hi! i'm jojo (she/they), in my 20s, write fanfics, metas and make edits/gifs, focused mostly on homelander!
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ao3 ā my writing ā my metas and headcanons ā my gifs ā my edits ā no democracy (oc fic)
18+ 3k. homelander x tutor f!reader. employer and employee sexual tension. abuse of power. fingering. AO3 link.
You accepted a job proposal to work as a History tutor to Homelander's son. It suddenly turns out to be more than you had bargained for.
prompt sent by @plasticfangtastic, thank you so much! beta'ed by @flaggermuser, love you!
Ryan was a very smart child. Powerful and smart, naturally, as any of Homelanderās offspring would be. So, to sate his endless curiosity, tutorsāfrom the best universities, Homelander would settle for nothing elseāof all subjects were hired to teach whatever was needed, whatever Ryan liked.
You had never imagined yourself in this position, History tutor to the Homelanderās son. But when you received Voughtās call, and they told you the paycheck thatād come with it, you immediately agreed. A non-supe, you wondered what itād be like to deal with such a special kid, if Homelander would disapprove of your ways and send you packing on the first day.Ā
Insecurities were never your thingāyou had received a M.A in History and Literature, for godās sake! This was your turf.Ā
But⦠teaching a child? Whenever you would envision your future, you always imagined yourself as a professor, strict and serious, dealing solely with adults or, at most, young adults.Ā
You'd rise up, though, you knew itāeven if you needed to spend all of your nights, from dusk ātill dawn, watching videos on gentle parenting, endless courses on āchildhood educationā and teaching young learners. You would do it, and you would do it perfectly.
On your first day, you had a whole speech prepared, something about how much of an honor it was, how excited you were, how many ideas you already had; your stomach fluttered as you looked at his clear blue eyes, beautiful noseā
Homelander barely let you start.Ā
āNow.ā He raised his hands, effectively shutting you up. āEnough with the yada yada, ākay? Let's get some things straightāall of your ideas gatta be approved by me first. And Ryan.ā
āI'm sure, sir, I only meantāā
āAnd you'll not be berating him, for whatever fucking reason. You're not the boss here. I am. And, well, if he complains about anything, anything really, youāll be⦠dismissed. That understood?ā He had a congenial smile on his face, though you swore his eyes shined red, if only for a second. āTake care of my son, huh?ā
He patted you on the shoulder and left. You just stood there, fuming and exasperated. If there's one thing you hated with a passion was condescending men; interrupting and disregarding your words as inane silliness.Ā
High and mighty as he was, Homelander was cut from the same cloth as them, it seemed. If it werenāt for your student debt piling up, youād turn around and leave. As it were, you gritted your teeth and stayed.Ā
After that, though, you hardly ever saw him, and when you did, he only gave you an indiscernible look and a nod.Ā
Fine by me, you thought bitterly, mad at yourself that he'd surely noticed your flushed cheeks and quickened breath at your first real sight of him.
Ryan was sweet though. Sharp and eager to learn whatever you presented him with, such that you moved on quickly from fifth, sixth, to a seventh-grade curriculum.Ā
You found a happy mediumākeeping it fun and educational. And you knew, you knew, whenever you were there, Homelander was watching you.Ā
And he was. Of course he was. Heād had his fair share of tutors Vogelbaum would present him with. Condescending little assholes, always thinking they knew better, reporting every minor thing he did, lecturing and punishing at their pleasure.Ā
As if he'd let his kid suffer the same fate.Ā
Education was, however, important, so he hired simpering tutorsāa school would not do, no place was fit for Ryanāand those who didn't know their place were quickly taken care of.Ā
Yet you, the third History teacher hired (the first one was such a fucking messāsnapping his neck as soon as he left Vought was not enough for having the gall to rudely reprimand his son) were doing well so far.Ā
Oh, he had seen how you blushed and stuttered when you two met, and he had seen how you gradually steeled your eyes at his words.Ā
He had also noticed the sway of your hips, your pink, heart shaped mouth, the addictive sound of your voiceāyour scrunched up nose as you looked at him in poorly disguised anger.
So, yes, of course, of course he was watching, for more reasons than one.Ā
One day, when you and Ryan were talking animatedly about the creation of the American Constitution, Homelander decided to barge in, almost knocking the door off of its hinges.
You nearly fell off your seat in surprise, for a second scared and worried, until you saw his face. He looked as happy as a kid. Well, happier than Ryan.Ā
āWowza,ā he said. āWhat party do you two have goinā on here? I could hear you from the hallway.āĀ
He could hear no matter how loud you were, but you got the gist. Smiling, though miffed at the interruption, you crossed the room, and he met you halfway.
āI was showing Ryan this book. Look.ā He leaned down, his face touching yours. Oh God, oh God, wrong move. āIt contains all of Thomas Paine's pamphlets published during the war in its original format. We were discussing how Paine's thoughts impacted on the Constitutionās writing.ā
āVery nice,ā he said, still so close to you the pure heat his body radiated engulfed your senses. And your body kept betraying, and betraying, and fucking betraying you.
āOh, I love this part.ā You thanked the heavens your voice didn't quiver, and started to read out loud. āTyranny, like hellāā
āIs not easily conquered.ā Homelander completed, and you looked up, only to find him already looking at you.
His hand then rested on your arm, lingering for a few seconds too long, his eyes locking you in place. You gulped, heart thumping in your chestā
āDad,ā Ryan bemoaned. Homelander dropped his hand instantly. āThis is my class. You're interrupting us!ā
Homelander frowned, then almost pouted.Ā
āGeez, buddy, what a way to treat your old man.ā He crossed his arms; you contained a giggle. His eyes glinted mischievously as he turned to you. āCan I be your student for the day? I promise to behave.āĀ
āI don't see why nāā
āNo,ā Ryan exclaimed, interrupting you. āNo, no and no!āĀ
Though he tried, there was no convincing Ryan. He wouldn't share the time he had with you. Inwardly, you smiled at the kidās innocent jealousy; and thanked the heavens for the save, you certainly needed it.Ā
Huffing and stomping his feet, Homelander left the room, but not without giving his son an annoyed glare and you a look you couldn'tāwouldn'tāname yet. Maybe ever.Ā
Weeks passed, classes going smoothly despite your warring thoughts. You were attracted to Homelander, because of course you were; lucky you. Your boss, supe, leader of the Seven. The man who had so far threatened you, talked with you, touched youā¦Ā
Fear tinged with desire, confusion with curiosity. He was equal parts charming and infuriating. Would you dare to willingly put your hand in the mouth of the tiger?Ā
It became routine for Homelander to participateāor interruptāyour lessons to share his own opinions, much to Ryan's chagrin. And you⦠you were endeared.Ā
āThink you could've done a better job than Theodore Roosevelt? Really?ā Your disbelieving tone didn't seem to put him off, just the opposite.
āI'm certain I could.ā
His playful smile and arrogant tone annoyed you. Enchanted you.Ā
āWell, you should try for president, then,ā you joked, catching yourself turning fully towards him. āYou'll beat the records of votes and rule this grand nation!ā
He hummed, winking at you. āYeah, no. Not really in my⦠interests right now.ā
āWould you make a Shermanesque statement on that?ā
Homelander laughed, shaking his head.Ā
āNah, maybe Iāll change my mind.ā His eyes roamed over your body. āCouldnāt have that.āĀ
āWhatās ShermanāShermesque,ā Ryan piped in, furrowing his brows as he stumbled over the word. āWhat are you talking about?ā
āIf nominated, I will not run; If elected, I will not serve,ā you spoke at the same time and giggled, giggled!, together. Stop giggling like a schoolgirl, you chastised yourself, but you couldn't help it. There was such a thrill about flirting with danger in the flesh.Ā
Turning to Ryan, you explained. āItās something William Sherman said. He was a popular general during the Civil War and was being considered as the Republican candidate during presidential elections. He, however, refused!ā When excited, your arms had a mind of their own, and you found yourself gesturing wildly, enthusiastically. āHis words became really popular from then on, such that it's now called a Shermanesque statement, and sometimes used by politicians and the like.ā
Homelander couldnāt help but stare while you talked, entranced by your passionate speech, flushed cheeks and shining eyes. You were so fucking cute, deliciously captivatingāeven in your pitiful stubborn act, or all the more enticing because of it. He wanted to savor each and every moment you walked about the room; wanted to catalog your breath changes, the rises of your voice, your moving lips.Ā
Would you be just as responsive in another, more interesting scenario?, he wondered. Maybe you would want to take charge, bossy little thing you are. Maybe heād have to bend you just shy of breaking you only to see you begābeg him to fuck you, to let you come on his fingers, mouth and cock.Ā
His filthy thoughts raged on, only interrupted when you announced your time was up. Ryan groans in disappointment and Homelander has a hard time not doing the same. He hungers for more moments with you. Alone.Ā Ā Ā
āCāmon, kiddo,ā he says, noticing Ryan stalling to tidy up his books and supplies as he liked to do. āYou gotta get ready for your shooting today.ā
Ryan grumbles under his breath. āI hate these commercials.ā
Before he can answer, you approach, tousling Ryanās hair and leaning down to look him in the eyes.Ā
āHey, sweetheart, it will be okay. Just play pretend like we talked,ā you said. āAnd if it gets too much, I'm sure your dad will take care of it. I'll bring you a treat tomorrow, how about that?ā
He should probably put you in your place for daring to presume you know shit about him and his sonāas if your puny mind could understand the greater beings they were. And yet, and yet⦠Ryan was smiling, rushing to embrace you though his quick heartbeat betrayed how nervous he was. You hugged him back, and looked at Homelander with such sweet grin that heāfuck, he felt fucking breathless.
