Guilty Pleasures ( chapter three )
18+ 7.3k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, assault (not perpetrated by HL), violence, smol murder, manipulation/gaslighting, hurt/comfort. nebulously takes place post s1. part 3/4. AO3 link. part I part 2
Homelander will do whatever it takes to convince you that he's the hero you need.
a.n: hello, friends! hopefully this chapter being longer than the first two combined makes up for the fact it took me three months to write it. as you can tell, it sort of spiraled out of control from being two chapters, then three, and now four. the good news is that chapter four (the last one! i promise!) is complete, and i'll be posting it next week. i hope you enjoy it! đ¤
Itâs shortly after one oâclock when Homelander knocks a whimsical melody against your office door, deciding he shouldnât be precisely on time, lest he look as eager as he feels. He can already smell your perfume wafting through the doorwayâthe same scent he feverishly pumped his cock to the night beforeâas a teaser of whatâs to come.
âCome in,â you call from the other side.
Homelander takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He screws his eyes shut, pinching his expression in a tight squeeze before he replaces it with a flashy grin, squaring away his anticipation in favor of his showman persona.
âGoooooood afternoon,â he drawls, strolling in with the same feigned level of confidence heâs entered every other moment of your life since stumbling across you, whether you knew it or not. Heâs taken aback almost immediately, slowing in how he closes the door behind him.
You look nicer than usual. Your hair is styled with more conscious effort, and heâs been in show business long enough to recognize the makeup on your face. The shine of your blouse is a quality silk blend, and he canât hear the scrape of cheap cotton underneath it anymore. No, youâre wearing something nice below, too. His lips slowly spread into a self-satisfied smile.Â
You dressed up for him.Â
Homelander takes the seat set across from you, sweeping his cape to the side with a flourish. He watches you tuck an empty containerâyour lunch, presumablyâinto a side drawer of your desk. His eyes closely track the way you lift your thumb to the corner of your mouth and swipe residue from it, sucking the mess from your digit. A distinct pang of arousal hits him just watching your cheeks hollow.
Imagine what she could do with that mouth.
âAnd good afternoon to you, Homelander,â you respond, straightening up in your seat. His gaze briefly dips to the swell of your breasts as you adjust yourself, casually dusting away any remnants of your lunch. Saliva gathers on his tongue at the instant memory of you scantily clad in your sleep wear, nothing but a thin sheet of worn fabric between you and his hunger. His eyes snap back up before you can take notice of how they wandered.
Lucky for him, youâre busy splaying out the folder he brought you the day before, scanning over the list of bullet points heâd slapped together for the sake of having enough talking points.
âI wanted to start with your concerns regarding the marketing for your upcoming miniseries,â you say, glancing up at him.
He clicks his tongue. âWow, alright. Straight to business then,â he says, absently rolling his palms over the ends of the armrests on either side of him.
âIâm very bad at small talk,â you say. Probably to diffuse any notion that you were being rude on purpose.
âChâyeah, Iâll say,â he says, smiling thinly. âLucky that youâre good at your job.â
âShockingly, I was actually a personality hire. I donât know what any of this means,â you say, matching his thinly veiled snark while gesturing to the spread of documents in front of you. He snorts softly. You have a knack for using that sharp wit to diffuse, but he doesnât feel manipulated. You actually are funny. âI was hoping youâd explain your concerns.â
Smooth segue, he thinks, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. Heâs worked enough interviews to know when heâs being led, but he takes the bait anyways, widening his smile.
âSounds great.â
Homelander knows that youâre sharp, good at your job, but he needs to needle you into giving him what he wants. He wants to understand you, and the stack of his films he found hidden in your apartment. What he gets in the meantime is ample taste of your silver tongue, parrying his every jab with an equally sharp counter.
He canât keep the smile from his face.
Gradually a level of familiarity slips into the air between you. He can see some of that tension in your shoulders easing. Heâs steadily wearing down the walls youâve managed to construct.
âI still think audiences will be confused,â he says, feigning a profound concern, stretching out the time of your little appointment.
âWell, audiences are a lot like celebrities,â you say, the hard candied shell of your professional exterior thinning with every back and forth, poised to crack at any second. âTheyâre smarter than we think they are.â
âOohh, ouch,â he purrs. âNice backhand you got there.â
A twitch at the corner of your mouth. He knows youâre fighting a smile of your own, and pride blooms warmly in his chest. He likes sparring with you, but he likes pleasing you even more.
