Chapter 9: Hey Jude

Chapter 9: Hey Jude

Summary:

Go Go Seven Therapy Session!!

Notes:

it's not filler!! It's a character study!! Shut up!!

The Seven sat in a circle on the floor facing each other, the therapist of the session sitting in a chair behind them, notepad in hand. She looked around, ensuring that they were all present. Deep was picking at a scab on the back of his hand, while A-Train was staring longingly out the window, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of a blimp that flew by, his face plastered on the side. Maeve sat with her knees up, looking sourly at Sage, while Sage stared coolly back, eyes betraying nothing. Noir sat silently, a notepad of his own in his hand. Starlight sat, prim and proper, legs folded neatly and her hands in her lap, the picture of compliance. Firecracker placed a hand on Deep's arm, tutting at him to stop picking. Homelander (and the woman, A-Train noted with an eyeroll) sat at eye-level with the therapist, Homelander floating above the the rest with her settled in his lap. She'd cooed when he'd done it, as if she was impressed, A-Train thought in disgust. So they were letting groupies into the Tower now... this place had gone downhill, in a major way.

The therapist peered down at the group from beneath her bifocals and cleared her throat. "Alright, everyone. Thank you for all making the effort to attend this session. I understand that it isn't easy to take this first step, but you're all here - and I'm grateful for the time you're giving me. It's not just that I'm giving you my time, to listen - but that you're giving me yours, to be heard." The Seven shifted, uncomfortable with the sentiment. Deep looked around, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. "No problem, Ma'am. I woke up, totally prepared to bail on this, but then I thought," he snarked, putting on an expression of mock thoughtfulness, clenching a fist, "Stan is forcing me to be here. I can't miss it."

Instantly, the group erupted into mocking laughter, even Homelander, Deep noted with pride, the quiet sound of their derision filling up the room. The therapist nodded, nonplussed, though her eyes now carried a faint sharpness that wasn't there before. "Thank you, Kevin. I notice that you often keep to yourself, unless there's an opportunity to play the comedian. Do you think that this act of defiance endears you to the group, or serves to boost your self-esteem in some way? Your friends laugh now... but does that ever stop them from making light of your bond with your octopus friend?"

Instantly, the room hushed. Deep sputtered, face growing red. "That's - that - I..." The therapist looked him over, eyebrow raised faintly, before writing something in her notepad and looking the group over once more. "I'd like for us all to treat this session with the seriousness it deserves - the seriousness you all deserve. I get paid either way. Whether or not you show up genuinely doesn't impact me... it only hurts you." That being said, the group looked around, vaguely unsettled at the therapist's stand, almost chagrined. The therapist sat up straighter. "With that being said, I'd like for us all to go around the circle, introducing ourselves. My name... is Dr. Therese Rangel. I'm a double board certified clinical psychologist, and my scope of work includes those who struggle with complex trauma, psychological disorders, drug dependency, and especially the unique struggles of the Super Abled grappling with fame. In short, I was specifically chosen to work this case due to this skillset - and I'd like to let you all know that there is nothing you can tell me that will shock me, or disgust me, or frighten me. I've worked with Supes for a very, very long time." She gestured to the rest of the group, giving them the floor.

Starlight looked around, sensing the direction this meeting would go. They'd tried insolence - but Rangel had shut that down right away. It was clear what they were planning next - waiting her out until the 45 minutes were over, then leaving victorious. But as she caught the conspiratorial looks in her teammates' eyes, she couldn't help the wave of frustration that overtook her. The Seven was a mess; they were nothing like the heroes she'd fantasized about fighting alongside in Des Moines... it had been three months since she made that fateful walk into the Tower - and they'd instantly disappointed. On her first day, she recalled bitterly, Deep had snuck an anglerfish in her tub, A-Train had snagged her order from the café three times before she could grab it, and Firecracker had snuck up behind her, snapping and scaring her with the loud pop of fire in her ears. Sage had talked down to her for thirty minutes about her itinerary, cutting her off when she'd tried to explain that she knew what it was, and when she'd finally broken down in the bathroom, Maeve had offered her a wadded up ball of tissue, before telling her that this soft attitude would only have her back on the first plane to Iowa before she could say press junket. And Homelander... the thought made her lower her head. Homelander had ignored her all week, until she'd managed to complete her first real save, to which he gave her a curt, "Good work, newbie," smirking when she lit up at the first positive attention she'd received since arriving. She took a deep breath, ignoring A-Train's eye roll.

"My name... is Annie January. I'm from Des Moines, Iowa, and I joined the Seven three months ago... because I wanted... I wanted..." she stopped then, feeling the judgmental looks of her teammates. Dr. Rangel waved her on gently. "You wanted..." Starlight felt herself shrink under the Seven's scrutiny, but she nodded and pressed on.

