts.

H: It exists.

You: For you?

H: Tonight?

The dots appear, vanish, reappear, as if he’s choosing and unchoosing in the space of a breath.

H: Yes.

It sits there, stark and startling. You swallow.

You: Because of the scene?

H: Because you didn’t look away.

You stare at the words until they blur.

You: Isn’t that my job?

H: No. Your job is to hit your marks, say your lines, and go home. You look at me like I’m

Three seconds pass. 

H: Like I could bleed.

The room feels warmer. The duvet suddenly too heavy.

You: And that bothers you?

H: It’s unfamiliar.

You: Unfamiliar isn’t bad.

H: It is when it keeps me up at night.

Your breath catches. The butterflies do a dizzying loop.

You: You’re supposed to be asleep. Early call, remember?

H: Read me a rule again. Maybe it will help.

You roll onto your side, smiling despite yourself.

You: Rule: no kissing on camera.

H: I know that one.

You: And off camera.

A beat. Then:

H: I know that one, too.

You: Why ask “why” about the rule? 

H: Guess I wanted to hear you say it. I wanted to see if you’d hesitate.

You: Did I?

H: Not even a little bit.

You trace the edge of your phone with your thumb.

You: Does the line frustrate you?

H: It makes me think about it more.

You: Sounds like a you problem.

H: It is. I’m managing it poorly.

The honesty lands like a hand around your ankle, gentle and unyielding.

You: Try managing it better.

H: Show me how.

Your heart trips. You stare at the blinking cursor until it becomes a metronome.

You: Start by not texting me after 11.

H: 10:59 tomorrow, then.

You laugh, quiet enough that only your pillow hears.

You: Goodnight.

_________________________________________

The next day, you arrive on set with a quiet hum under your skin, replaying the texts from last night. You feel good. Sexy, even. Confident.

The wardrobe team zips you into a soft knit sweater, something pale and lived-in, paired with leggings and bare feet. Your hair is left loose, makeup minimal—the “home” look for your character. They want you as natural as possible for this scene.

Today’s setup: your apartment.

The moment: Homelander comes to say goodbye before leaving to fight something not of this Earth. The kind of storyline that sounds ridiculous on the page but lands heavy when played straight. The subtext is simple—your character is terrified he won’t come back alive.

The director runs through blocking.

He’ll enter through the balcony doors, land softly, exchange lines in the middle of the room. There’s no scripted touch beyond a clasp of hands. The rest is yours to fill in.

From the first “Action,” the room shifts.

He steps in from the cold night air, cape settling behind him, suit gleaming under the apartment lights. You’re already standing, arms folded—not in defiance, but in a desperate attempt to keep your composure.

“You don’t have to go,” you say, voice barely holding steady.

“It’s what I do,” he replies, softer than the line is written.

First take—he stands close enough that you can see the reflection of your living room in his eyes. His hands linger on yours a beat too long. He tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s inviting you to close the gap. 

You don’t.

Second take—he pulls you into a brief embrace, one arm around your back, holding you tighter than the scene requires. When you pull away, his gaze drops—just for a moment—to your mouth. 

You still don’t cross the line.

And you know what he’s up to now. He’s testing the waters. Testing your boundary. 

Third take—his palm comes up to your cheek mid-line, thumb grazing skin, eyes searching yours for something you’re not supposed to give him. The pull is there. Your heart beats against it. 

You hold the rule.

By the time the final take rolls, you’re already keyed up. The air between you is different now—thicker, more charged than you want to admit.

He lands on the balcony, steps inside, and the lines flow easier than they have all day. You can feel the ache in your own voice when you say, “Please come back.”

“I’ll try,” he says. Not I will. Not Don’t worry. Just I’ll try.

The words hit harder than you expect. And when he steps closer, so close that his chest nearly brushes yours, you feel it—your resolve faltering.

Your gaze flickers to his mouth.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning in until his hand comes up—not to pull you closer, but to stop you. Fingers gentle against your jaw, not pushing, not holding—just there.

His eyes are steady, unreadable to anyone but you.

“For when I get back,” he murmurs. It sounds like a line, but you know it isn’t. It’s for you, not the cameras.

Something in your chest twists. You’re suddenly aware of every detail—the warmth of his skin, the evenness of his breath, the steady pressure of his fingers holding you just far enough away.

Because he could take it.

It would be so easy for him to grab what he’s been wanting for weeks.

And you would let him.

But he doesn’t.

“Cut!”

You step back automatically, trying to hide the rush in your pulse. The crew is already moving in, adjusting lights, resetting props. He doesn’t look at them—his eyes stay on you until you turn away.

You don’t linger. You don’t speak to the director, or to him. You walk straight out of the set and down the hall to your trailer, shutting the door behind you before anyone can knock.

The sweater is still warm from the scene, but it feels different now—like you’ve been carrying something heavy in it.

You lean back against the closed door and realize it isn’t the temptation that undid you.

It’s the fact that he respected the line, even when it cost him what he wanted most.

_________________________________________

The trailer is quiet when your phone buzzes.

H: You okay?

You’re still leaning against the door from where you came in after the scene, sweater pulled tight, your pulse just beginning to settle. You stare at the screen, half-expecting the next text to be smug—some gloating remark about how close you’d come to breaking your rule.

But it doesn’t come.

You: Why wouldn’t I be?

H: You left pretty quickly.

You chew your lip. Your fingers hover.

You: Figured you’d want to enjoy your victory without me around.

A pause, then:

H: That wasn’t a victory.

You: Felt like one from here.

H: I don’t want you to cross your own line for the wrong reasons.

You sit down on the couch, phone warm in your hand. He could be smug. He could be insufferable. He could turn the whole thing into a joke. But he doesn’t.

It’s maddening. And it’s… touching.

You: That’s unexpectedly sweet.

H: You sound surprised.

You: Should I not be?

H: Guess I’ve earned that.

Another message comes through before you can answer:

H: Still. I meant it. I want you to keep the line until you’re the one deciding to move it.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You feel the curve of a smile start before you type.

You: What if I decide right now?

The typing dots appear instantly.

H: Then I’d tell you I’m on my way.

Your smile sharpens into something else.

You: Would you like to come cross more lines in my trailer?

There’s no pause this time.

H: Very much.

It doesn’t take long.

A minute later, you hear the faint, unmistakable sound of his boots on the steps outside. The door swings open without a knock—he fills the frame, broad shoulders catching the light from the hallway.

And then his eyes lock on you.

You’re standing by the couch, wearing the same black tank top and shorts you had on the other evening when you’d been dancing alone in this very trailer.

His gaze lingers, sharp and knowing. “That’s what you were wearing.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “When?”

He steps inside, closing the door with a quiet click. “When you were dancing.”

You let a beat pass—just long enough to feel the air change—before you let the truth slip. “I knew you were watching.”

His eyes darken in a way that makes your breath catch. He doesn’t move yet, but you can feel the shift in the room, the electricity threading between you.

For once, there’s no script, no director, no line you haven’t already agreed to cross. And from the look in his eyes, he’s ready to make sure you know exactly what that means.

He closes the space between you in three slow steps, never breaking eye contact. His presence is a force field—coiling heat and barely leashed violence—and it wraps around you like a noose made of silk.

"You knew I was watching," he repeats, voice low, almost reverent. "Of course you did. You always know when I’m near, don’t you?"

You nod once, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, he studies you like something under glass—exposed and entirely his.

"All these little rules," he murmurs, one gloved hand lifting to brush your jaw. Not touching—not yet—but you feel the ghost of it like a brand. "No touching here, no crossing that line. All these little limits you tried to put between you and me. Cute."

He tilts his head, smile curling at the corner of his mouth—dangerous and boyish all at once. "I used to lie awake, wondering what it would feel like to violate every single one."

Your breath hitches.

"You made your boundaries sound like commandments," he continues, stepping around behind you. You feel the heat of him at your back. "And I’ve always liked breaking commandments. Makes me feel... closer to God."

His lips brush your ear now. Not a kiss. Just a whisper of warmth. You fight the shiver crawling down your spine—and fail.

"You didn’t wear that outfit for you. You wore it for me. And you knew—knew—I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t claim. You danced anyway. Like you wanted to be punished."

He steps in front of you—so close your chests almost brush. He doesn’t touch you yet. Just allows the words land.

“You think I don’t notice everything?” he goes on, eyes flicking down your body like a slow drag of heat. “The way you breathe when I walk into the room. The way your thighs press together when I talk too close.”

