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hom3landr · 3 days

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter four )

18+ 5.2k homelander x plus size f!reader. office romance, stalking, voyeurism, office sex, cunnilingus, cream pie, breast play, flight sex, lite overstim, riding. nebulously takes place post s1. part 4/4. AO3 link. CH I CH 2 CH 3

Homelander takes what's his, and you get what's yours.

welcome to the final chapter! thanks so much for reading. i really enjoyed the dynamic between these two, and i hope you do, too. 🖤

Homelander doesn’t hold it against you that you take him up on his suggestion to be absent the following day. He leaves a little peace offering in your office to say as much: a mug for your collection that reads simply, You’ve Been Mugged. He adjusts it seven times on your desk before he finally leaves it alone, surveying your office a while before letting himself out.

The thugs he lasered down in the alley don’t garner much attention, but it’s enough to warrant a statement on the truth of what happened. With them dead, the truth becomes whatever he makes of it, and his truth is that two vagabonds were assaulting a cherished Vought employee before he put a stop to it.

It’s precisely the kind of hero story the public loves.

“I acted on instinct,” he tells the newscaster. He relives the moment as he tells it, recalls only to himself how fierce you had been. How determined you were that if you were going to die, you would die fighting. “They were going to hurt her. I like to believe any good citizen in my position would have done the same.”

Madelyn taught him that conviction without contrition would always read as arrogance, so he speaks firmly but with a furrow to his brow, and he closes his eyes when he inclines his head to accept praise. No matter how dead she is, her voice remains an echo in his mind: follow the script, and you’ll be fine.

They use his words to segue into a discussion of gun control, and Homelander’s mind drifts somewhere distant, hearing without listening to the petty squabbles of humans crying about their little toys and laws. He supposes this is how God feels when humans pray to Him over every minor inconvenience. Bored and painfully above it.

While it’s easy enough to keep himself distracted during business hours, Homelander’s life comes to an abrupt halt alongside the end of the working day. Like the equipment that broadcasts him, there’s little use for him once the cast and crew goes home. All around him the employees commiserate at the end of their work day and pass around invitations to the bar.

He receives none.

Not that he would accept them if he did.

Seeking both council and companionship, Homelander finds himself in Noir’s apartment, seated in the chair Noir keeps for him. It’s the only one the hero owns, what with his interior design being deeply steeped in westernized ninja nonsense. The place is half dojo, half living quarters.

He laments his situation to Noir, explaining his patience in courting you, the lengths he’s gone to endear himself to you on a personal level, and the bitter sting of your rejection.

“See her,” Noir writes in his sketchpad, sitting on the floor on the other side of the low table. “If glad to see her, good. If not–”

Homelander snorts at the series of knife sketches that follow. He has no doubt Noir would put an end to anyone for any reason Homelander gave. Simplicity has allowed Noir an unwavering loyalty to Vought, and as an extension, Homelander himself. Luckily for you, he has no interest in that happening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Noir,” he muses, clapping his hands on his thighs before he stands up. “You’re right. I’ll go see her. Thanks, buddy.”

Noir offers two thumbs up. A true uproar of approval.

Under the cover of darkness, Homelander returns to your house, the flight path a familiar one now. He lands silently on your roof this time, cocking his head. He’s not confident he’ll be able to resist your siren pull if he approaches now. He folds his hands behind his back and peers through each layer between him and your bedroom, stopping when he can see you.

You’re nestled deep in the splay of your blankets, lips parted around shallow breaths. He bites his own bottom lip, remembering how badly he’d wanted to feel them. Taste them. He’s certain now that if he allowed himself to be close enough, he would. Denial, for as much as it stung in that moment, has only made him hungrier for you. Fuck, the way he’s craved you from the moment you first brushed him aside.

He watches you shift in your sleep and his eyes narrow, honing in on a familiar flash. His stomach flips–it’s his cape, the fabric pinned between your blanket and your body. You really are sleeping with it, the star spangled blue fabric tucked up under your chin. Do you smell him on it? Homelander groans softly. Like your underwear in his bedside drawer, you sleep with a trophy of your own.

“Fuck,” he says, aching. His heart, his mind, his cock–all of it at once a cacophony of vicious yearning and impatience. The urge to peel the roof like a sardine can and carve his way straight to you nearly knocks the wind out of him, has him preemptively reaching for the shingled surface.

Only the lingering wound to his ego gives him pause. He’s been bitten once, leaving him shy to instigate, but this revelation feels like progress. You’re aching for him as much as he is for you. He’s sure of that now. It’s time that he made you feel that ache. Feel his absence. Then you’ll realize the foolishness of your coy game.

Clenching his jaw defiantly, Homelander lifts up into the sky.

He’ll be benevolent when you come to your senses.

The next day, Homelander keeps himself scarce, preoccupied. Ashley is perkier than usual, thrilled–if not suspicious–with his easy participation in whatever inane business she brings to him. It helps distract him from the endless feeling of waiting that he’s enduring.

He sticks stubbornly to his schedule, fantasizing about the torment his avoidance has surely wrought. He’s tempted a time or two to break, but each time he remembers the mortified Oh! you uttered before he kissed you, he refocuses himself.

You’ll come.

Not before lunch, but that is the perfect opportunity for it. He makes himself more available then, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

No sign of you.

He gives you the benefit of the doubt. A meal to embolden you.

Then you’ll come.

He waits.

Lunch long since over.

He waits.

The day is winding down.

He’s fucking tired of waiting.

Where the hell are you? He’s given you the entirety of the day to seek him out, ample opportunity to come thank him for his gift, to address the aching thing ruminating between you. You’d be a fucking liar to say you don’t feel it, too. By midday, he’s seething with impatience and hurt. There’s no chance he’s going to let you stand him up.

It’s precisely the wrong time for Ashley to rear her head back up. “Okay! That’s that, now regarding the amnesty for–”

“Ashley!” He snaps, a harsh and throaty sound. “Would you shut the fuck up?”

She stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed. Of course it was too good to be true.

Homelander all but leaps to his feet, pushing out of his chair so hard that it flips backwards and into the wall in a heavy clatter. She clutches her vPad to her chest and quickly back steps out of his way, watching in frightened bewilderment as he storms from the room, making a beeline towards your office.

He doesn’t bother knocking this time. Still, his restraint is undeniable when he pushes your door open. He barely catches himself from pushing the damn thing clean off the hinges.

Your head snaps up from your computer, eyes wide. He hears your heart jump and he savors the alarm that shoots through you. Payback for the awful misery you forced him to endure in the hours since he last saw you. Still, the sight of you disarms him. For all his seething anger, there is something small in him that retreats it when your eyes are on him.

There’s a heaviness to your gaze that his strength can do nothing to alleviate. No incredible feat of his can wrench away what it is he wants from you. What he needs. It’s something you have to give him willingly, and that alone is enough to temper his rage. The familiar fear that you won’t.

He marches to the front of your desk and levels an accusatory finger on you.

“You like me,” he hisses, bending to brace his opposite hand on your desk.

You blink owlishly, lips parted. That clearly wasn’t what you expected him to say. He’s not sure it’s what he meant to say. “Homelander–”

“No,” he says, voice pitched low, a warning. “No, no. No games, no workarounds. You like me. You do. And I like you. So,” he abandons his point to make a vague encompassing gesture, but he doesn’t know what to say next. He didn’t think this far ahead. All day he had practiced the calm benevolence he would show when you approached him, chastised and yearning. He has nothing to back up this frenzied play for.

You stand. Homelander rises to his full height with you, jutting his chin out. He watches you with all the wariness of a wounded predator as you circle around your desk, your hand gliding along the wood like you would flank a horse so as not to spook it.

He can’t determine the intent behind your gaze. He angles his body towards you, facing you head on. You look like yourself again, in your element and free from the fawn fear of the alley. He can’t entirely decide which way he prefers you. When you were in his arms, he was your hero. In your office, his position feels more precarious.

The silence stretches on for hours–or seconds, it’s impossible to say–before he can no longer stand it. Sucking in a breath, he–

You kiss him.

Homelander goes shock still, hyper aware of your lips pressed feather light to his, your breasts against his chest, your hand on his forearm. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he senses when you begin to pull away.

In a flash he cups your face in his hands and pulls you in deep, inhaling sharply, like he’s only just remembered how to breathe. He kisses you, kisses you, kisses you as if he can trap you in the cycle of it. You don’t resist, you don’t tense. Instead, you sigh an angel’s breath against his lips. Only then does he break to look at you.

“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered, flushed.

“I do like you,” you say, eyes glassy.

His brows pinch. “But… That night–”

“Wasn’t right,” you interrupt. “I wanted to kiss you, but not like that. Not then. Not because you saved me, not because I was in shock, not because of…” you rock your head side to side. “Whatever other bullshit… You let me down that night.”

“Let you down?” Homelander echoes, taken aback. “By saving your life?” He asks, his temper a perpetual simmer ready to flare. He’s immediately tempered by your hands taking his wrists, squeezing. You hold his gaze and your expression is gentle, but there is a firmness in your stare that he finds intoxicating. Not an ounce of fear, even when his anger emerges.

Good. You shouldn’t be afraid of him. He saved you.

“I was shaken. Badly. My date was an entitled asshole, those men, they tried to…” You shake your head, holding his hands to your face. “I didn’t need you to be a man. I needed you to be a hero. I wasn’t ready.”

A light in Homelander’s eyes flicks on. You just weren’t ready. He’d been right after all. He fixates on that, choosing to forgive you for that, at least.

“Well, why didn’t… You could have said something,” he says, feeling like a deflated hot air balloon, all slack expansion and heat with no purpose.

“I would have,” you say, your cheeks soft and round in his hands, lips slightly puckered from his hold on your face. “But you ran away.”

“What? I–” He laughs incredulously. “I did not run away.”

“Flew away,” you say, pushing in to kiss him again. He screws his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck. Oh fuck. He’s been dreaming of this, aching for it. To feel you against him, wanting him as much as he wants you. “Pretty fast, too. Looked like you shot straight up to the moon,” you say, breath hot and sweet on his lips.

“I…” He swallows, hands slipping down to either side of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up. “I’m sorry. I wanted you,” he says, trailing his parted lips along your jaw, kissing and breathing you in the way he’s craved to. He can feel your skin growing hot against his lips, hear the uptick of your pulse as your heart begins to race.

“Do you still want me?” You ask, voice lower now. It sends a delicious hot pang all the way through him.

“You have no fucking idea,” he murmurs, nipping at the lobe of your ear, desperate to test the give of you under his teeth, the feel of your soft and yielding flesh branded into his memory the moment his lips touched your skin.

A knock snaps his attention away from you, but it isn’t at the door. He looks down and sees that it’s you knocking on your desk. “So take me,” you say, voice laced with heat. His lips split into a wicked grin. He snatches the edge of your heavy wooden desk and effortlessly tips it backwards until everything slides off of it, clattering to the floor. He lifts you up, relishing your delighted little yelp, and places you down on the cleared surface like a doll, stepping in between your legs.

He kisses you again. Let me in, demands the press of his tongue. You yield to him, but it’s far from a surrender. Your tongue meets his eagerly, tasting him as much as he does you. Tasting you. That’s what he wants. He wants to map every inch of you with his tongue.

Homelander slips his hand between your legs, pushing your skirt up out of the way. He presses his fingers to the heat between your thighs, rubbing through the thin fabric of your panties. You sigh that same seraphic sound against his lips, slipping your hands up into his hair, already taking a handful of it to tug gently.

He breaks the kiss and takes his fingers from you after the barest tease of pleasure. The impatient sound you make goes straight to his cock, as does your flustered expression. He brings his fingers to his lips and drags his tongue over the leather of them, sliding them past his lips to give a quick suck. It’s not enough, too slight a hint of you. He needs more. You watch him with rapt attention, giving his hair a demanding little tug.

“You can pull as hard as you like,” he tells you with a smile, tilting his head against the grasp you have on his hair. “Tells me I’m doing a good job.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re doing a good job,” you rasp, giving his hair a sharp pull and then a downward push. That sends a shiver down his spine.

Fuck yes.

