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charliemwrites · 9 months

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Part 2 of Neighbor!Johnny!

(Feeling a bit ✨naughty✨ this Christmas Eve so… here.)

After the fight with Ryan, you try to keep your distance from Johnny — keep the peace and all that. The more you think about the accusations your husband made… the more that guilty pit in your stomach grows.

It’s all been platonic, at least on your end. Sure, you let Johnny get away with a bit more than the average stranger, but he’s a good friend! Nothing you wouldn’t let one of your other friends do. (Even if you would find the lingering touches and general disregard for personal space a little strange from someone else.)

Sure, you have a suspicion every now and then that Johnny has more than platonic feelings for you… but they’re fleeting. Every time you worry that he’s about to cross a line, he always draws away from it. Evens out his smile, break his gaze, drops his hand. You’re close, that’s all.

But… if it’s bothering your husband. Well, you’re obligated to take that into account, aren’t you?

Even if you ache, missing your friend. Missing his silly little jokes, his cheeky grin. Miss his company while you do laundry, a helping hand in the yard, even just someone to chat with over podcasts and tv shows.

Hell, you miss hugs. Ryan’s never been big on… affection. Especially not in public.

(Barely in the house, either, really. You’ve tried talking to him about it. He swears he loves you, he just doesn’t show affection that way. You struggle to figure out why that’s so with you when he has no problem hugging his mother, sister, hell, even his secretary.

Actually… you struggle to figure out how he shows you affection. So you’ve stopped trying to figure it out at.)

But Johnny. Oh, Johnny is just so sweet to you. A hug when he greets you, a hug before he leaves. A kiss to your cheek when you hand him a drink or a snack. A hand on your hip when he leans past you to get things from high shelves. Nudges to your thighs during good parts of shows.

You miss it. Him. The friendship you’ve built in your too-quiet home, where the other neighbors seem to like your husband so much more than you.

“What’s goin’ on, hen?” Johnny asks one morning. You’ve been keeping coffee dates meetups on the porch. Which is almost worse, because it’s cold and you find yourself cuddling up to the heat he exudes like a furnace. “Hardly seen you in a month; miss my best girl.”

“Sorry, Johnny,” you sigh, rubbing at your face. Ryan’s been working late most days this week, comes in so late and wakes you up. “Just… Ryan, ya know.”

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing dangerously. You’re reminded suddenly, inexplicably, of just what Johnny does for a living. How often you’ve seen him just back home with blood still buried in his nail beds.

“Dinnae, hen,” he replies. “What about ‘im?”

You fidget, eyes on your half-empty mug. It feels wrong, admitting relationship quibbles to someone outside of family. You used to have a policy that marriage matters should stay within the marriage. But… it’s hard when it feels like you’re the only one working on the marriage. It’s a lot of work to do alone.

“He just… he doesn’t think it’s proper,” you admit, “how… how often you’re over. How close we are.”

“That so?”

You hunch your shoulders, feeling wrong. Feeling guilty for a whole new reason; for disappointing Johnny.

“Look at me, bonnie?”

He has to tip your chin up with his hand to get you to meet his eyes. His expression is softer than you expect.

“What about you, eh?”

“Me…?” You blink, peering up at him through your lashes.

“Yer feelings are all I care about, hen.”

“Johnny,” you sigh, trying to reprimand, but sound more pleading instead. He shakes your head a bit, gently; his own reprimand.

“Answer me, bonnie.”

“I like spending time with you,” you whisper.

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he hums.

“‘Course ye do,” he hums, “‘n I like spendin’ time with you. It’s not fair of ‘im, is it?”

You blink, brows pulling together in confusion. Johnny continues, the thumb on your chin gently stroking.

“Not fair of ‘im to keep you all cooped up here, come home so late, neglect ye when he is around,” he coos. “And now he’s tellin’ you to keep away from your best friend.”

He tsks, that dangerous glint in his eyes again.

“Wastin’ his tongue for bullshite when he should be usin’ it to lick your pretty pussy.”

Your mouth drops open, shock and heat flooding you hotly. “Johnny!” You gasp, scandalized.