He wanted to kiss you.Ā
When Ryan left the room, you snatched your purse, seemingly wanting to leave as quickly as possible. But Homelander stood in front of the door, unmoving, his jewel-toned eyes intensely fixated on you.Ā
A sudden heat spread through your body, and you let out a breathy sigh. And he noticed; eyes tracking over your face and chest, like undressing you with his mind.Ā
Perhaps he was. He certainly could. The thought made you desperate, you needed to run. Your apartament wouldn't be enough, maybe you should catch a bus to Jersey. Or a fucking plane toāRussia, or fartherā
āWant me to give you a ride?ā You were so distracted you barely heard his words, much less the double entendre.Ā
āWhat?āĀ
He snickered. āI saidāā
āNo! I mean yes. I mean no!ā You shook your head, dizzy. āNo, sir, I wouldn't want to trouble you.ā
āAh but there's no trouble at all, it'll take a minute. I know where you live.ā
āYou do?ā A shudder ran through you.
āOf course, you silly goose. It's in your resume.ā He tapped your nose, a gesture so off-putting you snorted, suddenly aware he'd closed the distance without you noticing. āLet's go, little miss mouthy. Don't make me insist,ā he declared, voice still cheerful, but you caught the edge of it, leaving no room for argument.Ā
āOkay, okay⦠But only this time!āĀ
Homelander simply laughed.Ā
Reaching the balcony, you looked down and froze. Too high, too high!, your brain screamed at you.Ā
āHehe, on second thoughtā¦ā You looked at him pleadingly, a weird laugh bubbling out in sheer nervousness. You gripped the banister as if your very life depended on it.Ā
āAh, ah. No takesies backsies.ā He wiggled his finger in your face, and, for a single moment, two, three seconds?, caressed your cheek softly.Ā
Before you could react, he grabbed you by the waist and took off. Panic stricken, you hid your face in his neck, dangling legs instinctively circling his hips; much like a koala, you held on to him in all ways you couldāeven your fingers found locks of his hair to grip mercilessly.
Through the rush of the wind, you felt, more than heard, his laugh.Ā
It took some seconds to catch on to the overwhelming closeness between you twoāhow every inch of your body was adhering to his, how you could feel the impressive strength emanating from him, how his warm breath was hitting your neck, leaving shivers in its wake.Ā
You could feel it all. No matter the padded suit, you felt the tension in his muscles, the upheaval in his chest as he drew you even closer and fuck you couldn't fucking help clenching your cunt and exhaling right next to his earā
In a second, Homelander had you on the roof of your building.
You didn't want to look up, fearing what he'd throw at you, anger and indifference or lust and temptation. Both shook you to your core.Ā
āWakie, wakie,ā he said, breathless, a certain roughness to his tone. His hands squeezed your back with surprising care. Each second was too long, and yet not enough.Ā
And then you felt it, as you started to disentangle yourself from his body, his cock, hard and throbbing, poking your stomach, dangerously close to where you ached for it the most.Ā
You looked up.Ā
There was no smirk, no mocking eyesāonly a stare so intense your heart skipped a beat.Ā
āThank you, Homelander, for theāfor the ride. I appreciate it, despite you almost giving me a heart attack at first.ā You giggled, trying to dispel the mood.
āHow about you thank me by inviting me in? Yāknow what they say, actions speak louder than words.āĀ
āNo, Iā¦ā you hesitated, trying to think of an excuse but your mind went blank. āNo.ā
Homelander cocked his head, dazzling smile turning a little unnerving. āNo? Is that right?ā
āHow about another day? I canāā
āI didn't fucking ask for a bullshit, out-of-pity mock invite, did I? What is it, hiding some terrorists in your shithole apartment? Or mommyās dead body?ā
If it weren't for his looming over you, you'd crack a laughāhis mind certainly went places.Ā
āListenāā You started again, only to be pushed until your back hit the roof's door, knocking the air out of you.Ā
āYou listen,ā he ground out, eyes a kaleidoscope of red and blue. It was painfully exhilarating. āDonāt try lying to me. I can sense you, I can fucking smell you, your pussy is soaked.ā To prove his point, he removed one glove and opened up your pants; your panties were shoved aside as he squeezed two fingers inside you. You whimpered at the burn of his intrusion, but you were so wet the squelch was loud even to your ears. āYou either invite me in or I'll rip your clothes off and fuck you right here. Your choice, sweetheart.ā
Homelander was being nice in giving you a choice, despite the fact you were a rude tease, and a liar to boot. His fingers kept pumping in and out of you, and he found it so fucking hard not to go all the way, not to have you against this door while you moaned so, so sweetly.Ā
He needed youāto feel you clenching on his cock as you did now on his fingers. And you wanted him. Fuck, you were whining and opening your legs so he could finger you better, clinging onto his waist as your head rested on his shoulder. Still, you dazedly shook your head. What was the matter with you?
āOh, please, please,ā you half begged, half moaned, raspy voice driving him crazy. āWe can't, I can'tā¦ā
āGive me one good fucking reason why not, huh. One.ā
Instead of answering, you kissed him. He seemed surprised at first, but reciprocated in an instant. And it was all you expected it'd be, messy and passionate and hot; he consumed you, drinking in every part of you, all you had to give, and what you wouldnāt give, he would take.Ā
You gathered his face in your hands, wanting a little bit of tenderness in the violent chaos of you, a little bit of loveāif you could.
His hand kept working on you, thumb rubbing your clit in circles and, before you ran completely out of breath, you came so hard your legs gave out.Ā
Perfect for Homelander to catch, hold you onto his body as you rode the waves of your pleasureāso beautiful he was enraptured.Ā
After a few moments, you whispered. āI can't let you in. If I do, I won't think straight, I'll just let you do anything you want to me.āĀ
āIs that a bad thing, sweetheart?ā
āI'm⦠not used to this, I don't⦠I haven't done much of this. You never even asked me out!ā You laughed. The good humor vanished as you continued. āI can't lose this job. I need it, I like it. If we do⦠What will even happen to me?ā You cursed your own inability to talk about this, all your eloquence going to the drain when you needed to speak of something other than History. In those moments, you always felt like mimicking some speech taught to you long ago, as if talking about your own feelings was an unattainable device.Ā
Yet Homelander found it amusing. Apparently he'd gotten you all wrong, or at least parts of it. For all your bravado in speaking to him, in challenging himāin your fearlessness and spunkāyou were inexperienced. Innocent. Shy. Wasn't that his fucking lucky day.Ā
āSo the baby wants me to take her on a date first, that it?ā
āI didn't say that.ā You raised a brow, crossing your arms. āAnd donāt call me baby.ā
āAlso I boy-scout promise not to fire you if you are a bad lay, but I doubt that, baby.ā
āOh, shut up,ā you said, though there was no bite to it, only a timid smile on your face. āOkay, alright. This weekend?āĀ
āFriday. Iāll send someone to pick you up. Wear something nice for me.ā
Before leaving, he kissed you deeply, hands nearly shaking with yearning. He wanted to take it all back and drag you to his bed, absconding with you for a day or two. But heād waited this long and he could wait a bit longerāheād savor every second and make it worth it.
As you walked down the stairs to your apartment you sighed, drunk in the haze of disbelief; there was no way you could run now. Itās clear you have a problem. What you should wish for isnāt what you want.
hey, guys! I'm back! my life is more stable now and i missed writing and talking about homelander so much. i will update my already published stories (no democracy and in teaching you will learn), and if anyone wants to send a request please do! i'm open for stories, gifs etc
A young, newly presented Homelander met Posey Eldridge-Mercier, talented Music student, and was instantly besotted. Connecting over trauma and shared passions, Homelander and Posey thrived in the chaos of their romanceāuntil Vought's interference led them bitterly astray.
Thirteen years later, they meet again; and perhaps what they say is true. No matter how brutal, what you love is your fate.
