#Starr's writing

[villainleoau]

Solar Eclipse Ch. 5: Connections

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49973632/chapters/132624220

It is HERE, friends! New Chapter! Consider it a little holiday gift from us to you. :3

Things are really kicking off now...

We hope you all enjoy your holidays and the turning of a new year. We will be bringing lots of new content to the table in 2024!

[starrcrossrose]

Another fun one-shot! This one was a comm for my dear friend @happyfoxx-art and is inspired by her Aftermath comic series! She wanted the silly boy and I am always willing to deliver.

Hope you guys enjoy it!

[radioactive-earthshine]

NGL I have STRONG opinions about digital releases omitting the letters to the editor section of older comics. I feel like the letters are a part of comic history and should be aggressively preserved.

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

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Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[ceofjohnlennon]

Shea Stadium when The Beatles made history on August 15, 1965. ㅡ From the book "The Beatles' Paperback Writer: 40 years of classic writing" by Mike Evans.

[sehtoast]

Indulge Me (Homelander x Reader Powerswap!au Smut)

18+ | 1.5k words | Pure smut, gender neutral reader, oral sex, lazy blowjob, ball sucking, rimming, begging, overstimulation, come eating, HL!reader, oral fixation | Fic Directory

This is your favorite.

He really was so perfect for you. Indulging this little need of yours, head tipped back on the couch, warm breaths escaping between his parted lips.  

Your head rests in his lap while his fingers thread through your hair.  It’s how he grounds himself.  You know he enjoys this, too.  This little… fixation of yours.

You lost track a while ago of how long you’ve been like this.  Head turned toward his body as you suckle the head of his limp cock, tongue teasing his foreskin.  You can’t recall how many loads you’ve swallowed, but you know he’s dazed and you’re in heaven.

Your own arousal has long since drenched your underwear, but you’ll take care of that eventually.  

You roll your tongue lazily over the head, drool spilling down your cheek landing in a dark patch on his pants.  He tastes so good, so sweet, and he’s all yours.  You roll closer to him, letting his soft cock slip further back your tongue. 

The goal was never quite to get him off, but rather to satisfy that little oral fixation of yours. He’d discovered it fairly early on in your relationship.  A thumb pressed to your lower lip after a kiss, the digit sucked into your mouth, your eyes glazing over.

John had looked like a deer in headlights, but he went along with it.  Pushed and pulled his thumb in and out, soft sighs escaping from him as he imagined how that tongue would feel on his cock.

He took your hand back then.  Guided it into his pants, under his cute little briefs, let you grasp and stroke him while you laved over his finger.  He ended up lightheaded and had to sit.  That was when you, filthy little thing you are, traded his finger for his cock.  

You held him in your mouth until your chest was soaked in a slick combination of come and slobber.  Even then, you didn’t want to let off.

You feel him grow against your tongue, twitching again after his refractory period passed.  He uses his grip in your hair to rock your head gently.  

You don’t care.  As long as you get what you want.

He pushes until the tip is at your tongue and you wrap your lips around him, sucking gently.  Can’t be too careless, can’t hurt him.  But you have to have him.

He looks down at you with glassy eyes and red cheeks. His chest heaves, he chews his lip, lets his hands roam.

“Mmm, god, what’d I ever do to deserve you?” He moans.  “That’s so– oh, fuck…”

His cock twitches and you roll to swallow more of him.  Your tongue travels lazily along the length.  You angle your head to catch the bump of the vein that runs on the underside and his hips jerk.

“Hnngh,” he gasps.  He’s sensitive, damn near overstimulated.  His eyes travel to the window of your penthouse, basking in the beautiful blue sky as you work his cock– but not for too long.  

The sight of you is far more gorgeous.

You shift, releasing him to prop yourself on your elbow.

“Pants off,” you tell him.

Without a second of hesitation, he pushes them down to his knees.

“Lay back.”

Once again, John does as you say, kicking his garments away and splaying his legs wide.

