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The heavy double doors of the penthouse suite had barely clicked shut before the mask dropped. The demure, doting husband evaporated, replaced by a prince vibrating with a rage that seemed too big for his mortal frame.
"You are fucking insane," Hughie spat, tearing off his blue blazer and throwing it onto a velvet chaise lounge. The heavy wool made a soft thud as it landed, the only sound in the tense quiet. "You’re actually insane, you know that right? You’re going to glass a coastline because the Prime Minister kissed my hand?"
Homelander was unbothered. He rolled his neck, a loud crack echoing in the silent, royal golden room, and began undoing the clasps of his eagle-adorned pauldron over his supersuit.
"More than that, Hughie. The way he looked at you. It’s fucking disrespectful to me. Here is a mere guest in my country." Homelander said, his voice dropping the regal projection he used for the generals, suddenly sounding tired, petulant. "And will you stop pacing? You’re making me dizzy."
"I’ll pace if I want to pace!" Hughie yelled, spinning around to face him. "You’re talking about war! Real people. Families who have nothing to do with your fragile ego!"
Homelander froze. The cape seemed to bristle from his shoulders at the insulting comment. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. In the War Room, a comment like ‘fragile ego’ would earn a General a lobotomy via heat vision.
Here, it only made the corner of Homelander’s mouth slightly twitch upward.
"Fragile?" Homelander stalked forward, closing the distance between them. "I am a god, Hughie. I’m the one holding this fucking country together."
"You’re a bully," Hughie shot back, not backing down even as Homelander loomed over him, radiating heat. Hughie poked a finger hard into the indestructible chest of the King. "You’re terrified. You’re so scared that someone, somewhere, might not be worshipping you for like five seconds that you have to burn a country down to remind them."
Homelander grabbed Hughie’s hand, encompassing the hand that was angrily pointing at him. He brought it up to his lips, kissing the knuckles that had dared to accuse him of such things.
"Gosh, you’re really beautiful when you’re angry," Homelander murmured, his eyes half-lidded, drinking in the fury on Hughie’s face. "Look at you. Everyone else…Ashley, the fucking Deep, all the Generals…they’re all cardboard cutouts. Nodding, shaking, pissing on themselves. But not you. Never you, Hughie."
He pressed Hughie’s hand against his cheek, leaning into the warmth.
"You’re the only one who truly sees me for me," Homelander whispered, a desperate, lonely hunger in his voice. "You hate me, and you’re the only one honest enough to say it."
"I don't hate you," Hughie said, his voice cracking, the anger giving way to that exhausting, tragic compassion that defined him. He pulled his hand away firmly, reaching up to run his fingers through Homelander’s hair, messing up the perfect golden coif. "I hate what you do. I hate the cruelty. You don't have to be this way. You don't have to hurt people to show them you’re strong."
"But I do," Homelander insisted, though he leaned into Hughie’s touch like a starving animal. "They don't understand love, Hughie. Not like we do. They only understand fear."
"Julian didn't do anything," Hughie pleaded, switching tactics. He grabbed Homelander’s face with both hands, forcing the most powerful being in the universe to look him in the eye. "Please. Call off the fleet. If you love me, if you actually respect me, don't kill thousands of people in my name. Don't make me carry that blood."
Homelander searched Hughie’s eyes. He saw the genuine distress, the empathy that Hughie wielded like a superpower. It was that softness that baffled Homelander. He wanted to crush it, but he also wanted to wrap himself in it.
"I can't call it off, Hughie," Homelander said softly. "The order is given. If I take it back, I look weak."
"So look weak!" Hughie shouted, frustration bringing tears to his eyes. "Be human for once!"
"I am not human!" Homelander roared, the sudden volume shaking the crystal chandelier above them.
Hughie flinched, but he didn't run. He stood his ground, breathing hard.
Homelander stared at him, his chest heaving. Then, the anger broke, replaced by that terrifying, suffocating affectionate look. The powerful supe did something highly unusual. He kneeled before Hughie, wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in his stomach, hugging him tight enough to bruise.
"You’re too good," Homelander mumbled into Hughie’s pastel green silk button-up. "You worry about ants. You cry for people you’ve never met. It’s…too fucking pure."
He looked up at Hughie, his blue eyes wide and imploring. "That’s why I need you. You’re my heart, Hughie. Cause I cut mine out a long time ago."
"Then, please, please listen to me!" Hughie begged, his hands resting on Homelander’s shoulders.
"I can't," Homelander said, the moment of vulnerability was hardening back into resolve. "Because if I let them get away with touching you, what else can they get away with? Encroaching on my territories? Poaching valuable resources from us while we smile in their faces at banquets. And I will burn this entire earth to ash before I let anyone take you from me."
Hughie could only look down at him, all words deserted him as Homelander continued kneeling, hugging him at his waist with the awe-daunting confession hovering between them.
Homelander let out a long, shuddering breath against the fabric of Hughie’s shirt, a sound that was half-sigh, half-purr. He looked up, his chin resting on Hughie’s stomach, his expression curdling into something dangerously playful.
"You want me to be a better man," Homelander murmured, his hands sliding down from Hughie’s waist to grip his thighs, squeezing just hard enough to make Hughie wince. "You want me to stay my hand for people who would probably mock you for being here, in my lap, playing the little peacekeeper."
"I don't care what they think of me," Hughie said, his voice trembling but his gaze fixed. "I care that they’re alive. Please. Call it off."
Homelander stood up slowly, facing Hughie once again. He reached out, his gloved thumb tracing the line of Hughie’s jaw, moving with a terrifying, light delicacy.
"You can yell at me all night," Homelander whispered, his face inches from Hughie’s. "Call me a monster. Call me a bully. Fight me. Just don't ever leave me."
Hughie stared at him, assessing the man he married. He saw the madness behind the eyes, the unmovable object that was Homelander’s narcissism. He had pushed as hard as he could, but the wall wouldn't budge.
"I'm not going anywhere," Hughie lied, a tear finally escaping and tracking his cheeks. "I'm right here."
Homelander smiled, genuine and chillingly sweet. He leaned close and kissed the tear away.
"I know," the king whispered. "Now…tell me again how much you despise my choices. Make me feel something."
Homelander didn’t wait for an answer. He wanted the raw, visceral contact that grounded him in a way no cheering crowd ever could.
He closed the distance, his mouth closing onto Hughie’s soft lips, warm and certain and absolute.
