AUGUST 2ND, 2021 — EVENING TIME. All you could do was lie still as John, Homelander, made himself at home in bed, close to your stomach. His hands, rough and usually unforgiving, trace your faded scars, as he coos to you about the origins of them as if you weren’t aware of the damages done to your body. With a surprising amount of gentleness, he runs his index over an old bullet wound. “I remember this one,” he murmurs, almost romantic, “You remember it, baby?”

How could you forget? You were used to the whole ‘they shot at us first’ spiel but you hadn’t been prepared for him to start shooting at you that night, laughing as you tried to avoid being hit. Sick fuck. Of course, he was right there with you for the few nights you had to stay in Vought’s specialized hospital wing. Never did he apologize but he swore up and down that it wouldn’t happen again. Not that he wouldn’t shoot at you, just that it wouldn’t land. It must’ve counted for something, must’ve been romantic at the time because here you are, married to him…

The all American hero leans down to press a kiss close to your bellybutton, which pulls you out of thought. His tongue darts out just to lick the flesh a little. He’s freaky but he’s yours if that counts for anything.

“I want a baby,” he states suddenly against your tummy, peppering you with more kisses. “You’ll do that for me, right? Have a little supe baby, for me?”

You start to sit up some but with a firm push to your shoulder, he lays you back down. “Just listen. It’ll — I’ve thought about it, Vought’s thought about it, many women have thought about it. You’re the only one that’s not thinking about having my kid. That hurts, baby.”

“Just thinking of your belly all full of me.. your hips, and.. oh, your breasts..” He doesn't need to go on; you can feel him against your thigh now. Doesn’t take a genius to notice the way he throbs and pulses at the thoughts he’s having. “You’ll do it for me, won’t you?

Ah.. A baby for your baby.