#homelander drabble

[happy74827]

Something Like Bliss

[Homelander x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Even in moments that seem serene, you can’t let yourself forget the truth of who he is, and what he’s truly capable of {GIF Creds: dilfgifs}

WC: 1714

Category: Hurt/No Comfort

After nine months, I felt another Homelander fic was necessary. Especially after seeing Antony in G20 🙊

『••✎••』

The penthouse is quiet tonight, except for the faint hum of the city below. You’re perched on the edge of the suede couch, fingers tracing the seam of a throw pillow, its fabric too perfect, too pristine, like everything else in this place. Homelander’s place.

The air smells faintly of his cologne—something sharp and expensive, like cedar and steel—and it clings to everything, including you.

You shift, your bare feet brushing the cool marble floor, and glance at the clock. He’s late. Not by much, but enough to make your stomach twist. He doesn’t like being late. Or rather, he doesn’t like anything that suggests he’s not in control.

The door hisses open, and there he is: the world’s greatest hero, Homelander, striding in like he’s stepping onto a stage. His cape sways behind him, catching the dim light of the chandelier, its red fabric almost liquid in motion.

He’s immaculate, as always—blonde hair swept back, not a strand out of place, suit pristine, the star-spangled blue clinging to his frame like it was painted on. But you notice the little things, the ones most people miss. How there was a slight tension in his jaw, a muscle ticking just below his ear. The way his gloved hands flex at his sides, fingers curling ever so slightly like he’s restraining himself from something.

His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, scan the room before landing on you, and for a split second, they’re not the warm, practiced gaze of America’s savior. They’re sharp, predatory, and assessing.

"You’re still up," he says, his voice smooth but with an edge like he’s testing you. He tilts his head just a fraction, and the light catches the faint stubble along his jaw—barely there, but enough to remind you he’s not entirely the polished god he presents to the world. There’s a humanness to him buried deep, and it’s in these moments you see it most clearly.

You nod, offering a small smile, careful not to overdo it.

"Couldn’t sleep," you say, keeping your tone light and neutral.

His eyes narrow slightly, and you wonder if he’s using that x-ray vision of his, peering through you, searching for a lie. You’ve learned to keep your heartbeat steady around him, not because you’re afraid—though you’d be a fool not to be cautious—but because he notices everything. The faintest uptick in your pulse, the slightest catch in your breath. He’s like a shark in the water, circling for blood.

He crosses the room in three long strides, his boots silent on the marble, and drops onto the couch beside you. Too close. His thigh brushes yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric of your lounge pants. You don’t move away. You’ve learned that, too. He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. It’s deliberate, that touch, a reminder of his presence, his power. His head lolls slightly, and he’s looking at you now, really looking, his gaze heavy, almost suffocating.

"You look tired," he says, but it’s not concern in his voice. It’s observation like he’s cataloging you. His eyes flick over your face—your slightly chapped lips, the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your hair falls messily over one shoulder. You feel exposed, like a specimen under a microscope, but you don’t flinch. You meet his gaze, noticing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, the blue of his irises almost swallowed by the black.

He’s intrigued, maybe even pleased, that you’re not cowering.

"Long day," you reply, keeping your voice soft but steady. You tilt your head, mirroring his posture, and let your eyes drift over him in return. The faint crease in his suit at the shoulder, where it’s been stretched just a little too tight. The way his chest rises and falls, slower than a normal man’s like he’s consciously controlling his breathing. The tiniest nick on his chin, barely visible, a remnant of some fight or stunt or god-knows-what. It’s gone by morning, always is, but right now, it’s there, a crack in the facade.

He hums, a low sound in his throat, and his fingers at the back of your neck start to move, tracing lazy circles. It’s not affectionate, not really, but it’s not threatening either. It’s possessive.

"You know, I’ve been thinking." He says, his voice dropping, softer now, almost intimate. He pauses, and you notice the way his lips twitch. But it’s not quite a smile. It’s more like he’s testing the waters. "Maybe living blissfully isn’t such a bad thing."

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning you’re not sure you want to unpack. You study him, searching for the tell. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s a glint in his eyes, a hunger that’s always there, just beneath the surface. He’s not talking about peace or contentment, not the way normal people would. He’s talking about control. He’s talking about a world where he doesn’t have to fight for it, where he can just be, and everyone—everything—falls in line, including you.

You swallow, and his eyes track the movement of your throat, a predator’s instinct.

"Blissfully?" You echo, letting the word roll off your tongue, testing it. "Like… what? No more cameras? No more Vought breathing down your neck?"

His lips curl into a smile now, sharp and a little too perfect, like a magazine cover come to life.

"Something like that," he says, but there’s a darkness in his tone, a weight. He leans closer, and you catch the faintest whiff of something metallic on him—blood, maybe, or the residue of whatever he’s been doing tonight. His gloved hand moves to your knee, and he squeezes just enough to make you aware of his strength. "You ever think about it? A life where none of this—" he gestures vaguely, the motion encompassing the penthouse, the city, the world "—matters?"

You hesitate because you know he’s not asking. He’s probing, searching for weakness, for loyalty. You notice how his shoulders are just a little too stiff, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s not sure of you, not entirely, and that’s dangerous. But it’s also an opportunity.

You lean forward, closing the distance between you, and his breath hitches—just for a fraction of a second, but you catch it.

"Maybe," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You let your hand rest on his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle beneath the suit, the steady thrum of his heart. It’s slower than yours, unnaturally so, and it reminds you of what he is. Not human, not really, but close enough to fool you if you let him. "But you’d get bored, wouldn’t you? Without the chaos?"

His laugh is sudden and sharp, and it startles you. It’s not the warm, rehearsed chuckle he gives on talk shows. It’s raw, almost unhinged, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Bored?" he repeats like the word is absurd. His hand moves from your knee to your face, cupping your chin, with his thumb brushing your lower lip. His grip is firm, not painful, but there’s no mistaking the strength behind it. "Oh, sweetheart, I’d find ways to keep busy."

The pet name is new, and it sends a shiver down your spine—not entirely unpleasant, but you’re not naive enough to think it’s genuine. You study his face, the way his eyes are locked on yours, unblinking, like he’s trying to see into your soul. The faint scar above his eyebrow is almost invisible unless you’re this close. The way his blonde lashes catch the light, too perfect. It makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

A toy? A puzzle? A threat?

You tilt your head into his touch, just enough to make him think you’re leaning into it, and his grip softens, his thumb lingering on your lip. "Bliss sounds nice," you say, keeping your voice low, almost seductive. "But you’re not the type to settle, are you?"

His smile fades, just for a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something real, something vulnerable. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that mask of confidence, but you’ve seen it now, and you file it away.

He leans back, releasing your chin, but his hand stays close, resting on your thigh, a silent tether. "Maybe I could be," he says, and it’s almost convincing, the way his voice softens, the way his eyes search yours. Almost.

You don’t push him. You’ve learned that, too. Instead, you lean back, mirroring his posture again, and let the silence stretch. The city hums below, a reminder of the world outside this bubble, but here, in this moment, it’s just you and him. His fingers tap idly on your thigh, a restless rhythm, and you notice the way his shoulders have relaxed just a fraction. He’s comfortable, or as close to it as he gets.

Maybe living blissfully isn’t such a bad thing, you think, but not in the way he means it. For you, it’s about survival, about navigating this man who could crush you without a second thought. It’s about noticing the little things—the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, the way his hands betray his restraint—and using them to stay one step ahead. Bliss, for you, is keeping him close without letting him consume you.

"You’re staring," he says suddenly, his voice teasing, but there’s an edge to it like he’s daring you to admit something. His lips quirk, and you notice the faintest dimple in his cheek, another imperfection he’d never let the cameras see.

You smile, small and careful, and shrug. "You’re worth staring at," you say, and it’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth he thinks it is.

His laugh is quieter this time, almost genuine, and he pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. You let him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the unnatural warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart.

For now, you’re safe. For now, you’re his. And maybe, if you play this right, you can stay that way.

[hughiecampbelle]

Cornered (Homelander Oneshot)

Character/s: Homelander

Word Count: 1,645

Requested: Hi! Can I request Homelander x reader with the prompts “Engagement” and “I missed you”? I haven’t requested anything from anyone in awhile so I hope I’m doing this right 😆 - anon

A/N: I'm so sorry it's taken me so long my love! Writing fics has been especially hard lately. I have so many great requests, so many good ideas, but I hate everything I write and I just don't want to post something I'm unhappy with. I'm still not 100% over this, but rewriting it over and over just ends up making it worse unfortunately 😅 Writers block is so frustrating and makes me feel awful. Thank you for being so patient and I really hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

I missed you. His room is completely destroyed. Mirrors shattered, statues broken, furniture in flames. And he stands in the middle, perfectly untouched, unphased, arms stretched outward. He expects a hug. He expects a lot of things. You step over the debris, inhaling the scent of smoke, of burning, mazing through the mess towards him. It’s too quiet. Aside from the crackling of the fire, it eats through the fabric, the stuffing of the couch, you could hear a pin drop. This place had always been eerie, but it was downright frightening. His smile is wide, unfaltering. He wraps himself around you, his hand raising to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into him. He never learned to be gentle. He never learned to hug someone like he likes them. He does it out of ownership, control. He does it so that you cannot fight back. You squeeze your eyes shut, imagining a different life, a different love, anything but this. Your arms stay still at your side. I missed you so much, he says again as a sign in relief. He doesn’t wait for you to respond. He’s learned, over the years, that conversations like this lack a back and forth. They are one sided. He talks to himself. Sometimes he’s okay with it. Sometimes he’s not. At this moment, he is the latter. I missed you so much. Is he talking to himself? Responding to himself? Is he trying to comfort himself? Did you miss me? This is a test. Unable to speak, to find your voice, you nod. You make sure he can feel you do this. Good, he smiles, that's good. You did good. You passed. This time. 

