he literally cannot help it. the second you push your tits together and trap his dick in that soft, warm squeeze his breathing is already ragged and he's looking down at you with his big, watery eyes. and you’re just looking up at him so pretty. lips parted, lashes fluttering, the tip of him poking through your cleavage. and you're smirking.
it makes him feel tingly.
he whimpers. he always whimpers first. grabs onto your shoulders or your hair and starts babbling, “wait wait wait, slow down, you’re so—” but you just squeeze tighter and it’s over.
his hips twitch, stutter, and then he’s cumming in hot, desperate spurts all over your chest, your collarbones, a drop catching your chin. the noise he makes is almost painful.
and then comes the aftermath where he can’t even open his eyes, face burning red, mumbling, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just looked too good, i couldn’t stop, fuck—”
and you just gather a little bit off your skin with your thumb and suck it clean while he peeks through his fingers and whines. dick twisting.
tell him it’s cute. tell him you wanna do it again. he’ll bury his face in your neck, mumble that you’re gonna kill him, but he’s already grinding soft against your thigh.
he’s just so pathetically in love with you it makes him pop like a teenager. that’s all.
masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶
His love language is acts of service.
He read that somewhere—some stupid quiz you made him take一and he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.
See?
See??
He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.
He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.
You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.
"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do you—"
"Just water, baby."
Baby.
His knees almost buckle.
Focus.
Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him go一such a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.
He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.
Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter because—
He have to be patient.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it.
Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.
"Thank you, love."
Oh.
The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.
He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of coke—
Cute isn't he?
No.
No, he's not cute.
He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.
And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.
Always hard.
Always.
You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.
You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.
What a loser, right?
His dick twitches.
Jesus Christ.
He's hard again.
Weirdo.
Disgusting.
Pervert.
He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.
Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?
Oh god oh god oh god.
You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the point—
"Such a good boy."
Huh?
Good boy??
Him???
He freezes.
Did you just一did those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.
Good. Boy.
And you're smiling.
You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever—
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
He's so hard he could die on spot.
"Um... excuse me."
The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.
He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.
You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has to—
no no no no no NO!!!
Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???
If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.
OH!!!
Okay that's better. He gets it now.
Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimes一throws up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himself—
Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Deep breath.
Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's not—he's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be true—
Shut. Up.
Focus.
His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
First—first, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.
He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.
Your panties.
The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.
The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.
Fuuuck.
The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.
He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.
You'd hate him if you knew.
He hopes you never know.
He hopes you find out.
He hopes you walk in right now and see him—cock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his face—and he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.
Your good boy.
Yours.
He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.
But it's fine.
Everything's fine.
He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.
He looks normal.
He is normal.
He's a good boy.
Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.
"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.
And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.
Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.
"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.
You stroke his hair.
He almost gets hard again.
He's so fucked up.
But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.
How it feels when you try to find a fanfic where the MC/reader isn't a white tiny woman, who for some reason isn't capable of intelligent thoughts and just keeps crying and following the ML/romantic interest like she is a child who keeps needing saving and crying
She is also either tiny and small or "chubby" (it's not chubby it's literally just the same white girl with huge breasts and big ass and thighs)
⋆｡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.
!The Boys overhear you having sex with (Character).
Butcher
You two barely made it through the door. His lips were on yours instantly, nipping at your lower lip with that sharp hunger that always left you dizzy. Before you could even catch your breath, Butcher had you pinned against the bed, hands rough and greedy—tugging at clothes, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs like he couldn’t get you bare fast enough.
The old bed creaked loudly beneath you as he slowly lowered himself into you, thick and unrelenting. You gasped sharply, mouth falling open in a perfect, silent O, eyes fluttering shut at the stretch. He eased in inch by inch, deliberate and deep, a low, guttural groan rumbling from his chest the whole way. No words. Just the wet, slick sound of him sinking into you, your shaky exhale, and the way your nails dug into his back as you braced yourself.
In the next room, the boys were trying—very, very hard—to pretend they weren’t hearing every single second of it.
Hughie’s face burned scarlet, eyes glued to the floor like it might split open and swallow him whole. MM rubbed his temples hard, jaw clenched tight, muttering under his breath about “goddamn animals.” Frenchie leaned back with a smirk, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Kimiko tilted her head, watching the wall with calm, fascinated curiosity, like she was listening to a particularly interesting song.
Another loud, broken moan ripped from your throat—high and desperate—as Butcher hit that perfect spot deep inside you, making your toes curl tight. The bedframe slammed harder against the wall now, rhythmic and violent. His grunts turned rougher, deeper, almost animalistic snarls every time you clenched around him, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder.
