presumedbly

[presumedbly]

Never Gone (Homelander x Reader)

Homelander doesn’t like you, the new telepath on the Seven. You don’t make him feel better.

Warnings for mentions of prior assault, prior torture, smut, and a lot of telepathic fuckery. Darker than my usual stuff, so be forewarned. This is me taking out some frustration on Homelander.

Homelander does nothing to disguise the loathsome stare he’s shooting your way. Your seat at the other end of the Seven’s signature table puts you at the perfect angle to receive his silent wrath. No one present in the room can miss it, and everyone works hard to avoid his glare - except you. You seem blissfully unaware of his seething gaze, instead listening very intently to Ashley. You nod along with her nonsense. That just makes his anger worse. Up until now, Homelander has successfully avoided your introductory period to the Seven. He hasn’t so much as given you a hello; his first week meeting Starlight looks downright friendly in comparison to his treatment of you. There was a damn good reason for it. The only reason you’re here and on his team is because of fucking Stan Edgar. The CEO was silently furious with him for his public digs at Vought’s policies concerning foreign terrorists. The words “cowards” and “corrupt” may have slipped out during a conversation with Cameron Coleman. Edgar’s solution was to bring on a new “hero” to keep Homelander in his lane.

A telepath. Homelander avoided anyone with even the slightest inclination towards telepathy. Who could blame him? They were freaks. Mindstorm was a bunker nut, Mesmer was a washed-up child actor, and the kid at Godolkin is a mess of teenage hormones. It was a clear insult to Homelander that mere hours after his interview, you joined the Seven.

To make matters worse, you were doing well. The public loved your commitment to social justice and mental health reform. You had made quick friends with Starlight, and even Maeve seemed to tolerate you. Homelander was the only one who recognized what you were. You were a snake in the garden, slithering your powers into their minds before anyone realized the sin you brought.

Ashley’s voice vaguely entered his line of thought as she called out to him. “What do you think, sir?”

Homelander didn’t bother looking away from you. “Hm?”

Ashley stutters and looks to Queen Maeve for assistance. All the hero can do is shrug. Homelander’s hatred towards you is strange, but far from the most bizarre thing he’s ever done. Ashley swallows heavily and makes another attempt. “I-I…I was wondering if the premiere lineup for the summer made sense, sir.”

He’s still staring at you. You finally turn and make direct eye contact with him. You blink in surprise, as if you are only just now discovering his glare. Then, in a move that nearly springs him across the table to break your neck, you lift a hand and wave. You wave. 

“Looks great, Ashley,” Homelander finally speaks without looking at Ashley, and stands so suddenly that half the room flinches. “I think we’re done here.”

Ashley holds her presentation clicker lamely in her hand. “U-Uh…sir, we still have to discuss-”

“We’re done,” He repeats. Normally, the jolt the woman gives would amuse him - but he’s in too foul a mood. He waves at the door. “All of you, out.”

Homelander does not need to repeat himself. Everyone is jumping out of their chairs, either out of fear or relief to be free from another meeting. You are the last to stand, and he catches you with a finger pointed at you. “Not you. Stay.”

You pause halfway to standing. Several members of the team shoot you glances, but you do not return them. They seem worried about what state your body will be in in the next hour, but you don’t seem to care. Homelander barely bites back a growl and turns to face the city skyline. It’s a calm spring day. The sun reflects off the skyscrapers, turning New York into a masquerade of mirrors. Distorted, but beautiful. It’s a day when he particularly enjoys flight. Maybe he’ll go for a fly after reminding you of your place.

The door shuts, and the two of you are alone. Homelander hears your footsteps as you slowly approach to stand beside him. Your heart is steady, slightly elevated. You don’t fear him. He hates you for it.

“Is everything okay?” You ask him, your voice so reeking of innocence he almost believes in its sincerity. Almost. His hands, folded underneath his cape, clench around one another. He turns to look at you out of the corner of his eye, scanning you up and down. Your blood pressure is slightly higher than it should be, but there is no other sign of stress in your body.

His gaze narrows. “We haven’t spoken much since you joined the team…how’re you enjoying New York?”

You tilt your head, pausing before you reply. “It’s…fine.”

He scoffs a laugh. “Fine?” He reveals a hand from under his cape to gesture to the expansive windows. “The biggest city in the world in the greatest country on Earth, and it’s fine?”

You smile politely. “It’s…more than fine? It isn’t home yet. But it is beautiful. I’m excited to learn all of its secrets.”

Homelander growls under his breath. “Oh, I’m sure you are.”

Your head cocks again, and he’s reminded bitterly of a puzzled puppy. “What do you mean?” You ask.

“Answer me this,” Homelander turns to face you fully. He takes a step closer in the action so you must tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. “How many dicks did you have to suck to get here, huh?”

Your brow furrows. “I-”

“You do not belong here,” He hisses the words as he takes another step closer. “I don’t need a telepath on the Seven. You are weak, and the second you fuck up, you’re gone. This is my team, not Edgar’s. You understand?”

You’re silent for so long that he nearly decides on more insults to fill the silence. Your expression is unreadable, even to him. You’re calm. You’re so damn calm. Finally, you nod. “Understood.”

He nods with a grunt. “Good. Now get the fuck out.”

You hum and fold your hands behind your back. “No, thank you.”

Homelander’s eyes widen, and he arches his neck back in shock. Perhaps he hadn’t been forward enough in his threats; maybe a physical demonstration was in order. “Excuse me?”

“I think there’s still a lot we need to talk about.” You turn to look out the window, and your brow furrows. Your hands fold behind your back, and he just knows you’re mocking his pose. “But maybe this isn’t a comfortable enough spot for that kind of talk…maybe we should move to the bad room?”

Homelander is above human feelings. He doesn’t allow fear to curdle his veins - not anymore. Then, you say “the bad room,” and something in him twitches. He refracts to a smaller version of himself and desperately looks for a reason. To find it, his entire body stills. “What did you say?”

You meet his gaze and then nod to the window. He follows your gaze and chokes. The city skies have turned into the bad room. He would recognize those walls anywhere. The white tiles were as neutral as ever, the number of nameless blocks amounting to the same torturous number. The floor was the same mind-numbing gray. The space is empty - but then, it’s not. You are suddenly standing in the middle, your hands still folded behind your back. “Is this better, John?” You ask, and when you say that name, the room echoes in Barbara’s voice.

Homelander is frozen. The room around him that was once in Vought Tower has faded into the bad room, leaving him trapped with you. He very nearly crumbles. Then, he recognizes the silence. He can’t hear the buzzing of the lights, those damned bulbs like mosquitoes. He isn’t there. He isn’t back. He’s with you. Rage overtakes him. He flies at you at his fastest speed, intent on ripping you in half. He reaches a hand for your neck, but it goes right through you. He has to stop short of slamming into the wall behind where you stand - or stood. He lands on his feet, lets out a strangled gasp, and whips back around. You’re facing him already, somehow.

“Nice try, buddy.” You’re mimicking his voice now, and it makes him gag. “But you can’t kill me in your own mind.”

So these are your tricks. Homelander storms forward, his shadow encompassing you where you stand. You don’t flinch. “Get out of my head,” He demands in a heated whisper. “Now.”

“Or what?”

The chuckle he makes is near insane. He hears it in his voice. “Oh, when I get out of here…I am going to rip you limb from limb. Slowly.”

“Hot,” You wink and turn your back on him. “Is that what all the staring is about, John? Do telepaths really do it for you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Wouldn’t be your weirdest fetish, now would it?” You reach your arm forward, palm up. Suddenly, other bodies flash into the room. It takes Homelander a moment to realize they’re all him. It’s him leaning against the wall in Vought, watching Madelyn breastfeeding through the walls. It’s him with a hired prostitute, sucking at her tits so every last drop of milk can fall into his mouth. It’s him at home, fisting his cock while he jugs down a pint of whole milk. 

“This is weird, my dude,” You say, weaving your way through the Homelander illusions like a demented corn maze. “I’m not one to kink shame, but…yikes.”

It’s not often Homelander is brought to silence. This, being forced to watch these moments of his own weakness, does the trick. His mouth is agape as you finally stop in your sauntering and land a hand on Madelyn’s shoulder. You drum your fingers along her white blouse and look back at Homelander. “Let’s talk about her, huh?”

He blinks, and the bad room is gone. Instead, he’s backstage at one of his first press conferences with Vought. He’s eighteen, maybe nineteen, and Madelyn is giving him his notes. She is also stroking his cock over his pants. She’s murmuring praise in between each bullet point. He’s a good boy. He’s being such a good boy.

“You loved her, didn’t you?” Your voice is coming from behind him, but when he spins around to find you, you aren’t there. It’s just another wall backstage lined with props. Still, he hears you. “In your own twisted way, I mean. Trying to find a mother’s love and you land on a woman grooming her way to the top.”

“Shut the fuck up…” He barely recognizes his voice. Why is it so squeaky? Is this what he sounded like as a teenager? It doesn’t matter because in the next moment, he’s somewhere else. He’s in his penthouse. He’s with Maeve. She’s on top of him, riding his face like she intends to break it. His hands are holding tightly onto her ass as he moans against her cunt. Homelander remembers this night. It was about a year into their relationship when her smiles were more forced and her hand started slipping out of his. He ate her out for hours, and for a brief window, the smiles were genuine again. 

“You loved her, too.” You’re in the room again. You stand beside Maeve and him like you’re admiring a statue at the museum. Maeve is climaxing, her hands tight in his hair and her head thrown back in ecstasy. He hasn’t stopped licking her hole. You hum in acknowledgement before looking back at Homelander. “She might not have loved you, but she did love your tongue.”

Before he can reply, the scene has shifted once more. It’s still his penthouse, but there are more works of art and less auburn hair gathering on the floor. Stormfront is here. Homelander is over her, pounding her cunt so hard the couch beneath them bends. She’s screaming for him, tugging at his hair and biting his lips hard enough to draw blood in someone more human. You stand beside the couch, frowning at the sight and shaking your head. “And then we have the Nazi. How do we still have Nazis?”

