mdni, u will be blocked. sub!lander x fem!reader. tit fucking, overstimulation, cum eating, aftercare, use of âmommyâ. 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.
youâre 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: âMommy, p-please. CanâtâŠâ
and you just tilt your head, licking the smeared cum off your lips, putting on a sympathetic pout. âmm, but baby, you were just saying how much you love Mommyâs boobies.â
his sad face is precious. no matter how much he begs and complains, he doesnât stop. he fucks your tits because youâre 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 isnât reduced to this cute little mess.
âHurts..â 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 itâs 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, heâd collapse into you, burying his face in your shoulder. this time, heâs 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.
âdid so good, my sweet boy,â 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 heâd be lying if he said it didnât turn him on again, even barely. heâs pathetic.
his hands frame your waist firmly. he mutters a soft, âMommy,â 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. âlook at the mess you made, Johnny. such a careless boy.â
âI know, mâsorry, MommyâŠâ
âyouâre sorry?â 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. âshow me. clean me up.â and heâd 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 heâs 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.
âgood boy, Johnny,â you whisper. he moans again in response- itâs all he can do. you kiss his hairline and scratch his scalp gently.
âsuch a good boy.â
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. iâve 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
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.Â
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.Â
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. Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
- There you are - he whispers, voice gliding through the darkness of your room - Had a nice little chat with Stillwell, yeah?Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
- Tell me, and I'll make it better, buttercup. - a tone of amusement enters his voice.Â
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.Â
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.Â
- 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.Â
- 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.Â
- 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?Â
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.Â
- 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.Â
Dare he say, his girl.Â
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.Â
- 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.Â
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.Â
- 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...
-Â Shut up.
Â
Â
Â
He does.Â
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.
Where you leave Homelander alone to take a shower after calling him a good boy and he gets fresh with your pillow
18+ MDNI
#sublander bc we love torturing this sick man
WC: 1,514
Homelander stands there, still stunned from your quick hug, from your kiss on the cheek, from you calling him âgood boyâ. Almost as if it were no big deal to you. No one has ever done that before, and it left him stunnedâŠspeechless.
He watches as you walk into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind you.
In his daze, he mutters to himself softly, almost in disbelief. âGoodâŠIâm a good boyâŠâ
He shakes his head, trying to shake himself out of his daze. He plops down onto your bed, still reeling from everything that just happened. He canât get your words out of his head, how you treated him so maternally, how you called him âgood boyâ.
He lays back on your bed, his mind racing, replaying everything in his head over and over in his head, his heart beating wildly in his chest making him feel alive.
Homelander closes his eyes, trying to relax, but his efforts are in vain. His mind keeps going back to you. To your voice. To your words.
Without realizing it, he hugs one of your pillows to his chest, holding it close. He buries his face into the pillow, taking in the faint residual scent of your perfume in the fabric. He holds it tighter to his chest, his heart rate slowly starting to reduce its speed finally as he does so.
Suddenly, Homelander hears the sound of water running in the bathroom, signaling that youâve turned on the shower.
Unbeknownst to him, he starts to slowly press his hips against the pillow, grinding against it ever so slightly. His mind is still a mess, replaying your words over and over, and he doesnât even realize what heâs doing. Heâs acting solely on instinct, his body and mind reacting to your presence, to your words, to your touch.
He buries his face further into your pillow, his breathing growing heavier as he grinds into it. Heâs starting to feel flushed, his heart rate spiking yet again, and his body beginning to grow warm. The pillow smells of you, and that only serves to make the sensations coursing through Homelander even more intense. He lets out a low, almost involuntary moan as the pillow creates a feeling of delicious friction, his emotions and desires running wild.
Homelander tightens his hold on the pillow, pressing it harder against himself, trying to get as close to you as he can, even if the pillow acts as a poor imitation of the real thing. His mind is still racing, but his thoughts all centered around you. His current obsession. On how you felt when you hastily hugged him, on how you scold him, on how you called him a âgood boyâ upon his reluctant compliance.
His body begins to respond, the sensations overwhelming him and enough to make his head spin wildly.
âGodâŠpleaseâŠplease come outâŠI need youâŠI need you, darlingâŠâ
Homelander mutters the words quietly to himself as his hips continue to rock steadily against your pillow, his voice coming out low and strained. Heâs getting desperate now. Desperate for you, desperate for your touch, your calming presence. His breath begins to come out in ragged gasps and pants while he continues to grind into your pillow.