"I wanted... to help people," she said, voice stronger now. From the corner of her eye, she watched Maeve stiffen. "I wanted... to do something about the state of the city, the world. Before The Seven... all I could do was stop drunk drivers in Des Moines, and practice my lines for those stupid pageants... but I couldn't even stop a cop from beating up on a homeless person, or save a girl who I knew was being trafficked. I felt this... disgust, for myself, for other Supes, for just watching, and doing nothing. And so, when I got the chance... I was actually grateful to be here. To be able to make a difference. But now..." she sighed, eyes downcast. Maeve broke into a slow round of applause, eyes venomous. 

"Everyone, give Annie a hand! Even in therapy, she finds a way to make her intro about how shitty we all are..." the rest of the Seven joined in, A-Train clapping Deep on the back and snickering as Starlight's face fell. Dr. Rangel leaned in, eyes hawkish under her impassive gaze.

"And why does that upset you, Maeve? That Annie came to The Seven with the goal of changing things for the better? I didn't hear her say that she thought less of any of you - just that her goal was to help."

Maeve froze slightly, eyes trained on Dr. Rangel. "She didn't need to say she looked down on us - we can all feel it, all the time. Going on saves with her is miserable. She won't just go by the script; she has to pull some wild card move, like when she held up traffic for an hour giving some boy CPR, or making us stay late at the opening of that animal shelter until twenty dogs had been adopted." Maeve turned to face Starlight with a withering look. "That was a kill shelter, by the way. You held us up for two hours, and 100 dogs got put down, anyway."

A-Train spoke up now, eyes somber. "Yeah... and she's always trying to preach at us when we do follow the script, like she knows something we don't. I've been in the Seven for five years - the shit that makes her cry herself to sleep? Isn't even a blip on the radar. And the thing that really pisses me off is, if you really wanted to be hero, you wouldn't have come to work here. You'd be in Congress, making the laws we have to follow. She's just as fame-hungry as the rest of us, but she won't admit it. No, not even that - she tries to shame us for it."

The Seven nodded their agreement, murmuring their distaste for Annie, until Dr. Rangel held up a hand. "Thank you, A-Train. I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge what was just said: that if Annie genuinely wanted to make a change, she'd take up a seat in Congress. And certainly, the thought has its merits. Lawmakers have the ultimate power in the land, to shape our standards for what is right in the eyes of the law, and to correct those who step outside of its bounds." Annie hung her head; so even Dr. Rangel was against her, now. She thought about flying back home before the next meeting, and avoiding her. 

"But... I'd like to introduce this point to the group. Annie could have worked her way into Congress - but she chose to train, and temper herself, into someone who could fight alongside those she deemed real heroes. I'd like to ask.. is your discontent with her truly out of anger for her sanctimonious attitude... or are you punishing her for believing in you?"

The group fell into a moody silence now, all avoiding each others' gazes. Dr. Rangel wrote in her notepad, the scratch of the pen soft in the tense room. The Seven shared bitter looks, some aimed at Annie, others aimed at each other. Finally, Deep raised his hand, avoiding their gazes, and looking at Rangel. He cleared his throat.

"My name... is Kevin Moskowitz. I'm from Long Beach, California, I've been in the Seven for five years...and... I talk to fish," he finished quietly, ducking his head. Dr. Rangel wrote for a second, then clicked her pen. "What kind of fish?" she asked him. The group snorted - but she held up her hand, gesturing for Deep to continue.

"Well... all of them. Angelfish, sugar fish, flounders, guppies.. sharks. Sharks are my favorite," Deep said bashfully. Firecracker gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand. "I'm actually really good friends with the ranchu goldfish at the front downstairs, even though they're a little stuck up." Rangel gave him a soft smile, and Deep answered with a shy one of his own. Then, she looked towards the rest of the group.

"You all find it very easy to bully Kevin, because his powers differ from yours. He doesn't have super-speed, he isn't the smartest person in the world..." Sage snorted. Dr. Rangel let the sound carry, and watched as the Seven turned their gaze on her, until she cleared her throat and looked away, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

"But, I see something deeper, if you'll mind the pun, in your collective disdain for him, something that I believe is symptomatic of an underlying issue. Could it be possible that you all treat Kevin with the same derision as you do Annie... because his powers suggest a certain empathy for living creatures? Kevin talks to these fish, forms bonds with them - something you all seem to struggle with, even with humans. Could it be... that you turn him into the butt of your jokes, because you resent his ability to care for life forms you deem to be beneath you?"

Suddenly, the group heard the scratching of another pen - Noir's. Everyone watched in quiet surprise as he wrote painstakingly, the movements of his pen slow and deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath as he made his debut to the therapy session, and Deep's face flushed as he held up his pad. He'd drawn a school of fish, seven of them, childish smiles on their faces, and underneath, he'd written a short message:

Deep makes me feel heard. 

