Homelander's Mommy Kink

"Stop pouting," he tells him. "You lack the lips for it. Doesn't do shit. And hey, isn't this exactly the kind of bonding you always ask for? Dad walking all the way to the pharmacy for his son when he's ill?"

Homelander doesn't reply, but he looks up at Ben with those ridiculously wet eyes, and that stirs something in him that makes him want to either stroke the man's hair or bash his face in. Either way, he can't look at that expression anymore. And thankfully, he won't have to.

"It's not just your face," he says, and it's an educated guess at best, but he thinks he's right. "Your whole body must be covered in burns. Radiation doesn't stop just cause your foam muscles are in the way." He'll give Homelander this one thing: it's impressive that he isn't writhing in pain and screaming himself hoarse from his skin flaking and melting off of him. God knows Ben didn't fare so well. None of them did. The first batch. The lucky few. He knows Vought - Vogelbaum, the creepy bastard - did things to his kid that Ben is glad he doesn't have any details about. But he can imagine. On bad nights, he still feels the barrel of a gun at the back of his throat. It makes him feel something that gets too close to guilt. You are his father, you should have been there- He clears his throat. "Take that costume off."

"What?" The words startle Homelander out of whatever weird headspace he was in before.

"You heard me." He shakes the tube. "Wanna get it on the rest of your skin. Don't tell me the burns somehow stopped at your face."

Homelander scoffs, but does get up off the bed. The suit is absolutely filthy, drenched in sweat and lymph from the wounds. It's probably ruined. Ben vaguely follows along with the strip tease. It's an odd thing that for a man so ashamed of himself, Homelander surprisingly has no issue being naked in front of anyone. He calmly opens zippers and latches, casually asks his father to help with a zipper at his back that is hard to reach, steps out of his boots, strips off his gloves.

Ben was right. Homelander's body does not fare any better than his neck and face. Perhaps the burns are spaced out more. Perhaps they do not look quite as painful. But they cover him nevertheless, from his chest, to his back, to his perky ass. "Think you can lie down on the bed?" Ben asks, trying very hard not to stare at the perky ass. Crazy to think he's seen his son's junk not even a week ago. While being told about his religious delusions, no less. In a tub filled with milk. From tits. This is his life now. No orgy on shrooms can ever reach that level of 'genuinely, terrifyingly strange.'

Homelander, again, does as he is told - like a good dog. He gingerly lies down on his stomach, pillows his head on his crossed arms. He's definitely being careful about moving too much. This has to hurt, after all. But he looks relaxed enough. If he's skittish, it seems to be related more to Ben getting on the bed as well and straddling him. He makes a point of sitting mostly on Homelander's thighs, avoiding the ass, and he doesn't put his full weight on him. That makes it better, he tells himself, as he squirts more ointment onto his palm.

"That's good," Ben says, absentmindedly, before he gets shocked back into focus by the strained little sound his son lets out. It lingers in the quiet for a little, not quite classified as a moan, but mostly because Ben simply denies that that's what it was. "Don't wiggle too much," he warns and goes to work.

Homelander's skin is smooth, unblemished where the injuries don't mar it. The wounds are starting to build scabs. No healing factor anywhere on this kid, nothing that would make it go by quicker. Ben wonders if it annoys Homelander. It must. He's anal about that stuff - not being the best at everything. Ben was like that, once, brash, lying about his achievements, proud of his fake successes, but that feels like it was ages ago. Any notion he was the best who's ever done it got burned out of him in Russia when the uranium made him feel like his chest was going to burst open, that painful, throbbing- "Hey, I said don't wiggle."

Homelander stills under him, and it's only when he stops doing what he was clearly doing that Ben registers what it was: small, rhythmic movements against the sheets, not quite thrusts. He doesn't have to check. He knows that blonde freak is hard right now.

There's a moment where Ben wants to yank his hands away, grab a fistful of bleached strands and give the kid a piece of his mind. He doesn't. He makes his hands continue their gentle ministrations. Despite his better judgment, a smile stretches his lips. "Look at that. Not so asexual after all, are we?"

If Homelander was still before, he goes completely statuesque in an instant. Ben is fairly sure he isn't breathing. It's an admission of guilt if he's ever seen one. Sure, Ben might have been bluffing. Maybe Homelander simply moved around because it hurt to have open, leaking wounds touched. Perhaps he just wanted to adjust his posture. Maybe there wasn't a raging erection happening where Ben couldn't see.

The thing is that Ben is damn fucking tired of this game of chicken they're playing. Shooting jokes back and forth, one more careless than the other, trying to get a rise out of each other. Fort Harmony should have been the culmination of every bit of fucked-up energy they had between them, but it feels like it was just the tip of the iceberg.

Nothing has felt real these past few weeks. Ben woke up groggy, and it's like he never recovered. Thrown into some weird bizarro mirror of the world he used to know, led by his... son. And isn't that just the world's greatest irony? That thinking of Homelander as his son feels more wrong than thinking of him as some pretty thing to be fucked. Not that he wants to. He's not into guys when he's sober, and he's not in the mood, and he wouldn't chose this one if he had to get his dick wet. And still. Teasing him doesn't hurt. If nothing feels real, then nothing has consequences, either. "Lift your ass up."

"W-What?" Homelander sputters, tries to sit up, but Ben won't let him. He's held him down once before, at Herogasm, had him pressed into the unforgiving floor. He didn't know that was his son there. All he thought back there was: nice piece of ass on such a clown, what a waste.

"What, now you go all vice squad on me? You're the one with a hard-on here, but now I'm the bad guy for pointing it out? You're making goo-goo eyes at me every chance you get, and now you blink?"

"I- I don't even-"

"Up you go. C'mon." Ben gives him the space, gets up from his thighs. His own pants definitely feel tighter than usual, and the costume is pretty damn unforgiving as is. Homelander isn't moving, and Ben doesn't want to wait anymore, so he throws the tube of ointment to the side, wipes his hands on the fur blanket, and slips his hand between Homelander's nude body and the bed to push him up.

This time, Homelander doesn't fight him, but a shiver goes through his body as the front of it is exposed to the air. Alongside the already leaking erection, that is.

There's a small patch of wetness where Homelander's cock was just seconds ago, a thin, clear string of pre-cum still connecting the tip of his dick to the sheets. Ben feels satisfied at being right, then feels disgusted over his satisfaction. You never raised him, it doesn't mean shit.

"Quite a sight," he comments. "Tell me, did they simply have no way of cutting you, or was it a deliberate choice to keep the turtleneck sweater on your cock?"

"That's what you're concerned about?!" Homelander's voice sounds shrill, and he actively tries to turn around and face Ben, but Ben knows better than to let it happen, so he pushes his son's head back down into the pillow. Homelander fights him, briefly, but relents.

"I'll give you a hand if you need one." It doesn't feel like it's Ben talking. It's closer to those weird dreams he kept having in Russia. Dreams of almost making it to the surface of a very dark, icy-cold sea, but whenever he tried to break through and scream, water flooded his mouth again, and all the words turned into gargling. It's sort of like this. Except he's distantly aware this is reality. He isn't dreaming.

"I don't-" Homelander turns his head, and Ben jumps. But his son isn't trying to look at him. He simply turns towards one of the side mirrors. Ben can see his face in the reflection. Their eyes don't meet. Homelander is studiyng himself in there. As if to confirm the freak's narcissism, his cock throbs right as he makes eye contact with himself. It's a bad idea to fuck him. And it's not even the incest that makes Ben believe it. Homelander sighs. "Go ahead."

Ben tries to count the moments where he could have stopped, walked it back: refusing to put the ointment anywhere other than his son's face, never having him undress, never making his hands wander, never commenting on his arousal, never, ever, ever offering to give him a hand. But he won't blink first, can't blink first, if it kills him. He's not a bigger coward than his own flesh and blood, and it's not like he hoped Homelander would chicken out-

He presses forward, gets in his son's space, one hand on the slim waist, trying not to press too forcefully into any of the wounds, while the other hand closes around Homelander's cock - mercifully free of burns, like some damn miracle. Maybe there's something to the angel stuff, and he's divinely protected from getting radiation cockburn.

Homelander gasps, mouth gaping open in the reflection, and he looks even more like a muppet than usual for a moment, before he recovers.

Ben's grip isn't light, isn't testing any waters. He isn't hesitant so much as he manages to barrel full-force through every block in the road that stretches out in front of him, ignoring every stop sign on his way. It's the same instinct that made him lock Homelander up in the first place. And he doesn't have Quinn or the spores to blame now. Only himself. And he can easily numb that nagging voice with booze and blow.

He can't remember ever having given a handjob, and he's sure he's never done it while in his right mind (if he is now), and the voice that is telling him that 'it's what soldiers do, just warmth at night prior to battle with no girls to be seen' is lying to him, he knows, he knows it's lying, he was never, never- But the movements come to him easily, and it's different from doing it to himself, the little twist of his wrist at the head, the slick, smooth glide of the foreskin. It's like instinct. It's familar.

Isn't that a bitch?

"You like that?" he asks, and he doesn't want an answer.

Homelander nods, then pauses, nearly shakes his head, then simply sighs, a small, wounded sound, and his body slumps a bit, flanks heaving.

It's over quick.

Homelander comes with such a forceful, drawn-out groan that it startles Ben into moving, makes his hips stutter forward, rut against his son's ass, pleasure shooting up his spine from the noise alone. He doesn't come, but it's a close thing. Too close, if you ask him. He hopes Homelander was distracted enough not to notice his lapse in control.

Ben flexes his fingers, stringy cum coating them, alongside remnants of ointment. He has half a mind to let Homelander lick it all up, but the very thought of his son's muppet mouth closing around his digits and sucking-

He isn't running. From this. He's not. He's simply walking up towards the bathroom to wash his hands. Get clean.

When he returns, Homelander is fully suited-up, face still covered in burns and ointment. When their eyes meet, Homelander's baby blues are unreadable. "Thanks," he says. "For doing that. Would have been hard to rub that stuff into my own back."

a little backstory about me: i used to run a decently well known supernatural blog (some of my mutuals knew me as novachester/godstielle) that was pretty exclusively dedicated to m/m and w/w ships, with the focal point being deancas. and eventually benny.

i add this for the context that i LOVE m/m ships. i partake in them extensively in dnd and private roleplay. i’m also a lesbian! married to my beautiful wife! and i’m of the opinion that every ship is improved by the inclusion of a woman. that’s why you’ll also see me drooling over ladylander.

i generally don’t ship homelander with men. what has always compelled me about his character is the fixation he has on femininity. his aggression, his subservience, his reverence, his disdain. every interaction he has with women is deeply fascinating. his potential romantic dynamics with men just don’t interest me in the same way.

and see, i get a lot of flack for writing certain dynamics. especially shipping him with any kind of plus sized character. “homelander fat shamed a-train, he would never be with a bigger person!”

but here’s the thing. a-train wasn’t fat. homelander was pissed off. he was on a warpath. if a-train hadn’t been holding a milkshake at that moment, homelander would have called him a washed up child actor turned pathetic druggie. homelander is a hurt person who hurts people, and all he wanted to do was hurt someone.

and i’m sorry but the height of hypocrisy is saying his homophobia is indicative of being closeted while his fatphobia is just… because fat people are gross? trust me, as a fat person, i’m keenly aware of this double standard.

i’m very appreciative of the people who love my take on homelander, but at the end of the day i’m no more correct than anyone else. homelander is a fictional character. he’s a subjective piece of art that everyone is going to interpret differently. he’s going to reflect back at you whatever it is you desire to see. your take on homelander is the correct take for you, and sometimes that take will resonate with others, and you get to enjoy sharing headcanons and fics and all the wonderful things that fandom creates.

i did not write x reader before homelander. period. but when i got into the fandom, i just wasn’t clicking with the other characters the way i did homelander. he was the character i was interested in writing! that’s when i found the x reader tag. it felt like an amazing way to be able to delve into this character and what interests me! obviously i’ve also dabbled in oc and a few canon ships (mainly stillwell, maeve and neuman) but my bread and butter has definitely been the x reader market, with heavy leaning into fem pov’s. i don’t write x reader with the mindset that i’m the reader. i write it because i like to experiment with my own gender identity. because i like women. i’m not writing as the reader. i’m writing as homelander. because that’s what most interests me personally.

but i’m only one person with one perspective. there are tons of people who love tons of different ships for their own reason, and i celebrate every single one of them! i want every single one of us to continue having tons of fun making our shared dolly’s kiss without anyone being made to feel like their fun is somehow incorrect. i’m happy to talk about ships i don’t ship. this is just a little deep dive into the process behind what i do ship.

He thinks you’re oblivious to this but secretly you simply enjoy dragging out his torture for as long as possible. You feel his gaze burning into you, eyes undressing each part of you he can easily ogle. It didn’t take long for you to stop caring about how you looked under your clothes. If he wants to look where he’s not meant to he’ll have your worn out underwear where the print has long washed out and crumbled to deal with on his own. 

For the last twenty minutes you’ve caught him either staring or groping; or a combination of both. You’re sitting by his side, legs thrown over his now bouncing legs while you rest against the arm of his gaudy couch. He’s always like this—a pulled bow string, quivering with the thrumming energy ready to release. His gloved hand rests on your knee, slowly itching up and up and up until he can freely squeeze the meat of your thigh. 

You observe as he lets out a little sigh, his attention torn between the movie and watching his gloved fingers squeeze and release your flesh. It’s like he’s transfixed by the motion of something living and breathing, voluntarily occupying the space next to him. 

It’s your turn to stop caring about the movie when you catch his brows furrow as his eyes go up from your thigh to your chest. This time it doesn’t feel like he’s staring underneath the cups of your bra. No, he’s looking deeper. Watching the steady beat of your heart thumping under your ribs.