Homelander sinks down onto his knees, lifting each of your legs up over his shoulders. You give a little gasp when he yanks your ass to the edge of the desk, giddy with the way he manhandles you. He swallows, mouth dry, thirsty for the wet, heady smell of your pussy. He maneuvers his head under your skirt until he’s close enough to drag his tongue up the soft cotton of your panties. Your breath hitches and your grip in his hair tightens while you egg him on with sharp little rolls of your hips.

He closes his eyes, giving a rumbling moan for the taste of you, even through the fabric. He laps until the fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, and he can feel your clit swollen and stiff on his tongue through your panties. He closes his mouth over it, sucking you through your underwear while you writhe above him, keeping yourself quiet.

That won’t do.

He wants to hear you.

He wants the whole fucking Tower to hear you.

Hooking the crotch of your panties with his finger, it only takes one sharp little tug to tear them, exposing you to him.

“Homelander,” you moan. The sound of it lances a spear of heat through him, leaves his cock throbbing needily in the rigid confines of his cup. He groans into you, rocking his hips against the empty air. The only proper answer is to dive in, to close his lips around your clit and finally suck the rich nectar of your cunt without the filter of fabric between you. You taste even better than you smell, like salt and sex and sweet ripe fruit. It overwhelms his senses immediately, his eyelids flickering.

The more he laps at you, the silkier your pussy becomes. Between circling your clit, he drives his tongue deep into you, drinking you down noisily and messily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. Your thick thighs are tight on either side of his head, your pulse pounding in his ears. He moans low and wicked for the taste and feel of you.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. “F-fuck, your tongue feels-feels fucking unreal,” you moan, grinding down against it. The strength of it, the slight thrum of restrained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina is driving you wild against his mouth. “Fingers, use your fingers,” you tell him. He loves the rawness of your voice, the authority and desperation in your demand.

Removing one of his gloves, he moves his bare hand to the sweltering wetness of you, teasing his finger just below where his tongue is rubbing your clit. His index finger slips easily into the slick mess, and he savors the quiver of your velvet walls around it. He lets you ride his finger, stays all but still while you greedily bounce your hips, both hands fisted in his hair. You use him for your pleasure, and it makes him delirious with want.

Homelander's gaze flickers up. He peers through the layer of your skirt to catch a look at you, to watch you while you cannot watch him. You’re losing track of yourself, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure, shivering with each flick of his tongue and dive of his finger. Euphoria looks good on you.

Christ, he has been patient. He would chastise himself for waiting so long to touch you, to taste you, to feel you, but he can’t bring himself to. The wait gifted him with this exquisite hunger, and he proved something important; you both yearn for the other. You crave him. He can see it in your hazy eyes, taste it in the spill of your sweet cunt.

You belong to him. He needs only to take you.

One finger becomes two, and then three. Your heels dig into his shoulders and fuck yourself down on them, moaning recklessly now, not caring who hears you. It’s music to his ears.

“Fuck, Homelander, I-I’m coming, I’m-don’t stop, don’t stop,” you beg prettily. You don’t need to, but he enjoys the song anyway. He laps at your clit in quick upward pulls of his tongue, lips creating a seal around it. His brows furrow tightly, his own neglected arousal pounding through his body like a wardrum, but he doesn’t touch himself, too focused on you.

Your whole body locks up tight when you come, breath caught in your lungs, your clit fluttering delicately. He presses his tongue to it, savoring the taste of your euphoria, how it floods your system and changes the flavor of you. Your pleasure grows his hunger into something monstrous, something demanding, but there is satiation at least in bringing you this, in showing you all the things he will be for you.

You’ll never want for anyone–or anything– else ever again.

Homelander doesn’t stop. You begged him not to. He finger-fucks you through the aftershocks, lapping up every drop of your pleasure, stroking you inside and out while your cunt squeezes his fingers. He doesn’t stop until he feels you pushing him away, your sweet songbird moans sounding more like whimpers, oversensitized. He withdraws his fingers, giving one last noisy slurp before emerging from beneath your skirt. His face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown black. He's panting, looking every bit like a beast lifting its bloodied head from the belly of its kill.

Crawling up your body, still predator hungry, he rests his knee on the desk between your legs. He cups either side of your face, fingertips digging possessively into the back of your neck. He meets your eyes, pinning you with the intensity of his gaze, wordlessly drilling into your mind that this moment, this feeling, this tingling warmth in your body is him.

I did this to you, his expression reads. You’re on my lips, he says by pressing them to yours, kissing your own taste into your mouth, his body throbbing, desperate for an ounce of that same relief. You’re mine.

To his amazement, your eyes mirror his own savage hunger. You kiss him hard, shamelessly licking into his mouth, huffing shallow breaths from your nose. “Lie down,” you tell him, voice as sweet and coarse as raw sugar. “I’m going to ride you.”

Homelander doesn’t need to be told twice. Exhilarated, he rolls over, flipping you with him and steadying you above him in a fluid motion. The desk isn’t as long as he is tall, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already half suspended in the air with his own excitement, helping you with overly eager hands that fumble alongside yours with his belt, which falls to the ground with a distinct thud. He gives a little jump at the voracity you rip his zipper down with, grinning.

Together, you shuck his pants down to his thighs. You grip him through his red briefs, a fractured moan falling from his lips.

“Cute underwear,” you coo. His cheeks flush to almost the same shade. You flatten your palm over his cock and he bites back a whimper, teeth sinking into his tongue. You give a light squeeze, fingers curling around his cock through the fabric, and he lets out a rough breath. “You feel close,” you tell him, stroking him in a loose fist, your hand warm, the fabric soft.

He nods fervently, the friction and your voice already teetering him towards the edge. He makes a sound of both anguish and relief when you release him, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. You tug his underwear down, his cock bouncing free, engorged and dripping precome.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, bracing one hand on his chest and sliding forward, your other hand moving between your bodies to steady his cock against the rapturously hot press of your soaked cunt. His hands fly to your hips, fingertips biting into the softness of your body. You allow him that, focused entirely on the act of taking him into you. The fat head of his cock it slips inside, evoking a sweet little gasp from you, and Homelander fights not to slam in the rest of the way.

Both of your hands fall to his chest, your eyes meeting his. He holds your gaze, mouth twitching around silent sharp breaths. He watches you sink slowly down the length of him, engulfing him in such sublime rapture it’s a wonder he doesn’t come right then and there for the feel of you alone. His grip on your hips flexes and he gives a sharp little thrust up, forgetting himself to the divine feel of your pussy.

“I said don’t move,” you remind him breathlessly. God, you’re beautiful like this. The fluorescent light behind your head haloes you, giving you the look of a debauched angel he plucked from the heavens to have and keep as his own. He expects you to move, to bounce yourself on his cock like you did his mouth and his fingers. He wants to watch your tits bounce, see your face clearly when you come on his cock, but the only part of you that moves is your hand.

His gaze drops and quickly darkens, watching intently as you stroke your clit. The initial contact alone makes you jerk, makes your pussy spasm and squeeze him so good he almost chokes on it. Your only response is to sigh, tipping your head back and spreading your legs a little wider, taking him deeper. He wants so badly to fuck you, to slam you down and rail you until your desk cracks in half.

“Mmmm, fuck,” you moan, rubbing yourself in circles, the lewd noise of it loud and irresistible to his ears. “Fuck, fuck–ah, god,” you start to pant, head falling forward, brows tightly pinched. You’re so sensitive after the assault of his mouth, the flavor of you still fresh on his tongue. The faster your fingers move, the closer he feels you get, the clench around his cock steadily tightening. He wants to thrash, but you keep him pinned in place with your look of expectation and pleasure. You’re getting off on him as much as you are your own fingers, on the swell and throb of his cock inside you, on the sheer power you hold over a god.

You’re loud when you come, nails clawing into the chest of his suit. Homelander’s eyes roll back, lips parted on a soundless cry of his own. The spasming heat of your release is too much and he loses himself to it, eyes flaring up with crimson light as he comes with you, every shudder of your climax stroking and milking him of his own, flooding you with his own wet mess.

His restraint breaks with the dam and he sits up abruptly, startling a noise from you, which he swallows with a hard kiss, cupping the back of your head. He holds you still and he fucks you, lifting from the desk entirely so that he alone supports your weight, driving you deeper onto his cock. Your legs tighten on either side of him, shaking.

Out of his mind with pleasure, he tears your blouse open with his teeth, diving in close to lick, suck and bite at your chest. He buries his face between your breasts, holding you tightly as he fucks you both through your respective orgasms, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing obscenely in your office.

Hitching your legs properly around his waist, he bounces you on his cock until the pleasure borders on pain and a secondary shock rolls through him like another orgasm, stealing his breath. Only then does he finally slow, mouthing languidly at your chest until he sucks your nipple into his mouth. He moans against you, grinding to an eventual halt. You comb your fingers through his hair and goosebumps erupt across his body, which shivers in the euphoric aftermath.

He loses track of how long he stays suspended like that, lost to the overwhelm of sensation. Your legs go slack while his angles slightly upward, his face pressed to your chest, your head resting atop his. He nuzzles at you, bleary eyed and slack with pleasure. He kisses a trail up to your clavicle, your throat, your jaw, smiling in the loose, easy way that only a good fuck can never make him.

“Wow,” he says after a while, voice thoroughly frayed.

You giggle, groggily lifting your head. He adjusts until you can relax against his chest, fold your forearms across it and settling your chin atop them, admiring him. He touches your face with his ungloved hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb, then the curve of your bottom lip. His smile widens when you kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Wow indeed,” you say, swinging your legs lightly. “Can’t say I’ve ever been fucked mid-air.”

“One of the many benefits of dating me,” he purrs, caressing your cheek with his knuckles. He kisses you again, drifting slowly back down, unhurried.

Your brows lift lazily. “Who says we’re dating?” You ask, but your smile keeps his hackles from rising.

“Me,” he says, eyes crinkled at the corners. He lands gently on the desk, helping you to it. “You and I are officially going steady.”

You give a thoughtful hum, carefully untangling your limbs from his. You slide off of the desk while he puts himself back together, your knees trembling faintly. “Fairly sure asking someone out requires a question mark. You know. The asking part. You didn’t even buy me dinner.” You attempt to button up your shirt, but it’s obviously a lost cause.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pulling you back into his arms. “Well, I certainly ate.”

“God,” you laugh, rolling your eyes, but they don’t stray from him for long. There’s a sparkle to your gaze that he wants to capture in his palm and never set loose.

“Will you go out with me?” He asks, lips brushing yours.

“Mmmmmmmm….” You hum once more, drawing it out, feigning a great deliberation. “There’s something you should know first.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

“My guilty pleasure,” you say, nose bumping his.

Intrigued, he inclines his head to prompt you to continue. Can’t be worse than mine.

“Superheroes,” you say conspiratorially. “Can’t get enough of them. Loved them my whole life. Especially this one in particular…”

He breaks into a frayed, charmed laugh. “Let me guess, name starts with an H?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, lips curved downward in a mock grimace, and nod subtly. “ Total fangirl. Embarrassing, right?”

Homelander shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt guilty about pleasure. Where’s the harm in it?”

The harm inflicted on those thugs couldn’t count. They had it coming.

“Harm to my pride, my ego, my reputation,” you list, tapping his suit to punctuate each one. “I made a pretty big fuss about not liking you. I had myself convinced that my Homelander only existed in my fantasies, and you were just the guy who plays him.”

My Homelander. The words stir an unexpectedly sentimental surge of emotion that wells up from somewhere deep in his chest. He clears his throat lightly. “What’s the verdict now?”

You sweep him with an appraising gaze. “Still deliberating.”

He clicks his tongue, nodding. “I don’t suppose I could arrange a meeting with the jury?”

“They’re available for dinner tomorrow,” you say, the tilt of your lips sly.

“It’s a date,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. You kiss him, pressing your smile to his. He doubts he’ll ever tire of the softness of your lips, or the easy way you melt against him. He wraps his arms around you, content to let this moment pass only because he knows there will be more to come. He’s determined to make every one of them better than the last.

All of the pleasure, none of the guilt.

#SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP #AHHHHHHH #You’ve been mugged #got me pretty good I must say #AND THE SMUT HOLY SHIT #THE FLIGHT SEX AHHHHHHH

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hom3landr · 4 days

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Is he a scary man covered in blood? Or is he my baby girl? Spot the difference

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hom3landr · 4 days

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🌺 send this to ten blogs you think are wonderful 🌺

AHHHHHHHHH THANK YOU 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Back at you 100000000000%

#I am giving you the hugest tightest hug ever rn

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hom3landr · 5 days

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Caught (Homelander x OC Smut)

18+ | 4k words | masturbation, underwear sniffing, getting caught, mirrorlander, mirrorlander vs homelander, slight dubcon, dirty talk, fingering, pussy eating, p in v sex, premature ejaculation, spidersona oc | Fic Directory

He takes a deep breath, holds it, savors it, then releases it slowly.

Delicious.

He’s been snooping again. Well, it’s not like he ever stopped and, really, it’s not like he could even if he wanted to– which he doesn’t. Benjamin’s room is rife with all sorts of little odds and ends that help satiate that desire to know more about the web-head. Papers, books, trinkets, hobbies, clothes…

Especially the clothes.

He’s been in here before with Benjamin. Had to act like he didn’t already know the layout so intimately. Like he hasn’t been breaking in regularly and browsing to his heart’s content. Like he hasn’t been doing this.

He takes another deep breath.

Like he hasn’t been huffing Benjamin’s dirty laundry.

He holds it tight, letting his eyes flutter shut.

But not just any dirty laundry. Clenched in his bare fist is a pair of black boxer briefs, wrinkled from sitting in the hamper. He presses the crotch of them to his nose and inhales over and over again, memorizing the scent, the taste of his little spider.

He’s leaned back, half sat on the foot of the bed as he indulges with a hand around his weeping cock. He strokes himself slow, taking his time. He imagines what he’d do with his face buried in Ben’s cunt, imagines the taste, the scent, the heat. His tongue laves over the fabric and he moans brokenly.

Oh, he’s wanted this for some time now… Watching the bug, following him around. Basking in their shared moments. He imagines how easy it would be, too. Just one kiss, hot and needy, would convey all he needs. What would it be like to have Ben’s hand in place of his own? Those soft digits wrapped around his cock, pumping slowly and working him into deep breaths and needy moans– how would they feel? Ben would whisper in his ear, sing his praises, tell him how good he is. He fucking knows it. Johnny, he’d say, why don’t you let go for me?

Oh, and he would. He’d spill so quickly it’d be downright humiliating.

His mind clouds with so many fantasies that he can hardly pick one to be his undoing. Ben’s lips around his cock, his pussy stretched deep, fucked within an inch of his life. All the while, Homelander moans unabashedly into the fabric.

It’s so good, so fucking good–

“Johnny…”

That’s right, say my name! C’’mon, say it! Say my fucking name!

He starts to fuck carelessly into his grip, fist pressing the fabric harder against his face.

Oh fuck, fuck yeah– little whore, mine, all mine…

And it feels so good, he can’t–

“Johnny?”

A raspy hum rattles from his chest, pinching off in a tight little moan as he spills his load, fucking his fist with languid rolls of his hips.

“Mm, fuck, Ben… God…” He groans against the fabric. He stands there in perfect bliss, eyes shut, warm and relaxed as he comes down from his high. When he does finally open them again, he navigates the process of wiping his hand on his pants and getting himself zipped up. He’s still dazed but, when he glances back up, he’s shocked clear into coherency and halts putting himself back together entirely.

Wide eyes meet in stunned silence.

In the doorway stands Benjamin, jaw practically on the floor, gaze flitting from Homelander’s face to the underwear gripped tight in his left hand, then down to his cock. The bug’s face burns a deep crimson as he connects the dots, but his eyes continue darting up and down.

Homelander doesn’t know what to say, doesn't know what to do. He should’ve never let his guard down to indulge like this; he should’ve kept his eyes and ears open for Benjamin. He fucked up. He fucked up bad. He’s probably single handedly ruined his relationship with not only the best friend he’s ever had, but with the man he’s developed more than just simple lust for.

“I–” He tries, but his voice comes out strained. “Uhm…” He looks down, shame burning deep in his gut under Ben’s shocked gaze.

“Wow…” Is all Benjamin says in response. It scares Homelander to bits, not being able to read his tone.

And he just stands there, guilty as ever with those boxer briefs clutched in his grip, cock still hanging between his zipper.

“So, uh…” Ben starts again, shifting in place. “How long you been doing this?”

Homelander doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to answer. How does he salvage this, how does he fix it? He can’t just say this is the first time, that’d be too obvious–

“I–”

Fuck. Fuck. Now he has to say something, and quick.

Let me. Sings that devious voice in his head, all too eager to take the reins. Homelander, all too relieved to let go and escape the shame, relents immediately. The change happens in a flash.

“Benjamin,” he tuts with a cock of his head. “What kind of question is that, hm?”

The bug bristles at the change in his demeanor– probably that sixth sense of his tattling on the shift. From within the safe confines of his mind, Homelander practically begs: Please, please be gentle with him. He’s good to us, remember?

“Come here,” he demands, a finger pointed to his boot as if he meant to beckon a dog. He watches with a sick, satisfied grin as Ben comes forward timidly, lips parted, hand all but outstretched to show no ill intent.

The web-head has met this alter ego before. He knows exactly what this is.

He grips Benjamin by the wrist, tugging him damn near chest-to-chest.

“Attaboy,” he breathes directly into Ben’s ear. The way he squirms sends a delicious shiver right to his cock. “If you must know… I do it every… single… day.”

He can hear Ben gulp in response. He feels the heat of the bug’s body, feels how rigid he is. One overdramatic sniff of the air and he smirks down at the web-head.

“Smells like you’re cookin’ up my next pair, aren’t you? Getting ‘em good and wet for me…” His lips spread into the most devious smile possible, parting only to lick a stripe over Benjamin’s cheekbone. He doesn’t know what he loves more: the fact he doesn’t resist, or that Ben fucking reached out to grip his arm when he did it. That he needed to steady himself was a delicious thought.

John watches from behind his own eyes, mystified, but also saddened. It should be him in control, it should be him teasing his Benjamin like this.

“Answer me, bug boy.”

“I–” Ben starts, but his voice breaks from nervousness.

“I knew it.” Homelander teases, leaning in close to murmur in his ear. “Y’know, I’d love a fresh taste… And you’d love to give it to me, wouldn’t you?”

Ben gulps audibly, squeezing tighter around Homelander’s arm which, of course, makes that smile grow all the more devilish.

“Tell me right now you don’t want to lay back and let me eat your pussy until all you can possibly do is scream my name.” He murmurs, a hand coming up and tugging Ben’s head back to reveal his neck. Homelander peppers a kiss or two before scraping his teeth along the side he’s always imagined would be most sensitive.

His satisfaction at Benjamin’s weak gasp is unmeasurable. His cock twitches and he presses it against the bug’s hip. He could take this boy apart so easily…

“Imagine it… my tongue running between your pretty little pussy lips. You, writhing and moaning like a little whore for me. Creaming around my fingers because you just can’t help yourself…” Homelander chuckles darkly, rubbing his cock against Ben more brazenly now. “You taste sooo sweet on your clothes. C’mon, Benny… Give us a taste.”

He reaches down to grab himself and tucks his cock between Ben’s thighs. With slow, calculated thrusts, Homelander mimes the act of fucking him.

“When I’m done, I’ll give you what you want.”

The panting breaths from the wall-crawler are so enticing he can hardly help himself when he swallows those soft little noises with a kiss, tongue delving between Ben’s lips without hesitation. “You want this…” He purrs between unreciprocated kisses. “You want me.”

“I–” Ben starts, pausing when a finger hooks under the waistband of his pants.

“Mm, say it.” Homelander orders in a whisper. He starts to snake his hand inside. “Say how much you want me, how badly you want me to taste you– fuck you…”

Benjamin goes to speak once more, but sucks a sharp breath instead when a finger swipes between his soaked folds. It drags back and forth, pressing against his hole, dipping inside just the slightest bit before trailing to his clit.

“Drenched,” Homelander all but moans. “Fucking knew you would be…” He draws his hand free and brings it to his lips, tracing slick over them before slipping inside. “Delicious… I knew you fucking wanted me.”

“Johnny…” Ben murmurs.

Homelander practically doesn’t even hear it.

“I want Johnny.” He repeats, this time a little more brave despite how much anxiety dances in his words. This was volatility personified.

Homelander looks at him with a flicker of ire, as though he’s ready to discipline him. Throw him over his knee for a good spanking, fuck him senseless– something or the other. Whichever one scratches the itch and accomplishes the task all at once.

“And why the fuck would you want him instead of me?” He asks, bitterness lacing his words. He spins them and traps Benjamin against the bed.

This is how it went last time. Though last time was incredibly different, significantly more violent, and a lot less sexually charged, Benjamin needed only to ask and, somehow, John would find himself with enough strength to come back to the surface. He can practically feel the resistance brewing.

Let me out.

Absolutely not.

Let me the fuck out!

“I want Johnny.” Ben repeats again, firm with every word. In all fairness, Ben would absolutely have a round with this version of Homelander. Just… not right now. Not before John. A snarl precedes that hand diving back into his pants, fingers delving deep into his cunt. Benjamin can hardly stop the gasping moan that comes out. It’s hard to resist it, hard to pretend he doesn’t actually want this.

But this isn’t who he wants it with. Johnny would come first, always.

“Sing for me, little birdie.” Homelander commands, fucking his digits in and out, fingers curled perfectly. His face twists as if he’s struggling to keep control. “You’re soaked for me. You’re like this because of me! Not him!”

Ben’s whines are music to his ears even as he fights to keep from losing his hold.

I’m in control here! Me! You let me out right fucking now! He wants me!

Suddenly Homelander is shaking his head violently, expression pinched, teeth bared and grinding– and then he’s not. His fingers still, his expression softens, eyes widen like a deer in headlights.

Still knuckle deep, Homelander freezes.

“Johnny..?” Ben asks, though he’s already confident the switch had happened. Despite the intrusion between his legs, the moment is significantly less tense than with the previous presence. “I–”

“You want… me?”

His voice is nearly a whisper, a touch of timidness in his tone.

“Yeah,” Ben nods, eyes shutting. He leans in to press their foreheads together. “I didn’t think it’d happen like this, y’know, but… yeah.”

Homelander lurches forward in an embarrassingly desperate manner, taking Ben in a kiss that he certainly didn’t mean to moan into. Just like he doesn’t mean to melt when he feels reciprocation, he just does.

He can hardly wrap his mind around any of it. Ben’s lips, so soft and sweet against his. The sweet boy’s cunt fluttering all hot and wet around his middle and ring fingers. He could come undone just from what he’d been dropped into. He sighs and starts moving his fingers, slow at first, soft.

Just enough to milk the most beautiful noise he’s ever heard from his Benjamin. It’s enough to make him whine and press his stiff cock right against Ben’s thigh– but only for a moment. Long enough for his desperation and revived confidence to grow into a hunger unlike anything he’s ever known. Suddenly he’s lifting Ben to lay flat on the bed, legs hanging off the edge, and he’s got the bug’s pants torn free and–

The first lick to his core isn’t even full contact. He suckles the wet spot of Ben’s underwear, lips wrapped tight to get every last bit. He mewls for it, face pressing between his little spider’s thighs to tease that first truly fresh taste of his greatest longing– like he means to drown in it. The hands in his hair satisfy every dream he’s ever had of such a moment, tugging and gripping like Benjamin would die if he didn’t.

“Oh god…” The bug whimpers, hips bucking. It’s all the motivation Homelander needs to deny himself just long enough to yank those boxer briefs away and reveal his meal. He dives in completely undignified, moans muffling as he presses the whole of his open mouth to Ben’s cunt, tongue delving as deep into his hole as physically possible. He’d trade his powers for a longer tongue right fucking now if it meant he could reach further inside– if he could collect more of that sweet nectar on his tongue and feed the starving beast inside of him that demanded so much more.

He suckles and flicks Ben’s clit, practically hypnotized at his size and thickness. It’s so easy to get it into his mouth– so easy to suck and hold and–

The bed creaks with a particularly sharp unconscious thrust of his hips at the realization. It’s like having a cock in his mouth.

He keeps Ben’s legs spread high and wide. The quakes of them in his iron grip shoot straight to his ego and cock, making his eyes roll and heat all at once.

“Johnny– Oh, fuck, fuck, please–”

That’s right! Say it! Say my fucking name!