Starlight let out a small murmur, touched. Dr. Rangel nodded.

"I'm glad to hear that, Noir. I noticed that, though you are present in the events the Seven hosts, or are called to... you don't often have the opportunity to express yourself, or get your opinions across," she started. Sage gave her a dismissive look. "He can't talk," she said, deadpan. This time, though, nobody laughed. Deep bristled.

"That's not his fault," he interjected hotly. Starlight nodded, narrowing her eyes. Dr. Rangel turned to Sage now; Sage felt her stomach drop. She was too smart for therapy, she'd argued with Stan when he'd insisted that she join the rest of the Seven. It wouldn't work. And maybe that was the case... but Rangel wasn't going to let her sit on the sidelines, making her snarky little comments. No, she thought, annoyed, that was her job, wasn't it?

"I noticed that you've been quiet as well, Sage. I understand that you are the smartest human in the world - and so it would make sense that, to you, therapy would be as useless as... Deep, buying a snorkel, or A-Train taking a bus. You can solve your own issues by virtue of your own mind - and so why bother attending? But I have to say... this session offers you an opportunity to have something you might not otherwise get in normal circumstances."

"And what is that?" Sage asked dryly. Dr. Rangel smiled.

"The undivided attention of your teammates. I notice that you often feel the need to assert your position as smartest in the room... but this isn't new information to anyone in the Seven. Is this repetition a means of solidifying this idea in their heads... or yours?"

The room watched Sage grapple with this veiled barb, her face working as she tried to come up with a retort that would undercut the way Rangel had pierced her. Who the hell did she think she was? Sage narrowed her eyes, turning her attention onto the therapist.

"I think... that you are playing a dangerous game, trying to crack open the minds of people who could turn you into ground beef. Nobody cares that you're double board certified. Nobody cares about how many Supes you've worked with. We all know this is a just a mind game from Stan, trying to mold us into the perfect heroes, even though he's the reason most of us are the way we are." She couldn't help the outburst; the way this doctor was picking at her insides... it was like her brain was on red alert, instantly shutting down. This therapy session was for them - for Homelander, really, who was playing with the woman's hair, whispering in her ear and watching her giggle - not her.

The therapist nodded. "Again... there's the need to undermine my practice, my time working with other heroes. And I hope you'll forgive the observation... but you'd said that these heroes here could end my life violently, if they so choose. I won't disagree with you - but I will point out... you can't 'turn me into ground beef', as you'd said. There's a focus here, on the behaviors and supposed knowledge of the rest of the Seven, which implicitly ties you to them... while neglecting to examine yourself under that same critical lens. I wonder... could it be that you're intellectualizing this session in an attempt to subtly align yourself with your teammates, without actually having to state this goal directly?"

Sage stewed, watching as the Seven witnessed Rangel dig into her, blood boiling. She crossed her arms and held her peace, though she planned to go directly to Stan after this meeting and demand a new therapist. There was a hum of static energy in the room, everyone's eyes on her - and she broke the silence with a petulant, "Fuck you," under her breath, to which Homelander responded with a hearty laugh, breaking the tension. Dr. Rangel shifted her gaze to him. Homelander fixed her with a dark glare. 

"No," he said, a note of finality in his voice. Dr. Rangel raised her brows and opened her mouth, as though to press him anyway - but Maeve, seeing the tightening of his jaw, shot her hand into the air, stopping the train wreck before it could happen.

"My name is Maggie Shaw!" she exclaimed, slowly lowering her hand. The Seven turned to face her.

"I'm... Maggie Shaw...I'm from Modesto, California. I joined the Seven five years ago, like everyone else. Skill set... super strength, durability,  hearing, tolerance - and shut up," she interjected, glaring at Homelander's teasing look. "That's low-hanging fruit." She steadied herself, before continuing.

"My name is Maggie Shaw, and I..." 

But the words wouldn't come; Maeve wrestled with her brain, trying to find something that would cut to the heart of them, but avoid exposing herself - something that would affect them the way Noir had, with that stupid drawing... she felt a pang of envy for the mute Supe then; he could be as open and mushy as he wanted, and nobody ever gave him shit. Maybe it was because he just didn't care what they thought. Maybe it was his silent aura of menace. Maeve grimaced, sighed, and lifted her head, staring Dr. Rangel in the eye.

"I think therapy is a waste of the taxpayer's money."

Homelander laughed again. "Hear, hear!" he saluted her.

Dr. Rangel let his teasing go on uninterrupted, Maeve noted gratefully. As much as the therapist annoyed her, she really would hate to clean her off the ceiling after she'd pushed Homelander one time too many. Dr. Rangel paused, and wrote for a long while, letting Maggie's words reverberate. Maeve shifted, uncomfortable, the sound crawling under her skin. Finally, Rangel stopped writing and looked up, a smile on her face.