“Hey, you okay?” You tear him out of his thoughts with a soft cradle of his jaw. Your thumb brushes over his military style clean shaved jaw. You’ve never felt anything beyond the slightest prickle of his facial hair against your fingers or lips. At the same time, you’ve never witnessed him shave either. Sure, you’re usually catching up on some sleep he stole from you in the middle of the night and in the meanwhile he’s in the bathroom going through his morning routine. But sometimes it just feels like a yet another mystery to unveil.

All worry dissolves from his face and he shoots you a bright smile. All pearly whites with his characteristic fangs peeking at the corners. You can’t help but feel that while the joy is genuine, the smile itself appears performative; as if defaulting to a familiar expression while his mind battles itself.

“Never been better.” 

Now that you’ve set off the first touch he takes that as a blanket permission to drop any pretense of paying attention to the movie. He grasps your wrist, pinning it back against the arm rest next to your head as he follows the same trajectory, leaning over your body to capture your lips.

Homelander doesn’t know the meaning of slow. He eagerly kisses your lips open, giving you his all and more. Always more.

Letting go of your wrist and lips he instead spreads your legs, wiggling himself in between them, leaning over your torso, stealing your breath once more.

With each kiss he takes more. He gives more. It’s always like that with him.

More. More. More.

“Mhmm.” Overtaken with feeling you warm and pliant beneath him, he huffs into the kisses. Muffled moans fall freely, getting trapped in between the press of your lips against his.

At first you don’t resist his urgent kisses. You do, however, do your best to to slow down his feverish lust that has since grown into a raging bonfire over the course of a few touches.

Try as you might, your fingers softly raking through his hair as he attempts to devour you whole do nothing to deter him. Homelander instead moans wantonly, not ashamed to show you how much he wants this. How much he wants you. He kisses down your neck, obscenely sucking wet and hot kisses down the smooth skin.

It’s barely been a few minutes and he’s panting against your skin with a frenzy you’re not sure a normal man is capable of. His tongue licks up your neck just as his hips jerk forward. 

You gasp. Your head snaps back, eyes rolling back with how good that felt. The hard sharp pressure against your crotch sends a shiver down your spine. Homelander rumbles appreciatively, still abusing your exposed neck; licking and kissing his way up to your jaw, nipping softly.

His eyelashes flutter against your skin. Now dark with lust, his eyes seek yours out. Almost checking to see if you’re just as excited.

You encourage him by pulling his jaw in, kissing him unreservedly. Showing him your own little set of pretty whines as you do your best to steal his breath. It works marvellously. He’s eating out of the palm of your hand, letting you lead the kiss.

You make it messy, sloppy. Gripping the back of his head you pull him into open-mouthed kisses. He grinds into you gently each time your tongue swipes his. The taste of him is so intoxicating you start losing yourself in the heady kiss. All the thoughts swimming through your head from earlier gone. He’s kissed, licked and touched all of them away.

Homelander slides his hands underneath your top and that’s the first thing that takes you out of the moment. The leather of his glove, while warm, feels freezing compared to the blazing temperature of your body.

He’s greedily squeezing your tits with both hands, squishing the bra cups and pushing your top all the way up to your armpits. While feeling him squeeze you and press against you feels good, it would feel a hell of a lot better if you weren’t surrounded by leather.

The leather couch is uncomfortably sticking to your back now that he’s pulled your top up. You feel like screaming.

Those stupid fucking gloves. 

You’ve always wondered how much he gets out of being in the suit all day. Feeling his gloved hand roaming under your shirt is a perfect example of this. He can’t feel your body’s heat through the glove yet he’s acting as if your skin was gliding down his palm.

You wiggle your hands in between your bodies. Pushing flat-palmed at his chest. It doesn’t make him budge an inch, and he continues kissing you down your neck again when you stop giving his needy lips the same attention.

He’s… determined, to say the least.

He’s quickly losing all sense of time and space when he ignores your humble attempt at a shove. He’s too concerned with juggling making out and groping you. The teenage boy-like clumsiness of chasing the pleasure of a well-placed touch would be endearing any other time. But you want him to slow down. You want to appreciate each touch in its entirety. You don’t want to forget the feel of him in the whirlwind of his attempted speedrun. You want him to feel each kiss vividly. Not as just one more necessary step towards the finish. 

You see it for what it is. During the short but electrifying time you’ve had together you’ve come to notice things about him. 

He’s a very performative lover. Constantly raising the bar, making sure he doesn’t lose your attention for even a second. It’s clear he’s learned to be worried about the love he receives. Worried that as soon as he stops performing he loses you. Loses your attention. Worried that as soon as your senses aren’t being bombarded with pleasure you’ll have time to think about this. This relationship. Him.

He doesn’t need to say it for you to understand that he craves reassurance. With each kiss he begs and begs and begs you to not leave. Don’t go. Kiss. Don’t leave me. Kiss. Don’t leave me like the others. He says with each touch, squeeze and kiss. 

He moans and whimpers, outwardly appreciating  the act. Because that’s what you want right? You want to know that he’s enjoying himself, that you feel good. That he enjoys making you feel good. He gives and takes more each time he touches you. 

He doesn’t want you bored, complacent, uninterested.

So, he performs. 

His act is still of the hero you’ve seen in commercials, news programs, and magazines. So the suit stays on, the hero's smile never wavering, the kisses never-ending, touches endlessly scorching.

Of course he’s never told you this. You’ve been around him long enough to deduce this yourself. And while you were never sure how correct you were of your assessment of him, all your suspicions come true when you stop him.

You keep your hands on his chest, this time pushing with all your might. “Wait, wait, wait. Slow down a little.” You deliver your line with a chuckle as you catch your breath, not wanting him to feel rejected.

It has the opposite effect. Homelander’s hands come off your body as if burned. He lets your tits go, instead propping himself with his hands on the armrest, each one on either side of  your head. “Wha—what’s wrong?” He blinks in a rapid succession as if he was rewinding the whole make out session to see where he’s gone wrong.

“Oh no, nothing! Nothing’s wrong.” You quickly attempt to soothe his ego, hugging his jaw with your palm. And the desperate for affection wounded animal that he is he immediately leans in, enjoying the feeling for a second with his eyes closed before the immersion breaks and he looks at you, demanding an explanation. 

“I just wanted to slow down. You always go so fast.” The light-hearted chuckle that follows your words still does nothing to ease the learned tension in his body.

“So?” As soon as he realizes he didn’t cause a major offense he’s back on you. “You feel good.” With a hot breath he kisses another wet patch into the side of your neck. “You make me feel good.” And another one. Dragging his tongue up to your jaw. “I make you feel good.” And while you’re trying to make a point, your body doesn’t particularly care about your thoughts when his thick wet tongue makes your skin tingle with each lick. 

“Why should we stop?” He huffs out, grinding himself into you. You feel the rigid outline of his cup digging into you. It feels good. Having something hard grinding into your clothed pussy has always felt good. But knowing you’re rubbing yourself against his suit and not the surely hard outline of his cock is what snaps you out of that mind-melting pleasure.

“Because,” you drag out in between a moan. You feel his lips tug into a smile against your neck. He’s well pleased with being able to reduce you to trembles and moans. You push him away a little again, just enough to separate his lips from your neck. “I don’t want it to be over so soon.”

While you’re not commenting on his sexual prowess and more the pace he’s locked himself into he still squints his eyes, a flash of hurt crossing them before he finds his performative grin again. “Well then we’ll go again. And again, and again and again.” With each again he places a softer kiss on parts of your face; each cheek, your nose and ending up with a kiss on your lips. “As many times as my queen wishes.” 

This you like. This you need. Really feeling each kiss, letting yourself ride the anticipation train. More importantly, you want that for him.

“Queen?”

He shrugs, “every king needs a queen.” You shake your head with a silent chuckle.

You mindlessly run your fingers through his hair as you meet his gaze. “Still, slow down a little, hm?” He grumbles in response, placing another kiss on your lips. Even though he’s acting grumpy, he’s listening. His lips linger on yours a touch longer. You really get to feel each eager quiver of them. Holding back from devouring you whole like he originally planned.

“Have you got anywhere to be today?” You ask when he lets your lips go. Homelander shakes his head, the loose strands of hair tickling your skin when he nuzzles into you.

“Look, how about you let me take the reins today? Wouldn’t that be fun? You always give it your all. Maybe… it’s time for you to sit back and enjoy yourself.” You try to sell it as if it was something he’d choose for himself. You make it sound like you’re rewarding him. And you will. Just not by immediately riding his dick like he expects you to from the way his hand goes down to squeeze your hip already imagining himself underneath you.

“Mhmm, bossy you is pretty sexy.” He purrs into your ear before immediately switching gears.

“Righty-o, up you go.” Although clumsily, Homelander swaps you with him. He plops you down on top of his lap, purring when he runs his hands up and down your hips, his head propped up by the arm rest. His lips part, as if he’s tasting the air when he looks right at your pussy through your clothing. Cheater.

“Wait, hold on. Not here, there’s barely any space.” Seeing the flag cape draped just off the side of the couch with him now lying down irritates you. You can’t wait to rip the whole thing off him. “Take us to the bedroom.” 

“Really?” He’s amused, wearing the same expression one would after winning a lengthy discourse. He’s all wild glittering eyes and sharp grin, trying to unsuccessfully twist his expression into something semi-nonchalant as he gestures towards the TV. “What happened to watching a movie?”

He’s back to that wolfish grin, unable to hold back from the joy of winning a bet that he’s fabricated in his head. “You made suuuch a big deal about it earlier. Now look at you. Can’t wait to fuck yourself on my cock.” He purrs. 

You roll your eyes but the gesture carries no actual irritation.

“Charming. Aren’t you a gentleman?”

“What can I say, it’s my brand. I’m all about chivalry and good manners.”

“Well take your chivalry and good manners and carry me to bed.” 

“But babe, the movie.” His shit-eating grin makes you playfully roll your eyes again while shaking your head.

“Fuck the movie.” As this leaves your lips his grin turns into an excited, a more genuine one. 

“Now we’re talking.” Homelander slots his hands under your ass, hoisting you up as he gets off the couch. The effortless handling never fails to make your stomach flip.

The scene of him carrying you to the bedroom while stealing away kisses is one from a romantic movie. After saving the world, the hero finally gets to rest with his love by his side. 

The end.

Except for Homelander, the story is never over. He doesn’t hang up the cape. The persona stays on. Even you haven’t been able to figure out if there even is a part of him that isn’t so intrinsically intertwined with the Homelander persona.

But at the very least you can try to look behind the curtain. Or well, the cape.

Homelander drops you on the bed, kicking off his boots—courtesy of your constant nagging as he’d like to call it—before following you, hands and knees on either side of you. Immediately zeroing in on your lips as he leans in to steal another kiss from you.

You extend your arm, meeting his lips with your palm, halting their path with a muffled mmph. He quickly recovers, kissing the centre of your palm with an obnoxious mwah. To make matters worse, Homelander licks your palm.

“Ew, what’s wrong with you!” You let out with a squeak, instinctively pulling your hand back which Homelander takes as the golden opportunity to get his paws and lips all over you.

“You don’t usually say ‘ew’ to me licking you.”

“Well—that’s different!” You hate how easy it is for him to fluster you. “And hey, don’t forget it’s meant to be my turn. Come on, you agreed.” It can be pretty hard to pull yourself away from his needy touches but your pouty tone does the job for you. Putting on the voice of disappointment works wonders on getting Homelander to do what you want.

“Alright, alright, alright. Don’t get all worked up, jeez. I’m just playing.” Homelander wraps his arms around your middle and rolls with you on the bed, stopping when you end up on top. He folds his arms behind his head, propping it up a little to get a better look at you as you settle your knees on either side of his hips. “You make it sound like I committed a fucking crime. Maybe I missed the news. Is it now a crime to show my girl some sweet sweet love?” He wags his eyebrows obnoxiously.

Homelander grinds his hips up into you. He even has the audacity to make it look like a mistake with his downturned lips and raised eyebrows. Amongst the whole kerfuffle he still manages to keep the same levels of continuous arousal. You just feel like you’re missing out by not being able to see just how much he’s raring to go.

“It’s a good thing I’ve got a hero here to stop this crime from happening.” You place your hands on his chest, tapping on the textured fabric with all your fingers. “Pass me your hand.”

“Why, are you gonna fucking cuff me?” He says incredulously, trying to follow your train of thought. 

“Of course not. I’m gonna take your gloves off.” You rubbed your hands up and down his chest as if warming him up for what’s to come.

“Really? This is stupid.” He clicks his tongue. “You know what hands look like.” He scrunches his face with disdain and confusion; eyebrows drawn tight, his lips spread into a grimace.

“I don’t know what yours look like.” You lean over him to pull in the nearby pillow, slotting it under his head when he slides both hands from underneath his head.

“Okay, I may be the one spewing bullshit in front of the cameras sure, but now that is a dirty lie.” You grasp one of his hands. He’s not normally this reluctant to at least get his gloves off but at this point his vision of how this was meant to go is not being met, staining the fake reality in his head.

“Sure fine, I have seen them before. Is it such a big deal that I want to see them again? They’re pretty.” You say sheepishly.

“Pretty?” He echoes. 

“Yeah. You’ve got lovely hands.” That’s it. Compliments. 

“Lovely… Is that what you’re going with? What about manly? Strong. Powerful. Now that sounds better.” He squeezes his fists when he rattles off his adjectives. You nudge him to open his hands again so you can pinch the leather off each digit, until you’re able to slide the entire thing off his hand. You do the same thing to the other hand as he continues listing words that he deems better suited.

