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?”