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out-with-the-boys · 2 months ago

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The Dance- Epilogue

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

The nursery was quiet, save for the soft creak of the rocking chair and the gentle hum of the baby monitor perched on the dresser. Morgan sat in the dim light, her gaze fixed on the bundle cradled in her arms. Athena stirred, her small face scrunching briefly before relaxing again, her breath soft and even.

Six months. It felt both impossibly short and painfully long since the day Athena had been born. Morgan’s body still ached with the memory of it, her mind still tangled in the threads of that confrontation with Homelander. Every moment since had felt like walking a tightrope, carefully balanced between survival and freedom.

She brushed a thumb over Athena’s chubby cheek, marveling at how delicate she was, how impossibly small. And yet, despite her fragility, Athena’s presence felt powerful, her very existence a force that both grounded and unmoored Morgan.

A tiny hand curled around her finger, and Morgan felt it again—that subtle, unspoken echo of emotion that wasn’t her own. It was faint, like a whisper brushing the edges of her mind, but unmistakable. Athena wasn’t just feeling; she was reflecting.

Morgan exhaled, her chest tightening with equal parts awe and fear.

“You feel everything, don’t you?” she murmured, her voice soft. “Even when I wish you wouldn’t.”

Athena’s eyes opened, impossibly bright and focused, as if she understood. Morgan swallowed hard, the moment settling heavily on her. She had been afraid of this—of what Athena might inherit. Not just Homelander’s strength, but her own abilities, raw and untamed. Empathy could be a gift, but it could also be a curse, especially for someone so small, so vulnerable.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this,” Morgan whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to Athena’s forehead. “Not yet.”

The baby blinked up at her, her tiny features scrunching in concentration. And then, like a ripple across still water, Morgan felt it: warmth. Safety. Love. It wasn’t her own emotion, she realized, but Athena’s. A mirror of what she was giving her.

Morgan’s breath hitched, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the sheer enormity of it all, but in that moment, Athena’s simple, unspoken connection felt like both a balm and a burden.

“She gets that from you.”

She’d felt him before she heard him, his presence pressing gently against the edge of her awareness. She looked up, meeting his gaze as he leaned against the doorway.

John.

Not Homelander—not anymore. She had stripped that name from him as thoroughly as she’d stripped his autonomy, piece by careful piece. He stood there now as if the man he’d been had never existed, his expression soft and unguarded in a way that might have seemed real if she didn’t know better.

“She takes after you quite a bit, actually,” John said as he stepped into the room, his voice low and reverent. “And in more than just your good looks.”

Morgan let out a soft laugh before she turned her attention back to Athena, her fingers brushing against the baby’s soft strawberry blonde curls. “Do you want to hold her?”

He paused, just for a moment, to flash her a wide grin. “Of course.”

Carefully, she passed Athena into his arms, watching as his movements softened. He cradled the baby as though she were made of glass, his lips pressing into a faint, wistful smile.

Athena stirred, her tiny fingers brushing against his chest, and Morgan felt it again—that ripple, faint but undeniable. Wonder. Joy. Love. The same emotions she had felt reflected through Athena moments before.

“You’re strong,” John murmured, his voice soft and thick with emotion. “Stronger than I ever imagined.”

“She doesn’t need to be strong,” Morgan said quietly, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. “Not yet.”

He looked at her then, his blue eyes searching hers. “The world won’t wait,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You know that.”

Morgan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Of course, she knew. But that didn’t mean she was ready to let him shape Athena the way Vought had shaped him. That was why they had left—why she had made him leave.

Athena cooed softly, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of John’s shirt. Morgan watched him, her gaze sharp, assessing. He rocked her gently, his movements almost instinctive, and for a moment, Morgan allowed herself to believe that this—just this—might be enough.

“You’ll keep her safe,” she said finally, her voice soft but deliberate. “Won’t you, John?”

He glanced at her, his expression softening further. “Always.”

The words hung in the air like a promise, and Morgan felt her grip on him tighten—not physically, but in the quiet, unseen way that had become second nature. She reached out with her mind, threading her influence through his thoughts, subtle and unrelenting. His love for Athena. His trust in her. His fear of losing them both.

“You’re a good father,” she said, her voice low and warm. “You’ll always protect her.”

His shoulders relaxed, his body leaning slightly into her unspoken reassurance. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I know you will,” she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile. “That’s why I trust you.”

The lie came so easily now. She wondered if he could even tell the difference anymore—or if he even cared.

Morgan leaned back in the rocking chair, her eyes fixed on Athena as John continued to sway gently, his attention fully consumed by his tiny daughter in his arms. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in shades of gold and shadow. As the nursery fell silent, Morgan let herself exhale, her grip on John unyielding.

The dance continued, and for now, she was still leading.

Song: What a Wonderful World by 2WEi “And I think to myself, What a wonderful world.” Author’s notes: I just want to use this space to say thank you again. Thank you for reading, thanks for the kudos, and thanks for the comments. It was really encouraging to see you all engaging with my fic. This is the first fic I’ve actually written to completion, and it’s been such a fun project to work on. I look forward to writing future stories, and as I mentioned in the last chapter, a sequel may or may not be on the horizon.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 2 months ago

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The Dance- Chapter 30

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Pain.

Heavy and oppressive, it dragged Morgan back to consciousness in agonizing waves. Her first attempt to move was met with resistance, her body sluggish and heavy as though weighed down by lead. The faint hum of machines and the sterile scent of antiseptic crept into her awareness, pulling her further into reality.

Her eyes fluttered open, the harsh overhead lights stabbing into her vision. Blinking against the brightness, she struggled to orient herself. White walls. A heart monitor. IV lines running into her arm. The unmistakable trappings of a hospital room.

Her heart stuttered, panic clawing its way up her throat.

The baby.

She tried to move, but her limbs felt disconnected, weak and sluggish. She clenched her fists against the cool sheets, forcing her voice to rise above a whisper. “My baby...” she croaked, her voice raw and barely audible.

“She’s fine.”

The voice, smooth and unnervingly calm, froze her mid-breath. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she forced herself to focus until her gaze locked onto him.

Homelander.

He sat in a chair in the corner of the room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as though holding himself together. His steely blue eyes fixed on her, bright and sharp with an emotion she couldn’t immediately place. Relief, perhaps. Or something darker.

“The doctors are taking good care of her,” he said softly, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “You’ll see her soon.”

Morgan’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She wanted to believe him, but the sight of him—so composed, so calculated—sent her stomach twisting with anger.

“Why am I still here?” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

Homelander leaned back in his chair, slow and deliberate. “To make sure you’re okay.”

The door opened before she could respond. A nurse stepped inside, her polite smile practiced and professional as she approached the machines monitoring her vitals.

“I’m glad to see you awake finally. You’ve been through quite a lot,” the nurse said gently, adjusting the IV line. “Your body needs time to recover. Try not to push yourself too hard.”

Morgan’s gaze flicked between the nurse and Homelander, suspicion blooming in her chest. “How long?” she asked, her voice firmer. “How long have I been here?”

The nurse hesitated, glancing at Homelander as though seeking permission. At his subtle nod, she answered. “Two days. The delivery was... complicated. But you and the baby are stable now. That’s what matters.”

Stable.

The word felt hollow. Morgan clenched her jaw against the swell of frustration. Nothing about this situation felt stable—not her body, not her mind, and certainly not the man sitting across the room.

“Thank you,” he said smoothly, his tone a clear dismissal. The nurse nodded and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Morgan’s anger simmered beneath her exhaustion, a low burn that refused to be snuffed out.

“You’ve already spun the story, haven’t you?” she said finally, her voice sharp despite the strain. “What is it this time? Maternity leave? A small getaway while I convalesce? Something to keep the world convinced everything’s perfect?”

His expression tightened, but he didn’t flinch. “It’s not a story. You needed rest, and I made sure you got it.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, weak but cutting. “Rest? Is that what you call being locked away in Becca’s house? Forced to give birth under your watchful eye?”

His jaw twitched, the first crack in his calm facade. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice rising despite her exhaustion. “I do. You want control, Homelander. Over me. Over our baby. And now you’re scared because you don’t know what comes next.”

His eyes flashed, and for a moment she thought he might retaliate. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate.

“What comes next,” he said, “is up to you.”

Morgan’s lips parted in disbelief, a scoff catching in her throat. The idea that she had any control in this situation was laughable. Her hand twitched at her side, weak but curling into a fist.

“You’ve made a habit of deciding things for me,” she said, the venom in her words tempered only by the exhaustion she couldn’t shake. “Why stop now?”

Homelander tilted his head, studying her with unsettling intensity. “You’re not a prisoner here, Morgan,” he said, though his tone carried a note of warning. “I’ve given you everything you need. Protected you.”

“Protected me?” she hissed, her anger cutting through her fatigue like a blade. “From what, exactly? From Vought? From the world? Or just from myself?” She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You can dress it up however you want, but this isn’t protection.”

His expression darkened, his composure slipping just enough to reveal the storm brewing beneath. “Do you think this has been easy for me? Watching you risk everything—for what? To run away? To throw your life away?” he asked, his voice rising slightly.

Morgan’s voice dropped, low and sharp like the edge of a knife. “I was trying to save myself. And her.”

Homelander’s jaw tightened, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes quickly replaced by something colder, more calculated. He stood, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over her bed.

“You don’t seem to grasp the gravity of your situation,” he said, his voice icy now. “Do you think the world would be so forgiving if they knew what happened in Paris? What you did?”

She flinched, the memory of the devastation flashing through her mind like lightning. The screams. The destruction. The unbearable silence that followed. It all lingered, just beneath the surface, waiting to pull her under.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, her voice trembling but resolute. “Don’t you dare use that against me.”

“I’m not using anything against you, Morgan,” Homelander said, his tone smooth and deliberate. “I already told you, I’m protecting you. If the world knew the full extent of your powers, if everyone found out what you’re capable of—what you’ve done—do you really think they’d care about the context? They’d rip you apart.”

Morgan clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as her anger boiled over. “And you’d let them, wouldn’t you? If it meant keeping me under your thumb.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You think you can survive without me? Out there, you’re nothing but a liability. They’d eat you alive.”

Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, her anger momentarily eclipsing the ache in her body. “Liability?” she said, her voice laced with venom. “I wasn’t a liability until you and Vought decided I couldn’t leave. Paris happened because you made it happen.”

Homelander’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. “You don’t get to absolve yourself of what happened there,” he said, his voice tight. “You—”

“I’m not,” Morgan snapped, cutting him off. “I know what I did. But don’t pretend you don't have blood on their hands too. Vought sent their agents after me. They’re the ones who knocked out my regulator. And you...” She fixed him with a pointed glare. “You let them.”

He flinched, ever so slightly, but quickly recovered. “Nobody could have known that would happen,” he said, though the defensive edge in his voice betrayed him.

“You didn’t care,” she countered. “As long as you got what you wanted.”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, Homelander didn’t respond. He simply stared at her, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides.

Morgan’s voice softened, but the edge in her tone remained razor-sharp. “You talk about protecting me like it was some kind of noble act. Like it wasn’t all about you. But you didn’t stop them, did you? You didn’t even try.”

His mouth opened, then closed, his jaw tightening as though he were biting back a retort. The silence between them stretched, heavy and oppressive. She could see the wheels turning in his mind, his struggle to reconcile her words with the narrative he’d constructed for himself.

But she also knew he wouldn’t admit it. Not fully. The walls in his mind, built on years of ego and fear, were impenetrable. He would never apologize, never take accountability. Not the way she needed him to.

He wouldn’t even look at her now. He turned his back to her and fixed his gaze on some distant point, his posture rigid with barely contained tension. She realized with a sinking certainty that words wouldn’t be enough. Not with him. Not anymore.

Morgan’s fingers curled weakly into the sheets, the tremor in her hands spreading through her body. She felt the familiar crackle of her power beneath her skin, and her chest tightened with the weight of what she was about to do.

This was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But he wasn’t giving her a choice.

Her breath came faster now, ragged and uneven as she stared at him, willing him to turn back to her. “You think you’re untouchable,” she said, her voice quieter now, trembling under the strain of her exhaustion. “That nobody can hold you accountable. But deep down, you’re just as scared as I am. Maybe more.”

Homelander’s gaze hardened, and he finally looked at her, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, his voice low, almost dangerous.

Morgan let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You should be,” she said, her voice like ice. “Because I don’t know what I’m capable of. Not yet.”

The words lingered, heavy and suffocating, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something shift in his expression. It was something fragile and fleeting. But his gaze flicked away, his posture stiffening as he turned his back to her once more.

It was the final blow to her resolve.

Her hands curled tighter into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she steeled herself. She drew in a shaky breath, her power flaring just beneath the surface, and reached out with her mind.

She felt it immediately: his thoughts, the maelstrom of anger, fear, and denial roiling just beneath his carefully controlled facade. It felt cold and invasive, wrong in every way that mattered, but she pushed forward, threading her presence into the cracks of his consciousness.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever been scared?” she said, her voice trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the effort it took to mask what she was doing. “The only one who’s ever had to fight to survive?”

Homelander didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch.

Morgan pressed deeper, her influence subtle but insistent, like a shadow creeping into the corners of his mind. She didn’t force him. Not yet. She didn’t need to. He was already unraveling, his defenses weakening under the weight of her words.

Her fingers twitched against the sheets as she felt his thoughts twist beneath her influence. For one terrible moment, she thought of stopping. She thought of leaving him with his walls intact. But the weight of her daughter’s fragile future anchored her resolve. She pushed deeper.

“You’re not invincible,” she continued, her tone sharper now, more deliberate. “You think you are, but I know better. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.”

Turn around.

It wasn’t a command, not entirely. It was a suggestion, a whisper woven into the storm of his mind, gentle but undeniable. She felt him shift, his shoulders twitching as though he’d felt a phantom touch.

“You’re so goddamn afraid,” she said, her voice gaining a desperate edge. “Afraid that if you let go—if you stop controlling everything—you’ll lose yourself. That you’ll lose her.”

Please, turn around.

His head tilted slightly, and for a moment, she thought he might resist. But then, slowly, he turned to face her, his expression guarded, his eyes searching hers.

Morgan’s pulse thundered in her ears, her breath catching in her throat. He didn’t realize it, but he was already listening. Her influence coiled around him like smoke, subtle but unrelenting, and she hated how easy it was, how natural it felt to guide him.

“You think you’re protecting us,” she said, her voice quieter now, though the tremor in her tone betrayed her unease. “But you’re not. You’re suffocating us. And if you don’t listen, you’re going to lose everything.”

His breath hitched, his fists clenching at his sides. She felt the storm in his mind, the roiling chaos of pride, fear, and the desperate need for control. She felt his resistance, too, sharp and bitter, but it was weakening.

“You’re not them,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of determination and guilt. “You don’t have to be like them. You can be better. You can let her be free.”

Her influence tightened around him, gentle but firm, like a hand guiding him through the darkness. His breathing slowed, the tension in his shoulders easing as her words sank in.

For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his gaze locked onto hers as though trying to discern if her words were truly her own.

“I just...” he started, his voice barely audible, raw with something she couldn’t name. “I just want her to be safe.”

“She will be,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “But only if you let her. Only if you just listen to me.”

Slowly, he stepped closer, his movements hesitant, almost unsure. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, she saw the flicker of something she hadn’t expected: trust.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice soft and unsure.

Morgan’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against his. “You don’t have to do it alone,” she said, her voice steady despite the guilt gnawing at her.