“I think beautiful covers it.” You say as you gently trace a line across the top of his hand, turning it around where you draw circles inside his palm. “Powerful, strong, or manly doesn’t. You don’t have the crude—ugly—calloused strength. Yours is unmatched on a level unknown to man and still it leaves your hands looking pristine. So… beautiful.” You bring his hand up to your lips where you tenderly kiss the tip of each finger before gliding your softly parted lips across his first set of knuckles. His skin is baby soft. Your lips tingle with the soft brush, vibrating with the friction as Homelander’s fingertips twitch with each pass of your lips. 

Homelander catches his breath. He wasn't expecting this. With such a gentle touch you've managed to fluster him. As if his system was abruptly shutting down, his expressions mimic his internal panic. His eyes blink rapidly, his lips parting and closing in a cycle. It takes a forced huff of embarrassment and forcing out a raspberry to regain his composure.

“Pfft, Christ, if this is your idea of going slow we're gonna be here a long fucking while.” 

“Mhm,” you open his palm, pressing three kisses where you'd expect to feel callouses. But you don't. His skin is silky soft. “You did say you had the rest of the day free.” 

“Right. So now that my gloves are off can we finally get on with it? I’m gonna get blue balls with the way you’re holding out on me. Have mercy on me, babe.”

“Again with the rushing. You said it yourself, you have nowhere to be but here. With me.” 

“Hm, I’d just like to get there before sundown.”

“Well, I can’t promise you that.” 

“Aha! Right, of course… you’re getting off on this.” He makes it sound so accusatory. How dare you find doing things with your boyfriend arousing.

“Not in the way you imagine.” 

Homelander ignores your response and continues. “Unless you’re upset with me and this is your way of getting back at me. Did I do something wrong?”

“Stop overanalyzing this. I’m just trying to change things up.”

“So you do have an issue with the way things have been going.” He takes his hands back and pushes himself up on his elbows to see you better. This makes you wobble on his lap, nearly losing your balance. You watch as his whole face twitches. He’s desperately trying to keep control of his expressions.

“Stop going down this rabbit hole. Have I ever given you the impression that I am unsatisfied?”

“Maybe you’re a better actress than I thought.”

You frown, this is not going down the way you wanted. You lean forward and wipe the distrust off his face with a long and involved kiss. Touching your forehead to his once you pull apart. Though his lips are already insisting on another kiss.

“Listen to me. I love you so much. I-I honestly don’t even have words to describe this feeling. And you make me feel so good. Everyday is a blessing with you. You take care of me so well…” You give in to his demand and kiss him again.

“Let me take care of you today.” You exhale with a furrowed brow, a sense of need and urgency palpable enough to throw even Homelander off his whole dismissive play.

He only manages to nod, with his forehead still against you.

“Good boy.” You purr and push him back down. A little thrill runs through you when he bucks up against you, a lewd whine pouring from his lips. That’s a piece of knowledge that’s certainly getting put in your back pocket.

“Will you be good and let me take the cape off, pretty please?” It feels like you’re cheating when you’re met with the most conflicting expression you’ve ever seen on him. Both eager to please yet reluctant to lose a piece of the Homelander puzzle. The gloves were an offensive gesture enough.

With an annoyed huff he props himself up and unclips the cape from his suit. It helps that he never sits or lies on the damned thing. You pull it away from him with a grateful stroke down his cheek that he leans into, bunching it up on the other side of the bed.

“Have you no respect for this great nation? At least hang it up properly.” You roll your eyes and click your tongue in annoyance but you get off him to hang up the cape on his suit hanger. There are battles you’re willing to fight today and this isn’t one of them. 

“There, happy?” You go back to straddling him.

“All things considered.” He dramatically waves his hands in the air before letting them fall back on top of the bedding. 

“Alright, smartass.” You’re already liking this look. Piece by piece you’re slowly stripping the façade away.

Your earlier snarky tone makes way for softness. You run your hand up and down his chest. You press over the ridges of the suit, nails raking down the subtle eagle texture. You gently push into the soft pecs, feeling the material give. Your fingers slide to the edges of the front panel, playing with the clasp and feeling around the glossy red piping.

While you’re having the time of your life, Homelander is less pleased. Eager and frustrated he nearly spits out “Jesus just—fuck—ah, just fucking let me inside you.”

“Be patient, slow makes it more exciting.”

“You’re plenty wet already, I know you want it, how much more excitement do you need?”

“Hey, no snooping.”

“Can’t help it, it’s all I can smell. I can almost taste it in the fucking air. I can feel how much you want me.” His hands land on your hips, finding comfort in the familiar gesture. He rubs his bare hands under your top. The skin on skin contact on your waist makes your head spin.

“Well, I want to feel you too. You said you’d let me take the lead right?”

“You can feel me just fine and dandy.” He grinds into you to prove his point. Admittedly, it does force a little gasp out of you, but you’re not going to let yourself succumb to his foul play.

“No, I'm feeling your suit. I wanna feel you. Without it.”

“You’re being fucking ridiculous. Think I can’t tell how much your pussy aches when I grind into you?”

“Potty mouth.” 

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

You take a deep breath and release a long sigh. During it, your hands travel from his chest up to his face where you cup his jaw. It’s become your favourite gesture to get his attention with.

“Let me love you all the way, honey. Let me feel you.” You kiss his lips softly but soundly. A couple times until he’s pliant enough that he’s sighing into the kisses and running his hands over your back.

“Fine.” It’s a short, curt answer but it will do. Just as you’re about to reach for the fastening of the top portion of his suit he stops you. You’re expecting to have to go into another tirade of endless begging but all he says is, “belt has to go first.”

You nod with a soft smile. He’s being so good for you. You won’t abuse this moment to make jokes or tease him for his caginess.

You’re not stupid. Your relationship is still fairly fresh, yet you both bull-rushed into it—head over heels. Still, he’s managed to keep a lot of sides of him hidden away from you. You don’t spend every night at his penthouse but when you do, he changes into his pyjamas when it’s dark or when you’re already in bed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that your partner feels insecure over his body.

Can’t say you blame him with the image he’s forced to uphold. It’s quite a tall order to meet the image people have in mind when they think of the strongest supe of all time. You know the suit is a façade. You just want him comfortable enough to let you peer behind it.

You unclasp the golden belt, the metal clicking loudly in the quiet room. You put it to the side after Homelander lifts his hips to let you slide it out from underneath him, this time without his snarky remarks about putting it in the right place.

You smooth down your hands over the previously unseen section. It’s nothing more than a strip of the existing fabric, but the tiny gap you see between the top and bottom of the suit has you ravenous, nearly salivating at the thought of feeling him skin-to-skin to you.

You don’t understand why he feels the need to hide this from you. He couldn’t be anything less than perfect in your eyes if he tried. You even tease the sliver of exposed flesh by dragging your fingertip across it. You can feel Homelander vibrate with unspent energy where he’s got his hands on you.

You’re just about to work on the top part of his suit but his intense grip circles your wrist. You snap up to meet his gaze and notice the pained expression. Your giddy excitement fizzles out and gets replaced by heart-aching sympathy. It hurts to see him suffer so.

He lets out an empty chuckle, attempting to distract you from his self-doubt.

“You know this isn’t… I don’t look like—”

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, my love. If there’s one thing I want you to not worry about, it’s whether I find you attractive or not, okay? It’s a firm yes regardless.”

He nods curtly, his hand loosening around your wrist, before falling completely. 

He aids you in taking the top part of his suit off; arms slipping out of the sleeves as he sheds the whole piece. You push it off to the side like the belt, surprised at just how heavy it really is.

When you look back down on him, you have to stop yourself from smiling too widely.

He’s perfect.

“Wow. In case there’s any doubt, it’s an even firmer yes now.” You can’t help but continue in line with your banter. You don't miss the way his cheeks tint pink at the comment.

You’re looking down at a very different figure without the suit. He’s slim, with very subtle muscle lines contouring his silhouette. You don’t understand what he was so worried about, he’s so much more pleasant to look at without the suit. 

His shoulders—while tense—are beautiful, continuing down to arms that, no matter how large, could never portray the true extent of his strength. It makes sense. Without the suit in the way it’s like you can see the power just lying below the surface.

Your hands softly rest on his pecs. His torso is a beautiful, fuzzy chest leading into a surprisingly slender waist that has you blushing. Your fingers rake through the chest hair, gently applying pressure with your nails before swapping it around for your palms, dragging them down to his hips, feeling how buttery-smooth his skin feels. He has no blemishes, no scars.

While you’re having an incredible time exploring the parts of your lover that you’ve not been allowed access to before, he’s stuck in his own head, fighting a battle you’ll never have a chance of joining—let alone winning.

Being the strongest man in the world doesn’t bar him from requiring soft handling every once in a while. As tenderly as you can muster you whisper, “you still with me, honey?”

His eyes snap down from where they were looking into the ceiling mirror to yours.

“Mhm…” He sounds anything but convincing.

“Let’s get the rest of it off.” With little input from him, you pluck at the waistline to pull the pants down, equally awkward and heavy garment joining the pile of the rest of the suit. His legs are slimmer than the suit would make you believe—unsurprisingly. His thighs, while slim, have enough meat on them to make you want to bite into him. You wonder what his reaction would be.

Not to be left behind, you take your own clothes off, matching him by still leaving your underwear on.

You grind yourself against him, he’s certainly let anxiety dispel some of his usual crazed arousal but he’s still semi-hard for you.

“Wanna talk to me?” Usually when you’re on top of him, eagerly grinding against his cock he’s on you. You take his hands off your waist, pulling them with you and pinning them above his head when you lean in to kiss his neck. Slow but steady kisses lead down to the juncture of his neck, where you ever so slightly whisper, “or would you like me to do the talking?”

You can’t help but smile against his neck when you feel him get hard again and buck up into you.

“Mhmm, I love this.” You kiss down from his neck to his chest, your arms broadly stroking all available bare skin—from his tight shoulders to his arms. “You’re so warm.” You nuzzle into his soft chest, strangely enjoying the soft fuzz smattering his pecs. You’ve only ever seen his pubes—which he tends to keep neatly trimmed—so it’s almost surprising to see the rest of his body hair. You’ve decided that you’re a fan.

“Is it weird to say that I really like your chest hair?” You say with a charmed little chuckle. You pull yourself up so you can see into his eyes, your hands never stopping their exploration of his upper body.

“You’ve said plenty of strange things before.” He dismisses it, it’s the first time he’s spoken in a while. His voice is uncharacteristically weak.

“Well… I really, really like it. Can you tell?” God, how is this getting to you so much? You feel your own cheeks warm just as his do. You’d be lying if you said his reactions didn’t make you throb and ache.

“It’s so soft… You gotta let me sleep on your chest from now on.” 

“Anything you want.” His voice has a breathless quality to it that you find terribly endearing. It’s such a departure of what you’re used to with him.

“Good. I want more of this.” You grin at him widely, you see him slowly loosening up that tension he’s worked himself into. Time slips you when you place sweet touches and kisses all over his chest and stomach, strategically avoiding his cock. 

You’re enjoying peppering hundreds of tiny kisses all over his skin while Homelander keeps his hands on you. Your hair, arms or waist—or anything else he can get his hands on really. You kiss and touch him all at the same time feeling like it will never be enough. 

His voice breaks you from your indulging. “Greedy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

Homelander’s warm hands reach behind your back, unclasping your bra. He purrs as soon as the garment falls down, giving him unrestricted access to your pretty tits. You help him out by taking your arms out of the straps and throwing it over to the pile of his suit.

“Who’s greedy now?”

“It’s only fair I get to stare at your tits too.” He’s too taken in by the sight of them that he sits up, with you still on his lap as he nuzzles your breasts. Like a happy cat he purrs against you, mouthing at the skin in between your breasts with distinct hunger. His hands cup them from the side, giving them a squeeze. 

He kisses his way over to the peak of your left breast, indulgingly twirling his tongue around your nipple before sucking it in between his lips entirely. He’s very vocal, sucking the bud so salaciously it has your lower belly warming instantaneously. Feeling his cock throb right against your clothed pussy feels obscene after such a long foreplay.

The little back and forth he does with your hips really makes you aware of how uncomfortably wet your underwear has gotten. 

You let him suck on your other breast as well, raking your fingers through his locks before you push him back down. “It’s meant to be my turn.” 

“Well you’re taking fucking forever, forgive me for wanting to blow off a little steam.”

“Sure, sure, you’re totally not enjoying this.” As a cheeky reminder you reach down to squeeze his erect cock through his red briefs.

“I’d be enjoying coming inside you a hell of a lot more.”

His hands on your hips rip the fabric of your underwear, pulling the tatters off you and throwing them off to the side. It’s not the first time he’s pulled this move, you were more ready this time round. 

“Okay fine, I hear you loud and clear.” You can’t stop the smile stretching across your lips. His eagerness is cute. It’s nice to have a partner who wants you so desperately. As long as he’s willing to slow down ever so often.

You lean down to kiss his chest some more, kissing your way to his nipples to give him the taste of his very own medicine. Taste he seems to enjoy a lot more than you expected.

But you’re not going to torture the man for much longer. You’ve had your fun—at least the start of it. So you give him what he wants. 

You pull down his cute red briefs that he helps kick down the rest of the way. 

You’re a little blown away by how good he looks underneath you, all naked. 

“Well?”

“Just admiring the goods—the whole package actually.” You gesture a sweeping gesture with your hands, framing him with your thumb and forefinger on each hand like a photographer would. 

You sit back on his thighs, hand wrapping around his cock. You smear the precum across his tip with your thumb, listening in for his pretty little whimpers. He’s always so sensitive. “Look up for me, baby. Up into the mirror. I want you to watch yourself.”

You stroke his cock with one hand, massaging his balls with the other. Jesus, you could come watching him react the way he does.

His muscles quiver and tense with the sensations. He’s so much more interesting without the armour in the way. Seeing how everything affects his entire body is beautiful. This whole experience has you gaining a new appreciation for Homelander’s senses. 

