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[breeding]

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HOMELANDER

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[breeding]

[ Each memory she names settles into the core of him like a handprint, too warm and too raw — the culmination of the shield and spear paradox, the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object in a collision that ought to break them both. And maybe it does, in its own way. Her heart opens to him, her blood sweetly singing a melody that he knows only exists for him to hear, and the trellis of his chest yawns open, too.

So many years ago, they make him to be loved. Without it, he rots and withers, turns inward upon himself. It doesn't matter that he gorges himself upon it when he has it — doesn't matter, so long as it's a true thing. He'd drown in it without hesitation, would happily gorge himself to death. Tries to, in a way, as he kisses away the tears upon her cheeks, aware twice over that she doesn't cry like this often, that she doesn't smile like this for anyone except for him. The least he can do to repay that debt is to keep it on his tongue, safe in the hollow of his mouth. Because he's safe with her. Allowed to be vulnerable and young, allowed— not to be weak, exactly, but to be defined not entirely by his strength.

She loves the parts of him that others call monstrous. Loves him where the people who created him call him a failure. And for all that he resents those labels, pushing back against them when he was created to be perfect perfect perfect, he hates being neutered more. The sun will blind and burn, if stared at too long. Are either of them, ultimately, any different?

The spear and the shield. Meant only for each other. ]

I'll— I'll tell the maids to move your stuff. [ Ineloquent, in comparison to her, but no less earnest, mumbled as he tries to think of how long they could keep company with only each other before anyone asked after them. What he means is I want that, too. What he means is where you are, I will be. ] Or I can move it all. Whatever— whatever you want.

[preborns]

[in a tome alia has read (with her eyes and others, with her mother and her mother’s mother and her mother’s mother’s mother, back into millennia), there is a book of prayers, of praise, that calls each being made by god’s hand fearful and wonderful, i praise you, i praise you, you knit me together in my mother’s womb, the miracle of life, the possibility contained in each human.

but alia was made by the will of jessica, consort of duke leto, she was knit together to serve, to protect, to shed the blood of billions for the boy that should’ve been a daughter, for the god who shared a womb. and homelander was made, designed, crafted to be perfect, infallible, without reproach. they were made fearfully, but not wonderfully. and when they failed, they were cast aside, cast out, left unknit and fearful and inhuman and impossible.

when homelander holds her, touches her, smiles at her with sweetness, kisses her like she’s essential, alia thinks, perhaps – perhaps they were wrong. jessica, the reverend mothers, vought, the world who’d made and discarded them. perhaps they were wonderfully made all along, more wonderful than any before, any after. perhaps that was what made the world fear them so. perhaps there is nothing to shrink from, not a thought or a deed or a word in their vicious, violent, vindictive golden heads that should be feared.

these thoughts click through alia’s mind, even as she softens the flow of her blood, the beat of her heart, the incandescent bubble of her body’s cells dividing, multiplying, creating and creating and creating her. she tucks herself up under homelander’s chin, finds the jugular pulsing in his throat and kisses it once, twice, three times, a thanks for carrying his blood, his life, his thrumming energy. an honor and a privilege.]

You would look very nice carrying all my boxes. [hummed, lips still teasing over his neck.] Very handsome. But – if you carry them, you cannot hold me. [alia tips her chin up, wiggling out from her nestled spot and wrinkles her nose in disapproval.] I don’t want to share. The maids can do it.