Homelander snaps his eyes to you. He doesn’t notice the way his arms tremble. “You’re getting off on this, huh?” He asks with another hysterical laugh. “Is this what you do? Get inside people’s minds and watch them fuck?”

“It makes for good entertainment, but no, that’s not my point here,” You snap your fingers. Stormfront and the past version of Homelander are gone, leaving you two alone in his fake home. The walls, Homelander vaguely realizes, are not correct. The color is too dark, a near mimic of black. He can see himself on the surface. You take a step in front of him and recapture his attention. “You have bounced from person to person - well, women mostly - in a desperate search for love. But it’s never been enough, has it? It’s always wrapped in fear, or ambition, or… fascism.”

“I’m not a child,” Homelander snaps back, though the way his voice quivers and weakens says otherwise. “You know nothing about me.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He recognizes the look. It’s one he’s had and received countless times. That is a smile of hatred. “You shouldn’t have spent so long staring at me.” You murmur. “I know everything.”

The penthouse is gone. He’s in the middle of a Christmas gala. No, it’s not a Christmas gala. It’s the one where the mistake started. He spots himself descending a staircase, and he’s speaking with Rebecca Butcher. She’s laughing, absolutely dazzled by him. William Butcher, Homelander realizes now, is already suspicious of his motives. Homelander’s mind suddenly spins in flashes and pictures. Rebecca Butcher, doe-eyed and gentle, agreeing to walk with him and discuss her career. Rebecca Butcher, shakily putting back on a shoe as he strokes her hair. Rebecca Butcher, wide-eyed and standing in front of Ryan.

Ryan.

Rebecca is gone, but Ryan remains. He stands as a statue beside you, an emotionless husk of the boy Homelander yearns to know. You are all back in the bad room. Your piercing gaze has hardened.

“What will you tell your son one day about Rebecca Butcher? The mother who raised him?” Your voice echoes off the walls in a cold symphony. There’s a new note to your voice that has Homelander’s spine stiffening. “Was she just another woman who didn’t meet your expectations? How weak are you to have to destroy an innocent person’s life to soothe your ego?”

Homelander’s gaze has not left Ryan’s dead stare. “Get…get my son out of here. Get him out of here now.”

“You keep forgetting that you’re in control here,” You reply. The bad room shimmers in heat. “I can make Ryan do the Macarena in a Ronald McDonald outfit if I wanted to.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Homelander’s voice breaks. “He’s innocent.”

Your frown deepens, but the anger eases. Ryan’s image fades, but doesn’t disappear. He lingers like a ghost as you walk forward. “That’s the most tragic thing about all of this, isn’t it?” You raise a hand and rest it over his chest. He does not intervene. You tap your hand to the rhythm of his heartbeat. “Underneath that cape, under all of the horrific things that you have done…you’re only human.”

You’re gone. Instead of facing you, Homelander is facing the oven in the lab. The lights go on, and he feels the heat rise from the window. Ryan is inside. He looks around, confusion and panic dawning on his face. He turns and locks eyes with Homelander. “Dad? What’s going on?!”

Homelander screams. He slams his fist against the door, he rips at the handle. Nothing. Ryan screams, banging his hands against the window as the heat rises. Nothing. 

“Stop this!” Homelander screams at you, at Ryan, at anyone. “Stop!”

The room glows too brightly for him to see. Then, Ryan is gone. Instead, he is staring at himself when he was Ryan’s age. As Homelander’s screams stop, his younger self raises them in pitch. His skin doesn’t char, but Homelander can feel the heat prickling at every nerve in his very human body. He falls to his knees. The space around him goes pure white. There is nothing. There is only you, standing in front of the fallen hero. You say nothing as his chest heaves. The heat is gone. He isn’t sure if it was ever really there.

“Please,” He finally speaks with his head lowered. He isn’t sure when he began to cry, but he feels the tears staining his cheeks. “Please. Stop it.”

You lean forward. Your lips brush Homelander’s ear as you whisper to him. “If you try to kill me when you come back, you better not hesitate. If you do, I will keep you locked in that oven forever. Never threaten me again.”

He looks up at you, blinking away the fuzziness in his eyes. His voice is a weak mockery of the hero he knows - he thinks - he is. “Why did you do this?”

Your silence is so long that it frightens him. He freezes, anticipating another change to his frayed mind. Instead, your hand comes forward. It gently brushes through his hair. His breath hitches, and his eyes fall shut again. Your voice is gentle. “John didn’t deserve any of this. Homelander does.”

“What do you think, sir?”

Homelander is in the conference room. Ashley is presenting her slides on the movie premieres. His team is watching him, their gazes lost between confusion and weariness. You are the only expressionless face. His hands are shaking. He clenches one down on the armchair, and it creaks. He slowly looks at Ashley and blinks several times. She is still there. He swallows heavily. “What?”

Instead of her usual fear, she looks confused - maybe even worried. Perhaps she’s wondering why the leader of the Seven looks at her as if he were in a room of ghosts. She slowly lowers her clicker. “I-I…I was wondering if the premiere lineup for the summer made sense, sir.”

He pretends to look at the screens behind her. He bites his inner cheek to feel pain. “Could you run through it one more time?”

Ashley blinks, but the muscle in her back relaxes. “Y-yes, of course,” She turns and clicks back to the first slide of the presentation. “As you can see, we think premiering with the Deep’s sequel would help introduce the cycle best…”

As she rambles off her demographic research, he turns to look at you. You’re watching him. You give him a curt nod and look away.

[presumedbly]

Sometimes I think about Firecracker’s lactation medication regimen and I think, “Girl, Risperidone will do that anyways.”

[presumedbly]

I’m funny little Virgin can I have homelander taking y/n’s v card 👀

18+ 2.1k. homelander x f!reader. virginity kink, fingering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. chapter directory. AO3.

You're Homelander's biggest fan, and he's thrilled to take your virginity.

“Wait.”

Homelander stops, looking sharply up at you. Your heart is racing, your hands braced on his shoulders, your back pinned to the wall of his bedroom. Everything is moving so fast. His hands are poised, having just yanked open your pants.

“I’m— I’ve never done this before,” you sputter, stomach fluttering wildly.

His lips twitch. “Had sex with a supe?”

“Had sex,” you correct, licking your lips anxiously. “I’m a virgin.”

His impatience gives way to deviousness. “Well,” he purrs, his voice a low, playful timber. He is every bit the cat that got the cream, his eyes blown black, hungry. “Not for long.”

You yelp when he hauls you up effortlessly by your thighs, hiking your legs up around his waist. You quickly throw your arms around his neck when the support of the wall disappears from behind you.

His movement couldn’t be less encumbered by you, and the weightlessness you feel in his arms does nothing for your nerves, your heart beating against the cage of your ribs like a panicked bird.

His lips are at your neck, kissing, licking and biting to his delight as he walks you to his bed. He kneels on the bed with one knee, and suddenly you’re being unceremoniously dropped down onto it, bouncing with a noise of surprise.

Homelander looks exceptionally pleased, his teeth pearly white in this sharp, predatory grin of his. “Ever give head?” He asks, reaching for the hips of your pants, sliding them down. His gloved fingertips drag down the outer slopes of your thighs, sending goosebumps all down your legs.

Flushed, you shake your head.

“Ooh, a virgin virgin,” he muses, running his tongue along his teeth. He looks ready to devour you. “You touch yourself?”

“Y-yes,” you admit, cheeks burning red.

“You think about me when you do it?” He pushes, tossing your pants haphazardly aside. “You think about your hero with his cock buried in you?”

You glance away, astounded by how easy he makes this seem. He looks and sounds like sweet apple pie, like wholesome American values, though his words are anything but. You can only muster a nod, looking back at him. His ego looks to be as engorged as his cock, the outline of it straining against his pants. He huffs a heated little laugh.

“Atta girl. Go ahead and take your top off.” Clearly, he’s thriving on this power trip, and how it feeds his self-conceit. You listen to him, pulling your shirt off with clumsy, rushed hands. It startles you how much closer he already is, looming over you.

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest. Your breaths are shallow. Homelander swallows it up with a kiss, his one knee braced on the bed between your legs. He pauses, drawing back slightly.

“Hey, hey, relax,” he soothes, placing a gloved hand over your chest, touching just above the pound of your heart. Though the heat in his eyes is carnal, there is a gentleness to the way he speaks that helps deepen your breaths. “I’ve got you. I’m your hero, remember?”

“Yes,” you whisper, anticipation creeping in alongside the tension wringing your body tight. “Yes, okay. Okay.”

His grin broadens.

You hear a distinct pop, and when you look down, he has a small bottle in his hand. You don’t remember seeing him grab it, but you could have easily missed it with a blink.

“Now, I want you…” He picks up your hand, turning your palm upward, and liberally applies what you realize to be lube to your fingers. “To show me exactly how you touched yourself.”

He sets the bottle aside, and sets himself to sliding off your underwear, kissing his way down your legs before tossing the garment aside. He stands straight, staring down at you with a pleased, expectant stare.

Swallowing your shyness, you nod, glancing down at your fingers. The lube has already warmed on them, slick between your fingers. You focus on that feeling as you reach down between your legs, rubbing the wetness over your clit first, and then deeper down, tracing the outer edges first.

You sigh and hear an answering exhale from Homelander.

When you glance up, he’s intently watching your fingers work while he busies himself with taking off his gloves, tossing them to the lounging chair against the wall next to him.

He unclasps his cape next, laying it across the back of the chair with a well-practiced flourish.

Watching him undress himself while you slick yourself up for him feels like a complete fever dream, one you’ve certain you’ve had before.

Your fingers start to move a little faster in response, working your clit, a building heat rolling steadily up your body.

