✿°•˚Barley˚•°✿

[barleyo]

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©ᵇᵃʳˡᵉʸᵒ. ᴬˡˡ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵃʳˡᵉʸᵒ ᵀᵘᵐᵇˡʳ ᵇˡᵒᵍ, ⁱⁿᶜˡᵘᵈⁱⁿᵍ ᵒʳⁱᵍⁱⁿᵃˡ ʷᵒʳᵏˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶜʳᵉᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ, ⁱˢ ᵖʳᵒᵗᵉᶜᵗᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᶜᵒᵖʸʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ˡᵃʷ. ᵁⁿᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳⁱᶻᵉᵈ ᵘˢᵉ ᵒʳ ʳᵉᵖʳᵒᵈᵘᶜᵗⁱᵒⁿ ⁱˢ ᵖʳᵒʰⁱᵇⁱᵗᵉᵈ.

[barleyo]

Icarus of Crete.

Billy Butcher X Homelander (Butchlander)

A/N: i know i don't typically post character x character fics but i have such an obsession with any ship including homelander. if kripke had a pair, this is how the boys would have ended. playing fast and loose with canon right now, please ignore how hughie + kimiko 100% would have stopped this. hope you enjoy, reblogs + comments are always appreciated!

Tags: whumpfic, explicit gore, physical torture, rape/non-con, anal sex, no protection, violence, oral sex, blowjobs, blood and gutsy stuff, kicking, stomping, homelander's pitiful relationship with God, cock and ball torture, body horror

Wordcount: 1.6k

For years, this was all Butcher wanted. A taste of power over the Supe who had single-handedly ruined his life. Hundreds of sleepless nights, looking at his empty mattress with a mix of disdain and heartache, waiting for a knock on the door that he knew would never come. He knew there was no justice in this gruesome world, that he would have to seek it himself, and now? The fruit of the last ten years had miraculously bloomed in front of him.

He pawed his trusty crowbar with thinly veiled excitement. He knew the optics on this weren't painting him in the best light, but the audience at home could wank off for all he cared. He had The Homelander in the palm of his calloused hand, pathetic and whimpering without his powers. 

Billy snorted softly at the pleas that escaped the writhing scum before him—he had heard it all before. "I'll do anything," people would beg. "Whatever you want." Empty promises, all of them. This time, though, it felt a little different.

"Please," Homelander sobbed, looking more like a sniveling baby the more he begged. "What do you want? You want money?"

"Oh, darling," Billy purred, the electricity of this moment pumping through his veins, "I'm hurt. You know that's not it."

"I'll do anything—fuck, anything! I—" he hacked violently, starting to choke on his own blood and snot, "—I'll suck your dick!"

Again, a small huff of laughter. "You're a pathetic, little bastard," he said, teeth gleaming behind his twisted grin. "Wee bit of blood and you offer that mouth of yours?"

Again, Homelander let out a broken sob. He wanted so badly to wipe away the blood that poured from his mouth like tap water, coating his bruised chin, but God—hell, did he really believe in God now, of all times?—only knew what Butcher would do at the slightest movement.

"Don't do this to me, I'm begging you," he said through a retch, physically sickened by the near-certainty of his death. "William, please."

"Let's ask the folks at home, huh? Get ourselves a poll going?"

Yes, it was cruel. But so, so deserved. He spent years mourning the day Becca's life and innocence was stolen from him, and now he had the chance to get even. If he played his cards right, he could rightly get a good deal more out of the bargain too. 

"Ah, resounding yes," Butcher said, content as could be. If he weren't so into this little power play, he would see how horrified Hughie was from behind the doors, struggling to break through them. "But I think we need a little insurance here."

With one swift, sick crack to the face, a solid handful of Homelander's front teeth came loose. Bloodied little pearls flew from his mouth with an anguished scream. 

"Much better," Billy hummed, positively relishing in the groans of agony he was met with as he unbuckled his belt. "Won't feel so tempted to get nippy now, will ye?"

With one hand still holding his crowbar and the other gripping tightly on Homelander's hair, Butcher bucked his hips with a force strong enough to suffocate. There was no give in his pace, no shred of kindness that lessened the burn in Homelander's throat. It didn't even feel good, but that was far from the point. 

It was a message. A clear, direct message to not only Homelander, but to all of America—to all of the world: he was no God. No all-powerful being in the slightest. He was nothing but a pitiful, crying cunt and a lackluster cocksucker. Letting that be known felt better than any mediocre head could ever feel. 

Though, if he were being honest, the bloody mess of Homelander's mouth oiled his cock up pretty well, enough to fill the room with obscene sounds. Slick, wet gurgling and gagging, loud enough to pick up on camera, Butcher was sure. 

"I must say, you've never looked better than this," Billy said through deep sarcasm, biting his lip and giving his thick eyebrows a raise. "Couldn't'a been a pornstar instead? Need a little practice, but you get the job done, love."

If he had any dignity left, any at all, Homelander would have bitten down hard enough to rip Butcher's dick right in half. The only problems were that he had no such dignity and no such teeth. 

Instead, he relaxed his throat the best he could and silently whimpered to himself, letting his tears mix with dried blood down his cheeks. He kept his hands between his thighs, pitifully rubbing over his half-chubbed cock. What did it say about him that a small part of him was getting off on this? Before he could ponder that further, Butcher took notice.

"Oh, look at that," he cooed with a slow whistle, quickly pulling his dick out of Homelander's mouth. "Gettin' a stiffy, mate?" His amused tone shifted quickly, almost unnoticeably fast, into one of pure disgust and lividity. He rubbed the tip of his boot over the lump in Homelander's costume, tracing it with a furrowed brow. He swiftly stomped on it, crushing the once powerful Supe's cock against the cool, linoleum floor. 

"Get up."

"F—fuck, please," he said, slumping forward in agony. Going from never feeling pain to feeling the highest form possible, it rocked John to his core. He never imagined such suffering existed, let alone that he should ever feel it. "I can't," he said through sharp wails, clutching his beaten genitals. "I c—can't!"

Pulling him up by his overly dyed hair, Butcher slammed John's body against the wooden desk. He clawed through the costume, ripping the impenetrable fabric with wild strength. John's body was so soft underneath the padding, so human. 

Maybe it would have made another man think about his actions—consider how heinous it was to treat another person this way. Butcher was not that man. The exposed, pudgy flesh on Homelander's body begged to be marked and scarred. To be ravished.

That. 

That was the man Butcher was, sick as it made him.

"Is this how she felt?" Billy demanded, wrapping his hand around John's throat and forcing his head back to a sickening degree, nearly snapping it backward to look at him. 

He had gone, perhaps, a bit too far with this, but he would be damned if he stopped now. He was drunk on it—the sweet catharsis of revenge and justice. Was it really justice, though, if the vengeance neared outweighing the original crime?

When he forced John against the desk, he wasn't sure of his plan. He wanted to strike him, to cut him, or impale him, but none of that would be enough. Butcher's mind was made up the second he heard John's chants of "no" and "please" when his hand lingered over his ass in thought. 

He shoved himself into his clenched hole, stretching his tight ass with only drying blood and leftover spit coating his length to ease the entry. An eye for an eye, he told himself, pounding away into John's bleeding rim.

"Answer me," Billy repeated slowly, tightening his grip on John's neck. He gave a sharp strike against his Adam's apple.

"Just—" John hacked up a fat wad of blood and spat it out, watching as it dribble down the length of the desk, "—just fucking kill me, for the love of God." 

When pain becomes too much to bear, the brain will often shut down completely. John's neural pathways fought to stay active, but between the throbbing pain in his gums and the tearing of his asshole, he was struggling to keep his grip on reality. 

He wanted to faint, he could see the dark haze pleading to overtake his eyes, but he knew there would be hell to pay if he did. Maybe he would wake up limbless, forced to eat pieces of his pathetic body. Maybe Butcher would cut out his tongue and make him swallow it. It was all very agonizing to think about, yes, so death couldn't come soon enough. 

He wished he had lived a better life just to save him from this anguish. If he was given a sign, any indication that this was to come, he would have let Billy crack his head open and kill him on the spot. There was no universe in which hell was any worse than this. 

If God, he thought, were real and as merciful as people say, He would have struck him with lightning now and killed him off. 

Too bad that the only omnipotent force in the room was Butcher, and he was not merciful in the slightest. 

"Is this how my Becca felt?" Billy asked, letting his eyes meet John's swollen, exhausted face. "Is this what you did to her? You raped her, took her body and made it a trophy on yer shelf?"

"Kill me, William," John said again, letting his face fall against the desktop. His nose was already leaking enough blood to drown a small country, what could another hit do? "If you have any decency, please. Fucking kill me."

Butcher hummed in thought, rubbing a soft circle between John's shoulder blades. 

"I think," he paused, leaning his full weight on John's back, "we're far past decency. You still owe me, you know."

God, please, please. Take him. Take John's soul in your hand and crush it, sprinkle it over the flames of hell and stoke the fire with his spine if you must, but take him. He thought he maybe remembered how to pray, some muscle memory from years ago. 

'Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell.'

"Matter'a fact, we're just getting started, love."

'Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.'

[barleyo]

I know this won't be my most popular work by a long shot, but I genuinely have so much love for this. I have a deep affinity for body horror and psychological exploration, so this was a real fun time for me. I wanted to break down some of the smaller details that may have been skimmed over or unrecognized, not only for anyone interested, but for myself, as a way to track my creative process.

Firstly, I thought the title was absolutely perfect. You may not know this, but I never start a fic without having a perfect title for it. Without a title, I just cannot write. Homelander very much reminds me of the story of Icarus—a young boy testing his limits, be it physically or intellectually, and ultimately failing and facing a horrible death due to his own hubris. Their stories are almost identical, save the child abuse. 

I also wanted to mirror Butcher and Homelander the further the fic progressed. We all know they are meant to parallel each other, both being cruel and vengeful people, but I think you can really see it as Butcher realizes how horrific his actions are but continues because it just feels... good. It feels good to hurt others, especially when they have first hurt you. You can really see the Homelander slipping out of Billy, and I love it. It's so sick.

Now, some smaller dialogue details that were purposeful in my end were definitely the scene where Butcher is demanding answers out of Homelander. He asks, "is this what you did to MY Becca?" just as he says "this is for MY Becca" in the finale. Through his journey, and through his torture of John, he loses sight of why he's doing this. It's no longer to avenge Becca, but to prove a point: nobody touches what belongs to him and gets away with it. Clearly, there's hell to pay for it.

Quick mention, the physical torture is of course a representation of John's inner conflict with himself. Butcher is the punishment that John knows he deserves but is too cowardly face. He realizes that he doesn't deserve death for his crimes: he deserves worse, and he cannot handle it.

Mostly importantly, I like the contrast of John's god complex and his begging for God to kill him, to save him. He repents as soon as there's danger, showing just how cowardly and fake his persona was. He prays, he humbled himself in front of both God and Butcher, who briefly are one and the same, and he prays. He begs for his life and for forgiveness, but it still isn't genuine. John never learned how to be earnest, and just like a child he can only see what he can gain out of relationships, even in his relationship with God. He's so emotionally stunted that he doesn't understand the concept of being a good person or being honest just to be honest and a good person. He always thinks there has to be a catch, and I both love and hate that about him. 

Anyways, I hope nobody read all of this, this is all so stupid. Love ya!

[barleyo]

Icarus of Crete.

Billy Butcher X Homelander (Butchlander)

A/N: i know i don't typically post character x character fics but i have such an obsession with any ship including homelander. if kripke had a pair, this is how the boys would have ended. playing fast and loose with canon right now, please ignore how hughie + kimiko 100% would have stopped this. hope you enjoy, reblogs + comments are always appreciated!