As if reading his mind, Benjamin does. He howls and shivers and shakes through an orgasm that leaves him gushing slick against Homelander’s eager tongue. Homelander’s head is pressed down hard by the hands in his hair– silent pleas for more and more.

He’s so thrilled with himself that he couldn’t possibly prevent the moan that reverberates against Benjamin’s throbbing clit. It practically jerks in his mouth.

“Oh god!”

I am your god.

And he just can’t bring himself to stop. Can’t help but act out every single scenario he’s ever dreamed up while pressing stolen clothing to his nose and fucking his hand. It’s going to pale in comparison when he finally slips into Ben’s cunt– he fucking knows it. He’ll never be able to go back to something so dull when he’s tasted heaven and touched the stars.

He’s damn near ready to dive in for more when the hands in his hair yank good and hard, pulling him up. He’s still clothed except for his cock free between his zipper, now harder than he's ever been in his life. He has half a mind to just shove it in and fuck Ben before the boy could strip him down, but that option is long gone when a kiss distracts him long enough for zippers and clasps to get undone.

Pussy.

Shut the fuck up!

He neglects his alter ego’s taunts in favor of reveling in touches to his bare chest. It’s enough to leave goosebumps and make him shiver. He hardly knows what to do when Ben strips him the rest of the way, much less when a hand finally wraps around his cock. The gasp that left him was less than pathetic, but it doesn’t deter the touches and soft kisses pressed to his neck.

“You’re amazing,” Ben murmurs against his flesh, breath fanning wet spots and making him twitch like some sort of virgin. His eyes flutter open and catch a smile so genuine it melts his heart. Each stroke along his length makes his chest heave with deep, unsteady breaths– every swipe of Ben's thumb to his soaked tip drives him near insanity. He’s so pent up, even after getting off earlier. He could blow at any second– god, what if it’s disappointing? What if he ruins it because he’s too fucking weak to hold back?

He’s thought of this so many fucking times that he practically has no control whatsoever. But he never thought it’d feel so–

So–

Something overtakes him, desperate beyond measure, utterly starved, and he rolls them. Much as he’d love to drag it out, he’s on the brink and he’s not going to come until–

“O-ooh fffuuuck!”

No sooner than his tip breeches Benjamin’s cunt is he blowing his load and–

Pathetic.

“Mm– oh, fuck– I’m sorry–”

At least I’d have actually gotten to fuck him.

“Oh god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry–”

One pump chump, huh?

He buries his face against Ben's neck to hide as pleasure and shame mix like oil and water in his gut. His body is locked tight, hips jerking despite having slipped out in the midst of an exceptionally pathetic, desperate thrust.

You ruin everything you touch.

It’s only when he’s nudged out of his hiding spot that he realizes he’s still whispering apologies.

“Hey, what’s– are you okay?” Ben asks, concern replacing the bliss once etched so beautifully on his face.

Your fault.

“I…” Homelander starts, shaking his head when the words get stuck in his throat. “I didn’t mean to… finish so early…”

Ben’s hands cup his cheeks and cradle him, thumbs rubbing at his cheeks. “I don’t mind.” He says. “We can stop if you’re–”

“No!” He interrupts. “No, we– I can be ready again, I just–”

His face is burning red; he knows it.

“Shh, Johnny. Don’t stress. Just…” Ben pulls him down into a kiss, soft and slow. “Just kiss me for a bit, okay?”

Despite his racing heart and his mental roommate jabbing at his pride, he goes along. It starts easy, simple pecks and gentle glides of lips. A pace perfect to diminish his anxiety, an act sweet enough to dispel the shame. Simple touches meant to soothe, others meant to ground.

He pulls back and looks at Benjamin for a moment, appreciating his kiss-swollen lips and hazy eyes before going right back in with more fervor. Legs wrap around his waist and pull him into a grinding motion, milking a breathy moan directly into the kiss.

“That’s it…” Ben purrs between kisses.

His tongue joins the fray, eyes rolling back as the taste and sensations hit his mind all at once.

He’s hard again in no time, especially with those little words of praise in between. He stills when a hand slips between their bodies and grasps his cock, directing his tip to swipe between come-slicked folds still drenched for him.

Benjamin lines him up perfectly and he sinks in without thought. A strangled moan catches in his throat as he’s practically sucked in by that tight heat. Ben’s noises drive him insane– little gasps and whines as he adjusts, comments about how thick he is and oh–

His arms wrap under Ben’s back to pull him impossibly closer. He starts slow, steady and gentle just like Ben had been with him.

Good. Now ruin him.

He fights to keep his controlled pace, fights to be a perfect gentleman and not shatter this sweet boy.

“Johnny~”

And it’s so fucking hard not to.

His face is buried in Benjamin’s neck again and he picks up the pace, settling into a sloppy rut like an animal in heat– but god that’s exactly what he is. Desperate and instinctive, he drives himself into Ben over and over again, chasing that high, knowing each deep stroke is what pulls those sweet little whimpers from his precious Benjamin and by god he’ll do it again and again–

“Harder!” Gasps his little spider, and he’s all too happy to oblige. His back arches, arms brace, and he cuts loose. His mind snaps– all there is anymore is this. A lifetime of them and nothing else. It couldn’t possibly be anything else.

Breathy exclamations turn to noisy moans, all of them sung into the air for him in tandem with squelches and wet slaps of skin.

Hear how he sings for you? That’s it, keep going. Hand under his lower back– good. Help him arch into it. Attaboy.

Homelander nods in the crook of Ben’s neck, tongue falling free to lick a stripe into which he fully intends to leave his mark.

Feel how he quakes under you? Bite him. Claim him.

His teeth sink in, just enough not to break the skin but he will mark this sweet boy as his.

He’s yours now, tiger.

“G-Gonna come! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Ben exclaims under him, nails biting into Homelander’s back as he holds on for dear life. “Oh god– oh fuck!”

Make sure he never wants anyone else. Thumb on his clit, right now– rub hard.

Homelander does exactly that and with only one flick, he sends Benjamin mewling into an orgasm so strong his entire body convulses– perfectly milking another load from his cock.

They cling to each other for dear life, both hurtling through climaxes so intense they can do nothing more than gasp and whine and pray the other won’t let go.

It takes a few minutes for either to speak, but fingers run through Homelander’s hair and a hand smooths up and down his back until they do. Comforting, caring–

“Do you wanna stay?”

Not the question he was expecting. Not at all– and not something he’s ever been asked before by anyone. He hates knowing his eyes are watering when he looks up, but they do and he can’t make them stop. “D’you want me to?”

Stupid. Stupid voice crack, stupid–

Shut up and listen.

“Duh,” Ben says, hands coming up to pinch at his cheeks. “I always want you to stay.”

“You’re not… mad at me?”

This isn’t what he was expecting at all.

“Why would I be?” Ben asks.

He’s about to explain the obvious, but–

“I mean I wish we could’ve skipped the whole fiending-for-my-underwear thing and gotten straight into this, but I’m not mad. And I’m not mad about your brain bestie making an appearance either.” Ben smooths a hand through Homelander’s hair, scritching softly at the base of his neck. “It’s all good.”

I've got dibs on the next time.

“Mm, thank god.” John yawns. It’s all he knows to say, except– “So are we uh… a thing now?”

You sound like a fucking teenager.

What, you have a better idea of how to ask him?

“D’you wanna be?” Ben asks, a beaming smile spreading across his face. It must be contagious, because Homelander ends up with the same look.

“Yeah…” He breaths, chewing his lower lip to keep from looking any more dopey than he already does. “Yeah, let’s– I want that.”

“Good,” Ben says, hooking a leg around him. “So, uh… Boyfriend perks include unlimited underwear access.” His cheeks tinge a deep red as he says it, but that just makes Homelander’s lips curl into a devious smirk. “Among other things, y’know?”

“I can’t wait to find out,” John says. All this time as just friends has been nothing short of euphoric…

Whatever is next for them must be bliss itself.

#homelander x oc #THE BENLANDER AGENDA #ALL HAIL #☺️☺️☺️

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hom3landr · 5 days

Text

Icarus Falling

Chapter One: Flight Risk

Homelander X OC

When Vought decides to shut down a failing experimental program, a little winged loose end is left. Years later, a bitter young woman named Dove lives in isolation under Vought’s close watch. Not quite human but not quite a supe, Dove must use her wits to survive when Stan Edgar appoints her to The Seven for unknown reasons.

Dove’s tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on making her brush strokes as even as possible. The sudden garish swipes of polish scratch something in her brain. Her hands are steady now. She no longer leaves a mess all over her fingers from hands shaky with uncertainty. Instead, the ritual has become a balm to her constantly racing mind. The patience to achieve perfection is one of the few things that bring her peace. She prefers bright gaudy colors that irritate the eye. It makes her think of poison frogs and she envies their ability to maim simply by a touch. She wishes she could have had that mutation if she was destined to be a freak. She contemplates whether she’d like to try some nail art today. She isn’t good but that’s not the point. It’s not like anyone will see them anyway. No one ever sees her.

She neatly finishes her nail, happy with the final result. A bright neon green, her nails seem to shine in the beige bleakness of her Vought sponsored house. She supposes that she could make the place homier but she refuses. It feels wrong to make peace with what scraps Vought throws her. She refuses to take comfort in their blood money. Her body may bear signs of their interference but it’s still hers. Her body will have to be her home as it is the only thing she can trust.

Her feathers flutter gently as the oscillating fan blows lukewarm air on her. The sticky summer air lingers and her bare skin is damp with sweat. Her curls are pulled up away from her neck in hopes of some relief from the muggy air. Of course Vought didn’t feel like springing for working air conditioning for her. She guesses it’s because it’s not “cost-effective”

She stretches out her wings behind her, wincing slightly at the way her shoulder blades ache. They may be part of her but the human body isn’t made to have wings. Her muscles are forced to shift and pull in unnatural ways to account for the unfamiliar DNA. She’s no different than a poorly bred dog, too many elements being blended together and spit out without thought to nature’s elegance. The weight of them makes her constantly sore, even with the harness for support. It’s nothing fancy but the leather contraption helps take some of the strain off her back. Her wings are another reason she doesn’t decorate. Furniture tends to be a hassle more often than not when it comes to accommodating her. Couches and any chair with a back is a solid no-go, unless she wants a wing cramp. She’s currently sitting on her unfolded futon she uses as a makeshift wing-friendly couch.

She happily observes her nails as they dry, so used to boredom that watching the slick wet polish turn tacky is a decent passtime. She whistles a jaunty little tune along with the music playing softly on the radio. She decides that she will try some nail art. She could use a little cheetah print.

Alas, her relatively good mood instantly sours when a sleek black car pulls into her driveway. Her stomach turns. The only people who ever come to visit are Vought cronies, usually doing the bare minimum to make sure she’s still alive. Her house that was supposed to be her refuge becomes just another lab. She angrily screws back on the cap to her polish and sluggishly rises with a groan. She didn’t realize she’s due for another checkup so soon. She contemplates grabbing a shirt but decides they don’t deserve the privilege of decorum. She doesn’t feel like putting in the effort of trying to wrestle her wings into one. She never bothers when she’s alone.

Something still feels off and there is a prickle on the back of her neck as she watches the car park. She double takes when she sees the figure getting out of the car. It’s not some nameless lab tech. It’s not some suit here to chastise her for flying high enough to be seen. It’s Stan Edgar, the man whose machinations led to her fate but who never found her important enough to speak to directly. He’s almost a mythical figure to her and her throat tightens. She doubts this is another quick checkup to endure. This is something big.

Once more she wonders if she should grab a shirt. But again, she decides against it. Maybe she’ll get lucky and the shock of her nudity will give the old fucker a heart attack. Her shoulders pop as she shifts. Clad only in a pair of ratty denim cutoffs, she opens the door to stare brazenly at the leader of Vought with her hand placed impudently on her hip.

“It’s rude to show up without calling”

Much to her dismay, Edgar doesn’t even flinch at her exposure. Although the same certainly can’t be said for the two bodyguards flanking him. Even with their sunglasses, the tilt of their heads is an obvious indicator of just where their eyes are focused. She rolls her eyes internally despite never breaking eye contact with Edgar. She’ll die before she’s the one who blinks first.

