#bakerverse

Steam rises all around, filling your small bathroom and curling the ends of Homelander’s hair slightly where the rinsing of the gore has removed the remnants of his hair gel. The mirror over the sink is fogged and the white linoleum flooring is slick with condensation. A messy trail of bloody towels leads to the tub, crimson bootprints standing out bright amongst the soft pink material. A single glove balances on the rim of the laundry basket that contains the rest of his soiled suit. He takes in every detail of the room that he can. It’s easier than looking directly at you.

You’re crouched by the tub, so close he can feel the heat from your skin even when the room is as humid and steamy as it is. He can smell the lingering bite of your adrenaline mixed with the traces of salt on your cheeks from your earlier tears. And luckily, he can still make out the warm brown sugar scent of you which has become so familiar. He’s even discovered the source, a container of homemade body scrub is set on the other end of the tub, a scrub that you must use daily for the scent to cling to you so persistantly. Even now, the smell of it calms him.

Your reaction once you had decided on the bath was calm, determined, and focused in the same way you become when you bake. You’d left him there, dripping blood all over your kitchen floor, to go grab as many towels as you could manage. You’d arranged them diligently into a trail he could follow. He vividly remembers how you’d followed behind him, holding his balled up cape in your hands so it wouldn’t stain anything else, only you. At the time, your demeanor was comforting to him. He was willing to let you guide the situation while he attempted to regulate his fractured emotions.

Now, your calm unsettles him. He’s unsure of what you could be hiding under the surface, likely nothing good. You hum softly, a folksy tune that he doesn’t recognize, as you slowly pour a cup of water over his hairline. With each wave, more red flows down his flesh into the bath, turning it pink when it mixes with the bubbles and soaps that you’d put in. The smell is cloying and you’re usually more accommodating when it comes to not overusing strong scents in your home when he visits. He wonders if you used so much to mask the iron tang of blood or if you wished to protect his modesty by making the surface of the water cloudy and obscured. 

He would much prefer the second option to be true. It’s not like he would be opposed to you seeing him naked in more exciting circumstances, but he’s already feeling vulnerable enough, he thinks it might be a relief that he has some measure of concealment from your wandering eyes. It also means you’re less likely to be disgusted by the gory mess that he’s dumped on your lap. He listens closely to your heartbeat while you continue to rinse him off. It’s fluttery, you’re clearly still nervous, but it’s not as erratic as it could be so he takes some minute comfort in that. He’s had people go rabbity over much less.

Neither of you speak. There is only the splashing of the water and your persistent humming. 

He reaches out to scoop a pile of bubbles into his hand. He’s not sure why he does it. He supposes that it gives him something to do besides ruminating about what secrets could possibly be rumbling about in your brain. His shoulders are still tense and the bloodlust is still humming under his skin. He knows one wrong move from you, one move that has him suspect your intentions, and his impulses will get the better of him. A soft voice at the back of his mind won’t stop whispering about how he should get rid of you, the only witness of his crime. 

She’s disgusted by you. Who wouldn’t be? You showed up on her doorstep blubbering like a baby. She’s gonna turn on you and yet you’re sitting here and letting her wash you like you’re a filthy begging dog. Pathetic.

He tenses and his fist clenches, popping all the bubbles in one fell swoop. All that’s left is a slippery film on his palm that feels so much like the blood that you so diligently washed off. You pause with the cup full of water in your hand. You’re wary around him now. He hates it.

You take a deep breath and blow a little raspberry in your exhale. You give him a once over and your gaze feels like needles on his skin. He fights the urge to shrink away as the voice in his head scoffs mockingly. Sticky gore itches at his hairline. It’s disgusting. 

He fights the urge to crush your skull and run. At least your ghost won’t be able to judge him like he knows you are. But then he remembers the thrill he felt when he smashed Tiger Stripe’s brains into pulp and imagining your face there instead turns his stomach so much that he immediately quells the urge. He can save that for when your betrayal happens and he’ll make sure it’s much less messy. As much as it will pain him, you deserve better than an undignified death.

You get up briefly and walk over to rummage around in the cabinets underneath your sink. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Without your presence so close, he feels less like a bug under a microscope. Your intent gaze reminded him of his childhood back in the lab, being studied like some kind of animal. While your gaze is much less clinical, it’s detached enough to make him twitchy

He shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous. Your heartbeat is still relatively steady and the fact that you are willing to be so close to him at all makes you different from most. He wills himself to breathe deeply, soothing himself with the brown sugar scent of you. It’s a little stronger now. Your adrenaline is fading. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the soothing warmth of the water. He’s always enjoyed a good soak. In any other circumstance, this would be a moment out of his most salacious fantasies. You’d be delightfully naked too and the scales wouldn’t feel so horribly imbalanced with all your skin on display as well. He’d know exactly how to make you forget everything about this awful night until all you know is that his cock is too good to ever let go, no matter how much violence he brings onto your doorstep.

You walk back over clutching a washcloth. It’s the same color as your towels. You must have a matching set, something he finds oddly surprising considering the mismatched mess that is the rest of your apartment. You kneel down next to him again and the erotic fantasy still playing in his mind has him leaning in closer this time. His cock isn’t cooperating which he finds frustrating but he supposes by the time you’re finished washing him, he’ll be raring to go. Then he can make everything with you right again. This isn’t how he’d imagined his first time with you would be, but he can’t afford to waste any time. He needs to make up for how roughly he’d handled you earlier. He’ll kiss your bruises and your pretty little pussy till you come all your misgivings away.

He notices that you are holding a bar of soap in your other hand. It’s unscented dove soap. Which is a stupid name. Of course it has a scent. Everything has a scent. But he appreciates the consideration of his nose nonetheless. You dip the washcloth in the water and then scrub it against the bar of soap till it’s foaming. You set the soap aside and with the sudsy cloth, you gesture to his hairline.

“Do you mind?” The sound of your voice almost makes him jump after silence for so long. Despite all of his erotic plans, he still can’t bring himself to look directly at you. He gazes resolutely at your chin. You give an awkward little laugh and he suppresses a shiver. “You have a bit of crust.”

He blinks.

He lets out a little scoff.

Always with the baking metaphors

“Fine,” he replies. 

You nod and kneel down next to him again. 

He does flinch this time when you reach out with a warm hand to gently cradle his jaw. Your touch is tender but firm as you tilt his head to the position you want. He lets you. He underestimated just how much he needed the physical contact. His racing thoughts go quiet as all he can think about is how good it feels to have something solid that he can lean on. He closes his eyes as you begin to hum again. You use the soapy washcloth to start scrubbing away at the matted blood clumped in his hair. Rivers of soap begin to roll down his face and drip down his nose. But he doesn’t mind.

He can tell when you manage to dislodge a chunk of gore because the itch goes away where it was tugging at his follicle. It’s a satisfying feeling and with each sweep he pictures himself becoming clean again, like polishing a piece of old silver. Pure and clean, like marble. His shoulders finally relax and he can feel himself begin to stir beneath the water.

Thank fuck

The last thing he’d needed was a broken cock adding on to his problems.

You must have scrubbed everything away when he hears the wet squish of a washcloth being draped over the edge of the tub, then a wave of warm water as you once again refill the cup to rinse out whatever remnants must be remaining. He sighs in pleasure as he reaches out beneath the filmy surface of the water to brush against his stiffening cock. It’s only a half chub, still nowhere near where he’d like it to be. He can’t make love to you with that. 