“Do you want me to suck you off?” The question catches him off guard and his gaze snaps down to yours, away from the mirror. Your hand doesn’t stop stroking.

“No-oh. Jus-just sit on it already.” 

“As his majesty wishes.” You finally do the honours of slowly sitting down on his cock, the thick shaft fills you so fully you exhale with relief when he bottoms out.

“Ffffuck me.” Homelander’s whole body is strung tight, waiting to snap. 

“I am.”

He throws you a withering look. “That’s my line.”

“Aren’t you meant to share things in a relationship?”

“Oh I’ve got something to share with you, just you wait.” Homelander digs his feet into the bedding, gaining leverage as he thrusts up into you. You can’t help but yelp when it goes from zero to a hundred within a second. You’re holding onto his hand on your hip while you support yourself with the other against his chest. Your moans come to you naturally, he’s filling you fully in each thrust. The delicious pull of his entire length seesawing in and out of you is what stole your breath the first time you fucked.

After all this teasing and waiting, it’s Homelander’s time to indulge in his fun. And you let him have it—not like it causes you much grief. He transforms between a pained grin each time you squeeze around him to a fully devilish smirk when he gets your legs to involuntarily shake around his.

“Goddamn, I nearly forgot how good your pussy feels with how long this took you.”

You’d answer if you had any coherence left in you but you’re currently getting the life fucked out of you. Not exactly the headspace for an answer.

Just as quickly as he picked up the pace he rolls you around on the bed, slotting you underneath him with ease. Automatically you wrap your legs around him, your arms going around his neck when he buries his face into yours.

He drives into you desperately. Each stroke leaves your spine tingling and pussy quivering.

“Can you come like this?” He comes across breathless, words coming out as gasps between him mouthing at and licking your neck.

“Prop my ass up.”

Homelander almost reluctantly leans back, settling himself on his knees as he pulls in the pillow he earlier had his head on. Like you weigh nothing at all, he props your ass up with one hand and shoves the pillow underneath with the other.

He doesn’t lean back over you again, instead easily picking up a new position. Your legs point up, resting against his shoulders as his cock sinks into you again. His hands settle over the top of your thighs, eagerly pulling you into each one of his strokes.

“Better?”

“Uh-huh.” You’re giving him very little feedback because all you’re focused on is the way his cock rubs against all your favourite spots, pushing you closer and closer towards your orgasm. God, he’s good. You don’t like telling him too often should he grow an even bigger ego, but he sure knows how to give it to you good.

You normally need Homelander to rub your clit simultaneously to be able to reach orgasm but today has you so worked up and the view of him is so pretty and this angle is so—

“Fuck, I’m gonna come…” You mumble, barely coherent as the next few thrusts push you over the edge. Your pussy tightly squeezes around his cock before relaxing into a softer throbbing sensation of your orgasm washing over you.

You didn’t even realise you had your eyes closed near the end as you open them again. You feel a little dizzy, smattering of stars appearing in your vision. A mop of blonde hair tickles your chin. 

Homelander must have been on the verge of coming this whole time because you didn’t even realise he was right there with you, spilling deep inside you.

He’s now sprawled across the top of you, catching his breath while keeping the skin-on-skin contact. You’re sweaty and tacky—arguably it’s not at all comfortable. But you’ve fought hard to have this, so you can survive a bit of sweat. At least you’re no longer sticking to leather.

 Homelander rolls off you with a huff, facing the ceiling mirror again.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Tiger.”

Of course he knows what he’s doing. Everything about you is different to what he’s used to.

He’s used to sex feeling like pure rush. From the occasional fan he’s fucked during a convention to a full-blown—though fabricated—relationship with Maeve. He’s used to the fever of the moment. Where you just go, go, go. Getting his partner off as quickly as possible. Keeping them engaged and wanton as long as possible so they can’t think and reconsider what they’re doing. He’s used to sex feeling like a race against time.

But you’re not like that. You’re not looking to escape as soon as you’ve had your fill.

He catches your eye in the mirror and you give him a pleased tired little smile, still catching your breath. You don’t hide away from him.

You’ve done the opposite of what he’s used to.

You’ve slowed him down, asked him to stop rushing you. Savouring each moment is a privilege he hasn’t had before you. 

Fuck, he’s not sure anybody before you has actually wanted to be with him for him, rather than the prestige or power that comes with his name. He’s used to being the one to save everybody. He doesn’t need saving—of course not—yet, the sentimental part of him thinks that you just might.

You break him out of your thoughts by tapping his shoulder.

“Wanna take a bath together?”

“Now?” He slurs a bit.

“Yeah, so we can relax after your big—BIG performance.”

“Hm, okay. Let’s take a bath.” He’s closing his eyes, if not due to the exhaustion his release brought, then to escape him staring disapprovingly. 

“I’ll go set it up.” You say. All he hears is the padding of your bare feet down the lacquered floors. The sound of flowing water after you turn the tap on is strangely soothing. He opens his eyes, looking up at himself, still sprawled naked across the bed.

Looking at himself right next to the pile of the bulky suit usually brings up thoughts he doesn’t enjoy dwelling on. Today, he can’t help but feel the nervous heat low in his belly, butterflies fluttering in his stomach when he recalls the enthusiastic way you’ve explored him today.

“You shouldn’t be letting her get this close.”

“You shouldn’t have let her in.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, buddy. You know nothing good ever comes from this. From… love.” 

He makes the word sound so dirty, vile. What he’s experiencing with you is anything but. You’re good for him.

“But for how long?”

“How long until it turns out she’s just like the rest. Unreliable. Untrustworthy. Fake.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt again.” 

“Do you really think she’s gonna stick around when she meets the real you?”

He doesn’t want to respond to him. Not today. Not at the very least now.

Homelander slides off the bed. It’s the only way he can escape his judgmental looks. Too lazy to take proper steps he lightly levitates off the ground, carrying himself up to the bathroom.

He tips his feet down to switch to walking, getting a view of you leaning over the vanity, removing whatever makeup and product you’ve got left on your face from the day. The bath is nearly full and bubbled up.

“Oh great—you’re here!” You smile at him through the mirror while you rub the mascara out of your lashes.

“Get in and let me know if it’s hot enough.”

The domesticity of this catches him off guard, suddenly blinking away the wet burn in his eyes. He does as he’s told, stepping over the bathtub’s edge and settling into the bubbles. He pushes some out of the way so they don’t get in his face.

“The temperature's fine.” He leans his head back against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes and releasing a sigh.

“You okay there, baby?” He opens his eyes to the sound of your voice to see you still messing with your face.

“I will be if you stop fucking around and join me.” It’s meant to be a joke but part of him does feel a little antsy at not being close to you at all times. After today he doesn’t want to be even an inch away from you if he can help it.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” 

“Do you want me to sit on the opposite side?” You put one foot in, sighing contently at the water’s hot embrace.

“Nope. On top of me.”

“Haven’t had enough of that today?” He loves your cheeky side, however infuriating you can be at times. It’s strangely liberating to not have to hold back what he says in front of you, you don’t get offended by his quips.

“Never.” When both of your legs are in he pulls you down on top of him, your back to his chest. The water splashes everywhere but he doesn’t have it in him to care, it’s not his problem anyway. You disagree.

“Easy! No need to flood the bathroom.” He pulls you in, wrapping his arms around your shoulders when you tilt your body a little and he places his lips against your temple. He’s not kissing it as much as he’s just resting his lips there, really taking your presence in. 

“It’s fine.” He mumbles against your temple.

You rest against each other for a while in silence. Your nails trace little lines across his forearms. It’s all so strangely soothing he can almost tune out the voice in his head warning him to not let his guard down.

He silences it by turning your head over to him, kissing you square on the lips. You still taste a little bit like the unscented cleanser you’ve used on your face but he’d rather have that than no taste of you at all.

He pulls away, unknowingly matching your tender smile.

“Thank you for today, I had a great time.” You speak up before he ever has the chance.

As a response he kisses you again. Slow and steady, like you’ve been asking for the whole day. You both spend this quiet time to just enjoy each other’s presence without any interruptions to your day. Just having the afternoon free is rare for Homelander. He’s glad you’ve ended up making it into a whole experience. 

When your kisses fizzle out into just a few small pecks you slide down to slot yourself in between him a little more comfortably, your head settling on his chest with a pleased little hum.

To be loved is to be accepted. He believes he’s found both of those things in you. On an impulse, his gaze flickers to the mirror to meet his knowing look. 

He just doesn’t know if you’ll accept all parts of him.  

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

@infinetlyforgotten | @rafecamsgirlll | @nervoussystemss | @hom3landr

@mrsdesade | @nommingonfood | @littlegaaby | @jokesonyoupup

@natliecole | @chaimshelii | @gingeraleluke | @sing1art |

Today has been Halloween, as the mulch of autumnal leaves and suspiciously bulbous pumpkins littering your street would suggest, so Homelander has had a full schedule of holiday-themed appearances and little opportunity to catch a moment in the shade. It’s been the usual circus act at this time of year: meeting trick or treaters dressed as him – not all of whom were children – judging contests on scary masks and carved fruit and displays of the spookiest, yet firmly family-friendly, superpowers in action. Vought are nothing if not corny as fuck when it comes to their branding, on the surface.

The wind picks up, and he sighs in relief, listening to the way his cape rustles behind him in the growing breeze. The world is cooling as the darkness drips in. Soon the streetlamps around here will be flickering on – their light is occasionally irritating to his enhanced senses, but still greatly preferable to the unforgiving blaze of the sun. He finds most artificial things are.

Your house stands directly across the street from him. It’s unimpressive to the naked eye; this isn’t a rich neighbourhood by any means. But there’s something about the place that draws him in like a lion to a bleeding lamb. He knows you’re in there.

Your house looks snug as the leaves that aren’t too weighed down with mud and old rainwater twirl up in the wind to caress its walls in little spirals, some catching on the panelling. You’ve got a pumpkin out on your front step too, wearing an expression Homelander can only think to describe as cute – a thought that just sours his mood further, because cute is the last word he wants to associate with you after the way you’ve been behaving.

He’s been stood here at least forty-five minutes, jaw and feet set. Humans really are unobservant creatures, since even Homelander himself would admit he must look odd: a screamingly obvious threat in a horror flick, waiting in plain sight, but, as in the movies, no one seems to have recognised him for what he is. None of your neighbours have paid him any mind. He doesn’t know whether he should be insulted or glad. He supposes they may have figured out by now that you know him, and, like most people who get the chance to meet him in the flesh, have decided to steer clear.

Frightened herbivores. Prey animals.

You haven’t noticed him either, as far as he can tell. One of the few downsides of Homelander’s superior condition is that his x-ray vision can’t penetrate houses he hasn’t been invited into. Public buildings? Fine. Everybody’s welcome. Businesses? Well, since when did they have anything to do with souls? No, it’s only the places where humans store the minutia of their lives – their homes – that remain obscured to those like him, so he’s left with as much insight into your house as the average Joe would have from out here. You could be doing anything within those four walls.

He cheek twitches. Anything at all.

Still, the coming of the night is a little of a welcome distraction as it floods his senses, rejuvenating him in the same way it does every sunset. It’s not that Homelander – or the pitiful half breeds who wander around pretending they’re anything near as unique as him – isn’t preternaturally gifted during daylight hours, but he’s known since childhood that there are stretches of time when he feels sharper. It was only after being released from the lab at sixteen that he realised these stretches coincided with the silver reign of the moon.

Like clockwork, with the eye of the sun gone, it’s as though invisible restraints around him loosen. He can fly without the irritation of his skin starting to sting. He can hone in on activity further away with better acuity. He feels lighter, younger, calmer. The boost would remove the weight of today’s drudgery entirely, if it wasn’t for you.

If he’s honest, he feels stupid whenever he reflects on how, only a month ago, he’d have assumed this evening would’ve been a date night for you both. It’s corny as fuck – a date with the world’s most famous vampire on Halloween night – but, hey, isn’t that very corniness what Homelander is supposed to be all about too?

On the surface.

Either way, what Homelander isn’t is an idiot. You haven’t had the grace to be subtle about your avoidance of him in recent weeks. You claim you’re busy, even though he’s triple checked your work schedule and you’re definitely not; you say you’re tired, but he hasn’t detected excessive levels of adenosine in your bloodstream, and you’ve often remained downstairs until gone midnight after arriving home – which houselights you turn on, he can see.

In fact, you never smell sleepy or stressed beyond the levels he’s used to observing in most humans of your standing. You’re not bothered in any way when you lie straight to his fucking face. You’re bold, he’ll give you that, and it’s why he wishes you’d just come out tell him what’s changed.

What have you noticed about him that you weren’t meant to, hm?

The possibilities are all he can think about when he’s sitting through yet another PR meeting on whether smiling with his teeth puts key demographics off his brand – or waiting between takes of some new mind-numbing ad, pretending he’s too busy to know the makeup artists are touching up his complexion with warmer and warmer shades in each public appearance he makes. He does wonder if the reason you’ve drawn away is that simple: that maybe it’s just taken you longer than most to see what everyone else inevitably does when they’re around him in person.

That, unlike his colleagues in the Seven or the B-listers begging Vought for more exposure, all of whom had to be bitten to gain their taste of divinity, he really has no connection to the sweating, lumbering, bleeding mass that calls itself humanity. That he alone was made this way, a vampire from birth. That he truly is other. He doesn’t know how to be anything else.

He should’ve guessed it’d bother you. You’re only human. But couldn’t you at least tell him that it does, so he could try to placate you?

Maybe you’re the idiot in this situation, he muses to himself. The temperature’s really dropping out here now, and it wasn’t exactly high today to start with. You’re so confident he won’t lose patience and finally bite back, aren’t you? Even after realising the gaping chasm between you, the one that gives him the advantage in almost every conceivable way, you’re testing him.