“I wanted to tear this little outfit off you that night,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting the hem of your shorts. “Wanted to pin you against the window, let the whole damn city see what you look like when I make you come. Over. And over.”

You swallow hard, pulse thrumming in your throat.

“I waited,” he growls. “Not because I’m patient—but because I wanted you to want it just as bad. And now…”

Finally, finally, his hand slides up your thigh—firm and possessive.

“Now you’re gonna get everything I’ve been dreaming about. Every filthy thought I’ve had while you smiled at the crew and reminded the writers you don’t kiss. Every time I looked at you and imagined you on your knees, mouth open, begging.”

He grabs you suddenly—one hand gripping the back of your neck, the other spreading hot over your lower back, dragging you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is already, thick and unapologetic through the suit.

“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear, voice almost sweet. “Do you know what it's like to be ruined by a god?”

Your gasp is the only answer he needs.

He shoves the coffee table aside with a lazy flick of his boot, never breaking eye contact. Then he’s guiding you backward onto the couch, following you down with that same overwhelming presence.

"I’ll make sure you don’t walk right for a week."

You don't look away—not for a second.

“Any last words?” he asks as he prepares to dip between your legs. 

You reach up, slow and deliberate, running your hands over the broad planes of his chest, feeling the dense strength beneath the suit. Like steel wrapped in silk. 

You’ve been waiting for this as much as he has… but you know how to make it better. 

Your breath trembles as you whisper: “God, look at you…”

That does something to him. His jaw ticks. His eyes flare with the kind of heat that could turn a man to ash. But you don’t stop. You can’t. Not when he's giving you that look—hungry, starved, like no one’s ever spoken to him the way you just did.

“Do it,” you give him permission to ruin you. “Because god, you’re perfect,” you murmur, voice soaked in awe as your fingers trace the gleaming red stripe down the front of his suit. “So powerful. So fucking beautiful.”

His breath catches—just barely—but it’s there. He’s listening now, drinking in every word like it’s the first time someone has ever really seen him.

You press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, featherlight. Then another—lower this time. His throat. The hollow between his collarbones. Each kiss a slow, reverent offering.

“I used to wonder,” you murmur against his skin, “what it’d feel like to touch someone untouchable. To belong to a god like you.”

He growls low in his chest, a noise that makes your whole body pulse in response. His grip tightens on your hips—but he’s not pushing you down yet. He’s holding you there. Waiting.

“You can have anything you want,” you breathe, eyes wide, lips barely brushing his. 

That’s it.

That’s the moment he breaks.

He kisses you—hard, hungry, possessive, his mouth crashing into yours like it’s a claim. Like you’ve just given him something no one else ever could. Worship. Devotion. Faith.

In the next breath, his mouth finds the curve of your inner thigh, his voice rough with worship and want.

“You’re gonna praise me all night, sweetheart,” he growls. “While I make you mine. Every moan, every scream—mine.”

He drags your shorts down in a single brutal motion. The tank top follows—ripped in half like paper, tossed aside like it offended him by hiding what’s his. His eyes rake over your now-bare body like he’s etching every inch of it into memory.

“You were made for me,” he murmurs, reverent, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Every part of you. This—” his fingers trail between your legs, slow and claiming “—especially this.”

You’re already wet. Slick and aching from the sound of his voice alone. But he doesn’t dive in yet. No—he leans down and kisses the inside of your thigh like he’s thanking you for the privilege.

And then he devours you.

His mouth is hot, relentless, tongue working you open like he’s starved for it. He eats you like he’s been dreaming about it for weeks—and he has. You cry out, hips bucking, and he grips you down, unmovable, growling against your cunt like your moans are fuel.

“That’s it,” he mutters against you. “Sing for me, sweetheart. Let the whole fucking set know who owns you.”

You’re already close, embarrassingly so, but he doesn’t let you come yet. He pulls back, lips wet with you, face flushed, and eyes wild.

“You don’t come,” he says roughly, fingers teasing your entrance, just enough to make you twitch. “Not until I say. You got that?”

You nod frantically—obedient, eager, desperate.

“Say it.”

“I won’t come until you say,” you pant.

And he smiles—dark and satisfied. “Good fucking girl.”

Then he’s unzipping his suit, cock springing free—thick, flushed, and gorgeous. Your mouth waters. Your thighs instinctively fall open wider.

“Look at you,” he groans, stroking himself slowly as he looks down at you. “So fucking ready.”

And when he sinks into you, it’s blinding.

He fills you completely. It’s overwhelming—in the best possible way—stretching you wide, dragging a moan from your throat that sounds like prayer. He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out halfway and slams back in, hard enough to rattle the couch.

“Fuck, yes,” he snarls, hips snapping into you. “You feel that? That’s what you were made for. To take me. To worship me with this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, nails digging into his shoulders as he thrusts—deep, brutal, relentless. Every stroke brushes your sweetest spot and has you spiraling.

He grabs your jaw, forces you to look at him. “Eyes on me. I want to see the look on your face as I ruin you.”

You obey—of course you do. And what you see in his eyes is possession. Obsession. Something dangerous and divine.

“You gonna come for me now?” he growls, fucking you harder. “Gonna fall apart like a good little worshipper?”

“Yes—yes, please, I—”

“Then do it. Come for me. Come on your god.”

And you do—hard.

Your whole body tightens, trembling around him as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. He follows a moment later, groaning like he’s being torn apart, hips jerking as he spills inside you, deep and hot and endless.

He doesn’t move. Just stays buried in you, panting, watching your body tremble beneath him like he’s witnessing something holy.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is soft—but viciously proud.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “So perfect. So full of me.”

He presses a kiss to your lips—gentler now, almost tender.

“So,” he gasps, trying to catch his breath, but the glee on his face reveals how proud he is of the joke he’s about to make. “Still got a problem kissing on screen?” 

_________________________________________

Hoooope you guys liked ittt <3 Requests are open but be warned, it will take time!

The first day that you met him, everyone warned you that you needed to be nervous around him. He was volatile, cruel, and not to be trusted.

Maybe for a moment you had been nervous, but it didn’t last. Not when you got into a room with him, anyway. You weren’t like one of the other picks for The Seven; Homelander had picked you personally because he believed that your good image would be good for the team. There had been some behind the scenes controversies, some people claiming that there was too much violence being propagated by the movies. There wasn’t really a hero that was clear-cut as being a good guy, besides, in their eyes, maybe Homelander and Queen Maeve.

You, on the other hand, were a kid’s television show star.

Ultraviolet, named for the rainbow colors that the flames that came from your hands could make. Your powers weren’t all too similar to Lamplighter’s, and as opposed to his more gritty persona, you came off as bright and colorful.

In reality, your hands didn’t shoot the colors of rainbows; they were only edited to look like that on television. There was a hue that would surround your hands and your feet when the flames came out, a natural protection from the heat, but the colors came out different every time. The most common was bright blue, like the flame from an oven once it was on high. But they could also come out red, or yellow, or any other color that would be associated with the rainbow. Sometimes it was two or more colors, but often it was just one. More lackluster in person, but the persona that Vought had created for you made up for it.

You wore a one-piece bodysuit with a blue background and a rainbow across the stomach, with a cape that was supposed to emulate a cloud. The shoes of choice for the show were a pair of roller skates that were often edited to look like there was something coming from your feet - typically a rainbow trailing behind you. You weren’t the most powerful Supe, to be sure. Your powers weren’t necessarily weak, but they weren’t all that special, sparing the color that set them apart from most other people with powers to do with fire.

But your image was squeaky clean. So Homelander recommended you personally, and when Vought pushed back a bit, saying that your image was a bit too different from some of the others and that your color-scheme was too similar to A-Train’s, he insisted. So you weren’t nervous when you met him, because you were fully aware that he was the one who wanted you in the first place.

It was such a small thing, really. Not being afraid of someone you were only just meeting was something that… most people could say in most situations. But that tiny thing for you made all the difference for him. You were the first person, in a long line of people, who wasn’t afraid of him. Your heartbeat didn’t skyrocket any more than it would when anyone would when they met someone for the first time. You didn’t disrespect him, but you weren’t walking on eggshells around him, either. You treated him normally, and that was odd for him.

Something small for you was how you ended up being so close.

Irritatingly close, for some.