“All done!” you chime and he opens his eyes. He truly looks at you for the first time and he gasps when he sees the crimson smears on your cheeks from where he’d grabbed you. The two of you had been so caught up in his mess that yours was forgotten. He gives you a slow once over. Your hands where he’d stained you are pristine from the act of washing him but your old sweatshirt is covered with streaks of blood.

His stomach turns at first as his earlier misgivings return but then he’s flooded with a sense of smug satisfaction. This is perfect for what he has planned. It’s a perfect excuse to get you in the tub with him. After all, you have to take the ratty sweatshirt off to put it in the laundry along with his don’t you? You need someone to scrub you down with a washcloth.

“Are we? You’re a bit messy yourself, Missy.” He teases, falling back into the role he’s become so used to playing around you. You frown in confusion and he huffs good naturedly as he gestures at your stained clothes. You look down and give a startled gasp when you realize how you look and you finally seem to notice the stickiness of the drying blood on your cheeks. Your heart flutters rapidly for a moment and he worries that you’re going to panic. He tenses a bit in response and the backs of his eyeballs get hot. But you take a few deep steadying breaths and manage to calm yourself.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll just take a quick rinse with the showerhead once you’re finished. I’m…” You pause.

Not as disgusting as you

He finishes your cut off sentence in his head for you.

“Noooope. It’s only fair I wash you up too. Come join me. I’ll make sure you’re squeaky clean.” He winks, and expects your familiar flush at his flirting. But he must have misjudged. You only bite your lip in response as you fiddle with the hem of your oversized sweatshirt nervously. You look askance and suddenly he remembers why you’re both in this situation in the first place.

He sighs and lets the act drop. Clearly he needs to handle this more delicately. 

“I mean it. Let me take care of you for once.” His voice is soft and he surprises himself with the sincerity of it. 

You stand next to the bathtub silently and watch the recently emptied tub fill once more. Fresh waves of steam fill the room and gather on your skin. A bead of sweat trickles down your spine from the humidity. You’re warm, too warm. Especially with the body at your back, standing close and resting gentle hands on your hips. His grip is soft and tender, like you’re something so fragile that a single sudden movement could smash you to bits. It almost makes you forget what happened to lead you both here and the awful mess he made when he cradled your head in hands that shook with restraint.

You should run. Logically, you know this. You’ve always been aware of the danger lurking beneath the surface of him. You’ve been bombarded with warnings from worried coworkers ever since you started regularly bringing him your baking. Ashley is convinced you’re insane. She tells you stories and you believe them. You see how much he scares her. You aren’t blind to the news reports and viral videos either. You’ve been whistling merry tunes and playing the sweet swooning girlfriend, but you’ve always been aware of the teeth around your arm.

But that’s the thing.

He’s never bit you. Instead he’s sweet and chivalrous. A little bit of an oddball who sometimes seems more mannequin than man, but who is always painfully human to you. He isn’t just an out of your league crush, he's your friend. He’s your confidant. He calls and you ramble about your baking till he gets bored and then he’ll talk philosophy while you ask questions even if only to keep yourself awake. You listen to his venting while he’s endlessly entertained by stories of your boss's neuroticism. You watch movies together on your couch, wrapped up in blankets that have begun to smell like him. He cradles you in his arms when the thunder rattles your teeth. When the tiger only ever acts like a housecat, it’s easy to pretend that is all it is. 

Even now, bloody from his hands and emotionally wrung out, you fight the urge to collapse into his arms. You want to let your legs give out while you fall back into him, knowing he’ll catch you. You want to forget the carnage and the mania. You want to ignore the mix of terror and rage in his eyes as he shook you hard enough for your head to ache. Your arms are tender from bruises but that’s all they are, bruises.You’ve known what he is but you don’t care. It worries you but not only that…you’re worried for him. You recognize that look in his eyes. 

You recognize them from your childhood, another friendship gone wrong.

Another supe with insides made of shattered glass. 

You reach down to turn off the stream of water but make a pointed decision to add some bubbles first. An action that fills you with heat at the implications that you might require some cover. You’ll be naked with him…exposed. He’d wanted you to join him in the filthy bloody slurry of soap and gore, yet there are things you won’t do, not even for him. So you waited for a clean slate, waited with his hands on you and his breath on your neck. 

Let me make it better

You suppress a shiver as you remember the softness of his tone, how gentle and earnest it was. It’s everything you want. He’s everything you want. He shouldn’t be, but he is. He killed for you. He killed for you. He protected you from the scum of the earth and while the guilt of being responsible for another person’s demise weighs heavy, it also fills you with a certain warm euphoria. After so many years of your pain and humiliation being seen as an afterthought, he took action for you. The dried blood on your cheeks itches.

Even after the stream has stopped, a few drops exit the spout to drop into the tub, the sound of water on water is deafening in the silence. You know what comes next. You know a line is about to be crossed that can’t ever be uncrossed.

“Do you mind?” You ask shyly as you gesture for him to turn around. He gives a soft amused little huff that fills your body with heat. It’s a strange juxtaposition, how the mere thought of intimate contact horrified you only a few hours ago and how Homelander’s hands on you had felt so heavy and final. How Tiger Stripe’s filthy hands had you nauseous, sex seeming so animalistic and disgusting. You don’t know what real sex beyond the efforts of your hand feels like, but his presence made you never want to try. With Homelander, intimacy still feels terrifying, but in the way the hill of a roller coaster does before you are swept away into the thrill of it. The lump in your stomach feels less like trepidation but anticipation. It makes it easy to forget his rough handling, whether you should or not. You need comfort right now. You need a distraction.

Of course, you might be getting ahead of yourself. You bathing him was a practical affair, maybe he intends the same with you.

He taps his fingers against your hips for a second, each tap thrumming deep in your bones. 

“If you insist, I’ll give the lady her privacy.” He teases before removing his hands and turning around, hands crossed behind his back. It’s weird seeing him like this, stripped of all his layers. You take the time to truly look. A light pink towel is wrapped around his slender hips giving you the chance to admire the muscles of his back. He has a runner’s build, such a juxtaposition to the thickness of his suit, much more fitted to a body builder than to Homelander’s svelte physicality. You prefer him like this. You feel like he’s someone real now, like he’s someone you can be with outside of your little world. He’s not some mythical figure that you feel deluded to think you’d have a chance with. He’s just a man…a man who wants to bathe with you.

You take a deep breath and grab the hem of your oversized sweatshirt, pull it over your head and drop it on the ground. Homelander’s fingers twitch at the noise and he shifts on his feet. For a moment, you think he might turn around. But he doesn’t. You’re almost disappointed but mostly relieved. You put your thumbs in the waistband of your sleep shorts and tug them down along with your underwear and kick them to the side. The muggy heat feels obscene on your bare skin and for a moment you consider backing out. This is unfamiliar territory. 

You don’t. Instead you take a deep breath that Homelander mirrors as you step into the tub. The water is one digit away from scalding and the shock of it is welcome as it distracts you from your racing thoughts. You slowly sit, letting your body adjust to the temperature. Sweat beads at your temples and rolls down your neck. The crusted blood feels even more coarse on your skin as every nerve ending fires at all cylinders. You sink into the water, letting the bubbles cover your chest before you call out to him shakily.

“All good. You can turn around now.”

