#Homelander X Reader

[tiki-was-here]

Manifesting Manifesting Manifesting

[pookiei-bookie]

WHO THE DAMNED HELL IS THE LAST PIC BC SOMEONE WAS SAYING IT WASNT HIM

SOMEONE TELL ME PLEASE HE LOOKS SO HAWT AND.. screen lickable

in public, in private, in the house, outside, back to back, face to face, mirrored, in the air, on land, at sea, while swimming, while drowning, mid eating, mid showering, in the mirror, at a bed, in the garden, in the kitchen, on the counter, on the sinn, on the fridge, at the kitchen table, in the living room, on the couch, on the arm chair, on the floor, at the sink, on the toilet…

ANYWHERE I AM YOURS !!!

[mommy-mortis]

Me acting surprised when, I become attracted to the most vile unredeemable villain, again.

[animasola86]

🚩 FORCED: 04

You wake up to a new scene, and new participants. Things escalate rather quickly, and there's nothing you can do about it.

a morally gray man!your new master ✖️ female!reader

WARNING: This is a DARK FANTASY EROTICA! Beware of the following tags: Dead dove: do not eat! Explicit sexual content! Noncon! Master/servant dynamic! Bad BDSM etiquette! Bondage. Collaring. Fingering. Vaginal fisting. Forced orgasms. Foursome (F/F/F/M). Anal play. Vaginal sex. Rough anal sex. Creampie. (🚩Please do not read/engage if any of these tags are triggering to you!)

WORDS: 3.3k 🚩 READ ON AO3!

A/N: Remember, this is dark and self-indulgent and hopefully fucked-up in a sexy way? You decide! You also decide who you want the male character to be as he is very vague, and I invite you to fill in the blanks and call him however you like (hence the fandom tags, he could be anyone, make him your blorbo!). Our Reader character is also vague, her only attributes are hair long enough to braid and female genitalia.

For more information, check the Author's Notes on chapter 1.

Chapter 2+3 🔻 Chapter 4 🔺 Chapter 5+6

You hated waking up by now. Because it always meant there was something new to torture you, even though it also meant the end of the last scene. And somehow it was a relief when you found yourself just lying on a soft surface, with nothing poking out of you and nothing holding you down either. No gag, no vibrator. Just your sore body and your dizzy mind.

Inhaling deeply, you raised a hand and wiped at your face. You felt clean, your hair was still a little wet. Had you been washed? Looking around, your question was answered by the sight of two other girls, naked with their hair in braids, wearing thick leather collars, their vacant eyes trained on you as they stood at the edge of your bed. They stirred when you sat up in shock and confusion, shaking their heads. You frowned, too stunned to protest when one of them pulled you off the bed and onto your feet, while the other stepped behind you and grabbed your wrists.

They were too fast, and you could barely fight it when you felt your arms being folded behind your back, so tight your hands curled around your elbows, before you felt them being secured with a soft rope. You rolled your shoulders slightly, but couldn't move, staring at the girls in mild betrayal, too overwhelmed to use your voice properly. They didn't say a word either, just maneuvered you to a chair in the corner, made you sit down, before one of them started braiding your hair, while the other approached you with a collar in her open palms, presented to you like a crown.

“No,” you whimpered soundlessly, your throat hurting, your voice meek and feeble. It didn't stop you from trying to get your point across. “Please don't...”

A harsh “Tsk” cut through your noises of distress, and you looked up sharply, seeing the man standing behind the girl holding the collar. He was so tall and intimidating, his dark suit such a stark contrast to all the exposed skin around him.

“I'll take it from here, pet,” he said, putting his hand on the shoulder of the slowly bowing girl before he moved her aside with a little shove. He took the collar and proceeded to fasten it around your neck, despite your whimpers and fruitless struggling attempts. He stared at you darkly, freezing you with his gaze, and you stared back, breathing hard, trying to relax as he pulled the wide collar tight around your throat, slipping belt after belt into its loop until it sat snug around your neck, feeling stiff and very restricting. Then he turned it so the metal hoop was at the front.

He hooked his finger into it and pulled you forward, and you stumbled off the chair, choking a little, unable to find your balance without being able to use your arms. The girl behind you followed, quickly finishing your braid, and when it was done, you could see a little pink ribbon fixed to the end in a beautiful bow. You frowned. The other girls had similar ribbons, just in different colors, all pastels, yellow and blue. The man stood between the naked girls with a satisfied smile on his handsome face.

