Jul 4
some of your takes about what dating homelander would look like are inaccurate asf. he wouldn't be your daddy dom if anything he would be a tinkerbell dying of lack of attention
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some of your takes about what dating homelander would look like are inaccurate asf. he wouldn't be your daddy dom if anything he would be a tinkerbell dying of lack of attention
mdni, u will be blocked. sub!lander x fem!reader. tit fucking, overstimulation, cum eating, aftercare, use of “mommy”. wc: roughly 1,050. just a oneshot, not thoroughly proofread.
the picture of Homelander crying from overstimulation after cumming three times already in one session, his cum-slick cock between your soaked breasts as you press them together around him. each of his shallow little thrusts draw a new whimper-whine from his throat as he clutches the bedsheets beneath him.
you’re kneeling between his legs in front of the edge of the bed, fingers flicking over your nipples occasionally just to make him blush deeper. sometimes you even dip your head, looking up at him through your lashes as you lick and kiss the tip of his cock, teasing him each time his cockhead thrusts up toward your lips.
his face is crumpled and red and wet with tears, utterly pathetic and devoted, little pleas leaving him, half gibberish: “Mommy, p-please. Can’t…”
and you just tilt your head, licking the smeared cum off your lips, putting on a sympathetic pout. “mm, but baby, you were just saying how much you love Mommy’s boobies.”
his sad face is precious. no matter how much he begs and complains, he doesn’t stop. he fucks your tits because you’re not done with him and he knows that. because this was his reward for being so good. because he knows he should be grateful. because you were right, he really loves your boobs, and has no issue professing that when he isn’t reduced to this cute little mess.
“Hurts..” he croaks out, and his voice cracks when you squeeze your breasts together harder, covered in his sweet seed.
the whine that leaves him is low and long, his head tipping back as if looking for grace from someone above. his cock twitches and pulses again, once- then twice, before he shudders. because he cannot take more than this. he cries out, groaning breathily, and more tears slip down his flushed, damp cheeks as he cums again. little spurts of his seed spill into your cleavage as his cock throbs painfully. his jaw is slack and it’s as if every muscle in his body tenses as he thrusts into your tits one last time, sobbing pathetically.
his small sniffles and mumbled cries fill the room, and he falls back onto the bed. a breath, and your hands relent. holding his knees as you leave the floor, you stand between his legs. your soft voice calls his name and it only pulls another sob from him. finding your place beside him, you guide him to sit up again, his cheek in your hand as you wipe tears away.
little sobs of his lessen but do not vanish. normally, he’d collapse into you, burying his face in your shoulder. this time, he’s stiff and awaiting assessment, eyes red and glassy, breath shaky and uneven. his chest heaves and he hiccups, still coming down from the high.
he leans into your hand as another whimper escapes him, and only when you kiss his forehead does his breathing begin to finally even out.
“did so good, my sweet boy,” you murmur and it earns another shuddery exhale from him.
you shift closer and straddle his lap, and his heartbeat begins to pick up again. his eyes dart from your eyes back down to your breasts covered in his cum. and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t turn him on again, even barely. he’s pathetic.
his hands frame your waist firmly. he mutters a soft, “Mommy,” in response, his voice gravelly and low, his brows knitted up desperately.
when you cup his cheeks and tilt his head down to your chest, he lets you maneuver him, shuddering at your nails on his scalp. “look at the mess you made, Johnny. such a careless boy.”
“I know, m’sorry, Mommy…”
“you’re sorry?” and he just nods, inching closer to your breasts as another whimper leaves his lips.
you swipe a droplet of cum off your chest with your finger and hold it to his mouth. “show me. clean me up.” and he’d never pass an opportunity to suckle on your fingers.
he moans faintly, tasting the saltiness of his own seed. wet lashes flutter closed, but you pull away your finger before long, receiving a whine in return. but he’s shut up quickly enough when you sit up and guide his head closer. he latches on to your nipple, suckling with a deeper moan, and his fingers tighten around your middle. you hold the back of his head, one hand slipping down his neck. he pulls back, pressing open mouthed kisses along your skin, his tongue warm and soft, licking the cum clean off your tits. the sight makes your heart warm and your breath hitch.
“good boy, Johnny,” you whisper. he moans again in response- it’s all he can do. you kiss his hairline and scratch his scalp gently.
“such a good boy.”
a/n: idk where this came from- hopefully i can keep this streak up of writing drabbles and one shots each week when a new ep comes out ! thanks for all the support lately im having a lot of fun interacting with everyone. i’ve actually had this blog for years like.. since 2016 when i was a child but never used it lol. the rebrand is real. this last episode was rlly good very entertaining, whole house was mad
Homelander wants to belong to you ✨
I do have a proper fic in the works, which I'm hoping will be ready very soon (and then I have my massive WIP pile to be cracking on with), but occasionally I vomit things up without even half as much thought while chatting to friends about our special guy, and such a friend suggested I post such a spray of vomit here. So, have a short sublander thing:
Homelander gets confused and frankly offended if you aren't coming to him for the use of his powers every time something or someone is bothering you. You tell him you don't want to take advantage of him, you don't want him to think you're using him, and he's just baffled.
"But I want you to use me," he says, surprising even himself at the clarity of the sentiment. "What the fuck else am I here for?"
"I don't know, to be loved by me and love me back in return?" you offer, cupping his flexing jaw with one hand.
He huffs softly, lowering his eyes for a moment, still baffled but also annoyed now by the sliver of vulnerability he feels creeping in.
"I will always come to you before anyone else, baby," you tell him. "But you're not my slave. You don't have to jump when I say so."
He nuzzles into your palm, his eyes closing properly. "But I want to," he whines, and you chuckle and kiss between his brows.
"Jeez, mister. What are you like?"
"I'm yours."
He looks back up at you again with a longing, twisting his head to kiss along your palm. It makes your breath hitch.
"Please... Let me show you I'm yours... Don't wanna be anyone else's..."
There's a tear leaking from the corner of his eye. You catch it with your thumb.
"Look at me, Homelander," you say softly, and he does, as though expecting chastisement. "You want to be mine? You want me to... control you?"
He nods, almost shamefully. A faint smile flickers across your lips, and you use your free hand to take one of his.
"Come with me then, sweet boy. I have something you can do."