"There is no democracy in any love relation: only mercy." Gillian Rose
see ao3 for more
After Posey, music lost its place in his life.Ā
He could still hear it, though. Phantom pain. What those sad, pathetic cripples say they feltāpain in limbs no longer attached, no longer existent. Just like Poseyāno more than a phantom, a minutiae of frilly moments he'd all but forgotten. Yet, the music, the intensity of the piano (Rachmaninoff, no?), the fragility of the violin (DvoÅĆ”k, right?), her dainty fingers both precise and firm; he could still hear it, now and then, as if being suddenly transported to the past.Ā
He couldn't fucking stand it.Ā
It was an unspoken rule for those at Vought Towerāfrom the miserable little ants to Maeveāthat certain... tunes were forbidden, unless they wished for him to break their legs. Even humming, if Homelander was in a particularly foul mood, could make him snap.Ā It had happened what, four? Seven? A dozen times?Ā he mused, clenching his fists, a painful smile stretching his face as he listened to random investors, whose names he'd already forgotten, prattle on and onāstock prices, the company's EBITDA, ripples of rising interest.Ā
A rehearsed act, one he'd mastered many years ago, but grating all the same, to stand still and pretend he actually gave a shit. And the fucking musicā
It was a special gala. A celebration of Vought's anniversary; an excuse for networking while booze flowed freely. The New York Philharmonic had been hired, and as the conductor took to the stage, everyone present went back to their seats. Homelander was considering leaving the event entirelyāto hell with those cocksuckersāwhen he noticed it. As the violinists started, intensely, poignant, after the grave sounds of cellos and double basses, one sway of hands in particular called to his memory.Ā
Even as his eyes took her in, he couldn't believe it. It was like being doused in freezing water (oh, and he was familiar with the feeling, Vogelbaum eager to test his limits, watching calmly as water filled his lungs without killing him). And when Posey's eyes, relaxed and focused, for a brief second found his, he was certain he wouldn't, or couldn't, breathe again.Ā The fucking nerve, how dare she?Ā He was ensnared by his rage.Ā
He could do it right now, laser her into oblivion as he had done with Madelyn. He could get on the stage, grab her by the neck andāwhat? Snap it? Have his way with her, in front of all to see? No, no, that would cause quite a scene. He could be patient, wait for the presentation to end while he pondered on what he'd do as soon as he got his hands on Posey once again.Ā Privately, after so long.Ā
āYou must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention. Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly.ā
ā The Last Unicorn
When he first moved into it, Homelander loved everything about his penthouse. Heād given extensive feedback to the interior design team, even going so far as to offer crude sketches of what he wanted.
Heād always had a specific vision for his home: spacious and open, but not vacant. Rich colors that wouldnāt strain his eyes. Windows and mirrors that gave and reflected as much light and space as possible.Ā
No white walls.Ā
Not a single blank space.Ā
He wanted art on the walls, but not just any art. He wanted historic portraits and moments of history. A face on every wall, the same way that the people on TV had pictures of people on their walls.
Pictures of their family.
He doesnāt have a family, so familiar figures from his studies would have to do instead.
His favorite place was his bedroom. The mirrors give not only the illusion of space, but company.
To this day the bed is as plush as it was then. Itās stacked with fluffy pillows, and the sheets are made of soft cotton. Theyāre always vibrant, always colorful. The staff washes them in gentle detergent instead of bleach.
He spent his first night in that bed with his face buried in the pillow just smelling it.
It smelled like home.
However, the longer heās lived in his penthouse, the more the spaciousness of it began to feel like absence. The distinct lack of something that he couldnāt quite put his finger on right away.
It eased on the odd occasion that he had company, but as soon as they were gone, it was as though their presence had carved out holes in his home that he couldnāt fill.
He added statues. More portraits. He left the television running because the silence of his own isolation had become deafening. He started spending more time away. His home had gradually morphed from a place of freedom into a finely decorated version of the same horrible fluorescent box he spent his childhood in.
At least in the box heād known there were people watching him. With him.
How heād hated it back then. He hated how he could always hear the camera lenses adjusting as they monitored him from somewhere else.
It makes him sick to have missed it even a bit.
Thanks to you, he no longer has to.
Thereās an inherent thrill to coming home that had been lost before you. Excitement starts to prickle up his spine as soon as he steps into the elevator and hits his floor. He canāt remember the last time heās been so excited to go home.
Every day this week youāve cooked for him, sat with him, laid in his arms, lived with him. In the last three days youāve come a long way from the timid thing you started as, no longer jumping at his every move. You still tense at his touch, but heās willing to bet a few more of those massages will remedy that.
Your presence can be felt even when heās at work. He recently connected the hidden security camera on his balcony to his phone, ensuring he gets pinged any time you open that door. He isnāt worried about you going off unattended that way, given that itās a hundred story drop.
It makes him smile to see you getting braver, occasionally stepping out onto the concrete to stare out across the cityscape. Soon heās going to have to take you for that flight he promised.Ā
While heās spent these evenings with you blessedly free of obligations, tonight will be different. He has to leave, and he wonāt be able to bring you with him. At least not yet. You arenāt ready for that kind of exposure, nor what being revealed as his beloved would entail.
The media would eat you alive. He wonāt subject you to them without proper preparation.
He isnāt cruel.
Voughtās hosting a gala that will serve as the early foundation of their campaign to move supes into the military, and as such, the U.S. Secretary of Defense will be in attendance, and itās Homelanderās job to convince the man of the innumerable benefits of the operation.Ā
Ridiculous. He might as well try and argue the benefits of a smartphone to a fish.
If these people canāt understand why having honest to god superheroes in their military is a good idea, he doubts anything shy of a hand delivered miracle from God would sway the morons.
Itās just common sense, for fuckās sake. War has only ever been a matter of who could bring the biggest gun. They will never find a greater weapon than him, much less a weapon that chooses to protect them.
However undeserving of it they may be.
He lets out a rough breath and shakes his head to knock loose the talking points that have been bashed into his skull over the course of the week, determined to leave work at the door.Ā
āIām hoooome,ā he sings as he steps in through the doorway, the mechanism locking behind him with a soft beep.
It feels good to know youāre safe here. While he doesnāt have enemies, per se, thereās no telling what some lunatic could be driven to do if they knew about you.
āLiving room,ā you call.
The familiarity of it makes him smile.
This is what coming home was always supposed to feel like.
He hums a little tune to himself as he walks, a slight bounce to his steps.
āSomething smells good,ā he says as he rounds the corner, finding you curled up on the couch under a blanket.
Cute.
On the table across from you is a neat little stack of glass containers full of food. He cocks his head, pausing to pick one up for inspection. āYou meal planning out here or something?ā
You slip out from under the throw and stand. Something is⦠off. He hears you picking your nails before he even looks at you, and when he does meet your gaze, thereās a subtle apprehension youāre clearly trying to mask with a cordial smile.
āItās just leftovers from lunch,ā you say, eyes flickering from the container of food back to him. āHow was work?ā
āThe usual,ā he says a little curtly. Due to your unusual demeanor, heās forgotten the laundry list of complaints heād saved up at work with the intention of sharing with you.Ā
In his experience, itās rarely a good thing when people suddenly start behaving differently.
Especially when they try to hide it.
āSomething wrong?ā He asks, giving the penthouse a cursory sweep. Everything looks to be in order.
Your eyes widen a fraction, but you catch yourself from looking overly surprised at being caught.
Gotācha, he thinks. Heās spent his entire life reading the subtleties in peopleās body language, seeking out ways to understand the things they say when theyāre not speaking. The things they wonāt say. Particularly to him.
āNo, no, nothingās wrong. I just wanted to⦠I want to ask you for something,ā you say, hands falling to your sides, your spine straightening.
His brows lift, his curiosity piqued. āSure. Fire away.ā
Youāve been here for days, but you havenāt made any requests of him despite his numerous offers. There isnāt a thing in this world he couldnāt obtain for you. Hell, he doesnāt even care if itās legal. Itās about time you took him up on a little self-indulgence.
āDo you remember my friend John?ā
His head gives a sharp little tic of a turn, his brows furrowing.
John.
He hates the effect hearing you say that name continues to have on him. It isnāt as though he has a meltdown every time he hears the name John. That would be pathetic. Itās the most common name in America, for fucks sake.Ā
However, thereās something particularly vile about hearing you say it with such gentleness.
āWhat about him?ā He asks flatly, hackles rising. He was hoping youād ask for something fun.
āIām worried about him,ā you say, clearly fighting to keep your tone even. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants.Ā
He doesnāt understand why youāre so nervous. It makes him suspicious.Ā
āAnd I donāt want him to worry about me. Weāve had a routine for months. So I thoughtāā
āOh,ā Homelander interrupts, setting the container of food back down as understanding dawns.Ā
Theyāre scraps for your stray pet.Ā
āNo problem, Iāll have someone take this to him,ā he says, gesturing encompassingly towards the food.Ā
āNo,ā you say, the firmness in your voice catching him off guard. āI want you to take me, and I want to give it to him myself.ā
He bristles, needles of suspicion creeping further up his spine. āWhy?ā
Though youāre quick to swallow it back, he doesnāt miss the flash of frustration in your eyes.
āYou said youād take me anywhere I wanted to go. Were you lying?ā
He lifts his hand sharply enough to make you flinch, his index finger pointing only inches from your face.
