the only moon girl

29. she/him/they. just another rabid fanfic author. lover of platonic relationships, hurt/comfort, found family. blog contains some dead dove material which will be tagged. enter at your own risk

[theonlymoongirl]

MINORS DNI!!

18+ only blog

heavier topics found here include, but are not limited to: noncon, abduction, physical and mental abuse, sh, suicidal ideation

lighter topics include: healthy BDSM practises, hurt/comfort, platonic affection, qprs, found family

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[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Six Misadventure “We both know what you were doing up on that roof.”

The next day differed little from the last. He was alone again, left to flounder in uncertainty and silence. No phone call came this time as there was no burst of anger to invoke it, so Hughie dared to venture outside. He peered through the thick of trees that stood sentry around his prison and saw a forest stretching out into the distance. He walked the perimeter, the same sight greeting him with every step. What he really needed to know was how far it stretched, if there was a fence waiting for him at some point; but it was impossible to know without venturing in. The trees were so tall that they dwarfed all two stories of the cabin, so not even sticking his head out of the window would gain anything. Hughie was left with two options: climb a tree or find a way onto the roof, without Homelander finding out.

He had zero experience with climbing trees, so the roof was his best bet.

That was how Hughie broke up the mundanity of the day, interrupting the steady routine of eating, washing and dissociating. He began to practice using his powers. He tried, desperately, to teleport back home, but when he thought about his bedroom in New York, he never moved an inch. He tried the flat iron, he even tried any major landmark he could think of, anywhere but where he was, but in his cage he remained. When it became clear that he wasn’t going anywhere that he really wanted to, he sank down onto the bed, shoulders sagged, a weak croak of a laugh in his throat. Of course his power would be as useless as the rest of him. He could teleport, but not to where he needed to be. It was too cruel an irony.

In spite of the despondency that weighed heavy upon him, Hughie still continued to practice. He tried to keep his clothes on, but no matter how little or far the distance, he could never bring them with him. He couldn’t bring any sort of object with him. He could transport himself and only himself. Hughie didn’t much like the idea of trying to escape completely naked, though he couldn’t see a way out of it. He couldn’t outrun Homelander on foot. It was doubtful he would be able to do so with his powers either, but it did somewhat improve his chances. The thought of being hunted down whilst naked was, to say the least, unnerving, but he would do it if it meant a higher chance of getting out.

While Hughie had expected the phone to ring again when he began practising, Homelander seemed to have no issues with him using his powers, despite it being obvious (at least to Hughie) that he would be training for only one thing. Perhaps it spoke to Homelander’s confidence in being able to keep him prisoner; but Hughie was used to being underestimated. With any luck, he could turn it to his advantage.

It was still the only other thing that broke up the day. His only forms of entertainment were encyclopedias, Disney movies and bird watching. The place was pretty much spotless when he’d arrived, so it wasn’t as though he had any real cleaning to do either. He would eat, wash up, watch tv, practise his powers, shower, sleep and repeat. Finally, the day came when a diagonal line was carved across the tally of four.

Five days.

Five, long, monotonous days.

It was best that Homelander stayed away, but Hughie could feel that he was starting to go stir crazy. He had never lived alone once in his life. He was used to the presence of others and now it was only him, filling up a space far larger than that of the apartment he’d grown up and still lived in. The silence and solitude made him ache for home. He wanted to see Annie. He wanted to see the Boys, his dad. He held himself sometimes and thought of Annie holding him fast against her or M.M.’s arms squeezing the breath out of him or Butcher’s strong hands gripping his shoulders. The extent of his yearning frightened him. It was bad to miss them this much so soon, when he probably wasn’t going to see them for a long time.

However, the worst part wasn’t the homesickness. It wasn’t the boredom or the way his mind ran in vicious circles, it wasn’t the swings of hope and despair. It was the anticipation. Homelander was going to come back and Hughie had no idea when. He could show up at any day, at any time. Every morning started off the same, peering round corners, ears pricked the moment he awoke. He could handle it better if there were a deadline, even a vague one would be better than none. With each day, the tension grew. Doubtless, this was on purpose. He’d heard of what cops did to suspects, forcing them to wait hours before interrogating them; though for what reason Homelander was applying that technique was beyond Hughie. Perhaps it was all just to fuck with him, because Homelander definitely didn’t seem above fucking with people just for the hell of it.

Then, Hughie’s thoughts turned darker. What if Homelander was priming Hughie, isolating him to such a point that he would take anyone over being alone, even his own captor? After all, what parent wouldn’t want their child to love them?

That was when Hughie finally turned to the dull books and read all that he could find on Stockholm Syndrome. What he read brought him no comfort. Mental fortitude had never been one of his stronger attributes and that was exactly what he needed to get through it in one piece. If Stockholm Syndrome was Homelander’s goal, Hughie was woefully outgunned. He needed no reminder of what little power he had in the situation he was in. Homelander had already turned him into a supe. His privacy had been annihilated and Homelander had managed to exert control over even the smallest acts of Hughie’s independence. It could only be a matter of time before Homelander would begin to sink his claws into Hughie’s mind, as he had done with everything else.

The sixth day started off very much the same. The television was on in the background to soothe Hughie’s frayed nerves and fill in the silence that he couldn’t sit comfortably with. Breakfast was uneventful. His training went uninterrupted. The morning came and went, same as the others before it. Like clockwork, lunch arrived and Hughie went to the fridge to pick clean the food that magically appeared there. Plate filled with sandwiches (he really hoped that whoever was bringing him meals would change up his lunch menu soon), he turned and-

“How’s it going, champ?”

A shout ripped out of Hughie’s throat. The plate was half thrown, half flung to the ground in shock, the loud smash of broken porcelain adding to his panic. His lungs floundered, frantic and shallow, unable to catch one deep breath to make them fully swell. Homelander stepped forward, bread and ceramic crushed under foot.

“Hey, hey, Hughie. It’s alright. It’s okay.”

Hughie couldn’t focus on just how disarming it was, how genuine the concern in Homelander’s voice was. All he could focus on was how his chest was pinched tight and no matter how hard he tried, his lungs could not open. A gloved hand took Hughie by the arm and carefully manoeuvred him to the sofa.

“I’m sorry I scared you, kid.” A hand pressed on his back, steady and heavy, easing him down until he was almost folded in half. “I thought you’d heard me come in. Just breathe. Everything’s okay.”

If there was any space left in Hughie’s ever shrinking chest, he would have laughed. Nothing was okay and the cause was rubbing circles into his back. Hands clasped tight together, Hughie forced himself to calm down. In and out, slowly his breathing deepened and the pounding of his heart eased.

“I-I’m sorry about the plate,” were the first words he managed to get out.

“Don’t worry about the plate, son. We’ve got plenty of plates. I’ve only got one of you. You’re the one that’s important.”

Hughie wanted to point out that shit like that wasn’t helping him calm down, but decided against it. Antagonising his kidnapper was, as Butcher would put it, a piss poor idea. So he put up with the hands he wanted to slap away and the voice that curdled unpleasantly in his ears; and slowly, he got his breath back. His heart rate would never be normal so long as he was within a foot of Homelander, but even that slowed a little. Such panic was unsustainable, even when death itself was nestled up against him.

“I’m sorry I left you alone for so long.” His hand stayed rubbing his back. “No wonder you’re so jumpy.”

Right. Of course. That was the issue. How much of Homelander’s own bullshit did he buy? Surely a little? Why else continue keeping up such a flagrant act? On some level, Homelander must be suspending his disbelief; because they both knew that Hughie was no child and it was impossible for him to be a blood relative of Homelander’s, let alone his son. With enough insanity and effort, anything could become real; no matter how hard Hughie fought. Whatever he did or said could, Homelander could twist to fit his narrative.

Hughie pushed himself up to his feet, before Homelander’s arm would stretch out and wrap around his shoulders. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped on the sofa with him. At least this way, he was trapped with a little distance between them. “I’ll, um, I’ll go clean it up.”

Homelander appraised him for a moment, perhaps assessing if Hughie’s actions fit into his delusion, before assenting. Hughie had never been more eager to clean in his life; even if Homelander’s attention remained fixed upon him.

“How have you found things here, Hughie?” Homelander asked, moving over to the kitchen island as Hughie bent down to sleep up the mess of broken plate and bread.

Hughie looked up. “Wh-what do you mean?” He couldn’t answer honestly, Homelander surely knew that. So what exactly was he looking for? He wasn’t looking for the truth; he was inviting Hughie to play along with his game.

“Well, moving into a new place isn’t always easy. Is there anything you want? I could get you your old clothes if you wanted?”

Panic spiked right through Hughie’s chest. His ‘old’ clothes were at his dad’s. What if his presence would ruin the fragile little illusion that Homelander was so keen to keep alive? Hughie knew full well what little regard for human life Homelander had. He had murdered for less. He had already gone to such extreme lengths for his fantasy; killing his dad would probably slot perfectly into the fantasy.

“Um. I um, I-I don’t want any of my old stuff here,” he looked up, plastering a shaky smile of gratitude on his face. Homelander would have been able to hear how his heart rate had picked up, but perhaps he would get points for trying. “But, I mean, thank you, for the offer.”

Hughie went back to sweeping up, with the burn of Homelander’s eyes making holes in his skull.

“Alright. What about toys?”

Hughie nearly dropped the dustpan. The question was so out of left field that he couldn’t appreciate that Homelander wasn’t pushing him on getting his old clothes.

“What?”

“You know, stuffed toys. Soft toys. I’ll get you some.” Homelander waved his hand in that dismissive way that let Hughie know that it wasn’t up for discussion. So long as he wasn’t expected to play with them, Hughie supposed that there were worse things that Homelander could insist on buying him. It was humiliating because Homelander was doing it for the charade of making Hughie a child, but he had been humiliated in far worse ways. A few stuffed toys he could handle.

“Do you want some more movies?”

“Um… Yeah. Could I make you a list?”

Homelander nodded, before flashing a grin. “They’d better be PG though, kiddo.”

Hughie offered a weak smile. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” He thanked whatever god there was for how films were rated back in the eighties; and for the idiots that decided that Watership Down was a movie for kids.

Hughie was still weighing up the pros and cons of getting onto the roof while Homelander was present. The trouble was that he hadn’t found where the outside cameras were located, though he knew there had to be some, for what would be the point of plastering the inside of the cabin with them and not the outside? He also didn’t know when Homelander was watching and the likelihood was that if he wasn’t watching, then someone would be watching at all times. The only time they wouldn’t need to watch would be when Homelander was at the cabin himself. Despite his back and forth, he always arrived at the same conclusion: his chances of not getting caught were higher when Homelander was closer.

So, he waited a few days. Stayed up late, feigned sleep as best he could, listened to Homelander’s patterns and sussed out roughly when he was asleep. The third night was perfect. It was cloudless and though there was only a half moon, it was bright enough to provide plenty of light. With any luck, Hughie would be able to see for miles. Carefully, Hughie slid out of bed. He could only estimate, but he was certain it had been at least a solid few hours since Homelander had gone to bed. Long enough for him to have fallen asleep. For a few minutes, he stood and listened. He didn’t dare breathe. If Homelander wasn’t asleep, if he was watching him right now, he was fucked; but if he wasn’t, Hughie might just be able to see a way out.

A deep breath, a squeeze of clenched fists, and Hughie found himself falling forward. He scrabbled for purchase, gripping on tight with his hands and knees to the ridge of the roof.  He hadn’t considered the practicalities of teleporting to what was essentially a balance beam made solely out of tile and moss. He lifted his head, saw the chimney and in an instant, he was leaning heavily against the brick structure. He was bowlegged, one foot on either side of the roof, trying desperately not to slip. He was vertical just enough to look around himself and he saw, shining in the moonlight, that he was in the middle of nowhere.

There were trees and more trees and further beyond those, there were mountains that he didn’t recognise (not that a New Yorker like him was able to recognise mountains anyway). His heart sank. He knew that he would be far from civilisation, but this was true wilderness. His head turned, looking desperately to his left and his right and found very much the same. No way out, not without hiking gear and supplies and some sort of navigation. Hughie had none of these things. He didn’t even have shoes.

Carefully, though he doubted it would make a difference, he turned around to look behind him. His eyes widened. His left foot slipped and in slow motion, his whole body seemed to follow, even as he fought so hard for it to do the opposite. His arms swung windmill wide, his right foot was fully off of the tile and just as he was sure he was about to fall, a hand grabbed his arm.

Homelander looked older in the pale light. The few lines that marked his face were made more severe, their divots deepened. His brows weren’t furrowed, but still, the expression upon his face was stern. His mouth was thin, his jaw taut. He looked strange without his suit, but Hughie barely registered it. His heart, which had sunk to the pits of his stomach, had now returned to his chest to beat frantically at his ribcage.

“Why aren’t you in bed, Hughie?”

There was no anger to be found, not in his voice or his countenance, but that sternness permeated through.

Somehow, Hughie managed to reply.

“I-I wanted to stargaze.”