You expect him to waste no time but instead he leisurely untucks the towel around his waist and lets it fall to the floor. Your breath catches in your throat and you freeze as his body is exposed to you. You know you should give him the same privacy that he afforded you, but you feel frozen as your gaze rakes over his body. You flush at the sight of his pert ass and the two dimples at the bottom of his spine that you ache to touch. He’s beautiful, better than anything you could have imagined. But as he turns you remember yourself and avert your gaze, staring pointedly at your knees sticking out of the bubbles like little mountains. He chuckles, no doubt picking up the embarrassment on your face. He doesn’t seem offended. 

You see the shape of him in your peripheral vision as he walks closer. His footsteps sound slightly slick on the damp tile floor. You can feel your heartbeat between your thighs. You expect him to get in with you but instead he kneels. You look at him shyly and notice he’s grabbed a fresh washcloth. He doesn’t grab the unscented soap this time. Instead, he grabs the container of brown sugar scrub that you made. You make a soft sound, about to tell him that a sugar scrub and soap aren’t the same thing, but you can’t seem to make words work. You suppose it will at least get the blood off either way.

He unscrews the lid and dips the washcloth in, gathering a small amount. He reaches a hand up to cradle your face gently just like you did his. His thumb swipes briefly over your bottom lip and you sigh. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Scrub a dub dub!” He sing-songs as he waves the cloth at you before dabbing at the streaks of blood on your cheekbones. The cheesiness of the saying mixed with the tickle of the cloth makes you burst into giggles. For a moment, he almost looks offended, his eyes wide as he tries to deduce whether your laughter is genuine or mocking. But he soon grins and chuckles right along with you, scrubbing a bit at the sensitive spot behind your ear now that he’s figured out you’re ticklish. You playfully try to shy away at the sensation and the push and pull causes water to splash all over Homelander. Drops of water catch in the hair of his chest and all of a sudden you can’t look away. The air feels heavier and his eyes are darkly amused. The flighty animal from earlier is gone, replaced with something slightly less dangerous but even more predatory.

“Careful Missy, we don’t want you wasting water.” He purrs, the hand holding your face shifting to firmly hold your jaw in place so you can’t shift away. He begins washing your other cheek. The roughness of the scrub makes your skin tender but in a way that feels…good. His firm strokes go straight between your legs, every nerve ending feeling over-sensitive at each pass. 

“Homelander…” You whine mindlessly, carried away by everything that is happening.

He jolts and for a moment his grip on you tightens like he’s trying to use you to steady himself. His eyes go wide and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He whispers your name in return and causes goosebumps to erupt all over your arms despite the hot water. 

“I…” He pauses, blinking heavy-lidded as his eyes scan what bits of your body are exposed. He swallows heavily. “I’m going to get in now.”

This is it. This is the point of no return. Whatever happens after this will be forever colored by this moment in time. How are you supposed to come back from this? Only a few hours ago, you thought he’d wanted nothing to do with you. Now he’s killed for you. Now, his naked skin is about to be pressed to yours in the steamy haven of your small bathroom. The emotional whiplash is no doubt affecting your decision making when you nod and pull your legs up tighter, giving him space at the other end of the tub. You discreetly turn your head to the side, giving him some privacy as he stands. You can feel the heat from his body and when you realize how close…parts of him are, your chest constricts like you just got sucker punched. 

You focus on a small crack in the wall as the water shifts and swirls around you when he gets in. He sighs at the almost scalding temperature and groans as he fully sinks in. His legs are longer than yours and in order to fit comfortably, he stretches them out on either side of you and brackets you between them. Your heart pounds as your feet nudge against his inner thighs, close enough that if you stretched your leg out a bit, you’d be able to brush against his…

Fuck, you feel like a teenager again. Sitting in class and getting flustered by even the no nonsense lecturing of the sex ed teacher. You can’t look at him but you feel his eyes burning holes in you.

You’re not a prude. You’ve watched porn. You have a fair selection of smutty romance novels. You’ve used your showerhead after you’ve finished a phone conversation with Homelander more times than you can count, moaning and writhing in the same tub you’re squeezed into now. You know exactly how to touch yourself to get yourself off. You’ve imagined riding him like a pornstar, him spreading you out on your kitchen counter and eating you out, you mouthing at his cock while he holds you in place and coos sweet nothings at you. But imagination and reality are two completely different things and right now, you couldn’t feel more out of your league if you tried.

“Your heart’s pounding. Are you scared?” His soft voice jolts you out of your reverie and you turn to look at him. His gaze is piercing with a slight mocking glint and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or if he’s serious. His eyes flick down to your chest where your heart flutters under your skin. You gulp, sweet heat flooding your veins and gathering between your legs. You imagine him pressing you into the tile floor, fucking up into you while you moan.

“I’ve just never been naked around someone else before. It’s…intimidating.” You reply and he gives a soft hum that you can’t read. He smiles and reaches out to pat your knee, rubbing it with his thumb gently. You can’t help but shift under the water and he watches the movement closely, tongue briefly flicking behind his teeth.

“I got naked first.” He replies, cocking his head with a smile. His thumb keeps making those tiny circles. It reminds you of the second time you spoke to him, how he’d rested his hands on yours, and how the feeling of leather against your skin haunted you for days. The feeling of his skin on yours is even more intoxicating. 

“Yes, but I’m sure you’ve been naked around lots of people.” You huff, suddenly aware of the huge gap in your experience levels. He dated Queen Maeve for goodness sake. You’re just you.

He goes quiet and looks at you, eyes narrowing for a moment. You feel small under his scrutiny and you worry that you are going to come up lacking somehow. Instead he leans back, and you mourn the loss of his hand on your knee, even if it means you can think a lot more clearly.

“You’re a virgin.” He says matter of factly, his mouth twisting into a smug smirk. It’s a statement and not a question.  He doesn’t seem at all surprised and the blunt way that he states it makes your whole body go up in flames. The hot water feels suffocating now instead of soothing. Your whole body throbs and your nipples stiffen under the water. You cross your arms over your chest.

“I fail to see how that’s relevant to this situation.” You snap. For a moment you wonder if he’ll get offended by your tense demeanor but he laughs. Cocking his head playfully, he rubs his bare thigh against yours. You jump at the sensation and spill water all over the tile flooring. 

“What situation is that? I’m curious.” He purrs, leaning back indulgently as he slips deeper into the water. You have to scrunch up your legs tighter to protect your space. Every inch of your body is wound tight like a spring. Your skin feels painfully sensitive, every sensation amplified. This frightens you even more than when he was breaking down on the fire escape. That was about him and you could lose yourself in the act of soothing him, as intense as the moment may have been. Being the center of his attention like this, when you aren’t even sure how to handle that attention, when you are fully exposed and vulnerable, means you can’t hide away with polite smiles and sweet smelling gifts. It means he has to really see you. 

“Taking care of me.” You whisper, echoing his words from earlier. That’s what you really want. You want him to comfort you like you did him. You want him holding you so close and tight that everything bad slips away. You want him to feel solid and safe. You want him but you also want the man who holds you after a storm and giggles with you on the phone long after any decent person should have been in bed. You bite your lip, hoping to somehow convey that to him.

The smirk drops.

His expression flattens. He looks away then down as he gently shakes his head. His eyebrows furrow and for a second it looks like he’s having some sort of inner argument that you aren’t privy too. You wonder if you said something wrong.

But when he opens his eyes and looks at you again, his eyes are contemplative. He still looks hungry but it’s something gentler. He’s not looking at you like some prey he’s just waiting to devour. He just looks like…him. For the first time tonight, you feel like you see your Homelander.

“C’mere.” He reaches out for you and beckons his fingers to gesture you closer. He tilts his head and gives you that warm smile he does whenever he first sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners and you notice a lock of hair has limply fallen over his forehead. “Let me take care of my girl."