âI disagree about market confusion. Your diehard audience will already be up to speed, your broader target audience will show up for anything with your face on it, and anyone more casual than that likely wonât have seen the miniseries anyways, so thereâs nothing to confuse it with,â you say, scanning down through one of the pages of the document he gave you.
Perfect opening.
âAnd which audience is it you fall into, exactly?â He asks, cocking his head a degree. âI mean, given your position, I have to imagine youâve seen my range of film and television.â
âIâve done my due diligence,â you say vaguely. Youâre good at answering without answering. Normally it would irritate him, but your forced aloofness combined with your closely guardedâand inexplicably secretâveneration of him makes it into tantalizing bait begging for the sharp sink of his teeth.
âSo youâve seen all my movies, then?â He extrapolates, setting a line of his own.
You chuckle, gaze flickering to him before back down to the pages. Too brief a glance to even come close to satisfying his hunger. âI didnât say that.â
He scoffs lightly. âBut youâre a fan of mine?â
âI definitely didnât say that.â He can sense heâs hit a vein, and like any good predator would, heâs eager to bite into it.
âCâmon. Donât tell me youâre shy,â he continues to prod, leaning forward slightly in his seat.
You inhale a breath that you barely prevent from sounding too obviously irritated. His grin remains untarnished by the scrutiny of your unwavering stare. There it is, thatâs what he wants. The weight of your gaze upon him, evaluating, taking him in fully. He doesnât care how he gets it, he just knows he wants it.
âYou are shy,â he accuses, knowing you arenât.
âIâm not shy, Iâm a professional,â you say curtly, the scratch of your pen scathing while you write notations on the document.
Good, he thinks. More likely to slip up now.
âJeeze,â he laughs. âYouâre wound up tighter than my fictional manager in Darkest Day.â
âYou didnât have a manager in Darkest Day, that was Origins,â you correct. After a beat, your hand stills.
Homelanderâs gaze slowly slides to meet yours. He watches your face fall and clicks his tongue. He positively relishes how your mask of indifference slips into subtle dismay at your misstep. Such a simple bit of trivia, and yet it spoke volumes.
Gotâcha.
âYou do watch my movies,â he said, tone dropping to a near whisper. He revels in the quiet way you groan, leaning back in your chair.Â
âOnly the ones I was paid to,â you say, straightening up in your chair, but he can hear the defeat in your voice.
âLiar,â he says through his perpetual grin. âDonât be embarrassed. How long have you been a fan?â
âStop,â you say, burying your face in your hands. Oh, this is good. Was he your first crush? Your favorite hero? He must be still, judging by the flush of heat moving through you.
All that pretense, all that haughty glowering, and beneath it all youâre a fan girl. He almost laughs at the thought of the face youâd make if he called you that.Â
âWhich was your favorite?â He asks, burying the knife deeper, eager to cut through flesh and muscle and bone to get to the heart of truth beneath. âBright World? Rise of a Hero? Justice Dawning?â
âI despise you,â you say melodramatically, digging your thumbs into your temples. âAlso, Justice Dawning was cheesy, Iâm offended youâd even offer it.â You try not to smile, but it happens anyway, and as soon as that secret little smile sneaks onto your lips it brightens Homelanderâs eyes, reflecting your amusement back to you. Not just that, but amplifying it.
âYouâll learn to love me,â he tells you with confidence. You drop your hands, looking at him with subtle surprise. He holds your gaze. The earnestness of his words seems to dispel your mortification and replaces it with something more difficult to define, but he likes the shine it brings to your eyes.
The taste of your defeat is sumptuous. Heâd prefer licking it straight from your tongue, but heâll settle for this for the time being. An easiness settles into the air between you, deeper even than before your hackles rose with the lurking reality of your hidden opinion of him. Itâs like a bubble has popped, dissipating uncomfortable tension, replacing it with something warmer.
He has every intention of turning up the heat even further.
The meeting moves forward. You work your way through his folder, and during a natural lull in conversation, he finally broaches the topic thatâs been plaguing him since he stepped into your office.
âSo,â he begins, interlacing his gloved fingers in his lap. âGonna tell me what youâre all dressed up for?â He asks, wearing the same smile and speaking in the same tone he had when he baited you into admitting your secret love affair with his cinema.
He wants to hear you say that itâs for him, but heâll settle for a flustered deflection. Theyâre as good as the same.