Tags: whumpfic, explicit gore, physical torture, rape/non-con, anal sex, no protection, violence, oral sex, blowjobs, blood and gutsy stuff, kicking, stomping, homelander's pitiful relationship with God, cock and ball torture, body horror

Wordcount: 1.6k

For years, this was all Butcher wanted. A taste of power over the Supe who had single-handedly ruined his life. Hundreds of sleepless nights, looking at his empty mattress with a mix of disdain and heartache, waiting for a knock on the door that he knew would never come. He knew there was no justice in this gruesome world, that he would have to seek it himself, and now? The fruit of the last ten years had miraculously bloomed in front of him.

He pawed his trusty crowbar with thinly veiled excitement. He knew the optics on this weren't painting him in the best light, but the audience at home could wank off for all he cared. He had The Homelander in the palm of his calloused hand, pathetic and whimpering without his powers. 

Billy snorted softly at the pleas that escaped the writhing scum before him—he had heard it all before. "I'll do anything," people would beg. "Whatever you want." Empty promises, all of them. This time, though, it felt a little different.

"Please," Homelander sobbed, looking more like a sniveling baby the more he begged. "What do you want? You want money?"

"Oh, darling," Billy purred, the electricity of this moment pumping through his veins, "I'm hurt. You know that's not it."

"I'll do anything—fuck, anything! I—" he hacked violently, starting to choke on his own blood and snot, "—I'll suck your dick!"

Again, a small huff of laughter. "You're a pathetic, little bastard," he said, teeth gleaming behind his twisted grin. "Wee bit of blood and you offer that mouth of yours?"

Again, Homelander let out a broken sob. He wanted so badly to wipe away the blood that poured from his mouth like tap water, coating his bruised chin, but God—hell, did he really believe in God now, of all times?—only knew what Butcher would do at the slightest movement.

"Don't do this to me, I'm begging you," he said through a retch, physically sickened by the near-certainty of his death. "William, please."

"Let's ask the folks at home, huh? Get ourselves a poll going?"

Yes, it was cruel. But so, so deserved. He spent years mourning the day Becca's life and innocence was stolen from him, and now he had the chance to get even. If he played his cards right, he could rightly get a good deal more out of the bargain too. 

"Ah, resounding yes," Butcher said, content as could be. If he weren't so into this little power play, he would see how horrified Hughie was from behind the doors, struggling to break through them. "But I think we need a little insurance here."

With one swift, sick crack to the face, a solid handful of Homelander's front teeth came loose. Bloodied little pearls flew from his mouth with an anguished scream. 

"Much better," Billy hummed, positively relishing in the groans of agony he was met with as he unbuckled his belt. "Won't feel so tempted to get nippy now, will ye?"

With one hand still holding his crowbar and the other gripping tightly on Homelander's hair, Butcher bucked his hips with a force strong enough to suffocate. There was no give in his pace, no shred of kindness that lessened the burn in Homelander's throat. It didn't even feel good, but that was far from the point. 

It was a message. A clear, direct message to not only Homelander, but to all of America—to all of the world: he was no God. No all-powerful being in the slightest. He was nothing but a pitiful, crying cunt and a lackluster cocksucker. Letting that be known felt better than any mediocre head could ever feel. 

Though, if he were being honest, the bloody mess of Homelander's mouth oiled his cock up pretty well, enough to fill the room with obscene sounds. Slick, wet gurgling and gagging, loud enough to pick up on camera, Butcher was sure. 

"I must say, you've never looked better than this," Billy said through deep sarcasm, biting his lip and giving his thick eyebrows a raise. "Couldn't'a been a pornstar instead? Need a little practice, but you get the job done, love."

If he had any dignity left, any at all, Homelander would have bitten down hard enough to rip Butcher's dick right in half. The only problems were that he had no such dignity and no such teeth. 

Instead, he relaxed his throat the best he could and silently whimpered to himself, letting his tears mix with dried blood down his cheeks. He kept his hands between his thighs, pitifully rubbing over his half-chubbed cock. What did it say about him that a small part of him was getting off on this? Before he could ponder that further, Butcher took notice.

"Oh, look at that," he cooed with a slow whistle, quickly pulling his dick out of Homelander's mouth. "Gettin' a stiffy, mate?" His amused tone shifted quickly, almost unnoticeably fast, into one of pure disgust and lividity. He rubbed the tip of his boot over the lump in Homelander's costume, tracing it with a furrowed brow. He swiftly stomped on it, crushing the once powerful Supe's cock against the cool, linoleum floor. 

"Get up."

"F—fuck, please," he said, slumping forward in agony. Going from never feeling pain to feeling the highest form possible, it rocked John to his core. He never imagined such suffering existed, let alone that he should ever feel it. "I can't," he said through sharp wails, clutching his beaten genitals. "I c—can't!"

Pulling him up by his overly dyed hair, Butcher slammed John's body against the wooden desk. He clawed through the costume, ripping the impenetrable fabric with wild strength. John's body was so soft underneath the padding, so human. 

Maybe it would have made another man think about his actions—consider how heinous it was to treat another person this way. Butcher was not that man. The exposed, pudgy flesh on Homelander's body begged to be marked and scarred. To be ravished.

That. 

That was the man Butcher was, sick as it made him.

"Is this how she felt?" Billy demanded, wrapping his hand around John's throat and forcing his head back to a sickening degree, nearly snapping it backward to look at him. 

He had gone, perhaps, a bit too far with this, but he would be damned if he stopped now. He was drunk on it—the sweet catharsis of revenge and justice. Was it really justice, though, if the vengeance neared outweighing the original crime?

When he forced John against the desk, he wasn't sure of his plan. He wanted to strike him, to cut him, or impale him, but none of that would be enough. Butcher's mind was made up the second he heard John's chants of "no" and "please" when his hand lingered over his ass in thought. 

He shoved himself into his clenched hole, stretching his tight ass with only drying blood and leftover spit coating his length to ease the entry. An eye for an eye, he told himself, pounding away into John's bleeding rim.

"Answer me," Billy repeated slowly, tightening his grip on John's neck. He gave a sharp strike against his Adam's apple.

"Just—" John hacked up a fat wad of blood and spat it out, watching as it dribble down the length of the desk, "—just fucking kill me, for the love of God." 

When pain becomes too much to bear, the brain will often shut down completely. John's neural pathways fought to stay active, but between the throbbing pain in his gums and the tearing of his asshole, he was struggling to keep his grip on reality. 

He wanted to faint, he could see the dark haze pleading to overtake his eyes, but he knew there would be hell to pay if he did. Maybe he would wake up limbless, forced to eat pieces of his pathetic body. Maybe Butcher would cut out his tongue and make him swallow it. It was all very agonizing to think about, yes, so death couldn't come soon enough. 

He wished he had lived a better life just to save him from this anguish. If he was given a sign, any indication that this was to come, he would have let Billy crack his head open and kill him on the spot. There was no universe in which hell was any worse than this. 

If God, he thought, were real and as merciful as people say, He would have struck him with lightning now and killed him off. 

Too bad that the only omnipotent force in the room was Butcher, and he was not merciful in the slightest. 

"Is this how my Becca felt?" Billy asked, letting his eyes meet John's swollen, exhausted face. "Is this what you did to her? You raped her, took her body and made it a trophy on yer shelf?"

"Kill me, William," John said again, letting his face fall against the desktop. His nose was already leaking enough blood to drown a small country, what could another hit do? "If you have any decency, please. Fucking kill me."

Butcher hummed in thought, rubbing a soft circle between John's shoulder blades. 

"I think," he paused, leaning his full weight on John's back, "we're far past decency. You still owe me, you know."

God, please, please. Take him. Take John's soul in your hand and crush it, sprinkle it over the flames of hell and stoke the fire with his spine if you must, but take him. He thought he maybe remembered how to pray, some muscle memory from years ago. 

'Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell.'

"Matter'a fact, we're just getting started, love."

'Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.'

[barleyo]

okay we all knew it would get to this point. yumeship time 💝

i'm calling it barlander... rest in piece to barlabra... a new bombshell has entered the villa :,(

[barleyo]

Obscene.

Billy Butcher X F! Reader

A/N: first time writing for butcher, thought this would be cute. this is sorta like a flower in the hand of a gorilla thing, but i think he could learn to be gentle in some ways. enjoy, reblog + comments are always appreciated!

Tags: fingering, spit play, cunnilingus, oral (f receiving), slightly ooc so just go with it

Wordcount: ~0.7k

For being a man with such a notoriously filthy mouth, Butcher had it in him to be gentle in small ways. He was a gentleman when it mattered, you supposed. 

He kicked off his blood soaked boots outside of your door when he came to visit, refusing to track it through your lovely little apartment. He'd clear his plate and praise your cooking when you would make him dinner. Held doors for you, let his shoulder get drenched in the rain so you could be fully covered by the umbrella, and always walked on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road.

Given that, you didn't mind too much how he played fast and loose with his words, cursing in ways that would make a sailor blush. At first, it startled you, but as you fell for him, it just became another part of him. That was just your Billy. It was funny, almost, how he could use more expletives in a sentence than normal words.

He liked the basics: "fuck you," "fuck that," "fuck this," "fucking hell," "for fuck's sake," of course. Sometimes he would sprinkle in a "shit," or more commonly, "shite" with his darling accent. His all time favorite word, though? Well, it had to be "cunt." 

Everyone was a cunt. Homelander? Super-cunt. Frenchie? Snail-eating, frog-cunt. Some guy crossing the street? Pedestrian cunt. 

Strangely enough, though, he never used that word to describe your actual cunt. No, he thought a word like that was too ugly for such a sweet thing. He had his alternatives for you.

"That's real pretty, love," Butcher cooed gently, blowing on your swollen clit. He had teased you for so long, your poor bud was aching for relief. "Poor girl, can't handle a mean old bastard's teasing much longer, can ye?"

He used his thick, calloused fingers to part your lips. He gave a sloppy lick over your warmth and groaned softly. 

"Too much," you mumbled, letting your smaller hands thread through his hair. "Careful."

"Oh, of course," he said in that delicious, sly voice, clearly intending to be the exact opposite of careful. "This precious cunny can only take so much, hm?"

He spat a fat wad directly onto your clit and licked it back up, using far too much pressure with his tongue. He huffed a short laugh at the way you tried to shut him out with your thighs. It was funny to him that you even thought to try. You knew well enough that a man like him didn't like to be interrupted while eating, especially not when dessert has just been served.

He easily pried them back open with a strength that just worked to make you even wetter. With one hand kept firmly on each of your thighs, he pressed back into your warmth. 

You felt him tongue you for a while, bringing you almost to the edge of release, before pulling back and spitting on your clit again. It was a vicious, hazing cycle that trapped you. The undertow of a lick here, the backflow of his tongue abandoning your clit and shoving its way into your hole.

You felt his head pause between your legs for a moment. You were confused at first, then mortified as you felt him take a deep huff between your legs.

"Billy!" you squeaked, trying to push his head away. "That's so gross, stop that!"

He snickered and let you push his head up slightly, looking up at you with blown pupils and spit and your essence running down his chin. "Don't be like that, love," he said, running the pads of two of his fingers tightly over your clit. "Your sweet little twat's my favorite scent."

"You're so gross," you said through a stifled moan, still embarrassed.

"Ye? Well, I guess that means I'm your gross, old man," he said with a hint of genuine happiness in his voice. 

It was rare for him to show so much emotion—he'd had his joy taken too many times to not be wary. But between your legs, and more importantly, in your presence, he really was happy. 

"Now, let's see about that arse of yours," he said, pushing your legs towards your chest.

"Billy, no!"

[barleyo]

Obscene.