For a second, he's confused at what you might mean, still swimming in that needy space that suggestion cannot permeate, before a devilish smirk unfolds on his face. With it, just like that, he's composed again, calm and assured, though the tear mark on his cheek still catches the light.
"Lead the way, ma'am," he purrs, lifting your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
🥺
26 minutes
pairing: homelander x masc!reader
tags: fauxcest/pseudo-incest: son!homelander / dad!reader, age play, age regression/de-aging, spanking, hand job, daddy kink, reader is referred to with masculine terms but their agab is not specified, under-negotiated kink, men crying, extremely dubious consent, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, unhealthy relationships
words: 4478
summary:
ever since he first saw you, he's been clingy and it's only gotten worse. seems like vought didn't account for the fact his need for parental figures might go beyond what madelyn is able to provide. or maybe they did and that's exactly why you're here.
also on ao3!
thud, thud, thud.
his boots slap against the ground, the distance between each step so deliberate they couldn't possibly come from a human. you know those steps all too well.
they get louder and louder until they abruptly stop right outside your door. for a few moments he looms there, probably watching you through the wall. you don't show any signs of acknowledgement towards him.
his visits have become more and more frequent these days and you're starting to wonder how he manages to squeeze them in-between his busy schedule.
the door creaks open and in steps every american's wet dream. tall (average), broad (his suit is padded), beach blonde hair that lays lazily combed over (his stylist takes at least half an hour on his hair in the morning), poster smile (it doesn't reach his eyes).
a perfect product. flawless, even. well, as long as you don't look to close.
"hey" he effortlessly smiles that mannequin smile.
you barely glance up from the document you're currently working on. his eyes bore holes into the crown of your head and you're unsure wether it's just his gaze or the actual lasers.
you decide you don't want to take that chance and slowly meet his gaze. no lasers await, just those lifeless blue eyes that never fail to make the room feel colder.
"homelander." you say, laying your pen aside. seems like work has to wait.
"to what do I owe the pleasure?" you don't make an effort to hide the annoyance in your voice.
"just checking in." he takes a step towards your desk, his hands folded behind his back.
"you seem to be doing that a lot lately."
he stops. got him.
"what? pfft." he splutters in that exaggerated way he always does when he's lying. or caught.
"I can't check in on my manager anymore? I just finished an interview and now I have some time on my hands so…"
his head is turned down towards his feet shuffling on the ground.
you don't hurry to answer, giving a non-committal hum instead. your hands are folded neatly on your desk as you continue to stare at him expectantly.
he's quickly getting nervous under your gaze, impatient. he's waiting for an answer that he realizes he won't get.
"did you see it?"
his eyes dart up to yours, as always with that glint of something hopeful.
"I did."
ever since you've started working alongside madelyn, you've learned a lot about vought's newest little wonder.
a perfectly manufactured actor, stars and stripes personified. the facade holds up well enough— unless you were to actually have a conversation with him for longer than 5 minutes that is. it doesn't take much to find the cracks, giving way to that needy thing beneath all the bleach and concealer.
ever since he first saw you, he's been clingy and it's only gotten worse. seems like vought didn't account for the fact his need for parental figures might go beyond what madelyn is able to provide. or maybe they did and that's exactly why you're here.
either way, you're not stupid. you know about his 'special' relationship with her. sure, she makes a good mommy, but the kid needs a daddy too. greedy bastard.
he reminds you of those 20-something-year-olds you sometimes meet at bars. pretty playthings with big eyes and daddy issues. a couple drinks are enough to get most of them bold and crawling onto your lap, begging to get laid.
but homelander. homelander is one of the nervous ones. the sort that looks at you shyly through his lashes. the sort that hopes you can read the need in his eyes, so that he doesn't have to say the quiet thing out loud.
"so.. what did you think?"
predictable. back then he at least tried to hold himself back, but his self control is short lived as always. and now he's all but begging for your attention.
you tilt your head, raising your brows at him in a silent question.
a silent question you already know the answer to. he looks ready to jump at you for it, swallowing like it hurts. that little bit of dignity gets stuck in his throat.
"about the interview. did I.. do good?"
his body is tense— ready to snap as he waits for your response. the longer you wait, the higher his shoulders draw up. you wonder how long it would take till they reach the sky.
a genuine chuckle escapes you. dry, grating against his ears. his eyes snap up, locking his target, ready to fire. so much tension concentrated in his brows and hands. those hands that could effortlessly pull you apart.
his fingers tremble against the trigger, but he won't pull it. he still needs something from you.
the smile never leaves your face, you take it with you as you lean back into your chair.
"c'mon now."
there's not a hitch in your breath, not even a stutter in your heartbeat. it shouldn't excite him so much, knowing that you're not afraid.
"put those away. we both know that's not how this works."
all he's ever been taught is to control himself. to listen to those weaker than him.
orders are his mother tongue, so it's only natural he tries, really tries to let go of the tension, to release the trigger, to listen to you.
one shaky exhale later he finally dares to look at you again, even if only in search of approval— like that was enough to garner it.
"is that all you came here for?"
you're actually dismissing him and it feels humiliating, especially to him. you're testing him, of course, but that doesn't make the pang in his chest hurt any less.
look at you, managing to hurt the untouchable and you didn't even have to use your hands yet.
his mouth opens, words joining the dignity still stuck in his throat.
his cape sways as he turns towards the door, ready to leave and pretend none of this ever happened. you should be glad he decided to spare you, he has to control his grip on the handle so he doesn't bend it.
but you're not done yet.
"look, kid, I know why you're here. I get it."
he freezes, door-handle awkwardly stuck mid-turn. slowly he lets it go, turning his head just enough to glare at you.
"what the hell do you think you know about me?"
the words don't come across very threatening but rather scared, like he's actually afraid you might know something he doesn't want you to.
"a lot more than you'd think. now, if you're really that desperate, then be at my apartment at 8 tonight. I'm sure you know where that is."
he blinks at you rapidly in that way he always does when he's flustered and he hopes you don't catch the glint of something hopeful in his eyes.
"why would I—"
"8pm. not later and definitely not sooner. do I make myself clear?"
he can't help the playful smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth as he nods.
"yes, sir."
"good. now shoo."
you wave at him dismissively.