He finally cracks a grin again. “Tell me I’m wrong, bonnie, ‘m not! When’s the last time he worked you over the way you deserve, huh? When’s the last time he made you squirt all over your sheets?”

You shove at him and then cover your burning face, trying not to squirm. Can’t answer because it would be proving him right and you don’t want to encourage his scandalous teasing.

“Bet he’d try to make you change ‘em even if he did,” Johnny grumbles, shaking his head. “Disgraceful. You ought to be put to sleep on a nice, thick cock.”

Whack!

“Oi! What was that fer?!”

“You’re being a creep, Johnny!” Your stern tone in undercut by your embarrassed laughter. “Quit talking about my shitty sex life.”

“So it is shitty!”

“Shut up!”

When a discreet box shows up at your door two days later, you know exactly who it’s from.

…that doesn’t stop you from using the (shockingly detailed and realistic) dildo inside the packaging.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #neighbor johnny #merry Xmas you filthy animals #more like xxxmas #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish

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amostimprobabledream · 9 months

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Ignite Me - (Homelander x Reader) Part Nine

Merry Xmas, ya filthy animals! Also available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42771771/chapters/107448564

“This has to be a secret.”

You said to Homelander, when he finally let you go and you can breathe properly once again. You felt dizzy and not just because you were standing on top of a skyscraper. Your mouth burned from his lips on yours, like you’d been kissing a hot lamp.

“A secret?” he’d scoffed, with that imperious tilt of his head you’ve become very well acquainted with. “Why? Ashamed of me?”

“No, it’s not-“ you began, flustered, feeling a heat prickling across you, your armpits slightly damp from where you’d been sweating when Homelander first grabbed you and took off into the skies. You’re not even sure what building you’re on or how far away from home you were.

Homelander pointed a finger at you, practically wagging it in your face, and if you couldn’t detect the rising annoyance, it would almost be amusing, how expressive he was with his hands.

“Because y’know, missy, this pussying out of everything before you even get started is starting to get fucking old.” Homelander continued, his eyes boring into you like he could see right into your soul and found it lacking. “You’d think you wouldn’t just keep throwing away every chance handed to you. Do you have any idea-?“

"Will you let me speak?" you snapped at him, pulling yourself back out of his range and he allowed it, though perhaps he was simply too surprised to act immediately.

He glared at you, his lips pursing and for a second your heart seemed to pause, like it tripped for a second, but you didn't back down and something in his expression relaxed marginally. You sighed and hugged your body in a self-soothing gesture, taking a moment to construct what you want – need – to say.

"It was too much. Too fast. I was just thrown into the deep end, and I didn't know how to handle it. Being around you is like...it's like a rocket taking off and I can't do anything to stop it or control it. You've been working for Vought for years; you know how all of it works and you're told how things will go and probably get to rehearse. You know what to say and how to say it. I don't. All of this is new to me and it's not...it's not easy. I'm not saying it is for you, but at least you know what you're doing. You know the risks and you know how to handle them. So, if this is what you really want, then...we need to take things slowly."

Now Homelander frowned slightly, like that wasn't what he was expecting you to say at all.

"Go on." he said.

"I was thinking about what you said. Before." you want to say, 'when you showed me who you really are', but you had to keep it vague. "About what it's really like working for Vought. About how you have to go out and do those bullshit interviews, talk about things you can barely remember...and I was thinking about how exhausting all that sounds. How it changed things. Wasn't it better between us when Vought didn't get involved? When it didn't feel like you just wanted to keep your ratings high and you didn't think I wanted a paycheck?"

Homelander cocked his head and you could see him taking in your words, weighing them and sifting out what deeper meanings might lay behind them. It seemed he determined that there weren't any lies in what you're saying because he looked back at you, and he wasn’t pursing his lips anymore, which was a good sign. You're starting to get good at figuring out what his subtle facial expressions meant.

You risked it and placed a hand on his arm.

"Wouldn't it be nice if you had something that wasn't Vought's as well?"