Billy Butcher X F! Reader

A/N: first time writing for butcher, thought this would be cute. this is sorta like a flower in the hand of a gorilla thing, but i think he could learn to be gentle in some ways. enjoy, reblog + comments are always appreciated!

Tags: fingering, spit play, cunnilingus, oral (f receiving), slightly ooc so just go with it

Wordcount: ~0.7k

For being a man with such a notoriously filthy mouth, Butcher had it in him to be gentle in small ways. He was a gentleman when it mattered, you supposed. 

He kicked off his blood soaked boots outside of your door when he came to visit, refusing to track it through your lovely little apartment. He'd clear his plate and praise your cooking when you would make him dinner. Held doors for you, let his shoulder get drenched in the rain so you could be fully covered by the umbrella, and always walked on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road.

Given that, you didn't mind too much how he played fast and loose with his words, cursing in ways that would make a sailor blush. At first, it startled you, but as you fell for him, it just became another part of him. That was just your Billy. It was funny, almost, how he could use more expletives in a sentence than normal words.

He liked the basics: "fuck you," "fuck that," "fuck this," "fucking hell," "for fuck's sake," of course. Sometimes he would sprinkle in a "shit," or more commonly, "shite" with his darling accent. His all time favorite word, though? Well, it had to be "cunt." 

Everyone was a cunt. Homelander? Super-cunt. Frenchie? Snail-eating, frog-cunt. Some guy crossing the street? Pedestrian cunt. 

Strangely enough, though, he never used that word to describe your actual cunt. No, he thought a word like that was too ugly for such a sweet thing. He had his alternatives for you.

"That's real pretty, love," Butcher cooed gently, blowing on your swollen clit. He had teased you for so long, your poor bud was aching for relief. "Poor girl, can't handle a mean old bastard's teasing much longer, can ye?"

He used his thick, calloused fingers to part your lips. He gave a sloppy lick over your warmth and groaned softly. 

"Too much," you mumbled, letting your smaller hands thread through his hair. "Careful."

"Oh, of course," he said in that delicious, sly voice, clearly intending to be the exact opposite of careful. "This precious cunny can only take so much, hm?"

He spat a fat wad directly onto your clit and licked it back up, using far too much pressure with his tongue. He huffed a short laugh at the way you tried to shut him out with your thighs. It was funny to him that you even thought to try. You knew well enough that a man like him didn't like to be interrupted while eating, especially not when dessert has just been served.

He easily pried them back open with a strength that just worked to make you even wetter. With one hand kept firmly on each of your thighs, he pressed back into your warmth. 

You felt him tongue you for a while, bringing you almost to the edge of release, before pulling back and spitting on your clit again. It was a vicious, hazing cycle that trapped you. The undertow of a lick here, the backflow of his tongue abandoning your clit and shoving its way into your hole.

You felt his head pause between your legs for a moment. You were confused at first, then mortified as you felt him take a deep huff between your legs.

"Billy!" you squeaked, trying to push his head away. "That's so gross, stop that!"

He snickered and let you push his head up slightly, looking up at you with blown pupils and spit and your essence running down his chin. "Don't be like that, love," he said, running the pads of two of his fingers tightly over your clit. "Your sweet little twat's my favorite scent."

"You're so gross," you said through a stifled moan, still embarrassed.

"Ye? Well, I guess that means I'm your gross, old man," he said with a hint of genuine happiness in his voice. 

It was rare for him to show so much emotion—he'd had his joy taken too many times to not be wary. But between your legs, and more importantly, in your presence, he really was happy. 

"Now, let's see about that arse of yours," he said, pushing your legs towards your chest.

"Billy, no!"

[barleyo]

deeplander unenthusiastic blowjob fic cumming soon—i mean coming soon :3

[barleyo]

Milkmaid.

Homelander X F! Pregnant! Reader

A/N: i've only watched a bit of this show, and have picked up the rest through cultural osmosis, so if anything is inaccurate or ooc, ignore it. read the tags, and reblogs/comments are always appreciated!

Tags: rape/non-con, lactation, breastfeeding, forced cheating, pregnancy mentions, foot fetish (kinda), toxic relationship (reader and the deep), groping, violence, manipulation, homelander's mommy issues, extreme public sex, exhibitionism, deeplander if you squint and read it upside down

Wordcount: 3.5k

Your life was complete and utter shit. You were poor before, yes, but you still had respect for yourself and a moral code that you tried to uphold. Now, you were nothing but a government prop at best and a walking fleshlight at worst.

You had always hated Supes. Sure, maybe as a kid you had a slight crush on Drummer Boy, but as far as you were concerned, it was just plain creepy that superhuman freaks were uplifted and idolized by greater society. It seemed, in your eyes, an atrocity against God. Blasphemy in the flesh, decorated in capes, stripes, and armor. Even now, you still held your beliefs: Supes were strange.

Especially your husband, The Deep, or Kevin, as you strictly referred to him as. 

Seeing his stupid, perfect face on magazine covers and those terrible commercials made you cringe. Everything about him disgusted you. His polished smile—veneers, by the way—his overly sharp jaw, and those evil, beady eyes meant to look "approachable." Vought had spent millions trying to rebrand him in the public's eye after a sexual scandal involving an aquatic animal of sorts. It took a lot of work to transform his image from beastiality craving pervert to lovable scamp, but thanks to you, they made it work. 

Who knew all he needed was a wife? A pregnant one, at that. You were the perfect fresh start, a redemption arc. God, the thought made you sick, but what were you to do? A poor, struggling woman in a big city with nothing but your good looks and a hunger for better to your name?

You weren't chosen specifically, really. You were needed and you were found, and that was the end of it. When Vought fat-cats handed Kevin a folder labeled "Relatable Family Image," he had the city searched for someone desperate but still fuckable.

Did you want to say yes? Obviously not. Life with Kevin was as close to hell as a living person could get, but now you had a lovely penthouse, filled with expensive furniture, jewelry, and enough money to physically burn without worry. 

You hated yourself for how quickly your desire for survival and comfort overpowered your dignity, but hey, a girl has to eat, doesn't she?

Every day with him, though, reminded of you why you so dearly hated Supes. They were arrogant, narcissistic, self-absorbed, impatient, overgrown toddlers with super strength. They were far from Gods. Just demons wearing designer cologne and despite how much you hated your husband, you knew he was far from the worst of them. 

Your were beyond irritated at this point. Kevin had left his phone at home, again. You noticed it as soon as you walked into the kitchen, his homescreen was impossible to miss. Some selfie he took at the beach, trying to look sexy. What a narcissist. 

Normally, it would be fine. He was quite busy at work anyways, usually never having time to be on it. Today, though, he had called you about twenty times from some poor intern's phone, each voicemail growing concerningly more impatient and angry. Something about important classified information and "secret Seven business." The fact that he thought you gave enough of a fuck to want and explanation nearly made you snort. 

Either way, you found yourself eight months pregnant, exhausted, and sitting in the back of a Vought-issued SUV, glaring out the tinted windows in jealousy of the simple passers-by. Not to mention your poor swollen feet! You promised yourself that once you had this baby, you would set the whole city on fire in honor of pregnant women everywhere.

Once you arrived at the Vought Tower, you were faced with twenty excruciating minutes of  questioning by security personnel that looked at you like a convicted terrorist. 

"Identification."

You slid your I.D. over, wincing at the last name that stared back at you from the shiny little card. Moskowitz. Mrs. Moskowitz. Honestly, you wished one of the guards would have just shot you where you stood. It would have been better than being Mrs. "The Deep." 

"Purpose of visit?"

You sighed and held up the cellphone. "Just bringing my husband his phone."

The guard looked at another, then nodded. They ran you through a few metal detectors and screenings before escorting you to a large elevator. You rode your way up to the ninety-ninth floor, feeling like you had just escaped some type of work camp. 

There security was nearly suffocating. There went your dream of someone coming to assassinate your dumbass husband. They'd never make it past the lobby, damn it.

You knocked on the thick, tall door hesitantly, almost afraid that the wood might swallow you whole if you got too close. "Kevin, honey," you called, tasting grime left behind by the disingenuous nickname, "are you in there? You had left your phone at home, so I brought it for you." 

The second the door opened, all conversation stopped right in its tracks. You tightened your grip on Kevin's forgotten phone. The room somehow felt colder than the rest of Vought Tower. Every member of The Seven looked mildly irritated to find a civilian standing in the doorway.

None more than your husband. Homelander was a close second, though. Eyes slightly twitching at the sound of the door creaking open. His fist clenched slightly, jaw growing tight, until his gaze shifted downwards towards your stomach. Interesting. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something—?"

Kevin's face twisted. "What are you doing in here?"

You swallowed back an eye-roll. You hated him, but you would never embarrass him at work. "You told me to bring it to you." You held the phone up. "Don't you need it?"

Kevin crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "I obviously meant leave it at the front desk. Seven meetings are strictly confidential."

Several members of The Seven looked away awkwardly. You weren't surprised; Kevin loved an audience, especially when Homelander was watching. Anything to impress him. 

"Just leave it, and go home. There's no room for a civilian here, alright?"

You knew him far too well, could read all of your precious Kevin's signs. He  wasn't talking to you, he was performing and trying to get a laugh. Trying to prove he wasn't whipped, to prove he was still one of the guys, one of The Seven, and not some married pansy whose entire image was being rehabilitated through forced family branding.

Heat rose to your cheeks, anger flooding your mind. Not a hint of gratitude, not a speck! If you did not have so much restraint, you would have snapped his phone in half and hurled it at him, but you were smarter than that. Just barely.

You opened your mouth to speak, but another voice cut you off.

"Enough," Homelander said. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. The energy of the room obeyed him, which was helpful, but Jesus, it was off putting. 

"Homelander, I—"

"I know what you're doing. Enough." He leaned back in his chair, expression shifting slightly. He looked at you again. You wished it was a look of anger or disgust, but it was worse. It was intrigue. 

It made your skin crawl.

"You know," he said, looking back at your husband, "most men would be grateful."

Kevin blinked, absolutely dumbfounded. "What?"

"A gorgeous, pregnant wife kind enough to drive across the city to hand deliver something you stupidly forgot."

The room remained deathly silent. 

"And you're yelling at her in front of everyone, right?" Homelander tilted his head. "Right?" he asked again, sharper.

"Yes, Homelander."

"Stand up." The order rang out like a gunshot, clear and precise. 

"What?"

"Stand."

When Homelander's expression did not falter, Kevin slowly rose from his chair. 

Homelander extended his hand forward and gestured him out of the way. "Give her your chair."

You thought for a second Kevin might have argued—he wouldn't piss on fire to put you out, after all—but then you remembered who he would be arguing with, and it didn't seem so possible anymore.

With a clenched jaw, he moved to the side. Homelander wordlessly urged you to sit, and though your body screamed for you not to, you did. 

The meeting had technically resumed, but nobody was paying attention anymore, not after Homelander's interruption.

You sat awkwardly at the conference table, clutching Kevin's phone in your lap and wishing a meteor would strike you down. 

The discussion continued around you, something about quarterly projections or crime statistics.

You weren't really listening, mostly because you were painfully aware of Homelander's attention drifting back toward you every few minutes. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be noticed.

You adjusted slightly in the chair and Homelander immediately spoke, interrupting A-Train. 

"Comfortable?"

Every head turned towards you, again, and you suddenly wanted to die.

"Uhm, yes. Of course."

His brow furrowed. "You don't sound sure."

"I'm fine."

"Hm." Homelander leaned back, still unconvinced. His eyes dropped toward your feet. "Have you been standing all day? The security checkpoint, elevators, walking across the building."

"Well, yes. I suppose so."

His expression became one of mild disapproval. "You poor thing." You would have taken his tone for mockery if he weren't staring directly at your tits while he said it. Then, he looked toward Kevin.