āDonāt you ever call me a liar,ā he says slowly, fist curled so tightly that the leather of his gloves groans in protest. āI didnāt say no, I asked you why.ā
Your eyes are wide, your heart drumming loudly in his ears. He hates that look of fear, the look that tells him youāre waiting for him to hurt you when heās never done anything of the sort.
You have no right to look at him like that.
āBecause I want to. I want to see him, and make sure heās okay, and because⦠because I wantāā You stop mid sentence and break eye contact, pressing the back of your hand to your opposite cheek. You take in a slow breath to compose yourself.Ā
With a start, he realizes your eyes are welling with tears.
āI want to say goodbye.ā
At a loss, Homelander stares for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot fathom how this little charity schtick could possibly be so important to you. Isnāt he enough for you?
Youāve been spending your days carefree in domestic bliss, yet here you are crying because you arenāt taking a box of food to some bum. Itās baffling enough to give him a migraine.
On the other hand, it was that persistent nurturing that drew his eye to you. If not for your diligent care, he may not have seen the same potential in you. He likes that you care. He just wants you to care for him.
He lets out a long-suffering sigh.
āDonāt cry,ā he says, voice full of his exasperated bewilderment. He lifts both hands in a placating show of surrender. āFine, fine, Iāll take you, and you can do whatever it is you need to do.ā
āThank you,ā you practically sigh. Your hand drops from your face and you look at him with palpable relief, your lips spreading into a faint smile. He likes your smiles. He likes being the reason for your smiles. That, at least, comes as a slight boon.
He clicks his tongue, observing you for a moment before he blows out a raspberry. He cups either side of your face, stepping in close to you.
āI hate it when you make me take a tone with you, you know,ā he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. Your breath catches. āYou should know by now that I canāt say no to you.ā
His thumb strokes your cheek. Heās been gentlemanly in your time here, accepting of your hand in his, your lips on his cheek. When he wakes up hard as a rock with your body pressed to his, heās taken care of himself in the bathroom. Frankly heās been more than a gentleman; heās been a fucking saint.
āIām downright pussy whipped, and I havenāt even gotten any yet,ā he huffs through a little laugh, almost close enough to taste your lips.Ā
He hasnāt felt your lips on his since that night in your apartment. He wants them exactly as they had been. Pliant and without tension or fear, yet still you tense as he holds you close. You place your hands on his chest and though you donāt push him away, theyāre braced to prevent him moving closer.
Thereās a faint tremble running through you.
āDonāt tell me youāre still scared of me,ā he says, offering you the sharp edge of a smile. He means for the words to sound playful, but even he canāt deny that thereās an underlying ache. Insecurity and impatience in equal measure.
Canāt you see how good heās been for you? Heās had enough of having to beg for and pry every scrap of affection in his life from reluctant hands. All he wants isāfor once in his lifeāto be freely offered tenderness.
āYour strength scares me,ā you eventually admit, palms flat against his chest, stare focused on the backs of your hands.
He tips your head back, coaxing your downcast gaze up to meet his. The closeness of you makes your eyes look large and deer-like: a prey animal that recognizes its hunter.Ā
āItās unreal, I feel like Iām notā¦I feel like Iām made of glass when you touch me.ā
As a boy he snapped bones as easily as other children snapped twigs. He cradles your skull knowing exactly how much force it would take to crack it.Ā
Youāre right to feel the extent of your own fragility in his hands.
āI wonāt break you,ā he says, the words little more than a breath.
āDo you promise?ā you ask, your own voice barely a whisper.
āI promise.āĀ Ā
All those that have come before you have taught him his limitations. And yours.
With that, the tension in your arms softens a fraction. He takes a mile from the inch you give, moving to encircle you in his arms. You slide your hands up his chest in turn, moving over his shoulders, around his neck. The way your fingertips settle on the nape of his neck feels like heaven.
Pressing his forehead to yours, he closes his eyes. He listens to the tempo of your heart gradually slow, settling like the wings of a bird finally accepting the safety and kindness of its cage.
Just then, ever so slightly, you tilt your head and lightly press your petal-soft lips to his. The shock of it knocks the wind from his lungs. Joy hits swiftly afterwards, sweeping through his body from his head to his toes. He kisses you in kind, his lips spread in a smile against yours.Ā
Thisāmore than any kill or record breaking profit for Voughtāfeels like a victory.
He cups the back of your head as he savors you, branding the memory of your yielding lips against his into his mind. You move to pull back, but his yearning is a beast he cannot tame, and itās the beast in him that holds you still, intent to relish the kiss just a second more, which becomes just a moment more.
Trapped, you slide your fingers up into his hairline, combing through his sheared undercut into the longer blonde locks. You send a jolt through him when your fingers tighten suddenly, pulling his hair taut between them.Ā
The sensation shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. His stomach flips, suddenly aflutter with butterflies. He makes a noise against your mouth, which regrettably makes you stop, your fingers going slack in his hair.
It doesnāt hurtāyou donāt have the strength necessary to hurt himābut he can still feel it, and it feeds a gnawing hunger in him to be made to feel anything at all.Ā
āDo that again,ā he says between fervent presses of his lips. āFeels good.ā
To his delight you slip both hands into his hair and grip it, eliciting a low moan.
Fuck.
He could get lost in this. In you.
Your pulse has kicked back up, but so has his. Your heartbeats dance with one another as you kiss, drowning out the rest of the world. He moves from your lips to your jaw, your throat, peppering hungry kisses down your neck, ignoring the tension he can feel building back up in you.
He could make your whole body sing if youād just let him.
Your hands move from his hair, pressing once more to his chest. With how weak you are, it takes him a beat to realize youāre actually pushing against him.
An impatient little growl escapes him. He holds you in place, too deep into it to let you go now.
You suck in a shuddering breath, pushing harder. āHomelanderāā
His teeth graze your pulse point, and his tongue presses in to taste the rapid flutter of it. The taste of you is intoxicating, your skin salty-sweet.
Do you know his taste yet? Do you crave it the way he craves yours?
Thereās fear in you but thereās desire there, too. He can feel it in the way your skin warms under his touch, hear it in the quiver of your breath, and smell it in the heat between your legs.Ā
āWait, wait, justāwould you just waitāāĀ
He exhales roughly and pulls sharply back, leveling you with a harsh stare.
āWhat? What! You kissed me, remember? So which is it; do you want me, or do you just want to be a fucking tease?ā
He feels his desire like a longstanding hunger heās only just become aware of. A painful, gnawing thing that demands he sink in his claws and rip, devour, relish. Heās been so good in all of this that one little taste was all it took for the feel of it to come crashing down on him.
For as badly as he wants you, he wants so fucking badly for you to want him, too.
The look of you is one for the history books. Flushed and wide-eyed, youāve taken his words with a shock like youāve been slapped. Your hair is mussed from his hand pushing against it, into it. Your lips are kiss bitten and shiny, plump with all that blood rushing to the surface.
It makes him want to bite them, bruise them, claim them.Ā
Those same lips open and close as you struggle to form a response before eventually settling on one.
āIām sorry.ā
He recoils from that, features twisting up in displeasure.Ā
No, no, no.
āIām sorry, I justāā
āShut up,ā he snaps, letting go of you. He screws his eyes shut, not understanding how he got from where he was a moment ago to where he is now.Ā
All that sweet delicious heat is fading away, leaving him feeling emptier by the second, his skin prickling uncomfortably under his suit.Ā
He would be clawing at it if he could.
āI donāt want you to be sorry,ā he says, hitting the word like a hiss. āI want you toāI want youāā
I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.
He pushes his hands into his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to ache, digging for pain so that it might bring him clarity and stop the terrible repetition his mind has latched onto. He can imagine so clearly how things should be, what you should be saying, feeling, and Iām sorry is nowhere in that vision.
He hates that word. It echoes in his psyche like a curse, dragging him back by the throat to the only stretch of time in his life he ever felt weak enough to say it.
Back then, in his days in the lab, Vought was always testing the boundaries of how human he really was. At one point, when he was still a boyāmaybe eleven or twelveāthey began to reduce his sleep by an hour every few nights.
Each day they would repeat the same grueling tests to see at what point the lack began to affect not only his cognitive abilities, but his powers. Given the sheer amount of Compound V in his system, there were some who wondered if he really needed to sleep at all.
It would have been miraculous if he didnāt. It would be one more aspect of his perfect design that they could pat themselves on the back for.Ā
Unfortunately for both him and them, it was not so.
When they realized the deprivation did affect him, they wanted to understand how badly. They continued to deprive him until they had reduced his sleep to nothing at all, keeping him awake by any means necessary for days. He begged for sleep.Ā
Itās a marathon, John, Vogelbaum told him. Eleven days. Thatās the record for a human. You can beat that, canātācha, tiger?
Tiger. It always made him feel stronger when Jonah called him that.
