Loki Imagines

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He's got a complicated relationship with his own body, but I'd say he takes pride in his smile. It conveys so much, be it a genuine sense of happiness or intentional menace. As for his partner, he's really into your neck. Touching it, kissing it, watching your pulse flutter when your heart races. He'll often fit his hand over your throat while he fucks you. Not to choke you—though he's happy to do that—but to feel every word and sound you make against his palm. This is why necklaces are his favorite piece of jewelry to give... other than a wedding ring, of course.

C = Cum (where does your muse prefer to cum/have someone cum) You? In his mouth. He loves the way the taste of you changes, how sweet the flood of endorphins on his tongue is. He likes being able to focus on the velvet quiver of your cunt on his fingers. He can lose himself so completely in the taste of you that he straight up ascends.

For him, nothing gets him going more than when you tell him where you want him to come. Be it inside you, in your mouth, just hearing you say it makes him buckle every single time. However, he's always going to have a soft spot for your chest. Especially when he gets to lick it up afterwards.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Homelander is a voyeur. In general he has no qualms with spying on random people in their homes to get himself off, but there's a very specific sick thrill he gets out of watching the person he's fixated on. That's the only time he gets that little itch at the back of his neck, the fear of being caught, of what they would think of him for this.

However, being caught is still a fantasy of his. Makes him hard to imagine being called out, reprimanded, and then invited in. Told to tell them what he was doing, what he wants to do, and then letting him do it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) Experienced enough in the physical aspects of sex, but practically virginal when it comes to actual intimacy.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Homelander’s favorite position is missionary. Legs hiked up over his waist, lips on yours, on your pulse, teeth grazing your neck. When he needs to be deeper—he always does—he moves your knees up over his shoulders and sinks into you, shudders and moans out trembling little sweet nothings about how fucking good you feel.

He might not last long, but he makes up for it with round two… and three… and four.

He needs to see it in your eyes when you fall apart. Wants you to see him. Craves connection more than anything else. Pants out Look at me if you close your eyes.

So full of need that only you can satisfy.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Homelander is intensely unserious. He's pretty much always ready to drop some cringe one-liner. Inexplicably, it just makes him sexier.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) Impeccably manscaped, thank you very much.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Homelander is a sap through and through. His sense of romance is, like the rest of him, steeped in capitalism. It's pulled straight out of Hallmark cards and jewelry commercials. To him, romance is rose petals, slow music, chocolate, gifts and a dozen burning candles.

That said, it's love that teaches him what real romance is. All of those material things are nice, but where he finds true intimacy is breathing in each others hot, panted breaths. It's in the moments after the frenzy when the world is spinning and you're at the center of it, grounding him. It's in interlacing your fingers and pressing your foreheads together. It's in laughing at inside jokes and watching movies late into the night just to spend more time together.

He savors these moments most of all. His eyes sometimes still turn glassy and he buries his face in the crook of your neck not to hide it from you, but to be closer. He's an absolute junkie for intimacy.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) For Homelander, jerking off is just as much about emotional release as it is physical. He always talks himself through it, sinking into indulgence and the familiar comfort of his hand. He gets off on the feel of his own strength, on the crimson flare in his eyes that turns the rest of the world rosy red. Sometimes he grips too tight and chokes his own pleasure, gasps and shudders. He can pretend that's why there are tears gathering in his eyes, that it's the sheer strain of enduring himself.

This was once a point of shame for him. It wasn't until he was out of the lab that he could do this without the weight of constant surveillance. There's still a little thrill of shame that runs through him when he does it. It always feels like rebellion. Like freedom.

There are times when his hand doesn't entirely feel like his own and he speaks in a voice that's his. His other self guiding him, touching him, hissing out words or praise and self aggrandization through clenched teeth. Pumping his cock so fast and hard it almost hurts. Fuck, those times are good.