Your face is buried against him almost immediately, though this time you take one of his balls in your mouth.  You hold it gently, tongue swiping over it in meticulously slow strokes.  You taste the salt of his sweat and a flavor that is uniquely his.

You can feel him start stroking himself, his skin moving along with the more aggressive tugs.

He’s a moaning mess above you, but he knows not to come.

Not until your mouth is back around him and he can be savored.

His heel digs into your back and he arches up, pressing his sack against your mouth.  He feels your drool slowly dribble down his balls, over his perineum, a small trail painting over his hole.

“Ah, might be a, uh, a weird ask,” he shudders, “your spit feels r-really good when it goes… down there, uh… C-Can you uhm, you know… drool… more?”

You look up at him with a twinkle of amusement in your spaced out eyes. You suck off of his sack with a wet pop, grabbing both of his thighs to push him so that his ass is exposed entirely to you. 

“H-Hey!” 

You press his thighs to his chest, kneeling before him.  You can see the realization in his eyes and it stirs something playful in you.  You drop a heaping glob of saliva on his hole before diving in, tongue swirling around the tight muscle.  There’s more of an effort here than what you’d been doing before.

He deserves a treat for being so good for you for so long.  

Your sweet little Johnny.

He keens below you, hands swatting below his rear to seek any part of you he could grab.  Somehow he manages a handful of your cape.

You press your tongue flat against his rim, holding it there to warm him.  Your hands move to knead his rear, the globes of his flesh so soft and malleable in your palms.  

His whines and whimpers are so sweet, but your name flying off his tongue is by far the most delicious part of it all.  He practically screams it when you pierce that tight ring of muscle, tongue wriggling inside.

How fucking amazing to know he was all yours.  You could take him apart at your leisure, in any way you want, and he’d always beg for more.

Just like now.

“Ah, please! Please– fuck! Fuck!”

Your little birdie loves to sing for you.

“Oh, god, fuck, can– can I t-touch mys– AH!” He cried out as you pushed your tongue further, slipping out to suck hard on his perineum.  “Please, please, oh fuck, please!!” 

Your hand slipped around his waist to grasp his cock, squeezing just enough to make his whole body jump.  You drag your fist over the length of him torturously slow as you tongue fuck him.

He weeps, begging and pleading.

Through his tears, he tells you how close he is.  You angle his body, pointing the tip of his cock right at his mouth.

“Catch it,” you tell him, “but don’t swallow it.”

He nods like the desperate slut he is.  Needy for you, needy for all that you’ll give him, starved until he can have it.

You drag your tongue from hole to sack, suckling his flesh and jerking him in three hard pumps that leave him howling an open mouthed moan, ropes of his come painting his face and tongue.  You trail back to his hole and dip your tongue inside to feel every pulsation of his glorious release.

He feels his body drop and your tongue is upon his face in a fraction of a second, licking him clean.

He’s pretty sure it’s in his hair, too, but he can’t possibly care about that.  Not when your tongue delves between his parted lips to lick everywhere you can possibly reach, desperate for more of his taste.  

You’re like an animal starved for something only he can provide. 

You press him against the couch, tasting your little pet, savoring his sounds and how they echo inside of you.

He’s so fragile looking when you pull away. He’s been undone and put back together over and over again.  So good, so perfect for you.

All for you.

“Good boy, Johnny.” You purr into the shell of his ear.  

He arches against you.

“You’re gonna take such good care of me now, right?”

He nods eagerly, nearly rising from the couch if not for your overwhelming strength keeping him in place.

Your hands slip under the hem of his sweater, pushing it up to reveal his nipples.  You lean down to tongue over one, fingers finding the other.

“That delicious cock of yours is gonna be ready for me soon, right?” You murmur against his chest. You relish the feeling of his hands in your hair, gripping and tugging.

The thought of more damn near scares him.  He’s not sure if he’s got anything left; he might end up shooting dry.  Would you be upset that you didn’t get your little treat if that’s all he had?

“You’re gonna fuck me and take such good care of me, baby. I know it.” 

You suck his rosy bud into your mouth, smirking at his weak moans.