"And what would you have the taxpayers' money be delegated to?"

Ooh, get her ass, A-Train thought, leaning in. But before Maeve could answer, a buzzer rang out above them, the red light hung over the door blaring brightly. Dr. Rangel stood, and gave the Seven a polite bow.  "Well... that's our time, I suppose," she said, gathering her bag. "Our next session will be next week, at the same time, same location. I'd like to thank you all, for attending, and I hope to see you again."

Slowly, the Seven rose to their feet and filed out the door. Starlight lingered behind, watching them go; A-Train was there - and then he wasn't. Noir slipped through a vent in the ceiling, just as quickly. Deep slunk toward the door, the hint of a smile on his face as he talked to Firecracker; Maeve walked stiffly, shoulder-checking Sage, who absorbed the blow with her chin high, and Homelander ghosted out of the room, still cross-legged, the woman hanging onto him by the neck, letting out a peal of laughter.

Starlight looked into Dr. Rangel's face; her eyes were piercing, but not unkind. The silver spectacles that hung from her delicate chain glinted, even in the fluorescent lighting, and Starlight saw a vision of Stan then, that same silver bite in his glasses. 

"I just want to thank you, for this," she started tentatively. "It was nice to, even for a moment, talk about why I joined... and to not be mocked across the board for once." Dr. Rangel smiled at her, this time a current of warmth gracing her features.

"I think it was very brave of you to say, Annie. I watched the opening of that shelter you'd hosted on the news. It was refreshing."

Starlight felt the urge to throw her arms around the woman, the hot prick of tears sudden in her eyes. She sniffled, embarrassed. 

"Thank you. I... I really did mean to save every animal in that shelter." She sighed, feeling a bit lighter. "Thank you," she said again, making her way to the door.

The more I see the phrase “eldest daughter syndrome” the higher it raises my hackles. It’s just parentification. It’s parentification and if you call it parentification it’s a lot easier to explain, and it’s a lot easier for the younger siblings or only children and children of any gender to identify it happening to them too.

Like I get that oldest sibs are more likely to be treated as accessory parents of their youngers, and I get that in a lot of families girls are pushed into caregiver roles, but fucking hell man parentification can and does happen to any kid regardless of birth order and gender, and while situations vary from family to family, there isn’t really anything the parentified oldest daughters are experiencing that the other parentified kids aren’t.

Chapter 11: Ultraviolence

gm!! Homelander and Reader FINALLY say I love you!! Ignore the gif, this is a love story!

The woman clung to Homelander as he breezed above the crowd at Voughtland, grinning alongside him as the cameras flashed and the masses screamed his name. She didn't need them, but watching the world give him the praise he deserved filled her heart to bursting. Yes, she thought, pressing a kiss to Homelander's cheek. This is exactly how it should be. The two of them, soaring above them all, collecting their worship and kissing the traces of it from his mouth. The people below could spend the rest of their lies trying to match her devotion to him, to see what she'd seen in his eyes, but they'd never do it. Still... it warmed her from within to watch them try.

As he lowered them smoothly to the ground, she kissed him one more time, an indulgent grin lighting up her face as Homelander dipped her dramatically for the crowd, giggling when his lips graced her throat. He could feel the spike in her pulse, Homelander marveled, nibbling at it lightly. She was excited - not even for her own brush of fame, but for him, finally receiving his dues. She was happy, for him.

They rose to a standing position, looking around the amusement park, a mile-long bundle of tickets in her hand. Homelander had scoffed ('I can get us into any part of Voughtland,'  he'd said, exasperated), but the woman had insisted, fixing him with a puppy dog gaze that had broken down his defenses ('yes, but it's about you having the most tickets!' she'd cajoled) And so he'd bought $500 worth of them, fighting the boyish grin on his face as the Voughtland attendant had to replace the ink in the machine to print them all.

She grabbed his hand, making a beeline for the photo booth and slipping inside, feeding the tickets into the machine and selecting the romantic border, Homelander's hands hot on her waist.

Snap! Homelander and the woman, beaming into the camera.

Snap! The woman's mouth opened in mock surprise, pointing at him as if to say, Can you believe it?

Snap! The couple, wrapped in an embrace.

Snap! Homelander, his face the picture of delight and surprise, as the woman turned to him, drawing her tongue up his cheek, the lascivious glint in her eyes unmistakable. 

Homelander turned to her, a growl building in his throat, pressing her against the wall of the photo booth, his hungry gaze raking over her fully. "Don't start," he whispered dangerously, licking his lips when her pulse raced in response.

"I can't help it," she murmured, taking him into her arms, kissing him deeply. "You'll have to take me in hand.. make sure I behave myself..."

