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devilander · 8 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter six)

18+ 4.6k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter 6/8. gif credit | fic directory | AO3.

“You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention. Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly.” ― The Last Unicorn

When he first moved into it, Homelander loved everything about his penthouse. He’d given extensive feedback to the interior design team, even going so far as to offer crude sketches of what he wanted.

He’d always had a specific vision for his home: spacious and open, but not vacant. Rich colors that wouldn’t strain his eyes. Windows and mirrors that gave and reflected as much light and space as possible.

No white walls.

Not a single blank space.

He wanted art on the walls, but not just any art. He wanted historic portraits and moments of history. A face on every wall, the same way that the people on TV had pictures of people on their walls.

Pictures of their family.

He doesn’t have a family, so familiar figures from his studies would have to do instead.

His favorite place was his bedroom. The mirrors give not only the illusion of space, but company.

To this day the bed is as plush as it was then. It’s stacked with fluffy pillows, and the sheets are made of soft cotton. They’re always vibrant, always colorful. The staff washes them in gentle detergent instead of bleach.

He spent his first night in that bed with his face buried in the pillow just smelling it.

It smelled like home.

However, the longer he’s lived in his penthouse, the more the spaciousness of it began to feel like absence. The distinct lack of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on right away.

It eased on the odd occasion that he had company, but as soon as they were gone, it was as though their presence had carved out holes in his home that he couldn’t fill.

He added statues. More portraits. He left the television running because the silence of his own isolation had become deafening. He started spending more time away. His home had gradually morphed from a place of freedom into a finely decorated version of the same horrible fluorescent box he spent his childhood in.

At least in the box he’d known there were people watching him. With him.

How he’d hated it back then. He hated how he could always hear the camera lenses adjusting as they monitored him from somewhere else.

It makes him sick to have missed it even a bit.

Thanks to you, he no longer has to.

There’s an inherent thrill to coming home that had been lost before you. Excitement starts to prickle up his spine as soon as he steps into the elevator and hits his floor. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so excited to go home.

Every day this week you’ve cooked for him, sat with him, laid in his arms, lived with him. In the last three days you’ve come a long way from the timid thing you started as, no longer jumping at his every move. You still tense at his touch, but he’s willing to bet a few more of those massages will remedy that.

Your presence can be felt even when he’s at work. He recently connected the hidden security camera on his balcony to his phone, ensuring he gets pinged any time you open that door. He isn’t worried about you going off unattended that way, given that it’s a hundred story drop.

It makes him smile to see you getting braver, occasionally stepping out onto the concrete to stare out across the cityscape. Soon he’s going to have to take you for that flight he promised.

While he’s spent these evenings with you blessedly free of obligations, tonight will be different. He has to leave, and he won’t be able to bring you with him. At least not yet. You aren’t ready for that kind of exposure, nor what being revealed as his beloved would entail.

The media would eat you alive. He won’t subject you to them without proper preparation.

He isn’t cruel.

Vought’s hosting a gala that will serve as the early foundation of their campaign to move supes into the military, and as such, the U.S. Secretary of Defense will be in attendance, and it’s Homelander’s job to convince the man of the innumerable benefits of the operation.

Ridiculous. He might as well try and argue the benefits of a smartphone to a fish.

If these people can’t understand why having honest to god superheroes in their military is a good idea, he doubts anything shy of a hand delivered miracle from God would sway the morons.

It’s just common sense, for fuck’s sake. War has only ever been a matter of who could bring the biggest gun. They will never find a greater weapon than him, much less a weapon that chooses to protect them.

However undeserving of it they may be.

He lets out a rough breath and shakes his head to knock loose the talking points that have been bashed into his skull over the course of the week, determined to leave work at the door.

“I’m hoooome,” he sings as he steps in through the doorway, the mechanism locking behind him with a soft beep.

It feels good to know you’re safe here. While he doesn’t have enemies, per se, there’s no telling what some lunatic could be driven to do if they knew about you.

“Living room,” you call.

The familiarity of it makes him smile.

This is what coming home was always supposed to feel like.

He hums a little tune to himself as he walks, a slight bounce to his steps.

“Something smells good,” he says as he rounds the corner, finding you curled up on the couch under a blanket.

Cute.

On the table across from you is a neat little stack of glass containers full of food. He cocks his head, pausing to pick one up for inspection. “You meal planning out here or something?”

You slip out from under the throw and stand. Something is… off. He hears you picking your nails before he even looks at you, and when he does meet your gaze, there’s a subtle apprehension you’re clearly trying to mask with a cordial smile.

“It’s just leftovers from lunch,” you say, eyes flickering from the container of food back to him. “How was work?”

“The usual,” he says a little curtly. Due to your unusual demeanor, he’s forgotten the laundry list of complaints he’d saved up at work with the intention of sharing with you.

In his experience, it’s rarely a good thing when people suddenly start behaving differently.

Especially when they try to hide it.

“Something wrong?” He asks, giving the penthouse a cursory sweep. Everything looks to be in order.

Your eyes widen a fraction, but you catch yourself from looking overly surprised at being caught.

Got’cha, he thinks. He’s spent his entire life reading the subtleties in people’s body language, seeking out ways to understand the things they say when they’re not speaking. The things they won’t say. Particularly to him.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to… I want to ask you for something,” you say, hands falling to your sides, your spine straightening.

His brows lift, his curiosity piqued. “Sure. Fire away.”

You’ve been here for days, but you haven’t made any requests of him despite his numerous offers. There isn’t a thing in this world he couldn’t obtain for you. Hell, he doesn’t even care if it’s legal. It’s about time you took him up on a little self-indulgence.

“Do you remember my friend John?”

His head gives a sharp little tic of a turn, his brows furrowing.

John.

He hates the effect hearing you say that name continues to have on him. It isn’t as though he has a meltdown every time he hears the name John. That would be pathetic. It’s the most common name in America, for fucks sake.

However, there’s something particularly vile about hearing you say it with such gentleness.

“What about him?” He asks flatly, hackles rising. He was hoping you’d ask for something fun.

“I’m worried about him,” you say, clearly fighting to keep your tone even. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants.