“My sweet little Johnny…”

[pennywise-fucker]

Don't Leave

Homelander x Reader

Request: can I get prompt “Please don’t leave me.” with Homelander pretty please?

Warning: Swearing, threats of violence

A/N: I hope this was alright! I wasn't entirely sure how I wanted to go about it, but I was pretty happy with how it came out, hopefully you are too!

Y/N sat on Homelander's couch, seething from the scene he had made earlier that morning. A supe had only been talking to her, one of his supes nonetheless, and he had lost his mind, threatening him. The guy hadn't shown the slightest interest in her, but because she was engaging in conversation instead of fucking worshipping him, he got paranoid. She couldn't imagine how someone with all the power he had, all the strength, could be so insecure. He obviously didn't see it that way, he'd told her several times that it was the principle, but she knew better - he simply thought he owned her and planned to keep it that way.

It didn't take long for Homelander to saunter in, flowers in hand. This wasn't the first time they'd fought about his jealousy, but she was so exhausted by it. "So, I'm sure you're still mad", he smiled, moving closer and wiggling the flowers in front of her. Y/N made no effort to grab them. Homelander tilted his head and rolled his eyes, "Oh, come on, it wasn't that big of a deal", he huffed as he tossed the flowers on the table in front of her, pissing her off more. "Are you serious?", she fumed as she shot up from the couch, "You lost your shit on one of your own people!", she snapped, and he slowly turned, raising an eyebrow at her, "Maybe 'my people' should learn to stay away from my girl", he argued, though not particularly angrily. He had expected the same dance they always did.

"You really think I'd continue to be 'your girl' if I can't even have a fucking conversation with someone?", she spat, and he took a big step forward towards Y/N, narrowing his eyes, "Lower your voice", he ordered before continuing, "Are you implying you're thinking about leaving me?", he nearly chuckled, a hint of something dark in his voice, as well as his face. "I could replace you in seconds. I'm the fucking Homelander", he laughed, and Y/N smirked, "OK, then do it", she challenged, noticing the change in his body language. "Excuse me?", he asked, expecting her to think over what she just said to him. "Then. Do. It.", she repeated, more toying this time. His eyes widened in anger as he approached her, so closely that he couldn't get closer without knocking her over, "What? You want to leave me? You think I'd let you?", he threatened, "You belong to me", he spat. "Then act like it, or kill me", she said nonchalantly, though her heart was racing. He looked at her, visibly confused, and hurt. She had grown tired of the threats. If he was going to kill her, she was at least going to give him a reason to.

"I wouldn't hurt you", Homelander eased, trying to calm himself down, "Come on, you know how I get", he half laughed, half sighed, but she knew there was no humor in him at that moment. "I do. So, either kill me, or let me leave", she blurted, only half meaning to say it. No matter what words left his mouth, she knew it would only take one second of anger for him to kill her. "Look, I'm sorry ok. I'm admitting defeat", he said while throwing up his hands, a forced smile on his face. Y/N kept quiet, just staring at him. Her next words could easily get her killed, but she also didn't want to let it go. "Y/N, come on", he laughed, rubbing both of her arms, looking down at her, "You know how much I love you", he assured her, more seriously. She continued staying silent, not giving him anything to respond to, which made him visibly more uncomfortable.

He stared down at her for a second before speaking again, “Please don’t leave me.”, he said softly, pain in his voice. Y/N licked her lips and took a deep breath, "I don't want to", she lied, "But I need to talk to people", she explained, rubbing her own arms while looking up at him. "I'm not enough?", he asked, almost as if it were an accusation. She sighed, "You're enough romantically. But you can't kill anyone who strikes up a conversation with me". Homelander took a breath and looked around, as if he were considering what she said. She knew he likely wasn't, but it was better than him just killing her then and there. "Alright, alright, I'll do better, I promise", he assured her as he wrapped his arms around her, looking down into her eyes. Y/N nodded, "Thank you, that's all I want", she smiled softly, though somewhat forced. Nothing was going to change, not really, it never did with Homelander, but now she knew something she hadn't before - he didn't want to lose her. If it were anyone else who challenged him that way, they would've been dead on the spot, but he instead at least bullshitted out of fear. That, she could work with.