His hand found your cheek, gently patting it. “Welcome to the flock, doll,” he said and leaned in to press his lips to yours. You blinked in confusion, heat crashing into your face. “Your training went very well. I believe you are ready to serve me properly now. Don't you think so, pets?” he addressed the other girls, and they nodded eagerly, bowing their heads, not saying a word.

You frowned deeper. He seemed to read your mind. “Don't expect a peep from them, I had their vocal chords removed. Makes for better access into their little throats, you know?” he said with a demeaning smirk, rubbing along one of their collared necks.

Your eyes widened in growing shock and disgust. “Don't worry, you will keep yours for now. I do enjoy your little noises,” he said and winked at you. Your stomach dropped, and you pressed your lips into a tight line, trying to ease your rapid breathing. What the hell had you gotten yourself into here?

To make matters worse, the man then started to undress in front of you. After shrugging his suit jacket off (that one of the girls carried to a nearby chair), he unbuttoned his white shirt, his dark eyes on you.

“Well, shall we begin?” he whispered, and before you could do anything, you felt the girls leading you back to the bed, pulling you onto it, holding you in their unrelenting grips.

Your fingers were tingling in their tight ties, the pressure of your own weight on your arms only adding to the sensation. You stared at the girls in turn before looking back at the man, who had stripped down completely and was now crawling onto the bed towards you, his erection bobbing menacingly between his legs.

You opened your mouth to protest, but then you felt two small fingers slipping between your lips, while another hand moved down between your thighs, first spreading your legs, then your labia, while the man bowed down to inspect your cunt. You squirmed uncomfortably, whined against the hand holding you, struggled fruitlessly with your arms bound, a strange warmth flooding your limbs, gathering low in your stomach.

“Looking good,” he hummed, his fingers prodding at your clenching hole. “Eager, aren't you?”

You were not, you didn't want to be, but surrounded by naked bodies, still tormented by your past experiences, you felt arousal dripping down your skin. Flooded with shame, you averted your eyes, whining quietly.

The fingers in your mouth pushed in and out slowly, meditatively, while the man knelt between your open legs, tilting his head. “Prepare her for me, pet,” he addressed the girl who had her hands on your folds. She nodded, the yellow bow on the end of her braid dancing on her shoulder, before she moved a little and positioned herself next to your hip, her hand rubbing up and down your mound, small fingers pressing gently between your puffy lips.

The girl behind you wrapped an arm around your chest, her free hand fondling your bare breasts, and you turned your head to her, meeting a loaded gaze. The mute girl, this one wearing a blue ribbon on her braid, smiled shyly at you as she kept groping your soft flesh, fingers teasing your quickly hardening nipple.

“Already having fun, bird?” the man asked, and you noticed he addressed the girl smiling at you. Bird. The other was Pet. You were Doll. Blue, yellow, pink. The only distinctions. Your new role.

Bird nodded softly, lowering her eyes, pinching your pert bud as she kept moving her fingers in and out of your mouth, your breaths quickening slightly. You frowned deeply, thoroughly confused by this whole scene. You'd never been intimate with another girl before, but this felt strangely nice. She wasn't as rough as the man had been.

Pet, however, wasn't as gentle. The hand of the other girl was gripping your sex now, fingers digging between your folds, fingertips teasing into your entrance. She shifted on her knees, moving closer to where the man was kneeling, and he scooted back a little, allowing her better access to your cunt. And while she worked her fingers into your clenching hole, you felt the man gripping your ankles, holding you down as your legs started to kick out involuntarily.

A muffled gasp escaped you when you felt and saw how the girl with the yellow bow slipped three fingers into you, her delicate hand small enough to make it easy to penetrate you. It still felt like a lot, and you groaned against the fingers in your mouth. Bird's lips were on your temple, and if she could, she would probably have shushed you.

You kept struggling under the ministrations of the girls, fruitlessly jerking your legs against the strong hands on them. Your eyes were wide, but your vision blurry with tears. It got only worse when you noticed more pressure between your legs, and when you tried to focus on what was happening there, you saw that Pet had worked her entire hand into your pulsing pussy and was now slowly moving it in and out, her wrist catching on your tense muscles.