---------------------------------------------
at 07:34 there's a knock on your door.
well, at least he's polite enough to knock.
you're sitting on the couch, nursing a glass of whiskey and watching the news. enjoying the last bit of your free time, before you are interrupted.
you take your time, getting up with a groan and rolling your shoulders before making your way towards the door.
there he is, as always dressed in that ridiculous suit that makes him stand out like a poorly executed product placement in the middle of a movie.
in a way that's what he is, more brand than person. a walking billboard.
"may I come in?" he smirks and you wanna wipe it right of his face.
"I told you to be here at 8."
"yes."
"and what time is it now?"
"07:30?"
"that's right. you see what my problem is here?"
"oh, come on! it's only— what? 20 minutes? that's nothing!"
"I don't care if it's 20 minutes or 5 minutes. when I tell you to be here at 8pm, then I want you to be here at 8 sharp."
overly dramatic as always, he throws his hands up in defeat.
"alright, alright.. no need to make such a big deal out of it" he mutters as he makes his way past you inside.
you shut the door close behind you.
"and this is the second time you've interrupted me while I was busy today. have some respect for the elderly."
"oh, come on. you weren't doing anything important. I wouldn't exactly call sitting on the couch and watching TV being busy."
you stare at him, raising your eyebrows accusingly. his own eyes widen when he realizes he isn't supposed to know that.
"and how do you what I was doing?"
his lips are pressed into a tight line, like he's afraid the answer might spill out if he's not careful. it doesn't matter that you already know.
"no more comments?"
you approach him slowly, drinking in the way his pupils dilate with uncertainty. the way he follows your movements like he's actually afraid of what's to come.
"good."
with your pointer finger you poke his chest, the padding dips beneath the pressure. the fabric goes soft so easily beneath your touch, much like himself.
"watching people through the walls is rude, you know?" your voice is low like a warning.
"it's bad enough that you do it at the tower, but here? in the privacy of my home? tsk tsk tsk. now that's crossing a boundary."
suddenly you step away, leaving him to chase after you.
"I— look. I didn't—"
"quiet."
his mouth snaps shut. he doesn't move as you make your way towards the couch.
"boy, do I need to teach you some manners?"
no answer comes, you don't need one.
you take a seat, leaning against the back of the couch and spreading your legs— comfortable in your territory.
your hand reaches for the forgotten glass of whisky and you empty it in one gulp. still standing at the entrance, he silently watches the liquid flow down your throat.
"come here." you order, rolling your eyes and patting your lap.
while you're putting away the glass he follows suit quickly. when you look back he's already standing between your knees. with a clink you open your belt and you swear he perks up at the sound, watching with fascination as you slide it out of its loops.
in contrast to his eager steps, the movement of his thighs is careful as he tries to climb onto your lap like he's afraid he might crush you. after all, he could if he wanted to.
"no, not like that. I want you to lay across it, ass up."
a faint blush paints his cheeks, or maybe you're just imagining it. either way he does just that, maneuvering himself so that he's strewn across the couch, hips resting on your thigh and head laying on his crossed arms.
"that's better."
your hand caresses his back, following the curve of his spine until your thumb swipes across his tailbone. he shivers beneath your touch.
"what are you—"
his question is cut off with a gasp, when you pull down his pants to expose his ass and the upper part of his thighs.
your hands continue to explore him, squishing the soft flesh that doesn't feel all that unbreakable in your fingers. your fingertips brush his inner thighs, leaving his skin tingling everywhere you touch. a soft whimper falls from his lips.
"so sensitive, aren't you?"
it's all so sudden, despite being used to these kinds of games with madelyn. but she usually keeps him completely dressed, the only skin to skin contact is her hand on his face.
"please.."
he can't help it. where she holds back, you don't show any constraint like it's only natural that he's yours for the taking. no one dares to touch him like this. no one except for you apparently.
"begging already?"
before he can answer, you pull at his underwear and let it hit him with a snap. his muscles tense beneath you, shoulder blades drawing together.
"that doesn't hurt you, does it?" you don't sound particularly concerned, almost disappointed.
"no.." he apologizes.
no, it doesn't hurt him at all. pain isn't something he feels easily, yet he's burning all over, you're making him flinch with all but a few caresses, it's embarrassing really. but he's greedy for it— you touch him like you really want him.
a breeze hits his exposed skin as you pull down his underwear, making the hair on his legs stand up. his cock eagerly presses up against your thigh.
next thing he knows your belt hits him with a crack. it barely stings, still he flinches in surprise, fingers digging into the couch.
"do you remember when you showed up at my door?"
"what?"
crack.
"I told you to be here at 8, but you didn't listen. you were already here at..?"
your grip on the belt tightens in anticipation— in warning, because you know he can hear the leather creaking.
"seven— seven thirty! what does that have to do with—"
"07:34." you correct with another slap.
"ouch!" he whines out of pure instinct.
"I know that doesn't hurt, but if want to act like it does, by all means, go for it."
you must be some kind of sadist. your whispers signal danger to his brain, even though he knows you can't physically hurt him. he ignores the feeling in his gut telling him to fucking run already.
oddly enough, it's his pride keeping him in place. he can't back out now. he's not some coward and he'll prove it. he'll show you he can take it.
"26 minutes. 26. that's a pretty big number for someone who seems to have trouble counting higher than his fingers."
maybe it's less pride and more fear of disappointing you— quite a blurry line between those two, isn't it? he nods, despite having no clue what the hell you're going on about.
"it's okay, we'll practice together. here's how this is gonna go;"
absentmindedly your hand squishes his thighs as you explain the rules of your little game to him.
"I'm gonna spank you, one hit for every minute you were early and you're gonna count and say thank you."
he understands, he thinks. it's hard to think when his head is getting all fuzzy and his cock is starting to leak.
"I know you can't feel the pain, but this isn't about that. this is about you knowing your place."
he turns his head, looking at you through his lashes and god— you can tell he's gone already. eyes glazed over and brain gone dumb.
"do you understand?"
"yes"
crack.
"yes, what?"
and you really are nothing like her, are you? none of that gentle guidance, only discipline— that's what you're teaching him. because in your eyes he's still a kid and you can't help but want to raise him to be a man. kind of like—
"yes, daddy!" he cries.
oh.
not quite what you were going for, but also to be expected from him. it's really your own fault for not seeing this coming, of course he would chose 'daddy' as your title.
