I’m sorry, after this episode all I could think about was Frenchie taking Homelander to a club. Somehow a murder doesn’t deter me from shipping it apparently.
I have actually lost my mind and wrote a 7k word fic about this concept. I have no excuse. At all, actually. I'm also sorry this took so long. Um... trigger warning for drug use? Yeah. YEAH. I hope this can soothe a show-weary fan's heart.
Now also on AO3 if anyone wants it.
It is a routine run-in with an enemy group that every superhero needs to endure from time to time. Homelander knows this. Personally, he likes to keep tabs on William Butcher's team of idiots. They are a fun distraction from the ennui at Vought. Sure, they are not particularly effective, outside of William, and Homelander sometimes feels offended that he of all heroes was struck with such useless nemeses. Where's the fun in that? He could kill them any day. Jesus, he knows the address of their office. It's in the most famous building of NYC. Maybe it's pity keeping him from ending it.
This time, most of the team makes it out quickly, running off somewhere as soon as they hear him touch down on their roof. He doesn't feel like following. He'll just have a look around once everyone is gone, check for intel, see how close they are getting to actually entering a concrete planning stage. Maybe he'll find clues to Ryan's whereabouts, but he doesn't think they're that careless. William will keep Homelander's son somewhere else, somewhere he is certain Homelander wouldn't be able to search.
The French guy stays behind. At first, Homelander thinks the others simply left him, that perhaps he wasn't fast enough. But no. The man seemingly has no intention of running away at all. He's blocking the path. Self-sacrifice, then. Noble. Dumb, too. "Run," Homelander advises when they've both arrived in a hallway. He'll give the Frenchman ten seconds, gracious as he is, and only then will he even begin to chase him. As he said, he's not in the mood to ruin dear William's day by killing one of his little friends. "Run on your little frog legs."
The man shakes his head. His eyes are sad, heartbeat not particularly fast. "I was impressed by you, the first time we met," the man admits, his accent as grating as always - all slow, deliberate intonation. He sounds sultry despite his insults. "Such presence, I thought. Befitting of a hero. But whenever I see you up close, you look so... sad." He makes a gesture with his hands that Homelander can only describe as annoyingly French. "Are you really happy with what you're doing?" A brief pause, then: "Look at you. I bet you've never danced a day in your life."
Homelander pauses.
The man makes no move to run or, as futile as it might be, attack. Instead, he's still looking at Homelander. In that strange way that tells him the man is seeing more than he should. Homelander feels observed. Dissected. Laid open, bared to someone else's opinion. He squints, wills his eyes to light up, but stops himself before they do. He is owed an explanation. "What do you mean?" he asks.
"Well." The man gestures at him, again in that vaguely French way that makes Homelander's blood boil. "It is hard to find words. I can't explain the deep blue sea to a bug in the earth."
"I'm not a bug," Homelander says, offended. This is getting ridiculous. He doesn't know why he's still entertaining it.
The man nods, gravely, treating this exchange with a seriousness it does not deserve. "No, you most certainly aren't. Maybe you can even learn to enjoy living every once in a while, j'sais pas."
Homelander blinks, dumbfounded, a rush of emotion fogging up his mind so intensely, he can barely remain conscious throughout. He neither sees nor hears the man leave. When he comes back to himself, he's alone, not entirely sure what about the man's words caused this reaction.
He takes the scenic route home, the feeling of cold wind whipping against his face as he's flying exactly what he needs to calm himself.
Finding the Frenchman's private hideaway is easy enough. He stinks of drugs and relatively expensive French perfume that he apparently splurges on, paid for with crisp CIA bills. Homelander manages to pick out the scent even half a day later, once it's nighttime and there's less exhaust gases to throw him off the trail.
He doesn't even have to knock. He hovers outside the apartment briefly, and the man pulls back the curtains and opens a window for him. The Frenchman's pulse is different now, slightly unsteady. Tachycardia. Perhaps drug-incuded, judging by how blown his pupils are. "How can I help you, sir?"
"May I come in?" It doesn't hurt to offer. To establish early that no, this isn't a murder-to-be. This is... Homelander doesn't want to talk about what it is. Curiosity. Insanity. Temporary fugue state. Whatever. He's had a day at Vought (when doesn't he?), and who else would he talk to? The Deep?
The Japanese girl isn't here. He can't smell her, either, so she hasn't visited in a while. A lover's spat? Is that why the guy was so maudlin? Homelander takes in the small details in the apartment, but there's very little to see. Barely any furniture. The kitchen is well-stocked, however. So is the bathroom - with drugs and anything you need to produce them. The smell of chemicals is as heavy in the air as that of paté.
"I finished cooking," the Frenchman says and walks back into the kitchen, a towel still slung over his shoulder. "If you want to stay for a meal, that is. All homemade."
"You... uh, cook for yourself?" Homelander still walks around the room, hands behind his back, observing. No hints to what the team is up to.
"The small pleasures in life," the man narrates as he plates some food that does, indeed, smell mouthwateringly good, "go a great way in making even the hardest of times worth living through. I may be on the brink of being lasered to death, and yet I have greatly enjoyed making this meal and can perhaps eat it before I die."
"Not here to kill you," Homelander mumbles. "I, uh... I wanna talk. About... About what you said."
The Frenchman's eyes may be bloodshot and hazy from whatever substance is coursing through his bloodstream, but he still looks aware enough to be skeptical of Homelander's words. Jesus, why, even? It's not like Homelander has ever lied about his intentions. He's been remarkably honest with William and his team, hasn't he? But before he can begin to feel anger about it, the Frenchman's eyes soften a bit, and a smile appears on his lips that looks entirely too serene for the moment. "And you will do it while trying my paté. Mama's recipe. It took me years to perfect it, the way she used to make."
"Is your mother alive?" Homelander asks, just trying to make conversation as he pulls the cape out of the way and gets seated. It is an odd situation, sure, but he is fully in control of it. He can always change his mind about ending the Frenchman's life, leaving him here for his friends to find. The thought of spilled blood fuels his appetite, and the homemade paté he scoops onto a fork really is as delicious as it smelled. The flavor explodes in his mouth.
The Frenchman, sitting across from him at the tiny table, shakes his head, and it takes Homelander a moment to remember he asked him a question earlier. "Non, Mama died. I have no family left." The man's dark eyes are sad and distant, lost in memory. Homelander wants to shake him for his audacity. There he is, having a recipe his mother used to make, fondly thinking of her, being able to miss her. He doesn't know how good he has it. How easy his pesky human existence is. He already feels the need to numb himself with substances, all while he cannot even begin to grasp how lonely an existence it is to-
"Well, that makes two of us," Homelander grumbles and shoves another forkful of food into his mouth.
The Frenchman perks up at that, his gaze clearing. "I am sorry to hear that." How does he make it sound like he means it? This man is a complete mystery. Homelander has clearly underestimated him. William is a fun foe, but despite his unpredictable nature, he is frustratingly one-note in his hate and pursuit of a dead woman. Meanwhile, Crime Analytics hasn't even been able to figure out this one's name.
"Why," Homelander begins, then pauses, swallows down his bite so as not to be seen as rude, before putting down his fork, "did you say... that? That I've never- I mean. How would you know?"
The Frenchman sighs, leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and begins to stare into the middle distance, from which he is clearly receiving cue cards for more of his sentimental nonsense. "You know, I love to dance. And I have been shown time and again that there are only two groups of people, those who are willing to dance, even in the rain, and those who do not dance at all. And the latter, they do not enjoy anything else, either. It is a very good indicator for how happy they are. And you, mon ami, you look like you are part of the more miserable group."
"Because I don't dance." It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? And yet, Homelander suddenly finds he has a lump in his throat, and it isn't food that's stuck. "Why would I need to? There's plenty of entertainment out there, and I really don't think happiness can be measured by-"
"Do you like sex?"
"Mh?" Whatever he wanted to say, Homelander loses the train of thought. "What the-" Whatever. Go with the flow. Expect anything. He can always kill him later. "Yes. I do."
The Frenchman nods sagely. "So there is hope for you yet. You enjoy some of life's pleasures. I knew it." He shrugs happily. "I had an inkling you might. I just think nobody ever taught you, you know?"
"And let me guess," Homelander deadpans. "You can teach me, right?"
"Oh, that is a veeery tall task." The Frenchman, once again, takes him seriously and either chooses to ignore his sarcasm or is too high to see it for what it is. Being coked out of his mind is a good explanation for a lot of the man's odd behaviors. Homelander wonders what his excuse is. "A big, big mission to go on. Much too big for me. But I am your humble servant if you ask. One night of being Cendrillon, if you want to, and I will get you back to your castle by midnight. Just do not lose one of your red boots on the way."
"What?"
"... I will take you clubbing."
Homelander wonders if there were traces of something other than capers in the paté he just ate when he finds himself agreeing on a whim.
"I'm not wearing this," Homelander decides not five minutes later when clothes from a duffel bag get tossed at him. He catches every item perfectly, but each one is more horrific than the last. First, he gets a pair of dark jeans thrown at him, then a terribly patterned shirt that looks vaguely familiar. "I don't need your hand-me-downs, I have perfectly good secret-mission clothes at home that I can get, and we aren't even the same size, I mean, look at you, you're tiny-"
"Non, non, these belong to Monsieur Charcuter. I would not be caught dead in his shirts. But they are freshly washed. I do his laundry for him, or else he simply... wouldn't."
"It's not helping the smell," Homelander grumbles, but does accept the offered clothes. The jeans are too snug around the ass, and he doesn't know what to make of that, or what it tells him about William. The shirt smells faintly of cheap beer and even cheaper gas station bathrooms where William no doubt pissed out the cheap beer. But overall, it's an outfit, and that's what the Frenchman was after.
Getting undressed is a routine affair, although Homelander readily admits he is trying to make the Frenchman uncomfortable by showing no regard for propriety and shedding his suit in the middle of the man's hallway. The Frenchman, however, makes no move to turn around and grant him privacy, instead opting to look. With open appreciation no less. Homelander shouldn't be surprised, really. The French swing both ways, after all, the whole lot of them. But it quickly turns into a game of chicken, and it ends with a truce as soon as Homelander's skin is covered again. Well. As much as the Frenchman will allow, anyway.
Homelander buttons the shirt up. Big mistake, apparently, because he gets assaulted with more gesturing and "Non, non, non!" The fucking French... The man's tone is urgent enough, though, to stop Homelander in his tracks.
"You leave it open like this." The man goes to work with all the air of an artist creating a masterpiece, unbuttoning things until Homelander feels half-naked, then tucking the shirt into the jeans. Homelander is used to being a model for costume designers, so he stays still and docile. After maybe two minutes of this, the Frenchman steps back, clearly admiring his work, hands extended in excitement like he has just taken part in Creation. "C'est parfait."
"Half my chest is out."
"It is a good chest. Show it off. What is more, people have not seen it before. Nobody would look at it and think, ah, this is the Homelander's chest. The hair, however, c'est un problem."
"What's wrong with my hair?" Homelander catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wishes he hadn't. It isn't that he looks bad, but the lack of his costume makes him feel strange enough, and to be dressed like a... a partygoer is odd.
"You look like the Homelander in a Hawaiian shirt, when I need you to look indistinguishable from anyone else who might frequent the établissement I have in mind for us."
"Sounds ominous," Homelander remarks dryly as he's getting assaulted again, this time with a comb. By the end of it, he is left with a sidepart, an approximation of a style he used to have, years ago. It makes him look younger, tragically so, and it draws attention from the blonde to the darker roots, presumably in a way the Frenchman believes will help his secret identity.
"Are you not getting changed?" he asks, finally, when the Frenchman grabs his keys and some things from the bathroom counter and is about to walk out the door with all the confidence of a man who knows Homelander will follow.
"Moi?" He looks down his own body, at the shirt that is riding up enough to expose his bellybutton and happy trail, then at the pants that are ripped at the knees, the fallen-apart sneakers. "Non, I am always ready to dance."
Homelander spent half a mile being assaulted by the ever-increasing beat while they walked here (on foot, in the cold), to some unassuming door, some hole in the wall that doesn't suggest anything is going on inside, if it was not for the volume, so loud Homelander isn't sure how the people living in the houses around are asked to pay rent for the displeasure of sleeping next to... this. Perhaps, he muses, every human here is a junkie who won't notice, or maybe they have already numbed their eardrums to the beat and no longer hear it.
The crowd outside the place is certainly looking... special. A lot of substances at play. A lot of black, a lot of fishnet fabric. A lot of strange-colored hair. A woman who has her black-pink hair up in buns is looking him up and down while she's chewing gum - or something he assumes is gum anyway. She sticks her tongue out at him when she catches him looking back. Whatever she's chewing, it has colored her tongue an unnaturally bright blue. She smiles. Winks. Then her gaze falls to the Frenchman who is currently busy speaking with the bouncer. She quickly makes the connection that Homelander is here with him and loses interest immediately. Homelander blanches a little as he understands the implication, and he has the instinct to defend himself, to justify that no, this is not his lover, not even his friend, nor even a confidant, this is simply a man who- Who takes him dancing to teach him a lesson. It doesn't sound any better when he tries to put it into language, and he is glad the Frenchman is done paying the man at the entrance.
