howdy! welcome to the fun house where you'll find an excessive amount of homelander fanfics written by myself and shared from others. you can call me kenny! asks are encouraged and super appreciated <3
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I'm surprised when Homelander learned Butcher's address he didn't start pestering him more. Not even to spy on him for information, just to annoy him because he can. Like showing up to Butcher's home after he's spent all night drinking, blasting the DK Rap on max volume and making him wish Homie would laser him in the face already lmao. 😂
Hi!! I js wanna say this reel i found on insta instantly reminded me of your of oc Benjamin 😭😭 https://www.instagram.com/p/DaFFuyRtpAd/?igsh=MXA3bzk1YWhlZGpxNA== LMAO i js thought it was rlly funny
Welp. I participated in Propstore's auction for The Boys memorabilia. Let's just say you're all invited to my Homelander-themed birthday party next year. As a warning though I only got 40 plates and 25 cups so some of you might have to share, lol. 🎉
Sweet Spider - Homelander x OC (Tender Threads Chapter 13)
chapter thirteen: sweet spider (18+)
chapter directory | slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander
summary: wake up, little spider. wake up.
The last thing Benjamin needed when he wrapped filming his interviews for Super In America was for his phone screen to light up with a call from his mother. Between the agony of a million takes due to the pickiness of the director and a gnawing stomach ache steadily growing more and more painful by the hour, he’d been praying there wouldn’t be one more issue. He tried his best to talk to her every day, but sometimes it was hard. He watches it buzz against his desk, breath slowly expiring in his lungs until her face disappears from the screen.
He lets that trapped air free with a heavy huff that seems to take all of his energy and supply a new wave of discomfort.
Chances are she’d call again later in the day, but he could almost guarantee what it was about. Complaints about his father, snide remarks about him having not made up with his brother, questions about his life, out of touch rants about the state of the world– all of the above, probably. It’s not that he minds talking to her, it’s just… sometimes he wonders if that’s all he’s good for. Interrogation and therapy. Usually in that exact order.
The bug sighs heavily once more and leans back, grimacing at the heinous groan of his decade old swivel chair. He’d been staring at the blink of the text cursor since he got back to the tower. A back and forth project between him and Jason to gain access to Vought files that required higher security clearance. Ben’s initial plan had been the big guy himself. After all, Stan Edgar was the easy choice. With a title like CEO, he was guaranteed to have access to everything. There was just one teeny little issue…
He doesn’t know Stan. He doesn’t know Mister Edgar’s habits. But there was someone who he knew for sure never closed that company laptop of hers. Always open, always on the charger… always unlocked.
Stillwell was the next best target, but the little program had to be built first. It wasn’t being done out of malice, it was just… curiosity. The fact Vought had given him a tool as powerful as his HUD but restricted certain information never quite stopped bothering him. But not even curiosity could fight the tickling urge in the back of the bug’s mind to abandon ship and partake in some of his more useless hobbies.
Pick at the guitar. Attempt another line of code. Stop halfway through said line. Find new tabs to practice. Attempt again. Fail again… Boot up the VS5…
His mind wanders while he cycles through the character creation screen of an old role playing game. Homelander’s never far off from his train of thought, but today more so than usual. Perhaps it was the knowledge that they’d both been tasked with lying about their lives for another soulless bid by Vought to stick it to the big boys in the defense contracting market. Why buy bombs when a supe can do it just as well and be an unlimited resource?
Chances are the replacement for weapons of war is Homelander…
It’s a thought he has to swallow back. Instead, he imagines how his heart’s little flame is faring in the moment. Even that thought comes with prickly spikes to wound him. The second he recalls Homie’s pained expression when he rasped out an admission of the truth leaves the idea soured. How it must sting to lie about it over and over again. To glorify falsehoods and sweep it all under the rug for the sake of a corporation. It makes his teeth itch.
Benjamin had sent a text earlier in the day.
-i hope it goes as well as it can! call if you need anything-
His response was a read receipt, which he’s come to realize almost always meant Homelander was struggling.
Wow, thank you Spidey!
It’s him! It’s really him!
Can I get a picture? My kid loves you!
Another relatively quiet afternoon. Not that he wants chaos to run rampant through the city’s streets, but Benjamin really wishes something interesting would happen. The ledge just below the spire of The Empire State Building was his seat of choice for the time being. He’d been watching crime reports on his HUD, just waiting. Still no word from Homelander. The ambience was at least peaceful despite his body’s continued complaints.
At least it had been.
As predictable as ever, his phone began to ring, buzzing against his thigh. He knows with full certainty that it’s his mother again, but he can’t bring himself to answer it. It doesn’t take long at all for the first text to roll in after he lets the call fade. He checks it through the notification window to avoid the read receipt.
-are you ignoring me??-
Confrontation was coming. Of course it was. It always was…
The last time they’d talked, Ben hung up the phone in tears only to then be slammed against a wall by Homelander. He never quite got around to really processing the chat they’d had. It was about him, but she didn’t know that.
“I just love that Mister Ameson! These vigilante supes are out of control, running the streets the way they do. Is it really that much to ask that they get certified? I mean, there’s a right way and a wrong way-”
Ben tried his best to keep a lid on it. A five minute phone call, she’d said. Just to catch up, she’d said. And now this.
“Have you met that Spider-Man yet now that you’re working for Vought?” His mother asked, disdain seeping into her tone. “I can’t believe someone like that was able to join The Seven. There’s so many other heroes who deserve it, but let’s hire some scumbag that goes around beating people up every night! Your dad thinks he was a D.E.I. hire.”
His parents had been drinking Ameson’s kool-aid for a while now…
“Yeah, I’ve uh… he’s cool. Talked to him a couple times.” Ben mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He’d managed to get as far as the rooftop across from Webweaver’s place when she called. All he wanted was to go in and finally have the little social moment that his life prior had always been too busy to permit.
“No he isn’t. And you certainly shouldn’t talk to him. He’s just like the rest of ‘em.”
Ameson’s disdain for arachnid supes had really rubbed off on the public, especially once he started compiling crimes and connecting the dots. Drug use, misdemeanors and felonies, accidental maiming and deaths… It certainly wasn’t hard to make them outliers. But the truth was that they were as dangerous as any other supe. People just generally happen to already hate spiders as insects. It made sense that the melding of spider and human qualities produced a fear that was so easily warped into hate.
That was the only way the podcaster could actually make a living. Paint a target and point in its direction. Webweaver and Spidey were basically the only two on the east coast that weren’t totally shunned by the public– Ben more so than Webs. His web holes happened to be a lot more… socially acceptable.
“He’ll probably mess up soon and get killed. Probably by Homelander–”
“Hey, can you like… not… do that..?” Ben piped up, instantly regretting it. “Please?” But how could he not? Sure she had no idea that it was really him she was talking about, but fuck…
Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to tell his parents about who he really is. Times like these just remind him that he never can.
“Not be a good mother and warn you about the world?” She counters.
“No, just–”
“Oh, I forgot! My opinion doesn’t matter to you about anything!”
Ben brought a palm to his masked forehead, leaning into it heavily. “That’s not–”
“Don’t you start! You and I can’t ever have a conversation because you have to get offended at everything! It’s all eggshells and nothing else with you–”
The memory weighs bitterly on his mind. It’s always like this. Some stupid argument happens and then he’s required to act like it never did. To continue acknowledging that it happened was downright wrong. That’s how it was growing up. Forgive and forget for her, but she could resent and remember everything.
Some things simply never change.
At least he wasn’t home anymore. It used to be worse when he still lived with his folks.
Truth be told, it was the fact she’d been so fixated on Spider-Man that had him so upset. Ben supposes he’s grown used to all the bullshit with his brother, but hearing how much his family detested him without knowing that it was really him was just… rough.
He recalls back when he came out all those years ago. The way they reacted… Somehow it seems almost just as bad as telling them he was Spider-Man– not that he ever would at the rate it was all going. But, if he did, would it all stop? Would his mother quit harping in his ear about how Ameson was right about spider supes and how Spidey was just another snake in the grass waiting to lunge at some poor soul’s vulnerable little ankle? Would his father never again use dinner as a time to bring up how those so-called lawless supes should be lined up and shot or killed by whatever means could get the job done? Not to mention his brothers…
Sometimes Benjamin wonders where such hate and disgust truly comes from. There was always his home town’s cautionary tale, but, then again, they could just be two retired fools searching for anything to give them a sense of identity… A tale as old as time, really.
The phone buzzes again.