Ultimately it was less about his perseverance and more about his endurance. He didnāt have much choice in the matter of whether or not he would fall asleep.Ā
Every time he started to doze off, an alarm would blare in his room, startling him back awake.Ā
Iām sorry, he would sob, riddled with guilt for the failure.
There was never any answer.
When it was over and neither he nor the scientists had anything to show for itānothing but misery and a newfound insomniaāhe decided he would never be sorry for anything ever again.
His temples are throbbing, his skull aching from the pressure of his own strength.Ā
Though his eyes are tightly shut, he can feel the searing heat of his laser vision pressing against his eyelids.Ā
It makes him want to scream, to run, to fly, to break apart everything around him, but he canāt. Heās too powerful to ever allow himself a physical outlet.
When the average man throws a punch to blow off steam, at worst theyāll put a hole in the wall.
Homelander could punch through to the core of the planet.Ā
Maybe he could split the whole damn thing in half. Heās never been allowed to find out.
Instead, he focuses it all inward. He swallows the feelings like bile and fights not to choke on it, on the tension of his own impossible power straining his muscles. He canāt hear your heartbeat anymore, itās drowned out by his own blood rushing in his ears.
Or itās not there at all.
Youāve fled, he realizes. His stomach churns, and still his mind is on a punishing loop of all the things he has ever wanted that he cannot accept heāll never have.Ā
I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want.
Anger surges through him and the heat of it is painful, twisting all his already tautly wrung innards and flushing them with fiery rage.
Sheās not sorry. She has no idea the fucking meaning of it. If she wants to know what itās like to be sorry, then weāllā
Arms slip around his neck, and suddenly his mind hits a deafening quiet.
What?
The feeling is so alien to him that it takes several seconds to understand that itās you. That youāre here. That youāre⦠holding him.
Faintly he feels the tug of your meager strength, and he leans into it, his cheek coming to rest on your chest, head tucked under your chin.
He opens his eyes, the world still awash in the crimson glow of his lasers, and he feels you flinch at the sheer heat of them. He works to blink the light away, his hands resting on your hips, gripping at the fabric of your pants.
āYouāre still here,ā he says, voice frayed with confusion and steadily ebbing tension.Ā
āYes.ā
āI thought I was alone.ā
āYouāre not.ā
Gently, you comb your fingers through his hair. He doesnāt need his super senses to know your heart is pounding. He can feel the hammering pulse of it against his cheek.
Your fear is so tangible he can practically taste it, but he wouldnāt know it existed at all if he went only on the way youāre holding him.
How is it you can be so afraid and yet feel so firm against him?
āItās okay,ā you whisper, a faint tremble in your otherwise firm voice. āYouāre not alone.ā
Tears sting his eyes. He moves his grip from your hip to the fabric at your back, your shoulder, his hands climbing your clothes with a clawing desperation to ensure every bit of you is real and within his reach. He envelops you in his arms and nuzzles you, exhaling another breath of the terrible miasma that had built up like sulfur in his lungs.
You move your other hand in soothing patterns between his shoulder bladesājust as you had beforeāand with every repetition of the pattern he feels the rage, the pain, the fear, the misery of it all drip away, like a wet cloth being wrung dry.
The two of you stand like that for a long while, focused only on the sound and feel of the other. The burn in the back of his throat and in his eyes fades. By the end of it, he feels heavy with the exhaustion of holding back the weight of his own might.
Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze. Youāre somehow even more beautiful than you had been. Your edges are frayed, and though there is lingering fear, it doesnāt repulse him to see it.
Because you stayed.
Your fingers slip from his hair, moving to his face. It isnāt until your thumb moves through the wetness on his cheek that he realizes a tear had escaped the burn of his lasers and streaked down his face.
āI didnāt mean to upset you,ā you tell him, and to his own pleasure, he believes you.
āHey, hey, itās alright. I know you didnāt,ā he says, cupping your face in turn. He brings you forward and presses a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.Ā
Heās in control again, and he speaks as if that were always true.
āJust like I know youāll make it up to me.ā
He draws away with a crooked smile, the episode fading to a distant corner of his mind as he puts the fractured pieces of himself back into something cohesive. He strokes your cheek, admiring your features. Your eyes.
In hindsight, itās strange to think that heās always thought of you as the sweet, doting little rabbit to his wolf.Ā
Staring at you now, heās sure heās looking into the eyes of a fox.Ā
āCāmon,ā he says, siding his hands down your shoulders so that he can take hold of your wrists, guiding you towards the balcony. āItās about time I take you for that flight I promised.ā
Wouldnāt want to keep John waiting for his meal any longer.
Can we get a peek at some of the nasty shit he'd say during a hatefuck? Was creeping in your tags
"Hhah, wow, listen to you. You're actually enjoying this, aren't you? All that talk and now look at you, choking on your own drool. Fffucking cock slut. If I knew a good pounding was all it'd take to shut you up, I might've fucked you sooner. Y'know, you're not half bad to look at when you're cum drunk. Shh, shh, don't ruin it. Don't say a fucking word. Oh, fuck, you're fucking squeezing me. Don't fight it, I can feel how bad you wanna cum. Hahah, fuck, you're pathetic."
he's saying it all through gritted teeth because he's actually the one desperately trying not to blow his load too early. he's been jerking himself raw for weeks thinking about this, consumed by the conflicting feelings in this tension fueled hatemance.
but he's the Homelander, and he can't let you win.
When he finds you, youāre sobbing. Fat tears stream down your face and drop onto the pavement below. Your eyes are swollen and sticky with sorrow and the force with which you wail stirs up bile in your gut. Rain drenches you and the cloying stench of rot from the wet trash in the alley mimics the disgust you feel for yourself in that moment.
This isnāt about him but you know heāll take it that way. He seems to take any emotion that isnāt pure adoration of him as some personal slight, as though heās not good enough to keep you distracted from your pathetic life and its struggles. He sees it as a competition between your world and his. You see it as your reality. Youād wanted to find a quiet place to lick your wounds alone. Thatās why you escaped to this filthy alley in the first place. But he found you anyway, vulnerable and ill-prepared to handle his ego.
He doesnāt say anything. He just stands in the alleyway entrance with his hands on his hips and a cock of his head. His face is blank as he looks you over, his lip curling slightly in distaste. You know you look a mess with your nose leaking snot and your cheeks hot and swollen. You donāt say anything. You donāt have the energy. You just sniffle and wait for the inevitable blast wave.
He stays silent, the only noise is the soft patter of rain and the squelch of his boots on the wet ground as he walks toward you. He crowds you against the brick and grips your hips to spin you to face the wall. You brace yourself with your hands and he pushes in close behind you. The soft bulge of his cup hides his erection but you can tell by the eagerness with which he presses against you that he's hard. You rest your head on the wall and sigh. You donāt have the energy to reciprocate but it doesnāt seem like he expects you too.
āYou look so good like this,ā He purrs in your ear. It surprises you. You know you look like shit. āSo pure and perfect.ā
He grinds against your ass and peppers your neck with greedy kisses. His hands quickly fumble with the button of your jeans and he slides the zipper down with a hiss. His hand dives into your underwear, testing your readiness. You arenāt at all really but it doesnāt seem to deter him too much. He strokes you exactly the way he knows that you like and your body responds accordingly. You arch into his touch even though your crying hasnāt ceased. He hushes you softly.
You hear the hiss of his own zipper and he uses his knee to coax your legs further apart as he tugs your jeans down past your ass. You offer no resistance. He spits on his palm for some lubrication and strokes himself before pressing in. He goes slow but it still stings a bit without the usual extended preparation. You hiccup and whimper at the stretch but despite all his flaws, you trust him not to cause you any damage. Heās careful and strangely you find that you donāt mind the pain. Itās cathartic.
āJust let it out. Thatās it. Youāre doing so good.ā He coos in your ear as he bottoms out. You grunt, uncomfortably full but satisfied by the distraction from your own thoughts. He doesnāt move except to resume stroking you, humming in pleasure at the way you clench tightly around him.
āI want you to cry for me until you canāt anymore. Donāt fucking stop.ā He growls. You nod weakly as you allow the tears to fall freely without shame. Thereās nowhere for you to hide with the way youāre pinned between the wall and his hard cock.
The first thrust hurts. You havenāt fully relaxed around him yet although youāre slick enough to take him by now. He grunts, rubbing you faster while his other hand reaches up to grab your jaw, turning your gaze to meet his. He searches your eyes for something and he seems to find it. The cold appraisal in his expression warms slightly as he leans down to lick the salt from your cheeks.
āGive it to me. Donāt hide it.ā He moans against your skin as he begins to increase the speed of his thrusts. Your discomfort is quickly evolving into pleasure now at the intensity of the sensations heās filling you with. You moan and his grips tightens bruisingly, purple inevitably beginning to bloom under his fingers. You cry out and he throbs inside you.
āThis belongs to me.ā He growls and his pace is brutal as he uses you.