The hand that claimed his arm squeezed.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Hughie shook his head.

“No. I don’t- I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Then tell me why you’re up here.”

Homelander moved forward, tipping Hughie back until his spine arched. His toes dug uselessly against the tiles, but the only thing keeping Hughie on the roof was the same thing that was threatening to fling him off of it.

“The fall won’t kill you from here, but with your shitty healing factor, it’ll hurt. Have you ever broken any bones, Hughie?”

Hughie wasn’t sure he could call it courage, but a burst of something swept through him. Desperation perhaps, though he was used to that taking the form of jellied bones and stammered pleas. Whatever it was, it ran his mouth.

“Is this your parenting technique? Just… throwing people off of roofs?” Somehow, in spite of the terror and every instinct he had in him telling him to shut up, he continued. “You know, kids aren’t supposed to be scared of their own dads. Threatening your kids with violence? That’s not parenting, that’s just abuse!”

Hughie was convinced that Homelander would throw him off. Now was hardly the best time for criticism, especially for a man who spent his life in an echo chamber with a team of yes men. The shove never came though. Homelander stayed staring into Hughie’s face, his own unreadable, a sheen of uncarved stone. Without warning, he yanked Hughie forward and with a moments manoeuvring and ducking down, hoisted him onto his shoulder. An arm wrapped around his waist, another around his thighs. Hughie didn’t dare move, but he was far from quiet. “I-I can teleport!”

“And let you get your filthy feet all over our home?” Homelander began to descend and Hughie found that he had to close his eyes against the sight of the ground rising to meet them. “No. We’re gonna get you clean and then we’re gonna have a talk about what you were doing up on that roof.”

It seemed as though the violence had ebbed, at least for now. Hughie was sure that Homelander couldn’t give two shits about his opinion on parenting or was actually taking stock of anything he’d said. The issue wasn’t about causing Hughie harm. The issue was that it didn’t fit the narrative that Homelander was trying to spin. He wasn’t above physical abuse, but it had to slot into the fantasy. Spankings fit the part perfectly; broken bones didn’t.

Homelander didn’t put him down once, making him go through the indignity of being carried through the house. His state of undress was immaterial. The dread that had already pooled in Hughie’s stomach dropped a few degrees when he saw that Homelander had taken him to the bathroom. Hughie wouldn’t be able to put up a fight, but Homelander still moved quickly, as though to eliminate even an attempt. Out of the dread came a vicious panic, as Homelander swiftly sat down with Hughie over his lap.

“Hey!” Hughie twisted, trying to somehow tumble off of Homelander’s lap. “Hey, I didn’t do anything!”

“Hughie,” Homelander admonished. He leaned over and the loud sound of water gushing into the bathtub filled the room. Homelander shifted, so that Hughie was propped up on one thigh, as the other came to pin Hughie’s legs. An arm secured him by the small of his back, and like that, Hughie was trapped in place. “We both know what you were doing up on that roof.”

Hughie jerked and grunted as Homelander’s palm crashed against his right cheek. It swiftly came down against the left and just as quickly as last time, a pattern was formed. There was no time to adjust, nor was there any need to pause. Homelander could bring down the entire house with a hard enough slap if he really wanted to. Though Hughie could appreciate none of it, it was probably taking a great deal of restraint on Homelander’s part not to permanently damage him

“You were looking around because you’re planning on running away. You needed to get a good look, didn’t you? You needed to get an idea of the terrain.”

“No!” Hughie hollered, writhing as much as his human restraints would allow him. “You can’t prove it! Ugh! I wasn’t trying to-”

“Hughie Campbell, if one more lie comes out of your mouth I am going to wash it with soap. And then you are still going to get a spanking.” Homelander cut in. Hughie couldn’t tell if the harsh tone was one that Homelander was putting on, if he was enjoying himself, or if his patience truly was wearing thin. Either way, Hughie had no intention of calling his bluff. “You thought that because I’m here no one’s watching the cameras. You did it when you thought I was sleeping and you made sure to do it on a night when you could see into the distance. How am I doing so far?” When Hughie gave no response, Homelander chuckled. “I told you if you tried to run away, I’d make you regret it. Planning counts as trying.”

Homelander’s arm had continued to swing the entire time. He didn’t even pause for breath. The result was a harsh burn that throbbed and pulsed with every smack. Just like last time, Hughie couldn’t keep quiet and he couldn’t keep still. His hands were spread flat against the floor tile to keep himself somewhat upright. His feet kicked with the little space they were afforded.

“And if you even think about trying to teleport out of this, we’ll be doing this every night for a week.”

Hughie hadn’t thought of that, because, really, where could he go? All it would do would piss Homelander off more. In spite of himself, a low, frustrated growl rumbled in his throat. There was nothing he could do. Still. Even with powers he was still completely helpless. Nothing had changed, except perhaps that he could take more of Homelander’s swing than he normally would have been able to.

“This is still abuse!” Hughie pointed out, his voice shrill and tight with pain

Homelander brought his hand down again, only to leave his palm on Hughie’s cheek this time, pausing for the first time, as he began to laugh.

“Aww, Hughie, am I abusing you?” With a rough hand, he half stroked, half grabbed Hughie’s ass, fingertips digging into the hot flesh. “See, this is how I knew you were a little boy.” Homelander lifted his hand and Hughie barely had time to brace himself before the palm came down hard against the centre of his ass. “God, you’re adorable. You can’t even take this like a man. You don’t know what abuse is. Turning your naughty bottom red isn’t abuse, kiddo. You’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

Fury, like a hot brick, was lodged in Hughie’s throat, unable to swallow it, unable to spit it out. Every choice word had the intention of making him feel as small and helpless as humanly possible. Perhaps he shouldn’t have convinced Homelander not to throw him off the roof. Maybe broken bones would be better. It would certainly deal less mental damage than being naughty and adorable whilst being spanked.

Hughie was sure that whatever he’d say, he would undoubtedly making things worse for himself. He wasn’t going to change Homelander’s mind and he wasn’t strong enough to stop him. All he could do was try to bear it as best he could with what little slivers of his dignity he had left. Hughie bit his lip, hands curling into fists. He couldn’t stop himself from flinching upon every impact, but he kept his legs relatively still and his writhing and squirming ceased. He kept doggedly quiet, trying to concentrate on counting the tiles on the floor.

Even without his sounds of pain adding to the din, it was still plenty loud in the bathroom. The sound of gushing water filled the small room, colliding with the sound of Homelander’s hand cracking down on Hughie’s ass again and again. Homelander didn’t give him a chance to breathe. He was relentless. The only time his palm moved away from his cheeks was to focus on his thighs.

Hughie’s determined silence didn’t go unnoticed. Hughie grimaced at the curious purr that emanated from Homelander, loud enough to be heard above the noise. Even if he gave no indication that the gratification he was getting from this was sexual, he was still, without a doubt, enjoying himself on some level, which was too much for Hughie.

“Someone’s being a brave boy today,” Homelander hummed, patting Hughie’s bare hip, as though that were some sort of reward. “It’s a shame, though. I like your pathetic whining.”

Hughie ground his teeth, digging his nails deep into his palms. He would give anything to be able to kill him. If he could just hurt him, that would be better than being forced to just take whatever he’s being given, even if it did make things worse for himself.

Hughie didn’t answer and Homelander chuckled. “You just try and keep it up, champ, but you’ll be crying like a baby by the end of this.”

‘Fuck you’ lay on the tip of Hughie’s tongue, which he forced himself to swallow. Rising to the provocation wouldn’t help. It was what Homelander wanted and while he could take whatever he wanted from Hughie, there were still a few things that Hughie could withhold.

He wasn’t crying by the time Homelander stopped as was promised, but his breathing was laboured and his whole form quivered. He could feel the burning ache emanating from his bottom and thighs, and he felt the urge to reach behind and rub his abused skin.

“We’ll finish this off after you’ve had your bath,” Homelander announced, tone light and conversational as he reached over to turn off the taps.

Hughie’s stomach dropped. There was still time for Homelander to make good on his threat after all. Once again, Hughie finds himself moved as though he’s a doll. In a fluid motion, he’s transferred from dangling over Homelander’s knee to sitting uncomfortably in the bath.

Homelander rises to his feet, hands on his hips, smiling down at Hughie, who was trying not to squirm.

“This feels familiar.”

He carefully knelt down beside the bath, ignoring the way Hughie recoiled from him.

“It’s a bit like the first time we met, isn’t it? Don’t worry.” Homelander winked. “I’m not gonna hold you under this time.”

“I…”

Hughie’s voice died as the jovial expression melted from Homelander’s face. “What?” Homelander raised his eyebrows. “‘You can do it yourself’?”

Hughie glanced tentatively over at Homelander, then back down at the water. “… Yeah?”

“I just had your pink, bare ass over my knee. Who do you think is in charge here, Hughie?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“You,” he mumbled, despondent and reluctant.

“‘Me’ what?”

Hughie sighed, closing his eyes just so he could briefly roll them to the back of his head. “You, Sir.”

The words had scarcely left his mouth when a hand closed around his ear and yanked him, pulling him hard until he was bent over the rim of the bath. The hot water lapped around the bottom his thighs, droplets rolling down the curve of his cheeks.

“I was going to wait until after your bath, but I’m not going to take this attitude of yours, little boy.” Homelander was standing now, a hand pressing down on the small of his back, ensuring his hips stayed digging painfully into the porcelain. “You asked for this.”

Hughie heard something move against the tiles behind him and he only got the chance to figure out what it was when the flat side of it cracked loudly against his right cheek. Hughie yelled, curls flying as his head flung up from the impact. He turned his head to see a bath brush wielded in Homelander’s grip, before it swung down again. Keeping quiet was impossible now. Hughie cried out with every blow. He shifted his weight from one hand to the other and, mortifyingly, his squirming essentially meant wiggling his ass from side to side. Homelander’s aim stayed true. From one cheek to the next came debilitating smack after smack, barely giving Hughie time to adjust to one stinging burn before another was ignited on his skin.

“You are nothing but a little brat, Hughie. Just a naughty, little brat and it is about damn time you learned your place.” There was real anger in Homelander’s voice, which Hughie felt as the brush came down even harder against his bottom, an especially sharp crack on a few choice words. "You have broken nearly every single rule I've given you. Even after trying to run away, even after being punished, you continued to be a rude, insolent little boy." Homelander pinched Hughie's ear again, pulling him up while he bent down to meet in the middle, his voice a dark growl. "Do you really think I don't see every single thing you do, Hughie?"

He didn't give Hughie a chance to reply. He shoved his head down, hand returning press down upon his back. He hadn't paused the entire time. His arm was in constant motion, bringing the brush down from one cheek to the next. Homelander spoke over the sounds of Hughie's choked gasps and cries, his voice granite and ice, unmoving and cold. "This won't end when you apologise. It will end when I say it will end. It's about time you learned that you don't have a say any more. You will learn obedience."

Hughie was in so much pain that there was scarcely any room left for humiliation. Only later would he think of how pathetic it was that being spanked with a bath brush had brought him to tears. In the moment, he could scarcely form a complete sentence. He cried out with every smack. He tried to wriggle free, but Homelander's grip was bruising and try as he could to push against it or wriggle out from under it, Hughie couldn't get loose. The only reprieve his backside got was when Homelander decided to attack his thighs, to which he was equally attentive.

Homelander gave Hughie nothing. He didn't speak. Hughie slowly but surely began to crumble, in spite all of his fervent efforts to keep it together. It started with pleas, cries and howls of 'please!' and 'stop!', every single one of which went ignored. Not even when, in a moment of desperation,  Hughie grabbed Homelander's leg, was he given even the slightest acknowledgement.

Panic mingled with helplessness. It didn't feel as though it was going to ever end. He was so sure he couldn't take any more, but Homelander didn't stop. He kept going and going, to the point where Hughie's bottom felt positively raw, where it was constantly throbbing, aching and burning. Hughie tried so valiantly to move out of the way of the brush. He pushed and squirmed, shuffling on his knees as though there was any place for him to go. Only when he began to cry did he finally slump forward, still, head hung low in defeat.

Hughie did his best to keep the tears at bay, but he could only hold out for so long. His vision swam, his eyes throbbed and there was no moment of reprieve, he couldn't catch his breath. It wasn't at all long before Hughie had his face buried in his palm, his shoulders quivering, tears seeping through his fingers. Still, Homelander continued. Helplessness turned to despair and anguish. Homelander was as good as his word. This would only stop when he wanted it to. It didn't matter what Hughie could take. Hughie would have to take it, whether he could handle it or not.

Before he knew it, Hughie was crying in earnest, howling out apologies between sobs. The fact that his misery wasn't even acknowledged, not even in the form of cruelty, made him break down that much harder. Hughie had learned the lesson Homelander had been so doggedly teaching him. His wants and his needs no longer mattered. He didn't have a say in what happened to him any more. Homelander had taken away his agency, his freedom, his right to even show his true feelings. Homelander was going to do whatever he wanted with him and there was nothing Hughie could do about it.