He doesn’t understand why you’re so nervous. It makes him suspicious. “And I don’t want him to worry about me. We’ve had a routine for months. So I thought–”

“Oh,” Homelander interrupts, setting the container of food back down as understanding dawns.

They’re scraps for your stray pet.

“No problem, I’ll have someone take this to him,” he says, gesturing encompassingly towards the food.

“No,” you say, the firmness in your voice catching him off guard. “I want you to take me, and I want to give it to him myself.”

He bristles, needles of suspicion creeping further up his spine. “Why?”

Though you’re quick to swallow it back, he doesn’t miss the flash of frustration in your eyes.

“You said you’d take me anywhere I wanted to go. Were you lying?”

He lifts his hand sharply enough to make you flinch, his index finger pointing only inches from your face.

“Don’t you ever call me a liar,” he says slowly, fist curled so tightly that the leather of his gloves groans in protest. “I didn’t say no, I asked you why.”

Your eyes are wide, your heart drumming loudly in his ears. He hates that look of fear, the look that tells him you’re waiting for him to hurt you when he’s never done anything of the sort.

You have no right to look at him like that.

“Because I want to. I want to see him, and make sure he’s okay, and because… because I want–” You stop mid sentence and break eye contact, pressing the back of your hand to your opposite cheek. You take in a slow breath to compose yourself.

With a start, he realizes your eyes are welling with tears.

“I want to say goodbye.”

At a loss, Homelander stares for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot fathom how this little charity schtick could possibly be so important to you. Isn’t he enough for you?

You’ve been spending your days carefree in domestic bliss, yet here you are crying because you aren’t taking a box of food to some bum. It’s baffling enough to give him a migraine.

On the other hand, it was that persistent nurturing that drew his eye to you. If not for your diligent care, he may not have seen the same potential in you. He likes that you care. He just wants you to care for him.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice full of his exasperated bewilderment. He lifts both hands in a placating show of surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll take you, and you can do whatever it is you need to do.”

“Thank you,” you practically sigh. Your hand drops from your face and you look at him with palpable relief, your lips spreading into a faint smile. He likes your smiles. He likes being the reason for your smiles. That, at least, comes as a slight boon.

He clicks his tongue, observing you for a moment before he blows out a raspberry. He cups either side of your face, stepping in close to you.

“I hate it when you make me take a tone with you, you know,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. Your breath catches. “You should know by now that I can’t say no to you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek. He’s been gentlemanly in your time here, accepting of your hand in his, your lips on his cheek. When he wakes up hard as a rock with your body pressed to his, he’s taken care of himself in the bathroom. Frankly he’s been more than a gentleman; he’s been a fucking saint.

“I’m downright pussy whipped, and I haven’t even gotten any yet,” he huffs through a little laugh, almost close enough to taste your lips.

He hasn’t felt your lips on his since that night in your apartment. He wants them exactly as they had been. Pliant and without tension or fear, yet still you tense as he holds you close. You place your hands on his chest and though you don’t push him away, they’re braced to prevent him moving closer.

There’s a faint tremble running through you.

“Don’t tell me you’re still scared of me,” he says, offering you the sharp edge of a smile. He means for the words to sound playful, but even he can’t deny that there’s an underlying ache. Insecurity and impatience in equal measure.

Can’t you see how good he’s been for you? He’s had enough of having to beg for and pry every scrap of affection in his life from reluctant hands. All he wants is–for once in his life–to be freely offered tenderness.

“Your strength scares me,” you eventually admit, palms flat against his chest, stare focused on the backs of your hands.

He tips your head back, coaxing your downcast gaze up to meet his. The closeness of you makes your eyes look large and deer-like: a prey animal that recognizes its hunter.

“It’s unreal, I feel like I’m not…I feel like I’m made of glass when you touch me.”

As a boy he snapped bones as easily as other children snapped twigs. He cradles your skull knowing exactly how much force it would take to crack it.

You’re right to feel the extent of your own fragility in his hands.

“I won’t break you,” he says, the words little more than a breath.

“Do you promise?” you ask, your own voice barely a whisper.

“I promise.”

All those that have come before you have taught him his limitations. And yours.

With that, the tension in your arms softens a fraction. He takes a mile from the inch you give, moving to encircle you in his arms. You slide your hands up his chest in turn, moving over his shoulders, around his neck. The way your fingertips settle on the nape of his neck feels like heaven.

Pressing his forehead to yours, he closes his eyes. He listens to the tempo of your heart gradually slow, settling like the wings of a bird finally accepting the safety and kindness of its cage.

Just then, ever so slightly, you tilt your head and lightly press your petal-soft lips to his. The shock of it knocks the wind from his lungs. Joy hits swiftly afterwards, sweeping through his body from his head to his toes. He kisses you in kind, his lips spread in a smile against yours.

This–more than any kill or record breaking profit for Vought–feels like a victory.

He cups the back of your head as he savors you, branding the memory of your yielding lips against his into his mind. You move to pull back, but his yearning is a beast he cannot tame, and it’s the beast in him that holds you still, intent to relish the kiss just a second more, which becomes just a moment more.

Trapped, you slide your fingers up into his hairline, combing through his sheared undercut into the longer blonde locks. You send a jolt through him when your fingers tighten suddenly, pulling his hair taut between them.

The sensation shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. His stomach flips, suddenly aflutter with butterflies. He makes a noise against your mouth, which regrettably makes you stop, your fingers going slack in his hair.

It doesn’t hurt–you don’t have the strength necessary to hurt him–but he can still feel it, and it feeds a gnawing hunger in him to be made to feel anything at all.

“Do that again,” he says between fervent presses of his lips. “Feels good.”

To his delight you slip both hands into his hair and grip it, eliciting a low moan.

Fuck.

He could get lost in this. In you.

Your pulse has kicked back up, but so has his. Your heartbeats dance with one another as you kiss, drowning out the rest of the world. He moves from your lips to your jaw, your throat, peppering hungry kisses down your neck, ignoring the tension he can feel building back up in you.

He could make your whole body sing if you’d just let him.

Your hands move from his hair, pressing once more to his chest. With how weak you are, it takes him a beat to realize you’re actually pushing against him.