"You have to pay to get in there?" he asks as they pass through the door, waved along by both bouncers. So far, so good, nobody has recognized him. It might help that he doesn't particularly feel like himself, although he has opinions about being made to wait outside with the mudpeople. He's willing to entertain it for now. Anything for an authentic experience. He has nothing to prove, except he very much wants to show this man he can enjoy life for some reason he doesn't fully grasp. It just shouldn't be possible for some human to- to- "What, like it's some kind of fancy party?"
"Capitalism, mon brave. You have to pay extra for the alcohol, too." The Frenchman gives him an angelic smile. "It is good that I have brought my own entertainment. The paté was not the only thing I cooked tonight." He pats the pocket of his pants conspiratorially.
The inside of the building positively reeks. Of alcohol and sweat and the general heaviness of human bodies, too close together. Almost sexual. Outside, the air was cold and fresh. In here, it is thick, cloying, stuffy. And the music is- "Very loud," Homelander tries to say, but it's as though his voice isn't carrying far, swallowed up by the volume.
"It's not about listening to it," the Frenchman tells him as they make their way through neon-lit hallways, all chock-full of humans. "You have to feel it. Right here." The Frenchman all of a sudden stops and presses a hand over Homelander's exposed sternum - a useless gesture, it's not like his body isn't already vibrating from the volume of the music. His ears ache with it, fuck, his teeth hurt from it, but the rhythm of it goes deeper, too. Deeper, still, with the sudden touch. He freezes, but doesn't recoil. "Sorry," the Frenchman says, quiet enough to be drowned out by the music, but Homelander can still hear him. "I did not mean to-"
"It's..."
"We should-"
"To the dance... floor?"
"Oui."
The main hall of the establishment is even fuller than the hallways. The high ceiling does not help the claustrophobic feeling of hundreds of humans in close proximity. Dancing should be an impossible thing under the circumstances, but somehow, the people manage. From afar, it almost looks like one continuous group effort, an ocean with waves comprised of tiny droplets that all have to move in a coordinated fashion, so as not to bump into each other. That takes focus, especially for dull human senses, but Homelander looks at the scene and thinks they're closer to animals in a stable right now - all instinct, cramped together. And he would be one of them, if the Frenchman gets his wish.
Homelander stops in his tracks.
"I shouldn't be here."
The Frenchman turns around to him, looking surprised. "Is it, uh... the music?" He gestures towards his own ears. "You cannot handle it, oui?"
"No, it's not the music." Homelander is still looking at the mass of people, some of them entangled in each other, embracing, all smiling, many with their eyes closed.
"It is much too dark here for someone to recognize you. Your hair looks pretty in the strobe, by the way."
"Thanks... It's not that, either." He tries to gather his thoughts. Wonders why his feet feel so heavy, why he's stuck on this spot, just outside the mass of people, forced to look in, but not overstep. "It's so... It's so human."
The Frenchman's face lights up with relief, and he surges forward, grabbing onto Homelander's arms. How is this man not scared for his very life? He is clearly intelligent, and he knows what Homelander is capable of. Nobody would dare hold him this way. "That is the point!" the man damn near shouts. "That is exactly what you need!" And with that, he somehow manages to overcome the resistance of Homelander digging his heels in and drags him into the action.
From the get-go, at least eight people bump into Homelander left and right, and he looks around, bewildered. Nobody is paying attention to him, and nobody apologizes for the missteps. It's like they never even notice, caught up in what they're doing. Perhaps drugged out of their minds. It's disgraceful. There's still doubt tugging at him, at the back of his brain, where he can't see even with his x-ray vision. You, a voice says that he can hear clearly enough despite everything, are being ridiculous, big guy.
Perhaps he's being petty, but with his senses going into overload and what was promised to him as fun within reach of his fingers, he chooses defiance, drowns out the voice and focuses on the Frenchman instead. He is not going to make a fool of himself over this. He has a point to prove.
He still feels out of place, however. He has no trouble performing for an audience, far from it, but he also has the distinct feeling that the performance of having fun is not what this tiny French menace is after, and it is highly likely he can see right through it with his oddly happy-go-lucky wisdom, which would, in turn, be an embarrassment for Homelander.
"Here, let me help," the accented voice cuts through his own thoughts and the merciless rhythm of the current electronic song (do they all sound the same to everyone else, or can these people tell them apart), and before Homelander can say anything, there's hands on his arms, touching the bare skin, making him jolt briefly. Changing clothes in the man's apartment is one thing, but the level of touch- "Move with me."
Homelander's center of gravity is inherently different from that of humans and most superpowered people as well. He has pitch-perfect hearing. It should be no problem to follow an instruction as simple as: move your body to the rhythm of this. But even the most tentative of movements he attempts, a single shift of his hips feels terribly helpless and laughable. He wishes he could see himself, from an outside perspective, then immediately scraps the thought. Nobody, himself included, should see him like this, much less an enemy.
"You do not have to be like this guy." The Frenchman points to somewhere else, further back on the dancefloor, where some human man has a small crowd gathered around him, some filming, and is going absolutely apeshit. It's barely dancing anymore. It is exagerrated movements, completely lost to it, ecstatic. Homelander has, in his position as minister for Samaritan's Embrace, seen humans 'speak in tongues', which, if you ask Homelander, just looks like they're malingering and pretending to experience a seizure. Perhaps something similar is happening to the poor unfortunate soul over there. "You simply move, any way you like. And any way the crowded space allows, non?" The Frenchman winks again, then stops talking entirely, perhaps to save his already raw throat the trouble of trying to shout over the noise.
Homelander barely moves, feet shuffling on the floor. Oh, he is being clumsy, isn't he? He is behaving in a way that is embarrassing. Gods are pure, a voice reminds him, and they need to stay that way. And they should under no circumstance mingle with the pigs.
The Frenchman makes it look like the simplest thing, finding the rhythm naturally and moving with it, seemingly not even thinking about it. Smiling, eyes trained on Homelander, only ever briefly losing him if he wants to perform a little twist before returning to the little space they have carved out for themselves amongst the people. An encouraging eyebrow gets lifted at him. Homelander only notices he's shaking his head when the Frenchman stops dancing alltogether and nods sincerely, like Homelander has just trusted him with a great truth.
Looking around briefly, the man seems to find what he is looking for and starts moving. Feeling a bit like a duckling, Homelander tags along, the sea of bodies parting for them as they move over to a seating area by the far wall.
The room's acoustics are strange. They are barely removed from the dancefloor, but here, it seems actually possible to hold at least a brief conversation. Some people are engrossed in talk. Others are lining up white powder on the tables and leaning down to snort it up. Disgraceful, Homelander thinks, until he sees the Frenchman unpack very similar paraphernalia to the people around them. "Do not worry yourself," he explains. "Relaxing is not an easy thing for you, I can tell."
"I-"
"I came prepared. Sit." He pats the seat next to him, and Homelander reaches behind him to adjust the cape before realizing there's nothing there. He is wearing William's clothing. "Dosage is always a question of powerset, but there has never been a supe I haven't gotten high. Have you ever taken anything?"
"No... I mean, yes. But... It was-" In a lab, taken against my will, poison in my veins, in my throat, in my stomach.
"Did the drugs have an effect?"
"Not all of them."
"Get your finger wet for me."
Homelander blinks, but does as he is told, licking the pad of his finger. He is tasting salt. Is he sweating? It so rarely happens to him.
"Give me your finger."
Again, Homelander complies. The Frenchman gently piles something onto the tip of his pointer finger, a white-ish powder that he previously kept in a small, red-rimmed plastic bag. He gestures at Homelander to wait, then repeats the procedure with his own finger.
"Do as I do."
Homelander, to his own surprise, barely hesitates. He puts his finger in his mouth only half a second after the Frenchman, repeats the movement of rubbing along his gums, then licks off whatever is still there, wincing at the taste. His mouth feels strange now.
The Frenchman looks at him with wonder. "More shy about the dancing than the MDMA. You never even asked what it was, choupinet."
"What?"
"MDMA. Molly. Makes it easier to dance. Makes you want to let yourself fall." The Frenchman's dark eyes look soft, even in the unnatural light of their surroundings. Dark seas of gentleness. Now, with a bit of a feverish haze. "Is it hard for you, to fall, when all you learned to do is flying?"
"I wasn't really asking- I- What did you call me?"
The man chuckles. "Choupinet." He leans forward, almost as if he wants to whisper it into Homelander's ear. "Sweet thing."
He's flirting, Homelander's mind provides, entirely unhelpfully. He can tell that this is flirting. He isn't stupid. But he is surprised at the audacity! He could kill this man on the spot. They are, currently, engaged in the work of trying to find ways to kill the other. This is just one night of- One night, damnit! "How long will it last?"
"A few hours. If you have a meeting in the morning, that might be a problem, but, uh- You can perhaps manage. The comedown is easier for supes."
"I feel nothing."
"It takes a bit to show its effects. Let's keep dancing."
Homelander is beginning to see what the Frenchman meant as he stands up to follow him back onto the dancefloor. He wouldn't consider himself dizzy, but the world is definitely swaying. Or perhaps it is himself who is moving, snakelike, contorting himself to fit through the mass of bodies.
He can feel the crowd around him, and moving with them is easier than thinking about the intricacies of dancing. He's distantly reminded of a worry he used to have, but he can't quite remember it at the moment. It was something silly, surely.
Their former space feels almost reserved for them, and they slot themselves back into the crowd easily, except the room they had to themselves seems to have shrunk - or, perhaps, they have gotten closer to each other. Homelander can feel the heat of the Frenchman's body now, on his own skin. Maybe this is why he told me to leave the shirt open like that, he thinks, nonsensically, almost about to open his mouth and ask the Frenchman whether that was the case, but then thinks better of it.
"It's working, oui?"
The Frenchman's heartbeat is so loud, or perhaps that is the music. Homelander can't quite tell. He doesn't find the words to reply, but he's nodding, hardly knowing what he's agreeing to. It's definitely working.
Homelander makes the concerted effort to close his eyes, his hearing automatically trying to jump in and make up for the one missing sense. He just barely resists the urge to clamp his hands over his ears with the sudden sharpness of it, but instead channels the impulse into grabbing the Frenchman. There's a surprised yelp in the darkness (briefly interrupted every two seconds by the flashing light), then a laugh as Homelander's grip around the man's arms weakens.
He's swaying, head thrown back, lips hurting from how much a smile is pulling them wide. His body is light, so light that he isn't sure he's not lifting off the ground. He only knows this levity from flying. He so wants to tell the Frenchman about flying. He wants to tell him about many, many things. Above all, how they aren't close enough, but that gets rectified when Homelander feels hands at his waist. He isn't opening his eyes at all, finds the Frenchman's body in return, blind, and mirrors him, pushes him closer so they can move together. If this is dancing, he's been missing out. This pesky, stupid human was right. He was fucking right.
He gets pulled forward suddenly, and Homelander loses his rhythm, stumbles into the Frenchman's arms entirely, and they both laugh it off. Finally, he opens his eyes. Everything is more colorful, the shades swimming into each other. The Frenchman leans forward to whisper in his ear: "I promise you, solemnly, whatever happens tonight, nobody will find out. No pictures, no paps."
They're prophetic words, clearly, because the man has picked up on whatever is happening between them. Homelander can tell, but he can't care. The Frenchman speaks to a worry that currently feels so far from Homelander's conscious thought. He knows he should listen, should heed his words, perhaps be extra careful and say 'no,' push the man away, but what he does instead is pull him closer, so they are chest to chest, and lean down to capture his mouth.
It is hunger that overtakes him, desperate and all-encompassing, a hunger that seeps from his very pores, that extends to everything, his skin, even his hair. He wants to be close, and no closeness seems close enough, not when he holds the man to his body, not when he kisses him, not when he opens his mouth on a moan, wide enough to make his jaw ache, and the tips of their tongues touch.
A clumsy girl is bumping into them, and Homelander can hear her voice, almost drowned out by the music, as she says, "Shit, 'xcuse me... Oh wow, okay, you guys are gone-gone."
Homelander is painfully hard, cock aching in the confines of the already tight jeans, more so each time their bodies meet. Anticipating the right movements comes easier now, letting his limbs do all the work for him, entwined with another body. He is beginning to understand why the Frenchman asked him about sex.
The Frenchman, seemingly prophetic again, gets on his tippy-toes and presses his lips very close to Homelander's ear. "Come with me," he whispers, the hot gush of air against his skin enough to make Homelander shudder.
The man takes him by the hand and leads him away from the dancefloor. It takes some maneuvering, the mass of bodies around them leaving Homelander disoriented, and trying to x-ray his way forward causes him to nearly stumble. The strobe lights are overloading his already sensitive eyes. He's holding onto the Frenchman's hand like a lifeline. He almost doesn't want to leave. "Can we go back after?" he hears himself ask. "I was having fuuun."