Something in his gaze changed when you said that. He stared at you with almost a note of astonishment, before those piercing blue eyes softened marginally. He reached out, fingertips touching your cheek.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

Fast forward to now, and somehow, Homelander has agreed to coming here. For a date. With you.

Sometimes you're not sure you actually survived that shooting - you're convinced you're in some fucked up purgatory. Or maybe a coma dream. It would explain an awful lot of the sight of Homelander was the last thing you saw and imprinted on your mind somehow. No - this is a date with The Homelander. You need something stronger.

You go grab the bottle of tequila that's wedged between the fridge and microwave. Getting the lid off is tricky, it's sticky thanks to pouring it before when you were already drunk and your palm chafes against the plastic, but you manage. You don't have any limes, so you just throw it back straight, gagging. It burns your throat and threatens to come back up, so you chug some coke as well to balance out the taste. The bubbles fizzed down your throat, refreshingly cool.

Shit.

“What the fuck am I doing?” you ask your reflection. She doesn’t answer you and you sigh and stuff the tequila bottle away where you got it, lest you accidentally drink all that’s left in it.

The thud is unmistakable and you have to ready yourself before you turn around.

Homelander is standing there, cape billowing in the wind, holding something in one fist - an enormous bouquet of white roses. You couldn't be more surprised if he'd turned up holding a tiger shark.

He...brought you flowers?

You hurry over to the door and open it up – you haven’t gotten around to asking anybody to fix the lock yet, since you suspect that it would just get broken again.

“Hey there,” Homelander says brightly, handing over the bouquet, the wrapping paper crinkling. The scent of roses is almost overpowering, and you lean in to smell them – they’re so fresh it’s like they’ve been cut from a garden and brought right here.

"Hi, wow." you say, stunned – they’re enormous, probably about fifty bucks’ worth of roses. Or more, depending on where he got them from. "These are beautiful, thank you."

He looks pleased with himself, and steps over the threshold, hands behind his back.

“Come in, I’ll just put these in water.” You say, as you carry the roses over to the kitchen.

You don’t have any fancy vases, but you do find a suitably large glass that should fit them all in. You sprinkle a pinch of sugar into the water before you plop the roses in, shifting them about so all of the heads have their own space. Something about them immediately brightens up the room, the petals so white they remind you of snow.

"Why the sugar?" Homelander's voice comes from behind you, and you try not to jump.

"It helps them last longer." you explain, turning around to see his eyebrow quirk up.

"Huh. Well, aren't you just full of surprises?” he said.

“So are you.” You reply, with a little smile. “I didn’t think you were a flowers and chocolates kind of guy.”

“Well, it’s what you do on a date, isn’t it?” Homelander says with one of those megawatt TV smiles he sometimes does, and your eyes stray to his pointed incisors. He sweeps his gaze around the living room – you’d tried to tidy it up before he came, thinking that it’s probably a little annoying for someone with such heightened senses to be in messy spaces.

"No Vince today?" Homelander says, and it's amazing how much scorn he can pack into a single syllable word.

"Don't worry, he won't be back until tomorrow. I told him to fuck off, and off he fucked." you say casually, with a smile. "He's nice and low maintenance like that."

Vince had acquiesced to your instruction with total laissez faire, like his roomie having a date with the World's Greatest Superhero was just another Tuesday. Before he left, though, he'd helpfully informed you he'd rolled a couple of joints, and that they were in a box under his bed should you fancy indulging for some reason.

Honestly, you were tempted.

“So! I thought we could watch a movie.” You say brightly, keen not to linger on your roommate. You know Homelander doesn’t approve of you sharing a space with Vince – not that it’s any of his business – and though you’ve assured him nothing has or will ever happen with him, you don’t want to start the evening off on the wrong foot.

Homelander opens his mouth, closes it again, and then stares at you.

“What…here?” he says, gesturing around your apartment in apparent disbelief. You can’t help smirking a bit at his reaction. He can be such a snob, but you wouldn’t expect anything less from anybody who works for Vought.

“I know it’s no multiplex, state-of-the-art set up, but if we go out anywhere, we’ll get followed around by people with cameras.” You point out, adding quickly before he decides to point out that he can fly away from any paparazzi; “I bought snacks for the occasion and everything!”