-no response is a response.-
He lacks the patience to seek Benjamin. Every emotion rages like a hurricane in his gut. He wants to break the entire fucking world. Grab a head and crush it between his bare fingers– not that it would even feel like much. Such a simple accomplishment… But it would feel so good to see someone feel even a fraction of his pain.
How dare they? It was all going so smooth, as good as can be, really, before they shot the bedroom tour.
He should’ve killed that asshole– Randy, Ralph, whatever the hell his name was. Why the fuck would they use something so… Why that? And why had it never been destroyed? Every toy, every drawing, everything he was ever permitted to play with or that brought him peace was taken away at some point. If it made him soft, it had to go.
The Homelander couldn’t be anything less than a man of steel, and such a man had no need for a comfort blanket or that old ragdoll with button eyes.
It all came rushing back the second he saw that cornflower blue. The white walls, the projectors, the stink of sterile instruments and the heat of the furnace. He couldn’t leave either. And she wouldn’t stop yapping in his ear about filming deadlines.
Madelyn swore up and down that she had no idea. She swore that moron had been canned. But that wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. She promised to protect him, right? But she didn’t… again.
Nothing would’ve stopped her from a nice walkthrough, right? A simple, ‘Hey, nothing in here is potentially sensitive,’ wouldn’t have been too much to ask, right? ‘Where’d that blanket come from?’
It’s never quite hit him before that others in the company have access to so many remnants of his life. His stomach sours at the thought of more than a blanket being stumbled upon.
He has to bite his fist to stop from screaming. Rage, pain, resentment– he hardly knows what the source is. He just knows he needs to suppress it. He should’ve let it out on the way back to the tower…
Homelander’s not quite sure why his first thought was to run to Benjamin’s apartment. Normally this much pain warranted a trip to the cabin. Silence was best, but his body carried him right to his little spider. The lack of his presence only carved the pit that had been growing in his chest even deeper.
Opening his ears to the world in search of him would do little more than pick at the scab of overstimulation, so he just lurks. Once upon a time, that was all he was able to do here. Pick up an item to inspect it and make sure it goes back perfectly in place. Or at least that’s how it was before he stopped caring if the bug knew he was intruding.
Now he basically has free reign. He’s allowed.
He mopes into the kitchen for a glass of milk. Ben had started buying full gallons for him…
“Nah, it’s not weird.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Ben says as he hands off a full cup. “I mean, lots of people drink milk. There was always the occasional adult that ordered it when I used to wait tables. You like what you like.”
The couch he finds himself on seems to sponge away at the awful feelings stirring inside. He rests his head against one of the worn cushions, burying his face into the sunken softness to take a long, deep inhale. He holds a piece of home in his lungs before the staleness screams for release. He’s slowly begun to accept that the next breath need not be greedy.
Home…
A strange thought to reckon with. The first thing he wanted when he finished filming that load of horse shit was to go home, except it wasn’t like in times past– an itch for the safety of his penthouse or the silence of his cabin. His first thought was of here… of Benjamin.
Part of him still wonders where the bug’s bite was. There never was a confrontation after that night on the roof. No conversation, no cold shoulder– nothing.
He picks nervously at the cushion.
His body won’t move. Panic screams from within his bones. Danger, it bellows. Run!
His eyes strain against the darkness of his bedroom. He expects the shadows to warp and swallow him whole. ‘Sleep paralysis,’ he’s read, but it’s never quite like others describe it. A tingling in his head, a sense of fear, body rendered immobile, and yet there’s nothing lingering over him. No void-like creature sitting atop his chest to deprive him of oxygen, nothing in the darkest corner of his room watching his every breath.
Just his mind playing tricks.
Again.
In a blink, the sun is filtering through the curtains. Benjamin shoots up in bed, eyes wide, chest heaving.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
The cry of the alarm clock startles him. 7:15 a.m.
He’s going to be late for school.
He throws his clothes on haphazardly. The shirt passes the sniff test and his favorite hoodie will disguise the fact that it was the same one he wore on Monday. Benjamin rips through his morning routine as fast as he can, sprinting to the bus stop just in time to see the big yellow vehicle zip past.
His heart hammers the whole run to his high school, lungs burnt from the frigid winter air. The woman in the front office seems annoyed that she has to write him a late pass. She tells him that he’s earned himself detention on Wednesday next week. It’s his third late excuse this month. “Try not to make this a habit, Elise.”
He cringes at his given name but nods nonetheless.
The day goes by as it always does. Worksheets, tests, reading assignments… Everything is fine. As it should be. Mundane.
He decides to walk home rather than take the bus. It, of course, totally has nothing to do with the fact he’d fallen into a semi-synchronous walk with someone special. A boy in his class, go figure. His name is Joshua. Ben’s had the ticklings of affection for him for a while now. They first met in the sixth grade. Not that they’ve ever actually spoken with one another. They worked on a history project once together, but that hardly counted.
Rose tinted glasses make him feel as though they’re walking together, but they’re not. Josh has two friends with him and Benjamin trails just a few feet behind them. He feels warm inside despite the cold. The earbud he wears begins to play something just a little too on the nose.
’Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head~’
A bounce in his step. He wishes he could talk to the guy.
This is alright though. He knows he has no chance anyhow. Since when does the dork in the photography and science clubs that fixes the library computers for fun ever have a shot with a top name in the school’s baseball team? Statistically speaking, the answer is never.
He steps off the curb right after them. Four way intersection. One car stopped on the left, right side blinker on. Nothing on the right. Forward and behind are clear. They cross. Ben looks ahead once again, but he hesitates.
It’s as if the three ahead of him are all but frozen in time. They’re moving normally and so very slowly all at once. Something squeals in the distance. Burnt rubber. Trepidation.
Danger…
But where?
Are they slow or is he fast?
Run…
From what?
‘But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red-’
To his right, a car comes speeding around the curve.
Move…
Move where? Back? Forward? But the three ahead of him– they’ll be hit. They’ll be hit and it will be his fault for doing nothing.
‘Cryin’s not for me!’
But what can he do? Shove them? He only has two arms and there’s three of them. Not only that, doing so puts him directly in danger of being hit himself. Who does he save?
Who can he save?
MOVE!
His body lurches forward on its own, shoving two of them as hard as he can. He’ll be hit, sure, but he can’t just let it happen. He can’t just stand there and watch those boys get hurt knowing he could’ve done something about it!
‘I’m never gonna stop the rain by complaining!’
He turns to Josh and–
“Shit!” He gasps, back pressed tight to the cold metal spire of the landmark. “Shit, shit, shit…”
It’s fine.
Just a dream.
Just a very vivid, very precise dream.
Everything’s fine…
The stream of the shower strikes his shoulders and renews a tenderness beneath them that he’s long since left in the past. Accompanying it is a stabbing pain between his hips. He’s not sure which one to place a hand over. Which one deserves comfort?
“What do you mean ‘she stopped it?’”
“My son was there. He saw it happen!”
“That’s ridiculous!” Counters his mother. “She’s a little girl. A human girl.”
“You have a supe on your hands,” Mister Allen whispers harshly. He thinks Benjamin can’t hear from the other room.
They all think that.
He looks up from his hands to his grandmother resting in her bed. She shoots him a sympathetic smile, unaware of the conversation beyond her makeshift bedroom in the kitchen beyond. All she knows is he might be in trouble. On the TV, Judge Judy berates some woman’s silly excuse for slashing someone’s tires.
“And you remember what the last one did.” He continues.
“You think you’d be a little more grateful that your boy is still breathing.” Snaps Annette Colyer, an all-but-certified expert at instilling guilt.
It’s hard to listen to this. Mister Allen had been his teacher in middle school. To hear him speak now as if he was some kind of threat was, well…
Annville did not have a pleasant track record with superhumans. Not all who are blessed came pre-loaded with good intentions. Or maybe they just didn’t know…
No. No, the Bartlett boy knew exactly what he was doing when he pressed that poor girl’s head to the classroom wall until it crushed and squelched in his grasp. It happened before Benjamin was even born but the tale would survive generations at minimum.
Aaron Bartlett was meant to breathe life into their silly little town. ‘The next Soldier Boy,’ they called him. Or at least that’s how the story goes. Who knows how accurate it even is anymore…
“She did not stop a car head on.” His father hadn’t said a word until now. “There’s not even a mark on her.”
Ben reaches to his shoulder. It’s tender to the touch, aching along with his upper back because he did stop that car. He did lift it off the road, and he did drop it to the ground once the roar of the engine halted.
“What about the driver?” Mister Allen hisses. “He was there for it too!”