It’s hard to remember a time before this. There was a childhood. An adolescence. Young adulthood. There had to be. People didn’t just wake up one day, existing instantaneously. You had to have had a family, friends, some sort of education. There are glimpses of that, of a person who lived, who looked like you, who is long gone. A best friend you shared crayons with. Maybe they were colored pencils. All you see is the colors, the dimpled hands of small children grabbing greedily at the cyan blue or cherry red. You don’t know what you were drawing, or who this other person was, only that, for a few seconds at least, you had a friend. Someone who cared about you, perhaps even loved you. There is a car ride. You’re big enough to sit in the passenger seat. It’s bright outside, green, probably Spring. The window is cracked open, the breeze kissing your face, the sunlight beaming down through the branches of the tree lined street. A feminine voice is talking to you. Her words are muffled, her tone malleable. Sometimes she sounds happy, on the verge of laughter. Other times she’s annoyed, frustrated. The scenery never changes. It is always nice out. It was always warm. You like to think of her as your mother. A maternal figure concerned for your safety, pleasantly surprised about a good grade, tired of your attitude. You’d take it all, needy for validation. A father, you’re sure, slamming a door. There’s a suitcase on the floor, between you. You’re not sure who takes ownership over it. There is yelling, a language you don’t recognize. He vibrates, his anger cartoonish. What did you do to deserve this? Are you leaving or is he? You’re older than you were in the car ride. You’re not sure how you know, only that you do. There is no beginning or end, just snippets of the middle. How does this play out, you wonder. You could come up with a story. He’s leaving and you’re trying to stop him. You’re leaving and he’s trying to stop you. You’re not sure which is better. 

There are glimpses of the past. Yours, you assume, though the line between reality and fantasy has long been gone, worn away with time and desperation. A taste of normalcy. You imagine you lived in a small town in the middle of the country, somewhere bleak and boring, somewhere you could have been extraordinary. You imagine a child version of yourself dreaming of this future down to the last detail. You wake up each morning in his bed, in his place, at the top of the tower. For a few cloudy seconds you view this world from the perspective of a stranger: there is an engagement ring on your finger, the space beside you in the bed is empty, the room you occupy is grand and expensive looking. The person who lives here, who found love, who has everything they could ever want, should be happy, right? And then, like a slap across the cheek, stinging, it hits you: you are that person. So why aren’t you happy? Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you asked for? Dreamed of? 

The haze ends your first weeks after joining The Seven. Reporters, cameras flashing, overwhelmed by voices and snapshots and microphones. You smile, doing your best to hear a question between the mumbling of the crowds. A hand pulls you through the chaos, leading you to salvation. Safely inside, he laughs, congratulating you. There’s a light in his eyes that is warm, safe. You can’t believe he’s giving you attention, let alone complimenting you. You thank him. He’s there again, behind you, a hand on your shoulder. It was reassuring at the time, a way to show solidarity between veteran and rookie heroes. Your voice shakes, fear and anxiety radiating through you. You’d never had your own press conference before. It was after a big save, though. Everyone stood back, letting you in the limelight. You debuted a new suit, a new identity, letting your name fade away. Even now it sounds alien to you. The person you were and the person you are are disconnected, isolated. It’s been years since you’ve heard someone say it. Hearing it in passing is no longer startling, it no longer grabs your attention. It’s lost all meaning. 

This was years ago. You were still fresh faced. His touch was new, exciting. His affections were innocent, friendly. This world was bright and shiny. It’s lost its excitement. It’s lost its appeal. The warmth in his eyes turned hot, burning, furious. The last time you fought they glowed red, a warning that he was not fucking around. How long ago was that? Weeks, maybe months. You’ve been good. You do as you’re told. You smile when you need to. You kiss him. You pose. You show off your ring. The story was breaking news, running through the cycle the past few days: Homelander popped the question and you said yes! You don’t recognize yourself in the interviews. You don’t recognize him either. You’re happy, laughing easily, talking about wedding plans. The interviewer, a woman with lipstick on her teeth, asks about the future. Oh, you say. The mask slips. You hadn’t thought about the future. Years now you spent getting through the moment, the minute. You didn’t have it in you to think ahead. You couldn’t. You knew what it looked like, what he’d want from you, what you’d have to give up. Not just a name or a past. That was easy. That’s what you thought you wanted. This was a lifetime. A lifetime of fear, threats, and silence. Oh, you say, and it all comes at once, the realizations wrapping their hands around your throat. He squeezes your hand, talking for the both of you, filling the silence like a pro. She turns her attention towards him, recovering quickly. No one even noticed.  It’s better today. You dress. You sit through meetings. You disappear into the background, watching everyone instead of being part of it. You don’t think too much. You’re not overwhelmed by the idea of raising his children, of spending your time secluded with him, in his shadow. You’re not disgusted by the ring on your finger or the way he kisses you. The bruises strategically placed where fabric covers do not ache as bad as they did yesterday. It’s better today. It’s manageable. Ashley goes over the next few weeks: wedding planning, florists, musicians, guests, wardrobe, cake tasting. There was so much, and yet so much was missing. A mother to cry. A father to walk you down the aisle. Friends. She wanted every part of this decision making televised. It would be the wedding of the century. She goes down the list and you only have it in you to nod. Where was Homelander? Why wasn’t he being bombarded by color palettes and types of icing and venues? It wasn’t really up to you, anyways. You could pretend. You could make decisions: a lighter palette by the ocean with raspberry cake and vanilla frosting. You could plan it all, but he would always have final say. She’s still talking, going on and on about how you’ll wear your hair and the amount of cameras, who is and isn’t allowed to drink, but you’re not really listening. You’re sinking back into the chair. You’re taking it one breath at a time. In, out. Maybe there was a before. Before him, before all this, but it’s long gone. From the moment he saw you he knew you would be his. You would do as you were told. You would follow orders. And in return, you would lose yourself. Yeah that sounds good, you say, though you’re not really listening. You’re far away from yourself, the room, the world. It was better today. The weight of what’s happened. The more she speaks, the greater the feeling becomes: dread blossoming in the middle of your chest. You were trapped. You could scream and cry all you wanted, this place was a cage and Homelander held the key. 

[dollerinna]

I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .

( black noir x fem supe!reader )

summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)

warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’

first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!

The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.

Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.

A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.

On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.

It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.

Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.

Ugh, talk about creepy.

A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.

Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.

But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.

─────────────────

“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”

It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.

An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.

Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.

And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.

Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.

He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.

After all, good girls should never cuss.

Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.

He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.

Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?

Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.

Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.

Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)

Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.

Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.

With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.

“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.

Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.

Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.

Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.

Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.

He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.

The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.

However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.

─────────────────

Meanwhile…

“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.

“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.

As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.

“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.

True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.

Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.

Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.

Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.

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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭

[richeeduvie]

HOMELANDER MASTERLIST

— ONE-SHOTS —

Moon Song | NSFW one-shot

Baby, it’s Halloween | one-shot

Savior Complex | one-shot

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

— DRABBLES —

More, Always | Drabble

Tight Fit | Drabble

Therapy | Drabble

Best Things | NSFW Drabble

Coalesce | Drabble 

Streamer Girl | Drabble

Consume | Streamer Girl Drabble 

Streamer Girl Part Three | Drabble

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— HEADCANONS —

Stalking | Headcanons

[ohmytyong]

⋆𐙚🍂₊˚🤎⊹🥐♡

i just think about exchange student!mark and all the fun things you would do together while you study abroad

you would go to your favorite coffee shop as soon as you would wake up and grab a hot cappuccino and a pain au chocolat to ease your morning hunger

you would go to class, keep notes with the pen he bought you as a souvenir from your day trip on a town two hours away. he would steal glances of your concentrated pouty face and he would help you when you missed an important detail the professor mentioned about the exams

you would take late night walks around the parks of the city center, stepping on the crunchy orange leaves on the ground. you would share a joke or two as your breathy laughter would become visible in the air due to the cold

you would grab a cup of warm wine from the christmas market that opened earlier this year, and you would share it because the both of you ran out of your weekly pocket money

and when he would walk you back home, he would lean to kiss your cheek goodnight and you would wince at the cold sensation of his lips on your numb skin. he would laugh and you would ask him to text you when he got home safe too, but he would rather stay the night instead

[teastainedprose]

Breaking Point (Homelander x reader)

Homelander delights in teasing you until he needles you too much on the wrong day. 1.5k words | Jerk Homelander to guilty Homelander, hurt/comfort if you squint. Homelander x gn!reader, implied chronic pain reader, implied plus-sized reader, [A03]

You are so soft. Your flesh gives under his grasp when he yanks you by the arm, careless with how it makes you stumble. Homelander laughs mockingly at the small, annoyed twitch of your lip as he tugs you close. Too close.