“Christ,” MM finally hissed, voice low and strained. “They’re not even trying to be quiet.”
Frenchie exhaled a slow curl of smoke, soft laugh slipping out. “I do not think they remember we exist right now.”
Hughie made a strangled little noise and yanked his hoodie up over his head like that could possibly block out the sounds—your whimpers climbing higher, Butcher’s heavy, ragged breathing, the relentless creak and thud of the bed.
Back in the room, your legs were trembling violently around his waist, voice cracking into soft, needy whimpers as he fucked you through it, hips snapping with raw, primal force. His breathing was harsh and uneven against your neck, each thrust punctuated by a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through your chest.
One last, wrecked “fuck” tore from him—low and desperate—right as you shattered. Your high, trembling moan spilled out, raw and broken, mixing perfectly with his deep, satisfied growl as pleasure crashed through both of you. The bed finally stilled, the only sounds left being your shared, panting breaths.
Silence—blessed, mortifying silence—settled for half a second.
Then Frenchie’s voice drifted through the thin wall, dry as bone:
“…Well. At least someone’s having a good night.”
You buried your burning face in Butcher’s sweat-slick shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified at how loud you’d been. He just chuckled darkly against your hair, the sound rough and smug, arms tightening around you possessively.
“Let ‘em listen, love,” he murmured, voice gravelly and low. “Let the whole fuckin’ world hear what you sound like when I ruin you.”
Soldier Boy
The team had only been back at the safehouse for twenty minutes when the noises started.
At first they figured Soldier Boy was just being his usual destructive self—pacing, throwing shit, whatever. But then the bedframe started slamming against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm. Loud. Unmistakable.
“What the hell is he doing now?” MM muttered, already heading toward the hallway.
Then it hit them: a sharp, breathy gasp—feminine, surprised, melting quickly into a soft, needy moan as the creaking intensified.
The room went dead quiet.
Hughie blinked hard. “Wait… there’s a girl in there with him?”
Another moan slipped through the thin walls, higher this time, raw and trembling. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, faster, paired with deep, guttural grunts from Soldier Boy—low and arrogant, the kind that said he was enjoying every second of wrecking whoever was under him.
Kimiko tilted her head, listening with quiet curiosity as your voice cracked into a desperate whimper, the bed thudding harder.
MM stopped outside the door, hand raised like he was about to knock and tell the asshole to keep it down—until another broken moan rang out, clearer this time.
That voice.
MM froze.
Hughie’s face went pale. “That… that sounded like—”
Your moan cut him off, loud and shattered, as Soldier Boy hit that spot that made your toes curl and your back arch. The rhythm turned brutal—bedframe cracking against the wall, your high, needy cries mixing with his rough, animalistic groans. No words. Just pure filth: the slick, wet sounds of him pounding into you, your legs shaking, voice climbing higher and more desperate with every thrust.
Frenchie’s cigarette nearly dropped from his lips. “Non… no way. That’s not—”
But it was. The next moan was unmistakable—your voice, raw and trembling, cracking beautifully as you tried and failed to stay quiet.
Hughie looked like he was about to be sick. “Oh my god. That’s… that’s her.
MM’s hand dropped to his side, eyes wide with pure shock. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
The pace inside grew frantic. Your whimpers turned into frantic little sobs of pleasure, body jolting with every deep, punishing snap of Soldier Boy’s hips. His grunts got louder, rougher—almost snarls—cocky and satisfied as he fucked you , the headboard slamming like it might break.
Your voice broke on a long, high, trembling cry as you came hard, legs shaking violently around him. Soldier Boy followed with a deep groan, hips stuttering once, twice, before the bed finally went still.
Heavy, ragged breathing filled the sudden silence.
The boys stood frozen in the hallway, stunned into complete silence.
Frenchie was the first to speak, voice hushed and disbelieving. “Putain… it’s really her. With him.”
Hughie pulled his hoodie up over his head like it could erase the last five minutes. “I’m never going to be able to look at her again. Or him. Or… anyone.”
MM just stared at the door, rubbing his temples hard, muttering, “Of all the people… Soldier Boy? What the fuck is she thinking?”
Kimiko’s lips twitched with quiet amusement, shrugging one shoulder as if to say surprise.
Inside the room, you were still catching your breath, face buried against Soldier Boy’s sweat-slick chest, a soft embarrassed laugh bubbling up. He smirked down at you, one big hand lazily stroking your spine, voice low and smug.