"Your wife should be relaxing."

Kevin immediately straightened. "Right."

"And yet she's sitting here in heels."

Honestly, you'd forgotten you were wearing them, but they certainly weren't the most comfortable shoe ever. 

Kevin opened his mouth and closed it again.

Homelander smiled and looked at you. "Take them off." He gestured casually. "You'll be more relaxed. You must be exhausted," he said, something about his tone making you nauseous. "You should get more comfortable, especially after such a long drive."

"I'm okay, I promise," you said, trying and failing to sound reassuring. 

"Nonsense." His smile widened, but never touched his eyes. A vacant, painted look that drilled into you. "A woman who's expecting deserves to be pampered. Take your shoes off."

Everything he said sounded less like a suggestion and more like a direct order, so, reluctantly, you slipped your shoes off beneath the table.

The meeting continued for approximately thirty seconds before Homelander spoke again.

"Deep." He spat. "Why are you still standing there?"

Kevin frowned softly. "What do you mean?"

"Your wife's feet hurt."

The realization slowly dawned across Deep's face. Seeing Homelander's face start to sour, he immediately crouched beside your chair.

You almost felt bad for him. Keyword: almost.

Now, Kevin had never once hit you, but after that display, he was uncomfortably close. Once the meeting had adjourned, he gripped um your wrist tight enough to bruise and dragged you out into the hallway, ignoring stares from the others who walked by. You barely had time to slip your shoes back on before he grabbed you.

"What the hell was that?" he barked, holding your wrist against the wall.

"What was what?"

"Don't play stupid," he said, voice growing sharper. A few interns scrambled away after seeing the scene, suddenly deciding they were needed elsewhere. "You made me look pathetic in there. Do you know how humiliated I am? Rubbing your fucking feet in front of everyone?"

With a scoff, you ripped your hand out of his grasp. "Me? I didn't do anything wrong, Kevin." You pointed your finger at him, tip-toeing your way into his face. "I do everything you ask of me, and you decide to treat me like shit in front of your little band of costumed creeps? Don't blame me because your boss is unstable, at best."

"I can't stand you, you—" before he could fix his mouth to finish, a blue of red and blue flashed from your peripherals.

One moment, your husband was bitching at you, the next, he was slumped on the ground with a busted lip.

You gasped softly and your hands flew to your stomach instinctively, terrified for your unborn baby.

"You never stop whining, do you?" Homelander stood next to you, looking down at Kevin with a disgusted sneer.

As Kevin struggled to push himself up, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, Homelander pressed the heel of his boot against his side, sending waves of paint through Kevin's gills.

Just moments ago, your husband was screaming at you, and now his eyes were lowered to the floor and his jaw was clenched in pain.

"Go clean yourself up, cocksucker." Homelander waved him away, curling his lip. "Get out of my sight."

Kevin didn't argue or complain, he didn't even look at you. He staggered to his feet and limped away as quickly as his injuries allowed, and within seconds he was gone, leaving you alone with Homelander.

The realization settled heavily in your chest and suddenly the hallway felt far too empty for comfort.

The sound of your own heartbeat pounding filled your ears when Homelander's attention shifted from the retreating Deep back to you, or rather, back to your stomach.

You slowly tightened your arms around it, clearly uncomfortable with how he stared at you. Your movement caught his attention immediately.

It was strange for him to see first hand. He knew that mother's were meant to protect their children with their lives, to fight for them and love them with all their might, but it was foreign to him. Exotic, like a tropical fruit in a desert. He wanted a piece of that himself, a sliver of protection and love from the most divine creature there was: a mother. He got everything he wanted, and easily, except for one of those.

Maybe he just had to take it for himself. Patience, of course, was a virtue. He had nothing but time.

"Everything alright?" he asked in that overly saccharine, too-good-to-be-true voice. It was fake and sappy, dripping over you and coating your nerves in discomfort like honey.

"Fine."

"Are you sure? Things seemed a little tense before I showed up."

You swallowed thickly and gave an equally fake smile. "Certain."

His gaze started to linger and he stepped forward, confidently. He was a couple of feet away. Close enough to make you sweat, but not enough to be fully afraid. Not yet, at least.

"How far along are you?"

The question sort of caught you off guard. It was the kind of thing old women in the grocery store asked you, not the world's "greatest" superhero. Especially not with his eyes trained on your tits.

"Seven months."

"Hm." He nodded slowly, letting his tongue dart out to wet his lips. "Boy or girl?"

"We don't know yet. We wanted it to be a surprise."

A strange smile appeared, thinly veiling slight annoyance. He hated how you said "we," how you even associated yourself with a pathetic work like The Deep. So what if he was your husband, he wasn't here. He wasn't important.

"That's nice," he said, the words sounding rehearsed, as if he was trying to imitate what a normal person would say. "When are you due?" You answered this and a few more of his seemingly regular questions, but each time you were met with the same thing. That same thoughtful hum. The same unbroken stare.

You were becoming increasingly aware and disturbed by it all. He hardly ever blinked, and when he did, his eyes flashed. His chest was unmoving, and you could not hear a single breath escape him. It was terrifying.

You shifted uncomfortably, but his eyes followed your every movement. Something about the way he was looking at you just felt plain wrong, dangerous and invasive.

You folded your arms across your chest to try and soothe yourself, and you felt it. A wet warmth beading through your top. A dark stain had begun to spread through the fabric of your shirt. Pregnancy had gifted you with countless humiliations and apparently it had decided to add another to the tally.

Your eyes widened. "For fuck's sake!" You crossed your arms tighter over your shirt, feeling your face flush in embarrassment. "Please excuse me, I need to go."

You had barely taken a step backwards when an eerily strong hand wrapped around your waist.

His gaze dropped briefly to where your arms were folded across your chest before returning to your face. "Stay." The word was gentle and soft, which made it all exponentially worse.

Despite how much you abhorred Kevin, with his stupidly handsome face and immature, self-righteous, narcissistic bullshit, you wished he hadn't left.

Standing alone with Homelander felt infinitely worse than tolerating your douchebag husband.

"If they didn't taste so good, I'd wanna stick my dick between these beauties," Homelander said between brief pauses, suckling away at your tender breasts. "Can't waste a drop."

You didn't want this, at all. The slight ache from his overly eager mouth was nothing compared to the hot embarrassment that came with him violating you right in the hallway. Luckily, nobody has yet walked by, but dozens of offices and break rooms sat on this floor. 

It was only a matter of time before some intern or security guard spotted you and looked away, unwilling to help you despite you sobbing. The idea made you sick, but you couldn't blame them. Who in their right mind would challenge this psycho?

This strangely attractive, forceful psycho?

You mentally told yourself that if you weren't pregnant, if you did not have so much to lose, that you would have tried to fight back or push him off. You knew that was a lie, though. He was far stronger than any man you had ever encountered, there was no universe in which you would be able to escape from under him.

He wasn't Kevin. When he tried to take you, you were almost always able to fight him off: he had his weak spots. You could shove your fingers down his gills and whatnot, but Homelander? Impenetrable. 

So, you accepted your fate and watched helplessly as he groping your left tit and sucked sloppily on the right. 

You felt your body be pushed back against the wall. Not the harsh shove you were expecting, but a gentle movement, with hands softly guiding your hips back. Homelander shifted and got on his knees, looking up at you from the floor.

His face—God, you didn't know how to explain how it made you feel. He was chiseled like a marble statue, built to perfection by Vought. Behind those disgustingly perfect features, though, you could see the faintest outline of pain. For a brief second, when he looked up at you, your instincts screamed "protect him," which was ridiculous! Not only was he a perfectly capable grown man, he was the one actively hurting you, taking advantage of you, but somewhere in your brain, your weak, empathetic pregnancy hormones were churning about. 

He started to look less like a man and more like a defenseless child the longer those sad, blue eyes watered. Damn your motherly disposition! This whole pregnancy thing really ruined your self-preservation skills.

With deep hesitation, your hand glided down to cup his face. His skin was freezing, like he had never once felt another person's touch, but he leaned into the warmth of your palm. 

He mumbled something under his breath about you being a good mommy while he rubbed his face into your hand. You figured this scene would look insane to any outsider. The Homelander on his knees, crying, being petted by a topless pregnant woman in the middle of a hallway.

He pressed his forehead against your bump, leaning into it as he did your hand. He let one palm raise up to grope your tit, and rolled the milk droplets between his fingers. 

A voice echoed down the corridor, followed by sluggish, slow steps and pained groans.

"Homelander?" The Deep moaned from down the hall, still bleeding profusely. "Are you still there?"

Homelander looked up at you, still bleary eyed and rugged your shirt, like a little kid. You sighed and wiped his face with your blouse, wiping off all his spit and tear streaks. He rose to his full height, but not before stealing another mouthful of your milk. Greedily, he lapped your breast before gesturing for you to fix your shirt.

Kevin practically crawled down the rest of the hallway, a look of pure pain and confusion on his face when he saw how close you two were standing. Homelander walked over to him and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, which, of course, was much harder than it needed to be. 

"You're a lucky man, Deep," he said coyly, smirking down at him. He hadn't even bothered to wipe the last of your milk that dribbled down his chin. 

And just like that, he whistled away, parlaying down the hallway like he owned the place. 

He basically did, didn't he?

[barleyo]

Homelander who is narcissistic in every sense of the word.

Homelander who places himself before the subjects in any sentence, appalled by the grammatical idea that anybody should ever come before himself. "I and you are nothing alike," he would spit at The Deep, curling a lip at him.

Homelander who believes himself above physical interaction with others, who snarls at offered hugs and wipes off handshakes in disgust.

Homelander who stalks his fan accounts on social media, relishing in the attention and devotion from fans he couldn't care less about. He'll like thirst posts that talk about what they'd let him do to them from his secret account. Maybe reposting some of the especially salacious ones.

Homelander who is far too self-obsessed to put actual effort into sex. Either you ride him or blow him, there are no other options. Homelander who doesn't believe you worthy enough to kiss him. Instead, he spits in your pretty little mouth and watches you swallow it. Close enough, isn't it?

Homelander who lets you fuck yourself on his boots when he needs an ego boost. Watching you defile yourself on his blood stained shoes gets him off to a sickening degree. Maybe he'll even let you lick up the mess you leave behind as a treat. Or maybe he'll just kick you off of him when he gets bored.

Homelander who has the smallest little soft spot for you. You're so desperate and clingy, it's hard not to notice your devotion. Homelander who lets you sit under his desk all day like his little pet, your reward for extended loyalty. Keep sucking his cock and don't make a peep, like the good puppy you are.

[barleyo]

Milkmaid.

Homelander X F! Pregnant! Reader

A/N: i've only watched a bit of this show, and have picked up the rest through cultural osmosis, so if anything is inaccurate or ooc, ignore it. read the tags, and reblogs/comments are always appreciated!

Tags: rape/non-con, lactation, breastfeeding, forced cheating, pregnancy mentions, foot fetish (kinda), toxic relationship (reader and the deep), groping, violence, manipulation, homelander's mommy issues, extreme public sex, exhibitionism, deeplander if you squint and read it upside down

Wordcount: 3.5k

Your life was complete and utter shit. You were poor before, yes, but you still had respect for yourself and a moral code that you tried to uphold. Now, you were nothing but a government prop at best and a walking fleshlight at worst.

You had always hated Supes. Sure, maybe as a kid you had a slight crush on Drummer Boy, but as far as you were concerned, it was just plain creepy that superhuman freaks were uplifted and idolized by greater society. It seemed, in your eyes, an atrocity against God. Blasphemy in the flesh, decorated in capes, stripes, and armor. Even now, you still held your beliefs: Supes were strange.