Stepping out into the maze of hallways feels like stumbling upon a new world. It's dark out here, the only light source the neon signs pointing out where the toilets are. They're not going there. The Frenchman seems to have a destination in mind and drags Homelander along.
They arrive at an empty room, all black and quiet corners, stairways, not outside, but clearly a place that doesn't see much use. Well. Not much use as a club.
The corners of this place aren't nearly as quiet as Homelander originally thought. There's shapes writhing in the dark, and with his senses as muddied as they are, it takes him a few blinks to recognize them as human bodies. Couples. Busy couples. One man has his hands down a woman's top, kneading her breasts as she lets out staccato groans. Another man is pinning a woman against the wall, her already short skirt hiked up some more. They're having sex, barely a wall away from all the dancing. Out in the open.
Moans fill the air, sounding almost like whispers against the backdrop of the bass still hammering in Homelander's ears. This is a pandaemonium of debauchery unlike anything he has ever seen. It is the reason he avoids Herogasm like the plague, but now, with everything crashing down on him all at once, it elicits a moan of his own, his cock throbbing almost in sympathy. And yet-
"There's other people here," Homelander manages to say. "I don't-"
"Ssh." The Frenchman's finger gently traces the line of his upper lip to shush him. "They can't see us the way you see them. It's too dark for a human to see. And they can't hear each other, either. Besides, they are busy making love." He presses his lips to Homelander's briefly, almost chaste compared to what they were doing on the dancefloor. "Let's do as they do." And with that, the Frenchman unceremoniously drops to his knees and unbuckles Homelander's jeans.
A giggle falls from Homelander's lips. "This is familiar soil," he says, tongue feeling much too heavy to properly speak. Despite every syllable slurring together, the Frenchman understands him.
"They say how a man dances is how he fucks." He pulls the waistband of Homelander's underwear down a bit with his finger, kisses his hipbone, tries to suck a hickey into it. To no avail. "But you," he whispers in hot puffs of air against Homelander's skin, "you remain a mystery."
"I think I danced fairly well," Homelander complains, put off by how whiny he sounds, trying to whisper, trying to choke back a moan.
"You remain a mystery," the Frenchman repeats, clearly rambling at this point, perhaps unaware he is talking, his ministrations continuing. "But not for long."
Homelander gasps out a shocked little noise as the Frenchman's hot mouth descends upon his dick, envelops it in hot and velvety wetness. His hips jerk, and the man doesn't even hesitate. He takes him as deep as Homelander wants, no holding back, no gagging, and no resistance as he swallows around him.
Every bob of the man's head leaves Homelander breathless, his sounds strange and weak to his ears. His fingers are digging into the stone wall behind him, hearing it crack, feeling the dust crumble underneath his palms, rain down to the floor. He's drawn tight like a bowstring, but he's still moving in a rhythm, hips jerking forward of their own accord.
The Frenchman is clearly enjoying himself, moaning in appreciation on every lurch forward, an artist sure of his craft, his tongue easily working the head of Homelander's dick. He's received many a blowjob in his life, but none like this.
Every so often, the man lets Homelander's dick fall out of his mouth for a second, leaving it to bob in the cool air, while he lays kisses onto every inch of it, holding the desperate thing still with his hand. He's mumbling words. Homelander's ears couldn't pick them out among the music if he tried, but he's almost entirely certain it's all French anyway, the sound of it foreign, pausing every few seconds for further licks and kisses. Nobody, nobody has ever sucked him off like this.
It's quickly becoming too much: the sounds around them, the music pumping through his veins to the rhythm of his pulse, everything heightened, every sensation magnified. The still-present thrill of being in public. The fact Homelander can hear, smell, feel other couples in the dark, doing as they do, mouths slack and moaning. Their pleasure is contagious, and it's what finally drags him towards the edge and unceremoniously drops him off.
"Fuck," he manages to say, hands scrambling for purchase on the Frenchman's shorn head, pushing him down further onto his dick, "fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuck, 'm gonna-" His knees are threatening to go weak, but the Frenchman presses him into the wall, keeping him steady enough, even as Homelander's hips jerk, the throat he's fucking swallowing convulsively but willingly, not wasting a singlular drop.
The drugs must be fucking with his powers because he was sure he'd kill the man with how hard he was holding onto him, but the Frenchman is perfectly fine when Homelander is beginning to regain feeling in his extremities. His dick feels entirely too sensitive entirely too fast, and he winces as the Frenchman pulls back. That extravagant fuck places one last kiss goodbye onto the tip of his quickly softening length, and Homelander can't help the whine that escapes him at the over-the-top tenderness of that gesture.
"Now this," the man says as he gets up off the floor, looking entirely too put-together for a man who spent the past few minutes sucking dick in a dingy club, "I clearly did not have to help you with. You, mon choupinet, are good. How is a man so uptight able to cum this hard? Huh? I've never seen it before."
Homelander feels like he's come apart at the seams, so all he does is nod. It was probably a compliment, but he's too confused to know for certain.
The Frenchman gets up off his knees, and even though Homelander is distantly aware of not exactly being excited about tasting his own semen in the man's mouth, he kisses him immediately, missing that mouth too much to hold back. The Frenchman, ever the multitasker, is making sure Homelander is tucked back into the borrowed jeans. "More laundry for me," he jokes, and Homelander chuckles at it.
They remain there for a bit, trading kisses and touches, caressing each other's cheeks with their lashes. Homelander doesn't know how long it has been, but where before time has lost all meaning, it is slowly coming back. As is the realization that- No. Too soon for all forms of realizations.
"You want to come home with me?" the Frenchman asks.
"I should go to the Tower," Homelander replies, and even he can tell he sounds whiny about it, like a boy.
"Not like this, you won't. I promised you discretion." The Frenchman cups his cheek, then lets his hand travel down to his neck. Homelander can feel his own blood pump in his veins against the man's fingers. "Come, choupinet."
It is thankfully not far. New York doesn't feel properly real. It looks like a film set, all technicolor. Homelander's ears are ringing in the sudden silence once they leave the club. The Frenchman is fumbling with his keys once they reach the door to his home, only getting them in on the fourth try. They find this incredibly funny for some reason, still laughing about it when they are inside.
"Sit down, sit down," the Frenchman offers and haphazardly pulls things off the couch to make room for Homelander to get seated. Empty take-out, used needles, and books about Sartre's philosophy swept onto the floor by his unsteady fingers, and Homelander plops down so hard the sofa creaks. "Can I get you something to drink, chou-chou?"
"Uh... yep. Milk."
The Frenchman blinks. Homelander's cheeks are beginning to burn. This loose intoxicated tongue will be the end of him. How long do these drugs last?! How unfair is it that he can tell he is talking crap, but can't stop himself? What twilight state is this? But before he can apologize and prepare to swallow down whatever putrid booze the man will no doubt feed him, the Frenchman walks away and returns quicker than Homelander can collect his words - with a glass of milk, cool and fresh.
That opens the floodgates for reasons unknown, and before he knows it, Homelander is sobbing. He clumsily wipes his palm over his face. Despite his chest constricting with sobs, he's surprised to find his hand wet when he pulls it away. "Why am I crying?" he asks, helpless all of a sudden.
"Just the comedown," the Frenchman reassures him, and he doesn't sound particularly upset by it, which feels unbearably upsetting to Homelander. Aren't his tears worth more than a shrug and a few comforting words? He so desperately wants to stop crying. But he will admit that the warm arms that wrap themselves around him and pull him close enough to listen to the Frenchman's heartbeat feel good enough to quell whatever gash of sadness has just opened up inside of him. "All the feelings have to come out. This is a better way than puking them up."
Homelander takes a sip of the milk and has a hard time putting it down without spilling any. The Frenchman helps him, somehow already less affected by the drugs (or simply used to them?), sets the glass down without any spillage and turns on the TV in the same second. "You know what I watch when I am sad? The Golden Girls! Now that is a show about friendship, and love, and if I show you anything else tonight, it is this. I used to..." The Frenchman pauses, swallows hard. Homelander looks up at him, only now realizing he has somehow cuddled into the man without consciously even moving. "I watched this alone, in another life, and afterwards with friends, in another-another, often after we came home from the club and couldn't sleep. And now here I am, watching it with you."
"Never seen it," Homelander admits.
"Let me broaden your mind one last time tonight, then. So, Dorothy..."
Homelander never really finds out what Dorothy is doing, or perhaps he did find out and simply can't recall being told. He can't, for the life of him, remember the plot of the episode. All he remembers are white-haired ladies living it up.
The morning finds him finding out it's actually noon. There's 14 texts from Ashley on his phone, and more missed calls that he knows he won't answer. The Frenchman appears to be an early bird, and he is very ready to offer Homelander a late breakfast, chipper as always, but the druggy haze is gone, and Homelander seriously plays with the idea of killing him after all.
Perhaps he wishes he had forgotten more than the plot of The Golden Girls. Perhaps.
"I will be seeing you," he tells the Frenchman, formal but curt, after he's zipped the costume up. "Under different circumstances."
The Frenchman, to Homelander's surprise, doesn't look sad or disappointed. "Fly home, choupinet. Don't forget to tap your feet every once in a while, hm?"
He waves at Homelander as he watches him fly away.
some of y'all are like "why does this villain-- the perfect model of an archetype which for centuries has been used to express lust and forbidden sexuality-- get so much shippy attention?? lol you guys must be degenerates" and I just....can't relate lol
You stand next to the bathtub silently and watch the recently emptied tub fill once more. Fresh waves of steam fill the room and gather on your skin. A bead of sweat trickles down your spine from the humidity. You’re warm, too warm. Especially with the body at your back, standing close and resting gentle hands on your hips. His grip is soft and tender, like you’re something so fragile that a single sudden movement could smash you to bits. It almost makes you forget what happened to lead you both here and the awful mess he made when he cradled your head in hands that shook with restraint.
You should run. Logically, you know this. You’ve always been aware of the danger lurking beneath the surface of him. You’ve been bombarded with warnings from worried coworkers ever since you started regularly bringing him your baking. Ashley is convinced you’re insane. She tells you stories and you believe them. You see how much he scares her. You aren’t blind to the news reports and viral videos either. You’ve been whistling merry tunes and playing the sweet swooning girlfriend, but you’ve always been aware of the teeth around your arm.
But that’s the thing.
He’s never bit you. Instead he’s sweet and chivalrous. A little bit of an oddball who sometimes seems more mannequin than man, but who is always painfully human to you. He isn’t just an out of your league crush, he's your friend. He’s your confidant. He calls and you ramble about your baking till he gets bored and then he’ll talk philosophy while you ask questions even if only to keep yourself awake. You listen to his venting while he’s endlessly entertained by stories of your boss's neuroticism. You watch movies together on your couch, wrapped up in blankets that have begun to smell like him. He cradles you in his arms when the thunder rattles your teeth. When the tiger only ever acts like a housecat, it’s easy to pretend that is all it is.
Even now, bloody from his hands and emotionally wrung out, you fight the urge to collapse into his arms. You want to let your legs give out while you fall back into him, knowing he’ll catch you. You want to forget the carnage and the mania. You want to ignore the mix of terror and rage in his eyes as he shook you hard enough for your head to ache. Your arms are tender from bruises but that’s all they are, bruises.You’ve known what he is but you don’t care. It worries you but not only that…you’re worried for him. You recognize that look in his eyes.
You recognize them from your childhood, another friendship gone wrong.
Another supe with insides made of shattered glass.
You reach down to turn off the stream of water but make a pointed decision to add some bubbles first. An action that fills you with heat at the implications that you might require some cover. You’ll be naked with him…exposed. He’d wanted you to join him in the filthy bloody slurry of soap and gore, yet there are things you won’t do, not even for him. So you waited for a clean slate, waited with his hands on you and his breath on your neck.
Let me make it better
You suppress a shiver as you remember the softness of his tone, how gentle and earnest it was. It’s everything you want. He’s everything you want. He shouldn’t be, but he is. He killed for you. He killed for you. He protected you from the scum of the earth and while the guilt of being responsible for another person’s demise weighs heavy, it also fills you with a certain warm euphoria. After so many years of your pain and humiliation being seen as an afterthought, he took action for you. The dried blood on your cheeks itches.
Even after the stream has stopped, a few drops exit the spout to drop into the tub, the sound of water on water is deafening in the silence. You know what comes next. You know a line is about to be crossed that can’t ever be uncrossed.
“Do you mind?” You ask shyly as you gesture for him to turn around. He gives a soft amused little huff that fills your body with heat. It’s a strange juxtaposition, how the mere thought of intimate contact horrified you only a few hours ago and how Homelander’s hands on you had felt so heavy and final. How Tiger Stripe’s filthy hands had you nauseous, sex seeming so animalistic and disgusting. You don’t know what real sex beyond the efforts of your hand feels like, but his presence made you never want to try. With Homelander, intimacy still feels terrifying, but in the way the hill of a roller coaster does before you are swept away into the thrill of it. The lump in your stomach feels less like trepidation but anticipation. It makes it easy to forget his rough handling, whether you should or not. You need comfort right now. You need a distraction.