"Hey. Where are those new poll results, sweetheart?" The words are a purr, warm breath a caress against your cheek as he looms too close to be proper. Everything done with calculated intent to pull a reaction from you.

You stare blankly up at him, expression schooled neutral. You're used to this game. You've watched other employees crack and fracture under the pressure Homelander exerts. You refuse. You're made of sterner stuff, a master of hiding how you're honestly feeling.

He knows he gets to you, but you rarely let it show on the outside. You can school your face, but there's no controlling how he makes your heart hammer in your chest. How being so close to him sets your nerves alight in a pleasant sensation. Homelander leers down at you, pleased at how your pulse skitters under his scrutiny. He releases you, stepping back as the persona of a proper gentleman settles into place. Homelander smiles as he waits for your reply, the well-practiced one that the cameras always catch.

You're quick to give Homelander an indulgent smile back. An exchange of fake expressions as the two of you play nice. You look so placid and calm before him, but Homelander knows better. He can hear your heart jumping in your chest.

"I can pull them up for you right now if you want?" You reply, the words even and calm as you look up expectantly. You're too tired to deal with any bullshit. Homelander's included. You're always too tired.

In his eyes you're so amiable, so sweet. So disgusting. Your response isn't what he wants.  It's controlled and that's no fun. He's not satisfied with your performance. Homelander sneers, whirling away with a flutter of his cape. "Never mind."

You stand there, grimacing in his wake as you rub the spot where he grabbed you. You briefly let your honest emotions flicker freely on your face while his back is turned.. No eyes on you at this moment as sheer frustration and pain settles in. You take a breath as your mask of calm is set back into place. You go on with your day.

Why are you so soft? Under his hands and how you interact with others. Why do you always hand out such easy smiles so freely? He hates that about you. You carry that weary calm like a cloak, but you'll shake it off with a vibrant smile and a laugh if the right person engages you in conversation. They distract you from your fatigue and you light right up.

Homelander has yet to earn one of those sunshine smiles. He gets the fake ones. The ones that make him feel like a child clamoring for attention that you only indulge with your patience. He hates it. It makes him feel small. A god should never feel this way around such a weak mortal as yourself.

As any god does, he lets it bruise his fragile ego. The mortal must be punished and punish you he does. Every day Homelander tries to get a rise out of you. He tries to crack that cheerful facade you've welded in place. It must be fake. No animal has such a cheerful disposition naturally. There's no reason for it because you're so often a lethargic thing. He can smell the weariness on you, the stress, and even pain. How the fuck are you still smiling?

-and why the fuck do you never smile at him? 

Homelander decides, in his usual mature fashion, that if you won't smile? He'll bait out your anger instead. He wants, needs a reaction from you beyond those fake smiles.

He continues to goad you day in and day out. He'll slide right up next to you, too close, and lean down to ask directly into your ear for a report or some statistics on what his numbers are doing. Any old excuse to engage with you. He gleefully invades your personal space and is extra handsy because Homelander knows you hate it while he's aware of the effect it has on your body. 

If he grabs your shoulder and squeezes just so, your breath hitches. If he places a palm against the small of your back, your pulse races away without fail. If Homelander berates your fashion choices or comments on how tired you look, you flash that hollow smile while your eyes speak loathing at him. He wants that fire, craves it.

The tired fatigue that you always carry briefly pulls back to hint at a simmering something. One day he'll get you boiling over. In anger, in lust. It doesn't matter which one as long as it happens with him there to witness it.

Homelander finds himself brimming with anticipation for that day until it finally happens.

Everyone has a breaking point, even you.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It's too much, please just-

He's caught you trying to hide away in a conference room, the scent of adrenaline in the air as your heart races. A glance with his x-ray vision reveals you staring off with shaking fists clenched against your plush sides.

Finally!

Will you lash out?  Will you bite back? The thought sends a thrill through Homelander at seeing little Miss Sunshine finally rattled. There's a storm brewing on your face as your fingers tighten. It's an expression Homelander knows he's worn many a time. The sort of look that has interns scattering and Ashley stammering.

What a delight it'll be to see what you unleash. What can you possibly do, as small and soft as you are? Will it be like watching a kitten hiss and claw? Adorably pathetic.

He strides into the conference room with a smirk, the door clicking shut behind him. "There you are! You missed today's meeting, you know." He chides softly with a waggle of one finger as Homelander strides closer. You stare up at him, eyes blazing.

"Now what are we going to do about that?" Homelander goes on, voice as smooth as honey as he smirks down at you.

Something in your expression shifts. A crack in your mask appears.

Gotcha.

"Well?" He prompts, expectant. Giddiness trickles down his spine as Homelander grins wide, fangs on display. He can't wait to see how this rage of yours plays out.

Except you don't unleash anything on him. You don't even insult Homelander, which would give him reason to taunt you further or retaliate. It would give him a reason to finally lash out at you in earnest, but all you're doing is standing there.

Your expression crumples up like wet tissue. The tears are white hot and silently streaking down your face in an instant. The sound you make is beyond pathetic as you drop back into your seat, huddling into yourself. Homelander watches stock-still as you draw your legs up, arms coiling about your knees as you bury your face away from his gaze.

It's a truly pathetic sight, sobbing like the little mud person you are.

Homelander should feel triumphant. His grin twists to a grimace. He awkwardly shifts, gloves creaking as he balls his fingers into fists at his side.

Why isn't he pleased? He's watching you shatter and it doesn't wash him in the usual delight bringing misery to others does. Your sunshine is gone and it's raining on your parade, which is exactly what Homelander wanted.

Your crying should amuse Homelander. He's not amused. Instead, there's a sinking feeling within the pit of his stomach. A dead weight settles heavy inside as all his amusement flees at the sound of your whimpering sobs. It's a foreign sensation and Homelander doesn't like it one bit.

Homelander works his jaw as guilt chews away at his insides, stuck to the spot hovering over you. You continue to cry, quieter now with your back bowed and face hidden. He can smell the salt of your tears easily. 

Silently, he reaches back to pull up the length of his cape. This Homelander offers to you. He doesn't have a handkerchief like a proper gentleman, so this will have to do.

He knows he's broken something. Carelessly snapped it in two. Homelander has done it countless times before. The snap of a spine. Fizzle pop of a control deck. The crackle and sizzle of flesh. The wet sucking sound as organs spill on the floor. It's natural for a creature such as him. Things breaking is a fact of his life. He's never felt guilty about any of those times. Guilt is a rare emotion for Homelander but now it's clawing up his throat, threatening to choke him. 

Homelander blinks and refocuses his gaze as he feels a tug on his cape. He watches in a detached way as you dab at your face with the fabric, sniffling loudly. Homelander can't make himself apologize. He doesn't know how.

Instead, he asks in a surprisingly tentative voice. "Bad day?"

That takes you by surprise as your gaze snaps to him. You stare a beat up at Homelander and then you smile. It's a quavering sort, but it's an honest smile. The sunshine rushes back into your face as Homelander sucks a breath in. Were you always such a lovely little creature?

"Yeah," You say slowly. "Something like that."

[amostimprobabledream]

The Sweetest Violence (Homelander x Reader)

Just a lil drabble, also available on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/57696463

"Sssh..." Blood. So much blood. The fetid stink of it is everywhere. It fills up your nostrils and chokes up your senses. It's thick and sticky in your hair, hot and drying in stiff patches on your skin. You feel like you could take a hundred showers, soak in the bath for hours and hours and it still wouldn't get rid of the sensation of blood clinging to your flesh. Homelander doesn't seem to notice or care about the blood. He carries you easily, clasped to is chest, his own face splashed with blood, dark patches of it staining his blonde hair. The brilliant blue of his eyes seems to burn through a streaky veil of scarlet, made all the more vivid by the contrast. "It's all right," he whispers to you as he walks, his soothing tone at odds with the gore-soaked state of him. "It's okay now. Ssh. You must've been scared, huh?" Yes. You were. The people who took you saw you as nothing more than an object, a tool with which they could use against Homelander. You could tell by the impersonal way they handled you, the way they barley looked at you and didn't bat an eyelid at your screams and shouts. That scared you more than anything, the dead, cold looks in their eyes, like you were trying to communicate with machines, not people. If they could be so indifferent to your fear and confusion, what would they care about doing more permanent damage?

So, when you heard it - the rush of air and signature boom of one of Homelander's signature landings, those dramatic superhero drops that signify I am here, it was like divine intervention. The relief that hit you was like no high you'd ever experienced before, the way you imagine a shipwreck survivor must feel when they finally see the boat that's come to save them after being stranded in the brutal, unforgiving seas. That was, until Homelander got to work. Bodies. Ripped apart like paper. Heads not rolling but exploding like watermelons struck by a bat. Unholy shrieks of horror and agony drowned out in wet gurgles of blood. Eyes shining like warning lights in the gloom - inhuman, like a monster from a nightmare. You could only curl up as best you could and close your eyes to the carnage, a sob tangled in your throat, but you couldn't quite drown out the screaming and your imagination supplied you plenty of images that rivalled the horror of what was happening.

