⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Being Ashley Barrett’s personal assistant may have bought you killer networking opportunities in Vought but it's also made you the fixation of the most dangerous man in the nation. Homelander receives you with stars in his eyes but you would never know it. You live in a constant state of minimal terror with the supe strutting around your workplace.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He's developed a pavlovian response to the scent of your perfume and pauses during meetings to inhale its remnants after you've left the room. He's left with a near orgasmic expression on his face every time. Once, while you were taking meeting minutes, Homelander stared at you blankly. You were certain he was contemplating snapping your neck but he was just mesmerized by the pulse of aroma fluttering at the base of your throat.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ You've never held a real conversation with him but he's stricken by the idea of you. He uses his super hearing to eavesdrop on your private conversations and gets irrationally jealous of anybody you mention with affection.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Homelander finds your fear of him both intoxicating and frustrating. He wants you to love him but he only inspires terror when he steps into your personal space.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ He interprets your avoidance as a game. He doesn't realize you're simply trying to survive corporate day-to-day. He's only focused on his own agony and figuring out how to possess you without breaking you in the process.
⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Homelander finds himself on the roof most evenings to watch your car leave the parking garage. He tracks the sound of your heartbeat until you're miles away and he hates that he needs you. He also hates that you fear him. Most of all, he hates that he's never felt more alive than when he's scaring the hell out of you.
synopsis: Homelander shows up at your window covered in the blood of his latest massacre. Somehow, you don't scream. You just tell him to get in the tub. You’re the only person who treats him like a disaster instead of a god, and tonight, he’s desperate to be handled, degraded, and put in his place.
content warnings: 18+, smut, bottom male reader, sub!Homelander (subtop), power imbalance, psychological instability, blood and gore (non-sexual), degradation/praise, hair pulling, rough sex, bathtub sex, wet and messy (water/spit), ripping clothes, crying during sex, creampie.
word count: 1.5k words
The city felt dead that night, a heavy, airless sort of quiet that usually meant something had already happened. You noticed it halfway up the stairs to your apartment when your own boots sounded way too sharp against the concrete, echoing in the narrow stairwell like the building itself was holding its breath. You paused outside your door, keys gripped tight, listening to the absolute lack of noise from behind the neighbors' doors. Somehow, there were no noisy televisions or muffled arguments tonight, just a localized vacuum of sound. You pushed through it anyway because routine is a powerful sedative, even when your gut is telling you to run.
Inside, the kitchen light flickered with a dull hum, and that was when you saw the shadow. Unfortunately for you, it wasn't a trick of the streetlamps; it was a solid, unmoving blotch of darkness cutting across the linoleum. When you looked toward the window, your heart didn't jump so much as it just went cold.
Homelander was hovering just beyond the glass.
Up close, he looked like a wreck. There was no cinematic polish, no camera-ready smile, just a man suspended in the air by something unnatural. He was covered in gore—thick, dark smears soaked into the seams of his suit and dried in jagged streaks along his jaw. He looked like he’d just finished painting a room with the people inside it. You slowly walked over and unlatched the lock, the metallic click sounding like a gunshot. As the glass slid back, the smell hit you first; the heavy, copper sting of fresh blood mixed with the ozone of the night air. He didn't move or offer an explanation. He just stayed suspended there, searching your face for the scream or the worship he usually pulled from people like debt. You hadn't seen him since that one-off night a year ago, a brief mistake in a hotel bar that you’d spent months trying to bury.
“Are you coming in,” you said, your voice flat and sounding a lot steadier than you felt, “or are you planning to stay out there and attract a crowd?”
That seemed to be what finally grounded him. He drifted forward and landed on your floorboards with a dull thud, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the wood. He didn't say a word, just stood there looking at his own hands like he’d never seen them before. You didn't wait. You just turned and walked toward the bathroom. “In here,” you called over your shoulder. “Before you ruin the rug.”
The bathroom was cramped and the light was dim, stripping away the hero image until he was just a man in a ruined suit. You turned the taps on and watched the water drum against the porcelain tub, waiting until he was standing in the doorway.
"Get out of it," you told him, nodding at the suit.
He didn't argue. He stripped with a clumsy haste, the heavy gold-and-blue fabric hitting the tile with a wet thud. When he stepped into the tub, his eyes fixed on you with a terrifying focus. He sank into the water, and it turned a murky, rusted pink almost immediately.
"Sit," you commanded, grabbing a washcloth.
You started at his shoulder. Pressed the cloth down, dragged it slowly across his skin, watching the blood smear and then lift. He just sat there– watching you work.
“You’re quiet,” he said after a minute.
You’re not exactly here for the conversation, John,” you replied, wringing the cloth out and moving to the other side of his neck. "Show up at my window like a stray after turning a facility into a butcher shop? You look pathetic like this."
He let out a low growl, a sound that would have paralyzed anyone else, but to you it just sounded like a whimper. He reached up, wet fingers curling around your wrist with an iron grip that felt like it was going to leave a mark. He didn't pull you away; he just held you there, anchored. "Say it again," he choked out, his voice cracking with an almost psychotic need. "Tell me I'm nothing."
"You're a disaster," you whispered, reaching up to grab a handful of his blonde hair with your free hand. You pulled his head back so he had to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and dark. "You're a goddamn wreck hiding in a bathroom because you can't stand yourself."
He let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, and before you could move, he reached out and hauled you over the edge of the tub. You hit the water fully clothed, the shock of the heat and the weight of him pressing you back against the porcelain making your head swim. He didn't care about the logistics. He grabbed the waistband of your jeans, the fabric groaning before he simply ripped them down, his strength barely restrained as he stripped the wet denim away from your legs.
He was frantic, his hands fumbling with your shirt while his mouth searched for yours with a sort of desperate clumsiness. He tasted like salt and iron, his tongue pushing into your mouth with an uncoordinated need that felt like he was trying to find something inside you he could keep.
"Make me stop," he gasped against your skin, his hands shaking as he pressed you into the tile. "Tell me I'm yours. Tell me I'm a good boy."
"Get on your knees," you breathed, the words probably coming out sharper than you originally intended.
The Great American Hero didn't hesitate. He shifted in the cramped space, the water splashing over the sides as he lowered himself, his hands gripping your thighs so hard it was going to leave bruises. He looked up at you from the other end of the tub, his face clean of blood but his expression utterly wrecked, a mix of need and worship that made the room feel like it was quickly running out of oxygen.
His head dropped between your legs, his tongue working with a desperate, slobbering intensity that had him moaning onto your cock. He was looking for friction, his hips rutting against the porcelain of the tub as he devoured you, his fingers digging into the backs of your knees. You grabbed a handful of his wet blonde hair, yanking his head back so he had to look at you while he worked. His blue eyes were practically black with arousal, fixed on your face with a terrifying adoration.
"Please," he slurred against your thigh, the water turning frothy as he moved. "Please, can I? Can I fuck you? I've been so good. I'm a good boy, right?"