My Girl

You can’t resist that. 

You rise up and shift on to your knees, one arm still wrapped across your breasts. He grabs you gently and arranges you against him till you are resting against his chest and nestled between his legs. He holds you tight, exactly the way you’ve been needing him to. All of the tension and sorrow and horror just slips away down the drain, chased away by his embrace. You melt into him and you can feel a rumble of contentment deep in his chest. His hair is soft on your cheek. Slowly, the anxiety about your nudity begins to slip away. This feels natural. This is safe. You can indulge in the closeness and warmth of him. The pulse between your thighs still pounds, but it’s a soothing steady beat and not an ominous drum. 

You close your eyes and bury your face in his neck. He shudders and bucks slightly underneath you, adjusting the angle he’s holding you so he can shift underneath the water. You hear the squelch of a wet washcloth and a jar being opened before you feel the cloth gently rub your back. It’s slightly gritty, a sign he used the body scrub again. Every nerve lights up like a christmas tree as he proceeds to wash you. There’s a slow pass down your arm, a brush against your hipbone, a quick massage at your neck, he’s making sure to leave no part of you untouched by his cleaning efforts. 

A quiet sob that you didn’t realize you had been holding in bubbles out of your chest. You try to muffle it against his skin but he knows. He pauses, muscles briefly going tight at the sound of it. Each silent second passing feels like a year. You cling to him tightly with one arm while the other continues to protect your modesty. Your nipples are still hard beneath their cover. You wonder what would happen if you moved and rubbed yourself against him. What would he do? 

He continues his efforts.

“I know I was a bit…intense earlier.” He rubs against a stubborn knot in your shoulder. You sniffle and nod, snuggling in closer, needing to feel the solidity of him.

“Don’t wanna talk about it. Just want you to hold me.” You whine, a bit pathetically. You know you should talk about it. In fact, that should be your first priority. But the two of you have talked enough today. What can you even say? What can you do? 

Homelander seems more than happy to oblige. You feel his grin against your temple.

“Can do, Buckaroo. Want me to kiss it better?” He asks, barely finishing before you’re pressing your lips against his desperately. You’d crawl into his skin if you could. Now that the invisible barrier has been broken, you ache for him and the comfort he gives you. You’ve missed him so much. You’ve been so lonely. 

Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.

Anything is better than that. 

His lips are soft but insistent against yours. He returns your kisses with quick teasing little pecks, pulling back to make you chase him. The washcloth is tossed to the floor with a wet squelch but you barely even notice. He wraps his arm around you, drawing you in close and brushing his fingers tenderly down your side. You shiver, just on the verge of ticklish there. He hums into every brush of your lips against his, always drawing away right when you attempt to deepen the kiss. You quickly grow frustrated. You want him to stop smirking and let you have him. That untethered feeling from before is coming back, that gut sense that you’re playing a game that you don’t know the rules to, when he’s sitting there with the fucking handbook.

In your desperation, your self-consciousness is pushed to the wayside. It’s inconvenient. So when he leans away to tease you again, you remove your arm from your breasts so you can grab his face in your hands and keep him still. He grunts and his mouth opens in shock at the feeling of you fully pressed against him. You take the opportunity to slip your tongue in, brushing it shyly against his before retreating. Your nipples ache at the scratch of his chest hair. He moans, loud and desperate. The sound fills you with a smug sort of satisfaction that goes straight between your legs. His hands twitch at your hips, like he wants to grab you but is too afraid. 

In a mere instant, you go from unsure to powerful. You weren’t even trying but you managed to somehow tip the scales in your favor. It no longer feels like you are being sized up by a discerning eye like a piece of meat on a butcher block but as an equal, equally hungry for what he can give you. In a bold move that shocks even you, you throw your leg over his hip and straddle him, slyly grinning against his mouth when he whines. 

You press closer as you wrap your arms around his neck, slotting yourself fully against him. He’s lean but you can still feel the strength thrumming under his skin. He’s soft on the surface but there is steel underneath. Luckily for you, he’s malleable beneath your touch as he responds eagerly. You’re so close that you can feel his heartbeat against yours. It is absurdly intimate and a syrupy sweet sort of pleasure builds in the pit of your stomach. He’s panting against your mouth more than kissing you, each minute shift of you causing moans to spill from his lips into yours. His hands find their place on your thighs as he tugs your bottom half closer. His grip is measured and patient but inescapable as he maneuvers you slowly with trembling hands.

“Yesyesyes” He whispers desperately, eyes closed and more whine than word. You nip at his bottom lip experimentally, surprised but pleased by your own boldness. You don’t feel helpless or trapped despite his hold on you. It’s the opposite. You feel free, free to touch him, free to love him. He’s easy. You realize with a giggle that is quickly cut off with a gasp.

The world suddenly shifts on its axis.

All of a sudden, you feel him. His adjustments and insistent prodding now has you pressed against him fully, no longer just heart to heart, you are connected in every way two people you can be. You freeze and he lets you. He changes tactics to place wet desperate kisses against your jaw as the realization hits of just how close you are.

The first thought that runs through your mind is how hot his cock is as it rests between your thighs. It’s like he’s running a fever, every inch throbbing and warm against you. You swear you can feel his pulse matching up to the pounding you can feel in his chest. He’s hard too. There’s no give to him as your hips give an experimental buck, a wanton noise leaving your lips that you can’t even hear through the ringing in your ears. The pleasurable sweet feeling in your stomach erupts into licking flames as your clit grinds against him. It’s obscene. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Even your own hands never felt this alive, this raw. You were no stranger to rubbing yourself off. But that was always under the sheets with the lights turned off or in the shower, a quick nasty affair to take the edge off. It had always felt good, especially when the scent of him still lingered around you. You’d get that beautiful burst of release but it always faded as quickly as it came and you moved on. This was agony. Your shyness and reservations having no choice to be stripped away. There’s no hiding underneath cover or in the dark. You’re exposed to him. And you know he can feel you just as vividly as you feel him. Your face burns as your thoughts race, imagining him and what he’s thinking. He can feel how soft and wet you are, the hard nub of your clit rubbing against him. The slick mess between your thighs is so different from the water surrounding you.

It’s like a hug.

The thought comes to you unbidden and the innocent association makes you shudder and grind against him, this time your body moving independently from your mind. It has no adjustments to make or conflicting thoughts to parse through. It knows what it wants and is impatient in the pursuit of pleasure. 

“I really made you hard huh? I can feel you pulsing against me.” You groan. It’s a rhetorical question, more directed at yourself than him. The thoughts in your brain are so loud that you can’t help but speak them into existence. His hips jerk gracelessly at your words, an automatic firing of his nerves like the last desperate brain firings of a dying man. His cock twitches amidst the folds of your cunt like it has a mind of its own. 

“Hngngn fucking slut.”  He sighs, eyes scrunching closed with effort like he’s trying to fight something off. The harsh degrading word should have hurt, should have stung. Especially considering your earlier conflict, how in his anger he accused you of something so horrible that you’d wanted to push him off your fire escape then and there. If it hadn’t been for the fear in his eyes, you’d have believed he’d meant it. Even the memory of it now makes your throat close. But you aren’t in that memory. You’re here, in the tub with him. When he moaned, it didn’t sound like an insult or a jibe. It felt reverent. 

He removes one hand from your thigh, nudging it between your chests so he can cup your breast and toy with your nipple. You never particularly considered your breasts to be that sensitive before. But now, you feel like you might come from his touch alone. 