Or is he the fool proving your arrogance rightly placed each time he smiles – painfully brightly, as fake as the ones he gives the cameras, if you care to have noticed – before he lets you walk away to your home without him?

He used to get hours in your company – once, you stayed up until sunrise with him, and that time he could smell the sleepiness on you. That was cute, he’d thought, like the idiot he apparently is. Now, he’s lucky if he sees you once a day. He hates it. He hates that he hates it. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing here, waiting for someone else who doesn’t want him, when he isn’t supposed to need anyone. He doesn’t need–

The light snaps on in one of the downstairs rooms of your house. It’s the room Homelander’s gathered, after demeaning evenings spent staking you out in human fashion, has your TV in it. Although he can’t see through the material of the curtains, there’s still that telling yellow glow around the edges of the window. Bingo.

He feels his fangs sharpen against his tongue. This is what he’s been waiting for: for you to confirm to the outside world that you’re in, so you have to answer the door when he knocks. In a blink, he’s striding across the road, paving a red, white, and blue beeline above the tarmac. A figure reanimated.

His jaw clenches in anticipation.

This isn’t about a need for you; it’s about proving a point. Tonight, Homelander’s going to pop the question. The big one – or, well, the other big one. The one no vampire in polite society is meant to ask a human. The one that will tell him, in no uncertain terms, where he stands with you. He’s going to ask you to your face. No polite escapes this time.

After all, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s been good for you. Perfectly courteous. Chivalrous, even, on occasion – he carried you home that night you stayed out until sunrise. You have no justification for suddenly backing off like this. He never quenches his thirst around you. He makes a concerted effort to only gaze at your neck when he’s sure your own gaze is elsewhere. You can’t believe he’d lose interest in you as easily as a common human would, surely? You have to know he’s better than that.

When he reaches your door, he takes a shallow breath, then raps his gloved fist three times against the wood. Your fates are sealed. The cute pumpkin on the step seems to be staring into his soul now, despite the fact Homelander knows this is impossible for more than one reason. He has the childish impulse to kick it to a pulp anyway, but he assumes it won’t help matters if you open the door to him savaging your attempt at holiday cheer. He folds his arms behind his back.

Fucking Halloween.

“Oh, hey!”

And there you are, aggravatingly cute as he expected, dressed in your cosy evening clothes, surprised and… either you’ve been working on your skills of deception, or you’re actually pleased to see him. He’s at a total loss. He feels his jaw goes slack.

“I didn’t think you’d be free until much later today,” you’re saying, as if the fact the opposite turns out to be true pleases you. You smile, but then your brow creases. “You okay? I caught some of your stuff on the telly. Has it been rough?”

For a moment, Homelander just blinks at you. At the concern in your eyes. How do you do it?

The light in the hall has you haloed in the doorway. It reminds him of the edited backgrounds Vought sometimes creates for his posters the way it appears to give you a certain strength, even as the wind blows your hair and you’re forced to wrap your arms around yourself for warmth. How do you manage to make him feel as though your positions in life are reversed?

You’re like the sun, he thinks, and you may be about to burn him.

“I…”

He doesn’t know where he’s going with this sentence. He was going to open on a question. Before you had a chance to take in that it was him on your doorstep, he’d have you ensnared in his trap. That hasn’t worked, but it’s fine. It’s not over yet. He can still regain control. The moon is coming into its element. He can do anything.

…What were his words going to be?

“Homelander?” You’re speaking more softly now. He realises you’ve stepped outside in your slippers, but he can’t seem to do so much as move his arms from behind his back.

Your expression shifts into something he hasn’t seen on you before. You’re analysing him. He feels those restraints that were loosened by the darkness tightening once more. He remembers the dull whirr of the security cameras in the lab, the click of pens making notes from behind reinforced steel, concrete, silver, and zinc. But you aren’t supposed to be like them. You were supposed to be different. This was supposed to–

“Hey,” you say again, smiling in a way he still doesn’t understand. You lean in close, close enough that his breath hitches at the abrupt overwhelm of your scent. Your sweet, alluring, perfect scent: the perfume wafting off a cup of ambrosia. His eyes drift shut as you start to speak, conspiratorial, as if he’s in on this. “What the hell. I wasn’t gonna do this tonight ‘cos I thought you’d be tired, but I’d feel bad if you had to fly back to the tower now.”

You talk like everything is fine between you both. Homelander finally frowns, though his face still tilts into you hand when your fingers brush his cheek. You’re so warm; it’s intoxicating.

“You wanna come inside?” you say.

His eyes reopen, fix themselves upon yours with a ferocity. You play dangerous games.

“Say that again,” Homelander whispers very slowly.

Your smile only broadens. “I’m asking you if you wanna come into my house.”

Already, there’s a wavering in the solidity of the building’s walls going on – at least visually. Homelander can see the barriers to his powers weakening and reinforcing themselves right in front of him; it’s as if your house is unsure whether you’re actually granting him entry or not. He’s glad he’s not the only one.

“I do,” he hears himself reply. It’s pathetic how desperate he sounds, a blocked off part of him insists, but it’s suppressed by something. By you.

Your wrist slides dangerously close to his mouth as your fingers trace a path along his cheek. Your blood hums for him. That ambrosia smell grows stronger: golden and sweet and metallic and his and so very, very close. He swallows, trying to will his fangs to retract – to not peek out from the seam of his lips, at least. He can be good. He will be good. His rapid heartbeat feels as though it’s trying to mirror the pounding drum in your wrist.

“Then come inside, Homelander,” you say.

Your hand retreats from his face, the dizzying feeling with it.

He blinks again. As if all of this is perfectly ordinary, you stand aside and spread your arm towards the doorway, gesturing for him to enter this place of artificial yellow light, of you. Your house. Unlocked.

The pressure in his ears shifts.

Homelander has dreamt about this moment, being cocooned within a place that is completely you. He wants to take all of it in immediately; he wants every inch imprinted on his mind for as easy access as the layout of the tower or his own penthouse.

It seems to take him an eternity to make that first impossible step over the threshold.

There are sensations in here he didn’t have access to outside: the scent of you, yes, but also of the food you must’ve made for dinner, your soap in the bathroom, and the quiet buzz of the lighting. Your home isn’t decked out in plush furnishings and ornaments, he notices as he stares through the walls and ceiling at each newly revealed space, but it’s… it’s–

“Are you okay?” your voice asks from behind him.

He turns around to face you. He hadn’t even noticed you lock the door. Look at you, caging him in. The irony. He almost laughs but manages to cover it with a breathless little scoff.

“You’ve been planning this?” he asks, unable to quite keep the scepticism from his tone. There are a lot of distractions in this place, but he can’t forget the last few weeks. “I thought…”

You’re giving him that concerned, doe-eyed expression again. He feels his jaw clench like earlier. You’re not a witch, but there’s magic in you he has to work hard to resist. You’ve not explained yourself yet. He clears his throat.

“Silly me, I guess, because I thought you were trying to get rid of me.” Shame lances through his chest at the truth spoken aloud, so he covers it by taking a step closer to you. “Can you believe that? Still, I gotta admit, I am a little confused by the sudden invitation.”

He reaches his hand out to rest carefully around your neck. There’s no pressure applied, but he can tell by the way your pulse jumps under his fingers that you get the warning.

“Care to explain, my love?” he asks.

Homelander has to smile when you still don’t gaze back at him with any fear, only caution. Good. He’s glad you’ve realised your mistake in brushing him off. As if he is anything that can be brushed off.

“It’s hard to keep things from you,” you say. Your eyes flit sideways momentarily, and his follow. There’s a long, rectangular mirror on the wall in need of dusting – and it reflects you, and only you. He swallows at the reminder, dropping his hand from your neck. He wishes someone would outlaw these fucking things. You wince in the glass. “I have something I want to show you. Several somethings.”

Homelander feels even more at a loss than before as you lead him deeper in the house, past the door to the living room and into the kitchen. Most of your appliances aren’t new and neither is the décor, but he’d already scouted this out in the hallway. Have you forgotten he can do that now?

“I haven’t had chance to fill this yet,” you’re saying, bending over to open one of the newer appliances beneath the countertop: a freezer. The drawers are filled with the standard bags of frozen food and ice that all humans keep. “I hope one drawer will be enough. If you tell me where you get your supply from, I could have some sent here too?”

Wait. What are you asking him?

The bottom drawer is, on further inspection, completely bare. Homelander only now notices how the upper ones are crammed full to compensate. You look up at him expectantly, but he’s still drawing a blank – and it’s beginning to piss him off.

A derisive scoff leaves his lips.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” he says, choosing to watch goosebumps form on your arms from the cold air rather than meet your eyes.

You sigh, hauling the door shut once more with a soft thud. “Blood, babe. Where does Vought get your blood?”

His mouth drops open and then shuts again just as quickly. “What– Why would you want blood in your house? I’m not–”

He cuts himself off. He’s not what? Allowed in here? That’s outdated thinking. He can go wherever the fuck he wants in here.

“Hold on a minute,” he says, holding a finger up as he scrunches his eyes closed. He hates being made to feel out of the loop, and he hates that you’re the cause of it. Why are you acting like this should be obvious? He tries to keep his voice level when he looks at you. “What is all this, huh? You– You lie to me, always have some excuse so you can slink off back here – the one place you knew I couldn’t follow – and now, what? I’m your– Your fucking honoured guest? You do realise you can’t take that invitation back, right? I have VIP access forever.”

You have the gall to shake your head at him and smile.

“Oh, boy. I figured you'd been getting wound up, but I didn’t realise it was getting this bad.” You step over to him and slide your hands around his waist. You’re amused, and it’s infuriating. “I thought this would be more exciting if it was a surprise.”

“If what was a surprise?” he snaps, glaring at you now.

“That I’ve been getting the house ready,” you say, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I wanted it to be safe for you when I welcomed you in.”

Safe.

Homelander goes stiff in your arms.

“Takes longer than you’d think to vampire-proof a home, you know,” you continue casually, pulling back and taking his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you properly.”

And you do. They’re small things, mostly: no more garlic or rice in the cupboards, silver and religious symbols are all out. You tell him you’ll switch the mirror in the hallway too, which you hadn’t realised was silver-backed. Homelander follows you around in silence, cursing himself for not taking in these tiny details of the house on his initial broad sweep. Clearly, he’s let his paranoia about losing you distract him to an embarrassing degree.

There are thick black blinds behind the curtains in every room as a precaution to keep out as much sunlight as possible, and it turns out the living room he’d correctly assumed houses your TV – the room he knows you’ve been spending so much time in – also used to house an open fireplace. This is gone now, and a sprinkling of plaster litters the floor in its wake. Someone like you doesn’t earn enough to call in a builder for a job like that. An electric fireplace from Voughtmart sits, still boxed, on your sofa.

But this isn’t all.

You seem to grow nervous when you take him upstairs. Your house isn’t massive. Homelander had already worked out from the windows that you have a kitchen, living area, bathroom, and two small bedrooms. The slightly larger of the two bedrooms is obviously yours for sleeping in. The sheets on the double bed are rumpled and parted over the dip where your body must rest, the sight inviting him to lie down and bury his face in the mattress and huff you in, but that’s apparently not what you’ve brought him here for.

“I was trying to decide which ones could go where. I’ve bought frames,” you say, and that’s when he notices the cluster of photographs spread on a cabinet near the bed. “Maybe it’s just cheesy and weird. This is really all still in flux. I’m sorry. I should’ve probably just told you from the start what I was planning instead of all this sneaking around…”

Your cheeks flush deliciously.

Homelander cocks his head, only half listening as he flicks through the photographs. Each one is of the both of you, some more flattering than others. They’re pictures he knows you’ve taken with your phone. The quality on a few of them isn’t great blown up like this, and there are a couple that were already blurred anyway – certainly not a patch on the glossy finishes his official promotional material for Vought boast – but there’s a charming quality to these everyday shots. Something that makes a part of him that has only ever ached painfully ache in a good way instead. They’re real.

And you’ve gone to the trouble of getting them printed out, in this day and age.

He stops flicking at the one he remembers you texting him randomly a couple of months into your relationship. Unbeknownst to you, it had been the night after a particularly testing workday for him, when all he wanted was an excuse to slaughter whatever lowlife scum crossed paths with him on his way back to the tower.

It’s a picture you’d taken on selfie mode from the bed in his penthouse when he was asleep. He’s nestled close to you, face far nearer your neck than he’s ever allowed it to get during waking hours, while your cheek rests on his head. His fangs are hanging loose over his lower lip. You don’t seem to care. You’re smiling – a little tired, bare-faced, fond. missed my hero today <3 was the message you’d sent with it.

He hadn’t massacred anyone that evening.

“Please say something.”

Your voice breaks Homelander from his reverie. He finds himself blinking away the unwanted moisture that’s crept in to blur his vision. He’s got his back to you like this, peering over these silly memories. He knows you can’t tell exactly how he’s feeling from just a sniff, like he can you.

“You’re right. You should’ve told me,” he says, putting the photographs down.

Your heart skips like he thought it would. It’s loud in his ears.

“Homelander–”

In one fluid motion, he turns towards you and takes your face in his hands. Your cheeks are still flushed and warm – you’re always so warm. That’s what this house is, he thinks: warm in ways nowhere else on earth could possibly be.

Your expression shifts in surprise at his enthusiasm, and then he kisses you. You gasp, and he swallows it gladly. Homelander doesn’t even feel the familiar hint of self-reproach when his fangs graze your lips, because you moan like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever done. Your hands slot in eager place around his waist again. The gesture causes a cold tear to leach down his cheek.

“You really want me in here?” he asks once your lips part. He has to be sure.

You giggle, wiping the tear away with your thumb. “Yes, dummy.”

You’re not lying. You press your forehead against his and breathe in shakily. Homelander traces his fingers from your jaw to your neck and kisses the corner of your mouth with a new hunger, chuckling.

