aphroditessaturn

[aphroditessaturn]

lex luthor- all mine

summary: lex luthor becomes dangerously obsessed with a girl who makes him feel something he can’t control.

lex luthor x fem!reader

warnings: smut

word count: 4016

....

Lex Luthor was transfixed.

The conversation at the dinner table had long since dissolved into static, every word spoken by his colleagues muted beneath the sound of your laughter. 

You sat just across the room with your head thrown back, eyes bright, and lips parted in a smile that knocked the breath out of his chest.

You looked like sunlight in a place that had never known warmth.

“Mr. Luthor?”

Lex blinked, yanked back into the present. The entire table was staring at him now, forks paused midair, eyes expectant.

“What?” he snapped, more harshly than intended.

The man beside him flinched, looking like a chastised child. “We just wanted to know your opinion on the merger,” he said quietly.

Lex didn’t wait for him to finish. He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape, the legs dragging across the polished wooden floor. The sound was jarring enough to turn heads, including yours.

You looked up, eyes meeting his for the first time that evening. 

You offered him a warm smile that sent shivers down his spine.

“I have to go,” he muttered. “There’s something that needs my attention.”

He didn’t look at anyone else. His eyes stayed on you, even as he stepped away from the table, ignoring the confused murmurs behind him.

You returned to your conversation, unaware of the chaos you had just created in the mind of one of the most dangerous men alive. 

You laughed again, animated and carefree, and it echoed in Lex’s ears like a song he couldn’t stop hearing.

He didn’t just want you.

He needed you.

And Lex Luthor always got what he needed.

That night, as the city glowed below, Lex Luthor sat in his penthouse scanning everything about you, your name, your routines, even the coffee shop you stopped at every morning on 8th and Alder.

He told himself it wasn't an obsession, it was just preparation. Information. He always did his homework.

By morning, he had crafted the perfect plan. Subtle, unassuming, harmless enough. A simple walk, a coincidental encounter, just enough to get you to speak to him. Then, he would handle the rest.

So that’s what he did. He dressed down, in a tailored coat with no tie, trading his usual intimidating presence for something warmer, more approachable. He timed it perfectly, arriving just ahead of you, waiting near the flower stall across from your favorite coffee shop.

As you turned the corner, earbuds in, coffee in hand, he began to walk. At just the right moment, he glanced at a passing car and took a deliberately clumsy step sideways, right into you.

Your coffee jostled but didn’t spill, thanks to his quick reflexes as he reached out to steady you.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly, eyes widening with manufactured surprise.

You blinked up at him, your hand still on your coffee cup, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“I know you,” you said after a second. “You were at the restaurant last night.”

Lex offered a faint, sheepish smile. “I was. Small world.”

“No, I mean… I know who you are,” you added, studying him now. “You’re Lex Luthor.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “Guilty.”

There was a flicker of something unreadable in your expression, curiosity, maybe a hint of amusement.

“Well,” you said, pulling one earbud out, “you’re a lot more charming in person than I expected.”

Lex smiled, something genuine this time. “Then I suppose I’m off to a good start.”

You took a slow sip of your coffee, still studying him, not quite smiling but clearly intrigued. “So, Mr. Luthor,” you said, voice cool but playful, “do you always take morning strolls along this exact route, or was that just fate giving you an opening?”

Lex didn’t laugh. He simply tilted his head, eyes sharp behind the charm he wore like a tailored suit. “I don’t believe in fate,” he said. “Only opportunity.”

You arched a brow. “Right. And I just happened to be an opportunity?”

He smiled, and there was something dangerous about it. Calm, measured, almost too perfect. “More like a disruption,” he said. “I don’t get distracted easily. You managed it twice.”

There it was, that cold clarity beneath the warmth, the precision of a man who calculated every word before it left his mouth.

“Well, I guess I should be flattered,” you said, shifting slightly, your curiosity piqued now. “Not every day I get knocked into by a billionaire in the middle of my coffee run.”

Lex’s eyes never left yours. “You should be.”

You let out a quiet breath of amusement, unsure if you were unnerved or intrigued. Maybe both. “You’re not exactly subtle, are you?”

“I find subtlety wastes time,” he replied, his tone still smooth but with a razor-thin edge. “And I don’t like wasting time.”

You weren’t sure if he was flirting or threatening. Maybe, again, it was both.

Still, you held his gaze. “Well, Lex Luthor,” you said, deliberately using his full name, “if this was your idea of an introduction, it certainly worked.”

“I was counting on that,” he said simply.

You studied him for a second longer, then pulled one earbud out. “Then maybe I’ll see you again tomorrow. Same time. Same coffee shop.”

Lex nodded once. Not a smile, not a bow, just a quiet acknowledgement, like a man sealing a deal. “I’ll be there.”

You turned and walked off, the weight of his stare lingering between your shoulder blades. He didn’t move, didn’t call after you, didn’t try to follow.

He didn’t need to.

In his mind, the board was already set. He had studied every piece, every move, every outcome.

And now, Lex Luthor had made his first move.

….

The next day, as promised, Lex was there. He stood just outside your favorite coffee shop, his posture relaxed, his coat neatly pressed, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t the kind of man who waited around for anyone, but somehow, waiting for you didn’t feel like a waste of time. It felt like progress.

He saw you approach, earbuds in, a soft breeze catching the edge of your coat. When your eyes met his, you smiled, warm and effortless, and for a moment something in him went quiet.

“Morning,” you said, your voice easy and warm. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“I said I would,” Lex replied, his tone even, though beneath the surface everything was shifting. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

You gave a small laugh, brushing your hair off your shoulder. “I’m starting to see that.”

You fell into step beside him, the conversation picking up like it had never left off. You told him about your morning, how your alarm hadn’t gone off, how you nearly tripped over your neighbor’s cat on your way out, how you had dreamed about a staircase that never ended and woke up laughing. You joked about the awful construction noise outside your building and how you were convinced the workers were intentionally targeting your sleep schedule.

Lex listened, every detail sinking in like a thread stitching him deeper into whatever this was becoming. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was fixation. The way your voice rose and fell, the way your hands moved when you talked, the way you glanced at him so openly—it pulled him in with every step.

He didn’t want to study you. He wanted to know you. He wanted to be the reason you were late to work, the one you thought of when you smiled at your phone, the person whose absence left you restless.

“You know,” you said as you reached the corner, slowing your pace, “you’re not what I expected.”

Lex turned to you, his gaze steady. “What did you expect?”

You gave a small shrug. “Someone colder. Harsher. Less… human.”

He smiled, not wide, but enough. “Then I’m either better at pretending than I thought, or you’re worse at judging character than you’d like to admit.”

You let out a soft laugh, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe a bit of both.”

“I can work with that,” Lex said.

As you crossed the street beside him, your pace slowed, the sound of the city humming around you. Lex stayed close, every movement precise, his attention fixed on you like nothing else around him mattered.

When he said, “Have dinner with me,” you stopped and turned to face him, brows raised.

“As a date?”

“Yes,” he said, his answer immediate and firm.

You gave a quiet laugh, but there was an edge to it. “How do I know this isn’t just some little date where I end up like one of your girls?”

Lex paused, and then, to your surprise, he laughed. It was low and brief, not dismissive, but genuinely amused.

“I suppose that’s fair,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours. “But if that’s what this was, I wouldn’t be here asking. I don’t waste time on what I plan to forget.”

You studied him carefully. You had heard the rumors, the whispers in tabloids, the stories about his short-lived romances with actresses, heiresses, women who vanished from his life as quickly as they appeared in it. Lex Luthor was a billionaire, and billionaires didn’t exactly have reputations for consistency when it came to dating.

“Right,” you said, still watching him, “because billionaire CEOs are so great at commitment.”

Lex smiled, just slightly. “You think this is about money?”

“I think it’s hard to tell when you live in a penthouse and probably have a different watch for every day of the week,” you said. “It’s hard to believe this is anything more than a temporary distraction for you.”

“If I wanted a distraction,” Lex said quietly, “I’d be with someone who didn’t challenge me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how calm and certain he sounded.

“Come to dinner,” he said. “Not because I’m Lex Luthor. Come because I asked you. Because I meant it.”

You were silent for a moment, weighing your options, your doubts. Then you let out a slow breath, shaking your head with a small smile.

“Fine,” you said. “One dinner. But if this turns into some predictable billionaire cliché, I’m walking out before dessert.”

Lex smiled, this time a little more fully. “I don’t plan on being predictable.”

You started walking again, and he fell into step beside you. He didn’t say anything else, but you could feel it, the intensity beneath the surface, the way his mind was already turning, already planning.

There was something about his silence that stayed with you, even as the conversation faded. Something calculated, unfinished.

You reached the corner, gave him one last glance, and kept going.

And when you turned the next street, disappearing into the crowd, it was like none of it had happened. Like this morning had been nothing. 

Lex stood there a moment longer, watching the spot where you’d been, jaw tight, hands still tucked calmly in his coat pockets. On the surface, he looked unbothered, like he had a meeting to get to, like you were just a pleasant footnote in his day.

But underneath the calm, something had already cracked open.

You had said yes. One dinner. That was all he needed.

He didn’t head back to his office. He walked instead, down streets he didn’t normally walk, barely aware of the people passing him. His mind had already shifted into motion. Not with logistics, not with numbers. With you.

By the time he reached the penthouse, the entire evening had already been decided.

Not the menu, not the wine, not the lighting. Those things were handled easily, quietly. They were tools. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to study you. Disarm you. Figure out what it would take to make you look at him like you belonged there.

Because he could already feel it. You were under his skin.

He stood in the quiet, the city stretched wide beneath the glass, and he thought of you. The way you had looked at him that morning, unshaken. The way you smiled, slow and real, not forced. The way you challenged him without trying to.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t shrink. And that made him want you more.

It wasn’t about romance. It wasn’t about connection. That wasn’t what this was.

It was curiosity. Fixation. Control.

And when he let himself think about it, when he stopped trying to contain it, the ache hit fast. Deep. Sharp.

His jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight. His thoughts didn’t stop. They never did. Not with you.

He imagined you standing in his space, lit by low, warm light. No noise. No crowd. Just you and him. Closer than you had been this morning. Close enough to feel your breath catch when he leaned in. Close enough to hear his name on your lips, quiet and unsure.

He thought about your voice, unguarded, when you finally said it.

I’m yours.

The image was so clear it felt physical. The burn that followed was immediate, settling low in his stomach, tightening hard, unmistakable.

He was already hard. Just from the idea of it. Just from the thought of your hands on his chest, your eyes on his mouth, your voice in his ear saying the words like they belonged to him.

He braced himself against the edge of the marble, fingers tense, every muscle pulled tight like a thread ready to snap.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t even just need. It was possession.

He wanted you to admit that you were his.

Lex didn’t care how long it took.

He had time. He had power.

And now, he had you.

You just didn’t know it yet.

….

Lex didn’t sit. He stood by the windows, arms crossed loosely, eyes on the city like he was watching for something. He wasn’t.

He was waiting for you.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of jazz playing somewhere in the background. Warm lighting glowed across polished floors and dark wood. Everything was perfect. Not extravagant. Not loud. Just tailored. Measured. Like him.

He didn’t care if you noticed the details. He cared that you walked through the door and didn’t want to leave.

When the elevator finally chimed, he didn’t move. He kept his stance steady, exhale quiet, heart heavy in his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

The door opened.

And then you stepped inside.

Lex’s jaw tightened instantly.

You wore a soft, fitted dress that wasn’t trying to impress anyone but somehow still did. His eyes moved over you slowly, deliberately, taking in the line of your collarbone, the way the fabric hugged your waist, the way your mouth curved when you saw him watching.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t trust himself to.

You walked in like you belonged there. 

“This place is ridiculous,” you said lightly, looking around. “I could get used to the private driver, though.”

Lex smiled faintly, his voice low. “You should.”

You turned to him, your eyes catching his. 

“So this is what Lex Luthor does for casual dinners?” you said with a laugh.

He stepped forward slowly. “Only when they matter.”

You blinked at that, and for a second, he wondered if he’d said too much. 

But then you offered him a smirk.

“Well, I hope the food’s as good as the view.”

Lex didn’t answer. 

He was too focused on the way your dress shifted when you moved, the way your hair framed your face, the way your skin caught the light.

He offered you a drink, poured it himself, watched as your fingers brushed his when you took the glass.

You wandered toward the windows, looking out. “You really can see everything from up here.”

“I know,” he said quietly, still behind you. “But right now, I’m not looking at any of it.”

You turned at that, slowly, your eyes meeting his again. And this time, something shifted.

The silence stretched, heavier now, thicker.

Lex stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of your body in the space between you. His hand brushed lightly along the edge of your hip, just enough to make you inhale softly.

He watched the movement of your chest rise and fall, the slight part of your lips, the flicker of something in your eyes that wasn’t hesitation.

“You knew what this was going to be when you said yes,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Didn’t you?”

You didn’t look away. “I had an idea.”

“Good,” he said, then leaned in, his mouth brushing just barely against your cheek. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

His hand slid around your waist, slow, intentional, drawing you closer until there was no space left to pretend with.

“You walked in wearing this,” he murmured, his mouth now at your ear, “and expected me not to touch you?”

You swallowed hard, your panties becoming wet from his words.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still firm against your lower back.

“Tell me to stop,” Lex said, voice low and steady, but he already knew you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched, lips parting like you were about to say something, but instead, you leaned in.

And that was enough.

His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had left, which wasn’t much. It was controlled at first, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. But then your hands slipped into his shirt, your body pressed into him, and control turned into something else entirely.

Lex backed you toward the wall with quiet determination, kissing you like he had waited years instead of hours. His hands moved over your waist, down your sides, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he wanted it gone.

You whispered his name once, barely above a breath.

He moaned, low and unrestrained, like it caught him off guard. His head dipped, lips brushing against your jaw.

“Say that again,” he said, his voice rougher now, barely holding onto composure.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked up at him, your eyes locked with his, your breathing uneven as his thumb dragged slowly along your waist.

He waited, not moving, not speaking. Just watching you. Like your mouth held something he needed more than air.

“Lex,” you whispered again, softer this time.

He groaned, deeper now as his mouth crashed into yours before you could say anything else.

You gasped against him, fingers bunching in his shirt as he pressed you harder into the wall. 

His hands moved lower, sliding over your hips, gripping them tight like he needed to remind himself that you were real. Here. Saying his name like you meant it.

You tugged at the fabric of his shirt, slipping your hands beneath it, fingertips grazing his skin, and he hissed against your mouth.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Lex murmured, forehead pressed against yours now, eyes shut like he needed a second to breathe.

“I think I do,” you whispered in a teasing manner, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

That made him smile, crooked and dark, eyes opening again, sharp and focused only on you.

“Then keep going,” he said, his hands already moving, sliding up your thighs. “Say it again.”

You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, and said it one more time. Low. Steady.

“Lex.”

This time, he didn’t moan. He growled.

He lifted you in one motion, strong hands steady beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around his waist, your back hitting the wall with a quiet thud. His body pressed into yours, the weight of him forcing the breath from your lungs in the best possible way.

His mouth found your neck, lips trailing slow kisses across your skin like he was tasting something he had already decided belonged to him.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed against you, voice rough and low, each word curling down your spine like heat.

His hand moved beneath the hem of your dress, inching higher until he felt nothing but bare skin. He froze for a beat.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

You met his eyes, your lips parted, and Lex’s jaw clenched hard.

You weren’t wearing anything underneath.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as his gaze dropped briefly, his control unraveling fast. He swore under his breath, a quiet, guttural sound that made your stomach twist.

He moved quickly, fingers working his belt open, then unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. You watched, dazed, as he freed himself.

His cock was hard and thick, already flushed with need, and the look in his eyes when he saw the way you stared at him made something dark flicker across his face.

He stepped back into you, one hand braced against the wall, the other still gripping himself. His breath hitched slightly as he looked at you, like he was holding on by the thinnest thread.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice low and sharp with need.

You could barely speak. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your head tilted back, your body arching toward him, aching to be filled. The words broke from your lips, soft and trembling.

“I’m yours.”

Lex groaned into your shoulder, like the sound of it shattered everything he had left. He pressed his mouth to your skin, open and hot, as he thrust into you in one long, slow stroke that knocked the air from your lungs.

He held you tight, both hands gripping your thighs now, his rhythm steady, deep enough to make your entire body tremble against him.

You clung to him, your voice lost in the heat, your breath catching every time he moved deeper, harder, more possessively.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, his lips brushing your ear. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Lex, all yours,” you cried out in bliss as he continued to pound into you.

The sound of your voice pushed him further, his grip on your thighs tightening, knuckles pale from how hard he held you. He was already too far gone to slow down, his rhythm brutal, like he wanted to bury himself in you and stay there.

Your head fell back against the wall, fingers twisting into his shirt, your moans soft and desperate as he kept driving into you, every movement claiming you over and over.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he groaned against your neck, his breath hot, his lips dragging across your skin. “Like you were made to be here, wrapped around me, saying my name like that.”

You whimpered at his words, your body trembling.

Lex kissed you then, rough and messy, swallowing your gasp as his hips snapped harder, deeper, everything in him focused on you.

“You’re mine,” he said again, this time almost a growl, like he needed to remind both of you. “No one else gets this. No one else gets to touch you.”

Your nails dug into his back and you nodded, too far gone to speak, your body already beginning to shake around him.

Lex could feel it, the way you clenched, the way your voice broke with every sound, and it drove him mad.

He slammed into you one more time, deep enough to make your cry echo in his ear, and that was it.

You shattered for him, everything spilling over at once, your limbs trembling, breath stuttering, your voice catching on his name.

Lex followed, groaning into your shoulder, his thrusts turning ragged as he gave in completely, your name the only thing he could think, the only word that left his lips.

He held you there for a long moment, breathing hard against your skin, your bodies still tangled, warm and spent.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

He had you.

And you had said it.

You were his.

[aphroditessaturn]

when i’m reading an ‘x reader’ and he calls me his pretty girl

[aphroditessaturn]

.

.

.

It's like a reward ☕︎

[aphroditessaturn]

a promise from the past

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: He saw you sacrificing yourself to safe his life. Now Bucky has to live with the guilt of loosing you - the love of his life. He is convinced that without you, life is not worth living anymore.

Until you return to him.

Wordcount: 2k ish

Warnings: anxiety. depression. (happy ending I promise). grief. loss. trauma. death. kissing. reunion. dating Bucky. established relationship. bad mental health. mention of injuries.

_________________

The heat under your feet almost drove you crazy. Your hands clung to the only thing that kept you from falling into the burning death.

Bucky. 

He was trapped under two heavy gas pipes, which crushed his upper body with each passing second. You could see how hard it was for him to catch his breath and by the painful expression on his face you could tell that at least one of his ribs was broken.

"Hold on tight! For god's sake, hold on tight, doll!” he shouted desperately. His fingers were like a vice around your wrist, already bruising the skin.

“Bucky...” your voice was no more than a frightened croak.

You could see how Steve, on the other side of the engine room, fighting with a handful of soldiers.

And then your eyes slid down again.

Gas tanks that exploded.

Flames that spread miles high.

Fear spreads in your muscles and makes them freeze. But the knowledge of the inevitable swiped away all thoughts from your consciousness.

End station. From here there was no escape.

You look up at Bucky. Tears blurred your vision. A grotesque smile was on your lips. In the face of your situation, it seemed strangely calm and gentle.

"Bucky, I'm sorry."

The words chased naked fear into his beautiful face. Darkened his clear, blue eyes in horror and despair.

His grip tightened. Your joint began to crack under the pressure. "No! No, love. Please don't do this to me!”

Your fingers loosened her clamp grip around his forearm and you feel how your arm slowly slipped from his hand. “It's okay. Someone has to get out of here. You have to live.”

He squirmed under the crushing weight of the pipes. "There is no life for me without you! That's not right. That can't have been it! Never.”

Bucky gathered his strength and tried to pull you over the edge of the platform with one arm, but couldn't. His shoulder was at an unnatural angle and he screamed.

Pain and despair resulted in an animalistic sound that even rose over the deafening rant of the flames below you.

You're sobbing. “Promise me you'll surive. No matter how. You have to survive.” You turn your arm so that Bucky loses his grip and can only grab your hand in the last second.

You give him a sad smile. “I love you, Bucky Barnes. Never forget that. We find each other in the next life. Promised.”

You let go of his hand and fall into the flames.

When Bucky woke up from the nightmare, he was sweaty. His pulse racing. And he was shaking all over his body.

The room lay in impenetrable darkness, but that did not reassure him at all. With wild glances, he searched his bedroom for a sign. After something that indicated that you were still with him.

But there was no one. Like every time he woke up from that dream, he realized that the same thing had happened.

Back in 1943.

You have fallen into the flames, sacrificed yourself for Bucky and bound him to a promise that he rather would like to break.

The promise to survive. It feels like he's dying. A little more every day.

Bucky turned on the small lamp next to him, leaning against the headboard of his bed. He looked at his hands.

His left hand - bionic, unnatural and cold. His right - still his own. Human.

He could still feel how he held you with it. Feel how his grip on your arm loosened.

He hated his hands. Wished he could cut off both of them.

His thoughts flew to the night of his rescue mission. He was held captive and tortured. Steve and you gained access to the Hydra base just to save him. He could still remember your face. How it appeared above him when he was tied to the examination table in a delirium. Even when he was completely pumped up with drugs and didn't even know how he had landed there - he recognized you.

Your lips felt warm and soft on his. They tasted salty because you couldn't stop crying.

You found me. He had said in a broken voice.

I'll always find you. You replied with a smile.

Bucky shook off the images. Since he had to relive his worst moments from Void, the images were clearer than ever. His therapist had advised him to write down these dreams and memories so that he could process them better.

He was tired of writing the same words. Again and again. His gaze slid to the pile of notebooks on the floor next to his bed. Not a single page left empty. Each page showed exactly the same words as the previous one.

Bucky stopped long ago putting the words on paper. He just wanted it to stop hurting.

"Wow, you look even more shitty today than usual."

John Walker drank his coffee from a cup printed with a hamster whose eyes were unnaturally large. Above the disfigured animal were words that Bucky could not decipher. It was one of Yelena's cups. She enjoyed printing them with some memes.

„Eat shit, John.“ 

His eyebrows shot up. "Woah. Calm down, dude. I didn't want to hurt your ego.” He paused for a moment to think about what to say. "Your hair looks great today."

Bucky showed him the middle finger. John nodded and devoted himself to his hamster cup again.

“Good morning, guys. We have a lot to do today.” Yelena entered the common room with a tablet in her hand and typed wildly on it.

"Without me. I have my own obligations," Bucky muttered irritably and raised a hand defensively in her direction.

Yelena frowned. "And that would be? A withdrawal? Bucky, you look terrible.”

"I told him that, too," John remarked.

"Who said what?" Bob entered the room together with Alexei.

Bucky sighed.

Ava appeared as if out of nowhere and opened the helmet of her suit. "Bucky looks like shit today."

Bob gasped. "That's not a nice thing to say, Ava!"

"I wasn't. John and Yelena said that. I just repeated it!”

“How long have you been standing there? Are you spying on us the whole time? That's pretty perverted.” John grunted indignantly.

„Ha. You wish.“ Ava snorted.

Bucky felt his patience finally shretched. He hit the stone table top with his fist and cracked it. A tense silence settled over the Thunderbolts.

"I'm busy," Bucky said threateningly calmly and disappeared from the common room.

He still heard how the others wondered about his strange behaviour, but that didn't interest him anymore. Lately, he didn't care at all. He knew that the others didn't mean it badly, but all Bucky wanted - was to be left alone.

Bucky spent the day throwing himself into training. He burdened his body so much that no more thoughts had room in his head. He ran away from them. Hit them. Tried to chase bullets into them. To push them away with pure muscle power.

Nothing helped.

His body was shivering with energy, pulsating with adrenaline, and yet he felt paralysed. Like the memory of you hanging on his back - impossible to shake off.

Guilt and infinite grief were all he could feel.

"If you continue to beat up the poor thing like this, it will report you for assault."

Bucky looked at the completely demolished concrete pillar. He had unintentionally put up with it. The punching bags were too soft and too light. They gave no resistance. So he could at least feel the pain of his flesh hand on impact.

"What do you want, Yelena?"

She snorted amused. "Damn, you're in a bad mood today. I thought you'd took it out on the architecture by now.” She nodded meaningfully to the pillar.

Bucky remained silent. With a gloomy look, he waited for Yelena to get to the point.

"Ugh, fine." She rolled her eyes. “We were on the road today and uncovered some of Valentina's greasy businesses. Among other things, a test laboratory in Brazil.”

She handed Bucky her tablet. Some documents were opened on it, but that was not what made Bucky almost faint.

There was a picture. Black and white and a terrible quality. But he recognized the person immediately.

"Impossible." He swifted through the data for more precise information. After a date when this image was taken.

"She's here, Bucky." The look on her face told him that she put the pieces together. Of course she did. Yelena always knows.

His world turned. He felt her tip over and he threatened to plunge over the cliff into endless nothingness. "What?"

Yelena nodded and Bucky had already disappeared from the training room.

Impossible.

No way.

He had seen you die. Bucky had allowed you to sacrifice yourself. Your death had been the greatest sin of his entire, far too long life.

But there you are. Surrounded by the Thunderbolts, which all looked pretty worn and dirty. You stand with your back to him as Bucky enters the room. But he would recognize your frame everywhere.

"Impossible," he murmured.

Yelena shurred past him and booted at the others to scare them out of the small hospital room. They obeyed reluctantly.

"How is that possible?"

You glance over your shoulder and your heart stopped. He still looked the same as he did back in 1943. Still the same beautiful face and the same clear, blue eyes. Only they were marked by pain and repentance. His hair was a little longer than it was then. And he was bigger, stronger.

Rougher. 

“Hi,” your voice was nothing more than a fragile whisper. But it broke the invisible barrier between you and Bucky didn't waste another second. With two long steps he was with you and closed you in his arms. Your body snuggled perfectly against his. The feeling of home flooded you.

You could feel how wildly his heart pulsed under your cheek. His smell clouded your senses. He even smelled like back then. How is this possible?

"I thought I'd lost you, doll." Bucky pressed a kiss on your hair without freeing you from the hug. "Impossible."

A tear-choked giggle came out of your mouth. "You repeat yourself."

Bucky leaned back to look at you. He noticed every inch of your face. Every little thing. His thumb stroked your cheek, wiping away the tears you couldn't hold back any longer. His fingers laid in the curve of your neck, gently brushing over the sensitive, soft skin.

Although, not quite.

Bucky noticed the scars for the first time. They showed sideways over your neck, up to your lower jaw and disappeared under the collar of your shirt.

Sheer horror was reflected in his eyes. You put your hand over his and avoid his gaze.

"I don't look quite the same as I used to. For the most part, everything is the same, but the fire has left its mark on me."

Bucky remained silent for a moment. You almost expect rejection, disgust in fact. Then he gently put his bionic fingers under your chin and lifted it so that you had to look at him.

"You are as beautiful as the day I lost you."

Then he kissed you.

His lips rested gently but firmly on yours. An invitation. A welcome home for your lonely heart. You get up on your tiptoes to give yourself completely to him. Your arms found their predetermined place around his neck.

Bucky pulled you closer to him, firmly and vigourously. It felt so good - real - to finally have you in his arms again. Your body was made for his. Your heart was connected to his, he could feel it. Your kiss tasted salty. Just like he remembered.

As you stepped away from each other, breathing heavily, Bucky touched your forehead with his, closing his eyes. He absorbed this moment. Called to mind that this was real. You are real. You're alive.

"You found me."

"I will always find you."

————————————-

Thank you so much for reading! 💙 All interactions are highly appreciated ✨ (but please don’t copy my work)

BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST

[aphroditessaturn]

Clint: Steve, which male Avenger would you fuck—

Steve: Tony

Clint: ...if they were a woman

Steve: Oh. Does he have to be?

Peter: Be who you areeeeee 🏳️‍🌈

[aphroditessaturn]

Omg thanks so much for opening the requests again!!💛 (and sorry for dumping my long ass requests girl😭) How have you been?

please give us an innocent & shy y/n and flirty-drunk-jealous tony drabble pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee TQ!

SHY READER & FLIRTY TONY STARK - a Drabble

(you'll find the others drunk/jealous in this post but scroll down, I wanted to try something new and divided it in parts)

Tony Stark notices you the moment you step into the lab—mostly because you trip over your own feet. Smooth.

“New intern or did Fury finally send a spy who isn’t obvious?” He grins, leaning against his desk. You turn red. Mission: Speak. Failed.

You mutter something about coffee runs. He tilts his head. “Uh-uh. Try again, Casper. Louder, for the people in the back.”

“I—I’m here to—to assist,” you squeak. Tony gasps, clutching his arc reactor. “A shy scientist? Illegal. I’m calling SHIELD.”

He nicknames you “Bambi” after you bolt out of the room the first time he winks. (”Like the deer. All wide-eyed and skittish. Adorable.”)

He “accidentally” sends DUM-E to bring you tools—every five minutes. You swear the bot winks at you. (Traitor.)

“Friday, play Careless Whisper,” Tony announces when you drop a wrench. You groan. “I hate it here.” He grins. “No, you don’t.” (…Damn it.)

One day, you snap. “If you’re this annoying, how does anyone like you?” Tony beams. “There’s the fire! Knew it was in there.”

You sigh. He winks. This might be a problem. (…Or the start of something very fun.)

SHY READER & DRUNK TONY STARK

Tony stumbles into the penthouse, tie loose, cheeks flushed. You blink from the couch. Oh no.

“There’s my favorite person,” he slurs, pointing dramatically. “You. Yes, you. The cute one. With the face.”

You sigh. “How much did you drink?” He gasps, offended. “Rude. I’m perfectly sober.” (He is not.)

He flops onto the couch, head in your lap. “You’re so soft. Like a… a cloud. A shy, blushing cloud.” You cover your face. Why me.

“Tony, you’re heavy—” “And you’re beautiful,” he interrupts, poking your nose. “Boop.”

He tries to whisper but it’s loud. “Hey. Hey. Wanna know a secret? I like you. Like, like like.” You groan. “We’re dating.”

“Exactly,” he says, as if this is groundbreaking. “Best decision ever. High five.” (He misses your hand entirely.)

You try to get up. He whines, clinging to your arm. “Nooo, don’t leave. What if I wither without you?” (Drama queen.)

“You need water,” you mutter. He grins. “I need you.” Pause. “…But water’s cool too, I guess.”

SHY READER & JEALOUS TONY STARK

You’re laughing at something Steve said—just Steve, harmless, platonic Steve—but Tony’s grip on his drink tightens. Uh-oh.

“Wow, Rogers. You really needed her to explain the WiFi password?” Tony’s grin is sharp. “Or were you just fishing for conversation?”

Steve blinks. You kick Tony under the table. He fake-gasps. “Violence? From you? I’m wounded.” (He’s smirking.)

When Bucky dares to hug you, Tony loses it. “Barnes. Hands to yourself or I’m donating that arm to science.”

“Why are you texting Steve?” Tony demands. “He asked for cookie recipes.” “…Captain America bakes now?”

You’re late. Tony paces. “Maybe she’s with Bruce—he’s all ‘calm’ and ‘listens’—ugh.” (Bruce, from the couch: “I’m right here.”)

A paparazzi photo surfaces of you smiling at Thor. Tony prints it out, circles it in red. “Explain.” “He told a joke.” “I tell jokes!”

You catch him Googling “how to be more charming than Norse gods”. (Spoiler: He already is.)

Finally, you kiss his pout away. “Relax. You’re the only Stark I want.” He smirks. “Better be.” (Mission: Secure the Girl—complete.)

[aphroditessaturn]

Hi gorgeous, can you make a tony stark x yn clingy and cuddles 😍 please

Human Cling-wrap

A/N: GIF is for ref purpose only! Hope you like this!

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warning: none! Floof.

Tony Stark Masterlist

.

Tony wakes up to a problem.

Not the normal kind—like a reactor glitch or Pepper’s polite-but-murderous “We need to talk” tone. No.

This problem is you, wrapped around him like a human koala with attachment issues and exactly zero shame.