Youāre beginning to understand his fervor now. You begin to understand why he feels so entitled to your pain. How many times have you seen him at his weakest? How many times have you held him while he cried and comforted him as his shoulders shook with sorrow and self-pity? He doesnāt like uneven scales. Heās gloating, gleeful that heās not the only weak one in the relationship.
Itās fucked upā¦but thatās him. How can you begrudge him when this is all heās ever known? After all, it is helping. The overwhelm of sensation is the only thing that could have pulled you out of that headspace. You need this wake-up call as a reboot of your brain. Your mournful cries have evolved into needy moans and your hips press eagerly back into his. A kinder response wouldnāt have reached the root of your hurt. Like lancing a boil, you need him to drain the poison out of you.
He continues to whisper sweet nothings in your ear despite the way heās fucking you as though he doesnāt give a damn whether you live or die. Itās cold and emotionless, using you as merely a sleeve for his cock. But his breath against your ear is warm and he nuzzles sweetly against your temple. You try to speak but the wind is knocked out of you every time his cock pounds against that soft spot inside you.
āI donāt want to hear anything come out of your mouth unless itās your pathetic sobbing. Thatās what you came all this way for, so fucking do it.ā He pants breathlessly against your ear as he nears his release.
You do, although the tears that prick at your eyes are those of pleasure now. Youāre loose and quivering around him and every nerve ending tingles with electricity. Your nail tears as you claw at the brick to brace yourself for the edge heās quickly driving you towards.
You cry out his name and he bites your shoulder harshly, the bloody reprimand staining his teeth.
āWhat did I just fucking say?ā He hisses before lapping hungrily at the wound and groaning darkly at the iron tang that fills his mouth. He can taste the endorphins in it and it drives him crazy.
The sudden sharp pain hurls you into a world ending orgasm and your legs give out. You almost collapse until he presses you bodily against his wall. His pace shifts into a deep filthy grind right into your spasming hole as he holds you up with his body. You wail and clench around him and it doesnāt take much longer at all until heās spilling into you, his release leaking out of you and dripping down his balls onto the slick pavement below. He moans and whines in your ear, his demeanor shifting from cruel to needy in the span of a heartbeat.
You struggle to catch your breath, agony and delight filling your veins in equal measure. Itās perfect. Itās just what you needed. Heās just what you needed, every cruel beautiful inch of him. You donāt merely endure him. You need the sharp edges of him to keep you grounded. You need that pain.
His arms wrap around you. He peppers your sore shoulder with sweet kisses as a silent apology. Youāll need to bandage it up when you return but you arenāt going to worry about it right now. Youāre content in his embrace. The two of you wait there in silence as the silver rain continues to fall all around you, causing the dirty alley to glint prettily in the moonlight. Your chest still aches but you can survive it.
āLetās get you back home. Iāll run you a bath and have the kitchen bring you up your favorite. How does that sound?ā His tone is so kind and warm, a far cry from his earlier demeanor. You still arenāt quite capable of speech but you nod.
āThere you are.ā He coos, and as he scoops you up into his arms and off into the sky, you slip away into a comfortable doze.
You know itās not healthy but itās all you have. Itās all he can give you. If it gets you results then you can learn to be content with that. So you lean into him and let the rain wash away the remnants of what ails you.
hiii its been a while since i sent i request, just wanted to know if you're still doing old request or not
Hello! Yep, I don't know exactly which one you're referring to, but I will!
I just took a time off because of some personal issues, but, hopefully, I'll soon go back to posting the requests I have on my askbox and update my Posey (OFC) fic.
Within the isolation Homelander has imposed on you, your entire world is rapidly narrowing to just the two of you. With that, your understanding of the man who has ensnared you grows alongside his infatuation with you.
Itās much too early when you hear the alerting beep of the front door unlocking, metal sliding against metal as the mechanism engages.Ā
Your eyes snap to the clock.Ā
Itās barely after 2:00pm.Ā
You scrub at your tear streaked face, ill-prepared to be confronted by your captor so soon. Your misery evaporates in a rush of panic, leaving only whatās necessary to survive.
Sucking in a deep breath, you drop your hands just in time to see Homelander appear in the archway.Ā
The two of you stare at each other for a long, quiet moment.Ā
His expression is difficult to discern. Pinched. Anxious. Staring at him now, you suddenly have no doubt that the boy in the photo is him. You can see every ounce of that nervous boy in his face.
But why is he looking at you like that?
Before you can ask, he closes the distance between you in a handful of long strides. The determination he moves with makes your stomach lurch.Ā
Just as you move to get to your feet, he takes hold of you with that same chilling, unrelenting strengthāarms coiling around you like serpentsāand hauls you up until your body is flush to his.Ā
He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you so deeply your skin erupts into goosebumps.
āIām really happy youāre here,ā he says, his breath hot on your neck. His hand slides all the way up your spine, cupping the back of your head. His other arm remains looped around your waist, gloved fingers biting into your skin through your clothes.Ā
You feel his lips shape the words against your skin as he murmurs, quieter yet, āI missed you.ā
You almost say it back, survival instincts compelling you to appease him, but you stop yourself. You were scolded the last time you said something you didnāt mean in an attempt to appeal to him.
Even if despite yourself, a small part of you is glad heās back. Being stranded alone in your prison had somehow been worse than the unease you feel with him present.
While logically you know humanity still exists beyond these walls, the deafening quiet of the penthouse makes it feel like the rest of the world has simply vanished, leaving you well and truly alone in it.
For all the good the people outside these walls can do you, it may as well have.
Thereās tension thrumming through him from his head to his toes that you can feel in every inch of his body pressed tightly against yours. Heās clutching you like he thoughtādespite the fortress he left you ināyouād also have vanished in his absence.Ā
You lift your hands, knuckles brushing the underside of the heavy cape hanging from his shoulders, and tentatively begin to stroke soothing patterns up and down his back.
The effect is instantaneous. His grip on you relaxes from stifling to a more tender hold, his fingertips no longer sinking into you like claws. He rests his chin on your shoulder, sighing out a long breath that tickles the back of your neck.
Silence fills the narrow spaces between you. Heās overwhelmingly warm, his heat seeping through even the dense layers of his suit and into you.Ā
Despite the way heās leaning into you, youāre barely standing on your own feet. You could go limp right now and not move an inch in his hold.Ā
āAre you okay?ā You ask, speaking in the same pacifying tone you would use with a spooked animal.
He draws back to meet your eyes, his own bereft of their earlier anxiety, though he does look a little surprised that you asked. He recovers quickly, his expression softening around a sly glint in his stare.Ā
āYou actually sound like you care,ā he says, and though the words themselves are callous, you get the sense heās paying you a compliment. Praising you for playing your role so convincingly.
āUnlike some people I know,ā he says with sudden venom, hands migrating to your arms.Ā
āYou would not believe how fucking ungrateful they are out there. Day after day, Iām out thereāāhe nods to the window behind youāāworking the crowds, selling the pitches. Iām the face of this entire fucking company.āĀ
His grip occasionally flexes on your arms as he speaks, not quite enough to hurt, but enough to make you nervous, and though his anger isnāt directed at you, itās unsettling nonetheless.Ā
āBut do any of them care? Thoseāthe fuckingāthe CEOās, those weak-necked pencil pushers? Do they respect any goddamn thing I think?ā
āNo?ā you offer the word as half an answer and half a question. Youāre not sure how rhetorical his spiel is, but youāre keen to commiserate with him and not find yourself in the path of misdirected ire.
āNo!ā He echoes louder, scoffing. Your response only riles him up further, his tension seeping into his hold on you. "And what are they doing? Hm? What are they doing that's so fucking important?"
Your lips part. You hesitate, but now he's looking at you with such exasperated expectation, you know you should answer. You start and stop a few times, but he makes no move to interrupt you or fill in the blanks.Ā
Instead, heās watching you with a rapt kind of intensity, suddenly eager to hear what youāll say next.
"Making your work look like theirs," you say, finding your bearings. Itās not as though you havenāt experienced the same.Ā
Any time youāve ever had a boss, their only objective has been using you to make themselves look good. Standing on you like youāre just another rung on the ladder.Ā
āTaking the credit and the money for themselves.ā
"Yes!" he hisses, bouncing his fist lightly off of your shoulder. The way he moves is sharp, jagged like broken glass.Ā
"Even you get it. I mean, I'm the fucking Homelander, and they treat me like a goddamn show pony. They trot me out and then expect me to prance right back into my fucking stall.ā
You can feel the heat of his anger in his breath, in the way his fingers sink into the meat of your arm. It isnāt a loud or boisterous thing, itās more sinister; the hiss and rattle of a venomous snake.Ā
Everything about himāfrom the bearing of his teeth to the inescapable strength of his gripāis a screaming warning that you should run far, far away from him.
However, trapped as you are, your only recourse is to appeal to your predator.