Hughie stiffened immediately, his hands flying up to shove against Homelander’s chest. It was like pushing against a concrete wall. "No," he muffled against his lips, twisting his head, trying to break the contact. "Homelander, stop…don't…"
He knew Homelander wouldn't hurt him physically, but he was fighting for his dignity. He was fighting because he shouldn't be kissing the supe who just ordered a massacre.
"Shhh," Homelander hummed, the sound vibrating against Hughie’s lips.
And then, the supe king changed tactics and the kiss morphed into something slow, with devastating sensuality. Homelander tilted his head, his lips softening, moving against Hughie’s with a practiced, maddening expertise. He teased the seam of Hughie’s mouth, coaxing it.
That was the worst part. If it was just force, perhaps Hughie could hate him. He could dissociate. But Homelander knew exactly what he was doing. He was an incredible kisser. It was a weapon in his arsenal just as potent as his lasers, honed by years of manipulating people into thinking he was this perfect man.
He nipped at Hughie’s lower lip, a sharp spark of pain followed immediately by a soothing sweep of his tongue. The taste of him was overwhelming—hot, electric, and smelling faintly of the clean ozone air that always seem to cling to his skin after he flew and patrolled the skies.
Hughie’s hands, which had been beating futilely against the star-spangled suit, began to lose their strength, curling his arms around his husband’s neck. His brain screamed at him to keep fighting, to bite down on those lips, to scream. But his body was a traitor. His body remembered the nights where this was the only comfort in a world gone mad.
A involuntary noise, half sob, half moan escaped Hughie’s throat.
Homelander swallowed the sound greedily. He felt the shift the second it happened. He felt Hughie’s pulse flutter with arousal. Sensing the victory, Homelander deepened the kiss. He swept his tongue into Hughie’s mouth, claiming him, tasting the lingering mint of tea and pinot noir from dinner. It was an all-consuming experience. Being kissed by Homelander felt like standing in the center of a nuclear reactor, it was dangerous, radiant, and it made everything else in the world fade into grey static.
Homelander’s hands slid from Hughie’s jaw down to the small of his back, his fingers splaying wide against the expensive fabric of his shirt. With effortless strength, he hooked his arms under Hughie’s thighs and hoisted him upward. The sudden shift in gravity forcing Hughie’s instincts to take over, his legs reflexively locked around Homelander’s waist, his ankles crossing behind that indestructible back. He felt the cool, slick texture of the cape brushing against his calves, a stark reminder of the costume, the brand, that stood between them.
Homelander began to walk, his stride steady and confident. He carried Hughie across their expansive, gorgeous marble-floored bedroom as if he weighed nothing more than a feather.
When they reached the edge of the massive bed, Homelander leaned forward, his weight pressing Hughie down into the plush, silk-covered mattress. He followed him down, a golden god descending upon a beloved mortal, his shadow eclipsing the warm light of their room. Hughie sank into the pillows, his breath hitching as Homelander pulled back just an inch, his eyes studying Hughie.
"Tell me how much you hate me," Homelander prompted again, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that Hughie felt in his very bones. He reached out, his gloved fingers catching the hem of Hughie’s shirt and tugging it upward, baring soft skin to the temperature-controlled room. "Tell me I'm a monster while I touch you. I want to hear it."
"You're a monster," Hughie whispered, the words trembling. He tried to muster the old fire, the righteous indignation that had fueled him for years, but it was being drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming proximity of his husband. Homelander’s hand settled over Hughie’s heart, feeling the steady, heartbeat against his palm.
"Good," Homelander murmured, a dark smirk pulling at his lips. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of Hughie’s neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Because a monster is the only thing that can keep you safe. A monster is the only thing that can keep the rest of the world at bay so I can have you all to myself."
Hughie closed his eyes, his fingers curling into the silk sheets. He should be thinking of the fleet, of the thousands of lives hanging in the balance of a madman’s whim. But as Homelander’s weight settled fully over him, solid and warm and inescapable, Hughie struggled to remain focused.
"You're so strong yet so fragile," Homelander murmured, his voice thick with a dark, honeyed wonder. He hovered over Hughie his knees flanking Hughie’s hips. "Every time I look at you, I wonder how you haven't just shattered yet. Under the weight of everything I give you."
Hughie looked up at him, his curls fanning against the silk pillowcase, his chest heaving. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the wetness on his cheeks, making them shimmer. "You're, you’re going to kill those people," Hughie whispered, the words a final, desperate prayer. "Please, you don't have to do this to prove you love me."
Homelander reached down, his fingers deftly unbuttoning Hughie’s shirt, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man who could punch through a steel hull. "I'm doing it because I can," he corrected. "But tonight is about making sure you remember who you belong to. Every inch. Every breath.”
The silk shirt parted under Homelander’s hands, his full attention to the buttons, and one by one, he undid them. He took his time. The silence in the room was heavy, filled only by the rustle of fabric and the uneven hitch of Hughie’s breathing. He savored the moment of peeling the garment back slowly, inch by agonizing inch, baring the pale expanse of Hughie’s chest to the amber glow of the penthouse lighting.
"Homelander…"
Hughie’s chest was smooth, his ribs expanding and contracting with every breath he drew. And there, stark against the cream of his skin, were his nipples—pert, tight, and a delicate, dusty pink. They were pebbled from the chill of the room and the sheer reaction to the man looming over him. Homelander reached out, his heavy, gloved finger tracing the curve of Hughie’s collarbone before dipping down. He brushed the pad of his thumb over one pink peak, watching the way the nipple reacted, the way Hughie’s entire body arched instinctively toward the touch even as his face blushed and head slightly turned.
Hughie was all lithe lines and soft curves. He was lean, but there was a graceful sturdiness to his frame that Homelander found intoxicating. As the shirt fell away completely, pooling like liquid shadows on the mattress, Homelander’s breath hitched.
"Beautiful," Homelander whispered, his eyes scanning Hughie’s flushed face, the disheveled curls, and pale skin.
Hughie didn't cower. As soon as the last scrap of clothing fell away on the bed, he snatched the silk sheet up like a shield, wrapping it tight around his waist, his eyes blazing.
"Don't look at me like that," Hughie snapped, his chest heaving. He bared his teeth, like a cornered fox waiting to bite. "I'm not one of your statues to be gawked at. I’m not a fucking exhibit in your halls."