When there was an issue, he went to you with it. To handle it, to vent about it, to complain about something that other people would judge him for. When he did something bad, he was candid about it. He told you when something went wrong, he told you about the flight, he told you about everything that had happened between him and Maeve and everything that had led Starlight to hate being on the team so much that he knew of. And it was mainly current things that he complained about until it wasn’t.

There was one particular night that he had come to you, clearly upset. He told you a lot about his upbringing, how he had been made in a lab without anyone who really cared about him. Without anything to bring him any real comfort. He had been made for one purpose, and one purpose only. You’d gotten a lot closer that night, but it was also the night that you realized that you felt more about him than what a friend should feel.

Maybe you shouldn’t have been petting his hair and letting him rest against you. And you definitely shouldn’t have had sex with him before he left, because you were certain that wasn’t what normal friends were supposed to do. But you weren’t normal friends, and no matter how much you knew not to think about that, you couldn’t help it. It made it a whole lot more irritating when Stormfront came into the picture, though you didn’t let it show. You never really let any emotions show unless it was a smile on your face. That was how you’d been raised, that was all you really knew.

But everything kept changing. More people died, you hooked up with Homelander again at Herogasm, and despite everything you knew that he did you remained close to him. Unafraid of him. It was almost cathartic to have someone who was comfortable with it. With the violence, with the pain. With the way that sometimes, every so often, he expected you to hurt people, too. And you did. Most times without question. The lack of fear you had around him didn’t change, but you did change.

There was one particular day that made that incredibly clear.

​

He’d gone to visit the people who ‘raised’ him, and that was something that you knew was incredibly personal to him. You’d expected that he would have gone alone, but he didn’t.

Your fingers - now covered by a white glove that went up to your elbow as opposed to your original costume that didn’t have any gloves - were intertwined with yours as you walked down the hallway that he had surely walked out of years ago, thinking that it was the last time that he would ever see it. But this was different. You knew that everyone here was going to die this time, that they couldn’t hurt him like they used to. Most people might go to therapy, but even if Homelander were most people, something like that was never going to work on him.

For most of the visit, you’d been sitting there. Letting him do what he needed to do, watching while he tormented the people who he hated for tormenting him in the first place. You were quiet, but not nervous. You didn’t feel bad for the men who were dying in front of you, and maybe the version of you that had first been recruited into The Seven would have. There was a part of you that was wholly aware that you had changed in a way that was entirely unrecognizable to some.

Your family, your friends. Many of them were worried. Publicly, you were very close to Homelander. You were always with him, always speaking entirely positively of him. And that was something that worried a lot of people. Too many people, really.

But maybe they had no right to be worried.

“Could you help me with this last one?”

His voice was quiet as he spoke. He was going to enter the room again, the one that you knew he had been locked in when he was younger. He was speaking lowly so he didn’t entirely reveal his plans to the others, but you were certain that they had to know.

“Yeah, sure.”

Help with ‘this last one’ was an understatement, you’d realized. You hadn’t fully realized it until you’d already killed two different people. People who you were certain were uninvolved with him, in particular, but they knew about it, didn’t they? They knew about it, so should you really feel bad when you had their blood on the wall and a hole burned through one of their eye sockets?

Maybe you should. Maybe not all of these people knew about it. You didn’t speak much when you had your hand pushed through someone’s stomach, when you could feel their organs in your hands. There was a certain power in it, even knowing that Ashley would be irritated when she found that she needed to replace your costume again because it had been stained.

But when it was over, you were sitting back against the wall. There was blood on it, blood smeared all over your cape and your legs; it would be a sensory nightmare if you weren’t wearing thick tights. Your hand was over your cheek, feeling your skin. You were pretty sure you had been trying to clean the blood from your face, but you’d forgotten what action you were doing entirely by the end of it. You were in a bit of a daze until you noticed a hand in front of you.

“We should go.”

“Mhm…” You took his hand, but trailed off as you thought back to your own childhood. “You know, I wasn’t treated like you were. Not like… in a room like this, not made to be the most powerful but-the most-fucking-obident. My dad resented me for a bit because my powers didn’t develop immediately; he figured that the V was a scam. But my mom was smart; she knew that they’d come. And she knew I needed to be just fucking perfect when they did.”

There was a bit of an eerie, dazed laugh that came from you when you recalled it. “Fucking perfect. That’s what they made me. And when I wasn’t, she hit me, or she screamed at me, and one day my powers did come because of her. Because she was screaming, because I knew she was going to backhand me or sack my dad on me. And then my powers came out, and-I guess she didn’t hit me anymore after that.”

Homelander, for once, didn’t actually respond immediately. But you did take his hand. You did meet him in the middle, standing up. Your eyes were still glossy, but there was a smile on your face that best displayed the slight confusion that came from that much gore. “They deserved it, all of them.”

“They did.” He almost seemed to be contemplating something before he stopped. His free hand was on your chin, the blood smearing from his glove onto your already stained cheek. You didn’t stop him when he kissed you, and he didn’t stop you when your fingers were in his hair, pulling him closer. It was supposed to happen like this, you reasoned. When you were both a little bit fucked up, talking about how everyone in life loved screwing you over. It was supposed to be just like this. But he pulled back, and you almost fought him on it before you remembered where you were. “Home. We need to go home.”

“Yeah, home.”

​

It wasn’t much of a home, anyway.

Things continued to shift and change. Members of The Seven came and went, and you got over your irritation about Firecracker trying to take Homelander’s attention away from you when you figured that he didn’t really like her very much. But things got worse, too. With him, with his mental health.

He felt entirely too low and alone, no matter what happened. Even when Soldier Boy came back, it was clear that he was just fighting for the attention of a man who was never going to want to play the role of a father figure in his life. He wasn’t really his father, anyway. Biologically, sure, but the man had come out of a test tube. He was an experiment, not really much of a child to anyone. And deep down, you were sure that he knew that. Which was why things got worse, and why you got clingier. Maybe it would help, you figured. It certainly wasn’t hurting.

You’d been close with him in public, incredibly so. Just about any time you were out together, you were holding hands, but there was no real way to define your relationship. It was… codependent. You both relied on each other, but you relied on each other in the same way that you clung to each other. Hooking up had become more normal, making out had become more normal, but it wasn’t really something you spoke about. It just kind of happened, and then you brushed past it.

Until it wasn’t, apparently.

​

Your afternoon had been normal, mainly. Soldier Boy had been woken up about a day ago, but that was something that you’d already moved past. You had a habit of moving past just about everything strange that happened in your life. So what if there was a hundred year old man who you used to have a poster of on your wall on the team now? That wasn’t something that you ever really fretted about before, so you figured that there was no purpose in starting now.

Homelander’s penthouse had become the place that you were in more often than any other place in the building after being on the team for a bit. You spent most of your time with him, so it was only natural that you would also spend most of your time on his floor. There wasn’t really anywhere else that you wanted to be, anyway.

He’d been sitting with you pressed into him, your cheek pressed into his shoulder, while he watched people speaking about him on the news. You weren’t sure why he did it. You knew that he hated watching people talk about him, but it had become worse lately. He was miserable and sad, even with Soldier Boy being woken up. He’d sent him off to deal with something, but Soldier Boy had nearly died, and Homelander had been a bit distraught, even though he’d come back alive.

“Vi?” A shortened version of your Supe name, Homelander didn’t really believe in using human names because he didn’t really believe in humans. The only person who was now a Supe you’d heard him refer to with their human name was Ashley, but that was a bit different. Still, you were used to it by now.

“Hmm?”

“Everyone knows that we’re close, and my image has taken a hit with the Starlighters.”

“Yeah.”

“We should get married.”

“M-Homelander, people don’t even-are-wait, are we dating?”

“Such a human concept.” He brushed that off, but you figured that was answer enough. You were together all the time, and he let you cling to him. He let you be just as codependent as he was because nothing he ever did freaked you out, and that was something that he knew was rare. But he also did like you; he clearly cared about you enough to make sure that you weren’t in harm’s way. He didn’t like people who didn’t like you, and you knew that. “I guess in a technical sense, yes.”

“Mm.” You hummed, thinking about what he was saying. You knew that he probably (maybe) wouldn’t make you if you said no, but did you even really want to say no? You’d kind of tied yourself to him already in every way that counts. There wasn’t a chance that you were going to leave, no matter what, so did it really make all that much of a difference if you were married, besides there being a title to your relationship? Maybe it did. Maybe it did in the sense that you wanted that. “Yeah, okay. Let’s get married.”

“Perfect.”