Of course, you might be getting ahead of yourself. You bathing him was a practical affair, maybe he intends the same with you.
He taps his fingers against your hips for a second, each tap thrumming deep in your bones.
“If you insist, I’ll give the lady her privacy.” He teases before removing his hands and turning around, hands crossed behind his back. It’s weird seeing him like this, stripped of all his layers. You take the time to truly look. A light pink towel is wrapped around his slender hips giving you the chance to admire the muscles of his back. He has a runner’s build, such a juxtaposition to the thickness of his suit, much more fitted to a body builder than to Homelander’s svelte physicality. You prefer him like this. You feel like he’s someone real now, like he’s someone you can be with outside of your little world. He’s not some mythical figure that you feel deluded to think you’d have a chance with. He’s just a man…a man who wants to bathe with you.
You take a deep breath and grab the hem of your oversized sweatshirt, pull it over your head and drop it on the ground. Homelander’s fingers twitch at the noise and he shifts on his feet. For a moment, you think he might turn around. But he doesn’t. You’re almost disappointed but mostly relieved. You put your thumbs in the waistband of your sleep shorts and tug them down along with your underwear and kick them to the side. The muggy heat feels obscene on your bare skin and for a moment you consider backing out. This is unfamiliar territory.
You don’t. Instead you take a deep breath that Homelander mirrors as you step into the tub. The water is one digit away from scalding and the shock of it is welcome as it distracts you from your racing thoughts. You slowly sit, letting your body adjust to the temperature. Sweat beads at your temples and rolls down your neck. The crusted blood feels even more coarse on your skin as every nerve ending fires at all cylinders. You sink into the water, letting the bubbles cover your chest before you call out to him shakily.
“All good. You can turn around now.”
You expect him to waste no time but instead he leisurely untucks the towel around his waist and lets it fall to the floor. Your breath catches in your throat and you freeze as his body is exposed to you. You know you should give him the same privacy that he afforded you, but you feel frozen as your gaze rakes over his body. You flush at the sight of his pert ass and the two dimples at the bottom of his spine that you ache to touch. He’s beautiful, better than anything you could have imagined. But as he turns you remember yourself and avert your gaze, staring pointedly at your knees sticking out of the bubbles like little mountains. He chuckles, no doubt picking up the embarrassment on your face. He doesn’t seem offended.
You see the shape of him in your peripheral vision as he walks closer. His footsteps sound slightly slick on the damp tile floor. You can feel your heartbeat between your thighs. You expect him to get in with you but instead he kneels. You look at him shyly and notice he’s grabbed a fresh washcloth. He doesn’t grab the unscented soap this time. Instead, he grabs the container of brown sugar scrub that you made. You make a soft sound, about to tell him that a sugar scrub and soap aren’t the same thing, but you can’t seem to make words work. You suppose it will at least get the blood off either way.
He unscrews the lid and dips the washcloth in, gathering a small amount. He reaches a hand up to cradle your face gently just like you did his. His thumb swipes briefly over your bottom lip and you sigh. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
“Scrub a dub dub!” He sing-songs as he waves the cloth at you before dabbing at the streaks of blood on your cheekbones. The cheesiness of the saying mixed with the tickle of the cloth makes you burst into giggles. For a moment, he almost looks offended, his eyes wide as he tries to deduce whether your laughter is genuine or mocking. But he soon grins and chuckles right along with you, scrubbing a bit at the sensitive spot behind your ear now that he’s figured out you’re ticklish. You playfully try to shy away at the sensation and the push and pull causes water to splash all over Homelander. Drops of water catch in the hair of his chest and all of a sudden you can’t look away. The air feels heavier and his eyes are darkly amused. The flighty animal from earlier is gone, replaced with something slightly less dangerous but even more predatory.
“Careful Missy, we don’t want you wasting water.” He purrs, the hand holding your face shifting to firmly hold your jaw in place so you can’t shift away. He begins washing your other cheek. The roughness of the scrub makes your skin tender but in a way that feels…good. His firm strokes go straight between your legs, every nerve ending feeling over-sensitive at each pass.
“Homelander…” You whine mindlessly, carried away by everything that is happening.
He jolts and for a moment his grip on you tightens like he’s trying to use you to steady himself. His eyes go wide and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He whispers your name in return and causes goosebumps to erupt all over your arms despite the hot water.
“I…” He pauses, blinking heavy-lidded as his eyes scan what bits of your body are exposed. He swallows heavily. “I’m going to get in now.”
This is it. This is the point of no return. Whatever happens after this will be forever colored by this moment in time. How are you supposed to come back from this? Only a few hours ago, you thought he’d wanted nothing to do with you. Now he’s killed for you. Now, his naked skin is about to be pressed to yours in the steamy haven of your small bathroom. The emotional whiplash is no doubt affecting your decision making when you nod and pull your legs up tighter, giving him space at the other end of the tub. You discreetly turn your head to the side, giving him some privacy as he stands. You can feel the heat from his body and when you realize how close…parts of him are, your chest constricts like you just got sucker punched.
You focus on a small crack in the wall as the water shifts and swirls around you when he gets in. He sighs at the almost scalding temperature and groans as he fully sinks in. His legs are longer than yours and in order to fit comfortably, he stretches them out on either side of you and brackets you between them. Your heart pounds as your feet nudge against his inner thighs, close enough that if you stretched your leg out a bit, you’d be able to brush against his…
Fuck, you feel like a teenager again. Sitting in class and getting flustered by even the no nonsense lecturing of the sex ed teacher. You can’t look at him but you feel his eyes burning holes in you.
You’re not a prude. You’ve watched porn. You have a fair selection of smutty romance novels. You’ve used your showerhead after you’ve finished a phone conversation with Homelander more times than you can count, moaning and writhing in the same tub you’re squeezed into now. You know exactly how to touch yourself to get yourself off. You’ve imagined riding him like a pornstar, him spreading you out on your kitchen counter and eating you out, you mouthing at his cock while he holds you in place and coos sweet nothings at you. But imagination and reality are two completely different things and right now, you couldn’t feel more out of your league if you tried.
“Your heart’s pounding. Are you scared?” His soft voice jolts you out of your reverie and you turn to look at him. His gaze is piercing with a slight mocking glint and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or if he’s serious. His eyes flick down to your chest where your heart flutters under your skin. You gulp, sweet heat flooding your veins and gathering between your legs. You imagine him pressing you into the tile floor, fucking up into you while you moan.
“I’ve just never been naked around someone else before. It’s…intimidating.” You reply and he gives a soft hum that you can’t read. He smiles and reaches out to pat your knee, rubbing it with his thumb gently. You can’t help but shift under the water and he watches the movement closely, tongue briefly flicking behind his teeth.
“I got naked first.” He replies, cocking his head with a smile. His thumb keeps making those tiny circles. It reminds you of the second time you spoke to him, how he’d rested his hands on yours, and how the feeling of leather against your skin haunted you for days. The feeling of his skin on yours is even more intoxicating.
“Yes, but I’m sure you’ve been naked around lots of people.” You huff, suddenly aware of the huge gap in your experience levels. He dated Queen Maeve for goodness sake. You’re just you.
He goes quiet and looks at you, eyes narrowing for a moment. You feel small under his scrutiny and you worry that you are going to come up lacking somehow. Instead he leans back, and you mourn the loss of his hand on your knee, even if it means you can think a lot more clearly.
“You’re a virgin.” He says matter of factly, his mouth twisting into a smug smirk. It’s a statement and not a question. He doesn’t seem at all surprised and the blunt way that he states it makes your whole body go up in flames. The hot water feels suffocating now instead of soothing. Your whole body throbs and your nipples stiffen under the water. You cross your arms over your chest.
“I fail to see how that’s relevant to this situation.” You snap. For a moment you wonder if he’ll get offended by your tense demeanor but he laughs. Cocking his head playfully, he rubs his bare thigh against yours. You jump at the sensation and spill water all over the tile flooring.
“What situation is that? I’m curious.” He purrs, leaning back indulgently as he slips deeper into the water. You have to scrunch up your legs tighter to protect your space. Every inch of your body is wound tight like a spring. Your skin feels painfully sensitive, every sensation amplified. This frightens you even more than when he was breaking down on the fire escape. That was about him and you could lose yourself in the act of soothing him, as intense as the moment may have been. Being the center of his attention like this, when you aren’t even sure how to handle that attention, when you are fully exposed and vulnerable, means you can’t hide away with polite smiles and sweet smelling gifts. It means he has to really see you.
“Taking care of me.” You whisper, echoing his words from earlier. That’s what you really want. You want him to comfort you like you did him. You want him holding you so close and tight that everything bad slips away. You want him to feel solid and safe. You want him but you also want the man who holds you after a storm and giggles with you on the phone long after any decent person should have been in bed. You bite your lip, hoping to somehow convey that to him.
The smirk drops.
His expression flattens. He looks away then down as he gently shakes his head. His eyebrows furrow and for a second it looks like he’s having some sort of inner argument that you aren’t privy too. You wonder if you said something wrong.
But when he opens his eyes and looks at you again, his eyes are contemplative. He still looks hungry but it’s something gentler. He’s not looking at you like some prey he’s just waiting to devour. He just looks like…him. For the first time tonight, you feel like you see your Homelander.
“C’mere.” He reaches out for you and beckons his fingers to gesture you closer. He tilts his head and gives you that warm smile he does whenever he first sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners and you notice a lock of hair has limply fallen over his forehead. “Let me take care of my girl."
My Girl
You can’t resist that.
You rise up and shift on to your knees, one arm still wrapped across your breasts. He grabs you gently and arranges you against him till you are resting against his chest and nestled between his legs. He holds you tight, exactly the way you’ve been needing him to. All of the tension and sorrow and horror just slips away down the drain, chased away by his embrace. You melt into him and you can feel a rumble of contentment deep in his chest. His hair is soft on your cheek. Slowly, the anxiety about your nudity begins to slip away. This feels natural. This is safe. You can indulge in the closeness and warmth of him. The pulse between your thighs still pounds, but it’s a soothing steady beat and not an ominous drum.
You close your eyes and bury your face in his neck. He shudders and bucks slightly underneath you, adjusting the angle he’s holding you so he can shift underneath the water. You hear the squelch of a wet washcloth and a jar being opened before you feel the cloth gently rub your back. It’s slightly gritty, a sign he used the body scrub again. Every nerve lights up like a christmas tree as he proceeds to wash you. There’s a slow pass down your arm, a brush against your hipbone, a quick massage at your neck, he’s making sure to leave no part of you untouched by his cleaning efforts.
A quiet sob that you didn’t realize you had been holding in bubbles out of your chest. You try to muffle it against his skin but he knows. He pauses, muscles briefly going tight at the sound of it. Each silent second passing feels like a year. You cling to him tightly with one arm while the other continues to protect your modesty. Your nipples are still hard beneath their cover. You wonder what would happen if you moved and rubbed yourself against him. What would he do?
He continues his efforts.
“I know I was a bit…intense earlier.” He rubs against a stubborn knot in your shoulder. You sniffle and nod, snuggling in closer, needing to feel the solidity of him.
“Don’t wanna talk about it. Just want you to hold me.” You whine, a bit pathetically. You know you should talk about it. In fact, that should be your first priority. But the two of you have talked enough today. What can you even say? What can you do?
Homelander seems more than happy to oblige. You feel his grin against your temple.
“Can do, Buckaroo. Want me to kiss it better?” He asks, barely finishing before you’re pressing your lips against his desperately. You’d crawl into his skin if you could. Now that the invisible barrier has been broken, you ache for him and the comfort he gives you. You’ve missed him so much. You’ve been so lonely.
Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.
Anything is better than that.
His lips are soft but insistent against yours. He returns your kisses with quick teasing little pecks, pulling back to make you chase him. The washcloth is tossed to the floor with a wet squelch but you barely even notice. He wraps his arm around you, drawing you in close and brushing his fingers tenderly down your side. You shiver, just on the verge of ticklish there. He hums into every brush of your lips against his, always drawing away right when you attempt to deepen the kiss. You quickly grow frustrated. You want him to stop smirking and let you have him. That untethered feeling from before is coming back, that gut sense that you’re playing a game that you don’t know the rules to, when he’s sitting there with the fucking handbook.
In your desperation, your self-consciousness is pushed to the wayside. It’s inconvenient. So when he leans away to tease you again, you remove your arm from your breasts so you can grab his face in your hands and keep him still. He grunts and his mouth opens in shock at the feeling of you fully pressed against him. You take the opportunity to slip your tongue in, brushing it shyly against his before retreating. Your nipples ache at the scratch of his chest hair. He moans, loud and desperate. The sound fills you with a smug sort of satisfaction that goes straight between your legs. His hands twitch at your hips, like he wants to grab you but is too afraid.