An impatient little growl escapes him. He holds you in place, too deep into it to let you go now.

You suck in a shuddering breath, pushing harder. “Homelander–”

His teeth graze your pulse point, and his tongue presses in to taste the rapid flutter of it. The taste of you is intoxicating, your skin salty-sweet.

Do you know his taste yet? Do you crave it the way he craves yours?

There’s fear in you but there’s desire there, too. He can feel it in the way your skin warms under his touch, hear it in the quiver of your breath, and smell it in the heat between your legs.

“Wait, wait, just–would you just wait–”

He exhales roughly and pulls sharply back, leveling you with a harsh stare.

“What? What! You kissed me, remember? So which is it; do you want me, or do you just want to be a fucking tease?”

He feels his desire like a longstanding hunger he’s only just become aware of. A painful, gnawing thing that demands he sink in his claws and rip, devour, relish. He’s been so good in all of this that one little taste was all it took for the feel of it to come crashing down on him.

For as badly as he wants you, he wants so fucking badly for you to want him, too.

The look of you is one for the history books. Flushed and wide-eyed, you’ve taken his words with a shock like you’ve been slapped. Your hair is mussed from his hand pushing against it, into it. Your lips are kiss bitten and shiny, plump with all that blood rushing to the surface.

It makes him want to bite them, bruise them, claim them.

Those same lips open and close as you struggle to form a response before eventually settling on one.

“I’m sorry.”

He recoils from that, features twisting up in displeasure.

No, no, no.

“I’m sorry, I just–”

“Shut up,” he snaps, letting go of you. He screws his eyes shut, not understanding how he got from where he was a moment ago to where he is now.

All that sweet delicious heat is fading away, leaving him feeling emptier by the second, his skin prickling uncomfortably under his suit.

He would be clawing at it if he could.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, hitting the word like a hiss. “I want you to–I want you–”

I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.

He pushes his hands into his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to ache, digging for pain so that it might bring him clarity and stop the terrible repetition his mind has latched onto. He can imagine so clearly how things should be, what you should be saying, feeling, and I’m sorry is nowhere in that vision.

He hates that word. It echoes in his psyche like a curse, dragging him back by the throat to the only stretch of time in his life he ever felt weak enough to say it.

Back then, in his days in the lab, Vought was always testing the boundaries of how human he really was. At one point, when he was still a boy–maybe eleven or twelve–they began to reduce his sleep by an hour every few nights.

Each day they would repeat the same grueling tests to see at what point the lack began to affect not only his cognitive abilities, but his powers. Given the sheer amount of Compound V in his system, there were some who wondered if he really needed to sleep at all.

It would have been miraculous if he didn’t. It would be one more aspect of his perfect design that they could pat themselves on the back for.

Unfortunately for both him and them, it was not so.

When they realized the deprivation did affect him, they wanted to understand how badly. They continued to deprive him until they had reduced his sleep to nothing at all, keeping him awake by any means necessary for days. He begged for sleep.

It’s a marathon, John, Vogelbaum told him. Eleven days. That’s the record for a human. You can beat that, can’t’cha, tiger?

Tiger. It always made him feel stronger when Jonah called him that.

Ultimately it was less about his perseverance and more about his endurance. He didn’t have much choice in the matter of whether or not he would fall asleep.

Every time he started to doze off, an alarm would blare in his room, startling him back awake.

I’m sorry, he would sob, riddled with guilt for the failure.

There was never any answer.

When it was over and neither he nor the scientists had anything to show for it–nothing but misery and a newfound insomnia–he decided he would never be sorry for anything ever again.

His temples are throbbing, his skull aching from the pressure of his own strength.

Though his eyes are tightly shut, he can feel the searing heat of his laser vision pressing against his eyelids.

It makes him want to scream, to run, to fly, to break apart everything around him, but he can’t. He’s too powerful to ever allow himself a physical outlet.

When the average man throws a punch to blow off steam, at worst they’ll put a hole in the wall.

Homelander could punch through to the core of the planet.

Maybe he could split the whole damn thing in half. He’s never been allowed to find out.

Instead, he focuses it all inward. He swallows the feelings like bile and fights not to choke on it, on the tension of his own impossible power straining his muscles. He can’t hear your heartbeat anymore, it’s drowned out by his own blood rushing in his ears.

Or it’s not there at all.

You’ve fled, he realizes. His stomach churns, and still his mind is on a punishing loop of all the things he has ever wanted that he cannot accept he’ll never have.

I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want.

Anger surges through him and the heat of it is painful, twisting all his already tautly wrung innards and flushing them with fiery rage.

She’s not sorry. She has no idea the fucking meaning of it. If she wants to know what it’s like to be sorry, then we’ll–

Arms slip around his neck, and suddenly his mind hits a deafening quiet.

What?

The feeling is so alien to him that it takes several seconds to understand that it’s you. That you’re here. That you’re… holding him.

Faintly he feels the tug of your meager strength, and he leans into it, his cheek coming to rest on your chest, head tucked under your chin.

He opens his eyes, the world still awash in the crimson glow of his lasers, and he feels you flinch at the sheer heat of them. He works to blink the light away, his hands resting on your hips, gripping at the fabric of your pants.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice frayed with confusion and steadily ebbing tension.

“Yes.”

“I thought I was alone.”

“You’re not.”

Gently, you comb your fingers through his hair. He doesn’t need his super senses to know your heart is pounding. He can feel the hammering pulse of it against his cheek.

Your fear is so tangible he can practically taste it, but he wouldn’t know it existed at all if he went only on the way you’re holding him.

How is it you can be so afraid and yet feel so firm against him?

“It’s okay,” you whisper, a faint tremble in your otherwise firm voice. “You’re not alone.”

Tears sting his eyes. He moves his grip from your hip to the fabric at your back, your shoulder, his hands climbing your clothes with a clawing desperation to ensure every bit of you is real and within his reach. He envelops you in his arms and nuzzles you, exhaling another breath of the terrible miasma that had built up like sulfur in his lungs.

You move your other hand in soothing patterns between his shoulder blades–just as you had before–and with every repetition of the pattern he feels the rage, the pain, the fear, the misery of it all drip away, like a wet cloth being wrung dry.