Homelander let out a sigh of relief and kissed Y/N, picking her up, "Great. Now, onto more important things", he smirked, carrying her over to the couch, "Making up".

*Please consider tipping $1 to my Venmo if you enjoy my writing. It's in no way required, just appreciated!*

[got-ticket-to-ride]

For the next twenty minutes the car kept weaving on the road. John and Paul began to mumble prayers, and at one point Ringo began reciting the Lord's Prayer. Paul, sitting in the front, wrote " Help!" in the frost on the window. Gradually the car came to a halt. The driver had forgotten to fill the tanks with petrol.

Aspinall climbed out and after a few minutes managed to hail a lorry. The four Beatles clambered into the cab with the surprised driver.

"As soon as we get to the hotel I'm ringing up Brian about this driver," says George.

It was then 1:30 in the morning. By 10 am the Beatles had a new driver.

~Love Me Do, Michael Braun

[ishomieokay]

— texting boyfriend!homelander

HOMELANDER X HISPANIC TEXTER (1/?)

✰ summary — a series of random texts between homelander and you, his girlfriend 💕

✰ warnings — +18, suggestive themes, sublander flavored, latina baddie with an attitude.

✰ genre — texts, domestic fluff, humor, smut.

✰ a/n — tbh, i dont't even know what this is, plp. i 've been meaning to give x reader content a try and this is me dipping my toes in the water, lmao.

[motionless-friction]

Why are wet dreams so bizarre?

Okay not all of them are wild, or confusing. But this one definitely fucking was.

Anyhow the long and short of this tale, is I convinced Homelander, the fucking Homelander (Who I was apparently in a relationship with?) to dress up as Starlight. But I don't mean like her typical outfit, but a super and, I mean super, slutty version of her outfit. In retrospect it was probably more considered lingerie, but that's not entirely the point. All you need to know is that this man's dick had nowhere to hide okay. Anyways he looked fuckin immaculate, and I was practically drooling at the sight of his fucking thighs alone. And in the end as a reward for being a good boy for me, and dressing up, I let him throat fuck me into oblivion. (With the outfit still on of course.) And now I'm debating on if I should write about in on my writing blog @komotionlessqueenmm ? Let me know what y'all think I guess.

[villainleoau]

Solar Eclipse Chapter 2: Heavy

Enjoy!

[starrcrossrose]

Hey hey hey! Another writing commission! This time for the lovely @sha-biest and her Golden Future AU! I absolutely loved writing them, thank you so much for requesting them. <3 Please go check out Sha's stuff, it's so SO GOOD, AAAAAA! <3

[ringosmistress]

[jethrowest]

Another drabble because I don’t have the concentration to write a full-fledged oneshot or fic right now.

Warnings: a smutty Homelander morsel that includes a concept I’ve been wanting to explore for a hot minute. Might try to expand on later. In short, he can’t get enough of you. 18+

He’s between your legs, tongue delving deep. Your thighs contract just as he swirls the tip along your clit, and his cloaked fingers grip you tighter as if that will pump more out for him to drown in.

You’ve never had someone be as attentive as he is. As obsessive, pacing your folds like he’s in the middle of a life-or-death decision.

In a way, he is. He loses control too much and you cease to exist. You’re surprised by your vehement reaction to that notion, a desperate moan vibrating against your throat he could have crushed minutes prior.

The bridge of his nose severs a precise divide between left and right, split directly down the middle. You undulate and writhe against him as much as you can. He wants you to stay.

Your orgasm tingles across your scalp and spreads, your body falling asleep and jolted awake, weight heavy and light.

He makes sure to lap up what he desires, one of his thumbs circling your clit. And- you’re grateful you catch this act beyond your blissful haze- he removes one glove and uses that hand to gather what melts from your core.

Slowly, he rakes those fingers through his hair, now wet and shiny with your fluids, bits and pieces having sneaked out of perfect, sticky place. He sighs wantonly, inhaling you and making sure you know. You mask the stiff, manufactured scent of what he presents to the rest of the world.