In a mere instant, you go from unsure to powerful. You weren’t even trying but you managed to somehow tip the scales in your favor. It no longer feels like you are being sized up by a discerning eye like a piece of meat on a butcher block but as an equal, equally hungry for what he can give you. In a bold move that shocks even you, you throw your leg over his hip and straddle him, slyly grinning against his mouth when he whines.
You press closer as you wrap your arms around his neck, slotting yourself fully against him. He’s lean but you can still feel the strength thrumming under his skin. He’s soft on the surface but there is steel underneath. Luckily for you, he’s malleable beneath your touch as he responds eagerly. You’re so close that you can feel his heartbeat against yours. It is absurdly intimate and a syrupy sweet sort of pleasure builds in the pit of your stomach. He’s panting against your mouth more than kissing you, each minute shift of you causing moans to spill from his lips into yours. His hands find their place on your thighs as he tugs your bottom half closer. His grip is measured and patient but inescapable as he maneuvers you slowly with trembling hands.
“Yesyesyes” He whispers desperately, eyes closed and more whine than word. You nip at his bottom lip experimentally, surprised but pleased by your own boldness. You don’t feel helpless or trapped despite his hold on you. It’s the opposite. You feel free, free to touch him, free to love him. He’s easy. You realize with a giggle that is quickly cut off with a gasp.
The world suddenly shifts on its axis.
All of a sudden, you feel him. His adjustments and insistent prodding now has you pressed against him fully, no longer just heart to heart, you are connected in every way two people you can be. You freeze and he lets you. He changes tactics to place wet desperate kisses against your jaw as the realization hits of just how close you are.
The first thought that runs through your mind is how hot his cock is as it rests between your thighs. It’s like he’s running a fever, every inch throbbing and warm against you. You swear you can feel his pulse matching up to the pounding you can feel in his chest. He’s hard too. There’s no give to him as your hips give an experimental buck, a wanton noise leaving your lips that you can’t even hear through the ringing in your ears. The pleasurable sweet feeling in your stomach erupts into licking flames as your clit grinds against him. It’s obscene. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
Even your own hands never felt this alive, this raw. You were no stranger to rubbing yourself off. But that was always under the sheets with the lights turned off or in the shower, a quick nasty affair to take the edge off. It had always felt good, especially when the scent of him still lingered around you. You’d get that beautiful burst of release but it always faded as quickly as it came and you moved on. This was agony. Your shyness and reservations having no choice to be stripped away. There’s no hiding underneath cover or in the dark. You’re exposed to him. And you know he can feel you just as vividly as you feel him. Your face burns as your thoughts race, imagining him and what he’s thinking. He can feel how soft and wet you are, the hard nub of your clit rubbing against him. The slick mess between your thighs is so different from the water surrounding you.
It’s like a hug.
The thought comes to you unbidden and the innocent association makes you shudder and grind against him, this time your body moving independently from your mind. It has no adjustments to make or conflicting thoughts to parse through. It knows what it wants and is impatient in the pursuit of pleasure.
“I really made you hard huh? I can feel you pulsing against me.” You groan. It’s a rhetorical question, more directed at yourself than him. The thoughts in your brain are so loud that you can’t help but speak them into existence. His hips jerk gracelessly at your words, an automatic firing of his nerves like the last desperate brain firings of a dying man. His cock twitches amidst the folds of your cunt like it has a mind of its own.
“Hngngn fucking slut.” He sighs, eyes scrunching closed with effort like he’s trying to fight something off. The harsh degrading word should have hurt, should have stung. Especially considering your earlier conflict, how in his anger he accused you of something so horrible that you’d wanted to push him off your fire escape then and there. If it hadn’t been for the fear in his eyes, you’d have believed he’d meant it. Even the memory of it now makes your throat close. But you aren’t in that memory. You’re here, in the tub with him. When he moaned, it didn’t sound like an insult or a jibe. It felt reverent.
He removes one hand from your thigh, nudging it between your chests so he can cup your breast and toy with your nipple. You never particularly considered your breasts to be that sensitive before. But now, you feel like you might come from his touch alone.
“Christ, these tits. Wanna suck on them all day.” He pants, his eyes glazed over. You aren’t entirely sure he’s even aware of what he’s saying. He cups you, bouncing your breast in his hand to test the weight of you in his palm. Your nipple feels like a sparking exposed wire against his skin. His hands are soft and smooth, no callouses or marks anywhere to be found. Of course not, he’s incapable of being blemished that way. You’re dripping onto him, there’s no amount of water in the world that can wash away the mess you’re making.
“Think about it…hng…all the time…AAaaAh. Can smell you in the halls…gnhh. Wet little pussy and no one else knows…FUCK…FUckng Fuuuuuuck.” He rambles, trailing off and groaning when you rub harder against him with each word.
A wave of pure embarrassment floods your body, little bites of shame sinking their teeth into you as the thought of him being aware the whole time of your…eagerness around him. If you were anywhere other than where you are, you’d have been mortified and humiliated. But he’s so desperate under you that all the initial discomfort turns into something blinding and brilliant. Here you were this whole time, worried that you were the perverted one. Thinking that if he knew that he couldn’t even give you a friendly wave without you twisting it, he’d have left you in disgust. You laugh breathlessly. It seems silly now. You were so convinced he’d been avoiding you because of the incident in your room.
Although to the part of you deep down that isn’t lost in pleasure, this thought isn’t a comfort. It means it could be something even worse.
“Think about you too. Didn’t think you’d want me.” You confess and he huffs in disbelief. He paws at your ass, grabbing a cheek and prying it open. His fingers barely brush against your hole, just on the verge of nothing at all. You jolt, the feeling completely alien to you and your toes curl at how illicit it feels. You brace yourself for more but instead he uses the leverage to control your pace.
“Fucking ridiculous. HNg. Every…shit aaAah…every time you’d bring me something…huh huh, wanted to eat you instead. aH! Taste even sweeter I fUckINg know it. Hnhhhhh.”
You have no idea if he’s telling the truth or if the pleasure is warping his brain and causing him to make shit up. You desperately hope it’s the former.
“Homelander!” You moan and he makes a noise that’s almost a sob. He leans down to mouth at the space between your breasts. He buries his face in you so you can’t see whatever emotion leaked out around the pleasure. He kneads your breast desperately, like he’s clinging to a lifeline. He mumbles something against your skin that you can’t quite make out. It almost sounds like a name. You reach down to run your fingers through his wet and messy hair and again he muffles the word into your skin. It’s a bit clearer this time and you realize it is a name.
John
“John?”
He seizes up at the sound of it, every muscle stiff and frozen as he pants heavily. His grip on you tightens bruisingly and when you try to move in his grip you find yourself trapped. His breathing is ragged as he tries to regain composure. His pulse flutters wildly in his chest, beating against his skin like a frightened bird. He cock twitches and throbs against your pussy like it has a mind of its own. His eyes are screwed shut as he grimaces against your skin. For a moment you worry that he’s in pain. You shift again, trying to pull away so you can take better stock of him in your concern. But he makes a strangled noise like someone punched him in the gut.
“Don’t! Don’t…hngn.” He buries his face in your neck and pants, each labored breath ending in a choked whine. “Gonna…hng.”
It takes you a moment before you realize what’s happening. He’s trying not to cum. He’s holding back with great effort. There’s something about it that’s deeply endearing to you. The raw sexual energy that took you over softens, no less intense, just different. Seeing him like this, lost and vulnerable, makes you want to care for him. You want to hold him while he tips over the edge, wanna whisper sweet nothings while he lets himself go. You want him to feel safe in your arms. You’re almost certain who the name belongs to.
“Is that your name?” You ask gently. He whimpers and nods, hands flexing against you.
“PLeAse!” He begs in return although he doesn’t reveal what he’s begging for.
“Want me to call you that?” You coo. A strangled noise rips from his throat. You swear you can feel tears on your neck.
“You feel so good, John.” While his hands are still holding you in place, you snake your hand down between your two bodies to gently palm his cock. For such a lean man, you’re surprised by how thick his cock is. It fills your hand perfectly. You don’t stroke or rub him. You just cup your hand over him, letting him feel the warmth of it…like a hug.
It barely takes a moment before it happens. Just that soft touch undoes him. His cock spasms wildly in your hand and his mouth drops open as he lets out a loud groan that’s animalistic in its rawness. His hands immediately leave your body. Instead he grips the edges of the tub until you hear an ominous crack. His whole body is trembling and flushes red. It thrills you. You’ve never seen him blush like this. You certainly never imagined you’d be the cause of it. You follow through on your desire from earlier, holding him through it as he works through his pleasure, whispering his name and a myriad of other praises in his ear while he writhes against you. His hips twitch and buck up into you and you can’t resist a debauched moan of your own as your neglected clit is suddenly getting stimulated again. Your pussy flutters against his cock.
He whimpers what you think are apologies although his words are too slurred to tell. His eyes are screwed shut. He looks so beautiful that your chest squeezes painfully. You did this to him. You’re the one who made him feel this good. The feeling of it is like a drug, making you feel euphoric and hazy despite not reaching a peak yourself. A few blissful moments pass.
His eyes fly open. His gaze is glazed over and hazy but there’s a blank determination in his eyes that pushes through. His hands grab at your thighs to help you wrap your legs around his waist. He stands up shakily, legs still weak and trembling with pleasure. For a moment you worry that he is going to fall and drop you to the floor, but he doesn’t. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing at the damp skin behind his ear. He tastes faintly like soap and there’s something deeply erotic about the mundanity of it. He doesn’t hesitate, clearing knowing where he wants to go, even if he’s not at the point to be capable of forming words yet. He carries you to your bedroom, stepping over the trail of bloody towels, a reminder that despite how the evening has turned out there is still a mess to be cleaned up that a simple bath can’t touch. He dumps you unceremoniously on the bed, not caring that your wet body is soaking through your clean sheets.
Before you can even get your bearings, he’s ducking down to suck at your nipples, giving each one a few seconds of love, teasing them back into hard aching peaks. You reach down to cup his cheek as he suckles but he’s already moving. He leaves eager messy kisses down your body before he kneels beside the bed. He’s barely situated before he’s yanking you forward by your knees and carefully draping your legs over his shoulders. Your heart stops as you realize what’s happening. Your bare pussy is bare in front of him. He can see all of you, every detail, wet and glistening for him to admire at his leisure. You want to know what he’s thinking, if he likes what he sees. Or if you’re boring and lackluster compared to all the other lovers he’s had. You clench around nothing, torn between wanting to hide and wanting him to get closer and touch you. But he makes a decision for you.
With no preamble or build up, he leans in to lick a broad hot stripe through your folds and your vision goes white. You faintly hear an obscene moan, like something that would sound too desperate even for porn, somewhere in the background. You’re too busy getting fucked by his tongue for you to realize that it’s you. He’s sucking and licking at you like he needs it to live. Making pleased little grunts of effort as he nuzzles against your clit and laps at your twitching hole. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed but if you were on the outside looking in, you’d be clutching your pearls at just how sloppy you are, the slick sounds of your sopping pussy filling the room. You didn’t even know it was possible for a person to be this wet. When he comes up for a breather, you have to turn your head away at the sight of his dripping face. The graphic evidence of your own arousal is too much to take.
Seemingly sensing that you are becoming overwhelmed, he briefly pulls away to lean in for a kiss. He deepens it instantly, softly sucking at your bottom lip till you open up and he slips his tongue against yours, filling your mouth with your own taste. His mouth is wet with you. While he kisses you senseless, he begins to rub at your clit with his thumb, keeping it company while his mouth is occupied. You moan into his mouth and he smirks against your lips.
His voice is low and gravely, sticky with satisfaction, as he murmurs against you.
“Nothing sweeter than cherry pie.”
You want to smack him for that, mortified at the subject of your virginity being brought up again in this way. He’s turned the tables on you again, making up for his vulnerability by exploiting yours. Almost like he’s taking revenge on you for making him come so soon. But despite how he’s flustered you, your body gives a hot eager throb, clearly loving the attention. It’s almost as if the more shy you become, the wetter you get. You hope he can’t tell but the glint in his eyes tell you he does.
He slips two fingers into you and he has you so wet that despite the aching stretch, they slide right in. Your eyes roll back, glad you can’t see the smug look on his face as he feels around with the tips of his fingers, leisurely curling them until he finds a spot that makes you go blind. You’ve never felt ANYTHING like this when you’ve touched yourself before.
Satisfied by your pathetically desperate state, he kneels back down to suck at your clit while he scissors and pumps his fingers into you. Your hand buries itself in his hair as your hips involuntarily grinds against his face. He looks up at you, eyes sly and crinkled at the corners as he drags you closer and closer to that precipice. But despite the carnal ferocity of his mouth and fingers, his free hand strokes the outside of your thigh soothingly. You reach down to brush against it and he takes your hand and intertwines your fingers. It’s a sweet gesture and the tenderness of it mixed with the debauched things he’s doing to you unravels you.