The two of you stand like that for a long while, focused only on the sound and feel of the other. The burn in the back of his throat and in his eyes fades. By the end of it, he feels heavy with the exhaustion of holding back the weight of his own might.

Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze. You’re somehow even more beautiful than you had been. Your edges are frayed, and though there is lingering fear, it doesn’t repulse him to see it.

Because you stayed.

Your fingers slip from his hair, moving to his face. It isn’t until your thumb moves through the wetness on his cheek that he realizes a tear had escaped the burn of his lasers and streaked down his face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you tell him, and to his own pleasure, he believes you.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I know you didn’t,” he says, cupping your face in turn. He brings you forward and presses a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.

He’s in control again, and he speaks as if that were always true.

“Just like I know you’ll make it up to me.”

He draws away with a crooked smile, the episode fading to a distant corner of his mind as he puts the fractured pieces of himself back into something cohesive. He strokes your cheek, admiring your features. Your eyes.

In hindsight, it’s strange to think that he’s always thought of you as the sweet, doting little rabbit to his wolf.

Staring at you now, he’s sure he’s looking into the eyes of a fox.

“C’mon,” he says, siding his hands down your shoulders so that he can take hold of your wrists, guiding you towards the balcony. “It’s about time I take you for that flight I promised.”

Wouldn’t want to keep John waiting for his meal any longer.

#insomnia trauma aaaaaa #x reader #homelander fanfiction #love this 💖

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devilander · 9 months ago

Note

Can we get a peek at some of the nasty shit he'd say during a hatefuck? Was creeping in your tags

"Hhah, wow, listen to you. You're actually enjoying this, aren't you? All that talk and now look at you, choking on your own drool. Fffucking cock slut. If I knew a good pounding was all it'd take to shut you up, I might've fucked you sooner. Y'know, you're not half bad to look at when you're cum drunk. Shh, shh, don't ruin it. Don't say a fucking word. Oh, fuck, you're fucking squeezing me. Don't fight it, I can feel how bad you wanna cum. Hahah, fuck, you're pathetic."

he's saying it all through gritted teeth because he's actually the one desperately trying not to blow his load too early. he's been jerking himself raw for weeks thinking about this, consumed by the conflicting feelings in this tension fueled hatemance.

but he's the Homelander, and he can't let you win.

#x reader #feeling very normal about this.

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devilander · 9 months ago

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Little Miss Why So

18+

Homelander X GN!Reader

(While the song title referenced is gendered, the reader in the fic is written as gender neutral)

Very loosely inspired by the song of the same name by The Amazing Devil

“Why won’t you believe I love you if I’m not hurting you?” He says.

Written for Cozy Corner Kinktober 2024 for the prompts Crying, Biting, and possibly Magical Healing Cock?

CW: Dubcon, Toxic Coping Mechanisms, Toxic Relationship Dynamics

When he finds you, you’re sobbing. Fat tears stream down your face and drop onto the pavement below. Your eyes are swollen and sticky with sorrow and the force with which you wail stirs up bile in your gut. Rain drenches you and the cloying stench of rot from the wet trash in the alley mimics the disgust you feel for yourself in that moment.

This isn’t about him but you know he’ll take it that way. He seems to take any emotion that isn’t pure adoration of him as some personal slight, as though he’s not good enough to keep you distracted from your pathetic life and its struggles. He sees it as a competition between your world and his. You see it as your reality. You’d wanted to find a quiet place to lick your wounds alone. That’s why you escaped to this filthy alley in the first place. But he found you anyway, vulnerable and ill-prepared to handle his ego.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands in the alleyway entrance with his hands on his hips and a cock of his head. His face is blank as he looks you over, his lip curling slightly in distaste. You know you look a mess with your nose leaking snot and your cheeks hot and swollen. You don’t say anything. You don’t have the energy. You just sniffle and wait for the inevitable blast wave.

He stays silent, the only noise is the soft patter of rain and the squelch of his boots on the wet ground as he walks toward you. He crowds you against the brick and grips your hips to spin you to face the wall. You brace yourself with your hands and he pushes in close behind you. The soft bulge of his cup hides his erection but you can tell by the eagerness with which he presses against you that he's hard. You rest your head on the wall and sigh. You don’t have the energy to reciprocate but it doesn’t seem like he expects you too.

“You look so good like this,” He purrs in your ear. It surprises you. You know you look like shit. “So pure and perfect.”

He grinds against your ass and peppers your neck with greedy kisses. His hands quickly fumble with the button of your jeans and he slides the zipper down with a hiss. His hand dives into your underwear, testing your readiness. You aren’t at all really but it doesn’t seem to deter him too much. He strokes you exactly the way he knows that you like and your body responds accordingly. You arch into his touch even though your crying hasn’t ceased. He hushes you softly.

You hear the hiss of his own zipper and he uses his knee to coax your legs further apart as he tugs your jeans down past your ass. You offer no resistance. He spits on his palm for some lubrication and strokes himself before pressing in. He goes slow but it still stings a bit without the usual extended preparation. You hiccup and whimper at the stretch but despite all his flaws, you trust him not to cause you any damage. He’s careful and strangely you find that you don’t mind the pain. It’s cathartic.

“Just let it out. That’s it. You’re doing so good.” He coos in your ear as he bottoms out. You grunt, uncomfortably full but satisfied by the distraction from your own thoughts. He doesn’t move except to resume stroking you, humming in pleasure at the way you clench tightly around him.

“I want you to cry for me until you can’t anymore. Don’t fucking stop.” He growls. You nod weakly as you allow the tears to fall freely without shame. There’s nowhere for you to hide with the way you’re pinned between the wall and his hard cock.

The first thrust hurts. You haven’t fully relaxed around him yet although you’re slick enough to take him by now. He grunts, rubbing you faster while his other hand reaches up to grab your jaw, turning your gaze to meet his. He searches your eyes for something and he seems to find it. The cold appraisal in his expression warms slightly as he leans down to lick the salt from your cheeks.