He rolls over onto his back, pillow clutched tightly on top of him with his face buried in the fabric. He closes his eyes, imagining its you on top of him, that itâs you grinding down onto his lap. Homelander can feel his cock twitch involuntarily in the tight blue fabric of his Supe suit, his mind playing tricks on him as his imagination takes over.
âIâm aâŠgood boy, right? DammitâŠIâm a fucking good boyâŠfuck!â
Homelander is muttering to himself again, his voice almost a pathetic plea, his need for affirmation, for attention and praise, palpable and desperate in the darkness of your bedroom. Heâs acting like a puppy. Almost completely at your mercy, completely dependent on you to tell him what a good boy he is, even as youâre busy just feet away in the shower. Locked away from him.
He buries his face further into the pillow, grinding against it with more force this time as his breathing continues to come out in small gasps and pants. Heâs so close. So close already to the edge of his pleasure. All he needs is youâŠhe just needs you to call him a âgood boyâ again, he needs you to tell him what a good job heâs doing. That heâs a good boy goddammit.
âPleaseâŠplease, please, pleaseâŠplease come outâŠpleaseâŠIâll be good. Iâll be such a good boy. PleaseâŠjust come outâŠbe doneâŠI need youâŠâ
Heâs begging now, his voice desperate and pleading into the fabric of the pillow. His heart is pounding like a drum, his body coiled tightly like a spring, seconds away from snapping.
Heâs so close.
Homelander is so close to the edge. To finally letting go, to letting the sensations brought on from you and your pillow take over. But he wants to hear you. Needs to hear you. He needs to hear you say those two words that have completely turned his world upside down.
âPleaseâŠpleaseâŠIâm a good boy. Goddammit, call me a good boy.â
Homelander is almost sobbing now in his pathetic desperation, his mind and body feeling on the verge of exploding. Heâs never felt so desperate for someone before. So vulnerable and weak. But at the same time, heâs never felt so alive, so excited, soâŠ
âIâll be such a good boyâŠsuch a good boyâŠtell me Iâm a good boy.â
Heâs still begging the silence of the bedroom, panting and breathless, and his heart feeling like itâs about to beat out of his chest. Heâs so closeâŠ
âGoddammitâŠâ
Homelander whimpers out, practically reduced to a blubbering mess simply from your absence and those two goddamn words. Heâs like a fucking puppy, begging for your attention, begging for your approval.
âIâm a good boy, right? Iâm a fucking good boy.â
He repeats those words to himself over and over again, a desperate plea coming from the usually impenetrable Supe. A plea for you to just come out of the bathroom and tell him what he needs to hear, what heâs so pathetically craving.
âDarlingâŠplease.â
Homelander moans out the words, his voice low and strained, his body thrumming with need. Heâs still so close. So close to release, so close to letting all his pent up frustrations and needs and desires pour out of him.
His face is buried in the pillow again, whimpering and moaning against it, the sensations and emotions completely taking over in a rare moment of weakness, overwhelming him.
âIâll be a good boy. Iâll be such a good boy. Iâll be the best boy. Just come outâŠâ The water in the bathroom continues to rain down noisily, his pleading and begging going unheard as you focus on your own self care and not the whimpering blonde mess getting fresh with your favorite pillow.
âGodâŠdarling, please. Iâm your good boy. Iâm your good boyâŠâ
Homelander lets out a long, drawn out moan, the sensations and emotions finally boiling over inside him. He keeps repeating those four words again and again, as if trying to convince himself of them, trying to convince himself that heâs worthy, that heâs worth it, that heâs good enough.
He finally releases with a sharp gasp, his hips stilling against your pillow and the pleasure washing over him in waves. His body shakes and trembles on your mattress, his mind finally going completely blank and dumb.
âIâm your good boy.â
Homelander repeats the phrase to himself one last time, feeling something like reliefâŠlike acceptance.
He sits up slowly, wincing at the stickiness of his clothes and the dampness of the pillow.
âGoddammitâŠâ
He mutters to himself, sighing deeply at the realization of what heâs just done, of what he just experienced. He supposes he should be feeling embarrassed, ashamed even at his lack of self-control, at his vulnerable state.
But he doesnât.
Instead, he feels strangely peaceful.
Shakily standing from the mattress, his legs feel a bit like jelly. He takes a deep breath, trying to gather himself, to put on his usual cool and confident demeanor.
