Chapter 1: Not My Skin
The first thing I noticed was the weight on my chest.
Not pain. Not cold. Just… weight. Heavy, soft, warm things that moved when I breathed. They rose and fell like they belonged there, but they didn't. Nothing felt like it belonged.
My eyes opened slowly. The ceiling above me was too bright — sterile white tiles with buzzing fluorescent lights. The kind you see in hospitals. Or morgues.
I tried to sit up.
That's when everything went wrong.
My body moved too easily. Too gracefully. Long legs swung over the edge of the metal table without any of the usual clumsiness I was used to. My hands — fuck, these weren't my hands — came up to touch my face. Smooth skin. High cheekbones. Full lips that felt plush under my fingertips. Golden hair spilled over my shoulders, tickling bare skin that was way too sensitive.
I looked down.
Breasts. Round, perfect, with soft pink nipples that tightened instantly in the cold air. A narrow waist. Wide hips. And between my thighs… nothing. Just smooth, warm skin and a faint, terrifying ache that made my stomach twist.
"No," I whispered.
The voice that came out wasn't mine. It was light, melodic, feminine — the voice that had sold millions of posters and action figures. Annie January's voice.
Starlight's voice.
"Oh God… no, no, no—"
I stumbled off the table, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The thin hospital gown had slipped off one shoulder, exposing more of this stolen body than I ever wanted to see. I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself, but my legs — her legs — were long and strong and moved like they'd been dancing through life instead of lumbering through it like mine used to.
This wasn't a dream. This was real.
They'd done it.
Those Vought bastards had actually done it.
I remembered the last thing I saw before everything went black: Annie January strapped down, eyes wide with terror as the doctors prepared to harvest her brain. And me… Kevin. The Deep. The fucking joke of The Seven. Disgraced, useless, about to be "returned to the sea."
They didn't return me to the sea.
They put me in her.
I touched my — her — throat. My fingers trembled. "This isn't me," I said out loud, testing the voice again. It sounded so sweet even when I was panicking. It made me want to scream.
The door hissed open.
I froze.
Homelander stepped inside like he owned the air itself. His cape moved behind him with that perfect dramatic flair. His blue eyes locked onto me immediately, scanning every inch of this body like he was checking for defects on a new car.
He smiled. That slow, terrifying smile that never reached his eyes.
"Starlight," he said softly, almost tenderly. "You're awake."
I backed up until my ass hit the edge of the table. My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, trying to hide the breasts that kept brushing against my forearms with every movement. The nipples were so sensitive it was distracting.
"I'm not her," I said, voice cracking. "I'm not Annie. You know that, right? This is fucked up. Even for you people."
Homelander tilted his head, studying me with genuine curiosity.
"You sound just like her when you're scared," he murmured. "The little tremble in your voice… the way your cheeks flush." His gaze dropped lower, lingering on my crossed arms, on the way the gown had slipped dangerously low. "And you look exactly like her. Every curve. Every freckle."
He took a step closer. The air felt heavier.
"I need to be sure, though," he continued, voice dropping into that dangerous velvet tone. "Before we show you to the world tomorrow, I need to know this body still… feels like hers."
My heart — her heart — hammered in my chest.
"Stay away from me," I whispered. But my voice came out breathy. Soft. Nothing like the threat I wanted it to be.
Homelander reached out and gently, almost reverently, brushed a strand of golden hair behind my ear. His gloved fingers lingered on my neck, tracing the faint surgical line I could feel there.
"Strip for me, Starlight."
The command hung between us.
I wanted to fight. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But this body… it remembered things. Muscle memory. Years of conditioning under Vought's control. My hands — her hands — moved almost on their own, slowly pulling the gown down my shoulders.
It pooled at my feet.
Homelander's eyes darkened with hunger as he took in the sight of me — completely naked, flushed, trembling.
"Turn around," he said quietly.
I did. Slowly. Feeling every inch of this alien, perfect body on display.
He stepped behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his suit. One gloved hand settled on my hip, then slid down to cup the curve of my ass.
"So soft," he breathed against my ear. "Exactly the same."
His other hand moved between my legs from behind. Two fingers gently parted me, stroking slowly. I gasped — a high, feminine sound that embarrassed me instantly. My body reacted anyway. Warmth. Wetness. A shameful slickness that coated his fingers within seconds.
Homelander let out a low, satisfied hum.
"Still gets wet so easily for me," he whispered. "Good girl."
I hated how good it felt. I hated that my knees were already weakening. I hated that this body knew exactly how to respond to him.
He spun me around, lifted me effortlessly, and sat me on the edge of the table. Then he dropped to his knees, spread my thighs wide, and looked up at me with glowing red eyes.
"Let's see if you still taste like my Starlight."
The first slow lick dragged from my entrance all the way up to my clit.
My head fell back. A broken moan tore from my throat before I could stop it.
And deep inside this borrowed body, two voices screamed at the same time:
One was mine — terrified, humiliated, lost.
The other… was starting to wonder how long I could survive like this.