âOh,â you huff with an airy little laugh, the sound like silver bells chiming. âI have a date tonight.â
You say something else, but Homelander doesnât hear it over the tidal-like rush in his ears. He watches your pretty lips form words that he canât understand. Everything falls out of focus as he tightly reins in the white hot rush of furious jealousy that floods his gut and erupts up the back of his throat like bile. He swallows the burn of it, jaw tight, and manages a tense smile.
âGreat,â he barks, not realizingâor perhaps not caringâthat he interrupted you. âFirst date?â
âFirst date,â you confirm, your tone less conversational than it had been a beat ago. The walls are going back up, but heâs too fixated on what feels like a stabbing betrayal.
âExciting,â he says, adjusting his tone and mannerisms until they once more resemble something genuine. Something civil, despite the hostility in his gut. âSomeone you know? Going anywhere special?â
âNo, and not really,â you say evasively. He loathes how withdrawn youâve become. You should be pleased heâs put off. Gloating even. Itâs proof he cares, isnât it? âIt was his suggestion.â His. The leather of Homelanderâs glove creaks subtly in the fist he makes. âI forget the name of the place,â you say, avoiding his gaze.
His right cheek tics. Liar, liar, pants on fire. People always underestimate his ability to read them.
Youâll learn not to lie to him.
âBut you have an out if you need it, donât you? Someone to bail you out in case he turns out to be some kind of freak,â he says, huffing the word with a lick of venom. It takes significant effort to keep the disdain from his face to imagine you as you are now sitting across from some nobody schmuck, lit by candlelight and smiling sweetly for them instead of for him.
âI always do,â you say, smiling thinly. He curates his own tone often enough to hear it in yours, and it pierces his ears like a thistle. He taps his fingers on his thigh, scrounging for something, anything else to needle you for, but your responses donât give him much to work with.
âWell. If you did need someoneââ
âIâm a big girl,â you interrupt, surprising him. Heâs rarely interrupted. âI can take care of myself.â
At that, a thought strikes him. The slack line of his lips curls into a thin smile, and his hands relax on the armrests of the chair.
âIâm sure you can.â
Shaking off the aftermath of your one-on-one with Homelander proves to be more difficult than youâd anticipated. You replay it nearly moment for moment in your mind while freshening up after work.Â
Homelander has an uncanny knack for moving through demeanors as though heâs trying hats, determining which one best suits the situation. One moment heâs a slick carnivore licking his chops in anticipation of his meal to come, and the next heâs every ounce the hero they market him as. Heâd been relentlessly charming during the meeting, his charismatic smile becoming one youâd wanted to earn again and again.Â
Then came the news of your date, and all at once Homelander possessed the ominous calm of a sentient statue. The moment still sends an eerie chill down your spine, even in recollection. How radically his appearance can change with mood or thought alone. Youâd hate to ever see him truly angry.
âGet a hold of yourself,â you say to the bathroom mirror. You have a date tonight, and the last thing you need is to bring this kind of nervous energy to it. Powers or not, the commonality of man is easy to rely on, and youâve developed the tactical mindset of an aloof cat. Never beg for what can be given freely. Never give more than you get. Never settle. âBe the cat,â you tell yourself affirmatively.Â
A directive which, unfortunately, winds up being exceedingly easy to follow through the course of your date. James, bless his heart, struggles to wring more than the occasional piteous chuckle from you. Conversation with him is akin to drinking seltzer waterâhe is neither offensive nor particularly exciting, being only a step above plain water.
Perhaps Jamesâ blandness isnât entirely his own fault, but rather the basis of comparison he is subjected to. Throughout the night, you find yourself critical of the way he looks at youâor rather, the way he fails to look at you. Your thoughts keep drifting back to your meeting with Homelander and the way he looks at you. The intense ocean-blue caress of his eyes summons a blush to your cheeks even in hindsight.
He looks at you in a way that no one else does. It's as if he's trying to memorize the smallest details in your skin, to uncover every secret trapped behind your guarded gaze. He has a stare determined to lay you entirely bare to him.
Jamesâ wine dulled ogling could hardly hold a candle to that. Looking into his eyes, you see only the planning for whatever dullard comment he was going to make next.
Still, itâs not until the end of your dateâan exceptionally long two and a half hours thanks to a mishap with your orderâthat James displays a behavior unsavory enough to elicit a truly unpleasant feeling in you. Heâs quite clingy after a few too many glasses of wine. He walks you out of the restaurant with an arm around your waist, and more than once you have to bat his hand away from the seam where your blouse is tucked into your skirt.