It’s an anomaly you can’t shake. Mere mortal you are, you should be the one bathing in him. You should be at his altar, begging him to spare whatever parts he manages to find useful, rotten apple you are.

Instead, you are being worshiped. Instead, he is vulnerable to your essence, unabashed in his violent, primal pursuit of you and all the love you have to offer.

It’s his.

You’re a life-sustaining perfume; elixir. He looks like the heavens parted, as your legs never hesitate to, allowing your rain to shower him in its pelting affection.

You are his. And when has anything or anyone ever truly belonged to him? You are something unscathed by the cruelty that shaped him. You’re accepting of the mold he leaks from, infecting what was meant to be pure and gold.

You don’t want him god-like. You want him raw and bloody.

You want him as he wants to be.

Right now, it seems he wants to be you- as deep inside as he can go. What else can you do but let him all the way in?

[astaraels]

so I know I'm in the no galladads side of the fandom but hear me out on this one—

so it's maybe five years after the end of the show, Ian and Mickey are still going with their security business, maybe they've even branched out and hired some extra help, making good money, swapped out the stolen ambulance for actual SUVs that Debbie has fixed up for them, and they've maybe even bought a house back on the South Side with a dog and a cat and they're close to all of Ian's siblings (Debbie and Carl and Liam all still live in the old Gallagher house, Lip and Tammi are a few blocks over)

and one day they're on a lunch break together, leaving some diner when some rando kid bumps into Ian, turns out it was a pickpocket, and Mickey takes off after the jerk who tried to steal from his husband (he may not be a South Side thug anymore but like hell is he gonna let that shit slide)

he knocks the pickpocket over and it's some kid, like thirteen or fourteen with bright pink streaks in her dark hair and fierce brown eyes, and Mickey is like wtf kid do you wanna die

and the kid is like oh fuck you, very much an angry kitten type because she's definitely a scrawny thing—by this time Ian's caught up to them and his bleeding heart is like look if you give me my wallet back I'll buy you lunch (Mickey complains that "we just ate, Gallagher" but Ian insists)

so they either go back to the diner or find some McDonald's and this kid practically inhales some burgers and fries, and both Mickey and Ian know the look of a kid on the streets, but she's giving off those vibes that say don't touch me don't talk to me don't fucking perceive me

but Ian probably sees something like Mickey, and Mandy, in this girl and we all know he wants to help people, so he asks her if she's okay or if she needs anything, and even though he can feel Mickey starting to grumble next to him Ian still offers her their couch to crash on after she mentions getting kicked out of a salvation army shelter because they found out she was trans

and after some very intense eye to eye communication between the husband Mickey's like okay yeah fine but if one thing is outta place in the house then we're gonna have words

and the girl—they find out her name is Starr, or something like that—is like wtf why are you people being nice (they understand the suspicion, obvs, they aren't stupid), and Ian's like uhhhh we're gay and we've gone through some shit of our own so maybe we just wanna help?? (although he does notice she relaxes a little bit when he tells her that they're gay)

so they drive back home and Starr is absolutely enamored by the gallapets (a beautiful fluffy black cat and a big pittie mix, both of these animals are Ian and Mickey's baby girls), while Ian fixes up the spare bedroom with fresh sheets—usually it's where Franny or Fred stay when they come for weekend visits

and at first Starr is like okay yeah I'll stay one night but then I gotta go, and somehow it ends up that one night turns into two, then Ian and Mickey come home one afternoon and the house looks amazing because Starr is like "yeah your place was a fucking mess so I figured I'd clean" because she's not a freeloader gdi

and before they know it she's been there for a few weeks and Ian's trying to help get her back in school, because one night they were sitting around and talking and she offhandedly said that she does kinda miss school but the last place she went they were assholes about her transition, and Mickey is like just do that homeschooling course thing that maybe Tammi talked about one of her bougie friends doing for their kids