It was some time after Hughie had descended into a speechless weeping when Homelander finally decided he had learned his lesson. Hughie was crying so hard he didn't even notice at first. Even without the constant hail of smacks, his bottom and thighs still throbbed. The hand that had pinned him to the rim of the bath left his back, but Hughie didn't move. He remained bent over, head hung low between his arms, crying pitifully.

Apparently, this humiliation failed to suffice.

Hughie practically wailed as he felt the sudsy bristles of the bath brush (the same one that had reduced him to such a mess) scrub at his tender skin. There was not an iota of protest left in him. He didn't bother moving as Homelander washed him methodically, scrubbing over his burning bottom and thighs first, before scouring all the way down to his feet. A hand on Hughie's upper arm guided him up until he was sat back on his haunches. If Homelander was smiling or if his expression was still one of unsated fury, Hughie didn't dare look to find out. His face was turned, his head hung low. His crying was quieter now, but it remained ever present, picking up in volume and pitch when Homelander destroyed the last bit of dignity he had by ensuring he was thoroughly washed, even between his legs.

Once the indignities of the bath tub were over, the brush was finally hung back up and Homelander was pulling Hughie to his feet, hands under his armpits. Hughie complied with stuttering breath and quivering legs. He went where the hands led him, until he ended with his feet on a bathmat and his nose in a corner of the bathroom.

"Hands on your head."

Hughie flinched upon hearing Homelander's voice after such a long spate of silence. He immediately complied, his head bowed. He didn't even have it in him to be angry. He had more than suffered enough, but we wasn't about to try and argue that he had learned his lesson. The very act of voicing his opinion would prove that he hadn't learned a thing.

"No turning around, little boy," Homelander chided gently. "Keep your nose in the corner until I say so. Understood?"

"Yes sir," Hughie whispered, eyes closing, tears rolling down his cheeks to drip off his chin.

The sound of the bath water being drained soon filled the room. Once it had petered out, the only sounds left were of Hughie's sniffles and the smallest hitches of his breath. He was still in the corner by the time all of his tears had dried and every droplet of water of more or less evaporated from his skin. He didn't turn around, though he was sorely tempted. He didn't enjoy the thought of Homelander doing nothing but staring at him, standing naked in the corner like an idiot. Just when his arms were truly starting to ache and he was starting to wonder if Homelander had forgotten about him, it was finally over.

"Alright, Hughie." He heard Homelander walk towards him and immediately, he braced himself. The worst that happened was a light pat to the centre of his still aching bottom. "You can put your arms down now, son. It's bedtime."

Hughie's arms fell to his sides with a small sigh of relief. Homelander led him out of the bathroom, head bowed, the picture of a humiliated defeat. He didn't speak as Homelander gathered up the pyjama t-shirt that had been abandoned when Hughie had teleported himself to the roof. He went along, reluctantly compliant as Homelander pulled it down over him.

"I don't think you'll be needing to wear anything else," Homelander chuckled. "You're gonna be plenty warm, aren't you, kiddo?"

Hughie nodded. The combination of exhaustion and defeat were creating a rather welcome numbness. If he had to be half naked and laughed at like Homelander was nothing but a moronic locker room bully, then so be it. He just wanted it to be over.

"Now, you don't need me to stay, do you?" Homelander asked, eyebrow raised as he pulled back the covers. "You won't be tempted to go 'star gazing' again, will you?"

That did cut through the fog. Hughie cowed, shaking his head. It took a great deal of effort, but he forced his heavy gaze to rise, briefly meeting Homelander's eyes. "I won't do it again. I promise. I'm sorry."

"Why won't you do it again, Hughie?"

He had thought his tears were all spent, but apparently not. They pulsed against his eyes and he found himself sniffling, curling in on himself, pulling down his t-shirt to cover maintain some semblance of dignity. "Because... I-I learnt my lesson. I'll be good. I swear."

"And why else?" Homelander cupped the back of his head, coaxing firmly until their eyes met. "Because you saw it. There's no way out, is there?"

Hughie's breath hitched. His jaw trembled and his chest heaved as he tried to contain a sob that threatened to burst from within. "No."

Homelander's eyes softened into a fond expression. He pulled him in close, until Hughie's head was forced to rest on his shoulder. Hughie offered no resistance. He slumped against Homelander, allowing the full brunt of his weight to be taken. "That's right, Hughie." Homelander cooed. As Hughie began to quiver once more with a bout of exhausted weeping, Homelander combed a hand through his curls.  "There's no way out. It's just you and me."

[febuwhump]

FEBUWHUMP 2025 PROMPT LIST

this year's prompts were chosen through an open suggestion poll (in which we received over 4,000 prompts) and a subsequent vote, where 5,019 votes were submitted. the top 28 make up the core prompts, and the febuwhump mod's favourites that remain have become the alternates. the first prompt in the 28, "vocal chords", was our number one prompt of the vote, with 1,625 total votes.

i am so insanely excited to see what you all create with these prompts, and i hope they're inspiring enough to trigger a whole month's worth of creativity for you!

as an extra added challenge, some creators will be undertaking another, smaller goal, of including apples in each of their prompt fills as an ode to the wildly popular prompt suggestion of "apples" that didn't make it through to the poll. this is totally optional, but is a good extra challenge if you'd like to take part in it!

if you have any questions, please check out the faq before sending an ask, or skim the blog's previously asked questions to see if your question has already been answered.

please note: notifying the blog of completionist status will happen through a google form released towards the end of febuwhump, and if you are interested in joining the febuwhmp discord server, the link will be available to do so for one week towards the end of january.

full write-up of prompts and rules under the cut:

FEBUWHUMP 2025 PROMPTS:

DAY 1: vocal chords

DAY 2: holding back tears

DAY 3: pinned down

DAY 4: hivemind

DAY 5: not trusting reality

DAY 6: forced to stay awake

DAY 7: alternate timeline self

DAY 8: bleeding out

DAY 9: necromancy

DAY 10: magic exhaustion

DAY 11: demonic possession

DAY 12: used as practice

DAY 13: “i don’t trust anyone else”

DAY 14: becoming the monster

DAY 15: icarus

DAY 16: eaten alive

DAY 17: power instability

DAY 18: living weapon

DAY 19: death wish

DAY 20: “i did good right?”

DAY 21: put on display

DAY 22: “grab the little one”

DAY 23: gunshot wound

DAY 24: forced to beg

DAY 25: bound and gagged

DAY 26: concealing an injury

DAY 27: post-victory collapse

DAY 28: recovery

ALTERNATE PROMPTS:

is there a specific day’s prompt you don’t want to fill? here are ten alternatives you can switch them out for!

ALT 1: major character death

ALT 2: blowtorch

ALT 3: pick who dies

ALT 4: body swap

ALT 5: die a hero

ALT 6: emergency surgery

ALT 7: body horror

ALT 8: on the run

ALT 9: in another life

ALT 10: feeding tube

RULES:

soft rules:

prompts should be answered in the form of whump

creators can produce any kind of media they want

you don't have to complete all the prompts to take part

you can use the prompts after the event ends

you can complete them in tandem with any other event

you can post to any platform you want, however this blog will only be sharing links and prompt fills posted to tumblr

if you want to be featured on the hall of fame, you must inform this blog by the 3rd of march that you have completed all of the days using the provided form

if you have questions, consult the faq before asking

hard rules:

to be a completionist, you must complete all 28 prompts, in order, in whatever medium you want, before the end of the event

(specifically for being featured on the blog)

when uploading febuwhump content to tumblr, please use the tags:

febuwhump (or febuwhump2025)

the relevant day's tag e.g. febuwhumpday1, febuwhumpday2...

nsfw (if relevant)

any important trigger warnings

you can also tag the blog: @febuwhump

I cannot guarantee your work will be archived on the blog. a random selection of properly tagged works will be reblogged every day of february.

[febuwhump]

FEBUWHUMP 2025 PROMPT POLL NOW OPEN

DEC 16 - 27

it's time! we've crowdsourced 4,000 prompts and i've shortlisted the best 100 for you to choose from!

you can choose a maximum of 28 prompts, one for every day of february, and you can also vote as many times as you want before the poll closes on the 27th. make sure you share this post so we get as many votes as possible!

the finalised prompt list for february will be released around the new year!

[whumpercars]

you know what whump trope I love?

the same dialogue being used for both whumper and caretaker, but in very different contexts!

“This’ll hurt,” (Before being tortured / before taking off a Bandaid)

“Don’t move.” (While whumper restrains them / while caretaker brushes their hair)

“Quiet down.” (Whumper yelling at sobbing whumpee / caretaker gently shushing excited whumpee)

“They’re not coming for you.” (Whumper telling them no one will save them / Caretaker telling them no one will kidnap them)

“I’m only trying to help.” (Whumper pretending to take care of them / Caretaker actually taking care of them)

“You’ll never see them again.” (Whumper mocking them / Caretaker reassuring them)

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Five Homewarming

He was scared. He wanted to go home.

Hughie watched the thin, pale light of dawn spread across the room he was already beginning to refer to as his own. Even if it was for the sake of brevity, calling the place where he slept ‘his room’ felt like a bad omen; as though he was already accepting his fate after less than a day. The more he thought about it though, the more hope seemed like a fool's errand. He didn’t know where he was. He might not even be in the States. Escape would mean trying to outrun a creature he couldn’t hide from, who could smell his sweat and hear his blood, whose eyes could see farther than Hughie could run, all in completely unknown terrain.

The only time he would be able to make a run for it was when Homelander wasn’t there, but depending on how far away he was from Vought Tower, that didn’t give him much of a head start. Besides, just because Homelander wasn’t there didn’t mean he wasn’t watching.

He had discovered the cameras last night, artificial eyes glinting in dark corners. Hughie could only hope they were used only by Homelander when he wasn’t there to keep an eye on Hughie in person. The thought of anyone, even some anonymous Vought employee just doing their job, seeing what Homelander had done to him was an entirely new low that Hughie couldn’t bear to sink to.

Hughie lay in bed, listening to the silence of the house. He was used to the ever presence of New York City, cars, trucks, the angry horns of traffic, neighbours above and below stomping, shouting and laughing, a constant thrum and movement, a pulse that could never still. Here, it was silent. Hughie wasn’t used to silence. He wouldn’t leave the house unless armed with earphones. Now all that was left was the sound of his own breathing. He could hear his heartbeat if he listened hard enough. That couldn’t be normal. It had to be the V.

He was a supe now. Hughie still didn’t know how he felt about that. He would say that he was lucky he survived, but whether death was the better alternative remained to be seen. He hadn’t wanted to be a supe nor had he asked to be one. He couldn’t think about what he was now without coming back to who had turned him into one. There was so much to process. Too much. It all lay before him as he stared up at the ceiling, a horrid, tangled mess. One thread led to another. He couldn’t think about one fucked up thing without accidentally jumping to the next.

The only reason he was a supe was because Homelander wanted him for a son.

Rules had been given, but Hughie still didn’t know fully what lay in store for him. What did it mean to be Homelander’s child? It all depended on what fatherhood and childhood looked like to a man like him. Control and punishment featured heavily, but physical affection seemed to be just as prescriptive. In a way, it was worse. The violence that he liked to hide behind that veneer of care and concern frightened Hughie in a primal way, but there was something equally foul in his performance of affection, the squeezes, the strokes, the ‘kiddo’s and ‘little boy’s, the warm smiles and sighs of concern. There was something insidious about it, more ominous than simple violence.

Hughie had to wonder how much of it was performative. If it was just an extended torture, a way to fuck with Hughie’s head, then that would make it somewhat bearable; but what if Homelander actually meant all of it? He had gone to extremes to make sure Hughie fit the part (as much as a twenty seven year old man could fit the part of an eight year old boy)- though he might not consider pumping Hughie full of near lethal drugs extreme. What if he really did truly intend for Hughie to be his son? Would that be better or worse than just a tool to use against Butcher? It was, in part, delusion and fantasy. It had to be. Hughie was obviously an adult and undeniably a prisoner, but those plain facts were proving to be no deterrence. It seemed that Homelander was determined to make a child out of him.

Hughie turned over in his bed, wrapping the comforter around himself. He wasn’t going to think about how that seemed to align with everyone’s view of him. His dad still spoke to his paediatrician. Frenchie called him petite. M.M. called him kid. Butcher said that he was his canary; and now there was Homelander. He had killed Translucent and he was still the kid. He had helped leak Compound V to the public, saved Frenchie and M.M., he felt like he had done so much, and yet he was still just the kid. No matter what he did, the title that was thrust upon him was impossible to shirk. The bite of it was softened by love and well meaning, but it still stung; and now it was being doled out with cruelty and malice. He wondered how much of it he would be able to take.