He peels aside the chest of his suit, shrugging it off his shoulders. He looks leaner without the suit, but no less powerful.

You swallow dryly. He hasn’t stopped watching you, not even for a second.

“That’s it. Go ahead, slip one inside for me,” he tells you, his voice little more than a rumble.

You listen, pushing in just your middle finger first, continuing to grind against your palm.

His smile widens, flashing those sharp canines. His belt gives a loud, metallic click as he unclasps it, depositing that, too, into the nearby chair.

You’ve never heard a louder zipper in your life than the one he yanks down.

“More,” he says, voice thick. “You’re gonna need it.”

You understand what he means when he pushes his pants down, his cock falling free and heavy. Your heart jumps, and you can feel yourself begin to salivate.

“Holy fuck,” you whisper, and just as he instructed, you push in another finger, scissoring them, working yourself as best you can.

Kicking off his boots, he steps the rest of the way out of his clothes and walks forward, stopping at the edge of the bed. Picking up the lube, he squirts a generous amount into his palm, and strokes it up and down his cock.

The slick noise of it makes your breath hitch, has you slipping in a third finger while he watches, eyes trained between your legs while he pumps his cock.

“Looook at you,” he sighs, head tipped back, eyes dark. “Saved it just for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you keen, pushing your fingers in as deep as you can. It’s not enough, you know it isn’t, but it’s all you have. “I always– I always dreamed it’d be you.” He practically growls when you say that.

He kneels on the bed between your legs, using one hand to push your thigh up and out of the way. He tilts his head, and though being watched so intently like this is new, his rapt focus and hunger is unlike anything you’ve experienced before.

He licks his lips, and lets go of his cock to reach where your fingers are, carefully slipping his own middle finger in alongside yours.

You give a shuddering moan, grinding your palm harder against your clit to offset that aching stretch. It fades quickly enough, eased by the frictionless glide, leaving you with nothing but the pleasure of yours and his combined fingers easing you open.

“Homelander, please,” you moan, reaching up to touch his face. It still feels like a fantasy. “I’m ready.”

That seems to snap him out of the near stupor he’d gone into watching you. His gaze flickers up, and you hear the dry click of his throat when he swallows.

Withdrawing his hand, he lifts you up and effortlessly hikes you further up the bed, landing your head on a plush pillow.

In an instant he’s above you. He leans in to kiss you thoroughly, licking into your mouth with fervent heat.

You push your hands up into his perfect hair and find a delectable satisfaction in mussing it, pushing the strands this way and that. It almost distracts you from the feel of the fat head of his cock pushing in against you. You gasp, but he holds you still with one hand on your jaw, the other gripping the underside of your thigh, keeping it pushed up.

You whimper against his lips, screwing your eyes shut, He’s large, but he’s going slow. He stops once the head is in, moves his lips from yours to your neck, kissing at your skin as you suck in breaths of air.

“Good?” He asks. You can feel the shape of the word on his lips against your skin.

“Y-yes, don’t stop, keep going,” you practically plead. It’s somehow too much and not enough all at once. You just want him inside you, you want the ache to ascend.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He moves his hand and lifts your thighs up, making space for himself to push in the rest of the way in one slow, continuous slide until he bottoms out. His cock is thick, heavy like an anchor inside you.

Every breath in makes you hyper aware of it.

Meanwhile, Homelander’s expression is pinched, lips pulled back in a near grimace.

“Fuuucking tight,” he grits out. You can feel the thrum of restraint in his every muscle like that of an engine. He doesn’t wait long before he begins rocking his hips, each pull and push moving you slightly on the bed.

You brace your hands on his bare shoulders, your stomach flipping over the feel of him buzzing beneath your palms.

“H-Homelander, fuck, that–” You choke on your own words, a snap of his hips catching you off guard.

He stops to look at you, eyes glazed over with pleasure, his lips parted.

“Keep going,” you quickly encourage, warmed by the way your words still give him pause, the flicker of concern amidst his lust. “Feels good, feels good, don’t stop.”

Another sharp thrust wrings a loud moan from you, followed by two more before he finds a steady rhythm. He lets go of your thighs in favor of hiking your legs up around his waist, where you hook your ankles over one another.

He drapes his body down over yours, one arm braced on the bed next to your head while the other moves to your chest, effortlessly tearing away the bra you’d neglected to remove.

He immediately covers one breast with his hand, massaging it with his palm while his mouth goes to the other, sucking and licking until it perks up in his mouth.

You can feel yourself spiraling, the onslaught of sensation more than you can bear. You can’t even form words anymore, each snap of his hips punching breathy little noises from you. Your eyes are beginning to water from the sheer overwhelm of it all, but Homelander doesn’t notice.

He’s too enamored with your body, lapping at your breasts, kissing the space between them, sinking deep into you with every thrust. You’re both unraveling, but you fall apart first.

Your orgasm hits you like a physical impact. Pressure that had been building since he started kissing you against that wall unleashes in a flood, rolling hot through your entire body.

He fucks you through it, not slowing down for a second, chasing his own pleasure in the pulsing, wet heat of you. Just when you believed it couldn’t get any more intense, his pace increases. He’s no longer kissing your skin, but instead breathing heavily into the crook of your neck, groaning, his breath hitching.

Through your pleasure-haze, you realize he’s close. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tighten your trembling legs around him as best you can.

“Please,” you gasp brokenly. “Please come inside me.”

Homelander slams in a final time before stilling, your words tipping him over the edge. The rush of liquid heat is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, a scalding burn that feels better than you ever could have imagined.

You’re both breathing heavily against each other, limbs tangled together, speechless in the wake of what you have just shared.

After a few moments, he shifts. You let your legs, which feel like complete jelly, slide off of him and fall flat to the bed. He withdraws gingerly from you, but doesn’t go very far.

Neither of you particularly care about the mess for the moment, simply seeking warmth when you both push back in against the other.

Reaching over you, he flips the large blanket on his bed over in half, covering you both from the air around you, which suddenly feels cold in comparison.

“Stay,” Homelander murmurs, sounding groggy, thoroughly debauched by you.

It isn’t as though you have much say in the matter. He’s already coiled around you, one arm under your neck while the other is looped over your waist, locking you in the gentlest of vice grips.

You press your hands to his chest, snuggling in under his chin. There was never any question that you would stay, but for some reason, he seems to expect that you won’t.

“I will.”

This was your first time with Homelander, but it certainly won’t be the last.

( chapter two )

[presumedbly]

let the band play

one-shot

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: This is the last straw. While out on recon with Butcher and Hughie, Ben went into your bedroom and used your favourite shirt to clean himself off. You're going to let the smug idiot know exactly what you think about him. Trouble is? He likes it.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben being his own warning again, language, creative insults, smut (panty-sucking, p in v, clitoral stimulation, cum on face, biting, sucking, licking, kissing, throttling, rough sex, slapping), misogyny, dirty talk, degradation, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 3,930

A/N: OKAYYYY, I got another one written and I lowkey (very, very highkey, actually) love nasty, mean, rough Ben more than I can ever put into words. Can you even imagine the pure hate-fucking this man is capable of? Ungh. <3 This one was inspired by a song... if you wanna give it a listen, then please do: "Let The Band Play" by Badflower. It's dark and gritty and just delicious for the tense vibes of this one-shot. As always, please give me feedback, if y'all feel like it. Until the next one! All the love.

"Oh, you lazy, no good, deadbeat Lying, woman-hating, piece of vile fucking scum You fucking downright piece of shit I'll spit on your grave, I'll make you suffer I'll massacre you, you fucking bastard You vile piece of shit, I'm coming for you You hear me? I'm coming for you! I'm coming for you! Ah!

And let the band play" 

Let The Band Play - Badflower 

The rhythmic slosh of the washing machine filled the cramped space, a dull, ceaseless churn that did nothing to tamp down the blistering heat rising in your chest. Your arms were folded tight, foot tapping against the scuffed linoleum, jaw clenched hard enough to make your teeth ache. The faint smell of detergent curled in your nose, too clean, too artificial, grating against the raw fury pressing like a hot coal against your ribs.

You weren’t even supposed to be here right now. You should’ve been upstairs, knocking back whatever cheap whiskey was left in the cabinet, decompressing after another long recon run. Instead, you were here, waiting for your shirt—your favourite black shirt—to be scrubbed of his fucking filth.

Because Ben had gone into your room. Again. He’d slithered his way into your space while you were out with Butcher and Hughie, ransacking your drawers, shifting your weapons, mixing your bullets in the wrong order—his usual bullshit. But this time, he’d taken it further. This time, you’d picked up your shirt and felt it, the crusted, stiff stain scraping against your fingers before your brain even caught up with what it was.

That fucking bastard.

The worst part? You weren’t even surprised. You’d known for a while now—panties disappearing, small things out of place, the gnawing suspicion sitting ugly in your gut. He’d been toying with you. Pushing, needling, waiting for you to catch on. And now you definitely had.

The door creaked behind you, and you didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. The air changed when Ben walked into a room—went heavy, charged, dangerous. That insufferable, lazy swagger, the barely-there drag of his boots, the scent of cologne and gunpowder and sheer, unrepentant arrogance.

“You’re stompin’ those pretty little feet like you got somethin’ to say, sweetheart.”

Your teeth snapped together so hard your molars screamed. His voice was dripping in amusement, thick with condescension, his usual cocktail of shit-eating smugness and predatory glee. He’d been waiting for this. Fucking waiting for it.

Slowly, you turned, arms still crossed, eyes slicing up to meet his with a glare sharp enough to slit his throat. He was leaning against the doorway like he had all the time in the world, watching you, his gaze hungry, expectant.

“I’m going to kill you.”

The words were calm, measured. Deadly. They only made him grin wider.

“Yeah?” He took a step forward, slow and deliberate. “What’s got your panties in a twist this time?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “You know exactly what.”