And with that Hughie reacted instinctually, trying to kick his leg out from under but Homelander caught his foot before could kick him and before Hughie could retract it. His grip was iron, he held the ankle suspended in the air, running a gloved thumb over it, a smirk playing on his lips as Hughie tried to yank his leg free.
"You don’t think I know that, Hughie," Homelander corrected, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly soft, poetic register he saved for their private moments. "But old poets would have wept over you, Hughie. They spent lifetimes trying to carve this out of Parian marble. Do you know how difficult that is? It’s brutal, hard stone."
Hughie twisted his body, using his free leg to hook behind Homelander’s knee, trying to unbalance the king. It didn't work, Homelander was an immovable object, but the attempt made the king’s eyes darken with delight.
"Though marble is beautiful," Homelander continued, ignoring the attempt to trip him as he dragged Hughie a foot closer to him. "It’s dead. You…you are warm. You fight. That makes this conquest so much sweeter."
"I’m not fighting for your fucking amusement, you psychopath!" Hughie spat, clawing at the sheets for purchase. "I’m fighting because I can’t stand you touching me right now!"
"Liar," Homelander hummed. He let go of the ankle only to lunge forward as Hughie scrambled back. It was their game of cat and mouse, but the mouse was vicious and resilient. Hughie threw a heavy velvet pillow into Homelander’s face, momentarily blocking him, and rolled toward the edge of the bed, trying to escape.
Homelander swatted the pillow aside with a laugh, catching Hughie by the waist just before his feet hit the floor. He hauled him back into the center of the bed, pinning him beneath his massive weight, his forearms bracketing Hughie’s head to cut off escape.
"You know the story of Ganymede?" Homelander asked, looming over him, his eyes tracing the frantic rise and fall of Hughie’s chest.
"Let me guess," Hughie panted, glaring up at him, refusing to look away. "Another story about a god taking whatever he wants because he’s too broken to be loved naturally?"
Homelander’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, the verbal hit landed before it widened, sharper this time. "Ganymede was the adorable handsome Trojan prince," he corrected, his voice tightening. "So lovely that Zeus himself came down in the form of an eagle to snatch him away to Olympus."
"Well would you look at that. The irony," Hughie hissed, bringing his hands up to push against Homelander’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the spandex of his supersuit. "Sounds like he was a lonely tyrant who had to turn into a bird to get anyone to touch him without screaming."
Homelander lowered his head, his nose brushing against Hughie’s, his blue eyes burning with a mix of rage and overwhelming lust.
"He was a King still," Homelander whispered, the word vibrating through Hughie’s skull. "And he kept Ganymede on Olympus forever because nothing on Earth was good enough for him. Just. Like. Us."
Homelander shifted his grip, sliding his hands down to mold over the flare of Hughie’s waist. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, marveling at the geometry of it. Hughie was so slender, lithe and sharp-elbowed, yet so soft, he possessed these secret, maddening curves that drove Homelander wild with desire.
"Get off me," Hughie gasped, twisting his hips, trying to buck the supe off.
"Make me," Homelander challenged.
Hughie’s defiance was a physical thing, a frantic surge of muscle and bone that Homelander delighted in contending with. With a fluid, terrifying grace that made a mockery of Hughie’s effort, Homelander caught the momentum of Hughie’s bucking hips and twisted.
In a heartbeat, the world spun. Hughie was flipped onto his stomach, the air driven from his lungs as he hit the mattress face-first. He didn't stay still. He scrambled, his palms slipping against the silk as he tried to crawl toward the headboard, his spine arching in a beautiful, desperate line that showcased every vulnerable vertebrae.
He didn't get far. Homelander loomed over him, his teeth catching the edge of his own tactical glove. With a sharp tug, he tore the leather off, spitting it onto the plush carpet with a look of predatory focus. His bare palm, heavy and radiating a heat that felt like a localized sun, came down in a sharp sound to Hughie’s pert ass.
SMACK!
“Ahhh, fuck!”
The slap rang out through the penthouse, a stinging crack that echoed off the marble walls. The air left Hughie in a jagged gasp, his fingers digging into the bedding. It froze Hughie in place, a jolt of electricity shooting up his spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the pleasurable wire Homelander had tapped in his brain.
"Callipygian," Homelander murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration. He didn't pull his hand away, instead, he let his bare palm settle over the reddening skin, his fingers caress the soft flesh he had just marked. "It means 'beautiful buttocks' in Greek. The ancient folks before our time weren't like these present day puritans, Hughie. They built a temple to Aphrodite’s Kallipygos just for this. They reveled in and worshipped it. And looking at you now…I understand this even more so."
He shifted his weight, his muscled frame, pinning Hughie flat against the mattress. He trapped Hughie’s wrists with one hand, his chest pressing into Hughie’s back, forcing the air out of him once more.
"Hiding all this delicious ass behind those sharp words," Homelander whispered into the shell of Hughie’s ear, his breath hot and possessive. "You’re so wired, aren’t you, Hughie. So angry, so full of justice and decency. But back here? You’re soft and yielding. You were made for my hand and not for the world’s worries."
Hughie tried to turn his head, his cheek pressed painfully into the silk. "You…you can't just…"
"I can," Homelander interrupted, his thumb tracing the swell of Hughie’s hip with agonizing slowness.
He leaned closer, his nose dragging along the line of Hughie’s jaw, inhaling the scent of apprehension and sweat and the floral soap from their earlier shared bath.
"Don't touch me like that," Hughie pleaded, his voice cracking, the defiance wavering under the sensory overload.
"Like what?" Homelander asked, bringing his hand down in another sharp, stinging slap against the round cheek, harder this time.
Hughie cried out, a pleasurable, moaning sound, but his hips bucked back into the touch, not away.
"Like I own you?" Homelander purred, leaning down so his chest scraped against Hughie’s shoulder blades. He bit the shell of Hughie’s ear, his voice a low growl.
"But I do, Hughie. You can kick, you can scream, you can quote your little morals and human rights. But right now? It’s just you, me, and the fact that your body knows exactly who it belongs to."
He smoothed his hand over the reddening skin once again, soothing the sting, playing the savior to the pleasurable pain he caused.
"Fight me all you want, Ganymede," Homelander whispered into his brown curls. "It only makes me want to hold you tighter."
The sting on Hughie’s skin faded into a throbbing heat, a warmth that seemed to seep into his bloodstream and turn his resolve into molasses, his cock hardened. He lay flat on his stomach, his face turned into the silk pillowcase, his breath hitching in shallow, ragged gasps.