When Homelander calmly melted the chains on you and hoisted you up into his arms, you briefly wondered if you were about to die too - even though he'd come to rescue you. Your mind  is in a haze -a long time ago, somebody had explained to you the difference between horror and terror, and you felt it keenly now. You're not screaming or thrashing to escape, or outwardly freaking out at all. Instead, you feel like you've been plunged into a pool of still, frigid water and simply wait under the surface, unwilling to expend any energy into swimming up to the surface and peering out at whatever may lay above. You retreat into numbness, curiously swamped with cold despite how hot Homelander is. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit, your breath coming out in sharp little pants. Homelander can hear the frantic pounding of your heart and how you breathe like there isn't enough air, but he assumes that it's from the fear of being kidnapped, of men in dark clothes and with dead eyes. It probably hasn't even crossed your mind that the one who has driven you to this heightened state of fear is him. And you don't want him to think it, so you nuzzle deeper into him, you can't seem to stop hyperventilating no matter how you try. "S'okay," Homelander shushes you, misunderstanding your trembling, a gloved hand petting your hair like he's trying to soothe a skittish animal. He's so monstrously strong he can hold you, a grown woman, easily to his body with just one arm, and you automatically wrap your legs around him, a gesture you've done many times before, but never in this context. He's being so gentle with you that it's hard to believe you just witnessed a man being torn in half by Homelander's bare hands. "You're safe. I've got you." Yes, he does. You're locked in his powerful embrace like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. You bury your face in his chest to hide your expression as well as seeking comfort - it seems perverse to look for it from a man soaked in blood, but what else can you do? You let yourself be lulled into a calmer state, his warmth seeping into you and the slow, rhythmic motions of his hand in your hair weirdly comforting.

But you don't miss the gravel, the hint of threat in his voice when he speaks again. You know it's not directed at you, not his sweetheart, but you still feel a shiver lick down your spine as he speaks; "No one will ever take you away from me."

[tearueful]

Play With Fire ( Homelander x Reader)

18+ for language, female (plus size♥) reader | You walk into an elevator with Homelander...💋 [AO3 Link] Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, AO3 Link

You can only stare at Ashley’s cold dismissal. Not Ashley Barrett, of course. You’re not high up enough to get personally fired by the CEO. Her assistant is the one doing it, also Ashley. 

There were too many fucking Ashleys in this office.

Your head is buzzing and you can’t exactly focus on the words that spill out of her mouth. She has such a pleasant smile plastered on her lips. A fake, corporate smile as she tells you that as of today? You no longer work at Vought International. A job you had scraped and clawed for. Survived an unpaid internship in fucking New York City for, moonlighting as a waitress in a diner where patrons had sticky hands even for one such as you.

You stare at her, having no idea what words her placid smile makes. Something about turning your badge in at the front desk on your way out. That they’ve packed everything up at your desk already and it will show up to your house in two to four business days. An easier transition, she says. How kind.

Neatly packaging your existence away and shipping it off in the post as if it didn’t fucking matter. You blink and you’re already stalking out of the office. The dismissal had been clear. They had saved it for when you normally would be packing up for the day. Less drama. Always better to fire someone on a Friday afternoon. Not many witnesses. At least you can slink out with some scraps of your dignity. Before you realize it, you’re fast walking through the hallway to the elevator lobby. All your mind can focus on is getting in that elevator and escaping this fucked up place. That is your one goal as your insides churn with bitter anger and your brain buzzes.

Your rage is impotent, with no outlet. What could you even do? Nothing against Vought. Not with their airtight security. You knew how Vought paid everyone and anyone off to make undesirables vanish. How they mopped up the ‘accidents’ of their precious supe products. How your firing was another one of those casualties, dismissed at a whim of the Seven. You knew specifically who. That star-spangled blonde bastard. One typo led to one tantrum from the supe and you had to suffer for it.

Rage pushes your feet to move a little quicker as you spot the open elevator doors. Someone must have just exited, you see the retreating forms of a handful of people down the opposite end of the hall. Perfect, except those doors are closing and you’re too impatient to wait in the lobby a moment longer.

At the sight of the closing elevator doors, your feet pick up their pace. You can’t stay in this building a moment long, not in this hallway with the chance of spotting anyone you know who may recognize the set of your face as something amiss.. Some of them know you well enough to know that would mean something’s wrong, or they knew the bad news before you. That gives you the motivation to snap a hand out to stop those closing doors, praying it’s empty so you can take a breath alone. You need it.You deserve it. It’s the least the universe can do for you at this moment. The universe is not kind today.

The doors stop at the presence of your hand while you slip through the opening. Your regret is almost instantaneous as you step into the re-opening doors because there stood Homelander.

Fucking Homelander in his stupid suit, looking all the world like Uncle Sam shat out the perfect Boyscout. Except, you know far better. There was a monster in that human suit.

He looks ever the caged predator within the confines of the enclosed metal space, wholly uninterested in you. There’s only the briefest of glances your way before his attention is back on the elevator’s LED number display. Oh, but you hate him. Stuffed up supe, high on his own importance.

You’d seen him about the office, from a distance. A wolf among doting sheep, bleating for his attention. How did anyone dare to get close when he flashed those canines? You should flee, but the elevator doors click behind you with a finality. No, fuck it. Fuck him. You don’t care. All you care about is getting out of this shit hole and this elevator ride will be your last here. One way or another. The white hot rage is back to roiling in your gut and you feel as if you’d choke on it.

Homelander’s cold blue gaze flickers over you once more as you stew, taking you all in within an instant. Your badge and your name. Another useless Vought employee, a wriggling worm at his feet. The Hero Management Department by the logo on your badge, but he’s never noticed you. No wonder. You’re too short. Someone who could get lost in a crowd. His lips turn up in a cruel sneer. Fat, too. A pudgy, little grub. At least you’re dressed well. You need to be if you work here. Almost demure in that dress that must have cost half your pathetic paycheck. He wants to be disgusted by you, but you meet his eyes. People rarely did that. There’s fire burning in those wide eyes. A defiance he’s not used to seeing often. Especially not from something as breakable as you. It gives Homelander pause. He’s puzzled. That sort of volatile hatred was usually reserved for dear William, but you? It was almost comical seeing such a delicate thing like you sparking with it. You looked like a little firecracker about to go off and Homelander wonders what sorts of sparks you’d show.

Your expression was utterly, almost eerily calm yet he could feel the rage rolling off of you, it was a palpable taste on his tongue. An almost bitter tang that made Homelander reflexively lick his lips. That gets your attention. Previously, you’d let your eyes dart around the elevator in your unrest. Now your eyes fixate on the flick of Homelander’s tongue while the wheels within your brain begin to whirl. What is the stupidest thing you could do on your last day at Vought? Something reckless and impulsive. Suicidal even.

He watches you with interest now that you’re daring to meet his gaze, scrutinizing this little mortal confined in the elevator with him with anger steaming off your body. Normally, Vought employees fawned over him while reeking of fear. They cowered and all but tried to tongue his taint in their need to appease him and soothe Homelander’s volatile moods. Yet here you were, looking as much like a caged animal within the confines of the elevator as he felt most of the time. 

Homelander senses the shift in you, from anger to something else. He can’t pinpoint it, not yet. Not with how the adrenaline pumps through your veins as you fix your eyes on his face, a heady perfume if there ever was one. It’s a little like prey backed into a corner, finally deciding fight over flight. Homelander doesn’t fear you or any possible outburst you could throw his way. How could he? He’s a god and you’re an ant. Still, he’s curious as to what you’ll do. Homelander can see the tension in your body, how your muscles coil before a pounce.

You weren’t quick, by any means. Homelander could have deflected you with his pinky finger, but the determination in your eyes kept him still. What were you even planning to do to him, of all people? Seeing you unleashing your anger on him would amuse the supe. Give him a valid reason to crush your fragile skull in his fist with a satisfying wet crunch. Yet, you surprised him. All that anger and vitriol boiling over shifted into something else entirely, but it still burns.  It burns so much that you need to let it out. Which you do, by pressing your lips against Homelander’s. It’s pure impulse and oh so reckless. He’s killed people for lesser slights but you don’t care. Not in that moment. You want this, maybe even need it. Need to vent out all your frustration on the man who caused all this in the first place.

So you dig your nails into the leather fabric of Homelander’s suit, having to get up on your toes to press your lips against his own. 

They’re surprisingly soft, Homelander’s lips. You hadn’t expected it. A contrast to the lack of give against his body because leaning into Homelander is like leaning into a brick wall. Unmovable. The only give is from his lips and you suspect that’s because you took the supe by surprise.

The audacity of this little bug!

Homelander’s eyes are wide, shocked even at your brazen act. Staring down at this impertinent little human daring to touch him.There’s a desperation in your act, in how your face is still twisted up in rage and confusion but softening as you stubbornly keep your lips moving against his own.