“Give it to me. Don’t hide it.” He moans against your skin as he begins to increase the speed of his thrusts. Your discomfort is quickly evolving into pleasure now at the intensity of the sensations he’s filling you with. You moan and his grips tightens bruisingly, purple inevitably beginning to bloom under his fingers. You cry out and he throbs inside you.

“This belongs to me.” He growls and his pace is brutal as he uses you.

You’re beginning to understand his fervor now. You begin to understand why he feels so entitled to your pain. How many times have you seen him at his weakest? How many times have you held him while he cried and comforted him as his shoulders shook with sorrow and self-pity? He doesn’t like uneven scales. He’s gloating, gleeful that he’s not the only weak one in the relationship.

It’s fucked up…but that’s him. How can you begrudge him when this is all he’s ever known? After all, it is helping. The overwhelm of sensation is the only thing that could have pulled you out of that headspace. You need this wake-up call as a reboot of your brain. Your mournful cries have evolved into needy moans and your hips press eagerly back into his. A kinder response wouldn’t have reached the root of your hurt. Like lancing a boil, you need him to drain the poison out of you.

He continues to whisper sweet nothings in your ear despite the way he’s fucking you as though he doesn’t give a damn whether you live or die. It’s cold and emotionless, using you as merely a sleeve for his cock. But his breath against your ear is warm and he nuzzles sweetly against your temple. You try to speak but the wind is knocked out of you every time his cock pounds against that soft spot inside you.

“I don’t want to hear anything come out of your mouth unless it’s your pathetic sobbing. That’s what you came all this way for, so fucking do it.” He pants breathlessly against your ear as he nears his release.

You do, although the tears that prick at your eyes are those of pleasure now. You’re loose and quivering around him and every nerve ending tingles with electricity. Your nail tears as you claw at the brick to brace yourself for the edge he’s quickly driving you towards.

You cry out his name and he bites your shoulder harshly, the bloody reprimand staining his teeth.

“What did I just fucking say?” He hisses before lapping hungrily at the wound and groaning darkly at the iron tang that fills his mouth. He can taste the endorphins in it and it drives him crazy.

The sudden sharp pain hurls you into a world ending orgasm and your legs give out. You almost collapse until he presses you bodily against his wall. His pace shifts into a deep filthy grind right into your spasming hole as he holds you up with his body. You wail and clench around him and it doesn’t take much longer at all until he’s spilling into you, his release leaking out of you and dripping down his balls onto the slick pavement below. He moans and whines in your ear, his demeanor shifting from cruel to needy in the span of a heartbeat.

You struggle to catch your breath, agony and delight filling your veins in equal measure. It’s perfect. It’s just what you needed. He’s just what you needed, every cruel beautiful inch of him. You don’t merely endure him. You need the sharp edges of him to keep you grounded. You need that pain.

His arms wrap around you. He peppers your sore shoulder with sweet kisses as a silent apology. You’ll need to bandage it up when you return but you aren’t going to worry about it right now. You’re content in his embrace. The two of you wait there in silence as the silver rain continues to fall all around you, causing the dirty alley to glint prettily in the moonlight. Your chest still aches but you can survive it.

“Let’s get you back home. I’ll run you a bath and have the kitchen bring you up your favorite. How does that sound?” His tone is so kind and warm, a far cry from his earlier demeanor. You still aren’t quite capable of speech but you nod.

“There you are.” He coos, and as he scoops you up into his arms and off into the sky, you slip away into a comfortable doze.

You know it’s not healthy but it’s all you have. It’s all he can give you. If it gets you results then you can learn to be content with that. So you lean into him and let the rain wash away the remnants of what ails you.

#x reader #oh just so goood #liz always giving us the best

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devilander · 9 months ago

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hiii its been a while since i sent i request, just wanted to know if you're still doing old request or not

Hello! Yep, I don't know exactly which one you're referring to, but I will!

I just took a time off because of some personal issues, but, hopefully, I'll soon go back to posting the requests I have on my askbox and update my Posey (OFC) fic.

#asks #dear anon

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devilander · 9 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter five)

18+ 4.3k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter 5/8. gif credit. fic directory. AO3.

Within the isolation Homelander has imposed on you, your entire world is rapidly narrowing to just the two of you. With that, your understanding of the man who has ensnared you grows alongside his infatuation with you.

It’s much too early when you hear the alerting beep of the front door unlocking, metal sliding against metal as the mechanism engages.

Your eyes snap to the clock.

It’s barely after 2:00pm.

You scrub at your tear streaked face, ill-prepared to be confronted by your captor so soon. Your misery evaporates in a rush of panic, leaving only what’s necessary to survive.

Sucking in a deep breath, you drop your hands just in time to see Homelander appear in the archway.

The two of you stare at each other for a long, quiet moment.

His expression is difficult to discern. Pinched. Anxious. Staring at him now, you suddenly have no doubt that the boy in the photo is him. You can see every ounce of that nervous boy in his face.

But why is he looking at you like that?

Before you can ask, he closes the distance between you in a handful of long strides. The determination he moves with makes your stomach lurch.

Just as you move to get to your feet, he takes hold of you with that same chilling, unrelenting strength—arms coiling around you like serpents—and hauls you up until your body is flush to his.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you so deeply your skin erupts into goosebumps.

“I’m really happy you’re here,” he says, his breath hot on your neck. His hand slides all the way up your spine, cupping the back of your head. His other arm remains looped around your waist, gloved fingers biting into your skin through your clothes.

You feel his lips shape the words against your skin as he murmurs, quieter yet, “I missed you.”

You almost say it back, survival instincts compelling you to appease him, but you stop yourself. You were scolded the last time you said something you didn’t mean in an attempt to appeal to him.

Even if despite yourself, a small part of you is glad he’s back. Being stranded alone in your prison had somehow been worse than the unease you feel with him present.

While logically you know humanity still exists beyond these walls, the deafening quiet of the penthouse makes it feel like the rest of the world has simply vanished, leaving you well and truly alone in it.

For all the good the people outside these walls can do you, it may as well have.

There’s tension thrumming through him from his head to his toes that you can feel in every inch of his body pressed tightly against yours. He’s clutching you like he thought—despite the fortress he left you in—you’d also have vanished in his absence.