This complicated relationship with pleasuring himself makes it infinitely more vulnerable. It would take time for him to be comfortable doing it with a partner, but he would ultimately love being watched by them. Especially if that partner is reciprocating, touching themselves and sharing this secret indulgence with him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) We all know several of Homelander's more obvious kinks, but here's one I like: sensory deprivation. Cut him off from sight and sound, channel those super senses solely into touch. He becomes hypersensitive to it, gasping and shuddering at the brush of knuckles along the outside of his bare thigh, up to his hips. He moans when you trail kisses up his sternum. Grips the bed sheets in tight fists and keens softly at the molten hot slide of your tongue over his goose-bump riddled throat. If you tease him long enough, fixating him so intensely on your touch, he'll come before you ever touch his cock.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Literally anywhere. It's actually kind of a problem how much he enjoys "christening" new locations, especially communal ones.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) A stiff wind could give this man a hard-on, but praising specific actions of his and reinforcing how good he was at something in explicit detail (no matter what it was) will turn him feral.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Public use or public humiliation. He lowkey has a bit of a degradation kink behind closed doors, but go too hard on it and you WILL just hurt his feelings.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) Prefers giving. Insanely good at it. Better than he honestly has any right to be. Thank you, oral fixation. He'll happily spend hours between your legs sucking, licking and fingering you into an overstimulation coma. He'll settle for your fingers once all that pleasure starts to hurt, though.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Initially he has a hard time controlling himself. He'll go fast and rough off the bat if he's allowed, all clawing grip and desperate thrusts. He's so sensitive to his own pleasure he's eager to chase the high of it. That said, he's intensely hungry for connection and intimacy, and appreciates a partner who will slow him down, who will hold his stare while he melts into them.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) Absolutely loves 'em. He has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, so if he's even the slightest bit encouraged, he'll snatch the lead and run with it. Additionally, any surge of positive emotion? He's gonna have to fuck it out. Doesn't matter where: side alley, roof top, conference room, shower (mm, especially there), broom closet, he'll never turn down the rush of endorphins that comes from losing himself in someone who wants him just as bad.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) Yes. YES. One hundred percent yes. He loves fucking anywhere he might get caught, he loves when a partner is willing to be risky with him, he gets off on pushing boundaries.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) Superhuman to the fullest extent. His first round never lasts long, especially if there's been any sort of buildup to it, but he recovers quickly for round two. Each successive round lasts longer, and in that sense, he's likely to outpace any human partner. He will run you ragged.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) Homelander doesn't own any toys, and initially his ego would be threatened by the idea of them. "Why the hell do you need that when you have me?"

His idea of toys is pretty exclusively dildos, so you could really rock his world with a pair of nipple clamps. Teach him the merits of a well placed massage wand. Slip a gag between his lips and tie it tight to enjoy how he moans around it. Hand him the remote for the vibrator already inside you and let him torment you when he isn't even home.

He'd come around to them real quick.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) Despite his usual impatience, Homelander can be a relentless tease. He's accustomed to being the one in pursuit, the one begging, demanding, fighting for scraps of affection and intimacy. When it's finally in his power to flip the tables, to be the one begged for, he unlocks a wealth of patience you'd never expect him capable of.

Not to mention his stamina makes him a fucking menace. He never tires of fingering you at the exact pace you like. He doesn't need to worry about breathing, focused solely on spelling out every state in America on your clit with his tongue.

But he still stops just before you come to make sure you'll yank his hair and beg him to finish you off.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Oh, he's loud. Prettiest moans and whimpers you ever heard. He tries to bite it back sometimes, but he gets so damn sensitive that he just can't help himself. Hitches of breath and soft keens. You could definitely make him really cry out if you edged him long enough.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) A wildcard headcanon is that Homelander would be really, really good at shibari. He knows every knot in the book, and surprises you with how expertly he lays the rope across your skin. He teaches you how to do it on him, too. Always encouraging you to pull it harder, pull it tighter. He may be invulnerable but he still loves the pressure of the rope pulled tight across his chest, around his torso, over his wrists. He begs you to ride him like this, like something wild, clutching the rope knotted over his chest while he bucks and moans under you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) A fitted undershirt and a nice soft pair of crimson briefs just begging to be pulled off with your teeth.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) Very high sex drive. Not in a normal or healthy way, but in a "constantly and desperately seeking intimacy and emotional connection/gratification, and this is the only way he knows how to achieve it" kind of way. Would probably chill out some if he was romantically/emotionally fulfilled in other aspects of his life... but not by much.

now he knew what you looked like, it was time to show you hell on earth. he was the fucking homelander and you of all people should know that. you’d seen the side of him that millions couldn’t. he could kill you in a heartbeat for what you’d done. for what you knew.

in a handful of different ways, too. he could let his lasers seep into your eyes and melt your brain into liquid, he could rip you limb from limb with his bare hands, he could tear your heart clean from your chest and have your disembodied head watch it slow to a stop before he drove a hammer into your skull.

but as he stared at your photo, something in his heart told him that he’d be doing none of that to you. at least, not yet.

his bright blue eyes narrowed at the screen he so desperately wanted to shatter with his fist. he tucked his hands underneath his cape behind his back to keep him from doing so — madelyn would have his fucking head.

he instead examined every single one of your visible features, embedding them in his mind so that he would never forget them. and very soon, you would do the same.