âYou in the parking garage or the back lot?â He asks, smiling in a way he must mean to be salacious, eyes half-lidded like heâs lost control of them.
âThe back lot.â Parking was a nightmare with how late you arrived after work. âIs that where you are?â You ask, hoping it isnât.
âNo, no, I actually took an Uber in,â he says, and you know immediately by the way he starts tapping your hip with his index finger why he chose to do that.
âWant me to wait for you here until your Uber arrives, then?â You ask, turning out of his grasp to stand face to face with him outside of the restaurant. Itâs late enough now that the streets have calmed some, at least by New Yorkâs standards.
Jamesâ expression falters, but he tries for a recovery with a hopeful smile. âWell, you know, I was sort of hoping we might continue this elsewhere,â he says, slipping his hands into his pockets. Is he trying to look suave?
âOh, no,â you say, putting forth your very best sympathetic head tilt, matched with a well placed brow furrow. âNo thank you.â
This time his expression doesnât recover. His hands lift from his pocket and he makes a helpless gesture with them, very nearly pleading. âReally? I thought we were having a nice time.â
âAnd Iâm so glad for that,â you say, and even you can hear the corporate edge sliding into your tone, which doesnât seem to soothe him any. âBut itâs for the best that we part ways here, James. Thanks for your time.â
âButââ Your inarguable dismissal staggers him. He gropes for recourse. âI paid,â he blurts out, which proves to be his final mistake.
Your polite facade drops. âFor what?â
His booze addled panic shifts into confusion. âFâŚFor dinner, but I didnât meanââ
âAnd that entitles you to fuck me?â No sense in mincing words now.
His expression morphs again, this time into mortification. âNo! No, butââ
âYou thought this would be a transaction? God, and here I was thinking your gravest flaw would be how mind-numbingly boring you are. But to be boring and stupid?â You scoff, waving a dismissive hand.
âGoodnight, James,â you say, the kindest dismissal you can muster. You turn on your heel before he can sour the evening any further, and luckily for him, he doesnât pursue you further.
Unbelievable. As if you hadnât offered to split the check. As if he expected it to be a transaction that he cashed in your bed. As if the cost of dinner was worth anything more than a polite smile from you. As if.
New York doesnât sleep, but it does grow very, very dark. Youâre on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. Still riled up, you bring up the parking app on your phone as you walk, swiping through to get ready to pay for your crummy back lot space. A clatter brings your attention up, and thatâs when you see themâtwo men. One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat.Â
You stop walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting your back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within armâs reach. They havenât noticed you yet, or at least theyâre pretending not to, but now they look right at you and smile.
The men donât look dangerous, not like they do in the movies, but you know that means nothingâplenty of the worst people in the world looked safe. Yet the longer you stay put, the more you sense the ill intent wafting off of them like cheap cologne.
âHey, baby,â says one of them, moving toward you. âYou lost?â
âNo,â you say curtly, taking a step back. âNot lost. Excuse me.â
âYou sure? Weâre real good with directions,â says the second man, leering. Your eyes snap between them, phone clutched tight in your hand. âYâlook like you could use some.â
âNo,â you say again, louder. How loud would you need to be for anyone to hear you over the sounds of the streets? Panic swells in your throat.
You donât know how they got so close so quickly, but as you turn to run, a hand catches your collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenches you back against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your phone clatters to the ground.Â
âHey now, whatâs the rush?â He asks, yanking you backwards.
âGet off me,â you snarl, but heâs squeezing you tightly across the chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe. You struggle until you feel something hard dig into your hip. A knife? No. You realize coldly that itâs a gun, the handle of it jutting out from his waistband and digging into you. In a desperate bid, you twist in his grip, trying to grab it.
âCareful,â says the other one, moving in front of you, closing in. âSheâs got spirit.â
You kick out at the other guy but he jumps back, laughing at you. Theyâre both laughing, relishing in your fear. Your fingers skim the gun, but you canât quite get it.
The first manâs breath is hot and sour on your cheek. âCome on, now, letâs have some fun.â
You slam your head back into his noseâor try to, but you only manage to clip his chin. Still, you hit bone, hear the crack of a tooth, and just like that youâre free, stumbling to your hands and knees as the man reels. You hit the ground hard, the shock of landing lancing pain through your arms and legs. The gun tumbles from his waistband. Without thinking twice you lunge for it, fingers successfully closing around the grip right before one of the men grabs your ankle and pulls.