You’ve got a leg thrown over his hip, your cheek smushed against his arc reactor, and both arms tucked under his shirt like you’re trying to merge with his soul via osmosis.

He’s trapped. And weirdly okay with it.

Tony exhales. “You do realize I have meetings today.”

You grunt and pull him closer.

He looks down. “You’re literally inside my shirt right now.”

��Mmhmm,” you mumble. “Warm.”

“Oh my God, you’re a cat.”

He shifts slightly, and your grip tightens like a sleepy python.

Tony winces. “Okay, ow. That’s a rib. I need that one. It’s sentimental.”

You finally peek one eye open and give him the world’s sleepiest glare. “Shhh. Cuddle hours. You can billionaire later.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Stops.

Stares at your ridiculously adorable pout and the way your fingers start tracing lazy circles on his back.

“…You weaponize this,” he mutters. “You know you do.”

You don’t answer. You’re already drifting back to sleep.

Tony sighs and grabs his phone off the nightstand, one hand awkwardly scrolling while you remain wrapped around him like emotional cling film.

[Text to Pepper]: Cancel everything until noon. Maybe two.

[Follow-up]: She’s in koala mode. I fear for my ribs. Also my heart.

.

Later, when you finally wake up, still latched on like you’re worried he’ll float away, Tony brushes your hair from your face and murmurs,

“You’re lucky you’re cute. And soft. And borderline feral when denied affection.”

You yawn and nuzzle into his neck. “You love it.”

And he grins, because yeah.

Yeah, he really, really does.

.

Later in the day-

Tony tries. He really does.

He settles on the couch with his StarkPad, a coffee, and the deeply delusional belief that he’s about to get through at least three items on his to-do list.

You, however, have other plans.

Specifically: being horizontal and in his lap immediately.

You flop dramatically across him like a starfish that’s lost its will to ocean. Head on his thigh. Legs tucked under a blanket. Fingers immediately worming their way under his hoodie.

Tony pauses mid-keystroke. “You good there, octopus?”

“Mmm,” you hum, turning your face to nuzzle into his leg. “You smell like espresso and ego.”

He snorts. “That’s because I’m the whole café and the brand.”

You peek up at him from his lap. “You working?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Trying.”

Pause.

“You’re making it very difficult.”

Your response? You grab the hem of his hoodie and tug it, not up—but down, like you want it to drape over your face. Like he’s a tent. Your human-shaped cuddle fort.

“Are you seriously hiding under my—ow, okay, that’s my stomach, sweetheart, not a pillow—”

“Shhhhh,” you say, voice muffled by his hoodie. “This is my comfort zone now.”

Tony stares blankly at the ceiling. “I used to be feared in congressional hearings.”

“Now you’re my emotional mattress,” you murmur. “Embrace your destiny.”

And the worst part is?

He does.

He puts the StarkPad aside, rakes a hand through your hair, and mutters something about how you’re lucky you’re adorable and how he was just about to solve cold fusion, but fine, this is fine.

You sigh contentedly as he starts lazily stroking your back, all pretense of productivity melting faster than your resolve when he smirks in that post-cuddle-glow way.

.

Thirty minutes later, FRIDAY’s voice pipes in:

“Boss, your board meeting—”

“Tell them I’m busy,” he says without opening his eyes.

“Shall I inform them you’ve been kidnapped by a clingy cuddle beast?”

You grin into his hoodie.

Tony groans. “Snitch.”

[aphroditessaturn]

Friendly Fire (John Walker x Reader, Frank Castle x Reader)

I've had it in my head that John Walker and Frank Castle met at Kandahar early in John's military career, and that they HATE eachother. Here she is!

Pairings: John Walker x Reader, Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Profanity, friends with benefits, jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, big buff men feeling big difficult feelings, tw: knitting, discussion of injuries / medical talk.

Word Count: 2K

The Watchtower-

The air inside the Watchtower always felt a little bit too clean, like a hospital. It smelled like it was trying too hard not to smell like blood and sweat and ammunition. It was quiet for the first time in a while, though no one would dare to say it out loud. Surely, the universe would hear you and provide chaos. You sat curled on the couch in the common room, thick forest-green yarn draped across your lap and needles clicking together as your muscle memory worked without much input from your brain. Your mind had wandered after a few rows, when you noticed that despite having been on this couch for most of the day, you hadn’t seen John Walker once. Not that you were waiting to see him. Not that you’d admit, anyway.

John had this way of hovering without hovering. He, with his square jaw and clipped tone and aggressive military posture, was always observing people. He observed you. He always had, since the moment Val brought you into the team. You were the team’s “low profile wet work specialist” according to Val, which was a very classy way to say you killed people for a living. You were unassuming, and it seemed to really throw John off. On missions, you were the most skilled, heartless, and terrifying thing he’d seen in ages. After missions, you came home to decompress by knitting or, god forbid, baking. The more violent the mission, the more complex the baked goods. You once made an obscene number of honeysuckle macarons, and John called you “a weird mix of homemaker and harbinger of death”. You laughed and said, “I contain multitudes.” You liked the way that he looked at you like you were a puzzle to solve. But you weren’t sure if he looked at you like you were a friend, and certainly nothing more than that; a teammate at best.

“Fuckin hell,” you muttered under your breath as you dropped a stitch. Then, as if the universe heard your frustration and chose to double down, the Watchtower’s alarm blared out a single, short tone meant to alert you that the lobby cameras picked up a potential threat entering the building. You straightened, yarn forgotten in your lap, and grabbed your radio from the coffee table.

Bucky’s voice was the first through the radio. “Is anyone expecting any company tonight?”

You heard Ava let out a chuckle and say “I don’t suspect it’s my UberEats driver. The cameras detected that the guy has a gun, and he looks like he’s had one hell of a bad day. He looks like he’s bleeding.” 

Moments later, the whole team was assembled in the common room with you. John entered the room the same way that he always did: distractingly. You briefly forgot you were supposed to be worried about the active security risk. 

Bucky pulled up the surveillance video on the TV screen, and the potential intruder was standing at the security desk, speaking with the guard. 

“Try to get another angle,” John said. 

Bucky pulled up another angle and before he could display it on the screen he said, “Is that, uh… is that the Frank Castle?” His name hit your chest like a rubber bullet. Not fatal, but still it bruised like hell. Yelena’s eyes snapped to you, searching your face for your reaction. She had heard the stories from you. It always happened like this. Out of nowhere. Uninvited. Bleeding and bruised.

John’s voice came from behind you, rough and tense. “Son of a bitch. What is Castle doing here?” You looked over your shoulder. John stood leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn tight.

“You know Frank?” you asked, pretending you weren’t on the verge of an absolute crashout. 

John didn’t look at you. “Met him in Afghanistan,” he said, “At Kandahar. He’s a Marine, so obviously we didn’t exactly run in the same circles, but you know… he was around enough for me to know that he’s a real fuckin-” John rubbed a hand down his face in frustration. “Let’s just say we didn’t exactly get along.”

You nodded and let out a sigh, looking down at your feet. “How do you know each other?” John asked. “Biblically,” Yelena quipped. “It means they used to fu-” “Thank you, Lena,” you snapped, cheeks burning. “That’s enough.”

John’s eyes locked onto yours, and his face became alarmingly neutral. The same kind of forced neutrality that came right before he absolutely lost his temper in a briefing. 

You felt compelled to explain, and the words started flying out of you. “Not recently,” you blurted out, “Nothing serious. He’s more like an old friend, or a colleague, or… something.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Okay, well those aren’t the details I’m seeking here.” He pointed at the screen, where Frank was surprisingly still talking to the security guard, but becoming increasingly more animated the longer he was denied entry. “Do we let him in?” “Yes.” “No!” You and John answered at the same time. 

Ava, meanwhile, already had the phone in hand, and was taking the liberty of calling down to the security desk. “Send him up,” she said.

Ten Minutes Later -

The elevator door opened, and Frank Castle walked out like a walking obituary. Blood down the side of his ribs. A rip in his black shirt. A busted lip, five-day stubble, and that haunted stare that always looked like he was expecting gunfire. It had only been a year since you’d last seen him, but he looked older; there were a few grays in his hair.

“Hey, sweetheart.” The gravel in his voice scratched down your spine. “Still play nurse? I could use some help.”

You stared. Your brain short-circuited for a second. “Jesus, Frank-”

He gave you a weak grin.

John made a low noise in this throat, half scoff, half snarl. You didn’t look at him, you were almost afraid to. Frank raised an eyebrow, “Interesting.”

You grabbed Frank by the wrist and dragged him down the hall to the medical bay without a word. Most of the team stood silently, exchanging glances that varied from concerned to thoroughly entertained. But not John. John followed you both down the hall.

In The Medical Bay-

As you silently patched him up, Frank’s eyes were on you the whole time. So were John’s. Watching. Quiet. Heavy. Your hands worked quickly- gloves, antiseptic, gauze. You’d been here before. Putting Frank back together after he’d disappeared for months at a time.

When you finished your last stitch, Frank’s eyes met yours. And you’d forgotten what it felt like to have Frank look at you like that. Like you were a secret he’d buried under his skin. Like he could still taste you in his memory. He reached out and brushed a knuckle along your cheek, eyes dropping briefly to your lips. “I missed you,” he said.

John cleared his throat. “Okay buddy,” he said as he stepped further into the room, “That’s enough of that.” Frank’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but he spoke to John. “Still got a stick up your ass, Walker?”

John laughed coldly. “Of course I do. You still a cocky piece of shit?”

“Of course I am.” Frank said, winking at you before standing up to admire your handiwork in the mirror.

You looked at Walker. John, who you repeatedly trusted with your life on missions; who you daydreamed about like an out of control teenager with a crush; who seemingly had no interest in you… Who was now staring into you in an unusually territorial way. He shook his head subtly and mumbled, “Let me know when the stray is ready to leave, I’ll escort him out.”

“We’re good, Walker.” Frank called out from across the room. “I need a place to lay low for a bit but she knows the drill, she’ll take care of me.” He smirked as he looked at you. “Always does.” John stepped forward, face unreadable. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

You shot between them before something cracked.

“That’s enough,” you snapped. “Both of you. Jesus Christ.”

Frank back off a step, but his expression never changed. He was enjoying this.

John didn’t say another word. But the way he looked at you- tight jaw, flickering eyes, fists clenched at his sides- said plenty.

Later that night, your room-

You were stress-knitting. You stopped counting rows an hour ago.

Frank was here, in the Watchtower. Just down the hall, on the couch.

You weren’t an idiot, you knew that Frank wanted something more than just medical attention. He wanted to pick back up where you left off, like he’d never left. And, just as surely, he’d leave again.

And John? You had no idea what the hell was going on in his head. The only thing you knew was that it contradicted all of your notions of how he thought of you.

There was a knock on your door. Not soft, firm and controlled. You opened it to find John standing there, arms crossed the same way he stood in the field, like he was waiting for something to explode.

His eyes met yours. “You okay?”

You blinked. “You’re asking me that? You two… I mean, it was tense back there.” You walked back to your chair to sit down and picked your yarn back up.

He shifted slightly. “From the sound of it, you’ve got a complicated history with him too. And I know what Castle is like, he gets in your head.”

You leaned against your dresser. “You think I can’t handle that?”

“No, I just think you shouldn’t have to.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

He stepped further into your room, taking a seat on the edge of your bed. Then his eyes dropped to your hands, where you were still mindlessly knitting round after round. A smile broke across his face. “I know you can handle it, but I can tell you’re not handling it well.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What exactly do you mean by that, Walker?”

He let out a laugh. “Either you’re knitting a sweater for a snake, or you’re spiraling.”

You looked down at your work, and what was meant to be a sock had become a two-foot long tube of frustration. You threw it to the ground and groaned.

He leaned forward towards you, putting a hand on your knee. “I don’t know everything about the situation with Castle,” he said, his voice low and soft. “But you’re not alone anymore, not like you used to be. You’ve got a tower full of people that give a shit. So let me know if, uh…” he hesitated, “if you need someone to talk to about it. I can’t promise I’ll be neutral about it though.”

You glanced down to his hand on your knee, and back up to his eyes, and briefly to his lips before looking away. He pulled his hand back quickly and stood up to leave.

“Thanks, John.” You said. “That means a lot to me.” He turned back towards you and leaned against the doorframe. “Anytime.” he whispered, and then closed your door.

So now, it was your turn to look at John like he was a puzzle. You had a puzzle in the hallway, ticking time bomb in the living room on the couch, and a text message from Yelena that said “What is your bloody sexy man doing here? What happened tonight? Do not withhold details.” 

[aphroditessaturn]

Better For You

tags: John Walker x fem!reader, MENTIONS OF UNALIVING, (please dont read if you struggle with those thoughts even a little, its only like two sentences, but seriously, theres help if you need it cutie), ANGST (because im me and i just like being sad i guess), mention of alcohol/alcoholism/drinking to be okay, lots of cussing, cheating reader (you are the villain in this i guess *shrugs* what can you do about it), SMUT: dirty talk, mentions of choking, p in v, oral (fem!recieving), fingering, IF I MISSED ANY PLEASE TELL ME!! 

a/n: holy cow, firstly, i think i was possessed by the ghost of Angst past while writing this, or it may have just been me listening to Pushing It Down and Praying, potato, potato. SECONDLY, as i said in the tags, PLEASE DONT READ IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH UNALIVING MENTIONS, yes it is only two sentences, but still, i care about you cuties, so please please heed the warning. And THIRDLY... everyone clap for me, i wrote smut without laughing at the word ‘cock’ too much. I still laughed alot, it just looks so funny to me, cock. Anywho... enjoy this 10.2k words of heartbreak, laughter, and of course, some good ol’ fashioned smut. Love you cuties, thanks for the love on my posts, and as always criticism is welcomed! Happy (not so happy) reading! 

10.2k words (please dont look at me like that, i have too many words in my head, now you cuties suffer the consequences of said words) 

You kiss your boyfriend goodbye, shutting your eyes and imagining him. Your boyfriend doesn't seem to notice anything different about the kiss. Doesn't notice how you move your lips a little more against his, how your eyes flutter shut, the way your hands reach up to feel for dog tags that aren't there.  

You pull away, giving him a loving smile as you whisper a soft, almost non-existent “I love you,” only then do you open your eyes. You keep the smile on your face as you turn away from him, walking towards your car, not looking back, not wanting to see if he still wasn't him. 

You hated Saturday nights, not because of the busy bar, not even because of the grabby hands from the older men. No, you hated Saturday nights because of how they remind you about just how depraved this stupid fucking town is. The older men eye-fucking the waitresses as they pass, forgetting that there's at least a twenty-year age gap between them and their objects of affection.  

It was the same every weekend, stupid patrons that reeked of the whiskey you were pouring. They all told the same story “I loved her, I was good to her, and what did I get in return? ‘Not tonight honey I have a headache,’ and a bitchy attitude.” All of it accompanied by the same round of ‘Here, here's’ that just rammed it into your head, all men are the same.  

You poured another whiskey sour, placing a slice of lemon on the rim when you heard him. 

“Hey, honey, can I get a whiskey, neat, maybe with one of those lemons on the rim?” The nickname hit an exposed nerve ending, that's what every patron in this bar called you, and there was another man acting like your nametag wasn't splayed on your chest. But the twitch in your eye was calmed by the tone of his voice, something almost baritone to it made you want to fall into a trance. 

You got into your car, placing the key in the ignition and turning the key, the small Nissan Rogue engine rumbling to life, headlights flicking on, illuminating your boyfriends house. You give him another small wave, your hand resting on the ‘12’ of the steering wheel.  

John Walker had a different story as you poured his drink,  

“I shouldn't be here honestly,” He had commented with a rough laugh, staring at the glass as you fill it two thirds of the way with the amber colored liquid. “I couldn't take care of my own son,” He gave you a wave as if to offer up the information specifically to you. “Got drunk constantly, just scrolled on my phone and tried to forget about how much of a loser I was—am, I'm still a fucking loser.” 

You hesitated as you handed him his glass, usually you would zone out and stand there, listening to the same sob story repeatedly, hoping that your ‘listening’ ear would get you a better tip. But part of you wanted to listen to him, to hear his tale. He was admitting that he was the problem... 

And dammit you should've heeded the warning. 

The street leading out of your boyfriend's house is quiet as you drive with the windows down, Lizzy McAlpine coming softly through your speakers. You get onto the highway, zoning out as you drive, your mind thinking about everything, about how you feel so on edge around your boyfriend, the way he doesn't get your jokes, how he doesn't listen to you during sex, just kind of feeling around until he thinks you're satisfied then getting off in two minutes. Thinking about it all makes you grip the wheel harder, knuckles turning white, because he's not perfect, but he's stable.  

After an hour or two of talking on and off with John, you had realized you enjoyed his presence across the bar, something that rarely ever happened...more like never happened. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, he laughed at yours as well. The two of you ping ponging in the conversation, seemingly feeding off the other’s energy, causing the words to just flow.  

You found yourself a little disappointed when he pressed his large palm to the bar, standing up as he looked around at the empty establishment.  

“I guess I'm holding you up, huh?” he gave you a crooked grin, the gesture emphasizing the slight crow's feet around the corners of his eyes.  

You leaned against the bar across from him, looked around for a moment, before you sighed softly, “Yeah, yeah probably should close up or something.” You grabbed the towel off your shoulder and started wiping down the laminated wooden counter, the fingerprint smudges wiped away just like how the conversation seemed to dissipate.  

He laughed, pulled out his wallet, “Well don't sound so enthusiastic about me leaving.” you heard the cocky grin on his face before you looked up to see the evidence.  

“Well, I mean, I do have to close,” you shrugged, palms flat on the bar as you lean on it, dirtying the just cleaned bar. “But that doesn't mean we have to stop talking,” you cocked an eyebrow at him.  

His blonde eyebrows shot up, his blue eyes looked you up and down before his grin widened into a toothy smile as he set down a twenty on the bar, “Yeah? Y’wanna keep talking, honey?” you'd never admit how much you liked him calling you that. 

Your zoning out had made your body going on autopilot, taking an exit that isn’t the one to your apartment complex. You have a millisecond of confusion before you realize where you’re going, a feeling of guilt creeps up into your throat, you start to grab at your phone to get you turned around, back on the main highway.  

Instead of leading you straight back to the main road, it shows you a way that you don't know if you trust yourself enough to take without derailing from your current mission to get home. You keep driving, following the gps as it takes you down the familiar roads, each streetlight leading you closer and closer to something that seems to pull at you like a fly to a sticky trap. 

John insisted on taking you out on a proper first date, not wanting to call the two of you talking while you worked, a first date. He’d shown up to your apartment with a small bouquet of flowers, dressed in a button up and suit jacket, beard trimmed, and that same soft smile you admired so much. He’s a gentleman, you found out quickly, opening doors for you, paying for your food, holding your heels at the end of the night when your feet started to ache, giving you his suit jacket.  

“I'm simply saying that old westerns are cinematic masterpieces,” His hands moved as he emphasized his point.  

You snorted, pulling his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “And I'm simply saying that that sounds like something my father would say,” you shook your head, looked over at him.  

“Your dad has good taste. The apple obviously has fallen very far from the tree, unfortunately,”  

You zoned out a little, looking at him, the way his button up was taut over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up showing off his thick forearms. The way his beard covered up the sharp line of his jaw, his thick waist, not completely flat, and if you had to guess, he didn't have a glistening six pack, probably just a thick line of muscle there, a thin layer of fat over it. But dammit all if that didn't make you want to just claw your nails down it— 

“Honey, you're staring,” he didn't even look over at you, just kept walking as he grabbed your hand to keep you from running into a pole.  

“I am not” you rolled your eyes, interlocked your fingers with his as he walked on the side closest to the street.  

“Mmhmm... I know I'm ugly honey you ain’t gotta remind me of that,” it almost sounds like he's joking, like he's trying to get you to join in on the self-deprecating joke, but you didn't, you simply cocked your head at him, pulled him to a stop.  

“What?” he asked softly as the two of you stopped walking under a streetlight.  

“You’re handsome, you know that right?”  

You would've thought you had suddenly grown five heads with the way he looked at you. He quickly schooled his expression into a neutral one, shrugged, “Yeah, yeah I know,”  

His words may have claimed to be self-assured, but the way the tips of his ears went red, his eyes dodging yours, it all pointed to a hidden insecurity you had just prodded at.  

“I mean it, you're very handsome, I'm surprised you don't hear that often.” 

He looked down at you, taking a small step towards you. His free hand not holding yours found the side of your neck, his thumb brushed against your pulse, “Thank you honey,” his eyes found yours, blue irises making an involuntary smile bloom your face. 

“You sure like calling me honey, don't you?”  

“Because you're warm,” he leaned down, his nose bumped against yours, “and I bet you taste even sweeter than honey, so maybe I should give you a new nickname,” his lips brushed against yours, your own parting a little as your hands found his sides. 

“How about sugar?” he asked quietly, his eyes searched yours, almost silently asking for permission to kiss you.  

You nodded, “Sugar is nice,” you leaned up on your tip toes and pressed your lips against his. 

You tap the steering wheel as you drive, ‘Pushing It Down and Praying’ by Lizzy McAlpine blasting louder in your speakers, almost making them distort the tune. The roads twist and curve, you missed the turn eleven miles ago and can't bring yourself to turn around. You keep driving, almost willing the road to not lead where you know you it will. 

Tears stung at your eyes, you couldn't understand why he did this. Why he pushed you away when he was obviously struggling. It was the third time you had tried calling him, you eventually gave up and headed over to his apartment. You knocked on the door until you heard the soft click of a lock being undone.  

He looked like shit, eye bags more defined, an olive-green shirt taut over his shoulders and chest. He reeked of the whiskey he was probably drowning himself in. “I told you, you shouldn't come over,” 

You shook your head, pressed a palm against the door, “I'm not letting you drink yourself to death, John.”  

He rolled his eyes, the usual vibrant blue now dulled by the alcohol and thoughts chewing him up from the inside out. “I'm not drinking myself to death, it's only a few drinks, just- just leave,” he attempted to shut the door, your shoe wedged itself between the frame and the wooden door.  

“John... don't shut me out, don't do this again.” you pleaded with him, big doe eyes watery with tears. The door creaked open until his arm rested flat against the back side of it, his broad frame filling the doorway.  

“You need to leave.” his voice, rough and lifeless, no longer holding the smooth, baritone tonality that you loved so much, grated your ears. He sounded like he was one more shot of whiskey away from grabbing the firearm beneath his pillow and making sure you wouldn't have a reason to come back here again.  

“I'm not leaving, and one day, maybe you'll be smart and get it through your thick head that I'm not going to just leave when you're struggling, john, because I care about you, I-” 

He held his hand up, palm facing you, “Stop, stop talking,” the words carrying more bite than he had meant for them to. John got like that whenever you attempted to get more than just the shallow part of him, he got snappy. Like a dog that's been in a kennel far too long, biting at hands that try to pet it. It's why it'll never be adopted, never be loved fully. It's been left in a cage to rot and believes anyone who tries to get it out, simply wants to bribe it out into open air, only to shut it back in.  

“Don't say you love me, please honey, you don't love me, you don't care about me, you don't—” 

“You can't tell me what I feel John; you can't tell me that I don't care about you because i do—” 

You felt his hand wrap around your wrist, easily pulling you into his apartment. The door slammed shut behind you, “You don't! You don't care about me! You shouldn't! I'm an asshole! I'm a fucking loser! I drink when I'm angry, I get angrier and I snap, and dammit sugar I don't wanna snap at you—so please- please just leave.” his words started loud, getting quieter as he continued to speak.  

You stared up at him, he’d heard you talk about how you react to yelling, especially in close quarters. Your eyes glassy, shoulders hunched in on yourself, your lip trembled.  

His expression softened at you, his eyes shut for a moment, he looked away from you, “I'm sorry sugar, I’m- fuck.” he shook his head.  

You sniffled, blinked away the inevitable tears, “No, no it’s okay,” you attempted to assure him, your voice shook, but he kept shaking his head. 

“No baby, it's not okay, look at you, fuck, I'm- I'm a fucking terrible person, you- you should leave,” he pulled away from you.  

In your emotional turmoil, you reached for him. You reached for him like you would a lifeline when you're drowning at sea, hoping, praying, you can wrap your fingers around it.  

He pulled away. 

When your car is placed into park, your mind seems to come back into your body. Your hands fall off the steering wheel, your head turning as you look at the door of the apartment complex. You shouldn't be here, this is wrong, you have a loving boyfriend just a short drive away. You could drive back and spend the night at his house. Youve never stayed over at his house, and you don't think you ever will. You can't stand the thought of waking up to someone that isn't him, not when you know what it's like to. 

You felt his beard at the back of your neck. He was always extra touchy the days after a big fight, almost like a silent apology for his stupidity. Thats what John claimed it was, the way he always snapped when you tried to get too close, tried to break down the walls around his heart. How he always pushed you away when all you wanted was to bury yourself beneath his skin, become a part of him. 

You stretched beneath his dark comforter; a soft groan left your lips. His strong arms wrapped tighter around your middle, his nose laid on the side of your neck, inhaled as if he was trying to huff your scent.  

“G’mornin’ sugar,” his voice made you shiver, the rough tone of it made thicker by the haze of sleep.  

You reached behind you, carded your fingers through his blonde hair, “Mornin’ baby,” 

His lips found your pulse, slowly moving over it, his tongue lying flat against the skin there, like he was trying to memorize how fast your heart had beat when he started to move his right hand up under his shirt on your frame. All of it was uncharacteristically soft of him, the way he slowly moved you until you were on your back, your hands tangled in his soft hair as he pushed the material up until it was hitched up above your breasts, your doe eyes soft and wide up at him, still a little groggy with sleep.  

“John,” you'd whisper his name softly, tried to assure him he didn't need to make apologies like this, the teary eyed ‘I'm sorry’s last night were enough. But he wouldn't listen, continuing to kiss down your body, you swear you can hear him whispering against your soft skin. 

“So sweet t’me,” 

“Don't deserve you honey,” 

“Too good t’me, my pretty girl,” 

You wouldn't stop him, just continuing to sigh and moan his name quietly, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue found the aching spot between your thighs, still sore from the last night’s ‘apology’. His tongue found your clit like a heat seeking missile finding its target, slowly circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, each time mumbling “I'm sorry,” or “So sweet, pretty girl,”  

Your sneakers hardly made any noise as you walked up the stone staircase to his door, you take your time, looking around as you ascend the stairs, almost scared someone might see you, see you crawling back, your hand glides over the black metal railing, trying to ground yourself in the moment. You know this is wrong, you know you should turn around, but the memories keep bombarding you, forcing your feet to continue up the stairs until your stalking down the concrete floor to his door.  

John knew you weren't the best cook, so he’d always pick you up and bring you grocery shopping with him. Showed you the best type of beef to get for whatever the two of you planned to cook that night. He had a weird (cute) habit of spinning you in the ice cream aisle, every time the two of you were walking down it. You were walking down the cold freezer section, the slight squeaking of the wheels behind you indicated he was still following you as you stopped in front of the pints of ice cream.  

His large hands found your waist and you smiled, “You always do this,” you rolled your eyes, he just smiled right back at you. He moved his head over your shoulder so he could look at you, “And you love it.”  

As if on cue, he grabbed your right hand and pulled it until you were hand in hand, outstretched, almost reaching for him. He slowly pulled your hand above your head, twirling it, forcing you into a soft spin.  

You were almost tempted to forget about the screaming match the two of you had a few days prior... 

Almost 

You lift your fist to the wood, hovering it in front of the wooden door. You swallow, mind racing as your head tries to connect with your heart, trying to force your feet back down the steps and into your car. Have you ever wanted something that you knew was bad for you? You know you could just text your boyfriend, call him, be reminded of the loving arms waiting for you, just a short fifteen-minute drive on the highway away. 

The door opens without you knocking on it.  

It hurt, hurt more than any shot you would get from the doctor, any scrape or cut you had gotten. Nothing could compare to the day you had to make the decision to leave him, to cut it off, to pull the roots that Jonathan F. Walker had planted in your heart. You cried, a lot, before you even talked to him about it.  

The two of you had been having an off few weeks, not just days, weeks. Weeks of no communication, weeks of hot then cold, one morning he wants nothing to do with you, then the next he's begging you for just five more minutes. You had had enough, you couldn't take it, your mental health deteriorating with each swing of the pendulum,  

You sat in his living room, eyes already teary as you heard his key insert itself into his lock. He just looked at you for a few moments, before he clocked the bleary look in your eyes. His expression slowly dropped, almost like he could sense what this was, what was about to happen. “Can we talk?” you had asked softly.  

John wasn't a quitter, he bickered with you about it, claiming this to just be another ‘dip in the line of your relationship’ that it would pass, everyone goes through this. But you explained to him how much hurt you were going through, how with every dip, your mental wellbeing seemed to get worse. It all made you question your self-worth. 

And oh god when you said that he nearly dropped to his knees in front of the chair you sat in. What he had been doing was making you feel worthless? He had made you feel worthless? All he wanted to do was jump out of the window, ensuring you would never feel worthless again. He wanted to take away the pain so fast, make sure you only ever felt good things, especially coming from him.  

You cried as you dug the heels of your palms into your eyes, shaking your head as he tried to beg you to stay.  

“I promise I'll get better, baby, I never meant to hurt you, I swear honey, please,” he had asked begged you. You forced yourself up from the chair, sniffling as you wiped your nose on your sleeve, “This is for both of us, baby, I'm sorry,” you sobbed because promises were just words.  

The apartment was quieter without you in it, brightening the space in a way only you could. John never forgave himself for hurting you, he promised himself if he ever got the chance to have you again, he would rather die than hurt you like that again. But if he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't have blamed you if you never wanted to see him again. The gun under his pillow looked more and more tempting each night that passed.  

Then he got the notification of movement near his door.  

You stare up into his blue eyes, for a split-second thinking ‘Why did I ever break up with him?’ until the memories wash over you like an ice-cold shower. But it leaves you shivering, wanting to curl up with him. He’s wearing a tight navy shirt, grey sweatpants, he stares down at you, eyes briefly flicking over your appearance.  

The way your shirt collar has been stretched so it shows off your shoulder, the necklace with an initial on it, ‘B’, his jaw clenches at seeing the letter. He doesn't say a word, he just opens the door a little wider, silently inviting you in.  

You walk in without thinking, your feet moving as if on autopilot, walking into the familiar apartment. You hated yourself a little more each time you came over, even if it was only for a night. You look to your right, seeing the small kitchen, white tiles, a bottle of Jack Daniels open with a glass next to it. He walks past you towards the bottle, grabbing out another glass. You start to shake your head, “I don't-” he turns his head, arching an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask “really?” you sigh, nodding as you walk over to the kitchen. You lean against the counter, hip pressing into the cold tile.  

“What was it?” he pours the amber liquid into the two glasses.  

You cock your head, “What was what?” 

“Did he make a shitty joke? Not laugh at yours? Say something only a douchebag would say?” he clarifies, “Why are you here again?”  

You feel immediate guilt, you shouldn't be here, none of that happened, you're just greedy needing him like oxygen. “I- I shouldn't be here.” you mutter, taking the glass from him. 

He leans against the counter across from you, holding the other glass in his hand as he watches you, “You shouldn't.” he repeats, “But you are.” 

You look at him, giving him a look that he can decipher as ‘please don't’. “I don't know why I'm here—” you sling the glass back, gulping the entire drink in one shot.  

“I do.” he grabs the empty glass from you, your fingers brushing against his, neither of you pull away. “You need more,” he hands you his still full glass, pouring more of the amber liquid into the empty one. “You need more than just stable, that’s why you come over here,” 

He says it like it's a fact, just as easily known as the fact that the sky is blue. You don't correct him; you don't argue that you don't need him. You just stare at him, this time taking a sip of the whiskey, the liquid bitter on your tongue.  

“I don't wanna have sex,” you couldn't tell if you believed the words as you said them, but you said them anyways, “I just need to talk,” 

He gives you a sincere look, setting down his glass, “I’d never force you to do anything, sugar,”  

Dammit, those words made you want him more. 