“I thought a visit might be pleasant considering your…isolation.” He smiles emptily at her. She grits her teeth and fights the urge to spit on his fancy suit.

“I think our definitions of what “pleasant” means may differ. I consider it pleasant to have some privacy, Sir.” She cocks her head at him. Her wings fluff up with displeasure. She should probably use her manners in front of a man as powerful as him; especially one who technically owns her. There’s a tiny voice inside begging her to practice some self preservation. But then she looks at him and she remembers. He wasn’t in the lab with her but whatever tortures she had to endure were committed with his full knowledge and approval. As far as she’s concerned, he might as well have been holding the scalpel himself.

He seems as unfazed by her remark as he did at the sight of her bare chest. She clenches her fist as he looks at her like a bored parent waiting out their child’s tantrums while in time-out.

“Allow me to introduce mysel…” His polite greeting is abruptly cut off by Dove’s scoff.

Settle down. The voice inside her implores but she brushes it from her mind like flicking a flea.

“You’re Stan Edgar, Head of Vought. I know.” She replies, hackles raised at his infuriating calm. “You’re the one who dumped me here.”

He smiles.

Bastard

“A decision that was made with your wellbeing in mind. But if that is your grievance with me then allow me to supply you with some good news. May I come in so we can discuss it?” He asks as though she has a choice in the matter. They both know she doesn’t, not really.

She pauses, two sides of her viciously battling it out in her brain. One side wants to fight and push just to see how far he’ll let her go before his facade finally cracks. The other side just wants peace. She grits her teeth. If she wants him to leave, she’ll just have to endure his visit so she sighs and steps to the side. He nods and enters, flanked by his leering entourage. She does roll as her eyes at their stares this time and grabs a scarf she spies draped over the edge of a nearby table. She follows them over to the futon, threading it through her harness and tying it into a makeshift top.

She plops down on the futon, crosses her legs and looks up at him blankly. She doesn’t offer him a seat. Of course, there really isn’t a place for him to sit even if she did feel like being polite. The living area of her tiny one bedroom house is bare except her futon, a small table with the fan still whirring away and her radio, and a short cabinet that she mainly uses to store her collection of polishes and a few dvds gathering dust. The walls are blank and cold.

“You should let Vought know you are in need of some furniture.” Edgar remarks as he looks around at the sad state of her place.

“I’ll get right on that.” Dove says wryly. She has no intention to ask for anything from Vought.

“Actually, I wouldn’t bother just yet. That's one of the things I wish to speak with you about.” Edgar replies. Dove regrets sitting because now she has him looming over her. The power play was fun at the moment but she’s quickly realizing that Edgar has a way of making them feel pointless and immature.

“I didn’t realize you cared this much about my interior design.” Dove can’t help but retort.

“It does seem pointless to furnish this place considering you will be moving in the near future. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a place with a little more class.” He’s smug, clearly trying to lead her somewhere. He says it like he’s expecting her to jump up like her team just won the superbowl. There is always the undertone of condescension and superiority that makes Dove bristle. She’s known this man for all of ten minutes but that’s all she needs. She doesn’t even register the meaning of his words. She’s too angry and it clouds her judgment. She doesn’t immediately register that he’s offering her an out.

“Vought has class?” She bites out, her joking tone too harsh to be taken lightly. The hurt behind it is open and raw. Edgar’s smile drops. She should feel smug that she finally got the mask to drop. She doesn’t.

“I’m sure you think that your comments are cute but I came here expecting to talk to an adult, not a petulant child.” His voice sharpens but the pitch never changes.

Dove’s mouth snaps shut and she bites her tongue till she tastes iron. Her feathers fluff out involuntarily as she seethes. She’s tempted to snap back but she begrudgingly realizes that the sooner they can get through this conversation, the sooner he’ll be out of her hair. She frowns when she notices one of her still tacky nails has smudged.

Fucking great

“Fine, just tell me then.” She crosses her arms before promptly relaxing them, not wanting to let him know how much she’s pouting.

The corner of his mouth curls up but his eyes stay as empty as ever.

“How would you feel about finally putting your skills to good use?” He asks.

Dove double takes and stutters out a bemused laugh. Not once since they threw her out with the bathwater had they ever indicated she had any use besides what failed experiment they had been planning. She is baffled as to what they could possibly want with her.

“I think my current situation shows what Vought thinks of my skills. Can’t you get one of your precious little supes to do it?” She replies with sheer disdain.

Psh…Supes

Oh, she despises supes. Spoiled little brats. Spoiled pampered little brats. Vought’s golden children. They’re genetic freaks too but they get freedom and fame. They have lives and families. They only have to endure a little shot of go-go juice as a baby and the world is handed to them on a golden fucking platter. Meanwhile here she is, weak, hidden, abandoned. She had to endure endless tortures and for what?

“We need someone with your unique composition.” His face gives nothing away.

That doesn’t sound good.

“…Oh.” She shifts nervously. A sick feeling starts to brew in her gut. She becomes viscerally aware of the prickle of sweat under her arms and running down her spine “I’m not…going back, am I? You all promised me I wouldn’t have to go back there anymore.”

Edgar laughs. He fucking laughs.

“Yes and no, but don’t worry, we won’t have any need for that. I think you’ll enjoy what we have planned.” He replies with false peasantry. Dove inhales tightly. Her hackles are raised at the constant dancing around the question. She highly doubts enjoyment is on the table. When has enjoyment ever been on the table for her?

“Well, are you gonna tell me what it is?” She retorts sharply. The constant whirring of the fan grates on her strained nerves and in this moment she wants nothing more than to chuck it across the room.

Edgar nods at one of the bodyguards who steps forward to hand her a fancy embossed letter. She resists the urge to snatch it rudely from his hand. She minds her manners though, being careful not to rip the fancy paper. Edgar stares her down as she opens it. Luckily her nails are dry enough now to not stick.

Her heart stops dead as she reads.

WHAT THE FUCK

Her hands start to shake.

This is a joke

This is a joke.

This is a fucking joke.

What she is holding is a genuine, bonafide, official invitation to join The Seven.

Dove drops the letter like it’s a scalding hot coal. A furious stinging longing like nothing she has ever known throbs hot in her chest.

Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For your pain to mean something?

“No.” She replies shakily. “No, I don’t want it.”

She does. She wants it so bad.

“No.”

She knows what she is. She’s not a supe. She will never be a supe. That had been quite clear to her with every broken bone, every bruise, every slice of the scalpel. She was deemed unworthy with every scribble of a scientist's pen. Her only claim to fame is not dropping dead from her inhuman slurry of mismatched genes like the rest.

Whatever worth she has, it’s definitely not as one of Vought’s shiniest gems. She doesn’t have the luxury of hope.

“No? I assumed you’d be glad for the opportunity. Especially considering your…situation.” He nods at her wings and she draws them closer to her body.

“I’m…not one of them. I’m all but human. What need could you possibly have for me in The Seven. I’m…” She cuts herself off.

Weak

That’s the whole point of her existence really. Vought wanted to create a new breed of supes that weren’t supes. People with abilities but without the pesky super strength that makes things hard to manage. They wanted to corner the labor market. Who wouldn’t want to hire a worker capable of more than a human could ever be while still being easy to control? So, they turned to animal DNA, to see if they could generate specific traits based on carefully selected genes. It failed, the constant deaths of the subjects deemed it too cost ineffective to keep trying. When they shut it down, all they had to worry about was one winged little loose end.

“You let us worry about all that. You’ll just need to follow instructions and smile pretty for the camera.” He reaches out to take a shaky hand in his, his demeanor unnervingly parental in this moment. He pats it soothingly. She fights the urge to flinch away at the touch of skin. She’s painfully unused to human contact that doesn’t involve harm.

“What kind of instructions?” She’s wary.

“I told you, let us worry about that. I promise it won’t be anything you can’t handle.” His voice has warmed considerably as he tries to gain her consent without having to resort to more unpleasant means. After all, no isn’t really an option. Vought owns her. The invitation is merely a polite formality.

“No,” Dove repeats more firmly, a steely resolve in her eye

“No?” Stan Edgar raises an eyebrow.

Dove doesn’t want to hear anymore. What they’re giving her is not an out but a golden cage. She’s Snow White being handed the poison apple. She won’t be a victim of Vought’s plans again. She won’t be that stupid.

“What makes you think I want to do anything to help Vought out? What makes you think a bit of fame is enough to make me forget the shit you put me through?” Dove stands, staring Edgar down. She clenches her fists and the body language of his guards changes immediately. “If you try to set my ass in front of a camera I’ll spill everything. All I want is to be left alone.”

Edgar remains unphased by her outburst. He’d expected as much. The reports from her check-ups had informed him of her temperament. He has one more card up his sleeve before things have to get nasty.

“I understand that you’re disgruntled by your previous treatment. As an apology and as incentive for joining The Seven, Vought would like to reunite you with your mother. Remain as a member for one year and fulfill all your necessary duties, and we’ll get you in contact with her.”

His voice fades out into a droning buzz.

I have a mother.

Dove’s head swims.

She tries to speak but the words catch in her throat. She makes a strangled noise at the revelation. What can she even say to that? How is she supposed to respond to her whole world getting flipped on its head? Unwanted tears prickle in her eyes as her knees give out and she drops back on to the futon.

She’s always been so alone but all this time…

All this time…

“How come you never said anything? How come I didn’t…” Her voice trails off. “You’re lying.”

A photo enters her field of vision and she takes it shakily. There is a young woman in the picture, with curly hair and dark familiar eyes, Dove’s eyes. She doesn’t look much older than nineteen but the resemblance is unmistakable. She's wearing an all too familiar medical gown and her hand rests on the subtle swell of her stomach. Her expression is solemn. Dove chokes down a sob as she softly strokes the woman’s face.

“She signed a contract saying that she did not want any contact with the child post-birth. In recent years, she seems to have changed her mind. She’s expressed a desire to reconnect. If you agree to our terms, we can facilitate a reunion.” Edgar explains.

Dove can’t take her eyes off the photo.

Her mom abandoned her. She abandoned her to Vought’s heartless clutches. She’d walked away without a care. Dove should rip the picture up and tell Edgar to stuff it. She shouldn’t feel anything towards this woman…her mother.

Dove had never known where she came from. Vought had never specified. Now she has a chance to know. What is her mother like? Is she happy now? Why did she leave her alone? Why does she want her now? Did her mom ever love her?

Dove is furious at herself for feeling conflicted even as questions fill her head. She has so many questions she can get the answer to.

“I…” Dove flounders. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want anything else. She hates this mystery woman who left her in Vought’s clutches. She needs more than anything to be held in her arms, this woman with the dark sad eyes.

Don’t you fucking dare! Something inside her pleads. You’re going to regret it. You will never be free from them

Dove swallows thickly and with the finality for an executioner's swing, she gives Stan Edgar her answer.

“I’ll do it.”

#homelander x dove #oc dove #the boys oc #homelander x oc #lil afternoon bump

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hom3landr · 5 days

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Sara Teasdale, from The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale; "Song,"

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hom3landr · 5 days

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a "pretty boy" has been found sniffling and whimpering in the wilderness

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hom3landr · 6 days

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“this character is a heartless villain they’d never love you or ur oc” “this character doesn’t do romance” “this—“

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER

WRONG! you or your oc is the exception

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hom3landr · 6 days

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You're telling me I'm supposed to be looking at this fictional man and I'm NOT supposed to want to tenderly kiss his face and neck and tell him how pretty and wonderful he is??? cruel

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hom3landr · 6 days

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Icarus Falling

Chapter One: Flight Risk

Homelander X OC

“It’s rude to show up without calling”

“I thought a visit might be pleasant considering your…isolation.” He smiles emptily at her. She grits her teeth and fights the urge to spit on his fancy suit.

He seems as unfazed by her remark as he did at the sight of her bare chest. She clenches her fist as he looks at her like a bored parent waiting out their child’s tantrums while in time-out.

“Allow me to introduce mysel…” His polite greeting is abruptly cut off by Dove’s scoff.

Settle down. The voice inside her implores but she brushes it from her mind like flicking a flea.

“You’re Stan Edgar, Head of Vought. I know.” She replies, hackles raised at his infuriating calm. “You’re the one who dumped me here.”

He smiles.