“Christ, these tits. Wanna suck on them all day.” He pants, his eyes glazed over. You aren’t entirely sure he’s even aware of what he’s saying. He cups you, bouncing your breast in his hand to test the weight of you in his palm. Your nipple feels like a sparking exposed wire against his skin. His hands are soft and smooth, no callouses or marks anywhere to be found. Of course not, he’s incapable of being blemished that way. You’re dripping onto him, there’s no amount of water in the world that can wash away the mess you’re making. 

“Think about it…hng…all the time…AAaaAh. Can smell you in the halls…gnhh. Wet little pussy and no one else knows…FUCK…FUckng Fuuuuuuck.” He rambles, trailing off and groaning when you rub harder against him with each word. 

A wave of pure embarrassment floods your body, little bites of shame sinking their teeth into you as the thought of him being aware the whole time of your…eagerness around him. If you were anywhere other than where you are, you’d have been mortified and humiliated. But he’s so desperate under you that all the initial discomfort turns into something blinding and brilliant. Here you were this whole time, worried that you were the perverted one. Thinking that if he knew that he couldn’t even give you a friendly wave without you twisting it, he’d have left you in disgust. You laugh breathlessly. It seems silly now. You were so convinced he’d been avoiding you because of the incident in your room. 

Although to the part of you deep down that isn’t lost in pleasure, this thought isn’t a comfort. It means it could be something even worse.

“Think about you too. Didn’t think you’d want me.” You confess and he huffs in disbelief. He paws at your ass, grabbing a cheek and prying it open. His fingers barely brush against your hole, just on the verge of nothing at all. You jolt, the feeling completely alien to you and your toes curl at how illicit it feels. You brace yourself for more but instead he uses the leverage to control your pace. 

“Fucking ridiculous. HNg. Every…shit aaAah…every time you’d bring me something…huh huh, wanted to eat you instead. aH! Taste even sweeter I fUckINg know it. Hnhhhhh.”

You have no idea if he’s telling the truth or if the pleasure is warping his brain and causing him to make shit up. You desperately hope it’s the former.

“Homelander!” You moan and he makes a noise that’s almost a sob. He leans down to mouth at the space between your breasts. He buries his face in you so you can’t see whatever emotion leaked out around the pleasure. He kneads your breast desperately, like he’s clinging to a lifeline. He mumbles something against your skin that you can’t quite make out. It almost sounds like a name. You reach down to run your fingers through his wet and messy hair and again he muffles the word into your skin. It’s a bit clearer this time and you realize it is a name. 

John

“John?” 

He seizes up at the sound of it, every muscle stiff and frozen as he pants heavily. His grip on you tightens bruisingly and when you try to move in his grip you find yourself trapped. His breathing is ragged as he tries to regain composure. His pulse flutters wildly in his chest, beating against his skin like a frightened bird. He cock twitches and throbs against your pussy like it has a mind of its own. His eyes are screwed shut as he grimaces against your skin. For a moment you worry that he’s in pain. You shift again, trying to pull away so you can take better stock of him in your concern. But he makes a strangled noise like someone punched him in the gut. 

“Don’t! Don’t…hngn.” He buries his face in your neck and pants, each labored breath ending in a choked whine. “Gonna…hng.”

It takes you a moment before you realize what’s happening. He’s trying not to cum. He’s holding back with great effort. There’s something about it that’s deeply endearing to you. The raw sexual energy that took you over softens, no less intense, just different. Seeing him like this, lost and vulnerable, makes you want to care for him. You want to hold him while he tips over the edge, wanna whisper sweet nothings while he lets himself go. You want him to feel safe in your arms. You’re almost certain who the name belongs to.

“Is that your name?” You ask gently. He whimpers and nods, hands flexing against you. 

“PLeAse!” He begs in return although he doesn’t reveal what he’s begging for. 

“Want me to call you that?” You coo. A strangled noise rips from his throat. You swear you can feel tears on your neck.

“You feel so good, John.” While his hands are still holding you in place, you snake your hand down between your two bodies to gently palm his cock. For such a lean man, you’re surprised by how thick his cock is. It fills your hand perfectly. You don’t stroke or rub him. You just cup your hand over him, letting him feel the warmth of it…like a hug. 

It barely takes a moment before it happens. Just that soft touch undoes him. His cock spasms wildly in your hand and his mouth drops open as he lets out a loud groan that’s animalistic in its rawness. His hands immediately leave your body. Instead he grips the edges of the tub until you hear an ominous crack. His whole body is trembling and flushes red. It thrills you. You’ve never seen him blush like this. You certainly never imagined you’d be the cause of it. You follow through on your desire from earlier, holding him through it as he works through his pleasure, whispering his name and a myriad of other praises in his ear while he writhes against you. His hips twitch and buck up into you and you can’t resist a debauched moan of your own as your neglected clit is suddenly getting stimulated again. Your pussy flutters against his cock.

He whimpers what you think are apologies although his words are too slurred to tell. His eyes are screwed shut. He looks so beautiful that your chest squeezes painfully. You did this to him. You’re the one who made him feel this good. The feeling of it is like a drug, making you feel euphoric and hazy despite not reaching a peak yourself. A few blissful moments pass.

His eyes fly open. His gaze is glazed over and hazy but there’s a blank determination in his eyes that pushes through. His hands grab at your thighs to help you wrap your legs around his waist. He stands up shakily, legs still weak and trembling with pleasure. For a moment you worry that he is going to fall and drop you to the floor, but he doesn’t. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing at the damp skin behind his ear. He tastes faintly like soap and there’s something deeply erotic about the mundanity of it. He doesn’t hesitate, clearing knowing where he wants to go, even if he’s not at the point to be capable of forming words yet. He carries you to your bedroom, stepping over the trail of bloody towels, a reminder that despite how the evening has turned out there is still a mess to be cleaned up that a simple bath can’t touch. He dumps you unceremoniously on the bed, not caring that your wet body is soaking through your clean sheets.

Before you can even get your bearings, he’s ducking down to suck at your nipples, giving each one a few seconds of love, teasing them back into hard aching peaks. You reach down to cup his cheek as he suckles but he’s already moving. He leaves eager messy kisses down your body before he kneels beside the bed. He’s barely situated before he’s yanking you forward by your knees and carefully draping your legs over his shoulders. Your heart stops as you realize what’s happening. Your bare pussy is bare in front of him. He can see all of you, every detail, wet and glistening for him to admire at his leisure. You want to know what he’s thinking, if he likes what he sees. Or if you’re boring and lackluster compared to all the other lovers he’s had. You clench around nothing, torn between wanting to hide and wanting him to get closer and touch you. But he makes a decision for you.

With no preamble or build up, he leans in to lick a broad hot stripe through your folds and your vision goes white. You faintly hear an obscene moan, like something that would sound too desperate even for porn, somewhere in the background. You’re too busy getting fucked by his tongue for you to realize that it’s you. He’s sucking and licking at you like he needs it to live. Making pleased little grunts of effort as he nuzzles against your clit and laps at your twitching hole. You’re too far gone to be embarrassed but if you were on the outside looking in, you’d be clutching your pearls at just how sloppy you are, the slick sounds of your sopping pussy filling the room. You didn’t even know it was possible for a person to be this wet. When he comes up for a breather, you have to turn your head away at the sight of his dripping face. The graphic evidence of your own arousal is too much to take.