Still so curious. 

He lets you kiss him, even goes as far to settle into the kiss himself. He can’t help it. Softness was a rare thing for him to feel and you really are oh so soft against him. Pliable and willing now that you’ve settled into properly kissing him. You’re not bad at this either, knowing exactly what sort of coaxing pressure to give him while teasing Homelander into giving back more.

So he does.

Homelander hooks you in the steel grip of one hand, fingers digging into your waist and he finds you yielding. Soft and giving as your lips. He should have expected that given your size, but he finds that he likes it. He can dig his fingers in a little deeper with no fear of snapping ribs with the slightest of pressure.

Homelander is kissing you back. Fucking Homelander! You half expected to get thrown across the elevator shaft for your action, but he was almost holding you gently. Almost. This close you can feel the restrained power of him that all but hums through the supe’s body. It should frighten you, but it’s thrilling having a monster yield so readily to you of all people.

You need something to ground yourself because this can't be real! You grab for Homelander's hair, sliding your fingers through it. Idly, you muse at the softness. It wasn't gelled and hard to the touch as you expected. Leave-in conditioner, that must be it. The thought makes you smile into the kiss, tightening your hold on Homelander's hair with a playful tug to coax his mouth closer.

You don’t expect the needy moan Homelander releases against your lips at the gentle tug. Would have never expected such a sound from a man like him. You greedily swallow it up, using it to your advantage to slide your tongue over his lips. They part under the pressure and then you’re kissing Homelander deeper. This is far from an innocent, impulsive act now. He’s meeting your fire, consumed by the flames as much as you are. More so because now Homelander seems intent on devouring you as he fits his lips to yours, bruising them while his tongue slides slick over your own within your mouth. He growls. Homelander fucking growls into the kiss and you feel that tremor down to your toes, arousal a white hot flash through your system. Thus it really can’t be helped when you mold your curves into the hard lines of his body, fingernails scraping at Homelander’s scalp while you try to taste every corner of his mouth. His free hand even comes up to take an ample handful of your ass as he pulls you flush against him properly, and is that- Holy fuck.

The chime of the elevator hitting the ground floor snaps you both out of the moment. You jerk apart and even in his surprise, Homelander’s grip is loose enough for you to step away safely. You stare up at him a beat, taking in Homelander’s flushed features and how he pants.

You did that. You did that to the most powerful supe of the Seven, possibly the most powerful supe in the world. Smug satisfaction settles on your shoulders for a moment.

You can see the rage building in his eyes, disgust twisting up Homelander’s features and there’s even the glaring threat of red sparking in his gaze. Holy shit. Your heart squeezes as the smugness shifts to the instinct to survive. It’s time to flee or die.

Homelander sneers at you and you know he’s about to say something scathing to put you in your place before he obliterates you. Instead of cowering, you flash him a thousand watt smile. The sort you’ve employed on dates with hapless men to get them giving dopey grins right back to you. It works well enough.

He blinks, the red glare vanishing from his eyes. People in this tower never smile at Homelander like that. Another surprise. You exit stage left before he recovers, almost running into someone on your way out of the elevator. It’s Ashley. CEO Ashley this time, with tablet in hand.

Her gaze flicks up from the screen as she gives a little start before suspicion tinges her features. “Weren’t you fired?” She whispers the words under her breath, brushing past you before stiffening up at the sight of the supe still within the elevator. “Homelander! There you are!�� She chirps out with faux cheerfulness and a dead smile. “I’ve got fantastic news on your latest numbers!” That gives you enough time to slip away, with Ashley crowding up to Homelander eagerly to stroke his ego so he’s kept calm for another day and no one dies. You certainly didn’t die. Personally, you think the supe’s mind will be occupied by other things today. You turn your badge in at security’s front desk with a self satisfied smirk.

For his part, Homelander silently steps out of the elevator with eyes fixed on your retreating frame. He doesn’t register Ashley’s yammering as she tries to tell him the good news about a ten point boost. No, Homelander’s mind is too busy contemplating what he will do to you. Little bugs like you can’t get away with taunting gods.

A wide, shark-like grin spreads Homelander's lips now that he has revenge on his mind. He snaps his attention to Ashley, voice sharp as Homelander lifts a finger in her face for silence “Ashley. That woman. Give me her name, now.”

[tokoyamisstuff]

Homelander fucking you in front of the 7😏

oops, my hand slipped

"What's the matter? I thought we're all adults in here."

Homelander let out a gluttoral sound as he sank even deeper into the great armchair, keeping his poker face on. If it wasn't for the lewd sounds echoing through the room, no one would suspect you were currently giving him the time of his life.

Not that he was subtle about it either way - he wanted them to know what's going on, wanted to brag about you almost as much as he needed all eyes to be on him.

John grinned quite satisfied as he looked down, observing you kneeling beneath him where you belonged. This whole time your gaze was locked on the only man that mattered, and though he would never admit it,he was just equally mesmerized.

He could see his own reflection in those eyes that never left him, and he couldn't deny that it turned him on even more. You were in a trance, eagerly working on his cock as if you were made just to please him.

Feeling himself being close he spread his legs even wider, balling a fist in your hair just to ram his whole lenght inside your throat.

Whatever Ashley was currently stammering about was interrupted through a deep groan of his, head falling back in ecstasy as he filled you up.

As always Homelander was quick to regain his composure, running a hand through his ruffled blond strands before putting up his trademark smirk.

"C'mon up sweetheart, I'd like you to meet the team." John lend you a hand, almost chivalrously helping you up. He gestured for you to sit on his lap, his gloved thumb shoving some splashes of his cum from your cheek into your mouth. "That's no good. You need to be more grateful for what I give you."

Never breaking eyecontact you grab ahold of his wrist, tongue running over his fingers as you savoured every last drop. "Yeah like this, good girl..." he growled, engaging in a messy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.

"Well, this is Y/N, say hello everyone! Isn't she amazing?!" All people in the room were visibly uncomfortable, mumbling flustered greetings to themselves and unsure whether they were supposed to watch or would be punished for it.

Well, you couldn't care less about them, quickly waving them a "hi guys" before focusing your whole attention on Homelander again. That's what he loved most about you: A whole room full of the most infamous supes, and yet it was like only he existed.

"Nah ah-ah" John scolded you playfully, two firm hands on either sided of your hips ramming your pelvis against his crotch, feeling him get hard again. "We're done when I say we're done."

You nodded mutely, giving him your most inviting smile as you slowly sank down on his cock, his mouth slightly agape. Chuckling bashfully, you start riding him with your head buried in his neck - but John had other plans.

"No need to hide, beautiful" he purred into your ear, softly nibbling at the sensitive skin before janking you back by the hair. He licked his lips with a predatory glint in his eyes, enjoying the view of your clothed tits bouncing in the rhythm of your movements. You gasp when he catches one in his mouth, tongue sucking and twirling around the sensitive skin of your nipple.

He then spun you around to look at the crew, bucking his groin even deeper against yours all while remaining seated. "Show them the pretty little face you make when you cum."

Goosebumps rise against your skin when you feel his lips trace thoughtful kisses along your spine, just to sink his teeth into your shoulderblade.

One hand was on your neck holding you in place, the other found the hem of your shirt, tearing it apart to reveal your chest. "It's impolite to stare" he suddenly warns the Deep, both thrilled by his display of possession yet not willing to share you too much. "If you get too excited, I'll have to laser your dick off."

John then proceeded to pinch your nipples just before cupping both of your breasts, squeezing hard enough to hurt just the enjoyable amount. You had long lost control over the volume of your moans, interrupting the conversation between those two.

Out of a whim he lifted you off of him, the empty feeling making you whine. "Relax, darling. I'm feeling generous today" he chuckled darkly at your pathetic plead, quickly bending you onto the tabletop, cheek pressed against the surface.

"Continue the meeting, Ashley" Homelander grinned mischievously as he started pounding into you from behind now, "I can multitask."

[jethrowest]

i feel alone in my body; i feel a silence underneath…

- jaded by spiritbox

eva (the boys oc)/homelander

for @blindmagdalena 🖤

commissioned art (full sfw-ish piece at the end) by @thevanityofthefox 🖤

mdni! 18+! homelander is a warning altogether.

It’s enervating being close to someone like Homelander.

At first, it had been deliciously overstimulating receiving the tiniest speck of his energy. What he’s comprised of. Every single experiment performed on him; everything he’s destroyed and killed in the process.

It’s addictive to Eva. She can pour all of her pain into him, and, in return, taste the bottomless pit he is. This shining beacon of macabre hope.

He reminds her constantly that she needs him. While that holds significant weight, she can extract nourishment elsewhere if she chooses to, just as she had before knowing what he could mean to her.

She requires life to sustain her own. Such sustenance can come from plants, insects, animals, people, Supes; anything that has vitality.

This is simply another aspect for him to control, and she understands that. If Homelander can feel his essence masking any and everything else in her their his world, then he’s almost as satiated as she is.