You shake your head, “Stop saying that, sugar, and stop talking like that.” 

He simply raises his eyebrow, “Like what? Say that I'm not going to force you to do anything with me? Treat you with human decency—” 

“I mean when you say things like that, when you call me sugar, it makes me want to have sex with you and we both know how that always ends up.”  

The words hang in silence for a moment, both of you staring at each other like you’re one accidental touch from combusting.  

“You feel guilty as hell in the morning, and I feel like shit for making you feel like that.” his hands rest on either side of his thick waist, clutching the counter behind him.  

You lean back against the counter across from him, eyes trailing down to stare at the wall, “Fuck,” the word comes out as a whisper, your head lulling back, exposing your throat.  

He watches the silver initial gleam against your throat, ‘B’, even the image of that thing on your neck makes him want to scream.  

“He doesn't know you prefer gold.” the statement should be phrased as a question, but it’s more so a fact.  

He grabs the glass next to him, taking a small sip of the whiskey as you respond, not straightening your neck to look at him. “I wear both—” 

“But you prefer gold—” 

“Dammit just drop it okay?” 

John sits in silence, staring at the initial, his mind racing with what he could've done differently to make there be a ‘J’ hanging from your neck. 

“I don't know what to do.” you admit softly, bringing your head up a little to make eye contact with him. 

“You should leave,” he doesn't say it with malice, there's no bite in the words, just a simple offer-up of advice. 

You look at him, your eyes starting to sting with tears, “I don't want to,” you whisper, putting down the glass and gripping the counter behind you.  

His expression softens at you, “Don't cry sugar, you know I hate seeing you cry,” he pushes off the counter, taking a small step towards you. His large hands find your face and cup your cheeks, wiping the few tears that have already tracked down them.  

You sniffle, looking up at him, “I know, I just- dammit, why couldn't you be him?” the words make his hands freeze on your face. He’s tempted to get angry with you, to ask why you're trying to compare him to some fantasy picture of him as a stable constant in your life. Something you proudly display on your neck, instead, he's reduced to late night conversations, watching you cry over the guilt of being in love with someone you can never fully have.  

“I’ll never be him, sugar, you know that. There’s no use in crying over it.” his voice is soft, his thumbs rubbing over your soft cheeks. “I'm too far gone, I drink too much, I snap at you, sugar. You know I don't wanna hurt you like I already have.” 

More tears spill over your cheeks as you listen to him, because you know has right, you know he’ll forever be the angry drunk ex-captain America. And yet you can't help but want him, you know he's bad for you, you know it'll hurt all over again, but you can't stop yourself as you close your eyes.  

His lips press against the tear stains on your cheeks, gently moving over the salty tracks on your skin, before he moves up to your forehead, “So pretty, even when you cry.” you let out a soft laugh 

“Shut up, I'm an ugly crier.” you blink up at him.  

“You’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, even when you cry. Don't you dare call yourself an ugly crier.” his lips press against your nose.  

You tilt your head up just enough to meet his lips, he pulls away by a centimeter, “Sugar... you're gonna regret this.” you know he's right, but you can't stop the whisper from leaving your lips, “Just one kiss?” you look up at him. 

He stares down at your doe eyes, the way they're glassy with tears, how plump your lips look, how your cheeks are flushed from crying.  

“Just one.” 

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, moving against your mouth in a way that only he knows how to. Your hand reaches up and grasps the dog tags around his neck, your thumb gliding over the steel, feeling the engravement of his name on it. Your other hand slides up his chest, carding through the hair just above his neck. He starts to pull away, his hands sliding down from your cheeks to your waist. 

“Sugar—” 

“Just one more.”  

You pull him down to your level, lips moving a little more against his. He kisses your back, he never was able to say no to you, especially when you seemed so needy.  

The kiss starts to devolve, his fingers digging into your waist, crumpling your shirt. His broad frame pushes you back against the counter, your lower back pressing against the tile. Your nails scratch gently at his scalp, causing a low grunt to make its way out of his throat. You take advantage of his open mouth and delve your tongue in between his lips, tasting the bitter liquid on his tongue.  

He grunts a little louder, bending down, without breaking the kiss, and grabbing your thighs. He sets you onto the tiled counter, his hands massaging the fat of your thighs, greedy to feel the skin not concealed by your shorts. He pulls away from your lips, moving his mouth down to your jaw as you shove your hips forward to meet his. He mumbles something intelligible against your neck before his hands are leaving your thighs and coming up behind your neck.  

You feel your necklace come unclasped as he moves his lips up to your ear “As fun as it sounds to fuck you with another man’s initial around your neck, I think we’d both prefer my hand over this stupid fucking necklace.” your head lulls back as you nod, giving him a weak “mmhmm,” 

He tosses the silver pendant to the kitchen floor, a small clink letting the both of you know it hit the ground. His lips are back on your neck, moving over your pulse, his tongue laving over the skin, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. You feel his teeth start to graze against your soft skin and you push a little at his shoulders, “No marks, no marks, baby,”  

He laughs against your neck, “Can't call me baby and ask me to not leave marks in the same sentence, sugar,”  

You try to come up with an excuse to get him to not leave marks, but your thoughts are interrupted as you feel him start to create a hickey in your skin, just under your jaw. The sensation of his teeth biting softly at the junction makes your head spin. You push his head a little more into your neck, “Mm you seem awfully needy for someone who doesn't want me to leave my mark on her, honey” 

You whine, pushing your hips forward against his, he grunts against your neck, pulling away just enough to stare at the mark, “You always look so pretty with my teeth marks on you, sugar.” you tug at his hair, forcing him against your lips again.  

He grabs at the undersides of your thighs, lifting you off the counter and walking towards his bedroom, acting like you weighed nothing. You detach from his lips, kissing down his jaw and neck, “Fuck, I bet you don't act like this with that pretty boy, huh? Bet you're not as needy for him as you are f’me honey.”  

You nip at the soft spot beneath his ear, “Could never be this needy for anyone but you, John,” he nearly buckles, shoving you up against the wall on his way to his room. “Baby... you can't, fuck I'm trying to focus on not dropping you.” 

You laugh against his skin, letting your tongue run over the mark, soothing the skin and him at the same time, “Sorry,” you pull back a little, giving him a soft smile.  

“You’re too pretty to be saying sorry about anything,” one of his hands comes up to rest against your cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they stare down at you.  

He carries you down the hallway, your forehead resting against his shoulder, hand wrapped around the back of his neck. You hear a soft thud of the door as he closes it with his foot, before you're deposited onto the bed. You lean back on your hands, looking up at him with your lip pulled between your teeth.  

He looks like he’s about to lose it, “Oh fuck you for using that face right now.” 

You let out a giggle, “I wish you would,” you feign ignorance, your smile making his heart do backflips while simultaneously pumping all his blood down south.  

John pokes his tongue into his cheek, “Don't get cheeky with me, sugar, I can see right through you,”  

You lean up, sitting up on your knees so you're almost eye-level with him, “Yeah?” you ask softly before reaching down and pulling off your shirt. You don't break eye contact with him as you lean down and pull off your shorts, leaving you in a flimsy sleep bra and plain cotton panties that are already bearing the evidence of your arousal.  

“Oh, fuck yeah,” his blue eyes darken as they trail down your form, staring at your chest for a moment before he's leaning forward, forcing you onto your back. You smile up at him as your hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours. He kisses you like you might lead him to salvation, like in this very moment, nothing exists outside of the two of you. 

You feel his calloused hands start to wander, moving down to your ribs, fingers sliding under the material of your bra. He only pulls away to tug off the fabric, eyes immediately dragging down to the bare skin of your breasts. He hands cup the sides of your rib cage, thumbs brushing over the outsides of them. “So fucking perfect, you're telling me he doesn't want to make sure this isn't properly taken care of?” it's a rhetorical question but you still answer with a head shake, big doe eyes trained on his, pink bottom lip jutting out a little.  

“Oh god bless it, honey, I hope you never stop coming to me.” his voice drops a few octaves before his mouth is back on you, quickly pressing a kiss to your lips before moving down. His mouth leaves a pretty trail of hickeys down your neck, to your collarbone, before he starts to give special attention to your tits. You gasp as his mouth encircles one of your nipples, making it harden into a peak. Your back arches and he smiles, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as his hands rub up and down your sides. 

You tug at his hair, letting out a soft, “John, baby,” he seems to double down, lips moving over your chest with adoration, seemingly worshipping you through his mouth.  

His lips move to your other breast, nipple now painfully hardening into a peak, you hear a soft, “Gotta make sure this one gets some lovin’ too, pretty girl.” before his mouth is on you. His hands press and massage at your sides, thumbs pressing against your hip bones as he finally detaches from your chest, kissing down further onto your stomach. 

He leaves hickeys on the pudge of your tummy, making sure to look up at you as he does so. “Perfect everywhere, sugar.” 

Your hand cards through his hair as he moves towards your cotton panties, his eyes land on the damp patch of material, blue irises flicking up to you. “Is this all for me, honey?” you pull your lip between your teeth, looking down at him as you nod. He presses his mouth against the wet spot, tongue laving at the material. Your legs tense as you feel his hot breath over you, even with the barrier of cotton between his mouth and your pussy.  

His tongue moves against the cotton, trying to get any sort of taste of you from it. You tug at his hair, “John... baby please,” he smiles against the fabric, calloused fingers moving to pull your panties down. He sits up, pulling the material all the way down, his eyes never leaving yours, until he tosses the cotton aside, leaving your thighs bare, and your wet entrance on display for him. “I will never understand how a man could see this and not want you to feel the most earth-shattering pleasure.” he says the words mostly to himself, his mouth already watering at the sight.  

He scoots down until your legs are over his shoulders, the sensitive skin of your thighs twitching as his beard rubs against them, his mouth leaving soft kisses against the now-irritated skin as a silent apology. His eyes find yours, your lip still pulled between your teeth, eyes staring down at him, “Thats it, sugar, you just keep those pretty eyes on me,” his eyes seem to get glassier as he gets closer to your core.  

Your hips jolt a little as you feel the coarse hair of his beard brush up against your sensitive entrance. The way he's lavishing your thighs with kisses has already made you more wet than you have ever felt with your boyfriend. The thought makes a quick pang of guilt shoot through you, and, almost as if on cue, his mouth finds your aching cunt.  

John aced almost every category in the military and in high school, including marksmanship. He could see the target from a half mile away and get a bullseye without breaking a sweat. So, the fact that he could find your clit the first time he went down on you wasn't surprising. But even now, he used that knowledge against you. His tongue sweeping over your weeping entrance, you clench around nothing, “Fuck, john,” he loves to hear his name from your lips, even if it is in annoyance that he won't give you what you so desperately want. 

The tip of his tongue moves over your slit, his nose bumping against the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Oh my god, holy shit-” you gasp, thighs clenching around his head, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He smiles as he starts to push his tongue into your dripping core, your nails scratching against his scalp. His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but that is the last thing on your find as his tongue starts to gently move in and out of your entrance.  

He can't hear anything, your thighs flush against his ears, his big hands splaying on the outsides of them as he whispers nothing but praise into you, “Taste so fucking good sugar, swear to fuck, never tasted anything better,” his tongue moves up and circles around your clit, a cocky smile gracing his face as you jolt. Your hips shift against his face as he works the sensitive bud, making his tongue move faster.  

“John, fuck baby, I'm getting there. Shit, please don't stop.” You plead, not wanting to be left on edge like you were just a few hours ago by your boyfriend.  

He just shakes his head, lips detaching from your clit just long enough to gasp out a quick, “Wouldn't dream of it, honey,” before he's back, eating you out like a man starved. You could swear he enjoys this more than you do. The way his eyes flutter shut as his tongue laps at your core, how he grunts and groans into you each time you tighten your thighs around his head, or the way his hips grind into his mattress beneath him when you tug at his hair.  

You feel the familiar knot start to tighten in your stomach as you shift your hips against his face, he lets you use his mouth to get off, letting you tug and pull at his hair, he’d let you ride his face until he couldn't breathe if you asked. 

Because the truth is, John needs this, more than you do, he craves being used, being needed like this. The way you moan and mewl his name so softly into the air of his bedroom makes his chest fill with pride, pride that he is the one making you feel good, he's the one that's getting you off with just his tongue. The way you taste is just one of the many perks he loves about eating you out.  

Your back arches as the knot tightens further, you squeeze your thighs around his head, your hand getting tighter in his hair. “John, John baby fuck—please im-” you don't get to warn him properly, cumming on his tongue in the next moment. His name becomes a prayer on your lips, the only thing you can think of. He takes every last bit of you, not letting anything leak down onto his sheets.  

Only when you're pushing at his forehead, pleading with him, “Baby, fuck—’s too much,” and his vision is tunneling from the lack of oxygen, does he pull away. He leans up, letting your legs fall from his shoulders, his beard is soaked through with your release. You lay back, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he leans back onto his haunches, you hear the bed creak as he moves. When you bring your head up, your met with the sight of a blissed-out John, staring directly at your soaked pussy, now leaking with your fluids. He catches your eye, giving you a half smile, “She’s so pretty like this, honey,”  

He was always a master at dirty talking. You swear he could get you off with his words alone.  

You feel his fingers run up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you let out a soft groan, your back arching, “John,” you stare down at him, he doesn't look at you, his eyes still stuck on the way your thighs shake a little as he presses his middle finger up against your slit. You jolt, eyes fluttering shut, “Damn, sugar, I know it's been a month or two since the last time, but you really... really tightened up while you were away, didn't you?” 

He talks about the time between your late-night visits to him like you were simply on vacation, not creating a whole other life with someone else. Because if he thought about it too much, he’d go find the ‘B’ of your necklace, (although, he already knows where the guy went to preschool, he couldn’t just let you date anyone), and make sure he never contacted you again.  

His middle finger sinks in slowly, just to the first knuckle, your back arches. “Was it being on edge around him the whole time? Hmm?” he pushes the digit deeper. He can't decide if he wants to watch your face, or the way your entrance is nearly pulling his finger in, “Maybe it was having to fake it every time the two of you had sex,” you squeeze around him at that, “Ohh it was that wasn't it baby?” he pauses, leaning over you as he pushes just a little more until he reaches the base of his finger. 

“Don't you worry, honey, you won't have to fake it with me,” he assures you, his free hand gripping the pillow near your head as he pulls his finger out, pushing it back in. His eyes trail down your frame, his head bowing as he looks between your legs, he pushes another finger in. Your legs scoot wider, allowing his thick frame to sit between them, “Oh look at her, so sweet, so needy for me, is that it?” he coos softly, his nose bumping against your cheek.  

You stare up at him, your hands interlocked behind his head, “John, baby, fuck-” you shudder as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaning back onto his haunches. You follow him, leaning up and pressing your lips against his.  

He’s taken by surprise at your initiative, his lips moving instinctively against yours. You tug at his shirt, hands sliding under the material, feeling the slightly pudgy area of his waist. You’ve always loved that area on him, the way he didn't have a six-pack, but you knew he was strong. The way it looked in a suit, all of him, broad, thick, and muscled, dammit you loved all of it.  

He tugs off his shirt, his dog tags hitting his chest with a soft clink, you grab at them, your thumb sliding over the bumps that display his name and rank. He pushes you back onto the bed and you whine, reaching for his sweatpants. 

“Sugar, you gotta wait, I was serious about you being tighter than usual, I'm not lying when I say you're uptight,” he comments, his fingers sliding back down between your legs. You relax into the bed, letting out a soft moan as he slides his digits into you again, finding you less tight than earlier. “Did my pretty girl just need to relax a little?” he asks quietly, sliding his fingers in and out of you at a moderate pace. You nod, relaxing more and more around his digits.  

“So- so good baby, fuck- you always treat me so good,” your back arches a little as he curls his fingers inside of you, finding the spongy spot you could never find by yourself. You stare up at him, doe eyed and blissed out, the flush on your cheeks still present from your last orgasm.  

He stares down at you for a moment, his fingers freezing their movement, his brain short-circuits, and he pulls them out of you.  

“So fucking gorgeous, swear to fuck, best thing I've ever seen,” he's over your body in a second, big frame encasing you on the bed as his lips find yours again. The kiss is hungrier, more desperate, like he's been starving for you and you've just given him permission to take what he wants.  

He pushes down his sweatpants, his cock hitting his stomach, already hard and leaking. He winces at the way it almost hurts to not be inside of you at that very moment, he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him, “I trust you,” your eyes are filled with nothing but sincerity, but even so... 

“I know you do honey, and it's really sweet that you wanna take me raw, but I gotta be honest, with how fucking good you look right now, and how painfully hard I am, I don't trust myself to pull out without getting you pregnant, so we’re gonna use a condom, mkay? Mkay.” he leans down and kisses your cheek as he grabs the small foil packet from his nightstand.  

You shift on the bed, feeling the way your release has leaked down to the sheets, causing your thighs to stick to them. He hovers back over you, his arm braced next to your head. You reach up and grab his bicep, nails softly digging into the skin as you stare down between your two bodies. He wraps a hand around himself, letting out a soft grunt as he pushes the head of his cock up against your entrance. “Dammit honey, I'm not gonna last long, just- just a warning,”  

He hates how warm he feels when you smile up at him, “Neither am I, baby,” 

John pushes in slowly, letting your weeping cunt surround him, he can feel every inch of you. You’re a little surprised with how easily you're taking him, your pussy not tightening in anticipation or nerves, just enveloping him easily.  

“Oh, you take it so good, honey, so good,” his nose bumps against yours as he gets you to look up at him, “Just been waitin’ for me, haven't you, sugar?” he lets out a soft laugh, not to mock, more in amazement. He slides in fully, and you feel it, he fills you up in a way no other man could, and as guilty as you felt for having the thought, that feeling is replaced by pleasure as he pulls out and slams back in.  

“Cmon, sugar, lost you there for a second, I want your attention on me, yeah that's it,” he pulls out slowly, pushing all his length back in at once, making the air leave your lungs in one quick gasp.  

“John,” 

“Thats my name sugar, be sure to wear it out.” 

You look up to see his cocky smile above you, his eyes soften a little as they look down at yours, his thrusts getting a little faster. You let out a soft grunt with each hit of his pelvic bone against your clit, the coarse hair of his happy trail overstimulating it. Your nails digging deeper into his bicep as he pulls his other arm up to brace next to you, his hips moving quicker, deeper into you. You can tell he's starting to get lost, the glassy look he gets in his blue eyes, the way he starts talking without even realizing what he's saying. 

“Wish- fuck- wish I could be better for you, honey.” 

“Wanna be so much better, just for you, get to have this every night,” 

“Wanna be the one to fuck you into oblivion, not some fucking pretty boy.” 

His thrusts get angrier, his nose scrunching up as he grunts, hiding his face next to yours, his forehead pressing against the sheets next to your head. “Fuck this- you feel so fucking good, haven't- dammit- haven't fucked no one else since you, sugar, nothing, nothing, can compare to how you feel,” he's rambling, his mouth not shutting up, as much as he wishes it would. 

You whimper into his neck, your eyes squeezing shut as you tighten around him. That earns a loud groan from him, one of his hands coming up to brace against the headboard as he changes the angle of his hips. His cock starts to bully your cervix, you throw your head back, moaning his name as you see stars, “John, baby, fuck- that feels so good,”  

“That’s right honey, fuck- fucking squeeze me, god you feel so good around me, so damn good, making me lose my fucking mind.” he moves even faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room.  

You tense around him as you start to feel the knot in your stomach tighten again, you scratch at his back, “John, baby- I'm gonna cum,” you whine, your chest heaving. He takes the hint, still moving at a fast pace, but making sure to roll his hips into yours, letting your clit feel his pelvic bone, his cock reaching a place inside of you, you never thought possible.  

“Oh, there she is, there's my pretty girl,” his voice is muffled as your eyes roll back into your head, you start babbling his name, repeatedly. You can't think of anything else, can't think of the guilt you'll surely feel tomorrow morning, how you have a boyfriend who could never make you feel this good, you can only think of his cock and how deep he is and how good his praise is making you feel.  

“Take it, fuck- take it all, sugar, you can-” only after you arch your back, squeezing around him so hard it forces him to slow down by a fraction, does he start to chase his own high. His hips move at an erratic pace, slamming into you with so much force, it makes the bed creak with every thrust. “I'm gonna- fuck- I'm gonna-” if it weren't for the haze of two orgasms, or the fact that you could feel your cervix being bruised by the head of his cock, you could swear you hear him say a quick, quiet, “God I love you,” as he cums.  

You both pant as he tries to keep his weight off you, keeping his cock inside of you for a few moments. You hold each other, his thick arms wrapped around your back, your arms wrapped around his neck, holding his face into your shoulder.  

Your entire body feels like jello as he pulls out, leaning back on his haunches and staring down at you. Your eyes are half-lidded as he rubs his palms over your thighs, “You okay, honey? Did I get too rough?” you laugh softly, knowing that is a fraction of how rough he can be. “No baby, you didn't hurt me, I'm okay.” you nod, assuring him.  

The bed creaks as he gets up, walking to the bathroom, you hear the sink turn on, then off. Your head turns as you watch him pick up his boxers, pulling them on before grabbing his shirt and tossing it next to you on the bed. You start to try and sit up, letting out a small grunt. “Hey, sugar, don't try and move right now, I just fucked you into oblivion.” you can hear the cocky grin in his voice.  

You look up at him as he drags a soft, damp, wash cloth down your thighs. You groan softly, “John, baby,” he nods,  

“I know sugar, I know, but I gotta clean y’up, or you're gonna get sticky, then you're gonna get irritated, and I don't want either of those things,” you laugh because you know he's right.  

After cleaning you up, he pulls his shirt over your head, helping you get into a more comfortable position against his chest, your leg hiked up over his abdomen as his arm is wrapped around your shoulder. His free hand cups the outside of your thigh on his stomach, his thumb swiping across the skin.  

You can already feel the guilt start to creep into the edges of your mind, and as if he can read it, his hand leaves your thigh to tuck your hair behind your ear, “Hey... sugar, don't go getting all fuzzy-headed on me now,” you nod, “I'm okay, just... thinking,” 

“Thats never good,” 

You swat softly at his chest, “Loser,”  

He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it before mumbling against the skin, “How about you get some sleep, loser” he suggests, guiding your hand to his dog tags as he reaches over and flicks off the light.  

You fall asleep quickly to the sound of his heartbeat in your ears, the way the steel of his dog tags feel beneath your palm lulls you to sleep. John holds you through the night, his eyes reluctantly falling shut, he doesn't want this to be over, doesn't want this to be possibly the last night you come over, but he knows better than to get his hopes up.  

Your phone ringing jolts you out of bed, you quickly crawl to the end of the bed, grabbing at your shorts to find it. You hit answer before looking at the caller ID.  

“Hello?” your voice is hoarse, the night before taking a toll on your vocal cords, along with it being almost 7 in the morning.  

“Hey... baby? Yeah, I'm at your place and you're not here. I was gonna see if you wanted to go out to breakfast or something, y’know, since you never really stay over.”  

A bucket of cold ice water might as well have been dumped on your head. You stay stock still, not knowing what to say, the bitter feeling is back in your throat, the guilt gnawing away at your conscience.  

“Baby?” your boyfriend calls your pet name again, it makes you nauseous.  

“Yeah, yeah, sorry Beau, I'm at a friend's house, accidentally took the wrong exit and figured I'd just stay the night, we had some catching up to do.” all technically the truth. You glance back at John, expecting him to still be asleep, but that man was awake before you ever even opened your eyes.  

His blue eyes bore into yours, almost silently asking you to hang up and forget about the plans, forget about your boyfriend and stay here.  

“Oh, okay, well I know you have work tonight, so I'll see you tomorrow maybe?” your boyfriend sounds hopeful it all makes you just wanna cry. You just give him a small, almost silent, “Mmhmm,” and hang up. Your eyes don't leave john’s as you put your phone down, sitting up on your knees.  

He should be angry, should be pissed off that he's technically the ‘other woman’ in this scenario, but the way your eyes well up with tears. It makes him want to call your boyfriend back and tell him to never call you again. It's too early for you to already be crying, he finds himself wanting to comfort you, “Don't cry sugar, hey, you're too pretty to cry.” he grabs at your arm, pulling you into a hug. You press your face into his chest, sniffling as the tears threaten to drown you, “I'm a terrible fucking person,” your voice is shaky. He shakes his head, “No you're not honey, I should've told you to leave last night and I didn't, because I'm a selfish bastard who wants you and only you.”  

He cups your cheek with his warm palm, looking down at you, you sniffle, “I shouldn't be here,”  

He nods, “I know, but you always find your way back here and if I'm being honest, sugar, i don't want you to stop coming back to me.” John is an honest man, he can't help telling you the truth, even if it makes you want to crawl into him and never see your boyfriend ever again.  

You stare up at him, swallowing hard before asking, “Why couldn't you be better?”  

You felt the love for him, it would always cause an ache in your heart, but you knew, you knew this would always fall apart, even if it did feel good as it crumbled.  

He shakes his head, “I'm not what you need honey, as bad as I wanna be all you could ever want or need, I'm not. You deserve so much better,” he pauses, kissing your nose, “But as long as you keep coming back, I'll never turn you away, and if that's my fault or yours, I'll take the blame every time.” 

You cry into his chest for another hour, until you fall asleep. When you wake up again at 10am, the sun has risen, birds chirp as if it's any other day, and your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep a few hours ago.  

You lean up, feeling his arms fall from around you. He stayed awake, now looking up at you as you sit up, looking over your shoulder at him. You move in silence as you get out of his bed, legs wobbly, your insides throbbing with an ache that would only ever be filled by him. He doesn't say a word as you walk out of his bedroom with his shirt on, he just silently follows you, ignoring the way your perfume lingers for a few moments behind you.  

You grab your keys off the counter, where two untouched glasses of whiskey sit, you don't know it, but he's going to tear up pouring the glass with the lip gloss stain on it out into the sink like it's just another day. His hand hovers over your lower back as he leads you to his front door, opening it for you. You step out into the warm summer air of the morning, grimacing despite the pleasant day. As you walk down the concrete slab of flooring, you look back, aching to see him just one more time.  

There he stands, John Walker, leaning against his doorframe, bare chested, boxers low on his hips, a few love bites littering his neck, nothing compared to how you look, acting as if your heart isn't actively breaking with each step you take away from him. What you'll never know, never realize, is that his hear is aching more than yours... 

Wanting, but never having, wishing, but it never coming true, that if he could be better for anyone, even if just for a few minutes, that he could be better for you.  

========================================================================= 

p.s. sorry for the long ahh authors note and tag. 

[aphroditessaturn]

Better For You

tags: John Walker x fem!reader, MENTIONS OF UNALIVING, (please dont read if you struggle with those thoughts even a little, its only like two sentences, but seriously, theres help if you need it cutie), ANGST (because im me and i just like being sad i guess), mention of alcohol/alcoholism/drinking to be okay, lots of cussing, cheating reader (you are the villain in this i guess *shrugs* what can you do about it), SMUT: dirty talk, mentions of choking, p in v, oral (fem!recieving), fingering, IF I MISSED ANY PLEASE TELL ME!! 

a/n: holy cow, firstly, i think i was possessed by the ghost of Angst past while writing this, or it may have just been me listening to Pushing It Down and Praying, potato, potato. SECONDLY, as i said in the tags, PLEASE DONT READ IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH UNALIVING MENTIONS, yes it is only two sentences, but still, i care about you cuties, so please please heed the warning. And THIRDLY... everyone clap for me, i wrote smut without laughing at the word ‘cock’ too much. I still laughed alot, it just looks so funny to me, cock. Anywho... enjoy this 10.2k words of heartbreak, laughter, and of course, some good ol’ fashioned smut. Love you cuties, thanks for the love on my posts, and as always criticism is welcomed! Happy (not so happy) reading! 

10.2k words (please dont look at me like that, i have too many words in my head, now you cuties suffer the consequences of said words) 

You kiss your boyfriend goodbye, shutting your eyes and imagining him. Your boyfriend doesn't seem to notice anything different about the kiss. Doesn't notice how you move your lips a little more against his, how your eyes flutter shut, the way your hands reach up to feel for dog tags that aren't there.  

You pull away, giving him a loving smile as you whisper a soft, almost non-existent “I love you,” only then do you open your eyes. You keep the smile on your face as you turn away from him, walking towards your car, not looking back, not wanting to see if he still wasn't him. 

You hated Saturday nights, not because of the busy bar, not even because of the grabby hands from the older men. No, you hated Saturday nights because of how they remind you about just how depraved this stupid fucking town is. The older men eye-fucking the waitresses as they pass, forgetting that there's at least a twenty-year age gap between them and their objects of affection.  

It was the same every weekend, stupid patrons that reeked of the whiskey you were pouring. They all told the same story “I loved her, I was good to her, and what did I get in return? ‘Not tonight honey I have a headache,’ and a bitchy attitude.” All of it accompanied by the same round of ‘Here, here's’ that just rammed it into your head, all men are the same.  

You poured another whiskey sour, placing a slice of lemon on the rim when you heard him. 

“Hey, honey, can I get a whiskey, neat, maybe with one of those lemons on the rim?” The nickname hit an exposed nerve ending, that's what every patron in this bar called you, and there was another man acting like your nametag wasn't splayed on your chest. But the twitch in your eye was calmed by the tone of his voice, something almost baritone to it made you want to fall into a trance. 

You got into your car, placing the key in the ignition and turning the key, the small Nissan Rogue engine rumbling to life, headlights flicking on, illuminating your boyfriends house. You give him another small wave, your hand resting on the ‘12’ of the steering wheel.  

John Walker had a different story as you poured his drink,  

“I shouldn't be here honestly,” He had commented with a rough laugh, staring at the glass as you fill it two thirds of the way with the amber colored liquid. “I couldn't take care of my own son,” He gave you a wave as if to offer up the information specifically to you. “Got drunk constantly, just scrolled on my phone and tried to forget about how much of a loser I was—am, I'm still a fucking loser.” 

You hesitated as you handed him his glass, usually you would zone out and stand there, listening to the same sob story repeatedly, hoping that your ‘listening’ ear would get you a better tip. But part of you wanted to listen to him, to hear his tale. He was admitting that he was the problem... 

And dammit you should've heeded the warning. 

The street leading out of your boyfriend's house is quiet as you drive with the windows down, Lizzy McAlpine coming softly through your speakers. You get onto the highway, zoning out as you drive, your mind thinking about everything, about how you feel so on edge around your boyfriend, the way he doesn't get your jokes, how he doesn't listen to you during sex, just kind of feeling around until he thinks you're satisfied then getting off in two minutes. Thinking about it all makes you grip the wheel harder, knuckles turning white, because he's not perfect, but he's stable.  

After an hour or two of talking on and off with John, you had realized you enjoyed his presence across the bar, something that rarely ever happened...more like never happened. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, he laughed at yours as well. The two of you ping ponging in the conversation, seemingly feeding off the other’s energy, causing the words to just flow.  

You found yourself a little disappointed when he pressed his large palm to the bar, standing up as he looked around at the empty establishment.  

“I guess I'm holding you up, huh?” he gave you a crooked grin, the gesture emphasizing the slight crow's feet around the corners of his eyes.  

You leaned against the bar across from him, looked around for a moment, before you sighed softly, “Yeah, yeah probably should close up or something.” You grabbed the towel off your shoulder and started wiping down the laminated wooden counter, the fingerprint smudges wiped away just like how the conversation seemed to dissipate.  

He laughed, pulled out his wallet, “Well don't sound so enthusiastic about me leaving.” you heard the cocky grin on his face before you looked up to see the evidence.  

“Well, I mean, I do have to close,” you shrugged, palms flat on the bar as you lean on it, dirtying the just cleaned bar. “But that doesn't mean we have to stop talking,” you cocked an eyebrow at him.  

His blonde eyebrows shot up, his blue eyes looked you up and down before his grin widened into a toothy smile as he set down a twenty on the bar, “Yeah? Y’wanna keep talking, honey?” you'd never admit how much you liked him calling you that. 

Your zoning out had made your body going on autopilot, taking an exit that isn’t the one to your apartment complex. You have a millisecond of confusion before you realize where you’re going, a feeling of guilt creeps up into your throat, you start to grab at your phone to get you turned around, back on the main highway.  