He looks a little confused, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, almost despite himself.

“Snacks, huh?” he says and a knot in your stomach eases – you can tell by his tone he’s decided to humour you. “Well, can’t let those go to waste, now can we?”

“Exactly.” You say, then pause. “You don’t drink, right? What do you want to go with the popcorn?”

“Milk.” Homelander responds promptly, hands behind his back. “Please.”

You’re baffled but you’re not going to question his choice – if he wants milk, you don’t see why you shouldn’t give him some. And he did say please. You just hope he isn’t picky about what kind because you only have semi-skimmed. You take out a bag of popcorn and stick it in the microwave. You can feel him watching you and it makes you self-conscious, like you’re acting in a play for an audience of one.

“Why don’t you sit down and find something for us to watch?” you say, careful to phrase it so it isn’t an order. “I’ll just be a second.”

He eyes the carton of milk in your hand, but he nods agreeably enough and approaches the sofa, and you notice he twirls his cape up and out of the way before he sits down and you get a glimpse of his firm, toned ass as he does it. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling and pour the drinks, deciding not to pour yourself anything alcoholic, in the interest in trying to keep things running as smoothly as possible without having Homelander complaining about being able to smell it on your breath.

“Christ, how can you watch anything with a TV this small?” Homelander comments, though his tone is teasing rather than annoyed.

“It’s not small!” you protest, laughing a bit despite yourself. He’s so ridiculous sometimes. “It’s perfectly normal-sized, thank you. Anyway, there’s no way I’m buying a bigger one and trying to carry up all the stairs.”

The lift in your place does work, but it’s sometimes a little temperamental and you don’t really have the money to just go throwing around at a new TV whenever you want. You approach Homelander where he’s sprawled on the sofa, carrying the drinks in your hands and popcorn wedged in the crook of your elbow, when you spot what he has queued up on the TV.

“No, absolutely not, we’re not watching one of the Seven movies.” You roll your eyes - of course he was going to put something on starring himself.

“And why not?” Homelander protests, shooting you a raised eyebrow. “I do all my own stunts, you know. You think fucking Arnold Schwarzenegger or Bruce Willis can actually lift a truck over his head? Fuck no. I can.”

“Yes, but it kind of defeats the purpose of enjoying a movie if you’re going to sit there thinking about how you look onscreen and talking about what happened on set.” You point out, setting the drinks on the coffee table, along with a bowl of popcorn. “This is meant to be relaxing.”

You were going to sit down next to him, but apparently, Homelander had other ideas. No sooner had you gotten in range of him, he moved, so suddenly you didn't even have time to respond, and his hands fastened around your hips as he drew you down as nonchalantly as you'd pick up a cat. Next thing you know, you're perched on his lap, a startled look painted across your face.

Oh, okay.

"So, what were you thinking, since you've vetoed my suggestion?" Homelander says, flattening his palm on your breastbone and easing you back so you're no longer perched stiffly on his knee but instead you're now fully seated on his lap. It takes you a second to respond, too busy reeling over the fact that Homelander just casually pulled you onto his lap like it's no big deal and you just use the face of America as a chair all the damn time.

"Uh, maybe a... drama? Or a comedy, maybe?" you suggest, stumbling over your words, since he probably would find action movies boring - what can possibly happen in an action movie he doesn't do on a daily basis? "You pick one."

You hand him the remote and Homelander hums, beginning to flick through the menu - he seems less put out about watching one of the Seven movies shot down now that you've given him control over the final pick. To be honest, suddenly it doesn't seem that important - you hate yourself for thinking this and being such a slave to a little bit of physical contact, but it's the comfiest lap you've ever sat on. The padding of his suit means his thighs are nice and plush, but you can feel muscle underneath it too. And he smells nice – he probably has some specially-made cologne that normal plebians can’t buy. Plus, he's pleasantly warm and-

Oh god.