There were worse things Homelander could do with him. It was difficult, but Hughie felt the need to seek out silver linings wherever he could, even if they were more grey than silver. He could have Hughie in a hole in the ground. He could be torturing him. He could have killed him in a hundred different painful ways. He could have let him die after the first time the V ripped the life out of his body. At least he was in a comfortable bed. He wasn’t restrained or in any pain. It was still a cage, but at least it was a gilded one. It was nicer than the basement he and the boys had hidden out in not some months ago. Those things weren’t much, but they were something, at least. Did he desperately yearn for his girlfriend, his friends, his bed, his clothes, his freedom? Yes. Did he wish to wake up from this nightmare? Yes, but maybe it would help to remember that the nightmare he was in could be a whole lot worse.

Hughie spent a few more hours moving from one side of the bed to the other, tossing and rolling like the contents of his mind. Eventually, he got out of bed. He wouldn’t be allowed to hide from Homelander all day and at least this way it was on his own terms. He would have to take whatever little freedoms like that that he could find.

When he went downstairs, there was no smell of food to greet him this time. The silence was absolute. Hughie moved about the ground floor, head on a swivel, but his gaoler was nowhere to be found. He went back upstairs, going through every room, even daring to creak open the door to what he could only assume to be Homelander’s room. He went back downstairs, the knowledge that he was alone settling on his shoulders. There was a mixture of relief and dread at this. Homelander had said he wouldn’t be spending every day at the cabin and it made sense, he was Homelander , but it felt like a trick somehow. Or a test. Maybe Homelander wanted to see what the mouse would do while the cat was away. Hughie stood in the middle of the living room, looking around himself. He wanted to look around. Homelander hadn’t said that he couldn’t and it wasn’t as though there were going to be any weapons he could use against him. Even with god juice pumping through his veins, he was still helpless. Perhaps it was a useless exercise, but Hughie still felt the need to familiarise himself with his surroundings. It was better than sitting around, awaiting fate.

He started in the living room. The books that lined the walls were all hardbacks, so it was nearly impossible to tell if any of them had ever been read, but Hughie still doubted it. All he could find were encyclopedias and dictionaries. Nothing someone would ever sit down and actually read. He turned on the TV and was greeted with a no signal sign. He then checked the TV cabinet and recoiled. Every single Disney movie was there on blu-ray, neatly lined up in chronological order. This was all he had to watch? Not that he hated Disney, he grew up on it like nearly every other kid from the 90s, but this was it? He didn’t want to think about how else Homelander planned to infantilize him. The cabinet doors were shut with a quick snap.

The more he explored the house, the more surreal it felt. It had never been lived in. There was nothing personal about it. It was like staying in a hotel or a showroom. It was a blank slate, designed to look like a home. Hughie wasn’t sure if he would actually want to stay in a second home of Homelander’s, but it didn’t make it any less creepy. He ended up in the kitchen, his stomach yawning open. On the kitchen island there was a landline, but Hughie’s hopes weren’t raised. When he lifted the receiver, he found that there were no buttons to press. It was purely to receive. He returned the phone to its cradle. So, there would be times when Homelander couldn’t just fly over to him. He would have eyes on him, but he wouldn’t always be available to actually come. It made sense; and it gave Hughie the tiniest bit of hope. It wouldn’t be much of one, but he might have a head start after all.

Finally, he turned to the fridge. He didn’t remember it being so heavily adorned with magnetic letters yesterday, but then again, it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind either. His stomach fell as his eyes fell on a note pinned under the letter ‘h’. Dread settling in his stomach, he began to read.

Hughie,

I’ll be gone for a few days, so eat and shower as much as you need. The fridge will be restocked by the time you wake up. I expect you to be in bed by the time it gets dark. Be good.

Love,

Dad

Hughie read the note until he could no longer see. He stared until the tidy scrawl blurred into an illegible mess. He had permission to eat. To bathe. He hadn’t been given a curfew, but a bedtime . And the way it was signed off. He hadn’t thought it was possible to vomit from sheer rage and revulsion, but he felt terribly close. Violence exploded through him. The fist that had been curling at his side swung straight into the fridge door. He had expected an explosion of pain, split skin, bruised knuckles, for his appendage to crumple against unyielding metal. He hadn’t anticipated his fist to continue through the metal. When his hand fell away, he found, to his horror, a perfect mould of his fist indenting in the fridge door.

“Holy shit.”

He looked down at his hand. There wasn’t even a cut. He had forgotten about the V. He could do shit like that now, punch holes in metal doors. The shock of it had evaporated his fury, and now the shrill sound of a phone ringing destroyed his awe and replaced it with panic. There was no way he couldn’t answer. It could only be one person. Swallowing, discovering that his mouth was suddenly dry. Hughie went over to the phone and picked it up.

“Did you just break the fucking fridge?!”

The snarled hiss curled into Hughie’s ear. He gripped the receiver tight, his insides transformed into a writhing heap.

“I- uh-”

“I leave you alone for one morning.” Hughie could hear the wrathful finger cutting the air with a stern jab. “One morning and you are already tearing the house apart! I thought you would be better than this. I thought after yesterday you’d know better than to throw a tantrum over some simple instructions.”

Hughie was not about to pick apart the horrible inaccuracies of that statement. They had not been simple instructions. It had been a list of privileges so basic that Hughie had never even considered them as such. The privilege to eat when he wanted, sleep when he wanted. Those sorts of restrictions were given to patients, to prisoners; and of course, to children.

“You are lucky that I am a busy man this morning, or else I would be over there right now turning your ass red.”

A wave of humiliation, fear and disgust, shivered up Hughie’s spine. Heat flushed across his face and his neck, his stomach twisted and flipped. He was going to throw up before he'd even had breakfast.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Hughie tried to swallow, though there was no moisture left in his mouth. “I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not,” Homelander growled. “If I see you throwing another tantrum like that, you’re going to regret it. Understand?”

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

“‘Yes’, what?”

Hughie wasn’t going to say Dad. He refused. It was a near certainty that it would be forced from Hughie’s mouth sooner or later, but if Homelander wanted to hear it, it would have to be pried from between his teeth. A stiff “yes, sir,” was the best he could do. Fortunately, this time, it was enough.

“Good. Behave yourself, Hughie. I’ve got my eye on you.”

Hughie waited until he heard the line go dead to put the phone down. Then, he sank down onto the counter until his face was cradled in his hands. Echoes of the conversation swarmed his mind. Homelander was more than rich enough that something like a fridge would be immaterial to him. It wasn’t about the money. It was about exerting control over Hughie, shoehorning him as much as possible into this role of child. Keeping him scared, keeping him small; but knowing it didn’t stop it from working. The call had been immediately after he’d thrown the punch; Homelander had been watching him from the moment he’d woken up. He was still watching him now- but Hughie could never know for sure when that surveillance would end, not without running the risk of pissing Homelander off even more.

He wouldn’t have even done it if he’d known he could do so much damage. He’d forgotten about his powers. His anger had been so consuming he’d forgotten about everything except what had been on that note. As much as he would have liked to stay in that exact position for another hour or so, Hughie didn’t enjoy the thought of Homelander watching how his seams were already so easily picked; so he moved over to the fridge. Perhaps the infringement of destroying the note might have been ignored or forgiven had Hughie not put a fist shaped dent in the fridge door, but he was already in such hot water, he wasn’t going to dare try it now. He tried not to look at it, but out of the corner of his eye, he still caught a glimpse of the words. By the way his stomach rebelled, he wondered if he would even be able to keep anything down.

-

The TV remained the only remedy to the uncanny silence of the house. Hughie opened the windows on the ground floor (the ones in the top wouldn’t budge), but even the sounds of the ambience outside, the wind moving through the trees, the trills and songs of birds, wasn’t enough. He was used to the bustle of humanity, so much so that instead of it overwhelming him, he was overwhelmed by its absence. He put the TV on and decided to watch the Disney films that he hadn’t watched as a kid, so as not to taint those childhood movies by association. It was going to be a lot of princess movies. He listened as he did the washing up, trying to focus on that saccharine voice singing into the well, to lose himself in the music rather than digging a pit in his mind. Rather than think of Homelander choosing which camera to observe him from. How many Disney movies would he have watched by the end of this? How many would he have seen, over and over again? What if there wasn’t an end to this? What if the boys never found him? What if they weren’t even looking for him? What if he never found a way out?

The water had turned cold. Hughie let out a breath, looked down at his hands to find that his fingers had pruned. How long had he been washing the same plate, lost within himself. Had Homelander witnessed that too? Hughie listened for the television and found the string of a song that he could hold onto. He put the dish on the rack, drained the sink and dried his hands. He continued to wring the towel in his hands as he frowned in thought. What could he do now? What was he allowed to do? The thin ice that he had found himself on after what had happened with the fridge wouldn’t have thickened in such a short space of time. He was reluctant to even head outside lest it sparked Homelander’s ire.

In the end, Hughie settled for sitting on the couch and watching Snow White in a glazed stupor. The tea towel was twisted and wrapped around his hands, so much so that at some point, letting it go felt impossible. It was the second day and already he felt as though he was losing his mind. He couldn’t forget about the cameras. He was a bug in a jar and at any moment, Homelander might give him a shake just because he could.

I’ve got my eye on you.

He couldn’t relax. He couldn’t think and when he did, it was the mental equivalent of doom scrolling, a rapid fire spiral into hopelessness. How the fuck was he supposed to do anything? He couldn’t try to escape. He couldn’t even start to plan without Homelander seeing. Homelander couldn’t watch him all the time; but it didn’t matter, because unless he was asleep in the next room, there was always a chance that he might be watching. Even then, there was his hearing. What if Hughie woke him up? What if Homelander never stayed the night? What if this was his life? Forever? Or until Homelander got tired of him or realised that Hughie was an inadequate substitute for an actual child.

The movie had ended. Hughie’s breathing was sharp and shallow, the tea towel wrapped tight around his hand. Was Homelander watching his quiet breakdown? Was he supposed to be doing something different? Was there a way that he could get this wrong? Did Homelander want him to keep up the act too? The act itself had yet to be properly defined and it hadn’t been made at all clear what it was to be when Homelander wasn’t present.

Be good.

He was a grown ass man. He shouldn’t have to be good. What did good even look like to Homelander? Or perhaps the definition of what bad was would be better, so that Hughie could avoid it? Either way, Hughie was floundering. Homelander probably wouldn’t kill him, but Hughie wouldn’t make the mistake of ruling out that possibility. The worst he had done thus far, at least physically, was spank him. He was still mortified by it, even being threatened with it made his insides squirm. It had been total humiliation, not to mention deeply violating in a way that Hughie hadn’t expected. He had been too angry to really consider it, but afterwards, when Homelander had ‘checked on him’, he had felt how deeply wrong it was to be undressed against his will. Hughie knew that it could be so much worse and if it was someone else, someone harder, tougher, someone who had been through real pain, they would probably find it laughable. Hughie hadn’t been through worse though; but there was still time. While Homelander was determined to go through this parental charade, Hughie wasn’t about to rule out worse violence. He was a supe now. He could take a lot more than before. Homelander would have to worry so much about accidentally murdering him in a fit of rage, which was convenient, as his temper flared frequently out of control. It took little to piss him off or maybe Hughie (completely unintentionally) just got under his skin.

Unable to sit still any longer, Hughie rose to his feet and began to move about the house, like a caged, feral thing. There were no blind spots that he could find. There was no privacy. Not even the bathroom, he had discovered last night, much to his fury and horror, was free of surveillance. The sudden, desperate need to not be observed, led Hughie pulling himself under his bed. He stared up at the white of the mattress, broken up by the slats of the bed frame. He listened out for the phone downstairs, but as the seconds dragged on, the silence remained. He didn’t know if there were any cameras that were angled to catch the space under the bed in frame, but he had the feeling that this was the closest he would be able to get to a moment alone. Breaths came a little easier, a little deeper.

The thought had yet to have fully formed yet in his mind. It was still shapeless when his hand began to lift of his own accord. With the nail of his thumb, he dug into the wood, carving down. Then, another line next to it. A tally. Two days. Perhaps the whole underside of the bed would one day be covered in tallies. Maybe Homelander would find out somehow and even this rudimentary method of timekeeping would be robbed from him as well.

His face twisted. His eyes burned. He shut them tight and pressed the heels of his hands into his sockets until shapeless colours bursted out in his vision. He was scared. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be brave any more. He had thought it was over, it should have been over, why couldn’t he just exist, why couldn’t he just be okay for one second? Why couldn’t he go home? He just wanted to go home.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[chicken-noodle-whump]

Whump Poll

Favorite kind of whump?

Superhero/ Villain Universe: Magic exhaustion, injuries from fighting

Whumper: Chains, torture, whipping, trauma, starving, psychological, blood

Olden Days: Spanish flu, poorly treated injuries, war, cottages, fevers, ice

Freak Accident: Car crash, natural disaster, fatal mistake, slip and fall

Sick: Fever, chills, sore throat, stomachache, runny nose, dizziness, aches

Overworking: Exhaustion, insomnia, tremors, clumsiness, moodiness, ill

Psychological: Angst, grief, whumper but not physically, mind games, lies

Combination of these: High fever due to injuries, grief causing insomnia, etc.