Fuck Homelander. He did wanted to shout more about the rights of sovereign nations. But his husband was a familiar, unmovable weight pressing him into their bed and his hands were maddeningly skilled.
Homelander shifted, the heavy tread of his boots sliding against the sheets as he settled himself more firmly between Hughie’s legs. He didn't rush to take what he wanted. Instead, he made a show of his patience, of his absolute certainty that he would win.
"You carry so much on these shoulders," Homelander murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the base of Hughie’s neck, right where the hairline ended. His lips were hot, searing against the pale skin. "Like Atlas holding up the sky. But you don't have to hold it up here, Hughie. Here, you just have to let me take care of you."
"I see your hard-on for Greek Mythology hasn’t yet wavered. And I hate it when you do that," Hughie whispered sarcastically, his voice trembling. He gripped the edge of the pillow, his knuckles white.
"Do what?" Homelander asked, ignoring Hughie’s snark, sliding his hands back down to his waist, his fingers splaying wide to encompass the slim frame.
"Do this psychoanalyze bullshit to me while you’re…" Hughie couldn't finish the sentence. A gasp tore from his throat as Homelander’s hand possessively cupped the swell of his ass.
"While I’m worship you?" Homelander finished for him, the arrogance dripping from his tone. "Why shouldn't I? I know you better than you know yourself. I know that you think you need to be the moral compass for our government. I know you think you need to suffer to be good."
Homelander’s touch turned deep, his fingers finding the sensitive crease of Hughie’s thigh, dragging lightly, teasingly. He knew the map of Hughie’s body better than he knew the strategic layout of the American coastline. He knew exactly where to press to make Hughie’s legs weaken, exactly how much pressure to apply to turn a protest into a moan.
"But you like the surrender," Homelander whispered, biting gently at the exposed nape of Hughie’s neck. "You like it when I take the choice away. When you don't have to decide. When you just have to feel."
"No," Hughie lied, but his hips moved of their own accord, rocking back slightly against Homelander’s groin.
"Liar," Homelander chuckled darkly.
He sat up slightly, reaching for the gold buckle of his belt. With a few swift, efficient movements, the rest of the supersuit was discarded. The boots, the heavy trousers—they were shed until it was just warm, indestructible skin against shivering, mortal flesh.
When Homelander pressed his full, naked length against Hughie’s back, the sensation was overwhelming. Hughie let out a long, broken whine, his eyes squeezing shut. The heat radiating off Homelander was intoxicating, a physical force that enveloped him completely.
Homelander wrapped his arms around Hughie’s chest, pulling him up slightly so his back arched, molding him against the hard wall of the King’s chest.
"You fit so perfectly," Homelander noted with satisfaction, burying his nose in Hughie’s hair, inhaling the scent of him. Fresh strawberries. "Because you were made for me."
His hand drifted down Hughie’s flank, past the navel, seeking the heat between his legs. Hughie instinctively clamped his thighs together, a last, pathetic attempt at preserving some barrier.
"Open," Homelander commanded. It was a calm, simple clear request.
Hughie shook his head against the pillow, tears of frustration and pleasure leaking from his eyes.
"Homelander..."
"Open for me, Hughie." Homelander nudged Hughie’s thigh with his knee, insistent and firm. "Don't make me use my strength. You know I prefer it when you give in to me."
The air in the room grew heavy once again, charged with a static tension that made the hair on Hughie’s arms stand up. Homelander waited, his knee resting against the side of Hughie’s thigh, offering him a choice. A chance to be the good husband.
But Hughie wasn't good. Not in the way Homelander wanted. And he wasn't about to give the supe a victory without a cost. If Homelander wanted him, he had to take him. He had to be the monster Hughie knew he was, so Hughie could keep hating him. If Hughie opened up willingly, if he softened…then he was just another one of those sycophants that Homelander despised.
Hughie squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his legs together harder, locking his muscles with every ounce of mortal strength he possessed.
"Then use it," Hughie whispered, his voice shaking but his tone venomous. He turned his head to glare at Homelander, his eyes wet but furious. "You stole me, remember? So if you want this? You can steal it again."
Homelander stared at him, motionless. For a second, the silence was terrifying. Then, a slow, dark smile spread across the king’s face, the smile of a predator who had just been invited to hunt.
"My stubborn, beautiful little fighter," Homelander purred.
He moved.
It wasn't a fight. Far from it. A fight implied that both sides had a chance of winning.
Hughie clawed at the mattress, his knuckles white, pouring everything he had into this one, silent act of rebellion.
But Homelander was a powerful supe, Earth's most mighty.
With a sharp tug at Hughie’s shoulder and a firm sweep under his knees, he flipped him over. Hughie’s vision no longer facing the bed, as he was forced onto his back, his breath hitching as he found himself pinned beneath the vast, weight of the man who ruled his world.
They were face to face now, their noses brushing. Homelander’s eyes were glowing with a faint, residual heat, a terrifying cerulean fire that held a desire to burn right through Hughie’s attempts at defiance.
Homelander shut Hughie up with another bruising kiss. He used his tongue, swirling deep and possessive, drowning out the protests until all Hughie could do was make small, desperate sounds into the back of the supe’s throat.
While he kept Hughie silenced, Homelander reached blindly toward the nightstand. His fingers closed around a heavy, frosted glass bottle, a decadent, scented oil infused with crushed rose petals and sandalwood, a luxury reserved for the King’s bed. He didn't look away from Hughie as he uncapped it with his thumb, the scent of the oil blooming in the air, delicious and floral.
Homelander tilted the bottle, the liquid falling in a warm, viscous stream. It pooled against Hughie’s skin, slick and shimmering in the dim light. Hughie let out a muffled whimper against Homelander’s lips as the oil coated him, its warmth a jarring contrast to the cold dread in his gut.
Homelander pulled back just enough to look at him, his thumb catching a stray tear on Hughie's cheek. "I’m going to take my time, Hughie," he promised, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "I want to feel you slowly come undone for me."
With a terrifyingly casual exertion of force, Homelander pushed. He pried Hughie’s legs apart as easily as a man opening a book. The sheer disparity in their strength, always illuminating.
He slid a single oiled finger into Hughie’s hole, testing the resistance, watching the way Hughie’s pupils blown wide with betraying arousal. He didn't push fast. He moved with a torturous, rhythmic patience, circling, stretching, claiming the most private part of the man who dared to call him a monster.