Ben hummed, tilting his head like he had to think about it, like he wasn’t fully aware of what he’d done, like he wasn’t thrilled about it. Then—mock surprise, all wide eyes and fake innocence.

“Ohhh,” he drawled, lips curling. “You mean your little t-shirt?”

The rage that slammed through your system nearly made your vision white out. He knew. He fucking knew.

“Are you—are you fucking serious?” Your voice came out strangled, barely contained. “You—you used my shirt? You went into my fucking room and—“

“Oh, come on,” he cut you off, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like you were wearin’ it.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

Ben chuckled, a low, dark thing, rich with enjoyment. He took another step closer, and you barely stopped yourself from stepping back. You wouldn’t give him that.

“You’re gettin’ all worked up over a little mess,” he mused, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “What, you never had a guy come on your clothes before?”

Something inside you snapped.

The next thing you knew, you were shoving him—hard. He barely moved, but it didn’t matter. You wanted him to feel it. You wanted him to know that if you had a knife in your hand right now, you’d be planting it between his ribs.

Ben laughed.

A deep, rich, obnoxious fucking sound, like you were the funniest thing he'd seen all day. Like your rage was a fucking delight to him. His grin stretched wider, slow and deliberate, his eyes glinting with something sharp and dangerous.

“Aw, c’mon now,” he drawled, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeve. “That all you got?”

Your hands curled into fists. “You are a scummy, vile, dirty old man,” you spat. “You’re just an old fucking dog, and I shouldn’t be surprised that you can’t be trained, because you can’t teach old dogs new tricks.”

Ben preened. Actually fucking preened. His broad shoulders straightened, his smirk turned smugger, his eyes burned with excitement.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, faux concern dripping from his tone. “Keep twitchin’ that little eye of yours like that and you’re gonna pop a blood vessel. Then what? No man’s gonna wanna fuck you.”

Your nostrils flared. Your pulse roared in your ears. Oh, fuck this.

Your hand snapped out, grabbing the first thing within reach—the bottle of fabric softener sitting beside the washing machine—and hurled it at him.

It hit him in the chest with a solid thud, and the bastard laughed.

“You’re real fuckin’ feisty, you know that?” He taunted, shaking his head. “Maybe if you weren’t such a mouthy little fuckin’ bitch, you’d actually get laid.”

Your vision blurred with rage. “And maybe if you weren’t such a festering, antiquated, deadbeat, woman-hating piece of shit, Payback wouldn’t have sold you out to the fucking Russians!”

His expression flickered. Just for a second. Just for a fucking second. And then his grin turned razor-sharp. His entire body shifted, and before you could register it, he moved.

He was on you in a breath.

One second, the space between you still existed—thin, crackling, electric. The next, gone. Ben stepped into it, filled it, drowned you in it, his body crowding yours until there was nowhere left to go. He was all heat, size, weight, a walking, talking fucking menace with that razor-blade smirk cutting across his face.

“Say it again,” he murmured, low and lethal, a dark, dangerous purr that slithered up your spine and coiled in your gut.

Oh, he was furious. You could see it in the taut set of his jaw, in the slight twitch of his fingers, in the barely restrained tension vibrating under his skin. But it wasn’t just anger. No, it was something else, something filthy, something that made his nostrils flare and his chest rise just a little too quickly.

He liked it. He fucking liked it.

So you gave it to him.

“You’re a no-good, perverted, misogynistic, chauvinist fucking cunt.” Your voice was steady, vicious, every word sharper than the last. “And if you ever step foot in my fucking room again, I’ll kill you. For real.”

His smirk twitched. Something flickered.

You weren’t done.

“You’re not a fucking war hero, Ben. You never stormed a goddamn thing in your life. Your entire legacy is bullshit—a propaganda piece for a country that doesn’t even fucking remember you. You’re just a relic of Vought’s past, and even they didn’t want you anymore.”

The groan that rumbled out of him was filthy. Deep, appreciative, dragging through his throat like smoke and sex and something far, far worse.

His hand slid down his front, blatant as all hell, and he palmed at the hard line of his cock through his jeans—adjusted it, made a whole goddamn show of it, a smirk creeping across his mouth as he let his head tip back just a little.

“Fuck, you’re really gettin’ me going now, sweetheart.”

Your stomach turned. Your lip curled into a vicious scowl, disgust and rage flooding through you all at once. You swung for him. Fast. Hard. Unforgiving.

He caught your wrist mid-air. Effortless. And then he moved.

A sharp yank, a forceful shove, and you were bent backwards over the still-rumbling washing machine, your spine curving against the vibrating metal, heat searing across your back from the sheer force of it. The room tilted, the whir of the machine filling your ears.

Ben’s weight pressed down, locked you in place.

One huge, brutal hand wrapped around your throat, pinning you down, thumb digging against your pulse, while the other clamped down on your hip—heavy, immovable, possessive.

A slow exhale ghosted across your cheek, the warmth of it infuriating, unbearable, suffocating.

His voice was a murmur, low and deep and satisfied as all fucking hell.

“Now we’re talkin’.”

“Get the hell off me.”

Your voice was sharp, but the angle was all wrong, your body bent backward, pinned at an unnatural curve against the still-running washing machine, his hand locked around your throat, fingers flexing just enough to remind you he could tighten his grip whenever the fuck he wanted.

And he laughed. Again.

That deep, gravel-rough chuckle, smug and entirely too entertained, rolling through his chest like you’d just told the funniest joke of his goddamn life.

“Sweetheart, I could pop your fuckin’ head off right now if I wanted to.”

Your teeth bared, rage coiling tight and vicious in your gut. With a sharp growl, you surged up, trying to fight against his hold, trying to push through the weight of him—

He used it against you.

Fast. Effortless. Completely, infuriatingly controlled.

His grip tightened around your throat, his other hand locked down hard on your hip, and suddenly, you were being lifted, hauled up like you weighed nothing. The room tilted, the washing machine’s hum shaking through your spine as he set you down on the edge—your thighs now spread around his waist, your body trapped between the vibrating machine and the sheer, unrelenting weight of him.

One of his hands clamped down on your hip, fingers curling in deep, holding you in place while his other shifted, the grip around your neck moving—repositioning—until his forearm was suddenly braced against your throat, keeping you folded against the machine, against the wall, against him.

And fuck.

Your breath hitched—not just from anger.

He felt it. He heard it.

That small, involuntary whimper that spilled from your lips the second he shifted, the hard, thick length of him dragging against you through your clothes—through nothing but layers of fabric.

His grin sharpened.

Head tilted, eyes dropping low, slow, deliberate—watching exactly where his hips were pressed up tight against yours. Then, back up to you. Those green eyes burned—mocking, amused, completely, utterly in control.

“You wanna get fuckin’ spread open, doll?”

You clenched your jaw, forcing down the humiliation pooling hot and unbearable in your gut. Your body was betraying you.

Every slow, deliberate grind of his hips sent a fresh wave of heat rippling through you, the thick, heavy length of him dragging against the growing dampness between your thighs—and he knew it.

Of course he fucking knew it.

Your fingers curled against the vibrating metal beneath you, desperate to keep some grip on your sanity, your dignity, your fucking composure. You still had fight in you. You weren’t going to let him see you fold.

Your lips curled, voice dripping in mockery, even as your breath hitched.

“Surprised you can even still get it up, Grandpa.”

His grin was wicked.

Then—pressure. A sharp, sudden grind, his hips pressing hard into yours, forcing the full, thick line of his cock against you, pinning you in place with nothing but pure weight and heat and dominance.

Your breath punched out of you in a soft, humiliating whimper.

Ben just grinned wider.

“That feel like I got any performance issues, sweetheart?”

His voice was thick, syrupy and dark, the rasp curling at the edges, drenched in amusement. His forearm pressed harder against your throat, not cutting off your air, but reminding you—reminding you exactly who was in control.

Your hands twitched, nails biting into the fabric of his jacket, unsure whether you wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

Then, his mouth dipped lower, his voice dropping into something slower, heavier, more dangerous.

“I know you wanna get fucked by me.”

Your stomach flipped. Your body went rigid, your breath caught hard in your throat.

His smirk stretched wider, all sharp teeth and victorious smugness.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he murmured, tilting his head, his hips rolling slow and steady, rubbing deliberately, cruelly against your aching core. “When you think I’m not watchin’. When you think you’re bein’ real fuckin’ subtle.”

Your brain screamed denial, denial, denial, but fuck, fuck, fuck—

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Your mind flickered back—to the safe house gym, to the few times you’d ended up in the same room, both of you training, ignoring each other, keeping your distance.

Except you hadn’t really been ignoring him.

You remembered it too well—the way your gaze would drift, the way your teeth would sink into your bottom lip without thinking, watching the sheer power of him, all raw, solid muscle, all sweat-slicked, feral fucking strength, the way he moved, like a goddamn beast barely caged.

You had watched him.

And he’d fucking seen it.

“Shouldn’t feel too bad,” Ben continued, his voice low and thick, that tone dripping with mock sympathy. His hips rolled forward again, slow, deliberate, grinding his cock hard against you, dragging that pressure right over your aching, humiliatingly wet core.

“I watch you too, doll.”

Your breath hitched.

Oh, fuck.

“Barely hold myself back from comin’ over n bitin’ your fuckin' ass when you’re doin’ squats in those stupid little shorts.” His voice went rough, nearly gravelled, all hot and smug. “Y’know the ones, sweetheart—the ones that look like they’re painted the fuck on.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because your eyes had flickered down—without thinking, without meaning to—and suddenly, you realised you were wearing those shorts right now.

Your body went rigid, heat flaring over your cheeks, over your chest, a full-body flush of anger, humiliation, something else.

Ben’s smirk widened. His forearm pressed harder into your throat, cutting off just enough space to make you feel the pressure, to make your breath catch.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips nearly brushing your jaw. “I noticed.”

Your stomach flipped.

His hips ground into you again, the full, thick line of his cock pressing exactly where he wanted you to feel it.