—

sleep didn’t come easy for you that night.

your day had been unreasonably long and stressful, and you found you were still processing the events when you clambered into bed hours after you reached home. which was another thing in itself.

the boys were getting too trusting with their secrets and recently they had roped in another supe: mesmer. some washed up d-lister who was still milking his childhood fame at failing conventions full of millennials and up.

that encounter had gone to shit thanks to kimiko, as you learned that girl’s name was. butcher nearly had everybody’s asses when he realized you’d gone behind his back but settled the matter with a few colorful words.

but you were still scared getting into bed. somebody else had information on you that could likely kill you. you didn’t entirely trust that mesmer wasn’t willing to sell all of you guys out for a few extra minutes of stardom. your house felt much bigger lately ever since starting this mission with butcher. every shadowy corner felt like there was a demon lurking within it.

like something was waiting for you to fall asleep.

even after you managed to shake that uneasiness off and drift off into a deep slumber, you failed to notice the two eyes watching you through the window just a few feet away.

honestly, homelander had been watching you since you first got home. he’d remained undetected as you ventured through your house: rest, dinner, shower, — he had to admit that he watched you a little too intently during this step — and finally sleep.

you had to be an idiot. how could you not realize that the homelander was so close to you? that he knew who you were already?

and god, how easy it was to get into your house. all he had to do was melt the fucking lock to your back door and make his way through each room — he already knew the layout quite well — before landing at the foot of your bed.

he must have stood there for half an hour just watching you toss and turn, hum and whimper like you were having an rocky dream. part of him was deciding what to do to you. the other part already knew.

he slipped one of his gloves off, and then the other, gently placing them on your nightstand beside your phone. he pinched the edge of your comforter and threw it off of you and onto the floor. your body reacted to the sudden change in temperature, writhing around a little.

he waited another few minutes before touching you. he wanted to decide where to start. first, he brushed your slightly tangled hair out of your face with precision, wanting to see your face up close. the last time he saw it was earlier that day on the monitor in the meeting room.

this was much better than that.

then he straightened out all of the wrinkles in your oversized pajama top, taking a quick peek at your panties underneath. he watched you slide them on earlier. a delicate pair of lacy wine red ones. his cock twitched in his pants at the thought of taking them off of your unconscious body. not even knowing until you woke up.

he tested you out by grabbing one of your tits through your shirt. you didn’t react. not until he started kneading it, pinching at and circling your nipple until it poked out from under the fabric. then your head rolled to the other side with furrowed brows and a soft, pouty whine left you.

homelander actually fought back a curse when he realized how hard he was. it was getting more and more difficult for him to take his time with you. so he didn’t.

you were still sound asleep when the bed dipped to accommodate his weight, and creaked as he positioned himself right over you. he could smell your shampoo. it smelled like the one that maeve used. probably a cheaper alternative, but still.

his hands came up to the hem of your shirt, this time slowly inching it up until he could see your tits. they looked unbelievably good like this. he toyed with them for a while, restraining himself from latching onto one of your nipples. not yet.

for a fleeting second he thought about getting you pregnant — if he was even able to. what you’d look like with a big belly that carried his child and swollen tits that were full just for him.

homelander had to squeeze his eyes shut or else he would’ve come untouched.

he dragged the tips of his fingers down the curves of your waist, then your hips, noting the way your steady breathing was suddenly distorted. your torso twisted like you were ticklish, but he held you firmly in place. he risked waking you up with the force of his grasp alone, but by some miracle you remained asleep.

you picked such a dangerous profession for a deep sleeper.

he shifted down to the foot of your bed, sliding off of the edge to get a good look at your pussy. the lace hugged you perfectly, and it left nothing to the imagination. he couldn’t resist using them for a little while. his thumb found your clit through the thin layer, humming when your thighs instinctively parted wider for more.

“slut.” he whispered.

a broken whimper pulled from your throat in your slumber, prompting him to pick up his pace. his other hand forced your leg up before he dragged the flat of his tongue up your clothed cunt. you were getting wetter. he could smell it.

his eyes rolled back at your almost sweet scent, the hand that held your leg quickly moving to palm his cock through the pants of his suit. he continued to eat your cunt through your soaked panties until he was nearly about to come in his trousers. then he decided he’d had more than enough fun.

you were a mess in your sleep. constantly moaning and whining, hips gently bucking up into his hand. it was only a matter of time until you woke up.

so he pulled your panties off of you and went to unbutton his pants, wrapping the soiled fabric around his stiff cock. he fought back a particularly loud groan as he returned between your legs. he draped one of your legs over his shoulders and ducked down to taste you.

really taste you.