Yep. So that's...Homelander's dick. you think, stunned, as something nudges insistently against your ass. You're glad you're facing away from him, because you know you're blushing, and you know he knows you can feel it. Feel him. Fuck, he can probably hear your heartbeat increasing light the frightened thumping of a rabbit's, but you’d argue that it’s not really your fault because jesus christ, he's big. It's been a while since you've had a fuck, you can only imagine how much stretching-

Whoa there friend, you might need to slow down! You think, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, the little pinprick of pain to try and stabilise you and your wandering thoughts.

“Hm…are you wearing perfume?” you hear Homelander say, his voice becoming a velvety drawl, no doubt taking immense enjoyment at getting you flustered so easily.

His breath fans across your neck as he moves a little closer. His nose gently butts against the back of your head as he breaths in and a shiver crawls down the length of your spine. Somehow it feels wildly erotic to have him scenting your perfume, appreciating the way it smells as it lingers on your skin.

“Just a little bit.” you reply in an unfortunately breathy voice.

Actually, this is one of your favourite perfumes – you always think of sitting in a fancy French café with little cakes whenever you wear it, and your friends always ask you where you got it from. Homelander liking it too makes you feel light-headed, but in a good way. You’re stupidly pleased he likes your choice – that he approves of it.

“Smells good.” He all but purrs and oh, that’s not fair…

“Thank you.” You say, shivering as his teeth gently graze your neck.

It's not the first time he’s kissed you, but this is different. It’s not a frantic moment fuelled by panic in an emergency, it’s not a desperate kiss made in an attempt to communicate something words can’t say. No, this time, he’s doing it simply because he feels like it. His mouth is hot, and you can’t stop thinking about how those sharp canines of his are so close to you, he could break the skin with all the effort normal people use to tear paper. Yet he’s pressing hot, lazy kisses to your neck instead. You shift on his lap, the movie becoming nonsensical babbling in the background.

He doesn’t leave his hands idle, either. He can tell you’re enjoying the kissing, so he thinks nothing about sliding a hand around to your chest and taking a handful of your breasts. You gasp a bit with how nonchalantly he does it, but it’s hard to start any belated protesting now when it feels so good – even with the gloves on it feels nice, the friction of fabric sending glorious tingles rocketing across your skin. He slides his fingers between the cups of your bra to play with your nipple, rolling it between thumb and index finger. You let out a hiss of pleasure, the sensation of it blooming through your chest. Clearly, he’s no novice when it comes to some titty-fondling.

“Fuck…” you say in a whisper, but he can hear you just as well as if you were yelling it.

His fingers cup your jaw and gently, so gently – he turns your head so he can get at your mouth as well. The burning blue of his eyes is so fucking intense that it’s a relief to close your eyes and melt into the touch. When he’s like this, it’s easy to forget what he can really do, that he isn’t just a guy you’re kissing but a Supe. The Supe. The Strongest Man in the World. That he wants this, with you, is intoxicating. Like a potent shot of validation and lust straight to the vein.

His hand pops the fly on your jeans with no effort and the next moment his hand is creeping over your groin, index finger teasing at the entrance of your cunt. A breathy sigh leaves your mouth and suddenly you can't even absorb a single word of the movie.

"Homelander-"

"Mmhmm?" he hums, just the hint of a gravel in his voice, and he tilts his hips a bit, so his crotch rubs against your ass as the pad of his finger slides up and nudges against your clit. You'd think that the thickness of the gloves would be a hindrance in him even finding it, let alone it feeling any good when he- when he-

Oh, fuck.

His finger sinks deeper into you, and you can’t help it when you mewl in pleasure. Shit, this not what you had planned for tonight, there are still so many factors outside of your control to consider, but logic and reasoning have clearly left the building. Your stupid, primal brain likes the sensation and has no intention of letting you put the brakes on. You want this so much you feel like you’re burning up from the inside with it. You’ve wanted it for a long time, you think – you just didn’t want to let yourself give in to it.

"I think," Homelander mutters in your ear and you can feel the heat of his breath, the rumble in his throat hitting some primal part of your brain that makes you shiver. "We should take this to your room. Don't you?"

#The Boys (2019)#Homelander #Homelander x Reader #The Boys (2019) x Reader #fanfiction #Writings

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