However, sometimes, it drains her more than fills. It’s a conflicting phenomena within her body. Electric currents that repeatedly shock her into rejuvenation, into a power she can hardly describe with words, and then, a heavy affectation that bludgeons itself across something that normally consists of the rarest gold. Parasites and mold and all things ugly masking what shouldn’t have become so tainted.

Homelander’s shadow, as she calls it, is what usually ruins the intense pleasure she drowns in.

She’s uncertain what might have caused him to shift, but that particular darkness now enshrouds him, and she picks up on it straight away. The warmth emanating from him fades, replaced by a cold, eternal sickness.

Eva can absorb energy through her hands. If she concentrates enough, she can use her mind as well. But that requires a lot more than she can often give.

He’s demanding of her abilities, slipping ungloved fingers inside her nightgown. He grips her breast with fervor while his tongue flicks like a serpent’s, whispering the oldest of sins into her burning ear.

He coaxes her own unsheathed palms to take so he can see himself reflected inside her shapes, dips, curves, and colors. So he can become one with something outside of himself.

So he can be more than he’d been promised. Than he’d been conditioned to believe.

It’s not the first time he’s fucked her to experience even a fraction of what and who he is.

It’s lonely being the only one like him. The singular star at the top of the universe’s Christmas tree, separate from cookie-cutter tinsel and baubles.

It’s lonely being someone who is a reflection of all they’ve gorged on and buried within themselves. Homelander digs himself out as much as he can, causing a pain so deep, it’s beyond bones.

Gradually, Eva has become his mirror, and she’s lost herself within it.

dividers credit

writing tag

[deliciouskeys]

No. 9 for Butchlander!

I'm sorry, I just keep writing downers! Why! These prompts are definitely not inherently tragic... Blame seasonal affective disorder or something.

Prompt #9: "You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!" from the drabble challenge

Just his luck that Butcher and his stupid vengeful gang of misfits suddenly had an attack of conscience and decided to spare his life after they managed to get Soldier Boy to fry the Compound V right out of his body, and with it everything that he ever liked about his body. Maybe it wasn't an attack of conscience but sadism, and maybe Butcher knew exactly what he was doing when he delivered him into police custody, disoriented, limp, finding it hard to navigate the world with a tiny fraction of the powers of movement and perception that he used to have.

Just his luck that far from standing by him, Vought decided to use him as a scapegoat once they had confirmation that the depowering was irreversible. They decided to make his litany of crimes public, and even tack on a few others' for the convenience of it. Just shove every recent crime being investigated on his head.

Just his luck that although his crimes were prosecuted at the federal level, the cheap lawyers the government provided him still managed to get him life without parole instead of a mercifully short stint on death row.

Just his luck that his body felt heavy and clumsy and fragile as all fuck– as he found out on his first day in the penitentiary when he was pushed down the stairs from behind, and rolled down the entire flight, landing in a pose he didn't know his body was capable of. There was a good reason he hadn't been capable of it before. He was still not used to gravity being relentless and to his body's bones being brittle enough that some of them would just fracture from his own body weight hitting some flimsy metal. 

Just his luck that he felt faint every time a needle was poked through his skin and that he had to get quite a few pokes a day while he lay in an infirmary bed for weeks waiting for his broken legs to heal. He was cuffed by the wrist with laughably thin-chained handcuffs, and it was driving him mad that he couldn't hope to get out of them in his new depowered state. It was absolutely infuriating how painful and dangerous everything now was, and how unfamiliar the world felt, as if he had landed on a new planet and humans were brutal, cruel alien beings.

Just his luck that he thought the one advantage of being depowered would be that he'd have a relatively easy time offing himself, and yet he couldn't manage it for the life of him. There were mesh nets around stairwells, so there was no way to throw himself off a height, and he didn't want to throw himself down the stairs and just end up mangled and in the infirmary again. Hanging himself was much trickier than it looked, and he was foiled in his one clumsy attempt after going through a lot of trouble to get his hands on some cord. Starving himself was impossible– he'd feel weak after a single day of skipping meals and the hunger would quickly grow unbearable, well before he was in any danger of dying of it. It would all be funny if he wasn't so goddamn depressed.

Just his luck that when he was taken out of Gen Pop after getting severely injured for the third time, he only found it a peaceful respite for a couple of days. Even though it should have been a relief to be away from the hoards of ugly, barbaric inmates who seemed to have it in for him, being in solitary confinement reminded him of the Bad Room all too vividly, and by the end of the week he was begging them to let him out of Ad Seg even if it meant probably getting beaten from time to time.

Just his luck that when he entered his new accommodations (his former cellmate was the one who landed him in the infirmary last time), he saw that William Butcher was apparently paying his debts to society in not only the same prison, but the same cell.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John wheezed as he turned and attempted to escape back out of the cell, but the prison guard behind him was blocking the doorway. "I know him. He's going to kill me if you put me in here."

They didn't listen. Nobody seemed to listen to him even though he never lied to anyone in here.

The metal door clanged shut, but John didn't budge from the corner of the room he crept to, hugging the thin bedding he was supposed to put over the mattress on the bunk bed. Butcher had already taken the top bunk and was lounging looking down at him.

"Hardly recognized ya, to be honest. You look a bit worse for the wear."

John leaned over and peeked into the rusted mirror over the tiny metal sink. It was true. He still had faint greenish bruises around both orbitals, his upper lip was still swollen and scarred on one side and one of his front teeth hadn't been completely knocked out, but had turned kind of gray, and the prison doctor who looked at him said they might need to pull the tooth, or it might fall out on its own.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance," John muttered.

"Chance ain't over," Butcher said, clearly thinking he'd sound ominous, but John was over the point where he'd care.

"Good," he retorted. "Do me a favor and strangle me so I don't have to keep living this miserable existence."

Butcher only chuckled in response. John didn't ask him how long he'd been sentenced for. He left a trail of casualties in his wake, and might be in here for the long haul too.

The lights went out for the night and John finally moved to claim the bottom bunk, trying to stretch the fitted sheet over the grimy deformed mattress, cursing at how hard every task felt, how his back twinged when he leaned over awkwardly, and how little he could see in dim light. 

"Fitted sheet my ass" John grumbled as the elastic rubber band was so worn out that it snapped and bunched up. He slumped down on the bed, dragging the thin comforter over his body, shivering, and trying to get comfortable.

It was just his luck that that was the night when most of the heating units in the prison decided to malfunction, and since it was a chilly night in the middle of January, it was only a matter of a few hours before every surface in the cells felt cold to the touch. John tossed and turned, trying to wrap himself tighter in comforter, and the bunkbed was not particularly stable or sturdy, so its metal hinges creaked with each of these movements.

"...You mind?" Butcher's voice finally sounded from above.

"I'm f-fucking f-freezing down here," John replied, only realizing just how cold he was when he could feel his teeth chattering as he tried to speak. It was ridiculous how narrow of a range of temperatures felt bearable nowadays. He'd had enough. This was cruel and unusual punishment, no matter how many crimes he'd committed or had pinned on him. He stepped out of bed and climbed the ladder to the top bunk. "Move," he said, pushing Butcher's shoulder, not much force behind it, but enough to get a reaction.

Butcher turned and blinked at him. "Whaddaya think you're doing? Go back to your bunk."

"I can't sleep down there."

"Tough luck."

"You're the one bitching about me moving around," John said, pushing his body in right next to Butcher's and pulling his ratty comforter over the one Butcher has. If Butcher shoved him off the top bunk onto the floor maybe he could go to the infirmary again. They probably had portable heating units for backup. But Butcher didn't shove him out. Being in such close proximity felt strange, but John couldn't bring himself to care about things like that anymore. He was finally warm– the air near the ceiling still warmer than the rest of the cell, Butcher's body heat emanating into his own as he finally stopped shivering and succumbed to sleep, trying not to think about how tomorrow would just be another day to suffer through this terrible mudperson existence. No, right now, despite the lingering pain in his face and joints, despite how cumbersome his body still felt, and how dark and quiet the world seemed without his old vision and hearing, right at this moment feeling warm and cocooned here felt almost close to pleasure.

[hughiecampbelle]

Malignant (Homelander Oneshot)

((TAKES PLACE IN S4E4))

Character/s: Homelander

Word Count: 1,468

Warning/s: gore, sort of all the basic warnings The Boys typically has

Requested: Hii! I’ve just found your blog, read some of your works and loveee them! Especially The Boys Preferences and imagines! May I request a platonic Homelander x reader with the prompts: Fury, Shooting Stars, “Get away from me” ? Thank youuu! - anon

A/N: Y'all when I tell you you're not ready!!! When I say I love this I mean I cannot stop smiling!!! I am Victor Frankenstein and this is my monster lol. Thank you for requesting my love! I hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Requests are open! 🔮

Get away from me. The words come out as a whimper, barely above a whisper. His features contort: insecurity, rage, struck dumb by your reaction. Despite himself, he smiles, trying make sense of it all. This is what we’ve always wanted. They deserved it, all of them. Why can’t- why can’t you see that? He takes a step closer and you react by moving further back, through the doorway. Your shoe makes a squeaking sound. Beneath the sole something squelches, wet and gummy. You don’t have to look down to know what you’ve stepped in. It’s splattered across the walls and ceiling. The entire room painted red. Faceless, headless, limbless bodies dropped across the floor. You’ve stepped on someones intestines, their insides strewn across the floor like shooting stars. Here and there are articles of clothing, a shoe without their twin, a name tag or Vought issued ID. You don’t recognize them. Many of them new hires. They weren’t around all those years ago. They took no part in what happened to you, to either of you. Bile rises in your throat. It’s the smell that’s the worst. Metallic. You can taste the iron on your tongue. Not just that, though. The heater was still on. Though the body was ash, the stench of burned skin and hair lingers. It’s thick, and hot, and disgusting. The warmth radiates off it, seeping into the rest of the lab. It leaves you fighting your nausea, your hatred, the two churning in your stomach. Why, why are you mad at me? He’s drenched in their blood. It’s dried across his face, his suit and in his hair. How long has he been with the bodies? You killed them, John. You killed them all. 

