Had A Dream About Soldier Boy And Homelander (im Sick So My Dreams Are Insane Rn, Like Seriously I Dreamed

had a dream about soldier boy and homelander (im sick so my dreams are insane rn, like seriously i dreamed i watched a mailbox *eat* a person, just dont ask) anyways it went like this

Homelander to Soldier Boy: Soldier Boy, What are you doing here?

Soldier boy to homelander: What are YOU doing here, Twinky?"

Me: "Twinky? Thats good, that was good. A+"

anyways, ten out of ten dream, deff made up for the mail box nightmare

Commodus the whore of the Empress Part 4 Commodus x Reader

I never planned to make another part of this wonderful story but suddenly a few ideas popped up. So, I hope you will enjoy it! less smutty than the previous chapters but a lot of erotic tension there with a touch of angst ;)

For the newbies this is an imagine of a AU where Commodus falls from grace, you become Empress and he becomes your pleasure slave. However things are not so easy. (link to part 1, 2 ; 3 here)

Months passed as you kept enjoying your slave. Now people had forgotten the fallen emperor and only saw the slave, not even minding him as they crossed his path and perhaps that was a mistake, at least that’s what you had started thinking. Commodus was freely going around, sharing your bed every night, going unnoticed like any slaves except for his beauty, he was happy, it was obvious to you now, he had that peaceful air in his eyes, that discreet smile on his lips. It bothered you…he must have a plan in mind, something to run away, take back power even and you had to do something about it. You had to remind him who was in charge and what was his place.

“You asked to see me?” asked Commodus as he bowed his head at you as he always did. His face remained neutral as he felt a change in the atmosphere, he didn’t feel your warmth, he felt as if he was facing a wall.

“Indeed. I’ve realized we missed something truly important in your current status.” You announced, and nodded at a man he hadn’t noticed. The man was richly dressed and yet his hands were covered in dark smudges, coal perhaps, he was probably a blacksmith. Commodus widened his eyes as he saw that the man held an iron collar in his hands with a tag in the middle, like any slave collar of the Roman Empire; on it could be read: If I flee, return me to my master, Emperess Y/N.

He looked at you and then back at the collar and then at you again before dropping to his knees and deeply bowing “Thank you, my Empress.” He said fervently, earning a frown from you and the blacksmith, never you had heard of a slave thanking such gesture. “Don’t be absurd. Let’s see if I have you branded with a hot iron will make you thank me.” You spat a threat, believing he was exaggerating to obtain your favors. You even put your foot on his crotch, making him retain a hum of pleasure.

“Still…I would feel honored to be branded with your name.” he replied with the same passion. You eyed him, your heart beating faster both in frustration and flatter, like a young girl under the power of love. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stand your ground, be harsh, a master and not a friend, so you cut short to the conversation.

“Enough. I have other matters to attend, go away.” You stated, waving at Commodus dismissively. You briefly made eye contact with him, you could read a certain confusion like a puppy who didn’t understand the situation and was simply begging for caresses.

The silence lasted for a few seconds as if he wanted to try to remain by your side like he usually did, ready to fulfill your every needs. But he soon understood you were being serious, you didn’t want his presence, maybe it was due to some political meeting, he thought. In that case his presence would be an insult to both parties.

The morning passed slowly; you had grown irritated on your way to the Senate. The absence of Commodus was cruelly felt; that man had managed to make himself indispensable to you and on purpose you thought; how could you have been so stupid as to let yourself being seduced by your worst enemy!? Let him share your bed? He could kill you anytime and he would surely attempt soon, once you would be blindly in love with him, perhaps after changing his political status.

A headache started splitting your skull as you listened to the incessant speeches of the senators. To the point you hadn’t noticed a presence, the clear eyes of Commodus watching you from the service corridor; he was worried. You disliked the senators as much he did, but he noticed something else was making thoughtful, upset. The slaves rarely entered the auditorium except to serve wine and a few necessities or wave a fan during high heat. However Commodus decided to enter, he had never done it since his fall, under your express order, most Senators had wished him dead and seeing him would feel like seeing a ghost threatening their lives.  Usually, you secretly granted him to accompany you to watch, today you hadn’t seen he had come as well.

He silently approached, ignoring the scandalized look of some politicians, others terrified of him. He was carrying a bowl of hot water infused with herbs and a piece of cloth inside to apply to your head and sooth the pain.