Moans and whimpers slipped past the probing fingers, and when you arched your back into the girl behind you, those fingers slipped deeper, prodding the back of your throat, and you gagged around them, the jerk crashing through your body making your hips stutter, causing Pet's hand to move in further – and you felt how she spread her fingers inside you, stretching you, finding space where none should be.

You howled, spit dripping down your chin, your whole body convulsing badly as the hand in your cunt moved faster, deeper, pressed into your soft flesh, nudged all those special spots. You could swear you saw a little bulge on your belly where she quite literally rearranged your guts with her fist. It was the strangest sensation, so invasive, so filling, so weirdly stimulating.

Bird's fingers kept their relentless assault on your throat, making you gag again and again until you were too exhausted to gag some more, your stomach tense and hurting (fluttering under the assault from within), your insides positively on fire now, but it was when you felt a rough thumb pressing on your swollen clit, that you lost it completely.

Eyes rolling back, body going stiff before it started spasming hard, thighs twitching, toes curling, every muscle contracting as you clenched hard around the hand in your convulsing cunt. You screamed soundlessly, breathlessly, against the fingers stuck in your throat, pressed your chest into the hand groping your tit, bucked your hips against the prodding thumb. A million lights exploded all around you, and you felt yourself floating, carried away by the waves of pleasure threatening to drown you. Nothing mattered anymore.

Was it over? Finally? It felt like it...

But then you could breathe again, and the hand slipped from inside your tight channel, the thumb was gone, your body slowly coming down from the most intense orgasm you might have ever experienced. Tears streamed down your face, silent sobs fell from your hurting throat, your legs twitching in the aftershocks of your high.

You were moved, not that you noticed much, turned onto your stomach, chest pressed into the bed, your hips pulled up. The girls changed places, the blue ribbon appeared next to your face, wet hands rubbing over your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles, the other girl rubbing the same soothing circles over your butt cheeks.

“Get the plug ready, bird,” the man said behind you, and you groaned quietly, cheek pressed into a soft pillow, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. You felt delicate fingers moving into the cleft between your cheeks, one fingertip teasing your puckered hole. Something cold and wet was squirted onto your skin, then gently massaged into you until your muscles relaxed enough to let a finger in, then two, maybe even three, you couldn't be sure.

There was a pressure against your tight hole when the fingers retreated, something solid and cold, and you grunted loudly when it was pushed in with one swift nudge, filling you out while that tight ring of muscles closed around its smaller neck. A croaked yelp escaped you when a hand came down hard on your soft flesh, spanking your cheeks once, twice, until your skin burned and you could only whimper helplessly.

The same hand, warm from the assault, curled around your bound arms, lifted you as if you were just a package one could carry around, and you were moved once more, ending up on your side. Delicate fingers held your shoulders and your hip, before a rougher hand grabbed your leg and pulled it up, opening you up for penetration. Your eyes were unfocused, but you noticed shapes around you, the girls consoling you, rubbing your breasts and your back, one teased the plug in your ass.

There was no attention to your pussy or your clit until you felt the spongy tip of the man's cock nudging between your puffy lips. You let out a gurgled wail when he pushed into you, stretching you even more than the hand had done before, and he pressed deeper without mercy, fast short snaps of his hips until he bottomed out, your leg pressed against his hard chest. He held onto it as he started rutting into you, and you whimpered with every deep thrust, your sore muscles protesting, your whole body fighting against the intrusion.

Soft lips brushed against your chest, hands twisting your torso back a little until you lay heavy on your restrained arms, before not one but two mouths closed around your breasts, one eager tongue on each stiff nipple, sucking hard on your sensitive flesh, and you moaned deeply. It was simply too much. With the man pounding into your abused hole, your muscles clenching lazily around him now, the plug in your butt nudging from the other side, adding more pressure, and the girls on your tits, you felt yourself slipping, eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, ecstasy etched onto your tired features.

You could have let go then, feeling content, but it was as if the people around you could see the way you gave in, as they changed their paces rapidly. The man's thrusts got rougher, quicker, deep stabs straight against your bruised cervix, while you could feel teeth teasing and nibbling and actually biting your skin, working bruises into it, marks that sent jolts of electricity through your system. You moaned louder, arching your back, hips stuttering, and before you knew it, you came hard around the man's cock, your juices spraying out of you without restraint as you cried out and spasmed, unable to ground yourself, held down and in place by the girls suckling on your tender breasts.