He nodded, just once, his grip tightening around her hand as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

And as the tension in the room finally eased, Morgan withdrew from his mind, her influence fading like the retreating tide. The weight of what she’d done settled heavily on her shoulders, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the forged truce they’d come to.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t right. But this was how it had to be.

Checkmate.

Song: Turning Page by Sleeping at Last “If I had only felt, How it feels to be yours.” Author’s notes: The title of this final chapter carries quite a lot of irony. The song is all about connection, vulnerability, and love. While Morgan is driven by love, deep, deep down, this chapter reflected the darker, messier side of those feelings. She was never going to admit defeat, but now she’s clawed her way through, and sacrificed pieces of herself in the process. The title of the fic too, repeats the lyrics “Why can’t you take me in your arms now?” The way I perceive Homelander, I never saw him changing truly for Morgan. Not without her direct influence anyway. Honestly, at that moment she resolves to use her powers on him as that turn to the dark side for her. I always intended for her to be corrupted by him in some way, and this is how it turned out for her. So this is the final chapter, but I definitely feel their story is far from over. I do have an epilogue on the way, and I have been toying pretty heavily with the idea of a sequel. I’m so glad you’ve stuck with me this far. How does a sequel feel? Yea? Nay? I’d love to hear from you.

Epilogue

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 2 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 29

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ Content Warning: Readers who may be sensitive to themes of birth-related trauma or medical distress are advised to proceed with caution. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Morgan jolted awake, her breath coming in shallow gasps. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The last thing she had been aware of were the screams of thousands in her mind before they were abruptly silenced. Then she felt the weight of the blanket on her legs, the soft hum of the heater in the corner, and she remembered: Becca’s house. Her prison. Paris was a long way behind her now.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face, trying to block out the afterimages of her nightmare. She hadn’t meant for it to happen—hadn’t even known her power could stretch so far, so uncontrollably. But that didn’t matter to the people who had lost their lives, nor to the world still reeling from the fallout.

Morgan swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the cold wood floor grounding her. Her body felt heavy, her head clouded with the remnants of the dream. She rested a hand on her stomach, her thumb brushing the soft fabric of her sleep shirt.

But I’m still here. The sentiment was supposed to be a comfort, but she wasn’t entirely sure it was.

Pushing herself up, she made her way to the bathroom. Frowning at her reflection, she tried to ignore a tightness that had formed in her stomach. For a moment she feared it might have been a contraction, but it was too mild. Too soon even. She was at least a month away from her projected due date.

It had to be the guilt tugging at her. The guilt that had been tugging at her for several weeks now.

You’re fine, she told herself. You’re still here.

The morning routine felt like her last remaining semblance of control. She brushed her hair slowly, counting the strokes, focusing on the repetitive motion. When she moved into the kitchen to make her morning tea, her hands didn’t shake as much. But the silence of the house pressed against her, heavy and suffocating.

As she sat at the kitchen table, the steam from her tea curled upward, a faint ribbon of warmth in the cold, quiet house. Morgan’s fingers traced the edge of the mug absently, her mind drifting. It was easier to focus on the small things—the hum of the heater, the warmth of her tea, the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall—than to face the thoughts clawing at the edges of her mind.

I’m still here, she thought again, trying to make herself believe it. But the silence pressed in too heavily. Her thoughts strayed to Paris, unbidden. The screams. The raw power that had burst out of her, so much larger than she’d ever known she could unleash. She shuddered, her hand instinctively going to her abdomen.

The baby shifted beneath her palm, a small, rolling reminder of life amid all the destruction. It was a comforting feeling, but also a reminder of everything still left undone. She had tried to escape, tried to carve out a place where she and her child could be safe, but the guilt weighed her down like iron chains. Paris. Becca and Ryan. Homelander. All of it pulled her under like a riptide she couldn’t fight.

She set the mug down, her appetite for tea gone. Rising from the table, she told herself she’d feel better if she moved. She reached for the broom to sweep up the corner of the kitchen where a few crumbs had gathered, but the sharp pain came out of nowhere, doubling her over.

Morgan gasped, clutching the edge of the table as the pain lingered, low and deep. Her mind raced to rationalize it. A pulled muscle. Maybe an aggressive practice contraction. But the warmth spreading down her legs told her otherwise.

She glanced down, her breath catching when she saw the dark red stain spreading across the front of her pajama pants.

“No,” she whispered, panic rising in her chest. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. Her mind scrambled to focus, to think, but all she could feel was the rush of fear and the pounding of her heart.

“Not now. Please, not now.”

Forcing herself upright, one hand clutched the edge of the table while the other pressed against her abdomen. Her breaths came fast and shallow, the pain growing sharper with each passing second. She glanced toward the nearest camera mounted in the corner of the room, its unblinking red light staring back at her. Someone was always watching. Someone had to be watching.

“Help!” Morgan shouted, her voice cracking. She braced herself against the table as another wave of pain tore through her. “Something’s wrong!” Her voice rose, desperate, as she stumbled toward the nearest wall, hoping to catch the camera’s attention. “Do you hear me? I need help!”

Her shouts echoed through the empty house with no immediate response. Her panic mounted, vision blurring as she fought to keep herself upright. She knew how this worked. The feeds were constantly monitored from Seven Tower—there was no way they wouldn’t see her like this. Unless…

“Don’t you dare ignore me,” she hissed through gritted teeth, locking eyes with the camera. Her tone shifted, low and commanding despite the fear clawing at her chest. “Do something.”

Finally, a tinny chime broke the silence, followed by the clipped voice of a Vought representative crackling over the intercom.

“Morgan,” the voice was calm, clinical. Female. It had to be Doctor Foster. “What seems to be the problem?”

“What seems to be the—” Morgan’s voice broke into a sharp, bitter laugh before she doubled over again, clutching her stomach. “I’m bleeding,” she spat, her panic barely contained. “It’s too soon. The baby—” Her words faltered as she bit down on a cry of pain. “I need—” Another gasp. “I need help. Now.”

There was a pause on the other end, and Morgan’s nails dug into the table as frustration and terror mixed in her chest.

“We’re dispatching emergency services,” Doctor Foster replied. “Remain where you are and try to stay calm.”

Then the intercom went silent. Morgan staggered back toward the kitchen table, sinking to her knees as she cradled her stomach. A cold sweat broke across her brow as she forced herself to breathe through the pain.

Just hold on, she thought again, squeezing her eyes shut. Please, just hold on a little longer.

Opening her eyes, her vision still blurry, she forced herself upright. Every movement sent sharp bolts of pain through her body, but she couldn’t afford to collapse—not yet. Somehow, she managed to get to her feet with what little strength she had left and made her way to the sofa. Clinging to consciousness, she laid down and waited for help to arrive.

It was impossible to keep track of how much time passed before the door swung open, and a team of medics in Vought uniforms poured into the room, their faces concealed behind masks. The pain she felt was so immense, she hadn’t even realized she could hear their thoughts as they had approached the house. She had simply chalked it up to delusion by the time she heard them.

“We’re here to help,” one of them announced, their tone clipped and professional as they set down a stretcher. “Stay as still as you can.”

She managed a weak nod, her fingers digging into the edge of the sofa as a contraction ripped through her. A low groan escaped her lips, and she felt her resolve beginning to crack.

One of the medics knelt beside her, their gloved hands hovering just inches away from her abdomen. “We need to move you onto the stretcher. Can you stand?”

Morgan tried to respond, but her body refused to cooperate. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the medic’s arms, the world tilting dangerously around her.

“She’s unstable,” another voice called out from behind her. “Blood loss is significant. We need to get her to the nearest hospital immediately.”

She felt herself being lifted onto the stretcher, her body jostled slightly as they adjusted the straps to secure her in place. As they wheeled her toward the door, she caught a glimpse of the camera mounted in the corner. Its red light still unblinking, a silent observer to her helplessness.

Homelander knows. He has to.

The thought both comforted and terrified her. She closed her eyes as the warm morning sun hit her skin. It was the first time she had been outside in months. That thought might have angered her more, if it wasn’t for the fact that she and her baby were in mortal danger.

Inside the ambulance, the medics worked quickly, their voices a blur as they relayed her condition over the radio. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the world around her growing hazy. But even in her disoriented state, she felt the gravity of what was happening.

Her baby was coming, too soon and under the worst possible circumstances.

Just hold on a little longer, she thought, clutching at the edges of her awareness. I can’t lose you too. Not now.

After briefly losing consciousness, Morgan woke briefly to the blinding glare of fluorescent lights, her vision swimming as unfamiliar voices surrounded her. The antiseptic smell of the hospital stung her nose, and her body felt like it was being pulled under, heavy and uncooperative.

“She’s losing too much blood,” a voice said sharply. “We need to prep for an emergency C-section—now!”

The words barely registered. Her thoughts were consumed by the dull, unrelenting pain and the overwhelming fear that had burrowed into her chest.

“Ms. Daly, stay with us,” someone urged, their voice cutting through the haze. A hand pressed against her shoulder, keeping her still. “We’re going to do everything we can for you and the baby.”

The baby. The reminder sent a fresh jolt of panic through her, clearing her vision for a fleeting moment. Morgan tried to speak, to ask if her baby was okay, but her throat felt raw, her voice caught somewhere between her mind and her lips.

And then she felt it—a presence, unmistakable, suffocating in its intensity.

Homelander.

Her head turned weakly toward the door, and there he was, standing like a phantom at the edge of the chaos. His face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made the air around her feel heavier.

“You can’t be in here,” one of the doctors snapped, stepping in his path.

Homelander didn’t react, his focus solely on Morgan. “What’s happening to her?” he demanded, his voice low but trembling with barely-contained fear.

“She’s in critical condition,” the doctor said. “If you want either of them to survive, you need to leave and let us work.”

For a moment, Homelander didn’t move. He stood frozen, his usual arrogance stripped away, replaced by something raw and desperate. Morgan could feel it radiating from him—an overwhelming mixture of anger, fear, and helplessness.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. “Please, let him stay.”

The doctor hesitated for a beat, glancing between Morgan and Homelander. “Fine,” she relented, her voice clipped. “But you stay out of our way. If this becomes a problem, you’re out. Understood?”

Homelander didn’t reply, his gaze locked on Morgan as he moved to her side. His hand hovered uncertainly over hers before finally resting against her wrist. The touch was tentative, almost fragile—so unlike the man she had come to know.

Morgan looked up at him, her vision still swimming. “You’re here,” she murmured, her lips barely forming the words.

“I’m here,” he replied, his voice quiet but firm. For once, there was no arrogance, no bravado—only raw, unfiltered emotion. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The doctors worked quickly, their voices sharp and precise as they prepared for the surgery. Morgan’s breathing hitched as another wave of pain rolled through her, and she gripped Homelander’s hand instinctively. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. His fingers tightened around hers, grounding her as the room spun around them.

“Ms. Daly, we’re going to administer anesthesia now,” one of the doctors said, her voice calm but urgent. “You’ll feel some pressure, but you shouldn’t feel pain.”

She nodded weakly, her grip on Homelander’s hand the only thing keeping her tethered to the moment. She wanted to say something—to thank him, maybe, or to beg him to protect their child if she couldn’t—but the words wouldn’t come.

After several tension-filled minutes the muted cries of the newborn filled the room, cutting through the silence like a fragile thread of hope. Homelander’s breath hitched, his eyes fixed on the tiny, wriggling form in the doctor’s hands. The baby—his daughter—was impossibly small, her cries weak but persistent.

“She’s breathing,” one of the nurses said, relief evident in her voice. “But she’ll need to go to the NICU immediately.”

Morgan could feel Homelander’s mixture of pride and fear as he watched the nurses carefully wrap the baby in a warm blanket. He reached out as if to touch her, but hesitated, his hand hovering mid-air.

“Sir,” a nurse interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. “We need to take her now.”

The voices around her blurred, rising and falling like waves crashing against a distant shore. Morgan struggled to hold on, her vision narrowing to the harsh fluorescent light above her. Every breath felt heavier, her body sinking further into the cold table beneath her.

Then she heard it—the sharp, erratic beeping of the monitors beside her. The calm precision of the medical team shattered, replaced by frantic motion and hurried voices.

“She’s crashing!” someone shouted, their voice cutting through the haze. “We’re losing her.”

Her eyelids fluttered as she turned her head weakly, just enough to see Homelander standing frozen at her side. His hand slipped from hers, and she felt its absence like a thread snapping. The tension in the air was suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she could feel his fear radiating through the room, sharp and overwhelming.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, his voice tight and rising with panic. “What are you doing to her?”

“Sir, you need to leave,” the lead doctor’s voice broke through the chaos, clipped and firm. “Now.”

Homelander didn’t move. “No!” he growled, his voice rough with anger and something else she couldn’t quite place. “I’m not leaving her—”

“Get him out of here!” the doctor barked, her voice cracking with urgency. “We need to save her!”

Morgan’s world narrowed further, her awareness slipping in and out like static on a broken radio. But she caught one last fragment before the darkness pulled her under:

“Don’t let her die,” Homelander’s voice, low and raw, pierced through her fading consciousness. It lingered, fragile and unfamiliar, as everything else fell away.

Song: Holding Out for a Hero by Nothing but Thieves “Somewhere just beyond my reach, There’s someone reaching back for me.” Author’s notes: Welcome to the other side of it folks. This chapter was actually a bit of a struggle for me, after some of my own struggles with birth-related trauma. That said, it was also very important to me. I’m so ready for the next chapter though. Between Morgan’s past trauma with losing her baby, and Homelander’s myriad of family related traumas, they’re in for a deep conversation with heavy topics. And that’s before all the other bullshit they’ve been up to recently as well! Hope to see you next chapter! Thanks for reading.

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc #content warnings without spoiling shit is hard #let me know if i should be less vague

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 28

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

The television cast a dim glow across the small living room. Morgan sat on the sofa, her legs crossed on the plush cushions, a hand resting protectively over the swell of her belly. A news anchor’s voice played from the speakers, clipped, urgent—detailing yet another ripple from the evidence Mallory had finally brought forward.

Things must have been too chaotic after the incident in Paris for her to throw the book at Vought until then.

“Breaking tonight: Former Vought International CEO, Stan Edgar, has been taken into federal custody pending investigation into charges of corporate corruption, unethical experimentation, obstruction of justice…”

The anchor’s words faded into the background as a clip of Edgar being escorted in handcuffs played on the screen. His expression was as impassive as ever, a mask of control even in defeat. Morgan felt a pang of satisfaction watching the man who had orchestrated so much of her misery brought low. But it was fleeting. Even with him gone, she was still trapped.

The segment shifted, the anchor’s tone darkening as she addressed another piece of breaking news. “Sources confirm that Victoria Neuman, allegedly super-abled and deeply embroiled in the Vought scandal, has not been seen since the release of this damning evidence…”

Morgan exhaled shakily. Neuman’s disappearance wasn’t surprising—she’d seen this coming. It was the inevitability of it all that unsettled her. Vought was no longer the unshakable monolith it once was. The cracks were showing, widening with every passing day. Public protests were spreading. Shareholders were fleeing. And yet, Morgan knew that Vought’s fall from grace didn’t guarantee her freedom—or safety.

The baby shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible movement beneath her hand, and Morgan murmured, “We’re not out of this yet, are we?”

The familiar chime of an incoming video call jolted her out of her thoughts. It was only a matter of time before Homelander called. As the news feed disappeared, there was a brief moment the tv screen went dark and she caught her reflection, faintly visible.