“It’ll help your image, though?” You asked him, your voice quiet as you moved your head so your chin would rest on his shoulder. Your eyes traced over his face, taking in the familiar features that had become so normal for you to see. You were so used to him that there wasn’t really a way around it. But you felt that you were used to him in a good way. You liked him more than you were supposed to ever have liked him, but it was like second nature now. You couldn’t really imagine your life without him. “I mean, people already know we’re close, so-hmph-”

Your words were cut off when he kissed you. One of your hands was around his shoulder, your fingers tightening in the padding of his suit. You had never seen him without the suit on, and you found that you wanted to. You wondered what he looked like without the suit on, and maybe he would show you if you were married. Maybe, now that you knew what this was, you could actually see him. Physically, anyway. You knew pretty much all there was to know about him otherwise.

His kisses got deeper, though. His tongue brushes against yours, your back pressing into the couch as your body adjusts to fit below his. He was so close to you now, his body hovering over yours. Your fingers found one of the clasps on his suit, but he stopped you before you could take it off, despite the pout on your lips.

“Not just for my image… entirely.”

Oh.

Well, that kind of made sense, anyway. There weren’t very many people who stuck with him. In fact, there would be none if it weren’t for you and, you suppose, The Deep. But he didn’t really care about The Deep. He was a member of the team, but he didn’t respect him, though. He didn’t have any reason to kill him or doubt his loyalty, but he didn’t think very highly of the man, either.

“Can you take the suit off?”

“I’ll consider it.” His eyes broke contact with yours, his lips trailing against your throat. Your back arched closer to him when you felt him suck a bit of skin in between his lips, a sigh leaving your mouth as you clung to him just a bit. “When we’re married.”

“Ugh. Tease.”

The smile against your skin was entirely, entirely worth it.

​

The entire ordeal had been quick. Oh-Father and Ashley put together a ceremony quickly, and you ended up married in front of the general public. Though the people there were specifically chosen because they had a favorable view of Homelander. That didn’t really change anything, but things still changed in a pretty big way. Mainly, that Homelander had also gone insane.

When Soldier Boy came back, he was pretty irritated with Homelander for sending him somewhere without a proper warning that he might die. Soldier Boy almost died, really. But he didn’t because his blood had something different in it. The V that the rest of you had been given was more diluted than what the originals were given, and Soldier Boy couldn’t die from the virus that had been created to be a cure-all for getting rid of Supes. He was immune, but no one knew that going in.

He’d insulted Homelander, and Homelander had a breakdown. But then he went a bit insane.

He claimed, the very next moment that you saw him, that he had seen an angel. The angel had told him everything that he needed to know, and that the reason why everything was so hard for him was that he was the one true God. It was one of the most insane things that you had ever heard come out of his mouth. And while you weren’t scared of him, you were concerned. Concerned because this wasn’t a remotely normal thing to be thinking, because you were quite sure that he was going to get himself in trouble if he kept this up.

There was really only one way that this was going to end, and you knew it. If someone else didn’t kill him, he was going to get burnt out. You really didn’t want him to die or get hurt, but you weren’t sure that there was really any possible way to protect him. Most people wouldn’t remain by his side, but you would. You always did, and you always would. Maybe you could protect him, then. It was better than leaving him to his own devices, anyway.

But now you were just with him, standing there, wondering how to proceed while you were barely comprehending that he was bringing you into the bathroom with him until you were standing directly in front of a tub if…

“Is that milk?”

“Breast milk.”

“Oh.”

“Get in.”

Clearing your throat, you turned back to look at him. You weren’t sure that you wanted to get in, but you wondered if you could get something out of it if you did.

“Can I see you without the suit on? Fully?”

“Yes, if you promise to get in.”

“Okay, perfect.”

You didn’t really need much more prompting. You started with your cape, undoing the claps and letting the cloud-like fabric fall to the floor. Your hands moved down to remove your boots, followed by taking the suit itself off. You were left in just your socks and gloves, which quickly joined the pile of clothing on the floor. But you were stopped before you could get in.

“You wanna see me so bad?”

“Really, really bad.”

“Then you can take it off. I trust you.”

Your eyes moved up to meet his, but you let your hands do the work. Removing his gloves first, knowing that you’d seen and felt his bare hands more than once. Next was the cape, then the boots. But you were careful when you got to the claps on the suit, your eyes not leaving his. Searching, clarifying. But he nodded, knowing that you were making sure that he wanted you to do it. So you did.

Seeing his skin for the first time was an odd experience, but not a bad sort of odd. It was odd in the sense that you rather liked seeing him. You’d felt him inside of you before, you’d seen part of his legs, and you’d seen his butt. But you hadn’t seen anything else, so actually getting him fully undressed was interesting in a way that you hadn’t known it to be when you’d seen anyone else undressed before. Yet, all you could really do was kiss him. On the mouth, on the cheek, on the neck. He let you kiss his chest, let you feel the hair on his chest, and the fact that his stomach wasn’t as toned and muscular as the padding on his suit. He was rather slim, which was a contradiction to the bulky padding.

“Bath.”

“Right.”

You were with him in the bath rather quickly, and thankfully so.

Soldier Boy was in the room on about a moment’s notice. The milk in the tub wasn’t clear, so he couldn’t see anything below the water. But you listened while he talked to Homelander, you moved off of him while he seemingly asserted his dominance by standing up entirely nude. You resisted reaching up to touch him in any way, letting them have their conversation even though it was a conversation that Homelander clearly didn’t enjoy very much.

But the moment he was back down again, you were in his lap, and he was being… odd. Still. You watched as he dipped his fingers in the milk, watched as he sucked the milk into his mouth. His eyes didn’t really leave yours, though his free hand had moved to rest against one of your thighs.

This was a weird situation, you knew that. It was weird to be sitting here in the tub with him because the tub was filled with women’s breast milk that he had taken from a hospital, apparently. You were bathing in breast milk, actively, and that was a strange thing. He was being incredibly odd because he believed that he was God now, and everything was all sorts of messed up. And yet he was looking at you like he wanted to fuck you, and, for reasons that you’d unpack when you weren’t on top of him, you were getting a bit turned on.

“Can a God still get fucked?” You asked him, turning back so you were facing him. His answer seemed pretty succinct when he leaned forward to press his tongue against one of your nipples, licking the bud before wrapping his lips around it. “I suppose that means yes, then.”

You could feel him hard against your thigh, now. You could feel his hand moving his erect cock in between you both until it was settled directly at the entrance to your pussy. Your eyes had yet to leave his, but he also had yet to speak. He didn’t really need to. Not when he was pressing inside of you. Not when your lips parted around a moan that fell through them as you adjusted to the feeling of him being inside of you. It wasn’t new. You’d been with him before. But you enjoyed it just as much each time.

“Do you like this?” His tone changed, almost like he felt human again, as he grabbed your hand to show you the two rings on your finger. There was a wedding band, one that matched his. But there was also a diamond engagement ring. It was pretty, it was exactly the sort of thing that you would have wanted, and he knew it. It was a shame that it had to be worn underneath gloves, but you figured that he hadn’t suggested the change because it was personal.

“I love it, it’s perfect.”

Whatever honesty he was looking for in your eyes, he found.

His hips moved against yours, finally giving you permission to ride him. But you were mainly focused on the way he reacted when you did. Homelander was always a bit noisy in bed, but there seemed to be a bit of increased arousal by being in the milk while he was inside of you. His hands were tight around your hips as you rode him, taking your time.

“I really like that you’re my husband now.” You stated that your voice is a bit breathy now.

“I like that I’m your husband now, too.”

Human. Entirely human. Wanting to be married to someone was a human trait, and one that he seemed to have. But it was something that you weren’t surprised by. As much as Homelander wanted to claim that he was above being a person, you knew that he wasn’t. He was just as much a person as anyone else was, if not more so. But that wasn’t something that you felt the need to say to him. You wouldn’t.

“Fuck-”

The way his head fell back when he moaned, the way he whimpered when you squeezed him just right, did things to you that you weren’t sure how to process. You felt one of his hands caress your hip before moving to collect some of the milk, smearing it over your breasts, before his head tilted back up so his lips and tongue could attack the flesh.

None of this should be a turn on, but it was. It felt good. It was demented and strange, but you found that you liked it. Like him. There was nothing normal about him, nothing that you should really like, but there was never a moment in which he wasn’t your favorite person in the room. Your movements got faster, your moans more erratic. He didn’t seem far behind, either.