Bastard

“You should let Vought know you are in need of some furniture.” Edgar remarks as he looks around at the sad state of her place.

“I’ll get right on that.” Dove says wryly. She has no intention to ask for anything from Vought.

“I didn’t realize you cared this much about my interior design.” Dove can’t help but retort.

“I’m sure you think that your comments are cute but I came here expecting to talk to an adult, not a petulant child.” His voice sharpens but the pitch never changes.

Fucking great

“Fine, just tell me then.” She crosses her arms before promptly relaxing them, not wanting to let him know how much she’s pouting.

The corner of his mouth curls up but his eyes stay as empty as ever.

“How would you feel about finally putting your skills to good use?” He asks.

“I think my current situation shows what Vought thinks of my skills. Can’t you get one of your precious little supes to do it?” She replies with sheer disdain.

Psh…Supes

“We need someone with your unique composition.” His face gives nothing away.

That doesn’t sound good.

Edgar laughs. He fucking laughs.

Her heart stops dead as she reads.

WHAT THE FUCK

Her hands start to shake.

This is a joke

This is a joke.

This is a fucking joke.

What she is holding is a genuine, bonafide, official invitation to join The Seven.

Dove drops the letter like it’s a scalding hot coal. A furious stinging longing like nothing she has ever known throbs hot in her chest.

Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For your pain to mean something?

“No.” She replies shakily. “No, I don’t want it.”

She does. She wants it so bad.

“No.”

Whatever worth she has, it’s definitely not as one of Vought’s shiniest gems. She doesn’t have the luxury of hope.

“No? I assumed you’d be glad for the opportunity. Especially considering your…situation.” He nods at her wings and she draws them closer to her body.

“I’m…not one of them. I’m all but human. What need could you possibly have for me in The Seven. I’m…” She cuts herself off.

Weak

“What kind of instructions?” She’s wary.

“No,” Dove repeats more firmly, a steely resolve in her eye

“No?” Stan Edgar raises an eyebrow.

His voice fades out into a droning buzz.

I have a mother.

Dove’s head swims.

She’s always been so alone but all this time…

All this time…

“How come you never said anything? How come I didn’t…” Her voice trails off. “You’re lying.”

Dove can’t take her eyes off the photo.

Dove is furious at herself for feeling conflicted even as questions fill her head. She has so many questions she can get the answer to.

Don’t you fucking dare! Something inside her pleads. You’re going to regret it. You will never be free from them

Dove swallows thickly and with the finality of an executioner's swing, she gives Stan Edgar her answer.

“I’ll do it.”

#homelander #x oc #homelander x oc #Homelander x Dove #OC Dove #The Boys OC #big nervous about this one #my first time writing oc fic #y’all have no idea how long this took #No Homelander in this chapter yet but he’s coming

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hom3landr · 7 days

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Wait!!! Have you remembered to sexualise and lust after a morally repugnant fictional character today??

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hom3landr · 9 days

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter three )

18+ 7.3k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, assault (not perpetrated by HL), violence, smol murder, manipulation/gaslighting, hurt/comfort. nebulously takes place post s1. part 3/4. AO3 link. part I part 2

Homelander will do whatever it takes to convince you that he's the hero you need.

a.n: hello, friends! hopefully this chapter being longer than the first two combined makes up for the fact it took me three months to write it. as you can tell, it sort of spiraled out of control from being two chapters, then three, and now four. the good news is that chapter four (the last one! i promise!) is complete, and i'll be posting it next week. i hope you enjoy it! 🖤

It’s shortly after one o’clock when Homelander knocks a whimsical melody against your office door, deciding he shouldn’t be precisely on time, lest he look as eager as he feels. He can already smell your perfume wafting through the doorway–the same scent he feverishly pumped his cock to the night before–as a teaser of what’s to come.

“Come in,” you call from the other side.

Homelander takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He screws his eyes shut, pinching his expression in a tight squeeze before he replaces it with a flashy grin, squaring away his anticipation in favor of his showman persona.

“Goooooood afternoon,” he drawls, strolling in with the same feigned level of confidence he’s entered every other moment of your life since stumbling across you, whether you knew it or not. He’s taken aback almost immediately, slowing in how he closes the door behind him.

You look nicer than usual. Your hair is styled with more conscious effort, and he’s been in show business long enough to recognize the makeup on your face. The shine of your blouse is a quality silk blend, and he can’t hear the scrape of cheap cotton underneath it anymore. No, you’re wearing something nice below, too. His lips slowly spread into a self-satisfied smile.

You dressed up for him.

Homelander takes the seat set across from you, sweeping his cape to the side with a flourish. He watches you tuck an empty container–your lunch, presumably–into a side drawer of your desk. His eyes closely track the way you lift your thumb to the corner of your mouth and swipe residue from it, sucking the mess from your digit. A distinct pang of arousal hits him just watching your cheeks hollow.

Imagine what she could do with that mouth.

“And good afternoon to you, Homelander,” you respond, straightening up in your seat. His gaze briefly dips to the swell of your breasts as you adjust yourself, casually dusting away any remnants of your lunch. Saliva gathers on his tongue at the instant memory of you scantily clad in your sleep wear, nothing but a thin sheet of worn fabric between you and his hunger. His eyes snap back up before you can take notice of how they wandered.

Lucky for him, you’re busy splaying out the folder he brought you the day before, scanning over the list of bullet points he’d slapped together for the sake of having enough talking points.

“I wanted to start with your concerns regarding the marketing for your upcoming miniseries,” you say, glancing up at him.

He clicks his tongue. “Wow, alright. Straight to business then,” he says, absently rolling his palms over the ends of the armrests on either side of him.

“I’m very bad at small talk,” you say. Probably to diffuse any notion that you were being rude on purpose.

“Ch’yeah, I’ll say,” he says, smiling thinly. “Lucky that you’re good at your job.”

“Shockingly, I was actually a personality hire. I don’t know what any of this means,” you say, matching his thinly veiled snark while gesturing to the spread of documents in front of you. He snorts softly. You have a knack for using that sharp wit to diffuse, but he doesn’t feel manipulated. You actually are funny. “I was hoping you’d explain your concerns.”

Smooth segue, he thinks, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. He’s worked enough interviews to know when he’s being led, but he takes the bait anyways, widening his smile.

“Sounds great.”

Homelander knows that you’re sharp, good at your job, but he needs to needle you into giving him what he wants. He wants to understand you, and the stack of his films he found hidden in your apartment. What he gets in the meantime is ample taste of your silver tongue, parrying his every jab with an equally sharp counter.

He can’t keep the smile from his face.

Gradually a level of familiarity slips into the air between you. He can see some of that tension in your shoulders easing. He’s steadily wearing down the walls you’ve managed to construct.

“I still think audiences will be confused,” he says, feigning a profound concern, stretching out the time of your little appointment.

“Well, audiences are a lot like celebrities,” you say, the hard candied shell of your professional exterior thinning with every back and forth, poised to crack at any second. “They’re smarter than we think they are.”

“Oohh, ouch,” he purrs. “Nice backhand you got there.”

A twitch at the corner of your mouth. He knows you’re fighting a smile of your own, and pride blooms warmly in his chest. He likes sparring with you, but he likes pleasing you even more.

“I disagree about market confusion. Your diehard audience will already be up to speed, your broader target audience will show up for anything with your face on it, and anyone more casual than that likely won’t have seen the miniseries anyways, so there’s nothing to confuse it with,” you say, scanning down through one of the pages of the document he gave you.

Perfect opening.

“And which audience is it you fall into, exactly?” He asks, cocking his head a degree. “I mean, given your position, I have to imagine you’ve seen my range of film and television.”

“I’ve done my due diligence,” you say vaguely. You’re good at answering without answering. Normally it would irritate him, but your forced aloofness combined with your closely guarded–and inexplicably secret–veneration of him makes it into tantalizing bait begging for the sharp sink of his teeth.

“So you’ve seen all my movies, then?” He extrapolates, setting a line of his own.

You chuckle, gaze flickering to him before back down to the pages. Too brief a glance to even come close to satisfying his hunger. “I didn’t say that.”

He scoffs lightly. “But you’re a fan of mine?”

“I definitely didn’t say that.” He can sense he’s hit a vein, and like any good predator would, he’s eager to bite into it.

“C’mon. Don’t tell me you’re shy,” he continues to prod, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

You inhale a breath that you barely prevent from sounding too obviously irritated. His grin remains untarnished by the scrutiny of your unwavering stare. There it is, that’s what he wants. The weight of your gaze upon him, evaluating, taking him in fully. He doesn’t care how he gets it, he just knows he wants it.

“You are shy,” he accuses, knowing you aren’t.

“I’m not shy, I’m a professional,” you say curtly, the scratch of your pen scathing while you write notations on the document.

Good, he thinks. More likely to slip up now.

“Jeeze,” he laughs. “You’re wound up tighter than my fictional manager in Darkest Day.”

“You didn’t have a manager in Darkest Day, that was Origins,” you correct. After a beat, your hand stills.

Homelander’s gaze slowly slides to meet yours. He watches your face fall and clicks his tongue. He positively relishes how your mask of indifference slips into subtle dismay at your misstep. Such a simple bit of trivia, and yet it spoke volumes.

Got’cha.

“You do watch my movies,” he said, tone dropping to a near whisper. He revels in the quiet way you groan, leaning back in your chair.

“Only the ones I was paid to,” you say, straightening up in your chair, but he can hear the defeat in your voice.

“Liar,” he says through his perpetual grin. “Don’t be embarrassed. How long have you been a fan?”

“Stop,” you say, burying your face in your hands. Oh, this is good. Was he your first crush? Your favorite hero? He must be still, judging by the flush of heat moving through you. All that pretense, all that haughty glowering, and beneath it all you’re a fan girl. He almost laughs at the thought of the face you’d make if he called you that.

“Which was your favorite?” He asks, burying the knife deeper, eager to cut through flesh and muscle and bone to get to the heart of truth beneath. “Bright World? Rise of a Hero? Justice Dawning?”

“I despise you,” you say melodramatically, digging your thumbs into your temples. “Also, Justice Dawning was cheesy, I’m offended you’d even offer it.” You try not to smile, but it happens anyway, and as soon as that secret little smile sneaks onto your lips it brightens Homelander’s eyes, reflecting your amusement back to you. Not just that, but amplifying it.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he tells you with confidence. You drop your hands, looking at him with subtle surprise. He holds your gaze. The earnestness of his words seems to dispel your mortification and replaces it with something more difficult to define, but he likes the shine it brings to your eyes.

The taste of your defeat is sumptuous. He’d prefer licking it straight from your tongue, but he’ll settle for this for the time being. An easiness settles into the air between you, deeper even than before your hackles rose with the lurking reality of your hidden opinion of him. It’s like a bubble has popped, dissipating uncomfortable tension, replacing it with something warmer.

He has every intention of turning up the heat even further.

The meeting moves forward. You work your way through his folder, and during a natural lull in conversation, he finally broaches the topic that’s been plaguing him since he stepped into your office.

“So,” he begins, interlacing his gloved fingers in his lap. “Gonna tell me what you’re all dressed up for?” He asks, wearing the same smile and speaking in the same tone he had when he baited you into admitting your secret love affair with his cinema.

He wants to hear you say that it’s for him, but he’ll settle for a flustered deflection. They’re as good as the same.

“Oh,” you huff with an airy little laugh, the sound like silver bells chiming. “I have a date tonight.”

You say something else, but Homelander doesn’t hear it over the tidal-like rush in his ears. He watches your pretty lips form words that he can’t understand. Everything falls out of focus as he tightly reins in the white hot rush of furious jealousy that floods his gut and erupts up the back of his throat like bile. He swallows the burn of it, jaw tight, and manages a tense smile.

“Great,” he barks, not realizing–or perhaps not caring–that he interrupted you. “First date?”

“First date,” you confirm, your tone less conversational than it had been a beat ago. The walls are going back up, but he’s too fixated on what feels like a stabbing betrayal.

“Exciting,” he says, adjusting his tone and mannerisms until they once more resemble something genuine. Something civil, despite the hostility in his gut. “Someone you know? Going anywhere special?”