and then it's been a month or two and they bring Starr to a Gallagher family get together—Debbie hosts the family at the house at least twice a month, but everyone's been super busy lately so it's been a while since the last family dinner—and Debs gives Starr a hug and is like "oh so you're the kid my brothers adopted" (she and Sandy worked things out btw and have been back together for a while now, they've even maybe talked about getting married)

and Starr is like oh no I'm just crashing for a bit but by this point Ian has already got her the homeschooling correspondence courses, and Mickey's taken her to find a doctor who can prescribe her HRT ("it was on our route anyway, fuck off, Gallagher") and their pets adore her—Ian jokes that their cat is the one who actually adopted Starr, they just went along with it

and basically I just love the idea of them taking care of a young queer girl, and being like the cool gay uncles, and yeah :')

[sehtoast]

His Place is in Lace (Homelander x Reader Smut)

18+ | sex toys, gender neutral reader, sublander, lingerie, no hands, x-ray vision, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cockwarming, panties as a gag, light comeplay | Fic Directory

original request

Saying he was like putty in your hands was a fairly humble brag at this point.  In truth, he was all yours– fully and completely yours. You could do pretty much whatever you wanted to him, whenever you wanted, and he would thrive for the sole fact he had your attention.

It was practically all he ever wanted.  Homelander had been so desperate for even a shred of your attention in the beginning that he sought it out in all the wrong ways.  Picking on you, intimidating you, generally indulging that darker half of his mind and allowing him to run the show.  But you wore him down.  You were always so damn nice to him even when he tried everything to get under your skin. And, sometimes… 

Sometimes you would put him in his place.

Maybe that’s what made him like doing it so much.  Maybe it’s why he caved and realized you were the one for him– all he’d ever wanted wrapped up in one precious package that he would never get enough of.  Even with your undying devotion and love, he still couldn’t fucking get enough of you.  He had to be the center of your attention and he’d go to any lengths to get there.

Just like now.

He let you tie him up, promised he’d be a good boy and wouldn’t break those useless binds.  Let you dress him up in white lace panties and a see through bra. Let you position a vibrating wand just over the tip of his leaking cock and work a plug into his ass and oh how he wishes you would touch him.  He wishes so badly that you’d do more than perch on the edge of the bed and watch him– but oh how he loved to know you were staring .  Smirking and smiling, chuckling at his little gasps and wanton moans.  All the times you’d lick your lips at every jump and twitch of his cock…

But he had your attention, so he’d be good.  Would press his wrists closer together instead of tugging them apart, ever so careful not to break your rules.  He’d raise his hips into the air to seek more of that sensation, whimpering every time he failed to find more pressure, more speed, more anything.

He’d leaked through the fabric long ago and the red tip of his cock was clear as day beneath the pulsating head of the toy.  Each little bead of precum soaked more and more of the garment, each twitch a desperate declaration that he needed release.  It was only when he started begging with tears streaming down his face that you upped the speed of the toy.

He arches and damn near floats off the bed, head pressed back into the pillow as he fights with every ounce of his wavering control to not break the silky ropes at his wrists.  Whimpers fall from his mouth, but he can’t possibly care how pathetic he is with his head so fucking clouded.  His hips undulate with attempts to fuck against the toy and he feels a hot jolt of pleasure shoot straight down to his cock at your little giggle of amusement.

“You’re cute like this,” you tell him.  You smooth a hand over his inner thigh and he splays himself wide for you, begging, praying that you’ll touch him.  You drag your nails along the softness of his flesh and he shivers and whines.  You can see the way he trembles from such a small act and the swell of pride goes right to your head.  You decide to experiment.

“Look at you,” you say, voice low and sultry.  “Look how soaked you are…”

Just as you predicted, his cock twitches at your words.  You move as though you’re going to grasp him, but you turn the toy off instead.  An extra pitiful whine escapes his mouth.

“You’re so wet, I can see you through those adorable little panties of yours.”  You glide your thumb under the lace of the waistband and he keens.  You pull the fabric back just enough to reveal the head, smirking like the cat that got the cream when little strings of come follow the garment.  You let it snap back into place, covering the tip of him all over again.