Homelander kissed her hard, fingers tangled in her hair - but the moment would not last. At the sound of a child's petulant whine, they parted, rolling their eyes, and exited the booth, collecting their photos, Homelander's copy burning brightly in his pocket.

The woman unfolded the map of the amusement park, pursing her lips. "Where to, Captain?" she asked him playfully. Homelander grinned.

"Hmm... I don't know, my intrepid explorer. What say you to... the Whack-A-Moles?" A flash of something dark crossed over her eyes when she grinned, and Homelander felt his own pulse jump. She really was... just like him. They walked over to the Whack-A-Mole station, pushing past people in line, each grabbing a mallet and smiling warmly at each other, before attacking the moles with a voracity that made the attendant eye them warily. The woman set forth valiantly, smashing down on the plastic moles like her life depended on it, eyes narrowed, a cruel little quirk on her lips. Homelander paused in his appraisal of her; the way her hair flew around her, the chaotic glimmer in her eyes, the thud of her heartbeat... it was like he was watching a mirror of himself, incensed from the heat of battle. She panted out her breaths as she raised the mallet high above her with both hands, bringing it down with a force that rattled the machine.

Not to be outdone, he smashed the moles on his side in turn, teeth bared in a wolfish grin as he heard the squeal of the metal beneath. The woman looked over at him, breath catching. He looked like a god of war, like Mars' reincarnate. A vision of him, covered in blood, flashed before her eyes, and she swallowed down a moan. There would be plenty of time to divulge this fantasy to him later, she thought, returning to her mission.

Finally, the game was over, and the attendant handed them their tickets, which, added to their comically large reserve, slipped out of her hands as she reached for it. A child behind them watched, eyes wide - and the woman was struck with an idea, turning to give him her share of the tickets.

Homelander quirked a brow. "Why'd you give him our tickets? He didn't even win," he pouted. The woman graced his arm with her hand. "Because... I'm with the richest, kindest, most generous man alive, who takes such good care of me. I don't need to worry. And besides," she said, jerking her thumb in the boy's direction, "Look how grateful he is." Homelander looked, annoyance fading, as the child jumped up and down, waving heartily at Homelander, eyes shining. 

"Better to let them see you provide - it's good for them, in the long run."

Homelander felt something within him swell at her words, her acknowledgement, and licked his lips, and the thought came to him that she'd picked such a public place for Valentine's Day on purpose, to tease him until he lost control, and pulled her into a dark alley somewhere. He grinned darkly, hand snaking around her waist. There would be time for that later, he thought, pressing a kiss to her temple as they carried on.

They visited the hot dog eating contest, their lips curled in equal parts fascination and disgust at the contestants, cheering all the same when the man they'd betted on won, sat in on the theatrical rendition of the Seven's first battle as a team (' I hit that guy way harder when it happened,' Homelander whispered into her ear, grinning when she laughed), and won another bushel of tickets that Homelander made rain from the sky when they guessed the weight of Porkchop, the city's largest pig: 2,500 pounds. Homelander reveled in the sound of the crowd's cheers, thinking that maybe the woman had been right about letting the masses see him as benevolent; it was different from their fear, or their subservience. It was almost akin to... love. Adoration. He twirled in the air, the woman's arms wrapped around his neck, drinking in their cheers, kissing her deeply as the descended.

I'm in love with you, Homelander thought, the force of it shaking him - and he pulled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and onto his back, her weight solid against his back, a shimmer of something softer in his eyes as he faced the amusement park.

When she'd suggested coming here for Valentine's Day, at first, Homelander had been derisive - almost angry. She'd claimed to know everything about him, tracked his every move for years... and yet, she'd wanted to go to a place that only filled him with the memory of his solitude, his exclusion from public life. He'd been to Voughtland so many times that he thought the idea of returning would make him sick; all those events he'd hosted, leaving backstage because he couldn't stand to see the couples embrace... all the times he'd watched the Seven huddle into that photo booth without him... he would have chosen to get as far away from this place as he could. But she'd changed that ugly memory into something precious, something worthwhile. Maybe that had been her plan - to bulldoze over the memory of those who'd hurt him, and plant the garden of their love in its place. To tear it all down, to make room for the effigy of their union.

She'd done this for him, as much as she'd done it for herself, Homelander realized. The world seemed to go silent as the thought travelled through him. He looked up into her face, the back of her head eclipsing the sun, closing his eyes contentedly when she bent to kiss his forehead.

The woman pointed then, eyes sparkling at the scene before them; the kiosk section, a mini marketplace within the amusement park. Homelander craned his neck, looking to see what had caught her eye, when he finally saw it, a slow grin lighting up his face. He lifted them off the ground, speeding towards the stands.

