You Must Be Lost...

You’re paying attention to the stupid game. He finds it cute enough when you play with Ryan—as long as you involve him. He doesn’t like feeling left out. You tend to pick him as a playable character at least, usually immediately followed by Ryan’s pitiful whine of ‘that’s not fair—dad always wins!’

Still, you have the real—much better—thing right here.

“Sorry hon, just this last fight—we’re trying to get to the top of the league.”

He never expected he’d have to compete for your attention with a computer version of himself. Well, better a computer version of him than any other subpar superhero.

He’s sitting next to you while you’re clutching the controller for dear life, biting your lip in concentration.

“A fucking somersault mid-air? I fly for fuck’s sakes. I’m gonna need a word with whoever made this garbage.”

“Noo, it’s a great move! With your flight it moves you across the field faster. And look—ha! there goes half his health. See, it won’t take long.” 

It’s already taken long enough. He’s not a patient man at the best of days. And today his free alone time with you is running out minute by minute. He really needs to work hard for anything he wants. Homelander takes great pleasure in the way you squeal, holding onto your controller while he pulls you into his lap. 

“Oh my god! Impatient much?” Were you anyone else, they wouldn’t be more than a pile of flesh after taking such a tone with him but he lets you get away with a lot—he tends to like you a little bitey. Keeps things interesting.

You flail around before you find your footing, finally sitting down with your knees spread around his legs, still facing the TV wall. The flailing cost you a couple of health points, but you recover.

“Just wanting entertainment of my own. So play your game alllll you want, missy.”

He places his already gloveless hands on your hips, sliding them up and down your sides, enjoying the willing, breathing presence you bring into his life. You don’t subconsciously flinch away from him—you lean in.

He used to feel like he had to fall on his knees begging to receive even the smallest crumbs of attention from people—you give him the whole pie instead. You love him freely—him and his son. You tell him you miss him anytime he’s gone. You don’t use your affection as a bargaining chip. Instead you love to have him touch you. You’re constantly seeking it out. At night you always pull his arm over your waist if he doesn’t beat you to it. During the day you hold his hand, kiss his cheek or hug him before he leaves. 

He’s gotten to know your body’s song. It’s always been his favourite lullaby.

But it’s not always sweet and soothing. Sometimes, it’s electric—like now.

You’re buzzing underneath his hands.

“You gotta stop that—ah! You know I’m ticklish.” 

“Do I?” He drums his fingertips against your skin in a soft, barely-there pattern that has you swaying from side to side—still impressively focused on the screen.

“Please!” Your embarrassing desperate little squeak makes him pause, his hands instead grip your waist tight and pull you flush to his chest.

He wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into your back. You feel like a soft teddy bear he never had. He squeezes you like one—or, well, as much as he knows you can handle. He doesn’t want to break his toy. He’s quite attached to you.

Even if you’re still ignoring him for the stupid game. Even with his eyes closed, head still resting on your back, he hears the game sounds and the snappy lines he has a vague memory of recording once.

“Sorry honey, I’m neaarly done, I promise! This guy is just a slippery bastard. Can’t land any hits on him.” 

He hums, not concerned with your game. He’s playing his own.

His hand slides down your stomach, down in between your spread legs. You’re wearing jeans, unfortunately. He much prefers when you wear a thinner material. That way he can tease your pussy through the fabric until you soak through both layers. You always look so pretty and bashful when he points out how much of a mess you’ve made for him.

He can’t help but grin against your back when he firmly presses your clit through the jeans.

“Homelander!” You yelp in surprise, trying to sit up on your knees to escape the shocking touch, but the steel-grip arm around your waist doesn’t let you. He grins wider.

“Jesus, you caught me off guard,” your chuckle is sweet and embarrassed. “Fine, I hear you. Loud and clear—”

“Nope. You play your game and stay exactly where you are.” He holds you firmer to stop you trying to wiggle away from his fingers. He just might leave a little bruise or two.

“But—”

“Come on now, can’t let me lose after all the ruckus about needing to win.” 

“B-but I can’t focus like this.” 

“Yes, you can. You’ll figure it out. I won’t make you come if you lose.”

“That’s not fair! You’ve started this.”

“Mhm, not true.”

He can smell your cunt getting wet, but he can’t feel it. And that’s no fun.

“Ass up,” he prompts, easing up his grip on you so you can actually move. Effortlessly, he pinches the fabric of your jeans from each side and rips it like tissue paper. The fabric disconnects down the middle until you’re left with a crappy jean imitation of leg warmers. 

You don’t even shriek this time. Maybe he’s getting too predictable because all you end up doing is complaining.

“I liked these jeans.” 

“So did I—they made your ass look great.”

“Does it normally not look great?”

“Somebody’s fishing for compliments, again.” He chuckles to himself, not actually answering you as he pats your ass. “Sit down again.”

Back on his thighs again he sighs happily into your back. It’s always good to have you close. His hand goes back to rubbing your clit. He hums to himself when he can finally feel the wetness soaking into the fabric of your cotton panties. 

“That’s more like it.” He muffles into your back.

He was going to drag this out. Rub you slowly and gently until you’re begging to make you come but he’s already had enough of his time wasted today. As a father, he no longer has the luxury of fooling around whenever and however long he wants.

He slips his fingers underneath the scalloped edge of your cotton underwear, two of his fingers brush up and down your slit, smoothly gliding across the surface with the occasional little squelch.