“You’re such a whore.” You declare.  “God, even your nipples are poking through your bra, baby.  You’re really pent up, huh?”

He nods furiously, pressing his wrists together again.  All he wants is to snap those stupid ties and pounce you like a rabid fucking animal.  He’s painfully close…

A cold breath wafts over his left bud and he mewls.  More, more, more, more, more.

“Such a pretty boy, Johnny…” You lean down to whisper into the shell of his ear.  You don’t touch him with anything more than the occasional breath blown against his neck.  “So pretty… I could eat you right up.  I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He gives a choked ‘uh-huh’ noise that was far more of a whine than anything else.  His hips rise again.

“I bet you’d love it if I touched you.  If I let you feel me .”

His eyes roll back and goosebumps erupt all over his body.  His breathing hastens as the coil in his core grows impossibly tighter with every word, every little breath of yours against his flesh.

“Imagine it… How soft and warm my hand would be on that pretty little cock of yours.”  You fan a hot breath at the shell of his ear.  “Or, maybe my mouth?  All hot and wet for you.  Dragging my tongue up and down your cock…  I bet you’d like to grab me by the hair and force me to choke on it, but you wouldn’t do that, would you?  You’re a good boy, right?”

He bites his lip hard and his thighs quake and tremble and he’s so fucking close.   He imagines everything you say and each little fantasy rocks him to his core.

“What if I let you fuck me?  Think you could even make it past the tip without blowing a load into me?”  You watch with a wide grin as his chest heaves and his cock twitches against its wet confines.  He’s damn near about to burst.  “I think…” You tease a faint nibble at his earlobe and he gives a particularly harsh thrust upward.  “I think you’d love to fuck your come deep inside me.  Push in as far as you can and claim me from the inside out. That you–”

A howling moan breaks you from your teasing and you watch in pure satisfaction as he fucks up into the air, hips raised at an angle so sharp that the come that didn’t spurt through his panties leaks onto his belly.  His cries are strangled against a breath caught in his throat and you’re there to talk him through the whole way.

“That’s it, Johnny… Cream your panties like the little slut you are.”

Just as he’s coming down from it, right when you think he’d be most sensitive, you press the button on the wand and start it up all over again, watching smugly as he’s jarred out of his orgasmic haze.

“Gah!  Fuck!”   He shouts loudly, binds creaking.

You click your tongue at him in disapproval.  

“Ah, ah, ah… Don’t you dare break those.” You chide.  “You’ll be a very, very bad boy if you do.  And then I won’t be able to give you what you want.”  

You pet his hair while he fights to settle himself down and submit to his place once more.  A finger finds one of his barely-clothed nipples and you circle the bud with a feather light pressure.  It’s still enough to rip a wavering moan out of his mouth.

“Needy boy,” you coo.  “You look so pretty in this getup.  I’d say Christmas came early, but,” you slip your fingers through the mess on his belly, bringing your digits up to smear his come on his lower lip. “Looks like you came even faster.”

His body quakes with little tremors, shivers that send a wave of smug satisfaction right to your head.  His helpless little moans spur you to shift the pulsating head of the toy to his sack, holding it there as he squirms and whines.  You tilt it against the base of his plug to spread the sensation to his ass and his head rises from the bed for just a fraction of a second in a blissful shock.

You toy with him for another hour or so before you decide you’ve had your fun.  He’d completely soaked his panties, cock perfectly visible through the transparent white fabric.  And Homelander?  He was nearly incoherent.  Babbling on and on about how badly he needed this or how good that felt, pleading and begging in between your good graces for any extra attention you might give to his aching shaft.

Fifteen orgasms milked from his pretty cock and you’d only just put your hands on him.  He nearly shrieks when your palms come down against the sides of his abdomen, smoothing back and forth between his perky nipples and his wet hip bones. You lift his bra just enough to expose his nipples and dive in, suckling hard on one and rolling the other between your fingers.