"that's right. atta boy."
he rubs his cock against your thigh and you can't even be mad at him for not asking for permission. poor thing probably doesn't even realize he's humping your leg.
you rub soothingly where a bruise usually would've been forming by now.
"ready for your lesson?"
"mhm.." he buries his face between your thigh and the couch.
there's no hesitance in the swing of your belt.
"one! thank you, daddy.."
you were right, it doesn't hurt. the humiliation of it all is enough, laying exposed and vulnerable in your lap and taking whatever you give him. but he can take it, can't he? it's not that hard, he just has to be good. be good for you. he'll make you proud, he'll be good, he'll—
crack.
"two! thank you daddy!"
each time the leather hits his skin, his thighs tense a little. his body fights between the urge to crawl away and press into it, which ends with him arching a little awkwardly on your lap. your hand pushes gently between his shoulder blades, a silent signal to stop squirming.
crack.
"ngh— five! thank you, daddy.."
the first ten go about as smoothly as you expected. seems like he can count without using his fingers after all.
crack.
"ten.. thank you, daddy—"
maybe he does deserve it. you're older, you know better and you only want what's best for him, right? he's been so good for you, he can push this a little further, right?
by eleven you've got yourself a new title.
"eleven.. thank you, dad.."
well, isn't that something. you wish you were surprised, or at least a little less into it.
you continue without complaint and he even hears your heartbeat pick up a little at the title. he sighs in relief— bullseye.
by fifteen he's drooling onto the cushion.
"mhh.. fifteen.. thank— thank you, dad…"
by seventeen he's losing count.
"six— no, seven— seventeen. thank you, dad."
it's getting harder to focus with all that attention on him. the friction of his crotch rubbing against your leg with each slap is nowhere near enough. he almost wishes the slaps would hurt so he'd have a distraction from his aching cock.
by 21 he's lost count.
"twenty? thanks, dad—"
"no, kid. that was number 21."
his eyes widen. you feel him freeze beneath you, dread crashing over him in cold waves as he realizes he messed up.
he's not in his right mind, that much you can tell. so, responsible manager that you are, you jump to avert the crisis.
"shh, it's okay. you did good, I'm so proud of you."
usually you would've started over when he messed up, but even you know there are some lines you shouldn't cross if you don't want to end up as a stain on the carpet.
also, you just can't be disappointed when he's looking at you like that. your hand moves to his hair on its own, caressing the strands soothingly.
"26's just a little too big for today, hm? it's okay, you'll get there."
his body trembles against you and it takes a second for you to understand those are sobs shaking him.
"I'm sorry, dad.. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." he mutters.
"no, no, hey. come on, let's get you up."
you help haul him up the shoulder, adjusting him so that he's properly sitting in your lap. his pants strain around his ankles, restricting the movement of his legs.
"there you go."
his head collapses onto your shoulder like it's too heavy for him to hold. you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer. ignoring the fact his dick is pressing against your crotch, you rub his back and let him sniffle into your neck.
"you've learned your lesson, my boy. took it like a champ."
his grip on your button up tightens, threatening to rip it apart.
"I think you deserve a reward."
there's no mockery to be found in your words, only a genuine want to care for him.
"do you want a reward?"
he peels back his face so he can search for any evidence of dishonesty in your face. his eyes burn red, snot glistens above his puffy lips. he's never looked more beautiful.
when you cup his cheek and look at him with nothing short of love, he nods shyly into your palm.
his hand travels towards his cock, but—
"ah, ah"
—you stop him. he freezes.
"little boys shouldn't touch themselves down there. only adults can do that."
oh.
oh, fuck.
you're really going all the way with this.
if he wasn't hard before, he would definitely be now. he can practically feel the blood moving southwards— far, far away from his brain.
"but, dad…"
the title sounds so natural on his tongue and the way he's whining in your lap like a little kid almost makes this too real.
"it hurts." he whimpers.
you can't help but indulge him.
"I know, kiddo. I know." you stroke his cheek and wonder just how deep his need for a daddy goes.
an idea comes to mind as feigned pity fills your eyes.
you're an incredible actor, because the look of guilt that crosses your averting eyes almost looks believable. the sigh that leaves your mouth, that look of contemplation.
"god, we shouldn't be doing this.."
right now it's believable to his stupid brain, and isn't that enough to fill the gaping hole inside him?
"look, I'll help you out. but this is gonna have to be our little secret, okay? can you promise me that?"
in a ridiculously fitting manner you hold out your pinky finger and he accepts it without hesitation.
"I swear I won't tell anyone, dad." he promises with a certain innocence that comes too naturally to be feigned.
"pinky promise?"
"pinky promise."
"that's my boy."
the last of his thoughts, if there were even any left, disappear as you place one hand on his hip while the other wraps around his cock.
one stroke and his mouth falls open, shameless moans falling from his lips.
"has anyone ever touched you like this?"
"n—no"
"not even madelyn?"
your thumb brushes over the slit.
"hngh—! no, no one.."
"not even yourself?"
he turns his head away. your hand stills.
"answer me."
"I— yes.."
you reward him with another stroke.
"see, that wasn't so hard. no need to lie to your own dad. you know I'll love you no matter what."
it doesn't matter if you're saying that because you mean it or just because it's what he wants to hear— it works him up all the same.
I'll love you no matter what.
I'll love you.
love you.
love. you.
"I— I love you, dad.." he babbles.
you smile. he made you smile.
your lips move, but he can't hear what you're saying. he's gotten everything he's ever wanted and now it feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton.
daddy loves me.
he nods mindlessly, but all he can focus on is your hand around his cock. he's touched himself before, but it never felt anything like this—
it never felt this good before. so good— so gross.
god, he's so gross. this feels so, so wrong and he doesn't know why.
shame paints his cheeks red, dripping down to his neck and chest. every touch has him twitching, you're snatching noises from his mouth he didn't even know he was capable of making.
he shouldn't feel this good.
"aww, is my boy enjoying himself?"
it doesn't seem like you're worried at all, so he shouldn't be either, right? he's overthinking. you know better anyway. if you think this is right, then he should think that too. right?
the nickname has him bucking his hips into your hand. each word you coo at him makes his stomach twist with pleasure. each of his pathetic reactions makes his stomach twist with shame.
"good.. feels so hah— good.."
he can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. but you don't mind, you like him like this.
he's helpless inside his own body. he's helpless in your arms— the only arms there to catch him.