Then—his voice dropped into something low, dark, final.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time. Real nice.” His smirk twitched. “Do you wanna get fuckin’ split open—” another sharp grind, your body jerking at the friction, your mouth parting in a whimper—“or are you gonna keep pretendin’ to be the little modern feminist pussy we both know you ain't?”

The word tore from your lips before you could even think.

“Once.”

The second it was out of your mouth, he moved. His lips slammed into yours, all teeth and heat and hunger, a brutal, ravenous collision, his tongue licking into your mouth like he was trying to devour you from the inside out.

He growled into the kiss, biting, sucking, wrecking your lips like he had every intention of leaving them swollen and bruised for days. His hand snapped up, tangling roughly in your hair, tugging, tilting your head exactly how he wanted.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth. “You taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

You scrambled for purchase, hands grasping, clawing at his hair, his jacket, trying to pull him closer, tighter, anything—but your angle was still off, your back still pressed at that awkward arch against the washing machine, still trapped by his weight.

You barely had time to process before he grabbed the neckline of your shirt and—

Ripped.

The fabric tore in half with one sharp pull, the pieces hanging uselessly off your arms, baring your heated, flushed skin to the cool air of the laundry room.

Your eyes snapped up, scowling.

“You’re a dick.”

Ben grinned, chest heaving, thrilled.

Then you fisted his own shirt, fingers curling in tight, and ripped it straight down the middle—just like he had done to you.

He laughed, a deep, rasping sound that sent heat pulsing between your thighs. Then he hooked both hands into your shorts, yanked hard—

Riiiip.

The material shredded apart, leaving you in nothing but your soaked underwear.

Ben hummed, voice all mock innocence, the barest smirk curling his lips.

“Oops.”

Before you could snap back, before you could snarl and shove and cuss him out, he shoved you down, pushing you flat against the washing machine, his hands pressing down heavy on your thighs to keep them spread.

And then—his mouth was on you.

Right over your slick, soaked underwear, latching on, sucking hard, loud, obscene, the heat of his tongue pressing hot and wet through the fabric.

A sharp, wrecked sound tore from your throat, your hands flying out to grab for anything—his hair, the edges of the washing machine, the crumpled remains of your shirt.

Ben moaned against you, soaking in your reaction like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking heard.

And then—he did it again.

Ben’s groan vibrated straight into your core, deep and wrecked, as he sucked hard, his mouth sealing over your underwear, dragging the fabric and your aching cunt into his mouth. The heat of his tongue pressed, the wet suction pushing through, and your hips jerked, a sharp, unbidden gasp ripping from your throat.

Then he pulled back, lips slick, breath ragged, eyes burning as he flicked them up to yours.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dark and guttural, half-taunt, half-worship. “Real fuckin' sweet.”

Before you could fire back, before you could even breathe, his hand snapped up and—

Smack.

A sharp, stinging slap right over the spot where his mouth had just been.

A startled yelp tore from your lips, your body tensing against the vibrating metal beneath you, and Ben just grinned, eyes gleaming with something hungry, predatory, insatiable.

You barely had a second to recover before he was shoving his jeans down, just enough to free himself, his cock thick, flushed, hard as fuck, and you were already struggling, fingers shaking as you tried to yank your underwear down.

You got one leg free—

Then he was back on you. His hand slammed against your chest, pinning you back down, your underwear still clinging to your other leg, tangled just above your knee.

“Nah, sweetheart,” he rasped, gripping himself, lining up. “You don’t need to worry ‘bout that.”

And then—

He sank in.

One, long, achingly slow stroke, stretching you open, shoving in deep, until he was buried to the fucking hilt.

Your mouth parted, a wrecked, breathless moan spilling past your lips, your hands clawing for something, anything, nails scraping over the metal of the machine, the bare skin of his biceps, the solid muscle of his stomach.

Ben let out a rough, punched-out breath, his head tilting forward, his forearm tightening where it pinned your throat again.

Through gritted teeth, voice low and shattered, he muttered, “Holy shit, sweetheart—way fuckin’ tighter than I thought you’d be.”

You barely registered the words.

Your mind was already white noise, your body blissed out, wrecked from the stretch, from the sheer, impossibly full feeling of him seated so deep inside you, from the unrelenting weight of him pressing you down.

Then he pulled back.

And slammed home again.

Your head hit the wall, a strangled moan punching out of you as the pressure built, his hand still wrapped tight around your throat, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, keeping you open and helpless and fucking ruined beneath him.

Ben was ruthless.

The hand not wrapped around your throat dropped, his fingers sliding down, knuckles dragging over the plane of your stomach, the sweaty dip of your navel—before they pressed, rubbed, circled your aching clit just right as he kept slamming into you, rough and unrelenting, shoving you higher, higher, higher—

And then he laughed. Low, dark, mean as all fucking hell.

"What happened, sweetheart?" He rasped, his breath hot against your jaw, grinning as your back arched. "Ain't you supposed to be some big, bad feminist? All that moral high ground, all that virtue-signalling bullshit—" he gave a brutal, punishing thrust, making you gasp, your hands scrambling against his shoulders—"melting right the fuck outta your pretty head now, ain't it?"

You shook, legs trembling, your body betraying you, the heat coiling tight and hot and fucking unbearable.

"C'mon, use that big mouth of yours." His fingers rubbed harder, faster, pushing you closer to the edge, his cock hitting deep, hitting perfect with every driving snap of his hips. "Tell me how much you fuckin' hate me, sweetheart. Tell me how I'm a misogynistic piece of shit while you're soakin' my cock."

Your breath hitched, a sharp, wrecked whimper slipping from your lips.

His smirk deepened.

"That's what I fuckin' thought."

He was so fucking smug. So fucking cocky. He was growling into your skin, sneering at your unraveling, at the way your nails bit into his skin, at the way you tightened around him, nearly choking his cock, your thighs clenching, your entire body locking up—

And then you cried out, pleasure ripping through you, your body shaking, spasming, your orgasm hitting so fucking hard it knocked the breath out of you.

Ben groaned, biting hard against your collarbone, his tongue lapping over the mark immediately after. "Yeah, that's it," he gritted out, his cock still pounding into you, working you through it, keeping you locked down, shaking, helpless. "All you fuckin’ needed was a good, hard fuck to get that attitude outta you, huh?"

Your mind barely processed it—not when he was licking and sucking, his mouth everywhere, his teeth scraping rough along your throat, biting at your face, dragging his tongue over your cheek before kissing you filthy and deep—

And then—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The washing machine. Your shirt was done.

Ben stilled for a half-second. Then he fucking laughed.

The second his laughter faded, he was right back at it—pounding into you, all force and greed, using your wrecked, overstimulated body to chase his own high, the smug, cocky bastard making sure you felt it.

His hand dug into your hip, his grip on your throat tightened, pulling you into every brutal thrust, forcing you to take him, take it, take all of it.

“You better hurry up, sweetheart,” he mocked, voice raspy, strained, dragging his teeth along your jaw, pressing a wet, biting kiss just beneath your ear. “You wanna come again, you better fuckin’ keep up.”

His fingers found your clit again, but his movements were deliberate, lazy, cruel—not giving you enough, not letting you have it until he wanted you to.

“Such a good little fuckdoll,” he groaned, his lips brushing against your damp, overheated skin. “So fuckin’ sweet when you’re just takin’ it, huh? That’s what you needed. Just needed to get fucked stupid, yeah?”

You whined, barely coherent, barely able to even snap back at him.

Ben groaned, tension knotting in his stomach, his pace turning desperate, erratic.

“Where d’you want it, sweetheart?” He rasped, voice thick and hungry, hips snapping into you harder. “Inside you? All fuckin’ deep, fillin’ you up, yeah?”

Your brain kicked back online real fucking fast.

“Under no circumstances can you fucking come inside me.”

Ben snarled, gritting his teeth as his pace stuttered, his grip tightening in irritation.

“No fuckin’ fun.” His sneer was vicious. “Fine. You want it on your fuckin’ face, then?”

Before you could even breathe, his grip on your throat yanked you forward, pulling you off the washing machine. Your knees hit the floor, legs still shaking, useless, your mind still spinning as he fisted his cock, his other hand gripping your hair, holding you right in place.

“Fuck, sweetheart—"

With a low, guttural groan, he spilled across your face, his breath ragged, loud, unrestrained, groaning deep and shameless, his entire body tensing as he pumped himself dry, streaking hot, thick ropes over your cheeks, lips, chin.

And then—

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Your blood turned to ice. Your entire body locked up.

"Pair of fuckin' animals."

You whipped your head toward the door—and there stood Butcher. One hand on his hip, the other rubbing his temples, shaking his head like he'd just walked in on two stray dogs humping on the sidewalk.

And then?

He turned and walked right the fuck back out.

Mortification. Pure, searing, full-body mortification. You were still on your knees, still panting, wrecked, still covered in Ben’s cum.

And when you turned back?

Oh, he was grinning. That shit-eating, cocky, bastard grin.

Your stomach sank. Because in one hand, Ben was holding—your shirt.

Your freshly washed, still-warm shirt that he’d clearly grabbed right out of the machine while you’d been frozen in horror, looking at Butcher.

And now? Now he was wiping himself off with it. Casual. Smug. Completely unbothered. Once he was done, he tossed it at your face.

“Go on, sweetheart.” His smirk was lethal. “Get cleaned up.”

@mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @itshellfire @nevercameraready @suckitands33 <3

[presumedbly]

I think homelander and butcher should let mirrorlander and kessler run around with each other and play a bit, like a doggy playdate

[presumedbly]

Kick It Out (Queen Maeve x Reader)

Summary: Maeve doesn’t date, for her own good and that of anyone she might be interested in. Teaching you how to kickbox definitely isn’t dating, even if the two of you do flirt every time you’re alone.