Something deep inside you cracks open as your entire world narrows down to the blinding pleasure between your thighs. It fills your veins like liquid gold, slow and warm, each heartbeat pumping more and more sweet joy through your blood stream. You moan loudly and he echoes you, so loud and desperate that you think he may have come again himself. He continues to pump his fingers into you while he switches from sucking on your clit to giving it soft messy kisses instead as he gentles you down from your high. He’s a fascinating creature, so capable of cruelty and violence, but with a surprising capacity for tenderness. He switches between these parts of himself so easily, based on some internal whim that you can’t begin to fathom. It’s inexplicable that the hands that handled you so harshly and the mouth that talked to you so coldly, the man who covered you in blood and slaughtered a man without a care, is so careful with you now.
You whine and push at him when the sensitivity becomes too much and his touch begins to sting. He complies, giving you one last kiss.
“For good luck.” He says with a wink and your heart squeezes painfully. His expression is soft and boyish, which is only amplified by the fact that his productless hair has dried into a fluffy mess. He looks almost innocent despite being buried face first in you moments before, chin still slick with you. You remember what he asked you to call him earlier.
“C’mere John.” You beckon.
His eyes widen with surprise and for a moment you think he might cry. His lip trembles slightly. Your stomach drops and you worry that you may have crossed a line. But no, he crawls into your arms and draws you close. You stroke his hair and his shoulders as he nuzzles against your collarbone. He shakes in your arms as you cradle him but he doesn’t cry. He reminds you of a shelter dog being a pet for the first time, craving the gentle touch but unsure of what it is. His intense reaction just to his name gives you pause.
Another face flashes through your mind.
Big scared eyes and bloody hands.
Just a child.
No older than you were when the accident happened.
In the silence of your bedroom, as you finally have the time to process the chaos of everything that is happening, you get a sick feeling in your stomach as you begin to drift off in his embrace.
'crying crying during sex that leads to a pause or early end to comfort and take care of whatever emotions bubbled over'
Homelander x Reader please <3
[Masterlist]
18+ Only | 2.2k | Want to send your own request? | depowered!Homelander x female!Reader | Insecurity. Established Relationship. Just an emotional mess to write my feelings out really. Not actually much of the sex part anon! But I guessed that's okay.
Sorry for the photo, I needed his depowered face :(
You’re flat on your back with Homelander’s warm body right next to you, resting on his side and leaning over you. It was his idea. You didn’t want to rush him into anything. It’s only been a couple of days and he’s been healing slowly—no, normally. The state you managed to get him out in wasn’t pretty.
To a point that you’re just grateful to all the powers at play that he’s still next to you today.
But you understand wanting things to feel normal. At your usual pace. Like the whole world hasn’t witnessed… well, that. So with a soft, sweet smile you let him have this. Letting him push you on top of the bed sent a little thrill up your spine. His strength could never compare to what it used to be and yet that’s the best part. You’re mindful enough to understand that he’s not ready to hear that you prefer him this way.
His strength is no longer a threat, it’s a thing you get to enjoy without that tiny flicker of doubt at the level of fine control he possesses. If somebody asks you? This is your happy ending. With the dirty, infectious claws of Vought dislodged from his shoulders, you can finally breathe again.
You just want him to see it that way too.
But it’s not that simple on the other side—you’re sympathetic to that.
You thought starting with kissing was a good idea, he’s always been fond of the act. Being stripped of his powers doesn’t take the joy of the mundane away. The kisses started off slow. Cautious of his bruised skin you didn’t pull him in the way you usually would. So you let him lead the pace, let him lie on top of you kissing you delicately as if you were the injured one.
Eventually he slides off you to get a better angle as his hand slips down your body.
You whine pretty for him when he kisses your neck with tongue and teeth, his smile tactile against your skin. That’s when you loosen up. The worry of what he built this moment up to is gone—you just get to enjoy the feeling of his lips on your skin and his hand down your body.
Homelander’s hand slips under your pyjama shorts and lucky for him you’ve already forgoed underwear. You sigh when his fingers dip into the centre of you, wetting them before coming back up to rub your clit.
“Mhm, that feels really nice.” Your breathy tone should tell him everything he needs to know.
It does feel really nice. You melt into the mattress, enjoying the pleasurable tingles migrating into every limb. Once Homelander stops kissing you, instead focusing mental energy on how his fingers play your tune, you turn your head to the side, kissing his unbruised shoulder before lying it back down again to close your eyes.
He feels great—just like usual—but it’s not the rushed dizzying pace he used to put you through. This feels like a fantastic massage more than a race to an orgasm.
You like it that way. Homelander less so.
It’s dark—he insisted on it—so you barely see when the issue starts, let alone when it turns into a full-blown meltdown.
His hand stills, pointer finger tapping your clit in slow succession.
“I–uh—I used to be good at this.” Your eyes shoot open and your head snaps to your right.
“What?”
“Making you feel good. I used to… I used to be able to feel you better. Every pulse, every breath. It’s—it was—second nature. I could hear your heartbeat riight here.” He taps your clit again, almost disappointed. You can only imagine the face he’s put on.
All the pleasure drains from your system. You don’t know how to approach this.
He lets out a humourless chuckle, “I used to be able to look through you and find exactly where to touch you.”
You can’t help but snort, “I wish you hadn’t done that.” That was the wrong thing to say. You see him snap his head to you. One choked-up breath is enough to sink a heavy weight in your gut.
“Well thank fuck you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” His voice caught in his throat, soft and vulnerable.
“Homelander—oh baby, no no no, that is not what I meant.” You pull yourself up, leaning over to click the bedside lamp on while his hand slides off your body and with a soft thud it hits the bedding. Homelander sits up.
“Hey look at me,” you put your hand on his arm after he angrily wipes his tears. “Do you think I’m not enjoying myself? Or that you’re—that you’re not… enough?”
Your hand goes up to hold his jaw, softly rubbing below the cut on his cheek. The residual tracks of his tears wet your thumb.
He looks away from you, your hand is left hanging in the air. He turns his body, legs hanging off the edge of the bed.
“You’ve always been… ecstatic, euphoric, over the fucking moon anytime we fucked. But that’s gone, huh? I’m no longer a god. I never was.” He visibly swallows, his chest heaves with a sob.
“You know I’ve never cared for power.” Softly you slide up behind him, arms wrapping around his torso from behind with slow motion—testing the waters if he’ll let you.
He does. You press a lingering kiss against his spine.
“I love being with you, and I always will. You don’t need your senses to touch me right. You’ve done it a million times. It’s muscle memory. Today may have just been a little too fast for us.”
He huffs a dry laugh. “Maybe not a million.”
You take the moment of lightness and nuzzle your face into his back. He’s wearing an old tattered T-shirt you found in the closet. You really need to get him to pick some nice clothing he’ll like.
“Alright, smartass, plenty enough.” You smile against his back and kiss him there again.
You sit like this in silence for a while.
“You don’t have to be gentle with me, you know? I know I’m useless but you’re still not stronger than me.” He sniffs a little bit but you can tell he’s getting some of his voice back.
“You’re not useless.”
“Right.” His scoff is sharp, accusatory.
“Your strength, your senses, any of it… it’s not why I’m with you. Them being gone isn’t a loss for me, it’s just different.”
“Yeah, different bad.”
“No. Just different. Things will have to change, but I’m happy to have you. Can you turn around for me honey?” You sit back a bit to give him the space, relieved when he turns around and pulls his legs back on the bed, facing you.
“I love you. No matter what. No matter how this changes our lives, you have me.” Your hands naturally itch to hold his face again, but the quiver of his lip makes you act further. So you lean into him, hands sneaking under his arms as they bring him into a hug.
Oh, how it feels good to feel him against you. Still alive. Still there with you. You feel the burn of brimming tears but you blink them away. Rubbing his back takes your attention away from the pain of what could have been.
“I love you so much.” You say it again, your lips speak close to his ear before you rest your head back on his shoulder. Homelander puts his arms around you too, squeezing you softly as if you could still shatter under his hands. If it makes him happy you don’t mind playing along with his fantasy.
“We don’t have to do anything today. Let’s take it slow and wait for it, okay?” He pulls away, near offended.
“B-but—I want to. I want to… feel something good. I want to make you feel good. Like I used to.”
“You still do. You’ve never stopped.” You reassure him, pulling on this hand and pressing it in between your breasts. “You may not hear it anymore but you can feel it, can’t you?” Your heart rate is slightly elevated.
“You can feel me like this. Like you used to.”
His hand presses into you gently, feeling your heart rate.
He nods shakily, this gesture means something to him. You understand why his powers felt like such an innate part of him. What do you do when you feel like you’ve lost all your senses? Anything that felt even remotely like you? You don’t know, but you’re sure as hell gonna find out for him. With him.
Homelander kisses you with shocking passion. It steals the breath right out of your lungs. His hand stays firmly pressed against your ribcage, hungry lips devouring your words of adoration. Just like the hug and the hand over your heart you let him. You want him to have this.
Part of you feels relieved. In the couple days since the event, things have been rocky—rightfully so. To see just a glimmer of his confidence back fills you with so much excitement you can’t help but grin into his kiss.
Your heart rate is going up, winded from the gasping breathy kisses. He feels it too. He doesn’t need his super senses. You’re gonna teach him how to use the tools he has at his disposal just to feel even a sliver like himself.
Anything it takes.
“I want to—Can I?” He sounds desperate, just like the many times he has before. The fact that he can even think that you don’t see him the same way you did before is crazy. It’s never been about the powers, or godhood. It’s always been just him.
The slow mornings rolling around in bed, just talking lazily about the world, about plans, and the future—bright visions of your life together. You used to talk about the colours you’d paint the walls of the living room, or the pictures you’d put up along the staircase.
Or the romantic or passionate evenings, nights spent clutching the sheets or holding onto each other. The jokes and the laughs, the meaningful conversations. Even the coworker gossiping sessions. You loved everything that had to do with spending time together.
The powers never played a role. You’ll just have to show him how to wield his new ones. While mundane in his eyes, you still see him as extraordinary. And that didn’t happen thanks to a title change nor his power set.
“Yes. Yes you can.”
He goes to take off your top, discarding the garment off to the side. Homelander’s lips go down from your neck to in between your breasts. You expect him to latch onto your nipples for comfort but he stays there, kissing the soft skin in between your breasts. You stroke the back of his neck, fingers playing with his hair.
Once his fingers reach the hem of your shorts, he stops, pulls back and looks at you with an expression so uncertain it makes your heart ache.
“What if I don’t know how anymore?”
It’s a silly worry to have but you understand the underlying question. All the what ifs are swimming in his mind, thinking ‘what if you won’t love me the way I am anymore?’
Homelander’s always been a master at drowning his sorrows in pleasure. Any fight you’ve ever had ended up getting solved through touch and affection, however heated at the time.
He reduces his value to numbers. Score on a leaderboard. Stats on a supe sheet. Just how Vought tracked his yearly revenue, he tracks the numerical value he brings to your life.
But he’s always been so much more than that. And you will spend the rest of your life making him believe it.
“Then we’ll learn together.” And you mean it. With all the hiccups and blockades on the way.
You shimmy out of your shorts, feeling confident when his lips part, taking in a little gasp.
“Let me, baby.” You tug at his sleeping shirt, letting him take it off.
“Let me make us feel good.” Hands sliding down his fuzzy chest, over his soft tummy and down to his underwear. He’s already half-hard. Instinctually your hand squeezes him through the fabric, enjoying the lewd little moan he lets out.
He’s so sweet when he lets you treat him for once. Giving up the power, the status, and the performance for the sake of something real.
With his help, you pull his underwear down, giving his cock a couple of strokes before you sit over his lap and guide him right to your wet entrance. It’s so good to feel him in you again. It feels right. Being as close to him as humanly possible has always been essential—now more than ever.
You fully sink down on his lap with a happy sigh. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you ground yourself in the reality that is his warm body holding yours. After the nightmares you’ve had, you’ll take any reminder that he’s still here.
You don’t move. The light is still on and you can see every injury out in the open. Even when vulnerable, he’s beautiful—because he’s yours. Your fingers silently trace featherlight lines across his face. You don’t notice yourself smiling until he mirrors your expression.
That smile alone tells you that it will all be okay, regardless of how long it takes to get there.
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The amazing @tashtush drew me some incredible art for my birthday inspired by Baker’s Dozen!!! I want to thank her so much for thinking of me 💖 This is so beautiful!
How’d think homelander would react if his friend, naybe a bit younger, as inexperienced and asked him lessons on kissing?
Homelander’s taken out of his thoughts when you drop the bomb. He blinks a few times, shaking his head clear before letting out a mix of a scoff and a chuckle.
“Why the fuck are you acting as if you’ve never—you’ve never been kissed… Wow! Talk about a confession huh?” From downturned confused lips to a downright wolfish smile he steps closer to you, pointing and waving his signature red gloved finger in your direction.
“Well, you’re lucky you came to the expert, really. Some other loser wouldn’t even know where to start.” With downturned lips and a sweeping gesture of his arms he keeps a steady pace.