Exhaustion etched deep lines into her features. She didn’t recognize herself anymore—not the quiet scientist who had once dreamed of building something meaningful, nor the confident new member of The Seven who had tried her best to navigate Vought’s treacherous waters. Now, she was someone else entirely—someone caught in the storm she’d helped unleash.

Morgan let out a long breath before answering the call. She didn’t want to, but she knew ignoring him wouldn’t stop him. If anything, it would only make things worse. After another moment Homelander’s face appeared on the screen, his eyes sharp and calculating, but there was something else there—fatigue. His mask of control was cracking, just like the company he likely now ruled.

“You look cozy,” he began, his tone tight, almost mocking. “All settled in while the rest of us deal with the fallout. Must be nice.”

Morgan didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re the one who wanted me imprisoned here, remember?” she replied, keeping her voice steady. “Safe. Comfortable. Out of the way.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Finally, he said, “I didn’t want you locked up. I wanted you out of harm’s way.”

“Feels like the same thing from where I’m sitting.” She gestured to the room around her. “I can’t leave, I can’t talk to anyone, and I’m being watched. Sounds like a prison to me.”

Homelander leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he said, his voice dropping, quieter but no less dangerous. “Acting like you’re the victim in all this?”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose, somehow, you are in all of this?” she asked, keeping her tone calm, though her pulse quickened.

His expression darkened, the faintest flicker of doubt or betrayal crossing his face. “You think I couldn’t figure it all out? Edgar. Becca and Ryan. You had your hands in all of it, didn’t you?” He paused, his voice sharpening.

Her stomach twisted, but she refused to flinch. “You’ve lost a lot of people lately,” she said softly. “That doesn’t mean it’s my fault.”

“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped, his voice rising. “You think I don’t know how you operate? You get inside people’s heads, make them see what you want them to see, do what you want them to do. Even without your powers, you’ve been toying with all of us since the beginning.”

She held his gaze, her face calm even as her pulse thundered in her ears. “Edgar made his own mistakes. And Becca? She never wanted any of what happened to her. She wanted out from day one. I didn’t have to manipulate anyone for any of that to happen.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You are such a goddamn hypocrite.” he said, his tone cold and cutting. “You’ve been playing everyone in your own way. You manipulate everyone you touch, Morgan. You’ve even got me questioning my own decisions.”

Morgan scoffed. “Maybe you should be questioning them,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding. “Because right now, all I see is someone trying to hold onto power at any cost. Even if it means destroying everyone around you.”

For a moment, the silence between them was deafening. His expression flickered, the weight of her words sinking in despite his best efforts to dismiss them.

“You don’t understand,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everything and still feel like it’s never enough. To lose everything and have no one left.”

Her chest tightened, the raw vulnerability in his voice cutting through her defenses. For a moment, the anger she had felt toward him softened, replaced by something more complex. She recognized the loneliness in his words, the gnawing emptiness he tried so hard to mask with power and control. It wasn’t so different from the isolation that had been wearing on her these past weeks.

“You think I don’t know what that feels like?” she asked quietly, her voice softer now. “To have everything and still feel like you’re losing yourself? To wake up every day wondering if the choices you made were worth it?”

His gaze sharpened, the faintest flicker of recognition passing through his expression. “And what would you know about that?” he muttered, but there was no real venom in his voice.

Morgan exhaled slowly, her fingers curling over the swell of her belly. “I know what it’s like to lose pieces of yourself, bit by bit, until you don’t even recognize the person staring back at you. I know what it’s like to be trapped, to have your life picked apart and rebuilt into something you don’t even want. And I know what it’s like to be alone. Even when you’re surrounded by people who claim to care.”

Homelander’s eyes darted away from the screen for a moment before snapping back to hers. “I didn’t want this for you,” he said, his voice low, and soft. “I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

Her throat tightened, and she fought to keep her voice steady. “I know,” she said softly. “But the harder you hold on, the more you push me away.”

The silence between them was heavy, charged with something neither of them could name. For the first time, Morgan saw the cracks in his armor for what they were—not weakness, but pain. He had built himself up to be untouchable, invincible, but underneath it all, he was just as human as she was. Just as lost.

“You don’t have to lose everything,” she said finally, her voice trembling but resolute. “But you have to stop trying to control it all. You can’t hold the whole world in your hands, Homelander. And you don’t have to.”

His expression flickered, a storm of emotions crossing his face—anger, confusion, vulnerability. He leaned closer to the camera, his voice barely above a whisper. “And what am I supposed to do, Morgan? Just let it all go? Let you go?”

She swallowed hard, her chest aching with the weight of the moment. “Maybe. Maybe you start by letting me breathe.”

Homelander didn’t respond right away. His eyes searched hers through the screen, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning in her words. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive.

“You make it sound so easy,” he said finally, his voice quiet but laced with bitterness. “Just… letting go. But you don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world expect everything from you. To be the answer to every problem. And when you can’t be—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Her voice was steady but soft. “You think I don’t understand expectations? I was brought into The Seven to control you. To keep the world safe from its greatest weapon. Do you know what kind of pressure that is? To know that everyone sees you as nothing more than a leash?” She shook her head. “You’re not the only one who feels trapped by what people want from you.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw still tight as her words settled between them. “You think you’re some kind of martyr?” he asked, his voice sharp and biting. “Like you’ve had it worse than me? You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed. What I’ve endured.”

Her lips curved into a bitter smile. “You’re right,” she said, her voice quiet but cutting. “I don’t know what it’s like to be you. To have the world worship you one day and turn against you the next. To have all that power and still feel completely powerless. But you know what, Homelander? At least you chose this.”

He flinched, just slightly, but she caught it.

“You chose to embrace what Vought made you,” she continued, her voice rising. “You chose to play their game, to revel in their lies, to become the face of everything they stood for. But me? I didn’t get a choice. I was brought into this mess because you couldn’t be trusted to control yourself.”

The words hit their mark, and for a moment, Homelander’s expression was unreadable. Then his lips curled into a humorless smile, his eyes cold.

“You’re walking a very fine line,” he warned, his voice low and lethal.

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. “I’ve been walking that line since the day I joined The Seven,” she said, her voice hard. “And every step I’ve taken has been to survive you. Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim here.”

The silence that followed was deafening. For a moment, she thought he might lash out, might unleash the full force of his fury. But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable once more.

“Did you ever really care, then?” he asked, something barely restrained roiling just below the surface of his controlled mask. “Everything was just for show then?”

Morgan froze, the question striking deeper than she expected. Her mind raced, torn between the truth and the lie she’d been telling herself for weeks. She opened her mouth to answer but hesitated, the weight of his gaze pinning her in place.

“I…” she began, her voice faltering. She looked away, her fingers tightening instinctively over the swell of her belly. “It’s not that simple.”

Homelander’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “It is that simple,” he snapped. “Either you cared or you didn’t. Either you felt something real, or you were just playing me like everyone else.”

She exhaled shakily, her heart pounding in her chest. “I cared,” she admitted softly, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. “I still care. But that doesn’t change anything.”

“And why doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice breaking. He immediately tried to regain his composure, but that small crack in his facade didn’t escape her. For just a moment, she could see that small boy from his memories again. All he’d ever wanted was love and approval, and it had been denied him time and time again.

And here she was continuing the cycle.

Morgan’s throat tightened, her mind racing as she held his gaze. She wanted to hate him—needed to, for her own sanity. But seeing that flicker of vulnerability, that small, broken part of him that had never stopped yearning for connection, made it almost impossible.

“You think it’s easy for me?” she said finally, her voice trembling. “You think I don’t feel guilty every single day for how this turned out? For leaving you? But I couldn’t stay, Homelander. I couldn’t become another person in your life who fed into the lies and the chaos. That’s not love.”

His expression shifted, the anger draining from his face for just a moment, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “Then what is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like you gave up.”

She flinched at the accusation, her chest tightening with the weight of his words. “I didn’t give up,” she said, her voice firm but quiet. “I chose myself. For once, I chose what was best for me.”

Once more, his expression hardened. The disdain in his cold, blue eyes was almost palpable as he sneered. “And look where that got you.”

The screen went black before she could respond, leaving her staring at her own reflection once again. Her chest ached, her thoughts a tangled mess of doubt and determination. With a tremulous exhale, her hand drifted to her belly.

She wasn’t sure how long she could keep this up.

But she had to.

Song: Falling Apart by Michael Schulte “Try to untie from an old life, But it always drags me down.” Author’s notes: Ya girl is going through it. The consistent push and pull between these two is such an interesting dynamic to me. While Morgan’s powers don’t make her an ‘Empath’ she definitely feels so much empathy toward him just from what she’s gleaned from his memories. It really makes it hard for her to look at her situation with a strictly logical lens. Homelander is so not good for her (and that’s why I have too much fun writing this) but she’s still pulled in his direction. Anyways, that’s enough commentary from me. Thanks for reading! See you next chapter!

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 27

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Morgan awoke to the gentle hum of the house, a sound so consistent it had started to seep into her dreams. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The same ceiling she’d woken up to for weeks now. Two? Three?

Time blurred in this gilded cage, the days marked only by the routine she’d forced on herself to stay sane. Read. Mild exercise. Tinker with whatever gadgetry she could get her hands on. Repeat. A hollow rhythm to drown out the aching silence.

The house had been designed for safety, or so she had been told. Its locks and security cameras were for protection, not surveillance. The fact that she couldn’t break through the shuttered windows or doors, no matter what she hurled at them with her telepathy told her otherwise.

If that hadn’t been big enough of a hint, it was especially apparent with the last restock of her food stores. Any time Vought felt the need to check on her, or make sure she had all the bare necessities, they flooded the house with halothane gas. They at least had the decency to warn her a few minutes beforehand so she had a comfortable place to land when she was knocked unconscious.

A soft chime pulled her from her thoughts, and she had to heave a sigh. He was like clockwork with his morning calls.

“Rise and shine, Morgan,” Homelander’s tone was deceptively gentle, the kind of soft that carried a warning underneath. “You’re still in bed?”

She rolled her eyes and rolled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the floor. She didn’t bother replying. He didn’t need her to.

Shuffling downstairs and into the kitchen, she ignored the faint static buzz that followed her through the house. His voice came again, this time piped through the ceiling speakers.

“Breakfast yet?” There was a forced lightness to the question, as if he were trying to sound casual. He wasn’t.

Morgan didn’t answer. Instead, she opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of orange juice, pouring herself a glass with deliberate slowness. She could practically hear the strain in his silence, the weight of his irritation growing with every second she refused to engage.

“Morgan,” Homelander said again, sharper now. “Are you even listening to me?”

She leaned back against the counter, glass in hand, and looked up at the corner of the kitchen where a camera blinked its red light at her. She forced her lips into a tight, humorless smile.

“Loud and clear,” she said finally. Her voice dripped with the kind of faux sweetness she knew would grate on him. “It’s hard to miss you when you’re everywhere.”

The silence that followed was heavier than she expected. For a moment, she wondered if he’d disconnected—or worse, if he’d decided to show up in person. But then his voice returned, softer, more measured.

“You know, I make time to check in with you because I care.” The words hung in the air, brittle and disingenuous. “This isn’t easy for me either, Morgan.”

She scoffed quietly into her glass. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”

His laugh was low and cold, barely more than a huff of breath. “Careful.”

The word was a warning, sharp and final. Morgan swallowed her retort, letting the moment hang between them. Pushing him too far, too fast, never ended well. She’d learned that the hard way.

“What do you want, Homelander?” she asked finally, her tone flat. “Because if it’s just to remind me that you care, we’ve had this conversation a dozen times already.”

There was a pause, and she could picture the tight clench of his jaw, the way his fists might curl at his sides. Then he spoke again, quieter this time, but with a strange edge to his voice.

“I want you to tell me you’re okay.”

The unexpected sincerity in his words caught her off guard. For a fleeting moment, she almost believed him. Almost.

She set the empty glass down on the counter, leaning her weight against it. “I’m fine,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, not entirely, but it wasn’t the truth either.

“Good,” he said, and there was an unmistakable note of relief in his tone. “I’ll check in later.”

The connection cut off abruptly, leaving Morgan alone with the silence again. She stared at the blinking red light in the corner of the room, her stomach twisting with frustration.

Morgan stayed in the kitchen for a while after the call ended, her fingers drumming idly against the counter. The silence crept back in, heavy and thick, pressing on her chest. She let out a slow breath and forced herself to move, carrying the empty glass to the sink. The mundane act grounded her, if only for a moment.

Her gaze flicked to the small table in the corner of the room where she’d left a half-finished project the night before. The delicate tangle of wires and circuits was a testament to her growing restlessness. It wasn’t anything useful—she wasn’t even sure what she was building. It was a distraction, and nothing more.

But she needed distractions these days.

Her mind wandered as she pulled apart her creation, her fingers deftly disconnecting the last few wires. Whatever it might have been, she had lost interest in it. The rhythm of the task at least soothed her, though it couldn’t completely drown out her thoughts. Homelander’s words lingered in the back of her mind, and she hated how they tugged at something deep inside her.

“I want you to tell me you’re okay.”

What did he even mean by that? Was it manipulation, or was there a sliver of genuine concern buried under all his possessive tendencies? She couldn’t tell anymore. The line between the two had blurred long ago.

A few hours later, she was pacing the living room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She’d already read a few chapters of a novel she couldn’t focus on, and stretched until her muscles burned. Still, the restless energy gnawed at her, coiling tighter with every passing minute. She needed something—anything—to break the monotony.

The soft chime came again, pulling her to a halt.

Homelander. Twice in one day.

“What now?” she asked, her voice sharper than necessary.

Homelander’s face appeared on the living room television, his expression unusually subdued. The edges of his mouth curled in a ghost of a smile, but his eyes gave him away. He looked tired, though he’d never admit it.

“Don’t sound so thrilled to see me,” he said lightly, though there was a tinge of something in his voice she couldn’t quite place.

Morgan leaned flopped onto the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest. “I figured we already covered everything this morning. Or did you think of something else to remind me I’m still breathing thanks to you and Vought?”

The faintest twitch of his jaw told her the jab had landed. But instead of snapping back, he tilted his head, studying her through the screen as if trying to decide something. She was still getting used to not knowing what his internal debates sounded like.

“I know we’ve already talked about it, but–” he paused for a moment, still warring with himself. “Why? I want to really know why you left. I keep getting bullshit answers from you, but I think I deserve to know the truth.”

She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. As he’d said, he’d asked her half a dozen times already. Part of her wanted to give him the whole, brutal truth. Though, she couldn’t be sure he’d ever accept it.

Instead, she sat back against the sofa, her arms tightening around herself. “You already know why I left,” she said, her voice carefully measured.

Homelander’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do I? Because the reasons you gave me were… lacking.” His tone was clipped, but there was something else there, simmering just beneath the surface.

Morgan glanced toward the window, her gaze lingering on the thick shutters that blocked out the world. “I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore,” she said after a long pause. “The lies. Constantly being watched with a critical eye. The constant pressure to be something I’m not.”

His mouth pressed into a tight line as she spoke, his eyes narrowing. “You keep saying you didn’t want to be watched. But here we are, Morgan. Here you are.”

Her stomach twisted, the faintest pang of doubt creeping in. Before she could form a retort, a strange, fluttering sensation rippled through her abdomen—subtle, still a little unfamiliar, and entirely distracting.