You lift your hands, knuckles brushing the underside of the heavy cape hanging from his shoulders, and tentatively begin to stroke soothing patterns up and down his back.

The effect is instantaneous. His grip on you relaxes from stifling to a more tender hold, his fingertips no longer sinking into you like claws. He rests his chin on your shoulder, sighing out a long breath that tickles the back of your neck.

Silence fills the narrow spaces between you. He’s overwhelmingly warm, his heat seeping through even the dense layers of his suit and into you.

Despite the way he’s leaning into you, you’re barely standing on your own feet. You could go limp right now and not move an inch in his hold.

“Are you okay?” You ask, speaking in the same pacifying tone you would use with a spooked animal.

He draws back to meet your eyes, his own bereft of their earlier anxiety, though he does look a little surprised that you asked. He recovers quickly, his expression softening around a sly glint in his stare.

“You actually sound like you care,” he says, and though the words themselves are callous, you get the sense he’s paying you a compliment. Praising you for playing your role so convincingly.

“Unlike some people I know,” he says with sudden venom, hands migrating to your arms.

“You would not believe how fucking ungrateful they are out there. Day after day, I’m out there”—he nods to the window behind you—”working the crowds, selling the pitches. I’m the face of this entire fucking company.”

His grip occasionally flexes on your arms as he speaks, not quite enough to hurt, but enough to make you nervous, and though his anger isn’t directed at you, it’s unsettling nonetheless.

“But do any of them care? Those–the fucking–the CEO’s, those weak-necked pencil pushers? Do they respect any goddamn thing I think?”

“No?” you offer the word as half an answer and half a question. You’re not sure how rhetorical his spiel is, but you’re keen to commiserate with him and not find yourself in the path of misdirected ire.

“No!” He echoes louder, scoffing. Your response only riles him up further, his tension seeping into his hold on you. "And what are they doing? Hm? What are they doing that's so fucking important?"

Your lips part. You hesitate, but now he's looking at you with such exasperated expectation, you know you should answer. You start and stop a few times, but he makes no move to interrupt you or fill in the blanks.

Instead, he’s watching you with a rapt kind of intensity, suddenly eager to hear what you’ll say next.

"Making your work look like theirs," you say, finding your bearings. It’s not as though you haven’t experienced the same.

Any time you’ve ever had a boss, their only objective has been using you to make themselves look good. Standing on you like you’re just another rung on the ladder.

“Taking the credit and the money for themselves.”

"Yes!" he hisses, bouncing his fist lightly off of your shoulder. The way he moves is sharp, jagged like broken glass.

"Even you get it. I mean, I'm the fucking Homelander, and they treat me like a goddamn show pony. They trot me out and then expect me to prance right back into my fucking stall.”

You can feel the heat of his anger in his breath, in the way his fingers sink into the meat of your arm. It isn’t a loud or boisterous thing, it’s more sinister; the hiss and rattle of a venomous snake.

Everything about him—from the bearing of his teeth to the inescapable strength of his grip—is a screaming warning that you should run far, far away from him.

However, trapped as you are, your only recourse is to appeal to your predator.

“You’re more than that,” you say, his words from the night prior suddenly coming to you in a rush. “You’re underappreciated, and capable of so much more than they give you credit for.”

His tense expression slackens, his anger replaced by a flash of shockingly earnest vulnerability.

This Homelander is by far the least unnerving of the variety you’ve seen.

Last night he was manic, frightening in his unhinged flavor of excitement. This morning he’d been tender one moment and terse the next, eerie in his sudden lack of warmth. The way he smiled at you during breakfast felt straight off of a movie poster.

Performative.

Fake.

Nothing like the way he looks now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, relief heavy in his tone.

If he recognizes his own words on your tongue, it doesn’t show. He’s looking at you with a sort of wonder, as if they’re completely new to him.

It’s clear now more than ever that he said them to you because he desperately needed to hear them.

“Yes, exactly.”

He cups either side of your face, pulling yours closer to his.

“I knew you would understand,” he says, close enough that you feel the breath of each word on your lips. “I knew that if I could see you, you’d see me. Because you’re different. Because you’re not like those empty fucking suits with Cornell degrees.”

The tension between you makes the air thick and hard to breathe. You lick your lips subconsciously and his eyes drop predator-quick to follow the movement.

He hasn’t lost that look of expectation yet.

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re blown black, the vibrant blue of them constricted to a fine ring around his pupils.

You swallow dryly, your heart a pounding drum in your ears.

“Do you want me to kill them?” You blurt out, the words all impulse and zero thought.

He blinks, face jerking slightly back from yours in obvious surprise. Whatever he expected you to say, that certainly wasn't it.

Truth be told, you’re as surprised about what came out of your mouth as he is. It’s the kind of joke you would make to an exasperated friend. Not your kidnapper.

The silence between you stretches on. Homelander's face can't seem to settle, lips twitching between a near-smile and that same part of surprise.

“You’re gonna kill Stan Edgar?” The way he places emphasis makes it sound like he’s considered it before, but came to the conclusion that the task is an impossible one.

You shrug. “How tough can he be?”

At that, he starts to laugh.

His gloved hands slip from your face and go to his own, rubbing at his eyes as he laughs and laughs, the sound of it reverberating from deep in his chest. It’s the kind of laugh that speaks of deep catharsis. Your own lips curve in empathy, tension seeping from you.

"Christ," he says under his breath. His hands slide down his face until they fall away, landing on his hips. He gives his head a small shake before looking back at you, his smile broad and boyish.

Another rare instance of an expression from him without palpable pretense or agenda.

“You kill a lot of CEOs?” He asks, stepping right back into your personal bubble.

You hold your ground.

“Does imagining it in vivid detail count? Because I used to do that pretty often. Especially on unpaid lunch breaks in the closet.”

His brows furrow. “You ate lunch in a closet?”

"Not always. Sometimes I just went inside to scream. Thick walls," you say, only half-joking.

That had been at your previous job, where you routinely hid during meal breaks.

“My supervisor was always riding my ass. I couldn’t even eat in peace.”

“You’re kind of a weirdo,” he muses, his tone quiet and warm. Affectionate, even.