"You're a mess," you whispered, guiding him up. "But yeah. Get in here."
He wasted no time, sliding his cock into you with a slow, agonizing glide that had him gasping for air. He stayed still for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling as he waited for you to adjust to the stretch. Then the rhythm broke. The slow roll of his hips turned into a rough, pounding desperation, his skin slapping against yours in a wet, rhythmic cadence that filled the small room. He was practically begging, his body responding to every sharp command you leveled at him.
He babbled into your ear, promises of belonging and desperate "I love you"s that sounded more like threats than endearments. "You're so full, baby. I'm filling you up just like I promised. Tell me you're mine. Tell me I'm yours."
The water was splashing everywhere, the tub groaning under the weight of his movements. He sped up, his hips slamming into yours with a rough, uncoordinated force that threatened to break the tile. The sound of wet skin hitting skin echoed off the bathroom walls, a frantic, messy soundtrack to the way he was losing his mind inside of you. He reached down, his fingers clumsily looking for yours so he could pin your hands back, needing the physical reminder that you were trapped under his weight, even as he was the one serving you. He was rutting into you now, his heavy cock bottoming out with every desperate thrust, his eyes never leaving yours.
When he finally dumped his load into you, his balls constricting as rope after rope hit your insides, he let out a long, quiet chant of "Thank you" and "I love you" until the tension finally left his body. He collapsed against your chest, his softening cock still twitching inside you, the water in the tub still swirling around your waists as his heart hammered like a trapped bird against his ribs.
By the time the water had gone cold, the room felt heavier than it had when he was covered in blood. You leaned back against the tile, your breathing finally starting to level out while he sat there, tracing uncoordinated patterns on your leg with a wet finger.
“Did I do a good job?” he asked, his voice small and innocent, as if he hadn't just rearranged your guts in a bathtub.
“You were super, John," you muttered, the exhaustion finally pulling you under. "Good boy.”
hi! could you write something for homelander where reader (with whom he's in a relationship) is very affectionate, like he doesn't even need to manipulate or threaten her into loving him because she already does even though she's knows he's not the perfect hero he pretends to be?
Absolutely I love Homelander! Antony Starr just portrays him so well, there’s not enough fics of him to get my fill :) thank you for the request! I really appreciate it and I hope this was what you expected I actually struggled a bit with trying to write affection with Homelander that didn’t sound too OOC. LMK whatchya think if I didn’t meet the mark feel free to request again! :D
Warnings: nothing too graphic, non-sexual bath sharing, blood mentions, takes place after Homelander kills the scientist who raised him, cursing and immoral reader. Mention breifly of Homelander smelling arousal it’s a one off thing, use of homelanders real name; John.
word count: 1,112
Homelander, despite his sociopathy, craved affection, genuine adoration and genuine love. Of course he felt it was never really real. From Madeline Stillwell, to Queen Maeve to Stormfront. Everyone was fake.
None of them really gave a fuck about him, and they were scared of him, which he did like, but only when he wanted them to be scared, not as some consistent underlying feeling.
Anyone who got to know Homelander personally, fucking hated him, or was scared of him. He knew it, of course he did. He felt it in the air, he heard their racing hearts and the blood rushing through their veins. They couldn’t hide it if they tried.
Then there was you. To Homelander, you were more of a gimmick supe. nothing worth The Seven, but Sister sage insisted you were part of the plan, along with Firecracker, so Homelander bent his knee.
When you were first introduced, he didn’t expect much, and that expectation (or lack thereof) continued until they day they caught the suspected mole. Some spider freak Homelander couldn’t care to remember the name of.
That day you stood alongside him as he ripped the supe clean in half, watching as blood exploded across Homelander and the floor. Any other person, he would’ve heard the racing heart beat, or the gulping noise of nervousness. But you? You just grimaced at the sight, a soft ‘yuck’ coming from you shortly after.
From then on he’d noticed you more, and it seemed you noticed him too, always flirting with him, touching his arm, bringing him snacks, and milk. It was obvious to everyone, your not so subtle blooming affection toward him.
When he was angry, you weren’t fearful or cowering, you let him get angry, let him rant and rave. He felt idiotic for the amount of times he found himself in your room just to lay his head on your lap and complain.
He took notice of how you never tried to kiss his ass out of fear, only fussing over him out of genuine care. He couldn’t fully believe it, and his doubt caused him to have mood swings where he would be cruel to you. Like he was sick of anticipating when you’d finally hate him and so he tried to force it with his behaviour.
It didn’t ever come though, you were patient, and you frustratingly gave him his time to brood and be angry. It wasn’t until he saw some security guard flirting with you that he realized he needed you all to himself, that no other person would care for him the way you did. With the security guy dead, he finally asked you to be his partner, and made you official to the public as fast as possible, wanting to stake his claim for you to everyone.
Once Homelander started to realize that he heard your heart flutter around him, that he could see the dilation in your eyes when you looked at him, or smell the arousal when you were worked up over him, he knew that there wasn’t any questioning whether or not your feelings were true.
John had just killed every scientist who’d tortured him growing up, his body still shaking with adrenaline, anger, and self hatred. The realization that he’d been raised like a dog to be obedient, made him so angry, he could barely contain it.
He touched down on the Vought towers covered in blood he dragged his feet into your shared bedroom, where you were already up making your way to the door when you heard it open.
“Are you okay?” You whispered upon seeing him, opening your arms to him despite his body being covered in bloody. Homelander slumped into you without hesitation, his gloved fingers digging into your flesh. “I’m nothing but a product.” He whispered with a wavering tone, though clear anger cracked through his pain. “What happened baby?” You cooed brows pinched together as your fingers threaded through his crunchy blood soaked hair.
He shook his head pulling back a bit. “They’re dead.. no sense in talking about it.” He huffed looking into your eyes, his expression tired or rather, drained. “You’re the only one who sees me like this..” He muttered making you smile, his gloved hand raising to run his thumb across the apples of your cheek.
“Wanna bathe?” You offered in an affectionate tone, making his face twitch with differing emotions. One of those feeling was cringe; unused to being so genuinely cared for, and the others being exhaustion and gratitude. “Yes.” Homelander grumbled, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom like he was just some lil’ guy and not a murderous superhuman.
“You look so handsome covered in blood.” You hummed sliding off his cape from the clasps, before staring to undo the back of his suit. Homelander scoffed stood obediently in front of you as you undressed him. Sometimes it was hard to believe you meant what you said, on days like these all he wanted was to believe you.
“You can talk to me you know... I won’t ever judge you for what happened.” You assured softly, undressing your own body as you watched him slump into the warm water. Once you’d settled into his lap, his arms around your waist, bodies resting in the warm luxury’s tub, he finally spoke again.