“No, and not really,” you say evasively. He loathes how withdrawn you’ve become. You should be pleased he’s put off. Gloating even. It’s proof he cares, isn’t it? “It was his suggestion.” His. The leather of Homelander’s glove creaks subtly in the fist he makes. “I forget the name of the place,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

His right cheek tics. Liar, liar, pants on fire. People always underestimate his ability to read them.

You’ll learn not to lie to him.

“But you have an out if you need it, don’t you? Someone to bail you out in case he turns out to be some kind of freak,” he says, huffing the word with a lick of venom. It takes significant effort to keep the disdain from his face to imagine you as you are now sitting across from some nobody schmuck, lit by candlelight and smiling sweetly for them instead of for him.

“I always do,” you say, smiling thinly. He curates his own tone often enough to hear it in yours, and it pierces his ears like a thistle. He taps his fingers on his thigh, scrounging for something, anything else to needle you for, but your responses don’t give him much to work with.

“Well. If you did need someone–”

“I’m a big girl,” you interrupt, surprising him. He’s rarely interrupted. “I can take care of myself.”

At that, a thought strikes him. The slack line of his lips curls into a thin smile, and his hands relax on the armrests of the chair.

“I’m sure you can.”

Shaking off the aftermath of your one-on-one with Homelander proves to be more difficult than you’d anticipated. You replay it nearly moment for moment in your mind while freshening up after work.

Homelander has an uncanny knack for moving through demeanors as though he’s trying hats, determining which one best suits the situation. One moment he’s a slick carnivore licking his chops in anticipation of his meal to come, and the next he’s every ounce the hero they market him as. He’d been relentlessly charming during the meeting, his charismatic smile becoming one you’d wanted to earn again and again.

Then came the news of your date, and all at once Homelander possessed the ominous calm of a sentient statue. The moment still sends an eerie chill down your spine, even in recollection. How radically his appearance can change with mood or thought alone. You’d hate to ever see him truly angry.

“Get a hold of yourself,” you say to the bathroom mirror. You have a date tonight, and the last thing you need is to bring this kind of nervous energy to it. Powers or not, the commonality of man is easy to rely on, and you’ve developed the tactical mindset of an aloof cat. Never beg for what can be given freely. Never give more than you get. Never settle. “Be the cat,” you tell yourself affirmatively.

A directive which, unfortunately, winds up being exceedingly easy to follow through the course of your date. James, bless his heart, struggles to wring more than the occasional piteous chuckle from you. Conversation with him is akin to drinking seltzer water–he is neither offensive nor particularly exciting, being only a step above plain water.

Perhaps James’ blandness isn’t entirely his own fault, but rather the basis of comparison he is subjected to. Throughout the night, you find yourself critical of the way he looks at you–or rather, the way he fails to look at you. Your thoughts keep drifting back to your meeting with Homelander and the way he looks at you. The intense ocean-blue caress of his eyes summons a blush to your cheeks even in hindsight.

He looks at you in a way that no one else does. It's as if he's trying to memorize the smallest details in your skin, to uncover every secret trapped behind your guarded gaze. He has a stare determined to lay you entirely bare to him.

James’ wine dulled ogling could hardly hold a candle to that. Looking into his eyes, you see only the planning for whatever dullard comment he was going to make next.

Still, it’s not until the end of your date–an exceptionally long two and a half hours thanks to a mishap with your order–that James displays a behavior unsavory enough to elicit a truly unpleasant feeling in you. He’s quite clingy after a few too many glasses of wine. He walks you out of the restaurant with an arm around your waist, and more than once you have to bat his hand away from the seam where your blouse is tucked into your skirt.

“You in the parking garage or the back lot?” He asks, smiling in a way he must mean to be salacious, eyes half-lidded like he’s lost control of them.

“The back lot.” Parking was a nightmare with how late you arrived after work. “Is that where you are?” You ask, hoping it isn’t.

“No, no, I actually took an Uber in,” he says, and you know immediately by the way he starts tapping your hip with his index finger why he chose to do that.

“Want me to wait for you here until your Uber arrives, then?” You ask, turning out of his grasp to stand face to face with him outside of the restaurant. It’s late enough now that the streets have calmed some, at least by New York’s standards.

James’ expression falters, but he tries for a recovery with a hopeful smile. “Well, you know, I was sort of hoping we might continue this elsewhere,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets. Is he trying to look suave?

“Oh, no,” you say, putting forth your very best sympathetic head tilt, matched with a well placed brow furrow. “No thank you.”

This time his expression doesn’t recover. His hands lift from his pocket and he makes a helpless gesture with them, very nearly pleading. “Really? I thought we were having a nice time.”

“And I’m so glad for that,” you say, and even you can hear the corporate edge sliding into your tone, which doesn’t seem to soothe him any. “But it’s for the best that we part ways here, James. Thanks for your time.”

“But–” Your inarguable dismissal staggers him. He gropes for recourse. “I paid,” he blurts out, which proves to be his final mistake.

Your polite facade drops. “For what?“ His booze addled panic shifts into confusion. “F…For dinner, but I didn’t mean–”

“And that entitles you to fuck me?” No sense in mincing words now.

His expression morphs again, this time into mortification. “No! No, but–”

“You thought this would be a transaction? God, and here I was thinking your gravest flaw would be how mind-numbingly boring you are. But to be boring and stupid?” You scoff, waving a dismissive hand. “Goodnight, James,” you say, the kindest dismissal you can muster. You turn on your heel before he can sour the evening any further, and luckily for him, he doesn’t pursue you further.

Unbelievable. As if you hadn’t offered to split the check. As if he expected it to be a transaction that he cashed in your bed. As if the cost of dinner was worth anything more than a polite smile from you. As if.

New York doesn’t sleep, but it does grow very, very dark. You’re on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. Still riled up, you bring up the parking app on your phone as you walk, swiping through to get ready to pay for your crummy back lot space. A clatter brings your attention up, and that’s when you see them—two men. One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat.

You stop walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting your back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within arm’s reach. They haven’t noticed you yet, or at least they’re pretending not to, but now they look right at you and smile.

The men don’t look dangerous, not like they do in the movies, but you know that means nothing—plenty of the worst people in the world looked safe. Yet the longer you stay put, the more you sense the ill intent wafting off of them like cheap cologne. “Hey, baby,” says one of them, moving toward you. “You lost?”

“No,” you say curtly, taking a step back. “Not lost. Excuse me.”

“You sure? We’re real good with directions,” says the second man, leering. Your eyes snap between them, phone clutched tight in your hand. “Y’look like you could use some.”

“No,” you say again, louder. How loud would you need to be for anyone to hear you over the sounds of the streets? Panic swells in your throat.

You don’t know how they got so close so quickly, but as you turn to run, a hand catches your collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenches you back against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your phone clatters to the ground.

“Hey now, what’s the rush?” He asks, yanking you backwards. “Get off me,” you snarl, but he’s squeezing you tightly across the chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe. You struggle until you feel something hard dig into your hip. A knife? No. You realize coldly that it’s a gun, the handle of it jutting out from his waistband and digging into you. In a desperate bid, you twist in his grip, trying to grab it.

“Careful,” says the other one, moving in front of you, closing in. “She’s got spirit.”

You kick out at the other guy but he jumps back, laughing at you. They’re both laughing, relishing in your fear. Your fingers skim the gun, but you can’t quite get it.

The first man’s breath is hot and sour on your cheek. “Come on, now, let’s have some fun.” You slam your head back into his nose—or try to, but you only manage to clip his chin. Still, you hit bone, hear the crack of a tooth, and just like that you’re free, stumbling to your hands and knees as the man reels. You hit the ground hard, the shock of landing lancing pain through your arms and legs. The gun tumbles from his waistband. Without thinking twice you lunge for it, fingers successfully closing around the grip right before one of the men grabs your ankle and pulls.

The street bites into your elbows and scrapes your knee bloody as you twist around and raise the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “LET GO!” You scream, heart hammering against your chest. “Oh shit,” says the man in the kerchief, eyes wide at seeing you armed, but the other one sneers at you, blood spilling from his mouth. There’s fury in his eyes, and the unmistakable intent to hurt you. “You ever held a gun that big, baby?”

“Let go,” you say again, voice firmer than the tremble of your hands. Your finger flexes on the trigger.

“You even know how to use it?” He asks, using his grip on your ankle to pull himself over you, his other hand falling to your thigh. He gives a pointed squeeze as he lifts himself up to tower above you. He reaches to take hold of you again, but you won’t let him. Can’t let him.

“Yes.” You squeeze the trigger as you say it, bracing for the recoil, the bang. It’s always so loud in the movies.

Nothing happens. You panic, looking at the weapon in your hands in dull shock. The safety isn’t on. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber rings hollow. It isn’t loaded. You look up at the man as his shadow falls over you. He bares his teeth at you, painted an ugly dark red with the blood spilling from his mouth. The man laughs, a short barking sound, and knocks the gun from your hands with a harsh slap. It goes skidding away.

“Stupid bitch,” he says, raising his boot as if you were an oversized bug, something to crush. You close your eyes and scream as he brings it down hard.

Or at least, he started to, but his leg locks up halfway, and then he topples, a single horrifying sound leaking from his clenched teeth. Your eyes open just in time to see his body hit the ground, a smoldering wound smoking from his chest. An instant later, the second man falls. This time you see the flash of crimson light that drops him.

Homelander’s cape billows in the wind with all the majesty of the flag it’s designed after as he descends from the sky. He lands in front of you, backlit by the distant street lights that give him an artificial glow. He’s beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel delivered straight from some market tested Heaven.

“Hey, you hurt?” He asks, reaching for you.

Awestruck, all you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. Tears well in your eyes. Shock is setting in the aftermath of all that adrenaline in your veins crashing your system. Through the blur of your tears, Homelander’s expression shifts from concern to that of determination.

“It’s alright, I’m here now. They can’t hurt you,” he says, bringing your arm around his neck while he slips his own around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the ground. Before your gaze can drift to the corpses–whose burning flesh you can smell mingling with the acrid city air–Homelander rotates, taking them from your line of sight.

With a flourish, he unhitches his cape from his shoulders and swings the fabric over yours. It settles on you heavier than you expected it to be, and impossibly warm. Moving back in, Homelader readily takes you back into his arms. He cradles you in his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other drawing lines up and down your back.

You try to choke out a sound, to ask him, how? How did he find you? How did he know you needed him? But none of the noises you make form any actual words. Your throat is too tight, and your tongue feels too big for your mouth, gnarled silent by panic. Everything is just too much. Your breaths only grow sharper as tears burn hot streaks down your face.

“Sssshhhhhhh,” he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take the weight of your body from you. His hold is compressive, but not oppressive. It takes everything you have left to lift your other arm around his neck while the sobs overtake you. He continues to hush you, whispering a menagerie of honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.

I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

You cry harder, coiling your arms tighter around his neck. He lets you cling to him, lets you sob away your makeup and soak the collar of his suit with the mess of it.

You don’t know how much time passes in your addled state of panic, but eventually your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder. Your body isn’t convinced that the danger has vanished yet, eager to turn to flight now that your fight has gone.

“That’s it, just like that,” Homelander praises. “Breathe. Breathe. Good… Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly,” he tells you. The weightlessness you feel in his arms helps the idea, helps you to feel like you aren’t being crushed by the terrible weight of such a moment of horror. That’s all it had been, a moment–two at most–and yet the torment of it had felt hours long. Exhaustion falls over you in the wake of adrenaline, and you’re glad for Homelander’s arms around you. You doubt you’d be standing without them.

“Home,” you manage to croak. “Please.” You can still smell the man’s sour breath, the memory even more powerful than the stench of reality.

“I can take you home,” he coos, maintaining that same soothing tone of comfort. “Is that what you want?”

You nod, focusing instead on the vetiver fresh smell of him. You’ve never been near enough to him before to notice it, but now you fixate on it. Anything to drown out the stink of the alley. He smells so much cleaner, like fresh linen drying over green grass in the summer sun.

His arms flex around you before he adjusts them, lifting you smoothly into his arms. Your stomach flips the way it does when you go down a hill in the backseat of a car, gravity loosening its hold on you. You can feel the motion all around you, the wind ghosting over you, but Homelander himself feels motionless against you.

Flying. He’s flying. And so are you.