"I'll take this one, please!" the woman said, pointing to the biggest shirt on the rack, a replica of his suit, with matching shorts - and Homelander almost pulled her off of him and laid her on the concrete. His suit. She'd wanted to show the world she was his.

The man at the kiosk traded her the shirt for her tickets, and she bent down again, lips grazing Homelander's ear. "We should go somewhere more private. I don't want to wear anything else," she whispered to him, tone dark and honeyed. Homelander swallowed, flying them into the changing stations.

They clambered into the changing room, shooing guests out of the stalls and locking the door behind them - and instantly, they were on each other. Homelander stripped the clothes off her body, letting them flutter to the ground, when he felt a spike of anxiety grip him at she worked at the collar of his suit. At his reticence, she relented, and he let out a small, relieved sigh. It wasn't that he didn't want to; he did. It was just... he was Homelander. The thought of shedding his suit, especially in public, filled him with a deep sense of unease. In the dark of her apartment, it had been different - safe. But under the fluorescent lights of the Voughtland changing room, he stopped cold. A flit of worry crossed his mind - would she push him? Or worse - not see his disquiet and try to strip him anyway? Homelander buried the panic in his eyes, waiting.

But she didn't push; she kissed him, slowly, removing her hands from his collar and pulling him close instead, and he moaned out his relief, pressing a hand to the wall as she mouthed at his pulse, her lips kitten soft. She palmed at the tent in his suit, eyes ravenous now, bending low to kiss him there, too, before the whisper of her pants sliding off her body, like sand in the wind, sounded in his ears. She stepped out of them smoothly, tongue laving across him as he shuddered, licking up to his neck as she rose to her full height, before she looked him in the eye.

"I want you to burn it off of me," she whispered, tugging at her shirt. Homelander licked his lips, a question in his eyes. Use his lasers? On her? He almost refused, imagining her flayed corpse, smoking and gruesome, crumpled on the floor beneath him, the idea like a nightmare. But then she reached forward and kissed him, murmuring of his power, her desire to see it, to feel it... and he felt that hunger from before return, swirling viscous in his eyes. She trusted him.

So, fixing her with a heated glance, he started, the red glow of his eyes dancing across her face, between her eyes, down her cheek, her lips... settling onto her pulse, growling when she bit her lip.

Come on... she thought, rubbing her legs together. Please...

Homelander let out a gusty sigh, kissing her once, before pulling back, and painstakingly dragging his lasers down the front of her shirt, the hint of heat grazing her flesh as he went. He couldn't stop the gasp that left him as the article ghosted off her body, peeling from her skin and onto the floor, his lips parted as she stood bare before him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and he unzipped himself quickly then, sliding into her and chasing the moan that poured out of her with his lips, kissing her open-mouthed and reckless.

Cradling her in his arms, he rutted into her, her hands in his hair, gracing his cheek, her lips all over him - he nibbled her earlobe, pressing into her tightly. She moaned for him, the sound unrepentant, as he worked them to the edge and back. Usually, he wouldn't go so far as to take her in public - but she'd wanted this, wanted him. Pushed him, really, Homelander thought ruefully as he tweaked her nipple. She was right; he would have to take her in hand  - she was trouble. 

"Burn them," the woman whispered hotly, gesturing to her clothes on the floor. "I never want to see them again."

Homelander's jaw dropped, brow furrowed as she pulsed around him, voice threadbare and reedy. He held onto her tighter; in that moment, as he looked into her flushed, gleaming face, he saw the rising of the sun, eclipsing all else - and he pressed his lips to her jaw, floating away from the tangle of fabric, before incinerating the last vestiges of her clothing into dust, biting his lip till he tasted blood when she moaned into his ear at the sight. He kissed her, once, twice, three times, the room's tension fading with the delicate curl of smoke, dancing from the ashes of what once was.

They stilled then, breathing in each other's pants, before he deposited her lightly onto her feet, smiling dazedly as she donned the Homelander set, delivering a small steam of saliva onto the pile of ash before they unlocked the changing room door and left, laughing boisterously at the long line of patrons who'd clearly heard the commotion in their wait.

Homelander carried the woman bridal-style in his arms, sweeping her into a dizzy circle, her laughter weaving around him. "I can't believe we did that!" she squealed, grinning wildly. Homelander chuckled. "Me, neither - you're a terrible influence," he teased. She batted her eyelashes. "Who, me?" He dipped his head to kiss her, lips soft. "Yes, you..." he murmured, sighing when she looped her arms around him. "Just terrible... downright rotten, really. Someone should stop you."

The woman feigned remorse, pouting her lip as she looked up at him. "There must be some way to resolve this..." she said teasingly. Homelander pecked her on the lips again. "Maybe there is," he breathed, lowering his feet to the ground and looking up at their destination: the Tunnel of Love. "But... we'd have to negotiate at a location of my choosing... that's standard business practice, after all."