“I was raised in a lab, tortured.” Homelander spoke, his voice low, your eyes briefly meeting his as you got a rag, gently washing the blood from his face. “I killed them, it doesn’t feel satisfying enough…” He trailed soaking in the loving look you had in your eyes as you washed him up. “I’m glad you killed them.”
Homelanders face twitched his expression showing confusion for a split second. “You’re… glad?” Homelander murmured as your lips met his nose. “Yeah, fuck those asshole, supe or not you were a little boy being abused and treated like a lab rat.” You hummed out setting aside the wash rag to cup his face, he looked sad, like a kicked puppy. “You’re just… okay with how I kill?” Homelander scoffed, his hands on your hips tugging you closer as he leaned back.
You nodded, clinging to him. “I love you John,” You shrugged, moving your hands up to attempt to get some of the crusty blood off. “There’s nothing you can do that will stop that, even if I get angry, grossed out or off put for a bit, that won’t outweigh how I love ya.”
Homelander felt for the first time that maybe he’d finally found someone who did love him. Originally Stormfront felt like she was Homelanders match, but sadly, all she cared about was her Nazi bullshit. “I love you too.” He grumbled lowly his fingers coming up to pinch your cheeks.
“And if you leave me, I will kill you.” His voice was sharp and low like a whisper, and despite that you smiled. “Yeah yeah, if I left you I’d kill me too.” Then your lips met his, tasting him eagerly before pulling back with a wide grin. No matter what he tried you were always so genuinely in love with him, and never afraid.
I'm missing homie rn.. What 'bout some relationship hc's / fic pre-batshit homelander? Pretty pls with sprinkles on top 🫡🫡
this might be a bit shit cause it's a bit rushed but i hope u still like it🫡
Dating Pre-Batshit Homelander Headcanons
★ Despite what the public might think, Homelander isn't naturally affectionate– he's affectionate because he's starving for it. The first time you casually reach for his hand, his whole body locks up in fight or flight, because nobody ever touches him without wanting something.
★ John absolutely memorizes everything about you– your coffee order, the rhythm of your heartbeat, your favorite movie, the exact blanket you like for each situation… Shit, he even knows your social security number for God’s sake.
★ Homelander loves hearing praise from you more than he'll ever admit. Compliments from fans feel good, sure– but compliments from his partner? Now that’s a whole nother level of satisfaction.
★ If he's had a particularly bad day at Vought, he doesn't want advice– he just wants to lay his head on your lap, letting you run your fingers through his hair. These silent, shared moments are a hundred times better for him than you trying to give him solutions to his problems.
★ He is constantly seeking reassurance in subtle ways, he won’t outright ask you to voice these things. (Mainly because that would come off as vulnerability and weakness) Instead, he’ll let little hints drop like: "Did you miss me?" … "Will you wait for me?" … "Do you want me to be there?" … “What did you think of my last movie?”
★ He's clingier than anyone would expect– not in public, obviously. But in private? He's always touching you somehow. Whether it’s a hand on your waist, your leg pressed against his under the table, his arms around your back…
★ Homelander acts confident, but he gets jealous ridiculously easily. He trusts you– he just doesn't trust everyone else around y’all. After all, who wouldn’t want to have the only thing America’s golden boy genuinely loves and guards with his life?
★ Being loved is completely foreign to him. Affection that goes beyond the cameras, PR stunts, public ratings or crowd’s cheering? That’s a wild concept to him– just you choosing him every day? Him, as in John, not Homelander. He’ll spend every second of his life compensating for that privilege (your love) he’s convinced he hasn’t earned yet.
The first time it happened, everyone thought they imagined it.
You were standing in the middle of the meeting room at Vought, flipping through a file while the Seven sat around the table in varying states of boredom. Homelander had been in a mood all morning—cold smile, narrowed eyes, the kind that made assistants suddenly remember appointments elsewhere.
Even Ashley was speaking in that nervous, shaky voice.
And then Homelander started rambling about ratings and public perception and team unity.
You looked up.
“…You’re doing the face again.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Black Noir slowly turned his head.
The Deep blinked.
Ashley looked like her soul had left her body.
Homelander stared at you.
“…What face?”
You pointed at him casually.
“That one. The weird intense one.” You squinted dramatically. “‘I’m trying to look mysterious but I’m mostly just glaring at people’ face.”
Someone dropped a pen.
A-Train physically looked toward the exit.
Because no one—no one—talked to Homelander like that.
No one if they valued breathing.
For a moment nobody moved.
Homelander stared.
Stared.
Long enough that Ashley looked seconds away from crying.
Then—
He smiled.
Not the TV smile.
Not the polished one.
An actual smile.
And he leaned back in his chair.
“…Do I make that face?”
You nodded.
“Constantly.”
Another pause.
Then Homelander actually laughed.
Laughed.
Ashley looked ready to faint.
—
After that, things somehow got worse.
Or weirder.
Depending who you asked.
Because you apparently operated under completely different laws of reality.
Like when Homelander landed after some interview looking irritated enough to vaporize a city block.
Everyone had immediately scattered.
Except you.
Because you walked right up to him holding a coffee.
“Bad day?”
He looked down at you.
“…No.”
“You’ve got grumpy eyebrows.”
“I don’t have grumpy eyebrows.”
“You absolutely have grumpy eyebrows.”
The entire hallway went dead quiet.
A-Train later swore he saw his life flash before his eyes.
But Homelander just stared at you.
Then his expression softened instantly.
“…You brought me coffee?”
You held it out.
“Yeah.”
And somehow—
Somehow—
The terrifying, god-complex, laser-eyed nightmare looked absurdly pleased.
“…Thanks.”
Thanks.
Ashley nearly choked.
—
The Seven started noticing things.
Tiny things.
Like Homelander always standing just a little closer to you.
Or somehow hearing whenever you said his name from three rooms away.
Or the way he’d immediately look for you after missions.
Like a giant, terrifying golden retriever.
One day Maeve cornered you.
“I need you to explain something.”
You blinked.
“What?”
Maeve gestured wildly.
“Him.”
You stared.
“…Homelander?”
“Yes, Homelander.”
You shrugged.
“What about him?”
Maeve looked at you like she’d lost faith in humanity.
“You flicked his forehead yesterday.”
“…Yeah?”
“You flicked. His. Forehead.”
You frowned.
“He was being dramatic.”
Maeve stared.
Long silence.
“…You know I watched him threaten a room full of executives over almond milk once.”
You paused.
“…Oh.”
“…OH?”
—
The real breaking point came during a press shoot.
Homelander had been standing under hot lights for nearly an hour while photographers adjusted everything down to individual strands of hair.
Which meant his patience was gone.
Entirely gone.
The crew looked terrified.
Ashley looked one inconvenience away from a breakdown.
And Homelander had that expression again.
The expression.
You looked up from your phone.
Saw him.
Paused.
Then walked directly over.
Everyone watched in horror.
You reached up—
Grabbed his cheeks—
And squished his face.
“Stop making grumpy eyebrows.”