Instead of leading you straight back to the main road, it shows you a way that you don't know if you trust yourself enough to take without derailing from your current mission to get home. You keep driving, following the gps as it takes you down the familiar roads, each streetlight leading you closer and closer to something that seems to pull at you like a fly to a sticky trap. 

John insisted on taking you out on a proper first date, not wanting to call the two of you talking while you worked, a first date. He’d shown up to your apartment with a small bouquet of flowers, dressed in a button up and suit jacket, beard trimmed, and that same soft smile you admired so much. He’s a gentleman, you found out quickly, opening doors for you, paying for your food, holding your heels at the end of the night when your feet started to ache, giving you his suit jacket.  

“I'm simply saying that old westerns are cinematic masterpieces,” His hands moved as he emphasized his point.  

You snorted, pulling his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “And I'm simply saying that that sounds like something my father would say,” you shook your head, looked over at him.  

“Your dad has good taste. The apple obviously has fallen very far from the tree, unfortunately,”  

You zoned out a little, looking at him, the way his button up was taut over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up showing off his thick forearms. The way his beard covered up the sharp line of his jaw, his thick waist, not completely flat, and if you had to guess, he didn't have a glistening six pack, probably just a thick line of muscle there, a thin layer of fat over it. But dammit all if that didn't make you want to just claw your nails down it— 

“Honey, you're staring,” he didn't even look over at you, just kept walking as he grabbed your hand to keep you from running into a pole.  

“I am not” you rolled your eyes, interlocked your fingers with his as he walked on the side closest to the street.  

“Mmhmm... I know I'm ugly honey you ain’t gotta remind me of that,” it almost sounds like he's joking, like he's trying to get you to join in on the self-deprecating joke, but you didn't, you simply cocked your head at him, pulled him to a stop.  

“What?” he asked softly as the two of you stopped walking under a streetlight.  

“You’re handsome, you know that right?”  

You would've thought you had suddenly grown five heads with the way he looked at you. He quickly schooled his expression into a neutral one, shrugged, “Yeah, yeah I know,”  

His words may have claimed to be self-assured, but the way the tips of his ears went red, his eyes dodging yours, it all pointed to a hidden insecurity you had just prodded at.  

“I mean it, you're very handsome, I'm surprised you don't hear that often.” 

He looked down at you, taking a small step towards you. His free hand not holding yours found the side of your neck, his thumb brushed against your pulse, “Thank you honey,” his eyes found yours, blue irises making an involuntary smile bloom your face. 

“You sure like calling me honey, don't you?”  

“Because you're warm,” he leaned down, his nose bumped against yours, “and I bet you taste even sweeter than honey, so maybe I should give you a new nickname,” his lips brushed against yours, your own parting a little as your hands found his sides. 

“How about sugar?” he asked quietly, his eyes searched yours, almost silently asking for permission to kiss you.  

You nodded, “Sugar is nice,” you leaned up on your tip toes and pressed your lips against his. 

You tap the steering wheel as you drive, ‘Pushing It Down and Praying’ by Lizzy McAlpine blasting louder in your speakers, almost making them distort the tune. The roads twist and curve, you missed the turn eleven miles ago and can't bring yourself to turn around. You keep driving, almost willing the road to not lead where you know you it will. 

Tears stung at your eyes, you couldn't understand why he did this. Why he pushed you away when he was obviously struggling. It was the third time you had tried calling him, you eventually gave up and headed over to his apartment. You knocked on the door until you heard the soft click of a lock being undone.  

He looked like shit, eye bags more defined, an olive-green shirt taut over his shoulders and chest. He reeked of the whiskey he was probably drowning himself in. “I told you, you shouldn't come over,” 

You shook your head, pressed a palm against the door, “I'm not letting you drink yourself to death, John.”  

He rolled his eyes, the usual vibrant blue now dulled by the alcohol and thoughts chewing him up from the inside out. “I'm not drinking myself to death, it's only a few drinks, just- just leave,” he attempted to shut the door, your shoe wedged itself between the frame and the wooden door.  

“John... don't shut me out, don't do this again.” you pleaded with him, big doe eyes watery with tears. The door creaked open until his arm rested flat against the back side of it, his broad frame filling the doorway.  

“You need to leave.” his voice, rough and lifeless, no longer holding the smooth, baritone tonality that you loved so much, grated your ears. He sounded like he was one more shot of whiskey away from grabbing the firearm beneath his pillow and making sure you wouldn't have a reason to come back here again.  

“I'm not leaving, and one day, maybe you'll be smart and get it through your thick head that I'm not going to just leave when you're struggling, john, because I care about you, I-” 

He held his hand up, palm facing you, “Stop, stop talking,” the words carrying more bite than he had meant for them to. John got like that whenever you attempted to get more than just the shallow part of him, he got snappy. Like a dog that's been in a kennel far too long, biting at hands that try to pet it. It's why it'll never be adopted, never be loved fully. It's been left in a cage to rot and believes anyone who tries to get it out, simply wants to bribe it out into open air, only to shut it back in.  

“Don't say you love me, please honey, you don't love me, you don't care about me, you don't—” 

“You can't tell me what I feel John; you can't tell me that I don't care about you because i do—” 

You felt his hand wrap around your wrist, easily pulling you into his apartment. The door slammed shut behind you, “You don't! You don't care about me! You shouldn't! I'm an asshole! I'm a fucking loser! I drink when I'm angry, I get angrier and I snap, and dammit sugar I don't wanna snap at you—so please- please just leave.” his words started loud, getting quieter as he continued to speak.  

You stared up at him, he’d heard you talk about how you react to yelling, especially in close quarters. Your eyes glassy, shoulders hunched in on yourself, your lip trembled.  

His expression softened at you, his eyes shut for a moment, he looked away from you, “I'm sorry sugar, I’m- fuck.” he shook his head.  

You sniffled, blinked away the inevitable tears, “No, no it’s okay,” you attempted to assure him, your voice shook, but he kept shaking his head. 

“No baby, it's not okay, look at you, fuck, I'm- I'm a fucking terrible person, you- you should leave,” he pulled away from you.  

In your emotional turmoil, you reached for him. You reached for him like you would a lifeline when you're drowning at sea, hoping, praying, you can wrap your fingers around it.  

He pulled away. 

When your car is placed into park, your mind seems to come back into your body. Your hands fall off the steering wheel, your head turning as you look at the door of the apartment complex. You shouldn't be here, this is wrong, you have a loving boyfriend just a short drive away. You could drive back and spend the night at his house. Youve never stayed over at his house, and you don't think you ever will. You can't stand the thought of waking up to someone that isn't him, not when you know what it's like to. 

You felt his beard at the back of your neck. He was always extra touchy the days after a big fight, almost like a silent apology for his stupidity. Thats what John claimed it was, the way he always snapped when you tried to get too close, tried to break down the walls around his heart. How he always pushed you away when all you wanted was to bury yourself beneath his skin, become a part of him. 

You stretched beneath his dark comforter; a soft groan left your lips. His strong arms wrapped tighter around your middle, his nose laid on the side of your neck, inhaled as if he was trying to huff your scent.  

“G’mornin’ sugar,” his voice made you shiver, the rough tone of it made thicker by the haze of sleep.  

You reached behind you, carded your fingers through his blonde hair, “Mornin’ baby,” 

His lips found your pulse, slowly moving over it, his tongue lying flat against the skin there, like he was trying to memorize how fast your heart had beat when he started to move his right hand up under his shirt on your frame. All of it was uncharacteristically soft of him, the way he slowly moved you until you were on your back, your hands tangled in his soft hair as he pushed the material up until it was hitched up above your breasts, your doe eyes soft and wide up at him, still a little groggy with sleep.  

“John,” you'd whisper his name softly, tried to assure him he didn't need to make apologies like this, the teary eyed ‘I'm sorry’s last night were enough. But he wouldn't listen, continuing to kiss down your body, you swear you can hear him whispering against your soft skin. 

“So sweet t’me,” 

“Don't deserve you honey,” 

“Too good t’me, my pretty girl,” 

You wouldn't stop him, just continuing to sigh and moan his name quietly, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue found the aching spot between your thighs, still sore from the last night’s ‘apology’. His tongue found your clit like a heat seeking missile finding its target, slowly circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, each time mumbling “I'm sorry,” or “So sweet, pretty girl,”  

Your sneakers hardly made any noise as you walked up the stone staircase to his door, you take your time, looking around as you ascend the stairs, almost scared someone might see you, see you crawling back, your hand glides over the black metal railing, trying to ground yourself in the moment. You know this is wrong, you know you should turn around, but the memories keep bombarding you, forcing your feet to continue up the stairs until your stalking down the concrete floor to his door.  

John knew you weren't the best cook, so he’d always pick you up and bring you grocery shopping with him. Showed you the best type of beef to get for whatever the two of you planned to cook that night. He had a weird (cute) habit of spinning you in the ice cream aisle, every time the two of you were walking down it. You were walking down the cold freezer section, the slight squeaking of the wheels behind you indicated he was still following you as you stopped in front of the pints of ice cream.  

His large hands found your waist and you smiled, “You always do this,” you rolled your eyes, he just smiled right back at you. He moved his head over your shoulder so he could look at you, “And you love it.”  

As if on cue, he grabbed your right hand and pulled it until you were hand in hand, outstretched, almost reaching for him. He slowly pulled your hand above your head, twirling it, forcing you into a soft spin.  

You were almost tempted to forget about the screaming match the two of you had a few days prior... 

Almost 

You lift your fist to the wood, hovering it in front of the wooden door. You swallow, mind racing as your head tries to connect with your heart, trying to force your feet back down the steps and into your car. Have you ever wanted something that you knew was bad for you? You know you could just text your boyfriend, call him, be reminded of the loving arms waiting for you, just a short fifteen-minute drive on the highway away. 

The door opens without you knocking on it.  

It hurt, hurt more than any shot you would get from the doctor, any scrape or cut you had gotten. Nothing could compare to the day you had to make the decision to leave him, to cut it off, to pull the roots that Jonathan F. Walker had planted in your heart. You cried, a lot, before you even talked to him about it.  

The two of you had been having an off few weeks, not just days, weeks. Weeks of no communication, weeks of hot then cold, one morning he wants nothing to do with you, then the next he's begging you for just five more minutes. You had had enough, you couldn't take it, your mental health deteriorating with each swing of the pendulum,  

You sat in his living room, eyes already teary as you heard his key insert itself into his lock. He just looked at you for a few moments, before he clocked the bleary look in your eyes. His expression slowly dropped, almost like he could sense what this was, what was about to happen. “Can we talk?” you had asked softly.  

John wasn't a quitter, he bickered with you about it, claiming this to just be another ‘dip in the line of your relationship’ that it would pass, everyone goes through this. But you explained to him how much hurt you were going through, how with every dip, your mental wellbeing seemed to get worse. It all made you question your self-worth. 

And oh god when you said that he nearly dropped to his knees in front of the chair you sat in. What he had been doing was making you feel worthless? He had made you feel worthless? All he wanted to do was jump out of the window, ensuring you would never feel worthless again. He wanted to take away the pain so fast, make sure you only ever felt good things, especially coming from him.  

You cried as you dug the heels of your palms into your eyes, shaking your head as he tried to beg you to stay.  

“I promise I'll get better, baby, I never meant to hurt you, I swear honey, please,” he had asked begged you. You forced yourself up from the chair, sniffling as you wiped your nose on your sleeve, “This is for both of us, baby, I'm sorry,” you sobbed because promises were just words.  

The apartment was quieter without you in it, brightening the space in a way only you could. John never forgave himself for hurting you, he promised himself if he ever got the chance to have you again, he would rather die than hurt you like that again. But if he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't have blamed you if you never wanted to see him again. The gun under his pillow looked more and more tempting each night that passed.  

Then he got the notification of movement near his door.  

You stare up into his blue eyes, for a split-second thinking ‘Why did I ever break up with him?’ until the memories wash over you like an ice-cold shower. But it leaves you shivering, wanting to curl up with him. He’s wearing a tight navy shirt, grey sweatpants, he stares down at you, eyes briefly flicking over your appearance.  

The way your shirt collar has been stretched so it shows off your shoulder, the necklace with an initial on it, ‘B’, his jaw clenches at seeing the letter. He doesn't say a word, he just opens the door a little wider, silently inviting you in.  

You walk in without thinking, your feet moving as if on autopilot, walking into the familiar apartment. You hated yourself a little more each time you came over, even if it was only for a night. You look to your right, seeing the small kitchen, white tiles, a bottle of Jack Daniels open with a glass next to it. He walks past you towards the bottle, grabbing out another glass. You start to shake your head, “I don't-” he turns his head, arching an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask “really?” you sigh, nodding as you walk over to the kitchen. You lean against the counter, hip pressing into the cold tile.  

“What was it?” he pours the amber liquid into the two glasses.  

You cock your head, “What was what?” 

“Did he make a shitty joke? Not laugh at yours? Say something only a douchebag would say?” he clarifies, “Why are you here again?”  

You feel immediate guilt, you shouldn't be here, none of that happened, you're just greedy needing him like oxygen. “I- I shouldn't be here.” you mutter, taking the glass from him. 

He leans against the counter across from you, holding the other glass in his hand as he watches you, “You shouldn't.” he repeats, “But you are.” 

You look at him, giving him a look that he can decipher as ‘please don't’. “I don't know why I'm here—” you sling the glass back, gulping the entire drink in one shot.  

“I do.” he grabs the empty glass from you, your fingers brushing against his, neither of you pull away. “You need more,” he hands you his still full glass, pouring more of the amber liquid into the empty one. “You need more than just stable, that’s why you come over here,” 

He says it like it's a fact, just as easily known as the fact that the sky is blue. You don't correct him; you don't argue that you don't need him. You just stare at him, this time taking a sip of the whiskey, the liquid bitter on your tongue.  

“I don't wanna have sex,” you couldn't tell if you believed the words as you said them, but you said them anyways, “I just need to talk,” 

He gives you a sincere look, setting down his glass, “I’d never force you to do anything, sugar,”  

Dammit, those words made you want him more. 

You shake your head, “Stop saying that, sugar, and stop talking like that.” 

He simply raises his eyebrow, “Like what? Say that I'm not going to force you to do anything with me? Treat you with human decency—” 

“I mean when you say things like that, when you call me sugar, it makes me want to have sex with you and we both know how that always ends up.”  

The words hang in silence for a moment, both of you staring at each other like you’re one accidental touch from combusting.  

“You feel guilty as hell in the morning, and I feel like shit for making you feel like that.” his hands rest on either side of his thick waist, clutching the counter behind him.  

You lean back against the counter across from him, eyes trailing down to stare at the wall, “Fuck,” the word comes out as a whisper, your head lulling back, exposing your throat.  

He watches the silver initial gleam against your throat, ‘B’, even the image of that thing on your neck makes him want to scream.  

“He doesn't know you prefer gold.” the statement should be phrased as a question, but it’s more so a fact.  

He grabs the glass next to him, taking a small sip of the whiskey as you respond, not straightening your neck to look at him. “I wear both—” 

“But you prefer gold—” 

“Dammit just drop it okay?” 

John sits in silence, staring at the initial, his mind racing with what he could've done differently to make there be a ‘J’ hanging from your neck. 

“I don't know what to do.” you admit softly, bringing your head up a little to make eye contact with him. 

“You should leave,” he doesn't say it with malice, there's no bite in the words, just a simple offer-up of advice. 

You look at him, your eyes starting to sting with tears, “I don't want to,” you whisper, putting down the glass and gripping the counter behind you.  

His expression softens at you, “Don't cry sugar, you know I hate seeing you cry,” he pushes off the counter, taking a small step towards you. His large hands find your face and cup your cheeks, wiping the few tears that have already tracked down them.  

You sniffle, looking up at him, “I know, I just- dammit, why couldn't you be him?” the words make his hands freeze on your face. He’s tempted to get angry with you, to ask why you're trying to compare him to some fantasy picture of him as a stable constant in your life. Something you proudly display on your neck, instead, he's reduced to late night conversations, watching you cry over the guilt of being in love with someone you can never fully have.  

“I’ll never be him, sugar, you know that. There’s no use in crying over it.” his voice is soft, his thumbs rubbing over your soft cheeks. “I'm too far gone, I drink too much, I snap at you, sugar. You know I don't wanna hurt you like I already have.” 

More tears spill over your cheeks as you listen to him, because you know has right, you know he’ll forever be the angry drunk ex-captain America. And yet you can't help but want him, you know he's bad for you, you know it'll hurt all over again, but you can't stop yourself as you close your eyes.  

His lips press against the tear stains on your cheeks, gently moving over the salty tracks on your skin, before he moves up to your forehead, “So pretty, even when you cry.” you let out a soft laugh 

“Shut up, I'm an ugly crier.” you blink up at him.  

“You’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, even when you cry. Don't you dare call yourself an ugly crier.” his lips press against your nose.  

You tilt your head up just enough to meet his lips, he pulls away by a centimeter, “Sugar... you're gonna regret this.” you know he's right, but you can't stop the whisper from leaving your lips, “Just one kiss?” you look up at him. 

He stares down at your doe eyes, the way they're glassy with tears, how plump your lips look, how your cheeks are flushed from crying.  

“Just one.” 

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, moving against your mouth in a way that only he knows how to. Your hand reaches up and grasps the dog tags around his neck, your thumb gliding over the steel, feeling the engravement of his name on it. Your other hand slides up his chest, carding through the hair just above his neck. He starts to pull away, his hands sliding down from your cheeks to your waist. 

“Sugar—” 

“Just one more.”  

You pull him down to your level, lips moving a little more against his. He kisses your back, he never was able to say no to you, especially when you seemed so needy.  

The kiss starts to devolve, his fingers digging into your waist, crumpling your shirt. His broad frame pushes you back against the counter, your lower back pressing against the tile. Your nails scratch gently at his scalp, causing a low grunt to make its way out of his throat. You take advantage of his open mouth and delve your tongue in between his lips, tasting the bitter liquid on his tongue.  

He grunts a little louder, bending down, without breaking the kiss, and grabbing your thighs. He sets you onto the tiled counter, his hands massaging the fat of your thighs, greedy to feel the skin not concealed by your shorts. He pulls away from your lips, moving his mouth down to your jaw as you shove your hips forward to meet his. He mumbles something intelligible against your neck before his hands are leaving your thighs and coming up behind your neck.  

You feel your necklace come unclasped as he moves his lips up to your ear “As fun as it sounds to fuck you with another man’s initial around your neck, I think we’d both prefer my hand over this stupid fucking necklace.” your head lulls back as you nod, giving him a weak “mmhmm,” 

He tosses the silver pendant to the kitchen floor, a small clink letting the both of you know it hit the ground. His lips are back on your neck, moving over your pulse, his tongue laving over the skin, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. You feel his teeth start to graze against your soft skin and you push a little at his shoulders, “No marks, no marks, baby,”  

He laughs against your neck, “Can't call me baby and ask me to not leave marks in the same sentence, sugar,”  

You try to come up with an excuse to get him to not leave marks, but your thoughts are interrupted as you feel him start to create a hickey in your skin, just under your jaw. The sensation of his teeth biting softly at the junction makes your head spin. You push his head a little more into your neck, “Mm you seem awfully needy for someone who doesn't want me to leave my mark on her, honey” 

You whine, pushing your hips forward against his, he grunts against your neck, pulling away just enough to stare at the mark, “You always look so pretty with my teeth marks on you, sugar.” you tug at his hair, forcing him against your lips again.  

He grabs at the undersides of your thighs, lifting you off the counter and walking towards his bedroom, acting like you weighed nothing. You detach from his lips, kissing down his jaw and neck, “Fuck, I bet you don't act like this with that pretty boy, huh? Bet you're not as needy for him as you are f’me honey.”  

You nip at the soft spot beneath his ear, “Could never be this needy for anyone but you, John,” he nearly buckles, shoving you up against the wall on his way to his room. “Baby... you can't, fuck I'm trying to focus on not dropping you.” 

You laugh against his skin, letting your tongue run over the mark, soothing the skin and him at the same time, “Sorry,” you pull back a little, giving him a soft smile.  

“You’re too pretty to be saying sorry about anything,” one of his hands comes up to rest against your cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they stare down at you.  

He carries you down the hallway, your forehead resting against his shoulder, hand wrapped around the back of his neck. You hear a soft thud of the door as he closes it with his foot, before you're deposited onto the bed. You lean back on your hands, looking up at him with your lip pulled between your teeth.  

He looks like he’s about to lose it, “Oh fuck you for using that face right now.” 

You let out a giggle, “I wish you would,” you feign ignorance, your smile making his heart do backflips while simultaneously pumping all his blood down south.  

John pokes his tongue into his cheek, “Don't get cheeky with me, sugar, I can see right through you,”  

You lean up, sitting up on your knees so you're almost eye-level with him, “Yeah?” you ask softly before reaching down and pulling off your shirt. You don't break eye contact with him as you lean down and pull off your shorts, leaving you in a flimsy sleep bra and plain cotton panties that are already bearing the evidence of your arousal.  

“Oh, fuck yeah,” his blue eyes darken as they trail down your form, staring at your chest for a moment before he's leaning forward, forcing you onto your back. You smile up at him as your hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours. He kisses you like you might lead him to salvation, like in this very moment, nothing exists outside of the two of you. 

You feel his calloused hands start to wander, moving down to your ribs, fingers sliding under the material of your bra. He only pulls away to tug off the fabric, eyes immediately dragging down to the bare skin of your breasts. He hands cup the sides of your rib cage, thumbs brushing over the outsides of them. “So fucking perfect, you're telling me he doesn't want to make sure this isn't properly taken care of?” it's a rhetorical question but you still answer with a head shake, big doe eyes trained on his, pink bottom lip jutting out a little.  

“Oh god bless it, honey, I hope you never stop coming to me.” his voice drops a few octaves before his mouth is back on you, quickly pressing a kiss to your lips before moving down. His mouth leaves a pretty trail of hickeys down your neck, to your collarbone, before he starts to give special attention to your tits. You gasp as his mouth encircles one of your nipples, making it harden into a peak. Your back arches and he smiles, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as his hands rub up and down your sides. 

You tug at his hair, letting out a soft, “John, baby,” he seems to double down, lips moving over your chest with adoration, seemingly worshipping you through his mouth.  

His lips move to your other breast, nipple now painfully hardening into a peak, you hear a soft, “Gotta make sure this one gets some lovin’ too, pretty girl.” before his mouth is on you. His hands press and massage at your sides, thumbs pressing against your hip bones as he finally detaches from your chest, kissing down further onto your stomach. 

He leaves hickeys on the pudge of your tummy, making sure to look up at you as he does so. “Perfect everywhere, sugar.” 

Your hand cards through his hair as he moves towards your cotton panties, his eyes land on the damp patch of material, blue irises flicking up to you. “Is this all for me, honey?” you pull your lip between your teeth, looking down at him as you nod. He presses his mouth against the wet spot, tongue laving at the material. Your legs tense as you feel his hot breath over you, even with the barrier of cotton between his mouth and your pussy.  

His tongue moves against the cotton, trying to get any sort of taste of you from it. You tug at his hair, “John... baby please,” he smiles against the fabric, calloused fingers moving to pull your panties down. He sits up, pulling the material all the way down, his eyes never leaving yours, until he tosses the cotton aside, leaving your thighs bare, and your wet entrance on display for him. “I will never understand how a man could see this and not want you to feel the most earth-shattering pleasure.” he says the words mostly to himself, his mouth already watering at the sight.  

He scoots down until your legs are over his shoulders, the sensitive skin of your thighs twitching as his beard rubs against them, his mouth leaving soft kisses against the now-irritated skin as a silent apology. His eyes find yours, your lip still pulled between your teeth, eyes staring down at him, “Thats it, sugar, you just keep those pretty eyes on me,” his eyes seem to get glassier as he gets closer to your core.  

Your hips jolt a little as you feel the coarse hair of his beard brush up against your sensitive entrance. The way he's lavishing your thighs with kisses has already made you more wet than you have ever felt with your boyfriend. The thought makes a quick pang of guilt shoot through you, and, almost as if on cue, his mouth finds your aching cunt.  

John aced almost every category in the military and in high school, including marksmanship. He could see the target from a half mile away and get a bullseye without breaking a sweat. So, the fact that he could find your clit the first time he went down on you wasn't surprising. But even now, he used that knowledge against you. His tongue sweeping over your weeping entrance, you clench around nothing, “Fuck, john,” he loves to hear his name from your lips, even if it is in annoyance that he won't give you what you so desperately want. 

The tip of his tongue moves over your slit, his nose bumping against the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Oh my god, holy shit-” you gasp, thighs clenching around his head, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He smiles as he starts to push his tongue into your dripping core, your nails scratching against his scalp. His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but that is the last thing on your find as his tongue starts to gently move in and out of your entrance.  

He can't hear anything, your thighs flush against his ears, his big hands splaying on the outsides of them as he whispers nothing but praise into you, “Taste so fucking good sugar, swear to fuck, never tasted anything better,” his tongue moves up and circles around your clit, a cocky smile gracing his face as you jolt. Your hips shift against his face as he works the sensitive bud, making his tongue move faster.  

“John, fuck baby, I'm getting there. Shit, please don't stop.” You plead, not wanting to be left on edge like you were just a few hours ago by your boyfriend.  

He just shakes his head, lips detaching from your clit just long enough to gasp out a quick, “Wouldn't dream of it, honey,” before he's back, eating you out like a man starved. You could swear he enjoys this more than you do. The way his eyes flutter shut as his tongue laps at your core, how he grunts and groans into you each time you tighten your thighs around his head, or the way his hips grind into his mattress beneath him when you tug at his hair.  

You feel the familiar knot start to tighten in your stomach as you shift your hips against his face, he lets you use his mouth to get off, letting you tug and pull at his hair, he’d let you ride his face until he couldn't breathe if you asked. 

Because the truth is, John needs this, more than you do, he craves being used, being needed like this. The way you moan and mewl his name so softly into the air of his bedroom makes his chest fill with pride, pride that he is the one making you feel good, he's the one that's getting you off with just his tongue. The way you taste is just one of the many perks he loves about eating you out.  

Your back arches as the knot tightens further, you squeeze your thighs around his head, your hand getting tighter in his hair. “John, John baby fuck—please im-” you don't get to warn him properly, cumming on his tongue in the next moment. His name becomes a prayer on your lips, the only thing you can think of. He takes every last bit of you, not letting anything leak down onto his sheets.  

Only when you're pushing at his forehead, pleading with him, “Baby, fuck—’s too much,” and his vision is tunneling from the lack of oxygen, does he pull away. He leans up, letting your legs fall from his shoulders, his beard is soaked through with your release. You lay back, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he leans back onto his haunches, you hear the bed creak as he moves. When you bring your head up, your met with the sight of a blissed-out John, staring directly at your soaked pussy, now leaking with your fluids. He catches your eye, giving you a half smile, “She’s so pretty like this, honey,”  

He was always a master at dirty talking. You swear he could get you off with his words alone.  

You feel his fingers run up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you let out a soft groan, your back arching, “John,” you stare down at him, he doesn't look at you, his eyes still stuck on the way your thighs shake a little as he presses his middle finger up against your slit. You jolt, eyes fluttering shut, “Damn, sugar, I know it's been a month or two since the last time, but you really... really tightened up while you were away, didn't you?” 

He talks about the time between your late-night visits to him like you were simply on vacation, not creating a whole other life with someone else. Because if he thought about it too much, he’d go find the ‘B’ of your necklace, (although, he already knows where the guy went to preschool, he couldn’t just let you date anyone), and make sure he never contacted you again.  

His middle finger sinks in slowly, just to the first knuckle, your back arches. “Was it being on edge around him the whole time? Hmm?” he pushes the digit deeper. He can't decide if he wants to watch your face, or the way your entrance is nearly pulling his finger in, “Maybe it was having to fake it every time the two of you had sex,” you squeeze around him at that, “Ohh it was that wasn't it baby?” he pauses, leaning over you as he pushes just a little more until he reaches the base of his finger. 

“Don't you worry, honey, you won't have to fake it with me,” he assures you, his free hand gripping the pillow near your head as he pulls his finger out, pushing it back in. His eyes trail down your frame, his head bowing as he looks between your legs, he pushes another finger in. Your legs scoot wider, allowing his thick frame to sit between them, “Oh look at her, so sweet, so needy for me, is that it?” he coos softly, his nose bumping against your cheek.  

You stare up at him, your hands interlocked behind his head, “John, baby, fuck-” you shudder as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaning back onto his haunches. You follow him, leaning up and pressing your lips against his.  

He’s taken by surprise at your initiative, his lips moving instinctively against yours. You tug at his shirt, hands sliding under the material, feeling the slightly pudgy area of his waist. You’ve always loved that area on him, the way he didn't have a six-pack, but you knew he was strong. The way it looked in a suit, all of him, broad, thick, and muscled, dammit you loved all of it.  

He tugs off his shirt, his dog tags hitting his chest with a soft clink, you grab at them, your thumb sliding over the bumps that display his name and rank. He pushes you back onto the bed and you whine, reaching for his sweatpants. 

“Sugar, you gotta wait, I was serious about you being tighter than usual, I'm not lying when I say you're uptight,” he comments, his fingers sliding back down between your legs. You relax into the bed, letting out a soft moan as he slides his digits into you again, finding you less tight than earlier. “Did my pretty girl just need to relax a little?” he asks quietly, sliding his fingers in and out of you at a moderate pace. You nod, relaxing more and more around his digits.  

“So- so good baby, fuck- you always treat me so good,” your back arches a little as he curls his fingers inside of you, finding the spongy spot you could never find by yourself. You stare up at him, doe eyed and blissed out, the flush on your cheeks still present from your last orgasm.  

He stares down at you for a moment, his fingers freezing their movement, his brain short-circuits, and he pulls them out of you.  

“So fucking gorgeous, swear to fuck, best thing I've ever seen,” he's over your body in a second, big frame encasing you on the bed as his lips find yours again. The kiss is hungrier, more desperate, like he's been starving for you and you've just given him permission to take what he wants.  

He pushes down his sweatpants, his cock hitting his stomach, already hard and leaking. He winces at the way it almost hurts to not be inside of you at that very moment, he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him, “I trust you,” your eyes are filled with nothing but sincerity, but even so... 

“I know you do honey, and it's really sweet that you wanna take me raw, but I gotta be honest, with how fucking good you look right now, and how painfully hard I am, I don't trust myself to pull out without getting you pregnant, so we’re gonna use a condom, mkay? Mkay.” he leans down and kisses your cheek as he grabs the small foil packet from his nightstand.  

You shift on the bed, feeling the way your release has leaked down to the sheets, causing your thighs to stick to them. He hovers back over you, his arm braced next to your head. You reach up and grab his bicep, nails softly digging into the skin as you stare down between your two bodies. He wraps a hand around himself, letting out a soft grunt as he pushes the head of his cock up against your entrance. “Dammit honey, I'm not gonna last long, just- just a warning,”  

He hates how warm he feels when you smile up at him, “Neither am I, baby,” 

John pushes in slowly, letting your weeping cunt surround him, he can feel every inch of you. You’re a little surprised with how easily you're taking him, your pussy not tightening in anticipation or nerves, just enveloping him easily.  

“Oh, you take it so good, honey, so good,” his nose bumps against yours as he gets you to look up at him, “Just been waitin’ for me, haven't you, sugar?” he lets out a soft laugh, not to mock, more in amazement. He slides in fully, and you feel it, he fills you up in a way no other man could, and as guilty as you felt for having the thought, that feeling is replaced by pleasure as he pulls out and slams back in.  

“Cmon, sugar, lost you there for a second, I want your attention on me, yeah that's it,” he pulls out slowly, pushing all his length back in at once, making the air leave your lungs in one quick gasp.  

“John,” 

“Thats my name sugar, be sure to wear it out.” 