his tongue dipped past your wet folds and into your cunt, pulling a choked cry from you. even in your sleep your hips rolled up into his face, like you were begging for more.

somehow it was better than he anticipated. how impossibly sweet you were, how your sleeping body reacted to him. and the noises you made for him. because of him. he groaned softly against your pussy, the vibrations making you whine.

it wasn’t long until the stimulation became too much to bare, your eyelids beginning to lift as you woke up. the only thing you could register was the warm, thick tongue violating your cunt at a blinding pace. your senses were instantly forced into overdrive and you weakly tried to shift yourself upright.

but a hand much larger and stronger than yours stopped you. fingers dug into your skin in a bruising grip, and a low voice shattered the silence. “move and i’ll fucking kill you.”

you instantly recognized who it belonged to and your blood ran cold. you heeded his stern warning and lowered your gaze to see homelander’s face tucked between your thighs. the sight alone made tears well in your eyes and frantic pleas begin to tumble from your trembling lips.

“please, don’t.” your body was frozen with shock, only tensing when his deep void-like pupils started to glow red.

he released the side of your waist only to swipe at his chin that you saw was shining with your slick. the sight was horrifyingly obscene and you couldn’t hold back the low, shaky whimper it drew from you. you watched his face subtly twitch with realization and his smile grew, his sharp canines poking out.

he held your gaze as he dragged two of his fingers up your slit, humming when he felt how much more wet you’d gotten. your eyes screwed shut when he slid those fingers inside of you to the knuckles without warning. you struggled to keep your body still, fearing that any sudden movement would set him off.

“if you really wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t be so fucking wet.” he curled his fingers and your head fell back into your pillow. “look at me.” he snapped through clenched teeth. he removed his fingers, leaving you empty and wanting more.

you hardly had a choice. his cold blue eyes brought goosebumps to your skin when you found them again. you felt beyond exposed — beyond violated — but something deep inside of you ached for release. in your sleep, his rather skillful ministrations translated into a sensual dream and you were building to your climax when you woke up. you knew he wasn’t going to kill you.

at least, not until he was finished with you. you had very little to lose at that point. so you slowly parted your legs and draped one more comfortably over his shoulder. the gold plated eagles on his suit dug into the undersides of your thigh but you didn’t mind. you kept your movements slow, well aware that he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of you if he thought you were stepping out of line.

he understood your silent plea, one that your voice wouldn’t allow. “atta girl.” he murmured before pressing a kiss to the spot just below your belly button. you watched him go lower, his warm breath teasing your cunt.

you weren’t sure if you were allowed to speak yet so you endured his cruel treatment until he finally granted you relief. your back instinctively arched when his mouth finally closed around your core. his tongue lapped at you, observing your responses. now that you were awake, he could see your body really writhe.

your head rolled back with a pitchy, dragged out moan and you grasped at your sheets for some kind of leverage when his warm tongue penetrated you. your hips bucked up into his slow strokes and he groaned against you.

“oh, fuck,” the curse came out strained. you could feel the tip of his nose poking at your sensitive clit.

your body reacted like it typically would and before you could even consider it, your hand flew to his hair. his eyes narrowed at you and his pace faltered for only a split second. the contact was unexpected, but he knew you weren’t making a move to even attempt to hurt him.

your fingers raked through his blond hair and traced down the side of his face. “g—good, feels so good.” you were hardly coherent, but something about your wild urgency made something in homelander’s stomach tighten. “so fuckin’ good, my good boy,” he’d been working his cock with your panties wrapped around it and suddenly he lost his rhythm.

you were visibly mindless by that point, nearly at your breaking point. but he couldn’t deny how much your slurred rambles were working him up. he continued to eat your cunt with a newfound vigor, moaning every time your fingers gently tugged at his hair.

he knew you were nearly there when you clenched around his tongue. you finally came with a strained cry when his lips wrapped around your clit. it was like a brick wall had hit you at full force. he came quickly after, releasing into the lacy fabric of your underwear.

it took you a moment to ride it out, your hand falling from his hair while you tried to steady your spinning head. panic seeped in the moment your heartbeat returned to normal and you looked down at the man still perched between your legs.

he was already staring at you with a blank expression like he was considering his options for you. what felt like forever passed when he started to wipe at his grinning mouth. a grin that gave you chills.

“the fuck am i gonna do with you, huh?” he asked rhetorically, laughing bitterly. he rose to his feet, suddenly towering over your limp form. “i could take you right now. fuck you dry and kill you. i could take you all for myself so i could be the only one who fucks that sweet pussy. nobody would know where to start looking. or i could let you go and let the paranoia do the rest.”

he rounded your bed to stand beside you. you were too overcome with fear to move, let alone really process his words. “i’m the fucking homelander, you stupid slut. don’t forget that.” he reclaimed his gloves that rested on the bedside table and left.

you were left in an eerie silence. you knew he would be back for you. you just didn’t know when.