Breath hitching, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt it, but it was the first time it had been so distinct. The faint, flickering movement in her belly made her heart stutter.

“Morgan?” Homelander’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharper now. His eyes flicked to the screen, narrowing as he caught the movement of her hand.

Her fingers froze, and she quickly pulled her hand away, as though burned. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

He didn’t buy it. His gaze hardened, the corners of his mouth twitching with something she couldn’t quite place—concern, curiosity, or perhaps something darker. “It didn’t look like nothing.”

Morgan straightened, forcing herself to appear calm. “I said it’s nothing. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

But Homelander wasn’t listening. His eyes had locked onto her stomach now, and for the first time in the conversation, his demeanor shifted. The tension in his jaw relaxed slightly, his shoulders lowering as though the realization hit him all at once.

“You felt it, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Morgan’s chest tightened. She wanted to deny it, to brush him off and shift the conversation back to safer ground, but the look on his face stopped her. For once, there was no anger, no condescension—just raw, unguarded emotion.

Her silence was answer enough.

Homelander leaned closer to the camera, his expression unreadable. “What’s it like?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

The question caught her off guard. Of all the things she expected him to say, that wasn’t it. She hesitated, glancing down at her stomach before meeting his gaze again. “It’s… a little strange,” she admitted reluctantly. “Like a gentle flutter. Barely there, but… real.”

His expression softened. “I wish I could feel it,” he said, the words so quiet she almost didn’t catch them.

Morgan’s breath caught in her throat. The vulnerability in his tone was so foreign, so disarming, that she didn’t know how to respond. She looked away, her hand unconsciously drifting back to her stomach.

“It’s too soon.” she murmured. She wasn’t sure how to process what she was feeling that moment, so she fell into a state of numb pragmatism. Even if he could be there, even if she wanted him to be there, it was too soon. “The baby’s just a bit too small for anyone else to feel quite yet.”

Homelander didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed on her, his expression unreadable. She thought he might push, might demand more—he always did, eventually—but instead, he leaned back slightly, his shoulders stiffening.

“Too soon,” he echoed, his voice low and distant.

Morgan nodded faintly, her hand still resting on her stomach. “Yeah. Too soon.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and taut. She could feel his eyes on her, and the way he studied her every move. She didn’t like it—not the intensity, not the way it made her feel exposed—but there was something else there, too. Something she couldn’t quite name.

“You’re going to be a great mother,” he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

The words startled her. She blinked, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. “What?”

His expression softened just enough to catch her off guard. “I mean it,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “You care. You think about every detail, every choice. I see it, even if you don’t think I do.”

Morgan’s throat tightened, the unexpected sincerity in his voice cutting through her defenses. She wanted to brush it off, to deflect with a sarcastic remark or a bitter laugh, but the words stuck in her throat.

Instead, she looked away, her fingers curling slightly against her stomach. “I’m just trying to get through each day,” she murmured. “That doesn’t make me a good mother.”

Homelander’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “It’s more than most people do. More than… most of us were ever given.”

She didn’t need to read his mind this time to know where his thoughts had drifted. Vought had failed him in every way when it came to raising him. Sometimes she wondered how different things might have been if someone had actually shown him true care and affection.

For a fleeting moment, the tension between them eased, replaced by something quieter, something fragile. Morgan wasn’t sure what to do with it. Some part of her still hoped against hope that maybe it still wasn’t too late for him.

But then his gaze shifted, and the moment passed. His shoulders straightened, his tone sharpening ever so slightly. “I’ll let you rest,” he said, his voice slipping back into its usual controlled cadence. “But I’ll be checking in later.”

Morgan nodded, her throat too tight to respond. The screen went dark, leaving her alone in the quiet hum of the house once again. She let out a shaky breath, her hand still resting on her stomach.

Staring at the blank television, she sat frozen, unsure of what she was feeling. The house around her was impossibly still, the hum of its machinery a dull reminder of the world she couldn’t escape. She leaned her head back against the sofa, closing her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she whispered to herself, but even she wasn’t sure if she believed it anymore.

Song: Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men “I don’t like walking around, This old and empty house.” Author’s notes: This was probably one of my favorite chapters to write so far. Then again, I think I say that about every chapter I’ve written. Pretty much, I’ve just enjoyed bringing this story to life. Not much commentary again, so thanks for reading! I’ll be updating again soon, most likely.

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 26

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

It was difficult to tell exactly when the screams stopped. So many voices had invaded her mind, and in her desperation to quiet them, she remembered lashing out. There was just enough time for every single voice she heard to feel her pain, and then everything fell into complete silence.

There were a few times she thought she heard other voices in her head. She could have sworn that Homelander was there.

That was enough to make her try and fight for consciousness.

Try as she might, however, she never could quite break the surface into the waking world. It was near impossible to discern anything around her, though. One thing she was certain of, was that she wasn’t on the cold, hard ground outside a Parisian café anymore. Someone had moved her someplace else.

Voices came and went, whispers at first—half-formed words caught in the threads of her unconsciousness. They weren’t like before, when the crowd screamed inside her head. They were quieter, familiar. Homelander. Ashley. Edgar.

Their presence confirmed what she feared most.

Vought.

Each time she tried again to surface, the world pushed her back down. She was confident then that it wasn’t just her exhaustion anymore; something else was forcing her under. When she did manage to claw her way up, just enough to open her eyes, the brightness of the light above her stabbed into her skull like a blade and she found herself forced under shortly after.

But today—today was different.

The heaviness was still there, pressing down on her chest and limbs, but it was weaker. Her mind, though sluggish and raw, reached outward instinctively, searching for a connection.

And it found nothing.

For the first time in years, her mind was empty. No one’s thoughts, no flickers of emotion—not even the faint hum of her own abilities brushing against her environment.

Panic surged, sharp and all-consuming. A low, choked sound escaped her, hoarse and unfamiliar. Her throat burned as if she hadn’t spoken in weeks.

Where am I? she thought, though the question echoed unanswered in her head. She reached outward again, flailing mentally for anyone, anything. Still, there was only silence. Her neural regulator seemed to be back online to help her focus her power, but no one was there. She was alone.

“No,” she rasped, her voice breaking on the word.

She wasn’t sure if the tears on her cheeks were from the dull pain in her head, the panic, or both, but they stung as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be back here—helpless, trapped, silenced.

The sharp smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with faint traces of something almost warm—wood polish, perhaps. She forced herself to take slower breaths, letting the details settle in as her senses gradually returned. This place wasn’t Vought’s medical ward. The faint hum of medical equipment was there, yes, but the quiet surroundings felt… different. Familiar, almost.

Morgan’s gaze flickered across the room, taking in the faint outlines of furniture through her hazy vision. A wooden dresser. Curtains fluttering as a ceiling fan overhead stirred up the air. Something about it all felt wrong. It was like a memory that didn’t belong to her.

She shifted slightly, testing her strength. Her body didn’t quite comply as she tried to lift her arms. However long it had been, her muscles had begun to atrophy from disuse.

Fighting to get her head to turn, she caught a glimpse of a monitor on the far wall, its dim glow casting shadows along the walls. The steady beep of her vitals on another monitor filled the silence, and for a moment, she let herself focus on it, grounding herself in the rhythm.

And then, there was a faint crackle of static, followed by a voice—a woman’s voice, crisp and professional.

“Good morning, Ms. Daly.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, her entire body stiffening in response. Slowly, her eyes locked onto the screen. It flickered to life, revealing the face of a woman she didn’t recognize—dark hair tied back, eyes sharp behind thick-framed glasses.

“I see you’re finally awake,” the woman continued, her tone almost cheerful, as if they were discussing something as trivial as the weather.

Morgan’s throat tightened. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, her voice still too raw.

The woman tilted her head, studying her. “You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you? Don’t worry. You’re safe. Dr. Foster and I have been monitoring your vitals remotely, and the house has been fully equipped to meet your needs. You’ll find everything you require inside.”

Safe. The word burned like acid in her mind.

Her gaze darted around the room again, searching for anything—any weakness in the pristine veneer. But all she saw were the edges of what appeared to be Becca Butcher’s life, but warped into something cold and unrecognizable.

“Where am I?” she finally managed, her voice cracking.

The woman’s smile never wavered. “You’re in a secure location. That’s all you need to know for now. Rest assured, your wellbeing is our top priority.”

Morgan’s fingers curled into fists, slow and stiff. “And by ‘wellbeing,’ you mean making sure I stay put.”

The woman’s expression didn’t falter, but something flickered in her eyes—pity, perhaps. “It’s for your own protection, Morgan. You’ve been through a significant trauma. We’re here to help.”

Morgan’s breath came faster now, her chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. She forced her mind outward again, desperate to find anyone nearby, but the dull ache in her skull only sharpened.

“Where’s Stan Edgar?” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

The woman leaned forward slightly, her face filling the screen. “Mr. Edgar is busy. Just know that we’re here to make sure you recover. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be monitoring from a distance. If you need anything, just… call out.”

The screen went dark before Morgan could respond, leaving her alone with the steady hum of the monitors and the faint rustle of the curtains.

For a moment, she simply lay there, her body trembling as the reality of her situation sank in. She wasn’t just trapped.

She was their prisoner.

Morgan gritted her teeth, her raw throat tightening with frustration. The silence was unbearable, pressing down on her. She clenched her fists again, summoning what little strength she had, and reached outward with her mind.

Pain lanced through her skull, sharp and unrelenting. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

Focus. You can still do this.

The world around her blurred as she pushed harder, digging into the edges of her consciousness. She felt… something, a faint flicker at the edge of her mind. A presence.

And then, it vanished.

A searing wave of agony tore through her, forcing her back down onto the bed. Her vision swam, and her body convulsed weakly. Her head fell back against the pillow, and a broken, defeated sob escaped her lips.

For a while, it seemed all she could do was cry. Though, eventually her breath evened out slowly, though her chest still felt tight. Every nerve in her body buzzed with restless energy, but when she tried to move again, her muscles screamed in protest.

Her hands twitched against the blanket as she willed her arms to lift, only to feel them flop helplessly onto the covers again. Her legs were worse—stiff and unresponsive, like dead weight beneath her.

Weeks. It had to have been weeks.

Her gaze fell lower, drawn to the unfamiliar curve of her abdomen beneath the bedspread. The sight hit her like a punch to the gut. She was bigger now, the slight swell unmistakable.

Swallowing hard, her hand trembled as she attempted to reach down to touch her stomach. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but enough to send a wave of nausea and vertigo crashing over her.

Just how long have I been like this? she wondered, panic clawing at the edges of her mind.

The memory of Paris came flooding back in sharp, fragmented flashes: the screams in her head, the crushing weight of too many minds colliding with hers, the pain—her pain and theirs—echoing back at her through the chaos.

And then nothing. Just silence.

She sucked in a shallow breath, her fingers curling weakly against the covers. Whatever she had done, it hadn’t just taken her out. There must have been a much larger effect, something she didn’t even want to try and comprehend. She must have hurt so many, and now Vought had her in their clutches.

Things were pretty dire no matter how she tried to look at it.

Morgan forced herself to breathe through the panic, steadying herself as best as she could. Her head turned slightly, her eyes roaming the room. She couldn’t lose her head over this. She just needed to get her bearings.

Her gaze caught on a picture frame resting on a nearby table. She couldn’t see the photo clearly at first, but when the subjects’ faces came into focus, her chest tightened. Becca and Ryan. This had been their house. Vought’s cage for Them.

And now it’s yours, she thought bitterly. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach again, resting against the gentle curve of it.

Not just me anymore, either.

If she had to fight to move, she would. If she had to fight to live, she would. But she would be damned if she let Vought push her into this role. If she could free Becca from it, she could free herself from it.

Her fingers twitched as she tried again to push herself upright, her muscles screaming in protest.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper. “You’ve been through worse. Get up.”

The faint hum of machinery around her was suddenly interrupted by a soft chime. The screen on the far wall flickered to life once more.Morgan froze, her body instinctively tense despite her exhaustion.

It was him.

Homelander’s face appeared on the screen, his expression unreadable at first. His bright blue eyes locked onto hers, sharp and piercing, as if he could see right through her.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low and calm—but there was an edge to it.

Morgan swallowed hard, her throat tightening. She didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on him as her fingers dug into the bedspread. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“I was starting to think… Well, that maybe you wouldn’t wake up at all.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—relief? Anger? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t read his thoughts from this far and it was beginning to irritate her.

Her voice came out hoarse and raw. “How long?”

“Five weeks,” he said. “They said you might not come back, but I knew better. You’re strong. You’re…” He paused, his gaze fixing on her in a way that made her stomach twist. “You’re mine.”

The words hit her like a slap to the face, her breath hitching.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice faltered.

“You scared me, Morgan,” he interrupted, his tone dropping into something softer. “What happened in Paris, that was… Unspeakable.”

Her jaw clenched at his choice of words. “Unspeakable,” she echoed, her voice bitter. “What exactly does that mean?”

Homelander’s expression shifted, a shadow of something unnameable flickering across his face. He hesitated for a moment.

When he spoke again, his tone was careful. “You don’t remember?”

She stared at him, her heart pounding. “I remember enough,” she said quietly. “I remember the screaming. The pain. I remember trying to stop it.” Her voice cracked, her throat still raw, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “What happened, Homelander?”

His lips parted, but no words came out at first. He turned his head slightly, glancing offscreen for a moment as tried to find the words to explain it. Then his attention snapped back to her, his expression hardening.

“Paris is gone,” he said flatly.

Morgan blinked, her breath catching in her throat. “Gone?”

“The people there are gone.” His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him. There was something haunted there, something even he couldn’t hide. “You didn’t just stop the screaming, Morgan. You stopped everything.”

Her stomach turned, nausea rising like a wave. She shook her head, the motion weak but insistent. “No. No, that’s not possible. I—I didn’t—”

“You did,” he said, his voice sharper now, cutting through her denial. “It was like a bomb went off.”

The concept hit her like a physical blow, her body recoiling. Her mind raced, fragments of memory colliding with the cold reality of his words.

“I didn’t– I couldn’t,” she rasped, the words barely audible.

“But you did,” he said, his voice soft. For a moment, the Homelander she had glimpsed in rare, vulnerable moments surfaced—his gaze steady but not unkind, his tone almost gentle. “That’s why I’m fighting to keep you safe. The world doesn’t know you’re responsible, and we intend to keep it that way.”

Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. “They’re gone…” she repeated, the words tasting foreign and bitter in her mouth. The thought twisted and turned in her mind, too large to process. Her vision blurred with tears..

“How many?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Homelander’s jaw tightened, his hesitation speaking louder than words.

“How many?” she demanded, her voice breaking.

His expression remained calm, but his eyes flickered with something—regret, perhaps. Or maybe it was fear. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly.

“Doesn’t matter?” she snapped, her voice raw. “It matters to me!”

Sharp and commanding, his voice rose in response. “It doesn’t matter because no one knows, Morgan! We made sure of that.”

The words struck her silent. Her mind stumbled over the implications, the careful phrasing.

“We,” she echoed, the word heavy with realization. He was still so blindly loyal to them. This likely had nothing to do with his feelings for her, and everything to do with saving Vought’s image. They knew that if she was free to tell her side of the story, it would leave the company just as culpable for the tragedy as she was.

“You think I would let the rest of the world come after you?” he said, his voice softening again. “You think I’d let them put you in front of some… tribunal? Lock you away? Take you from me?”