You look up to see his cocky smile above you, his eyes soften a little as they look down at yours, his thrusts getting a little faster. You let out a soft grunt with each hit of his pelvic bone against your clit, the coarse hair of his happy trail overstimulating it. Your nails digging deeper into his bicep as he pulls his other arm up to brace next to you, his hips moving quicker, deeper into you. You can tell he's starting to get lost, the glassy look he gets in his blue eyes, the way he starts talking without even realizing what he's saying. 

“Wish- fuck- wish I could be better for you, honey.” 

“Wanna be so much better, just for you, get to have this every night,” 

“Wanna be the one to fuck you into oblivion, not some fucking pretty boy.” 

His thrusts get angrier, his nose scrunching up as he grunts, hiding his face next to yours, his forehead pressing against the sheets next to your head. “Fuck this- you feel so fucking good, haven't- dammit- haven't fucked no one else since you, sugar, nothing, nothing, can compare to how you feel,” he's rambling, his mouth not shutting up, as much as he wishes it would. 

You whimper into his neck, your eyes squeezing shut as you tighten around him. That earns a loud groan from him, one of his hands coming up to brace against the headboard as he changes the angle of his hips. His cock starts to bully your cervix, you throw your head back, moaning his name as you see stars, “John, baby, fuck- that feels so good,”  

“That’s right honey, fuck- fucking squeeze me, god you feel so good around me, so damn good, making me lose my fucking mind.” he moves even faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room.  

You tense around him as you start to feel the knot in your stomach tighten again, you scratch at his back, “John, baby- I'm gonna cum,” you whine, your chest heaving. He takes the hint, still moving at a fast pace, but making sure to roll his hips into yours, letting your clit feel his pelvic bone, his cock reaching a place inside of you, you never thought possible.  

“Oh, there she is, there's my pretty girl,” his voice is muffled as your eyes roll back into your head, you start babbling his name, repeatedly. You can't think of anything else, can't think of the guilt you'll surely feel tomorrow morning, how you have a boyfriend who could never make you feel this good, you can only think of his cock and how deep he is and how good his praise is making you feel.  

“Take it, fuck- take it all, sugar, you can-” only after you arch your back, squeezing around him so hard it forces him to slow down by a fraction, does he start to chase his own high. His hips move at an erratic pace, slamming into you with so much force, it makes the bed creak with every thrust. “I'm gonna- fuck- I'm gonna-” if it weren't for the haze of two orgasms, or the fact that you could feel your cervix being bruised by the head of his cock, you could swear you hear him say a quick, quiet, “God I love you,” as he cums.  

You both pant as he tries to keep his weight off you, keeping his cock inside of you for a few moments. You hold each other, his thick arms wrapped around your back, your arms wrapped around his neck, holding his face into your shoulder.  

Your entire body feels like jello as he pulls out, leaning back on his haunches and staring down at you. Your eyes are half-lidded as he rubs his palms over your thighs, “You okay, honey? Did I get too rough?” you laugh softly, knowing that is a fraction of how rough he can be. “No baby, you didn't hurt me, I'm okay.” you nod, assuring him.  

The bed creaks as he gets up, walking to the bathroom, you hear the sink turn on, then off. Your head turns as you watch him pick up his boxers, pulling them on before grabbing his shirt and tossing it next to you on the bed. You start to try and sit up, letting out a small grunt. “Hey, sugar, don't try and move right now, I just fucked you into oblivion.” you can hear the cocky grin in his voice.  

You look up at him as he drags a soft, damp, wash cloth down your thighs. You groan softly, “John, baby,” he nods,  

“I know sugar, I know, but I gotta clean y’up, or you're gonna get sticky, then you're gonna get irritated, and I don't want either of those things,” you laugh because you know he's right.  

After cleaning you up, he pulls his shirt over your head, helping you get into a more comfortable position against his chest, your leg hiked up over his abdomen as his arm is wrapped around your shoulder. His free hand cups the outside of your thigh on his stomach, his thumb swiping across the skin.  

You can already feel the guilt start to creep into the edges of your mind, and as if he can read it, his hand leaves your thigh to tuck your hair behind your ear, “Hey... sugar, don't go getting all fuzzy-headed on me now,” you nod, “I'm okay, just... thinking,” 

“Thats never good,” 

You swat softly at his chest, “Loser,”  

He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it before mumbling against the skin, “How about you get some sleep, loser” he suggests, guiding your hand to his dog tags as he reaches over and flicks off the light.  

You fall asleep quickly to the sound of his heartbeat in your ears, the way the steel of his dog tags feel beneath your palm lulls you to sleep. John holds you through the night, his eyes reluctantly falling shut, he doesn't want this to be over, doesn't want this to be possibly the last night you come over, but he knows better than to get his hopes up.  

Your phone ringing jolts you out of bed, you quickly crawl to the end of the bed, grabbing at your shorts to find it. You hit answer before looking at the caller ID.  

“Hello?” your voice is hoarse, the night before taking a toll on your vocal cords, along with it being almost 7 in the morning.  

“Hey... baby? Yeah, I'm at your place and you're not here. I was gonna see if you wanted to go out to breakfast or something, y’know, since you never really stay over.”  

A bucket of cold ice water might as well have been dumped on your head. You stay stock still, not knowing what to say, the bitter feeling is back in your throat, the guilt gnawing away at your conscience.  

“Baby?” your boyfriend calls your pet name again, it makes you nauseous.  

“Yeah, yeah, sorry Beau, I'm at a friend's house, accidentally took the wrong exit and figured I'd just stay the night, we had some catching up to do.” all technically the truth. You glance back at John, expecting him to still be asleep, but that man was awake before you ever even opened your eyes.  

His blue eyes bore into yours, almost silently asking you to hang up and forget about the plans, forget about your boyfriend and stay here.  

“Oh, okay, well I know you have work tonight, so I'll see you tomorrow maybe?” your boyfriend sounds hopeful it all makes you just wanna cry. You just give him a small, almost silent, “Mmhmm,” and hang up. Your eyes don't leave john’s as you put your phone down, sitting up on your knees.  

He should be angry, should be pissed off that he's technically the ‘other woman’ in this scenario, but the way your eyes well up with tears. It makes him want to call your boyfriend back and tell him to never call you again. It's too early for you to already be crying, he finds himself wanting to comfort you, “Don't cry sugar, hey, you're too pretty to cry.” he grabs at your arm, pulling you into a hug. You press your face into his chest, sniffling as the tears threaten to drown you, “I'm a terrible fucking person,” your voice is shaky. He shakes his head, “No you're not honey, I should've told you to leave last night and I didn't, because I'm a selfish bastard who wants you and only you.”  

He cups your cheek with his warm palm, looking down at you, you sniffle, “I shouldn't be here,”  

He nods, “I know, but you always find your way back here and if I'm being honest, sugar, i don't want you to stop coming back to me.” John is an honest man, he can't help telling you the truth, even if it makes you want to crawl into him and never see your boyfriend ever again.  

You stare up at him, swallowing hard before asking, “Why couldn't you be better?”  

You felt the love for him, it would always cause an ache in your heart, but you knew, you knew this would always fall apart, even if it did feel good as it crumbled.  

He shakes his head, “I'm not what you need honey, as bad as I wanna be all you could ever want or need, I'm not. You deserve so much better,” he pauses, kissing your nose, “But as long as you keep coming back, I'll never turn you away, and if that's my fault or yours, I'll take the blame every time.” 

You cry into his chest for another hour, until you fall asleep. When you wake up again at 10am, the sun has risen, birds chirp as if it's any other day, and your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep a few hours ago.  

You lean up, feeling his arms fall from around you. He stayed awake, now looking up at you as you sit up, looking over your shoulder at him. You move in silence as you get out of his bed, legs wobbly, your insides throbbing with an ache that would only ever be filled by him. He doesn't say a word as you walk out of his bedroom with his shirt on, he just silently follows you, ignoring the way your perfume lingers for a few moments behind you.  

You grab your keys off the counter, where two untouched glasses of whiskey sit, you don't know it, but he's going to tear up pouring the glass with the lip gloss stain on it out into the sink like it's just another day. His hand hovers over your lower back as he leads you to his front door, opening it for you. You step out into the warm summer air of the morning, grimacing despite the pleasant day. As you walk down the concrete slab of flooring, you look back, aching to see him just one more time.  

There he stands, John Walker, leaning against his doorframe, bare chested, boxers low on his hips, a few love bites littering his neck, nothing compared to how you look, acting as if your heart isn't actively breaking with each step you take away from him. What you'll never know, never realize, is that his hear is aching more than yours... 

Wanting, but never having, wishing, but it never coming true, that if he could be better for anyone, even if just for a few minutes, that he could be better for you.  

========================================================================= 

p.s. sorry for the long ahh authors note and tag. 

[aphroditessaturn]

Only Mine

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader Word Count: ~2,500 Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness, mild language, secret marriage, flirting, fluff Summary: No one knows you’re Tony’s wife. So when you show up at the Tower looking like that—all soft smiles and staggering beauty—the team doesn’t stand a chance. And neither does Tony’s patience. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one knew you were married to Tony Stark.

It wasn’t a secret, not exactly—just something quiet. Yours. Not for press releases or public drama or fan theories. Just late night takeout and cold feet under warm blankets and his name on your finger, where no one ever looked close enough to notice.

He told you once, right after your wedding, that keeping it just yours was the only thing that ever felt real in a world full of noise.

So you kept it.

Until today.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ You didn’t mean to cause chaos.

You really didn’t.

You just walked into the Tower—hair soft and loose, your favorite blouse (the one Tony always got stupid quiet about), and that look on your face. The one that said you weren’t trying to impress anyone, which somehow made it worse.

“Uh—can we help you?”

You turned and smiled. The kind that always made Tony stare too long.

Steve Rogers was blinking like he forgot how eyes worked.

“Oh,” you said sweetly, “I’m just here for the debrief. Meeting Room B?”

“I can show you,” he offered instantly, already stepping forward. “If—if you’d like.”

Sam appeared out of nowhere, like a hawk to something shiny. “We all should, actually. You know. To be polite.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. “How thoughtful.”

Steve looked proud. Sam looked smug. Natasha—who had just walked in—looked like she knew exactly what was going on and was already bored.

You followed them, heels echoing softly on the floor, pretending not to notice the way they kept glancing at you. Eyes lingering too long. Not even in a gross way—just stunned. Like they weren’t sure how someone like you had just walked into their world like a living fever dream.

And somewhere above all this?

You knew Tony would lose his shit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tony had exactly four minutes of peace before FRIDAY chirped into the air.

“Mr. Stark? Your wife has arrived.”

His pen clattered to the desk.

“She what?”

“She’s currently being escorted to the conference room. With Captain Rogers. And Mr. Wilson.”

Tony swore under his breath, already halfway out the door.

Because of course she couldn’t just walk in like a normal person. No. She had to stroll in like a dream sequence, melt every Avenger’s brain, and forget she was wearing his ring under that blouse that should really, really be illegal.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Steve was mid-sentence—something about protocol, but you’d stopped listening—when the doors slammed open behind you.

You didn’t even have to turn around.

You felt him before you saw him.

The magnetic hum of presence. The slight change in air.

And then: “There you are.”

Tony.

Everyone turned.

You smiled innocently over your shoulder. “Hi, honey.”

Silence.

Complete. Staggering. Silence.

Tony crossed the room in three long strides, didn’t even glance at the rest of them. He took your hand, laced his fingers through yours like it was instinct. Then leaned in and kissed your cheek. No, your jaw. No, right below your jaw, where it would linger.

Steve made a noise that might’ve been a gasp. Sam swore softly under his breath.

“Wait,” Clint said from the corner. “Honey?”

“Wife,” Tony corrected, turning slightly. “As in legally, emotionally, and very very off-limits.”

You squeezed his hand to stop him from adding and so far out of your league it’s laughable, because it was definitely coming.

“You never told us,” Natasha said, her tone unreadable.

Tony shrugged. “Don’t tell you what I eat for breakfast either. Doesn’t mean it’s a secret.”

You leaned into his side with a smile that was all teeth. “He’s a little jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Tony muttered under his breath. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Later, when the others had mostly dispersed—some in confusion, others in utter shock—you found yourself curled on the couch in the penthouse, Tony pressed half on top of you like a grumpy cat who’d finally caught its prey.

“You flirted with them,” he grumbled.

“I was being nice.”

“You winked at Steve.”

“He’s polite.”

“You asked Sam to walk you down the hallway.”

“I didn’t want to get lost.”

Tony buried his face in your neck with a dramatic groan. “You are going to kill me.”

“You like it.”

He looked up at you, eyes suddenly soft.

God, those eyes.

“I love you,” he said, like it wasn’t fair. Like it hurt him to admit it, even now.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I know.”

[aphroditessaturn]

Can I make a request? Homelander falling for a reader who is completely unaware of it. Not because he's good at hiding it but because, they genuinely can't fathom the thought of someone being that intense with their feelings about THEM of all people👀 but their the only person who's genuinely kind to him.

I'm sooooo sorry this took so long

Love and Devotion

pairing | homelander x supe!reader

word count | 5.8k words

summary | homelander becomes increasingly obsessed with the new kind and unsuspecting supe, and fixates on her as his perfect match, believing she belongs to him. his possessiveness reaches new heights after discovering intimate details about her powers, pushing him to claim her as his own, regardless of her obliviousness to his feelings.

tags | canon homelander??? obsession, possessiveness, season 4 timeline, major fluff, tell me if you think it ooc homelander, lactating kink

a/n | first homelander fic, this was sooooo fun to write and yes I did rewatch season 4 for this

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You were perfect from the moment he laid eyes on you.

"Her?"

Homelander’s voice dripped with disdain as he watched Firecracker spewing her rant about family values and patriotism, all while waving her hands around. She reminded him of a third-rate talk show host. He grimaced, turning to Sage.

"Yeah," Sage responded, standing at his side.

"Really?" he sneered, barely able to mask his disgust.

"Mhm," Sage hummed in affirmation.

"Seems like she fell off her Jet Ski one too many times," Homelander muttered, his lip curling.

Sage, unbothered by his sarcasm, simply shook her head. "No, now that Starlight’s back leading the Starlighters, we need someone like her."

Homelander raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mm. And that’s gonna shut them up?" He knew exactly what "them" meant: the endless critics, social media commentators, all the noise that clawed at his mind.

"No," Sage replied, her voice low and cryptic. "She’s going to make them louder."

He shot her a look. "You gonna trust me or not?" she added before he could question it further.

Rolling his eyes, he turned his gaze elsewhere. He was growing tired of these briefings, the endless parade of new supes Vought was parading through. But then, his eyes landed on you.

You were surrounded by a group of eager reporters, microphones pushed into your face. Unlike Firecracker, who couldn't stop her loud, brash performance, you were different. You weren't reciting hollow slogans or pandering to anyone. You stood there with an almost serene composure, answering each question softly, with a gentle smile. There was something…sincere in the way you spoke, like you actually cared about the answers, not just the headlines they’d create.

"And what about her?" Homelander murmured, his gaze locked on you as if he were seeing something unexpected for the first time.

"The Pink Dahlia," Sage said, repeating your supe name as though it was obvious. "She’s going to be the new Starlight."

Homelander frowned, feeling a flicker of confusion. The new Starlight? That seemed impossible. No one could ever replace that bitch's popularity, her…adoring fanbase. But Sage seemed to sense his thoughts, elaborating with an almost bored tone.

"The only reason Starlight is liked is because of her sincerity. Her kindness," Sage explained, nodding towards you. "Pink Dahlia is going to be America’s next sweetheart supe."

Homelander hummed, though his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sight of you. Sage was talking, but he was no longer listening. Instead, he watched as the cameras captured your every move. For a moment, you glanced in his direction. Not out of fear or awe, but with that same quiet softness you gave to everyone. It unnerved him how unaffected you seemed by his presence, by who he was.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

Sage dragged him into yet another pointless debate, but his attention was only half there. He knew she’d eventually let it go once she realized his disinterest, and sure enough, she did. He was quick to pass her along to the vultures—photographers desperate to get the next "supe girl" in their lenses.

As Homelander turned, his gaze landed on Ryan, sulking in one of the chairs at the back of the room. Frustration boiled inside him. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like that, so withdrawn, when the whole world was theirs.

But then, his brow furrowed. You had walked over, leaving the cameras behind. Quietly, you sat beside Ryan, the two of you almost invisible in the flurry of the room. He watched as you offered your hand to Ryan, a gentle smile on your face. His son, who had been lost in his own thoughts, blinked in surprise before hesitantly shaking your hand.

For the first time in hours, Homelander saw the tension leave Ryan’s shoulders. His usual sulk was replaced with something lighter. He listened to whatever you were saying, nodding slowly. Homelanders listened carefully to your sweet words, and watched how they were clearly having an effect on Ryan.

Interesting.

Homelander had too many fucking things going on for his mind to keep circling back to you. It irritated him, gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

First, the rage that boiled up every time he saw those goddamn Starlighter protests. He could hardly walk outside without hearing people chant for Starlight’s bullshit message, waving their signs, spewing their anti-Homelander garbage. It infuriated him. Then there was the constant frustration in dealing with Neuman. She was slippery, always too clever, too calm, and it made every negotiation with her feel like wading through quicksand.

But every time his temper cooled, his thoughts went back to you. You. That sweet, unassuming smile that you flashed so casually, like it wasn’t the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. And then there was your body—tight and perfect in that small pink and green suit, looking like you belonged on a magazine cover instead of here, in this hellhole with people like him.

It made him furious.

How could he let himself be distracted by you, when everything else around him was crumbling? He was supposed to be in control, but instead, he was falling apart. First he let that fucking loser Hughie get away. Then, Ryan—his own son—had the nerve to run off to see Butcher after everything Homelander had given him. After all the time and care he’d put into Ryan, after showing him the world, how was he still not good enough?

It made him sick.

And then... and then there was the other thing. His reflection. The part of him that never shut up, that always knew where to strike. His other self had looked at him and sneered. Told him he was weak, that he was a joke. That no matter how much power he had, no matter how feared he was, he was still nothing.

And maybe it was right. Maybe he was losing it.

So he decided to visit home. The lab. Where they had made him. Where he had been molded into the strongest supe to ever walk the earth. He’d slaughtered every single one of the scientists who had "raised" him. He stood in the sterile halls, the faint hum of the machines still active around him. The silence made him feel grounded, like this was the only place in the world where he could truly be himself.

But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Not when the image of you—your smile, your soft gaze, your kindness—kept seeping into his mind. You were a weakness he couldn’t afford. And that filled him with even more rage.

And yet the moment he saw your face, all that rage he had been holding onto evaporated like steam. The blood, the anger, the frustration—it all seemed distant as he took in the worried expression on your face.

He had strolled back into Vought Tower like nothing was wrong, though his suit was still soaked in the blood and viscera of the scientists he’d butchered in the lab. It didn’t matter—he was Homelander, after all. No one would dare question him. But fate must have been laughing at him because, of all people, he ran straight into you.

You froze when you saw him, your eyes widening in pure shock at the sight of him covered in carnage. Anyone else would have been horrified, would have run or screamed, but not you. Instead, your lips parted and, with that same quiet softness he had come to expect, you said, “Would you like some help?”

Homelander just stared, his mind slowing to a crawl as the words sank in. He was a god, covered in the blood of men, and here you were, offering help. Something inside him shifted in that moment. He nodded, feeling strangely empty and vulnerable, like a child waiting for instructions. In the back of his mind, he realized this was the first time you had actually spoken to him directly.

His chest tightened as you stepped closer, your eyes flicking up to his with cautious concern. You reached out and gently placed your pink-gloved hand into his red, blood-stained one. Homelander nearly closed his eyes, focusing intently on the warmth of your touch. That warmth—it spread through him, melting away the sharp edges of his anger. No one touched him like that, without fear or calculation.

You led him silently into the elevator, your hand still in his, guiding him like he was something fragile. He couldn't help but glance down at your hand in his, his mind spinning as he tried to commit the sensation to memory. The touch wasn’t just physical—it felt like a lifeline, something pulling him out of the darkness he had been sinking into.

As the elevator doors slid shut, the quiet hum of the building surrounded them, and Homelander found himself focusing solely on you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t recoil. You just held his hand, gently, as if leading him somewhere safe. He didn’t feel like a monster in that moment, not in your presence.

The elevator dinged softly, and you led him down the hall to your floor. The sight was unlike anything in Vought Tower—lush greenery, vibrant pinks and soft petals blooming everywhere. It felt alive, warm. This was your power after all, to bend nature to your will. And it was a reflection of you, full of life, soft but powerful. He was surprised it was even still Vought Tower.

He hadn’t expected you to bring him here. You could’ve taken him to his own floor, left him in one of the pristine, sterile bathrooms of his suite. But no—you’d brought him to your space, a sanctuary. It was so unlike the cold, artificial world of Vought. And so much like you.

Slowly, you guided him to the bathroom. The plants trailed along the walls, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. You looked up at him, blinking those wide, soft eyes of yours. A single word entered his mind: Fawn. You looked like a fawn, delicate and innocent, standing before something dangerous without any idea of what it could do to you.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, unable to find the words to speak. Still entranced by you, he wondered how you could be so kind, so gentle, to someone like him. Anyone else would have left him to clean himself up in cold silence, but you…you stayed.

You nodded quietly, as if you understood, then turned to the bath, filling it with warm water. He watched you bite your lip in thought, and all he could think about was biting your lip himself. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and for a split second, he imagined pulling you close, feeling that softness against his own. But instead, he remained silent, his breath heavy as you carefully and gently began to undress him.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him with such care. You didn’t fumble or stare, didn’t sneak a lustful glance as you removed his suit piece by piece. You were entirely respectful, your touch light, focused on the task. And when you led him to sink into the bath, your hands still guiding him, he realized that you weren’t treating him like Homelander. You weren’t treating him like a god. You were treating him like…a person.

The warm water surrounded him, washing away the blood and grime. But what made him feel truly clean was your touch. You knelt by the tub, peeling off your pink gloves, and began washing him with your bare hands. He could feel your skin against his, the warmth of your palms gliding over his body.

He had to fight to keep from shivering. The sensation of your skin on his—bare and vulnerable—sent a wave of euphoria through him. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. This wasn’t lust. This was something deeper, something far more dangerous. He was intoxicated by you, not because of what you were doing, but because of who you were. The softness, the care, the genuine kindness…it was all so foreign to him.

And as you worked in silence, cleaning away the blood, he realized with a start that he never wanted this feeling to end.

Homelander couldn’t take his eyes off you as you washed him. Every gentle stroke of your hands sent a ripple of pleasure through him, and though his eyes begged to close, he refused. He needed to see you. To watch you, to take in every movement, every touch. Your fingers slid through his hair, and for a moment, he almost gave in—almost let his eyes flutter shut and just melt into the sensation. But his gaze stayed locked on you, intense and unyielding.

You could feel his stare, that much was clear, yet you didn’t say a word. You just kept working, silent and serene. And it started to bother him, gnawing at him. How could you be so quiet, so unaffected by his presence? He needed to hear your voice again. He craved it, like a drug, something to soothe the irritation building inside him.

“Talk to me,” he said, the words slipping out in a petulant tone he hadn’t meant to use. But he didn’t care. He wanted your attention, your words, your everything.

Your eyes met his, wide and curious, like you were studying him, trying to figure him out. You tilted your head, and once again, the thought struck him—fawn. That was what you reminded him of. A fawn, delicate and gentle, standing before a predator without realizing the danger.

You pursed your lips, thinking carefully about what to say, and for just a second, Homelander finally closed his eyes. He wanted to focus solely on your voice. Nothing else mattered. Just you.

“I named myself Pink Dahlia because my favorite color is pink,” you began, your sweet voice filling the room like music, “and dahlias symbolize love and devotion.”

His eyes snapped open.

Love and devotion. The words echoed in his mind like a gunshot, shattering every other thought. You kept talking, explaining something about flower meanings and other potential supe names you’d considered, but Homelander didn’t give a fuck about that. None of that mattered. All he could focus on was love and devotion.

It was a sign. It had to be. You were made for him. There was no other explanation. How could it be a coincidence that the one person who treated him with kindness, who looked at him without fear, had chosen a name that embodied exactly what he wanted from you? Exactly what he needed. Love and devotion.

His chest tightened with the realization, his mind spinning with the possibilities. You would love him. You would be devoted to him completely. It was inevitable. Fate had brought you into his life for a reason.

As you continued to speak, your voice soft and calming, he stared at you, consumed by the thought of it—how perfect it would be. You, by his side, loyal and loving, filling the void that no one else could. The world would bow before him, but you…you would worship him in the way he craved, in a way no one ever had.

You were starting to seriously piss him off. The way you acted, pretending like nothing had happened between you, like the connection between you wasn’t so strong it practically vibrated in the air. You carried on as if the two of you didn’t share something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable. It was infuriating.

Then again, if you had acknowledged it—if you’d brought it up and confronted him about it—he probably would’ve blown a fucking gasket. His control was fragile enough as it was.

But trying to talk to you? That was a whole other level of frustration. Every time you looked up at him with those soft, gentle eyes, and gave him that sweet, unassuming smile, all the words in his head vanished. Just gone. Like you had some kind of power over him that even he didn’t understand.

So, he did the only thing he could think of to get you closer—he forced The Deep to move, ordering him to sit somewhere else, so that you could sit right next to him. He wasn’t subtle about it, either. He didn’t care if anyone noticed. As long as you were close, that was all that mattered.

Then came the Vought V52 Expo, and Homelander could feel the agitation building inside him. He needed to talk to you, to make you see what was right in front of you, but the timing was never right. On the bright side, things were going well with Ryan. He was bonding with his son, teaching him to stand up for himself, to say no when he needed to. It felt…good, like he was finally getting through to him.

But by the time they got to the V52 Expo, the agitation had grown into something much sharper. His eyes tracked you across the stage, watching as you announced your new environmental awareness project—the Dahlia Project. Fans were cheering for you, screaming your name, and you looked so damn perfect up there.

You were smiling, waving to the crowd, talking passionately about your cause, and the noise of the crowd was deafening. But all Homelander could think about was how you hadn’t even looked at him once. Not a glance. Not a dedication. Nothing.

He watched you with cold, calculated eyes, trying to keep the growing frustration in check. You were good at this, at drawing people in, making them adore you. But how could you not see that you already had him? That no one else in the crowd mattered compared to him?

And as the fans continued to cheer, his grip tightened around the milkshake he’d bought for you. He needed to speak to you. To make you understand. And the longer you went on, the more he realized—this wasn’t just about getting closer to you anymore. It was about making sure you knew that you belonged to him.

Homelander was standing with Ryan, guiding him through yet another lesson in asserting control. Ryan had been eager to "help" people, to really understand what that meant. So, when Homelander saw an opportunity, he called over Adam—the Vought employee who had been making his assistant visibly uncomfortable with inappropriate advances.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed skeptically, his young face twisting in uncertainty as he looked at the assistant. “Um… is he making you uncomfortable? You can tell me. You won’t get in trouble.”

The assistant bit her lip nervously before nodding, her voice hesitant but honest. “Kind of… yeah.”

Homelander raised an eyebrow, turning his attention to Ryan. “Ryan, what do you think we should do about that?”

Ryan hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He still hadn’t fully grasped the power he held, and Homelander could sense his uncertainty, the hesitation that made his own patience wear thin. With a sigh, he glanced away—only for his eyes to land on you, walking past with that usual air of calm about you.

“Dahlia,” he called, his voice a little sharper than he intended. “Come over here.”

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised in that sweet, expectant way that only made him more agitated, and walked over without hesitation, your eyes scanning the scene as you assessed the situation.

“What’s up?” you asked simply.

Homelander smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and gestured to Adam. “Adam here has been making some inappropriate advances toward his assistant. What do you have to say about that?”

Even Ryan turned to you, waiting for your response. Homelander watched you closely, studying the way you furrowed your brows in genuine concern as you looked at Adam.

“I think,” you said carefully, “that there’s no excuse for making someone else uncomfortable. And it’s even worse when you know you’re doing it.”

Homelander’s smile widened at your answer. It was perfect—clear, direct, and moral, just like he expected from you. There was a subtle pride in the way you spoke, and it fed into his own sense of approval. You were playing right into his hands without even realizing it.

Your words seemed to be the push Ryan needed, as he turned to Adam, his voice gaining confidence. “Apologize,” Ryan commanded, the hint of authority in his tone surprising even himself. When Adam hesitated, Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Now.”

Adam stated an obviously insincere apology, and Ryan, growing bolder by the second, looked at the assistant. “I want you to slap him.”

Homelander’s gaze snapped to you, watching intently for your reaction. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you seemed to consider the situation with a quiet thoughtfulness, your expression showing no sign of discomfort. You didn’t object or look shocked—in fact, there was a hint of agreement in the way you nodded lightly. You understood the need to make a point, to assert control.

Homelander couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not just in Ryan, but in you. The way you navigated the situation with clarity, how you stood by his side and reinforced his lessons without even realizing it—it only confirmed what he already knew.

You belonged with him.

The moment his resolve truly snapped was at Tek Knight’s party. Everything had already spiraled out of control. A-Train and Firecracker were nowhere to be found, MIA at a critical time. And when it was time for the big speech to the GOP donors, Sage was acting as if she’d had a fucking lobotomy, leaving Homelander to take over.

The minute he started speaking, they questioned him. Him. They criticized him as if he wasn’t the most powerful man in the room, as if he wasn’t Homelander. His hand twitched, and he was one second away from lasering through every single one of those smug, entitled bastards. But then Neuman stepped in, pulling the conversation back on track and rallying the support he was seconds from obliterating.

He stalked away, seething. And that’s when he saw it—him—one of the donor’s sons talking to you. But it wasn’t just talking. He recognized the look in that guy’s eyes, the casual leaning in, the way his hand brushed against your arm like it was nothing.

Homelander’s chest tightened with a slow, burning jealousy, the kind that clawed at him from the inside. His grip on the glass tightened, but for the moment, he held himself in check. Barely. When that loser touched your arm, though, that’s when it snapped. His entire facade shattered.

In his mind, that small touch was a violation. You belonged to him. Whether you knew it yet or not, it was already decided. And this idiot was crossing a line no one should ever have the nerve to approach.

His reaction started subtly—at first. His smile stiffened, his eyes narrowed with an icy focus. He moved toward you with the kind of charm that made people believe he was still in control, but inside, he was already a storm waiting to break.

Homelander slid smoothly between you and the man, a calculated smile plastered on his friendly. “Everything alright here?” His voice was polite, but there was an edge, a tension simmering just beneath the surface.

You blinked up at him, surprised but unsuspecting, nodding lightly. “Yeah, of course. This is Jason Wilson, the District Attorney’s son. We’re just talking.”

Just talking. Homelander’s smile grew tighter. Logically, he knew that. But logic had no place here. The jealousy gnawed at him, irrational, violent, and all-consuming. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that left no room for doubt. “We wouldn’t want things to get inappropriate, now would we?”

Jason froze, his eyes widening slightly, clearly unnerved by the sudden shift. Homelander’s stare bore into him, a silent warning not to take another step, not to even breathe in your direction. Jason stammered an awkward excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Homelander alone.

You frowned up at him, clearly confused by the sudden shift in his mood. “What was that about?”

Homelander didn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, enough that you’d feel the strength behind it—enough that you couldn’t pull away easily. He quietly steered you toward a more secluded corner of the room, away from prying eyes. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, his lips close to your ear. “You shouldn’t let people touch you like that,” he said, barely keeping his rage in check. “Not when you’re with me.”

You blinked, utterly confused, your brows knitting together in that way he both adored and despised. “I don’t understand. I’m not… with you.”

His jaw clenched. The words stung, hitting him harder than any physical blow could. You didn’t understand yet. You didn’t see what he saw, didn’t feel what he felt. But you would. You had to.

Homelander let out a hollow chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t understand. It’s fine, I’ll forgive you for that.” His tone dripped with condescension as if he were talking to a child. He then pointed between the two of you, his expression hardening. “You and me—we belong together. Which makes you mine.”

You stared at him, completely lost, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. The confusion in your eyes only seemed to amuse him further. You were so oblivious, so innocent, and it both frustrated and thrilled him. Finally, you managed to speak, your voice soft and uncertain. “I thought you were interested in Firecracker.”