Other: (Do tell, I'm curious) (If multiple pick 1 and tell me other favs)

Voting ended onDec 13, 2024

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Four Incentive

“We can either do this standing up, or we can do this over my knee.”

No matter how he tried to spin it, it didn’t feel good. Pissing on Becca’s promise within a month or two of making it to sacrifice Ryan for Hughie, or abandoning Hughie to his fate to keep Ryan out of Homelander’s clutches. Neither was a solution, but there was only one right choice. The boys and Starlight had all agreed that handing Ryan over to Homelander was a catastrophic idea. Even if they were to ignore the ethics of leaving a child with his murderous, Nazi fucking father, the inherent dangers of creating another Homelander was too big of a reason to ignore. Even the fact that Hughie himself would probably agree with the decision brought no comfort to Butcher. Hughie wasn’t the sort to throw anybody to the wolves if he could help it, especially not children.

The wound of Becca’s passing was still sore and wide open; Homelander taking Hughie was pouring salt in his blood. Butcher had to wonder just how much more he could stand. What else could Homelander take from him? How else could he make him suffer? Butcher hadn’t given Homelander an inch when he’d given the news, showing up at his flat to tell him in person what he had done with Hughie; but they both knew it was a front. There’d be no point to it all if it didn’t hurt.

The only silver lining was that, at least in theory, Hughie was still alive. There wasn’t much point in hostage negotiations without a hostage. Corpses made for poor bargaining chips. ‘Probably’ wasn’t good enough though. Until Butcher saw it with his own eyes, Hughie was Schrödinger's cat, both alive and dead. Homelander had promised proof, though was yet to make good on it; and in the meantime, there wasn’t much any of them could do besides wait. They could hardly plan a rescue mission if they didn’t even know where Hughie needed rescuing from. 

They were in the Flat Iron when it happened. Butcher was pouring himself his fourth whiskey of the day, pointedly ignoring the frowned looks of disapproval and concern that were thrown at him. Frenchie and Kimiko were skiving off at Frenchie’s desk, talking to one another in a silent blur of hands. M.M. was there, tidying up the place; no one had bothered to remind him yet that he didn’t work with them any more. He came every day on his lunch break, with the vain hope that they had something, in spite of assurances that he would be told as soon as they had anything.

Butcher knocked back his drink without a grimace and wondered how long it would all last.  Over forty eight hours without a word and the silence was reaching its breaking point. He’d snap sooner or later, say some things he’d regret, because Hughie wasn’t around to put him back in his place any more. No more canary to chirp harsh truths, to irritate him into making the right choice. Butcher wished he could feel free of his moral compass, but he was shackled by its absence.

With a sigh, he began to trawl through his emails,  trying to kid himself that he was working. Not in the way Hughie was. It wasn’t the scrambled email address that piqued his interest, nor that it got flagged as spam. It was the heading. Butcher wasn’t versed well in technology. He was no luddite, but he wasn’t overly fond of it. He could hear Hughie scolding him for clicking the link, talking about how he technically knew more about hardware than software, but he knew enough to know that the antivirus they had wasn’t the best, despite being a branch of the government. He wished the kid was there so he could smack him upside the head and tell him to shut up.

For once, it was a good thing he didn’t listen to Hughie.

It took him a second to understand what it was that he was seeing. It was a live camera feed of different empty rooms and a lawn at different angles, surrounded by thick forest. It took a little navigation before he found him. Before he found them .

“Shit.”

Heads turned at Butcher’s breathy exclamation. His gaze didn’t waver. If he blinked, he might miss it. If he moved, Hughie might be gone again, forever.

“It’s Hughie.”

The other three scrambled to Butcher’s desk, crowding around his chair to stare at the screen; and there he was, living and breathing, the tinny sounds of his footsteps just audible. Following Homelander outside. Butcher scrambled to click on the right screen at Frenchie and M.M.’s insistence to follow Hughie. They watched, breaths held tighter in their chests with every step, watching Hughie walk to the tree like he was about to face a firing squad. What happened next was too quick for anyone to actually see. There was a collective shout of dismay as they saw lasers firing directly at Hughie, but horror quickly turned to confusion. For Hughie was now in the forefront of the shot, panting hard and completely naked. The conclusion was reached at the same time, but Butcher was the one who verbalised their realisation.

“He turned him into a fucking supe.”

There were no microphones outside, so they could only guess what it was that was happening. They saw Hughie’s dismay and embarrassment, turned to panic as Homelander moved over to him. From what Butcher could guess, it looked like a countdown on Homelander’s lips. Hughie disappeared without warning and Butcher was left scrambling to find where he’d gone. Naked still, he was in a bedroom, rifling through its drawers.

“He cannot teleport his clothes,” Frenchie murmured.

“He’s lucky to be alive, dosin’ him up with V.”

If Butcher wasn’t enraptured with the live feed, then he was drinking in the proof of Hughie’s life remaining intact. There wasn’t space in his head to question why he’d been turned into a supe. They could muse on Homelander’s insanity later. For now, they all watched Hughie go down the stairs. While the outside wasn’t miked up, the house seemed to be bugged at every corner.

“No, no, no, no, no,” M.M. muttered, as Hughie’s voice rose and Homelander’s became more serious.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’, lad?” Butchered murmured, leaning in closer to the screen.

When pushed, Hughie tended to run his mouth. Butcher had thought the kid to be smart enough to button his lip when talking to his captor, but emotions were evidently running too high for rational thought; and Homelander had run out of patience. They all flinched as one as they watched Homelander grab Hughie by his ear, dragging him to his side. Whiskey and bile roiled painfully in the pit of Butcher’s stomach as the sounds of Hughie’s cries came through his computer. Butcher had never witnessed a car crash before, but he’d seen shit worse than car crashes. He’d learnt to look away, because there was no point adding another scar to his collection, because after the tenth and twentieth and thirtieth time of seeing some horrific shit, it lost its magnetism; but not this time. He had to watch. Butcher was compelled. Whatever Homelander was about to do, he needed to see it. If he was on the cusp of snuffing out one of the last few lights in his life, then he needed to bear witness.

Nobody breathed as they watched Homelander hoist Hughie under his arm like he didn’t weigh a thing. The horror remained as Homelander roughly tugged down Hughie’s pants; but then, bafflement took over everything. Homelander wasn’t killing him. What he was doing could barely pass as a form of torture; but it did class as child abuse.

Uncomfortable didn’t cut it. Seeing Hughie being beaten up would have been its own kind of torture, but there was a whole layer to this that was entirely different. It was more than just seeing him in pain. They were watching him be humiliated. Homelander was treating him like a child, scolding him like a child and Hughie was incapable of doing anything besides responding like one. By being audience to his punishment, they became unwilling participants in his humiliation; and they themselves were being punished by witnessing it. Hughie probably had no idea they were watching. He hadn’t seemed to notice the cameras yet; but Homelander knew and that was enough. It was plenty.

He had been meticulous. There were no blindspots. Every camera in the room offered a different angle to Hughie’s mortification, and the sounds of struck flesh and his furious cries were being picked up on every microphone.

Nobody was able to tear themselves away. The feed was in colour, so they could see the angry colour Homelander’s hand left behind. They watched Hughie flail, heard his angry screeches, saw his legs kick and his fists pound, yet Homelander didn’t waver. It was when Homelander’s voice cut through the tumult of pain and fury did Butcher finally act. He heard Hughie again, trying to explain to him how you couldn’t just unplug computers at the socket, Butcher, it wasn’t good for them, you had to shut it down first. He ripped out the plug.

Butcher sat up and turned to them all, a hard look in his eye.

“We didn’t see that. None of us saw it, alright? When we find him, we didn’t see diddly fuckin’ squat. Got it?”

A chorus of solemn, tight lipped nods were his response. But then-

“Turn it back on.”

Butcher’s head snapped to M.M., strong arms folded across a broad chest. His face was pinched in a brittle expression, worry and anger and nearly everything that Butcher felt reflected back at him.

“What?” Butcher snapped. “You ain’t seen enough?”

“It’s still Homelander. I wanna make sure Hughie’s not dead.”

Butcher paused, then bent down to plug his computer back in with a muttered swear on his breath. It was a tense wait for everything to come back to life, but the feed was back on the screen soon enough. They heard the muffled sounds of screaming before Butcher could find the right screen. It only brought a little comfort to see that Homelander wasn’t present, but not much more. Hughie was kneeling on a bed, a pillow wrapped in his arms and crushed against his face, shoulders bowed as he curled around himself. Another moment they weren’t supposed to see. Homelander had weaponised their need for proof, forcing them to invade his privacy, turning them into unwitting voyeurs.

“He ain’t dead.” Butcher clicked off of the feed. They had already seen too much. “That’s enough.”

He sat back in his chair, staring at the email. It was better than nothing. It would be encrypted to all hell and it wasn’t good enough, not in the slightest, but it was something. He read the heading and felt the desire for violence coil in his gut.

INCENTIVE.

Homelander was going to die. Even if Butcher went down in the process.

-

The adrenaline crash hit Hughie hard. He’d had no intention of falling asleep, but somehow he ended up collapsed face first on the bed, the pillow still wrapped in his arms. The sun was setting outside, yet despite its parting, the room was pleasantly warm. Hughie pushed himself up. He rested on his hip and rubbed his face with both hands. Fuck. Homelander was probably still downstairs. Colour rose to his face as he thought back on what had happened. Just thinking about it was making him cringe.

It wasn’t just what had happened either. It was his response to it. The thought of how he’d dangled off of Homelander’s arm, thrashing and screeching, rather than taking it still and silent made him nauseous. It would have been better if Homelander had just beaten him up. Torture would have been better. Torture wasn’t… that . It wasn’t something you did to kids. Not that anybody should hit their kids, but a spanking was a punishment traditionally intended for children and that was why Homelander had done it. Because it cut deeper than a simple beating. Because it made Hughie small.

It was to infantilize and humiliate, and the worst thing about it all was that it had worked. Hughie had been humiliated. He was mortified. It made him want to curl up in a hole and never come back out. Because it was “for children”, the fact that he’d reacted the way he did made it so much worse. Crying out when you were being beaten was understandable. Screaming whilst being tortured was acceptable. But kicking up a fuss over being spanked? That was just pathetic. It was laughable. It had hurt too. It was still hurting now, the sting faded to a warm ache.

Hughie pulled his hands away from his face and looked down at them, as if his palms held all the answers. His shoulders slumped in a bone weary sigh. How the fuck had his life come to this? Abducted by a psychopath forcing him to play house. Forcing drugs and powers upon him just so he could fit into his fantasy. How long would this go on for? Or rather, how long could Hughie survive? 

“Hughie?”

Homelander’s voice came up from downstairs, but Hughie jolted as though it had been whispered in his ear.

“Y-yeah?”

“It’s time for dinner.”

Hughie’s face returned to his hands. It hadn’t been twenty four hours and he already wanted to die.

“Okay, I’m coming,” he called, reluctance seeping into his tone.

Hughie trudged to the kitchen, the back of his neck and his cheeks already burning. In spite of his embarrassment, Hughie forced himself to look Homelander dead in the eye when he came into the kitchen. It didn’t matter that the face he put on was kind, that the smile he wore was gentle. He knew what it was trying to hide: an insufferable smugness.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?”

For once, Hughie finally understood Butcher. He’d always wondered how he’d managed to stand up to Homelander, talking to him as though he couldn’t slice him in half at any second. It was his rage. It overrode even the instincts of self preservation. For just one moment, Hughie would have given anything to punch Homelander, regardless of the consequences. Unlike Butcher though, his desire to survive was greater than his fury. For now.

“Fine.”

Homelander hummed. It took all of Hughie’s willpower not to back away as Homelander moved towards him. Resistance was pointless. Even suped up, it was obvious that Homelander was still far more powerful than Hughie. He could do little more than yell when Homelander pulled him forward, wrapping an arm around his chest, pinning his arms to his side.

“Hey!”

Two fingers had snaked between Hughie’s waistband and were already working them down.

“It’s alright,” Homelander chuckled, sending a thrill of embarrassment up Hughie’s spine. “I’m just checking on how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine!” Hughie yelled, trying to wriggle out of Homelander’s grasp, but fingers bit into the flesh of his upper arm and the almighty arm squeezed until pulling in a deep breath was nearly impossible.

“We can either do this standing up.” Hughie could hear already how Homelander’s patience was beginning to thin. “Or we can do this over my knee.”

Hughie slumped forward, head hanging low. Fuck. What choice did he really have? He couldn’t stop Homelander and he had no idea how to use his powers or if they could even be useful in this situation. Maybe he couldn’t teleport great distances? If he could, it was far too early to tell and Hughie wasn’t about to try it now.

“Which one, Hughie?” Homelander asked, the sternness in his tone bordering on dangerous.

“Standing up,” Hughie mumbled, monotone and defeated.

“Good boy.”

Hughie’s form stiffened, shoulders hunched up to his ears, his face burning hot as Homelander bared his ass once more. A noise escaped his clenched jaw as a splayed hand gave a generous rub over his cheeks and thighs.