“That driver,” stresses his father, “was above the lethal blood-alcohol limit. They found LSD in his car, for Christ’s sake! Do you really think–”
Deny.
Deny, deny, deny…
They’re defending him to the end on this one, aren’t they?
It never came up again. His parents never pried. Hell, they never even grounded him like he thought they would. They just seemed happy that he was alive. Not even his grandmother, who he would’ve told in a heartbeat, asked.
What an odd thing to have dreamed of.
The lobby quiets down as he enters, its usual bustling roar of chaotic teenagers tapering to a low chatter as all eyes fall on him. For a second he thinks he’s doomed. Completely at the mercy of an angry mob.
Do they know what he did? They must, and they must be furious that another supe is in their midst. After all, it was only just upstairs in room 117 where that cautionary tale of evil was born.
“Miss Colyer,” comes a voice from behind.
Ben turns too quickly, clearly startled.
“No hats.” Principal Morgan smiles at him. “Good to see you’re okay.”
The volume begins to pick up as he takes it off. Benjamin turns back, prepared to trek through the maze of bodies and into the lunch room.
All eyes are focused elsewhere.
“Damnit,” Ben hisses. Red washes from his fingers, carried away by the stream of water and its warmth. He suspected as much, but it never stopped taking him by surprise. “Again? Seriously?” He snags the shower head, plants his foot on the wall, and sprays away between his legs. “Fucking stupid, fucking– why?”
Homelander had left just long enough to make sure his arrival seemed natural. Like he hadn’t been there waiting the entire time for Benjamin to get back. Well, left was the wrong word. He hid, really. Popped himself right inside the bedroom closet and waited. In hindsight that was probably the worst decision, especially considering the bug’s tendency to bathe as soon as he gets home, but lady luck smiled upon him and no such discovery of his position was made.
Hmm, in the closet, are we?
Shut the fuck up!
Out to the kitchen he floats, waiting until, soon enough, he’s twiddling his thumbs on the couch, patiently biding his time as he listens to every sound. There’s frustration in Benjamin’s voice. Something painful and full of sorrow. He dare not peek through the walls that separate them lest he find himself with a problem that cannot be solved in the short time before the bug would finish.
In truth, he’s not quite sure how Benjamin would react to him just showing up. He’d done it the other day and was received happily, but there was always doubt. But Ben should want to see him, right? He should – he does. He’s had a bad day too – Homelander can tell – and they’re always making each other happy… right?
Soon the water shuts off. The sink runs. A bottle tips over. Little expletives ring out. He can practically see Ben’s whole routine in his head until the very moment the door pops open and he hears a dresser drawer sliding shut.
His feet carry him before his brain can stop them. Like a dog headed toward its favorite person, a pep in his step every inch of the way until he’s poking his head in the doorway like an excited child ready to wake their parents on Christmas day. “Psst–”
“Shit!”
The room is nearly pitch black save for the faint blue glow of the computer in the corner, so he reaches for the light switch before entering.
“C’mon man!” Ben chides, clinging to the ceiling. “That spooked me.” The bug drops to the bed, cringing at the frame’s protest to his landing. “Turn that off please,” he groans. “Overhead light is forbidden…”
“And why’s that?” He asks but flips the switch nevertheless once his little spider goes for the table light. Truthfully, he feels very much the same. He’s never been one for the harshness of ceiling lights. So stark and clinical…
“Headache.” The bug’s delivery is flat, but he pats the other side of the bed as an invitation. “Anyway, tell me about it. How bad was it?”
“Ridiculous.” He scoffs, giving a gentle hop to float right to his designated spot. He kicks his boots off before descending, all nice and gentleman-like. “You won’t fucking believe this…”
It’s almost comforting to know Homelander’s day had also been uniquely atrocious. It made the bug feel less like the universe was targeting him and simply dealing sweeping blows to anyone it could manage to strike. Part of him likes to think the rest of The Seven all had it so rough, but that felt almost like wishing for their misfortune.
Ben hadn’t quite moved from the fetal position since Homie started going on his tangent. He’s listening, yes, but it’s difficult to give Homelander his full attention when it feels like someone is carving at his abdomen with a butter knife. Still, he tries.
“I don’t get it! How is everyone so fucking incompetent all the time!?”
Something about a blanket, but he only half-heard that part. “Y-Yeah,” Ben grimaces. “That, uh… it definitely makes it rough.”
Homelander regards him for a moment, but the bug fails to notice. He’s too busy clenching his eyes shut and curling in on himself again.
“What? Did you eat something gross on set? Some nasty vendor food again or–”
Benjamin hums his negative answer, head shaking as he draws his knees closer to his face. For a time, it’s nothing but silence between the two. It’s fine– comfortable, even. Nothing for the bug to focus on except for the raw ache cresting once more. At first he doesn’t even hear it.
Mortification isn’t even close to cutting it.
“You’re bleeding.” The statement comes amidst small, sharp sniffs.
It’s humiliating to even consider that Homelander could smell it. And how exactly was he meant to get himself out of this situation? It’s not like he could lie. That nose quite literally knows.
“I–” Ben starts, legs winding around themselves as if he could somehow staunch whatever scent the bloodhound beside him managed to lock onto. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”
Smooth.
Homelander leans a little closer before inhaling even louder, nodding to himself. “No. No, you’re definitely bleeding.”
“Can you not–”
“–not a lot from the smell of things.”
“Dude,” Ben squeaks, voice as small as he feels. Between the pain and the raw embarrassment, he wanted nothing more than to just collapse in on himself and vanish. “Stop– please don’t sniff it.”
“Oh, what?” John scoffs. “Y’think I don’t smell it ‘round the tower too? Christ, someone farts on the eighth floor and I’ll know all the way up here if I don’t tune it out.”
For a second, Ben’s unsure if Homie’s gloating or just trying to explain himself.
“Used to always know when Maeve was on hers.”
Both, probably.
“She always said the cure to cramps was penetration.”
“Huh!?” The bug gasps. It’s not that he hasn’t heard that little factoid before, but he certainly wasn’t expecting it from fucking Homelander of all people.
“You know…” He says, miming his middle and ring fingers thrusting into the air. “What, you need a demonstration or something?”
“What– no, I–” Benjamin stammers. God, if the embarrassment wasn’t horrific before… “That’s not– I don’t–”
“M’sure you got something in that top drawer that could help you ou–”
Thwip!
A web was the only way to shut him up, but who’s Ben kidding? Homelander pulls the sticky goo from his lips as if it were no more than a wispy cobweb.
“Yikes,” Homie tsks, “still a prude about all that, huh?”
Not even the pillow the bug presses to his head can shield his super-hearing from Homelander’s commentary. What does he even say to all of this? “No, I just–” he tries, half muffled from the pillow. “It’s– I don’t–”
Deep breath, Ben.
“It just hurts and I don’t really wanna talk about it, y’know…”
Which is the truest of truths. He hates this. More than anything, he loathes when this happens. It’s agonizing once it starts and it doesn’t stop until well after it ends. It’s not like he’s supposed to get this anymore, but his body just… sometimes it betrays him. Ben’s not even sure what makes his thoroughly unemployed organ decide to clock in and torture him. Could be stress, could be a missed shot, could be this or that or everything else under the fucking sun.
Another sharp ache jolts through his core, prompting the bug to choke on a breath, holding it until it goes stale and escapes in a slow, tight exhale. Why hasn’t the fucking ibuprofen kicked in yet?
The silence makes him wonder if Homelander’s decided to have a little pity and leave him to his humiliating plight. It was probably for the best anyway. He can’t imagine Homie would be much too thrilled sitting there smelling period blood of all things. But a shifting of weight beside him tells the bug he’s all too wrong.
Well, if he’s gonna stay…
“Can you see if I have any heat packs in the dresser?” He mumbles, pointing blindly in what he hopes is the right direction. “Third drawer…”
“You don’t.”
He raises his head out from under the pillow. “You didn’t even get up.”
“And?” Homelander stares at him for a second as if the reason were so obvious before rolling his eyes. “I can see through it.”
“Ugh…” The bug groans, sorely regretting never putting them on his little grocery list back whenever it was that he ran out.
“I’m sure we can just get one of the PAs to go get you some.”
“It’s like midnight, dude.” Ben whines. “M’not doing that to them. Besides, they’re probably all at home anyway… Nah.” He sighs, finally pulling the pillow from his face and rolling onto his back. The ceiling’s got less than a snowball’s chance in hell of holding his attention when those pretty blues are already locked on him. “I’ma just rot.”