Homelander’s face scrunched up in pure disgust, his lip curling as if you had just said something vile. “What? No. Ew. No.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, looking around as if there were hidden cameras capturing this bizarre moment, half-expecting this to be some kind of elaborate joke. “Oh.”

Then you turned back to him, your wide eyes filled with genuine surprise, lips pouting slightly as you asked, “You… like me?”

The way you said it—so innocent, so utterly unaware—made his chest tighten. Like wasn’t even close to what he felt for you. He needed you. You were everything he’d been waiting for, the one pure thing in a world full of filth and betrayal. But the fact that you couldn’t even comprehend why someone like him would be interested in you… It only made his obsession stronger.

He smiled, soft and almost tender, his previous irritation and jealousy melting away in the face of your cluelessness. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he murmured, his voice lower now, dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver through the air. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an unsettling focus. “You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture intimate but laced with possessiveness. “You just don’t see it yet. But you will.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still confused, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But in his mind, it was already decided. You were his—had been from the moment he laid eyes on you. And soon enough, you’d understand that too.

Homelander cupped your face as though you were the most delicate thing in existence, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone capable of such monstrous strength. His heart raced as he leaned in, finally close enough to taste the softness of your lips—something he’d craved for what felt like an eternity. He could already imagine how perfect you’d feel, how right it would be.

But before his lips could meet yours, your hand quickly covered his mouth. "Wait," you said, eyes wide with sudden embarrassment.

His eyes snapped open, irritation flashing in them, his impatience barely concealed. "What?" he grunted, his voice muffled by your hand.

You hesitated, biting your lip nervously, avoiding his intense gaze as you finally explained, “My lips… they’re poisonous.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, and you removed your hand, looking even more embarrassed. “They contain a toxin,” you said softly, as if confessing a dark secret. “It gives anyone who kisses me a high, raises their heart rate until they get a heart attack… and die.”

A heavy silence followed as you waited for his reaction, expecting rejection or disgust. But Homelander’s eyes gleamed with something entirely different. Instead of pulling away, he just shrugged as if the danger you posed was trivial to him. "Fuck it," he muttered with a smirk, his hands tightening around your cheeks.

Before you could protest again, he pulled you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that bordered on madness.

The moment your lips met, Homelander let out a low, primal groan of pleasure. The sensation of your mouth against his was everything he’d imagined—and more. He could feel the toxin you had warned him about seeping into his bloodstream, but instead of fear, it only fueled the euphoria rushing through him. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his desire consuming every rational thought.

The high from your poison made him feel invincible, like every dark, twisted part of him was being set free. The world outside—its chaos, its disappointments, its endless betrayals—faded into nothing. All that mattered was you. He felt light, weightless, as though he could fly to the edge of the universe with you in his arms.

And as the toxin worked its way through his system, the sensation of bliss became all-consuming. He didn’t just want to kiss you—he wanted to devour you, to possess you completely, body and soul. Every kiss, every taste of you, made the thought of losing you unbearable.

He deepened the kiss, his grip on your face tightening, every muscle in his body screaming with pleasure. He didn’t care about the risk, didn’t care that you could kill him. In that moment, he belonged to you, utterly and completely, and he’d die a thousand deaths for this feeling. The darkness inside him surged, but for once, it didn’t feel like a curse. With you, it felt like freedom.

Homelander had never been high in his entire existence, but if this was what it felt like—well, it was fucking spectacular. Every nerve in his body buzzed with euphoria, his muscles relaxed in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and everything around him suddenly seemed amusing, even absurd. He laughed—really laughed—as he flew the two of you back to Vought Tower, the wind whipping through his hair as if the world itself couldn’t touch him.

When he landed on your balcony, a wide grin stretched across his face, a rare glint of pure joy in his eyes. You looked up at him, bemused, as he stumbled slightly, his usually poised demeanor replaced with a boyish charm. He couldn’t stop smiling. “How long does this last?” he asked, his voice light with the toxin’s effects.

You chuckled softly as you led him inside, your touch warm and steady while his hands wandered over you, unable to keep still. “Max? Maybe two hours before the average human dies,” you murmured with a teasing smile.

He let out a breathless laugh, his hand still brushing against your waist, intoxicated not just by the toxin but by you. “How many people have you done this to?” he asked, voice low as he buried his nose in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. It was almost possessive, his need to absorb every part of you.

You leaned back slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Two… high school boyfriends.”

Homelander’s hands slid over your body, but then something caught his eye—a small jar on the kitchen island. His gaze sharpened instantly, curiosity piqued. “What’s that?” he asked, tone suddenly playful but underlined with a dangerous edge as his fingers drifted toward the jar.

He could feel the tension in your body before he even turned to face you fully, sensing the shift in the air. His smile twisted into something more predatory as he turned to you, eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of menace. “Look here,” he started, his voice low and smooth, “since we’re now officially together—”

“Officially?” you murmured, your eyes slightly hazy from his intoxicating presence, a dreamy smile playing on your lips.

He scrunched his nose in a mock expression of annoyance. “Yeah, officially. And there’s one thing you should know about me—I hate secrets. Can’t fucking stand 'em.”

You flushed, your face heating with embarrassment as you shifted on your feet, clearly reluctant to answer. “It’s… nipple cream,” you mumbled.

Homelander raised an eyebrow, his expression uncharacteristically patient, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. “I can see that,” he said, his voice slow, almost mocking. He leaned closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But why do you need it?”

You hesitated, then looked away shyly before finally answering, “I lactate.”

For the first time in a long time, pure shock crossed Homelander’s face. His smile faded, replaced by an unreadable expression as your words sank in. Lactate? He couldn’t process it at first, the information almost short-circuiting his mind. “What?” he asked, his voice lower now, the question almost a growl.

You swallowed, explaining softly, “Just like how some plants and fruits produce milk… ever since I got my first cycle, I’ve been producing milk too.”

Homelander’s throat went dry, his eyes dropping instinctively to your breasts as his thoughts spun wildly. “Only during your cycle?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“No,” you admitted, your voice softer still. “Every single day since I got my cycle.”

A long pause hung in the air between you, the weight of your revelation settling in. Homelander’s heart pounded, and for a moment, the effects of the toxin couldn’t compare to the sheer awe and hunger he felt. His gaze drifted back up to meet yours, and something primal flickered in his eyes.

“Oh,” he murmured, a slow smile creeping back onto his face, but this time, it wasn’t just euphoria driving it. No, this—this was something deeper.

Somehow, impossibly, you had just become even more perfect in his eyes.

Reader's Aesthetic

(only her supe name is Pink Dahlia)

Hope you enjoyed!

[aphroditessaturn]

Me when I see a beautiful fic but it uses a first person pov:

LIKE PLEASE DON'T USE “I” 😭😭😭😭

[aphroditessaturn]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[aphroditessaturn]

Ichor

Summary: Homelander returns to you bleeding after his confrontation with Soldier Boy goes awry. Seeing your lover injured is a new and disconcerting experience for you - and, unfortunately, sometimes panic makes your tongue stupid. Content: Homelander x Reader | established relationship | angst | hurt/comfort | set near end of S3 | mild injury | blood Word count: 2.7k Author's note: Hello again, lovely people! This is just a standalone fic since I wanted to post something and I figured this would be one of my shorter ideas. However, it has still turned into a psychological minefield for me to navigate - and now, my own sanity in tatters, I cut it loose! I just thought Homie could do with some reassurance after Soldier Boy rejects him near the end of S3. This fic is also a birthday present for @themeraldee, who is so sweet and kind and has the absolutely galaxy brained ideas planned for this awful man! I hope you have the best day! ❤️

ao3

You’re not thinking when you say it.

You’re running on adrenaline, trying to be the grown up, hold the fort together. He’s bleeding, for Christ’s sake. You’ve never seen him bleed before. He hasn’t even specified why out loud to you. What on earth are you meant to be thinking?

He’s barely said a word since thundering back into the penthouse, where you were anxiously waiting, with a bleeding Ryan and a team of even more anxious medics in tow. His gloved hands haven’t stopped twitching at his sides for at least ten minutes, something the medics clustered around Ryan on the sofa seem all too conscious of.

You want to ask Homelander what happened, who did this to him, to both of them, but there’s a silence in the air that’s got your nerves on edge. Homelander’s eyes are irritated when they flit recurrently around the room. There’s a light flickering above that you can tell is bothering him.

He’s probably right – of course he is – when he mutters to no one in particular that Ryan doesn’t need checking over. Ryan is like him. But then, that gash on Ryan’s forehead would concern any father, wouldn’t it? And you can’t see who else but Homelander dragged the medics up here while the rest of the tower is under evacuation orders.

And it’s not as though he’s stopped you from dabbing his left ear with a cloth. It’s not as though he is invulnerable to injury either, apparently.

Blood. Homelander’s blood. You can smell it, or maybe that’s just panic. A droplet of it is smeared across the meat of your hand. You don’t know whether this makes you feel sick or honoured.

The Homelander is bleeding. He bleeds.

And all you can do is fucking dab, dab, dab at the evidence.

You’re furious with yourself for taking his invulnerability for granted in the past. He bleeds. How can such a thing surprise you? You're really not thinking straight. You get about half a second’s worth of internal warning that you’re about to say something stupid when a strange little laugh bubbles up from somewhere panicked in your chest. But it’s too late.

“So it is blood and not ichor running through your veins then,” you blurt out.

You can’t take your eyes off the redness leeching from his ear.

At once, Homelander’s restless gaze snaps to you. He looks unimpressed – you have made a bad joke – and an apology is already forming in that same panicked place inside you. You can’t imagine what your own face is currently doing.

But then, lo and behold, his expression falters. His brows pull together, and he tilt his head slightly.

“Why– Why would you say that?” he asks.

He sounds wounded in a way that makes your heart knock with guilt. You freeze and withdraw the cloth from his ear. His ego is worryingly fragile for a man of his abilities, yes, but tonight of all nights you shouldn’t be tripping over the cracks.

“I–”

“Just forget it,” he interrupts you.

He curses under his breath and turns towards the invitingly lit wall of mirrors lurking to the side of you both, his eyes glistening. Oh no. You know the signs of what – and who – may be bargaining for a visit if he’s eying those up. Fortunately, Ryan seems too distracted in conversation with the medics to notice the change in his father’s demeanour.

You pivot after Homelander, grabbing his padded arm. He doesn’t stop you. You feel him trembling. A muscle in his jaw spasms in warning. He’s clearly caught between storming off and drawing Ryan’s attention or staying put for more public humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You sound more grounded this time.

He doesn’t move. If you were anyone else, it’d be imperative you run a mile right about now. But you both know you’re in far too deep for that.

Instead, you walk directly into the blast zone: stepping in front of him, you take his face in your hands. His eyes are downcast, purposely avoiding yours. He scrunches them shut as you start to stroke his cheeks.

“Hey. I am sorry,” you say in a softer tone. “Sometimes I say stupid stuff when I’m shocked, but I really didn’t mean anything. Will you please tell me what happened tonight? Hm?”

On the one hand, he’s fine: his hearing doesn’t seem to have been affected by what must be a ruptured ear drum. You know he has unimaginable experience in dealing with pain, but you don’t think he’s masking anything here. No, what’s bothering him is more mental than physical.

Isn’t it always?

His eyes open again as a rogue tear finally spills down his left cheek. For the sake of his pride, you ignore it. His gaze becomes distant, honed on one of the mirrors; it’s from behind that protective glass he’s recounting events. He gestures vaguely to his ear.

“This was Maeve. She got my nose as well.” He shrugs nonchalantly. Then he sniffs despite himself. “She’s dead now. Soldier Boy too.”

You’d figured he was gone when that terrifying explosion destroyed half the tower. The fact Homelander could fly you to safety at a moment’s notice, should the whole structure collapse, is one of the only things keeping you brave enough to stay up here.

But Maeve…

You’ll have to decide how you feel about that later.

Homelander closes his eyes once more and finally lets himself lean into your touch, as needy for your affection as the first time you offered it.

“Did you get to talk to him?” you ask, brushing your thumbs along his jaw.

That was supposed to be his play for the meeting: try to get Soldier Boy to switch sides now they knew their familial connection. Who were Butcher and his ragtag band of criminals in comparison to Compound V and blood? It was a wishful scheme borne from the desperate, impulsive part of your lover that increasingly gets the best of him, but you wouldn’t have dared suggest an alternative. He’d gotten that look in his eye.

And then Noir ended up dead.

Right here, however, in the cold light of reality, something in Homelander’s face crumples for a second time. You’re getting close to the raw core of this. The bleeding you’ve witnessed very literally pales in comparison. He’s avoiding your gaze again.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “But…”

You don’t like the emphasis he puts on that word.

Your mind runs through every possible nightmare scenario until you find your arms are enveloping him of their own accord. You bury your face against his chest and inhale deeply. A soft, surprised noise breezes over your head, then you feel one of his hands reach up to gently stroke through your hair.

You pretend you don’t also feel the vice-like grip of his other hand as it snakes around the base of your neck, keeping you wedged to the Vought-branded padding of his suit. His. It really is far too late for running, but this element of him you can handle.

As long as he’s standing. As long as he’s alive. You don’t try to resist him; you press a kiss to his chest.

What happened at that confrontation? It’s times like these you wish you had powers too, so you could stand alongside him when the crunch comes. You knew something was going to go wrong in there…

“You deserved better,” you whisper.

You’re not expecting this comment to make him flinch like you’ve burnt him, but it does. His hand stills in your hair for an instant before he’s petting you like nothing stopped him. If you listen carefully enough, you’re sure you’ll be able to hear the muscles behind his face filtering through several conflicting expressions.

“What?” he eventually asks, bewildered in that unworldly manner of his that surfaces when the world gets too genuine. You know he can’t help it; most of the time, it only endears him to you more.

“You deserved better than to find out you had a father and then lose him like that,” you clarify.

Truth be told, you’re not particularly saddened by the demise of Soldier Boy. Finding out he was Homelander’s biological father might’ve been enough to turn Homelander’s world on its head – how could it not? – but, to you, he remained the scarily powerful supe trying to depower and murder your lover. Forgive you if you’re not his biggest fan. With his death, at least he can’t pose that threat anymore.

“Yeah, well…” Homelander’s voice sounds choked all of a sudden. Because he feels touched by your words or is freshly grieved about his father, you're not sure. He sighs and clears his throat. “Let’s just say, he didn’t see it that way.”

Now you frown.

“What did he say to you?” You let go of him and try to pull back to properly gauge what he’s getting at, but that’s the wrong response. He doesn’t let you. You hope Ryan is still distracted enough not to notice any of this. “Homelander, I swear to God, if he’s been filling your head with bullshit–”

“I’m a fucking disappointment, apparently. Imagine that.”

He snarls the words into your ear, and his fist tightens in your hair as he does. The whiplash of his vitriol would make you flinch in return, if you didn’t already feel his hold on you finally loosening – though you’re still not free.

Clinically controlled, he tilts your head back like you’re a precious china doll for him to position, and one of his thumbs strokes your jaw as yours did his earlier. But there’s none of that anger in his voice marring his face. Instead, he stares into your eyes – scrutinising you, yes, but – with a wariness that should be unbalancing.

“Well? Am I a disappointment to you too?” he asks.

He’s trying to project bitterness. You sense the undercurrent of him pleading for your assurance mixed in too, never able to just ask outright without lashing you too, so you know better than to think this means you have the upper hand here. After all, this isn’t a fair question for the strongest man in the world to ask a person whose life he could crush between the fingers of one hand. But that isn’t his fault, you tell yourself, and you meet his desperation with an intensity you can only have learnt from him.

“No, you're not,” you say firmly. “And I know you much better than Soldier Boy did.”

It takes a lot for you to hold off sneering his father’s name. Still, if anything, this measured response seems to upset him further – you’re not giving him opportunity to escalate. How unfair.

With a curt sigh, he slides the arm not gripping your jaw downwards to take the bloodstained cloth from you. It’s been clenched in your grip, but you relinquish it without fuss to watch in confusion as Homelander draws it up to his face to wipe something from his right cheek.

Foundation? Concealer?

Your brow creases, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes bore into yours as he drags the cloth over his skin. His movements are rigid, like you’re forcing him to do this. Is this a test of some sort? Gradually, the makeup smears with the blood already laced into the cloth’s damp fabric, revealing the not-quite invulnerable skin underneath is… inflamed.

You blink.

Homelander has a bruise below his right eye socket spreading the length of his cheekbone – and, from the state of the discolouration, you’d wager it’s not a fresh one. Your mind starts to fly once again with questions, when the culprit hits you.

Herogasm. That fucking ambush.

“Fuck,” you whisper, staring transfixed at the unwanted souvenir.

You don't want to imagine how hard someone would’ve had to hit him to leave a bruise like this. You reach up to caress the injured cheek, but he turns his head away. Your heart clenches.

“Oh, sweetheart–”

“Don’t be embarrassed? Right.” He scoffs, forcing the fake nonchalance back, then releases his hold on you entirely. His eyes close, and when he reopens them, they’re glassy and irritable like earlier. “I mean, you signed up to date a god, didn’t you? Don’t you wish my veins were filled with ichor? You can be honest.”

You bristle. “Of course not. I told you. I didn’t mean–”

“Because I fucking do.”

There’s an accusation in his gaze – and, if you’re not mistaken, a millisecond’s flash of red. Fortunately for him, you spy the pitiful and humiliated creature lurking underneath it, and it gives you pause.

“Blood is more than good enough for me. Especially the blood that runs through your veins,” you tell him, stepping closer as if to prove it. You jab his chest. “You’re not the disappointment in this situation, understand? Soldier Boy is. Stop expecting me to reject you too.”

He blinks several times in quick succession, but, this time, when you tentatively reach out, he lets you trace over his cheek with the pads of your fingers. He hums, which you take to be a nonverbal sign of his approval. He’s actually barely resisting the urge to nuzzle against your touch.

Relief floods your system.

Chuckling, you lean in and kiss the part of the bruise that appears the least tender for good measure. Despite the fact you don't have the strength to make it any worse, that isn’t the point.

“You have a family who loves you, Homelander. We’re not going anywhere,” you whisper. “I chose you. I’ll choose you every day. You’d better believe me.”

A huff leaves his lips as you start peppering little kisses across his face. His hands slip comfortably around your waist, and he offers you a soft look. You offer him a smile in return. His lips meet yours like nothing is wrong in the world.

And, for one blissful second, nothing is.

“Uh, dad?” Ryan calls over.

You jerk back in surprise, your face warming. It doesn’t take an emotional genius to hear the awkwardness in Ryan’s voice. There’s a brief glimmer of amusement in Homelander’s eyes at your reaction before he’s plastering on his most reassuring, fatherly smile.

“Yeah, buddy? Everything alright?” he calls back.

With a needlessly dramatic swoosh of his cape, he strides over to his son, dismissing the medics with a warning flick of his wrist. None of them need telling twice.

Crisis averted. You hope.

The source of your anxiety finally settled, you take to inspecting your hands in an effort not to eavesdrop on father and son. The small streak of Homelander’s blood that had so bothered you earlier catches your attention. You find yourself more at peace with it now. What was previously crimson liquid is turning a dry brown in the fine lines of your skin, nestled into you as snugly as you know he’d like to be in his ideal world.

You observe this tangible proof of his humanity that connects you both on a level you’ve not had access to before. The sight of it fills you with a strange compulsion, one you’d normally consider morbid. You raise your hand to your lips, casting a quick glance across the room to make sure you’re not being watched, and lick at the blood.

…What exactly were you expecting?

The taste is faintly metallic, same as your own. Ordinary. Authentically human. Nothing artificial, to your palate. Nothing divine either.

You glance back over at Homelander. He’s reverted to form – hands clasped behind his back; superhero assurances that he won’t ever let anyone hurt Ryan like this again, he will not let them; that William Butcher doesn’t deserve Ryan, that Ryan deserves better, is better, innately better, than everyone who caused him this pain; that Homelander isn’t going anywhere; that they’ve got this, they’ll be fine.

Your lover may now know he isn’t as synthetic as he was led to believe, and he may know you love him, but you’re not so sure he’ll ever accept that he isn’t of the divine.

Homelander bleeds blood and not ichor, and you wouldn’t have him any other way.

[aphroditessaturn]

The Lucky Winner - Part 4

[Masterlist] | [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 6.8k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Insecurity. Jealousy. Implied shower sex. Phone sex. Mild voice kink. Homelander is being a sex pest again. Or just a pest.

Summary: Homelander insists on taking your relationship to the next level.

Author’s Note: I don't know why I decided that Part 4 is when I should include somewhat of a plot but it happened so the voice kink fic continues😂 Major shoutout to @anotherhomelanderblog for all the editing help and keeping me sane throughout the process 💗

“And you live like this?” Homelander asks incredulously, drying himself off. He hands you the damp towel and you promptly hang it up to dry, wrapped in a fluffy towel yourself.

“Most people live like this! Also most people are smart enough to not waste all their hot water on making out,” you say with a laugh and a playful eye roll.

“Ohoho, that was a lot more than making out.” Homelander’s brazenly parading around naked and you can’t help but follow the line of his slender body. It always feels special to see him without the suit. Although he still clearly prefers to keep it on, he’s not feeling particularly worried about swapping his superhero suit for the birthday one around you. 

“Well still—it’s no wonder we ran out.” 

Your lazy morning rolling around in bed quickly turned into messing around under the spray of the hot shower water. And while Homelander’s right and it was more than making out, you didn’t get to experience more than a few thrusts before the water turned cold, rudely interrupting you both.

Homelander has never been one for giving up. He held you in place, keeping you nice and warm as he thrusted into you. All the way to the finish line. Needless to say, the morning couldn’t have started better.

It could have been warmer though.

He finally finds his underwear somewhere in between the pile of his thick suit. You mentally wince at him reusing the same underwear he had on before he slept over last night. He may neither exert himself nor sweat, but it still catches you off guard. Many times you’ve offered him the space to store his spare clothes, but he denies the offer every time, saying it’s just as easy for him to fly back. 

This behaviour is equally as perplexing as him never changing into something you’d deem more comfortable. It’s always been the full suit or fully naked. You don’t think there has ever been a third option. The cartoonish nature of his persona comes through vividly in moments like these. While you haven’t rummaged through his portion of the wardrobe back in his place, you wouldn’t be surprised to see multiple versions of the same superhero suit. 

And yet, along with the rehearsed lines he can’t always help but avoid, this makes him seem larger than life. Unfamiliar. Untouchable. Unattainable.

Thoughts like these frequent your mind each time you see yet another headline speculating about his love life come across your newsfeed. Whenever someone mentions the dreaded topic out loud, your gut clenches, your heart drops and you get shaken by the idea that you’ve somehow stolen America's golden boy.

Homelander, on the other hand, has been nothing but eager to celebrate your relationship. You haven’t shared your concerns with him yet. You don’t think he would quite understand your worry about stealing him from his devoted fans. He’s been constantly coaxing you into uprooting your life and moving in with him, officially being with him. His little nudges like today are just the tip of the iceberg.

The idea of being offered to the media vultures as their new chew toy fills you with dread just thinking about it.

You turn away from watching Homelander redress. You unwrap the towel you’ve tucked in around your chest, bunching it up in your hands and bending over to wipe leftover water droplets off your legs. 

You don’t get very far before you hear a whistle. “Don't you look good enough to eat? Well, again.”

You automatically straighten up, covering what you can with your towel. Pointless, really. Homelander can easily see through whatever he wishes. Still one of his stranger powers, if you do say so yourself. You can never quite tell whether he’s staring at your tits or your heart—both options feeling equally voyeuristic.

You shake your head at his silly flirting. While he can be obnoxious and overly cheesy, there’s something to be said about being so blatantly flirted with. Knowing you’re desired so… carnally—as cliche as that feels to say in your head—feels reaffirming. Confidence boosting, even. 

This alone allows you to think that maybe having a public relationship wouldn’t change anything between the two of you.

You hear the familiar creak of leather as he puts his gloves on, stretching his fingers and squeezing his fists to get them comfortable.

“In fact, if you moved in with me—like I keep telling you to—we wouldn’t be having this problem at all.” 

Or not. The slightly pushy tone brings the recurring anxiety back up.

During the storm of your internal thoughts, you dig out a fresh pair of underwear. You’ve gotten into the habit of actively wearing the pretty pieces Homelander can’t seem to stop himself from sending to your home address—amongst the other obscenely expensive gifts. Ever since you’ve once dressed up for him, he made it his mission to dress you in lingerie of all the colours of the rainbow and more. Feigning scientific interest in seeing what colour matches your skin tone the best—though he still favours the Homelander panties that started it all. 

However, knowing how perverse he can be with his penetrative vision, helps with not feeling underdressed at any given time.

Homelander takes no note of your internal struggle, instead focusing on his fantasy of what life is meant to look like for the two of you while you start getting dressed.

“Then I could fuck you in the shower for as many hours as my lady wishes, hm?” He gives you a cheeky smile as he passes by, walking out of the bedroom and into the living room.

You laugh heartily at his comment while you pick out your clothes. Normally, you’d keep it cosy and comfortable enough. At least, before Homelander. Now you pick something a little more put together, knowing you’ll be stopping by the Vought tower as part of his plan for the day. 

“Hours seems a bit much. I don’t know if looking like a wet prune is a good look on me.” While you put your clothes on, you look up to see what he’s up to through the open bedroom door. While any other person would entertain themselves by turning the TV on or scrolling on their phone, Homelander just walks around. As if he hasn’t seen this space a thousand times over.

At your response, he turns to you. A bewildered look crosses his face before he lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Funny.” He readjusts a photo on the wall, making sure it’s perfectly straight. It’s a selfie you took of the two of you on the couch. Not the best quality, but Homelander insisted you make it the centerpiece of the photo wall. “Don’t know about the prune part but wet is easily the best look on you.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. 

“It’s a little silly of you to think otherwise, don’t you think? I know you’re smarter than that.” While some might get easily offended at his words, you’re used to his crass words.

You watch as he points his gloved finger at you while he steps further backwards. 

Finally dressed, you come out of the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door. Homelander walks to the kitchen with you following.

“I just thought you liked it here.” You lean against the small breakfast bar as you watch him open the fridge and take out the jug of whole milk you keep stocked at all times for his sake only. 

He doesn’t bother pouring it out into a glass and neither does he close the fridge while he takes a big gulp, closing his eyes in the moment. Putting the jug down, he licks his lips clean as he opens his eyes. It’s bizarre how strangely erotic he manages to make the whole ritual seem.

“I do,” he says once his eyes are less glazed over and focused back on you. Properly snapping to attention, he acts offended. “Of course I do.” As if you suggested something so horrifying it insulted his very being. “But it would make things a lot easier.”

He takes another indulgent big gulp before closing the jug and putting it back in the fridge, shutting the door with a nudge of his elbow as he walks past.

He makes his way around while you’re still leaning against the breakfast bar. His lips trace the shell of your ear as he settles himself riiight behind you. “Imagine all the fun we’d have, huh?” He tilts his head to place a little kiss on your cheek, very close to your ear.

The timbre of his voice vibrating through your ear just warms you to your core. He still knows how to disarm you so thoroughly. If anything, he happily abuses this little quirk of yours.

“We wouldn’t have to settle for a fucking quickie in the morning.” His arms settle on your hips as he, excruciatingly slowly, drags his hips against your ass. “You know, I very much enjoy a good old breakfast in bed. What do you say? As soon as you move in, I’ll be waking you up with my tongue between your thighs. Now try saying no to that.”

“Nice try. You’ve done that here before.” You try to remain calm and collected but your voice betrays you, coming out in a stutter. While his voice—the sexy, slow tone he abuses anytime he wants to get his way—along with the visuals, is already wetting your fresh panties through and through.

“Hm, but there I wouldn’t have to think about flying back just to make it to a stupid meeting. I’d get plenty more time with you. Think about it. Every break in my schedule I could come back for a kiss and a cuddle. Maybe a little romp with my best girl.”

“Oh so suddenly we’re happy with quickies?” You chuckle breathlessly.

“Well y’know, I’m a busy guy. Gotta work with what I’ve got.”

“Speaking of—shouldn’t you be heading out? You’ve got a busy schedule ahead of you.”

“Alright, okay. I got the message. Think about it though, babe, will you?” Homelander finally allows you to gather yourself as he steps back, not so discreetly adjusting his dick after all that teasing. You constantly wonder where he gets this sky-high sex drive from.

“Sure. I’ll think about it.” You take the moment to walk around the breakfast bar, reaching for a coffee pod to pop into your machine for a quick pick-me-up. With a twist of your wrist you notice the time. “Oh, you should head out now if you don’t want to be late.” 

He slots behind you again, unable to stay away for even a moment. “Let me take you with me?” His arms wrap around your stomach, squeezing softly as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you in between little kisses.

The coffee machine finishes whirring, and with the smell of fresh coffee it breaks you out of the daze.

“Mhmm, then you’ll definitely be late. And I want my coffee. And some breakfast. You go have your meeting, I’ll be there in time for your interview.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise. Kiss goodbye?” You ask for it before he does. Immediately, he turns you around in his arms, trapping you in his hold so he can deliver what he deems an acceptable goodbye kiss. It’s long and deep and were you in public you’d be blushing to the tips of your ears. So much for the little goodbye peck you imagined.

Once Homelander leaves, you take the time to have a quick breakfast before preparing your overnight bag. While Homelander can’t take you to the set of the talk show he’s getting interviewed about his new movie at, he insists you come to his place to watch it live. Afterwards, he’ll be eager to fly back home to spend more time with you, listening to everything you’ve got to say about his appearance.

Entering the Vought tower always leaves you with a level of anxiety in your gut. This isn’t your territory, you don’t feel safe here. Each camera feels like the watchful eye of every stakeholder, observing you walk around freely as if you’ve not been greedily devaluing their best asset. 

You feel like the mistress everyone but the wife knows about. The overseeing eye of Vought management is already unhappy with you as is—Homelander said so himself, unaware or uncaring of the effect that information would have on you. It’s why you’ve started dressing better, trying to appear smart and classy. Worthy. Defending your position by his side.

You like to pretend like you belong. But everyone knows you’d be lost without him in tow.

This isn’t your world.

And it never will be.

Arriving at the penthouse allows you to release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. While Homelander’s space is odd at best and downright unliveable at worst, it’s part of you now. With its impersonal portraits of historical figures or perfect marble statues that make you feel self-conscious each time you undress, the decor leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Who is Vought to not ever allow him peace and quiet from this persona they’ve built for him? It really feels like he only gets to be himself when he’s around you. At home with you.

So why he constantly insists on the idea of you moving into this hellscape permanently confuses you to no end. Sure, your home isn’t luxurious by any means. It’s small and cluttered—less so now you’ve gotten rid of some of the Homelander memorabilia—but it’s comforting, warm, and inviting.

You’ve already gone through the effort of adding some warmth and home to this… space. Blankets and throws, pillows and trinkets that made you think of him. Anything that takes away from the sterile museum-like feel of the place.

Today you have brought a little picture frame. It’s the same photo you saw Homelander adjusting just an hour or so earlier. The print isn’t of great quality and neither is the photo, but he seems particularly fond of it, so you’ve gone ahead to frame this one for him too.

Dropping off your bag on the living room couch, you walk over to the bedroom, swapping out an existing impersonal historical portrait of Abraham Lincoln for the silly selfie of the two of you. You fret around with the positioning until it feels right, running your hand over the frame with an absent smile. The photo lets you forget about the madness of your life; it lets you instead think of the love you share with each other. However fragile it may feel at times.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You fumble around, like you’ve been caught doing something vulnerable and intimate. 

You swipe without looking at the screen properly, pressing the screen to your ear.

“There she is.” 

Something about the way he purrs into the phone melts your anxieties of the day into nothing. While grounding is what you need, his voice goes beyond that. You’re not grounded. Not with him. It feels like you’re flying instead. Lightheaded and full of excited nerves, you can’t escape the heartfelt bright smile lighting up your face.

“Hey baby. Ready for your interview?” 

“Am I ever not? You’ll be watching, right?” He knows you will. The question is rhetorical at best.