āYouāre more than that,ā you say, his words from the night prior suddenly coming to you in a rush. āYouāre underappreciated, and capable of so much more than they give you credit for.ā
His tense expression slackens, his anger replaced by a flash of shockingly earnest vulnerability.Ā
This Homelander is by far the least unnerving of the variety youāve seen.
Last night he was manic, frightening in his unhinged flavor of excitement. This morning heād been tender one moment and terse the next, eerie in his sudden lack of warmth. The way he smiled at you during breakfast felt straight off of a movie poster.Ā
Performative.Ā
Fake.
Nothing like the way he looks now.
āYeah,ā he breathes, relief heavy in his tone.Ā
If he recognizes his own words on your tongue, it doesnāt show. Heās looking at you with a sort of wonder, as if theyāre completely new to him.Ā
Itās clear now more than ever that he said them to you because he desperately needed to hear them.Ā
āYes, exactly.ā
He cups either side of your face, pulling yours closer to his.Ā
āI knew you would understand,ā he says, close enough that you feel the breath of each word on your lips. āI knew that if I could see you, youād see me. Because youāre different. Because youāre not like those empty fucking suits with Cornell degrees.ā
The tension between you makes the air thick and hard to breathe. You lick your lips subconsciously and his eyes drop predator-quick to follow the movement.Ā
He hasnāt lost that look of expectation yet.Ā
When his eyes meet yours again, theyāre blown black, the vibrant blue of them constricted to a fine ring around his pupils.
You swallow dryly, your heart a pounding drum in your ears.
āDo you want me to kill them?ā You blurt out, the words all impulse and zero thought.
He blinks, face jerking slightly back from yours in obvious surprise. Whatever he expected you to say, that certainly wasn't it.Ā
Truth be told, youāre as surprised about what came out of your mouth as he is. Itās the kind of joke you would make to an exasperated friend. Not your kidnapper.
The silence between you stretches on. Homelander's face can't seem to settle, lips twitching between a near-smile and that same part of surprise.
āYouāre gonna kill Stan Edgar?ā The way he places emphasis makes it sound like heās considered it before, but came to the conclusion that the task is an impossible one.
You shrug. āHow tough can he be?ā
At that, he starts to laugh.
His gloved hands slip from your face and go to his own, rubbing at his eyes as he laughs and laughs, the sound of it reverberating from deep in his chest. Itās the kind of laugh that speaks of deep catharsis.
Your own lips curve in empathy, tension seeping from you.
"Christ," he says under his breath. His hands slide down his face until they fall away, landing on his hips. He gives his head a small shake before looking back at you, his smile broad and boyish.Ā
Another rare instance of an expression from him without palpable pretense or agenda.
āYou kill a lot of CEOs?ā He asks, stepping right back into your personal bubble.
You hold your ground.Ā
āDoes imagining it in vivid detail count? Because I used to do that pretty often. Especially on unpaid lunch breaks in the closet.ā
His brows furrow. āYou ate lunch in a closet?ā
"Not always. Sometimes I just went inside to scream. Thick walls," you say, only half-joking.Ā
That had been at your previous job, where you routinely hid during meal breaks.Ā
āMy supervisor was always riding my ass. I couldnāt even eat in peace.ā
āYouāre kind of a weirdo,ā he muses, his tone quiet and warm. Affectionate, even.
Itās your turn to bark an incredulous laugh, your nerves fading.Ā
The gall of him to call you weird. In a bizarre way, it almost makes things feel⦠normal.
āIāve been called worse.āĀ
You donāt realize youāre smiling until his thumb brushes your cheek, his touch trailing down your jaw. He curls a lock of your hair around his index finger and brings it to his lips, closing his eyes on a slow inhale.Ā
Oddly captivated by the display, you watch him with bated breath.
When he opens his eyes, the blue has returned to them. Thereās a tired kind of relief to his expression. Itās as though heās let go of something very heavy that heād been carrying just a moment ago.Ā
He releases your hair in favor of reaching for your hand, though he stops just shy of grabbing it, fingers outstretched.
āWill you watch a movie with me?ā He asks. Itās the exact same tone he used when heād asked for a kiss: thereās an underlying anxiousness that youāre starting to understand.Ā
Despite the imbalance of power between you, heās still anticipating rejection. He might even fear it.
Once again you find yourself thinking of the boy in the photo. How quietly and heartbreakingly miserable he had looked.
āYeah. Iāll watch a movie with you.ā
You slip your hand into his. His eyes light up and he squeezes, pulling you down onto the couch next to him. You watch him pick up the remote and begin flipping through the menus.Ā
Itās surreal: the version of yourself that desperately typed in address after address until you were sobbing feels like someone else entirely. A part of yourself that youāve compartmentalized away.
āHow about Taxi Driver?ā
You blink. The 70s flick with De Niro?Ā
What an oddly specific pull.
āSure.ā
His smile broadens. He leans in, and though you brace yourself to be kissed, he only kisses your cheek.
Precisely the way you kissed his this morning.Ā
āYouāre the best.ā
The tone of his voice gives a deceptively oppressive weight to such a simple compliment.Ā
Turning back to the menu, he rests your interlaced hands on his thigh, thumb stroking your knuckles.
You stare at your hand enclosed in his for a long while before you glance up at him.Ā
He has a classic kind of profile; a strong nose that slopes to a point, a firmly outlined jaw, subtle but defined lips, brows that neatly frame his striking ocean blue eyes.
Despite obvious bleaching, his hair looks soft and touchable. The dark undercut is even moreso.Ā
More than just the sum of his parts, heās perhaps objectively the most attractive man youāve ever made contact with.Ā
Certainly the wealthiest.Ā
Heās strange in his mannerisms, but aside from the whole kidnapping ordeal, heās been⦠mostly decent to you.Ā
Itās not that you want to think of him as attractive. He just is.
It makes it all the more confusing as to why such a man would need to kidnap anyone at all. There must be more: just what the hell is so wrong with him that heās so incapable of forming an organic relationship?
Suppose Iāll find out one way or another.
Realizing youāre staring again, you snap your attention to the screen.
While Homelander occasionally squeezes your hand, you spend the duration of the film pretending not to notice the long moments he spends staring at you.Ā
You canāt help but be tense, anticipating that heāll make a move at any moment, but his hand never moves from yours. He stays eerily still over the course of the next two hours, rarely shifting other than to spare you a lingering look.
Itās all so bizarrely chaste.
The movie, on the other hand, is anything but.
While Travis Bickle is the main character, heās not what anyone would consider a hero. Even at his best he can't sleep, drinks heavily, pops pills, and spends his mornings in porn theaters. Heās irrational, unstable, and entirely too caught up in his own version of reality.
A terrible dread crawls up your spine when his attentions land on Betsy. Heās enamored with her too immediately, speaking to a stranger as if she hung the stars in the sky just for him. You want to scream at her to run, but she reciprocates instead.
When their second date rolls around, that dread in your gut doubles.
Donāt, you find yourself wishing, brows furrowing. Donāt do it. For fuckās sake, donāt take her to the theatre!
No matter how hard you wish for it, the movie plays out as it always has, as it always will, and the whole thing blows up in Travisā face. Disgusted with him, Betsy rejects him. It takes everything in you not to writhe off of the couch in sheer discomfort when he snatches her wrist, pleading with her.
"Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man."
Homelanderās hand sits heavily atop yours.
Travisā descent into madness is a gradual one from that point on. He grows violent and obsessive, hyper aware that the world he inhabits was not made for him, but unable to adapt.Ā
Even among his peers he is isolated and unable to connect. He loses whatever self-awareness he once had, and deludes himself into progressively more dangerous ideals.
By the time the credits roll, Travis is the hero of his own warped story, and your neck is stiff from holding the same position with such tension.
āNow that is how you get control of your life,ā Homelander says suddenly, bringing your attention to him. āYou take it. Guns blazing, and you walk out of it a hero,ā he says with a grin, turning to catch your eye.
Yes, you think, stomach churning. You have certainly learned to take.Ā
āWhat was your favorite part?ā he asks, surprising you a little with the earnestness of his question.Ā
Heās an odd mixture of endearing and unnerving in his ability to move so fluidly from an intimidating unnatural force to someone sincere and boyish.
It doesnāt make his take-away from the movie any less disturbing.
āOh, uhmā¦ā You rub at your sore neck absently. It wasnāt exactly the type of movie with laughs or feel good moments to choose from, despite the handful of times Homelander laughed or cheered himself.Ā
āProbably the part whereāā
āWhatās wrong with your neck?ā he interrupts suddenly, gaze dropping to your hand.
You let your hand fall back into your lap. āItās fine, I get stiff sitting. I just need to streāā
Before you can finish, Homelander slips his hand from yours and grasps your shoulder, turning you away from him.
āI can fix it.ā His tone is unerringly certain, leaving you no space to protest. He manhandles you until your back is faced to him, your legs drawn up onto the couch. āBelieve me, Iām used to women with tech neck.ā
āWho?ā You ask impulsively. Itās eating you up inside wondering if there have been others before you, and what might have happened to them to land you here in their stead.