“You do look like you’re rotting.” Homelander’s eyes shine with anticipation. He definitely wants a reaction. He must have really been enjoying the teasing earlier. “Lookin’ pretty rough, bug boy.”
Benjamin gives an unenthused hum. It would be a long night, especially if the meds weren't touching the pain this time around. The dread settles in, but it hardly stirs in his gut the way it used to. Suffering was just part of the game, right? The curse all vagina-havers are subjected to. Well, not that everyone had so much pain– and some had even more, but… still.
Ben meets Homelander's expectant gaze. There's little more than he can do but huff an apology for his state. The twinkle of sympathy in Homie's eyes at least–
Wait.
The realization must have been written all over his face with the way Homelander arched a brow. But that couldn’t work, could it? Those eyes have cut through steel and flesh and have left destruction in their wake. They couldn’t possibly… could they?
“You g–”
“Laser me.”
The request falls from his lips in the form of a demand, one with far too much enthusiasm for what it is.
“Why would I do that?” Homelander scoffs. “Can’t just kill my protege. You nuts?”
“I didn’t say to kill me. Can’t you like, control it?”
“Duh.”
“Then do that.” Ben shifts onto his back and pulls his shirt up a bit. This should be mortifying, but he already survived Homie blatantly sniffing out his problem. Can’t get worse. At least he hopes not.
Homelander looks at him apprehensively, all that false bravado he wears gone in an instant. “You sure about this?”
Ben nods.
“If I burn a hole in you, I’m not responsible.”
“At this point, it’s preferable.”
At that, Homelander’s eyes begin to glow. It starts small. Just a pinprick of red drowning in the voids of his pupils until it bleeds into his irises. His brows are knit, whether in concentration or anxiety is unclear. Both, maybe. He shuffles closer and kneels between Benjamin's legs, hunching just enough to make things comfortable. He looks like a surgeon ready to operate. Homelander slips two fingers beneath the waistband of Ben’s sweatpants. “Unless you want me to roast these, they gotta go down a bit.”
Suddenly red in the face, Ben nods nervously. Having his pants lowered by another person is not a situation he’s used to being in… coupled with the fact he might have a hole punched through him and, well…
“You sure it’s not easier to just fingerbang you instead?”
“Wha– no!!!” If he thought his face couldn’t get hotter, he was wrong.
“Fine, fine. Three, two, one…”
The bug grimaces, back arching as he squeaks out a pained noise. “Too hot!” He gasps. He tries to squirm, but Homelander’s got a grip on his hips that stops him altogether. “Too hot, too hot, too hot!”
“Trying.” Comes a hiss above him.
In time, the heat wanes just enough to be bearable and relief comes gradually. His eyes roll back and shut. A sigh of relief turned to laughter leaves the bug. The thumbs at his hip bones start moving in little circles. There’s no way this worked…
“Mmmgod, that feels good.”
“...Can I stop yet?”
“Hell no,” the bug practically moans. “Another minute… or two.” He’s sure Homelander would be rolling his eyes if he didn’t have to keep focused on one spot.
It was better than any heating pad could ever be. Not even a scorching bath could manage to beat this. Where had Homie been all his life? The bug’s head lolls to the side and he can just barely see their reflections past the speckles of light dancing in the window. What a sight… that’s practically missionary right there. Wasn’t how he thought they’d ever end up in that particular position, but he supposes maybe he owes that belligerent uterus of his a thank you for once.
It’s strange to finally look directly at him. Locks of blonde have fallen out of place to frame his forehead. Even with red fury streaming from his eyes, Homelander is nothing short of beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful…
The bug can’t even help it. His right hand raises until he’s able to tuck those strands back in place and rake his fingers through them. There is an interruption to the heat, returning to normal and then fading more and more until all that’s left is the dull remnant dissipating from cooling skin. Red eyes turn to blue and flicker up right to him. There’s a look in them. Something subdued and desperate but riddled with apprehension– turmoil, even.
Homelander has got to know. He’s got to be able to hear Ben’s heart hammering away. He can certainly see how red his face is. For a moment, they’re just staring. Ben’s eyes wander to Homelander’s lips then back to the ice of his eyes. He dares not move except to let his legs part further.
It’s as though Homelander was waiting for exactly that because he comes closer ever so slowly.
Here he is, a spider in the maw of a lion. The hands at his hips trail up, spreading tingles that shoot all throughout the bug’s body, little zaps of lightning that run straight to his head. They move with a strange familiarity, yet the two never break from their locked gaze.
“This…” Ben tries, his voice no more than a hint of a whisper. “This is a… very dangerous game…”
Homelander says nothing, only nods and settles closer. His eyes fall to Benjamin’s lips.
Is this it? Will this be another maybe moment where they pull away and act like it didn’t happen? Shit, he wishes he’d gone for it on the couch that night. Just leaned in and done it. Could it be like that now?
“I know,” finally comes Homelander’s breathy reply.
He feels it too then… Good.
Good.
“I, uh…” Ben stammers. “I really, uhm…” His fingers curl tight in the hair at Homelander’s nape. The effect is visible immediately. “...like playing it… with you.”
It’s the longest pause the bug has ever lived through, but he leaves the cards in Homelander’s hands.
A pin dropping right now would be the loudest sound in the world.
Instead, the cards drop first. Initially as that slow, nerve wracking lean forward. Homelander’s eyes are hooded, almost fully shut as he comes closer and closer.
This is it. Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is it!
It should be so simple. So, so simple.
It should be…
But he stops.
“I…”
No… No, why is he–
Homelander moves back, eyes frantic as they dance over every inch of Benjamin’s face. His breaths grow uneven, chest rising and falling visibly even through the suit.
“What’s–”
“I’m not… into guys.”
What?
The bug blinks, brows furrowing as it settles in. The sight above him, the panic in Homie’s eyes, the position they’re in–
The sick twist of a gut punch those words are…
“I don’t–” he can’t help the breathy laugh of disbelief. “I– what do you mean?”
Homelander finally starts to push away, stopping once he’s knelt before Benjamin, still with the most fractured expression the bug has ever seen.
He doesn’t understand.
How is he– what does–
Why?
It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense at all!
All the bug can do is stare. Stare and pretend that all the sadness in the world wasn’t ripping and crawling its way up his throat.
“I’m…” Homelander’s eyes dart away, still wide, still tormented. “I’m not…”
If he’s not, then what the hell has all this been? Some stupid joke? Some fucked up bid for attention? A form of rotten torture?
It has to be a lie. There’s nothing else that it can be– nothing else that makes any sense. It’s all gone too far for it to be anything else. Super straight man behavior to nestle in between your friend’s legs– basically in missionary– and come so close to kissing him that a simple twitch of the neck would’ve bridged the divide. That alone is exceptionally straight behavior! Duh!
But Ben can’t say that. He can’t take Homelander by the head and rub his nose in the facts of his behavior because doing that would never work.
“Oh…” the sound leaves the bug tainted with raw sorrow.
“Yeah.”
The next few minutes pass by in a haze, barely registered. The weak reasoning for Homelander’s departure, the swish of his cape as he left the room, the sound of the front door opening and closing…
There’s no way. No fucking way that he’s misread this whole thing, right? The bug hugs his knees close and hides his face from the world, taking a deep shuddering breath. He can still feel the pleasant burn between his hips…
The first sob strikes.
Then the second.
The third…
Oh, what has he done?
Ao3
This chapter has been cooking for a year. I've communicated this on my tumblr, but my fixation with Homelander has taken a rather sharp dive. It's hard for me to write for him even though I genuinely love Ben and Homie very much. Season 4 (and now 5) killed my interest in the show pretty badly, but apparently I'm not the only one who's gone through that. I hope some day I get more momentum on the ball-turned-motionless-boulder that is my Homelander writing brain, but, until then, here's this. Thank you all who have stuck with and supported The Benlander Agenda. I hope to write more for them eventually <3
Hihii Sehtoast, sorry for bothering you again lol. I just couldn’t resist asking now that The Boys has fully ended… What did you think of the finale? Personally, I didn’t think it was that bad. It definitely suffers because the season itself felt pretty weak (I’d even say Season 4 was better in a lot of aspects), but in the end it felt like a decent and worthy closure for a show that overall was iconic
aaaaaah, sorry this took so long to get to
i have mostly negative feelings on it myself. i feel like it didn't deliver on the scorched earth we were promised, and the fact vought is still standing drives me absolutely up the wall.
decent closure, sure. i'm not opposed to calling it decent at least lol
but idk i just think i have to jump kripke in public or something someday. i say we all do it as a group bonding exercise
Benjamin and John’s relationship gives off “Until I Found You” by Stephen Sanchez. It’s honestly so cute.