It’s your turn to bark an incredulous laugh, your nerves fading.

The gall of him to call you weird. In a bizarre way, it almost makes things feel… normal.

“I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t realize you’re smiling until his thumb brushes your cheek, his touch trailing down your jaw. He curls a lock of your hair around his index finger and brings it to his lips, closing his eyes on a slow inhale.

Oddly captivated by the display, you watch him with bated breath.

When he opens his eyes, the blue has returned to them. There’s a tired kind of relief to his expression. It’s as though he’s let go of something very heavy that he’d been carrying just a moment ago.

He releases your hair in favor of reaching for your hand, though he stops just shy of grabbing it, fingers outstretched.

“Will you watch a movie with me?” He asks. It’s the exact same tone he used when he’d asked for a kiss: there’s an underlying anxiousness that you’re starting to understand.

Despite the imbalance of power between you, he’s still anticipating rejection. He might even fear it.

Once again you find yourself thinking of the boy in the photo. How quietly and heartbreakingly miserable he had looked.

“Yeah. I’ll watch a movie with you.”

You slip your hand into his. His eyes light up and he squeezes, pulling you down onto the couch next to him. You watch him pick up the remote and begin flipping through the menus.

It’s surreal: the version of yourself that desperately typed in address after address until you were sobbing feels like someone else entirely. A part of yourself that you’ve compartmentalized away.

“How about Taxi Driver?”

You blink. The 70s flick with De Niro?

What an oddly specific pull.

“Sure.”

His smile broadens. He leans in, and though you brace yourself to be kissed, he only kisses your cheek.

Precisely the way you kissed his this morning.

“You’re the best.”

The tone of his voice gives a deceptively oppressive weight to such a simple compliment.

Turning back to the menu, he rests your interlaced hands on his thigh, thumb stroking your knuckles.

You stare at your hand enclosed in his for a long while before you glance up at him.

He has a classic kind of profile; a strong nose that slopes to a point, a firmly outlined jaw, subtle but defined lips, brows that neatly frame his striking ocean blue eyes.

Despite obvious bleaching, his hair looks soft and touchable. The dark undercut is even moreso.

More than just the sum of his parts, he’s perhaps objectively the most attractive man you’ve ever made contact with.

Certainly the wealthiest.

He’s strange in his mannerisms, but aside from the whole kidnapping ordeal, he’s been… mostly decent to you.

It’s not that you want to think of him as attractive. He just is.

It makes it all the more confusing as to why such a man would need to kidnap anyone at all. There must be more: just what the hell is so wrong with him that he’s so incapable of forming an organic relationship?

Suppose I’ll find out one way or another.

Realizing you’re staring again, you snap your attention to the screen.

While Homelander occasionally squeezes your hand, you spend the duration of the film pretending not to notice the long moments he spends staring at you.

You can’t help but be tense, anticipating that he’ll make a move at any moment, but his hand never moves from yours. He stays eerily still over the course of the next two hours, rarely shifting other than to spare you a lingering look.

It’s all so bizarrely chaste.

The movie, on the other hand, is anything but.

While Travis Bickle is the main character, he’s not what anyone would consider a hero. Even at his best he can't sleep, drinks heavily, pops pills, and spends his mornings in porn theaters. He’s irrational, unstable, and entirely too caught up in his own version of reality.

A terrible dread crawls up your spine when his attentions land on Betsy. He’s enamored with her too immediately, speaking to a stranger as if she hung the stars in the sky just for him. You want to scream at her to run, but she reciprocates instead.

When their second date rolls around, that dread in your gut doubles.

Don’t, you find yourself wishing, brows furrowing. Don’t do it. For fuck’s sake, don’t take her to the theatre!

No matter how hard you wish for it, the movie plays out as it always has, as it always will, and the whole thing blows up in Travis’ face. Disgusted with him, Betsy rejects him. It takes everything in you not to writhe off of the couch in sheer discomfort when he snatches her wrist, pleading with her.

"Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man."

Homelander’s hand sits heavily atop yours.

Travis’ descent into madness is a gradual one from that point on. He grows violent and obsessive, hyper aware that the world he inhabits was not made for him, but unable to adapt.

Even among his peers he is isolated and unable to connect. He loses whatever self-awareness he once had, and deludes himself into progressively more dangerous ideals.

By the time the credits roll, Travis is the hero of his own warped story, and your neck is stiff from holding the same position with such tension.

“Now that is how you get control of your life,” Homelander says suddenly, bringing your attention to him. “You take it. Guns blazing, and you walk out of it a hero,” he says with a grin, turning to catch your eye.

Yes, you think, stomach churning. You have certainly learned to take.

“What was your favorite part?” he asks, surprising you a little with the earnestness of his question.

He’s an odd mixture of endearing and unnerving in his ability to move so fluidly from an intimidating unnatural force to someone sincere and boyish.

It doesn’t make his take-away from the movie any less disturbing.

“Oh, uhm…” You rub at your sore neck absently. It wasn’t exactly the type of movie with laughs or feel good moments to choose from, despite the handful of times Homelander laughed or cheered himself.

“Probably the part where–”

“What’s wrong with your neck?” he interrupts suddenly, gaze dropping to your hand.

You let your hand fall back into your lap. “It’s fine, I get stiff sitting. I just need to stre–”

Before you can finish, Homelander slips his hand from yours and grasps your shoulder, turning you away from him.

“I can fix it.” His tone is unerringly certain, leaving you no space to protest. He manhandles you until your back is faced to him, your legs drawn up onto the couch. “Believe me, I’m used to women with tech neck.”

“Who?” You ask impulsively. It’s eating you up inside wondering if there have been others before you, and what might have happened to them to land you here in their stead.

“You jealous?” He asks. You don’t have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You can hear it.

“No,” you say after a beat, ever careful with your words. “Just curious.”

He slides his hands up slowly over your shoulders and hooks his thumbs over your collar, adjusting it out of the way.

“No one you need to worry about.”

A non-answer that does nothing to quell your anxiety.

He brings his thumbs to either side of your neck and presses them in at the base of your skull, slowly moving them all the way down and out towards your shoulders, your muscles popping beneath the pressure.