Despite what the media portrayed, your childhood wasn’t baseball games and apple pies. There was no mother to rock you to sleep or father telling you you were a great kid. There were no little sisters to play with or teasing from big brothers. No white pickett fence or a sweet, yet obedient, dog running around. There was sterility. There were test tubes, and locked rooms, and tests. There were knives, and guns, and fire. You and him, you were invincible. They wanted to test that. They wanted to see just how far you could be pushed before you broke. Your skin was impenetrable, but that didn’t mean it didn’t burn every time they shoved you into that chamber. You’d pound your fists against the door, begging and screaming, every inch of you engulfed in flames. Sometimes it still felt like you were burning. In dreams, maybe when the weather was warm. You were just a little kid. You thought (feared) this time would be the last time. This is how you would die. Your tears evaporated before they could fall. You’d call out for them, for the pseudo father figures. When that wasn’t enough, when they refused to move from their charts and lazy game of paper ball, you’d cry for John. Your companion, your brother, your friend. He’d be enclosed in his own hell. Eventually you learned to be quiet. Eventually you learned you would survive. No one was coming to save you. No one was going to stop this. You’d watch, day in and day out, first your skin, your muscles, until the fire kissed your bones. You’d come to hours, days later, completely healed. Not a single scar carved into your flesh. No evidence except your memories. 

If you were good, if you were well behaved, you might be rewarded. Taught a new game or trick. Tic-tac-toe had been an exciting discovery at the time. You’d liked playing O’s. John liked X’s. Hangman was another. Always with a dull pencil, just in case. You’d be sniffling, hiccupping, leftover from the sobbing, when they’d sit you on the lab table and ask you to guess a letter. They weren’t the kinds of words children should have heard, but how could you have known? Psychopath. Indestructible. Malignant. You didn’t know the meanings or, for a long time, how to spell them, but you heard them a lot. They were household names. If they were feeling generous, kind, they might give you more chances: add a face, a hat, a bowtie. Through tears you’d laugh at the ridiculousness, pointing out that the hanged man could not possibly be as accessorized as they were making him to be. You never liked when the game was over. Win or lose, it always meant the same thing. One man, much older than everyone else, would lift you up and carry you back to your cell as if you were his own. You’d cling to him, his shirt, clutching tight with your chubby, dimpled hands, watching over his shoulder as someone else would discard the pieces of paper, throwing them away. You wanted to keep them, have them to laugh at the silly stick figure when it was dark and you were all alone, but you wouldn’t dare ask. If not the man, then a young woman who’d lead you back, hand in hand, full of promises you both knew she would not keep. Talk of real games, with boards and pieces and cards. But when the time came again, when you did as you were told, all you were allotted was a piece of paper and pencil. 

Her body was the first you recognized. Faceless yes, but you knew her as well as you knew yourself. Barbara. She was like a mother to you. Albeit, a terrible one. A cold, uncaring, aseptic woman who studied you, who created you, made you the person you are today. Wasn’t that all mothers? She’d hush your cries, ask why you were so upset. You didn’t have the words, the vocabulary, and so she’d grow tired. Bored. When you could articulate yourself better, then you would be worthy of her time. Truthfully, you weren’t all that sad she was dead. She must’ve known what was going on. She must’ve seen or heard something. At night, when they came into your room. When they made you promise to keep it secret. Couldn’t she tell? Couldn’t any of them? Armies of psychologists couldn’t get the truth out of you, not that they were trying to. Their alliances rest elsewhere. Fear of abandonment had been ingrained into you. You’d cry even harder, begging her not to leave, not to go. She’d pretend she had no other choice, that it was your fault. You were a crybaby. A sissy. An imbecile. If you could not pull yourself together and act like an adult, she would have no choice but to get up. Beneath the hurt was a fury, a burning, but they had you trained well. Instead you screamed, begged, throwing yourself to the floor, into walls, harming yourself for an ounce of her attention. Affection. Circles of red stained the walls where your head had been bashed. Your clothes ripped and torn. Your tantrums were spectacular. Fantastical. Eventually you’d grow tired, exhausted. Bloody, you’d sit very still and breathe and wait for her to come back. Then, and only then, would she grace you with her presence.

You hoped the bitch suffered. 

Marty rests limp, his face crushed in, a hole lasered through his groin. You knew the story, the nickname. He tried to get you to call John that peculiar name, too. Try to get you in on the joke. You never did. He had names for you, too. Just as vulgar and perverted. No one ever stopped him. No one ever said it was inappropriate. You guessed when you were being gutted, sliced from collarbones to pelvis, turned into a living autopsy, harassment wasn’t such a big deal. You stepped over his body without a second though. Footsteps to follow from his skull (what was left of it) to where John stood. This is very bad. You find your voice again, inspecting the lab around you. The cake sits melted in it’s pink box. The lights flicker. There is an unsettling silence. But I, I did it for you. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. His grin is hysterical. John, you start, but the rest of your sentence clatters to the floor. He watches you, desperate for your approval, your appreciation. They did terrible things to you. They let terrible things happen to you, unspeakable things. Why should you be upset? Why should you mourn them? Why should their gruesome deaths fill you with anything but satisfaction? They deserved it. They were asking for it. You slide away the mans large intestine, wiping the blood from your shoe.  Thank you, you say finally, placing your hands on his shoulders, squeezing them. He breathes out a sigh of relief. Thank you, it means a lot.

[fbfh]

please please please, i can NEVER find any good Magnus Chase smut, you’re the only ones who’s really even dabbled in it and it was amazing so please feed me in the world with little to no good Magnus chase smut 😭

as with ALL nsfw works all characters are aged up to 18+

OOOOOH BITCH YES. again I don't do a ton of Magnus cause I don't wanna mischaracterize him but yall are so sweet with your feedback so lemme throw this out there for your consideration. (also all feedback on characterization is welcome jus pls be specific lol)

Magnus fucks you like it feeds him. He fucks you like he's relieved and hungry and even though his fat cock is stuffed inside you hitting every spot that makes your head spin, it's like you're the one that fills him up. Magnus really wants to be the type of guy who holds onto you, who caresses your face and touches you all cute and soft and lovey dovey but GOD he devolves so quickly. He's gripping the sheets, he's shaking and grunting and panting, he's swearing up a storm that would make a sailor blush because you feel so goddamn good, you're so safe and soft and familiar. You feel like home. And tragically for your ability to walk the next day, he is fucking INSATIABLE. he's gonna be using his mouth and hands all over you until you practically have rug burn from his stubble tickling your thighs. hand cramps??? who's that???? this bitch will practically rewire his brain to stop sending cramp signals if it means he gets to touch you a little longer. once he's finally finally finally done (which again will take quite a WHILE) he flops on top of you completely spent. he lets out the biggest, rumbliest sigh and falls asleep on top of you like a bear in hibernation. Magnus is your personal weighted blanket, and will make you forget that sex toys even exist. Magnus fucks you so good, so much that you will literally forget how to get yourself off without him. it's a real problem when he's away killing monsters and saving the world and running from the cops, but he just finds it so fucking adorable. he sends kisses and promises to make it up to you as soon as he's back.

[richeeduvie]

If you could, maybe write… a tiny bit more for Streamer reader x Homelander….🧎‍♀️‍➡️ if possible… 🥀🥀

Okay. A tiny bit. Masterlist!

TW: Fatshaming (not reader) cause Homelander's an asshole.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

"...What are you watching?"

Homelander's head doesn't snap. He just...looks up. Turns stiffly, sternly, simply towards the sight of A-Train. All of his pathetic, nosy chub.

"Why is it any fucking business of yours?"

It comes out very quickly and really, really fucking harsh. He almost spat. Homelander doesn't feel regret. Of course fucking not, but he's surprised he got that defensive.

This is the first time he's ever watched you in public. He doesn't feel the need to admit that it's because he doesn't want anyone else watching you, maybe it's more of A-Train not minding his fucking business and knowing his place.

...He just can't help himself anymore. Is he in any position to blame you? No. You can't hear him. But it's your fault. You've got the stupid little face all up in his mind now. 24/7. It's very annoying, really. And you just keep giving. You keep streaming more and more, with less and less clothing like the slut you are, and it doesn't help that his boring girl is gone.