“Are you kidding? Of course I am.” You chuckle breathlessly into the phone. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You make your way to the couch, sprawling across the leather, your phone still against your ear. Something about this makes you so giddy. Here you are in Homelander’s apartment, sitting on his couch with his voice in your ear. It feels like a fairytale.

It doesn’t feel real.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Ever since Homelander’s discovered your little quirk—which admittedly was clear to him from day one—he’s been more than happy to ramble on and on and on. No matter what it’s about. He likes to have you listen.

“Is she already there?” You change the topic, not wanting to dwell on your inner discomfort for too long.

“Who? My co-star?” he asks with an innocent enough tone.

“Yeah. Her.” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying more.

“Careful there, you’re sounding a liiittle jealous.”

This talk show interview centres around Homelander’s new movie, Homelander: Hero’s Heart. The first one in his range that gave him a tangible love interest. His previous movies focused on action, patriotism and Homelander ultimately being the hero that saves the day. Vought are still on a mission to boost numbers in certain demographics—your demographic—so saving the damsel in distress was the logical next step for them.

It wasn’t too obnoxious. Just one on-screen kiss by the end of the movie. But you can’t shake the enormous pit of insecurity at the bottom of your gut anytime you think about them going through all those scenes together. Just how many takes was it really?

Okay, maybe you are a little jealous.

“I’m not. I’m just curious.”

No. You’re being unreasonable. Throughout all of the shooting Homelander came home to you, seeking solace. Seeking familiar and comforting touch. Complaining to you endlessly about the other actors’ poor skills.

Homelander clocked your jealousy early on. With a cheeky grin he prodded and poked, making you lash out and admit to your unsavoury feelings. The verbal conversation usually ended there. Instead, you got your frustration out physically. Night after night, he fucked you into the mattress, proving just where you stand. Until you couldn’t even stand anymore. 

Those nights, he’d sit you in his lap, pushing his thick cock inside you as he held you close. Face to face, chest to chest, he’d grunt and mewl in between kisses. Homelander would revel in your possessiveness of him, getting you to repeat ‘you’re mine’ over and over again. You’d rarely do any of the moving. Homelander liked taking it in his own hands in these moments. He’d wrap his hands around your hips, squeezing where he could reach, bouncing you with deliberate movements down onto his lap.

Logically, you know Homelander wouldn’t cheat on you with a random actress. But it’s hard not to compare yourself to her. She’s another gorgeous face amongst the constant stream of supes, actresses, models or celebrities he has instant access to. And you’re… well, you. The fact that he chose you out of the mix should leave you with some sense of relief, but it doesn’t. 

“Mhm, sure you are. As luck would have it, she couldn’t make it. Real shame, huh?” Homelander can be surprisingly sweet sometimes. To his credit, it was never his actions that made you jealous. Your own insecurity latched onto rotten ideas, spreading like mold across your healthy mind. 

Homelander plays into your possessiveness of him, more than eager to hear how much you love and want him. Only him. 

It makes you wonder if he had something to do with his co-star’s absence. 

“You know women are gonna go crazy over you after this. I’m sure they’re all waiting for you to spill some crazy stories about being a romantic on and off set.”

“Are they now? You know, I really don’t fucking care what they want to hear. I don’t care about them. I care about you.” 

There's a desperation to his response that catches you off guard. It's impossible to deny him the adoration he wordlessly requests.

“Oh. That’s—Ahah—I care about you too. You know I always love to watch you.”

“Good. Good. I want you to watch. I want you to listen... You’ll do that right? You’ll listen—”

“—to every word. To every single word.” The breathless quality to your tone shocks you.

It makes Homelander moan.

When did you both get so worked up over this?

“Good—fuck. Always such a good girl, aren't you? My biggest fan.”

“Not just a fan.” You huff out. You’re not offended per se, but after seeing what other so-called-fans say about him online or how little love they share with him, it would be an insult to label you as one of them.

“Pfft—of course you're not.” He scoffs in disbelief. Even he doesn’t believe his own words. “You are everything. You're everything to me.” 

Your eyes widen. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. The unashamed proclamation said so clearly by the strongest man in the world makes you pulse and clench.

You're not worthy of being his all.

It leaves you speechless. Over the past few weeks your mind has started waging war with your heart. Oddly, today feels like the final battle of which will win.

Your body is nearly shaking. The palm holding your phone feels clammy. You try to get comfortable, but you’d only achieve that by clawing out of your own skin. Something feels different—wrong—about today.

“Helloooo, don't go quiet on me now.” There's a new, dangerous tilt to his already deliciously rumbling voice that makes you soak your underwear. 

“Sorry… I just—you’re so—I just… I love you so much.” You trip over your words. Something you’ve said so many times feels oddly loaded.

“D’aww, how cute. That’s better.” With an audible swallow, you slide your hand down your body. Pressing into your flesh through your clothes as you go, trying to pretend it isn't your hand exploring your own body.

You imagine it’s his. Following the route it has done so many times before.

You ache with the need to be touched and filled and worshipped. Your cunt throbs painfully under your layers, soaked and weeping. Even the slight press of your fingers feels electric. Too little and too much at the same time.

You swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue. You scrunch your eyebrows when you roll your hips into your hand, a gasp coming out involuntarily.

“I can hear you. Do it.”

“Y-you can?!”

This brings you back to the first phone call that kick started this whole relationship. Back then, you had some courtesy to not touch yourself to the sound of his voice. You’ve lost all that courtesy by now, but the reveal that he could hear you all along makes you embarrassed for your past self.

You undo the fastening on your bottoms with a shaky hand. Your hand immediately slides under your layers, into your panties, with your fingers already forming a familiar shape. Your eyes roll back when your fingers glide along your inner lips, gathering slick and bumping your clit where your fingers meet. You repeat this motion a few times, thoroughly wetting your pussy, letting your head hit the armrest like a deadweight, your phone still loosely tucked against your ear.

“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. Might have to move into the bathtub before you flood my couch, you know.” 

“Not like you actually care.” You huff out half a laugh, barely coherent with your slurred speech. 

“No you’re right, I don’t. Now spread your legs for me, gorgeous, I want you to put your fingers in.” 

You nod as if he could see you—though for all you know, maybe he can.

You push your bottoms down far enough that they won’t be in the way. Adjusting yourself on the couch, you curl your fingertips inside yourself with a little wiggle, letting out a sigh. Like this, you’re definitely gonna make the couch wet.

“Feel good?” While he purrs low, you hear the sharp grin in his tone.

You hum softly as you focus on moving your fingers in and out. “Not as good as when you do it. Actually, hah, it doesn’t compare at all.” You’re not even trying to butter up his ego before his live appearance. He’s just that good to you.

“That’s the sp—fuck—spirit.” 

Having been with your lover many times, the familiarity of that stifled whimper leaves you gasping. You don’t need super hearing to know that Homelander’s wrapped his own hand around his cock. You’ve come to memorise and categorise all the pretty little sounds he makes.

You don’t even remember hearing him unclasp his belt, too lost in your own pleasure. 

“Are you…?” 

Through the phone comes a clipped exhale. “—Yes.” The rough, rhythmic stroking now becomes audible to even your human ears. Your cheeks feel hot. The sensation climbs up all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Oh. That’s really sexy.” You whimper, melting into the sofa as you spread your legs as far as the garment you pushed down allows. “Aren’t—aren’t you worried about someone walking in?” You alternate between rubbing your clit and fingering yourself as a way to make your body tingle all over.

The response you get is a barely restrained moan straight in your ear. His voice trails off into a sweet rumbly groan that has your fingers rubbing faster.

“Don’t care. You make me feel fucking crazy.” 

How is it that you have such an effect on him? From morning till night, he never seems to have enough. Before Homelander you were racking up two—three at most, really—self-love sessions a week. These days you’re lucky if you only end up with two a day. The resolve in his proclamation brings back some of the confidence today has been slowly chipping away at.

Plus, his absurd words make you snicker.

“I make you feel crazy?” Your voice is all breathy. With each moan in your ear, your own touch feels electric. Your fingers stick to rubbing your clit: circles that started slow, teasing and loose are now tight and fast, nearing on too strong a stimulation. 

“Uh-huh.” He’s barely responding at this point, but you don’t mind. 

“Mhm, really? You’re so good to me, you know that?” Knowing Homelander is there in his guest dressing room of the host’s set, fisting his sensitive cock raw because of you, makes your head spin. The gratification that fills you with is intoxicating. Drunk on the power you have in your hands, you change up the pace, rubbing your clit more languidly, taking your time to instead sweet talk your boyfriend into blowing his load into his underwear right before his interview.

“They don't deserve you.”

“You do so much for the world.”

“They never appreciate how much of an honour it is to have you serve them.”

“You’re so perfect.”

The combination of Homelander’s signature stuttered groan and the rustling of fabrics tells you your words are all it’s taken for him to finish. 

“Wow, what a show, superstar on and off the stage,” you tease him a little. You hear the familiar click of a belt come through the phone.

“Smartass. Speaking of, I gotta be on set in a few. But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I left you hanging like that. Need to hear my best girl cum her brains out on the other side.” 

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got to go live in a few.”

“Then you better hurry up.” He laughs airily. The orgasmic high makes him exude even more of this strange energy. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you going pretty crazy over there. Doubt it’s gonna take you long anyway. Never does when I’m talking to you, hm?”

“Oh my god.” You exhale, your hand back at full speed. You dig your feet into the couch, pushing against it as you stroke your clit faster, your hips meeting your hand firmly, accelerating your climb to ecstasy.

“Mhm, that’s right. That what I am to you, honey? Your god?”

“Y-yes… yes, you are.” Your lips are shut tight when you’re not talking, breathing heavily through your nose as you feel the warmth spread throughout your body. From your core, to your chest, to your limbs. You start to feel the tips of your toes tingle with the electric sensation.

Somehow, he always manages to make your body feel sensitive all over. Even indirectly.

“Gonna listen to me live like it’s gospel, aren’t you? Listen to eeevery word I say. Wouldn’t be surprised if you used to constantly fuck your brains out while watching me. What’s that, got nothing to say?”

You really have nothing to say. While he clearly knows it, it's embarrassing to admit to something you may have occasionally indulged in before he became a tangible part of your life.

It doesn’t stop you from whimpering as you feel the tethers loosen. 

“Come on baby, time’s ticking. You better come for me now—” 

You hear barely audible knocking at his door. The line picks up a foreign muted tone, but you’re not really processing it. Your orgasm takes over and you stutter out a choked gasp, heels pushing into the couch before they fully relax into the leather, the tingling waves of your orgasm spreading to all your limbs.

“Mhm, I’ll be a minute.” His voice sounds further away, like he’s covered the phone and moved it away from his ear while he talks back.

In retrospect, the shame of orgasming on the phone to him while he’s talking to someone else should’ve stopped you from getting there, but it’s him you’re talking about. It’s hard to restrain yourself.

“See, I knew you could do it. Now go put yourself together, missy. I want you to pay attention.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I will… Just—hah—gotta catch my breath a little bit. I will, I’m excited to see you.”

“Good girl. I love you, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.” You smile fondly.

Homelander ends the phone call and you take a moment to gather yourself. You breathe in deeply. The first big exhale lets you release some of the muscle tension you’ve gained as you hurriedly brought yourself to orgasm.

As you pull your now uncomfortably soaked underwear and bottoms back on, the next inhale brings the tension back in a different way. 

All your nagging thoughts return like a flood, crashing through you. Your gut churns, the anxious feeling of it all souring your post-orgasmic high. Is there even more you bring to this “relationship” besides sex?

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you get up off the couch to clean up and make yourself presentable in the bathroom. While nobody is here to see you, you feel dirty sitting in your wet and cooled underwear. You swap it for a fresh pair from your overnight bag, tossing the old ones in the laundry hamper.

Sitting comfortably on the couch in your den of pillows and blankets is a familiar enough routine. Due to your secretive relationship status, Homelander can’t take you with him. You watch from the safety of yours or his home, watching your favourite hero live on TV.

You click the remote to the channel Homelander’s talk show appearance will be broadcasted on and wait until the time they’re live with some pointless scrolling on your phone. You can’t help but gravitate towards the Homelander-centric gossip pages, Instagram fan accounts or Reddit forums. Each time relieved that there’s still no information on you. Nobody is none the wiser.

The TV speakers burst with the audience’s roar of applause, tearing your eyes up and away from your phone. You smile at the support he gets. Though it turns ugly and cracks very quickly. Some possessive part of you wishes you were there backstage cheering him on as he walks on set in front of all these people.

Homelander oozes confidence with every sure step. This is his element. Big bright smiles and a quick broad wave to the audience you don’t see. He looks handsome. Hair parted slightly, loose and charming, just like his smile. He’s calm and collected. Definitely not like someone who was just getting his rocks off a few minutes ago.

He brings the smile back all the way to your eyes. All sour thoughts dissipate when you see him like this. It’s not fair to feel awful when it’s time for him to have his moment. You know better than that.

While there’s hardly a need for it, he’s introduced to the audience. 

“Homelander, welcome, thank you for joining us.” 

“Always good to be here, thank you for having me.”

Homelander’s seated and the interview begins. So unlike any of the other usual guests he takes up the majority of the space with his larger-than-life quality. So much more suited for something better than this.

“I’m sure all the ladies are very excited for the movie’s opening weekend.” 

“Great start.” You roll your eyes as the audience cheers  and whistles again. Nothing like objectifying him the moment he walks into the room.

“It’s what I’m—well, what we’re all hoping for, it’s a wild ride. I can promise you that much.” While your lover is a little snarkier behind the scenes, he’s a class act in front of the cameras. You’re always proud to see him do so well.

“Well that’s a glowing review if I’ve ever heard one! We all enjoy a love story. Let’s not be modest here, you’ve been voted The superhero heartthrob. It’s no wonder this movie is already pulling record sales at the box office.” The interviewer speaks into the side of her palm, acting secretive as if each word wasn’t clearly picked up by the lav mic.

“Oh stop it, that silly thing.” He brushes the compliment off, shrugging his shoulders boyishly. 

“No seriously, I think this is exactly what the audience wanted. We all love a superhero flick, don’t we, folks? But the little touch of spice and romance? Instant crowd pleaser. Tickets are selling like hotcakes!” 

“Insipid cow.” You can’t help yourself but comment on the over the top vapid glazing happening right before your eyes. Muttering obscenities to yourself you miss Homelander’s response and only vaguely take in the following mindless chatter in its entirety.

They treat him like a circus animal. 

“Who’s your favourite cast member to do scenes with?”

“What is it like to juggle acting with protecting the city?”

“What’s your guilty pleasure when you’re off duty?”

One mundane—pointless—question after another makes you wonder how he puts up with the pomp and phoniness of it all. You know you couldn’t. You even imagine yourself sitting next to him. You see the difference. You see how differently the world would see you.

As soon as you started thinking of the labels the world would describe you with, you couldn’t help yourself but compare the two. Him; popular, handsome, loveable, patriotic. A true ray of sunshine. You on the other hand? You already envision the headlines. Nobody. Golddigger. Leech. Attention seeker. Maybe even a thief?

You’ve stolen America’s perfect poster boy and the penalty for said crime is the heaviest guilty conscience. 

There he is talking about his latest save of the week. His movie premiere and his day to day crime fighting activities. You can’t help but compare yourself to the woman interviewing him. She looks well presented, put together, classy. You never feel that way. Do thieves and criminals even get to feel classy?

It’s clear to you now that you don’t belong. It’s clear to everyone. Is it not? He must see it too. It’s only a matter of time until he realises that he’s trying to force you into a mold you were simply not born to fit into.

You often wonder how long until Homelander decides to move on.

The next line of questioning that catches you out of your doom spiral.

“Let’s circle back to the start. It’s a shame your co-star couldn’t make it today. What was it like to work with her as your love interest?”

Your ears perk up. Until now Homelander has never squashed the rumours of their supposed fling. You’re not entirely sure if it was due to Vought’s ruling or his own sick enjoyment derived from your jealousy.

“Oh well, she’s lovely. Things were kept very professional. She’s a very talented young woman, it was a pleasure to work alongside her. She got on well with everyone on the team, a real star. The main cast is usually made up of our superhero line-up, so she exceeded my expectations. Especially since I was a little wary myself of the change.” 

You can’t sit still, fidgeting in your spot, you run your tongue in between your teeth when you’re not nervously biting the inside of your cheek.

“Sooo all the rumours we’ve heard about a little behind the scenes romance are not true?” 

“No. Definitely not. Sorry. We all got on very well, but not that well if you catch my drift.” The mic catches the sound of the audience’s synchronized ‘ooh’ and you clench your fists.

He’s yours. You hate how they all think of him.

“Well you can’t blame the rumours. People are eager to see their favourite hero in love. It’s the first time Vought has released a love interest-themed movie. Why the change?”

“Well you tend to see us saving your homes and neighbourhoods. I think Vought wanted to show everyone that at the end of the day we go home and hang up the capes. We’re people too.”

You remember the evening he was whining to you about his premiere talking points. This one sounds awfully familiar.

“Do you? Hang up the cape?” The interviewer has a twinkle in her eyes like she hasn’t before. She clearly thinks that she’s getting the scoop of the year.

“Sometimes, when the time’s right. The city’s protection comes as the utmost priority but I have some downtime.”

He does. 

With you. 

Something that’s always felt exhilarating about this was the secrecy to it all. Knowing Homelander comes home to you. You’re the one you know he’s making hints to. You’re the one who’s going to praise him for a job well done once he’s back.

That has always felt good. Right?

So when did this excitement turn to dread?

“Could you share what you do in your spare time?”

“Well then you’d know where to look for me. Some things are better kept quiet.”

“Ooh a secret! Don’t we love a mysterious man, ladies?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, shut up already.” You groan hitting the couch cushion with the back of your head in frustration. This crowd flirting is getting old real fast.

“You make it sound a whole lot more exciting than it is. I just like to find my peace.” 

“That begs the next question. It’s been a few years since your last relationship. So after this movie everyone’s asking, are you looking to find your peace with a certain lucky someone? And what can the ladies do to get your attention?”

You straighten up from your lazy lounging. Feet on the ground with your elbows on your knees you intertwine your fingers and lean forward. You don’t remember him preparing for this conversation.

“First of all I’d like to say thank you to all the lovely ladies who have reached out to me or those who have written me a very sweet letter—I have read them all, don’t worry.” Homelander sends the camera a cheeky wink. Even in your tension you can’t help but chuckle at the blatant lie.

“But unfortunately for them, I am already in love. There’s a scoop for you.” He tilts his head towards the interviewer with a knowing smirk. There’s a mix of ‘ooh’ and gasps in the audience followed by applause.

Your eyes widen, jaw dropping and you barely get a gasp out. What the fuck is going on?

“Oh? Well isn’t that exciting! Who’s the lucky lady?” Scoop indeed. The interviewer is grinning ear to ear, knowing her live viewership is skyrocketing. Like it’s all a game. Like this isn’t your fucking life.

“I can’t say yet. But I know deep in my heart that she’s the one.”

“The one! Well well ladies, it’s time to pack your bags. Sounds like we’ll be seeing a massive rise in the sales of the vanilla Homelander-approved ice cream to soothe all the heartbreak you’ve just caused.” 

You can’t focus on anything they’re saying. Your heart is racing. The panic is quickly trying to take over. But you take a deep breath. Maybe he’s messing around. Maybe it’s some Vought initiative. Maybe it’s another fake PR relationship he hasn’t told you about? However much that would hurt. 

“So tell us everything you can. How long have you known each other? How did you meet?”

“We met a little under a year ago. One crazy encounter sprinkled with pure luck brought us together. But some details I will keep for myself. We’ve been keeping out of the public eye. My sweet love bunny is a little camera shy. And I get it, I’m a famous guy. Our love wouldn’t have had the privacy and time to bloom if we were public from the get go.”

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

“I think I just heard the entire country go ‘aww’. How romantic! Will you be coming public now?”

“Yes. It’s about time I shared her with the world. I’ve been selfishly keeping her to myself. But I really can’t wait for you all to meet her.” 

Homelander winks at the camera and you know damn well it’s not meant for the audience.

“Fuck.”

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[aphroditessaturn]

The Lucky Winner - Part 3

[Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 10k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Early Season 1. Voice kink (very mild mention). Awkward first dates. Awkward dialogue. Messy timeline. Established Relationship. Love confession. Emotional sex. Unhealthy Relationship.

Summary: Your life turns upside down, again, when Homelander reaches out to you asking you out on a date.

Author’s Note: This is set between the events of Part 1 & Part 2. It really is just a self-indulgent excuse to explore some relationship building and dynamics. Lot of awkward dialogue so be warned.

The next time Homelander contacts you it catches you just as off guard as the first time. Maybe even more so. You never expected him to turn up in the first place, let alone be interested in seconds.

Your phone is ringing on the bed and ever since the development from a week ago you’ve been on edge anytime your phone rang. You drop the towel you’re folding back on the pile of unsorted laundry and you nearly dive onto the bed, reaching for your phone. In the panic you drop it about three times, your shaky hands inadvertently playing hot potato.

“Hello?!” You yell into the phone, panicked. You don’t actually end up checking who’s calling, too worried about not accidentally hanging up. Plus it’s not like you could have saved Homelander’s number from a week ago anyway. It showed up as blocked on your phone’s call logs so you had no way to recognise his number.

“Hello there! Nice of you to pick up.” You squeaked in surprise and the voice on the phone turned from chipper to confused. “You okay? You sound a little—” And oh my god, it’s him! You’re talking to Homelander, again. Okay, okay, now it’s time to try and keep calm.

His voice is still gloriously rich and sweet in your ear and here you are about to most likely embarrass yourself again because for the life of you you’re incapable of coming across as calm and collected.

“I’m fine!” You immediately cut him off, your voice shrill and strained. He does not need to know the ins-and-outs of your internal struggle. But either way you’re already doing terribly. Who are you to cut Homelander off mid-sentence? Where are your manners? 

“Why are you—um—I mean, is there anything you need?” You clumsily make your way through your response. Definitely not how you wanted to present yourself but it’s a lot better than barely being able to say a word like last time!

“I’m taking you out on a date. Get ready for 7 today.” You heard it. You’re pretty damn sure you heard that right, yet not a single part of you believes what he said.

“Sorry? W-w-what do you mean?” You sputter in confusion, your brain simply not capable of computing this news. 

“I mean that I’m taking you out for dinner. What’s hard to understand?” He sounds irritated and your heart is pounding. From so many things at once. How are you meant to process that Homelander contacted you again, is asking you out for a date and now you’ve managed to irk him?!

Before you manage to apologize, following your typical spiel, Homelander continues. “Maybe you don’t know this but it’s kind of what men do when they want to get to know someone. You following yet?” 

You ignore the condescending remark and instead you focus on what he’s actually saying.

There may as well be steam coming out of your ears, you genuinely feel like a blushing teenage girl talking to her crush. You’re hot bright red in the face and you feel the literal heat coming off your face.

“Yeah but you’re not—well of course you are—but also you’re not! Y’know, just an average Joe.” How do you go about explaining that you don’t feel worthy of that kind of attention?

“Doesn’t matter, you’re missing the point. Is that a no?” You’d think he would be pissed saying that, who in their right mind would refuse going on a date with Homelander, but he sounds amused more than anything. 

Again with the reading you like a book. Because you barely manage to let out a barrage of “No! No no no no— that’s not!” before Homelander starts laughing.

“Alright, I’ll pick you up then.”

“No, wait! I can’t—I can’t do the public thing. You’re you! And as soon as I show up in public with you I won’t be left alone. I know that’s normal for you, but my life isn’t like that. I’m just… me.” You’re just a nobody. You don’t have a social media presence. You don’t bring attention to yourself. And you like to keep it that way. Going on a public date with America’s golden boy himself? You would be ripped apart by the online vultures. 

You all but freak out on the phone and for a second you think he disconnected because you can’t hear a thing over the line but he suddenly speaks up.

“Oh well. We can’t have that, can we? You better have dinner ready at your place instead.” You don’t need to see him to imagine him with the biggest satisfied grin on his face. “I’ll be there at 7. Catch you later!”

Homelander hangs up on you and you hear the disconnected tone ringing in your ear as you stand there like a fish out of water. Mouth gaping open, letting out disbelieving stutters. 

You pull the phone away from your ear, looking down at it as if it offended you. It’s then you notice the time. Shit shit shit. You have less than four hours to make your place and yourself presentable, go on a grocery run and start cooking for Homelander?! What just happened!

“Oh no no no no. This is not happening.” You rub your hands over your face as if to wipe the shock off your face. You’re so overwhelmed with the rollercoaster of emotions that you don’t know whether to have a panic attack, laugh nervously or downright cry.

Okay, first of all the pile of laundry is gonna have to wait. You don’t have the time to meticulously fold your t-shirts and panties. You gather up the clean and dry laundry into your hands, haphazardly shoving it into the closet before closing the door on what will be an avalanche of laundry for your future self to deal with.

With pure panic-induced energy that you haven’t felt in a long while you manage to just about make your place presentable within an hour. Finally managing to gather and clean up the mugs and glasses that have been cluttering up your surfaces, making your bed all neat and tidy—just in case—and shoving all unnecessary clutter into cupboards. It’s not like Homelander would use his x-ray vision to judge the inside of your cabinets, would he?

Speeding your way out of your apartment you make your way over to the closest shop. Standing in the fresh produce aisle you suddenly realize you don’t actually have a plan. What the fuck are you meant to cook for Homelander?! Even after all the content you’ve consumed you’re pretty sure there’s not a single mention of his favorites. At least ones he’s not been sponsored to promote. Sure, he’s on many products, ranging from frozen peas to whole milk but that doesn’t mean it’s something he genuinely endorses. After all you want to get to know the man behind the costume, a date is not meant to be just another PR interview for him!

You’re starting to look strange. People are passing you while you’re internally panicking over what to buy. What if he’s allergic to something? What if he goes into anaphylactic shock and fucking dies! Even if you had an EpiPen or he carried it on him you wouldn’t be able to stab it into him anyway. And suddenly you’ve killed the world’s most beloved superhero and you’re spending the rest of your life in jail with Vought most certainly making sure you pay your dues. Even if all of that was true you had no way of knowing. It’s not like Vought would ever leak that kind of information. Not very good for their brand to tweet that their best superhero is allergic to fucking nuts!  

You shake your head a little, snapping yourself out of your dazed state. If Homelander’s brand is anything it’s that red-blooded American male perfect standard. Surely he wouldn’t complain about some steak dinner right? Men love steaks! You just make sure to avoid most common allergens. You pick up some potatoes and other vegetables to roast along with a good pricey cut of steak that was easily out of your budget.

You get home just as fast and with each passing second you’re more and more on edge. You don’t know whether it’s the anxiety coiling in your guts or the so called ‘butterflies’ but you’ve never been this nervous before. With the clock ticking and the food cooking you’re suddenly more and more paranoid over everything. From your insane Homelander merch collection to even just the furniture you’ve got! Not that that’s anything you can change in the next hour but your mind is running at a hundred miles an hour and you’re trying to account for everything. 

Just before it gets to the agreed time you change into something nice but casual, straight after shoving the laundry avalanche back into its place. You even leave the balcony door open, doubting he’s gonna knock on your door like a normal person. 

And while you’re there focusing on platting up your best attempt at steak and roasted vegetables, you hear the familiar sound of Homelander’s landing. You whip your head towards the wall clock with such urgency it’s shocking you don’t give yourself whiplash. 

Shit. It was literally 7pm. You wanted to set the table all pretty and prep it perfectly but you got so preoccupied with the place looking as good as it can that you lost track of time. You’re sure he’s used to luxury and perfection. You want to do your best to replicate that!

“Homelander!” Comes out of you with a little gasp. You tilt your head to look at him. And what you see makes your heart skip a beat. 

There he is, in his suited-out glory per usual, except this time he’s holding a bouquet of roses with a dashing smile on his face that quickly turns into a self-satisfied grin as he immediately notices your panic at his presence. Even after he thoroughly reduced you to a puddle of goo just last week you were still such a skittish uncertain thing around him. 

“Wow, smells delicious in here.” He looks around taking it in while inhaling the mouth-watering smell of sizzling steak.

Homelander steps closer with calculated steps, checking you out without an ounce of shame. You don’t know if it’s just the pure intensity in his eyes that has you feeling on edge or if he really is undressing you with his gaze. “These,” he frees your hand, prying your palm open with his gloved hand, “are for you.” He places the bouquet of roses into your palm, squeezing it shut around the wrapped stems.

In a way you’re paralyzed. The reality of the situation finally hits you and you realize you’re really here about to have a dinner date with Homelander. Who just brought you expensive, gorgeous flowers, because that’s something that totally happens to people like you.

You’re standing there, staring at the deep rich red of the roses that actually ends up matching the cardigan you put on for this. Your little attempt at complimenting the suit you knew he'd show up in. 

Your mind is going a million miles a second and your other hand squeezes a petal in between your fingertips. There’s droplets of water on the velvety surface. You didn’t realize it was raining at the time. You look past him through a window as if you could make out the weather through the darkness of the evening.

Looking at the roses now, they look beautiful, pristine. He flew here right? How did he manage to keep them in one shape with the speeds he flies at.

“H-how did you fly with—” You don’t even finish the question before he’s answering.

“I don’t have to fly at super speeds all the time. You’d think my most loyal fan would know that.”

“You can read minds too?” Falls out of your mouth before you even think about what you're saying.

“No. You’re just very easy to read.” He places his hands on his hips, naturally defaulting to his superhero pose. 

And sure, maybe the way your eyes move in between the window, him and the flowers is a dead giveaway but you still don’t think it’s that easy to figure out exactly how your thought process works. 

He seems unhappy with your lack of enthusiastic response. He probably expected you to jump at him, wrapping your arms around him in pure glee that he’d do such a romantic thing. 

He nodded towards the bouquet, raising his eyebrows.

“Anyway, your flowers. You might want to put them in some water. Unless you plan on fondling each petal all night.” You don’t know whether he said it that way on purpose or if your absurd attraction to his voice is reaching new heights but the imagery that conjures is not one that would belong at a dinner table. There’s a different kind of petal-fondling you have in mind for later.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. And thank you. Really, this is very kind of you. They’re beautiful.” Finally, he’s satisfied with that response, his shoulders relax a bit, his chest puffing out as he sees you hold the flowers closer to you.

You’re all over the place and your movements are in no way elegant or thought out as you awkwardly stumble around, pulling out the biggest glass you could find. This ends up being a large glass measuring jug which you admit looks rather strange, and you don't miss the way he raises his eyebrow at the display. 

Well, it was a lot better than if you used the bucket you keep under the sink for cleaning. It’s not like you have a perfect pretty vase ready for this occasion. Until now you didn’t have anyone bringing you flowers and you never really bought any for yourself.

He doesn’t comment on the miserable display. Instead he focuses on how wound up you are.

“Jeez, you’re even stiffer than last time. You know I usually fuck my dates after dinner, but if you need me to loosen you up…” His crude attempt at humor and breaking the ice just has your brain screeching and halting all actions. 

“What?! No, nonono. That won’t—That’s not. I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. That you’re here.”

“I did tell you I’d come. And I’m pretty sure you’re not plating up two plates for yourself there silly.” He shakes his head while clicking his tongue, as if disapproving of your doubt. 

“I mean, I’m surprised that you want to do this. With me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m here aren��t I? Last time I checked I asked you out, not the other way around. And trust me sweetheart, I don’t do shit out of pity.” He walks closer to you, his hand patting the side of your arm, settling his hand there and sliding it up until he reaches your jaw. The leather of his glove is cold, some raindrops still stuck in the crevices.

Although your heart rate picks up, you smile genuinely. Getting the straightforward confirmation that he wants to be here with you warms your heart. “Alright.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have everything ready. I lost track of time. Do you mind just sitting down, I’ll finish up in a second.”

“Yup, can do.” He sits down at the small table slapping his palms on his thighs as he does so. Already peeling his gloves off, discarding the gloves at the edge of the table. 

You finish up the plating, trying to make it as neat as possible. You bring the plates over, one in front of him the other right opposite. “Um, do you drink beer? I got some in case you do. I know you do endorse some but I’m sure that doesn’t mean you have to consume it in your free time.”