“Me, dumb? You’re the one who thinks vampires don’t like garlic.”

You groan. “Is that only a myth?”

“Mhm hmm.” He starts trailing smaller kisses along your face, up to your temple. “Although, I don’t like garlic. Stuff fucking stinks.”

He grins when this gets a laugh out of you. “You won’t catch me turning into a bat either, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, what a shame.” Your hands move to take his, and he doesn’t resist. “You can stay here tonight, if you like,” you say, ducking your head. “I know it’s not much compared to the tower, and the living room’s kinda a mess, but–”

“Yes,” he answers automatically, silencing you with another kiss. “You”–And then another.–“Have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. No idea. I was gonna ask you to let me in tonight. I was so sick of being left out in the cold.”

He has the sudden urge to lift you into his arms and float above your bed. He’s not fucked you in midair yet. He’s sure you’d love it.

“Good,” you reply, before his thoughts can run away with themselves. “Because there’s actually one last thing I’d like to give you. Call it a welcoming gift…”

Your hands move again, releasing his, but this time you surprise him by pulling the shoulder of your shirt down to expose your neck. Oh. Just the sight of your soft skin, waiting for him, while your pulse drums impossibly louder has his fangs sharpening and sliding past the barrier of his mouth without his permission. You’re brazen.

And it would be easy. Blissful. Your eyes are wordlessly reeling him in, as it is. He leans further into you. His nose is just about brushing your throat when reason hits.

You’ll spot it. That chasm. He could lose all of what makes this special just when things are finally going his way. When he’s been trying so hard to be good.

Homelander jerks back with a start and covers his mouth. The gums around his fangs burn furiously in protest, but he forces the teeth to retract.

“What the fuck, Y/N? Are you fucking insane?”

Your carelessness hurts the most; it’s a luxury he won’t ever be able to afford with you.

“It’s okay,” you insist, voice gentle, mirroring his movement with a step towards him. “I trust you. Let me see?”

Maybe you shouldn’t trust him.

But, like the obedient creature he wishes he wasn’t, Homelander reluctantly allows his fangs to slide out and holds himself still as you reach up to touch the smooth length of the left one. He closes his eyes, whining softly once you make contact. Oh, you’re a tease. You make everything so unfair for him.

“I know you’re tired and frustrated, baby,” you coo. “And who wouldn’t be after all the work they put on you? Ungrateful assholes.”

He finds himself nodding, eyes remaining closed so he can get properly lost in your words. Drunk on them. On you. He inhales sharply.

“Mhm, go ahead, handsome. Do I smell good?” you ask.

“You always smell good,” he replies, voice rough. He leans in again, pulling your body flush to his.

Feeding from humans directly is different to drinking a bottle from a blood bank or Vought. For one, this way it comes fresh from the source; for two, its owner isn’t a mystery, and Homelander’s always taken pleasure in the knowing, whatever the situation.

His fingers twitch at your spine. “Are you sure about this?”

He’s serious. This is your last chance. He can feel the monster at the gates, and it’s a well-known fact most gates don’t stand a chance with this monster’s strength.

You nod against his shoulder. “I want to feed you.”

Fuck.

That’s it.

Homelander will later vaguely recall burying his teeth in your neck – he will most certainly recall the near-instant euphoric hit that explodes on his tongue when he does – and then he’s about seventy-five percent sure he lifts off the floor as he planned earlier, cradling your body in his arms like a favourite doll, growling to signify his new territory. You do gasp in pain when his fangs pierce your skin; that was inevitable. But Homelander’s also about ninety-nine percent sure the trembling warm hand that snakes into his hair and encourages him to burrow deeper belongs to you. Pretty soon, your pained gasps have turned to moaning.

Looks like someone has a biting kink.

He has no idea what it feels like to be on the other end of this exchange – being born a vampire rather than turned later in life has elevated him above many human experiences – but this isn’t his first time feeding one on one. He almost chuckles mid-swallow at how easily he slips into the motion. Why has he been denying himself all this time? What had he to fear?

Yes, obviously, you taste divine. The base flavour is the same metallic tang of all blood, but Homelander likes that yours run sweet with lust rather than sour with fear – and there’s a pleasant finish that keeps surprising him whenever he pauses to lap up the streaks that run down your throat. He thinks it’s the taste of your love for him.

This is what he’s been missing.

Despite the heady rush, Homelander still has a sober reign on how far to go, how much he might need; and he also happens to love you enough to sneak one knee between your legs to rub against you until you’re riding his thigh with all the strength you have left. He can’t say he’s ever done that for those he’s fed off before. Of course, it does come with the added benefit that he can taste your pleasure on his tongue in sync with you.

“Don’t… stop…” he hears you slur when the pace of his drinking begins to slow.

Well, aren’t you a one? You really do have a thing for this. He wonders, idly, if you’ve fantasised about it as much as he has. Is that why you’ve never recoiled from him the way others do? Are you just insane, or is this fate?

It’s fate, he decides.

Homelander could go on until daybreak if he wanted, could drain you dry and regret it for the rest of his life. He has your beating essence inside him, filling places he’d assumed might forever be empty with the echo of you, binding you to him even in death. But he doesn’t continue. He isn’t some drooling adolescent, vicious in his first kill. Certainly not with you, anyway. Not with this one spec of sunlight that doesn’t burn him.

When he feels your head loll sideways, he stops drinking, breathing in your scent for a few moments instead. He listens to your heartbeat, the depth of the breaths you take, and laps gently at your neck, forcing his fangs back as he lowers you to your bed. The sheets, he’s dimly aware, have picked up the drops he missed that have streamed down in midair, but dirty bedding is a human problem that can wait for tomorrow. Your shirt is soaked too, so he lifts it from your body, laying it with the bedding. He doesn’t mind nesting amongst your blood.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your neck once he feels capable of speech. He kisses the puncture wounds he created almost reverently, knowing the venom in his fangs will clot the flow now he’s ceased feeding. He hopes they leave scars.

You don’t say anything in response, and he assumes you’ve lost consciousness. Your skin is paler than usual, though not the undead pale of his. You’re still warm beside his body. Still cute – no, stunning like this. Nothing about your scent is cause for concern, your heart and other vitals functioning normally when he spies them through your skin to double check.

You’re fine. Perhaps you’ll let him do this a second time soon. A routine. He likes the thought of that.

“I forgive you for lying,” he whispers, singsong, as he wraps you both in your messy covers.

Drinking from you has energised him, completely wiped the fatigue of the day’s harshness and his earlier fears you were trying to leave him. Even so, Homelander won’t mind one bit if the only thing he uses this energy for is holding you through the night. The night is his domain, after all, and he knows how vulnerable humans are to it. He will protect you, just as you’ve altered this house in a bid to protect him.

Protect him.

Safe was the word you used, wasn’t it? Only, coming from you, it doesn’t offend him. Coming from you, the sentiment feels quite nice. He takes a glove off to trail his bare fingers along your arm. The skin of his hands is frosty, ivory white, but he doesn’t feel so cold anymore. In fact, he could enjoy pretending you’re an ordinary couple with no roadblocks or chasms between you, living your ordinary lives in your ordinary house. Why shouldn’t he?

As long as he shows up to smile and say his lines – as long as everyone else keeps to their place and remembers his above them, an object of worship – there isn’t a fucking thing Vought can complain about. Right?

Homelander doesn’t like the doubt creeping into his gut at the proposition. It’s trying to curdle your blood, and he won’t let it. Not tonight. Fuck responsibilities. He deserves this. He pushes the doubts down with a growl that makes you whine softly in your sleep.

“Shh, nothing’s gonna hurt us. I promise,” he whispers, kissing your head. He starts licking at the drying mess of red-brown from the hollow of your neck, your shoulder, the dip between your breasts.

“You know,” he purrs, nuzzling at you as he enjoys the open canvas of your body, “I should really tell you I’m not the man you think you’re dating.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Truth is, I’m not a man at all. Never have been.”

He kisses just below your ear, then licks up the bloody imprint of his lips he finds smeared there. Homelander is aware his chin and throat must be coated in the precious liquid you let him gorge himself on; he can feel the gentle heat of it cooling against him. It’s a shame he’ll have to wash it off tomorrow.

His voice catches. “But I can’t let you take this back. I won’t.”

And you can’t. You’ve given him your invitation; he belongs here now.

Homelander wraps his limbs around your loose form as tightly as he dares. You shiver for a second or so but don’t wriggle to escape. If anything, he feels you pressing back, a subconscious tug, into his hold. It’s like you know as instinctively as he does: you’re his.

Contented, he closes his eyes and buries his face in your hair. Then he hums, as if realising something. There, under the buzzing yellow light of your bedroom’s bulb, surrounded by you in every way he can comprehend, the vampire Homelander smiles properly.

What Becca hates the most about Homelander's visits is having to try and act as calm as she possibly can for Ryan's sake. Homelander has taken to visiting almost every morning and every evening. At least he disappears during the day to do whatever it is that Vought has him doing, and he thankfully never spends the night once Ryan goes to bed.

She tells herself she can learn to put up with it. She got over the trauma of what happened eight years ago. She had to work hard at it, forcing herself to watch the news, seeking out every broadcast that featured Homelander prominently so she could train herself to see his face and not to panic, not to think of the same face, the same smile in his office, still open and friendly even as things started to go south. She trained herself until her heart rate wouldn't jump, her palms wouldn't grow clammy when she heard his silky baritone voice on talk shows or at the podium in front of the press. And she can overcome her fear again.

But seeing him on TV is one thing. Seeing him in the flesh, and feeling his gaze fixed on her, brings back many of her buried fears to the surface of her consciousness. Even though he never stays the night, Becca has begun to have vivid, recurring nightmares about what happened and what could easily happen again. She wakes up in a cold sweat from one of these nightmares– the kind that is hardest to recover from because they are set in your bedroom and you can't immediately be sure they didn't happen. Becca realizes it's raining hard and there's a thunderstorm, which was what probably woke her up. Ryan is standing in the doorway to her bedroom in his pajamas. He's not a nervous child, and he doesn't have night terrors. But he asks Becca why her heart is beating so loudly, and she realizes that's what may have prompted him to get out of bed. Becca invites Ryan into bed and hugs him close, reassuring him, but also feeling protected by his presence. As long as Ryan is with her, Homelander keeps up his friendly mask. And now at night, with her mind clouded by sleepiness and irrational fears, she feels more secure that Homelander won't walk into the house in the middle of the night, won't show up in her bedroom uninvited, won’t creep into her bed if Ryan’s there.

In some ways, Ryan makes it easier to justify to herself why she isn't putting up more of a resistance against this invasion of her home, why she isn't yelling and openly arguing with the man who completely changed the course of her life and made her lose everything she had before. She worries about how much Ryan senses the tension between them even without any outward drama.

"Does Dad scare you?" Ryan asks her once he's safely tucked under the covers next to her.

"What? No," Becca says, willing her heart rate not to jump, willing herself not to grimace when Ryan calls him 'Dad', and forcing a smile instead. "No, why would you think that."

Ryan shrugs.

"Does he scare you?" Becca asks, partially deflecting, partially curious about her son's impression of Homelander.

"N-no. I just get shy because I don't know him very well."

"That's understandable," Becca tells him, combing through Ryan's hair, and burying her nose in her child's hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo, feeling calmer, already forgetting all the details from her nightmare.

But Ryan isn't done asking questions. "Why doesn't he live with us?"

"Your dad is just a very busy man," Becca says, careful to keep any loathing out of her voice. "He has a lot of responsibilities at his job. He can't just stay here."

"But you never told me about him," Ryan says, and Becca knows he's too smart to completely believe her lies and glossing over of the facts. "And he comes to visit a lot now."

"That's right," Becca says, scrambling to come up with a coherent explanation. "I wasn't sure he'd come to visit us, so I didn't want you to wait for him. I didn't want to disappoint you if he didn't have the time. You understand, right?" Becca feels bad asking her son for confirmation that he believes her flimsy lie when she sees him nod hesitantly.

"But now he's visiting us," Ryan says, a hint of a question in his voice, which Becca chooses not to answer.

"Yeah. Turns out he has time after all."

"Are you married to him?" Ryan asks, and Becca regrets letting him watch so many romance movies with her and inadvertently setting his expectations for adult relationships to follow a certain script.

"I-... It's a bit complicated with famous people."

Ryan nods understandingly. "And Dad's really famous."

"Exactly," Becca says, wondering how many years, or months, or weeks it would be before Ryan realized there was something wrong in this arrangement.

"And what about Billy–"

"That was before," Becca cuts him off sharply. "That was before your dad."