And it was your favorite type of sex because you came at the same time, or at least so close that you weren’t sure who finished first. Your fingers tug into his shoulder as you come with a cry of his name, his face still pressed against your chest.

It wasn’t until about an hour later that you were dried off and back in his bed, covered by nothing more than a fluffy blanket. You couldn’t get over the way that it felt to curl up with him, to feel his skin entirely against yours while you were in bed. It was different this way; you liked it far more.

“I really like your body.”

“Yeah?”

Your fingers trailed from his chest to his stomach, resting there for only a moment before moving back up to be placed right above his heart. You liked to feel the beat of it, to know that he was a person even if he didn’t want to be one. But you couldn’t really blame him, could you? He was raised to believe that he was being made to be the best. He was raised in the same way that cattle or a prize pony would be raised. Not to see himself as a person with feelings, not to see inherent value in himself, but to be the best. To be the prodigal son.

Years ago, when you first joined The Seven, maybe that wasn’t how you would have seen things. You were normal back then, despite your past. As normal as you could be, anyway. But you weren’t someone with blood on your hands on purpose. You’d killed a parent by accident, and that was an almost common occurrence in new Supes - if it wasn’t a parent, it was a sibling or a friend. But it was often discovered through tragedy.

Yet, you weren’t the one to kill people just because you could. You avoided it; you didn’t like violence. But now you were comfortable with it, apologetic about it. And maybe you weren’t just as bad as him in every sense, but the inherent codependency that had formed had made you practically inseparable. His crimes felt like they were your crimes, and maybe they were to some, since you looked past them. But it didn’t scare you; nothing about him really did. Not from the moment you first met him or now, with your hand leaving his chest so you could rest your face there instead.

“I think you’re one of the only people who’s never disliked me.” He spoke like he was whispering, but no one was here to hear it, anyway.

“I love you, you know. That’s why.”

“I know.”

Word Count: 2892 --------------------------------------

The Nation Mourns

You prayed. 

You prayed and you prayed for a power that would be useful and not disgusting or embarrassing. You didn’t quite know what you wanted, you just knew Butcher was coming, and Homelander was looking forward to it for some deranged reason. 

“My… fellow… Americans…” 

His voice came through the speakers of the bathroom, where you held a needle to your arm, the bright green liquid staring up at you with judgment. 

A week ago, Homelander had made you swear you wouldn’t do it. 

“Look at what happened to Butcher,” he’d said. “I can’t… I can’t have you fall sick, I can’t let you be taken—” 

You hugged him to stop him. 

“You’re all I have left,” he said softly against your shoulder. “Don’t… please don’t do something stupid.” 

“I won’t, okay?” you said. “I just wanted to… protect you.” 

He pulled back, eyes shining. “You want to protect me?” 

“Why are you saying it like that?” you asked. 

“Sweetheart,” he laughed. “I am immortal.” 

“That French guy was working on a bomb to wipe the V1 out of you.” 

“Please, that’s wishful thinking,” he shrugged. “I’ll be fine. You just have to stand there in that room and let them witness my ascension. That’s all you need to do. I’ll take care of everything else, okay?” 

You nodded. 

You loved him, but you also knew him. Control was his safety. If anything happened that made the control slip, he’d be a deer caught in headlights. Not that you’d ever tell him that… he would think you considered him weak. Incompetent. 

Nothing. 

He kissed your forehead just before entering the Oval Office. 

“I uh—I just have to go to the bathroom for a sec, I’ll be right there.” 

He frowned. “Can’t you just… hold it? I’m about to address the country.” 

“Just… two minutes, I swear. Please? Go on in, I’ll be right there.” 

He didn’t like that. He would have been angrier if he hadn’t been preoccupied. 

“Just… ugh, fine.” 

He huffed and entered the office. You turned on your heel and ran to the nearest ladies’ room. Shut and locked the door and emptied out your purse. 

Now, here you were, trying not to shake as you held the needle to your arm. 

“It’s just… one time,” you told yourself. “One time. God, please, please don’t make my fucking pubes grow.” 

You made contact. Pushed the plunger further in and watched the green disappear into your system. 

You took a deep breath. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, exactly… light-headed? Super strength? Heat? Cold? Pain? 

The answer came seconds later when your heart began to pound violently in your chest. 

“Oh, what the fuck…” You tried to regulate your breathing. It felt like the amount of blood in your body had tripled. You sank to your knees and clawed at your clothes. 

“A day commemorating Jesus,” Homelander’s voice continued on the speakers. “Who, as we all know, was tortured, stripped of his dignity, and killed. And that’s all well and good.” 

You choked on nothing as you convulsed and stared up at the ceiling. 

Please. Please. Please. A good power. Teleportation, maybe. Or laser eyes. Starlight’s power. Please not The Deep’s… 

“AH!” you screamed as something in your body felt like it was snapping. 

And then… silence. A calm descended over you, as if your body had adjusted to new clothes. 

You got up off the floor and felt… wonderful. 

“Okay…” you said to yourself. You were still light-headed, so you stood still to orient yourself. “Okay, okay… what’s the power, then?” 

Nobody answered. Who the fuck would? 

“Not just to be the world's greatest hero but to save all humanity…” Homelander continued. 

You knew he’d get irritated soon if you didn’t show. But… fuck, what was the power? 

You moved towards the door and nearly slammed into it. 

What? 

You took a few steps back. You walked ahead and, again, nearly ran through the door.

You looked down at your feet. 

Okay. This would take a minute.  

***

“Shock and awe, my son…” came a voice over the speakers, violently British and insufferably cocky. “Blood and fucking bone.” 

Now, you thought to yourself. 

Before Butcher could get another word out, you slammed into Homelander’s body and ran him out of the White House, past the lawn, past the Washington Monument, further and further and further, in the blink of an eye. 

Super speed. 

Thank. Fucking. God. 

You kept running, air filling your lungs, your body feeling unleashed. You almost closed your eyes with the euphoria of it until you realized you were carrying precious cargo. 

You reached your destination—his cabin in the woods even Vought didn’t know about—and dropped him to the ground. 

He fell like a human. 

You winced at the sound he made. 

He stayed down for a few seconds while you caught your breath. The world around you seemed… fuller. Brighter. Every particle of dust felt visible to you, every insect, every leaf moving in the breeze, every tiny sound—

“What the fuck did you do?” came his voice from the ground. 

You looked down at him. Bleeding, but not damaged. You’d gotten to him just in time. Well… you could have been faster, he might have still had his powers, but if you miscalculated, you would have lost your powers too, and that would just be stupid, and you were not stu—

“Answer me!” 

You realized your thoughts were running a mile a minute. 

“Sorry…” you said, snapping back to attention. “I—I took Temp V, I’m sorry, but see, it was good I took it!” 

He shook his head. “You’re… you’re going to die.” 

“I won’t die from one hit, Butcher took like 20 hits.” 

“Listen to you. You’re talking about it like it’s heroine.” 

“That’s not the point,” you said, bringing him back. “John… your powers…” 

He sighed, broken and defeated. He teared up. 

“Oh… baby…” You said softly. You moved to the ground slowly and wrapped your arms around him. 

He felt… fragile. The usual brick wall you were usually met with, raw power rolling off of him in waves, was no longer there. Or maybe it was your newfound strength… which you were trying not to enjoy too much. 

He let out a breath, shaky and afraid, against your neck. 

For a second, you thought he might actually sob.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He just sat there in your arms, stiff as a corpse, breathing like he had forgotten how lungs worked.

“It’s fine,” you whispered, though you had no idea if it was. “It’s okay. It’s… over.”

He didn’t move.

You swallowed, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “Maybe this is a gift.”

That made him pull back. He looked at you like you had said something so insane his body had to reboot just to process it.

His eyes found yours. Red-rimmed, wet, furious. Terrified. Human.

“What?” he asked.

You almost flinched. “John—”

“Go to Vought.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You have super speed. Go to Vought,” he said again, voice low and sharp. “Get me Compound V.”

You stared at him.

Then laughed once, because surely he wasn’t serious. Surely you had misheard him, or your super ears or whatever the fuck had scrambled the words on the way in.

“Are you actually serious?”

His jaw twitched. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You just got out alive.”

“I have unfinished business with Butcher.”

Oh.

There it was.

The name still came out of him like poison. Like a chain still wrapped around his throat.