Seemingly sensing that you are becoming overwhelmed, he briefly pulls away to lean in for a kiss. He deepens it instantly, softly sucking at your bottom lip till you open up and he slips his tongue against yours, filling your mouth with your own taste. His mouth is wet with you. While he kisses you senseless, he begins to rub at your clit with his thumb, keeping it company while his mouth is occupied. You moan into his mouth and he smirks against your lips. 

His voice is low and gravely, sticky with satisfaction, as he murmurs against you.

“Nothing sweeter than cherry pie.” 

You want to smack him for that, mortified at the subject of your virginity being brought up again in this way. He’s turned the tables on you again, making up for his vulnerability by exploiting yours. Almost like he’s taking revenge on you for making him come so soon. But despite how he’s flustered you, your body gives a hot eager throb, clearly loving the attention. It’s almost as if the more shy you become, the wetter you get. You hope he can’t tell but the glint in his eyes tell you he does.

He slips two fingers into you and he has you so wet that despite the aching stretch, they slide right in. Your eyes roll back, glad you can’t see the smug look on his face as he feels around with the tips of his fingers, leisurely curling them until he finds a spot that makes you go blind. You’ve never felt ANYTHING like this when you’ve touched yourself before.

Satisfied by your pathetically desperate state, he kneels back down to suck at your clit while he scissors and pumps his fingers into you. Your hand buries itself in his hair as your hips involuntarily grinds against his face. He looks up at you, eyes sly and crinkled at the corners as he drags you closer and closer to that precipice. But despite the carnal ferocity of his mouth and fingers, his free hand strokes the outside of your thigh soothingly. You reach down to brush against it and he takes your hand and intertwines your fingers. It’s a sweet gesture and the tenderness of it mixed with the debauched things he’s doing to you unravels you. 

Something deep inside you cracks open as your entire world narrows down to the blinding pleasure between your thighs. It fills your veins like liquid gold, slow and warm, each heartbeat pumping more and more sweet joy through your blood stream. You moan loudly and he echoes you, so loud and desperate that you think he may have come again himself. He continues to pump his fingers into you while he switches from sucking on your clit to giving it soft messy kisses instead as he gentles you down from your high. He’s a fascinating creature, so capable of cruelty and violence, but with a surprising capacity for tenderness. He switches between these parts of himself so easily, based on some internal whim that you can’t begin to fathom. It’s inexplicable that the hands that handled you so harshly and the mouth that talked to you so coldly, the man who covered you in blood and slaughtered a man without a care, is so careful with you now. 

You whine and push at him when the sensitivity becomes too much and his touch begins to sting. He complies, giving you one last kiss.

“For good luck.” He says with a wink and your heart squeezes painfully. His expression is soft and boyish, which is only amplified by the fact that his productless hair has dried into a fluffy mess. He looks almost innocent despite being buried face first in you moments before, chin still slick with you. You remember what he asked you to call him earlier.

“C’mere John.” You beckon.

His eyes widen with surprise and for a moment you think he might cry. His lip trembles slightly. Your stomach drops and you worry that you may have crossed a line. But no, he crawls into your arms and draws you close. You stroke his hair and his shoulders as he nuzzles against your collarbone. He shakes in your arms as you cradle him but he doesn’t cry. He reminds you of a shelter dog being a pet for the first time, craving the gentle touch but unsure of what it is. His intense reaction just to his name gives you pause. 

Another face flashes through your mind.

Big scared eyes and bloody hands.

Just a child.

No older than you were when the accident happened.

In the silence of your bedroom, as you finally have the time to process the chaos of everything that is happening, you get a sick feeling in your stomach as you begin to drift off in his embrace.

Something bad happened to him.

Just like her.

Homelander watches from the shadows.

He watches and he waits.

No longer unsettled; he’s pushed all the confusing feelings down so he can replace them with cold calculated righteous fury. This emotion he knows. This emotion he can handle. If he gives himself over to his rage then the ugly prickly feeling crawling up his spine and churning in his gut goes away. The anger is pure. He’s pure.

A God is entitled to punish those who he deems fit.

Tiger Stripe is inside. He’s drinking at the bar; laughing and making crude remarks to the bartender while reeking of the cat piss that has seeped so deep into the fibers of his suit that no amount of cleaning will ever be able to remove it. He must let his “coworkers” use him as a litter box in order for such an accumulation of filth to be possible. Homelander shouldn’t be surprised. After the Deep, his opinions of any supe who can talk to animals is dim. He wouldn’t be surprised if the creep gets his rocks off to it. Homelander even considers killing time by looking it up to see if it’s a mating behavior for tigers but his stomach is feeling sensitive enough. It’s disgusting knowing such freaks are even allowed to exist by Vought. It tarnishes his image by proxy. If it was up to him, such supes would be culled long before being allowed in the public eye.

You better be so grateful to him for doing this for you.

He’s entitled to your gratitude for freeing you from your plight after having the audacity to judge him. He scoffs to himself just thinking about it. You’d better trust him after this. You won’t have the fucking right to doubt him. You won’t dare judge him or assume his intentions. He’s not the kind of man you think he is. He’s your hero. He’d never think that you’d want…

His gut starts to churn again. He sees her lingering in the corner of his vision, eyes still blue but only judgement in her expression. He ignores her, frustrated and confused by what is happening to him. Why is she appearing to him like some judgemental bitch of an angel on his shoulder? Whatever slight she’s accused him of wasn’t his fault. He didn’t do anything wrong. Was he supposed to be some kind of mind reader? Of course she had wanted him. Of course she would. Of course… He didn’t do anything WRONG.

I was scared you’d think I wanted it.

His eyes begin to feel hot and he screws them shut.

The prickly feeling is back.

He whips around to confront her but he’s met with the same quiet moonlit alley he’d decided to use for spying on his prey. There’s a fat rat sniffing around a leaking trash bag. He lasers it clean in half just so he can punish something for being made to feel this way. There’s no living ghost haunting him. No silent specter to throw accusations with her gaze. There’s just empty stillness.

For the first time since he was very young, he thinks he might throw up.

He doesn’t though. In a miraculous stroke of luck, Tiger Stripe has decided to stop harassing the bartender and be on his way, likely to the next shithole dive that he drunkenly stumbles across. No doubt hoping for an even hotter bartender. Homelander can smell the booze leaking through his pores before he even exits the bar and the acrid stench of it grounds him. It’s time for him to lock in and pounce.

It’s time for God to dole out some justice.

—————————————————————————

“Howdy ho! Look who’s finally out of the cathouse.” Homelander steps out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk, blocking Tiger Stripe’s path. Tiger Stripe startles as his weak brain struggles to process Homelander’s presence with the obscene amount of alcohol in his system. Homelander would normally never deign to even look in his direction. He can’t really blame the supe for being overcome but he does anyway. He wants to burn a hole right through the creep’s gaping mouth.

“Homelander! What an honor! I’m…wow! Homelander is talking to meee.” Tiger Stripe slurs, the reeking stench of his booze breath makes Homelander’s nose burn. He wants to get this over with and rid the world of this shit stain. But he isn’t done playing with his food. He wants the man begging for mercy before he finally finishes his kill. He’s determined to make him piss himself just like the cats he loves so much.

“I was surprised to see your show still airing. Guess there’s nothing like a bunch of fat pussies to make the general public tune in.” He drawls, hands resting imposingly on his hips. Tiger Stripe freezes for a moment before breaking out into a grating laugh.