Absolute silence.
No breathing.
No movement.
No sound.
Ashley made a tiny noise.
The photographer looked ready to pass away.
Homelander stared at you.
His eyes widened slightly.
And for one terrible second everyone thought:
This is it.
Then—
He leaned down.
Just a little.
Enough that only you heard:
“…You know you can ask nicely.”
You blinked.
“…Are you pouting?”
“…No.”
“You are.”
“…Am not.”
The smile he gave you after was ridiculous.
Soft.
Completely unfair.
And every person in the room looked like reality itself had cracked.
Because somehow—
Somehow—
Homelander looked at you like you hung the stars.
Like you could say anything, do anything, and he’d let you.
And later, when Ashley shakily asked how on earth you survived any of this—
You looked genuinely confused.
“What do you mean?”
Across the room Homelander looked over immediately.
The second he heard your voice.
And his entire face softened.
Ashley stared.
Then at you.
Then him.
Then back at you.
“…Oh my God.”
Because suddenly it made sense.
Homelander wasn’t letting you get away with things.
Homelander was completely, hopelessly gone for you.
And everyone else?
Everyone else was just witnessing it in real time.
Description: Homelander discovers Y/N, his hidden daughter, who has been subjected to experiments like his own, only to realise she isn't afraid of him - and may be the first person to reflect his power back without fear or worship.
He didn't hear a heartbeat at first.
That was what unsettled him.
The lab was supposed to be empty - Vought had assured him of that. Another abandoned wing, another quiet graveyard of bad ideas they didn't want the public to know about. Homelander had come down here out of boredom more than suspicion, capre dragging lazily behind him, red eyes scanning through concrete and steel.
Nothing living.
Nothing worth-
Then, faintly.
A heartbeat.
Small. Steady. Hidden.
He tilted his head, listening harder. Not behind a wall. Not below the floor.
Inside the reinforced observation room.
Homelander smiled, slow and curious. "Well," he murmured, stepping forward, "that's new."
The door didn't open with a code. It didn't open at all - until he decided it would. Metal screamed as he peeled it back like foil.
Inside, the lights flickered on automatically.
And there you were.
Curled up in the corner of a sterile white room, barefoot, dressed in hospital grey. You didn't flinch at the noise. Didn't scream. You just looked up at him.
Calm.
That was the second thing that unsettled him.
Most people cried when they saw him like this - looming, glowing faintly with restrained violence.
You just... watched.
Homelander stepped inside slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked you over. No obvious restraints. No guards. No fear.
"What are you supposed to be?" he asked, voice softer than expected.
You tilted your head slightly, studying him in return. "You're him."
Not fear. Recognition.
His smile sharped. "Yeah. I am."
A pause.
Then you said, simply, "They said you'd come eventually."
Something in his chest tightened - quick, unfamiliar, gone just as fast.
"They say a lot of things," he replied, circling you. "Doesn't mean any of it's true."
You turned to keep him in view, movements controlled, precise. Not like a normal child. Not even close.
"How old are you?" he asked.
You hesitated. "I don't know."
Of course you didn't.
His gaze flicked briefly to the observation glass - dark now, but he knew someone had been watching, once. Studying. Recording.
Testing.
On you.
He looked back at you, slower this time.
"What did they do to you?"
You didn't answer right away. Instead, you raised your hand - hesitant - and pressed your palm flat against the wall.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the surface beneath your hand cracked.
Not shattered - controlled. Fractures spiderwebbed outward, precise, deliberate, stopping just short of collapse.
Homelander froze.
Not because of the damage.
Because of how carefully you'd done it.
You lowered your hand. "They said I had to learn control," you said quietly. "Or I'd hurt people."
That tightness in his chest returned. Stronger now.
Control.
He let out a soft, humourless chuckle. "Yeah," he muttered. "They love that word."
You watched him again, searching his face. "Did they do it to you too?"
The question landed harder than anything else in the room.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Then he smiled - but it wasn't the one the cameras loved.
"Worse," he said.
Silence stretched between you.
Then, carefully, you asked, "Are you here to take me back?"
Back.
The word echoed wrong.
His jaw tightened. He glanced at the door, then back at you.
"No," he said.
The answer came faster than he expected.
Your shoulders relaxed - just a fraction.
"Good," you whispered.
Another pause.
Then, quieter: "They said you wouldn't care."
Homelander blinked.
Something sharp flickered in his eyes.
"Oh?" he said softly. "And what do you think?"
You hesitated again - longer this time.
Then you said, "I think... they were wrong."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
He stared at you - really stared now. They way you held yourself. The way you didn't beg, didn't fear, didn't worship.
You just... believed something better.
Something about him.
Dangerous.
He should have crushed that immediately.
He should have laughed. Walked away. Proved them right.
Instead, he crouched down in front of you, bringing himself to your level.
Close enough now to hear your heartbeat clearly.
Steady.
Strong.
Familiar.
"...Who told you about me?" he asked.
"They all did," you said. "They said you were the strongest. That you survived everything."
A beat.
"They said I was like you."
His expression shifted - subtle, but real.
"Yeah?" he murmured.
You nodded.
Another pause.
Then, very quietly, you asked, "Am I?"
Homelander stared at you.
At the cracks in the wall.
At the absence of fear.
At the way you were waiting - not for approval, but for truth.
And for once, he didn't deflect.
"...Yeah," he said.
The word came out rougher than expected.
"You are."
Your lips curved - small, tentative, but real.
And something in him - something buried under years of conditioning, cameras, and control - shifted.
Not softened.
Not healed.
But... recognised.
He stood, offering his hand without thinking.
"Come on," he said.
You looked at his hand, then back at his face. "Where are we going?"
His smile returned - but quieter now. Less performance. More promise.
"Anywhere but here."
You reached out.
Took his hand.
Your grip was stronger than it should've been.
He didn't pull away.
As he led you out of the broken room, alarms finally begin to blare - too late, as usual.
fluff, age gap, daddy issues, dominant Homelander/father figure
Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4
⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆
You were the youngest member of the seven to replace Lamplighter, and Homelander immediately took a liking to you. You were obedient, quiet, always followed your orders, and most of all, you sought a father figure. Luckily for you, the head of The Seven was the perfect male role model. You truly liked him, and it's precisely why you sat in the meeting room, off in your own world.
"Miss y/n?" Homelander asked, his signature smirk plastered across his face.
You perked up and turned to him, allowing him to see your pretty eyes. "Yes?" you asked in that polite tone he adored.
"Is everything alright? You seem distant." He stepped forward and held his hands behind his back. "You do know that your objectives have been updated, do you not?"
"Hmm?"
Homelander scoffed, shook his head, and glanced away. "You'll be with The Deep this time around. Got it?"
"Yes," you said, giving him a little nod.
"All of you," he began. "Every single one of you... You don't listen. You don't listen to a thing I say. What..." He let out an exasperated sigh and placed his hands on his hips. "What will it take to get you to stop being a bunch of useless fucking cocksuckers?"