"Oh." Ryan says sheepishly, probably sensing that she wanted to get off the topic.

~~~

Becca had been foolish to hope things could continue the way they had been, of course. Homelander relentlessly pushed her boundaries about parenting at every single visit, so she shouldn't have been caught so off guard when he started pushing other boundaries. It started with light touches, brushing up against her, and she kept telling herself it was all accidental even though it was obvious he was testing out her reaction.

One evening, instead of flying off after putting Ryan to bed he decides to overstay his already nonexistent welcome, going to the kitchen and helping himself to a glass of milk. She follows him into the kitchen, arms crossed, less to keep an eye on him than to make sure he knows she's waiting for his departure.

"This Vought crew haven't let you out of here for years, have they," he says, looking around, then honing in on her. "Everyone else working in this fake little village gets to drive out the gate, but not you. You're in a beautiful suburban little cage here, wasting away."

Becca shakes her head, not making eye contact.

"I could have them let you out, you know. You think I want my son growing up isolated from the world?"

"You're not taking him away from me," she hisses, hoping her child is asleep won't hear her with his superhuman hearing.

"And why would I?" Homelander sets down the glass, and wipes the back of his hand across his upper lip. "You misunderstand me."

"Just go please," Becca says, throwing the gloves he left on the kitchen counter at him, and he catches them with one hand before setting them right back down on the table next to him.

"Not sure why you're playing dumb and pretending not to hear," Homelander says, shaking his head, grinning wide enough that Becca sees both rows of teeth, an expression that makes her feel dread she tries not to show. "I’m offering to rescue you. They're keeping you here, like some exotic animals. And you're not the only victim here. They lied to me, made me miss half of my son's childhood. They screwed us both over."

Becca begins to feel both a retort and bile rise in her throat. You didn't 'miss' anything from Ryan's childhood. You didn't know he existed. And should never have found out. But she says nothing, just stares at Homelander pace around the cramped kitchen, cape brushing lightly against the fridge and cabinets as he keeps talking about how poorly Vought has treated him when it comes to Ryan.

"It doesn't have to be this way though. I can bring you out. I can protect you from these 'child-rearing experts' as they seem to consider themselves. You'll want for nothing."

"Nothing?" Becca repeats. "I doubt I'll want nothing."

"What would you– Oh. Oh yes, you'd probably want to go back to your old life, your self-important little career, your pedestrian husband 'Billy' and all that. Go back to taking selfies on your stupid little vacations." Becca wonders if the photo she's kept in her dresser drawer is still there or if this jealous monster got rid of it out of spite. She won't check until he's gone. "Yes, you'll be missing out on all that if you want to be in Ryan's life. You could work your old job or some better one, I suppose. We'd get married, and I will want more kids. Kids I can actually watch grow up this time, be involved with from day one."

It takes everything in Becca not to run over to the sink and vomit. "I'm already married."

"I suppose that's technically true. I'm sure we can get the paperwork sorted."

Becca stands there, arms crossed defensively, shaking her head in disbelief. She's acted way too cordial around him if he thinks there's a chance in hell she'd agree to this.

Homelander pours himself another glass, and Becca makes a mental note to ask for more milk to be delivered so Ryan can still have it with his cereal. She's been running out of milk repeatedly but some part of her is in denial that Homelander will keep visiting, and she refuses to increase her usual order of weekly groceries to account for another person's presence.

"That's if you want to be Ryan's mother in the public sphere, of course. We could keep it private, if you really want. But you'd see less of him, and I'd still have to keep you close. Not sure I can let you pretend to be his nanny or whatever you're envisioning."

"I'm envisioning nothing. I want none of it."

Homelander tilts his head. "You'd rather stay here?" he asks incredulously.

"If those are my only options, then yes." Becca tries to breathe slowly, tries not to get emotional, but Homelander's words are sending her into a tailspin– mostly because she's not sure how much leverage she has left by threatening to set Ryan against his father.

Homelander approaches her and she doesn't back away despite every fiber of her being screaming to move back, to try to stay out of his reach. It's futile anyway. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to shrug off his hand when it lands on her shoulder, turns her head violently when she feels his fingertips against her cheek. She makes a pained sound when she feels his arms lifting her up without any effort, not squeezing hard by any means, but she knows she can't extricate herself out of this grip.

"Shh," he whispers, close to her face, and she opens her eyes, before closing them again, in denial that she's in this vile man's arms and that there's no one in the world who could help her. "It won't be like last time."

Becca has no idea what he means by that, and she starts hyperventilating as she senses being carried her into her bedroom, Homelander closing the door behind them with his foot.

"Tell me what you like," he says as he lays her out on the bed. She immediately scrambles and crawls to the furthest corner. She doesn't want to flee, she doesn't want to turn her back to him, it feels as futile as trying to outrun a dangerous predator on its own turf, but panic and feeling trapped are making her thoughts irrational.

Homelander chuckles as he walks over to sit closer to her. SHe doesn't look at him, just feels the mattress dipping underneath her hands and knees, her heart beating out of her chest. Her animal brain is telling her to lash out, to try to hit him, to claw at his eyes, but her fear and her higher faculties tell her all of it would be completely useless. But when he reaches out to touch her face, she bucks away violently, holding a pillow to her chest defensively.

Homelander sighs. "Rebecca. I thought we were on better terms than that, but my mistake. But you do understand right? Whether I keep you here, or take you out into the real world, or take you for private safekeeping somewhere else..." Becca's heart jumps at this new threat. "You understand that I'll want to try to have more, right? And I'm not going to let someone else do it in some petri dish, none of that bullshit. It’s going to be the same way Ryan was conceived."

Becca is breathing hard, staring at him in the darkness of the room, only faint moonlight illuminating it through the window.

"It might've been some fluke all those years ago. But you can't fault me for wanting to try again, can you? Maybe you're special Becca."

If that's what he thinks she can't fault him for, she's not sure what civil conversation they can possibly have. He's just a man when it comes down to it. A man with all the power in the world, both physical and figurative in this case, but he's just a man who couldn't be bothered figuring out his social media presence, and apparently can't read a room or take a hint. He's just a man– she had to convince herself of that if she was going to love Ryan. So why do her limbs feel locked in place and why does she want to cry?

"Oh, now, now," he says, and Becca only realizes her tears have started falling when he leans closer again and wipes them with his thumb. "I'm not here to torture you. Come on. Tell me what you like." He smiles so amiably, and without his sharp teeth visible she can almost believe that he's a benevolent presence in her lonely life. "You must miss it. I've seen the guys working in this joke of a diorama, all old and ugly. I see the tiny vibrator those Vought bastards allowed you to have, tucked away in your sock drawer. Don't you miss something with a... more personal touch?" he asks, leaning his head in to get into her field of view even though she is resolutely staring at the pattern on the bedspread. "With maybe a bit more, you know… girth and length?"

Becca has to swallow down whatever is rising up from her stomach, and she tries to do it without visibly gagging.

"Come on, tell me what you enjoy. What did your erstwhile knight in shining armor Billy used to do to get you off?"

The question snaps her out of her misery and terror, and against all better judgement she slaps Homelander across the face. Her palm immediately starts to smart, and Homelander is completely unfazed of course, even amused.

"I can try to guess if you won't tell me. I got you off pretty easily when you were younger."

"You didn't get me off," Becca hisses through gritted teeth. "You didn't get me off, you self-satisfied idiot." The last words come out with so much vitriol– and Becca has no idea why this of all things is the battle she's picking to wage, but Homelander seems taken aback for the first time in the whole exchange.

"What're you saying, you faked it? Multiple times?"

"It was only multiple times because each time I was hoping that might end it. That your ego would get satisfied. I was wrong."

Homelander gives a scoffing little laugh. "I think I know when a woman comes. I can read your physiology. I can tell you started ovulating yesterday." She cringes, once again feeling like the thing in the room with her is not entirely human, and something she wants nowhere near her. But he chews his lip, and for a moment she can see he feels unsure of himself. "Your heart was pounding every time you came that afternoon."

"My heart is pounding right now," Becca retorts, wondering if she's just escalating the situation, because she can see Homelander's jaw setting and his eyes narrowing, and it feels more and more like staring down the barrel of a gun when she looks him directly in the eye, but she has to. She has to act braver than she feels. She has to act braver than eight years ago.

"Well maybe it's because you're in love," he says, derisive, no longer trying to sound kind, and Becca thinks she prefers that. At least it's clearer where they both stand. And even if he goes through with the same thing he did eight years ago now, she feels stronger, braver, more jaded maybe, but certainly no longer weighing whether she should try to be pleasant and professional, no longer stupidly worrying about preserving her career– only her life and dignity.

She glances at the camera in the corner of the room. Homelander follows her gaze. "Want me to fry the thing, or you want to let them watch?"

"Let them watch and record. Maybe one day the world will see what a fraud your whole persona is," Becca says. 

Homelander rolls his eyes and smiles. "The only thing the world is going to see is me servicing a bored housewife who hasn't gotten laid in almost a decade."

Becca glares at the ceiling as Homelander drags her down bed by the legs, pulling her jeans off.

"Don't worry, I'll go down on you first, and you can fake orgasms all you want. Or you can let me get you to a real one. Your choice. Just do it quietly."

His tone, his voice, his ugly sneering face, it all makes her feel so much rage that it feels like a superpower in its own right coursing through her. And even as he's pulled her pants off, starting to tug down her not-at-all-sexy Hanes boyshorts underwear, and kissing under her navel and around where her hipbones jut out, his words "just do it quietly" echo in her mind. She certainly did it quietly eight years ago.

Becca calls out "Ryan? Honey?" in a voice entirely too loud for this house and its inhabitants. Homelander freezes in place, deer in the headlights expression, before dissolving into an ugly chuckle and pulling away from her. Becca quickly manages to pull her pants back on just before Ryan opens the door to the bedroom, rubbing his eyes.

"Mom?"

"Ryan, I'm so sorry to wake you sweetie, but have you seen your dad's gloves anywhere? He was just leaving, but we couldn't find them. Maybe he left them in your room?" she starts hastily prattling off something that barely makes sense.

Ryan blinks, but he believes her, pads away to his own room to check.

"It's not nice to wake children up at night," Homelander mumbles.

"Don't come near me and it won't happen." Becca's gaze is cold, her arms crossed again.

Homelander looks at her, shrugging. "You'll warm up to it."

Becca shows him the middle finger, walking out of the room.

"I found them Mom!" Ryan shouts to her. "They were in the kitchen."

"Great, honey," she says. "Go give them to him so he can get on his way." Her voice still unnaturally loud, even though she knows Homelander can hear every rustle and murmur in the whole compound.

She hears him fly away, sits there and listens, half-expecting to hear him return and try his luck again once Ryan is back asleep, but he doesn't. She drives out to the booth at the entrance, all her fear transmuting into anger as she drives.

"You have to hide us somewhere else," Becca yells at the security man in the booth. "This was not the deal I agreed to."

"We can't risk angering him like that, Ms. Saunders. And he won't give up looking for you now that he knows," the man says.

"Then give me birth control pills at least," she hisses.

The guard looks at her, almost sympathetically she thinks, but none of them really care or they wouldn't be working this job. He calls someone, has a very brief exchange and hangs up the phone.

"He'd find out Ms. Saunders," he says, oh so helpful. Someone in the upper chain of command has clearly decided it isn't such a dire situation, that Ryan isn't in danger, and maybe it's a good idea for her to have more.

Becca cries herself to sleep on the floor of Ryan's room.

~~~

Just think of how happy Ryan will be to have a sibling.

That's the singular thought that usually gets Becca through this, staring at the ceiling as her body is pushed into, sometimes staring all the way up at the headboard behind her if his face happens to come into view above her.

She can divorce herself from what's happening to her, dissociate what her body is feeling from what her mind is thinking. It doesn't take very long if she doesn't put up a fight. She only has to deal with reality once his hips jerks erratically at the end, the same stifled undignified pained sounding little whine escaping through his nose, every single time, his attempt to try to stay quiet. He ends up lowering himself onto her, not with his full weight, but just enough to make it harder for her to inhale fully, reminding her she's not alone with her thoughts. She feels his hair strands falling across her neck, feels his breath across whichever bare breast he's facing.

"I love you," he whispers, his fingers circling her nipple, like he's started saying after the fifth or sixth time he forced himself on her, and Becca dreads that even if a pregnancy takes, he won't leave her alone now, that he's come to believe the charade they put on for Ryan's sake. At least he doesn't insist on her saying it back like he expects Ryan to.

He turns over, always falls asleep before she does, and Becca fantasizes about being able to kill him when he's in this vulnerable unconscious state. He's less imposing without his suit, and looks quite mortal lying next to her in the dark, breathing evenly, face serene, conscience infuriatingly clean. Sometimes it feels like she could take him, like she could get up, pick up a chair and bash his skull in. But she doesn't get up, just falls asleep to these dark fantasies. She doesn't have nightmares about him anymore. Or maybe she does, but now that he's always here reality and nightmares all blend together. He's there when she falls asleep, he's there when she wakes up, and he's there when she serves breakfast, a wide friendly smile on his face, chatting it up with Ryan. He's having the time of his life, apparently.

Ryan follows her with his eyes as she moves about the kitchen. Her child knows her too well not to notice the dark mood she's desperately trying to hide.

Once Homelander has launched away, Becca tries to get them back on a normal schedule, hands Ryan his math and geography workbooks, and tries her best to smile genuinely.

"...Is Dad being mean to you?" Ryan asks her, already sensing that she won't be happy with the question, but he's worried about her and that kills Becca.

"No. It's just harder with someone else in the house, disrupting our routine a little bit. You know. I'm just getting used to it."

Billy didn't suspect he was different from other people in his earlier years. Sure, he noticed that many people around him seemed enthusiastic about flavors of food and strong opinions about different brands of cologne and perfume, while he could barely tell anything apart. It largely seemed like a blessing not to be picky over food in the school dining hall. 

It wasn't until moving to the States with his new wife Becca and coming across supes for the first time that Billy began to realize there was a peculiarity about his senses. While he couldn't smell much of anything, he could always pick a supe out of a crowd by smell. It was a nice aroma, one he'd be tempted to follow just to sense more of it. But when he brought it up to Becca, she didn't seem to understand what he was talking about. When he tried to google whether this was a common phenomenon, he did find a small group of people who seemed to sense what he sensed. He felt vindicated that supes must have some sort of different body chemistry, even if not everyone could pick up on it. Reading further, he slowly realized that for these people, supes had become an obsession, a fetish, and they all seemed hell-bent on finding a supe to shack up with, because one of the main goals seemed to be to taste anything and everything that supes exuded. Billy slammed his laptop shut when he came across confessions to using the dark web to get access to supe flesh. That was enough internet for the day and he tried to put it out of his mind. It was probably only the far gone loonies who were discussing this online. There had to be more people out there who could tell that supes smell different than regular people, and they were just not hanging out on obscure message boards to discuss this fact.