“Oh that’s a good one Homelander! I didn’t realize you were so naughty. I’m sure you get your fair share without having to watch little ol me.” He reaches out to clap Homelander on the shoulder in a sense of misguided camaraderie. Homelander stiffens and his lips pull into a tense smile that barely manages to hide the rage boiling under his skin. He’s going to have to burn this suit after this. Laundry will never get the scent of piss out of it now. The thought of his disgusting hands coming anywhere near you makes the heat behind his eyes begin to grow out of his control. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to will it away. His grin sharpens before his eyes reopen, the bright red replaced by a cold icy blue.

“Oh I do. Y’know…there is this little PA I have my eye on. She works for Ashley. She’s the sweet one.” He hints, trying to guide Tiger Stripe into his trap. He doesn’t want to be too obvious. He wants him to admit to his behavior before he goes for the kill. He wants this waste of space to know just what he’s being punished for. Tiger Stripe’s mouth gapes open again while he thinks. It lasts a little too long so Homelander snaps to draw him out of his drunken haze. His eyes light up with dull recognition and his lips curl into a sleazy grin. Homelander adjusts his stance to curl his fists behind his back.

“The one who brings in desserts all the time? Oh you dog. She’s one hot piece of ass. Prissy though. Acts like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I’ve tried my luck a few times but the little prude always brushes me off. No way she’ll refuse you. What slut wouldn’t spread her legs for America’s Sweetheart? You know what they say about the quiet ones.” Homelander’s false smile stays frozen dangerously in place as Tiger Stripe claps him on the shoulder again and gives a laugh that quickly turns into a hacking cough.

“Can you do me a favor? When you’re done with her just give me a call. I don’t mind sloppy seconds.”

Homelander’s ears begin to ring.

Homelander knows that being piss drunk is the only thing making Tiger Stripe bold enough to dare say such things to him. Whether the supe is aware of his true nature or is still under the illusion that his boy scout squeaky clean image isn’t a sham; anyone with a brain would balk at making such a statement about someone Homelander has expressed interest in.

Piece of ass

Prissy

Prude

Sloppy Seconds

This is what this shitstain thinks of you.

In a split second Homelander has Tiger Stripe’s arm in his grasp and without hesitation he squeezes as hard as he can. With an obscene cracking squelch, Tiger Stripe’s arm is crushed into mulch. Blood and viscera pour onto the concrete as the cat supe stares in sheer shock at the mangled remains of his forearm. An agonized scream catches in his throat as Homelander clamps down again, the sheer force of his grip severing the disgusting man’s arm in two. It dangles, still barely attached by strands of skin and muscle.

The scream finally leaves him.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK?!?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?” He grabs at the remains of his mutilated arm with his other hand and he goes pale as it rips right off. He drops it with horror and promptly vomits all over the ground.

Homelander grimaces at the mess and grabs him by the throat, dragging him still choking from the pressure and the rise of bile still burning his esophagus. He tosses him onto the filthy ground of the alley. He looks up and promptly lasers a security camera pointed right at the entrance. There’s no way it didn’t catch his initial attack but who’s going to confront him about it? Disposing of it is merely a formality. He’s in the clear either way.

Tiger Stripe whimpers on the ground. He’s curled up in a ball clutching his bleeding stringy stump. His face is white as a sheet and drenched in blood, snot, and tears. Homelander calmly picks up his arm and waves it at Tiger Stripe in a macabre mockery of a friendly greeting. He only gets a horrified stare in response.

“Is this the arm you tried to touch her with? Hmm? Think fast or I’ll have to take them both.” He grins sharply as he gives another mocking shake of the arm.

“Yes! I touched her with that one! Please, it was that one! Don’t take my other arm!” Tiger Stripe wails in terror. A sharp rancid stench fills the air. He’s succeeded in making the man piss himself. He’s honestly surprised it took this long.

“How did you touch her? Tell me. I want to know what your filthy hands did to my girl.” He tilts his head coldly as he waits for an answer. If Tiger Stripe’s face could have gone any whiter it would have. He leans over to cough and spit more terrified bile all over the alley ground. He can’t take his eyes off of his severed hand.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps, as though a simple apology will make Homelander absolve him of his crimes.

“Ah ah ah! That’s not an answer.” He playfully wags the hand at him.

Shock is beginning to set in as Tiger Stripe shivers. Homelander can see his pulse beating rapidly under his skin. He needs to speed this up before Tiger Stripe isn’t able to function anymore. He kicks him harshly in the stomach and the man spits blood. He must have ruptured something.

Oops

“I just played a little grab ass once or twice. I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to hurt her! I just wanted to know what she felt like! Whatever she told you is an exaggeration of the truth! I never forced her to do anything. You can’t blame a man for his natural instincts” He wheezes out.

“All the fat pussies you work with aren’t good enough for you? Huh?” Homelander pokes him with his hand. Tiger Stripe tries to flinch away but Homelander gives him a whack on the ass with it. He laughs heartily as he sneers down at the panicked supe. “C’mon! You just said you like to play a little grab ass!”

This has evolved past revenge for Homelander. This is pure catharsis. All that discomfort that had been building since your confession is being exorcised. Each drop of blood that drips from Tiger Stripe’s injuries is washing away his guilt and confusion. This is how things are made right, not by crying on a rooftop but taking action. He’s absolved.

He tosses the hand away and crouches on the ground. He rolls Tiger Stripe over and crawls on top of him. Tiger Stripe trembles and Homelander grimaces at the stench of alcohol and blood. He would never dare touch to sully himself with the likes of Tiger Stripe but the dumb fuck doesn’t know that. He grinds against the supe briefly and grins at the terrified and ashamed protests from the man beneath him. He leans forward to whisper sharply in his ear.

“This is what you wanted to do to her, isn’t it? You sick fuck. You disgust me.” He buries his hand in Tiger Stripe’s matted hair and yanks his head up so he can meet his gaze. “I ought to fuck you bloody just for thinking it.”

Tiger Stripe’s lip trembles and he begins to babble incoherent pained apologies that fall on deaf ears as Homelander sneers. He grinds against him again and the supe gives one last weak pathetic attempt to wiggle away and escape.

It’s fruitless.

Homelander doesn’t proceed with his threat. The very thought makes him feel ill. So with a lightened and satisfied heart, he slams Tiger Stripe’s head into the ground where it explodes in two with a resounding wet splat. Brains and gore spill onto the pavement as Homelander’s laugh echoes into the night.

——————————————————————

Homelander bounces on his heels as he stands anxiously on your balcony. His hands shake slightly from the adrenaline of the kill. Normally the thrill wears off fairly quickly for him but this is different. He’s a live wire, sparking dangerously in the chilly night air. He knocks harshly at your window, desperate to prove his devotion to you. He needs to prove to you that he’s nothing like the bug he just squashed. He left you crying and he can’t return to the tower without making things right.

It takes a minute or two and a couple more insistent knocks before he hears you start to stir. He frowns when you’re still weeping and sniffling softly. You have to know it's him. He’s the only one who meets you here. That you aren’t cheered by his arrival isn’t a good sign. You need his good news more than ever.

Your apartment is dark but you don’t turn on a light as you slowly make your way over to the window where he waits. You’re dressed in the oversized sweatshirt that hangs to your knees. There’s something about it that makes you seem so fragile. Your expression is solemn. It doesn’t have any of your usual brightness. He shifts nervously again, a heavy feeling developing in his chest that is an uncomfortable contrast to the lingering fire in his veins.

You open up the window but he doesn’t step in quite yet. He wants you to invite him in. He wants you to want him there with you. He almost expected things to snap right back to normal once the disgusting little barrier between you was gone. But he should have known better. He hasn’t even told you yet.

