WEIGHT OF AMERICA || Homelander

003: Lingering Fantasies

The cold, sterile light of the Vought tower cast long shadows across Homelander's office. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning. Homelander leaned back in his chair, his eyes fluttering shut as he allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. It wasn't long before the quiet lulled him into a deep sleep.

In his dream, the world was different. The boundaries between his desires and reality blurred seamlessly. His office was bathed in a soft, warm glow, and the scent of jasmine lingered in the air. He stood behind his desk, but he wasn't alone. Phantasm—stood before him, her presence commanding and alluring.

She wore her hero costume, but it seemed to hug her curves more intimately, revealing just enough to stir his imagination. Her eyes, intense and captivating, locked onto his with a mixture of challenge and invitation.

"Homelander," she purred, her voice dripping with seduction, "you always think you're the best. But what if someone could make you feel... powerless?"

Without waiting for a response, she moved closer, her fingers trailing lightly over the edge of his desk. He felt a rush of heat, his heart pounding in his chest as her touch ignited a fire within him.

She climbed onto the desk, her movements fluid and graceful, positioning herself right in front of him. Her eyes never left his, and he felt an overwhelming urge to dominate, to prove himself. But there was something about her—something that made him feel vulnerable and exposed.

His hands moved of their own accord, sliding up her thighs and pulling her closer. Their lips met in a fiery kiss, and he could feel her power, her essence, wrapping around him, making him crave more. Their bodies intertwined, the passion between them growing with every passing second.

Just as the dream reached its most intense point, with their movements becoming more frantic and desperate, he heard her whisper in his ear, "You're not in control, Homelander."

The words sent a jolt through him, and he awoke with a start, his body covered in a light sheen of sweat. His office was dark again, the cold, clinical light replacing the warm glow of his dream. He sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair, trying to shake off the lingering sensations.

The dream had felt so real, so vivid, that it left him unsettled. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, the heat of her breath against his skin. With a frustrated growl, he stood and paced the room, attempting to rid himself of the unwanted arousal.

As the day began, Homelander found it increasingly difficult to maintain his usual composure. Every glance at Anastasia—Phantasm—sent a surge of conflicting emotions through him. She was a threat to his dominance, yet the dream had awakened something within him that he couldn't ignore.

In the training room, as the Seven gathered for their morning briefing, Homelander's eyes betrayed him, flickering toward Phantasm whenever she spoke or moved. She seemed to notice, her lips curling into a knowing smirk that only fueled his frustration.

Madelyn Stillwell's voice droned on, outlining the day's agenda, but Homelander barely heard a word. His mind was preoccupied, replaying the dream over and over, the desire and confusion it had sparked gnawing at him.

"Homelander," Madelyn's voice snapped him back to the present, "are you paying attention?"

He forced a smile, masking his inner turmoil. "Of course, Madelyn."

But as the meeting continued, his gaze drifted back to Phantasm. The dream had ignited a dangerous curiosity, one that he knew could jeopardize his control. He resolved to keep his distance, to maintain his composure. Yet, deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before the boundaries between his fantasies and reality blurred once more.