His cape shields you from the night air bite, pulled snug around you and secured where your bodies are pressed together. You haven’t felt like this since you were a child, cradled with such care and strength that feels beyond your comprehension. Homelander serves as both place and person–somewhere safe, someone kind–and you tuck yourself closer into the sanctuary of his arms, hands fisted in the protective fabric of his cape.

“I’ve got’cha,” he assures you, voice warm in your ear.

Without a shadow of a doubt, you believe him.

Homelander doesn’t need to ask where you live. It’s an easy detail to brush off if you question him. He doubts you will with the way you’re clinging to him, though. You feel good in his arms, settling so naturally against the contours of them he might convince himself you belong here. He doesn’t mind your weeping when it comes with your arms around him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck.

A small shiver rolls down his spine.

Of all the ways Homelander expected the evening to unfold, he hadn’t properly anticipated you. While he cradles you, he replays again and again the moment you were snatched. You fought without hesitation. You wrenched the gun free. The fierceness in your eyes as you aimed it had been exquisite. The resolve in your gaze as you fired it even more so.

He’d known you were confident, but that kind of clawing survival can only be learned of a person in action. He’s known many supposedly strong people–supe and human alike–who walk as stone giants, but shatter like glass when faced with any real danger.

You couldn’t have known that you weren’t in any real danger. You couldn’t have known that he’d told those thugs to scare you, but not hurt you. You couldn’t have known he’d ensured the gun wasn’t loaded. You fought as though it was for your life, and it enthralled him.

He hadn’t planned on killing them in front of you. They would have been loose ends to tie up after his heroic rescue, but somewhere along the line that stupid bastard lost the thread. He hurt you, bloodied those pretty knees of yours, and he moved to strike you. To grind you beneath his heel as if you were the vermin instead of him. For that–and for so flagrantly going against Homelander’s own direct order–you witnessed his downfall.

As far as he’s concerned now, everything happened precisely as it needed to. You’re in his arms now, and he’s still half hard from witnessing you choose fight when your instincts kicked in. You’re too fragile to choose it so readily. Your bones feel bird-like compared to the scope of his strength. Hollow and brittle. You would make for a hell of a supe, though.

Still, he won’t break you. He’s spent his entire life learning what it takes to snap bones like party favors, and more crucially, what it takes not to. Yours are safe from him. In fact, you’re the safest person in the whole world now.

Homelander glides down to a soft landing on your driveway. Your car will be an issue for another time. For now, he walks you to your front door before gently placing you on your feet.

“Believe this is you, young lady,” he says, leaving space for plausible deniability. If it occurs to you to interrogate him about it, it doesn’t show on your face. With hands still softly trembling, you fish your keys out of your purse. He watches you fumble with them for only a moment before he steps in behind you, one hand gripping your upper arm to steady and pause you while the other covers your shaking hand, helping you to slide the key into the lock and turn it.

Your hand fits nicely in his.

“Thanks,” you whisper. It’s the first thing you’ve said since asking him to take you home. He takes the liberty of opening the door for you while he’s at it, swinging it wide to allow you in. You grab his forearm, and he thinks you’re only balancing yourself, but when you don’t let go he steps with you, letting you lean on him as you guide him into your home. He closes the door behind the two of you, smiling to himself.

He may not need an invitation to enter, but it’s charming to have one.

Your movements are stiff, a slight limp to your gait. You fell hard, and the delicate flesh of your knee had ripped apart against the concrete when you were dragged. You hesitate at the stairs, but Homelander doesn’t. You inhale sharply when he scoops you back up into his arms with ease and starts up the stairs. He keeps his gaze ahead, but he can feel yours on him.

“Thanks,” you say again, the word barely more than a hiccup, adjusting his cape over yourself like a blanket.

“It’s what heroes are for.” He smiles. It’s a party line, one he’s said a hundred thousand times before, but you make him mean it. This is what heroes are for. To be worshiped and loved, understood deeper than pop stars and false idols like them. There’s a reverence in your stare that transcends the vapid starstruck way most people look at him. You understand now. You know how much more he is.

He brings you to your bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cape back up over your shoulders. You’ve scarcely let go of it since he wrapped you in it. Will you sleep with it tonight? He bets you will. The thought sends a pleasant tingle through him.

“Alright, let’s get a look at those knees,” he says, crouching in front of you. There’s blood running down your left shin. He lifts the edge of your skirt hem just enough to catch a glimpse of shredded skin. It looks rough, dirty and embedded with bits of debris. He blows out a breath. “Got a first aid kit?”

You nod numbly. “Under the bathroom sink.”

It’s odd to see you so subdued. He forgets sometimes that you humans can be as emotionally fragile as you are physically. Surely the death of two measly thugs isn’t enough to break you.

Rising, he moves to your bathroom. He feels slightly unbalanced without the sway of his cape behind him, the garment as integral to his physicality as any limb. He rummages through until his hand lands on a bright red fabric pack with a zipper. He gives it a little toss and catches it, bringing it back to you, alongside a wetted towel. He gives the pack a victorious little shake.

“H’okay, down to business.” Homelander kneels before you, splaying open the kit and placing it on your lap. He’s never used one of these before, but he’s pretended to do it on set. How different can it be? He cups your leg, thumb absently smoothing back and forth on your skin while he uses the towel to gently wipe up the blood, dirt and debris from your shin and knee.

You flinch, tense a moment before you relax. “Homelander, you really don’t have to–”

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks, glancing up at you through his lashes. There’s a playful lilt to his voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, the smallest hint of exasperation in your voice. He’s pleased to hear it. Perhaps you’re less wilted from the encounter than he thought. “I just mean that I can–”

“I know you can,” he says, and this time he definitely sees a flare of annoyance. You don’t like being interrupted any more than he does, but you don’t protest further. He smiles, triumphant, and focuses back on the task at hand, petting you the same way one might soothe a wild animal.

There’s a novelty in doing this for real that he hadn’t anticipated. It’s entirely unlike wiping away congealed red corn syrup from an actor. Your skin is sweeter, softer. He suddenly resents his gloves for the barrier they provide, despite his usual reliance for that very thing. He’s meticulous in flicking out the little stones embedded in your skin, spotting each one with ease.

Next, he tears open the alcohol wipes with his teeth and uses them to disinfect, rubbing at the sores. You flinch, sucking in a loud breath through your teeth. “Oopsy-daisy,” he says, switching to gently patting. He has no real concept of what you’re feeling right now. He’s never had a scraped knee before. The scientists at Vought had to get much more creative in order to gauge his capacity for healing.

He imagines they were disappointed to realize that, once damaged, he healed as slowly as a human.

“How’d you find me?” You ask, snapping him out of his unpleasant reminiscence. Your shock seems to have worn off entirely. You look more present, alert to his every move.

“Heard you scream,” he answers simply, unraveling a roll of gauze. That much is true.

“But how? How did you know where I was?” You push, watching him wind the white material around your knee.

“I didn’t,” he lies smoothly. He’s followed enough scripts in his life to do so very well. “If I’d known exactly where you were, I would have been there sooner. I was minding my business on 5th Avenue when I heard you. Familiar voices can…” He makes a vague gesture. “Cut through the din. Voices I want to hear.”

He thinks he catches you flush at that. Just a touch. He bites back a smirk, pleased with himself. Does it matter if it’s true when it makes you look at him like that?

“I didn’t know your hearing worked like that,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of his cape.

His gaze flickers up every so often to watch your finger pick at the seam, inexplicably charmed by it. “Well, there’s some things not even a super fan can glean,” he teases, securing the gauze with tape. He expects to see a familiar indignation in your expression, but when he looks up, he’s caught off guard by the unmistakable fondness in your eyes.

“I was over the moon when I got my job at Vought,” you say quietly, like you’re whispering in a confessional. “I always wanted to work with heroes.”

“With me?” He pushes, lifting his brows.

Very slightly, you smile. “Yeah. With you.”

“Busted,” he says, his own voice equally soft.

You give him a little nudge with your foot. “Gauze won’t stay by itself. Need to use a roll of self-adhesive wrap,” you say, plucking the beige roll from the kit. He likes the shy warmth in your voice. He would have done much worse to see this side of you. Have the intimacy of your pain, fear and relief all to himself. This glowing affection you’re so full of. He feels drunk on the cocktail of it all.

“Right, obviously,” he says, taking the wrapping from you. “I knew that.”

“Probably should have put a gauze pad under it, too,” you continue, eyes heavily lidded, expression soft.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he laments, affixing the textured bandage around the gauze. You laugh, and the sound of it feels like a space he could belong in.

He checks your other knee, your elbows and your palms, but nowhere else on you calls for anything more than some antiseptic and a few bandaids. With the wrappings secure, he shuffles the mess of supplies haphazardly back into the kit, zipping it up much more bulging and misshapen a state than he found it in. He pushes it under the bed with the towel atop it, standing.

“Good as new. Or close to it,” he says, making a small show of dusting off his hands for a job well done.

You stand, letting his cape slide off of your shoulders for the first time since he put it on you, the fabric pooling on the bed. You step forward, and of all the things he expects in this moment, you blow them out of the water by suddenly wrapping your arms around him, the soft curves of your body slotting against his in a way that trips something primal and needy in him. He puts his arms around you the second the shock wears off, holding you with the barest fraction of his strength.

Tension drains from your body. Were you nervous he wouldn’t reciprocate? It’s an endearing thought. He gives a deeper, brief squeeze. He can’t remember the last time someone held him.

“Thank you,” you say after a long beat, drawing back. He reluctantly loosens his grip, but not by much. He’s loath to relinquish you so soon after he’s gotten hold of you. “It’s not enough, but I don’t know what could ever be.”

I could make a few suggestions, he thinks, but he doesn’t give voice to the lewd thoughts that follow.

“I’ll never forget what you did for me tonight,” you say. Your face is so near to his, it makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the curve of your lips as you speak.

Instead of responding, Homelander leans in, eyes falling shut.

“Oh,” you say sharply, your soft body suddenly going tense in his arms, stopping him in his tracks. Both of your hands are braced against his chest now, creating a distance that feels craterous.

He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I’m really tired,” you say, tone shifting to mild diffusion. It reminds him of the way you spoke to James, and his ego stings with both the rejection and the comparison. He’d laughed listening to you reject that pathetic, simpering man. It seems less funny now.

He scoffs an incredulous little huff. But I saved you, he thinks, indignant panic flaring in his chest. To his dismay, however, the thought doesn’t sound like his own voice. It sounds like James’.

But I paid!

Repulsed, Homelander swallows the thought like bile. If the comparison comes so readily to his own mind, there’s no way you won’t make the connection yourself. He feels his skin prickle like there are fire ants crawling beneath his suit. The memory of James’ pathetic begging is the only thing that keeps his composure together.

“Of course you are,” he says tightly. His smile is forced, slightly too wide. “You should sleep. Rest up. Take the day off tomorrow,” he says stiffly, rattling off lines like they’re pre-recorded. Only then does he surrender his hold on you, hands moving to his hips instead. You take a step back, and he stands straighter to disguise the sting of rejection.

“Thank you,” you say, tone indecipherable. It’s full to the brim with something, but nothing Homelander can parse in his current state. “I–”

“No need,” he dismisses, jumping on the opportunity to end the conversation on his terms. “Really. Just doing my job,” he says, tossing you a little two-finger salute off of his brow, already moving towards your balcony door. You don’t move, watching him from the foot of your bed, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Catch you at the office,” he says. He knows he’s speaking too quickly, but it’s all he can do to keep himself in check. Anger and misery broil in him like vinegar and baking soda, the caustic brew threatening to erupt.

“Okay,” you say, which isn’t particularly what he wants to hear. He turns his back to you, and his smile drops, his ego violently stung. With a force that billows wind through your bedroom, he takes off into the night sky.

You just weren’t ready, he tells himself, gritting his teeth. It’s easier to be angry than embarrassed. He wants to make as much distance between himself and your rejection, flying higher and higher until frost begins collecting on his lashes. He flies until there’s no sound, no oxygen, no life but his own. He flies until gravity releases him and he can finally relax, suspended by cold, vast space.

The earth glows beneath him, reflecting the light of the sun where it illuminates a distant portion of the globe.

Closing his eyes, he tips his head back.

He’ll fix this.

#I AM FREAKING OUT #THE ENDING GOT ME #Homelander’s idea of date night is a little extreme #but I love him most when he’s being a little freak #fic rec

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