“You’re really gonna teach me?” You’re surprised at his approaching form. While you did ask, you expected a ranked list of top five do’s and don’t’s rather than a full-on demonstration. The nervous coil in your gut bursts into butterflies.
“You betcha—embarrassing that I even have to teach you at this point. What the fuck were you doing in your teens? Something wrong, clearly.” He’s thoroughly enjoying poking fun at your inexperience. Toying with the precious gift that just landed in his lap.
You roll your eyes, ready to give up on the topic if all you’re gonna get is teasing, but Homelander stops you.
“Regardless, what kind of friend would I be otherwise?” At this point he’s right in front of you, gloved hands cradling your jaw as he tilts your head around, almost inspecting your lips for the best strategy moving forward.
“A sane one, maybe.” You huff out an embarrassing little laugh while Homelander thankfully chooses to ignore your sassy remark. Your heart is thumping loudly in your chest—now that’s got his rapt attention a lot more than your words.
His eyes are locked on your lips, licking his own at the thought of tasting yours.
“Alright, you better be taking notes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.” He seemingly can’t get off his high horse now that he’s finally the one to have had more human experience than you. Sure, your childhood may have been perfectly fine compared to his but he’s been kissed many times. He’s got that on you.
“And none of the little pecks alright, you’re not kissing your grandma here. I’m gonna show you the big guns. So all you gotta do is part your lips a teeny bit—perrrfect, just like that—and when I press mine against yours you’re gonna press back into mine, okay? Easy peasy.”
You nod seriously, as if you were truly taking notes throughout this invigorating lecture.
Homelander leans in, pulling your jaw towards him at the same time and he does just as he said. His lips slot right in between yours, his thin and slightly crooked yet perfectly soft. You follow his instructions and movements and you press yours into his before loosening them up again. The intimate warmth of a slow kiss has your butterflies raging, eager to escape the cage. Your heart is thundering in your ears now.
Homelander lets out a soft little hum, pressing his lips against yours again, this time trapping your upper lip with a loud mwah upon release. The nature of it all has the tips of your ears burning hot, with your cheeks feeling unbearably warm to the touch. Your lips are tingling when he pulls away, brain short-circuiting a little at how affected that left you.
“Not bad for a newbie, not bad at all.” You’re surprised to see him equally flushed, though he hides it well behind his words.
Before you have time to process what just happened he continues. “Now you kiss me.” Your eyebrows shoot upwards in shock. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Right here.” He teases and purses his lips, tapping them with a gloved finger, making silly kissy noises straight after.
“Like… you want me to initiate?” You blink a few times, starting to feel like this was a bad idea all along.
“Mhm.” He hums with a nod, eyes sparkling with mischief as he leans in closer, not letting you get out of it.
You do your best, parting and pressing your lips into his clumsily, hitting more the corner of his lips than the soft part of them. His little chuckle sends a new hot wave of embarrassment down your neck. You try again, this time hitting the target just right, focusing on the feel of him more than the technique as your eyes flutter shut. Repeatedly with slight change in angles you kiss him, pressing your lips into his, surprisingly feeling light-headed at how enthusiastically he’s kissing you back.
It kind of sweeps you off your feet really. You let Homelander envelop his arms around you, pulling you closer as he attempts to deepen the kiss. “Open wider, use your tongue.” He says, muffled by your lips, unwilling to pull away.
After a little trial and error, your tongue is meeting his with every kiss now, lips parted and eager to meet the other ones. Homelander eagerly licks your lips open, sucking on your lip with a little whine. This demonstration is nothing like what you imagined your request to be met with, yet here you are. Your legs feel like jelly now, if it wasn’t for his hold you’d be boneless on the floor with hot swollen lips as a sweet reminder.
What was meant to be a little lesson of how two people’s lips interlock turned into a lengthy breathless and heated make-out session. While you never expected the movie-like fireworks you get your own version of them with a beating heart so loud it might as well be an explosive device. You never imagined your first kiss to feel so intimate and passionate but it is just that. That and more.
When you both pull away—mainly to allow you access to oxygen—you’re both flushed and hot, lips swollen and wet. You’re more surprised at how affected he ends up looking. But Homelander doesn’t like being on level ground with just about anyone. He pushes through his own flustered appearance, bringing back his bravado.
“Well, fuck. Look at that! Popped your cherry—or well, not quite yet but that can be arranged. Buuut, we might as well get all of your firsts out of the way with the expert. What do you say?” With his flushed cheeks, for once his wolfish smile doesn’t feel quite so dangerous. But you’ll sorely come to regret that thought a little down the line.
16) the classic “oh, let me help you put some sunscreen on” but then the little massage turns into something more
Soldierlander. After Soldier Boy returns to the tower from Fort Harmony, so not sunscreen but whatever salve helps afterwards.
Let's get this request party started!
Trigger warning for incest, but hey. We've all watched the show.
Homelander is very quiet - for once - when Ben applies the ointment to his face. He sits on the edge of the bed like a good little boy, hands in his lap, childish demeanor, avoiding both Ben's eyes and their reflection in the mirror. (Who the hell has mirrors all around his bed? His son's a bigger freak than he originally believed.) They're not in the bathroom because that still looks and smells like a crime scene after Homelander puked three times in the toilet and one time in the tub while waiting for Ben to come back from the pharmacy.
Man, the people in there looked utterly bewildered when Ben walked in and demanded Unguentine. He wasn't even certain they still made it. Nothing of value gets produced nowadays. All of it is cheap and fake. Not made to last. Even their supes are mortals now. But - surprise, surprise - they had the salve, and Ben slammed some cash onto the counter and walked out before the people around could get out their phone cameras. Why do phones have cameras anyway? And why are they cordless? Who wants to be accessible to people at bumfuck midnight while in bed with another man's wife? Boggles the mind.
Ben stands in the ridiculous penthouse and ponders these questions as he rubs the ointment onto his son's wounds. What a bizarre turn of events. He took his gloves off, and now the disgust at touching the still-open injuries mixes with a numbed-down need to be gentle, to only put as much pressure on the mangled skin as he has to. Homelander is looking on morosely, only winces sometimes, and Ben doesn't know if it's from pain or the heavy smell of camphor hitting his sensitive nose.
"Good thing you're not puking any longer," Ben begins, and he doesn't know why he wants to make conversation with Homelander anyway. Nothing good comes of it, most of the time. "Didn't think that was a pretty sight."
"Could have fooled me," Homelander rasps, voice still shot. "If you didn't want to see me do it, why lock me up in that room anyway?" His face pulls into that pitiful grimace, somewhere between sadness and anger, that Ben has a hard time looking at.
"Stop pouting," he tells him. "You lack the lips for it. Doesn't do shit. And hey, isn't this exactly the kind of bonding you always ask for? Dad walking all the way to the pharmacy for his son when he's ill?"
Homelander doesn't reply, but he looks up at Ben with those ridiculously wet eyes, and that stirs something in him that makes him want to either stroke the man's hair or bash his face in. Either way, he can't look at that expression anymore. And thankfully, he won't have to.
"It's not just your face," he says, and it's an educated guess at best, but he thinks he's right. "Your whole body must be covered in burns. Radiation doesn't stop just cause your foam muscles are in the way." He'll give Homelander this one thing: it's impressive that he isn't writhing in pain and screaming himself hoarse from his skin flaking and melting off of him. God knows Ben didn't fare so well. None of them did. The first batch. The lucky few. He knows Vought - Vogelbaum, the creepy bastard - did things to his kid that Ben is glad he doesn't have any details about. But he can imagine. On bad nights, he still feels the barrel of a gun at the back of his throat. It makes him feel something that gets too close to guilt. You are his father, you should have been there- He clears his throat. "Take that costume off."
"What?" The words startle Homelander out of whatever weird headspace he was in before.
"You heard me." He shakes the tube. "Wanna get it on the rest of your skin. Don't tell me the burns somehow stopped at your face."
Homelander scoffs, but does get up off the bed. The suit is absolutely filthy, drenched in sweat and lymph from the wounds. It's probably ruined. Ben vaguely follows along with the strip tease. It's an odd thing that for a man so ashamed of himself, Homelander surprisingly has no issue being naked in front of anyone. He calmly opens zippers and latches, casually asks his father to help with a zipper at his back that is hard to reach, steps out of his boots, strips off his gloves.
Ben was right. Homelander's body does not fare any better than his neck and face. Perhaps the burns are spaced out more. Perhaps they do not look quite as painful. But they cover him nevertheless, from his chest, to his back, to his perky ass. "Think you can lie down on the bed?" Ben asks, trying very hard not to stare at the perky ass. Crazy to think he's seen his son's junk not even a week ago. While being told about his religious delusions, no less. In a tub filled with milk. From tits. This is his life now. No orgy on shrooms can ever reach that level of 'genuinely, terrifyingly strange.'
Homelander, again, does as he is told - like a good dog. He gingerly lies down on his stomach, pillows his head on his crossed arms. He's definitely being careful about moving too much. This has to hurt, after all. But he looks relaxed enough. If he's skittish, it seems to be related more to Ben getting on the bed as well and straddling him. He makes a point of sitting mostly on Homelander's thighs, avoiding the ass, and he doesn't put his full weight on him. That makes it better, he tells himself, as he squirts more ointment onto his palm.
"That's good," Ben says, absentmindedly, before he gets shocked back into focus by the strained little sound his son lets out. It lingers in the quiet for a little, not quite classified as a moan, but mostly because Ben simply denies that that's what it was. "Don't wiggle too much," he warns and goes to work.
Homelander's skin is smooth, unblemished where the injuries don't mar it. The wounds are starting to build scabs. No healing factor anywhere on this kid, nothing that would make it go by quicker. Ben wonders if it annoys Homelander. It must. He's anal about that stuff - not being the best at everything. Ben was like that, once, brash, lying about his achievements, proud of his fake successes, but that feels like it was ages ago. Any notion he was the best who's ever done it got burned out of him in Russia when the uranium made him feel like his chest was going to burst open, that painful, throbbing- "Hey, I said don't wiggle."
Homelander stills under him, and it's only when he stops doing what he was clearly doing that Ben registers what it was: small, rhythmic movements against the sheets, not quite thrusts. He doesn't have to check. He knows that blonde freak is hard right now.
There's a moment where Ben wants to yank his hands away, grab a fistful of bleached strands and give the kid a piece of his mind. He doesn't. He makes his hands continue their gentle ministrations. Despite his better judgment, a smile stretches his lips. "Look at that. Not so asexual after all, are we?"
If Homelander was still before, he goes completely statuesque in an instant. Ben is fairly sure he isn't breathing. It's an admission of guilt if he's ever seen one. Sure, Ben might have been bluffing. Maybe Homelander simply moved around because it hurt to have open, leaking wounds touched. Perhaps he just wanted to adjust his posture. Maybe there wasn't a raging erection happening where Ben couldn't see.
The thing is that Ben is damn fucking tired of this game of chicken they're playing. Shooting jokes back and forth, one more careless than the other, trying to get a rise out of each other. Fort Harmony should have been the culmination of every bit of fucked-up energy they had between them, but it feels like it was just the tip of the iceberg.
Nothing has felt real these past few weeks. Ben woke up groggy, and it's like he never recovered. Thrown into some weird bizarro mirror of the world he used to know, led by his... son. And isn't that just the world's greatest irony? That thinking of Homelander as his son feels more wrong than thinking of him as some pretty thing to be fucked. Not that he wants to. He's not into guys when he's sober, and he's not in the mood, and he wouldn't chose this one if he had to get his dick wet. And still. Teasing him doesn't hurt. If nothing feels real, then nothing has consequences, either. "Lift your ass up."
"W-What?" Homelander sputters, tries to sit up, but Ben won't let him. He's held him down once before, at Herogasm, had him pressed into the unforgiving floor. He didn't know that was his son there. All he thought back there was: nice piece of ass on such a clown, what a waste.
"What, now you go all vice squad on me? You're the one with a hard-on here, but now I'm the bad guy for pointing it out? You're making goo-goo eyes at me every chance you get, and now you blink?"
"I- I don't even-"
"Up you go. C'mon." Ben gives him the space, gets up from his thighs. His own pants definitely feel tighter than usual, and the costume is pretty damn unforgiving as is. Homelander isn't moving, and Ben doesn't want to wait anymore, so he throws the tube of ointment to the side, wipes his hands on the fur blanket, and slips his hand between Homelander's nude body and the bed to push him up.
This time, Homelander doesn't fight him, but a shiver goes through his body as the front of it is exposed to the air. Alongside the already leaking erection, that is.
There's a small patch of wetness where Homelander's cock was just seconds ago, a thin, clear string of pre-cum still connecting the tip of his dick to the sheets. Ben feels satisfied at being right, then feels disgusted over his satisfaction. You never raised him, it doesn't mean shit.
"Quite a sight," he comments. "Tell me, did they simply have no way of cutting you, or was it a deliberate choice to keep the turtleneck sweater on your cock?"