He mewls and melts, falling so far into an intoxicated swirl of lust and you that he fails to feel you unhook his binds.  He’s free to move his hands, but he doesn’t.

Your good boy knows his place.

You roll your hips against his drenched cock and he’s nothing but helpless, pathetic sounds below you.  If you thought he was like putty in your hands before , he was practically fucking butter now.

“Please, please, please…” He whimpers for the umpteenth time.  You’re ready and dripping for him.  He had to watch you get that way, had to see you dangle all that he wanted and more in front of him like a fucking treat and know he was only allowed to watch you touch yourself.

When you slide off and tug his panties down his legs, he’s almost hopeful that you’re going to finally touch him, that your hand is going to wrap around his cock or, better yet, your mouth, and he’s so fucking excited .  

“Open.”  You order.  You watch the look of realization settle in just before you stuff the garment in his mouth, grinning smug and satisfied as he’s made to taste himself.

“Bet it’s good,” you say as you press your palm over his mouth.  “You always taste good.”  You can feel his cock twitch against your thigh.  You reach down to grasp him and he arches from the bed, wrists pushing against each other.  His moans are muffled, but you can tell he’s already close again.

“You’re not gonna come,” you tell him.  “You’re gonna wait until I give you permission.  And when I do,” you grasp his jaw with your free hand to direct his gaze, “you’re gonna use those special eyes and look inside of me… You’re gonna watch every drop fill me up and you’re going to keep your eyes open the whole time.  Understand?”

When he simply stares at you with those wide, excited blues, you pat the side of his face to prompt a nod.  As soon as he does, you sink down onto him.

He clamps down on the panties in his mouth, squeezing more of his release onto his tongue as he does everything in his power to stop from coming right then and there.  He does as you told him.  He keeps his eyes open the whole time, shaking his head from side to side to disguise the desperate tears that have begun to spill.  His hips stutter to move but you slow when they do, so he fights himself over that, too.

It takes everything he has not to break those binds and touch you.  Oh how he fucking needs to touch you– needs to fuck you.

With your hands around his neck, you finally give him permission, leaning back so he could get his view.  You time it just right, to the exact second you begin to peak from touching yourself and riding him, your head becoming lightweight and body twitching through the quaking waves of your orgasm.

And Homelander?

He gnashes his teeth against the fabric as he comes undone, crimson eyes forced as wide as possible while he loses that last shred of control and thrusts upward.  He watches each spurt fill you, sees how it lines your walls and pushes deeper with each drive of his throbbing cock.  It floods you, seeps into every warm inch of your heat until there’s nowhere left to go but back down his cock.

The mere sight has his eyes rolling back.  He twitches beneath you, utterly spent, used, and balls deep in bliss.  Weak, breathy moans muffle against the fabric, eventually spilling free when you slip it from his mouth to kiss him.

You tell him how good he is.  That he was so perfect for you.  He did everything you wanted and more.  Just look at him, unbound, still holding his wrists together because he knows the rules.  You press kisses to his cheeks, to his forehead, to the tip of his nose and then his lips.  You caress him and pet through his hair, sweet nothings dripping from your tongue.

“That’s it, sweetheart.  You did such a good job.” You coo.  “I love you so, so much.”

He feels so free when you take him apart.  Like every shred of his being is laid bare before you and you’ve opted to hold each piece with love and care.  He tells you that he loves you too, but it falls out more as a slurred combination of the words.  He’s still buried inside of you, still warm and snug right where he wants to be– where he wants to stay.

“So,” you chuckle, all snuggled up on top of him.  “How badly am I in for it the next time around?”  You know damn well he’s going to repay you tenfold for this.  You’ll be surprised if you can even walk afterward.

“Mhm,” he hums.  His mind and body are spent and all he wants now is to drift off in your embrace.

“‘Mhm’ is a pretty strong answer, babe.” You’re proud of your good work.  You settle against him without letting his softening cock slip free.  

With a press of your lips to his temple, you bid him sweet dreams. You promise him safety and comfort while he rests and he believes your words more than he believes the sun will rise tomorrow.

He knows you’ll be there.