The street bites into your elbows and scrapes your knee bloody as you twist around and raise the gun, barrel leveled at the manâs heart. âLET GO!â You scream, heart hammering against your chest.
âOh shit,â says the man in the kerchief, eyes wide at seeing you armed, but the other one sneers at you, blood spilling from his mouth. Thereâs fury in his eyes, and the unmistakable intent to hurt you.
âYou ever held a gun that big, baby?â
âLet go,â you say again, voice firmer than the tremble of your hands. Your finger flexes on the trigger.
âYou even know how to use it?â He asks, using his grip on your ankle to pull himself over you, his other hand falling to your thigh. He gives a pointed squeeze as he lifts himself up to tower above you. He reaches to take hold of you again, but you wonât let him. Canât let him.
âYes.â You squeeze the trigger as you say it, bracing for the recoil, the bang. Itâs always so loud in the movies.
Nothing happens. You panic, looking at the weapon in your hands in dull shock. The safety isnât on. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber rings hollow. It isnât loaded. You look up at the man as his shadow falls over you. He bares his teeth at you, painted an ugly dark red with the blood spilling from his mouth.
The man laughs, a short barking sound, and knocks the gun from your hands with a harsh slap. It goes skidding away.
âStupid bitch,â he says, raising his boot as if you were an oversized bug, something to crush. You close your eyes and scream as he brings it down hard.
Or at least, he started to, but his leg locks up halfway, and then he topples, a single horrifying sound leaking from his clenched teeth. Your eyes open just in time to see his body hit the ground, a smoldering wound smoking from his chest. An instant later, the second man falls.
This time you see the flash of crimson light that drops him.
Homelanderâs cape billows in the wind with all the majesty of the flag itâs designed after as he descends from the sky. He lands in front of you, backlit by the distant street lights that give him an artificial glow. Heâs beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel delivered straight from some market tested Heaven.
âHey, you hurt?â He asks, reaching for you.
Awestruck, all you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. Tears well in your eyes. Shock is setting in the aftermath of all that adrenaline in your veins crashing your system. Through the blur of your tears, Homelanderâs expression shifts from concern to that of determination.
âItâs alright, Iâm here now. They canât hurt you,â he says, bringing your arm around his neck while he slips his own around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the ground. Before your gaze can drift to the corpsesâwhose burning flesh you can smell mingling with the acrid city airâHomelander rotates, taking them from your line of sight.Â
With a flourish, he unhitches his cape from his shoulders and swings the fabric over yours. It settles on you heavier than you expected it to be, and impossibly warm. Moving back in, Homelader readily takes you back into his arms. He cradles you in his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other drawing lines up and down your back.
You try to choke out a sound, to ask him, how? How did he find you? How did he know you needed him? But none of the noises you make form any actual words. Your throat is too tight, and your tongue feels too big for your mouth, gnarled silent by panic. Everything is just too much. Your breaths only grow sharper as tears burn hot streaks down your face.
âSssshhhhhhh,â he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take the weight of your body from you. His hold is compressive, but not oppressive. It takes everything you have left to lift your other arm around his neck while the sobs overtake you. He continues to hush you, whispering a menagerie of honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.
Iâve got you. Youâre safe now. I wonât let anyone hurt you.
You cry harder, coiling your arms tighter around his neck. He lets you cling to him, lets you sob away your makeup and soak the collar of his suit with the mess of it.
You donât know how much time passes in your addled state of panic, but eventually your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder. Your body isnât convinced that the danger has vanished yet, eager to turn to flight now that your fight has gone.
âThatâs it, just like that,â Homelander praises. âBreathe. Breathe. Good⌠Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly,â he tells you. The weightlessness you feel in his arms helps the idea, helps you to feel like you arenât being crushed by the terrible weight of such a moment of horror. Thatâs all it had been, a momentâtwo at mostâand yet the torment of it had felt hours long. Exhaustion falls over you in the wake of adrenaline, and youâre glad for Homelanderâs arms around you. You doubt youâd be standing without them.
âHome,â you manage to croak. âPlease.â You can still smell the manâs sour breath, the memory even more powerful than the stench of reality.
âI can take you home,â he coos, maintaining that same soothing tone of comfort. âIs that what you want?â
You nod, focusing instead on the vetiver fresh smell of him. Youâve never been near enough to him before to notice it, but now you fixate on it. Anything to drown out the stink of the alley. He smells so much cleaner, like fresh linen drying over green grass in the summer sun.