Nobody said a word, so The Deep spoke up. "Well—"
"What was that?" Homelander wondered, glaring straight through him.
The man didn't continue, so you stepped in and added, "We will do better, sir. Things have been tense ever since Transluscent went missing, but that's still not an excuse to be so unreliable."
Homelander turned back and crossed his arms again, giving you a look of approval. He just nodded and hummed thoughtfully before saying, "Get the fuck out; all of you. Except you, y/n."
Your eyes followed the other heroes as they hurried out of the room, and before long, the two of you were alone. It seemed that you'd been having more and more time alone with him, but you tried not to let it get to you.
Homelander stalked over to you once the door closed, and he slid his hands to your shoulders, giving them a little rub and a firm squeeze. "Hmm... You're always so obedient. Such a good girl. It makes me wonder, though. How come you always ignore everyone else and only talk to me? Is it because you like me?"
It took you a while to respond, but once you formulated a response, you explained. "Well, I... I think you're very important to the team. You're strong and... powerful."
"Powerful? You like that I'm powerful? Well, you haven't seen half of it, sweetie," he cooed. "You know, I feel like I would like to get to know you even better. Would you like to accompany me to my penthouse?"
You couldn't bear to decline his offer, so you nodded eagerly. Homelander offered you his hand, helped you up, and guided you to the door. He didn't once let go of your hand, and you could feel how warm and big his were. Something about it made you feel fuzzy inside, and you knew Homelander was aware of it. He could sense your heart rate, and the closer he was to you, the more it increased. In a way, it was like a game to him to see just how flustered he could make you.
Once the two of you exited the room and stepped into the vast hallway, he asked, “So, why did you choose to stand up for the others?”
You squeezed his hand a bit tighter and shrugged. “I just didn’t want you to be upset.”
“Oh? Really, now? Are you scared of my mean side?” he teased, giving you a little smirk.
“Well, maybe. But I also know how hard you work to lead us, and I just wanted to make things a little easier for you.”
“So, you’re my little goody-two-shoes? Well, I suppose I can’t complain about that. It’s cute, really.”
⋆—⋆—⋆—⋆
Homelander's penthouse was extravagant, to put it simply. It certainly did represent his character, though. If you had designed the place, you would have included fewer American flags.
"Please, make yourself at home. There's no need to feel uncomfortable. After all..." He smirked. "It's just us."
You stepped further into his home and nearly grimaced at how clean and perfect everything was. Just like Homelander's personality, it was all an act.
Before you registered where the older man was, you heard him say, "Come here." He patted his lap invitingly, extending his arms. "Let's get comfortable, shall we?"
The sight of him sitting there on the brown leather couch was nearly enough to bring you to your knees, but you stayed strong and neared him. He never once took his eyes off of you, and for the first time in your life, you felt… safe and cared for. So, without wasting another second, you approached him and set your legs on either side of his lap to straddle him. As soon as you sat down, he pulled you to his chest in a big hug.
“Ohh, there we are. See? It’s nice, isn’t it?” he asked, rubbing his large hands all over your back.
You nodded and pressed your face into the crook of his neck, also wrapping your arms around him.
“Tell me, you little… thing. Do you enjoy being coddled and held like the vulnerable and helpless little girl you are?”
Unable to ignore his question, you replied, “Yes, I… I do.”
“I knew it,” he hummed, rocking you from side to side and pulling you a little closer. “You need a strong man in your life, don’t you?”
You nodded, clutching the material of his suit.
“A daddy? Do you need a daddy, precious?”
You shyly nodded, still hiding your face against his neck.
“Who’s your daddy, huh? Who’s your daddy, baby girl?”
“I…” You hesitated, unsure if you should say what he wanted you to. “I… I don’t have a daddy, but… I want you to be my daddy.”
“Ohh, there it is. I knew it. That’s a good little girl, hmm? You’re daddy’s little girl; Homelander’s precious girl.” He pressed an obnoxiously loud and wet kiss to your cheek.
You curled into his protective embrace and whispered, “I feel safe with you.”
“Yeah?” Then, he asked the question that had been on his mind for far too long, “Did you not have any family growing up?”
Feeling ashamed, you loosened your grip around him and relaxed, wishing you could disappear. “I grew up in a lab,” you said.
Once you said that, it felt like his heart had been stabbed. How could such a sweet girl like you have grown up in a lab? He knew firsthand how painful and degrading it was to be treated so subhuman as a child. Imagining you in his place was enough to soften his entire demeanor.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered, sliding his hand to your hair and lightly scratching your scalp. “I grew up in a lab as well. I know what it’s like to desire a parent. I know how much it hurts. But I’m here for you, okay? When we’re together, I’m your daddy, your rock, your safe space, and you’re just my little girl.”
“I would really like that,” you said, pulling back to meet his gaze.
Homelander smirked and pecked your forehead, once, then twice, and his hand moved to the back of your neck. “I would, too, sweet cheeks. Now, give daddy a big hug. He needs one after such a stressful day… and so do you.”
Without further hesitation, you threw your arms around his neck and smothered him with affection, just so happy to finally have a father.
Warnings: nsfw | 18+ | minors dni | smut | set before season 1 by like maybe a few months lol | madelyn is alive and got a promotion | homelander and John are used interchangeably | mentions of Homelander's childhood | no use of y/n | r is around seven months pregnant | creampie | homelander being insecure and jealous and a bit of a snark per usual | fluff | r is homelander's manager | r got a sperm donor and homelander is not happy about it | homelander has his DID moments in this that are there if you squint and look hard enough | Homelander is very much a pleasure!dom in this idgaf | r and Homie kinda sorta have a Roman and Gerri type of relationship going on | lowkey they're both switching on and off as top and bottom in this as a game | finger sucking | alluding to Homelander's death in the future is briefly touched upon | mentions of Homelander's surrogate birth mother | The suit stays AWN!
⊹₊˚ꕤ˚₊⊹ You guys knooowwwww I love a boss lady. I've always wondered what Homelander would've been like when he found out Madelyn was having a baby. This kinda inspired this effed up ideer, I hope you little freaks enjoy. Homelander, I miss you and all the good you could've been. Also I promise I'm working on chapter 2 of WDYGWYGQ. I just get distracted very easily lolol.
"There are thousands— millions of people waiting for you to fuck up. Don't give them a head start on a smear campaign that's futile to the direction at hand."
The rubber of Homelander's gloves bend in his lap, rubbing squeakily against one another as he readjusts himself in the seat across from your desk, "I just want to make sure—"
"Make sure that you do your job."
John nods appeasingly, averting his eyes from your own.
He looks so pitiful when he gets like this; baby blues turning glassy as your voice softens.
John watches you as you round the corner of your desk and sit on the armrest of his chair, cupping his cheek in your hand softly. He turns into your hand, looking up at you under his lashes. "Show me that I can trust you on this."