Especially your husband, The Deep, or Kevin, as you strictly referred to him as. 

Seeing his stupid, perfect face on magazine covers and those terrible commercials made you cringe. Everything about him disgusted you. His polished smile—veneers, by the way—his overly sharp jaw, and those evil, beady eyes meant to look "approachable." Vought had spent millions trying to rebrand him in the public's eye after a sexual scandal involving an aquatic animal of sorts. It took a lot of work to transform his image from beastiality craving pervert to lovable scamp, but thanks to you, they made it work. 

Who knew all he needed was a wife? A pregnant one, at that. You were the perfect fresh start, a redemption arc. God, the thought made you sick, but what were you to do? A poor, struggling woman in a big city with nothing but your good looks and a hunger for better to your name?

You weren't chosen specifically, really. You were needed and you were found, and that was the end of it. When Vought fat-cats handed Kevin a folder labeled "Relatable Family Image," he had the city searched for someone desperate but still fuckable.

Did you want to say yes? Obviously not. Life with Kevin was as close to hell as a living person could get, but now you had a lovely penthouse, filled with expensive furniture, jewelry, and enough money to physically burn without worry. 

You hated yourself for how quickly your desire for survival and comfort overpowered your dignity, but hey, a girl has to eat, doesn't she?

Every day with him, though, reminded of you why you so dearly hated Supes. They were arrogant, narcissistic, self-absorbed, impatient, overgrown toddlers with super strength. They were far from Gods. Just demons wearing designer cologne and despite how much you hated your husband, you knew he was far from the worst of them. 

Your were beyond irritated at this point. Kevin had left his phone at home, again. You noticed it as soon as you walked into the kitchen, his homescreen was impossible to miss. Some selfie he took at the beach, trying to look sexy. What a narcissist. 

Normally, it would be fine. He was quite busy at work anyways, usually never having time to be on it. Today, though, he had called you about twenty times from some poor intern's phone, each voicemail growing concerningly more impatient and angry. Something about important classified information and "secret Seven business." The fact that he thought you gave enough of a fuck to want and explanation nearly made you snort. 

Either way, you found yourself eight months pregnant, exhausted, and sitting in the back of a Vought-issued SUV, glaring out the tinted windows in jealousy of the simple passers-by. Not to mention your poor swollen feet! You promised yourself that once you had this baby, you would set the whole city on fire in honor of pregnant women everywhere.

Once you arrived at the Vought Tower, you were faced with twenty excruciating minutes of  questioning by security personnel that looked at you like a convicted terrorist. 

"Identification."

You slid your I.D. over, wincing at the last name that stared back at you from the shiny little card. Moskowitz. Mrs. Moskowitz. Honestly, you wished one of the guards would have just shot you where you stood. It would have been better than being Mrs. "The Deep." 

"Purpose of visit?"

You sighed and held up the cellphone. "Just bringing my husband his phone."

The guard looked at another, then nodded. They ran you through a few metal detectors and screenings before escorting you to a large elevator. You rode your way up to the ninety-ninth floor, feeling like you had just escaped some type of work camp. 

There security was nearly suffocating. There went your dream of someone coming to assassinate your dumbass husband. They'd never make it past the lobby, damn it.

You knocked on the thick, tall door hesitantly, almost afraid that the wood might swallow you whole if you got too close. "Kevin, honey," you called, tasting grime left behind by the disingenuous nickname, "are you in there? You had left your phone at home, so I brought it for you." 

The second the door opened, all conversation stopped right in its tracks. You tightened your grip on Kevin's forgotten phone. The room somehow felt colder than the rest of Vought Tower. Every member of The Seven looked mildly irritated to find a civilian standing in the doorway.

None more than your husband. Homelander was a close second, though. Eyes slightly twitching at the sound of the door creaking open. His fist clenched slightly, jaw growing tight, until his gaze shifted downwards towards your stomach. Interesting. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something—?"

Kevin's face twisted. "What are you doing in here?"

You swallowed back an eye-roll. You hated him, but you would never embarrass him at work. "You told me to bring it to you." You held the phone up. "Don't you need it?"

Kevin crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "I obviously meant leave it at the front desk. Seven meetings are strictly confidential."

Several members of The Seven looked away awkwardly. You weren't surprised; Kevin loved an audience, especially when Homelander was watching. Anything to impress him. 

"Just leave it, and go home. There's no room for a civilian here, alright?"

You knew him far too well, could read all of your precious Kevin's signs. He  wasn't talking to you, he was performing and trying to get a laugh. Trying to prove he wasn't whipped, to prove he was still one of the guys, one of The Seven, and not some married pansy whose entire image was being rehabilitated through forced family branding.

Heat rose to your cheeks, anger flooding your mind. Not a hint of gratitude, not a speck! If you did not have so much restraint, you would have snapped his phone in half and hurled it at him, but you were smarter than that. Just barely.

You opened your mouth to speak, but another voice cut you off.

"Enough," Homelander said. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. The energy of the room obeyed him, which was helpful, but Jesus, it was off putting. 

"Homelander, I—"

"I know what you're doing. Enough." He leaned back in his chair, expression shifting slightly. He looked at you again. You wished it was a look of anger or disgust, but it was worse. It was intrigue. 

It made your skin crawl.

"You know," he said, looking back at your husband, "most men would be grateful."

Kevin blinked, absolutely dumbfounded. "What?"

"A gorgeous, pregnant wife kind enough to drive across the city to hand deliver something you stupidly forgot."

The room remained deathly silent. 

"And you're yelling at her in front of everyone, right?" Homelander tilted his head. "Right?" he asked again, sharper.

"Yes, Homelander."

"Stand up." The order rang out like a gunshot, clear and precise. 

"What?"

"Stand."

When Homelander's expression did not falter, Kevin slowly rose from his chair. 

Homelander extended his hand forward and gestured him out of the way. "Give her your chair."

You thought for a second Kevin might have argued—he wouldn't piss on fire to put you out, after all—but then you remembered who he would be arguing with, and it didn't seem so possible anymore.

With a clenched jaw, he moved to the side. Homelander wordlessly urged you to sit, and though your body screamed for you not to, you did. 

The meeting had technically resumed, but nobody was paying attention anymore, not after Homelander's interruption.

You sat awkwardly at the conference table, clutching Kevin's phone in your lap and wishing a meteor would strike you down. 

The discussion continued around you, something about quarterly projections or crime statistics.

You weren't really listening, mostly because you were painfully aware of Homelander's attention drifting back toward you every few minutes. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be noticed.

You adjusted slightly in the chair and Homelander immediately spoke, interrupting A-Train. 

"Comfortable?"

Every head turned towards you, again, and you suddenly wanted to die.

"Uhm, yes. Of course."

His brow furrowed. "You don't sound sure."

"I'm fine."

"Hm." Homelander leaned back, still unconvinced. His eyes dropped toward your feet. "Have you been standing all day? The security checkpoint, elevators, walking across the building."

"Well, yes. I suppose so."

His expression became one of mild disapproval. "You poor thing." You would have taken his tone for mockery if he weren't staring directly at your tits while he said it. Then, he looked toward Kevin.

"Your wife should be relaxing."

Kevin immediately straightened. "Right."

"And yet she's sitting here in heels."

Honestly, you'd forgotten you were wearing them, but they certainly weren't the most comfortable shoe ever. 

Kevin opened his mouth and closed it again.

Homelander smiled and looked at you. "Take them off." He gestured casually. "You'll be more relaxed. You must be exhausted," he said, something about his tone making you nauseous. "You should get more comfortable, especially after such a long drive."

"I'm okay, I promise," you said, trying and failing to sound reassuring. 

"Nonsense." His smile widened, but never touched his eyes. A vacant, painted look that drilled into you. "A woman who's expecting deserves to be pampered. Take your shoes off."

Everything he said sounded less like a suggestion and more like a direct order, so, reluctantly, you slipped your shoes off beneath the table.

The meeting continued for approximately thirty seconds before Homelander spoke again.

"Deep." He spat. "Why are you still standing there?"

Kevin frowned softly. "What do you mean?"

"Your wife's feet hurt."

The realization slowly dawned across Deep's face. Seeing Homelander's face start to sour, he immediately crouched beside your chair.

You almost felt bad for him. Keyword: almost.

Now, Kevin had never once hit you, but after that display, he was uncomfortably close. Once the meeting had adjourned, he gripped um your wrist tight enough to bruise and dragged you out into the hallway, ignoring stares from the others who walked by. You barely had time to slip your shoes back on before he grabbed you.

"What the hell was that?" he barked, holding your wrist against the wall.

"What was what?"

"Don't play stupid," he said, voice growing sharper. A few interns scrambled away after seeing the scene, suddenly deciding they were needed elsewhere. "You made me look pathetic in there. Do you know how humiliated I am? Rubbing your fucking feet in front of everyone?"

With a scoff, you ripped your hand out of his grasp. "Me? I didn't do anything wrong, Kevin." You pointed your finger at him, tip-toeing your way into his face. "I do everything you ask of me, and you decide to treat me like shit in front of your little band of costumed creeps? Don't blame me because your boss is unstable, at best."

"I can't stand you, you—" before he could fix his mouth to finish, a blue of red and blue flashed from your peripherals.

One moment, your husband was bitching at you, the next, he was slumped on the ground with a busted lip.

You gasped softly and your hands flew to your stomach instinctively, terrified for your unborn baby.

"You never stop whining, do you?" Homelander stood next to you, looking down at Kevin with a disgusted sneer.

As Kevin struggled to push himself up, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, Homelander pressed the heel of his boot against his side, sending waves of paint through Kevin's gills.

Just moments ago, your husband was screaming at you, and now his eyes were lowered to the floor and his jaw was clenched in pain.

"Go clean yourself up, cocksucker." Homelander waved him away, curling his lip. "Get out of my sight."

Kevin didn't argue or complain, he didn't even look at you. He staggered to his feet and limped away as quickly as his injuries allowed, and within seconds he was gone, leaving you alone with Homelander.

The realization settled heavily in your chest and suddenly the hallway felt far too empty for comfort.

The sound of your own heartbeat pounding filled your ears when Homelander's attention shifted from the retreating Deep back to you, or rather, back to your stomach.

You slowly tightened your arms around it, clearly uncomfortable with how he stared at you. Your movement caught his attention immediately.

It was strange for him to see first hand. He knew that mother's were meant to protect their children with their lives, to fight for them and love them with all their might, but it was foreign to him. Exotic, like a tropical fruit in a desert. He wanted a piece of that himself, a sliver of protection and love from the most divine creature there was: a mother. He got everything he wanted, and easily, except for one of those.

Maybe he just had to take it for himself. Patience, of course, was a virtue. He had nothing but time.

"Everything alright?" he asked in that overly saccharine, too-good-to-be-true voice. It was fake and sappy, dripping over you and coating your nerves in discomfort like honey.

"Fine."

"Are you sure? Things seemed a little tense before I showed up."

You swallowed thickly and gave an equally fake smile. "Certain."

His gaze started to linger and he stepped forward, confidently. He was a couple of feet away. Close enough to make you sweat, but not enough to be fully afraid. Not yet, at least.

"How far along are you?"

The question sort of caught you off guard. It was the kind of thing old women in the grocery store asked you, not the world's "greatest" superhero. Especially not with his eyes trained on your tits.

"Seven months."

"Hm." He nodded slowly, letting his tongue dart out to wet his lips. "Boy or girl?"

"We don't know yet. We wanted it to be a surprise."

A strange smile appeared, thinly veiling slight annoyance. He hated how you said "we," how you even associated yourself with a pathetic worm like The Deep. So what if he was your husband, he wasn't here. He wasn't important.

"That's nice," he said, the words sounding rehearsed, as if he was trying to imitate what a normal person would say. "When are you due?"