You didn’t notice his presence at first “No. The pleb wellbeing matters to me and the money we invest on that will be rewarded by their loyalty and economic growth of the south of the city.” You stated, glad most senators had gone silent. Well, until you noticed it wasn’t related to your words. You turned your head in the direction of their gazes and saw Commodus waiting obediently by your side, a bowl of warm water in his hands. All colors left your face at first, what was he doing in front of the Senate!? tending to you as if you were some weak poor thing!?

“What. Are. You. Doing here?” you gritted your teeth, your cheeks turning red from anger, your heart racing from stress. You could feel everyone’s gaze on you, expecting a proper response, wondering what’s the next mistake you would make, anything to discredit you. Commodus only seemed to realize now that prioritizing your wellbeing over politics was a mistake, he had put you in an uncomfortable position. He blinked a few times and opened his mouth, but no words came out, no he had to do better. He dropped the bowl which splashed water all over him and threw himself on the ground, as low as he could, his forehead on the cold marble of the Senate…who knew he would ever bow in that damn building. A senator scoffed at the sight, satisfied to see the arrogant Commodus reduced to this.

“Get that…away from this sacred auditorium.” You snarled angrily, your chest filled with anxiety, your emotions as conflicted as ever, how much you should express your anger? How much should you control yourself?

“What a nice entertainment. I have to admit I enjoy this sight more than his dead body.” Commented Falco, making other Senators laugh. The man that you didn’t trust had actually helped you in that moment, turning this situation into nothing but a funny pause between debates. Commodus ignored the humiliations, what mattered now was to sooth you and he had made things worse! He kept his eyes on the ground as he was dragged back to the service area, receiving a hard push against the wall, a warning to not overstep again…

On your way back to the palace in the afternoon, you sat in the Lectica, a palanquin just big enough for you and another person, who turned out to be Commodus in that moment. You were looking out, behind the thin cotton curtains, anything but the one sitting in front of you, despite the hours passing after the incident. Commodus gaze was locked on you, expecting “I merely wanted to relieve your headache.” He said at first, his words making you groan in response.

“You came to stand in front of the Senators, you, that fallen Emperor, showing care for me. You think of it as normal task as a slave but to their eyes it is defiance to them, it shows I give you too much importance, trust. How long before they start saying that you are my lover? That you are the one speaking in the shadows and I am merely the mouth repeating your words?” you spoke in a hushed tone, yet your anger could be felt, you felt vulnerable, being a leading woman in Rome was hard already, you didn’t need this. You raised your hand before Commodus could answer “I do not want any excuse or lies from you. Cease to annoy me, I am starting to regret keeping you alive already.” You muttered, not seeing how his sorry gaze had turn into hurt, his knuckles turning white. Why that change of attitude from you? What had bug had stung you? He swallowed down, remaining silent for the rest of the trip, his mind searching his memories to try to find the precise gesture, care or even word that would have displeased you.

Once you reached the palace, you walked fast, wanting to isolate yourself, your emotions were taking over your rationality and that was something you tried to avoid, especially when it involved yourself. Commodus followed, back inside the palace he didn’t have to hide and intended on obtaining answers.

“Your Highness is there something I did wrong to anger you?” he asked clearly, making you slow down your pace, not looking at him ‘Stop pretending that you care’ you thought.

“I know what you are. Cut the act, no need to pretend anymore.” You stated instead, stopping, your back to him, you had heard him come to a halt a few steps behind you, but closer than a slave, more intimate. There was a silence for a few seconds, as if he was trying to understand your words.

“Pretend? Empress I am not pretending, I have never been h-…”

“Oh please stop!” you cut him off, squeezing your eyes and clenching your jaw ‘Drop your mask Commodus…make me hate you, it will be easier’ you prayed in your mind. “But what did you think Commodus?! That I care about you? That I feel some sympathy for your cause?! Leave.” You spoke angrily, refusing to look at him, your gaze would betray your inner turmoil too much. You walked again intending to go away for good.

But he grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks, the surprise gesture made you face him, revealing your teary eyes “Y/N aren’t you seeing you are becoming like me?! Paranoid and alone! That’s when you are becoming the weakest!” he exclaimed, he wanted to enlighten you, warn you of the danger. His expression softened the moment he saw your eyes, why were you on the verge of tears? You turned your head to gather yourself, then looking at him dead in the eyes, furious.