He nods and presses a kiss to the soft inside of your palm. You step away, walking towards the middle of the room.
"There is a sickness in this company."
"What?" Homelander's eyes follow you.
You take a seat on the caramel colored couch of your office. One leg over the other, leaning back into the cushioning, sunlight halos your hair.
He hesitantly follows. Taking a seat on the vanilla colored couch across from yours. The two of you split by a $25k glass coffee table Stan Edgar had gifted you when you'd accepted his offer. Thick accent books on Vought and Supe history litter the table decoratively.
"One of overconfidence," you lull your head to the side, meeting his dark furrowed brows from his seat across from you, "It’s an optics war," you say, your voice low and even. "You need to be more than a corporate asset. You need to make them feel like they own you— and well,” you measure the taste of your next words carefully, “Make them believe you’re working for them.”
His brows deepen further and his eyes drop to his lap, "I’m not sure I follow."
You sigh, gesturing broadly, leaning back, watching the skyscraper shadows stretch across the office floor. "People here feel untouchable. I don’t want that for you. Vought is selling you a war you’ve been led to believe you’ll win just by being who you are. It’s not that simple.”
And you do suppose that to some degree you've helped orchestrate this whole ordeal. You knew exactly what you were taking on when you'd been offered the managerial role for Homelander.
Four years of your life devoted to Vought and its heroes. Four years of heading meetings with The Seven. Four years of perfecting the company face and hiding what it truly was. Four years of near sleepless nights and quick snacks and Chai lattes. Four years of passing looks from the blond that turned into soft kisses passed in not-so-secret closets and corners, hidden away from wandering eyes. Four years of surreptitious creampies because 'dont worry, the whole V thing made it so I couldn't... ya' know.'
And you'd heard the rumors — well, read them, anyway. Nobody on Vought property, higher up or not, wasnt stupid enough to utter a word, much less, spread gossip about Homelander – or you, by proxy – fucking his manager.
You'd read the bullshit headlines in the news, scrolled through comment sections full of grammatical errors made by insolent morons who had nothing but time on their hands, you didn't give a shit about any of it.
You were busy running a company — arguably the biggest one in the world for fuckssake. And you had a penthouse, a more than nice car — that suffered far too many trips to the dealership for a ruined suspension and low tire pressure from far too many times where your legs were thrown over a certain someone's shoulders while you were pinned down on your lowered seats– a bank account worth a damn, and a perfect credit score to show for it.
"It's a system, John."
The Homelander winces at the name.
You redirect.
"I need you to work with the system. Not against it."
He watches you carefully, seemingly disinterested, but you know it's a façade.
"You are a part of the system, and it will exist with or without you." You push yourself off the caramel couch and make your way over to where he sits across from you, "its built to be impenetrable. Without money, it will continue on. It'll find something new, something to fill the void."
He looks up at you under his dark brows when you come to stand in front of him. He spreads his legs to accommodate you – as though he's already decided the fate of your night for you. In a way, he had as soon as he came through the door, but you weren't about to let him know that.
You take a breath.
"And one day, when you're long gone–"
The homelander scoffs at that, rolls his eyes and crosses his broad arms over his chest protectively. He taps his foot to the carpeted floor.
"I know," you say, voice light with a soft chuckle, watching him, "it feels impossible. But it isn't.”
He clicks his jaw.
You continue, "You’re not completely invincible."
He bounces his leg, once, twice, and a third time. His eyes settle on your swollen middle before he looks up at you again.
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
You can appreciate his ability to at least recognize there's an angle; even if he can't quite figure out what it might be.
"I'm telling you I can get you there, John."
You figure it'd be best to avoid his birth name but it renders him soft and malleable in your presence. He regresses into something domestic and somewhat sweet if you gild his virtues in that syrupy way he likes.
Baby blues dance around your office — the walls littered in vintage Homelander merch, stuffies of The Seven, figurines made in his image, framed photographs of you two.
He makes a stilted noise. Almost like he'd forgotten to breathe.
You wonder what he's thinking about but you suppose you'd rather not ask. He gets in these moods sometimes. Sonderous and epiphanous moods that'd you'd rather not inquire upon. They open scarred wounds that never seem to heal quite right.
It's often that you find yourself wondering just how different life would be for the two of you if you were the one with superhuman strength and a childless childhood.
Would you seek a fathers comfort in him? Not that you don't already. Something of a symbiotic relationship in your woven words of corporate-speak and the way his eyes get wet when you suggest he's done wrong and the way you regress into something small and unsure when he becomes stern with you, quick to mewl over the panic with gentle words and soft touches.
Would you seek anything at all?
You suppose you'd rather not know.
"I'm already there." The homelander says, a quiet light of admiration in his voice, his brow quirks a little, like he's unsure of his own confidence – as though he's waiting for some synthetic substantiation that allocates him in this feeling.
"You know what I mean."
His eyes fall shut gently and he nods, looking up at you under heavy lashes.
"I do."
The shift is instant. You falter and he feels it in the warmth of the room. Gathering your next words but he stops you before you start.
"alright," he taps the cushion beside him, leather poofing against the opulent fabric thickly, "I think…" He draws out the ‘i’ obnoxiously, “It’s bedtime.” he looks up at you under his brow, lips pulled into a tight line, “Don’t you?”
You know him well enough to recognize the finality in his tone. The lack of question in his question. He’s ending the conversation and you’re to let him.
───────
The Homelander comes to your office the next day, same time in the evening when the orange-ish hue of the sunset settles your work suite into a hazy warmth. You're finishing up a few emails when a curt knock splits your focus. You hesitate for a moment. Splitting your laptop screen to the cameras set up around outside the door to your office.
He waits at the door. Muted red, blue, and white through the pixelated screen.
You breathe softly through your nose, “Come in.”
The oak door opens with a quiet click.
───────
"Tell me," Homelander's voice is low, deepened by the timbre of his suit as he rounds your chair, scooping your hair in a gloved hand over your shoulder, your neck bare, "what do you really know about me?" The leather palm of his glove holds the column of your neck, thumb stroking over the spine of your throat beneath your hair.
You're quiet for a moment, inhaling shakily, trying to steady your breath as Homelander leans down to press a kiss to the curve of the other side of your jaw.
You're not really sure what his angle is; if he's playing or intentionally trying to put you at ease. You settle for a rather unscrupulous response. Your fear is a game to him as much as it offends him.
"I know enough."
Homelander drags his palm down to the curve of your middle. He must feel the way you unconsciously tense under him as he kitten licks the shell of your ear.
"Mmm. Like what?"
"What they did to you."
The hand lying protectively over the curve of your belly goes rigid and his onslaught of kisses to your neck pause instantly.
He pulls back to meet your eyes. "Oh, you know what they did to me?"
You don't say anything, just hold his gaze as you nod hesitantly. He narrows his eyes, looking back and forth between yours. Homelander stands to his full height beside you, He stays quiet. The room feels cold. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.