"That's what you're concerned about?!" Homelander's voice sounds shrill, and he actively tries to turn around and face Ben, but Ben knows better than to let it happen, so he pushes his son's head back down into the pillow. Homelander fights him, briefly, but relents.
"I'll give you a hand if you need one." It doesn't feel like it's Ben talking. It's closer to those weird dreams he kept having in Russia. Dreams of almost making it to the surface of a very dark, icy-cold sea, but whenever he tried to break through and scream, water flooded his mouth again, and all the words turned into gargling. It's sort of like this. Except he's distantly aware this is reality. He isn't dreaming.
"I don't-" Homelander turns his head, and Ben jumps. But his son isn't trying to look at him. He simply turns towards one of the side mirrors. Ben can see his face in the reflection. Their eyes don't meet. Homelander is studiyng himself in there. As if to confirm the freak's narcissism, his cock throbs right as he makes eye contact with himself. It's a bad idea to fuck him. And it's not even the incest that makes Ben believe it. Homelander sighs. "Go ahead."
Ben tries to count the moments where he could have stopped, walked it back: refusing to put the ointment anywhere other than his son's face, never having him undress, never making his hands wander, never commenting on his arousal, never, ever, ever offering to give him a hand. But he won't blink first, can't blink first, if it kills him. He's not a bigger coward than his own flesh and blood, and it's not like he hoped Homelander would chicken out-
He presses forward, gets in his son's space, one hand on the slim waist, trying not to press too forcefully into any of the wounds, while the other hand closes around Homelander's cock - mercifully free of burns, like some damn miracle. Maybe there's something to the angel stuff, and he's divinely protected from getting radiation cockburn.
Homelander gasps, mouth gaping open in the reflection, and he looks even more like a muppet than usual for a moment, before he recovers.
Ben's grip isn't light, isn't testing any waters. He isn't hesitant so much as he manages to barrel full-force through every block in the road that stretches out in front of him, ignoring every stop sign on his way. It's the same instinct that made him lock Homelander up in the first place. And he doesn't have Quinn or the spores to blame now. Only himself. And he can easily numb that nagging voice with booze and blow.
He can't remember ever having given a handjob, and he's sure he's never done it while in his right mind (if he is now), and the voice that is telling him that 'it's what soldiers do, just warmth at night prior to battle with no girls to be seen' is lying to him, he knows, he knows it's lying, he was never, never- But the movements come to him easily, and it's different from doing it to himself, the little twist of his wrist at the head, the slick, smooth glide of the foreskin. It's like instinct. It's familar.
Isn't that a bitch?
"You like that?" he asks, and he doesn't want an answer.
Homelander nods, then pauses, nearly shakes his head, then simply sighs, a small, wounded sound, and his body slumps a bit, flanks heaving.
It's over quick.
Homelander comes with such a forceful, drawn-out groan that it startles Ben into moving, makes his hips stutter forward, rut against his son's ass, pleasure shooting up his spine from the noise alone. He doesn't come, but it's a close thing. Too close, if you ask him. He hopes Homelander was distracted enough not to notice his lapse in control.
Ben flexes his fingers, stringy cum coating them, alongside remnants of ointment. He has half a mind to let Homelander lick it all up, but the very thought of his son's muppet mouth closing around his digits and sucking-
He isn't running. From this. He's not. He's simply walking up towards the bathroom to wash his hands. Get clean.
When he returns, Homelander is fully suited-up, face still covered in burns and ointment. When their eyes meet, Homelander's baby blues are unreadable. "Thanks," he says. "For doing that. Would have been hard to rub that stuff into my own back."
Ben is glad that, just once, Homelander knows when it's time to shut up and be a man about it.
honestly too shy to message you or anything but HI im also a writer and i looooove your homelander stuff so much, scrolled a bit through your blog and your other ideas are also sooo good!!!! you’re an inspiration i have started working on a weird kinky homelander x reader fic loooool
Gosh, thank you so much - you’re too sweet! This made my night, so I hope you enjoy writing the weirdest, nastiest, most indulgent Kinklander you can dream up. 💞
Homelander has strange ways of establishing dominance over the President of the United States - 18+
Homelander has always been a bit of a freak. You’ve given up trying to predict what will get his rocks off on any given day. It changes on a whim. There are a few proven standards, erotic quirks that you know you can default to at any time and he’ll give in. Usually if you get your tits out then he’s on board pretty quickly. But every now and then he’ll surprise you with some new facet of his sexual desires, an ever changing kaleidoscope reflecting whatever new conflict he has floating around in that brain of his.
Before, he’s always been possessive of you. He’s kept you all to himself, greedy for every inch of you and loathe to share you with anyone else. Your pleasure was for HIM only and even a sly comment about your looks whispered from an employee down the hall had him fuming. You’ve seen men killed for merely looking at you too long.
But ever since this whole God thing, he’s discovered a love for being admired in every way possible and as an extension of himself, he’s decided you deserve a taste of it as well.
This is how you find yourself bent over the desk in the oval office, moaning smugly as everyone else tries to discreetly avoid your pleasure glazed gaze. President Calhoun awkwardly holds a whiskey and gives Ashley nervous side eyes. Ashley is buried in her clipboard where she’s written all of the things she’d needed to discuss with Sage. Including Homelander’s proposal to ban porn…ironic. Speaking of Sage, she doesn’t shy away from the spectacle, instead she waits patiently but with a very pointed air of annoyance.
You find the whole thing amusing honestly, although the idea was deeply embarrassing to you when Homelander initially brought it up. You begged for a compromise to at least let you stay partially clothed while he made his point and he’d reluctantly conceded. As long as he could still make his point and proved just what he could get away with now.
But he’s giving it to you so good that you’re beginning to see the appeal. The initial humiliation of having so many eyes on you melting away as the pleasure overtakes you. He’s not taking it easy on you either. You’re going to be sore tomorrow and you aren’t sure you’ll be able to walk. Your one standing leg is shaking and threatens to give way at any moment, while the other that he’s hiked up on the desk is starting to ache from the awkward stretch. The angle it causes is divine though so you endure. Bless Homelander’s x ray vision for ensuring he always knows how to hit the right spot when he fucks you. Even if you find it mildly invasive that he can see himself in you.
“Please!” You mewl, playing up the desperation just a bit solely for how much it causes Ashley to jump. President Calhoun sweats and downs his entire glass in one gulp. Sage rolls her eyes.
“You want gentle? Wrong fucking address.” Homelander pants behind you as he picks up the pace and grips your shoulder to give himself more leverage. You whine in response as you bury your hot face in the stack of important presidential papers. You’re going to relish the dark bruises on your hips later. You’re going to relish the shock on everyone’s faces more.
“Sir…we have limited time for discussion before the pres…” Ashley’s nervous titter is cut off by Homelander giving an obnoxiously loud groan as he comes in you, the obscene noise of it going on and on in the uncomfortable silence. You huff annoyed, trying desperately to reach your own end before Homelander pulls away but he moves quickly unlike usual. You think this is also part of the point he’s trying to prove, that as God he can use anyone however and whenever he wants because it’s his right. But dammit it isn’t FAIR. You hope he makes it up to you later.
He wipes the cum off his cock with his gloved hand and then proceeds to wipe his glove all over the presidential papers your face was buried in. Calhoun goes a bit green, Ashley buries her face in her hands, and Sage looks at the mess with the air of a burnt out mom watching her toddler smear shit on the wall right after she’d just cleaned the nursery. You stand up and straighten your skirt as he tucks himself into his pants and turns to a mortified Ashley.
“You were saying?”
And you have to admit…the sheer audacity is a little hilarious.
ok and one more thang i do have to say it was hot as fuck when 1) they showed homie using his x ray vision that was so sick and 2) when frenchie just Quietly, ever so slightly tapped his finger on the glass and Homelander just Appeared next to him in an instant. that was sooooo good, honestly this whole season has had a “homelander is like an animal we need to hide our scent from” vibe on the boys’ end has been pretty magnificently beautiful
"That really does make you hard. I can feel you pulsing inside me." This. And Sagelander. That sounds like a deliciously nasty combo.
As always, no pressure at all, I'm just throwing it out there. <33
Here you go!
One Sagelander coming right up
18+
“You know I can break this any time I want to” Homelander huffs as he looks down at Sage tying his wrist to the chair with a complicated looking knot. His other limbs are already firmly secure. He tries to test the give of the rope but Sage gives him a stern look and he stops. He rolls his eyes but she doesn’t admonish him for that. She gives one final tug before seeming satisfied and standing back up. With him seated, she looms over him and it’s not a perspective he’s used to. He won’t admit to himself that he kinda likes feeling small.
“I know you won’t. You’re too curious for that.” She gives him a sappy sweet sly smile before shimmying her underwear off from under her oversized t-shirt and crawling onto his lap. His natural instinct is to reach for her hips to steady her but all he does is rattle the chair as the ropes creak but hold. He can feel the heat of her soft pussy radiating even through the thick material of his suit. He gives an eager thrust up…and once again the ropes creak but hold.
“Curious about what? The case of blue balls you’re giving me right now?” His voice cracks slightly at the end when she unfastens his belt and slowly shimmies his pants down his hips. His cock pops out, eager and glowing red. He groans as it hits the chilly air of Sage’s penthouse. He has to close his eyes so he doesn’t nut early when Sage lifts the hem of her shirt just enough for him to see her glistening pussy. It doesn’t help when she doesn’t waste any time guiding his cock between her legs and sitting on it. He grunts, clenching his fist as he tries to hold back. He tries to focus on the heavy scent of all the old books filling her space.
“Hgngn” He makes an incredibly undignified noise when she doesn’t move but instead clenches down on him hard, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure up and down his spine. He thrusts again but the ropes stay in place. He screws his eyes shut even harder when another firm squeeze has heat beginning to build up behind his eyelids. He doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing and why she won’t fucking move.
"That really does make you hard. I can feel you pulsing inside me." She says, with that smug tone that he both hates and adores. Especially right now, when she has him riding a razors edge before they’ve even fucked just by sitting on his lap. She’s pulsing now, first in even intervals, and then once he thinks he has a sense of rhythm she switches it up again. It’s fucking ridiculous how worked up he is. He wants to grab her hips and move her but he can’t. Not unless he snaps the ropes. Sage would immediately stop things and he would really be left with the biggest pair of blue balls in existence.
“Can you please fuck me already.” He murmurs through gritted teeth. He still doesn’t dare trust himself to look at her. Especially when he knows he’ll see those big brown eyes and sly sweet smile, temples already beading with sweat despite her lack of movement. He’s big, and squeezing his cock in her tight pussy is certainly a workout in itself.
“I am fucking you.” She purrs teasingly, reaching back to cup his balls in one of her soft hands, gently toying with them before once again continuing with her exercises. He’s convinced she’s slowly milking the cum from him bit by bit despite him not even having orgasmed yet. He tests his restraints again and very nearly breaks them so he can really pound into her. He knows what exactly will get them both off and record time.
But he doesn’t want to disappoint Sage. So he switches his focus to taking deep breaths, just like she taught him. In. Out. In. Out. Release. Release. Relea…
He can’t take it anymore. Not even two full minutes since she first sat on him and began her cruel trick, he loses control. He emits a loud ecstatic moan that he’s too blissed out to even realize comes from his own mouth. His eyes spark and flare beneath his eyelids. His toes curl and his hands clench, and with a loud snapping noise, the bonds break off of one arm as he loses control of his strength. Sage watches for a moment and simply enjoys the view before promptly reaching down to rub her clit till she finishes on her own. The feeling of her tightening around him again sends him into a frenzy and he’s starting to think he’ll die soon if the overwhelming pleasure keeps going. He reaches out for Sage blindly and finally grabs her hip just to feel her. She allows it.
After a few moments of this, Sage takes pity on him and lets him ride the rest of the wave in peace. She amuses herself by watching his expression change as he finally manages to catch his breath. She’s extremely smug that she actually managed to make him sweat a little. That’s the first time she’s managed that. She’s going to have to try this again. That way she can really see how far she can take him.
“I’m sorry.” He pants, as he removes his grip on her and sheepishly looks at the shredded ropes hanging limply from the arm of the chair. He really had tried to stay in place. He gives her a cocky grin and the glint in his eyes suggests that he isn’t that sorry. “But, I did warn you I could break out whenever I wanted.”
“I don’t need your apologies. I just need your assurances that you’ll let me run the rest of this ad campaign without complaint like you promised you would.” She gives him a stern look and he rolls his eyes. Ah yes…that. He’d forgotten that’s what all this was about in the first place. It was a game designed to entrap him into giving her what she wanted. A game he didn’t think he would lose.
“Fine.” He huffs, petulant as ever but feeling an excess of good nature due to the lingering orgasm. “Make your plans. But next time won’t be so easy.”
“Sure it won’t.” She replies, with the sly grin he knows so well. As she slips off him and proceeds with untying the rest of the ropes, her mind is already racing towards plans far into the future.
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