“Hm. You’re still pretty pink, Hughie.”

Hughie had never prayed so hard for the earth to swallow him up before now.

“Your healing factor’s pretty slow,” Homelander commented casually, pulling up Hughie’s clothes once more with a loud snap of his waistband.

The arm keeping him in place finally released him, but Hughie remained where he was. He had nothing to say. His face burned. His vow to keep eye contact was broken. He couldn’t even raise his head. His hands were curled into fists, tremors rippling up his arms. Was this supposed to be his place in life? The victim. The loser. The pathetic one, the small one. To be always humiliated and forever looked down upon, no matter how hard he raged against it? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t fair.

“Hey.”

It took Hughie a second for his brain to catch up. Both arms encircled him this time. A hand was between his shoulder blades, another on his head. Stroking his hair. His chest was pressed flat against Homelander’s. His eyes widened.

“I just needed to make sure you were alright. Okay?”

Rage was watered down with fear and confusion. Being held by a man who could turn him into lunch meat with one squeeze gave Hughie a stark reminder of his mortality. If Homelander wanted him to sink into the embrace, Hughie would just have to disappoint. He was actively fighting off the urge to shove Homelander off him. He didn’t want him anywhere near him. He didn’t raise his arms. He stood, awkward and stiff, praying for it to be over.

“Okay,” he answered. There was nothing else to say and luckily for him, it worked.

Homelander finally pulled away. He clasped Hughie by his arms, giving him a squeeze and a smile. “C’mon. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Hughie nodded and hoped that at least one of them would choke on their food so that this nightmare could end.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Three Evolved

“... Are you gonna kill me if I don’t?”

There weren’t any shoes in the cabin. Homelander didn’t admit it and Hughie didn’t comment on it, but they both knew the reason behind their absence. A simple, yet insidious tactic to make an escape that much harder. Hughie followed Homelander outside, bare soles flattening the grass. The cabin stood within the middle of a small clearing, around which large pine trees made an intimidating perimeter.

“Why are we doing this outside?” Hughie asked as he looked around himself, taking stock of his surroundings, though he wasn’t like the boys. He didn’t have experience in planning escapes or navigating terrain that wasn’t a concrete jungle. He’d never even been on a hike.

“Because we don’t know what your powers are yet.” Homelander turned, flashing Hughie a smirk. “You don’t wanna rip a hole in your new home, do you?”

Hughie smiled wanly. The state of his cage was neither here nor there. What he really needed was something that allowed him to escape. He wasn’t about to indulge in the fantasy of taking Homelander down. He wasn’t sure exactly what sort of powers he would need, but it was probably more than whatever he had. He definitely didn’t feel stronger. He felt very much the same, but his body had been pumping adrenaline from the moment he got up, so perhaps that was skewing his perspective.

“How do you know I even have powers?” Hughie asked.

“You have them,” Homelander didn’t bother turning round to reply this time, waving a hand as dismissive as his voice.

“... Are you gonna kill me if I don’t?”

Homelander stopped in his tracks, causing Hughie to stumble over his own feet.

“I think here’s far enough.”

Dread returned anew. What if Hughie couldn’t deliver? What if his powers sucked? Maybe it wouldn’t be enough that he was a supe. Maybe Homelander wouldn’t want a son with shitty, c-list powers. What if he did have powers, but couldn’t tap into them? Exactly how extensive was Homelander’s patience?

“Go stand over there.”

Hughie went in the direction of where Homelander had flicked his wrist. He stood, his back to a tree, thoughts of the father who shot the apple off his child’s head festering in his mind, his stomach tying itself into knots.

“Now. I’m going to teach you how to tap into your powers. Just trust me, okay?”

It happened too quickly- which, Hughie would reflect upon later, was entirely the point. Instincts require an absence of thought. There was no time to beg or question. Hughie didn’t even have time to shout at the sight of red lasers burning out the white and blue of Homelander’s eyes. He only realised what happened when he looked over his shoulder and saw the tree that he had just been standing against, now several feet behind him, creaking and groaning and cracking until it fell to the ground with a crash so violent it shook the earth.

Homelander turned to look Hughie up and down, looking mildly impressed. “Teleportation. Interesting.” Eyes moved up and down, a smirk crept across his mouth. “Though it seems you can only teleport yourself.”

One shock came after the other. Homelander would have killed him. He actually had powers. He was really a supe. He could teleport; and now he was naked.

After a few seconds of ragged panting, Hughie followed Homelander’s gaze and yelped. Hands quickly clamped down around his privates, his head snapping up to Homelander, whose smirk was yet to fade and was now chuckling to himself.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Just pass me my clothes!” Hughie snapped in a near squeak. “Please?” He added at the end, his desperation not shrinking, but he lost the demanding bark of his tone at the raise of Homelander’s eyebrows.

“You can go inside and get some fresh ones from your room.”

Hughie briefly closed his eyes, a moan frustrated groan parting his lips. What a fucking asshole. He only made it a couple of steps into his humiliating waddle, with his hands still protecting his modesty, when Homelander interrupted him.

“I didn’t say to use your legs.”

Hughie looked over his shoulder, blinking. “What?”

“Teleport. We need to see if you can do it inside buildings anyway.”

“But… I-I don’t know how.”

Homelander rolled his eyes. “You literally just- fine. Fine.” He shook his head, tutting. “When I get to three, you’re gonna get yourself to your room. One.”

“Wait- waitwait, no-“

“Two.”

Long strides began to close the distance between them. Hughie stumbled backwards, but his frightened little staggers were nothing to Homelander’s purposeful strides. A serious look had stolen over his face, though as if he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his mouth were still quirked up in a small, vicious smirk.

“Three.“

“Wait!”

Bare feet stumbled backwards onto a wooden floor. His voice echoed around the four walls he found himself in. His head swivelled, harsh breathing steadily slowing. He had done it. It wasn’t his room, just where he had woken up in the cabin. He let out a long exhale then headed to the chest of drawers. It was unnerving to see the rows of uniformly packed clothes, all exactly the same save for the colours; but it was just something else to be added to the maelstrom that raged within Hughie’s skull.

He got dressed quickly, managing to remember just in time that he would go back to Homelander naked if he teleported to him. He opened the door and found that Homelander was nearly at the porch, Hughie’s discarded clothes in his arms.

“See?” Homelander said, yet another smirk on his face. “I told you you could do it.”

Adrenaline still rushed through him. It would crash soon enough, but for now, it sang through his shaking limbs, charging his anger, instead of reminding him of the danger he found himself in.  “You could have killed me.”

Homelander rolled his eyes. “I told you. You just needed to trust me. It worked, didn’t it?”

It suddenly clicked. Perhaps his confidence came from results. Homelander had done this before; probably with his actual child. “Jesus. Is this what you did with Ryan? Threatened to kill him until he figured out how to fly?”

Homelander came inside, the door kicking shut behind him. The clothes were painstakingly folded and laid out on the arm of a chair, before he finally turned to Hughie. His expression was one dark shade away from severe.

“I think you need to watch your tone, Hughie. You and Ryan are fine. That’s what’s important.”

“He’s eight, are you fucking insane?!”

Two quick strides and Hughie’s ear was in Homelander’s grasp. A squeeze of the forefinger and thumb and Hughie was entirely at Homelander’s mercy. The grip squeezed and yanked, and Hughie had no choice but to obey its pull. An unforgiving, aching burn forced him to Homelander’s side and he was too stunned by what had happened and too relieved when Homelander let go of his ear to think about what would happen next. An arm wound tight around his waist and Hughie was lifted off his feet and easily tucked against Homelander’s side, as though there wasn’t one inch and six feet of him to work around, as though he didn’t bear the weight of a fully grown man.

“I understand that this is your first day,” Homelander began to wrestle with the waistband of Hughie’s pants, pulling them down in firm tugs. Hughie’s yelps and cries as his ass was exposed remained unignored and were not commented on. “I understand that there is a lot to adjust to. However.” A loud crack filled the room, the sound of a leather like material slapping against skin. “You do not talk to me that way.”

Homelander brought his hand down again and again, pink handprints flushing bright against Hughie’s pale cheeks. Hughie’s legs flailed, swiping desperately through the air. His toes couldn’t even reach the floor. So much had happened in quick succession, too much, that it momentarily stole from him the power of speech. He was reduced to squawking and screeching. He reached out and yanked on Homelander’s cape, pounded fists against his back and his legs, but Homelander was made of stone. He continued, as though Hughie was quiet and pliant, each blow hitting its mark, rapidly turning Hughie’s bottom a nasty shade of pink. He spoke clear and firm over Hughie’s shrieks of pain, a constant, stern lecture of hypocrisy and cruelty, masqueraded as fair and loving discipline.

“I know that you are a very clever boy and that you can do better than this. You are smart enough to speak to me in a civilised tone, without raising your voice and without cussing. You are going to end up over my knee if you’re not careful, little boy, and I won’t be giving you a few swats either. You’ll be getting a proper, old fashioned spanking.”

Four final smacks landed on Hughie’s thighs, before Homelander finally came to a halt.

“Do you think you can speak politely now, Hughie?”

There was no part of Hughie that wasn’t shaking. Homelander’s cape had managed to get twisted around his fist and it was the only thing he could use to support himself instead of dangling completely off of Homelander’s arm. His eyes were bright and burned with tears. His jaw was tight, his teeth gritted. He was furious. He was enraged. Hatred burned in his chest. He was, tragically, no stranger to humiliation, but this just might have gone beyond anything he’d ever gone through. If he had the capacity to think, he wouldn’t be able to recall a time he had been so humiliated and infantilised.

What made it truly unbearable was knowing that there was no way out of it.

He didn’t know how to use his powers yet. If he did, he could have escaped his torment. Instead, he had been unable to do anything, except endure it. He wanted nothing more than to tell Homelander to go fuck himself, but all that would get him was more pain and though he was loath to admit it, it hurt. It hurt more than it should have. It made him wonder what kind of monsters would ever do it to children. Helplessness tore at his gut and he felt the urge to cry well up inside of him like the urge to vomit.

Through gritted teeth, with a voice strained tight, Hughie answered.

“Yes.”

Hughie instinctively sagged in relief as Homelander pulled his pants up to his waist. With a surprising amount of care, Homelander carefully deposited Hughie back onto his feet. He held his shoulders when he lost his balance, keeping him still when he began to sway where he stood.

“You okay, kiddo?”

The sheer audacity of the question made Hughie want to break out into hysterical laughter. He had got the message loud and clear though. He was keeping his mouth shut from now on. So, Hughie nodded when he wanted to scream, allowed Homelander to cup his flushed face when he wanted to bite his hand.

Homelander sighed, stroking Hughie’s cheek. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Hughie could think of plenty of suggestions, but he stayed silent, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Instinct told him to reach back and rub his ass, but he refused. He’d gone through too many indignities already. He wasn’t about to add that to the list.

Homelander’s hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a while?”

Hughie nodded stiffly. Even if he hadn’t wanted to he would have agreed to it, but he’d agree to almost anything if it meant getting away from Homelander. Such a handsome prize came with a price. Fingers were under his chin, tipping his head up and Hughie was bound to obedience.

“Hey, Hughie, look at me.”

A wave of embarrassment crept up his spine as their eyes met. He wasn’t sure if the condescending, sympathetic smile on his face was better or worse than the smug grin he expected. It was definitely more confusing.

“I know I was hard on you, but you did really well. I’m proud of you, son.”

Hughie stared. For a moment, he was overwhelmed into numbness. There was simply too much to process. Homelander took the opportunity to take him by the arm and lead him over to the stairs. The pat on his ass to coax him upstairs triggered the rage once more, but Hughie said nothing, nearly sprinting up the stairs to save himself from another unwanted touch.

Hughie knew full well that there was no privacy so long as Homelander remained nearby; but shutting his door allowed him to pretend that he was alone. It helped create the illusion that Hughie wasn’t under constant surveillance, that there wasn’t a veritable god watching his every move like he was a sim. He had to pretend or else his mind would crumble.

His ass throbbed. He had considered rubbing it before but now he didn’t want to even touch it. He didn’t want to sit down either, so he crawled onto the bed, settling carefully on his knees. Then, Hughie grabbed a pillow, shoved it to his face and screamed himself hoarse.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Two First Supper

“You’re my consolation prize.”

Another unknown ceiling hung above Hughie; wood panelling, oak slats made warm by dappled sunlight. Hughie stared, half asleep, nausea growing as drowsiness gave way to the reality of the situation he was in. This wasn’t his room. He couldn’t remember getting here. He didn’t know where he was. He sat up slowly, panic and horror churning in his guts as he looked down at himself. He wasn’t wearing his clothes.

Memories of being strapped down to a bed, Homelander’s fingers in his hair and voice in his ear, strangers struggling to keep him alive, suddenly and violently invaded his mind. Shaking fingers scrambled to pull up the plain white t-shirt that strangers' hands had dressed him in. Upon his torso, he saw the marks of defibrillator paddles, fading pink against his skin.