“Ahhhhh,” Hughie cried.
"See?" Homelander whispered, settling his hips into the space he had carved out, pinning Hughie’s legs wide with the sheer density of his own limbs. "It doesn't matter how hard you lock the gates. I have the key to every door in this city. Including yours."
"Fuck you," Hughie gasped, his chest heaving, defeated by biology and physics but not in spirit. "I didn't let you in."
"No," Homelander agreed, leaning down to trap Hughie’s wrists. He gathered both of Hughie’s hands into one of his, holding them above his head, effectively arching Hughie’s spine and leaving him completely exposed. "You made me break in. You made me conquer you all over again."
Homelander lowered his chest onto Hughie’s chest, the heat of his skin searing. He nuzzled into the crook of Hughie’s neck, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"And I know why you did it, Hughie."
Hughie tried to squirm, but he was pinned flat, trapped under the weight of the powerful supe. "Shut up."
"You did it because," Homelander murmured, biting the sensitive skin of Hughie’s shoulder. "If you open your legs for me willingly, you have to admit that you want me. You have to admit that you love the way I touch you."
He didn't wait for Hughie’s stuttered indigent response, pulling his finger out to recoat with more oil. Using his one free hand, he poured the oil into his palm, lathering his fingers. With a slow, deliberate pressure, he gently nudged the second finger against the tight, fluttering pulse of Hughie’s entrance.
Hughie’s eyes flew wide, his breath hitching into a high-pitched, broken whistle as the second digit began to slide home alongside the first. The stretch was sudden and profound. Hughie’s spine arched, his head turning his head against the silk pillowcase, a muffled cry.
"But if I forced you…" Homelander continued, his rhythm picking up, punishing and pleasurable all at once. "If I force you, then you get to be the victim. Your conscience stays clean while I do the dirty work. You get to moan and scream and cum, and afterwards, you can tell yourself you had no choice."
Hughie sobbed, his forehead thrashing from side to side against the pillows. It was a devastating, surgical dissection of his psyche.
"You're…you're wrong ahhh," Hughie panted, though his hips were already betraying him, moving back to meet Homelander’s hand, seeking the friction.
"Am I?" Homelander chuckled darkly. He withdrew his hand, pouring more oil to prep him more. "Then why are you clamping down on my fingers like you never want me to leave?"
With a low, possessive hum, he hooked his arms under Hughie’s knees, hoisting his legs high and wide until they were draped over Homelander's broad shoulders. The position was devastatingly vulnerable, leaving Hughie’s flushed face and trembling frame entirely exposed to the King’s intense blue gaze.
He introduced the third finger with a gentle, inevitable pressure. Hughie’s body jolted, his back arching once again off the silk as his breath hitched into a high, thin keen. Homelander began to move them, three fingers now, scissoring slowly, widening the path with a terrifying, practiced efficiency. He knew the precise point where the resistance crumbled into elasticity, and he navigated it with the ease.
"There," Homelander hummed, feeling the way Hughie’s internal muscles clamped down. The oil made the intrusion effortless, a slick, sliding heat that filled Hughie so complete.
"Haa, ahhh—" Hughie’s voice broke into a high, keen sound as Homelander began to move.
"You wanted to lose," Homelander whispered into his ear, his thrusts deep, steady, and unrelenting. "You wanted me to overpower you. Because it's the only time you let yourself go and stop overthinking."
Hughie couldn't argue anymore. The sensation was too much, a tidal wave of pleasure and shame crashing over him. He stopped fighting the invasion and started drowning in it. He dug his fingers into the pillow, his body going lax and needy.
The friction of the oil produced a wet, rhythmic sound—a heavy, squelching friction that seemed to fill the silence of the room, matching the cadence of Hughie’s desperate whimpers.
Homelander’s fingers moved with a terrifying, delicious precision. He continued working the third finger deep, curling his knuckles to find that hidden, sensitive knot of nerves that made Hughie’s toes curl and his vision blur into a kaleidoscope of amber and gold.
Each stroke was a claim, a deliberate widening that forced Hughie to swallow the air in jagged, desperate gulps. He was being unmade, stretched until he felt thin as parchment, yet the oil kept the friction from burning, turning the intrusion into a effortlessness sliding euphoria that Hughie’s body began to crave despite the roar of his conscience.
He had lost the battle. He knew he would. But as Homelander’s breath hitched in his ear, and the King lost himself in the feeling of his husband, Hughie knew he had won something too. He had made the supe work for it. He had made him sweat.
"Say it," Homelander commanded, his voice tight with approaching release. "Tell me you wanted me to take it."
"Never," Hughie gasped, defiant to the bitter, ecstatic end.
Homelander laughed, a breathless, joyous sound. He felt the frantic clamping of muscles gave way to a plush, welcoming heat. Hughie’s hips were stuttering now, reaching up, his heels digging into Homelander’s sides as he unconsciously sought more.
Satisfied that Hughie was ready, Homelander withdrew his hand. The sudden absence of the pressure made Hughie let out a small whimper. Homelander reached for the glass bottle again, his movements languid. He tipped a generous amount of the luxurious oil into his palm. He set the bottle aside and began to lather himself, his hand sliding over the length of his own cock with a slow, heavy deliberation. He was thick and long, slathering copious amount of oil needed for his girth.
He moved back between Hughie’s raised legs, the tip of his cock catching the light as it hovered at the entrance he had just meticulously prepared. Hughie’s eyes snapped open, his doe blue eyes staring past Homelander. He looked up at the man he had married, the supe he had tried to tame, and saw the absolute, unyielding intent in those determined eyes.
"Homel—" Hughie started, a final, breathless plea.
"I have you," Homelander cut him off, his voice a low, possessive growl.
He began to enter, moving with a torturous, agonizing slowness. He wanted to be felt. He wanted Hughie to register every millimeter of the invasion. As the thick, oiled cock head breached the threshold, Hughie’s breath hitched and stayed there, his lungs locked. The stretch was immense, a blunt, overwhelming pressure.
Hughie’s hands flew to Homelander’s biceps, his fingers clawing at the hard muscle as if trying to find purchase in a storm. He felt his internal walls stretching to their absolute limit, the slick oil allowing the supe to slide deeper into his tight, pulsing heat.
"Fuck, Hughie. Fuck. So fucking tight," Homelander hissed, his own breath hitching as he felt the delicious, velvet-tight squeeze of Hughie’s body welcoming him.