With Madelyn Stillwell, he wanted to be her good boy. He craved her praise and affection and he was restrained because she wanted him to be. He's a brat, he's petulent. He's needy. He's picking a fight with a toddler. She's his Mommy Dommy. I suspect she denied and teased Homelander endlessly and he took whatever scraps she gave him because he was starving for it.

With Maeve, they would have been two equals that he was horrifically territorial of. She was his and he had no issues broadcasting that to the world while emotionally intimidating her, but never getting physical. No, she's a god just like him. You can't hurt gods so why would he try?

With Stormfront, she encouraged all of his bad behavior, so Homelander was reckless and hungry. Break shit and fuck like animals, push and pull and playing with their combined strength. They're primal and at war and it's fun.

Soyeah, Homelander is going to fill whatever role suits his partner best. He's going to pay attention to what gets his partner off because he wants that positive response from them. It can be a good thing, or it can lead to the most toxic relationship possible. The man is fucked so it can go sideways fast. You're gonna need a strong constitution, a steel spine, and willpower to survive Homelander at the start else you'll get steamrolled and dropped by the plot like Becca AUGH.

Is it the fear mingled with arousal that gets them all hot and bothered like I imagine poor Hughie would feel with Homelander? Fuck, he's going to exploit that. He's gonna make that twink jump in fright every chance he gets.

What about little Starlight getting a spine and trying to play his game? Yeah, he's going to push those buttons and show her how good he can actually be for her. The gnawing need for the praise from the girl next door would eat him alive.

With Butcher? Scorched earth, baby. They're going to destroy each other in the most toxic, hate-fuck filled fest. Just tearing chunks out of each other to show the other that they can still feel. Raw and painful.

Until Homelander actually figures out who he is without his powers, status, or fame? He's going to play whatever role his partner needs, be that god, perfect gentleman, monster, or sweet boy. Then again, he's all of that and then some at once. He'll want to devour his partner in one moment, consume them wholly and just taketakeTAKE and the next he wants the intimacy that comes with being inside them/them inside him and he's so so so soft and gentle and reverent when he strokes them, and then he's a bastard who wants to twist the knife and make them beg and cry and scream and just tell him what to do, he'd do anything just to know he's loved.

-and anyway, this man is broken and the perfect putty for anyone to mold sexually consciously or subconsciously.

You’re a little less timid now, forward in an innocent way. When you see him you don’t wait. He’s grown used to you lightly tapping him on the arm or shoulder to get his attention. He likes how earnest you are. You don’t notice the nervous stares from people whenever you come up to him unprompted. That’s the curious thing about you. You’re bold when you should be scared but your nervous disposition has your heart pounding any time he starts to tease. It’s cute and it’s why he’s willing to take his time instead of pouncing every time you walk up with that sweet grin on your face.

It’s been weeks now since you brought him those cookies and while it’s not an everyday thing, he’s grown quite used to being spoiled by your talents. You ask him questions about his likes and dislikes as though you actually care. You ask for his opinions. He’s waiting for the catch, waiting for the day you reveal that your little game is just another farce.

He waits in the conference room, eyes facing the sky with his hands behind his back. He rocks slightly on his heels, feeling jittery and impatient. He’s been feeling restless lately. There are things he merely endured previously that are starting to rub him raw. He can hear your every footstep through the building as he traces your path from the entrance all the way up to 99. His stomach flutters at the ding of the elevator and he unconsciously straightens his shoulders. He deserves this today. He deserves you.

You’re humming as you approach the conference room and whatever you have for him, it’s chocolate. His mouth waters and it takes everything he has not to move, not to turn around so he can see the way your eyes light up when you see him. He hears you mutter a little yay when you see him and oh how it makes something in his chest ache. He stays still. He wants to make you work for it so you’ll have no choice but to reach for him first. When he feels the light touch of your hand on his shoulder, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

He turns and there you are, a thick folder full of paperwork stuffed awkwardly under one arm so you could tap him and hold the package at the same time. Your cheeks are warm but your eyes are warmer. You’re so fucking nice, and it makes him want to howl and bite, makes him want to dig and dig at you until you prove you’re like everyone else, makes him want to find out if your blood is just as sweet as you are. But then you smile at him and all he can think about is how it’s just the tiniest bit lopsided in a way that makes you feel more real than any of the corporate suckups that fill his day to day interactions.