"Enlighten me.”
With a shaky exhale, you begin to list what you'd come across in his file when you'd first been sanctioned as his manager following Madelyn's bonus and step up the ladder.
"I know what they took from you. Who hurt you, what they used, how they tortured you, tried to kill you to see what you'd come back from."
Your daughter shifts, a gentle stroke against your side. A wave of nausea rolls over you. He was a baby too, once.
Homelander's grip on you doesn't tighten nor does it relax any and for a moment you consider that might just be a rather blase and disproportionate display of his strength he's deciding to use out of boredom and fear of hurting you.
He doesn't say anything that alludes to him being upset with you either. He doesn't say anything at all.
It's only when a few moments have passed that you squirm some in your seat, "John, please, I have work I need to get back to—"
"Just another moment."
His voice is wrought and quiet, almost like he'd forgotten where he was at all. Like he was back in the memories of those manilla folders. Like he was being destroyed once more only to be put back together again as a weapon — children raised on poison often consider harm a comfort you supposed
"I-if you know all those things... all those things about.. me. What they did to me... why're you..."
You turn around slowly and as far back as you can, craning your neck to look up at him.
"John."
His eyes are distant, stuck on something across the room, glassy and vacant.
"John," you try again, voice light, he startles some when your hand comes to rest atop one of his on your shoulder, "why did you come down here today?"
He watches you for a moment; heat from his eyes turned soft as he takes a few steps back, “I…” he turns and looks about the walls of your office before settling down on the couch, pulling his cape out from behind him and spreading his thighs wide.
“Well…I–” he gestures rather boredly, "I guess I like you or something,” he teases, voice lithe and lips pulled into a soft smile. One that does little to hide the raw hurt that's still swirling through his mind.
You don't laugh.
He clears his throat.
“Just wanted to see you, I dunno.”
You scoff lightly.
“You make things difficult.”
He shrugs his shoulders at that, furrowing his brows.
“Who cares?”
“Me.” you snip, “asshole.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” he chuckles through a dismissive huff, leather gloves creaking as he drops his hands to the tops of his thighs, his cheeks swell with a short puff of air.
You just stare at eachother for a moment before he's gesturing for you to come near.
“C'mere.”
Youre so fucking tired. Youre tired of his bullshit. Youre tired of cleaning up after his bullshit. Youre tired of crisis management meetings and sleepless nights and pregnancy cravings and thr way your daughter always seems to press her foot perfectly against your blatter, and you miss your bed.
Nonetheless, you slowly make your way over to where he sits. Standing in front of him, one hand over your middle and the other at your hip.
You wonder if the woman who’d carried him was scared at all. She had to have been. Had she wanted a good life for him? Had she cradled her womb towards her at the thought of him being taken away. Had anyone ever wanted him at all?
You dont realize you've begun to tear up until John's pulling at your hand, leading you towards his lap. The image of him turned into a misty blue-ish blond blur under your warm salty tears.
“Sorry,” you sniffle, letting him guide you into his lap, “m'sorry.”
He grunts a little when you rest your full weight on top of him, the swell of your middle curves against his belt.
“For what?” The Homelander asks. Voice gentle as he presses a kiss to your temple, settling deeper into the couch cushions, tucking you against his chest as far as he can with your middle pressed up against his tummy.
You shake your head, “I dunno,” a wet chuckle leaves your lips and he rocks you slightly, “everything, maybe,” you sniffle and wipe at your eyes tearfully.
John doesn't say anything in response to that. Just hums a little, like you've answered some ages-long question he'd already known the answer to. He just drops a hand from your spine to hold your hip, steadying you on his lap.
“Mommy hormones maybe?” He offers lightly. You know it's supposed to make you laugh but his voice is distant, absent of any warmth it once had, rather sad in a way.
“Maybe.”
You pull back a little to look at him and he turns to meet your gaze. You run your nails through the buzzed hair of his undercut, scratching at the nape of his neck. He shivers a little and jostles you just a bit in his hold, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose and then to your lips.
He holds you there for a while. Kissing you, spreading the warm palms of his hands over the curve of your ass, pulling the globes of your asscheeks apart and rutting up against you through the padding of his suit with stifled groans and hitched breaths.
You bite at the soft of his bottom lip and he moans into pinch of it. He moves to kiss you and suddenly seems to remember where he is and who he’s with. His hands slip a bit and he pulls back a little. Running his tongue over his lips, his eyes dance back and forth between yours.
"You don't scare me," you settle him.
The homelander appears unconvinced. He breathes something soft and unsure. A small laugh, like he wants to throw something back at that. Like he hates that insinuation. The very idea that someone might genuinely fear him.
"S'okay," you take a hold of his wrist, slipping your thumb under the leather rim of his glove to reach his warm skin beneath his suit, circling your skin against his slowly and softly, "whatever you need."
“Can I fuck you?” he aks quiet, gentle and sweet as he moves to weave his fingers with yours, “Like I used to?”
You nod, leading his hand between your thighs, slipping it beneath the fabric of your skirt and under your soaked panties where your slick pools over your folds. John hitches a breath under you, tensing as he strokes his fingers over your swollen clit.
“Jesus,” He breathes, slipping the fabric of your panties to the side with one hand and grabbing the thick ruffling of your skirt, pulling it up and over your thigh with the other, practically drooling at the sight of your puffy pussy dripping over his suit.
The temperature of the room shifts and Homelander swallows. The cockiness oozes out of him as you roll your hips against his warm bulge. You breathe a soft moan, steadying yourself with a hand to his chest, grinding into his touch. You’re already impatient, pregnancy hormones have had you amped up for the latter half of the third trimester and he’d been holding out on you for the sake of irritating you.
He’s in control again.
“Please don’t tease me," you beg.
“Oh?” he hums, twisting his wrist to press the pad of his thumb up against your clit. “What?” he coos in mock sympathy, “the douchebag who knocked you up not fucking you properly or something?” he spreads your folds and slips one of his fingers into your heat, curling it back towards him.
You ignore that snide little comment.
“Haven’t slept with anyone since you,” you admit, wrapping your hand around his wrist where he holds your skirt up over your thigh.
The Homelander hums a half laugh at that, still making soft circles over your clit as he mumbles sardonically, “Well, I’m flattered.”
“Can you just fuck me?” you whine, and drop your weight back onto his thighs, rubbing the plushy curve of your ass into the warmth of his bulge, making him hiss under you.
He grabs your hips, rendering you still as he runs the palms of his hands over your ass, squeezing the flesh and spreading the globes your ass apart with a thick groan.
“Gotta keep you pregnant all the time if this is how you’re gonna look,” he teases and lands a slap to one of your cheeks making you yelp. He chuckles at that and uses the way it pushes you into that honeyed headspace to slip his girthy cock from his suit, running the fat swollen head back and forth through your wet folds.