He pushed further, his hips sinking down until the golden hair of his groin brushed against Hughie’s pert ass. He was fully seated. For a long, silent moment, they stayed like that, two hearts beating in a frantic, matched rhythm. The king finally ensconced in the only territory he truly cared to conquer.
Hughie let out a long, shuddering moan, his head falling back against the pillows, his spirit finally surrendering to the devastating reality of Homelander's cock inside him. He was full, stretched, and utterly lost.
Homelander withdrew slowly, the oiled friction making a heavy, wet sound. He pulled back until he was nearly out, teasing the sensitive entrance, before plunging back in with a sudden, authoritative depth.
The sound continued to echo, it was a wet, heavy, rhythmic slapping of skin against skin.
Homelander didn't tire. That was the reality of sleeping with a supe. His stamina was infinite, his muscles incapable of lactic burn. He established a rhythm that was mind-blowingly consistent, a piston-like drive that shook Hughie’s entire frame with every thrust.
Homelander felt the shift. He felt the moment Hughie’s fingers lost their grip on the silk and moved upward, his arms wrapping around the king’s neck in a desperate, clinging embrace.
Homelander revelled in it.
Hughie was trying to think about the stolen data. He was trying to think about the fleet. He was trying to think about anything other than the way his husband was currently fucking him so good.
But Homelander wouldn't allow distractions.
"You're drifting," Homelander murmured, his voice breathless but controlled, right in Hughie’s ear. "Stay here."
With a cruel, calculated adjust of his hips, Homelander once again dragged his cock out almost completely, then snapped his hips forward, driving in deep and angling upward to strike a specific, ruinous bundle of nerves.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Hughie’s back arched violently, his head throwing back as a strangled, high-pitched cry was torn from his throat. “Ahhh, ahh.” His eyes rolled back, seeing nothing but white light.
"There it is," Homelander growled, feeling the internal clench of Hughie’s body wrapping around him, desperate and greedy. "Found you."
He hit the spot again. And again. And again.
Homelander’s hands, the same hands that could crush steel into dust, shifted into the mattress on either side of Hughie’s head, caging him in their private horizon of muscle and heat. The supe king loomed, descending on the lovely pale, vulnerable column of Hughie’s neck. There was no gentleness in the way his teeth grazed the skin over the carotid artery. It was sheer hunger, his nips sharp and demanding.
"Mine," Homelander growled against the sweat-slicked skin, the word vibrating through Hughie’s very marrow.
Hughie was branded with his kisses. His supe husband alternated between soft, agonizingly sweet sweeps of his tongue and deep, bruising bites that sank into the flesh of Hughie’s shoulder. He was marking his territory, etching his signature. Hughie’s eyes squeezed shut, his head thrashing against the pillow as he felt the stinging blossoms of heat where Homelander’s teeth had been. He knew, with a sinking, visceral certainty, what he would see in the mirror tomorrow morning. He would see the mottled purple and red map of the King’s possession, a collection of bite marks that would serve as a silent, mocking reminder of every moan he was currently failing to suppress.
"Look at me," Homelander commanded, his voice a ragged edge with pleasure.
Hughie forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. Homelander was staring down at him with an expression of such raw, terrifying adoration that it made Hughie’s heart stutter.
The pace increased, evolving from a steady rhythm into a delicious, relentless pounding.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound was deafening to Hughie. Every thrust was a shockwave. He felt open, exposed, turned inside out. The pleasure was agonizing, a sharp, electric heat that pooled in his belly and made his toes curl.
"Where's the defiance now?" Homelander panted, the wide shark-like smile of the sophisticated Supe King cracked to reveal the hungry, possessive animal beneath. "Where’s the smart mouth of yours?"
"Uhh, Hom—Homela—ahh," Hughie babbled, unable to form coherent sentences. He was sobbing dry, breathless tears, his mind completely wiped clean of strategy. There was just this friction, this heat, his smug supe husband.
"That's right," Homelander hissed. He leaned down, his sweat-slicked chest sliding against Hughie’s own chest, pressing him flat into the mattress. "Just say my name. That’s all you need to know."
He kept hitting that same spot, mercilessly, turning Hughie into a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him. It was humiliating for Hughie to feel this good, to feel his body yearning for the very thing that represented his oppression. He wanted to hate it. He wanted to lie there like a stone, but he couldn’t help but react.
But Homelander made it impossible. He was too good at this, too powerful, too overwhelming.
"You like this," Homelander accused, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. He reached one hand around, tilting Hughie’s chin up and facing him, making him present. "Your body loves me, Hughie. Look at you. You’re shaking apart for me."
"Please," Hughie gasped, though he didn't know what he was begging for—for it to stop, or for it to never end.
"Begging?" Homelander laughed, a dark, jagged sound. "That’s new. Usually you’re cursing."
Homelander pulled back and thrust in again with devastating force, the wet sound echoing sharply. "Do you think he could do this? Do you think any mortal man could fuck you like I do?"
"No," Hughie cried out, the pleasure spiking so high. "No, only, only you!"
It was the surrender Homelander had been hunting for. The admission that no matter where Hughie’s mind wandered, he remained at the center of it all.
"Good answer," Homelander groaned.
Just as Hughie’s breath began to hitch, his body tightening in anticipation of a climax that would grant him the mercy of oblivion, Homelander stopped.
The sudden cessation of movement was more jarring than the violence. Hughie let out a confused, strangled whine, his hips instinctively canting forward, chasing the friction that had just been stolen from him.
"Ah, ah," Homelander tutted, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. He held himself perfectly still, buried deep within the tight, wet heat of his husband, refusing to move even a millimeter. "Not so fast. You don't get to run away to your little happy place just yet."
"Homelander, fuck," Hughie gasped, tilting his head to glare up at Homelander, sweat dripping from his nose. "Don't be a prick. Finish it."
"Finish it?" Homelander laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated directly into Hughie’s spine. "But we’ve barely begun. You made me work so hard to get here, Hughie. You made me use force. It would be rude of me not to savor the spoils of war."
Homelander withdrew slowly, agonizingly so. He pulled back until he was nearly gone, leaving Hughie feeling hollow and desperate, before slowly sliding back in. But he didn't thrust. He glided. He moved with a glacial, torturous slowness that stretched every nerve ending to its breaking point.
Homelander resumed with a slow, maddening pace—in, hold, out, hold. It was a pleasurable torture, denying Hughie the rhythm he needed to peak, keeping him hovering on the edge of the cliff without letting him fall.