You sat back on your heels and looked at him. Really looked at him. Blood smeared down the side of his face. Dirt on his cheek. His hair mussed. His lip trembling despite his best efforts to stop it.

For the first time since you’d known him, Homelander looked… small. You saw the boy and what had been done to him rather than the mythology he had made himself into. 

“John…” you said carefully. “Aren’t you tired?”

He looked away. “Don’t.”

“No, seriously. Aren’t you tired?”

“I said don’t.”

“We could stay here,” you said, softer. “You have money. Like, a stupid amount of money. We could go anywhere. Somewhere Vought and Butcher will never find us.” 

His eyes flicked back to you.

You reached for his hand. He didn’t give it to you, exactly, but he didn’t pull it away either. You counted that as a victory because you were not emotionally equipped to count anything else right now.

“We can start fresh,” you said. “Please.”

His face tightened. “Fresh.”

“Yes.”

“You think there’s a fresh for me?”

“I do.”

He gave a weak scoff and pushed back from you.

Or tried to.

It was barely anything. His hand pressed against your shoulder, but there was no force behind it. No effortless strength, no warning in the movement. Just a man trying to create space and realizing, in real time, that his body no longer obeyed him like it used to.

The realization hit him, too. You saw it happen in the way his eyes widened slightly and his hand faltered. Your heart broke for him. 

And he hated that you saw it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m looking at you because I love you.”

“Fuck off.”

“John.”

“I said fuck off.”

“No.”

He looked at you then, startled despite himself.

You took a breath. Your heart was still beating too fast. Not Temp V fast anymore. Something else. Fear, probably. Love, definitely. Maybe both were the same thing when it came to him.

“I can’t watch you go back to Butcher,” you said. “I can’t watch you walk right into him again. I can’t watch him depower you again. Or kill you. You only just made it out alive.”

His expression hardened. “You weren’t there.”

“What?”

“At the address.”

As usual, Homelander scrambled for something to blame when he felt like the spotlight was too harsh on him. 

He stared at you. “You were supposed to be there.”

“I was coming—”

“You weren’t there because you were shooting yourself up with Temp V?”

You went still.

He smiled, but there was nothing happy in it. “You promised me you wouldn’t do it.”

“And you promised me you’d be careful.”

His eyes flashed. For half a second, your whole body braced for heat vision that wasn’t coming.

That would never come.

God.

“I had to do it,” you said again, quieter this time. “It was one time. I couldn’t… I couldn’t just stand there like a fool and do nothing.”

Your voice cracked before you could stop it. 

“If I had to just stand by and watch Butcher take you from me... I couldn't live with myself..."

Silence.

The forest moved around you. Leaves whispering. Bugs screaming. A bird somewhere singing, having no respect for the emotional weight of the moment.

Homelander stared at you, the anger drained from him finally. Something in him shifted. Something awful and tender and raw.

Maybe he finally got it.

Maybe, for the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like to stand outside the glass. To watch power happen to someone else. To be too slow, too soft, too powerless to make a difference. 

His throat bobbed.

You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand. “I know this isn’t ideal, but…”

A laugh tried to come out of you and died halfway.

“It’s a second chance,” you said. “We can have everything we wanted without the burden of Vought or politics or the Seven.”

He looked at you like you were speaking another language.

Then, very softly, he said, “I don’t know who I am without all that.”

Oh.

That hurt worse than the blood. Worse than the horrible second where you had grabbed him from the White House.

“You’re you,” you said. “Loving. Protective…”

His face crumpled into something ugly. “Not fucking protective now, am I?”

“Protection isn’t just punching holes through people, John.”

He stopped.

“You have a whole, normal life ahead of you to figure out what you are outside Vought,” you said. “You have me to help. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stared down at your hands.

“You sure?” he asked bitterly. “You could take off in a second and I wouldn’t be able to follow you.”

“Why would I do that?”

His laugh was small and vicious. Mostly aimed at himself.

“Because I’m nothing,” he said. “No power, no V, no God, no father, no son, I’m fucking useless.”

“Homelander, you were never useful to me.”

The second it left your mouth, you wanted to grab it out of the air and stomp it to death. His face went blank.

“Gee, thanks.”

“That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

“Yes. Obviously. Jesus Christ, you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I mean I didn’t love you because you had a use.”

His eyes flickered.

“And I still love you because it’s not about your use.”

He looked away. Fast. Too fast. Like if he didn’t, whatever was building in his face would betray him. You reached for him again and tugged at his head lightly so he’d rest it against your chest. 

Normally, when you did that, he would listen to your heartbeat. It was as loud as a drum to him. Now… it was soft. You could feel him feel the loss of it. 

He breathed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times. 

You wrapped your arms around him and held on.

“I’m scared,” he said.

It was so quiet you almost missed it. 

“I know,” you whispered.

“I don’t want to be.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Me neither.”

He huffed against you. It might have been a laugh if either of you were less devastated.

“That’s reassuring,” he said. 

“I know, I’m very wise.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

His fingers tightened in your shirt. Weakly. Humanly.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

Your eyes burned.

You kissed the top of his head, careful, because he seemed breakable now, and you hated that. Not that he was breakable, just that nobody had ever treated him so gently or taught him that breakable could still be happy. 

A strange heaviness settled into your bones.

At first, you thought it was the emotion of it all. Which, fair. You were in the middle of the woods holding a depowered superhero in your arms after injecting yourself with science heroin. 

Anyone would be tired.

But then… the world dimmed.

Leaves became leaves again. Not a thousand sharp, trembling details. The bugs became background noise. Your blood stopped singing in your ears. The impossible energy in your legs, the thing that had made the whole world feel too slow, began to drain.

“Oh,” you said.

Homelander lifted his head. “What?”

“I think it’s wearing off.”

His expression changed instantly. Panic, sharp and immediate. “What?”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not—what if—what if it does something to you?”

“John.”

“What if your heart stops?”

“John.”

“You could start bleeding or get those fucking tentacles Butcher—”

“Baby.”

That shut him up.

You smiled weakly. “I’m okay, I swear. It just feels like I’m coming down from a hangover or something.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

You shifted, trying to sit more comfortably, and the movement made your whole body ache. Not a superhuman ache… just the ordinary, miserable ache of muscles being overused and adrenaline leaving the system.

You laughed under your breath. “Ow.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… knees.”

“Knees?”

“I have them, apparently, and I used them too much today.” 

He stared at you.

Then, suddenly, unbelievably, he laughed.

It was a short, broken laugh, almost wet around the edges, but it was real. You almost started crying then, because apparently that was the thing that was going to break you. 

Laughter. 

His laugh died quickly, but the ghost of it stayed on his face. He looked younger with it. Lost, yes. Terrified, yes. But younger. 

You leaned back against the tree behind you and pulled him with you.

He resisted for half a second. Pride, probably. Habit, definitely.

Then he gave in.

His head rested against your chest, and you held him there as the last of the V slipped out of your body like a tide going out.

Maybe tomorrow would be awful. Maybe the world would come looking. Half the nation would mourn, the other half would rejoice. Vought would likely spin another tale for the public to eat up. 

But… good things would follow. 

Sure, some days Homelander would wake up furious, grieving, unbearable, terrified of every bruise and paper cut and cold morning. But… he’d have peace. He’d have a life far away from Butcher and Vought and the whole rotten machine that broke him before it made him into the perfect little weapon. 

He snuggled into you further, if such a thing was possible, and let out a soft breath. 

“I’m just John,” he said, as if informing himself of the fact. 

You held him tighter and pressed your lips to his temple.

“Just John is brilliant.” 

His fingers threaded through yours. 

You exhaled, feeling the last spark of Temp V vanish from your blood.

Human. Normal. 

That made two of you.

----------------------------------------

"You gotta be fucking kidding with me." Homelander interrupted abruptly upon hearing snores in the room. "Is Noir sleeping?"

"Mmhmm," Firecracker murmured in agreement, but the masked superhero jolted awake when The Deep kicked his chair.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, guys." Black Noir straightened up, while the Captain shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom what he had just witnessed.

"Ah, what the fuck." The blonde furrowed his brows, eyes darting around the room quickly, then fixing on a specific point when something else caught his attention. He had noticed you earlier with a notebook and pencil, but now you're not writing but drawing. The irritating sound of the graphite scraping against the paper had been bothering him for some time, but he had tried to ignore it, assuming as a newcomer you were taking notes.