You lift your arm to drop the files onto the meeting table and Homelander is genuinely surprised when they manage to stay in the folder instead of flying all over the room. You place the package on the table as well. You’re practically vibrating and he can tell that something today has you excited.

“You’re my guinea pig today!” You laugh and oh how it smarts . Because that’s not new, is it?

You open the package to reveal a slice of chocolate cake. He looks at it skeptically, previous enthusiasm dampened a bit. He feels sullen and his skin itches under his suit from the way the unassuming comment rubbed him briefly raw. A petty jab sits on his tongue as you hand him a fork. He’d have unleashed it too if you hadn’t started chattering away and distracting him.

“Since my last cake was a bit of a bust,” You shrug, “I thought I’d tweak the recipe to see if you think it improves it.”

Homelander wouldn’t have called it a bust , per se. It was probably the first thing you’ve made that he didn’t like but he personally feels that he was tactful about his feedback.

“I made it dark chocolate and I decided I’d do a whipped cream frosting this time since those don’t tend to be as sweet as a traditional buttercream…” You continue to ramble. You’re on some tangent about food science now that he can’t really be fucked to pay attention to. He’s too busy trying to handle the warmth that blooms in his chest at the thought that you listened to him. You trusted his opinions. Has anyone ever done that without him having to make them?

It makes his pants tight. He kinda wishes the cup in his suit didn’t conceal it. He wants to know how you’d react when you see what you do to him. He can almost picture the surprise on your face, how shy you’d get. He wants to hold you, feel the soft give of your body in his hands like ripe fruit. He decides that he can’t take it anymore.

You startle when he hops up to perch on the edge of the table, gesturing for you to sit next to him. You trail off on your rambling, heartbeat now all fluttery in your chest. You swallow thickly before you nod and take your place next to him. He scoots in close and presses his thigh against yours. Your breath hitches. You’ve gotten better at hiding your attraction to him, but he has ways of knowing how wet you’re getting in your panties. You do that thing he loves where you make a movement like you’re tucking your hair behind your ear, but you never actually grab any hair, so flustered by his presence that your body goes on autopilot.

“Share it with me. I’d feel awfully lonely eating by myself.” He winks before handing you the fork. You blink rapidly and gingerly take it from him. When you’re this close, your scent is overwhelming.

“I don’t have another fork.” You answer meekly and he grins.

“I did suggest we share. Unless you think I have germs.” He raises an eyebrow at you and you bite your lip, shaking your head. He expected you to get flustered but you just look at him slyly, like you’re trying to play coy with him. He feels himself twitch in his pants.

“Hmmm I dunno about germs, but you might have acid spit. I can’t be too careful.” You give a cheeky little shrug. You’re teasing him back . It feels so good to have someone not take things so fucking seriously for once. A vividly pornographic image enters his mind of exactly how he could prove to you that his spit isn’t acidic. He’d prove it to you so thoroughly that you’d be wishing he did just so he’d give your overstimulated cunt a break.

Fuck

He really was testing the limits of his cup now.

“Would make eating pussy kinda awkward, don't ya think? It would be a shame to give that up.” He answers with a casual tilt of his head. Your reaction does not disappoint. He groans under his breath at the way your scent coats his tongue. That one really got you worked up didn’t it. You stare resolutely down at the cake on the table and poke at it with the fork while you avoid his gaze.

“Yeah… I guess it would.” You reply shakily before finally helping yourself to a forkful in an attempt to regain some footing. No teasing this time, he notices with a smirk.

Once you’ve finished your bite, he takes the fork from you, taking a little too much joy in the way your arm erupts in goosebumps as his fingers brush yours. He takes a good hearty bite and groans. Whatever you did…it worked because this is delicious. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you grinning at his obvious approval. Of course, was there any question that it would be good when you were going off his feedback?

He hands the fork back to you again with a wink.

“No acid spit?” Your grin is back.

“No acid spit,” He replies and he finds himself matching your smile, something inside of him loosening.

When he was still young, the doctors would put him in a pool and cover the top. They’d watch him struggle under the water and scribble in their little notebooks. They wanted to see if he was drown-proof. Each time they made him swim, he’d have to stay under a little bit longer. They didn’t care that his lungs hurt or that the way the noise echoed under the water made him nervous. He was too young to know what was happening but they never made the effort to explain. Over time he realized that he wasn’t going to die, that he just needed to endure it and it would inevitably end. Laughing with you makes him feel like when he’d finally get to take that big breath and he knew that for the moment he was safe again.