“Tsk,” made the man, his voice rough and hoarse from exertion. He kept pounding into you, even more brutal now, prolonging the feeling of pure bliss until it turned into pain again. “Did you just come without permission? Doll, that's not how this works.”

Through your haze you felt confusion. He never told you to come before, always let your body take over, how were you supposed to hold that in when he kept bullying all your sensitive spots? When the girls kept stimulating you with their eager mouths suctioned to your nipples like leeches? You grunted in dismay, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, your stomach tense as he pushed you closer to the edge all over again. There was no way you could stop the orgasm from spilling over you.

And you needed it. Among all the things he forced upon you, from the anal hook to the fucking machine, to this, you needed to feel good, otherwise you would break and never return, you just knew it. And you didn't want to break, become a soulless slave bending to her master's will, let him do whatever to you, no. And you fought, jerked your hips against his, met his motions, and he only rutted into you faster, harder, deeper, grunting and growling above you, his hands tight around your leg, leaving bruises.

But before you could reach the desired high, he suddenly pulled out, and you groaned in pain at the sudden loss. The girls drew back too, leaving your chest covered in hickeys and bite marks and saliva. You looked up at the man towering over you, who was panting slightly, shoulders tight, tall and intimidating, before he grabbed your hips and manhandled you onto your stomach again. You yelped, and even more so when he ripped the plug out of your puckered hole, the sudden stretch to it burning badly, sending a new batch of hot tears into your eyes.

You were prone on the bed, his big hand on your folded arms pressing you into the soft mattress. The girls were gone, the loss of their added stimulation ripping a hole into your stomach. A whine escaped you as he sat down on your thighs, holding you in place with his weight, before you felt his hands kneading your tender ass cheeks, groping and pulling, opening you up, until his hard, hot cock pressed against your sphincter, bullying it to give way. The friction was horrible, you knew he went in raw, there was no preparation, no lube except your own juices, the stretch of the plug long forgotten by your tense muscles.

A scream ripped from your throat when he rolled his hips into you in one swift thrust, forcing his way deeper into your ass until all of him was inside of you. All you could do was sob, unable to move, unable to find any other kind of relief, the orgasm that had been so close long deflated inside you, fizzled away and overridden by nothing but burning pain.

He shifted on top of you, putting more weight onto your small body, and you were glad about the soft bed, the bounce of the mattress, but it wasn't enough to alleviate the scorching sensation when he started moving within you. Somehow this position was worse than when he had taken your ass on the bench that hadn't been as forgiving, but the way he moved, with your legs closed and your muscles extra tight, it hurt so bad. He seemed to carve his way into your body, invading a passage that shouldn't be open to him, and yet he took it, pushed and pulled, hips slamming against your cushioned but bruised rear, in and out, always as deep as possible with his balls slapping against your quivering thighs.

But he wasn't rocking your body, instead he kept it still and in place, his hands on your hips, pressing down hard, not allowing you to move to get the slightest of friction to your clit. You were immobile on the bed as he pounded into your ass, chasing his own orgasm that seemed to be on the far horizon. It went on and on, in and out, deep and hard, stab after stab against tense muscles that clenched harder with every brutal plunge.

You were whimpering quietly, your voice too strained to produce any louder noises, while tears clouded your vision. Teetering on the edge, but not of pleasure, you succumbed to his assault, hoping to become numb to it soon, but no such luck. Your senses were kept alert, either by a slight change of angle, or a switch to a slower pace, or when he moved his hands along your body, from gripping your hips to curling his fingers around your shoulders, or grabbing your nape and pressing you into the pillow.

The bed bounced and creaked under the strain of his big body squishing yours, of his cock forcing its way into you over and over again, and you felt your mind swimming, a strange kind of vertigo crashing through your senses. You felt sick, nauseous, that constant plunge into your guts a horrible sensation, and when you thought you'd have to throw up as your stomach tensed, he was digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips and stilled deep inside you, before he grunted and groaned as he emptied himself into your abused depths.