He wouldn't lie. Though he found taking notes utterly stupid, he liked to think someone was that focused on what he said. Not that he needed it, just opening his lips and everyone would be watching him. But as if that weren't enough, he finally realized you were dressed in regular civilian clothes.

"Radiance, where's your suit?" He asked slowly, but angrily. "Can't anyone do anything right around here?"

You finally tore your attention from the paper, meeting Homelander gaze directly. It's not that you weren't paying attention—in fact, you were, maybe more than anyone else there. It was easier to absorb things while doodling, a way to calm your nerves. Well, that or rubbing your sweaty fingers together until they hurt.

No one ever understood. Even back in school, your parents used to receive complaints about you drawing during class, no matter how high your grades were or the fact that you were the top student.

This was your first meeting with the Seven, and the last thing you wanted was to give the impression of being careless or not caring about being there. It could be said that one of the best days of your life was yesterday when Vought sent you a notice, letting you know that the greatest superhero of all had personally chosen you to join the team. After so many "retarded" - in his words - he had been forced to accept into the Seven, Homelander saw in you, above all, the opportunity to make up for Firecracker's ridiculous weakness.

When Ashley began talking about your powers, he had no doubt the last spot was yours. It was simply brilliant. Who the hell would have imagined someone would have powers to control a state of matter? You could maneuver fire, generate electrical discharges, disrupt magnetic fields, and damn it, you could split atoms as if slicing butter.

Vought's scientists said they didn't know if it was possible, but you could destroy the damn out of a star one day. Homelander wasn't a science guy, but in one of his moments of boredom, he got curious and did some research. He didn't even know that plasma crap was all that, he thought it was a cell thing or whatever.

He always thought someone with a power as peculiar as yours, and at your age, would be arrogant or just plain dumb. But you were actually the complete opposite. You didn't speak unnecessarily, and while you seemed very aware of your own actions, you had no clue how powerful you were, or perhaps ignored that fact. The blonde thought you were an idiot for it, but he appreciated the inferiority you submitted to, especially in relation to himself.

"I don't have one, sir," you replied to his question, feeling small with everyone looking.

"What the hell?" He continued, focusing on you with incredulous voice, he couldn't believe it. How did someone end up here without even having a superhero suit?

The truth was, you had never been part of any team before, nor had you received any sponsorship during your life, or even attended Godolkin University. The only thing you had were your powers, which were indeed impressive. You never chased after any position, nor were you ever obsessed with being a famous superheroine, but lately you thought it would be a good adventure to radicalize your life. That's when you applied to join the Seven.

"How do you have a name and not have a fucking suit?" He asked, boiling with anger, fists clenching tightly behind his back.

"They gave me a name when I filled out the application," you answered honestly. That day, after they chose to call you Radiance, a random and easily commercial name, you couldn't complain much and didn't want to bother, so you left it at that.

"You'll be introduced as an official member of the Seven tomorrow, how do you not have a suit?" He took his hands off his back, moving them as he spoke to express his confusion, and for a few moments you followed it movement like a child who can't keep their attention on anything for long. "Who's handling your marketing?"

You couldn't answer, so you stayed silent and no one else dared to say a word either. You had no idea who was handling your marketing, not knowing you should even have that. You glanced quickly around the table, perhaps seeking some kind of help for the situation, but everyone looked down when they realized you were staring at them. They were enjoying themselves, and that made you exhale through your nose in embarrassment.

"You know what? Fuck it, doesn't matter." Homelander brought his fingers to his furrowed forehead, letting out a loud sigh as he calmed down. "Just... don't show up like this in public until someone gives you a suit."

"Yes, sir," you replied tensely, relieved that he had resolved the matter.

Sister Sage widened her eyes in relief when she finally saw the superhero sitting beside her. She opened her mouth to begin speaking, as she had intended from the beginning, but when some sound was about to come out of her mouth, Homelander spoke to you again, this time pointing an accusatory finger at you:

"And stop drawing, damn it," he ordered, causing you to slowly drop the pencil on the table, as if caught doing something wrong with the weapon of the crime in hand. You stared at your lap throughout the entire meeting, embarrassed for messing everything up on your first day.

When the meeting ended, you followed most people out of the room, but stopped nearby in one of the hallways. You slid down the wall, crouching in a hidden corner, and lightly tapped the sketchbook against your forehead in annoyance.

"Stupid," you murmured softly to yourself. It was so ridiculous, yet it embarrassed you so much. Maybe this first day wasn't so bad after all. You would have plenty of time to prove your worth to everyone, no need to dwell on this situation. Even though you had been corrected in front of some of the most iconic supers by Homelander himself, this situation could be overcome. It was thinking about it that kept you from letting the burning tears fall.

"I can hear you whining," Homelander voice made you jump to your feet, startled to be caught once again doing something you shouldn't. He didn't seem happy, and his expression was so intimidating that you felt like Mariah Carey performing for a crowd of Eminem fans.

He approached you in slow steps and you held the sketchtebook protectively to your chest, as if that could protect you from something. He glanced down to briefly see the object in your hands and looked at you with disgust.

"If you don't straighten up, I'll kick you out. Got it?" Everything about him exuded threat. Maybe if he weren't so imposing and powerful, that sentence would have sounded a bit like the janitor from your old school scolding you for spending too much time in the bathroom during class.

You were paralyzed standing there and all you could do was a nod. But your gesture made him more aggressive.

"Answer with your mouth. Are you mute or something?" And there he was, hands behind his back again. He seemed to enjoy that pose.

"I won't mess up, sir," you said, swallowing your saliva.

"And get rid of that. Or burn it, do whatever, just get rid of it. And I better not see you with that again," he said referring to your notebook, walking away faster than before. "These kids..." you heard him mutter distantly.

After that happened, you didn't destroy the sketchtebook, but you were afraid of being caught and kept it safely tucked away in the back of a drawer in your room. What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right? You mentally made a promise to yourself not to use it anywhere else but here, to avoid causing more trouble.

It's been a week since you've been with the Seven, and several strange things have happened. You quickly realized that Homelander wasn't the pristine and merciful hero everyone believed him to be. But the truth was that deep down you already expected that. Everything about heroes always seemed too perfect and pure, there had to be a catch. Despite everything, you still remained yourself, never intentionally hurting anyone or getting involved in murders and conspiracies.

You were comfortable helping out with some minor crimes that Vought sent you to solve, but by now you suspected that sooner or later Homelander would ask you to do some of his atrocities. It was still hard to think about how to feel about it, but you weren't naive, you were already mentally preparing to submit to it or else be killed.

During that time, as you adjusted and interacted with the team, it didn't go unnoticed by Homelander that you were drawing on your own hand, or on napkins and on random sheets you found lying around, even though you hadn't shown up with your sketchtebook again. This was starting to wear on his last nerve, but he tried to ignore it. As long stayed as you were, without asking too many questions and obedient, he made an effort to continue overlooking your makeshift drawings.

"Meeting's over," the blond suddenly declared, interrupting another of the Seven's weekly gatherings while cutting off The Deep's rambling about his ideas.

"But I haven't even talked about the flying shark yet," he tried to defend himself.

"Shut up," Homelander's voice rang out sternly in the room, issuing a warning that the man promptly obeyed.

"Right. Meeting's over." Ashley nervously moved to gather the portfolios on the new soda advertisement she had come to present, but as soon as she touched the first folder, specifically the A-Train one, the superhero exploded in rage:

"Ashley! Get out!" She immediately dropped the folder in place and hurried out in her heels, unable to run in them. "All of you! Get out of here."

Everyone got up from their chairs, even you, and filed out through the front door, leaving the folders on the table. Sister Sage hesitated, thinking she might be an exception, but when his scowl deepened, she understood she should leave too.

With the room empty, Captain Patria took a few minutes to admire the view from the tower. He enjoyed staring at it sometimes, even when bored.

"Bunch of idiots," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in denial, indignant. If he had to spend one more minute with these morons, he would have a heart attack, even though that was technically impossible for him.

He threw his cape back as he turned to leave, looking down and not focusing on anything in particular. But his eyes caught something different from the other folders. It was obviously yours, with a huge drawing covering the text and images printed on it.

That was the first time he actually saw something you had scribbled. And damn, it was perfect. It was a drawing of everyone in the room, with him in the center looking angry. Just as he was. His ego flared up as he noticed that his figure was more detailed than the others'. You must have started drawing him first, hence had more time to detail him. The idea of you making him the main focus of this particular drawing made his pupils dilate. He used his super hearing to check if anyone else was around and secretly took that sheet for himself.