The sound of your body eager to be around him makes his cock throb. It’s only been a day at most but fuck he needs to be inside you again. His cock feels heavy in his hand when he pulls it out of his pants, pushing your ass up just a little bit so he has the room to move the tip right against your cunt.

He makes a quick work of your underwear, ripping the fabric down the middle. If you’re gonna be a brat about making this harder for him, he’ll treat you like one.

He’s still holding you up with one hand, the other holding the base of his cock as he dips himself into your wetness. He’d play around with you had you given him the time. You would have been treated like royalty—he would have taken his time with you on bed, eating you out till you begged to be fucked. But you robbed yourself of this. Instead he doesn’t even get to stretch you. His cock parts your lips fully and slowly pushes into you.

Homelander licks his lips when you gasp. You’re a big girl, you can handle a little bit of a stretch.

He might not though, your cunt’s as tight as ever. His dick is nearly getting strangled, each throb in his shaft feels so visceral when you squeeze around him. 

He seats you fully in his lap, giving your ass a little rub when you wiggle from side to side to really settle down.

He only wanted to tease you a bit, let you play the stupid fucking game while you feel him inside you, feel how much you’re missing out on. The real treat comes when you take the initiative.

In a motion that steals his breath, you slide up and down, using your knees as a leverage for smoothly gliding his entire length in and out of you.

It doesn’t take long until you’re multi-tasking; riding his lap and playing a game. If he didn’t have to curl his toes and squeeze his fists to stop himself from coming inside you so fast he’d find it nearly impressive.

“Christ, I forget how much of a slut you can be.” He’s barely coherent enough, speaking low and breathy, like each word takes concerted effort to get out.

“That’s not—ahh, mhm fuck—very nice.” 

“Nice doesn’t get your pussy this wet now, does it?”

He sounds pathetic even to his ears, his tone lacking all bark and bite. He might as well be sobbing.

“I’m nearly there, baby.” He doesn’t know if you’re talking about the game or your own orgasm but the victory music playing in the background nearly makes him weep from joy.

He turns you around, face down into the couch, his own body slotting right over your back as he pumps into you properly. He really doesn’t think he’s going to make it. It takes every gasp and breath, every grind of his teeth to hold back from succumbing to the tight pull in his groin, the pressure climbing and climbing until it feels unbearable.

But he promised you an orgasm, so he angles his cock in a way that he’s learned works wonders, his hand wraps around you, rubbing your clit from the underside.

Just as he thinks he won’t be able to hold back you moan pretty for him, whimpering out his name, almost in time with his last few victory thrusts before he allows himself to come. He doesn’t stop immediately, fucking both of you through your respective orgasms, wanting the burn of the high to feel endless. Until the fire eventually burns out, your bodies comfortably warm and melting into one another.

He ends up slipping out of you, too tired to put himself back together.

“We gotta get up and clean this place.” You speak up after a while.

“Mhm.” He’d rather fall asleep and enjoy a little cuddle.

“Come on, at least slide off—or-or levitate off. I can’t have Ryan come back to this.”

“He’s seen worse.” He mumbles into the leather of the sofa once you manage to push him off, sliding from underneath him, your bare feet padding across the cold floors.

“What?!” He hears you from the other room, pulling a drawer out and rummaging inside—probably to swap your tattered pants out.

“He’s got my senses babe, hard to hide anything from him.” He’s not really sure you can hear him. He’s barely aware of what he’s saying. He manages to finally tuck himself back into his pants, zipping them back up.

“That's—no. No, I can’t listen to this. No more sex at night. At least when he’s home. What if he’s awake and able to hear.”

“It’s normal. He understands.” He finally sits back up on the sofa right as you come back with some paper towels and cleaning spray, acting as if you’ve both left behind a crime scene.

“Absolutely not. I don’t want to traumatize the poor boy!” You wipe up any residue that he may have sloppily left behind, covering it in so much disinfectant that it immediately burns his nostrils. 

“Oh, come ooon, you’re just being dramatic.” He rolls his eyes. You scrub the leather harder than you need to. If anything, you need to take a shower. The smell of sex is stuck to your every pore, his too.

“I mean it, listening to your parents have sex is just not good for a growing boy’s mind.” 

His heart skips a beat.

“Parents?”

You stop your cleaning.

“I meant his father and… his father’s girlfriend, I guess. That felt like a mouthful.” You sit down next to him. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to overstep. I know I can’t just be that for Ryan. I just care for the boy.” Your little smile has him pulling you closer, kissing your temple as he wraps his arm around you.

“I like it. Parents. Ryan needs a mom.” His heart pangs at the framed image of a happy family. Mother. Father. And their son.

“Doesn’t mean I can just force that on him, it has to be his choice.” You shatter the family picture in his head. He wants to shake his head, push the pieces back together.

“My boy knows how to make the right choices, don’t worry.” 

“Well, let’s not rush anything, okay? I don’t want to get my ideas in his head so he feels like he has to accept them. He’s a sweet and polite boy. I’d hate for him to not feel comfortable at home.” Homelander is stuck in his own head. He vaguely hears you talk about taking a shower when you pat his thigh and stand up, already walking towards the bathroom.

He daydreams about the visions of a happy family and a white picket fence. A real one this time, not the one Ryan grew up in. Maybe a sibling or two on the way—Ryan needs more friends. The perfect family. 

He doesn’t understand how it took him this long to find you. Maeve never could’ve been the mother he needed her to be. You… are perfect. His job now is just to make sure that nothing stands in the way of his family dream.

Whatever it takes.

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