âWellâŠthat wasâŠsomething.â
Homelander looks down at the pillow, seeing the evidence of his loss of control, of his surrenderâŠ
He runs a hand through his golden blonde hair, trying to compose himself. He looks around your bedroom, the familiar surroundings offering him a sense of comfort in his moment of vulnerability.
âGoddammit.â He whispers again, still reeling from the raw feelings of desperation and submission he just experienced, barely even registering the shower being shut off in the bathroom.
Part 2????
I cut it off a bit early just to see if thereâs an interest in this at all. Sorry if it sucks!
Summary:Â 18+Â 2.5k homelander x reader, sub homelander, bottom homelander, mommy kink, pegging, large toy, lite belly bulge, restraints, praise kink, comeplay, schmoopy aftercare.
It's not always easy keeping the most powerful man in the world satisfied, but as far as he's concerned, you were made for the job.
art by @krazyyy & used with permission!
There is a void in Homelander that he is unsure he will ever be able to fill.
But fuck if you donât try your damnedest.
If heâs being honest, he never thought that sex with a human could compare to sex with another supe, but youâve found tricks that curl his toes better than the clench of any Compound V charged hole could. You put his wrists in cuffs that he could snap with a thought, and whisper Donât break those, baby. Or mommy wonât fuck you tonight.
He huffs and twists against them, but never breaks them. He listens to you. Heâs obedient. Heâs your good, good boy, and he wouldnât have it any other way. The electric thrill of being bound by nothing but your will empowering these flimsy cuffs has him panting. He wants more from you, as he always does, and like the wicked, wonderful enabler you are, you give it to him.
When he first sees the toy you intend to use tonight, long, thick and barely contained by the harness you wear, he thinks youâre joking.
âChrist, are you going to fuck me, or bludgeon me to death?â He asks, adjusting against his headboard. It doesnât stop his cock from throbbing, steadily drooling precome onto his belly while his stomach churns in anticipation.
âDonât be a brat,â you reply, eyes glinting. He watches you spread a generous amount of lube along the girthy chunk of phallus-shaped silicone, his own neglected cock aching at the sight of it. âYou said you wanted something big.â
âDidnât expect you to take it so literally,â he says wryly, mouth feeling dry as the bed dips with your weight. âExpected something, yâknow, grand. Impressive. Bombastic.â
âMy, my. Look at you and all your synonyms,â you purr, smiling. He jerks slightly when you put your hands on his ankles, drawing them slowly up his legs, spreading them out. Heâs malleable under your hands, always is, legs falling open in a wanton splay.
âIâm a walking thesaurus,â he gives back sardonically, but his breath hitches with the way you squeeze his inner thighs before adjusting his legs on either side of you.
âI donât think youâll be walking anywhere after this,â you say, voice and expression both downright devilish.
He laughs breathlessly. He knows you wonât be able to hurt him, but the notion still sends a thrill trilling up and down his spine like a xylophone. He sucks a breath in through his teeth at the first warm, wet press of your fingers to his rim, circling it in slow, firm glides.
Homelander nods. âYeah, yeah, yes. Mâready.â
âYes, what?â You push.
He smiles. He loves that you push him like this, push him to say the things he wants to, but holds back from out of shame or embarrassment or both. He loves that you donât let him hide from or deny himself the things that he wants. He loves you.
âYes, mommy,â he exhales, despite his tongue feeling leaden in his mouth.
The smile you return is worth it. âGood. Take a deep breath, and lie down.â
He complies, sliding down the headboard until his arms are stretched above his head. You adjust yourself between his legs, gripping his ass in your palms to spread it wide, and as he breathes out, the obscenely large head of the toy presses against his slick rim.
âJesus fucking Christ,â he grouses, eyes widening.
âBreathe,â you encourage him, patiently massaging his rump. âHumans can stretch seven inches before anything tears. Youâll be fine. Trust me.â
He scoffs, but he does trust you. He knows you wonât break him, wouldnât if you could. He relaxes his head against the headboard and closes his eyes. Itâs not that it hurts, but the pressure that builds as you spread his rim open around the fat head of the toy is intense and alien, more so than anything heâs used to. He twists the chains of the handcuffs, which groan precariously.
You reach out to touch his wrist, hushing him. âBreathe, darling,â you remind him again, gentle and soothing. He screws his eyes shut, focusing on the feel of your fingers on his wrist, your other hand under his thigh, and breathes in deeply.