"it's okay, the first time can be a bit overwhelming. but don't worry, I'm here. daddy's here."
it's quite a sight, having him all desperate in the palm of your hand. his eyes are hazy with lust, his face hot from blush and forgotten tears. his sweat glistens in the soft light of the floor lamp.
why do I feel like this? what are you doing to me?
"dad! I can't— please, dad— hngh..!"
"close already?"
he nods feverishly, not trusting his voice to answer. you move the hand that was steadying him by his hip to his cheek. immediately he nuzzles into it, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows.
"we're gonna have to work on that, son."
the hand slides into his hair, pulling him closer until his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck.
little boys shouldn't touch themselves down there.
"but I'll let it slide this time, since it's your first."
you pet his head as he moans into your neck.
only adults can do that.
"close, so close.."
so there's nothing wrong with the way you're touching him, you're an adult after all.
"go ahead, cum for me. make daddy proud."
his orgasm is all but ripped from his body as he spills into your hand with a muffled whine. hot pants land on your skin as you continue to stroke him through it.
you're allowed to touch him, even though he's still a little boy…
"that's my boy, that's my boy.."
you pat his shoulder proudly, fresh tears well up in his eyes. he feels ecstatic and it almost makes up for the shame.
"hey, hey.."
your voice echoes, barely registering in his ears. he can't keep the tears from spilling, as much from happiness as from guilt.
it's not a pretty sight in the slightest, to any normal person at least. you find it to be quite endearing. he sniffles, but the snot continues to run down his nose.
his mouth twitches between smiles and frowns— he's helpless against himself. as much as you're enjoying this, you need to take care of this mess before it really gets ugly.
"look at me, kid."
you pinch his cheek, lifting his head until your face to face. and isn't he just the wettest boy you ever had?
you can't help but kiss the tears from his cheeks, deliciously salty on your tongue. you peck his nose and plant a final kiss on his forehead.
he looks like he's about to break beneath your lips.
"calm down, kiddo. breathe."
you take a deep breath and he imitates it with a shaky inhale. you continue this dance until his breathing somewhat returns to normal.
"there we go."
you pat his cheek. his lip twitches with a whimper.
"good boys don't cry."
"I'm sorry, dad.." he croaks, barely getting the words out.
"no need to apologize. now let's get you cleaned up."
his head falls onto your chest in protest.
"just a little longer.. please?"
you shouldn't indulge him, you've already been way too nice to him tonight anyway. yet..
"fine. 5 minutes, but no longer, okay?" you sigh.
you feel his smile spreading against your chest as he nods.
hopefully he'll get it right this time.
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tags: @eatfeet69
the way sublander is practically canon and the fic selection is still just okay… it’s like no one wants to beat their boytoys anymore…
LET ME FUCK HIM
If he had been pegged to tears in S1 we wouldn’t be here rn
Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt. 11
a/n: i honestly have nothing to defend myself rn. this is just pure, mindless smut, that i will later try to make into some metaphor of something okay damn
Warnings: SMUT!! Like... Honestly this is just smut, there's nothing of substance here, adds nothing to the story. Sublander (fuckin finally), Explicit Language, Body Worship (if you squint), Plus Sized Reader
Summary: All roads lead to him, as you're about to find out.
Vicarious Masterlist
Homelander doesn't know what love is.
He doesn't understand it, not like any other, normal person. Because, by all means, he's anything but normal. He's the essence of a predator, wrung out from years upon years of careful conditioning. Locked inside an impenetrable casing. And the love that was shown to him, displayed on a screen like a high-school presentation, was as hollow, as meaningless, as the shell of a man they have him play.
Love was praise, clean and simple. Love was adoration. Love was reserved for him. For the God walking amongst humans. An easy chain reaction. He did something amazing, or good, or just mediocre, and the humans exploded in applause. He smiles at a camera, takes a picture with a sweat-dripping, over-excited fan, and the Earth shakes under his feet. He charms a congresswoman, lets her wiry hand linger on his bicep, as she licks her dry lips, red lipstick sticking to her tongue. And Stillwell calls him good, lets him rest his head on her lap, lets him have a taste he so desperately craves.
If that's not love, then what could possibly be hidden under this mysterious word? Is there something more? Because if there is, he wants it. He covets everything, always reaching higher and higher. And it's never enough.
The gene of always wanting, was planted so deep within his brain, he couldn't rid of it, even if he tried. He was cursed to forever drown in an unbearable feeling of dissatisfaction, because there's nothing in this world, that could sate his appetite. Like a black hole, he swallows everything, then spits it out once he's had his fill.
A cruel method, perhaps, by why shouldn't he be cruel, when he's a God? An Old Testament kinda God. A heavy hand, that will destroy someone's life on a whim. That will make Abraham kill his only son, and then demand the daughter, the wife, all the lambs.
Everyone around is so much lower than him, surrounding him like a sea of hungry ants, digging around for scraps of his light. Trembling hands reaching, trying to scrape some of his presence onto their dirt-covered fingertips.
Sure, some ants are bigger than others. Some may even be spiders. But he's still the one with the boot, ready to squash the anthill, because someone looked at him wrong. But he doesn't. Because the ants sing his praises so good, and the spiders hold him just right enough, for it to feel like love.
Such a delicate balance, hanging on a simple thread of some deranged child psychologist's doubtful knowledge. The power, the safety, the control, all resting on such a flimsy card, it's a miracle Homelander doesn't just snap. Sometimes, when he's completely alone, staring at the city outside his window, he can't believe he hasn't done it yet.
And then, of course, you had to appear, and fuck it all up. Throw it all to the wind, all the work that's been put into him, all the work that still needed to be done. You just had to track your dirty boots all over the graphs, and the papers, and the plans. Like a gust of fresh air, blowing through the roof and shaking down a meticulously stacked house of cards. And soon, what was once supposed to be just a means to the end, a way to placate the general public, becomes a monumental distraction. One, that had to be put down, sooner, rather than later.
Because for the first time in a very, very long time, Homelander is captivated. And neither Stillwell, nor Vought, nor the entirety of America can afford his priorities shifting. Not even for a moment, and certainly not now.
...
He holds your trembling body like it's something precious.
Despite the overflowing feeling of entitlement, of pure possession, his touch is gentle and steady. One arm wraps itself around your shoulders, hand burrowing into your hair, and pressing your face against his chest until your nose is squished between his collarbones.