“Sounds like the peanut gallery finally figured it out, sweetheart.”
Hughie
You and Hughie had waited until the safehouse felt dead quiet.
The team was supposed to be out for hours, so the second the door clicked shut behind the last person, Hughie had pulled you into his room with that shy, eager grin. Clothes came off fast—his hands a little clumsy with nerves, your laughter soft against his mouth as you tumbled onto the bed together.
He eased into you slowly, careful like always, and the old mattress creaked under you both. You let out a quiet gasp, mouth falling open, fingers digging gently into his shoulders. Hughie answered with a low, shaky groan, burying his face in your neck as he started to move.
No talking. Just soft, breathy sounds—your little moans growing sweeter and higher every time he rolled his hips, his own quiet, desperate grunts mixing with the rhythmic creak of the bed. It felt safe. Private. You didn’t hold back, letting yourself get louder as pleasure built, your voice turning into needy whimpers that made Hughie’s breathing hitch.
The bedframe started knocking gently against the wall. Then harder.
You were both so lost in it—your legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts getting a little faster, a little deeper—that neither of you heard the front door open.
In the living room, the team had just walked in.
Frenchie stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. MM’s expression shifted from tired to confused. Kimiko tilted her head. Butcher leaned against the wall with a slow, shit-eating grin.
Then your moan floated down the hallway—soft at first, then louder, higher, cracking beautifully as Hughie hit that spot that made your toes curl. The bed was really creaking now, steady and unmistakable, paired with Hughie’s low, embarrassed little grunts that somehow still sounded desperate.
Hughie froze for half a second when he heard voices, but you clenched around him and he couldn’t stop—his hips stuttered, a choked groan slipping out as he kept going, both of you too far gone to quiet down.
“Oh fuck…” Hughie whispered against your skin, mortified, but his body betrayed him with another deep thrust that pulled a high, trembling whimper from your throat.
In the living room, the silence was deafening.
Frenchie’s smirk grew. “Well, well. Little Hughie is not so little after all.”
MM rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ. They thought we were gone.”
Butcher chuckled darkly, voice carrying just enough. “Sounds like the kid’s finally getting some. About time.”
Your moan peaked—loud, broken, and completely unaware—right as Hughie’s rhythm turned frantic and uneven. His quiet, ragged groans mixed with your shaky cries until you both fell apart together: your high, trembling voice and his deeper, embarrassed moan echoing through the thin walls as the bed finally stilled.
The sudden silence was brutal.
You buried your burning face in Hughie’s chest, whispering a horrified “Oh my god…” while he looked ready to die on the spot, cheeks flaming red.
From the living room came Frenchie’s amused voice, loud and clear:
“Don’t stop on our account, mes amis! We can wait!”
Hughie groaned again—this time purely from embarrassment—and pulled the pillow over both your heads like it could hide you from the entire team.
You could still hear Butcher’s low laugh and MM muttering something about “kids these days” as your heart hammered with pure mortification.
Hughie peeked out from under the pillow, voice small and mortified. “…We are never living this down.”
Frenchie
The safehouse was supposed to be empty tonight — just you and Frenchie. The rest of the team had left for a lead that would supposedly keep them gone until morning. So when Frenchie pulled you into the dimly lit living room instead of his bedroom, you didn’t argue.
He had you bent over the back of the old couch before you could even catch your breath, skirt shoved up around your waist, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. No slow buildup this time. He slid into you in one smooth thrust, deep and confident, pulling a surprised, breathy moan from your throat.
The couch creaked loudly under the force of that first thrust. You gripped the cushions tight, mouth falling open in a silent cry as he started moving — steady, rolling hips that quickly turned hungry. Soft, needy sounds spilled out of you with every push: little gasps turning into higher, trembling moans that you couldn’t hold back. Frenchie answered with low, raspy groans, the occasional whispered French curse slipping out like a prayer.
No real talking. Just the wet, filthy slap of skin, the rhythmic creak of the couch, and the way your voice kept climbing — broken and desperate every time he angled his hips just right and hit that spot that made your knees weak.
You were so lost in it that neither of you heard the van pull up outside.
The front door opened quietly. The team stepped in, expecting silence… and walked straight into the soundtrack of Frenchie fucking you over the couch.
Your moan rang out — high, raw, and unmistakable — right as he drove in harder. The couch was really moving now, scraping against the floor with every thrust. Frenchie’s breathing had turned rough and primal, deep grunts mixing with your whimpering cries, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the open room.