“You dare!” you yelled in front of slaves and guards, he had touched you, called you by your name, as equals. It was abnormal and the praetorians had instantly unsheathed their swords and approached, seizing him hard enough to make him let go of you, the pommel of the sword violently hitting his belly to make him kneel painfully. You panted, his gesture had scared you, and your ego was hit.

“I think I was too tender to my slave. Remind him of his status. 10 lashes.” You dropped under the emotion, anger, fear, pain mixing all together into an explosive adrenaline. Commodus face was livid as he was dragged to the stake reserved for corporal punishments et executions, a crowd of curious courtesans gathering to watch, the word of the flogging would the ears of all in few hours.

He panted as the rope around his wrists was tightly pulled, it was impossible for him to move. Except for a few beatings when he fell, he had never suffered any physical punishment, he was barely comprehending what was happening. He had only asked to understand what was happening to you, wanting to save you from the paranoia he had suffered, why did you punish him for it? You used to treat him with tolerance and kindness…had he been wrong from the start? Did he imagine things? Was he fooled by you just like he had been fooled by his father…? His trail of thoughts was cut short by the first hit of the whip, tearing away the air from his lungs, a surprised cry of pain escaping his mouth, followed by a groan as to try to recover but the second lash came already.

You watched the scene, conscious the Court was watching too, the Empress hurting the fallen emperor who had become a slave, showing to all he was indeed just a slave, nothing more to your eyes. Your fists were clenched, each crack of the whip resonating in your skull, your eyes filled with the bloody back of Commodus. You felt agony, dread, and power, your darkest self finding satisfaction while the other wanted to stop the slave master from accomplishing the task you had ordered.

Soon, Commodus grew quiet, too in pain to react, barely able to remain conscious, the reality of the situation had hit him way harder than the whip. You had ordered this. His legs gave up under his weight after the last hit.

Soon, the Court left, amused, satisfied by the sight and ready to spread word of the drama within the imperial palace. Only you remained and the slave master who joined you for the next orders. “Have the doctors treat his wounds, I want him back on his feet as soon as possible.” You hushed, the blood pumping in the ears of Commodus prevented him from hearing anything. The next thing he knew was that you were standing in front of him, one lash had split his lip open; you seized his jaw to look at him in the eyes.

You contained your surprise as you were met with an empty gaze clouded with pain, you had expected anger, fierceness. “You are only alive because I want to remind you how much you failed.” You spoke, your thumb erasing the blood trickling down his chin, and bring the drop to your lips, tasting him, wanting to provoke a reaction from him. “You belong to me Commodus, I have the right of life and death, of your pain and your pleasure…I had to do this. I hope you will understand later my decision. Sincerely.” You spoke, only for him to hear; he didn’t react, only looking at you in the eyes with an infinite air of betrayal. You leaned closer, kissing him roughly, tasting more of his blood which felt even more exquisite when a whimper died against your lips, despite everything Commodus was still yearning for your touch. You slowly parted, he was on the verge of passing out, his gaze even more filled with pain, yet you felt great pleasure in the power you had over him, he was indeed completely at your mercy, and you were the one in control, still. You grinned somehow reassure that you were still the master, that if you decided to fuck him right now, or to end his life, you could. However, his lips moved, pronouncing your name so weakly you couldn’t it. You saw his eyes still bore nothing else than pain and…devotion? doubt and guilt sprouted in your mind, was he right? Were you being touched by the same illness as his?

For the rest of the day Commodus laid in the infirmary, on his stomach, silent. The pain in his heart was stronger than the one of the torn flesh of his back. He couldn’t stop thinking about what happened, about you, and he hated it.

“One must be a fool to talk back to the Empress that way. Or desperate. And I believe you are not a fool.” Commented the doctor who took care of him, he had known him when he was Emperor and still treated him as such, never he had dared to call him by his name which is something Commodus regretted, that doctor was probably what he had the closest to a friend.

“I thought she cared about me, Galen…I thought we…” he murmured sadly, you hadn’t even let him explain himself.