You tense a little at the feeling, rising up from his lap. The swell of your middle presses into the soft padding of his suit and for a fraction of a moment, you pretend this is something other than it is.
Something rooted in a quiet devotion organically formed. Sometimes, you do pretend the baby's Homelanders, on nights when the sound of flying supes buzzing past your penthouse windows are quieter than the thoughts. 'Can you even do this.'
You struggle to find a semblance of safety within the synthetic domesticity.
The Homelander's gloved palm splays against the side of your middle, dwarfing your child beneath your skin as he holds your stomach firm, rolling his hips into you.
You would've found the moment endearing if it weren't for the terrifying reality that it is.
You pretend for a moment that it's his. Your baby girl. And not some fucking supe donor that was mysteriously found dead in action after you hit your seventh month into your pregnancy.
Not that you cared much. Still, it was a bit jarring and heralded a deep-seeded fear for what Homelander was willing to do to prove his devotion to you.
Beneath the sarcastic and snarky commentary and slight jabs to your intelligence; for "getting knocked up by a junky supe" — straight from Homelanders files of trying to convince you that you'd made some form of a mistake by not choosing him to father your baby — you know he admires you
And perhaps he's been right to call your mental stability into question, for fucks sake, with one of your legs thrown over a blue-padded shoulder and his lips pressed into your forhead as you fall apart at the stretch of him, maybe you are fucking losing it.
“Relax,” he coos, kneading the doughy flesh of your ass and circling the head of his cock at your swollen clit.
“S’been a while.” you breathe shakily.
He leans up a bit to kiss the curve of your jaw, licking fat stripes up the column of your neck and sucking at the soft skin there. You settle back into his lap, sinking onto the length of him as he pulls you into a wet kiss and sinks further into the couch, you lie flush against him.
The length of him fills you to the hilt, warm balls pressed up against your wet folds, your warm slit split around his girth. You both moan and he kisses you again, pressing your foreheads together as he gives an experimental pump of his hips.
“Oh, fuck.” John groans. His hands land at your soft hips, helping to guide you up and down the length of his cock, the curve of your middle grazing the patch of dark hair that rests right at his base.
You rest your forehead against his, rolling your hips in his hold to help sink the girth of him deeper. You can feel his balls tighten up when you squeeze around him with a moan.
“Feels so good, Joh– ohhh,” you moan, eyes lidding and lashes fluttering when you feel him pulse inside of you, veiny girth pressed up against your warm walls.
“Yeah,” he hums, eyes droopy and brows soft as he watches the way your pussy swallows the length of him, John runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “yeah, oh–” it comes out strained and hitched when you settle all the way onto his lap, forcing his balls to press up against your puckered hole and your walls to flutter around him.
“M’close,” you warn with a wet and soft laugh.
Homelander eyes you with a smirk, slipping his hands from your hips to hold the swell of your tummy, “Yeah? Already?” he teases, last breath of the word cutting off into a hitched groan.
With a roll of your eyes, you land a light tap to his cheek and he mocks a gasp at you, grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand to his mouth where he kisses the tips of your fingers before wrapping his soft lips around your pointer and middle, tongue stroking the undersides of your rosey-tasting digits.
He groans under you, rolling his hips up to meet yours when you sink down the length of him.
“M’close too,” he mumbily admits around your digits with a lazy smile, stroking the pad of his gloved thumb over your belly.
“Want you to cum in me,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he hums.
“I was planning on it.”
You smile down at him, pulling your hand from his mouth where drool dribbles down the corner of his lips. You gather it onto your fingers and wipe it off on the pad of his suit, grabbing his jaw in your hand and pulling him into a kiss.
John moans against your lips, running his tongue over yours and the roof of your mouth, sucking at your bottom lip, pulling it taught with his teeth.
“should've just asked me,” he releases your lip and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
You hum.
“I'd give you a baby,” he brings his hand up to hold your jaw.
You both pretend thats possible. That life might find a way, despite the V pulsing through his veins.
“You'd be a good dad,” you say softly, "so protective, so safe."
Homelander hums beneath you, splaying his hand out against your taught middle, cock pumping in and out of your warm pussy. Blue eyes dancing between your belly and your lidded ones.
“M'gonna cum,” you choke against his hold, reaching your hand down to circle your clit.
“Me too,” he whimpers under you, dropping his hands to your plush hips, pulling you flush to his lap when his spills into you with a heavy groan.
You cum around him. Walls pulsing around his girth, you shiver and jolt, dropping yourself against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, stroking a gloved hand up and down the length of your spine through heavy breaths.
───────
In the quiet of your office — sun long gone beneath the curve of the Earth, amber lights illuminate Homelander's soft touches as he pulls your legs up over his thighs, massaging your calves up to the swell of your middle.
He'd helped you change into comfier clothes you'd brought along in your bag, tickling you and pinching your curves when he'd pulled your shirt over your head and tied the strings of your lounge pants, pressing a peck to the swell of your belly.
You lean onto his shoulder, and he grazes a hand over your panties just to watch the way you jolt under him. He brings his hand up to hold the curve of your middle.
"Y'feel okay?"
You nod, covering his hand with yours over your belly, focusing on your breath.
"I think she's lying on one of my lungs right now."
"Ouch."
Homelander pulls the hem of your tee down over the swell of your middle, absentmindedly stroking his warm palm over your taught skin, flattening the fabric to read the faded text. His eyes drift downwards, reading it before he scoffs amusedly.
"Cute."
You roll your eyes and move to lean away but he holds you still, giggling when you groan.
"S'just an old shirt from highschool."
"S'part of you.”
"What happened here, huh?" You stroke the pad of your thumb up and down the scar that graces his forehead.
He shoves your hand away softly, "Ah, you don't wanna hear about that ol'e thing."
"Yeah, I do.”
Both of you watch one another for a moment. Eyes focusing on either.
"What happened?"
He just shakes his head.
You suppose that's the legacy he's been left with. One where his scars aren't those of stories of heroism to tell. He can't be harmed. Those stories come from his childhood.
He's a child raised on the pain of his willingness to prevail. The synthetic son of Vought.
“You ever thought about having kids?”
You're not even sure why you ask. He cant have them, cant make them, anyways. You regret asking as soon as it leaves your mouth.
He shrugs a little, lips pressed into a soft pout.
“Don't think I'd want ‘em all that much.”
That surprises you, and all in the same makes you ache some.
John continues, “I think I'd be wrong for them.”
You don't ask him what that means. The insinuation of a legacy of abuse.
Your daughter presses an elbow or a foot up against your womb and up against his and yours hands.
“Can you be there?” You break the soft quiet.
He nods.
“I'll fly you to the hospital myself.” He winks at you and ruffles the top of your hair.
You settle into this hold, drifting in and out of consciousness as he strokes his hand up and down your middle, tracing the imprints of where your daughter presses up against your womb.
Homelander leans back into the couch and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