The next time he saw you drawing in the Seven's room, he couldn't help but wonder if you were drawing him again. As soon as he noticed you sneakily reaching for a pen that belonged to Ashley, he looked in your direction. The noise that used to annoy him now sparked curiosity. And after staring at you for so long, it didn't take long for you to look back at him too. The blond thought you would be embarrassed, like most people, but you just grinned as if you were used to being caught looking. And indeed, you were.

You began drawing Homelander more frequently when you realized he never caught you watching him. It was easier and avoided awkward situations with other people. After two whole weeks of drawing him continuously while taking advantage of this freedom, you felt capable of drawing his face without even needing to see a photo, having memorized most of his distinctive features.

Well, it seems he's finally noticed you.

Sometimes, when alone in your room, you took out your sketchbook and started practicing the memory of his facial features you had developed. Just like every other time, you became absorbed in the drawing, focusing only on the voices around you to understand what was being said. This was also a way to keep yourself engaged during conversations, so you wouldn't get restless from being still while being a mere spectator of everything. After all, you never participated much or gave opinions; Deep already did enough for two.

The meeting had already ended, but you stayed in your chair, even as everyone else left, to finish just a part of the hair. You thought no one would mind, and then you would leave as usual, but a voice caught you by surprise:

"Can I take a look?" Homelander asked, for the first time, using a gentle voice beside you. His expression was enigmatic, somewhat relaxed, and shy at the same time.

You turned the stack of post-it notes, also taken from Ashley, for him to see what you had drawn, fearing what he would say. You weren't ashamed of drawing people, much less of them catching you doing it. You feared because he found your habit annoying.

He observed the drawing, seeing his posture from the side, upright and imposing. He wondered if you drew him exactly as you saw him, or if it was just another caricature of reality, like those Photoshopped pictures spread around. He looked much better than he imagined, though he had that superiority complex that made him see himself as a god.

For a moment, he was offended to see his image stamped on such despicable things as scraps of paper and these damn post-it notes. Your fingerprints were also visible stains, and the paper was slightly wrinkled from his sweat. He had noticed that sometimes you drew calmly, as if you had all the time in the world, and other times it was like drawing on a boat in a storm. Today seemed to be the latter situation.

"Do you like drawing me?" He glanced at you.

"I do," you shrugged. That was the simplest and most truthful answer you could give. "Sorry, I won't do it anymore," you said, thinking he was bothered by it.

"Why?" He ignored your apology.

"You're drawable... I guess," you stared at the table, not understanding the flow of the conversation.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" He asked in a louder voice, turning to face you, obviously confused. "Is this some artistic shit?"

"It's just that you're easy to draw because you have unusual characteristics. It's a good thing," was your answer, and it inflated his chest with narcissistic pride. Unusual, that's what you said, but to him, it was like being called extraordinary.

"Next time you draw me, try using a sketchbook," he said sternly, pretending to reject your work, but deep down, he just didn't want to show that he really liked it. That statement was his way of encouraging you to continue, but at the same time, it was so ironic, considering he got mad at you just when you were drawing him in the sketchtebook that day.

"But you asked me to get rid of mine," you said simply, your voice dwindling with each word of the sentence, not wanting him to find out that you had never thrown it away.

Homelander, despite his sociopathy, craved affection, genuine adoration and genuine love. Of course he felt it was never really real. From Madeline Stillwell, to Queen Maeve to Stormfront. Everyone was fake.

None of them really gave a fuck about him, and they were scared of him, which he did like, but only when he wanted them to be scared, not as some consistent underlying feeling.

Anyone who got to know Homelander personally, fucking hated him, or was scared of him. He knew it, of course he did. He felt it in the air, he heard their racing hearts and the blood rushing through their veins. They couldn’t hide it if they tried.

Then there was you. To Homelander, you were more of a gimmick supe. nothing worth The Seven, but Sister sage insisted you were part of the plan, along with Firecracker, so Homelander bent his knee.

When you were first introduced, he didn’t expect much, and that expectation (or lack thereof) continued until they day they caught the suspected mole. Some spider freak Homelander couldn’t care to remember the name of.

That day you stood alongside him as he ripped the supe clean in half, watching as blood exploded across Homelander and the floor. Any other person, he would’ve heard the racing heart beat, or the gulping noise of nervousness. But you? You just grimaced at the sight, a soft ‘yuck’ coming from you shortly after.

From then on he’d noticed you more, and it seemed you noticed him too, always flirting with him, touching his arm, bringing him snacks, and milk. It was obvious to everyone, your not so subtle blooming affection toward him.

When he was angry, you weren’t fearful or cowering, you let him get angry, let him rant and rave. He felt idiotic for the amount of times he found himself in your room just to lay his head on your lap and complain.

He took notice of how you never tried to kiss his ass out of fear, only fussing over him out of genuine care. He couldn’t fully believe it, and his doubt caused him to have mood swings where he would be cruel to you. Like he was sick of anticipating when you’d finally hate him and so he tried to force it with his behaviour.

It didn’t ever come though, you were patient, and you frustratingly gave him his time to brood and be angry. It wasn’t until he saw some security guard flirting with you that he realized he needed you all to himself, that no other person would care for him the way you did. With the security guy dead, he finally asked you to be his partner, and made you official to the public as fast as possible, wanting to stake his claim for you to everyone.

Once Homelander started to realize that he heard your heart flutter around him, that he could see the dilation in your eyes when you looked at him, or smell the arousal when you were worked up over him, he knew that there wasn’t any questioning whether or not your feelings were true.

John had just killed every scientist who’d tortured him growing up, his body still shaking with adrenaline, anger, and self hatred. The realization that he’d been raised like a dog to be obedient, made him so angry, he could barely contain it.

He touched down on the Vought towers covered in blood he dragged his feet into your shared bedroom, where you were already up making your way to the door when you heard it open.

“Are you okay?” You whispered upon seeing him, opening your arms to him despite his body being covered in bloody. Homelander slumped into you without hesitation, his gloved fingers digging into your flesh. “I’m nothing but a product.” He whispered with a wavering tone, though clear anger cracked through his pain. “What happened baby?” You cooed brows pinched together as your fingers threaded through his crunchy blood soaked hair.

He shook his head pulling back a bit. “They’re dead.. no sense in talking about it.” He huffed looking into your eyes, his expression tired or rather, drained. “You’re the only one who sees me like this..” He muttered making you smile, his gloved hand raising to run his thumb across the apples of your cheek.

“Wanna bathe?” You offered in an affectionate tone, making his face twitch with differing emotions. One of those feeling was cringe; unused to being so genuinely cared for, and the others being exhaustion and gratitude. “Yes.” Homelander grumbled, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom like he was just some lil’ guy and not a murderous superhuman.

“You look so handsome covered in blood.” You hummed sliding off his cape from the clasps, before staring to undo the back of his suit. Homelander scoffed stood obediently in front of you as you undressed him. Sometimes it was hard to believe you meant what you said, on days like these all he wanted was to believe you.

“You can talk to me you know... I won’t ever judge you for what happened.” You assured softly, undressing your own body as you watched him slump into the warm water. Once you’d settled into his lap, his arms around your waist, bodies resting in the warm luxury’s tub, he finally spoke again.

“I was raised in a lab, tortured.” Homelander spoke, his voice low, your eyes briefly meeting his as you got a rag, gently washing the blood from his face. “I killed them, it doesn’t feel satisfying enough…” He trailed soaking in the loving look you had in your eyes as you washed him up. “I’m glad you killed them.”

Homelanders face twitched his expression showing confusion for a split second. “You’re… glad?” Homelander murmured as your lips met his nose. “Yeah, fuck those asshole, supe or not you were a little boy being abused and treated like a lab rat.” You hummed out setting aside the wash rag to cup his face, he looked sad, like a kicked puppy. “You’re just… okay with how I kill?” Homelander scoffed, his hands on your hips tugging you closer as he leaned back.

You nodded, clinging to him. “I love you John,” You shrugged, moving your hands up to attempt to get some of the crusty blood off. “There’s nothing you can do that will stop that, even if I get angry, grossed out or off put for a bit, that won’t outweigh how I love ya.”

Homelander felt for the first time that maybe he’d finally found someone who did love him. Originally Stormfront felt like she was Homelanders match, but sadly, all she cared about was her Nazi bullshit. “I love you too.” He grumbled lowly his fingers coming up to pinch your cheeks.