FishFood
The penthouse is all glass and gleaming luxury, cold in that expensive, sterile way Homelander seems to favor when he is pretending to be untouchable. James steps inside with the last traces of the outside clinging to him, a dark coat cut sharp over his frame, the faintest sheen of something predatory still lingering at the edge of his expression.
And, unmistakably, there is scent.
Salt-brine and blood. The Deep’s blood, still threaded through him in a way that would be impossible to miss to anyone with a nose worth trusting. Human and supe both, warm and metallic and faintly oceanic beneath it all, as though James had walked in from the tide itself and brought part of it with him.
He pauses just long enough to let the silence settle.
Then, with careful composure, he closes the door behind him and turns toward the room as though nothing about him is unusual at all.
“Darling,” he says, voice low and smooth, carrying that polished restraint that always sounds a little too deliberate when he is trying to hide something and there is a faint tilt to his mouth, almost amused, almost not.
The blood-rush has not left him. It colors him still, a subtle flush of life against the usual pallor, a sharper vitality in his eyes that suggests he has only just finished being reminded what it feels like to stand too close to a living pulse. His gaze lifts, searching for Homelander. Testing the waters, as is were.
“Have a good afternoon?”
@hom3land3r