You fit there nicely, forced to breathe in his smell, his own personal mixture of air. The other arm dips lower, fingers digging gently into your plush thigh, as he angles your bottom half to his liking. He tugs you closer still, until you have no other choice, but to open your legs, accommodating his waist.
Small sobs escape your mouth, tears streaming down your cheeks, seeping into his costume. Every single bone in your body seems to be shaking. He can feel your chest expand rapidly, as you suck in irregular, shallow breaths.
What a wonderful sight. What a wonderful feeling.
Having you pressed so tightly into his own, unbreakable skin, it feels like the very particles of your being are mixing together, in some fucked up, sensual dance.
- There you are - he whispers, voice gliding through the darkness of your room - Had a nice little chat with Stillwell, yeah?
It's not the tense mockery he usually uses, but it makes your spine twist inside your flesh all the same. A gloved finger slides down the length of your torso, and he revels in the way your skin erupts with goosebumps.
You don't know what to say, eyes staring blankly at the threads in the fabric of his suit. It's the more flashy one, the one for photoshoots. Gold strings are woven into the collar, and you force yourself to watch the dimmed lights of the city outside reflect from them. Something to focus on, something other than the shivers wracking your being.
Homelander lets out a long sigh, a mockery of comfort, as he pushes your body closer, molding himself into you, soaking up your warmth. Normally, you'd be worried. There's no denying you're a whole lotta woman, and sitting on someone's lap like this wasn't the ideal situation. Still, to him, you're light as a feather. If anything, he finds the pressure of your curves almost grounding. So plush, spilling around him like the softest of blankets.
- Why are you crying Smirnoff, hmm? - he asks, hot breath on your ear, the side of your neck - Did Stillwell say something mean?
Oh, how you hate him for that arrogant tone of mockery. For his carelessness, his high-school bully humor. And you hate him, for the way something shifts in your stomach at his tone, not quite anger, not quite lust. But a dangerous combination of both, that makes you want to strangle him and ride him into the sunset at the same time.
Your breath hitches, he notices.
- Tell me, and I'll make it better, buttercup. - a tone of amusement enters his voice.
Every new nickname he gives you, always feels like a life sentence. Like the executioners axe, sliding lower and lower, until it the blade kisses your neck. Gloved hands find purchase on your waist, and he squeezes, testing the give of your flesh under his fingers. A low hum of appreciation escapes him, perhaps on accident, but it doesn't really matter anymore. You both know well enough how much he loves to sink into you, in whatever way he's allowed.
You should buy him a weighted blanket for Christmas, you think, and immediately want to tear out your brain through your nose for even entertaining the idea. He'll get nothing from you, not willingly, not ever again.
- Tell your Hero - he coaxes, and your body freezes up at the sudden press of his lips against your jaw - Gotta take care of my little Sidekick, don't I?
Way to make you feel like a fucking Tamagotchi. A special one he gets to abuse and fuck, perhaps shower if the mood strikes him. You can't wait until he forgets you for years, lets you starve to death and gather dust in some abandoned drawer of his mind. God, please, make him kill you, or forget you. Either way is fine, either way sounds like freedom.
- You killed Alan...
You don't recognize your voice anymore. You barely recognize yourself in the mirror, but the person who says those words can't be you. Your vocal cords can't possibly produce something sounding so pathetic. So weak, and hopeless, and downright laughable. You were raised to be stronger, so why...?
His entire chest shakes, as he tries, and fails to suppress a cruel huff of laughter.
- Seriously? - he asks, with lightness entirely unfitting for this situation - Still hung up on that?
His hand clamps down on your thigh, when you squirm, trying to shift away from him. You're really giving him quite a show tonight. With your sniffling, and pathetic little shuffles. Perhaps it shouldn't turn him on as much, but when did he ever care about such things?
All he knows, is that you're trying to hold in your tears on his lap, and your body feels so soft, so warm. It's almost like you're asking for it, really.
- You have to understand baby - he murmurs, holding you down with one hand, while the other slides into your hair, the stitching on his gloves scratching lightly at your scalp - I really don't like to share what's mine. That little parasite was getting too close to your sweet little pussy.
There it is, he thinks, mouth pulling back in victory. Your head snaps up, tear-filled eyes burning with outrage. Homelander likes this version of you the most. The honesty, the fire. Nothing like that washed out husk you usually hide behind, nor the bubbly persona with her grating, high-pitched voice. That's his Smirnoff, his little sidekick.
Dare he say, his girl.
Oh, he likes the sound of that. He likes the way those two words fill his mind just right. That's what you are, he decides, absentmindedly thinking of the flashing images of couples stealing kisses behind trees. Those overexposed, classically American ideals he's been fed during his childhood. You could be just that. He could make you into an all-American girl. His girl.
- He didn't want to fuck me - you spit out, fingers digging into the geometric pattern on his chest, he doesn't even flinch - He was married. For crying out loud, he loved his wife.
Now, that's just annoying.
The way you seem to know things about people without even trying. Names, faces, small facts, while knowing practically nothing about him. And you're supposed to be his. Really, truly annoying. His face twists, and your guts twist in response. You've been trained without even realizing it.
- You'd be surprised, how fucked up those Hollywood guys can be - Homelander mutters, sharpened canines flashing just quick enough, to make your heart stop - If anything, I probably saved you from something insane. I mean, the orgies alone would make you...
- Shut up.
He does.
You're not sure who is more surprised by the development, but his mouth clamps shut, and it fills you with a strange mixture of fear and excitement.
Because it means you have the power, for just a fraction of a second, you have something, and he gave it to you willingly. And oh, how you wish you could abuse it. The need is so strong, all of a sudden, you want to beg him for it. To let you live in this illusion for a moment longer. To let you feel like more, instead of this flimsy object of obsession you never want to understand.
His eyes are so blue. So hypnotizing in their depth, like a maelstrom, just waiting for you to dip your toe in it. City lights flash around the swallowing darkness of his pupils, which have been growing larger and larger with every second he's been staring at you. You can almost see your reflection in them, a mass of shadow against the red and blue of a passing ambulance.
In this moment, all he sees is you. All he ever sees is you, and if he was anyone but himself, you would've coveted being in this position.