“Shit.”

He had really died. Then that meant that all that had preceded it had occurred too. Homelander cradling his face, filling Hughie’s ears with things that made no sense, making it all the more frightening, the pointed glance- the Compound V. As though from far away, Hughie heard his own shallow breaths, a frantic noise to accompany the pounding of his heart. Homelander had turned him into a supe. But why?

“Because no son of mine is going to be a mud person."

Hughie held his head in his hands, eyes wide, staring down at the sheets as though he could find the answers in there. What the fuck did that mean?! Hughie was, unequivocally, not Homelander’s son and the last time they’d seen each other, Homelander had been ordering Annie to blast him apart with her hands. Why go to such lengths to ensure he’d survive the V? Why bother giving it to him at all?

No matter how he stared, the answers he needed did not lie in the crumpled bed sheets. First, he had to figure out where he was. The rest could come later. He got to his feet, shuddering as he glanced down at himself and saw that the sweatpants also did not belong to him. Trying to dispel the thoughts of just how violating it was that someone had stripped him, dressed him and put him to bed all while he was unconscious, he headed to the door. Outside of it, a normal corridor awaited him. Judging by the wood panelling, he had either been transported to 1977 or he was in a cabin. Neither thought gave him much comfort.

The smell of bacon hit him as he reached the stairs and a cold wave of dread washed over him, in spite of the hunger that yawned in his stomach. He wasn’t alone. Scarcely daring to breathe, Hughie carefully and quietly went down, bare toes curling into the worn runner that centred the stairs. His surroundings were taken in with frantic, nervous glances, taking stock leather sofas and armchairs, bookshelves, rugs and windows, out of which pine trees could be seen- what Hughie could only assume to be an ominous barrier to freedom. At last, he came to the kitchen and his shivering heart abruptly halted.

Homelander was waiting for him. He stood beside a table laden with food, an obnoxious amount for what could only be for him and Hughie, an expectant smile upon his face.

“Good morning, Hughie.” The smile widened, lips pulling apart to reveal the white sharpness of his teeth. “Welcome home.”

Hughie was frozen. His heart pounded. His pores began to bead sweat. What was he supposed to do? Mania was staring at him right in the face and Hughie forgot about Homelander’s assurances of keeping him alive. All he saw was the man that had held him underwater until his lungs burned, the man who had positioned Annie’s hands just so in order to eradicate him. The man who had condemned an entire plane full of people, the man who had murdered Madelyn Stillwell and countless others. The man who had raped Becca.

Homelander’s eyes narrowed by a millimetre, his smile twitched.

“What’s the matter, kiddo? Cat got your tongue?”

“Where am I?” Hughie whispered. Volume didn’t matter when Homelander could hear the very pump of his heart.

“I told you,” Homelander teased, though Hughie swore he could see irritation twitching in the corner of his eye. “You’re home.” 

To that, Hughie had no response. This wasn’t home, but saying so couldn’t be wise. He was already fumbling through this conversation, he didn’t want to know what would happen if he fucked it up even more; but his silence was no adequate replacement. An eyebrow was raised and Hughie immediately began to flounder.

“Hughie?” Homelander spoke in a near purr, skimming the line between amusement and disapproval. “Don’t you have something to say?”

Did he have something to say?! Hughie’s mind was blank and the harder he searched for an answer, the more impenetrable the fog became and the harder Homelander’s eyes bored into his.

“I… I-I-”

Homelander cut through Hughie’s babbling like a firm knife.

“I said, ‘good morning’.”

“Oh. Um, good- good morning. Sorry.”

Homelander chuckled. It didn’t ease the fear that pulsated in his innards, but his amusement surely had to be better than fury.

“You must still be out of it. Not surprising.” Homelander turned, pulling out a chair and flicking his cape aside to sit down. “You were asleep for, what, nineteen hours?”

The thought of being unconscious for so long was unnerving, but Homelander didn’t give him time to dwell on it. He gestured to the seat opposite.

“C’mon. You don’t think I can eat all this by myself, do you?”

Hughie fell into the chair, heart still shivering in his chest. He made no move to eat. Again, he found himself at a loss at what to do. Eventually, with no options left to him, and with Homelander tucking in, he began to eat. Eyes were scarcely kept on their food. Hughie’s gaze darted constantly about the room, never lingering on Homelander for too long, but always returning to him. Homelander didn’t comment. He didn’t spare Hughie a glance, not even to pour him out a glass of orange juice.

When Hughie was about a third of the way through his meal, Homelander decided to make him choke by suddenly breaking the silence.

“You know, you died when I gave you the Compound. Twice.” He rolled his eyes. “We gave you the lowest possible dose we could and yet you still handled it like a complete pussy.”

Plenty of people had called Hughie a pussy before, but never for dying. It was the first time he wasn’t insulted by it.

“Oh,” was all Hughie could say once he’d managed to stop choking on his bacon.

“So,” Homelander gave him a pointed look. “If you think I’m going to kill you, just remember I made them resuscitate you. Twice.”

Hughie found himself staring again, before he looked down at his food. He still wasn’t completely reassured. He was still, as far as he could tell, Homelander’s prisoner and his captor was hardly what he could call stable. For now, there was little else than he could do but take it.

When he was half way through his breakfast, Hughie summoned the courage to speak; albeit addressed down at his plate.

“Um… C-could I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Homelander answered, as easily as though he wasn’t holding Hughie hostage.

“Could you tell me what the fuck’s going on? Please?”

The seconds dragged by at a torturous pace. Hughie tried to study Homelander’s expression as surreptitiously as he could without evoking any ire in him. He didn’t catch a glimpse of anger there. Only cold consideration. Finally, he answered, as he poured himself another glass, painfully nonchalant.

"William took my boy. So,” Homelander shrugged. “I've taken his."

Hughie felt his blood turn cold. Butcher was never going to give up Ryan. The only person he would have traded him in for was dead. Homelander had severely overestimated their friendship? bond?- whatever the fuck it was they had if he thought he could extricate Ryan this way. Of course, Hughie didn’t want Homelander to get Ryan. He was just a kid and Homelander was… Homelander. That still didn’t help his own predicament.

“I’m not Butcher’s boy,” he whispered.

“Oh?” White teeth split Homelander’s face in a vicious grin. Genuine mirth laced the dark chuckles that rumbled in his throat. He leaned an elbow on the table, food forgotten, planting his chin in his hand. “You’re not?”

Hughie’s hands curled into fists. With all the bravery he had, he shook his head, a firmness creeping into his voice. “I’m not.”

“Then why the fuck did he bother keeping you? I mean… Jesus. Look at you. Look at his team. He had terrorists at his disposal, yet, he didn’t kick you out. Why? Because of your tech skills?” A deep flush spread across Hughie’s face as another peal of laughter burned his ears. “If he didn’t want you he would have let you die and you know it. You were in way over your head and the only reason you got to stay was because William wanted you.” Homelander smirked. “If that doesn’t make you his boy, then I don’t know what the fuck does.”

Hughie let the anger and humiliation wash over him, by this point a familiar sensation. In this instance, neither were strong enough to make him lose his head.

“... I don’t think Butcher’s gonna give you Ryan,” Hughie broached softly.

He didn’t think. He knew. Whether it was because of Becca, because he cared about Ryan, to stop Homelander from creating a monster in his own image or simply because it was the only way he could get revenge on the man who’d ruined everything, Butcher wouldn’t give up Ryan. Not even if Homelander started sending him Hughie’s fingers. There wasn’t any time to examine just how that made him feel. He had been preparing himself for some anger or denial on Homelander’s part. He hadn’t expected casual agreement.

“He won't. If I thought that he would, I wouldn’t have bothered turning you into a supe.”

Hughie started, confounded.

“What?”

“William isn’t stupid. He knows better than to negotiate, so he won’t.” He smiled warmly. “You’re my consolation prize.”

Hughie shook his head, dread churning like cold bile in his stomach. He understood the stakes in a hostage situation. Of course his chances weren’t good, but it was at least something he could wrap his head around. “I-I don’t understand.”

Homelander sighed, though no irritation slipped into his voice. He spoke with a forced calm, as though his patience was straining. “William’s got Ryan. I’ve got you. He’ll be raising my boy, so I’ll raise his. Everything I should get to do with my child, I’ll do with you instead. I’ll love you, I’ll teach you, I’ll punish you, and like every parent should be, I will be your entire world.” Homelander smiled patiently. “Do you understand now, Hughie?”

Hughie’s gaze was steady now, magnetised to Homelander. Listening to the sincerity in his voice, watching the mania dance in his eyes. He had known that Homelander was dangerous, unhinged, but this went beyond what he knew about him. This was true insanity. Did he actually expect Hughie to go along with it? Was he expecting something genuine to come out of this? Revenge, of course, was an element of all this, but there was something unnervingly earnest about his words. Without a doubt, this was what Homelander wanted.

“Why?”

A shadow crossed over Homelander’s face.The patience vanished from his voice and what was left was a taut snarl. “Because it’s what I deserve. William Butcher owes me a son, so I had to take the next best thing from him.”

Hughie shook his head, pressing himself against the back of the chair. “I-I’m twenty seven, I’m not a kid.”

Anger thawed as quickly as it had frozen, replaced by a smirk. “But you’re still a little boy, aren’t you?”

A hot stab of anger seared Hughie’s head, his skull splitting in half. “No I’m not,” he snarled, eyes flashing wide with fury.

Homelander remained infuriatingly smug.

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be so upset about it. Now, William. If I told him he was a little boy, he’d just laugh, but you. Look at you. Your heart’s pounding, you’re blushing. You’re not just angry, you’re embarrassed.”

“Stop it,” Hughie snapped.

“You wouldn’t be so upset if it wasn’t the truth.”

“I’m upset because I’m your fucking hostage!”

The smirk dissolved with the raise of an eyebrow.

“We don’t use that type of language in this house, Hughie.”

“Right. Right, yeah, sure but you can kidnap someone and tell them you’re gonna make them into your fucking child!”

The sound of the chair scraping across the kitchen floor screeched over the blood that rushed in Hughie’s ears. Both hands slammed on the table, shoulders hunched as he loomed forward, eyes boring into Hughie’s. “Don’t take that tone with me, young man, or I will show you just how much of a little boy you are.”

Hughie’s mouth became a thin line. He stayed in his seat, jaw clenched, the fury that roiled within him kept just under check. But only just.

“Apologise.”

A glare knitted his brow.

“For what? Telling the truth?”

“For your language and your tone. Apologise. Now.”

If Hughie’s fury had been only a shade darker he would have done something he would have regretted; but fear remained a throbbing undercurrent to his rage and it softened its bite.

“I’m sorry,” he ground out.

“For what?”

Hughie dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands until they bit his skin. “For my language and my tone,” he forced out. His voice was cardboard stiff, without an ounce of remorse, but Homelander accepted it, pulling his chair back and sitting down.

“Finish your food,” Homelander muttered.

Instinctively, Hughie shot back, “I’m not hungry.”

Homelander gave him such a look that Hughie almost shrivelled under its severity.

“Eat,” Homelander commanded, his voice taut with an anger scarcely contained. “Or I will feed you.”

Hughie did not want to call his bluff. Though his stomach felt lead lined, he forced food into his mouth. The silence was thick. Homelander’s food remained untouched. His arms were folded across his chest and seemed to be doing everything in his power to make the experience as unpleasant for Hughie as possible. After a little time passed, he spoke.

“If you can use a civil tone, you can ask me any more questions you might have.”

Hughie bit back a sarcastic reply as he forced a forkful of pancake into his mouth.

“Where are we?”

“That’s not for you to worry about.”

Right. Of course it wasn’t. Hughie held back the sigh of frustration he wanted to release.

“Can you tell me what day it is?”

“No.”

Wonderful. Hughie couldn't remember seeing any clocks on his travels, which meant that time would only be measurable by daylight. Apparently Homelander was doing everything in his power to create a liminal hell for Hughie to lose his mind in.

“What about the time?” Hughie ventured, less than hopeful, yet still feeling the urge to try.

“Little boys don’t need to concern themselves with things like what day it is and what time it is.” An unpleasant smile curdled Homelander’s visage. “That’s for their fathers to worry about.”

At least he hadn’t said daddy. Still, Hughie’s face burned and the conversation left him nauseous and he struggled to get down his last few bites. By the time he was finished, his meal sat like a rock in his gut. Homelander glanced at his plate and seemingly satisfied, leaned back in his chair.

“Now that you’re finished, I think you and I need to discuss some house rules.”

Hughie stayed silent, waiting.

“Firstly, you will speak to me with respect and you will not swear at me. I expect you to complete your chores every day before the time I come home. You can leave the cabin, but you can only stay within the perimeter. You will eat when I tell you, bathe when I tell you and sleep when I tell you. If you try to run away, I will make sure that you regret it. You can make requests for things you want, but I will veto them as I see fit. These rules are non-negotiable and I will add to them as I see fit. Do you understand?”

