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There’s a horrible, drawn-out moment when Annie is sure they’re all done for.
Then Homelander throws himself at Soldier Boy and the two go flying out the window of the Tower. For a short time, Annie believes Homelander is dead. It’s the most peaceful ten minutes of the last several years of her life.
That peace is shattered when Homelander pulls himself out of the rubble, bruised and bloody. She has to admit, it’s a good look on him, relatively speaking. He stumbles forward, staggers, and falls into Maeve’s arms, passed out. Blood trickles from his nose and his ear and from a gash on his arm.
He may not be dead, but this is far better. He’s human.
—
There’s a heated debate about what should be done with him. Butcher, of course, wants him to die a slow painful death. By all accounts, Annie should want that too after all he’s put her through. But seeing him helpless like this… she doesn’t want that to end just yet. And further, that would be wrong. There’s already been enough needless bloodshed.
To Annie’s surprise, Maeve sides with her, which is enough to get Butcher to stop yelling, at least. It’s doubtful that he’s going to give up on changing their minds anytime soon, but they’re able to postpone the decision, so for the night, Homelander stays in Maeve’s guest room, chained to the bed with a gag in his mouth.
The next day, Vought is in shambles. Not only do they have to deal with the scandal of Soldier Boy coming back from the dead and nearly blowing up their Tower, they’re now down to two members out of their supposed Seven. Not that Annie could care less about them, even if a part of her still worries about Ashley and her hairline.
Vought puts out a flimsy statement about the team needing time to regroup, but it doesn’t do much to keep the public at bay. Their faces are plastered all over the news, with every network spinning a different story to explain their absence.
Of course, none of them can get close to the truth: that Homelander has been stripped of his powers and is on the run with Annie and Queen Maeve, along with a ragtag group of terrorists. Still, this means that they can’t stay anywhere for long, and they can’t stay together long either. They rotate through a half dozen or so of Frenchie’s hideouts, one for every day of the week, in groups of three.
The first two nights, Annie is with Frenchie and Kimiko. It’s a bit awkward, but bearable. She’s able to relax, just a little. Frenchie cooks and Kimiko plays music out of the tinny speaker on her phone and Annie can almost pretend that things will be okay.
Then night three rolls around and the dice they roll to mix up the groups lands her with none other than Homelander. And Maeve. She and Maeve exchange a glance.
“How’s he been?” Maeve asks Hughie and MM, who’d been paired with him the previous two nights.
“Just lovely,” MM replies flatly. “A real treat.”
Hughie looks between the two of them and then clarifies.
“He’s been unbearable.”
“Sarcasm, Einstein,” MM says, rolling his eyes. Hughie tries to laugh it off.
“If you two could handle him, I’m sure we’ll be just fine,” Maeve says.
She’s probably right. Homelander doesn’t have his powers anymore. How bad could it be?
—
“You think I need powers to kill everyone you love? Hughie? Elena? Your parents? Gun to their heads, they’re still human, one pull of a trigger, that’s all it ta—”
Homelander has the words prepared the second Maeve removes the gag from his mouth. In response, Maeve slaps him across the face, leaning over him where he’s slumped against a wall of the safe house. It's forceful enough to make him stop talking, mouth hanging slightly open in surprise. Annie watches as red blossoms across his cheek.
“Guess Hughie was too pussy to do that,” Maeve chuckles as she watches Homelander struggle to recover. Annie tries to smother a laugh but Maeve catches it and smirks.
“What do you want to bet the guys didn’t even untie him? I think we can stand to have a little more fun. Because… I’ll admit, John, I did fantasize about you. I fantasized about this. About you being helpless.”
“Don’t call me that,” Homelander mutters. It’s the first time Annie has heard anyone say his real name. If it can even be considered such a thing. Maeve laughs at that.
“Oh, come on, you can’t seriously think anyone is going to keep calling you Homelander. Homelander was just a part you played for Vought. But daddy doesn’t want you anymore now that you’re human. Nobody wants you. You’re lucky we kept you alive. So you better get used to not having things your way.”
Homelander, which Annie can’t seem to stop thinking of him as, even if Maeve is right that it was just a costume, looks so much smaller in normal clothes—an ill-fitting t-shirt and jeans—than he did in that ridiculous padded suit. His face looks older too, without a layer of makeup to obscure the lines. Annie had never realized how much of it was a charade until the charade was stripped away.
“They’ll find you,” he growls. “Vought will look everywhere for me. They’ll fix this and I’ll make you pay.”
Maeve shrugs.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can’t hide. But we can keep running until Vought realizes it’s a waste of time and resources to keep looking. They can replace you, easy.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Homelander snarls, his face growing redder with rage. “I am still The Homelander. Nothing you or anyone else says can change that.”
Annie blinks and suddenly Maeve is on top of Homelander, pinning him to the floor with her hands on his throat.
“You’re a really bad listener, you know that?” Maeve grunts, tightening her grip until Homelander wheezes. He grapples at her hands, trying to get her off, but he stands as much a chance as any other human has against her, which is to say, none.
“Maeve,” Annie hisses as Homelander’s face starts to turn blue. Had Maeve only wanted to keep him alive so she could kill him herself? “Stop it.”
Just when Annie is sure she’s going to have to drag her off herself, Maeve lets go, letting Homelander gasp raggedly for air. She sits back, settling down where she’s straddling him.
“I see you’re still just as much of a sick fuck, John.”
Annie doesn’t understand what she means until she hears Homelander whimper and notices Maeve’s hips rocking ever so slightly against his.
Oh.
So that’s what Maeve had been going for.
—
The three of them end up on the floor in a sweaty, tangled heap, no regard for the hard concrete digging into their limbs. Annie and Maeve won’t bruise, and they don’t care if Homelander does.
Maeve had told Annie to mount Homelander’s face to get him to shut up. Not that he was still complaining by that point—quite the opposite—but Annie, who was aching with arousal by then, was more than happy to comply and stifle his moans. So there she is, straddling Homelander’s face, his tongue dipping inside her while Maeve rides him, one of Maeve’s hands resting on his throat, a passive threat. Be good, or you know what’ll happen.
Annie isn’t even sure how many times Maeve forces Homelander to come. She rides him until he tries to squirm away from her, desperate for a respite from the stimulation. Even so, all that time, he never stops pressing his tongue against Annie’s cunt. Annie loses track of how many times she comes, too.
When Maeve has finally had her way with him, she shoves Annie aside and crawls over Homelander’s mouth, his own come dripping out of her cunt and down his face.
“Clean it up,” she commands, giving him no choice but to do so as she shoves herself at him.
By the time Maeve stands up, Annie isn’t sure Homelander is even still conscious. Maeve glances down at him, covered in his own saliva and come, his clothes torn and his body bruised, and smirks.
“See you in the morning, John.”
Annie finds herself looking forward to tomorrow.