Note: Female reader with some references to being plus size, but not enough for me to designate the fic as such. No other descriptors are used. This takes place slightly before Homelander outed Maeve, but she still does a lot of internal shittalking about him. Hopefully I did well with her characterization because I’m already planning a follow-up. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Some references to homophobia Maeve’s experienced. Homelander vaguely threatens the reader to Maeve. Semi-public fingering, Maeve's kinda rough. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

It was a coincidence, really, when Maeve walked by Vought’s employee gym during one of the yoga sessions that was part of HR’s company wellness initiative. She’d forgotten Vought even had that, not interacting much with the corporation's rank and file on a regular basis and using The Seven’s exclusive gym to train. The employee gym was spacious, clean, and at that moment filled with dozens of Vought employees in a rainbow of athleticwear. Maeve could remember the old Jane Fonda workout tapes her mom used to put on in the mornings, how pleased she was with little Maggie’s rapt attention at the videos. You always need to keep your body moving, Maggie. It’s so important. 

Her eyes scanned the group lazily until they landed on you in the middle of a stretch that made Maeve feel like that little girl staring at Jane Fonda in spandex all over again. She licked her lips, giving you a quick once over before anyone could notice. You would become target number one the moment Homelander got a whiff she was remotely interested in you. Her fists clenched at the thought of how he–and her own complacency–ruined her relationship with Elena. She couldn’t do that to you, not that she even knew your name, and she wouldn’t learn it if she could help it. She wasn’t that selfish.

At least, that’s what she thought, until somehow she kept running into you. An interview here, a briefing there, she wasn’t even sure what you did at Vought exactly. It didn’t matter. You clearly hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid, viewing your job as a way to pay the bills instead of the feverish devotion so many of its employees had. She started looking forward to seeing you, taking the opportunity to stand next to you when she could and exchange quips back and forth about how corny a promotion seemed or how weird the marketing team was. 

Like clockwork, though, you’d be in the employee gym whenever the yoga classes were being held. She casually brought it up one day, asking if you were really that into yoga, or just taking advantage of the free classes.

You nodded. “Yoga’s nice, but I’d love to get into kickboxing or something. I’m kind of nervous to sign up for a class. I’ve never done anything like that before, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up.”

“I can teach you,” Maeve said, the words coming out of her mouth before she could even think.

“Are you sure? That’d be great, but only if you have the time and everything.”

“Yeah, let me give you my number. It’ll be easier to plan that way.”

You handed your phone to her, and she quickly entered her personal number into your messages, texting a simple ‘Hey’ to herself. She hesitated a moment before giving you back your phone. Okay, this was for real. She was committing to it. 

“I’ll text you later. I’m free most weeknights, so just let me know,” you said cheerfully.

A sour mix of excitement and regret clouded her mind until you left, and as she walked down the hall to the elevator, she thought she’d at least have a chance to at least convince herself that it wouldn’t be that bad. She was never that lucky.

“Uncharacteristically nice of you to offer to help out Y/N,” Homelander said, almost as if materializing out of nowhere.

Maeve balled her hands into fists at her side. Why did he always have to be lurking? Recently, he had been fucking off to god only knows where, sometimes for days at a time. Of course he had to be around when she finally made a move. “I’m just full of surprises.”

“Your heart’s beating like a racehorse, Maeve. You’re not that excited about just practicing some kickboxing moves, are you? I’d be a better partner than her, in that case. You and I are practically indestructible. Her on the other hand—it’s amazing how fragile humans are.”

Maeve remained silent, letting out a shaky breath as she refused to acknowledge his taunting.

“You think she knows her sports bra is a size too small? I mean, one downward dog and her tits are practically spilling out of—“

“Get a grip,” Maeve snapped.

“Hey, don’t be like that. It’s just locker room talk,” Homelander said, a menacing smile plastered across his face. “Speaking of surprises, I wonder what Y/N would think if she knew this was all a ploy for you to get into those tight yoga pants of hers. I guess I can’t blame you. Not exactly my type, but with the way you can see her panty line through them, she’s practically asking for it.”

“Asking for what?” she asked, standing taller as she looked him in the eye, daring him to make his threat. 

“Hit a nerve there, huh, Maeve?”

“Mind your business, and I’ll mind mine.”

“Well, you sure know how to pick ‘em,” he said abruptly.

She knew him well enough that it meant someone was coming down the hall, and he didn’t want them hearing a word he said. Scoffing, she shook her head as she walked away, trying to keep a brave face as she made her way to the elevator. 

Storming into her suite, she slammed the door behind her and threw the nearest breakable object at the wall before collapsing onto the couch, her head in her hands. Fuck. She’d been too obvious, too careless, and now you were going to be on the receiving end of it. Keeping her distance wouldn’t be fair to you, and it’d only put you in more danger when it came to Homelander. As much of a Girl Scout as Starlight could be sometimes, at least she was willing to risk it all for Hughie, even when he was lying through his teeth to her about Butcher and Compound V. At the very least, Maeve could do the same for you moving forward.

Still, she decided she was way too sober for her liking, and dug through her cabinets to find a half-drunk bottle of vodka, wanting to escape the gravity of the situation she found herself in for just a little while. 

The next day, she woke up a few minutes past eleven, her head pounding as she checked her phone. A few missed calls and texts, including one from you: ‘Hey! Homelander said you were sick. Hope you feel better soon💐’

Between the thought of Homelander being near you and her raging hangover, Maeve leaned over the side of the bed, throwing up into the nearby trash can. She got another text from Ashley, asking if she’d still be able to do her designated crime fighting schedule that night since she was supposed to team up with A-Train. Staring at the text, she grinned, getting out of bed to choke down a few aspirin and make her way to crime analytics.

The department’s office was depressingly dark, and the girl who nervously pulled up the schedule for the next few weeks looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Opening the notes on her phone, she quickly typed what days and times Homelander would be away from the tower. It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do while she figured out how to take control of the situation. 

Your kickboxing lessons with her began a little after seven on a Thursday evening. Maeve had asked you to keep everything under wraps, claiming she didn’t want everyone pestering her to train them. This was a one-off thing because you were friends. She was relieved at how your face lit up when she put it that way.

The whole arrangement made her realize how rusty she was at flirting with someone she was actually interested in, as opposed to the sleazy guys she’d bring up to the tower for one-night stands only to kick them out afterward. Training with you was great, you were eager to learn despite struggling to pick up some of the moves. She took the opportunity to stand close to you, putting her arms over yours and guiding your movements, her body framing yours. Sometimes her hands would linger over your skin, feeling how soft you were against her until she felt you shiver or heard your breath hitch. The physical, intimate closeness drove her crazy. In those moments, she wondered what your whole body felt like, your stomach and thighs surely plush beneath her fingertips.

Things came to a head during your fourth training session. Homelander hadn’t been at the tower for a day or so, and you were acting bolder. There was no way you didn’t catch her staring at the way you bounced around while Heart’s ‘Kick It Out’ blasted from the speakers you’d connected your phone to. She was sure you were doing it on purpose at that point.

“I think I’m almost as good as you,” you joked, beads of sweat rolling down your forehead.

She laughed. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Bring it on!”

Wiping the sweat from your brow, you stood across from her on the training mat. Your stance wasn’t the best, but you were trying despite her dodging your blows with ease. Just because she liked you, it didn’t mean she was going to hand you a win. You were having fun, a smile on your face as she caught your lifted leg before you could really kick.

In any other scenario, she figured you could hold your own pretty well in a fight with a non-supe. You threw a punch which Maeve blocked without so much as blinking. One more time, you went for another kick, only for her to send you flat on your back with a thud.

She pinned you to the mat, the two of you silent except for your breathing. Maeve didn’t do anything but stare at your face, just mere inches from hers for a few moments. God, you were fucking pretty. Your eyes seemed to sparkle despite the harsh gym lighting, and your parted lips were almost calling to her.

“You win,” you said softly from beneath her.

“Do I get a prize?”

“Wanna get drinks after this? On me?”

She smiled, reluctantly getting up from on top of you. “Hope you have your credit card ready.”

You took her outstretched hand, almost surprised at how fluidly she pulled you up onto your feet, until you remembered she was the strongest woman in the world, after all. The fact that she was getting drinks with you was a plus.

“I know a few places in my neighborhood, if you don’t mind going out to Brooklyn,” you said. “They’re kind of dives, but they’re fun.”

“That honestly sounds perfect.”

“Okay. I’m gonna shower and change really quick.”

She nodded. “Take your time.”

As soon as you disappeared into the locker room, Maeve looked down at her costume, internally groaning. It was the furthest thing from inconspicuous. In all honesty, she missed having a secret identity, the small thing that separated her from the persona that Vought manufactured for her. Whether for sentimentality or foolish hope of a situation like this one, she’d kept some of her street clothes. 

Glancing at the locker room again, she decided to rush up to her suite and throw on something that would afford the two of you some privacy. Tapping her foot impatiently, she waited for the elevator doors to open before slipping inside and pressing the button for her floor.

When she reached her suite, she frowned at the selection of clothing in her dresser. Touching one shirt, she felt a lump form in her throat. The somewhat coarse fabric sent memories rushing back, she’d worn it on one of her last dates with Elena, before she handed her whole life over to Vought and Homelander sunk his hooks into her. There was a slight stain on the sleeve, evidence of Elena’s wine glass that had tipped over when some asshole decided to make it clear that he didn’t approve of their date, so he had to make it the whole restaurant’s problem. When he started becoming aggressive, Maeve grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him over, knocking him into at least three other tables with the sheer force she used. That was the catalyst for her initially fake relationship with Homelander, as Vought’s marketing team decided it would improve her image after the incident. 

She exhaled, shaking her head as she tried grounding herself. Things could be different with you. She’d take back control of her life—from Vought, from Homelander, from her own self-sabotage. Her outfit choice for the kind-of-but-not-really date was simple. She ran her fingers through her signature styled waves, messing her hair up a bit to make her less recognizable. Seeing herself in the mirror, she smiled. For the first time in months, she looked and felt like herself.