His arms flex around you before he adjusts them, lifting you smoothly into his arms. Your stomach flips the way it does when you go down a hill in the backseat of a car, gravity loosening its hold on you. You can feel the motion all around you, the wind ghosting over you, but Homelander himself feels motionless against you.
Flying. Heâs flying. And so are you.
His cape shields you from the night air bite, pulled snug around you and secured where your bodies are pressed together. You havenât felt like this since you were a child, cradled with such care and strength that feels beyond your comprehension. Homelander serves as both place and personâsomewhere safe, someone kindâand you tuck yourself closer into the sanctuary of his arms, hands fisted in the protective fabric of his cape.
âIâve gotâcha,â he assures you, voice warm in your ear.Â
Without a shadow of a doubt, you believe him.
Homelander doesnât need to ask where you live. Itâs an easy detail to brush off if you question him. He doubts you will with the way youâre clinging to him, though. You feel good in his arms, settling so naturally against the contours of them he might convince himself you belong here. He doesnât mind your weeping when it comes with your arms around him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck.
A small shiver rolls down his spine.
Of all the ways Homelander expected the evening to unfold, he hadnât properly anticipated you. While he cradles you, he replays again and again the moment you were snatched. You fought without hesitation. You wrenched the gun free. The fierceness in your eyes as you aimed it had been exquisite. The resolve in your gaze as you fired it even more so.
Heâd known you were confident, but that kind of clawing survival can only be learned of a person in action. Heâs known many supposedly strong peopleâsupe and human alikeâwho walk as stone giants, but shatter like glass when faced with any real danger.
You couldnât have known that you werenât in any real danger. You couldnât have known that heâd told those thugs to scare you, but not hurt you. You couldnât have known heâd ensured the gun wasnât loaded. You fought as though it was for your life, and it enthralled him.
He hadnât planned on killing them in front of you. They would have been loose ends to tie up after his heroic rescue, but somewhere along the line that stupid bastard lost the thread. He hurt you, bloodied those pretty knees of yours, and he moved to strike you. To grind you beneath his heel as if you were the vermin instead of him. For thatâand for so flagrantly going against Homelanderâs own direct orderâyou witnessed his downfall.
As far as heâs concerned now, everything happened precisely as it needed to. Youâre in his arms now, and heâs still half hard from witnessing you choose fight when your instincts kicked in. Youâre too fragile to choose it so readily. Your bones feel bird-like compared to the scope of his strength. Hollow and brittle. You would make for a hell of a supe, though.
Still, he wonât break you. Heâs spent his entire life learning what it takes to snap bones like party favors, and more crucially, what it takes not to. Yours are safe from him. In fact, youâre the safest person in the whole world now.
Homelander glides down to a soft landing on your driveway. Your car will be an issue for another time. For now, he walks you to your front door before gently placing you on your feet.
âBelieve this is you, young lady,â he says, leaving space for plausible deniability. If it occurs to you to interrogate him about it, it doesnât show on your face. With hands still softly trembling, you fish your keys out of your purse. He watches you fumble with them for only a moment before he steps in behind you, one hand gripping your upper arm to steady and pause you while the other covers your shaking hand, helping you to slide the key into the lock and turn it.
Your hand fits nicely in his.
âThanks,â you whisper. Itâs the first thing youâve said since asking him to take you home. He takes the liberty of opening the door for you while heâs at it, swinging it wide to allow you in. You grab his forearm, and he thinks youâre only balancing yourself, but when you donât let go he steps with you, letting you lean on him as you guide him into your home. He closes the door behind the two of you, smiling to himself.
He may not need an invitation to enter, but itâs charming to have one.
Your movements are stiff, a slight limp to your gait. You fell hard, and the delicate flesh of your knee had ripped apart against the concrete when you were dragged. You hesitate at the stairs, but Homelander doesnât. You inhale sharply when he scoops you back up into his arms with ease and starts up the stairs. He keeps his gaze ahead, but he can feel yours on him.
âThanks,â you say again, the word barely more than a hiccup, adjusting his cape over yourself like a blanket.
âItâs what heroes are for.â He smiles. Itâs a party line, one heâs said a hundred thousand times before, but you make him mean it. This is what heroes are for. To be worshiped and loved, understood deeper than pop stars and false idols like them. Thereâs a reverence in your stare that transcends the vapid starstruck way most people look at him. You understand now. You know how much more he is.