You felt the hot ropes of cum painting your insides, filling you up, you could almost taste it, or maybe it was just bile and the memory of his spend in your throat, you couldn't be sure. Your head was throbbing and spinning, your eyelids heavy but somehow you weren't able to close them, stared ahead blankly, drool pooling beneath your cheek on the pillow. Your body was trembling, cold shivers crashing through you when he moved back, slipping out of you, and your hole gaped and clenched hopelessly, his warm seed seeping out in thick globs.

Exhaustion washed over you, like a dark sheet covering your soiled body, hiding you from the abusive world (and people) around you.

Chapter 2+3 🔻 Chapter 4 🔺 Chapter 5+6

End notes: I realize our guy sounds a bit cultish here ("welcome to the flock"), but I promise you this is not a cult, he's just a fucked-up man, a collector if you will. More "plot" is coming soon!

New chapter every Saturday at around 9pm CEST!

Thank you for braving this depravity reading!

MASTERLIST 🔻 AO3 🔻 ORIGINAL WORKS

[slashedgutz]

✎ᝰ┆stalker!homelander..

stalker!homelander, who first notices you during a company meeting. all you are is ashley’s assistant, constantly being demeaned and yelled at, until he’s had enough— he’s the one who finally tells ashley to give you “a fucking break”. there’s something about you, he realises, that makes you look so small compared to these gods. as he watches you blush, he decides then and there that you need some better protection, for fear that vought will destroy your innocence.

stalker!homelander, who realises that, even though you’ve been at vought for some time now, you’re still nervous around him. you remind him of a lamb, so docile and pure, something that shouldn't be ruined. he's starting to devote too much time towards finding a way to preserve this quality of yours.

stalker!homelander, who will go out of his way to make sure you're comfortable at work. he begins to pay attention to your coffee order, how long it takes you to get to and from work, and even going as far to finding out where you live-- this only happened because you were sick one day, and he wanted to make sure you were alright. nothing sinister, right?

stalker!homelander, who starts following you everywhere. you don't know that he's even doing it, so high up in the sky that you could never even see him, just a blue and red blur. it's all for your safety, obviously, in case somebody tries to kidnap and murder you or something. he's doing you a favour.

stalker!homelander, who watches you from the safety of a rooftop as your boyfriend fucks you. as soon as you’re alone, having kicked him out, your boyfriend is hunted down, by who else other than the supe himself? it’s a fun night for homelander. tear off a few limbs, lasers some holes in him. get rid of the competition. it doesn't matter much anyway-- the fucker was cheating on you anyway. luckily, homelander is there to comfort you whilst you cry.

stalker!homelander, who gets a tracker implanted in you-- it's an easy lie to sell to you, tell you that you need some vaccine. as usual, you fall for it, hook, line and sinker. whilst he could've just had someone tap your phone, it wouldn't have been the same. he feels even closer to you now.

stalker!homelander, who spends as much as time as possible with you, because he's suddenly been informed that you're leaving the company. why? you feel unsafe. watched. and everything comes crashing down; like his organs are being torn apart and his throat is about to explode. he's running out of time.

stalker!homelander, who suddenly gets you better pay, better security, better everything. hell, he even offers his apartment to you. anything to keep you at vought, within his grasp.

stalker!homelander, who will do anything to have you. unbeknown to you, he's running your life now, making every minute decision, ranging from what you wear to where you live. just because he needs you. you're a part of his life that he cannot afford to lose.

[themeraldee]

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.”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new Homelander fic)

@ker0senebunny @itsvaleriesucka @thychuvaluswife

@nervoussystemss @littlegaaby @natliecole @sing1art

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade

@nommingonfood @jokesonyoupup @chaimshelii @gingeraleluke

[blindmagdalena]

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.

[dyns33]

Destination darkness

Part 2 of No Fear, my old soulmate story but from Homelander's pov

Homelander didn't have a soulmate.

That was what Volgerbaum and the other scientists had told him when he'd asked them, after receiving a lecture on the existence of soulmates.

That perfect person, made to make him happy, understand him, support him.

But John was already perfect, far better than the rest of humanity. He didn't need anyone. A soulmate would be a weakness, a burden. It was obvious he couldn't have one.

The revelation hurt him greatly. No matter how much he heard and repeated to himself that he was complete, a feeling of emptiness filled his existence.