The couple made their way to the Tunnel's seats, and strapped in, the woman's eyes glowing with warmth as the soft, rosy lights engulfed them. They sailed slowly along, the faint churn of the water beneath them, and the woman faced Homelander, taking his hand in hers.

"You know... I've never told anyone this, but... I've never celebrated Valentine's Day before." Homelander raised a brow. "Really?" 

He remembered, in the beginning, in those searching days, imagining a life for her in the wake of her absence online. She had no following, no platform but a lonely blog, her voice faint as vestiges of perfume on the breeze - and so he'd crafted, envisioning the full image of her. She was... private. Quiet. Loyal. Perceptive. Perhaps she owned a cat - something to love. Enjoyed sipping her coffee on the balcony in the early morning, had a favorite book store, rapport with the employees. That had angered him - the thought of a shy smile shared between her and this mystery bookkeep, maybe one day, his number scrawled on her receipt, in the corner of the book's page. 

But as he'd come to know her, to let her know him... he realized: It wasn't true. None of it. She hadn't been the girl he'd imagined, the one with the warm get-togethers, the bookkeep lover... she walked into an apartment that she'd stuffed with furniture that would hold her, because nobody else would. A vision of him, frozen and alone, on his Mount Everest settlement, played through his mind. She held him close, because she knew the bite of the winter.

"I... me, neither," Homelander said quietly, holding her close. He sat his chin on her crown. "This... was the best Valentine's Day I could have asked for. You.. really did this for me, didn't you?"

The woman nodded, her smile soft. "I wish I could give you everything," she breathed. Homelander felt his eyes grow hot.

You do. You already do.

I love you, she thought, pressing him closer.

Homelander felt a quaking within him, the same as when she'd shut the door on New Year's. He'd wanted her to see him then, he recalled, chest tightening. Even now, even as they'd merged into a new being entirely, he felt that longing, resting heavy on his heart. He bent to kiss her instead, a soft croon escaping him at the feel of her pulling him in.

Call me John, he thought, heartbeat crashing into hers. Say it now. Please.

They lost themselves in each other, her hands carding through his hair, murmuring her love for him into his mouth, the hushed whisper of his fingers across her skin making her shiver. She held him in her arms, first with him resting his head on her chest, the lull of her heart melting him - and then, with his head in her lap, eyes closed as she smoothed his hair.

The ride came to a gentle halt then, and Homelander reluctantly rose, his face warm as she smiled at him. He stood, offering his hand to her, and they walked out of the tunnel together - to be met with a swarm of fans, cheering, applauding. 

They clamored for them, shouting their support, their love, Homelander thought, face split in a genuine grin as he took photos with the fans, the woman. He held children on his shoulders, kissed babies, posed with men and women dressed as him - but in the hoard of the Americana-colored commotion, something caught his eye: a flash of darkness, a glint of black steel. All of a sudden, all was wrong; one moment, the woman was in his arms, grinning up at him, and in the next - she was gone, whisked away and banished from his sight, like she hadn't been there at all.

Homelander wheeled around at once, the once-wanted throng of fans now suffocating in their unwelcome embrace. He spun wildly, pushing past them, calling out the woman's name - but to no avail. She was nowhere to be seen.

Not that the fans, the fucking fans, seemed to notice; they clambered for more of his time, someone even having the gall to touch his face in their desperation. He bored his gaze into them, shoving them away and stalking hurriedly through the crowd, heartbeat racing.

Where had she gone? Homelander craned his neck, bursting free from the masses and into the sky, scouring the area. Fuck! They were all wearing that damn costume - she was wearing the costume. Regret pooled in his gut, cold and suffocating. Why had he burned her clothes? It had seemed so sensual before, but now she was just another face in the crowd. He swooped lower, calling for her again, fist clenching at the crack in his voice.

Had this been her plan? To teach him the meaning of love then disappear, like some fucking Ghost of Christmas Past? 

Had someone taken her?

Was she even fucking real?

The thought pierced him, and suddenly he saw it - him, sitting at the coffeeshop alone. No wax warmer on his mantle. Him, lying his head on the cold seat in the Tunnel of Love, his heartbeat the sole, lonesome sound echoing in the rosy chasm.

His eyes burned hot for the second time that day - and fueled by that monstrous ache within, he unleashed a torrent of aether from them, the warmth radiating from him like rays of the sun. Instantly, blood erupted onto the scene beneath him. He veered dangerously low, shutting off the blast, searching for her again, finding nothing, and hissing in rage. His vision sparked red as he zoomed by, skating a hand along the ocean of carnage as he went.

The screams of the patrons rang in his ears, so similar to the praise from before - just as useless. He listened for her voice, her call - and grit his teeth only when the terror of the people answered him.