Morgan stared at him, her pulse hammering in her ears. “What about the people who lost everything?”

“I told you,” he said, his tone firm. “No one knows. Vought handled it.”

Her stomach churned, the weight of his words settling over her like a suffocating blanket. “What does that mean?”

“It means they took care of it,” he said, his voice carrying an unsettling finality. “And now you’re here. You’re safe.”

Safe.

That word again, as hollow and meaningless as the air between them. Her gaze fell to her hands, still trembling as they rested on the curve of her abdomen. She swallowed hard, her voice trembling when she spoke.

“You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” he said simply, his expression hardening. “And I will.”

Her head snapped up, her glare cutting through the screen. “You don’t own me.”

Homelander’s lips curved into a thin smile, his eyes untouched by the hollow gesture. “You’re wrong, Morgan. You’re mine. You always have been. And now…” His gaze dropped to her abdomen, lingering there before meeting her eyes again. “Now, it’s not just about us anymore. It’s about them.”

The air in the room seemed to grow colder, his words pressed in on her like a vice. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to wipe that smug certainty from his face. But her body betrayed her, weak and trembling beneath the suffocating reality of her situation.

“I don’t need you to like it,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “I just need you to understand. This is the way it has to be.”

The screen went dark before she could respond, leaving her alone with the steady hum of the monitors and the faint, hollow echo of his words.

Song: Without the Lights by Elliot moss “Call off the dogs, We found her in the woods.” Author’s notes: Well folks, safe to say we’re firmly in the “enemies” phase again. I really love how this particular chapter turned out. I don’t really have too much commentary on this one, so I’ll just say thanks for reading! I’ll hopefully have another chapter out to you soon.

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

0 notes

out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 25

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Homelander hated feeling powerless.

It wasn’t a feeling he encountered often, but when it came, it clung to him like a second skin, suffocating and inescapable. Standing in Edgar’s office, his fists clenched at his sides, he replayed the moment again and again. The psychic loop Morgan had trapped him in—her voice echoing in his head, her face twisted with anger and heartbreak, her words cutting deeper than any weapon ever could.

“You don’t need Vought. You never did. If you won’t fight for me, fight for yourself.”

He forced himself back to the present as Edgar’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

“We’ve figured out a way to track her neural implant to Paris,” Edgar said, his tone as clinical as ever. He spoke of Morgan like she was nothing more than a loose asset, not the woman who had torn through Homelander’s psyche and left him reeling. “It’s… unfortunate what’s happening there.”

“What’s happening?” Homelander snapped, his voice sharper than intended. His frustration boiled beneath his skin, needing an outlet.

Ashley cleared her throat, tapping at her tablet nervously. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else but there. “Paris has gone dark. Communications are down, power grids are failing, and—uh—various sources report…” She hesitated, glancing at Edgar.

“Spit it out,” Homelander growled, eyes narrowing.

“They report the entire city is… comatose. Millions of people. Just collapsed where they stood. No signs of external trauma, but…” She trailed off, her voice shaking slightly.

The words hung in the air, heavy and incomprehensible. Homelander stared at her, his mind racing.

Comatose. Millions.

Morgan.

“She did this?” he asked, his voice low and incredulous.

“Most likely,” Edgar said, not missing a beat. Homelander barely heard the rest of Edgar’s words. His thoughts were fixed on one thing—her.

Morgan had done this. The woman who had once sat across from him at Vought’s sterile conference tables, offering calm, measured advice. The woman who had stood beside him on missions, subtly steering him away from making rash decisions. The woman who had let him hold her, let him believe—for a moment—that she could see him for who he really was.

She had brought an entire city to its knees.

For a moment, he couldn’t reconcile it. He thought of her as he had always known her: confident but careful, measured in her power. And yet here she was, unleashing something so immense, so incomprehensible, that even he almost felt small in comparison.

Comatose.

Millions.

The words repeated in his mind, and a strange chill crept over him. He was no stranger to destruction. He had done more than his share of damage in his time, often without a second thought. But this? This was different.

Morgan hadn’t just broken bones or spilled blood. She had silenced an entire city without lifting a finger. No one else in the world—not him, not anyone—could have done what she just had.

It was terrifying.

And it was beautiful.

Homelander’s chest tightened as conflicting emotions surged within him. This wasn’t the woman he had wanted to see broken, crawling back to him. This wasn’t weakness. This was strength.

For so long, he had wanted someone who could stand beside him, someone who wasn’t afraid of him, who wouldn’t crumble beneath the weight of his power. Morgan had been the closest to that—her steady presence had both calmed and infuriated him. She didn’t worship him the way others did. She challenged him, pushed him, even defied him.

And now, she had proven she could outmaneuver him.

“Her psychic command is a force we grossly underestimated,” Edgar continued, oblivious to Homelander’s spiraling thoughts. “It’s affected everyone in a wide radius. A tragedy, of course, but also an opportunity to remind the world why powered individuals need oversight.”

Oversight. The word made Homelander bristle. Morgan didn’t need oversight. She didn’t need Edgar or Vought or their damn systems.

Edgar’s voice grated against him, calm and measured as always, like the man thought he held all the cards. It was infuriating, the way he acted as if he were the one pulling the strings. Homelander’s hands twitched at his sides, his leather gloves creaking as his fists clenched.

He could crush Edgar like an insect if he wanted to—shut him up for good. And yet, here he was, tolerating the man’s smug superiority because he needed something. The realization sent a fresh wave of anger rolling through him.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the tablet in Ashley’s hands as she fumbled to pull up footage from Paris. The screen flickered to life, displaying a grainy aerial shot of the city. Cars sat motionless in the streets, their drivers slumped lifelessly in their seats. Pedestrians were scattered across sidewalks like fallen dominoes.

“I’ll retrieve her,” he said, cutting through a heavy silence that had fallen over the three of them. His tone left no room for argument.

Edgar narrowed his eyes, his calm demeanor unshaken. “I’ve already told you, that isn’t—”

“I’m not asking for permission,” Homelander interrupted, stepping toward the door. “I’m telling you.”

Ashley’s gaze darted nervously between them, her grip on the tablet tightening as though she could shrink into it. Edgar, however, remained seated, his hands folded neatly on his desk.

“Homelander,” he said evenly, “this isn’t just about you. Your actions have already raised questions within the company. Retrieving her yourself—after everything she’s done to you—will only complicate things further. Let the team handle it.”

He stopped in the doorway, his shoulders tense. “She’s not your team’s to handle. She’s mine.”

Before Edgar could respond, he was gone.

In a few short minutes, down in Crime Analytics on the 13th floor, Homelander found Anika in the middle of combing through drone footage of Paris. The collateral the city had seen was immense, and it was absolutely surreal to take in.

“Coordinates,” he said bluntly, shaking off the feeling of unease the footage brought him.

Anika jumped, spinning her chair to face him. Her expression shifted from alarm to caution. “You know, there’s a process for—”

“Coordinates,” Homelander repeated, his voice a low growl.

With a restrained sigh of frustration, she turned back to her screen, typing rapidly. “Mr. Edgar isn’t going to like this.”

“I’ll handle Edgar.”

A moment later, a map appeared on her monitor, a red pin marking a location where they had last tracked Morgan’s neural regulator. Anika leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “She should still be in the area. I can’t imagine she’s gotten far on foot. Whatever she did to that city—”

“That’s enough,” he snapped, not wanting to hear it. He had seen enough.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the faint smell of scorched ozone in his wake.

The flight to Paris felt like both an eternity and an instant. The city sprawled beneath him as he approached, its once-bustling streets now unnervingly quiet. Even from above, he could see the chaos left in Morgan’s wake—cars piled up and askew in the streets, collapsed bodies, the haunting stillness of a city caught in suspended animation.

He touched down outside the café she’d last been seen at. It didn’t take long at all to find her though. She was laid out on the cobblestone terrace outside the cafe, surrounded by scattered chairs and unconscious bodies left in eerie disarray. The once-bustling square was silent now, save for the distant rustle of wind.

Morgan’s arms splayed limply to either side of her, her head tipped to the side, her hair obscuring her face. For a moment, Homelander didn’t move. He stared at her, taking in the stillness of her figure amidst a setting of catastrophe.

“Morgan,” he called, his voice low, almost hesitant.

No response.

His breath hitched as he stepped closer. She was so still, her fiery hair splayed across the cobblestones like a halo. For all her defiance, all her strength, she looked fragile now—small, even. The sight pulled at something deep within him, a strange mix of anger and fear coiling in his chest.

“Morgan,” he called again, the sound of her name cracking the silence. His voice echoed faintly, unanswered.

Still nothing.

His chest tightened. What if he was too late? What if she’d burned out completely, her body giving in to the sheer intensity of her power? For all her strength, she was still human—or at least closer to it than he was.

He dropped to one knee beside her, his hand hovering over her face for a moment before he brushed her hair aside. It had since dried, but there had been streams of blood that poured from her eyes, ears and nose. It was hard to imagine the mental strain she had gone through, but the physical strain was evident.

His enhanced hearing had already picked up the faint, steady rhythm of her heartbeat. It was there—strong and sure, if a little unsteady. She was alive.

Even more importantly, so was their child.

His gaze shifted to her abdomen, where the faint swell of her pregnant belly was just visible beneath her blouse. He hadn’t been able to sense the baby for days, and the absence had gnawed at him in ways he hadn’t fully acknowledged. But now, as he paused to really listen, he caught it—the tiny, rapid heartbeat echoing alongside Morgan’s own.

He swallowed hard, his hand coming to rest on her abdomen. “You’re still there,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The thought steadied him, grounding him against the chaos swirling in his mind.

He remembered the first time he had realized she was carrying his child. The state he found her in… Part of him worried if maybe she hadn’t wanted the baby. He was so deathly afraid that she might have changed her mind about motherhood. But now, hearing that tiny heartbeat, he felt something unexpected: hope.

His initial feelings about the baby had been mixed as well, if he were to be honest with himself. Fatherhood wasn’t something he thought about, not until Ryan. And even then, Becca wouldn’t let him close enough to really feel like a father to him. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to be a father, not really. His own upbringing had taught him nothing about love or nurturing.

But this child—his and Morgan’s—was different. It wasn’t just about continuing his legacy, though that mattered, too. This child was proof of something else. That Morgan, for all her defiance and all her strength, had chosen him. That she was tied to him in a way no one else was. Even in spite of everything that happened after.

“Morgan,” he murmured, his tone softer now. He ran his hand over her hair again, his fingers lingering against her temple. Her features were pale, her lips parted slightly, as though she’d been caught mid-sentence before succumbing to unconsciousness.

It was so strange to see her this vulnerable.

She had always been a force to be reckoned with, measured and deliberate. Even when she defied him, even when she tore through his mind with her psychic precision, she had carried herself with a confidence that had captivated him as much as it infuriated him.

And now, there she was, crumpled and still, relying on him to pull her from the wreckage of her own making.

He hated seeing her like this.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the strange sense of satisfaction that came with it—the proof that even she could break. Even she could fall.

But it wasn’t enough. Not like this. He didn’t want her weak. He wanted her to look at him with that fire in her eyes, to push him, to challenge him. To remind him why she was the only person who could ever stand by his side.

He lifted her carefully, cradling her against his chest. Her body felt light in his arms, helpless, though he knew better than to believe that.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if she could hear him.

For a moment, he simply stood there, the weight of her grounding him in the stillness of the city. The devastation around them was absolute, but he barely noticed it now. His focus was on her, on the faint warmth of her breath against his neck, on the tenuous connection they still shared.

She was his.

And he wasn’t letting her go.

Song: Where Is Your God Now? by Rok Nardin Author’s notes: So I had to let Kirkland Brand Jean Grey have her Dark Phoenix moment. I also really wanted to do at least one chapter from Homelander’s perspective and this was the perfect opportunity. It was honestly such an interesting thing to try and put myself in his shoes and have him navigate something like this. He’s such an interesting character to write between his deep-seated insecurities mixed with that inflated ego that he’s got too. There’s definitely a fine balance to achieve there. Anyways, we’re not quite to the end, but we are getting closer. Thanks so much for sticking with me and my girl Morgan. I appreciate the readership and the feedback!

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

0 notes

out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 24

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Paris was an unexpected part of the plan. The city loomed around Morgan like a reminder of all the dreams she’d abandoned, its beauty muted by the fog of her own guilt. She sat at a small café table tucked beneath the awning of a boulangerie, the kind of place tourists wandered past without a second glance.

The scent of fresh bread and coffee hung in the crisp air, mingling with the soft hum of early morning conversation. Breath visible in the cool morning air, she fixed her gaze on the cobblestones at her feet. The soft murmur of the waking city around her couldn’t combat the roar that had filled her mind since she left.

Homelander’s voice, sharp and raw with anger, echoed in her memory, mixing with the quiet ache she hadn’t expected to feel.

She ran her hands over her thighs, brushing invisible dust from the dark jeans she’d hastily thrown on that morning. The city, vibrant and alive, felt worlds away from the sterile corridors of Seven Tower. Her chair was cold beneath her, the wrought iron digging into her back in a way that was both grounding and uncomfortable.

Around her, life moved on as if nothing had happened, as if her world hadn’t shifted irrevocably. Here, people moved unbothered by gods and monsters, their worries confined to late trains and spilled coffee.

Morgan envied them. She envied their small, manageable lives.

As the last few days wore on, she wondered if her decision to run had been too reckless, too cruel. She’d wanted freedom, safety, a chance to build something better for herself. Morgan just hadn’t anticipated the ache of loss, sharp and unwelcome, that settled deep in her chest. She’d acted so quickly, so decisively, burning bridges she wasn’t sure she could rebuild.

Homelander’s face still haunted her thoguhts—angry, hurt, confused. She hated him for it, for twisting her resolve into something so fragile. And yet, she hated herself more for hurting him the way she had. She hadn’t realized how deeply he’d woven himself into her thoughts, her plans, her life.

She thought of him—the way his hand would rest on the small of her back, possessive but warm. The occasional flicker of something fragile behind his eyes when he looked at her, was something she’d convinced herself she could nurture. Morgan had wanted to believe that she could save him. She never counted on how maybe she might have loved him in some way after all.

Tracing the rim of her coffee cup with a fingertip, her mind wandering back to the chaotic hours that had brought her here. Paris wasn’t just an escape. It was a waypoint, a brief respite before the next step. Grace Mallory had assured her she’d be safe for now, but this city felt like a fragile haven, one that could shatter if she let her guard down for even a moment.

Mallory’s message had been clear: Lay low, don’t draw attention, and wait for further instructions.

But waiting wasn’t something Morgan had ever been good at.

Her gaze drifted to the cobblestones again, her thoughts unspooling into the moments that led to her being here. Seven Tower felt like a distant memory, but the adrenaline from that final confrontation with Homelander still lingered in her veins. She’d used every ounce of her power to outmaneuver him and Vought. It had been enough to get out. Barely.

She thought of the psychic vision she’d constructed, how she’d trapped Homelander in his own mind while her body slipped away unnoticed. The look of betrayal on his face as he believed he’d lost her for good. It had been necessary, but the memory still made her stomach churn.

Shaking her head, she took a sip of her now-cool coffee. Regret wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Not now.

Mallory had been the first to pick up the pieces after her escape, arranging her flight out of New York and securing her temporary safety. The Boys had done their part too—Butcher, with his gruff skepticism; Frenchie, MM and Kimiko, who had watched over her during the psychic confrontation; even Annie, who had hugged her tightly before she disappeared into the night. But now she was alone again, waiting for another contact to move her to a more secure location.