You answered this and a few more of his seemingly regular questions, but each time you were met with the same thing. That same thoughtful hum. The same unbroken stare.

You were becoming increasingly aware and disturbed by it all. He hardly ever blinked, and when he did, his eyes flashed. His chest was unmoving, and you could not hear a single breath escape him. It was terrifying.

You shifted uncomfortably, but his eyes followed your every movement. Something about the way he was looking at you just felt plain wrong, dangerous and invasive.

You folded your arms across your chest to try and soothe yourself, and you felt it. A wet warmth beading through your top. A dark stain had begun to spread through the fabric of your shirt. Pregnancy had gifted you with countless humiliations and apparently it had decided to add another to the tally.

Your eyes widened. "For fuck's sake!" You crossed your arms tighter over your shirt, feeling your face flush in embarrassment. "Please excuse me, I need to go."

You had barely taken a step backwards when an eerily strong hand wrapped around your waist.

His gaze dropped briefly to where your arms were folded across your chest before returning to your face. "Stay." The word was gentle and soft, which made it all exponentially worse.

Despite how much you abhorred Kevin, with his stupidly handsome face and immature, self-righteous, narcissistic bullshit, you wished he hadn't left.

Standing alone with Homelander felt infinitely worse than tolerating your douchebag husband.

"If they didn't taste so good, I'd wanna stick my dick between these beauties," Homelander said between brief pauses, suckling away at your tender breasts. "Can't waste a drop."

You didn't want this, at all. The slight ache from his overly eager mouth was nothing compared to the hot embarrassment that came with him violating you right in the hallway. Luckily, nobody had yet walked by, but dozens of offices and break rooms sat on this floor. 

It was only a matter of time before some intern or security guard spotted you and looked away, unwilling to help you despite you sobbing. The idea made you sick, but you couldn't blame them. Who in their right mind would challenge this psycho?

This strangely attractive, forceful psycho?

You mentally told yourself that if you weren't pregnant, if you did not have so much to lose, that you would have tried to fight back or push him off. You knew that was a lie, though. He was far stronger than any man you had ever encountered, there was no universe in which you would be able to escape from under him.

He wasn't Kevin. When he tried to take you, you were almost always able to fight him off: he had his weak spots. You could shove your fingers down his gills and whatnot, but Homelander? Impenetrable. 

So, you accepted your fate and watched helplessly as he groped your left tit and sucked sloppily on the right. 

You felt your body be pushed back against the wall. Not the harsh shove you were expecting, but a gentle movement, with hands softly guiding your hips back. Homelander shifted and got on his knees, looking up at you from the floor.

His face—God, you didn't know how to explain how it made you feel. He was chiseled like a marble statue, built to perfection by Vought. Behind those disgustingly perfect features, though, you could see the faintest outline of pain. For a brief second, when he looked up at you, your instincts screamed "protect him," which was ridiculous! Not only was he a perfectly capable grown man, he was the one actively hurting you, taking advantage of you, but somewhere in your brain, your weak, empathetic pregnancy hormones were churning about. 

He started to look less like a man and more like a defenseless child the longer those sad, blue eyes watered. Damn your motherly disposition! This whole pregnancy thing really ruined your self-preservation skills.

With deep hesitation, your hand glided down to cup his face. His skin was freezing, like he had never once felt another person's touch, but he leaned into the warmth of your palm. 

He mumbled something under his breath about you being a good mommy while he rubbed his face into your hand. You figured this scene would look insane to any outsider. The Homelander on his knees, crying, being petted by a topless pregnant woman in the middle of a hallway.

He pressed his forehead against your bump, leaning into it as he did your hand. He let one palm raise up to grope your tit, and rolled the milk droplets between his fingers. 

A voice echoed down the corridor, followed by sluggish, slow steps and pained groans.

"Homelander?" The Deep moaned from down the hall, still bleeding profusely. "Are you still there?"

Homelander looked up at you, still bleary eyed and tugged your shirt, like a little kid. You sighed and wiped his face with your blouse, wiping off all his spit and tear streaks. He rose to his full height, but not before stealing another mouthful of your milk. Greedily, he lapped your breast before gesturing for you to fix your shirt.

Kevin practically crawled down the rest of the hallway, a look of pure pain and confusion on his face when he saw how close you two were standing. Homelander walked over to him and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, which, of course, was much harder than it needed to be. 

"You're a lucky man, Deep," he said coyly, smirking down at him. He hadn't even bothered to wipe the last of your milk that dribbled down his chin. 

And just like that, he whistled away, parlaying down the hallway like he owned the place. 

He basically did, didn't he?

[barleyo]

Marching On.

Soldier Boy X F! Reader

A/N: excuse any character inaccuracy! i have only watched a bit of the show, but i still hope you enjoy. reblogs/comments are always appreciated!

Tags: blowjobs, oral (m receiving), rimming, praise, slight dub-con, daddy kink, age gap, short fic, maybe ooc (?)

Wordcount: ~0.8k

Ben was strict, but he was a good man to you. He had his rules, you were a good girl so you followed them. Very rarely did you get yourself in trouble with him, there was simply no reason for you to act out of turn. Being bratty and pushing boundaries never landed you anywhere fun, especially not on nights when daddy was exhausted from being the public's own Soldier Boy. 

No, what Ben wanted to come home to on his hardest days was an obedient, respectful, dutiful little doll. So when he had gotten into it with some random jerk-off from The Seven, he was grateful to see you all ready sitting in front of the couch, waiting. Hair pulled back, plush tits on display, cunt wet and grinding against the carpet, throat ready for him. 

"Mm, you been waiting for this, or what?" Ben asked you rhetorically, watching as his dick disappeared down your throat. 

When he got him, he barely had time to kick his boots off before you were clawing at his thighs like a bitch in heat. You were needy, but still his sweet girl. When you looked up at him with those sad, round eyes, how could he deny you a fat cock in your mouth? You asked for so little, but he gave you so much. 

"Looks like y'gonna take the whole thing this time." One of his calloused, big hands gripped the back of your head, not so gently guiding you down the rest of his length until your nose brushed against his pubes. He huffed a short laugh when you pulled away and choked on your own spit. "Come on, don't stop now."

You rested your head on his thigh for a second, catching your breath. "Yes, daddy. Jus' need a second. Can make you feel good still, promise." 

Your hand wrapped around his cock and gave tender strokes. Pairing your hand with a few kitten licks along the bottom of his cock, you felt him kick in your palm. Probably pretty close you figured, but you weren't quite done yet.

He mostly let you do whatever you wanted to him. Ride him, sit on his face, deepthroat his cock, kiss, bite, and paw at him, but there was one place on daddy that you hadn't yet explored. 

You weren't sure how he would feel, as you had never asked about it, but you were pretty sure his ass was off limits. It just did not seem like his thing, a macho, overly-masculine man like him probably hated stuff like that, but you could try if he was all ready close to finishing! He would be far too immersed to intervene, you thought.

When Ben's legs started to tremor slightly, you took you chance. Quickly, you slid one shoulder under his leg, shifting his body just enough to give you access to his hole. 

"F—fuck are you doin'?"

You continued to pump his cock, but let your tongue dip further. You eased into it, giving his taint a few testing kisses and licks, but that was far from enough! You knew it wasn't allowed, but you had watched a few pornos online of stuff like this, and the way it made you feel was unreal. You needed to try it yourself.

You needed your tongue in daddy's ass.

God, you were sloppy. 

One taste and you were hooked. You could have sworn you audibly whined the moment your tongue ran over the rim of his hole, but that also could have been him moaning himself. He tasted so good, and he sounded so fucking sexy. 

You had never been praised like this before, and considering the anger you expected from him, it was a welcomed surprise. 

"Oh God, doll. You got a mouth on you, you know that?" Ben stilled his hips, trying to keep himself planted, but your tongue chipped away at his dignity. You tried to slip your tongue in, but he pushed you back by your forehead. "Stop, that's enough."

He came in two uneven, milky spurts, coating his stomach. With a pant, he pulled his leg off of your shoulder.

"Did that feel good for you?" you asked sweetly, still buzzing.

"Hah." He ran a hand through his sweatslicked hair and hummed. "Wish you would have told me you liked that weird shit. Would've had you tonguing my ass years ago, baby." He pulled you onto your feet by your wrist, ushering you to come to him. "Now let's return the favor, huh?"

[barleyo]

Marching On.

Soldier Boy X F! Reader

A/N: excuse any character inaccuracy! i have only watched a bit of the show, but i still hope you enjoy. reblogs/comments are always appreciated!

Tags: blowjobs, oral (m receiving), rimming, praise, slight dub-con, daddy kink, age gap, short fic, maybe ooc (?)

Wordcount: ~0.8k

Ben was strict, but he was a good man to you. He had his rules, you were a good girl so you followed them. Very rarely did you get yourself in trouble with him, there was simply no reason for you to act out of turn. Being bratty and pushing boundaries never landed you anywhere fun, especially not on nights when daddy was exhausted from being the public's own Soldier Boy. 

No, what Ben wanted to come home to on his hardest days was an obedient, respectful, dutiful little doll. So when he had gotten into it with some random jerk-off from The Seven, he was grateful to see you all ready sitting in front of the couch, waiting. Hair pulled back, plush tits on display, cunt wet and grinding against the carpet, throat ready for him. 

"Mm, you been waiting for this, or what?" Ben asked you rhetorically, watching as his dick disappeared down your throat. 

When he got him, he barely had time to kick his boots off before you were clawing at his thighs like a bitch in heat. You were needy, but still his sweet girl. When you looked up at him with those sad, round eyes, how could he deny you a fat cock in your mouth? You asked for so little, but he gave you so much. 

"Looks like y'gonna take the whole thing this time." One of his calloused, big hands gripped the back of your head, not so gently guiding you down the rest of his length until your nose brushed against his pubes. He huffed a short laugh when you pulled away and choked on your own spit. "Come on, don't stop now."

You rested your head on his thigh for a second, catching your breath. "Yes, daddy. Jus' need a second. Can make you feel good still, promise." 

Your hand wrapped around his cock and gave tender strokes. Pairing your hand with a few kitten licks along the bottom of his cock, you felt him kick in your palm. Probably pretty close you figured, but you weren't quite done yet.

He mostly let you do whatever you wanted to him. Ride him, sit on his face, deepthroat his cock, kiss, bite, and paw at him, but there was one place on daddy that you hadn't yet explored. 

You weren't sure how he would feel, as you had never asked about it, but you were pretty sure his ass was off limits. It just did not seem like his thing, a macho, overly-masculine man like him probably hated stuff like that, but you could try if he was all ready close to finishing! He would be far too immersed to intervene, you thought.

When Ben's legs started to tremor slightly, you took you chance. Quickly, you slid one shoulder under his leg, shifting his body just enough to give you access to his hole. 

"F—fuck are you doin'?"

You continued to pump his cock, but let your tongue dip further. You eased into it, giving his taint a few testing kisses and licks, but that was far from enough! You knew it wasn't allowed, but you had watched a few pornos online of stuff like this, and the way it made you feel was unreal. You needed to try it yourself.

You needed your tongue in daddy's ass.

God, you were sloppy. 

One taste and you were hooked. You could have sworn you audibly whined the moment your tongue ran over the rim of his hole, but that also could have been him moaning himself. He tasted so good, and he sounded so fucking sexy. 

You had never been praised like this before, and considering the anger you expected from him, it was a welcomed surprise. 

"Oh God, doll. You got a mouth on you, you know that?" Ben stilled his hips, trying to keep himself planted, but your tongue chipped away at his dignity. You tried to slip your tongue in, but he pushed you back by your forehead. "Stop, that's enough."