Her phone buzzed, and to her relief, it was a text from you.

‘Hey! Ready to go when you are🍻’ 

Biting her lip, she retyped her response to you three times before sending, ‘Great be down in a min😄’ 

She instantly regretted her choice of emoji, but it didn’t matter, something that simple wasn’t going to ruin her night. After all, she couldn’t remember the last time she was asked out by someone she actually liked. You hadn’t explicitly said it was a date, but the tension was there, and Maeve hoped to god she wasn’t reading too much into things.

You were waiting in the gym for her, now changed back into your work clothes of a blouse and skirt. In the meantime, you had pulled up the info for some of the bars that you and your friends frequented in your neighborhood. She looked over them quickly, settling on a 70s-themed one you recommended based on the decor and cheap burgers. Her mind raced while the two of you walked down the hall and to the elevator, deciding to leave through a service corridor rather than the building’s main floor.

As the elevator made its descent to the lower levels of the building, Maeve figured she at least owed it to you to let you know what you were getting yourself into. She’d already put you at risk with the amount of time she was spending with you. You looked at her in confusion when she pressed the emergency stop. 

“You know this isn’t just drinks, right?”

You smiled a bit, “What is it then?”

“Y/N, I’m serious,” she said. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Maeve, can you just be real with me instead of the cryptic shit?”

“Fuck," she groaned. "Okay, look. I’m into you, but Homelander’s a jealous son of a bitch who won’t let me have a life, so the fact that we’ve been spending time together and going out for drinks means you’re in serious danger.”

You were quiet for a few moments. She took your silence as an understandable rejection, moving to press the emergency stop button to bring you back up until you spoke. 

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Are you sure? Y/N, Homelander won’t hold back. I’ll do what I can to protect you, but–”

You looked at her, really looked at her, as she laid out the risks for you clear as day. It didn’t matter. You’d come to the conclusion pretty quickly that she was worth it. She was Queen fucking Maeve for Christ’s sake. Most importantly, though, you were into her too, and you’d never forgive yourself for passing up the opportunity to go out with her and see where things led.

As she was in the middle of listing ways Homelander could kill you, you interrupted her with a quick peck on the lips, enough to startle her out of her rant for a moment. That seemed to get the message through, because she kissed you, backing you into the elevator wall across from the closed doors. 

You parted your lips for her, happy to let her take the lead as she cupped your cheek in her hand, her fingers pulling your face closer to her. Even though she’d just pinned you to the floor less than an hour earlier, you were taken aback by how strong she was. She bit gently on your bottom lip, her teeth tugging at it before kissing you again. 

Groping one of your breasts through your blouse, she moved her hand further down your body until she reached your thighs, her fingers gently tracing undistinguishable patterns into your skin. You could feel her start to play with the hem of your skirt before sliding her hand beneath it.

You whispered a soft “yes” against her lips when her fingers brushed against the damp spot on your panties. Pressing her fingers against your core, she watched your face contort in pleasure as you whimpered for more. 

It felt like eternity before she finally pushed her hand past the cotton material and began teasing your clit, ignoring your aching pussy. She pressed hot, open kisses against your skin before settling on the crook of your neck, biting into the tender skin so hard you almost thought it would break. 

“Maeve, fuck,” you moaned.

“Too hard?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Harder.”

Maeve grinned, slipping her index and middle fingers into your pussy, and you were almost embarrassed at how wet you were. She didn’t care, curling her fingers inside you, pumping them in and out until your breath caught in your throat. You gasped as you gripped her shoulders, trying to keep your legs from giving out from under you. Using her other hand, she held you up by your thigh, her fingers squeezing your soft flesh. 

You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as she began rubbing her thumb against your clit, bringing her attention back to it as your pussy clenched around her fingers. She brought her lips to your ear, her teeth grazing your earlobe before she whispered, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

“I’m close,” you barely managed to say.

“Don’t hold back. I wanna feel you,” she said, her voice raspy as she squeezed your thigh for emphasis. 

“Fuck–fuck, I’m–”

You came on her hand, fully relying on her strength to keep you up as she kept fingering you through your orgasm. Pressing her lips to yours, you were hardly able to kiss her back as you moaned into her mouth, your fingers clawing at the wall behind you as you tried getting a grip on something.

Finally, she pulled her hand from your pussy, and the one that had been holding you by your thigh wrapped around your waist to support you. She brought her hand to her mouth, licking your juices off of them so casually you wouldn’t have thought anything of it. You kissed her again, feeling lightheaded at the taste of yourself on her lips. Still, you figured someone must have noticed by then that the elevator wasn’t working. You didn’t even want to think about anyone finding you and Maeve like that, especially if Homelander ended up hearing about it through the grapevine.

“My roommate’s working the night shift,” you whispered, your voice noticeably hoarser than before. “I’ve got beer at my place.”

“Fuck the bar,” Maeve said, kissing you again.

You let out a yelp that dissolved into a fit of giggles as she literally swept you off your feet. She smiled, pressing the emergency stop button, sending the two of you back down to the service corridor you’d be slipping out into the night from.

[presumedbly]

Delicious ty

femlander says YOU'RE THE REAL HEROES 🦅💫

[presumedbly]

this is the sickest fucking burn hdwndkd

[presumedbly]

If you think I'm pretty

Pairing: Homelander x afab!reader CW: fingering, praise, slightly OOC homie, threats of captivity (he says hes gonna keep reader in the penthouse that's it I promise it's not genuine), cursing, sub!reader, porn without plot (I think this is applicable), they're in a relationship before this, reader says 'John' cause moaning homelander is funny as fuck Summary: Being a perfectionist, you're unsatisfied with a recent test score. Homelander has a cure for that. Disclaimer: reader is always thought to be chubby/fat but there are no physical descriptors here, just an FYI WC: 1,955 Genuinely idk I'd like to apologize for this. I fell out of my Criminal Minds hyperfixation like months ago and haven't written since so I'm really rusty. This is 100% a self-insert but reader is gn and not described other than the fact that they're AFAB. Also this was only proof read once so please point out typos if you see them <3

Your mother used to scold you for being too hard on yourself. Her face is virtually the only thing you can picture as your screen burns your eyes a bit. It’s too early for the high brightness of the device, having woken up before the sun could reintroduce your eyes to light. You’d set yourself up to wake slightly after midnight, intending to check the score of a huge test you’d taken months ago and simply go back to sleep in a matter of minutes. A rather stupid plan, in hindsight. You were questioning now if you knew yourself at all. Your phone had nearly been in your hand when you felt the cold burn of anxiety in your lungs. This test was a huge fucking deal. You were a hardcore perfectionist on top of that, trying with countless futile attempts to surrender your idea of the model score. You just needed to pass, not get your professor to memorialize you in marble for your pure genius. You’d gotten up instead of turning on your phone, brushing your teeth and making your bed before pacing the room slightly while you thought. Essentially, you were just allowing the mantra of ‘cope’ to bound back and forth between your ears for a couple minutes. You weren’t sure if you wanted to cope with the disappointment of a lesser score, or you were telling yourself to come down a couple pegs and be happy with getting by. The repetition of the word soothed that icy-hot feeling that had festered from your lungs to your fingertips, and you checked.

You were fine. Not the score you wanted, but you were fine. 

Mentally you writhed against the slump of your shoulders, but the weight of this self-inflicted shortcoming hit harder than you were capable of defending yourself from. The long sigh you let out was all frost as the tension left your airways. How underwhelming. You laid down on the bed you’d made not ten minutes ago, hearing the window slide open a few seconds into your pity party. You normally left it unlocked for him, knowing if anyone else attempted to enter your home, he wasn’t far. He told you himself that he seemed to have tuned into you specifically; swearing he’d be able to hear you on the other side of the city if you needed him.

“It’s way too early for you to already be having a bad day. The sun’s not even up.” He was closer now, fully sealed into your space and approaching you with comfortable footsteps. You never fully got over the irony of seeing America’s greatest hero flying through your window in sweatpants. “What’s wrong?” You always noticed the subtle way he changed how he spoke around you. In every interview or interaction you’d ever witnessed of his, he’d spoken like a character. For a man who hated having his words scripted, he spoke the same as every cookie-cutter movie he’d starred in. He didn’t talk that way with you, something you hoped was subconscious. A demonstration of the safety he felt around you.

You shrugged in response to the question. You acknowledged the trivial nature of your feelings, knowing you probably reeked of sadness to him but attempting to downplay it anyways. “Bad test score.”

He sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, allowing you the space to remain sprawled out. “Doubtful.” He laughed slightly as he said it, shaking his head and smiling. He looked at you, his eyebrows furrowing minorly. “What’d you get?”

“A four.”

“What were you hoping to get?”

Your voice was barely audible as you spoke, knowing he would pick it up but also trying to spare yourself the rush of immaturity hearing yourself speak would bring. “A five.”

He sighed - a sigh full of endearment that his eyes reflected as he looked at you. You told him once that his eyes were the first thing you’d noticed. It was sunny the day you’d met, and they looked practically ethereal. You’d seen such chaos reflected in them even from day one. The masses called him ‘soulless’ often, but you couldn’t understand such an accusation from anyone who had ever seen him. His eyes were practically overflowing with soul, every time you looked at him it was all you saw. They were capable of incredibly dangerous things but they were so entrancing. He was so fucking enticing. 

You broke the eye contact, but he nudged your leg and moved his head to try and follow your eyes. “Hey-” He called for your attention, so you looked back at him. “You know that’s a good score, right?”

You smiled small at him. “No- I know. I’m just…I don’t know- strict with myself.” You found it hard to put into words. You knew you’d done well, but the ability to feel pride felt withheld from you. Like your eyes bore into it but your mind refused to distribute the feeling it brought to something tangible.