Her hand moved absently to her stomach. Every decision she’d made in the last few weeks had been for the baby. That’s what she told herself, anyway. The truth was more complicated. She’d left Homelander behind because she couldn’t see a future where they could coexist—not with Vought’s influence, not with his obsession with power.

But that never felt quite right to her.

The thought was a quiet admission she wasn’t ready to confront fully. She pushed it aside, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Mallory’s contact would arrive within the hour, and she couldn’t afford to let her mind wander too far.

Morgan shifted in her chair, the wrought iron biting into her back again. The city may have moved on around her, but she couldn’t. Not yet. She hadn’t let herself truly rest since she arrived—not physically, not mentally. Each time her mind drifted, it brought her back to him. To them.

She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the sharp bite of late autumn air and the faint aroma of fresh baked goods. The warmth of the coffee cup seeped into her palms, anchoring her. These were the moments she’d wanted, weren’t they? The small, stolen slices of normalcy that Vought had stolen from her. That he had stolen from her.

Except now, they felt hollow.

The truth was, she didn’t know what to do with the quiet. The silence didn’t comfort her—it stretched her thoughts thin, leaving space for the doubts to creep in. She had spent so much time convincing herself she could change things—change him—that abandoning him felt like failure.

Her fingers moved to the base of her skull, brushing lightly over the faint scar hidden beneath her hairline. Morgan’s stomach tightened, the dull ache spreading outward. Every instinct told her to leave the café, to stop sitting in plain sight, but Mallory’s contact had insisted on this meeting point.

A moving target was harder to hit, Mallory had said, but staying still had its risks, too. And she hated the waiting. She hated feeling exposed.

She let her hand linger over her scar. The neural implant had been her lifeline, a fragile tether keeping her powers from spiraling out of control. But now it felt like a trap, a beacon for Vought if they got too close. She had warned Mallory about that—how much Vought knew, how little time she had.

Her stomach churned as her thoughts shifted to Becca and Ryan. She hoped they were safe, but she knew better than to assume. Mallory likely had them on the move by now. Morgan thought of the desperation in Becca’s eyes when they’d parted. The quiet hope that she might finally be free from Vought and Homelander’s shadows.

Absently her hand moved to her abdomen, the ache settling there like a stone. She wasn’t just running for herself. She was running for all of them—for Becca and Ryan, for the fragile network of people who had risked everything to give her this chance. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on them, her thoughts always circled back to him.

Homelander.

His name lingered in her mind like a whisper, like a warning. She thought of the fury in his eyes during their last confrontation. She pressed her lips together, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself.

He wasn’t supposed to matter anymore. She’d told herself that over and over again, trying to crush the lingering affection she felt for him. But it was a lie. No matter how much she wanted to hate him, there were pieces of him she couldn’t let go of.

She thought of all the ways she’d tried to justify leaving, all the ways she’d told herself she was doing the right thing. And yet, doubt clung to her, tightening its grip with every passing moment.

Memories of nights they’d spent together crossed her mind, the rare moments when he’d let his guard down. When he’d seemed so very human. Those moments were the ones she’d held onto, the ones that had convinced her to stay as long as she had.

Morgan exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple as if she could force the thoughts away. She needed to focus on something else– anything else.

Her family. Her mother, Sammy, Lucas, Celeste and Elise. She had put all of them in danger when she decided to leave Vought. Thankfully Mallory and her people worked fast to get them all someplace safe too. She hadn’t dared ask yet, but she hoped that wherever she would be moved to next, she could reunite with them.

She let her thoughts drift to her family, their faces flashing in her mind like snapshots from a life she barely recognized anymore. Her mother, with her warm smile and quiet strength, had always been her anchor. Sammy, Lucas, Celeste, and Elise—each of them with their own quirks and chaos. Their bond was strong even when life threatened to pull them apart.

They had always been her reason for everything. Every risk she’d taken, every choice she’d made, had been for them. To protect them, to keep them safe. And now, she’d done the one thing she’d sworn never to do—she’d dragged them into her mess.

Her jaw tightened, guilt pressing down on her like a weight. She hadn’t even been able to warn them properly. Mallory had swept in with her efficiency and unflinching resolve, moving them to safety before Morgan could explain what was happening. The idea of her mother’s confusion and fear haunted her.

Hand brushing over the edge of the table, her fingers trembled slightly. She wanted to believe they were safe, that Mallory’s people had done what she couldn’t. But the truth was, she didn’t know.

She closed her eyes, letting the memories come. Elise’s endless questions about Morgan’s powers, her curiosity both endearing and exhausting. Celeste’s quiet hugs, the way she seemed to know exactly when Morgan needed them most. Lucas’ gentle teasing and subtle ways of challenging her to be better. Sammy’s undying, and often loud support of everything she tried her hand at…

Morgan had been their protector. But now? Now she was the reason they were in hiding, forced to abandon their lives because she couldn’t control her own.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, drawing strength from the faint connection she felt with the life growing inside her. She couldn’t let herself fall apart—not now, when everything depended on her. This was perhaps the last chance she had of not letting someone important to her down.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of unease, the faintest ripple in the air around her. She froze, her senses sharpening. The hum of the city continued—cars passing, people chatting, the clink of cups against saucers—but something felt off.

She scanned the café, her telepathic senses brushing against the surface thoughts of those around her. A couple arguing over their plans for the day. A man worried about being late for work. A tourist marveling at the architecture that surrounded them.

And then she felt it. Her breath hitched as her fingers gripped the edge of the table. Someone was here. Watching.

She looks startled. I think she knows we’re here. We’ve got to move now!

Morgan pushed back her chair slowly, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached out with her mind, trying to pinpoint the source, but before she could, the air cracked with a sharp, electric pulse.

An EMP hit her like a thunderclap, searing through her neural implant and rendering it inert in an instant. Pain exploded in her head, white-hot and blinding.

The flood was instantaneous.

Voices crashed into her mind all at once, a deafening cacophony of thoughts, fears, desires, and frustrations. It was like being submerged in a raging river, every current pulling her in a different direction.

Where’s my phone?

I’m going to be late.

She’s cheating on me, I know it.

It’s probably too early for wine.

This is it. The target is down. Move in!

Clutching her head, her knees buckling under the weight of it all. The neural implant had been her buffer, her salvation, filtering out the endless noise that came with her powers. Without it, she was raw and exposed, her telepathy spiraling out of control.

She staggered to the ground, gasping for air as the thoughts kept coming, relentless and overwhelming. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push them out, but there was no escape.

She’s dangerous. Secure her.

What’s happening? Why is she screaming?

My daughter’s recital is tonight. Don’t forget.

Why isn’t she running? Something’s wrong.

Morgan’s nails dug into her scalp as she tried to focus, to separate the voices, but it was impossible. The radius was too wide, the sheer volume of thoughts too much for her unprotected mind to handle.

Her stomach lurched as she felt the radius expand. The thoughts were coming from farther away now—blocks, miles. She could hear them all. The tourists snapping photos on the other side of the Seine. The cab driver muttering about his next fare. The child whining for a toy in a shop three streets over.

Get her under control. Now!

The urgency in that thought cut through the chaos, sharp and dangerous. Morgan’s head snapped up, her vision blurring as she spotted movement at the edge of the café. Black-clad figures emerged from the crowd, their minds pulsing with intent.

“Stop…” she gasped, feeling like her head was about to burst from all the pressure each and every thought was building inside her skull. “Please… STOP!”

Her scream rippled out into the air, but the command wasn’t just in her voice—it surged from her mind, raw and unchecked.

The thoughts around her faltered, like a film reel snapping mid-scene. The operatives froze mid-step, their weapons half-drawn. The café patrons, wide-eyed and panicked just moments ago, sat motionless. A waiter holding a tray of drinks stopped mid-turn, the glasses wobbling precariously.

Her vision swam, her knees buckling as the strain of it all bore down on her. She could feel them—their thoughts suddenly silenced, their minds caught in the grip of her power.

Voice hoarse, the word was barely a whisper, but the command roared in their heads like thunder.

Stop.

It was her last thought before she succumbed to the dark silence of unconsciousness.

Song: I Found by Amber Run “But I missed you more, Than I thought I would.” Author’s notes: Well, I guess my update schedule isn’t going to have as many long gaps as I initially thought. Things have been slow enough, and I had hella motivation to get this chapter out. I don’t have much else to add to my usual thoughts here. So I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I’m ready and raring to go on the next one.

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 23

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Heels clicking smartly, echoing throughout the lobby of Seven Tower, Morgan had to fight the anxiety that gnawed insistently at her nerves. Word hadn’t spread too far about her going AWOL, but the thoughts of those that were aware of her 24 hour disappearance had flown into a frenzy. Not a single person could fathom why she would ditch her tracking chip, and then waltz back into the building as if nothing had happened.

That was good. The more focus there was on her activity there, the less likely Butcher and The Boys were to get caught.

Morgan had not only given them all the evidence she had gathered on Neuman and Edgar’s schemes, but she had given them everything they needed to bust Becca and Ryan out. As long as they had her device, and followed her instructions, it would buy them enough time to pull off the escape without getting caught. All she had to do was keep up her end of the bargain and buy them a little extra time.

Before anyone could intercept her, she was already in the elevator and headed for the 82nd floor. Edgar was here, and already aware of her presence in the building. While he maintained his usual calm exterior, Morgan knew he was preparing for a confrontation. He wasn’t confident he knew what she was up to, and that made him nervous.

That might have been enough to put a satisfied smirk on her face, but she could also hear Homelander’s thoughts. He had just been made aware of her arrival, and his mind was a veritable storm of conflicting thoughts and feelings. The loudest thing that stood out to her though, was his anger.

As far as he was aware, she had abandoned him without so much as a word.

He wasn’t wrong either, but there was so much more to it than that. Knowing where things would go, it was enough to exacerbate the persistent nausea that plagued her. She had to keep her cool though. She couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Morgan took a long, deep inhale. After holding it in for a moment, she stepped onto the polished floors of the 82nd floor. The hall stretched before her, eerily quiet save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the subtle buzz of electronics buried behind walls.

The moment she entered Edgar’s office, she saw him standing by the window, his silhouette cast against the sprawling cityscape. He turned slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of detached curiosity.

“Morgan.” His voice was smooth, controlled. “How considerate of you to return. I was beginning to think you’d gone rogue.”

She held her ground, meeting his gaze with a calm she didn’t quite feel. “I needed to make a few things clear. About my position in The Seven.”

Edgar raised an eyebrow. “Your position, Miss Daly, was never yours to negotiate. We brought you here for a purpose.”

“And I’m telling you, that purpose no longer aligns with my interests.”

His smile was thin, almost amused. “Is that so? After everything Vought has done for you, you think you can simply walk away?”

Swallowing hard, she kept her voice level. “I do. I know I can walk away, and there’s not a single thing you can do about it without raising all sorts of red flags.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, her words seemed to sharpen his focus, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her. “You’re gambling with more than just your career, Ms. Daly. You’re risking everything.”

She smiled, though it was strained. “I’m aware. But I’m done letting Vought control my life.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them thick enough to cut. Finally, Edgar inclined his head, a trace of disdain flickering across his face.

“You’re going to regret this, Morgan,” he said, his voice soft but chilling. “You may think you have leverage now, but once you’ve stepped over that line, there’s no coming back. Vought has resources you can’t imagine, and Homelander—”

As if summoned by his name, the door swung open, and Homelander strode in, his presence like a thunderclap in the quiet room. His gaze locked onto Morgan, blazing with accusation and hurt, but beneath it all, there was something darker, something raw and dangerous. He had lost all sense of control in the time she was away, and that had deeply unsettled him.

“It’s time for lights out, Edgar.” Morgan said, keeping her gaze fixed on Homelander as he approached. With a simple flex of her mind, Edgar’s head hit the desk and he was fully unconscious within seconds. That was enough to give Homelander some pause.

“Where have you been?” he seethed, his hands clenching into fists. “You think you can just disappear? Leave Vought? Leave me?”

Letting out a soft sigh, her posture deflated somewhat, and she gave him a weary look. “Yes, I left. I needed to show you there’s a way out of all of this. We don’t have to live under Vought’s control, Homelander. We don’t have to be what they made us.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “What they made us? Vought built everything we have. Built me. You think I can just walk away from that?”

Stepping closer, her voice softened, trying to cut through his anger. “Yes, I do. Come with me. We can have a life that’s ours, beyond all of this.”

For a fleeting second, something wavered in his gaze—a flicker of longing, of the man he might have been without Vought’s influence. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, his jaw clenching as his hand slipped out of hers.

“And go where, Morgan?” His voice was bitter, laced with scorn. “Run off and pretend to be normal? We don’t blend in. We were born to be something more. And you’re going to throw it away?”

“Homelander, I’m one step away from getting on my knees and begging,” she pleaded, her desperation mounting as she took one step closer. “I’m tired of playing the role Vought determined for me. I’m done letting Vought control me—and you.”

His expression darkened further. He took a step forward, shrinking the distance between them. “I trusted you, Morgan. I thought we were… you were different. You were mine.”

For a moment he seemed to falter, a glimpse of vulnerability flickering behind the cold, furious mask. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of betrayal so fierce it made her take a step back.

“You were mine, Morgan,” he repeated, his voice low, vibrating with barely contained fury. “I let you in. I would have done anything for you, and you… you just left.”

She reached out to him, her voice gentle but pleading. “You say you’re willing to do anything, so why not this? Please, if there’s any part of you that still wants something real, then come with me.”

Homelander’s expression twisted, his emotions warring between fury and desperation. “You don’t get it, do you? There’s no ‘out’ for us, Morgan.”

Her voice was trembling with raw emotion as she gently brushed a hand against his. “You don’t need Vought. You never did. If you won’t fight for me, fight for yourself”

Homelander’s jaw clenched, his entire frame trembling with the effort to contain his emotions. “Fight for myself?” he repeated, his voice sharp, almost mocking. “What do you think I’ve been doing my entire life, Morgan? Fighting to survive. Fighting to be seen. Fighting to matter.”

Her gaze softened, her own voice breaking. “And you don’t have to anymore. You matter to me. You’re already so much more than what they made you.”

For a fleeting moment, her words seemed to reach him. His gaze softened, the storm in his eyes subsiding for a heartbeat, and she thought—hoped—he might listen. But then his face hardened again, the vulnerability swallowed by years of anger and betrayal.

“I’m a god, Morgan,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “Vought made me to save this fucked up little planet. I am the only thing holding it together.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, her voice firm. “That’s not how they see it. You’re nothing more than their weapon.”

The air between them crackled with tension, and she could feel his control slipping, the raw power beneath his surface threatening to erupt. She stood her ground, unflinching as his eyes began to glow faintly with the heat of his fury.

Homelander’s fists tightened, his voice a low growl. “You can’t walk away from me, Morgan. I don’t let people leave.”

She held his gaze, tears threatening to spill over onto her flushed cheeks. “I already have.”

The glow in his eyes intensified, his anger boiling over. With a roar, his heat vision erupted, a blinding burst of red light lancing toward her. Her last attempts to reason with him had failed.

When the light faded, Homelander stood frozen, his chest heaving as he stared at the space where she had been. Morgan lay crumpled on the ground, unmoving, smoldering scorch marks on her chest a chilling testament to what he’d done.