“Just because a master appreciates the work of his slave doesn’t mean they care for the person behind it.” Replied Galen, looking at him with compassion. He was still seeing the young boy craving the approval of those he loved. Like a stray dog, wagging its tail when receiving a bone to chew after receiving a beating. “Listen, what I- your highness!” he interrupted himself standing up at your view and bowing in respect. He swallowed down, not knowing for how long you had stood there.

“How is he?” you asked, seeing Commodus’ hands clenching the bedsheets. You approached delicately laying your fingers on the sensitive and red skin of his back, goosebumps appearing at your contact, was it from anticipation? Pleasure?

“I would say that thankfully to the weakness of the slave master, the whip didn’t tear any muscle, mostly just the skin, deeply. He will need many weeks to recover fully, 6 weeks at least, the scars will remain forever. I apologize for not being able to do better and faster.” Bowed again Galen, probably the man didn’t know what to think of you, you had visited him very little after all. “He will be able to stand and do basic chores in about 3 days.” He added, hoping it was enough to satisfy you.

“It is fine. I do not need him for now.” You answer, your eyes detailing the body of your slave, you wanted to punish the slave master for hitting too low which ended up in scarring Commodus left butt cheek. Your fingers traced around it, slowly going up his back on the sensitive skin again but careful to avoid touching the deepest wounds. Your fingers ended up burying in his damp curls, Commodus was hiding his face in the crook of his arms, his breathing faster, you could feel his desire, his fear, or perhaps he was trembling of rage to have failed to betray you? you wanted to be sure of it “Commodus, look at me.” You commanded; your voice not as authoritative as you wished it to be. He unveiled his eyes, infinite sadness in them, confusion. “Talk freely.” You added, doubt stronger in your mind, you worried, had you done a terrible mistake?

“Your highness…I do not understand the sudden change in the way you treat me. Fine I overstepped earlier but I needed answers and I believe you didn’t tell me the whole truth.” He spoke first, his voice broken from the cries he let out during the flogging. “Yes, I hated you when you humiliated me with worse than an execution, turning me into a slave, all I wanted was to wait for the proper moment to kill you. Make you pay.” He admitted at first, but his easiness made you understand it was only a brief thought of his “When I did my best to serve you, earn your trust. I discovered something else…about myself.” He smiled bitterly as if he hated that part of him “I bloody enjoyed serving you. Receiving your orders, receiving a pat on the head when I did exceptionally good. I had to think of nothing but your satisfaction. I was alive, living in a palace, giving pleasure to a beautiful woman who offered me her protection…what a dream it turned out to be. Now, for no reason you take it all away. Was it all part of your plan? To give me an illusion of peace and happiness, to take it all away from me after, to watch me crumble...?” he asked, his voice slightly trembling. You were taken by surprise; you had expected him to admit he was planning treason but not the opposite. You found yourself unable to hold his gaze, you had to admit you had no more strength to face him.

“Thank you for your honesty, Commodus.” You articulated, turning you head which he took badly, his heart aching even more, you didn’t even grant him a look anymore, when he had been the most vulnerable, admitting how he felt. You quickly left the infirmary, practically running to your chambers. Once the doors closed, you leaned against it, a shaky breath escaping your mouth. You passed a hand over your face, your lower lip trembling as realization hit you, you had reacted excessively, paranoia had infected your mind…

In the middle of the night

The imperial palace was silent except for the cracking of the torches on the walls, the occasional wind on the light curtains, the yawning of a guard…

Commodus hadn’t fallen asleep for the whole time, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about that last conversation with him, comforting his doubts that indeed you had just played him just like his father did. He clenched his jaw, the moon was high in the sky, it was time. He stood up with difficulty, his back ached and his skin irritated by the slightest movement. But he would take care of that later. First, he had to kill you.

He exited the infirmary, the half sleeping guards paid no attention to him, slaves go on and about freely at any time of the day to serve their masters and you had not instructed any restrictions for him. He walked with an assured step and went to your chambers. He quietly opened the doors, his movements precise, he was an excellent hunter after all. His heart skipped a beat as he didn’t find you asleep but sitting at your study, tired as you wrote under the candlelight.

Before you knew it, you felt a cold blade against your jugular, the exact same blade you hid under your pillow “I was wondering if you would come.” You said, knowing it was Commodus, it was to be expected after all, you thought it was well earned.