Like I imagine during some fancy Vought event where high elites and the seven are there and this song comes on for a slow dance. At first Benjamin is just standing to the side since he can’t dance with his Johnny in public. Homelander is staring longingly at him before making his way over to him and whisking him away to a more private area where they share their dance. Just the two of them.
you'll never guess what song is first on the tender threads playlist lmAOOOO
;-; i love that you've made this association sm. that exact scenario is so so so so precious to me now oh my god i'm grinning like a FOOL
You do not have to do this but since in the boys universe, supes with animal powers also get their behavior habits, do you think you could write a fic on how Benjamin would deal with going through Diapause where he becomes very sluggish, stops patrolling for bit, and seeks out sheltered, quiet hiding spaces to conserve his energy during the winter. And how would Homelander and the team (A-Train, Starlight, Black Noir, Queen Maeve, Deep) would take this and how they would help him or at least try to, since from what I am getting from your fics is that Benjamin is probably the most liked teammate.
aaa GOD this is such a cute and cool idea 😭😭😭 . my brain has mostly let off the gas from writing content for this fandom (though i genuinely want to come back to it someday, 10000%), so i'm not sure when i would, but i definitely want to explore that idea!!
thank you so much for this! it's something for my brain to chew on for sure about ben :D
I love your Homelander fanfics. To me, he's one of those villains I know I should hate, but the actor who plays him is so hot that it gives me conflicting feelings about him. I don't know if you feel the same way but it's good to find someone who also likes such a controversial character, there aren't many people I can talk to about him.
💚thank you!!
and same lol. i'm no stranger to liking characters that are horrible people so i've never really been shy about yapping about homie. i went as him to a couple cons and would have random people being like "man FUCK you, you're evil" (addressing me like I'M homelander, which is just??? lmao). there are some good places to talk about him though for sure. there are some discord channels floating around and some tumblr communities i think that are full of people that love homelander. great places to be honestly, and it makes it a much less isolating feeling to like a character like him
I just wanted to say thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for bringing cardboard-biting fanglander to life! I love him so much!!
Lmao, it's no problem!! ❤️ With Homelander's super strength I bet he could bite holes in anything. You could kill an afternoon just seeing what he could bite through, and give him a lil' designated box full of stuff to nibble on when he needs to blow off steam.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
You stand next to the bathtub silently and watch the recently emptied tub fill once more. Fresh waves of steam fill the room and gather on your skin. A bead of sweat trickles down your spine from the humidity. You’re warm, too warm. Especially with the body at your back, standing close and resting gentle hands on your hips. His grip is soft and tender, like you’re something so fragile that a single sudden movement could smash you to bits. It almost makes you forget what happened to lead you both here and the awful mess he made when he cradled your head in hands that shook with restraint.
You should run. Logically, you know this. You’ve always been aware of the danger lurking beneath the surface of him. You’ve been bombarded with warnings from worried coworkers ever since you started regularly bringing him your baking. Ashley is convinced you’re insane. She tells you stories and you believe them. You see how much he scares her. You aren’t blind to the news reports and viral videos either. You’ve been whistling merry tunes and playing the sweet swooning girlfriend, but you’ve always been aware of the teeth around your arm.
But that’s the thing.
He’s never bit you. Instead he’s sweet and chivalrous. A little bit of an oddball who sometimes seems more mannequin than man, but who is always painfully human to you. He isn’t just an out of your league crush, he's your friend. He’s your confidant. He calls and you ramble about your baking till he gets bored and then he’ll talk philosophy while you ask questions even if only to keep yourself awake. You listen to his venting while he’s endlessly entertained by stories of your boss's neuroticism. You watch movies together on your couch, wrapped up in blankets that have begun to smell like him. He cradles you in his arms when the thunder rattles your teeth. When the tiger only ever acts like a housecat, it’s easy to pretend that is all it is.
Even now, bloody from his hands and emotionally wrung out, you fight the urge to collapse into his arms. You want to let your legs give out while you fall back into him, knowing he’ll catch you. You want to forget the carnage and the mania. You want to ignore the mix of terror and rage in his eyes as he shook you hard enough for your head to ache. Your arms are tender from bruises but that’s all they are, bruises.You’ve known what he is but you don’t care. It worries you but not only that…you’re worried for him. You recognize that look in his eyes.
You recognize them from your childhood, another friendship gone wrong.
Another supe with insides made of shattered glass.
You reach down to turn off the stream of water but make a pointed decision to add some bubbles first. An action that fills you with heat at the implications that you might require some cover. You’ll be naked with him…exposed. He’d wanted you to join him in the filthy bloody slurry of soap and gore, yet there are things you won’t do, not even for him. So you waited for a clean slate, waited with his hands on you and his breath on your neck.
Let me make it better
You suppress a shiver as you remember the softness of his tone, how gentle and earnest it was. It’s everything you want. He’s everything you want. He shouldn’t be, but he is. He killed for you. He killed for you. He protected you from the scum of the earth and while the guilt of being responsible for another person’s demise weighs heavy, it also fills you with a certain warm euphoria. After so many years of your pain and humiliation being seen as an afterthought, he took action for you. The dried blood on your cheeks itches.
Even after the stream has stopped, a few drops exit the spout to drop into the tub, the sound of water on water is deafening in the silence. You know what comes next. You know a line is about to be crossed that can’t ever be uncrossed.
“Do you mind?” You ask shyly as you gesture for him to turn around. He gives a soft amused little huff that fills your body with heat. It’s a strange juxtaposition, how the mere thought of intimate contact horrified you only a few hours ago and how Homelander’s hands on you had felt so heavy and final. How Tiger Stripe’s filthy hands had you nauseous, sex seeming so animalistic and disgusting. You don’t know what real sex beyond the efforts of your hand feels like, but his presence made you never want to try. With Homelander, intimacy still feels terrifying, but in the way the hill of a roller coaster does before you are swept away into the thrill of it. The lump in your stomach feels less like trepidation but anticipation. It makes it easy to forget his rough handling, whether you should or not. You need comfort right now. You need a distraction.
Of course, you might be getting ahead of yourself. You bathing him was a practical affair, maybe he intends the same with you.
He taps his fingers against your hips for a second, each tap thrumming deep in your bones.
“If you insist, I’ll give the lady her privacy.” He teases before removing his hands and turning around, hands crossed behind his back. It’s weird seeing him like this, stripped of all his layers. You take the time to truly look. A light pink towel is wrapped around his slender hips giving you the chance to admire the muscles of his back. He has a runner’s build, such a juxtaposition to the thickness of his suit, much more fitted to a body builder than to Homelander’s svelte physicality. You prefer him like this. You feel like he’s someone real now, like he’s someone you can be with outside of your little world. He’s not some mythical figure that you feel deluded to think you’d have a chance with. He’s just a man…a man who wants to bathe with you.
You take a deep breath and grab the hem of your oversized sweatshirt, pull it over your head and drop it on the ground. Homelander’s fingers twitch at the noise and he shifts on his feet. For a moment, you think he might turn around. But he doesn’t. You’re almost disappointed but mostly relieved. You put your thumbs in the waistband of your sleep shorts and tug them down along with your underwear and kick them to the side. The muggy heat feels obscene on your bare skin and for a moment you consider backing out. This is unfamiliar territory.
You don’t. Instead you take a deep breath that Homelander mirrors as you step into the tub. The water is one digit away from scalding and the shock of it is welcome as it distracts you from your racing thoughts. You slowly sit, letting your body adjust to the temperature. Sweat beads at your temples and rolls down your neck. The crusted blood feels even more coarse on your skin as every nerve ending fires at all cylinders. You sink into the water, letting the bubbles cover your chest before you call out to him shakily.
“All good. You can turn around now.”
You expect him to waste no time but instead he leisurely untucks the towel around his waist and lets it fall to the floor. Your breath catches in your throat and you freeze as his body is exposed to you. You know you should give him the same privacy that he afforded you, but you feel frozen as your gaze rakes over his body. You flush at the sight of his pert ass and the two dimples at the bottom of his spine that you ache to touch. He’s beautiful, better than anything you could have imagined. But as he turns you remember yourself and avert your gaze, staring pointedly at your knees sticking out of the bubbles like little mountains. He chuckles, no doubt picking up the embarrassment on your face. He doesn’t seem offended.