"This is me reminding you what happens when you try to lock the door against the owner of the house."
He looked down again, mesmerizing himself with the visual of the thrust. Every time he pushed inside, he felt Hughie’s internal muscles clamp down, trying to hold onto him, betraying the rebellion of his mind.
"Fuck you," Hughie choked out, his voice thin and reedy. "Just…move. Properly."
"Properly?" Homelander observed, his voice thick with lust. He leaned down, his bare chest slick with oil and sweat, pressing against Hughie’s front until they were a mess of sliding, hot skin."I’m moving exactly how I want to move, Hughie. I’m savoring the way you’re falling apart."
Slam.
Another slide to the hilt.
"Ahh!" Hughie cried out, tears streaming down his face, the fullness inside him was overwhelming. He was furious at his body for responding, furious at Homelander for knowing exactly how to break him, but mostly, he was furious at just how lost he was in the sensory overload.
Homelander reached down, his fingers slick with the mixture of rose oil and Hughie’s own precum, and began to stroke Hughie’s pretty length with a slow, agonizingly rhythmic thumb. "All that talk about the Prime Minister, about the fleet…and here you are, leaking for me. Pulsing for the monster."
"Don't," Hughie managed to gasp, his head lolling back as Homelander’s thumb circled the sensitive head of his cock. "Stop talking."
"Beg me," Homelander commanded softly. He stopped moving again, leaving Hughie trembling on the brink. "You wanted to fight? You wanted to make a scene about my orders? Fine. Now you pay the tax. Beg me to move. Beg me to fuck you properly."
"I…I can't," Hughie sobbed, his fingers clutching the sheets, his knuckles white against the silk. The slow, deep grinds of Homelander’s hips were systematically dismantling his cognitive function.
Hughie bit his lip until it bled. He wanted to refuse. He wanted to lie there in silence and deny Homelander the satisfaction. But the slow tortorous fuck left him starting with a starving emptiness that only Homelander could fill.
"Please," Hughie whispered, the word tearing out of his throat, shameful and sweet.
"Please what?"
"Please…move," Hughie sobbed, pushing his hips back, seeking the contact. "Please, John. Please. Don't stop. Please fuck me."
Homelander smiled, a terrible, triumphant thing. He leaned down, biting the shell of Hughie’s ear as he finally, finally let his hips snap forward with the force of a pile driver.
"As you command, my love."
The change in tempo was shattering. The slow, taunting torture dissolved into a feral, piston-like rhythm that plowed his mortal lover into the bed. The bed frame, reinforced steel disguised as antique mahogany, groaned under the sudden, escalation of force.
Hughie couldn't think. He couldn't formulate a rebuttal. The friction was a white-hot fire consuming his nervous system. Every thrust hit that sweet, ruined spot inside him, wringing pleasure out of him like water from a sponge. He was crying out openly now, a continuous, broken litany of his husband’s name.
"That’s it," Homelander growled, his voice rough, stripped of all regal pretension. He sounded breathless, raw. "Take it. Take all of it.”
"Homelander!!—ahhh!"
"I’m here," Homelander hissed, his hands caressing Hughie’s curls."I’m right here. I’m everywhere."
He slammed into Hughie one final, devastating time, grinding deep and holding there.
The climax hit Hughie with blinding and encompassing. He let out a silent, open-mouthed scream as his vision went white, his entire world narrowing down to the point where Homelander was buried inside him. He came in great, messy spurts against his own stomach, his body racking with violent, uncontrollable tremors, completely at the mercy of the sensation.
Homelander rode the wave of Hughie’s release. Feeling the internal spasms of his husband’s body hard clamp-down on his cock was the final trigger. With a low, guttural roar that vibrated through the entire room, he filled Hughie with a hot, pulsing torrent of his own cum, “Ahhhh, fuck, yes,” he roared, his eyes flaring bright red for a fraction of a second as he collapsed against Hughie’s sweat-soaked chest.
He didn't pull out right away. He pressed deeper, burying himself to the hilt, pouring his seed into Hughie with possessive finality. It felt hot, unnaturally so, spreading through Hughie like molten lava, marking him from the inside out.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the harsh, ragged breathing of two men and the hum of the clean air filter and ambient city sounds.
Homelander collapsed forward, his heavy, sweat-slicked weight pinning Hughie to the mattress. He buried his face in the crook of Hughie’s neck, inhaling deeply, the scent of sex and surrender calming the storm in his mind.
"Mine," Homelander mumbled against the damp skin, kissing the pulse that was still hammering wildly. "Mine. Mine. Mine. All mine."
Hughie lay limp, his limbs feeling like jelly. He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his eyes. The shame was already starting to creep back in, cold and sharp, warring with the lingering endorphins. He had fought so hard, only to end up exactly where Homelander wanted him: a trembling, sticky mess, filled and conquered.
"Get…get off," Hughie wheezed, though there was no heat in it. It was just habit.
"Mmm, no," Homelander hummed, sounding lazy and content, like a lion with a full belly. He dragged his nose up the column of Hughie’s neck, licking a bead of sweat. "I like it here. You’re warm."
He stayed there for another long minute, luxuriating in the afterglow, before finally, reluctantly, rolling off. He didn't go far. He immediately pulled Hughie into his arms, maneuvering them until Hughie was resting with his back against Homelander’s chest, the King arms wrapped tight around his waist.
It was the position of a protector. Homelander reached down, his hand splaying over Hughie’s stomach. "You were everything," he whispered, kissing the top of Hughie’s sweaty head. "You fought well. But we both knew how this ends."
Hughie stared at the far wall, at a painting of the signing of the Declaration of Independence that Homelander had commissioned, where the founding fathers looked suspiciously like members of The Seven.
"Does it?" Hughie asked, his voice raspy. He shifted slightly, wincing at the soreness between his legs and the lingering sting of his reddened ass. "Change anything?"
Homelander stiffened slightly behind him. The idyll was broken by the return of reality.
"You mean the Prime Minister," Homelander said, his tone cooling.
"I mean the attacked you ordered," Hughie corrected, though he leaned back into Homelander’s chest despite himself, seeking the warmth. "Homelander…please. I gave you what you wanted. I didn't lock the door. I…I surrendered."
"You did," Homelander agreed, his hand idly tracing patterns on Hughie’s abdomen. "And you were spectacular."
"So call it off," Hughie whispered. "Call off the fleet. Don't punish millions of people just to prove you own me. You proved it. You just proved it."