He tried at first to fill it with the love of the public. To be the best, to have the most points, to have the most fans cheering for him. But it wasn't enough. Homelander always needed more.

When the marketing department suggested he announce that he and Maeve were soulmates, he threatened to break their necks.

Yes, he loved Maeve very much. She was one of the few who wasn't afraid of him, who told him the truth, who dared to oppose his decisions, all while being super sexy and strong.

It had been a disappointment, but not a surprise, when he'd touched her cheek without his glove for the first time and it hadn't done anything. No spark, no fireworks.

She was special, but she wasn't what he really needed.

That didn't stop them from staying together for several years, first for a little tenderness after missions, then because the public loved superhero couples.

Homelander let her go when it became clear she was forcing herself not to piss him off.

He then turned to Becca Butcher, the new recruit in the communications department. Very talented, very beautiful. Obviously tired of her husband, who had cheated on her a few weeks earlier with a waitress in a seedy bar.

Three hours of bliss, enough to allow him to get her revenge, but no. Still no magic, and he let her go without regret.

Madelyne was a mistake, a big mistake. Maybe she had allowed him to discover the existence of his son, but she had hurt her deeply, even though he had made a lot of effort to please her. This betrayal almost made him lose hope.

Looking back, it was obvious that Stormfront had seen this disappointment, this need to be loved, and had used it to better manipulate him. John didn't care about her opinions. To him, it made no sense.

Humans were all pathetic, and the supers who didn't agree with him were also pathetic; the rest didn't matter. He was still sad when she died, even though she wasn't his soulmate.

When he met Y/N, he'd reached a point where he didn't care whether he was adored or not. Something had broken, perhaps irreparably, and he was ready to destroy everything at the slightest annoyance.

Yet, when she patted his shoulder, her heart calm, her breathing steady, life seemed to regain some flavor.

"I want to know everything," he'd told Firecracker, and his milky toy wasn't stupid. She sensed it wasn't good news for her, but she was still smart enough to obey.

Y/N hadn't had an easy life. Her father had killed her mother in front of her when she was five or six, only to keep her locked in a basement for years. John thought about the Bad room for a second.

Unlike him, she had found the strength to rebel, without anyone's help. Neighbors had found her covered in blood, mute, and wild, as the house burned, her father's throat slit amidst the flames.

"Beautiful…" he couldn't help but whisper, touching the screen when he saw the photo of this dark teenager.

Homemander told himself he was following her mainly to annoy William and to check on what his little team was up to. If that were true, he would have visited each of them just as regularly, but aside from Butcher, he was only interested in her.

"I'd probably be flattered or scared to death if I cared," Y/N declared without looking at him, still tracking her target with her sniper rifle, as he landed next to her on a rooftop.

Her heart hadn't skipped a beat. As if she'd felt him coming, just as he'd felt her there, in the middle of the crowd.

Even though he was ashamed to admit it, his heart pounded every time he saw her, or when he rested in her apartment. The emptiness would disappear for a while, until he had to leave, and then the longing would be worse than before.

Then the kiss happened.

"I don't understand what I see in you, when you think about it," he was saying to a peacefully sleeping Y/N. "I mean, you're human, you have no powers, I could cut you in half without the slightest difficulty, so why ? Because you're not afraid ? William isn't afraid, and I don't want to take him back to the tower and fuck him against every wall in my suite. Your father might have had Compound V that he gave you in that cellar, making you irresistible ?"

Hands on his hips, he stared at her, stupidly hoping for an answer. Y/N sighed as she turned in bed, facing the ceiling but without waking up, breathing softly through her mouth.

He stared at her lips. He had often touched her, to make her react or without her realizing it, but never directly skin against skin. Perhaps because subconsciously, he knew he would be disappointed again, that it would ruin everything.

His body moved on its own, commanded by a higher force. It was hard to explain what he felt at that moment. Not knowing how to breathe, yet feeling like he was breathing for the first time.

But he didn't have a soulmate, did he ?

There had to be another explanation for why he suddenly wanted to take Y/N in his arms, never to let her go. A good explanation when he sensed she was in danger, even though she wasn't within his hearing range. A relentless explanation for why he was worried about her, even more than his own son.

Of course, William and his boys tried to ruin everything. They'd noticed her obsession with their friend and they wanted her gone. Idiots. If she'd run away, they would have killed them all.