You spend the next few minutes, passing the fork back and forth. There is something so intimate to him about knowing what you taste like, like he’s already kissed you for the first time. The warmth of your thigh against his is soothing and for the first time in weeks…months… years, that neediness inside quiets for a moment.

“Is there coffee in this?” He asks, if only because he feels ill equipped in situations like this, unsure of how to read the silence. You perk up a bit, always eager to explain how things work.

“Yeah! Can you taste it? It’s pretty much a must when you’re making chocolate cakes because it makes the flavor so much richer.” You explain, and he can tell from your eyes that you’re a few seconds away from launching into a full on chemical breakdown of the recipe so he gently guides you away.

“I smelled it while you were on the way down. I thought that you’d maybe stopped at a coffee shop.” He knows you didn’t. He knew every moment you made the second you walked in the building, but he’s trying to make conversation.

“Cool!” You exclaim and it’s fucking ridiculous how genuinely earnest you are about it. What’s more ridiculous is how pleased he is that you find him cool. He knows when you leave he’ll wince at how pathetic he is, but when you’re here, it seems like such a pointless thing to worry about.

“And what do I smell like? Please tell me I don’t stink!” you ask curiously, biting your lip to hide a smile. He huffs a little laugh. You’re too cute and the twisted part of him wants to push and tease. He wants to tell you that you smell like brown sugar and pussy. That his mouth waters when you walk into the room and that the only thing keeping him from laying you on the table and feasting right now is that… Well, he doesn’t actually have a good reason for why he’s not eating you out the way you both deserve.

He doesn’t even get the chance to answer because before he can, you lick your thumb and wordlessly wipe away a smudge of icing from the corner of his mouth. The ease of motion gives away that it was an instinctual movement, not hindered by fear or anxiety. You tenderly make sure his face is clean before withdrawing again. Homelander’s heart is beating so loudly in his ears that it’s almost affecting his hearing. Where before he felt safe, now he feels raw and exposed. His neediness has woken up again, screaming and snarling for more. He wants. Oh how he wants.

He doesn’t want to think about the last time he exposed himself, let someone touch him skin to skin. He doesn’t want to think about how the stench of her fear made him nauseous, how the sweet scent of her burning flesh still lingers in his nose. He felt how she trembled as he kissed her lips, her forehead. He can hear the sizzle and all of a sudden he can’t stomach another bite. The beast inside him wails for him to take and consume , strip mine you for what he needs and then toss you out, before you think you have the right to take from him in return.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, worried by the way his expression has gone blank. “I should have asked first. You had some crumbs on your face.”

You’re so fucking nice and it’s almost your downfall.

Almost

You’re saved by the fact that he notices that the rest of The Seven should already be making their way to the conference room. He can’t exactly get away with much when there is an audience. He’s grateful for it, because it means that your safety is out of his hands. You’ve unknowingly just had a noose removed from around your neck, all because you forgot that even a docile lion is still a carnivore. Your shoulders slump when he stands up, feeling silly and abandoned as you sit perched on the ledge like a child.

“It’s almost time for the meeting. Better get to work before you get chastised for slacking off.” He says sternly, as if he wasn’t the one to invite you to eat with him in the first place. He needs you back in your box where you’re just the shy PA who brings him sweets, someone he can easily dismiss. He’s learned his lesson about giving parts of himself away just for the attention of some stupid human. You aren’t even special, just a nobody who runs errands. He doesn’t need you. In fact, next thing you bring him he’ll spit out, to teach you a lesson about thinking you’re anywhere on his level.

He pointedly resumes the position he was in when you first entered, hands behind his back as he stares at the sky. There’s a few moments of silence before he hears you slowly hop off the desk and start arranging the files. The task itself only takes a few minutes, and you will most definitely be gone by the time anyone makes it. He expects you to leave without a word, his silent chastisement more cruel than anything he could say. But you surprise him again.

“Thanks for helping me with the recipe! I’ll have something new for you on Monday. Also, don’t forget, I still want to know what I smell like!” He hears you call out to him from the doorway. He resists the urge to look back at you. There is a slight nervousness to your positivity but the fact that you’re even trying despite the obvious rebuke makes you braver than most everyone else in the building. He can admire that. It makes him want to throw you a bone.

“Brown sugar,” He calls back, “since you’re always fucking baking”

Before you leave, he catches your reflection in the window despite promising himself he wouldn’t look, and you smile so fucking happily at his reply, that any progress he’s made goes straight down the drain. A fond grin of his own causes his eyes to crinkle, as he gives an exasperated sigh.

You’re going to be a big problem…aren’t you?