“No,” he rasped, his voice breaking as he dropped to his knees beside her. “No, no, no… Morgan. I didn’t…”

He reached out, his hands trembling as he gently lifted her head from the floor. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t… I just—goddammit.” His desperation filled the room, as he fought in vain to wrestle back the sobs that wracked his body. Pulling her into his arms, he rocked her gently, willing her to come back to him.

The weight of his actions began to settle in; a crushing loneliness of a world without her.

However…

Halfway across Manhattan, Morgan was leaned against the side of a large, black van. Her body trembled as the psychic link she had entangled him in dissolved, and she wiped the sweat from her brow. Her breath came in shallow gasps. The effort to maintain the illusion from such a distance had drained her, but it had worked. Homelander was trapped in his own grief, his own mind.

For the moment, she was safe.

The effort to hold Homelander in the constructed vision had taken more out of her than she’d expected. She doubled over, fighting the dizziness and nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. Sweat trickled down her temple, and her legs felt like they might give out any moment. A hand settled lightly on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Kimiko crouching beside her, her dark eyes filled with quiet concern.

“Did it work?” Frenchie asked softly from nearby, his voice tinged with both awe and worry. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed as if he were trying to hold himself back from fussing over her. “Is he… Occupied for now?”

“For now.” Morgan confirmed, her voice slightly ragged. “I took a page out of Mindstorm’s playbook. He’s trapped in a psychic loop, but I’m not sure how long it will hold.”

“Incroyable.” Frenchie murmured, his worry giving way to unease for a moment. Though she hadn’t found a reason to yet, Morgan could sense his apprehension at the idea she could do the same to him.

Morgan let out a weak laugh, though it sounded more like a rasp. “Yeah, well… it doesn’t feel so incredible right now.” Kimiko tilted her head, a question clear in her gaze. Morgan understood immediately and offered a faint smile. “I’m okay,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Just… drained.”

MM appeared then, carrying a bottle of water, to hand over to her. “You sure you’re okay? You were out for a while. We couldn’t tell if it was working or if he’d gotten to you.”

She accepted the water with a grateful nod, taking a small sip. “It worked. For now, he’s stuck thinking I’m dead. He won’t come looking right away.”

Frenchie’s brows furrowed, and he exchanged a glance with Kimiko. “And what happens when he snaps out of it?”

Letting her head fall back against the van, Morgan closed her eyes briefly. “We’ll tackle that another time. For now, we managed to get Becca and Ryan out. That’s what matters.”

Kimiko’s hand squeezed her shoulder gently, and Morgan opened her eyes to see the faintest ghost of a smile on the other woman’s face. It was a quiet acknowledgment, a gesture of respect and solidarity that didn’t need words.

Before the moment could settle too heavily, the faint rumble of an approaching engine reached them. MM straightened, glancing toward the edge of the alley. “That’ll be Butcher and the others.”

Morgan forced herself to stand upright, leaning against the van for support. The psychic fatigue still weighed on her, but she pushed it aside as Butcher’s car rumbled into the alleyway. Butcher’s sharp gaze was the first thing she registered from behind the windshield, his face was a mix of wariness and grudging respect. Beside him, in the passenger seat, was Becca, her expression tense but relieved.

She could sense Annie, Hughie and Ryan in the back seat as well, but she was still struggling to focus. There was a strange buzzing in the back of her mind. It almost felt as if her implant was the cause of it, but she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t be sure now either. There were too many other things to worry about.

As Butcher stepped out of the car, his eyes flicked over her, assessing her condition. He gave a small nod of approval, though his tone was brusque. “Looks like you’ve still got a bit of fight in you, eh?”

Morgan managed a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just a bit.”

Frenchie, Kimiko, and MM began moving toward the car, helping Becca and Ryan out while Butcher gave orders to organize everyone. Morgan stood back, her gaze distant as the scene unfolded around her. The hum of conversation, the sound of footsteps, even Ryan’s small voice—it all blurred into the background.

The buzzing in her mind hadn’t subsided. If anything, it felt louder now, a faint vibration that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. She pressed her fingers to her temple, hoping the pressure would ease it, but it didn’t. She sighed, her hand falling to her side.

It wasn’t just the implant. It was everything.

She leaned back against the van again, letting her eyes drift closed for a moment. In the quiet of her own thoughts, the gravity of what she’d done began to press down on her. She’d told herself it was necessary. Trapping Homelander in his own mind was the only way to keep everyone safe. And it had worked, hadn’t it?

But the memory of his face as the vision unfolded wouldn’t leave her. The way his expression had shattered when he thought he’d killed her. The way he’d begged her to wake up, his voice raw with desperation and grief. It was a side of him she’d only glimpsed in fleeting moments, and she’d used it against him.

Morgan opened her eyes, staring down at her hands. They were trembling. Was it the fatigue, or something else? She wasn’t sure anymore. All she knew was that a part of her felt regret, despite all her best efforts to bury it with every justification she could conjure up.

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. There wasn’t time for that. Not now. Not when there was so much left to do.

“Hey,” MM’s voice cut through her conflicted daze, and she looked up to see him standing nearby, his brow furrowed with concern. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, though she wasn’t sure if she believed it herself.

MM didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. “Get some rest when you can,” he said simply, before turning back to help Becca and Ryan into the van.

Morgan exhaled slowly, letting her head rest against the cool metal of the open door. She felt the faint vibrations as the others climbed into the vehicle, their voices muffled but persistent. She knew she should join them, but for a moment, she let herself stay still.

The regret wasn’t just for what she’d done to Homelander. It was for everything—the lies, the manipulation, the choices that had brought her here. She’d told herself it was all for the greater good, but at what cost? How much of herself had she given away to survive?

Ultimately, she had still been roped into Vought’s game when it came down to it.

The engine rumbled to life, and she pushed herself off the van, steadying her legs beneath her. As she climbed into the vehicle, the buzz in her mind still lingered, a reminder of the battles she’d fought—and the ones still to come.

For now, she could only hope she’d made the right choices. Deep down, though, she wasn’t sure if there was such a thing.

Song: Meant to be Yours, from Heathers the Musical “You carved open my heart, Can’t just leave me to bleed.” Author’s notes: This scene turned out so different from how I initially envisioned it. In fact, this was a scene I had constructed in my head after getting stuck on some of the lyrics of Meant to be Yours, and ultimately drove me to write this whole fic. That said, however, I’m still so pleased with how it turned out. We’re still not to the end yet though, folks. There’s still plenty more to come. I’ve done some pretty extensive work to set up the next three chapters, and we’re still not even done after those come around. I hope you’ll stick with me to the end!

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 22

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

Finding him hadn’t been terribly easy. Still, with the tiniest bit of information she had snatched from Becca’s thoughts, Morgan sat outside of a pawn shop in East Flatbush feeling out what sort of situation she’d be walking into. From what she could tell, convincing Billy Butcher to get on board was likely going to be her biggest hurdle in pulling off her plan.

Time was not on her side either. She had been out all night, trying to finish tying up loose ends before anybody at Vought really realized she was gone. Part of her wondered if Vought would even have the resources to find her, though. After all, Starlight was here, practically right under their noses.

Then again, she wasn’t the one carrying Homelander’s baby.

Sitting in her car, Morgan focused, her eyes slipping shut as she reached out with her mind, brushing past the city’s restless hum, searching for that familiar, gentle glow of Starlight’s presence. She found her quickly, down in the basement. Her mind touched Starlight’s carefully; a light mental tap to avoid startling her.

Annie, try not to alarm anybody. I’m in trouble and I need your help.

Even the softest touch of her mind against hers set off alarm bells in her head. Morgan couldn’t really blame her though, especially since she was being hunted by Vought. As far as Annie was aware, Morgan was still firmly in their pocket.

Where are you? How did you find me?

Morgan could sense her panic, but Annie had followed instructions well enough. She sat quietly in the dingy, dark basement of the pawn shop beside Hughie Campbell on an old, worn couch. She had only ever seen snippets of his face in her memories, so it was a little odd to feel the touch of his mind too.

I’m waiting outside the shop. I’ve been in contact with William Butcher’s wife. She gave me a decent lead on where to find him, but I’m glad you’re here too.

There was a flash of confusion and surprise from Annie.

You’re looking for Butcher? Do you have a death wish?

Morgan allowed herself a small, grim smile.

That might be an easier out than what I’m trying to pull off here.

She felt Annie’s worry spike, a sharp pang that echoed in her own mind. Her response came, cautious but determined.

Give me a minute. I’ll get you in.

She waited, her focus sharpening as she felt Annie’s presence shift. Moments later, the front door creaked open, and she saw Annie’s silhouette in the doorway, framed by the dim light inside. Morgan slipped out of the car and quickly joined her, nodding in silent thanks as Annie led her through the shop and toward a narrow staircase in the back.

“Just to assuage some worries, I’ve already ditched my tracking chip, and I haven’t been tailed.” Morgan reassured her before any of those worries could be voiced.

“You know… I don’t know why I thought you wouldn’t have thought of that already.” Annie sighed, shaking her head. “You’re a smart girl.”

“Sometimes.” Morgan said with a grimace, her hand unconsciously drifting to her stomach.

“Morgan… are you sure about this?” Annie’s voice was barely above a whisper, her concern unmistakable. “You’re taking a huge risk here, and Butcher’s not exactly a fan of supes.”

Meeting Annie’s gaze, Morgan drew in a quiet breath, steeling herself for what was to come. “I don’t have a choice. Things at Vought keep getting messier, and if I don’t get out now, I’m afraid they’ll never let me leave.” She hesitated, her hand hovering at her side before she clenched it into a fist. “I have leverage, something Butcher can’t say no to. I’m betting everything on that.”

Annie’s expression softened, her hand reaching out to briefly squeeze Morgan’s arm. “Just… be careful. I’m with you on this, but Butcher can be… Well he’s not easy to deal with.”

“Good to know I’m walking into a warm reception,” she replied with a wry grin.

With a gentle sigh and one last glance, Annie led the way down the narrow staircase. Morgan followed, her senses heightened as they descended into the dimly lit basement. Her gaze swept over the basement, taking in the sight of cramped, mismatched furniture and cluttered shelves. The air held a musty chill, tucked away from the touch of daylight for god knew how long.

A tall, wiry man looked up from a worn couch, blinking in confusion as he took in Morgan’s face. Morgan quickly recognized him as Hugh Campbell from Annie’s memories. His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at Annie, his expression a mixture of concern and bewilderment.

“Annie, what…?”

Annie offered a reassuring smile, stepping toward him. “Hughie, this is Morgan,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, as if easing him into the situation. “I know this is a surprise, but she needs our help. She’s on our side.”

Hughie’s gaze darted between the two women, lingering on Morgan with a hint of unease. “Wait, Morgan? As in Psyren from The Seven?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, as if speaking her name any louder would summon trouble.

“The very same.” Morgan confirmed with a weary smile. She glanced at Annie, then back at Hughie, allowing a rare note of vulnerability into her voice. “I don’t expect you or anybody else here to trust me quite yet. I’m here to make things right, though, as much as I can.”

Hughie’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though he still eyed her with a mixture of caution and curiosity. “Well… if Annie trusts you, then I guess that’s a start.”

A sharp, mocking laugh rang out from the back of the room. Morgan’s gaze shifted to see William Butcher leaning against an old card table, arms crossed, his sharp eyes assessing her with an almost predatory gleam.

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Never thought I’d see the day when Vought’s latest poster girl would darken our doorstep.” He pushed himself off the table, sauntering forward with a smirk. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Morgan could hear both Hughie and Annie’s silent panic as they realized that they didn’t have any time to warm Butcher up to her sudden appearance. Though, she got the sense that wouldn’t have done much good anyway.

Morgan kept her expression calm, meeting Butcher’s scrutinizing gaze without so much as flinching. “Guts have nothing to do with it. I have something you’ve been looking for. You want inside information on Vought, and I’ve got every speck of dirt you could ever need.” Her voice was steady, but she could sense the unease permeating the room.

Butcher’s smirk faded slightly, and his eyes remained cold. “Is that right? D’you really think you can just waltz in here with that pretty face and a line like that, and I’ll just roll over and show my belly to ya?”

Before Morgan could respond, movement caught her eye from the shadows near the back of the room. A shorter man–Frenchie, she was able to gather from others’ thoughts– stepped forward. His gaze darted between Morgan and Butcher, a glint of curiosity mixed with wariness in his eyes.

“Mon dieu,” Frenchie murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. “We have quite the celebrity among us, it seems, eh?” His voice was light, but his gaze was sharp, and Morgan could sense he was gauging her with the same scrutiny Butcher was.

Behind him–The others called this man MM–appraised her with a glance, his arms crossed in quiet intensity.

“Just because you’re here doesn’t mean we’re buying whatever you’re selling. Annie might trust you, but we don’t know you. And trust is earned around here.” His voice was low and steady as he cut in, his tone carrying a note of warning.

Just as Morgan opened her mouth to respond, she caught a flicker of movement from the far corner. A small figure emerged, stepping quietly into the dim light—Kimiko. Her dark, piercing eyes never left Morgan, a mix of suspicion and intensity in her gaze. There was something predatory about her silence, the way she moved with purpose, sizing up every inch of Morgan’s presence.

Kimiko tilted her head slightly, her expression inscrutable. Morgan shifted slightly, feeling Kimiko’s gaze settle over her like a warning.

“I understand why you all don’t trust me.” Morgan said with a firm, level voice. “I wouldn’t, either. But I’m here because I want Vought brought down just as much as any of you. They don’t care who they hurt, as long as they get what they want. I’m done thinking I could have made any sort of difference.”

Butcher’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, giving her a once-over that felt more like a calculated threat than curiosity. He let her words linger, a tense silence stretching between them, before he finally spoke, his tone laced with cold skepticism.

“Done with Vought, are you?” he said, voice low and sharp. “Funny, you and Homelander look so cozy together. So tell me, love, what’s changed, eh?”

Morgan’s jaw tightened, but she forced herself to hold Butcher’s gaze, unflinching. She knew this would be a sticking point. Her public involvement with Homelander was definitely a complication that none of them would easily overlook.

“Whatever you think you know about my relationship with Homelander, I assure you, it’s not what it seems.” Morgan replied, her voice steady but edged with frustration. “They wanted someone to keep him… controlled, or at least give the impression that he was stable.”

Butcher’s smirk was ice-cold, his eyes narrowing. “Is that right? So all those lovey-dovey photos, the headlines, the little public displays were just for show?” He stepped forward, voice dripping with disdain. “From what I hear, you didn’t need to do all that to keep him under your thumb. My guess is you got something a little extra out of playing house with him.”

Something extra… that was one way to put it. Subconsciously, her hand drifted to her stomach again. It was a subtle enough gesture that Annie had missed it the first time. However, Butcher was watching her with laser focus. Every little gesture or micro-expression didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Oh.” Butcher spoke a single syllable so laden with intrigue, disgust and maybe even a hint of twisted delight.

Morgan stiffened, realizing too late the slip in her composure. Butcher’s expression morphed, his sneer curling into something almost triumphant, though no less contemptuous.

“Oh,” he repeated, drawing out the word with a mocking edge. “Didn’t realize you were expectin’. Was baby trappin’ him part of the plan? Or was than an unfortunate side effect?”

Before she could respond, Annie stepped forward, her eyes wide with shock and concern. “Morgan… are you…” She paused, searching Morgan’s face, her expression softening as understanding dawned. “You’re really pregnant?”