Like he can teach you a lesson just by watching you with criticism.

Eh, maybe you're not that much of a whore. Maybe you're just desperate for cash, and you know there are some sad, sad fucks who'd cut their dicks off if meant you popping a tit out through the grain of the screen.

That would be something, though. It's not Homelander's fault for imagining how they feel. Even when you weren't wearing whorish clothing, you were so nice to him when he was your only fan that he couldn't help but think of you belonging to him. You're not supposed to be as nice and boring as you are if you don't want to belong to him.

And you're especially not supposed to be streaming three to four times a week for the sake of losers who couldn't give you the world he could fucking give you. You don't even know it. You'd stop all of this stupid twitch influencer bullshit if you knew what he could give you.

Right?

"You know why, guys? I'm not feeling all too well, I think I'm gonna head out early. I'm really, really sorry."

"What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding? I thought--"

Homelander turns to A-Train, whose head snaps back to face the elevator door.

He sighs through his nose. He begins to type with force.

'I thought I had a few more hours to complain about your bullshit?'

Your coo shoots right down to his dick. Homelander closes his eyes. Fucking hell. This isn't fair! Nothing about you isn't fair.

"I'm sorry, John. I don't think you want me vomiting onscreen. Listen, I'll be back tomorrow."

"I'm busy tomorrow!"

"...You okay, Homela--"

"Shut up! If you want to lose that double chin of yours, you can do jaw exercises. You don't have to yap-yap...yap. Fuck."

"Come on, man--"

He types some more.

'I can't do tomorrow.'

He watches you blink at the chat, smiling growing thin.

"Well, I'm sure if you see too much of me, you'll get tired of my this old mug. I am sorry, I'll see all of you guys later. Byeeeeee!"

You waves. Homelander feels his eyes tense and get hot. Sore.

Like he's holding back fucking tears. Like he's a toddler who has to be away from Mommy for the first time. Like he's a pathetic little bitch.

No. No. It's not that. It's just that it isn't fair.

'Please?'

Homelander feels the tears drop under curved brows when you end the stream before you can see his message. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Why are you doing this to him?!

Why are you able to do this to him? Why has he stopped caring?

Homelander bites down on his gloved knuckle. A-Train leaves as quickly as he can when the elevator dings open.

[xieyaohuan]

55. “You’re a nerd.”

Deliberately not specifying who besides HL. Writer’s choice.

Thank you for the ask!

300+ words of early Maevlander:

Homelander can sense it before he can hear it: a faint chortling sound. His heart sinks when he realizes Maeve is struggling to suppress that smirk of hers she always gets on her face when he’s done something wrong — the one he’s come to hate with a passion because it's a near constant reminder of all the things she knows that he doesn’t.

“God, you’re a nerd!” She bursts out laughing.

“I’m not!” He protests instinctively. He isn’t even 100% sure what she means, but he knows being a nerd is not a good thing.

“Excuse me,” Maeve snortles, “but you just gave me a ten minute lecture about The Apotheosis of Washington. You are a nerd. Don’t deny it.”

Homelander feels his face grow hot and quickly turns away from her before Maeve notices anything. How stupid of him to think anything he tells her might actually impress Maeve. “Well, I’m sorry you’re not interested,” he says. It’s meant to sound blasé, but the words come out small and insecure.

“Hey. Hey.” Her hand feels soft on his shoulder, gentle. (Weak, he tries to tell himself.) “You know I like that about you, right?”

He tries not to listen to her heartbeat — he doesn’t need another slap in the face if she’s lying. But her heart is calm and steady, and the smirk has dropped from her face.

“Really?”

Maeve nods. “Yes, really. You’re different, but I kind of like that about you. It’s refreshing.” She wraps one arm around his back. “What do you say we fly to the Capitol right now, and you give me the full tour of the real thing?”

Homelander hesitates. There’s nothing he would love more, but he can’t be sure this is real. “We have a meeting with Madelyn in an hour,” he reminds her.

“Fuck Stillwell,” Maeve says, and for once, he doesn't need to sense her vitals to know that she means it. “We’ll be back by then, and if not, she can wait for us.”

[teastainedprose]

Homelander x fem!reader

Homelander cumming in a pair of readers panties and reader finding out and wearing them in public or to work around Homelander

No explicit sex, but- What if cum sock, but it's panties? I didn't proofread this. Undercooked smut, whore(affectionate) used.

Homelander is disgusting, is your first thought as you pick up a pair of your panties. They're crunchy. None of that discharge is yours. You make certain to wash that pair twice.

The second time it happens you're annoyed. Third time? You're resigned to your fate. Now? It's expected. It's not as if you can ask the fucking Homelander to stop fapping with your panties

Sometimes the panties are clearly coated in a suspicious glaze, others there's only the barest scent of him before you toss the panties into the laundry bin. Those you don't mind so much. For the most part, you're resigned to your fate. 

Homelander is a territorial creature. The man likes to mark you in any way he can. Sinking his teeth in a little too hard. Fingers digging in a little too tight. Practically rubbing himself against you as if to mark you with his scent and of course making certain your always stuffed full of his cum.

Thus it should be no surprise that the moment you walk into the penthouse that afternoon?

Homelander pounces you, strips you, and fucks you as if he hasn't seen you in weeks. It was four hours, jesusfuck you needy little- It's no surprise that even after your rough fucking? -because this round certainly was a rough fuck He still manages to find time to soil your panties. The ones you had carefully taken off and set aside before going at it like animals not even a full thirty minutes ago. The lacey number that matches your bra and won't show a pantyline in the dress you plan to wear tonight. Those panties.

The crime is committed while you were in the shower cleaning up, as there's a charity ball you two must make an appearance at tonight. The culprit has already fled the scene, of course. Bastard.

You pluck up your clearly wrung out panties, inspecting them. A visual once over reveals that at least your lovemaking had robbed Homelander the ability to truly mark up this pair. At worst, they reek of sex and him. Even your perfectly average nose can smell Homelander on the fabric. His super-abled nose would be able to smell it a mile away, you muse.

You pause, eyes on the panties as you turn over that fact in your mind. A low chuckle escapes you as you wriggle back into the panties. 

It doesn't take long to get dolled up for the event as you make yourself presentable post-shower. You're polished, clean, and looking flawless. You smile at your reflection in one of the many mirrors within Homelander's penthouse before making your way to the elevator.

As you enter the party, Homelander isn't hard to pick out. He's the one in the middle of it all with a flock of sycophants simpering about the supe's feet. They know by now to part in your wake, placid smiles in place that never reach their eyes. Yet, they bow and scrape to you as well. No one would dare give offense to you or get between the Homelander and his woman.

You glide into Homelander's open arms as he throws you a winning smile, finger crooked for you to come closer. You obey, sliding an arm behind his back as his cape flutters with the movement while he tugs you closer into his side. "Missed you," He breathes as he leans closer.

The moment Homelander registers what you've done is obvious to you. His pupils blow out and there's an imperceptible tightening about the give of your waist under his gloved fingertips. He inhales deeper, leaning in to ghost his lips over your forehead as he does so. To onlookers, Homelander is a chaste and affectionate boyfriend. Only you are close enough to hear the growl on his exhale.

You grin wickedly up to Homelander, mirth dancing in your eyes. "You just saw me, you know." You mutter as you tilt your chin up, regarding him. Idly, you start to trace patterns at the small of his back with fingertips. Given your cheeky mood, you slide your palm down and give his backside an affectionate squeeze under the cover of his cape.

Homelander has to bite his bottom lip, swallowing down an eager noise as he shoots you a dangerous look. The sort that says you're going to get it later. Your grin only grows wider, because the event has only started and you know Homelander can't escape yet.

There's a speech to give, investors to schmooze, and rich bastards to wring dry all in the name of charity. Homelander performs admirably, playing the perfect boy scout as with you draped on his arm. His hands never stray from your waist, endlessly chaste. You know it's because if he lets them roam further up or down, Homelander will lose control and then where would you be?

Well- 

Enjoying yourself for certain, but you've never been one for public sex.

The hours crawl on and you can see your choice to throw Homelander's mess back under his nose is an effective one. The small twitches, how he keeps inhaling deeply any time he leans close, how Homelander can't help but nuzzle into your neck every chance he gets with a storm cloud in his eyes.

This'll be a fun night.

The moment Homelander is let off the event's leash, he's all but dragging you to the elevator and mashing the button to the top floor. He doesn't even wait for the elevator's doors to fully shut before he's on you with a growl. Homelander is hiking up your dress in a flash to see what's underneath. His suspicions are confirmed. Those are the panties he used to work himself off one last time before heading down to the charity event.

"I knew it. You little whore," He chides affectionately as Homelander backs you up against the elevator wall. Those hands are ghosting around the edges of your panties before he unceremoniously yanks them down.

"It's your mess," You shoot back, smirking up at him.

"M'gonna make you such a mess," Homelander purrs back as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, deftly lifting you up with one hand while the other works at the bucket of his belt with practiced ease. You laugh gleefully because Homelander is always a man of his word when it comes to properly ruining you.