Fingers tighten around his collar, well manicured nails, with carefully placed splotches of black nail polish dig into his jugular. You know, his skin won't break. The bones in your hands would give out from the pressure sooner, but your imagination is enough for now. Your brain mixes the images of your own neck, just a while ago, marred with the imprints of his hands, and you can almost see it. The faint outlines of your own anger against his perfect skin.
God, how you wish you could hurt him.
By the way his mouth opens, pink tongue running over the plushness of his bottom lip, you wager he wishes for it too. Such a majestic dance of dominance ingrained deeply within him, and that incessant masochistic streak. What a fucked up man you have, right underneath you.
Realization strikes you like a thundering wave.
He's beneath you. Both in body and mind, even if just for this moment. And no mocking words, or thinly veiled threats can change the fact, that of all the things he could've done, he chose to put himself in this position.
Your back arches in a slow, dipping curve, as you straighten on top of his lap, hair spilling over the sides of your face. Homelander sinks into the couch in response, still quiet, eyes still glazed over.
He watches you from below, breath hitching in his throat, as your own gaze sharpens, hands that were shaking just seconds ago steadying on his shoulders. Metal under your fingertips, a soft grating sound fills the room, as you scratch over the plated gold of the eagles. Sponge filling gives easily under pressure, as you drag your nails down to the hollow space on the underside of his elbow. Thumbs press in, and his hands twitch on your sides, uncertain whether to hold, or let go.
The decision is made for him. With a steady hold and an even steadier breath, you grab onto his wrists, bringing both his hands up. From the swell of your hips, to the softness of your stomach, and further up. Now he's the one shaking, uncertainty and anticipation mix within his gut, as you guide him over the elevation of your ribs.
And then, the quietest, most delicate of sounds leaves his parted lips. The faux leather of your corset digs into his hands, as you press them over your chest, revelling in the way his fingers sink immediately into the flesh. By the way his eyes flicker between you and his hands, you can tell he wants to desperately remove his gloves. To feel this softness in all its glory.
But fuck him, and fuck what he wants. He chose to relinquish his choice the moment he looked up at you, instead of the other way around, and God knows, you'll use it. You'll use him.
There's tension building between you, a cloud of heavy lust settling over your bodies, seeping into the very fibers of the couch, the carpet, every piece of designer furniture placed in the room.
"Smirnoff..." he whispers, uncertain, and you shush him with a sharp sound.
His palms press further, your breasts squeezing together, and he blushes way too beautiful for a monster such as himself.
Something ugly twists within you, a feeling too terrible to name. It bleeds from your eyes like a broken faucet, drowning him in the sheer intensity, and like a scolded dog, his eyebrows scrunch together. "More", his eyes beg. You can see the essence of the word swimming inside the darkened pools of his irises, and you wish you could tear it out with your teeth, smash it between your molars, spit it out in his face.
Instead, your palms cover his entirely, and your chest ripples, as you guide him to hook his fingers under the edge of the corset.
A thunderous moan fills the room, the moment your tits spill out from above the fraying stitching. His throat moves in a dry swallow, and Homelander's mouth falls open in a plea you've never heard from him before.
More. He wants more, and however much you hate the notion, you want more as well.
It's so easy to give yourself away, drift into the current of lust, thick like molasses. You were always quiet, even in the face of the most intense of pleasures, but to his credit, Homelander does the work for the two of you splendidly.
Shivers rake your spine, going up and down in tandem, as he dives head first into the welcoming softness of your chest. His mouth lands, wet and open over your nipples, tongue swirling over them, coaxing them to harden. His greed knows no bounds, and soon, he's squeezing your flesh together, trying to fit as mush as he can into his awaiting mouth, and the sheer desperation in his movements feels better, than any stimulation ever could.
Another groan, muffled by the sheer amount of flesh in his mouth, and you reward him, the only way you can spare. Angling your body down, you grind onto him, giving a pre-taste of pressure to the hot thickness pressing into the inside of your thigh. It begs you, in its own right. Begs to be let in, to be enveloped and welcomed, but you're a cruel master today, and Homelander's moan gets stuck in his throat, at the drag of your covered front against his.
Then, it's your hands in his hair, twisting and tugging, until he hisses and lifts his head. Lips red and puffy, glistening with saliva, you can see confusion painting his expression.
And then it shifts into something close to understanding, perhaps even acceptance. Because you look down at him in a way a tempest looks down at a sailor lost at sea. Your hair wild, a halo above your head. Eyes sharp and cruel, laser focused on pleasure and nothing else. You hold his gaze for a few, long seconds, letting his elation shift onto something close to delirium.
And then, you move.
Muscles shift under your skin, as you push your hips as far down as they can possibly go, dragging your rapidly dampening panties over the crotch of his costume.
It's impossible to categorize the noise that escapes his mouth, an intoxicating mixture of a guttural groan, that shifts into the most pathetic of whimpers. The sound echoes in the empty cavern of your brain, and immediately, you want more. Everything he can possibly give you, you want it, bloody and beaten, and shaking in your hands. So you move again, and again, until his eyes roll back, head thudding against the backrest of your couch.
Not hard enough, your brain supplies, a sharp zap to the back of your head, and your body complies. The rhythm you set is harsh, a tug of war between your bodies, the intensity of which wipes all coherent thought out of Homelander's head. A hiss tears through his teeth, when you tug on his hair some more, forcing him to dip down once again, mouth ready for another supply of skin.
He sucks onto the space between your breasts in a way, that is slowly becoming familiar. Tongue presses flat and longing, to the small, white scar, like it wants to reopen the wound with the force of his licking.
Finally, that earns him a gasp. A trembling sound, somewhere deep within your soul, that cuts through the still air inside your room, mingles with the rhythmic shuffling of clothing.
Tar spills into your abdomen, burning hot, and he groans at the sudden, forceful press of your clothed pussy against his erection. It's getting dirty, your underwear starts to shift and slide, obscured from his view by the pleated plains of your skirt. Cheap material mirrors your cheap, whorish desperation, because suddenly, you forget about being in control.
Your focus shifts onto that buzzing sensation, slowly coming to the front with every tightening of your muscles. It doesn't matter anymore, nothing matters. Smirnoff, Fireball, that treacherous third thing, they all disperse, like wiping a blackboard off of chalk. All that remains, is the dull ache of your muscles, straining and spreading, the pressure in your lower stomach, and the delicious shivers climbing up your spine, throughout every limb.