âOh, fuck, fuck, fuck,â he keens, endlessly shifting and adjusting himself, though never pulling away from the girth of the toy slowly splitting him open.He shakes his head, faith wavering. âWhat the fuck, thatâs notâitâs not going to fit,â he pants, trying to spread his legs further, but no matter how he angles himself, thereâs no escaping the slow, aching pressure of the oversized silicone cock sliding into him.
âShhhh,â you hush, holding the base of the cock in one hand while you use the other to stroke his thigh. âItâll fit. Youâre just poorly prepared,â you say. He can hear the smile in your voice. His cock gives a dripping throb at the pleasure in your voice, knowing that heâs impressing you, even as he complains.
âAnd whose fault is that?â He asks breathlessly, arching his back.
âYours,â you answer, giving his ass a sharp little smack. He had asked for this, after all. He didnât want you to wet or stretch him out too thoroughly. He wanted to feel it.
And feel it he does.
âHalfway there,â you murmur, close enough to kiss him now. He leans into it eagerly, savoring the gentle, plush press of your lips, gripping the chains of his cuffs, wishing he could touch you, even as he relishes this hold you have over him. He keens against your lips, opens up easily for the wet slide of your tongue only to suck at it, greedy for more, more, more.
Your hips are almost flush with his. Youâre so close, and heâs so full. The sheer size of it inside him doesnât leave space for anything else, no thoughts or feelings about anything other than whatâs happening, other than your touch and your warmth. Heâs panting now, giving sharp little bucks of his hips, though you remain stubbornly still.
âItâs too big,â he moans, overwhelmed by this inescapable, full feeling. You soothe him with gentle sweeps of your hands up his thighs, his hips, his sides.
âYouâre doing perfectly,â you tell him. He can hear your excitement, smell it in the air. He cracks his eyes open to gaze up at you, and flourishes under the open adoration he finds in your stare. The praise warms him. He adjusts himself again, but thereâs no way to make this feel anything less than. He cannot minimize it, cannot escape it. His cock throbs, the leaking head bouncing against his stomach of its own accord. You give one last push, and he moans with your body finally slotting snugly against his, buried as deep as youâll go. âFeels good, doesnât it?â
Homelander nods fervently, swallowing back the lump in his throat. âGood, good, sâgood, mmmâŠâ
He leans into it when you touch his cheek, nuzzles your palm before pressing a wet kiss into it. You have a way of touching him that renders him senseless, used, but treasured. He knows that even when youâre done with him, when you have finished playing and this intensity is gone, he will not be left empty or alone.Â
Youâll be there.
âIâm going to fuck you now, baby,â you whisper. His breath hitches with excitement, the chains above his head clanking lightly against one another. He nods, bites down slowly on his tongue to hold back the little noise that threatens to slip from him when you pull almost halfway out, only to drive firmly back in. You donât have to move very fast, the sheer size of the toy does most of the work for you, unraveling him with every movement.
âOh f-fuck, ffffuck, nnngh,â he groans, pulling on his bindings. The steel loop theyâre hooked to groans precariously. His eyes snap open when you wrap your hands around his throat, slowly leaning your weight down on him.
âLook at me,â you tell him, your own eyes clouded with arousal, pupils blown wide. His eyes flicker constantly to the wet part of your lips, aching to kiss them. You squeeze. You may not be strong enough to crush his windpipe, but itâs more than enough to restrict his airflow, to make him keenly aware of every breath he takes. You brace yourself that way, make him feel it as you settle into a steady rhythm, rocking in and out of him, the size of the toy making every push and pull twice as intense.
âThere, thatâs it. Youâre taking me so well. Knew you would, baby. Always so good for me. Youâre gonna make a mess for me, arenât you? Come so hard, I bet youâll mess up that pretty face,â you coo, the words going straight to his cock. The toy is too big, too unwieldy for you to fuck him fast, but the intensity of being carved in and out of by something so large is just as good.
âY-yes,â he chokes out. âYeah, yes, fuck, Iâm fffuckingââ He canât think long enough to string a coherent sentence together. He chokes on his own breath when you move a hand from his throat to his belly, pushing down on it as you slide all the way back into him.
âLook,â you tell him. He obeys, tipping his head down to see where your hand is, bleary-eyed and feeling as though heâs slipping outside of his own body. Where your hand is, he can see his own skin slightly distended around the sheer girth of the toy. Seeing this extension of you inside him, is dizzying, but the way you press your hand down on it nearly makes him come right then and there, a shiver running through his whole body.