He brings you to your bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cape back up over your shoulders. Youâve scarcely let go of it since he wrapped you in it. Will you sleep with it tonight? He bets you will. The thought sends a pleasant tingle through him.Â
âAlright, letâs get a look at those knees,â he says, crouching in front of you. Thereâs blood running down your left shin. He lifts the edge of your skirt hem just enough to catch a glimpse of shredded skin. It looks rough, dirty and embedded with bits of debris. He blows out a breath. âGot a first aid kit?â
You nod numbly. âUnder the bathroom sink.â
Itâs odd to see you so subdued. He forgets sometimes that you humans can be as emotionally fragile as you are physically. Surely the death of two measly thugs isnât enough to break you.
Rising, he moves to your bathroom. He feels slightly unbalanced without the sway of his cape behind him, the garment as integral to his physicality as any limb. He rummages through until his hand lands on a bright red fabric pack with a zipper. He gives it a little toss and catches it, bringing it back to you, alongside a wetted towel. He gives the pack a victorious little shake.
âHâokay, down to business.â Homelander kneels before you, splaying open the kit and placing it on your lap. Heâs never used one of these before, but heâs pretended to do it on set. How different can it be? He cups your leg, thumb absently smoothing back and forth on your skin while he uses the towel to gently wipe up the blood, dirt and debris from your shin and knee.
You flinch, tense a moment before you relax. âHomelander, you really donât have toââ
âAm I doing a bad job?â He asks, glancing up at you through his lashes. Thereâs a playful lilt to his voice.
âI didnât mean it like that,â you say, the smallest hint of exasperation in your voice. Heâs pleased to hear it. Perhaps youâre less wilted from the encounter than he thought. âI just mean that I canââ
âI know you can,â he says, and this time he definitely sees a flare of annoyance. You donât like being interrupted any more than he does, but you donât protest further. He smiles, triumphant, and focuses back on the task at hand, petting you the same way one might soothe a wild animal.
Thereâs a novelty in doing this for real that he hadnât anticipated. Itâs entirely unlike wiping away congealed red corn syrup from an actor. Your skin is sweeter, softer. He suddenly resents his gloves for the barrier they provide, despite his usual reliance for that very thing. Heâs meticulous in flicking out the little stones embedded in your skin, spotting each one with ease.
Next, he tears open the alcohol wipes with his teeth and uses them to disinfect, rubbing at the sores. You flinch, sucking in a loud breath through your teeth. âOopsy-daisy,â he says, switching to gently patting. He has no real concept of what youâre feeling right now. Heâs never had a scraped knee before. The scientists at Vought had to get much more creative in order to gauge his capacity for healing.
He imagines they were disappointed to realize that, once damaged, he healed as slowly as a human.
âHowâd you find me?â You ask, snapping him out of his unpleasant reminiscence. Your shock seems to have worn off entirely. You look more present, alert to his every move.
âHeard you scream,â he answers simply, unraveling a roll of gauze. That much is true.
âBut how? How did you know where I was?â You push, watching him wind the white material around your knee.
âI didnât,â he lies smoothly. Heâs followed enough scripts in his life to do so very well. âIf Iâd known exactly where you were, I would have been there sooner. I was minding my business on 5th Avenue when I heard you. Familiar voices canâŚâ He makes a vague gesture. âCut through the din. Voices I want to hear.âÂ
He thinks he catches you flush at that. Just a touch. He bites back a smirk, pleased with himself. Does it matter if itâs true when it makes you look at him like that?
âI didnât know your hearing worked like that,â you say, fidgeting with the hem of his cape.
His gaze flickers up every so often to watch your finger pick at the seam, inexplicably charmed by it. âWell, thereâs some things not even a super fan can glean,â he teases, securing the gauze with tape. He expects to see a familiar indignation in your expression, but when he looks up, heâs caught off guard by the unmistakable fondness in your eyes.
âI was over the moon when I got my job at Vought,â you say quietly, like youâre whispering in a confessional. âI always wanted to work with heroes.â
âWith me?â He pushes, lifting his brows.
Very slightly, you smile. âYeah. With you.â
âBusted,â he says, his own voice equally soft.