She nodded once, her jaw tight as she glanced away, unable to meet Annie’s sympathetic gaze. “Despite my best efforts, yes,” she murmured, her frustration palpable. “It’s the wake up call I didn’t exactly want, but needed.”

Butcher rolled his eyes, his sneer still lingering. “Spare me the sob story. You went and made yourself Homelander’s personal cum dumpster and now you’re payin’ the price. Why the hell should we help you?”

MM, cast a calm but firm look toward Butcher. “Maybe we should hear her out, Butcher.” He glanced at Morgan, nodding slightly. “If she’s here now, willing to turn on Homelander and Vought, that’s got to count for something.”

Frenchie added, “And if she’s got the dirt she says she does, it could mean a hell of a lot more than we expected.”

Butcher scoffed, shaking his head. “She’s only here ‘cause she’s got herself in a corner. We’re just supposed to roll out the red carpet ‘cause she’s knocked up? And with Homelander’s spawn no less?”

Morgan’s frustration flared, but she managed to maintain a sliver of her composure. She held his gaze, her voice dropping to a low, fierce tone. “I intend to deal a crushing blow to Vought, regardless of if you help me or not. I’m offering you an opportunity to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself into.”

Butcher’s sneer deepened, clearly unmoved. “And why should I believe a word of that? For all I know, you’ll go runnin’ back the minute it suits ya. You lot are all the same, sooner or later.”

At that, Hughie stepped forward, his expression a mix of frustration and compassion. “Butcher, maybe we should actually listen to her,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. “She’s risking everything to be here. And if what she says is true, then maybe this is our chance to finally have something on Vought and Homelander.”

Butcher looked at Hughie, his gaze hard, but the flicker of doubt was there. Hughie pressed on, glancing between him and Morgan. “People make mistakes. But if she’s willing to put herself on the line to take them down, shouldn’t we at least consider it?”

The room was silent for a moment, all eyes on Butcher. His scowl deepened, his voice laced with contempt. “Consider it? Consider helpin’ the one person who could walk right back into Vought’s arms and betray the whole bloody lot of us? You’re askin’ me to believe that Homelander’s bird has got the guts to stick it out against them?” He shook his head, his glare fixed on Morgan. “No. She’s still got too much to lose to turn her back on ‘em.”

Morgan’s patience was wearing thin. She took a steadying breath, willing herself to stay calm, then spoke in a sharp and cold tone. “You’re right—I have a lot to lose. But so do you.” She paused, her gaze steady, letting her next words fall with intent. “Think of Becca.”

Butcher’s expression faltered, his sneer flickering as he absorbed her words. The room went utterly silent, tension hanging thick in the air. Morgan seized the moment, pressing on with quiet intensity.

“I know where Vought’s keeping her. And I have the means to get her out, but I can’t do it alone,” she said, her voice unwavering. “You help me take Vought down, and I’ll help you bring Becca back. For good.”

Butcher’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight as he looked at her, suspicion warring with something raw and dangerous in his eyes. “You’d better not be bluffin’, love,” he murmured, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Because if you are…”

“I’m not,” Morgan replied, her tone resolute. “I have no intention of letting what happened to her go unpunished. I’m not about to let what happened to her happen to me either.”

The room remained tense, every gaze locked on Butcher as he stood there, rigid and silent. Finally, with a slight nod, he exhaled, his gaze dark. “Alright. What have you got?”

Song: Give It Up by Loz Delora “Now all I’ve left you with is my, Is my betrayal.” Author’s notes: It’s been just over a week folks, and I think that’s the longest I’ve gone between updates. I’m not thinking I’ll be able to keep up the original update schedule I had now that work has been getting busier (and the new Dragon Age game came out and has been eating a lot of my spare time lol) but, I’m going to at least try for weekly updates. Anyways, I’m still trucking forward with the story! It was fun to finally include Butcher and The Boys. Morgan’s got some schemes in play and I can’t wait for things to unfold!

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

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first you torture the pretty man, then you give him a praise kink the size of russia

#Homelander?

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out-with-the-boys · 3 months ago

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The Dance- Chapter 21

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

The subway rattled past midnight, a low hum filling the sleepy station. Morgan’s hand clenched tightly around the crumpled plastic baggie she’d sealed her tracking chip in, her other hand steadying herself against the subway pole. She glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of the man she’d chosen at random.

Extracting the chip had been a bitch to deal with, and her arm still ached and burned at the incision site. The amount of adrenaline that was coursing through her, however, kept it dulled somewhat.

Trying not to be so obvious in her approach, she strode in the direction of an office worker slouched over, half-asleep in his rumpled suit. When she passed him, she brushed her hand against his messenger bag, slipping the chip inside the outer pocket with ease. She barely glanced back as she moved toward the doors, the worn metal gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

By the time she climbed the subway stairs into the cool night air, Morgan felt her heartbeat settle. She reached into her jacket pocket, feeling for the small device she’d crafted just days earlier. It was a simple-looking fob, an old car key, inconspicuous in her hand. No one at Vought had questioned her mechanical tinkering; they saw it as just another future asset. She’d let them believe that, right up until that night.

She had been leading a lot of people to believe a lot of things lately. Herself included. It was hard to say when her life had stopped being her own, but she was a far cry from who she wanted to be.

Maybe the real question was why she had let herself drift into Homelander’s orbit at all. A wise part of her had always known that he was no ordinary danger. He was volatile—a man raised in a cage of expectations, with no room for humanity or remorse. At that, he was driven by the narrative that he was above all others.

And yet, she had looked at him and seen something different. Maybe that was why she’d stayed.

There were times when she felt like a fool for wanting to understand him, to reach for something better in him. He was a maelstrom of destruction wrapped in a powerful, lonely shell. But beneath the carnage, she could feel his fractures—tiny, almost imperceptible moments when the armor slipped and the shadows in his eyes softened.

Those rare moments had tugged at her. They made her wonder if, perhaps, there was a chance he could become something better than what he’d been made to be. It was foolish, she knew, but it was also human.

Hope could be a blinding thing.

Part of her felt pity for him, too. She had seen things that no one else could. There were dark memories of a boy robbed of family, robbed of choice, reshaped by Vought’s brutal ambitions. He hadn’t been given the luxury of innocence, and for that, she couldn’t hate him completely.

Maybe that was where the danger had started. The line between sympathy and self-preservation was unbelievably thin. She could sense his pain in ways he would never admit, and it left her with a strange, and tragic compassion for him.

Morgan had spent enough time behind the walls of Vought to recognize what drove him, to know how fear could twist even the strongest into something monstrous. She’d seen glimpses of it in herself, the moments when she felt her own moral compass veering under the pressure of survival. And perhaps, on some level, her closeness with him was a mirror. It was a way to understand her own fears and the ways power could corrupt anyone, even herself.

Yet, it wasn’t just empathy that kept her close. There was a part of her, buried deep, that held to a hope she wasn’t proud of. She believed she was the only person who could truly understand him, that in her, he might find the reflection of the person he might’ve been if things had been different. She was haunted by the belief that, if she left, the fragile pieces of his humanity might shatter completely. So she’d stayed, drawn in by an ache to save him as much as she wanted to save herself.

Maybe it was selfish, too, to think she could be his conscience, his one tie to a world that held something beyond domination. But she couldn’t deny the way she felt when he looked at her, raw and unmasked, desperate for something he’d never admit he needed. The darkness was always there, but so was a flicker of something she couldn’t ignore. And even when it terrified her, it felt real in a way the rest of her life didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, pity and empathy had tangled with hope and loneliness, blurring the lines between necessity and desire. In him, she saw a reflection of all the things she tried to bury in herself. She saw her own fractures, regrets, and compromises she made just to survive another day at Vought.

But maybe that was why she knew she had to start over. She had seen the depth of his pain, but she also saw the price of staying too close to it. Loving him—if that was what it was—felt like living in the eye of a storm, aware that it could pull her under at any moment.

And maybe, it was time to let go of the idea of saving everyone but herself.

Pulling herself from her introspection, Morgan slipped through the quiet streets of Manhattan. Now her mind is churning through the details of her plan.

She ducked into a nearby parking garage, heading for the car she’d prepped earlier, its license plates swapped and its GPS wiped clean. Settling into the driver’s seat, her hand instinctively brushed over the fob in her pocket. It was a lifeline she’d spent weeks refining. Each piece of it was made to slip her through Vought’s hold.

The city lights faded in her rearview mirror as she drove north, the night growing darker and the road stretching long and empty ahead of her. Towering trees soon closed in, their shadows swallowing the beam of her headlights as the winding path led her deeper into the woods.

Vought had chosen well, hiding Becca and Ryan far enough from the city to keep them contained, yet close enough to remain within reach. Each mile she traveled felt heavier, her resolve sharpening as the forest thickened around her.

Finally, the compound walls loomed into view, cutting stark lines against the trees. The fob in her pocket hummed faintly, a barely-there reminder of the time ticking away as Morgan pulled up to the guard station. The suburban streets inside the Vought compound lay quiet under the streetlights, casting a muted glow over the carefully manicured lawns and houses lining the road.

This place was built to look like a sanctuary, but she knew better.

Morgan touched the minds of the guards at the station, nudging them into a momentary lull. Their gazes unfocused and their hands settled back onto their laps as her vehicle rolled past the barrier without a hitch.

She felt a small thrill of satisfaction. So far, the fob was jamming any surveillance from within the car, leaving her a narrow window to move unnoticed.

As she drove deeper into the neighborhood, her eyes traced the eerily perfect lines of hedges and the faint glow from curtained windows. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, each house she passed filling her with a low, simmering anger.

This was no haven, despite its quaint facade. It was a cage made up to look like freedom, and Vought’s control was embedded in every inch of it.

Her mind circled back to the woman waiting at the end of this drive. Becca was more than a prisoner. She was a mother bound to this place by her son’s safety, tethered by a delicate fear that kept her rooted here.

Morgan knew all too well how tightly fear could bind a person, and her gut tightened at the thought of how she’d convince Becca to break herself and Ryan away from this carefully maintained illusion.

When she finally reached Becca’s house, Morgan slowed, parking a little down the street to avoid drawing attention. She took a steadying breath, letting her telepathy stretch out like a silent knock against Becca’s consciousness, a gentle touch that conveyed a promise of safety. She couldn’t afford to startle her; every second counted.

Morgan’s feet barely made a sound as she moved up the path, her gaze fixed on the house. A faint light spilled from the living room window, casting a warm glow that felt strangely out of place against the cold, silent night. She could sense Becca’s presence inside. Her thoughts were a mixture of apprehension yet something expectant.

The porch steps creaked softly underfoot, and just as Morgan raised her hand to knock, the door opened a crack, spilling light across her face. Becca stood framed in the doorway. Her expression was a blend of caution and curiosity, as her tired eyes searched Morgan’s to gauge her intentions before a single word was spoken.

“He doesn’t know I’m here.” Morgan began, ready to put that particular worry to rest before it could be voiced. “Nobody does.”

Becca’s expression remained wary, her grip tightening on the doorframe. “You promised you’d come back, but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

Morgan held Becca’s gaze, her expression unwavering. “There’s not much time for me to answer all your questions, but I know what you’re thinking.” She said, pausing for just a moment. “I know what Homelander is. I know what he did to you, and my heart breaks for you and your son.”

The sharpness of Becca’s thoughts as her eyes narrowed almost made Morgan jump. It was hard to know what to say in a situation like that, but Morgan didn’t have time to show the equal parts compassion and deference Becca deserved. She was bound to say a few wrong things.

“And without getting too deep into the particulars, I’m here to offer you an out.” Morgan quickly continued. “I had hoped I could fix things, but I’m so far in over my head right now… Things aren’t going to get better unless I make them.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Becca asked, her suspicion interwoven with a cautiously hopeful curiosity.

“We have to leave.” she cut straight to the heart of it. “You, me, Ryan–We all have to disappear to someplace he can’t reach us.”

Becca’s grip on the doorframe tightened, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “Disappear? You’re talking about uprooting my son, ripping him away from the only life he knows. Do you understand what you’re asking of me?”

Morgan’s gaze softened, but her tone remained firm. “I do, Becca. And I wouldn’t be here if I thought there was any other way. If you stay here, it’s just a matter of time before Vought finds a reason to bring him closer, to pull you both deeper into their control. And Homelander…” She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as though his shadow could be lurking just beyond the porch. “He’s not going to stop at just showing up here every once in a while. He’ll take what he wants, and you know that includes Ryan.”

Becca’s eyes flickered with fear, but she shook her head. “And go where? Just vanish into thin air? They’ll come looking. They’ll hunt us down.”

Morgan took a step forward, urgency threading through her voice. “I have a plan. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but it’s a life where you won’t have to look over your shoulder every day, wondering when he’ll appear. I know how to protect all of us, but you’re going to have to put some faith in me.”

Becca’s jaw flexed as she considered Morgan’s words, a storm of emotions playing out in her gaze. “Faith in you? You’re asking me to trust you with my son’s life. You can’t just… You can’t just show up in the dead of night and expect me to say yes to this.”

With a steadying breath, she nodded slowly. “I know. And I’m not asking you to decide right now. But I need you to start preparing yourself, Becca. There’s only so much you can do here to protect Ryan. Sooner or later, Vought or Homelander will take him, and I won’t let that happen. Not to him, not to you.”

“And you?” Becca raised a brow, glancing pointedly at Morgan’s abdomen.

A hint of vulnerability flashed across Morgan’s face, but she held steady. “That’s another story, but I’m almost ready to pull the trigger on this.” Her voice dropped, a shadow passing over her expression. “I’ll have to make Vought believe I’m gone for good. That’s the only way to give you both a real chance.”

Becca looked away, the weight of it all settling in. “And how long would we have to wait?”

“Not long. I’ll do everything I can to make it quick, but until then… you have to be ready. Keep Ryan close, keep him safe. When the time comes, I’ll return, and we’ll leave this place behind. For good.”

A shaky breath escaped Becca's lips. She still looked uncertain, but that moment of hesitation told Morgan all she needed to know. “Alright. I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

Morgan contemplated reaching out, a gesture of quiet reassurance, but she refrained. “That’s all I’m asking. Just… be ready.”

With a final nod, Morgan stepped back, slipping into the shadows beyond the porch, casting one last glance over her shoulder. In the dim glow of the doorway, Becca’s eyes held a flicker of hope, mingling with doubt. Morgan couldn’t ignore the enormity of what she was asking Becca to consider.

As she walked back down the quiet street, her hand instinctively drifted to her abdomen, a gentle pressure reminding her of everything that spurred this plan. With each step, her chest felt like it was pulling tighter and tighter. It was a dangerous path forward, one that would sever every connection she had. But maybe, in that finality, she’d find the freedom they all deserved.

She would do whatever it took to see this through. As much as she wanted to hold out hope, as much as she wanted to cling to the tiniest slivers of silver linings, she knew better than that. They were playing by the house rules.

She couldn’t let Vought win.

Song: Once Upon Another Time by Sara Bareilles “Once upon another time, Before I knew which life was mine.” Author’s notes: So, I don’t actually have much to say on this chapter. The pieces are all set, and the next few chapters are all pretty solidly in place. Some minor things to note! I added some cover art to the first chapter that matches a playlist I’ve curated of all the chapter titles. On that note, I’ve also forged ahead and put the next few chapter titles into the playlist as well. You’re welcome to check it out and speculate on what comes next!

Next chapter.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander fic #homelander x oc

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