“Here I am.” He murmured, keeping the blade against your throat and coming to stand in front of you, making eye contact. He noticed your eyes were red but your breathing calm. He swallowed down, his eyes becoming wet “All I ever inspired in my life wasn’t to rule, but to be loved, appreciated for who I am. I would give away my freedom a thousand times, be humiliated every day as long as you loved me back.” He sniffled, a tear rolling down his cheek, he didn’t just enjoy being your slave, he had fallen in love with you. “I trusted you, I…you have no idea how happy I was when you ask me to sleep with you for the first time. I was being considered. Now I realize how disgusted how you must have felt, having to share your bed with me, the one who had humiliated you. How you moaned my name and spread your legs just to make me think I had to slightest importance to your eyes. Cruel but genius, I have to praise that.” He smiled bitterly, his body trembling with anger and pain.

“Commodus...there was no such plan-” you started but he pressed the blade harder against your throat, he didn’t want to have false hope again.

“Shut up!” he hushed angrily, a drop of blood trickling down your neck, the blade was sharp. He leaned forward, bringing his face close to yours, kissing you sweetly, almost like the kiss of Judas. You let him do, willing to face him, let him obtain vengeance. “I am going to kill you. But before that I have only one thing to ask, and if you have some honor, you will grant me this last wish.” He spoke softly, his tone on the edge of begging. It could make one wonder if Commodus was the one in control of the situation or you.

“Tell me. I wish to repay the wrong I cause you these past days.” You agreed truthfully, looking at him in the eyes, which Commodus seemed to hate even more.

“Why must you only look at me now? If you had the guts to look at me earlier, I wouldn’t be standing with a blade under your throat, I would be on my knees, begging you to forgive for whatever wrong I did to you.” He said fondly before pulling himself together. “I want you to be my master one last time. Order me around, be rough, make me take you, everything as you usually did. Make me feel as you seemed to care for me, only me.” He requested, firm and desiring. Once again you had been wrong, you had expected him to request that you make public excuses or such, but no, once again he only wanted you, only you.

You teared up as you nodded, flashing a brief smile, how much you regretted hurting him that way. He kept the dagger in his hand as you focused, taking a deep breath to get back in your role of Empress. “Well, aren’t you greeting your mistress Commodus?” you asked, containing your emotions as much as you could as you usually did. His eyes lit up, glad you were satisfying his last wish, he knelt, dagger in hand as he deeply bowed, his forehead hitting the floor.

“Forgive me Empress. This lowly slave was too stricken by your return and is happy.” He said fervently, kissing your feet and ankles. You smiled, retaining tears, you had messed up everything, that beautiful bond that you had built, perhaps the only person you could trust in the end. You put your hand on his hair, caressing the curls.

“Look at me.” You stated, making your hold of his hair stronger to lift his head, his pupils were dilated exquisitely, despite the fact that some of his wounds had reopened, bleeding on the white marble. “Good boy.” You praised and stood up, going closer to the bed, offering your back to him, if he decided to stab you right now, then so be it.

 He stood up, approaching you from behind, so close you could feel his breath on your neck and sending shivers down your spine. You swallowed down, finding yourself wishing something …different from usual “Undress me. Do it as if we were equals.” You ordered quietly, anticipation building in your belly as he didn’t act at first. Then, you felt his arms wrapping around you from behind, squeezing you, the blade in his hand pressing against your belly, making you tremble slightly. He did nothing but hug you, his lips tracing kisses along your jugular, licking the blood from the cut, sucking your skin.

“I will mark you tonight. I was always careful to hide our whereabouts. But tonight, all will know you bedded a slave, the former emperor.” He murmured in your ear, leaving red spots on your skin. The blade moved under the binding of your stola, cutting the expensive clothing and making the fabric slide along your naked body. His blade left a small cut on your belly, making you gasp and quickly turn around, slapping him. He didn’t stop you and instead smirked “You marked me with your whip. Can’t I mark you with my blade?” he asked, condescending.

“A slave doesn’t mark his master.” You replied, red with fluster.

“Not equal anymore? My apologize, my Empress, you get so confusing at times.” He answered with a sneer, even if his tone wasn’t sincere like his usual slave attitude, he was having fun in teasing you.

“Don’t question me. Make love to me.” You stated, not realizing the words you had picked. But it touched Commodus deeply and his attitude went back to a submitted one, wanting to savor your body one last time.