He blasted through the crowd, viscera flicking across his face and into his hair, and for a dark moment, the thought that it was her blood raced through him. He bit back a moan, a sob, and fired on, a growl building in his throat.

None were spared from his wrath in the wake of this theft - theft of joy, theft of love. Theft of her. Homelander hovered then, a dying remnant of his soul begging her to call to him, pleading with his thoughts, lip just shy of quivering. 

Please, answer me.

Please, at least have been real.

But no answer came, the silence ripping him apart, leaving him mauled and bloody. Homelander climbed higher, his face twitching, eyes trained on the roller coaster thirty feet away - and sent a jet of heat in its direction, the thunderous echo of its collapse tinny in his ears. All at once, the screams stopped.

Homelander let out a ragged breath, running a slick hand through his hair as he took in the destruction, gray smoke billowing into the sky. He sat on a ruined chair, head in his hands, the orange sky the sole witness to his despair, when the cry came, desperate in its shout.

"Homelander!"

Homelander whipped his head around, heart clambering up his throat, and rose at once, eyes wild. He hovered, calling out the woman's name, the ghost of hope flickering on his voice.

"Homelander!!"

He flew to the sound of her voice, skidding to a stop before her, taking her in with disbelieving eyes. She walked to him slowly, her wide eyes trained on him. She looked hesitant - afraid.

No. Please.

She couldn't be afraid - she'd promised him. And yet, there she was, shivering and withholding - scared to touch him.

No...

Homelander closed the distance, hands on her cheeks, his plea just shy of bursting from his lips, when she launched forward, kissing him hard, wrapping him in so tightly he could feel the pulse in her wrist against his neck.

"Where did you go?" he whispered frantically, eyes searching hers. She panted into his mouth. "The Seven. They took me. Just outside of the Tunnel of Love. Sage, Maeve, Noir, Deep... they took me, and told me all of these horrible things, told me I shouldn't have come here... trying to take me home. Trying to take you away from me."

Homelander darkened, his grip on her tightening. 

"That won't happen. Never."

But even as the thought calmed him, the memory of the horror on her face unsettled him, left him raw. It had been one thing, to tell her stories of his destruction, fables of the monster within... but now she had seen it, smelled the rotten tang of blood in the air as he pressed her to him.

She thought back to just moments earlier, the fantasy of Homelander as Mars, adorned in blood like so many droplets of rubies, clinging to his face, running down his chin. Had this really been what she'd wanted? Was this the fantasy, actualized?

No, she thought, wiping a freckle of blood from his cheek. It was better.

Because she hadn't lied to him - not once. Not about the asylum, or her hatred for the cold, or the shrine... but especially not about the murders.

Maybe she saw it as inevitable, she remembered, taking him into a kiss, the shower of blood sprinkling around them, turning the world rosy. Maybe she was angry for him.

Or maybe, she considered, pulling back to face him, heart pounding. Maybe...

"I love you," she breathed, eyes shining like the birth of stars. Homelander exhaled, crushing her to him. Her heartbeat found his then, and they stood, the slickness of the blood clinging them together.

"I love you," Homelander whispered, nodding. He pressed his forehead to hers.

The woman took a deep breath before she spoke again, eyes... almost amused. "You know... there's still one last thing we didn't get to do," she said, looking up at him. Homelander quirked a brow. She pointed to the Ferris Wheel.

"I also didn't win you that teddy bear..." he said almost sheepishly. She chuckled. "That is true... but I seem to recall someone saying something about getting me the world's largest teddy bear." Homelander laughed. "Oh, you recall, do you?" The woman pecked him on the cheek, face glowing.

Homelander wrapped his arms around her again - she was real, he thought, soothed - and flew them to the top of the Ferris Wheel, where the faint sound of sirens reached them. The woman turned to him, worried.

"Vought will likely stage the scene - oh, look! There they are!" he said, pointing down at the Vought personnel who'd arrived, cleaning up scorch marks, framing the carnage into something new.

"Probably a terrorist act," Homelander mused. The woman giggled. "They're like... worker bees," she said thoughtfully. Homelander felt something in his heart give at her words, the glow of the setting sun ethereal behind her head.

He leaned to kiss her one more time, the hint of blood on their lips, and she melted into his arms, sighing into him.

Best Valentine's Day ever, indeed.

"Your Mother's Daughter"

I can only bring myself to write poetry when I'm broken when I'm tear-streaked and raw and the burn of the salt runs down my face like acid. It's the only time I recognize myself the only time my reflection is someone I understand.

But God, I am so fucking ugly, so disgusting, so fucking abominable - when I cry, when I grieve.

I look just like her. I fucking look just like her. And a million miles away, she sleeps just fine.

I tug at the crimson thread that binds us together - but when I look down I see that I've only snatched my own intestines out, the patter of blood like children's feet on wet grass.

This too shall pass but like holy fuck