You see the shape of him in your peripheral vision as he walks closer. His footsteps sound slightly slick on the damp tile floor. You can feel your heartbeat between your thighs. You expect him to get in with you but instead he kneels. You look at him shyly and notice he’s grabbed a fresh washcloth. He doesn’t grab the unscented soap this time. Instead, he grabs the container of brown sugar scrub that you made. You make a soft sound, about to tell him that a sugar scrub and soap aren’t the same thing, but you can’t seem to make words work. You suppose it will at least get the blood off either way.
He unscrews the lid and dips the washcloth in, gathering a small amount. He reaches a hand up to cradle your face gently just like you did his. His thumb swipes briefly over your bottom lip and you sigh. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
“Scrub a dub dub!” He sing-songs as he waves the cloth at you before dabbing at the streaks of blood on your cheekbones. The cheesiness of the saying mixed with the tickle of the cloth makes you burst into giggles. For a moment, he almost looks offended, his eyes wide as he tries to deduce whether your laughter is genuine or mocking. But he soon grins and chuckles right along with you, scrubbing a bit at the sensitive spot behind your ear now that he’s figured out you’re ticklish. You playfully try to shy away at the sensation and the push and pull causes water to splash all over Homelander. Drops of water catch in the hair of his chest and all of a sudden you can’t look away. The air feels heavier and his eyes are darkly amused. The flighty animal from earlier is gone, replaced with something slightly less dangerous but even more predatory.
“Careful Missy, we don’t want you wasting water.” He purrs, the hand holding your face shifting to firmly hold your jaw in place so you can’t shift away. He begins washing your other cheek. The roughness of the scrub makes your skin tender but in a way that feels…good. His firm strokes go straight between your legs, every nerve ending feeling over-sensitive at each pass.
“Homelander…” You whine mindlessly, carried away by everything that is happening.
He jolts and for a moment his grip on you tightens like he’s trying to use you to steady himself. His eyes go wide and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He whispers your name in return and causes goosebumps to erupt all over your arms despite the hot water.
“I…” He pauses, blinking heavy-lidded as his eyes scan what bits of your body are exposed. He swallows heavily. “I’m going to get in now.”
This is it. This is the point of no return. Whatever happens after this will be forever colored by this moment in time. How are you supposed to come back from this? Only a few hours ago, you thought he’d wanted nothing to do with you. Now he’s killed for you. Now, his naked skin is about to be pressed to yours in the steamy haven of your small bathroom. The emotional whiplash is no doubt affecting your decision making when you nod and pull your legs up tighter, giving him space at the other end of the tub. You discreetly turn your head to the side, giving him some privacy as he stands. You can feel the heat from his body and when you realize how close…parts of him are, your chest constricts like you just got sucker punched.
You focus on a small crack in the wall as the water shifts and swirls around you when he gets in. He sighs at the almost scalding temperature and groans as he fully sinks in. His legs are longer than yours and in order to fit comfortably, he stretches them out on either side of you and brackets you between them. Your heart pounds as your feet nudge against his inner thighs, close enough that if you stretched your leg out a bit, you’d be able to brush against his…
Fuck, you feel like a teenager again. Sitting in class and getting flustered by even the no nonsense lecturing of the sex ed teacher. You can’t look at him but you feel his eyes burning holes in you.
You’re not a prude. You’ve watched porn. You have a fair selection of smutty romance novels. You’ve used your showerhead after you’ve finished a phone conversation with Homelander more times than you can count, moaning and writhing in the same tub you’re squeezed into now. You know exactly how to touch yourself to get yourself off. You’ve imagined riding him like a pornstar, him spreading you out on your kitchen counter and eating you out, you mouthing at his cock while he holds you in place and coos sweet nothings at you. But imagination and reality are two completely different things and right now, you couldn’t feel more out of your league if you tried.
“Your heart’s pounding. Are you scared?” His soft voice jolts you out of your reverie and you turn to look at him. His gaze is piercing with a slight mocking glint and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or if he’s serious. His eyes flick down to your chest where your heart flutters under your skin. You gulp, sweet heat flooding your veins and gathering between your legs. You imagine him pressing you into the tile floor, fucking up into you while you moan.
“I’ve just never been naked around someone else before. It’s…intimidating.” You reply and he gives a soft hum that you can’t read. He smiles and reaches out to pat your knee, rubbing it with his thumb gently. You can’t help but shift under the water and he watches the movement closely, tongue briefly flicking behind his teeth.
“I got naked first.” He replies, cocking his head with a smile. His thumb keeps making those tiny circles. It reminds you of the second time you spoke to him, how he’d rested his hands on yours, and how the feeling of leather against your skin haunted you for days. The feeling of his skin on yours is even more intoxicating.
“Yes, but I’m sure you’ve been naked around lots of people.” You huff, suddenly aware of the huge gap in your experience levels. He dated Queen Maeve for goodness sake. You’re just you.
He goes quiet and looks at you, eyes narrowing for a moment. You feel small under his scrutiny and you worry that you are going to come up lacking somehow. Instead he leans back, and you mourn the loss of his hand on your knee, even if it means you can think a lot more clearly.
“You’re a virgin.” He says matter of factly, his mouth twisting into a smug smirk. It’s a statement and not a question. He doesn’t seem at all surprised and the blunt way that he states it makes your whole body go up in flames. The hot water feels suffocating now instead of soothing. Your whole body throbs and your nipples stiffen under the water. You cross your arms over your chest.
“I fail to see how that’s relevant to this situation.” You snap. For a moment you wonder if he’ll get offended by your tense demeanor but he laughs. Cocking his head playfully, he rubs his bare thigh against yours. You jump at the sensation and spill water all over the tile flooring.
“What situation is that? I’m curious.” He purrs, leaning back indulgently as he slips deeper into the water. You have to scrunch up your legs tighter to protect your space. Every inch of your body is wound tight like a spring. Your skin feels painfully sensitive, every sensation amplified. This frightens you even more than when he was breaking down on the fire escape. That was about him and you could lose yourself in the act of soothing him, as intense as the moment may have been. Being the center of his attention like this, when you aren’t even sure how to handle that attention, when you are fully exposed and vulnerable, means you can’t hide away with polite smiles and sweet smelling gifts. It means he has to really see you.
“Taking care of me.” You whisper, echoing his words from earlier. That’s what you really want. You want him to comfort you like you did him. You want him holding you so close and tight that everything bad slips away. You want him to feel solid and safe. You want him but you also want the man who holds you after a storm and giggles with you on the phone long after any decent person should have been in bed. You bite your lip, hoping to somehow convey that to him.
The smirk drops.
His expression flattens. He looks away then down as he gently shakes his head. His eyebrows furrow and for a second it looks like he’s having some sort of inner argument that you aren’t privy too. You wonder if you said something wrong.
But when he opens his eyes and looks at you again, his eyes are contemplative. He still looks hungry but it’s something gentler. He’s not looking at you like some prey he’s just waiting to devour. He just looks like…him. For the first time tonight, you feel like you see your Homelander.
“C’mere.” He reaches out for you and beckons his fingers to gesture you closer. He tilts his head and gives you that warm smile he does whenever he first sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners and you notice a lock of hair has limply fallen over his forehead. “Let me take care of my girl."
My Girl
You can’t resist that.
You rise up and shift on to your knees, one arm still wrapped across your breasts. He grabs you gently and arranges you against him till you are resting against his chest and nestled between his legs. He holds you tight, exactly the way you’ve been needing him to. All of the tension and sorrow and horror just slips away down the drain, chased away by his embrace. You melt into him and you can feel a rumble of contentment deep in his chest. His hair is soft on your cheek. Slowly, the anxiety about your nudity begins to slip away. This feels natural. This is safe. You can indulge in the closeness and warmth of him. The pulse between your thighs still pounds, but it’s a soothing steady beat and not an ominous drum.
You close your eyes and bury your face in his neck. He shudders and bucks slightly underneath you, adjusting the angle he’s holding you so he can shift underneath the water. You hear the squelch of a wet washcloth and a jar being opened before you feel the cloth gently rub your back. It’s slightly gritty, a sign he used the body scrub again. Every nerve lights up like a christmas tree as he proceeds to wash you. There’s a slow pass down your arm, a brush against your hipbone, a quick massage at your neck, he’s making sure to leave no part of you untouched by his cleaning efforts.