He made you lay on the bed, kissing each part of your body as he made his way on top of you, memorizing it. It could have been like this forever, yet you had ruined everything and yet he still struggled to understand why, he knew you hid something to him. And he would make you talk right before killing you. He kissed your breast, soft and round, his teeth lingering on your nipples as his hands parted your legs, settling his body between them. Galen would be mad at him for reopening his wounds but well, he would probably be executed for killing the Empress anyway. You detailed him, your nails slowly scratching the skin of his chest, then, you grabbed his chin, quickly pulling him closer, crashing your lips against his, another painful kiss. You gasped as he penetrated you with one push, your fingers burying in his hair, your legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper inside you. He grabbed hold of your legs, his hips giving rough pushes, he was venting, expressing all the passion and rage he held for you. One of your hands moved to his back, your fingertips on his wounds, making them bleed again, some crimson drops landing on your body.

“Argh…yes…highness!” his groan of pain strangled by moan of pleasure. His teeth biting your lower lip in return. That embrace was passionate, illegal…desperate. Yet, it was perhaps the most honest one you ever had, actions speaking more than words clumsily said.

The imperial bedroom was filled with pants, groans, gasps and moans, both inflicting pain and pleasure to each other. There was no tenderness, it was raw. And as fast as it started, it soon stopped. There had been no pause, nothing. And for long minutes, no words were spoken between the two of you, panting, his suffering body had collapsed on top of your, drenched in sweat. His head buried in your neck once again, he knew what he had to do but now he wasn’t sure if he truly wanted to do it, besides you still had to talk…you sensed his hesitation and decided to break the ice, not to save your life but to rather to be honest at least whatever you died or not, things would be clear.

“I’m sorry.” You spoke, your hand gently reaching to massage the back of his head “You were right, I great paranoid, just like you did before.” You said first, you could feel your heart beating faster against his as you were about to add something “I also...felt opposite emotions…I was furious at you for what you did to me and yet…I knew I had to do something to protect you.” You revealed, feeling him stiffen against your body. He lifted his head, a frown on his face, his eyes searching yours, trying to make sense of your words.

“What did I do to make you feel like this?” he asked, sincerely curious and touched. Could all of this had been a huge misunderstanding? or something else big enough to provoke her reaction? You took a deep breath, apprehensive of his reaction, your life and the future of the Empire would lie in his hands.

“The truth was I was terrified of…our relationship. Commodus, I am pregnant with your child.”

Thoughts? theories? next part? I'd be very happy if you comment, like or reblog ^^^love y'all

Commodus harem: @skaravile @lyoongx @weirdflecksbutok @charlie-sisters @stardancerluv @sgtsavoytruffle @ohcarlesmycarles @rajacero @niniitah-ah @morrisonmercurryphoenix @fly-like-a-phoenix @thatdummy-girl​r @galos-writing @pstvchld @chiclunatic @buttergirlie​ @rosebloodstuffandthangss​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @jaylovesbats @dreamingmaria​ @just-a-fucking-comedy​ @lady-carnivals-stuff​ @sierraclegane​​ @lemondedeniname​​ @hvproductions​​ @syvellsworld​​ @papercut-paranoia​​ @jokerflecker​​ ​ @bring-your-holy-water @five-miles-over​ @beatlebabe1996​ @kfanniart @soulsfrostedheart18 @mayflower-gal

wheeew i had a dream about fucking homelander last night on the sevens meeting table right front of the seven themselves. let me tell you i woke up feeling like i just went ten rounds in a cage fight. dog tired and hot. never had a more realistic dream in my life, also never been more disappointed waking up from a dream.

they way you talk about Homelander is NUTS (love you for it) (continue on)

I don't mean to be weird but when you said NUTS all I could think about was Homelander's nuts in my mouth hallelujah

Thank you for the ask ☺️

meh, might as well

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.

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

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

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

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

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

writing tag

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Homelander is an asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why should you respect them?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t stop thinking about him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are unacceptably late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will have to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

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

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re such a fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

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

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

“What do you want from me?”

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

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

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not wearing a stitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could you have ever denied yourself?

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

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

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

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

“Take off your gloves.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s still not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A visible sheen coats his lips.

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

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

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

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

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

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

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

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

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