He came in two uneven, milky spurts, coating his stomach. With a pant, he pulled his leg off of your shoulder.

"Did that feel good for you?" you asked sweetly, still buzzing.

"Hah." He ran a hand through his sweatslicked hair and hummed. "Wish you would have told me you liked that weird shit. Would've had you tonguing my ass years ago, baby." He pulled you onto your feet by your wrist, ushering you to come to him. "Now let's return the favor, huh?"

[barleyo]

deeplander... I love love love... two rapists that belong together, I need them to molest each other and homelander beat the fuck out of that disgusting fish bastard twat afterwards 💚❤️💙

[barleyo]

lol its probably weird how i liked the recent enji fic but yeah, thanks for that upload :) will we see err similar uploads in the near future? just asking out of curiosity! thank you for your hardwork :)

i mostly only write dark fics like that, and i have plenty on my page! i'll for sure post more in the future, it's my writing style in general

[barleyo]

all of my writer mutuals are on hiatus, i'm so lonely :c

[barleyo]

More incest Enji pls

Other Mother.

Enji Todoroki X Little Sister! Reader

A/N: this is a little more fucked up than what i usually write, with a lot more angst and feelings. i hope you enjoy! reblogs + comments are always appreciated :)

Tags: child abuse, canon typical violence, incest (brother-sister), age gap (50s-30s), rape/non-con, domestic abuse, angst, plot heavy, eventual smut, p in v, breeding, mentions of csa/cocsa, not proofread

Wordcount: 4.8k

You loved your niece and nephews. In your mind, when the sun rose, it rose for them. You were ecstatic to find out you were to be an aunt, and when three more children came along, you could not have been happier. 

But you knew what kind of man your brother was. 

Enji had always been rough around his edges, his passion not trimmed down quite enough to fit society's standards. He was driven, yes, and you admired your big brother very much for that, but he was jaded and strict. He had always been that way, even when you two were young. What he lacked in tenderness, he made up for in strength and loyalty, but you knew very well that wasn't enough to raise children with. 

As much as it hurt you to think about, you knew something bad would happen. Your fears were confirmed when you flew in for one of the kid's birthdays. With gifts for all of the little ones flooding your arms, you tapped the front door of Enji's home with your foot. 

Shoto, your secret favorite, opened it for you. He was such a sweet boy, the youngest but so mature. You remembered when he was just a baby—silent as a rock with the smallest hint of a smile on his face when you got your turn to hold him. You could only make out the top of his head, blinded by the boxes you held, but you knew that hair anywhere.

"Hello, sweetheart," you cooed, feeling the boy hug your leg. It was a gentle embrace, as if he were trying his very best to be nonchalant. Only five and still so blasé, you thought. "Help auntie to the kitchen, will you?"

A tiny, monotone chirp followed. "Yes, ma'am."

God, your brother was loaded. You never brought it up, of course, that would be in bad taste, but being a Pro-Hero looked like it had its perks. You had never seen such a nice house, it amazed you every time you visited. Enji offered many a time to move you in, said there was too many empty rooms anyways. You always denied him, but damn, it was a marvel. 

You placed the gifts on the table and mulled through them, finding a smaller box with Shoto's name written on it. 

"And this is for you," you said, turning around to face him. 

You paused mid-crouch, right on his level. Around one of his eyes was a large, red burn mark. It looked to be somewhat new, only starting to heal along the sides, still fresh closest to his eye. You struggled for a moment, seeing how calm his little face was. Before you could say anything, he snagged the box and opened it.

"Woah," he said, slipping the watch on. "I can't read it." 

You held back a snort and patted his head, his deadpan delivery calming you down a little bit. "Don't worry, auntie will teach you how. Why don't you go find your brothers and sisters and tell them I'm here?"

"Yes, Shoto. Bring everyone here," a deep, growling voice said. If you weren't so familiar with it, it would have scared you. 

You had not seen Enji for a few years, maybe two. He was the same for the most part, a few battle scars added here, hint of grey in his hair there. Still your big brother, though, even if you had some serious questions for him.

"Enji! Thank you for the invitation! I cannot believe my Fuyumi is ten, she's growing up much too fast, hm?"

"Hm." His arms, thick with coarse muscle, crossed over his broad chest. "She's been waiting for you all week."

"Because I'm her favorite, of course."

"Finicky child, her favorite is whoever brings the best gift," he said, rolling his eyes. 

You gave your brother a shove, unknowingly something only you could do without consequence, "So I will remain her favorite, then!"

For a second, everything felt normal. Like you two were kids again, like you never left home. You swore you could see the faintest smirk crawl over his face, if you squinted it was there. Your big brother, always so secretive with his joy, as if someone could snatch it away in a heartbeat. 

"I've missed y—"

You were cut off by a tug at your skirt. Shoto stood silently beside your leg, fiddling with the watch strapped around his wrist. Somewhere upstairs, loud footsteps thundered down the hall followed by Natsuo shouting something incomprehensible. Fuyumi’s sharper voice cut through after him, trying and failing to maintain order. 

This, too, felt normal. Felt right. Until you looked down again at Shoto and saw that jarring scar. Your stomach twisted. 

Children got hurt, of course. They were careless little beings, always getting scraped up and knicked. Not like this, though. The skin was swollen and red, uneven in a way that stretched from the corner of his eye to his squishy cheek. No child could accidentally get hurt like this. 

Shoto acted like it was nothing, like the burn's presence was not strange or painful. That worried you most. 

Before you could say something, which you desperately ached to, tiny footsteps made their way down the stairs.

"Ah! My babies!" You held your arms open, ready to catch all three stragglers.

First, Natsuo, jumping into your arms, littering your forehead and eyes with kisses, then exiting just as quickly to dig through the gifts you left on the table. Silly boy. 

Fuyumi was clearly the most excited, as she nearly knocked you over with her embrace. You picked her up and gave her a twirl.

"How is my favorite girl in the whole, wide world?" you asked, smoothing out her hair. 

She rambled something about how much she missed you, and how she cleaned her room specifically for your visit, and if you wanted to see it, and, and and—

"Yes, yes, that all sounds amazing, 'Yumi. Why don't you go scope out the presents with your brother? I think you'll like auntie's gift."

With the promise of that, she ran off. Only Touya remained, standing a little further back. He was your first little baby, he held such a special place in your heart, but now, he looked so different. It worried you, too.

He looked thinner, weaker. Little white streaks shined through in his red hair. Dark circles under his eyes, nothing like you had ever seen in a child. He smiled when he saw you, a gave a little wave. 

You mouthed a greeting to him, able to tell his wasn't in a mood to talk. "Hello, sweetheart." He nodded and joined the others in the kitchen, dragging Shoto with him. 

"Enji, I—"

"Not now," he said, almost brutal in his finality. 

You blinked up at him, feeling your chest grow heavy and worried. 

"Fine."

Fuyumi was such a lovely girl, and it filled your heart knowing how much she loved her party. She was so grateful for everything, the cake, the streamers, the presents. What made you happiest though, was her little hug before she went to bed.

"You gave the best gift, auntie," she said in a sleepy voice, holding onto you snuggly. 

You chuckled and patted her head. "You liked the dollhouse, sweetheart? I knew you would."

"Not that," she yawned, tugging your sweater. "You were the gift. You came to my party, that was the best part. Maybe you can stay for longer? Please?"

Your heart melted into a little puddle at that, and you gave her squeeze. "Maybe I can," you said, sending her to bed with a kiss atop her head. 

You watched her patter up the stairs, growing up so fast but still so little. All of them, really. Part of you hated how you had all ready missed so much of their lives. You were grateful to slip into the important moments, but still.

"They always ask about you, you know," your brother said, sliding behind you. 

His body was warm, like a hug. Sometimes it teetered on hot and boiling, though, like a flame you cannot extinguish. For now, it was comforting. 

You turned around with a hum, looking up at him. "I know. Don't think I don't miss them too."

He gave a huff. "If you miss them so much, why don't you move back here. You have no business in America anyways. Why you left, I can't figure out."

"I just needed something different, Enji. I told you before, this is not my home anymore. I'm happy." You poked his chest, hissing when you felt how firm it was. "We can't all be heroes," you teased. "Some of us have to find other paths. This is mine."

"It doesn't have to be. Life could be so simple for you, but you're so damn stubborn. It's safer here, and the kids love you. I'm asking you to come home, so why won't you?" 

"You cannot have everything you want, Enji. I'm not a little girl you can boss around anymore, you know that, right?" again, teasing him. 

He grumbled something under his breath about insolence and your stubbornness. An undercurrent of silence passed over the two of you, which was comforting at first, until you remembered Shoto's face. And Touya's eyes. And the flinching and shaking. 

"What happened to his face?" you asked, crossing your arms around your chest. 

Enji did not answer at first. His demeanor shifted, growing protective and callous. You knew it all too well: big brother guarding himself and shutting others out. Big and strong but not tough enough to have a real conversation. That's your Enji.

"It was an accident," he finally said.

You stared at him blankly. "And?"

His jaw clenched, swiping his teeth with his tongue in one broad stroke. "Rei lost control."

That made your anger hesitate for a moment, staggering behind. "What?"

"She burned him. She threw a kettle at him." His words came out short and mechanical, like he had repeated them too many times. They wore thin and inpatient. You wondered how many times he had to explain that, how many ways the explanation had been played and replayed. It made you feel sick.

You blinked hard. “Rei did that? She would never—”

“She did.” His voice sharpened. “I saw it myself.”

Gentle Rei, who wiped the children's mouths after every meal and kissed scraped knees and apologized to furniture when she bumped into it.

Rei, who spoke so softly that people had to lean in to hear her.

Rei, who begged you to take a seat after flying in to watch her give birth, saying how exhausted you must be all while she suffered contractions. 

Your mind struggled to fit the image together. Then another thought came creeping in behind it, cold and ugly.

What had to happen for sweet, gentle Rei to reach that point?

Your eyes narrowed at your big brother, scanning over him with a mixture of disgust, anger, and exhaustion. 

"What did you do?" you demanded pointedly.

His eyes narrowed immediately, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. What did you do?"

"I did nothing."

"Enji." You had never spoken like this to anyone, let alone your brother. Your tone was splattered with anger—more than anger. The deepest fury and heartbreak you had ever felt. 

Flames crackled faintly around his shoulders. Reflexive irritation. You remembered that from childhood too. Every time you duh through his private belongings or teased him too much, those little flames would ignite around his body, a physical warning of his anger to come. 

“She's not sane,” he said. “The pressure became too much for her.”

"The pressure," you repeated. 

"Yes."

"And who would be applying that pressure?" He went silent. Oh, God. "Please, no." You rubbed a hand over your mouth, exhausted. “What are you doing to that boy?"

“He has exceptional potential.”

“He is five," you said, tears welling in your eyes. "For God's sake, he's still a baby. He can't even read a watch, Enji!"

“He understands what is expected of him.”

“No,” you snapped. “Don't say that, you know very well that isn't true. He only understands what happens if he disappoints you, and telling by his face—" you broke into a sob, shoving your brother again, pushing against his chest with each word, "—he has good reason to be afraid."

He grabbed your wrist. Firm, but not tight. The room went deathly still. When you looked up at him with your teary eyes, you saw the Number Two Hero instead of your older brother. Towering, angry, and unmovable. 

You knew your brother, though. You had known him since he was an angry little boy, throwing punches at walls because the world wouldn't hand him success. You saw every side of him, and you feared none of them. So you stepped closer to him, and got as much in his face as you could for someone much shorter.

"Every time you speak, he flinches. He shakes. Why?"

Enji faltered for a second, still keeping his grip on your wrist. "He's disciplined. There's nothing wrong with that."

"That baby is terrified and I don't blame him one bit!"