The precision with which he finds the ache in your neck shocks a little gasp out of you.

Fuck, maybe he can fix it.

“You know, muscles actually look different when they’re all knotted up like this,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.

“Y’got all these little nodules, and all I need to do”—he drags his thumb down your neck, following to the side of your spine—”is pop ‘em.”

The sound of tense tissue crackling and loosening under his touch sounds like a zipper being undone. You can’t deny that he knows what he’s doing. He works slowly, gradually increasing pressure. The strength in his hands doesn’t falter once, the leather of his glove soft on your skin.

It’s only when you make a noise–a sigh caught somewhere between pain and pleasure–that he hesitates.

“Are you really saying you can see the knots in my muscles? Through my skin?” You ask when he stops, tilting your neck to one side.

It already feels better.

“One of the many perks of dating me,” he says, his voice lower and nearer to your ear than it had been a beat ago. Goosebumps erupt down your spine and arms.

Dating.

Life would be easier if you could believe that to be true even half as much as he does.

He resumes the massage, focusing mainly on your neck, his thumbs pushing up into your hairline and then slowly back down. The level of control he has over his strength is staggering, the pressure just enough to stay shy of hurting you.

Your eyes fall shut while he works the tension from your muscles. Your mind drifts back to the movie. To Travis and Betsy. To the dozens of times he called her, and the dozen more flowers he sent to her door. To the delusional power fantasies he fell into in the wake of that denial.

The agony of rejection during their phone call had been so visceral that not even the camera could seem to bear it, panning away to an empty hall while he held a painfully one-sided conversation.

Homelander doesn’t have to fantasize about power. He has more of it than any one man rightfully should, yet still he has found himself in deficit.

Is he so terrified of rejection that he would deny even someone as powerless as you the chance of it?

Perhaps he isn’t quite so powerful after all.

“That feels amazing. You’re really good at this,” you tell him, correctly anticipating the way your words give him pause.

This time, you hear him swallow.

The couch dips and you lean back with it, his thigh pressing in behind you as he shifts closer. The massage becomes less focused, his grip loosening and moving wider. His hands come to rest on your shoulders.

Your breath hitches at the feel of warm, bare skin along your exposed neck. His lips ghost your skin in a faint not-quite kiss.

“That’s not all I’m good at,” he murmurs, staying close enough that you feel the shape of each word against your flesh.

You don’t move, your eyes remain closed.

He takes your silence as permission, hands sliding down your arms, falling off from your elbows to your hips. He holds you in place while he peppers tentative kisses on the tender flesh of your neck, following down the line of your spine as low as the collar of your shirt allows him to.

Your stomach flips, but your heart isn’t the only thing fluttering. There’s a faint throb between your legs that feels like it should belong to someone else entirely.

Can he hear that, too? Can he see it?

Shame, fear and arousal swim hot in your gut, the heat of it crawling slowly up your chest, your face. You screw your eyes shut tighter.

Dating.

That single word spins around and around you like the rattle of a broken record. He exists in a sweeter reality than you do.

It would be nice–no, not nice, safer–to visit it, if only for a moment.

Wouldn’t it?

His lips are soft along your hairline to the shell of your ear, his breath warm and tickling. His hands begin to work up your sides, cupping your ribs.

There’s a tentativeness to his movements that implies a question, and there’s no doubt in your mind that if you stayed still, stayed quiet, he would find the answers he wants all on his own.

Instead you take hold of his wrists, stopping him in his tracks. Part of you is surprised that he’s so easy to halt. You turn around slowly, moving his hands away as you do, releasing one of them in order to face him properly.

The look of him catches you off guard; cheeks stung pink, lips parted and shiny wet from where he’s licked the taste of you from them. His eyes are wide and hungry, but there’s an inquisitive apprehension in his expression.

That same terrible anticipation of rejection.

Gently, as if you might somehow spook him, you place your hand on his chest and push. A victorious little rush moves through you with how easily he bends under your touch, moving until he’s forced to lay back, sweeping his cape out from under him to drape off the edge of the couch.

You slip off of the couch but leave your hand planted firmly on his chest, nudging his legs with yours until he gets the picture and brings them both up onto the couch, too.

All the while he watches you intently, curiosity edging out anxious uncertainty.

Holding his gaze, you lay yourself down next to him. The narrowness of the couch leaves you practically on top of him, but he clearly doesn’t mind. His lips spread slowly into a wondrous smile, his arm curling around your waist to bring you closer yet.

Where last night the weight of his arm had felt suffocating, now it feels more like putting on a seat belt to ride a rollercoaster.

He may be a supe, but he has shown you–intentionally or not–that he’s also just a man, and you have power over him, too. You only need to wield it as such. Your affection can be a shield. Your indulgence a precaution.

You drape your arm over his middle and rest your head upon his chest, letting out a long, calming breath.

“This is, uh... a nice surprise,” he says, resting his hand on your forearm. He strokes your back idly with the other.

“So was the massage.”

His chest rumbles faintly against your ear as he laughs.

“I would’ve done it sooner if I knew you’d like it so much.”

You stare at his hand. Resting as lightly as it is, his fingers still curl in just enough to press into your arm. Even when you choose to offer your affection freely, he can’t help but grip like you’ll suddenly take it away if he doesn’t.

It’s like he never learned how to hold something without leaving claw marks on it.

“We have a lot to learn about each other,” you say quietly, closing your eyes.

His hand pauses upon your back for a moment, and then without comment, he pulls you properly into his arms, enveloping you in that familiar warm thrum of power.

It’s like being embraced by a nuclear reactor.

You can’t survive in fight or flight forever. The relief he brought to your neck has made you realize how tense all over you really are, how heavy your fear has made your aching heart. If you’re going to get out of this, you have to learn to put it down when it’s safe.

So, for at least a little while, you decide to let yourself relax not only in Homelander’s embrace, but in his rose-tinted reality.

#x reader #homelander fanfiction #homelander #AMYYYYYYYYYYY #knocking out of the park as USUAL #love the taxi driver parallel and how it creates a window to homelander's soul #so that reader can see him beyond the super human strenght #so good for the necessary realization of reader's own power #looking forward to how it'll be their relationship later on!#<3

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