——————

You know you shouldn’t feel as giddy as you do. You sniff your arm, feeling stupid but wanting to know if you really do smell like brown sugar. The most important thing is that you didn’t ruin your friendship with him. You can tell he needs a friend. Sitting with him today made you realize, he’s absolutely nothing like the picture-perfect hero that Vought advertises, but he’s not a heartless monster either. He’s a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of manufactured facets and raw human emotion, bubbling under the surface like a hot spring and just as likely to singe your hand if you touch.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He needs physical affection, even if it's a quickie. He'll have you sit in his lap if you two are at his work, so he can uphold his reputation. Otherwise he'd love to cuddle up to you and fall asleep while you hold him. Pet his hair and tell him how much you love him

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Favorite part of his body is everything, he's worked hard to get the godly physique he has. Inspired by Greek gods statues and portraits he's extremely confident with his body. On his partner he loves their lips, and their tits. He has an obsession with softer women, or smaller women so he can stand out against them. But he also has a thing for masculine (muscley/ taller/ etc) women that can step on him.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He cums early when he's a sub, it's canon. If you're gonna Dom him expect some extra steps. He loves cumming inside of you mostly, breeding you. Or cumming over your face or tits. He has a cum kink absolutely, it's a possessive thing.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Mommy kink, it's not a secret after a few times with him. When you top him he wants to be babied, cuddled and held. He wants to fall asleep sucking your tits he absolutely loves it.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's very experienced with domming, taking out his frustrations on hundreds of adoring fans ready to worship him for an ounce of affection. But when it comes to subbing he's not that experienced. He rarely meets a woman he'd open up to in that way, nevermind telling them about what he likes. His reputation could be ruined, he would be perceived as weak.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Cowboy, he loves when you ride him. He loves seeing your tits bounce, or the face you make when you cum on his cock. Extraordinary. He also could get the chance to see a lump in your stomach if he fucks you feel enough which he loves. He could also start flying, and you could ride him in the air.

Doggy style, he loves taking you from behind absolutely ravaging whatever home he decides he wants, since he is the homelander and he'll do whatever he wants.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Not goofy at all. Very serious, mood changer if you start laughing.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Only slightly shaved, but his chest isn't and he has a snail trail going up his stomach.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He's only intimate if he's in love with you, if you top him. Otherwise it's purely for his pleasure and if you cum well uh. Good for you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

I think he'd be into mutual masturbation, he definitely has a kink for watching you get off. He's kinda a stalker canonically so id imagine he'd watch you sometimes and jerk off. He probably does it more often than he admits.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He's a switch so:

Sub:

Mommy kink, praise kink, gentleness, intimacy, eating out, hair pulling, discipline (but not punishment) rewards, breeding, tit fetish, impregnation kink, milking kink, through clothes, Overstimulation

Dom:

Daddy kink, rough sex, taking it out on you, choking, breeding, bruises, impact play, gags, binds, deepthroating, cum kink, master kink, begging, crying anything that takes away all of your control and gives it to him.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

He likes his office, over his desk on his couch, with minimal risk of getting caught but the risk is still there

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Honestly anything: most of the time seeing women naked mostly you. If you wanted he could fuck you at anytime. You just gotta beg or tell him to get on his knees.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

I don't think there's many things he WOULDNT do. I mean he's horrible.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He loves eating out, getting his face ridden, a pretty girl using his mouth to cum. It's amazing especially when they pull his hair and call him a good boy.

He also loves face fucking the way you look at him through teary eyes, drool pouring down your mouth how you gag and choke around his cock but won't let go until he gets the orgasm he deserves.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

When he Dom's it's always rough depending on the mood he'd go slower to tease you, or fast to take out his day on you

When he subs he loves slow and sensual, being held and worshiped and cuddled.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He's okay with quickies, but only if it's necessary like there's a mission soon but he's gotta get rid of his boner poking through his skin tight suit.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He'll try anything

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

When he' Doms he could go all night but when he subs he can barely last a minute. But that's kind of cute tho.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He owns toys (you) to use on his partner, vibrators, restraints, bullets, clamps, and gags.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He'll tease you until your sobbing and begging him to let you cum.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He likes to talk when he fucks you, loud over dramatic groans and "shut ups" and anything to humiliate you. He loves to see you get flustered. But when he's a sub he'll try to be as quiet as he can only a few whispers or soft groans.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He would love to have an audience when he fucks you but no one can touch you but him.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He's not small but not the biggest 6/7 inches when soft but really thick, uncut and well groomed, only stubble, and 8 ish inches when hard, he's got a pretty dick.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

He's ready to go for his partner whenever they want, but gets really pissed and will kill people who only want that from him.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”