“No thanks, never got the taste for it. Have you got milk?” 

You blank a little at the request. It’s not the typical pairing by any means but who are you to tell him what to like. Instead you comply, tucking away the little preference into the corner of your mind where you keep all your knowledge about him.

“Um, yeah. I do. Again, I got one you’ve done marketing for, just in case you did like it. I wasn’t really sure. Believe it or not there’s a lot I don’t know about you.” You admit. It’s not like everything that his Marketing team puts out is all real. You're sure they leave out any of his actual preferences so future advertisers don't clash with any competition.

“With this logic I’m surprised you didn’t buy the entire store.” 

“I was close to it.” You take the carton out of the fridge, shutting the door with your hip. “Do you want it warm or cold?” 

“Cold is fine.” You nod, pouring some into a glass placing it in front of him.

As a last touch you take two roses from the huge bouquet, popping them into a narrow tall glass filled with water and you place the romantic decoration to the side of the table before sitting down.

He strangely smiles at the gesture, something about it feeling awfully domestic. It may not be perfectly manicured but it's real and it does the job just as well. It's not a perfect setting made for a photoshoot. You're just trying to impress him with what you've got. All for his enjoyment only. And that alone makes it a lot more special. 

Suddenly being right across him really set the reality of the situation. You feel a little awkward about the setting. But there is really only so much you could have done with your small apartment. And it’s not like he hasn’t been here before. He knows what you're working with.

You watch as he cuts into the steak, stabbing it with his fork and bringing a piece to his mouth.

“Wait! You’re not allergic to anything right?!” You suddenly panic, feeling cold sweat pour over you at the thought of your irrational thoughts from earlier coming true. 

He looks thoroughly amused but he doesn’t answer and instead just takes the bite. 

“Are you always this worried on dates? Or do you get them to fill out a questionnaire beforehand?” He seems to enjoy throwing all these little jabs highlighting how much of a nervous mess you are in his presence. 

“I don’t usually cook for my dates on the first date. There’s usually nothing to worry about.”

“I did ask you out for dinner. This is your own doing missy.” He waved his fork at you, pointing at you being the one to blame.

“You think I’m—oh. I’m not complaining about this, oh my god! I just didn’t really know what you like! Surprisingly not a lot about that online. They really know how to keep you a mystery. And even superheroes have allergies! How was I to know whether you’ve got one or not? But even if you did, it’s not like Vought would release that information.” You ramble on, trying to explain yourself but you’re really just digging yourself a deeper hole. Not that Homelander looks particularly put off. If anything, the amused grin spreads to both corners of his mouth.

“You know I’m not here for the food right? Though this is not too bad. Didn’t think you had it in you.” He raises his eyebrows in appreciation. 

“I live on my own. I don’t know why you’re surprised to learn that I can cook for myself.” You said feigning offense but inside you were squealing at the compliment.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a date?” He changes the topic, with each passing moment he’s less interested in the food and a lot more honed in on you and what little secrets you can let him in on. Though he’s still happily nursing the glass of milk. 

“It’s been a while, I guess.” You’re overcome with this anxious feeling in your gut. Is it meant to be a dig at the date you’ve prepared? Is he saying that you’re not desirable enough to be dated?

He catches you off guard with his smug little smile. “Thought so. Guess you’re too busy being my biggest fan, huh?”

You nearly choke on your food, surprised and flustered by his words. The tell-tale sign of heat creeps up your neck and to the tip of your ears in embarrassment. He’s hard to read and you can’t tell whether he’s trying to humiliate you or if he genuinely enjoys the reminder of having someone fawn over him right there and then.

You put your cutlery down, softly clinking it against the plate. “Look, I’m really sorry about all that. I’m a fan but I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.” The corners of his mouth comically pull down feigning innocence with a shrug.

You playfully roll your eyes. “You insinuated. I’m just saying I wouldn’t have all this stuff out if I knew you’d ever see it!” You wave your arm in the general direction of the rest of your humble apartment. Still littered with Homelander merch. If you had more time to prepare for the date you would have maybe even taken some of it down. Replace some posters with photos of friends or family, making you appear a lot more put together. But alas, your guilty pleasure is still blatantly obvious and out for anyone to see. It's all the worse that in this case it’s being seen by the featured star of your guilty pleasure himself.

“There’s no shame in being a fan.” 

“No, but it’s different to collect memorabilia and merchandise of a beloved superhero that you don’t ever expect to witness the madness and to actually have him see it all and feel objectified. As if all there was to him is just the plastic he can sell with his face on it.”

You don’t know why you’re getting into the heavy-duty topic of someone’s worth and value but maybe part of you just wants to present yourself as someone who cares. Someone who looks beyond the obvious. 

Homelander is similarly perturbed by your words. Clearly not used to fans taking such direction with him. Thinking about it you doubt he hears more from them beyond a predictable can I have a selfie?

He furrows his eyebrows for a second tilting his head. As if he’s trying to look into your brain to read your mind. And sure he can literally see inside your skull but it doesn’t help him understand your thoughts. So instead he digs deeper. Putting the glass of milk down he looks you straight in the eyes. 

“You don’t think that’s it?” 

His resolute question makes you pause, feeling as if you overstepped. And even if, there’s no way to backtrack anymore so you continue. “O-of course not. I know you’re more than what Vought puts out there.”

You’ve spent countless hours following the content Vought markets out to the public. All of it manicured to match his perfect brand and profile. They’re slick enough to control even the content fans put out. From conventions to random street encounters. You remember following a thread of an anonymous fan sharing their experience of getting barraged by Vought’s lawyers after they shared a post about a poor experience they had meeting one of their superheroes. You haven’t heard an update from that story in a while, god knows what happened to the fan. Maybe Vought’s lawyers managed to get their anonymous account too. 

“How would you know?” Irritation seeps into his tone, shoulders tensing, feeling exposed right before he slides back into his normal casual tone and body language as if remembering that he’s meant to be talking to a date and not some nosy interviewer trying to get the next scoop.

“I mean who hasn’t put up a face to show the world their perfect self? Whether it’s on dates or in front of friends. I just imagine that doing that in front of the whole world means there’s a lot you feel like you have to hide.” With each word you feel like you’re digging yourself a hole, ruining any chance of another date. But you’ve started saying your piece and when else are you gonna get the chance to tell the man exactly how you feel?

So you continue.

“I just think it has to be exhausting. Your entire job, your life is existing in the public eye and you can’t ever slip up? Not super-abled celebrities deal with that already but for you there’s the added burden of being seen as the superhero right? ‘Here to save us all’. I just mean, do you ever get to be yourself?”

You mean to be sympathetic, not that you could ever imagine what it’s like to be in his shoes. Being as obsessed as you are, you've watched all the footage with him. You notice how often the same lines repeat, how well he’s perfected the mask of a perfect hero. The fake humble you’re the real heroes being repeated in every video and appearance. If it was you, you know you’d have enough a while ago now. The daily grind of a job is exhausting enough but to do that all under the public’s scrutiny? You couldn’t even imagine. 

You were so lost in your little monologue, spilling all the little thoughts you had about him and his persona that you miss how his casual demeanor has once again shifted into something else. He’s less irritated but he’s tense. Even more so than before. He wears an expression you’re pretty sure you’ve not seen on him before. His jaw may not be dropped but his surprise and confusion is evident without it. 

He’s speechless. Thinking about it now, has anyone ever spoken to him in such manner before?

You watch his body language and the way he’s squeezing the fork so hard you’re sure he’s bent the metal. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just once I get going I can’t stop!” 

He lets out a breathless little laugh. His shoulders release in tension. He stops gripping the cutlery and sure enough it has a bend that definitely wasn’t there before but you don’t care. He’s not pissed. He raises his free hand waving you off and stopping you from apologizing any further. Something you’ve managed to do about a hundred times since his arrival. 

“No. No, it’s fine. You didn’t.” He shakes his head a little, looking at you with a different look in his eyes. No longer just looking for a little bit of excitement, now he’s truly locked in. What else can he get you to say? “Well maybe you did a little, but color me intrigued anyway.” 

He looks at you in a way that makes you feel small. You feel like you’re on your knees praying for your god to hear out your prayers knowing it’s unlikely for him to even notice you.  

“Can't say I've heard any of that before.” He concludes, slumping back into the chair now that he's relaxed again, having lost all interest in the food you've served up.

You’re embarrassed by the call out. It’s like all your efforts to not appear like another crazy fan have been pointless. He might not seem angry but that doesn’t mean he’s about to jump at the thought of another date. You may have ruined your chances at this being anything more than mild entertainment to him so you try to save yourself. “I just mean. I have always wanted to get to know you. The you without the cameras.”

“You already have. I don’t go on dates with many fans, believe it or not. And I gotta say you’re a lot more interesting than I gave you credit for.” 

And maybe it wasn’t such a lost cause yet. Have there been many people that Homelander has ever found genuinely interesting? You wouldn’t know but at least you’re one of them.

“Oh…ah-hah thank you.” You fluster under his heavy gaze. His words make your heart skip a beat. There’s very little that can match the euphoria of your hero, the hero really, saying he finds you interesting. It’s hard to calm the pounding of your heart at the thought of a man of his caliber seeking your company out.

After all you’ve managed to blurt out you feel more at ease. It’s not awkward like you expected it to be. In a way you’ve broken the ice you didn’t know was even there.

With you both losing interest or having had enough of your meals you move to the small but comfortable couch. And like any good dinner and movie date you put on the first title that gets advertised to you on the main page of the Vought+ streaming platform.

In reality the movie doesn’t get watched. Either you let it play in the background or you pause on sections just so you can continue the conversation between the two of you. And somehow it’s still mainly you literally just rambling on about him. It’s not that he doesn’t talk or doesn’t ask questions about you but you see the way he preens at all the enamored praise you send his way. 

The only parts that do get watched is the small cameo Homelander ended up having in the title and the conversation steers back to him. He gives you all the details you ask for, more than happy to talk about how great of an actor he is. 

With each minute of sitting close to him you feel your body respond to him. You feel hot. Too warm for the cardigan you’re wearing but you don’t want to seem too forward by taking it off. Especially after knowing what kind of trouble he could get up to in between your legs it makes it very hard to accidentally brush against his thigh and not spontaneously combust.

Homelander turns around to look back into the room while you’re dealing with your internal turmoil. Would it be too unseemly for you to initiate?

Your thoughts are interrupted when his bare hand cradles your jaw, bringing you in for a kiss. The whimper you let out is embarrassing but you quickly lose track of anything that’s not his hot lips melting you into a puddle. Just as things are about to get good, just when you’re about to pry his lips open with your needy tongue he pulls away. He doesn’t go too far. You can still feel his hot breath while he rests his forehead against yours. 

“I’ll have to set off. I need to get back to Vought tower.” He hums so close to you that you get goosebumps from the way his voice turns all low and hushed. Even though the words he’s saying are anything but good news, the attractive sound still soothes you.

“Oh-kay.” You nod. A little sad but understanding that he’s got things to get to. Every part of you is holding back from pulling him in for more but as much as your fingers twitch for him you restrain yourself.

“Come on now. Don’t sound so upset.” He gives your cheek a soft little pat before placing another peck on your lips with a chuckle from behind his closed lips.

The taste of your lips pulls him in anyway and he holds you close for a few more indulgent kisses. Upon separating you’re warm and flustered. His touch always seems to have that effect on you. 

“It's just… I had a lot of fun today.” And you don't want it to be over or for it to be the last time you see him. But how do you ask him out? 

While your limbs still feel like jelly, having melted into the couch, he stands up, walking over to the little dining table where he left his discarded gloves, pulling them back on.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll be back.” He clearly reads your expression and watches as you stumble while getting up, clearly wanting to see him out before he flies off.

His words alone are good enough to lift your spirits and you let yourself show that joy outwardly.

“Thanks for today.” When’s the last time you’ve ever felt this in the moment? Even if he never came back this moment would easily be a highlight you look back on.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” As if he couldn’t restrain himself his eyes snapped in between your eyes and lips, his eyelashes fluttering, lips parting as he took in the sight of you. So eager to please and be there for him. He wets his lips and your stomach flips at the display. The pink of his tongue disappearing as quickly as it appears.

His eyes soften, lips stretching into a lazy lopsided smile.

“Do I get a goodbye kiss?” 

And just like that with one last kiss he’s off again, returning to his duties.

This isn’t where things end with you two. If anything, your life takes a massive turn. It’s not been the same ever since you’ve won that silly competition. And it strangely makes you want to send a gift basket to whoever organized it, no matter how much you dislike Vought itself. 

At first he comes back to you seeking comfort.

He strolls in through your balcony door which you’ve gotten into the habit of leaving unlocked—just in case. It’s not like there’s anyone else eager to fly into your home. You awake at the disruption, eyes bleary and straining in the harsh light of the nightstand lamp you’ve turned on to see what’s going on.

He doesn’t explain himself as much as he just vents to you about how he’s not being respected and taken seriously. It’s the first time he’s been back since your date and you’re surprised to see him so emotive. So unlike the perfect persona or even the carefully charming guy he presented himself as during  your date.

He’s already pacing back and forth, the thud of his boots bound to disturb your neighbors below. Not that either of you care. He’s too preoccupied with being angry. And you’re too frazzled by the thought of something upsetting your hero to this degree.

You see the angry tremor in his hands and the sharpness of his teeth, highlighted by the yellow night light. You snap out of the sleepy daze and you catch his gloved hand when he paces in front of you. 

You pull him down next to you, cooing supportive words and showing your own anger at seeing him be so disrespected by Vought. You believe they don’t know how lucky they are to have someone like him. They should revere him, yet the things he lets slip in his anger make your chest tight, fueling the rage simmering inside you. 

It’s like seeing you riled up at the way he’s being mistreated is enough to calm him down. The more you seethe the more he cools down, the energy exchange working in between you perfectly. He’s pleased to have someone in his corner. Preening at how much you parrot the words he’s saying without needing to nudge you in that direction.

Swoop-in visits like these happen more regularly. Either he comes in irritated wanting to get some frustration and anger out, fucking you throughout the night until all he can think of are your moans and cries telling him it’s too much.

Or he comes in happy, excited to share the news that his numbers are up or that the public and the on-scene reporters couldn’t stop praising him after his latest save. Those days he comes in for affection and a cuddle, wanting to hear over and over again just how well he’s done since you’ve last seen him. Treating you less like a stress ball and more like a teddy bear he’s hugged against his chest in comfort. 

You start thinking how lonely he must feel. The thought that there aren’t any people around him showering him with genuine love and friendship hurts you and suddenly you want nothing more than to keep him here with you, making sure he knows just how special he is.

As much as you’ve always been devoted to this god-like being and the idea that he represented, you never got to love the person. Until now. Now the ideology alone has seeped into your never ending love, fueling the suffocating adoration you hold for him. So strong it’s eating away at you anytime you don’t get the chance to scream how much you love him.

You used to see these late night visits as something he does for his own benefit. With you always being the easiest and most effective balm to his troubled soul. You didn’t think he was serious with you. After all, this is the Homelander you’re spending every other evening with. 

So when he sends you flowers out of nowhere, effectively courting you, you start thinking that this might be turning into something real.

It starts with the first delivery at your door. A gorgeous bouquet bursting at the seams, tagged with a note saying it’s from Homelander. Since then he’s made sure to supply you with the most beautiful bouquets as if to keep a reminder of him on a daily basis. You finally invest in a pretty vase, knowing it’s going to be thoroughly used and displayed.

Your home always had touches of Homelander throughout it—some might even say too many. However, as your relationship grows you come to a realization that those really only represent Vought. It’s these new touches that really represent Homelander’s presence in your life. Like how he times the flower deliveries just right so your place is never empty. Always there to remind you to keep him at the forefront of your mind. Never wavering. 

You two haven’t officially said that you’re dating throughout these nighttime visits but it’s at the tip of your tongue each time he comes. You want to voice the love you carry for him like a burden. Overflowing from your arms with nowhere to go. And it feels like each second you don’t say it, it’s being uselessly spilled on the floor like sand falling from in-between your fingers.

Homelander has his own way of showing affection. Seeing as so much of his life has been in front of some sort of camera you wonder if thinking in advertising scripts and photoshoot visuals comes to him more naturally than casual and real gestures. As ever since he started with the flower deliveries he’s been showering you with gifts upon each visit. As if everyday had to be Valentine’s day and he had to bring something to symbolize the reason for his visit.

You call him out on that one day. 

“You know you don’t have to bring anything right? You don’t need to bribe me.” You chuckle at the gift box he brought with him. You’ve got dozens of similar gift boxes and bags that you feel reluctant to get rid of mainly for the sentimental value but the retail price associated with the gift they hold certainly doesn’t help. 

He clasps the gifted necklace around your neck. The dainty chain lays cold against your skin and your fingers gently caress the pendant with care. Your statement still rings true but you can’t help but feel giddy every time he brings you something he thought would look great on you. 

“Do you not like the things I bring you?” With a perplexed expression you see him trying to do mental math, trying to figure out why you could possibly not kneel or bow in gratitude. He watches you play with your new pretty jewelry with a squint. 

“No! It’s all beautiful—this one especially—just. I don’t want you to feel like that’s an obligatory part of you being here.” You laugh it off a little, still dreamily thinking about what it really means to get pampered to this degree. 

He breaks your thoughts with a simple sentence.

“Maybe I want to treat my girl.” 

Your eyes widen, and you let out a shocked stuttered breath.

“Your girl?”

“Yeah, duh.” He scoffs as if what he said is as obvious as the sky being blue and water wet.

“Because you’re mine, right?” You don’t see the way his eyes reflect his own complicated and simmering feelings. The tension in his jaw betrays how he needs you to acknowledge his words and speak them into an existence. But you don’t notice any of that because it’s like the dam you’ve been doing your best to hold together with safety pins finally bursts.

You’re nodding feverishly. No longer able to hold back you’re possessed to blurt out the words that have been threatening to fall off the precipice of your tongue for weeks. 

“I love you.” 

Homelander’s eyes widen. Surprised by your admission just as much as you are. Your heart is racing, suddenly feeling insane for thinking this was anything more than simple fun to him. The knee-jerk response to apologize spills easily from your lips.

“I’m sorry—,” but instead he interrupts you by cradling your jaw in his bare hands, stepping closer.

“Don’t be sorry.” He says in a low rumble, sending shivers down your spine. He leans in to give you a tender kiss. Just barely slotting in between your parted lips, pressing them against his. Before you get the chance to continue he pulls away with enough distance to speak up.

He breathes out, eyes squeezed shut in longing which to an untrained eye would just look like pure pain and frustration. But not to you. You’ve learned to read him better. 

He nuzzles his face against yours, dragging his lips across your cheek until he reaches your ear, growling a weak, “say it again.”

You’ve partially gotten used to the timbre of his voice in your ear. Capable of having a conversation without getting worked up by every word he says but the way he’s now needily begging in your ear has your body erupt in goosebumps. He doesn’t need to say please for you to hear it anyway.

“I-I love you.” You whimper out. The emotion alone feels thick in your throat, as if it was clogging up your airways anytime you come up for air. Your heart is pounding, you’re strung up, the butterflies in your stomach make you antsy. 

His hold on your jaw tightens. With a sharp intake of breath he smashes your lips together. No longer composed and tender. Your teeth nearly clash as he’s pressed you close to him. He’s prying your lips open with his, his whimpers easily falling into the press of your lips.

“Again.” 

“I love you.”

You don’t want to cry but you’re so overwhelmed with emotion the burn that turns your eyes glassy spills over and you’re dripping tears down your cheeks in pure emotional instability.

“Again.” 

And each time he asks he sounds more wrecked. 

“I love you.”

Homelander catches the tears with his tongue right before kissing the salty taste into your mouth. Not letting any of your love get wasted. You grab onto him, grasping where you can. Your hands tangle in between his as you wrap them around his neck. One hand grips as much of the fabric of his suit it can while the other tangles in his hair, pulling on it for support more than anything. 

You feel like you’re drowning. The intensity of the moment makes you gasp for air but it’s like Homelander kisses it back into your lungs like a lifeline. Hearing his shattered whimpers soothes you, his own need fueling yours, filling the void your tears are leaving behind.

He lifts you up and with practiced ease you automatically wrap your legs around him.

He leads you both to the bedroom while he’s continuously prompting you to continue declaring your love to him. Each again, again, again you reward with the three words that make him feverish and mad. The more you say it the less your heart feels like it’s about to explode from the burden it’s been carrying for too long.

Homelander quite literally rips your clothes off, not caring that he’s leaving his own recent purchases in tatters. He doesn’t want to separate his lips from your neck where he’s kissing trails across each inch of your skin.

You don’t have the luxury to treat his suit with the same carelessness. Even if you wanted to, the tough molded material would make it impossible. Instead you do what you can. Unclasping his belt, pulling at the front of his suit, pushing his pants down where you can reach.

He helps you with taking off the rest of it until he’s on top of you, skin to skin. You rarely get the luxury of lying with him fully stripped and each time you’re shocked at how hot he runs. Now his hot body is making you melt under the heat alone.

Neither of you have stopped kissing with the same intense need that has been laying there dormant for months. Anytime you have the chance you repeat the same words over and over again until they’re all you know how to say.

It’s the first time sex has felt anything more than a physical relief he comes to you for. You’re barely keeping it together as he nudges your legs a little open, sliding his hand down your body, his palm blazing hot as the anticipation makes you clench your core.

It’s by no means either one of your first times, nor it is the first time you’ve been together yet you’ve never felt more nervous. The first touch he descends onto your clit feels like a lightning bolt crackling down your spine, spreading the tingles out to your toes and fingertips.

“Ahh hah—fuck. Want it so bad, don’t you?” He looks as broken as he sounds when he hisses at the feeling of your soaked pussy. It makes his fingers glide too easily, making it harder to give your clit the precise rhythm he’s learned to make you see stars with. 

His attempt at his normal dirty talk is disrupted by his keen moans and broken whimpers. Part of you wonders whether his super senses include being able to feel other people’s sensations with the way he’s acting as if it was him getting his body set on fire.  

You hum and ahh in response, your tongue feeling incapable of saying anything but the words you’ve been finally allowed to repeat over and over again. 

His fingers easily slip inside the sloppy mess you’ve made for him and he moans right into the kiss he leans in to steal from your lips. And it feels good. The friction is perfect, his fingers are hitting the right spot inside you and the loud squelch is embarrassing and intoxicating in equal parts. Yet it’s not what you want.

It takes all your strength to reach down and pull his hand out of you, as instinctively you’re already clenching around the all too familiar emptiness you whine at every other time when he’s done with you. 

“I want you. Please. Just you.” You manage to breathe out, your hand reaching over for his hard cock. You give him a few shaky strokes, smearing his leaking precum across the entire length.

“Alright. Uh huh, okay. I’ll give it to you.” And he’s just as out of it as you as his normal cocky one-liners just break into a lot of grunts and stutters.

He wedges himself in between your thighs, spreading them wide open. His lips part with a wistful sigh while his eyes haze over with lust at the sight of your pussy spread ope, generously glistening with slick all made for him. 

He aligns his cock with your entrance, not even bothering to tease you. He’s just as strung out as you are. He splits you open with a single thrust, your slick pulling him in with an easy glide.

“I love you.” For the first time the confession spills from Homelander’s lips. A relief just as palpable falls upon him. It’s a different story for you. The words cause more tears to spill, a wet hiccup leaving your throat as you clench around him.

“Shh, shh.” He hushes you sweetly, already reaching back for you. 

He lays his body flush on top of yours and kisses your tears away, the heat and weight of his body on top yours grounds you. He repeats the words over and over again in between wet, messy kisses. He ruts into you in shallow thrusts as if he doesn’t want to part from you any second longer.

Nothing in the world exists but you two and neither one of you can believe how perfect you really are for each other. You’ve always felt like the way you love was overwhelming. It left the other person choking on the overwhelming viscosity of it all. Homelander isn’t like that. To him your love is a breath of fresh air. 

As long as you love him with the same unyielding intensity he’s yours. At this point, he wouldn’t know how to live without it.

He kisses you in a way that says just that. Needy and broken yet utterly completed by you. 

You’re both so worked up with the overflowing emotions it doesn’t take much more than his frenzied grinding to make you both reach the release that’s as emotional as it physical. Maybe even more so.

Because the reward isn’t just a good orgasm. It’s the love that fills the air, spilling into every empty crevice you didn’t manage to fill with your bodies.

Homelander’s whimpers resemble cries as he finishes inside you right as you flutter around him with the toe-curling orgasm wracking your nerves. 

It takes you a little while to regain your mental faculties after such an emotionally draining affair. You feel boneless, your limbs feel like jelly and you just lie there dazed. Focusing on the way your heart beats loud even to your ears. 

Homelander is doing the same thing. Listening to your heartbeat with his head on your chest.

After a long while you both pull yourself together. Still in bed but now you’ve managed to strike up a normal conversation again. Talking about everything and nothing.

You lie like this for what feels like hours. Having changed positions you rest your head against his chest, ear pressed to his pecs to listen in on the steady beat of his heart.

After this reveal your brain recognizes your relationship as the utmost priority. Because of that your eyes lock onto the Kuddle Buddy plush resting just a foot away from Homelander’s head. As if you were locking onto an enemy. You pluck it from the pillow, squeezing it in your hand.

You’re staring at it, still clutching it too hard. 

“What got you thinking so hard? You’re making my head hurt from how tense you are.” Homelander interrupts you from your thoughts. 

“Just you. This. I can’t look at this stuff these days without—I don’t know—rage? To know how much Vought has wronged you.” You furrow your eyebrows, assessing the innocent plush toy while it’s staring back at you with its stitched grimace.

“That’s what the toy reminds you of, really? It should remind you of me.”

“It doesn’t anymore.” Your furrowed expression slowly melts into one of content as your hand presses against your new necklace. “Things like these do.” 

“And these.” Your fingers continue to travel up your neck where they tap at the darkened patches you feel he has left behind. With soft nipping and sucking he left your neck coloured in all shades.

He plucks the plush toy from your hands, throwing it somewhere across the room with thankfully not enough strength to knock anything else over. You’re pretty damn comfortable and you’d rather not get up to assess any damage. 

“Maybe I should give you more reminders then.” 

You squeal as he easily pulls you up so his lips can meet yours, kissing your worries out of your mind.

Homelander lands on your balcony with a soft thud. It’s late in the afternoon, earlier than he normally arrives, and he doesn’t want to attract unwanted attention. Already predicting the shit Madelyn would put him through if he got caught regularly perusing outside some random person’s apartment.

His person’s apartment really. You’re not just a random boring nobody.

He makes his way in quietly, closing the door and stepping in. Each time coming back to your apartment has felt more like coming home than he’s ever felt at Vought. You’ve arranged your life around him. He’s noticed you cancel plans, call off events just so you could stay in in the evening, waiting for him to make his return.

You even make space for him in your small apartment. The state of which he’d normally scoff at but it’s hard to mock your financial situation when you manage to make the place feel warm.

His presence left its mark in the gifts you happily displayed or the flowers you always took good care of.

And of course, the insane collection of merchandise you’ve spent years accumulating.

Wait.

Where is everything?

Homelander looks around, breaking out of his routine and instead he scans the surroundings as if it’s the first time he’s ever been here. Only now does he realize that all the usual merchandise carrying his likeness is gone. No posters on the walls. No action figures on the shelves. No funko pops. No collectibles. Nothing.

Homelander feels his blood pressure rise. There’s no way you’d want to get rid of him. Not you too. You love him. You wouldn’t do that.

He finally notices the black trash bags pushed into the kitchen, still open and overflowing with all the things missing from your walls. 

His stomach flips. 

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

You can’t get rid of him like this. He can’t lose you. 

Not after he’s finally tasted what real love in cooking tastes like. Or what it’s like to wake up next to someone who instead isn’t pushing you away straight after sex. Someone who makes an effort for him. Not out of fear but out of love. 

He mentally compares everything you’ve changed his perception on. 

Like when you give him a gift or help him out it’s different. Vought employees being at his beck and call could never compare. 

He’s the most powerful man in the world, with means that don’t feel like they have an end yet he could never buy the love you give freely. For once, love doesn’t feel like pulling teeth. It feels like a warm embrace on a cold winter night. 

You make it easy. You don’t fake it. And most importantly you do it unconditionally. Love him through thick and thin, the devotion to him a part of your very core. Your love is overwhelming, oozing and sticky like he’s never gonna be able to get rid of it. Just like you could never get rid of him.

You’re the only one who hasn’t left him.

Exactly. It can’t be. You wouldn’t.

This has to be some kind of a mistake.

The shuffle of your slippers against the floor breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts. He looks up sharply. Seeking some sort of explanation.

“Hey baby. You’re early today—what’s wrong?” The smile drops from your face as quickly as he sees it and it’s only then he realizes his hand is shaking. He squeezes it into a fist, the leather creaking with the pressure as he takes in a labored breath with a jittery shake to his head.

“W-uh-what is… What are you doing?” He blinks rapidly, shaking his head pretending that his voice doesn’t quiver and waver the way it does. 

“Bit of spring cleaning. After we talked the other night I just can’t look at this stuff and not think how much Vought has used you. I don’t want those reminders. It’s not what I thought it was and now that you opened my eyes to it, I can’t forget. So. Out with it.” You say so casually, not picking up on the panic he’s been going through in his head.

“Oh—okay.” He lets out a visible breath of relief, his posture relaxing. “I thought—” His jaw tightens and he looks away. Thought so heartbreaking, he doesn't want to give it voice.

“You thought I was getting rid of you?” You stop what you are doing. Putting the box on the couch and instead you walk up to him, hand on his jaw you turn him back to look at you.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” You kiss him, and Homelander melts right into it. He lets himself melt into the loving embrace of your pliant lips.

“Good. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” When you pull away he puts his hands on your jaw, tilting your head as if he was inspecting you. Seeing if what you’re saying is true. And he can’t see a single speck of a lie with the steady beats of your heart and the taste of love on your lips.

“So what are you doing with all of it?”

“Selling it, donating or trashing some I guess.”

“Why not sell it all?”

“You can buy a Homelander poster or card at any shop for a few bucks. I'm not gonna bother with those.”

“What if I sign them?”

“Oh please don’t waste your time. You’re not here to be a show pony.”

“Nonsense, come on. Bring it out.”

Homelander ends up taking the stack of posters with his or the Seven’s likeness from the top of the trash bag, placing them on the coffee table in front of the couch. He sits down, hooking his cape out of the way. He picks up a pen off the table already signing the first poster. 

Part of him is still upset that you feel like throwing a part of him away. Is this part of him not good enough for you anymore? It’s how he found you, how he got to know you and now it feels like you’re throwing it away. 

As if you could read his thoughts you sit down next to him, placing your hand on top of his as he’s halfway through his signature.

His head snaps up towards you, expression clearly guarded while he looks you over with his piercing blue gaze.

He carries his upset so visibly it would be hard even for someone as unaware as you to miss it. His smile is tight, not even attempting to reach his eyes.

You pull the pen out of his grip, instead wrapping your hand around his. The other one goes to his hair, scratching your nails down his scalp until you reach his undercut where you play with the shortly buzzed hair.

“I’m not getting rid of you. Not now. Not ever.”

At that he leans into you, nearly purring at the pleasure your scalp massage brings him. The way you touch him with no hesitation will never cease to amaze him. There’s enough love pouring off you to almost fill the black hole in his heart. 

It was exhilarating to have someone so eager to keep him in their life. Everyone else has just pushed him away, entertained him until they got what they wanted. Not you. You give and give and give. Sometimes he’s scared you’ll run out of love to shower him with. However, one look at you tells him that the love you carry feels just as much of a burden as his need for it does to him. You free each other by sharing the love. You feed his insatiable beast of a heart and he lets you burst the dam free without feeling like you’re not allowed to.  

The posters are forgotten about. Any hurt brushed away with a press of his lips to yours. Needy and hungry, wanting to see if you can prove your words with actions. Again and again.

And you do. Like you’ve done a hundred times before and just like you will do thousands of times over.

[Next -> Part 4]

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