You give him a little nudge with your foot. âGauze wonât stay by itself. Need to use a roll of self-adhesive wrap,â you say, plucking the beige roll from the kit. He likes the shy warmth in your voice. He would have done much worse to see this side of you. Have the intimacy of your pain, fear and relief all to himself. This glowing affection youâre so full of. He feels drunk on the cocktail of it all.
âRight, obviously,â he says, taking the wrapping from you. âI knew that.â
âProbably should have put a gauze pad under it, too,â you continue, eyes heavily lidded, expression soft.
âEveryoneâs a critic,â he laments, affixing the textured bandage around the gauze. You laugh, and the sound of it feels like a space he could belong in.
He checks your other knee, your elbows and your palms, but nowhere else on you calls for anything more than some antiseptic and a few bandaids. With the wrappings secure, he shuffles the mess of supplies haphazardly back into the kit, zipping it up much more bulging and misshapen a state than he found it in. He pushes it under the bed with the towel atop it, standing.
âGood as new. Or close to it,â he says, making a small show of dusting off his hands for a job well done.Â
You stand, letting his cape slide off of your shoulders for the first time since he put it on you, the fabric pooling on the bed. You step forward, and of all the things he expects in this moment, you blow them out of the water by suddenly wrapping your arms around him, the soft curves of your body slotting against his in a way that trips something primal and needy in him. He puts his arms around you the second the shock wears off, holding you with the barest fraction of his strength.
Tension drains from your body. Were you nervous he wouldnât reciprocate? Itâs an endearing thought. He gives a deeper, brief squeeze. He canât remember the last time someone held him.
âThank you,â you say after a long beat, drawing back. He reluctantly loosens his grip, but not by much. Heâs loath to relinquish you so soon after heâs gotten hold of you. âItâs not enough, but I donât know what could ever be.â
I could make a few suggestions, he thinks, but he doesnât give voice to the lewd thoughts that follow.
âIâll never forget what you did for me tonight,â you say. Your face is so near to his, it makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the curve of your lips as you speak.
Instead of responding, Homelander leans in, eyes falling shut.
âOh,â you say sharply, your soft body suddenly going tense in his arms, stopping him in his tracks. Both of your hands are braced against his chest now, creating a distance that feels craterous.Â
He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion. âWhat?âÂ
âIâm really tired,â you say, tone shifting to mild diffusion. It reminds him of the way you spoke to James, and his ego stings with both the rejection and the comparison. Heâd laughed listening to you reject that pathetic, simpering man. It seems less funny now.Â
He scoffs an incredulous little huff. But I saved you, he thinks, indignant panic flaring in his chest. To his dismay, however, the thought doesnât sound like his own voice. It sounds like Jamesâ.
But I paid!
Repulsed, Homelander swallows the thought like bile. If the comparison comes so readily to his own mind, thereâs no way you wonât make the connection yourself. He feels his skin prickle like there are fire ants crawling beneath his suit. The memory of Jamesâ pathetic begging is the only thing that keeps his composure together.
âOf course you are,â he says tightly. His smile is forced, slightly too wide. âYou should sleep. Rest up. Take the day off tomorrow,â he says stiffly, rattling off lines like theyâre pre-recorded. Only then does he surrender his hold on you, hands moving to his hips instead. You take a step back, and he stands straighter to disguise the sting of rejection.
âThank you,â you say, tone indecipherable. Itâs full to the brim with something, but nothing Homelander can parse in his current state. âIââ
âNo need,â he dismisses, jumping on the opportunity to end the conversation on his terms. âReally. Just doing my job,â he says, tossing you a little two-finger salute off of his brow, already moving towards your balcony door. You donât move, watching him from the foot of your bed, arms wrapped around yourself.
âCatch you at the office,â he says. He knows heâs speaking too quickly, but itâs all he can do to keep himself in check. Anger and misery broil in him like vinegar and baking soda, the caustic brew threatening to erupt.
âOkay,â you say, which isnât particularly what he wants to hear. He turns his back to you, and his smile drops, his ego violently stung. With a force that billows wind through your bedroom, he takes off into the night sky.
You just werenât ready, he tells himself, gritting his teeth. Itâs easier to be angry than embarrassed. He wants to make as much distance between himself and your rejection, flying higher and higher until frost begins collecting on his lashes. He flies until thereâs no sound, no oxygen, no life but his own. He flies until gravity releases him and he can finally relax, suspended by cold, vast space.
The earth glows beneath him, reflecting the light of the sun where it illuminates a distant portion of the globe.
Closing his eyes, he tips his head back.
Heâll fix this.
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