āYou jealous?ā He asks. You donāt have to see his face to know heās smiling. You can hear it.
āNo,ā you say after a beat, ever careful with your words. āJust curious.ā
He slides his hands up slowly over your shoulders and hooks his thumbs over your collar, adjusting it out of the way.Ā
āNo one you need to worry about.ā
A non-answer that does nothing to quell your anxiety.
He brings his thumbs to either side of your neck and presses them in at the base of your skull, slowly moving them all the way down and out towards your shoulders, your muscles popping beneath the pressure.
The precision with which he finds the ache in your neck shocks a little gasp out of you.
Fuck, maybe he can fix it.
āYou know, muscles actually look different when theyāre all knotted up like this,ā he says, sounding pleased with himself.Ā
āYāgot all these little nodules, and all I need to doāāhe drags his thumb down your neck, following to the side of your spineāāis pop āem.ā
The sound of tense tissue crackling and loosening under his touch sounds like a zipper being undone. You canāt deny that he knows what heās doing. He works slowly, gradually increasing pressure.Ā The strength in his hands doesnāt falter once, the leather of his glove soft on your skin.
Itās only when you make a noiseāa sigh caught somewhere between pain and pleasureāthat he hesitates.
āAre you really saying you can see the knots in my muscles? Through my skin?ā You ask when he stops, tilting your neck to one side.
It already feels better.
āOne of the many perks of dating me,ā he says, his voice lower and nearer to your ear than it had been a beat ago. Goosebumps erupt down your spine and arms.
Dating.
Life would be easier if you could believe that to be true even half as much as he does.
He resumes the massage, focusing mainly on your neck, his thumbs pushing up into your hairline and then slowly back down. The level of control he has over his strength is staggering, the pressure just enough to stay shy of hurting you.
Your eyes fall shut while he works the tension from your muscles. Your mind drifts back to the movie. To Travis and Betsy. To the dozens of times he called her, and the dozen more flowers he sent to her door. To the delusional power fantasies he fell into in the wake of that denial.
The agony of rejection during their phone call had been so visceral that not even the camera could seem to bear it, panning away to an empty hall while he held a painfully one-sided conversation.
Homelander doesnāt have to fantasize about power. He has more of it than any one man rightfully should, yet still he has found himself in deficit.Ā
Is he so terrified of rejection that he would deny even someone as powerless as you the chance of it?
Perhaps he isnāt quite so powerful after all.
āThat feels amazing. Youāre really good at this,ā you tell him, correctly anticipating the way your words give him pause.Ā
This time, you hear him swallow.
The couch dips and you lean back with it, his thigh pressing in behind you as he shifts closer. The massage becomes less focused, his grip loosening and moving wider. His hands come to rest on your shoulders.Ā
Your breath hitches at the feel of warm, bare skin along your exposed neck. His lips ghost your skin in a faint not-quite kiss.
āThatās not all Iām good at,ā he murmurs, staying close enough that you feel the shape of each word against your flesh.Ā
You donāt move, your eyes remain closed.
He takes your silence as permission, hands sliding down your arms, falling off from your elbows to your hips. He holds you in place while he peppers tentative kisses on the tender flesh of your neck, following down the line of your spine as low as the collar of your shirt allows him to.
Your stomach flips, but your heart isnāt the only thing fluttering. Thereās a faint throb between your legs that feels like it should belong to someone else entirely.
Can he hear that, too? Can he see it?
Shame, fear and arousal swim hot in your gut, the heat of it crawling slowly up your chest, your face. You screw your eyes shut tighter.
Dating.Ā
That single word spins around and around you like the rattle of a broken record. He exists in a sweeter reality than you do.Ā
It would be niceāno, not nice, saferāto visit it, if only for a moment.
Wouldnāt it?
His lips are soft along your hairline to the shell of your ear, his breath warm and tickling. His hands begin to work up your sides, cupping your ribs.
Thereās a tentativeness to his movements that implies a question, and thereās no doubt in your mind that if you stayed still, stayed quiet, he would find the answers he wants all on his own.
Instead you take hold of his wrists, stopping him in his tracks. Part of you is surprised that heās so easy to halt. You turn around slowly, moving his hands away as you do, releasing one of them in order to face him properly.
The look of him catches you off guard; cheeks stung pink, lips parted and shiny wet from where heās licked the taste of you from them. His eyes are wide and hungry, but thereās an inquisitive apprehension in his expression.Ā
That same terrible anticipation of rejection.
Gently, as if you might somehow spook him, you place your hand on his chest and push. A victorious little rush moves through you with how easily he bends under your touch, moving until heās forced to lay back, sweeping his cape out from under him to drape off the edge of the couch.
You slip off of the couch but leave your hand planted firmly on his chest, nudging his legs with yours until he gets the picture and brings them both up onto the couch, too.
All the while he watches you intently, curiosity edging out anxious uncertainty.
Holding his gaze, you lay yourself down next to him. The narrowness of the couch leaves you practically on top of him, but he clearly doesnāt mind. His lips spread slowly into a wondrous smile, his arm curling around your waist to bring you closer yet.
Where last night the weight of his arm had felt suffocating, now it feels more like putting on a seat belt to ride a rollercoaster.Ā
He may be a supe, but he has shown youāintentionally or notāthat heās also just a man, and you have power over him, too. You only need to wield it as such. Your affection can be a shield. Your indulgence a precaution.
You drape your arm over his middle and rest your head upon his chest, letting out a long, calming breath.
āThis is, uh... a nice surprise,ā he says, resting his hand on your forearm. He strokes your back idly with the other.
āSo was the massage.ā
His chest rumbles faintly against your ear as he laughs.
āI wouldāve done it sooner if I knew youād like it so much.ā
You stare at his hand. Resting as lightly as it is, his fingers still curl in just enough to press into your arm. Even when you choose to offer your affection freely, he canāt help but grip like youāll suddenly take it away if he doesnāt.
Itās like he never learned how to hold something without leaving claw marks on it.Ā
āWe have a lot to learn about each other,ā you say quietly, closing your eyes.
His hand pauses upon your back for a moment, and then without comment, he pulls you properly into his arms, enveloping you in that familiar warm thrum of power.
Itās like being embraced by a nuclear reactor.
You canāt survive in fight or flight forever. The relief he brought to your neck has made you realize how tense all over you really are, how heavy your fear has made your aching heart. If youāre going to get out of this, you have to learn to put it down when itās safe.
So, for at least a little while, you decide to let yourself relax not only in Homelanderās embrace, but in his rose-tinted reality.
Homelanderās partner specifically wearing sickeningly sweet perfumes whenever they feel annoyed with him as punishment. Trying to get homie to give them space because heās so clingy.
POV you doused yourself in perfume and homelander's just helping you wash it off:
Hi, just wanted to say Im missing your fics so much! I'm so excited to see what will happen with tutor and Homelander. But take care of yourself first ā¤ļø
Oh, anon, thank you very much š¤ It makes me beyond happy to know that in teaching you will learn (fem!tutor and Homelander) hasn'tĀ beenĀ forgotten.
It's been a while since I've been dealing with a lot lately, but I plan to go back as soon as possible!
To give you a itty bitty spoiler... Their date does not go well, or rather, doesn't happen at all. Why? Ryan. He won't share his favorite teacher. No, dad, she's my tutor. It is-it-It's against the law!, he'll say, leaving you giggling for the entire day. And Homelander to sulk, of course, but still not managing to stay away from you. How could he? When the shape of your lips, the sway of your hips, call to him as a lost ship would when finding its lighthouseāits shelter.
You, oh, poor thing, innocent lamb, still unaware of the strenght a wolf exerts when sinking its teeth. You think it's only the beginning, but you're caught in the middle, for Homelander moves fast, and when you realize...
Well, that will be for the next chapter proper hahaha
It's the second year of Cozy Corner Kinktober, and as everybody knows, holding an event two years in a row makes a tradition! So, welcome to the traditional, annual Cozy Corner Kinktober 2024.
We have 31 kink prompts, one for each day of October (you don't have to stick to the order), plus a few alternatives for those who want to fill 31 prompts but are uncomfortable with or find no inspiration with some of the main prompts.
The rules are simple: you can do whatever the f%#k you want! Fill however many prompts you want, in whichever order, with whatever ship and any medium you like: fic, art, headcanons, gif sets, video edits - anything! You can interpret prompts literally, figuratively or creatively - feel free to fill them more than once in different ways. You can also use the same prompt twice but for different media or different ships. You can start preparing now and start posting in October, or, if you don't want to wait that long, you can post as soon as you're done with your prompt fill (but we'll probably be checking the tag less regularly before October).
Please tag your posts thoroughly with applicable kinks and any other potential tw so that people can filter out any content they don't want to see in the tags. Prompt fills can be consensual, noncon or dubcon. All fic is fantasy, just please tag accordingly. As a general tag for the prompt fills, we suggest #cozy corner kinktober 2024 so that people can find the content for this event under one tag.