Luckily for them, Y/N wasn't a coward. She wasn't afraid of anything, and he couldn't help but smile when he saw her arrive at his suite, armed with her tiny knife.

"Listen, big guy. I understand you had a very sad childhood. Sorry. But if you want to make people cry about your past, I'm not the right person."

"I know. If he were alive, I would have taken care of your father," he purred, still smiling.

"… Thank you, so kind. You know, you remind me a lot of him."

"I'll never do to you what he did. I know how it feels."

"If you say so. He said a lot of nice things too, before he tortured me."

"Never." he repeated. "I'll never hurt my soulmate."

Y/N froze then, and for the first time since they met, her heart skipped a beat. Clearly, she hadn't thought of him as her potential other half. He was just the enemy, the monster, the super weirdo stalking her. But her soulmate ?

John couldn't blame her. She'd been asleep when he touched her. If she'd felt it, she must have thought it was a dream.

So he moved closer, not giving her time to react, pushing her against the wall to caress her cheek before devouring her mouth.

Filled with fury, his Y/N first wanted to push him away, before feeling the electricity between them, which took her by surprise. Intoxicated by the warm, pleasant sensation, she even ran a hand through his hair, deepening the kiss.

The happiest moment of Homelander's life was interrupted when she panicked. So she took the knife, and instead of trying to hurt him, she tried to plunge it into her throat.

"NO !" he yelled, faster than her and stopping her from killing herself. "No ! Why ?! You weren't afraid of me until now, you can't be afraid of this… It's your father, right ? You really think I'd be like this."

Y/N didn't answer, still trying to pull the knife free to escape this conversation, this reality, and John wanted to believe that this was all it was, and not a punishment for all his past actions.

Waiting so long to be hated by his soulmate.

"Everything's going to be okay," he said in his softest voice, after managing to snatch the weapon away, holding Y/N's hands as she sobbed, beginning to accept her fate. "Breathe. My Y/N, my wonderful Y/N. I've waited for you my whole life. I'm going to cherish you, you'll see. You won't want for anything. You'll be happy. We'll rule the world."

"I'll kill you." She promised him, the same fire in her eyes as in the photo in the police report, the fear gone. "I'll bleed you dry like him."

"Yes, my love. You can try, if it makes you happy. As long as you're with me."

It would take a long time to win her affection, but Homelander decided to be positive. If scientists had managed to make him obey for years, he would surely find a way to be loved by his Y/N.

[optheboysslutt]

Me when I see a beautiful fic but it uses a first person pov:

LIKE PLEASE DON'T USE “I” 😭😭😭😭

[homelanderbutbig]

After seeing the gummy bear post all I've been able to think about is the reader bringing a variety of gas station/truck stop snacks and drinks for Homelander to try.

Also, I love your blog and your art is super cute!

I think Homelander has a heightened sense of taste so he doesn't eat a looot of processed or "artificial" snacks. He'd try them all if the reader bought them and asked him to (because he can never say no to them lol), but I can't imagine he'd really enjoy any of them. He might enjoy reconnecting with his lost childhood, but at the end of the day he's a world class complainer.

He's not a snacker outside of his regular meal times, and he doesn't have a sweet tooth outside of milk and milk-related products. At least the reader knows he won't be eating their secret stash. 😂

[ghostinthemach1ne]

currently mourning homelander’s season 1 hair

[bethsvrse]

me when writing

[eternalplutoniangoddess]

Homelander with a selective/situationally mute partner would be so cute.

He would baby the fuck out of them. I'm talking straight infantilism. (I'm like this, so it doesn't offend me)

He would be so damn protective. You'd be a restaurant, the waiter would mess up your food or some shit and the he would NOT hesitate to speak up for you. Demanding that they completely redo your order and he would be breathing down the cooks' necks to make sure his special baby gets EXACTLY what they want.

I could not imagine what he'd do if someone bumped into you or made you feel scared in public

He'd probably kill them, just so his quiet darling feels safe enough to speak again. He just wants to hear that lovely voice that is just for him.

You only feel safe with him, so he's the only one that gets to hear you speak.

[thevanityofthefox]

soon, ladies, soon

Raw next question

[cinnamoodles]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[lanae111]

When he’s a red flag but you need him