"My son is not afraid of me," Enji said, the flames around him sputtering hotter.

"Oh, he is. He's so afraid, so scared of you, but you know what?" You ripped your hand out of his grip and gave him a smack, harder than you intended. "I'm not. Never once have I been afraid of you! Do something, Enji. Get angry!"

He growled but kept his hands planted firmly at his sides. "You do not understand what it takes—”

“To do what?” you interrupted, eyes wide. “Create the perfect hero? Is that what this is?"

You let his silence be his answer. 

"This is wrong," you said, quietly at first, but your voice rose. "Wrong and you know it!"

He cupped his hand over your mouth, "Quiet! What is wrong with you?!"

"How can you ask me that?" you screeched again, letting your smaller fists bang at his chest. "Hit me. If you want to hurt someone so bad, hurt me, but I'll be damned," you said through another sob, "if I let you act like that with them. That's not right, Enji, you know it's not."

You expected him to do something, to hit you. Burn you. Shove you away. Instead, he took you in his arms, letting you smack at him as your hits got weaker and weaker. You cried into your big brother's chest, sobs being silenced by the thick layer of muscle on him. 

"I love you," he said, softly, face still hardened and stubborn. 

Your hands slowly stilled against his chest.

The words should not have shocked you, but Enji had never been good at saying them. You knew he loved you, in his own clumsy, overbearing way, he always had. 

He was the one who carried you home on his back after you scraped your knees as a child. The one who let you sleep in his bed for weeks after you watched a scary movie with your friends. The one who threatened your cheating high school boyfriend so badly that the guy almost pissed himself.

Enji loved hard and that was part of the problem.

You sniffled against him, fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt. “Then why are you acting like this?”

He, of course, did not answer.

Your brother rested his chin atop your head with a tired exhale, his arms heavy around you. You hated how familiar it felt. Hated how easy it would be to sink into his arms and forget the horror sitting upstairs in four matching little bedrooms.

“I don't know how to do this,” he admitted quietly. "Not alone."

That made you freeze.

Enji Todoroki did not admit weakness. Not to anyone.

"You have Rei. You aren't alone unless you want to be. Confide it her, treat her like a co-parent," you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"She's been admitted." He cleared his throat. "She's in a mental facility, and she will not be leaving. She wasn't safe, not after the accident."

Part of you was angry that your brute of a brother thought he had the right to call anyone unsafe, but you swallowed it down.

"Oh."

You wiped your face roughly with your sleeve and stepped away from your brother completely. The loss of his warmth felt immediate.

“You need to stop training Shoto.”

“No.” The answer came instantly.

You huffed once in disbelief, tears threatening again. “No—?"

“He is special.”

"They are all special," you said sharply. "You do not pick one child and pour everything into them, good or bad. Fuyumi and Natsuo act like they're responsible for everyone's feelings, and Touya is starving for your approval. Even with the attention, Shoto is terrified of you! None of this is right!"

He jaw ticked so tight that he teeth started to grind against each other. 

"I need you here."

You sighed. "I cannot stay."

In the most humble display you had ever seen out of your prideful, angry, egotistic brother, he kneeled. Shrinking himself before you, he got on one knee and looked up at you. 

"I need your help. I need you to stay. The kids, too. I cannot trust myself without you here. What do you want from me? Money? I can pay," he said, starting to ramble, "whatever you want. You just can't leave."

Ah, shit. 

You loved being around the kids more, and Fuyumi was especially excited when you decided to extend you visit indefinitely. Thankfully, none of them had heard your, well, difficult conversation with their father the previous night. 

Things were actually pretty smooth your first few days living with your brother. He already had a room prepared for you, strangely enough. Perhaps he had it in case you ever changed your mind about moving, which he always hoped you would. It was nice, likely one of the bigger rooms in the house. There were tokens of your childhood splattered about, pictures and awards and whatnot. 

One of the first things you wanted to do was look for a job. Enji quickly shut that down.

"Your job is to stay home," he said over breakfast, sipping his coffee and waving the thought away. "The fact that you would even ask is mind-boggling."

"It doesn't feel right to stay here for free, Enji. I'm not a leech."

"You aren't," he agreed. "You are family."

So, instead, your days were filled with keeping up with the children. You played games with them, something no adult had ever done. Natsuo was shocked the first time you asked to join him in the backyard. 

You told them stories about your childhood, what it was like as a young girl. You gave them the opportunity to hear about their father is a positive light, to feel something other than fear towards him, even if only in stories. 

You tried to break the barrier between Touya and the rest of the family, but at fourteen, the boy was all ready hurt by the world and unwilling to open up. He did, however, show his love in his own way. Much like his father, he struggled showing his emotions, but every once in a while, a sticky note would find its way onto your door with a little heart and a "T" scribbled on it. Little crooked doodles in blue ink. Sometimes accompanied by things Touya thought you might like.

'Saw this flower outside, you should have it.' —T

'Natsuo stole the last popsicle again >:(' —T

Or, your personal favorite: 'You cook much better than Dad does.' —T

You kept every single note in the top drawer of your bedside table. One evening, when you were helping Fuyumi braid her hair before bed, you caught him lingering in the hallway outside your room. 

“You alright?” you asked softly.

He shrugged.

Then, after a long pause: “Do you read them?”

“The notes?” You smiled. “Of course I do.”

He looked away so quickly that it almost gave you whiplash. “Oh.” That was all he said before disappearing down the hallway, ears faintly pink.

It broke your heart that such a little hint of approval could make him so flustered and happy. You were grateful to at least be the one to give it to him.

The children slowly changed with your presence. Natsuo became louder and more easily excited. Fuyumi laughed more freely and made mistakes that kids were supposed to make. Even Shoto started lingering close to your side like a shadow, silently handing you books to read to him or sitting beside you while you folded laundry. He never asked for affection directly, but every time you opened your arms for him, he climbed into them.

They were... happy. They were able to be kids, for once in their lives, without correction or sternness. The only problem with the kids was a hard one to tackle. They had taken to calling you "mom." It was a cute slip up from Shoto at first, and the poor boy was so embarrassed after.

"No, don't read that one," he whined softly, pushing a book out of your hands during story time. "Read this one, mommy!"

You paused for a moment, taking the book. "Ah—?"

His little face went red, flushed with humiliation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I meant auntie, n—not mommy," he said, tripping over his words as he tried to explain himself.

"Shh, it's okay, I understand. Don't be embarrassed, sweetheart."

Unfortunately, he and all of his siblings took your understanding as permission. 

"Mommy, will you brush my hair?" from Fuyumi.

"Mom, Touya won't share!" from Natsuo.

"I found this for you. Hope you like it, mom." from Touya behind your door, slipping a pretty rock under the crack. 

It was all very sweet, and you didn't mind completely, but it just wasn't right. You weren't there to replace their mom, that wasn't your goal at all! Rei was a good mother, despite all her mistakes, and it would break your heart if the children forgot about her. 

You couldn't tell them no, either, though. They were just so comfortable around you! The house felt less empty with you in it, and Enji...

Well, he watched. Not in a strange way, at first. He just liked having you around. You were his baby sister after all, and you made the house so much softer with just your presence.

You noticed his behavior, but tried to write it off. Probably just happy to have a little help, you thought. Still, it ate at you.

His eyes following you from across the dinner table while you laughed with the children. You swore you caught his eyes dipping down your shirt as you plated everyone's food.

The way he would pause in doorways when you were reading aloud to Shoto in the living room, remaining completely silent for several minutes before continuing on his way.

Sometimes you would look up while gardening outside and find him standing at the window, already looking at you.

It wasn't creepy, per se, just intense. Everything about the man was intense, but intense turned into weird very quickly.

You mentioned offhandedly over dinner how the pillows in your room were too firm. When you returned home the next day, you were met with an entirely new mattress with softer pillows.

Fuyumi asked if there was anything you missed about America, and when you told her about a candy you used to love, your nightstand was full of it the next day.

One afternoon, you stared too long at a dress in a storefront window while taking Shoto into town. It appeared hanging in your closet two days later. With matching shoes.

You confronted Enji immediately, horrified.

“Why would you spend so much on this?!”

He barely looked up from his paperwork. “If you like something, you should have it.”

“That isn't the point at all! That is so irresponsible," you said, urging him to return it.

"I took you from the life you wanted, and I want to give you the life you deserve as an apology. If you want something," he repeated, "you will have it."

You gave in and accepted the gift, because what exactly were you supposed to say to that? It wasn't malicious, just Enji. Too much of Enji. The ease of your life was starting to creep down your back. Everything was handed to you, which sounded like a dream, until you realized that someone had to be pulling the strings. 

One night, you creeped down the stairs, unable to sleep. The house was dark, but peaceful. You nearly screamed when you found Enji sitting alone in the living room.

He was still dressed in his hero uniform, massive frame slumped against the couch. The television played muted in front of him, though he clearly was not watching it.

He looked exhausted. Empty.

“You're awake,” he said quietly.

“So are you,” you replied, clutching your robe tighter. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry.”

You hesitated before sitting beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. A comfortable silence, with only a hint of anxiety lingering in the air.

“You're happier here,” he said eventually.

You glanced at him. “What?”

“You smile more.”

Your chest tightened. "I like being with the kids. I really did miss them. It's nice."

His gaze lingered on your face for a second too long. “It's more than that.”

You laughed nervously and nudged his arm. “You sound creepy when you say things like that.”

“I mean it.” Enji leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. Even sitting down, he was enormous. “You belong here,” he said.

You tried to brush it off. “I can't stay forever."

“In America, nobody takes care of you.”

“I take care of myself just fine," you said, trying to reassure both him and yourself.

“You shouldn't have to.”

You suddenly remembered the room he already had prepared for you before you arrived. The clothes in your closet. The way he refused to let you work. How quickly the children had attached themselves to you. How every part of this house seemed to be made specifically for your comfort, as if a space had already been carved out for you before you agreed to stay.

Enji finally looked at you again. Softly, he said, "I knew you'd come back eventually, now we can start over."

You jumped up quickly as Enji slipped his uniform off. "What are you doing?!"

"It's not too late to start over. I can do better this time, since you're here. We can all start over."

"I knew it wouldn't work with Rei," Enji said breaking the kiss. Your lips were bleeding now and swollen. "She wasn't made to handle it. She shattered, wasn't good for the children, but you're perfect."

He had been like this for hours, silencing your sobs with kisses or his fingers, all while he mumbled into your ears. 

"I only wish they were really your kids. Shoulda never let you leave, I had plans for us." He shoved his tongue into your mouth again, forcing your tongue to intertwine with his before he fucked into your throat, feeling every inch of your mouth. 

There was no possible escape. His body was big, bigger than you remembered. Years of strength training and hero work made him too toned and heavy to wriggle out from. 

You moaned, using your fists to hit his back and get him off of you, but it was futile. For as much stamina as he had, you could tell he was starting to get tired. Maybe just a few more minutes and he would be done. If you could take it for just a bit longer, maybe—

"Was always supposed to be you. But we have another chance now, my love. Can make it right and give you more kids."

Your cunt betrayed you and squelched against him, gushing with each of his thrusts.

"Oh, you like that idea, huh? Wanna be full of my babies, stay home pregnant and barefoot forever?" 

"No," you whined, tears streaming down your face.

"C'mon," he said through a deep groan, letting his pace get sloppy, "don't lie to me. You think I don't know you love this?"

He groped your belly with one hand and pushed your leg up with the other. He was too deep, pummeling against your cervix like a man crazed.  

"Besides, you weren't complaining when we were younger. Comin' into my room at night and touchin' me, bringing home random guys. You were asking for your big brother's cock then. Still want it now?"

[barleyo]

coming off of hiatus soon so lmk

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longer fics with longer breaks between each

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