He almost throws his head back, but you stop him, catching him by his hair. âNo, no. Keep watching. Keep watching,â you tell him, your own voice thin, growing desperate. Your grip in his hair tightens and he moans for you. âJust like that. Good boy. Good boy.â
Keeping one hand in his hair, you move the other from his belly to his cock, taking it in a firm hold that sets his teeth on edge, biting back a high keening noise. His eyes snap wide open when you start to mercilessly pump it, no preamble or extra lube, just sudden and intense friction and pressure. He chokes on his own fumbling words, no longer holding himself back, openly gasping and making startled, desperate little noises.
You look fucking thrilled. You give his hair another sharp tug, keeping it down, keeping his gaze on your hand stripping over his dick, and the barely visible swell of your cock grinding back and forth deep, deep inside him. âThatâs it, baby,â you say breathlessly, sweat prickling on your skin, voice thin with exertion. âShow me how you come. Show me how you come on mommyâs cock.â
Beyond the capacity for words, all he can do is let go a ragged sound halfway between a sob and a moan, screwing his eyes shut tight as the catastrophic crash of his orgasm overtakes him, his body locking up tight while his cock unloads a ribboning torrent of come so intense, it paints across his whole face, wetting his lips, his cheek, hanging heavily on his eyelashes, spraying all the way up to his hair.
You thoroughly milk him of the experience, squeezing out every last drop with gradually slowing strokes, emptying him of the very last drop that spills out onto his stomach. Homelander feels fully outside of himself, transcendent from his physical form, free floating on an upward current of pure sensation. Not even the weight of the toy inside him can keep him tethered to reality, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he sinks down onto the bed, his arms dangling loosely from his bindings.
Gradually, however, reality does slip back in. Itâs a slow trickle of grounded touches: your fingers tapping on his thighs, his sides, his chest. You drag your nails carefully along his skin, eliciting goosebumps. You lure him back to his body not with demands, but with soothing, purposeful touches. With love.
The toy slides out slowly, and he lets go a tired breath with it. The warmth of you is gone, but only briefly. Youâre quick to slide right back between his legs, minus the toy. One at a time, you free his hands, holding each one and lowering it to the bed. Every single moment of putting him back together is full of the same practice and care that you took him apart with.
You trail kisses up his body, the occasional hot slip of your tongue like a static shock. You lap at every drop of the mess heâs made of himself. Your lips feel like worship, your hands like reverence. He doesnât feel used like something dirty or disposable, he feels like something that has been used and cherished.
His eyes flutter open as you cup his face. His lips spread in a lazy smile while you kiss him, cleaning away the salty mess of his come from his lips, his cheek. He rumbles contentedly when you bring your lips back to his and he can taste himself on them, his own movements languid and weak. He doesnât bother trying to lift his hands. Heâs too busy enjoying the way you tend to him, taking it upon yourself to set his limbs into comfortable positions before you lay down atop him, fingers in his hair, lips on his throat where you had previously been squeezing.
âHow do you feel?â You ask eventually.
âIâm fucking great,â is what he thinks he says, but to you, it comes out more like, âMâfâkânâgrâtâŠâ
You laugh softly, your love and affection so palpable in the sound, he wants to bury himself in it. âYou were wonderful,â you say, your words settling over him more warmly than any blanket, warmer than the sun itself. He could bask beneath them forever. âSo, so very good for me. You always are,â you say, punctuating your words with delicate butterfly kisses. âI love making you feel good. I love you.â
The first time you cared for him this way, he had fallen to pieces in your hands. Even now, there is the threat of it in how his eyes burn, prickling with tears, but he does not fall apart this time. Instead, he relaxes into your every touch, and lets himself feel freedom in this sense of deconstruction, knowing without a doubt that you will not leave him to pick up the shards alone.
âLove yâtoo,â he gives back slightly more coherently. âWhyâdâey mâke âem thâbig?â
âThey make them bigger,â you answer, effortlessly understanding his slurred question.
The look he gives you makes you laugh again, a sharper bark of amusement. âRelax,â you tell him, stroking his hair. âI think weâre good. For now.â
âFiend,â he accuses you affectionately, putting in the herculean effort to lift a hand to your cheek, stroking it with his thumb before he kisses you, melting into the warm, sweet aftermath of the session. He likes that you always tease him with more.
Itâs a clever way of assuring him that there will always be more to look forward to.