A quiet sob that you didn’t realize you had been holding in bubbles out of your chest. You try to muffle it against his skin but he knows. He pauses, muscles briefly going tight at the sound of it. Each silent second passing feels like a year. You cling to him tightly with one arm while the other continues to protect your modesty. Your nipples are still hard beneath their cover. You wonder what would happen if you moved and rubbed yourself against him. What would he do?
He continues his efforts.
“I know I was a bit…intense earlier.” He rubs against a stubborn knot in your shoulder. You sniffle and nod, snuggling in closer, needing to feel the solidity of him.
“Don’t wanna talk about it. Just want you to hold me.” You whine, a bit pathetically. You know you should talk about it. In fact, that should be your first priority. But the two of you have talked enough today. What can you even say? What can you do?
Homelander seems more than happy to oblige. You feel his grin against your temple.
“Can do, Buckaroo. Want me to kiss it better?” He asks, barely finishing before you’re pressing your lips against his desperately. You’d crawl into his skin if you could. Now that the invisible barrier has been broken, you ache for him and the comfort he gives you. You’ve missed him so much. You’ve been so lonely.
Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.
Anything is better than that.
His lips are soft but insistent against yours. He returns your kisses with quick teasing little pecks, pulling back to make you chase him. The washcloth is tossed to the floor with a wet squelch but you barely even notice. He wraps his arm around you, drawing you in close and brushing his fingers tenderly down your side. You shiver, just on the verge of ticklish there. He hums into every brush of your lips against his, always drawing away right when you attempt to deepen the kiss. You quickly grow frustrated. You want him to stop smirking and let you have him. That untethered feeling from before is coming back, that gut sense that you’re playing a game that you don’t know the rules to, when he’s sitting there with the fucking handbook.
In your desperation, your self-consciousness is pushed to the wayside. It’s inconvenient. So when he leans away to tease you again, you remove your arm from your breasts so you can grab his face in your hands and keep him still. He grunts and his mouth opens in shock at the feeling of you fully pressed against him. You take the opportunity to slip your tongue in, brushing it shyly against his before retreating. Your nipples ache at the scratch of his chest hair. He moans, loud and desperate. The sound fills you with a smug sort of satisfaction that goes straight between your legs. His hands twitch at your hips, like he wants to grab you but is too afraid.
In a mere instant, you go from unsure to powerful. You weren’t even trying but you managed to somehow tip the scales in your favor. It no longer feels like you are being sized up by a discerning eye like a piece of meat on a butcher block but as an equal, equally hungry for what he can give you. In a bold move that shocks even you, you throw your leg over his hip and straddle him, slyly grinning against his mouth when he whines.
You press closer as you wrap your arms around his neck, slotting yourself fully against him. He’s lean but you can still feel the strength thrumming under his skin. He’s soft on the surface but there is steel underneath. Luckily for you, he’s malleable beneath your touch as he responds eagerly. You’re so close that you can feel his heartbeat against yours. It is absurdly intimate and a syrupy sweet sort of pleasure builds in the pit of your stomach. He’s panting against your mouth more than kissing you, each minute shift of you causing moans to spill from his lips into yours. His hands find their place on your thighs as he tugs your bottom half closer. His grip is measured and patient but inescapable as he maneuvers you slowly with trembling hands.
“Yesyesyes” He whispers desperately, eyes closed and more whine than word. You nip at his bottom lip experimentally, surprised but pleased by your own boldness. You don’t feel helpless or trapped despite his hold on you. It’s the opposite. You feel free, free to touch him, free to love him. He’s easy. You realize with a giggle that is quickly cut off with a gasp.
The world suddenly shifts on its axis.
All of a sudden, you feel him. His adjustments and insistent prodding now has you pressed against him fully, no longer just heart to heart, you are connected in every way two people you can be. You freeze and he lets you. He changes tactics to place wet desperate kisses against your jaw as the realization hits of just how close you are.
The first thought that runs through your mind is how hot his cock is as it rests between your thighs. It’s like he’s running a fever, every inch throbbing and warm against you. You swear you can feel his pulse matching up to the pounding you can feel in his chest. He’s hard too. There’s no give to him as your hips give an experimental buck, a wanton noise leaving your lips that you can’t even hear through the ringing in your ears. The pleasurable sweet feeling in your stomach erupts into licking flames as your clit grinds against him. It’s obscene. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
Even your own hands never felt this alive, this raw. You were no stranger to rubbing yourself off. But that was always under the sheets with the lights turned off or in the shower, a quick nasty affair to take the edge off. It had always felt good, especially when the scent of him still lingered around you. You’d get that beautiful burst of release but it always faded as quickly as it came and you moved on. This was agony. Your shyness and reservations having no choice to be stripped away. There’s no hiding underneath cover or in the dark. You’re exposed to him. And you know he can feel you just as vividly as you feel him. Your face burns as your thoughts race, imagining him and what he’s thinking. He can feel how soft and wet you are, the hard nub of your clit rubbing against him. The slick mess between your thighs is so different from the water surrounding you.
It’s like a hug.
The thought comes to you unbidden and the innocent association makes you shudder and grind against him, this time your body moving independently from your mind. It has no adjustments to make or conflicting thoughts to parse through. It knows what it wants and is impatient in the pursuit of pleasure.
“I really made you hard huh? I can feel you pulsing against me.” You groan. It’s a rhetorical question, more directed at yourself than him. The thoughts in your brain are so loud that you can’t help but speak them into existence. His hips jerk gracelessly at your words, an automatic firing of his nerves like the last desperate brain firings of a dying man. His cock twitches amidst the folds of your cunt like it has a mind of its own.
“Hngngn fucking slut.” He sighs, eyes scrunching closed with effort like he’s trying to fight something off. The harsh degrading word should have hurt, should have stung. Especially considering your earlier conflict, how in his anger he accused you of something so horrible that you’d wanted to push him off your fire escape then and there. If it hadn’t been for the fear in his eyes, you’d have believed he’d meant it. Even the memory of it now makes your throat close. But you aren’t in that memory. You’re here, in the tub with him. When he moaned, it didn’t sound like an insult or a jibe. It felt reverent.
He removes one hand from your thigh, nudging it between your chests so he can cup your breast and toy with your nipple. You never particularly considered your breasts to be that sensitive before. But now, you feel like you might come from his touch alone.
“Christ, these tits. Wanna suck on them all day.” He pants, his eyes glazed over. You aren’t entirely sure he’s even aware of what he’s saying. He cups you, bouncing your breast in his hand to test the weight of you in his palm. Your nipple feels like a sparking exposed wire against his skin. His hands are soft and smooth, no callouses or marks anywhere to be found. Of course not, he’s incapable of being blemished that way. You’re dripping onto him, there’s no amount of water in the world that can wash away the mess you’re making.
“Think about it…hng…all the time…AAaaAh. Can smell you in the halls…gnhh. Wet little pussy and no one else knows…FUCK…FUckng Fuuuuuuck.” He rambles, trailing off and groaning when you rub harder against him with each word.
A wave of pure embarrassment floods your body, little bites of shame sinking their teeth into you as the thought of him being aware the whole time of your…eagerness around him. If you were anywhere other than where you are, you’d have been mortified and humiliated. But he’s so desperate under you that all the initial discomfort turns into something blinding and brilliant. Here you were this whole time, worried that you were the perverted one. Thinking that if he knew that he couldn’t even give you a friendly wave without you twisting it, he’d have left you in disgust. You laugh breathlessly. It seems silly now. You were so convinced he’d been avoiding you because of the incident in your room.
Although to the part of you deep down that isn’t lost in pleasure, this thought isn’t a comfort. It means it could be something even worse.
“Think about you too. Didn’t think you’d want me.” You confess and he huffs in disbelief. He paws at your ass, grabbing a cheek and prying it open. His fingers barely brush against your hole, just on the verge of nothing at all. You jolt, the feeling completely alien to you and your toes curl at how illicit it feels. You brace yourself for more but instead he uses the leverage to control your pace.
“Fucking ridiculous. HNg. Every…shit aaAah…every time you’d bring me something…huh huh, wanted to eat you instead. aH! Taste even sweeter I fUckINg know it. Hnhhhhh.”
You have no idea if he’s telling the truth or if the pleasure is warping his brain and causing him to make shit up. You desperately hope it’s the former.
“Homelander!” You moan and he makes a noise that’s almost a sob. He leans down to mouth at the space between your breasts. He buries his face in you so you can’t see whatever emotion leaked out around the pleasure. He kneads your breast desperately, like he’s clinging to a lifeline. He mumbles something against your skin that you can’t quite make out. It almost sounds like a name. You reach down to run your fingers through his wet and messy hair and again he muffles the word into your skin. It’s a bit clearer this time and you realize it is a name.