Frenchie froze mid-thrust when he heard the footsteps, but his body betrayed him — hips giving one last involuntary roll that pulled a loud, shattered whimper from you.
Butcher stopped dead in the doorway, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, fuck. Didn’t expect a live show in the living room.”
MM turned his head away fast, muttering, “Jesus Christ, Frenchie…”
Hughie looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. “Oh god… that’s… they’re right there.”
Kimiko tilted her head, a small amused smile tugging at her lips as another desperate moan escaped you — your voice cracking beautifully as Frenchie couldn’t stop himself from giving one more deep thrust.
Frenchie’s face burned, but he stayed buried inside you, one hand still gripping your hip. He let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh against your back.
“Mon dieu… we thought you were gone until morning,” he called out, voice hoarse and thick with accent, trying to sound casual even while he was still pulsing inside you.
Your cheeks were on fire. You hid your face in the couch cushion, mortified, body still trembling around him.
Butcher chuckled low and dirty. “Clearly. Carry on, then. Don’t let us interrupt the romance.”
Frenchie groaned — half embarrassment, half lingering pleasure — and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. He whispered softly against your skin, only for you to hear, “I should have taken you to the roof, chérie…”
The team started awkwardly dispersing toward the kitchen, muttering and laughing under their breath, while you stayed bent over the couch, heart racing, Frenchie still buried deep and trying and failing to stay still.
The embarrassment was overwhelming… but the way he twitched inside you told you he wasn’t entirely sorry.
Homelander
The boys were out chasing another lead, leaving the safehouse quiet for once.
You knew you were making a terrible mistake. You were supposed to be helping them take him down — feeding them intel, staying on the inside. But somewhere along the way the lines had blurred completely. One secret meeting turned into stolen nights, and now here you were: heart racing as “John” slipped through the back door in civilian clothes, no cape, no suit, just that dangerously soft smile that made your stomach flip.
He didn’t waste time. The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both, his hands were on you — surprisingly gentle at first, then hungry. He had you on the bed in seconds, clothes pushed aside just enough. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, your head fell back with a shaky gasp, mouth forming a perfect O.
No loud talking. Just breathy, intimate sounds.
Your soft moans filled the small room as he moved — deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak steadily beneath you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound almost vulnerable, every time you clenched around him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the rhythm slowly built.
You were so lost in him — in the way he felt, in the way he whispered your name like a secret — that neither of you noticed the front door opening.
The team had come back early.
They stepped inside quietly, expecting an empty safehouse… until your voice drifted down the hallway.
A soft, needy moan. Then another, higher, trembling.
MM froze. Hughie’s eyes went wide. Frenchie tilted his head, cigarette halfway to his lips. Butcher’s expression darkened instantly.
Then it came — clear, unmistakable, wrapped in a broken whimper:
“John…”
The entire room went ice-cold.
Butcher’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. “Did she just—?”
Another moan from you, louder this time, cracking beautifully as Homelander hit that perfect spot deep inside. The bedframe started slamming harder against the wall, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin growing filthier. Your voice kept slipping out — soft cries turning desperate, repeating that name like a prayer:
“John… John—”
Homelander answered with a low, possessive growl, hips snapping faster, the sounds turning primal and urgent. Just raw need as he fucked you deeper, your moans climbing higher and more wrecked with every thrust.
Frenchie exhaled slowly, voice hushed. “Putain… she’s with him. She called him John.”
Hughie looked sick. “She’s supposed to be helping us… and she’s — oh god.”
MM rubbed his face, voice tight with betrayal. “We trusted her.”
Butcher’s eyes were murderous, but he didn’t move — just stood there listening as your high, trembling moan peaked, voice breaking on “John” one last time as you came hard around him. Homelander followed with a deep, satisfied groan, hips stuttering before the bed finally went still.
Silence crashed down.
Then Butcher’s voice cut through the wall, low and dangerous:
“Well, well. Looks like our little mole’s been playing both sides… and enjoying it.”
Inside the bedroom you froze, face buried in Homelander’s neck, horror flooding through you as reality slammed back in. He just smirked against your hair, voice soft and smug, barely above a whisper:
“They heard you moan my name, darling. My real name.”
Your heart hammered with panic and lingering pleasure. The boys were right outside — and they knew everything now.
I'm thinking of expanding the homelander story. She sees him behind their backs vibes.
Update 4/8/26 - Story has been posted (No More Secrets)