Hughie’s fingernails bit into the flesh of his bicep. Homelander didn't seem to be one for rhetorical questions, so he gave a curt nod. Yes. He understood. Just as his life was supposed to be getting better, Homelander was about to make it a complete hell.

“Can I ask some more questions?” He asked, sullen though not impolite.

Homelander nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Will you be here everyday?”

“Most days. It’ll depend on my schedule.”

Homelander wouldn’t be telling him when those days would be. Even if he did, Hughie wouldn’t even be able to tell when that would be, nor could he tell what time Homelander would be coming home.

“I guess I can’t ask for a phone or a laptop, right?”

Homelander grinned. “Smart boy.”

Hughie looked down at himself. He wasn’t sure if it would make him feel better or worse having his own clothes here. The thought of Homelander or even someone from Vought rifling through his possessions when he’d already been so violated made him decide against it.

“What kind of chores do I have to do?”

“Washing the dishes, doing the laundry-“ Homelander threw up a dismissive hand and Hughie got the feeling that he’d never done any work around the house a day in his life. “Keeping the place tidy. Do you need me to write a list?”

“No thanks,” he muttered. “I got it.”

“Anything else?"

Hughie paused.

“… How long am I gonna be here?”

It was a foolish thing to ask. Perhaps he was trying to latch onto any sort of control by trying to glean some sort of deadline. But of course, Homelander knew better than to give him any sort of hope.

“Hughie,” Homelander admonished, shaking his head with a little grin. He got up from his seat and went to stand behind Hughie. Before Hughie could get up, his hands were on his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle. He leaned in close, murmured into Hughie’s ear. “This is your home now. And as long as I’m around-“ Hands dug into Hughie’s flesh until his flesh ached and he sucked in a sharp breath. “You won’t be going anywhere.”

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[febuwhump]

FEBUWHUMP 2025 PROMPT JAR NOW OPEN

DEC 3 - 10

every year, febuwhump crowdsources its prompts. this year is no different. suggest as many prompts as you like, and the admin's favourite 100 will be shared in a poll for the top 28 in the middle of december.

submit to the prompt jar here

[febuwhump]

only three more days to submit your prompts! share this with your followers! your mutuals! your loved ones! your teachers! your line manager! your drill sergeant! your general practioner! your priest! your priestess! your local nunnery! your child! your child's best friend pablo! your child's best friend pablo's cousin! your best friend! your worst friend! your mortal enemy! your arch nemesis! your evil wizard friend who tried to kill you last june! your good wizard friend who tried to kill you last july! your dog! your cat! your goldfish luna! your goldfish luna 2 whom you replaced luna with after their unfortunate death! your next door neighbour colin who was once a bricklayer and is like 80 now but will still do building work for you because he doesn't like retirement! your next door neighbours at your parents' new house to whom you gave all your childhood disney princess toys and special hardback books who tells their little girl to look after them because they'll return them one day but that is fundamentally misunderstanding why you gave them the items! your ex crush! your current crush! your future crush! your friend who liked you and once told you that if the world was ending at that exact moment while you drove down the road at night and ominous red lights glowed in the sky in the distance he would tell you he loved you and then run you both of the road! yourself!

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter One Rebirth

“Because no son of mine is going to be a mud person."

There had never been an instance before where Hughie had thought that something real was a dream. Reality had always been plainly that, regardless of whether he’d wanted it to be otherwise; but logically, in this instance, a dream made more sense. He had gone to sleep in his bed, in his apartment, and now he was awake under fluorescent lights, lying on a bed that wasn’t his, with straps that shouldn’t be there holding him down. There was a distinctly medical scent in his nose reminiscent of hospitals that could not be further from home. If it wasn’t a dream, his second guess was alien abduction. Ripped from his bed in the middle of the night and waking up strapped down on a bed; he’d heard that story before.

Hughie squeezed his eyes shut and urged himself to wake up. The harsh lights burned through his eyelids, the leather straps bit into his skin. His foreign surroundings remained in spite of his prayers. He heard hospital machinery, the familiar beeps and hums. As he became more in tune with his surroundings, with himself, he felt needles in the back of his hand and in the crook of his elbow and that was when he felt real panic, because he knew that feeling and it was simply too real to ignore. His eyes shot open and he turned his head, turning his head as much as his restraints would allow. His lungs began to convulse, sharp and frantic, as he took in his surroundings.

White.

Sterile.

Not home.

Hughie’s head swivelled, his limbs strained against the straps, searching and fighting for release, frightened mewls and whines slipping out between each ragged breath.

“Take it easy, champ.”

Hughie yelled, the bed rattling with the full jolt that wracked his body. He strained to find the source of the voice, nearly thrashing to fight against straps.

“I said.” A hand suddenly rested on his head, a heavy, ominous weight. “Take. It. Easy.”

Hughie looked up. Eyes stretched wide, nostrils flared in sharp breaths, heart spasming. Homelander smiled down upon him. Gloved fingers curled, carding his hair.

“There you go, see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

If only it had been an alien abduction. His chances of survival would have dramatically increased.

Fear had stolen Hughie’s voice. He stared up at the surreal sight of Homelander looming above him, unable to move his stretched wide eyes. As ordered, he remained still, but his heart shivered, adrenaline surging through his veins. Even if he wasn’t strapped down, he wouldn’t have been able to move. There was something primal in the terror that Homelander evoked. It was no man that loomed above him. It was something that could not be reasoned, bribed or bargained with. His mere presence turned Hughie into prey.

Homelander smiled, donning a look of mingled amusement and exasperation. “Hu-ghie,” he cooed, in a voice light and sing-song. “You still need to breathe.”

On command, his lungs burst open and Hughie sucked in a breath with a raw gasp. His power of speech returned, though the terror remained palpable. “Wh-what- where- where am I- what’s-”

“Shh.” A gloved hand caressed the side of his face, remaining even after Hughie instinctively jerked his head away from it. “It’s alright. I’m going to make everything better. I’m going to make you better.”

Homelander turned his head, a pointed glance which Hughie followed; and a whole different kind of panic ruptured through him. A cry of terror pushed out of his chest. He began to struggle again, fighting against the straps that refused to give him an inch. Wasn’t there a reason they only gave it to babies? Compound V was not something that could just be given out. Compound V was going to kill him.

“No, no, you can’t- it, it’s gonna kill me- please-”

Homelander’s hands rested on both sides of his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks. He was hushing him again and it all might have been soothing were it anyone but him.

“I know about the risks, son. That’s why I brought you here. These doctors are here to give you the best chance of survival. You’re going to be fine.”

“Why?” Hughie choked. His face was held in Homelander’s suffocating grasp, his looming face filling Hughie’s vision.

Homelander leaned in, blotting out the lights, casting Hughie’s face in shadow. The soft facade fell from his face. What remained was cold, unreachable. It bordered on madness. “Because no son of mine is going to be a mud person. You need to be elevated, Hughie. You should be grateful.” Homelander blinked and smiled and like that, his second skin was donned. “You stopped breathing again, Hughie.”

Hughie’s lungs immediately sputtered back to life, each breath carrying some sound of desperation and fear. Panic tamped down confusion, choking out the questions that burned in his mind. None of this made any sense, but questioning the man who could kill him with one squeeze of his hands seemed about the most stupid thing he could do. Popclaw’s landlord ripped through his thoughts, the three second loop of his head turning into a chunky meat smoothie playing on repeat. Somehow, even with that fate dangling over him, didn’t rob him of his capacity for speech.

“Don’t do this,” Hughie whispered. Maybe Homelander would crush his skull in frustration for keeping up this fight, but begging was all that he could do. If he didn’t, he was dead anyway. “Please.”

Homelander smiled. He bent down and only a few seconds after it happened did Hughie realise that he’d pressed his lips to his forehead in a kiss. “Silly boy,” his purr of a voice was carried away as he straightened up. “You just don’t know what’s good for you.”

Hughie watched in horror as Homelander went over to the IVs and began to fiddle with the bag of V. “Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “The doctors showed me how to do it. I know what I’m doing.”

“Homelan-“

“Hughie.” Homelander looked over at him, his jaw stern, eyes flashing with cold. “That’s enough.”

Hughie’s jaw clamped shut. There was nothing left to do but watch gloved fingers fiddle with the intravenous line. Hughie’s fate lay between each clumsy, unsure movement.

“I wanted you to be awake for this,” he told Hughie in a casual manner that belied the severity of his actions. “I wanted us both to be there when you changed. And it had to be me, you know.” Homelander shot Hughie a smile. “A father has to be the one to make his son.”

Nothing more eloquent than what the fuck came to mind. If Hughie wasn’t so sure he would be lasered in half for opening his mouth, he might have voiced his incredulity and bafflement. His chances of survival were better with Compound V than they were with the whims of Homelander’s temper, but only marginally. The chances of him dying were astronomically high.

Still, in spite of his vow to stay silent, a little, whimpered “fuck” slipped out as he watched the bright blue rush down the line, hurtling straight for his vein.

“Now, now, Hughie,” Homelander half scolded, half soothed, as though Hughie was a fussing child. “I’ll be right here. Everything’s going to be alright.” He returned to the top of the bed, fingers reclaiming Hughie’s curls.

Hughie didn’t feel the preternatural chemical creeping through his body, but he knew when it mingled with his blood. He felt it spread from his arm, razing his bloodstream, scorching every vein, every artery, every capillary, until his entire body was on fire. His agony was a steady climb with no end, no apex in sight. It grew and grew and grew, his never ending, ever evolving suffering. He heard his own screams, but couldn’t feel the strain of his throat.

Hughie didn’t know when it ended. Time slipped out of his grasp. Minutes could be an eternity, an hour reduced to a few seconds. He was screaming with pain, then he was on the ceiling, looking down at himself, as strangers squeezed something above his mouth and pressed different somethings to his chest, making his body jolt, stiffening at unnatural angles, then flopping back down. There was no panic, but the realisation felt like a monumental weight upon him.

I’m dead.

That was when Hughie opened his eyes.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[theonlymoongirl]

Agneau

The Boys Febuwhump 2024 Day Five: Rope burns

It was complicated, what they had. Hughie had Annie, Frenchie had Kimiko and if life were simple, then that would be that. Their life wasn’t simple though. It had started off as a coping mechanism when they were trapped in the basement, hiding from the world, when frustrations and anxieties were at their peak. Hughie had needed pain. He had needed to not exist, to lose his mind in physical sensations, a release for all of his worries and woes. Frenchie had needed control, when his life had been pitched into utter chaos.

read on ao3

shibari, polyarmory, rope bondage, minor violence, angst, fluff

[theonlymoongirl]

Beloved

The Boys Febuwhump 2024 Day Four: Obedience

“I’m not a dog,” Hughie ground out. His face was flushed red, his stomach churning as though its contents were gravel. “Now, that’s not true,” Homelander purred. “You’re Butcher’s dog, aren’t you? He tells you to jump and you don’t even think. You just do as you’re told.” Homelander crouched in front of Hughie, head cocked, a soft smile on his face. “That’s what I like about you, Hughie. You’re so… obedient. You’re just obedient to the wrong man, that’s all. Now, let me help you put this on-“

read on ao3

angst, hurt no comfort, forced puppy play, rape/non-con elements, forced orgasm, forced fingering, butt plugs

[theonlymoongirl]

Impermanence

The Boys Febuwhump 2024 Day Three: "Bite down on this."

“I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s gonna be bad; but I sure as hell ain’t gonna let you die. And this ain’t gonna last forever. This pain? It’ll end. I promise.” M.M. gave no warning. He didn’t tell Hughie to brace himself or that they’d be starting now. He only pressed his hand down into his chest and held the blue flame to his skin. Sage Grove had been nothing.

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hurt/comfort, angst, burns, blowtorches, torture (sort of)

[theonlymoongirl]

Shadows in the Dark

The Boys Febuwhump 2024 Day Two: Solitary Confinement

Nothing yet had been able to wash away the haunted look from his eyes, the stretched wide, thousand yard stare, as though the world all around him was still thrown into darkness and he was still trying to see through the pitch. Butcher didn’t interact with Hughie unless the boys were there with him. He could only imagine the damage he would do if left unsupervised; he needed no reminder of the damage Hughie had already suffered at his hands. Like a bad omen, he skulked in the background, watching, ready to help the moment it looked like Hughie was about to start bashing his skull in or digging around for arteries with his teeth.

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hurt/comfort, angst, solitary confinement, self harm, PTSD, psychosis, sensory deprivation, hallucinations, canon typical violence, team as family, found family dynamics

[theonlymoongirl]

The Second Wave

The Boys Febuwhump 2024 Day One: Helpless

“Hughie?” Butcher approached with an almost cautious air. “What ‘appened, son? Where’s your dad?” The question hung in the air. Hughie stared at Butcher’s boots and remembered the sight of his dad’s blood diluting in the shower’s water, pooling at his feet. His dad was in the drain. His dad was splattered across the living room. His dad was- His dad. His dad. His dad.

read on ao3

hurt/comfort, angst, character death, PTSD, canon typical violence, team as family, found family dynamics