John
“John?”
He seizes up at the sound of it, every muscle stiff and frozen as he pants heavily. His grip on you tightens bruisingly and when you try to move in his grip you find yourself trapped. His breathing is ragged as he tries to regain composure. His pulse flutters wildly in his chest, beating against his skin like a frightened bird. He cock twitches and throbs against your pussy like it has a mind of its own. His eyes are screwed shut as he grimaces against your skin. For a moment you worry that he’s in pain. You shift again, trying to pull away so you can take better stock of him in your concern. But he makes a strangled noise like someone punched him in the gut.
“Don’t! Don’t…hngn.” He buries his face in your neck and pants, each labored breath ending in a choked whine. “Gonna…hng.”
It takes you a moment before you realize what’s happening. He’s trying not to cum. He’s holding back with great effort. There’s something about it that’s deeply endearing to you. The raw sexual energy that took you over softens, no less intense, just different. Seeing him like this, lost and vulnerable, makes you want to care for him. You want to hold him while he tips over the edge, wanna whisper sweet nothings while he lets himself go. You want him to feel safe in your arms. You’re almost certain who the name belongs to.
“Is that your name?” You ask gently. He whimpers and nods, hands flexing against you.
“PLeAse!” He begs in return although he doesn’t reveal what he’s begging for.
“Want me to call you that?” You coo. A strangled noise rips from his throat. You swear you can feel tears on your neck.
“You feel so good, John.” While his hands are still holding you in place, you snake your hand down between your two bodies to gently palm his cock. For such a lean man, you’re surprised by how thick his cock is. It fills your hand perfectly. You don’t stroke or rub him. You just cup your hand over him, letting him feel the warmth of it…like a hug.
It barely takes a moment before it happens. Just that soft touch undoes him. His cock spasms wildly in your hand and his mouth drops open as he lets out a loud groan that’s animalistic in its rawness. His hands immediately leave your body. Instead he grips the edges of the tub until you hear an ominous crack. His whole body is trembling and flushes red. It thrills you. You’ve never seen him blush like this. You certainly never imagined you’d be the cause of it. You follow through on your desire from earlier, holding him through it as he works through his pleasure, whispering his name and a myriad of other praises in his ear while he writhes against you. His hips twitch and buck up into you and you can’t resist a debauched moan of your own as your neglected clit is suddenly getting stimulated again. Your pussy flutters against his cock.
He whimpers what you think are apologies although his words are too slurred to tell. His eyes are screwed shut. He looks so beautiful that your chest squeezes painfully. You did this to him. You’re the one who made him feel this good. The feeling of it is like a drug, making you feel euphoric and hazy despite not reaching a peak yourself. A few blissful moments pass.
His eyes fly open. His gaze is glazed over and hazy but there’s a blank determination in his eyes that pushes through. His hands grab at your thighs to help you wrap your legs around his waist. He stands up shakily, legs still weak and trembling with pleasure. For a moment you worry that he is going to fall and drop you to the floor, but he doesn’t. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing at the damp skin behind his ear. He tastes faintly like soap and there’s something deeply erotic about the mundanity of it. He doesn’t hesitate, clearing knowing where he wants to go, even if he’s not at the point to be capable of forming words yet. He carries you to your bedroom, stepping over the trail of bloody towels, a reminder that despite how the evening has turned out there is still a mess to be cleaned up that a simple bath can’t touch. He dumps you unceremoniously on the bed, not caring that your wet body is soaking through your clean sheets.
Before you can even get your bearings, he’s ducking down to suck at your nipples, giving each one a few seconds of love, teasing them back into hard aching peaks. You reach down to cup his cheek as he suckles but he’s already moving. He leaves eager messy kisses down your body before he kneels beside the bed. He’s barely situated before he’s yanking you forward by your knees and carefully draping your legs over his shoulders. Your heart stops as you realize what’s happening. Your bare pussy is bare in front of him. He can see all of you, every detail, wet and glistening for him to admire at his leisure. You want to know what he’s thinking, if he likes what he sees. Or if you’re boring and lackluster compared to all the other lovers he’s had. You clench around nothing, torn between wanting to hide and wanting him to get closer and touch you. But he makes a decision for you.
With no preamble or build up, he leans in to lick a broad hot stripe through your folds and your vision goes white. You faintly hear an obscene moan, like something that would sound too desperate even for porn, somewhere in the background. You’re too busy getting fucked by his tongue for you to realize that it’s you. He’s sucking and licking at you like he needs it to live. Making pleased little grunts of effort as he nuzzles against your clit and laps at your twitching hole. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed but if you were on the outside looking in, you’d be clutching your pearls at just how sloppy you are, the slick sounds of your sopping pussy filling the room. You didn’t even know it was possible for a person to be this wet. When he comes up for a breather, you have to turn your head away at the sight of his dripping face. The graphic evidence of your own arousal is too much to take.
Seemingly sensing that you are becoming overwhelmed, he briefly pulls away to lean in for a kiss. He deepens it instantly, softly sucking at your bottom lip till you open up and he slips his tongue against yours, filling your mouth with your own taste. His mouth is wet with you. While he kisses you senseless, he begins to rub at your clit with his thumb, keeping it company while his mouth is occupied. You moan into his mouth and he smirks against your lips.
His voice is low and gravely, sticky with satisfaction, as he murmurs against you.
“Nothing sweeter than cherry pie.”
You want to smack him for that, mortified at the subject of your virginity being brought up again in this way. He’s turned the tables on you again, making up for his vulnerability by exploiting yours. Almost like he’s taking revenge on you for making him come so soon. But despite how he’s flustered you, your body gives a hot eager throb, clearly loving the attention. It’s almost as if the more shy you become, the wetter you get. You hope he can’t tell but the glint in his eyes tell you he does.
He slips two fingers into you and he has you so wet that despite the aching stretch, they slide right in. Your eyes roll back, glad you can’t see the smug look on his face as he feels around with the tips of his fingers, leisurely curling them until he finds a spot that makes you go blind. You’ve never felt ANYTHING like this when you’ve touched yourself before.
Satisfied by your pathetically desperate state, he kneels back down to suck at your clit while he scissors and pumps his fingers into you. Your hand buries itself in his hair as your hips involuntarily grinds against his face. He looks up at you, eyes sly and crinkled at the corners as he drags you closer and closer to that precipice. But despite the carnal ferocity of his mouth and fingers, his free hand strokes the outside of your thigh soothingly. You reach down to brush against it and he takes your hand and intertwines your fingers. It’s a sweet gesture and the tenderness of it mixed with the debauched things he’s doing to you unravels you.
Something deep inside you cracks open as your entire world narrows down to the blinding pleasure between your thighs. It fills your veins like liquid gold, slow and warm, each heartbeat pumping more and more sweet joy through your blood stream. You moan loudly and he echoes you, so loud and desperate that you think he may have come again himself. He continues to pump his fingers into you while he switches from sucking on your clit to giving it soft messy kisses instead as he gentles you down from your high. He’s a fascinating creature, so capable of cruelty and violence, but with a surprising capacity for tenderness. He switches between these parts of himself so easily, based on some internal whim that you can’t begin to fathom. It’s inexplicable that the hands that handled you so harshly and the mouth that talked to you so coldly, the man who covered you in blood and slaughtered a man without a care, is so careful with you now.
You whine and push at him when the sensitivity becomes too much and his touch begins to sting. He complies, giving you one last kiss.
“For good luck.” He says with a wink and your heart squeezes painfully. His expression is soft and boyish, which is only amplified by the fact that his productless hair has dried into a fluffy mess. He looks almost innocent despite being buried face first in you moments before, chin still slick with you. You remember what he asked you to call him earlier.
“C’mere John.” You beckon.
His eyes widen with surprise and for a moment you think he might cry. His lip trembles slightly. Your stomach drops and you worry that you may have crossed a line. But no, he crawls into your arms and draws you close. You stroke his hair and his shoulders as he nuzzles against your collarbone. He shakes in your arms as you cradle him but he doesn’t cry. He reminds you of a shelter dog being a pet for the first time, craving the gentle touch but unsure of what it is. His intense reaction just to his name gives you pause.
Another face flashes through your mind.
Big scared eyes and bloody hands.
Just a child.
No older than you were when the accident happened.
In the silence of your bedroom, as you finally have the time to process the chaos of everything that is happening, you get a sick feeling in your stomach as you begin to drift off in his embrace.