Billy went about his life, but living in New York City did irritate him, because it had the highest concentration of supes per capita. Commuting to work on the subway, dining out at a restaurant, or out on a stroll in Central Park with his wife– he never knew where a random supe might turn up. What annoyed him was that his attention would refocus entirely on that distinct smell, and sometimes he'd find himself nodding and pretending to listen to Becca while his mind would get glued to figuring out which person in his surroundings was superpowered. Moving somewhere else was out of the question, however– Becca's career was taking off, and she had to be within commuting distance of Manhattan to work in Vought's marketing department. Billy didn't want to confess to what was increasingly becoming a problem, lest Becca do the same internet searches and find the same disturbing online discussions that he came across. He was going to ignore the problem and hope it would go away with time and repeated exposure.

When Becca told him she wanted him to come to her company's Christmas shindig, Billy wanted to refuse but had no good excuse. Despite the large room with its tall ceilings, Billy's senses were still being overpowered by the smell of several high-powered supes who were hanging about various spots. He sipped on his beer and hovered around Becca, not interested in mingling and making small talk when his mind was reeling with the intoxicating smell.

It was all relatively bearable until Homelander made his appearance. Billy knew Homelander, of course– not only the most famous supe in the world, but one he had specifically looked up to understand what all the fuss was about when Becca got a promotion to run his social media. But he had never encountered Homelander in person.

Billy hardly knew what hit him. He could feel the air grow thick with the most pleasant scent, even before he saw what the source of it was. But then Homelander walked down the staircase, and it became almost unbearable, like Billy was suffocating. Whatever Billy could smell on other supes, Homelander seemed to have thousands-fold more of. He tried to act calm, but the smell was so powerful, so enticing, that Billy felt like he was having an allergic reaction, eyes watering, and having to sniff heavily at the olfactory assault as Homelander came over right to them, striking up a conversation with Becca.

Billy eyed him up and down. He had never really been one for blokes, despite trying it a few times in the army. But Homelander's smell was hypnotizing him into a reverie that was both pleasant and disturbing in how graphic it was– his mind conjuring up a very clear picture of pushing the supe up against a wall and attacking his mouth, drinking up his saliva, unwrapping him out of the silly superhero suit, getting on his knees and sucking his cock, sucking down anything and everything that came out of this body, turning him around, spreading that perky, plump ass and tonguefucking his delicious hole whether the supe liked it or not. Through the haze and the blood rushing in his ears, Billy realized Becca had just introduced him and Homelander said something to the effect of "Great to meet you," while extending his hand to shake.

"Billy Butcher," he croaked, quickly swallowing down the saliva that had been pooling in his mouth.

They shook hands, and Billy discreetly reached up to scratch his nose while Becca and the supe continued talking, but Homelander was wearing gloves and there was no lingering pleasant residue to smell. Billy was completely tongue-tied, just staring as Becca and Homelander turned the conversation to some digital marketing campaign that he couldn't care enough to parse. All too soon Homelander excused himself and walked away, and Billy couldn't take it. It was painful to think he couldn't bottle up this amazing aroma, and even more painful to think he might never even have the chance to smell it again since this was a top tier celebrity. Becca seemed giddy at the fact that he stopped to talk to them at all, excitedly whispering in Billy's ear. 

"He's amazing, isn't he? Can you believe he knew who I was?" She was acting like a teenage fangirl, and it would have annoyed Billy except he couldn't fault her for it when he couldn't look away, following Homelander's path across the large room to join Queen Maeve like a hawk.

"Are you starstruck?" She laughed, apparently only noticing his gaze. Billy hoped that she hadn't noticed his erection starting to tent the nice suit slacks. He needed to say something quippy, to snap out of this smell-drunk stupor.

"How the fuck does he walk around in that sweaty fucking wetsuit all day long, balls mashed up against his-" 

Becca shushed him, smacking him with her clutch, laughing, fortunately not even close to guessing how badly Billy wanted to rip that wetsuit off and smell, lick, bite to his heart's content. And though he had desperately wanted to go home as early as possible, now Billy didn't want the party to end, hoping for another run-in even though it seemed less and less likely as the night wore on. He didn't want to stare directly, but he was keenly aware of Homelander's position in the room at all times, keeping his gaudy costume in his peripheral vision and trying to slowly wend his way closer.

"Thank you for staying so long, I know it's a drag but this is good for my networking," Becca murmured to him at one point.

Billy nodded, eyes darting back to meet hers. "'Course."

At one point, without looking directly, Billy saw that Homelander was making his way out of the room, cape billowing behind him. Billy glanced around, seeing that Maeve must have left earlier. He waited a few beats and then excused himself, Becca giving him the briefest acknowledgement before turning back to her conversation with her colleagues.

Billy forced himself to walk slowly, but as soon as he was in the hallway he picked up his pace, following Homelander down the corridor, no real plan in his mind when he saw that the supe was probably headed to a lift, but turned to look back.

"Can I… help you?" Homelander said, arching his eyebrow.

"Eh, yeah. You don't happen to know where the toilets are?"

Homelander's mouth curved into a small smirk, apparently amused that he was the point person for such a question. "There's one just down the hall and to the right, I think."

"Yeah, I tried that one but they locked it," Billy said, baffled at how easily he improvised a lie just to prolong this conversation.

"Oh," Homelander said with disinterest. "Well then I wouldn't know."

"You heading out?"

Homelander smirked again. "Sort of. Heading home, which means going to the top floors for me."

"Ah yeah, some of you lot live here, I forgot. Are there toilets upstairs?"

He could see Homelander bristle just a tiny bit.

"Sorry, the beer just ran right through me. I wouldn't be askin' otherwise."

Homelander's expression relaxed into his habitual teeth-showing smile, although there was still tension in his expression. Billy did have a real urge to use the pisser at this point, but much less pressing than the urge to pounce on Homelander and devour his smile.

"Uh, sure, I guess. There's a common bathroom that's always open on the 99th."

Billy was filled with both joy and dread when he realized he was about to ride the lift with this supe of all supes. Dread that he was about to lose all control in an enclosed space.

Homelander looked him up and down when the doors closed. "I'm so sorry… I'm sure we talked in that room at some point, but I don't recall your name…"

"Oh it's Billy Butcher," he replied, half-hoping Homelander wouldn't remember who he is, given what he desperately wanted to do.

"Ah, Becca's husband. That's right," Homelander said, snapping his fingers. Billy wasn't surprised he hadn't remembered him, since he had barely said two words. And now there was all the more reason not to do anything stupid, since it would not only jeopardize his marriage but Becca's job as well, he kept reminding himself. What was he even hoping for here? It didn't seem to matter, he just wanted more time with the supe.

The elevator had flown up to the top floor swiftly enough that Billy found himself working his jaw to rebalance his ear pressure. Homelander not only helpfully showed him to the bathroom, but came in with him.

"Sorry, I don't mean to hover, but I don't think we can let non-employees wander around the building by themse–" Homelander said, but got cut off mid-sentence by Billy's mouth meeting his as soon as the door swung closed. Billy was prepared to be shoved off, maybe even flung across the room and smashed into the tile wall with life-ending force, but Homelander seemed to do nothing except try to lean away, backing up until Billy had him pressed up against the wall, neither fighting back nor reciprocating. His mouth had an incredible texture, velvety but completely unyielding when Billy tried to bite down on it. And try he did, because the flavor of Homelander's mouth was possibly even more incredible than how he smelled. Billy realized nothing had any taste whatsoever compared to the luscious potency of tasting this supe's lips, tongue, roof of his mouth, everything. He didn't want it to end, and Homelander wasn't ending it for him. He pulled away reluctantly, dreading how his stupid impulsiveness was going to ruin Becca's life.

"What the fuck..?" Homelander wheezed out, bringing a fist to his lips, but it seemed to be closer to a laugh than anything else.

Billy had nothing to say for himself, but he wasn't moving away, breathing hard, hands still planted against the tile wall on either side of Homelander's head, staring back into the blue eyes with small pupils.

"Are you serious right now?" Homelander asked, now accompanied by a definite laugh.

"Dead serious," Billy replied and leaned in again, finding Homelander strangely frozen in place, not really participating but Billy realized that parting his lips was already a sort of cooperation, since he would never be able to coax that mouth open on his own.

"You taste so mouthwateringly good…" Billy found himself moaning when he pulled away again, out of control enough that it felt like it wasn't even him saying those words.

"You're one of those supetasters…" Homelander said, Billy recognizing it as one of the nicer terms for the type of person he had so desperately tried not to be.

"If you say so," Billy said, trying out the taste of Homelander's neck and finding it nearly as delicious as his mouth, resisting the urge to bite into it, partially because it was probably rude to do such a thing, and partially because he didn't want to chip a tooth. "You've had many of them approach you, I take it?"

Homelander shook his head. "No, actually, never met one before. Wasn't even sure if all supes register."

"Oh you register," Billy said. "Never had one register so strongly. Drove me up the wall in there, meeting you."

"Interesting..." Homelander narrowed his eyes.

Billy started to pull at the flap of the suit, but Homelander seemed to draw the line, pressing his hand across his chest defensively.

Billy wasn't about to be deterred though and crouched down, tugging at Homelander's pants.

"I can't- I don't engage in that kind of thing," Homelander said, but his voice sounded anything but certain.

"I don't either," Billy said, managing to tug down his pants, revealing small red briefs. "And yet here we are. I'm not about to deny myself the most delectable tasting morsel on the planet."

"The fuck are you saying," Homelander whispered, his face flushed, staring down. "Get up off the floor."

Billy ignored him, pulling down the red briefs as well, pleasantly surprised to see Homelander's cock was not indifferent to the unfolding situation. "I'm going to lick every inch of you, every crevice, every divot, every curve, every dimple. Eat you out like no one's ever eaten you out."

"Stop," Homelander said, breathing getting heavier, and Billy was trying to force himself to get up and give up this chase, he was being rebuffed in no uncertain terms and he was probably already looking at a lawsuit for what he had done to this point. But then, like the most melodious music to his ears, came the words "Not in here."

Homelander pulled his pants back up and quickly left the room. Billy followed close behind, drawn by the appetizing aroma like a physical tether so strongly it felt like he was floating off the floor. Homelander led him into his apartment, and Billy took no time to start stripping him as soon as they had crossed the threshold. Homelander stepped out of his pants and briefs, walking away, Billy following him all the way to the bed, insisting on taking off Homelander's top even though the supe seemed coy about taking everything off.

Without the suit, Homelander's body smelled that much better, that much stronger, and Billy wasted no time tasting every part of him, lingering on parts that tasted best, which happened to be the parts that elicited the the loudest mewling and groaning.

"Fuck…" Homelander gasped when Billy pulled his thighs apart and kissed and licked teasingly all around his cock before taking it into his mouth.

"I come fast…" Homelander warned him, sounding mortified, as if it was something worth warning about. Homelander's semen tasted just as good as the rest of him– better because it was something Billy had the satisfaction of swallowing. He could drink that nectar up all night.

"Stop…" Homelander batted him away as Billy stayed on his cock, desperate to suck up every last drop. "It's too sensitive."

Despite being the most powerful supe on earth, Homelander's body was not particularly large nor heavy, and Billy easily flipped him over, easily spread his cheeks before delving in with his tongue. He met with no protest and only more moans. Homelander's body was remarkably relaxed, like putty in Billy's hands, letting himself be arranged however Billy saw fit. He wouldn't have guessed America's top superhero would be so yielding, but he loved it, brought Homelander to orgasm twice before realizing that his phone was going off and that it was almost midnight and Becca must be wondering where the hell he disappeared to.

"You must have a lot of practice…" Homelander said, rolling over on his side, still panting from the most recent orgasm. "I had no idea Becca is a supe."

"She isn't," Billy grumbled, arranging his hair in one of the many mirrors in this strange bedroom, trying to get himself to look proper again. He hadn't taken off any of his clothes, but his suit was rumpled and his shirt collar was sweaty, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

Homelander blinked at him a few times. "I thought… So you two have an understanding? You pursue this on the side?"

"No. No, I'm just a shit person. Didn't realize what I was before we got married."

"So you just fuck supes on the sly? As long as you don't take off your pants it doesn't count?" Homelander looked amused, but Billy wasn't sharing the sentiment.

"You're the first supe I've ever touched," he grumbled.

"Really." Homelander sounded incredulous. "You said I tasted better than any other supe."

"Said you smelled better than any other supe. Haven't had the pleasure of tasting any others, and not sure they'd live up to how you taste."

"And what do I taste like?"

Billy winces at having to make a comparison when there's none to be made for him. "I don't know. I got no idea how to describe it. Like the best delicacy. Like stuff you only read about in books, in fucking epic poems, ambrosial or whatever. Like the best thing on earth."

"But is it sweet, savory, salty, spicy, like mint, what?"

Billy’s senses were getting so much stimulation that he was experiencing some intense synesthesia. The words that kept coming to him when he tried to describe how Homelander smelled and tasted were ‘sapphire blue’ but he knew that would make no sense to anyone.

"Genuinely couldn't tell ya."

Fortunately, the supe seemed to be taking all of it as one big compliment. There was something irritating about the way Homelander was sprawled out on the bed, head propped up by his hand, watching Billy walk out the door, smirky and unaffected while Billy's entire world had turned upside down in one night.

"Take the elevator down to the lobby. That's where Becca's looking for you," he said, offhand, and Billy wondered how he would know without any CCTV screens in his apartment, but he turned out to be right.

"Where were you!" Becca asked when he finally caught up with her. "I thought you went outside to smoke. Almost everyone's gone home already."

"Just got lost," Billy said when he could see she wasn't asking rhetorically and was waiting for an explanation.

"You're such a bad liar," Becca said, shaking her head, and Billy wondered if it was obvious by the sweat that had soaked into his shirt that he had been up to no good, but was relieved to learn that she assumed he had gone snooping around the building out of boredom.