The sofa starts to creak. Eagles are scratched once again, as you cling onto them, so close to ripping the damned things clean off his shoulders. You wish, you could grab that elusive control once more. Shove his hands back, threaten him to stop if he touches you again. Play upon every trope you've seen in porn.
But you can't. You can't possibly force yourself to come back to reality, when he grips your ass so good, pushing you further, hips jerking into yours so hard, you're worried his cock will somehow tear through his costume. And fuck, maybe you want it to.
It's a split second decision.
Another idea barrelling through you, with the speed of a freight train, and now, your hands are coming down upon his belt with vengeance. He grunts in your ear, rips himself away and falls back into the sofa, just so he can watch, as you fight with the zipper on his costume. Steadiness leaves you as soon as you've found it, fingers clumsy and desperate, and he loves it. Loves this sight.
The beautiful painting of your body jerking involuntarily into his, while you fight to free him, to guide him home. Seconds later, you're pushing your underwear to the side, barely registering his cock springing forward, red and glistening with precum. It disappears under your skirt in one, fluid motion, as you all but force it inside, quick, messy, bordering on painful. Deeper, and deeper, you let gravity do the work, taking him all the way inside, until you sit fully on his lap.
"Ah... Fuck..." you gasp, biting your lower lip so hard, blood starts to gather on your tongue.
Because yes, you're obscenely wet, dark stains forming on the lower half of his suit, but you're barely prepared. Still, you take him in, like it's the most important thing you'll ever do in your life, and the overwhelming tight heat of your insides rips a loud groan right out of his throat.
"Oh fuck...!" he chokes out, first coherent words he's been able to form since this whole thing started "Shut- So tight."
His hands shake, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he bottoms out all the way, the air growing unbearably still for just a moment.
Oh, how you hate him in this moment. You hate the slope of his neck, as he throws his head back. You hate the red tint on his cheeks, his ears. You hate how his cock curves just right inside you, close to kissing your cervix, but not close enough to hurt. Everything is just right, just perfect, and you hate it, because it's him.
"God..." he sighs, shifting under you, just so he can press those last millimeters inside you "Look at you... Fuuuuck..."
It's been still enough, you decide, and with a sharp intake of breath, you rise. Slowly, his cock drags over your inner walls, on the verge of falling out completely. And then you let your whole body fall, hard enough to make your teeth rattle, enough to punch all annoying thoughts out of your head. Both of you moan in unison, chests heaving and hands scrambling to grab, to hold. His jugular dances, as he swallows, and without thinking, you lean forward, closing your mouth over his Adam's apple.
Teeth scrape his skin, and although you can't hurt him, not like you want to, his hips snap up into you. You let out a sharp mewl into his neck, grinding down as hard as you possibly can, before starting to move back up with fervor.
"Fuck- Oh fuck, please" you're too out of it, to notice him begging, but it tightens your muscles nonetheless "Ride me, my girl... My pretty girl. My- ah! My Sidekick"
Loosing all restraint, you begin to move anew, bouncing on top of him like your life depends on it. The room is filled with wet sounds of skin slapping against skin, the dangerous creaking of your sofa, your moans mixing with labored breaths. You can feel him, twitching and throbbing with every downwards stroke, and a sort of sick satisfaction scratches at the back of your skull.
"That's it, ride me... Yes- Good... So good" he murmurs between every breath, voice breaking on every syllable, hands kneading your ass, trying to somehow make you take him in deeper.
Another, scraping moan fights itself out of your throat, because finally, you've found your spot, vision swimming and fraying at the edges. His eyes shoot open, blue getting overturned by the sheen of burning red you recognize so well.
"Please" he pants out, hips bucking into you, legs shaking "You're gonna make me- Please I need-"
"Shut the fuck up" you snap at him, hand shooting out to grab at the underside of his chin, before roughly pushing it up.
Your muscles tighten to a painful degree, and suddenly you're falling.
Your orgasm hits you, hard and fast, wrenching a series of keens out of you, and the unexpected tightness of your muscles around him, forces him to barrell into his own end. Homelander lets out a sound, that somehow is both a growl and a whine, as he comes. Red shoots out of his eyes, just as he empties himself inside you, burning two holes into the ceiling. Warmth floods your insides, flows down, between your joined bodies and your thighs shake so hard, your body collapses against his on the couch.
Remnants of leftover moans fizzle out, concrete falls in a trickle onto your shoulder, and through it all, he holds you. Homelander wraps his arms around you, encircling the entirety of your back, his head buried into your hair, as both of you shake and shiver.
And finally it's quiet. Both in your room, and in your head. You wish you could bottle up this feeling. This deep satisfaction, this warmth of peace, and keep it with you forever. A small window of time, before you realize what just happened, what you did. And most importantly, who you did it with.
Unfortunately for you, peace has a habit of escaping right through your fingers, and somewhere in the buzzing between your ears, you can feel a foreboding shadow settle itself over your shoulders.
Whatever has just transpired between the two of you, will change things, and you're not going to delude yourself with hoping, it'll change for the better. Not for you at least.
And then, Homelander takes a deep breath, finally calming down enough to think.
"Maybe you hate me" he murmurs, voice rough and broken "But you love this"
The glass case of comfort shatters with every word that leaves his mouth, and a shiver of pure disgust runs its course through your body.
Once again, you groan in unison, as you push yourself up, and off of him, his softening cock sliding out of you with a wet pop that twists your stomach. Your legs are way too weak to stand, but you force them to work either way. He doesn't stop you, letting you limp in the direction of the bathroom, traces of your mixed fluids glistening on the insides of your thighs as you move.
It's hard to say, who won this round. Is there even an option of winning anymore? All you know, is that once you finally emerge back into the room, he's gone. All that's left of him, is the lingering smell of sex mixed with his cologne, and an imprint on the couch cushions.
Your conversation with Stillwell comes back with vengeance. Her hushed tone overflowing with corporate coldness, masking a deep-seated worry you could barely catch.
You want to throw up again, but instead, you just light up a cigarette by the window. There are fates worse than death, and as you look out, at the always awake city of New York, you begin to accept, that you've been dealt exactly such fate.
Smoke rises from your mouth, billowing and sliding out the cracked window.
And then, first snow starts to fall from the sky.