Homelander was silent for a moment. He reached out with his other hand, taking a glass of water from the bedside table.
"Drink," he commanded softly.
Hughie took a sip of the water, clearing his throat, then handed it back to him.
"Homelander."
"I can't recall the fleet, Hughie," Homelander said, his voice reasonable, as if explaining to a child why they couldn't have candy before dinner. "Like I said. It looks bad if I hesitate."
Hughie felt a pit open in his stomach. He tried to pull away, but Homelander’s arm tightened like a vice.
"However," Homelander continued, nuzzling into Hughie’s soft brown curls. "Because you were such a good boy tonight…because you let me in…I suppose I can alter the parameters of the mission."
Hughie stopped struggling. "Alter how?"
"No glassing the coast," Homelander conceded, sounding incredibly generous. "No orbital bombardment. Just a surgical strike. The Palace. And two key government buildings."
"And the Prime Minister?" Hughie asked, dreading the answer.
Homelander chuckled darkly. "Oh, he’s dead, Hughie. The moment he touched you, he was a dead man walking. My team is already moving to extract him. Publicly."
Hughie closed his eyes, a tear leaking out. He had saved the city, perhaps. He had saved the civilians. Julian was doomed, and it was entirely Hughie’s fault.
"That's…" Hughie choked, trying to find words, his mind searching for solutions. "That's murder."
"That's politics," Homelander corrected. He pulled the silk sheet up, tucking it tenderly around Hughie’s shoulders, cocooning them together. "And it's the price of doing business with me."
“Capture him alive,” Hughie demanded with renewed determination.
Homelander’s eyes, which had begun to glaze over with the heaviness of post-coital satisfaction, sharpened once again. “Why?”
Hughie’s mind raced, pulling at the threads of political strategy he’d learned in the vipers’ den of Vought halls. "Think about the allies we still have on the fence. If you assassinate a democratically elected leader after a state dinner, you’re a tyrant. You give them a reason to unite against you."
Homelander went still, his brow furrowing as he actually processed the thought. He loved being the center of the world, but he loved being the right center of the world even more.
He wanted to be loved as much as he was feared.
“So a prisoner then," Homelander mused, the words tasting like copper. "I could have him on his knees in front of the cameras. Begging for my forgiveness for ever laying a hand on what’s mine."
"Exactly," Hughie breathed. “You bring him in alive, and you show the world you’re a ruler who chooses not to strike, even when he has every right to.”
Homelander contemplated. He liked the idea of the Prime Minister groveling. He liked the idea of holding Julian’s life in a jar, to be shaken whenever he felt bored.
"Fine," Homelander grumbled, the sound like a shifting tectonic plate. “Prime Minister will be extracted. Intact. He’ll be place in a high-security wing by morning.”
He kissed Hughie’s cheek.
"Thank you," Hughie whispered, closing his eyes.
He lay there within the circle of Homelander’s possessive embrace, relieved.
He had bought Julian some time.
"Congratulations. You saved a country tonight with that adorable face and tight ass of yours," Homelander whispered, sounding genuinely proud. "You should be happy. You’re the real hero, Hughie."
The insult cut through the exhaustion. Hughie just reacted. He whipped around in the circle of Homelander’s arms, ignoring the soreness in his body, his hand flying out in a sharp, violent arc aimed squarely at that smug, invincible jawline.
It never connected, of course.
Homelander’s hand snapped up, a blur of motion faster than thought, catching Hughie’s wrist inches from his face. The force of the sudden stop rattled Hughie’s arm to the shoulder, but Homelander didn't squeeze. Instead, he smiled, that terrifying, genuine smile that meant he was truly enjoying himself.
"Predictable," Homelander hummed. He pulled the captured hand to his mouth, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to the center of Hughie’s palm, his lips moving against the lifeline there.
"Don't fucking talk to me like I'm a whore," Hughie hissed, his voice shaking with fury, trying to yank his hand back. "I am not a whore."
"I know," Homelander said, and this time, the patronizing edge was gone. His tone shifted, dropping into a lower, heavier register. He released Hughie’s wrist but immediately slid his hand up to cup the back of Hughie’s neck, his thumb stroking the pulse point. "I only said it to see if you were still in there. To see if I hadn't fucked the fight out of you completely."
“Asshole.”
Homelander didn’t counter that, instead leaning in closer, his blue eyes piercing, stripping Hughie bare in a way that had nothing to do with clothes.
"I know exactly what you are, Hughie. You think I keep you around just for this?" He gestured vaguely at the tangled sheets. "I can get this anywhere. I can snap my fingers and have a harem of Supes in here within the hour."
“But,” Hughie challenged.
Homelander raised his hand, brushing away a curl to tap a finger against Hughie’s temple.
"But it’s this," John whispered intensely. "This mind of yours. “The most dangerous thing in my arsenal. That’s what I actually listen to."
Hughie stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden candor.
"You manipulated me tonight, Hughie," Homelander continued, a flicker of impressed admiration in his eyes.
"You gave me exactly what I wanted physically so you could twist my arm politically. You negotiated a treaty while pinned to our bed. I expected nothing less from you."
"I didn't have a choice," Hughie argued, though his voice lacked its earlier bite.
"You always have a choice," Homelander corrected.
Homelander leaned forward and kissed Hughie’s forehead, a rare gesture of respect rather than possession. "That was pure statecraft at its finest. Besides, you never miss an opportunity challenge me, to make me think. The thrill of our game will forever excite me."
Hughie looked away, unable to hold the intensity of that gaze. It was almost worse when Homelander was like this, when he made sense, when he treated their toxic, intoxicating dynamic like a partnership of equals.
"I still don’t like it," Hughie mumbled, settling back against the pillows, drained.
"I know," Homelander smiled, pulling the silk sheet up to tuck it tenderly around Hughie’s waist. "And that’s what makes your advice so valuable."
He laid back down, pulling Hughie flush against his chest, locking him in for the night.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart," Homelander murmured, drifting off, his hand resting possessively over Hughie’s heart. "We have a big day tomorrow. You have that meeting with the stylist and you still need to pick an outfit that matches my cape for tomorrow’s ceremony. The lapel pin I ordered for you should also be coming in. The one with the gold eagle."
Hughie said nothing. He lay there in the dark, staring at the shadows on the wall, wondering how he was supposed to dismantle a monster who saw right through him, and loved him for it regardless.