“I think you’re just too much of a fucking perfectionist.” His hand was splayed across your upper thigh from where he sat. No matter which part of you he touched, he had a grip that made your head spin. He was so sure of himself, the strength demonstrated from such an unassuming form never lost the novelty that it’d held when you met him. “Can’t let yourself admit when you did good.”

You tried to be dismissive, but it was hard to fake anything with a man like him. “As if you aren’t, John.” His jaw got the slightest bit tighter at the use of his name. Such a miniscule action that easily dodges the eyes of people who aren’t looking. You couldn’t really imagine not looking at him.

“I’m serious.” His face was still relaxed, but the expression in his eyes had shifted. His pupils dilated and his full attention was on you. “You did good.”

The only con of being with somebody with abilities such as his was the lack of secrecy. You used to laugh with your friends about how grateful you were for the discrete nature of arousal when living without certain body parts. That went out the window when you started seeing him. He knew the second anything shifted within you. He had every perversion you’d ever dreamt about practically categorized by the time your two month anniversary had rolled around. One of his favorite pastimes was casually working a turn-on into conversation and just watching you squirm.

You fought the urge to pull away from his hand, feeling your stomach drop slightly at a declaration like that. “Thank you.” You looked away from him again. Something you knew he didn’t really like but choosing to try and save face over anything else. 

“Yeah…I don’t know.” You could see his focus on the topic increasing by the second. His disposition was happy, but he held serious and almost threatening undertones. He tightened his grip on your thigh and you looked at back to him, hesitantly following the silent command to keep your eyes up. “I think you should say it.”

“John-” His assertiveness was starting to get to you, it always did. You sat up on your forearms to be a little more level with him but he moved his hand from your thigh to your stomach and pushed you back down. The thought of having to lay there and explicitly state that you did well on your test felt like a kid having to write in repetition on a chalkboard in detention. 

He was looking down at you, the eye contact making you slightly dizzy. His face was kind, it almost always was when he was around you, but the conversation was derailing. “I just think it’s important that you understand this.” He was so good at making you want what he thought was best.

You inhaled, swallowing your pride and licking your lips. “What do you want me to say?”

That familiar, condescending smile was starting to creep onto his lips. “Just tell the truth.” His eyebrows raised slightly in a silent prompt. “Say you did good.”

His hand was descending from your stomach, making it’s way to the hemline of your underwear. You hadn’t bothered to change out of what you were sleeping in, only now realizing the vulnerability of it. You held your tongue for a moment, breathing out a quiet “I did good.” 

He tore the only fabric between his hand and you off your body as easily as ripping a sheet of paper and leaned in a little more. “Say it again.”

“John-” You said it as barely an exhale as he skimmed his hand over you. You hadn’t even registered just how sensitive or how wet you’d gotten in the few minutes you were talking to him.

“I don’t know why you act so fucking noble. You should be running Ashleys around in circles or giving interns your coffee order. Not any of this testing bullshit that you’re too good for anyway.” His tone elevated to that mocking, cocky tone that swept into the most shame filled crevices of your mind and tugged the most deprived parts into the driver seat. He thumbed at your clit while he spoke, increasing and decreasing the pressure whenever he felt like it and effectively snatching any remaining ability to form coherent thought from your grabbing hands. “You’ve been chosen by a God, honey. You can do anything, I can give you anything.” He got breathier as he spoke, seemingly soaking up the desperation you were excreting and matching it in a tenfold.

You felt two of his fingers enter you effortlessly and you couldn’t stop yourself from gripping his arm. You always felt the power imbalance most in times like these. A feeling like pulling an angel away from heaven just for yourself, combing through it’s wings with your fingers or trying to lap up a fraction of that status in a wildly inappropriate disregard for the natural roles of nature. He was so much more than you, but he just wanted you to feel good. You swore under your breath as he started circles on your clit. He never got hand cramps, never got tired. He would go until you couldn’t anymore.

“That’s it.” He had barely said it, more just exhaled the assurance under his breath. You were close, you’re sure he could feel it. “Gonna move you to my penthouse. Keep you braindead and needy.”

 It shouldn’t have hit you the way it did. Considering who he was, he could easily fulfill that promise with nobody at Vought even thinking twice. It was the way he said it, the way he acts. Always needing control and always right. The most powerful man alive spent his time fantasizing about control over you, and your stomach twisted in disgust at how badly it got you off.

He slowed his movements as your high declined. He was breathing heavy, but your heart was beating like a drum. He had the smallest smile on his face like the sound gave him a sense of satisfaction. You rose to your forearms, this time with no protest from him, and watched him stand up. He held the back of your head with the hand that wasn’t nearly dripping and kissed the top of your head. It was chaste and quick, but the domesticity of it made your throat ache. He uttered something about getting a towel to clean up, stating he’d be right back before exiting the room. 

You rushed the words out before he could leave. “But you didn’t-”

“Next time.” He just waved you off. “I just thought you deserved a little reward.”

[presumedbly]

Do you think that he ever listens to ”All Star” and thinks ”Hell yea!” to himself?

[presumedbly]

Thinking about SB with a plus sized reader and imagining canon-accurate body shaming (macho man would rather degrade than admit he finds a fuller woman attractive).

“Seriously, I’m concerned about your health.”

“You do cocaine on a daily basis and you worry about MY health?”

Sighh. 😅

Well, I wouldn't exactly call it "canon" body shaming, since I don't remember Soldier Boy/Ben body shaming anyone on the show, but it's possible to interpret his character that way.

However, Ben seems to be very open-minded sexually, having a thing for "older women," for example. 😂 It's also implied that he's gotten around -- or so he claims lol. Matter of fact, I find it hard to believe that in the several decades he's been around, he's never been with a thicc girl.

That leads me to believe (and me being plus-sized myself, I would rather imagine) that he actually wouldn't discriminate towards being with a plus-sized woman. 💚

(Good pussy is good pussy. Know what I'm saying? 😘)

[presumedbly]

Haven't been in your inbox in a hot minute.

dusts off cobwebs.

Thought came into my mind. Homelander having a love-hate relationship with Stan Edgar's assistant.

Homelander wants to kill you so badly. You're such a prissy, stuck-up bitch! (you set boundaries and don't treat him like a god) But he can't kill you because Edgar is quite fond of you.

So you essentially have Homelander constantly nipping at your heels but never biting. You sometimes have to swat him with a newspaper, but he's pretty subdued otherwise.

Just him being overtly attracted by how Edgar's assistant puts him in his place. He hates it—but he also... doesn't hate it.

"Come on~ Tell me the truth. I know you love me. Everybody loves Homelander."

"You're a selfish, childish, idiotic excuse for a supe. Stop breaking into my house."

"Heh, it's cute how you think you could stop me. You're nothing more than a pretty little pair of tits and a face."

"And you're not? You're Vought's poster boy, a shiny pair of tits and a wolfish grin, who spends more time acting like a whiny, belligerent child than a symbol of the 'greatness' of America."

Cue Homelander disappearing into the night. He's going back to his penthouse to go alleviate his frustrations with a gallon of milk and his computer.

UGHHHHHH I loveloveLOVE me a sassy and audacious reader who takes no BS, even when in the face of someone like Homelander!! and that’s coming from someone who constantly writes my readers to be docile (bad habit I know 😭-)

A reader like that would definitely keep Homelander in check, but there will be times when they push his buttons a teensy-weensy bit too much for his liking, and that’s when he might snap—inevitably, because nothing can stop this cape-clad brat from throwing a hissy fit, not even someone who he’s dreadfully attracted to.

it’s obviously not to the point of blowing a hole in their face or caving their skull in, since like you said… Edgar is fond of reader. But he wouldn’t hesitate to resort to intimidation or show some ✨violent flair✨ to protect what’s left of his not-so-steadfast dignity.

That might rattle the usually unshakable reader slightly, as it’s only natural, but they're savvy enough to realize that taking America’s golden boy down a peg is the key to keeping him in line (aka deriving him of attention until he behaves himself again lol)

And thanks for dropping by my inbox btw! I appreciate it dud 😊✨

[presumedbly]

I'm learning how to make GIFs. Creating a modest collection of Homelander getting head pets. >w>

[presumedbly]

Oh man, I've just seen an incredible edit of what would S3 Homelander look like with S1 hair.

Source - the original edit is a gif.

[presumedbly]

Calling Homelander clingy in an argument is just the funniest idea to me.

“CLINGY, ME?! NO, YOU’RE THE CLINGY ONE!” 🫵

Proceeded by the biggest crash out ever.

it's crazy how immediately i heard his signature stuttered scoffing, that incredulous pull at the corner of his mouth as he scrambles for a retort. and still the best he can come up with is the equivalent of I KNOW YOU ARE, BUT WHAT AM I?

and then yeah, one hundred percent goes on to list all the totally real and valid facts that prove he's not "clingy."

what's wrong with being devoted??? and attentive?? YOU just have a problem with someone actually being NICE to you! he's just being NICE! he didn't even actually WANT that hug!!! okay!! it was for YOU!

you play a dangerous game tho make sure you don't let him spiral too long before you let him off the hook lmao

[presumedbly]

I have no idea why this reply is so funny to me but it is.

If I may humbly answer anon, I think homie would probably get bored quick. I know DHMIS is specifically meant to evoke creepy feelings because it's essentially a parody of children's content turned to gore, but I tend to think that HL did not get much children's content in the lab. What little we see/hear of his childhood includes no mention of hobbies or interests (if I'm remembering correctly). Without a eerie nostalgia feeling I doubt it would have the same affect as it would on the general viewer.

Maybe if you fast forwarded to the gore parts he'd find them funny but I think he'd just scratch it off as immature. I can't imagine him having much interest in a puppet that isn't made in his image lol.

How would Homelander feel when his S/O gets him to watch "Don't Hug me, I'm Scared"? The old and new episodes.

i don't know what that is

[presumedbly]

Actual footage of me patently waiting for my favorite author to upload😫😫😫