You stand on the other side of the window awkwardly. An uncomfortable silence fills the air. You won’t meet his eyes. Your gaze is fixed resolutely on his boots.

“Hello sourpuss, aren’t you going to say hello?” Homelander prods with a smile that’s almost painful with how it stretches. If he could see himself he’d be surprised at how terrifying he looks with flecks of blood still staining his cheeks and matting his hair. Not that his appearance matters when you won’t even look at him. He’s unsure what to do with his hands so he rests them on his hips in a show of confidence that he doesn’t feel. His heart beats fast.

“Hello” You reply softly, voice wavery with lingering tears. You fiddle with the sleeve of your sweater. He’s taken about by your lack of enthusiasm but he can’t exactly hold it against you considering how he left you. Maybe he shouldn't have been so rash.

“I have a surprise!” He replies brightly although all he wants to do is shake you till you stop moping. He needs to be patient despite the lingering bloodlust in his veins that won’t quiet until you praise him for what he did for you.

You just hum in resigned reply.

Leather creaks in the quiet as he clenches his fist.

Patience

“That supe you were worried about, that…Tiger fucker. He won’t be bothering you anymore. I made sure of that. You can feel safe to come back to work with me again.” He squares his shoulders with pride. He’s protected you. He’s done his job as your lover. You can’t deny him now that he’s spilled blood for you. Sure, he’s not exactly going to tell you all the details. He doesn’t want to give your pretty little head nightmares.

You finally look at him, a slight hopeful gleam in your eye. For a split second everything feels fine. You smile.

“You got him fired?” You ask sweetly, sounding just like the kind baker he knows. Of course you’d think that was the solution. You’re too naive to understand that sometimes harsher measures need to be taken. But simply firing that creep would never be enough. He needs you to know that.

“Not exactly” He sing-songs. “I made sure he’ll never bother anyone again.”

You pause.

……….

A look of pure horror crosses your face.

“Is that blood?” You ask.

Homelander’s stomach drops.

He looks down at himself for the first time. He uncurls his fists from his hips and holds them up to his face. His hands are drenched in blood and grey matter. He flexes his fingers and a chunk of brain that had been clinging between his pinkie and ring finger falls to the grating with a soft plop. That’s not all. He can see streaks of blood on his boots and the slight itch of his scalp alerts him to the blood crusted in his golden locks.

He didn’t realize things had been so messy. He certainly didn’t think he’d been dirty enough for you to notice.

“Pshsh” He scoffs, waving his hand absently as if he can wave away the tension in the air. He doesn’t answer your question.

“Homelander…is that blood?” You take a half step back, eyes roaming all over him, not missing a single drop of gore. He can hear your heart racing and the air starts to stink with the spike of your adrenaline.

The full weight of what he’s done hits him.

“So what if it is? You feeling bad for the guy, hmm?” He accuses maliciously even if he knows he’s said the wrong words as soon as they leave his lips. Can you really blame him though? You should be fucking grateful! He’s killed for you. Isn’t that the ultimate sign of devotion?

You look at him like he just slapped you. Your eyes open wide in shock and your breath catches in your throat. His chest tightens with an emotion he despises above all else. It lingers in his bones like rot. He can see his future clearly; You’ll turn on him. You’ll leave him.

He’s scared.

He knows he needs to stop. He’s not sure if he can. He no longer feels in control of himself or his actions. He resents you. He wants to hurt you. He wants to scare you into submission and punish you for what you’re making him feel. There is a better way to handle this; He knows deep down. Homelander simply doesn’t have the tools to understand how. That’s supposed to be what you do. You’re the one who fixes things. Why are you doing this to him?

He can’t lose you. You’re the only one who treats him like he’s…

Human?

A familiar mocking voice rings in his ears and he snarls. You flinch, tears welling up in your eyes from confusion and fear. Your heartbeat quickens.

“No! I’m worried.” Your voice cracks as you answer, reaching out to him briefly only to recoil when your fingers touch the tacky blood clinging to his costume. The tips of your fingers are stained red. You clutch your dirtied hand to your chest with white knuckles.

“Maybe you want him back?” He accuses sharply. He climbs in the window as quick as a flash to stand before you. Instead of hurt, your face twists into a grimace of fury and betrayal. He doesn’t realize it in the midst of his mania but he’s done the very thing he set out to prove to you he wouldn’t.

“Don’t say that!” You shove against his unmoving chest; blood staining your palms. He doesn’t move as you pound on his chest, memories of thunder crash almost as loud as the real thing. Only this isn’t a brief misunderstanding, this is revelation. A bridge has been crossed. You’re seeing the real him and it disgusts you. He should have known. It always ends up this way

He reaches out to grab your shoulders and shake you. His fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise. He’s hurting you. He laughs bitterly at the unfairness of it all but he can’t stop himself. It’s like he’s looking in from the outside; his uneven breaths fog the invisible glass he can’t seem to break through. He sees himself spit in your face as he shakes you. He wants to tell himself to stop. He’s hurting you.

“I’m not like him! Do you understand? I’m not. I’m here to protect you. I’d never hurt you ever.” A lie. It leaves his lips so easily.

“I’d never think badly of you or threaten you. And for fucks sake, of course I’d never think you’d want that creep rubbing his filth all over you. I’m better than that. Do you understand?!?! I’m better.” He stops shaking you to hold your face tightly in his hands. His thumbs stain your cheeks with crimson as you struggle in his grip. You’re so fragile, he thinks. He could crush your skull with barely more than a flex of his hands. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened today. Your hand wraps around his wrist tightly.

“Homelander! Please stop! Just answer the question.” Tears begin to roll down your cheeks, leaving streaks through the smears of blood. He tenderly wipes them away. The scent of you that has been so familiar and comfortable has turned to rust.

He’s fucking up. But he just can’t stop himself. He grins widely, straining his cheeks and you begin to frantically stroke his wrist as if the movement will soothe him. He doesn’t know why you’re so insistent. Are you truly so stupid that you can’t tell the aftermath of a slaughter when you see one?

“Yupperoo! It’s blood. I popped that man's head like a ripe melon and we’re covered in his brains right now. What do you think about that? Am I not a hero anymore just because I made a mess?” He’s halfway between a demand and a plea.

“I’m not accusing you of anything! I just want to know what’s going on. You’re obviously not ok and…” You’re concerned about him. Any other time this realization would be a balm to his fractured soul. But right now it only serves as a reminder of how he’s failed to live up to your impression of him. He’s no longer your handsome prince here to sweep you off your feet with a smile and a gentle kiss. Now he’s a problem for you to take care of.

“I’m a hero. I’m your hero. This is what being a hero really looks like.” He tilts his head, looking down at you with a confidence he doesn’t feel. If he doesn’t keep up with this facade he’ll cry. He can’t bear letting you see that. He’d much rather you be witness to his wrath instead of his sorrow. Gods are wrathful. Sorrow is beneath him. If you deny him, being a God is all he has left.

There is a long silence as the two of you stare each other down. It reminds him of the stand offs in the westerns Vogelbaum used to let him watch in the lab when he’d behaved himself during an especially difficult trial. Almost as if John Wayne was apologizing on Vogelbaum’s behalf for what he was put through. Vogelbaum never deigned to do it himself of course. Not until he realized how much he’d affected others by inflicting pain on Homelander. If Homelander had turned out like the scientists had intended, he wonders if Vogelbaum would have ever felt regret at all.

Homelander is the only one with a weapon in this stand-off. His eyes could pierce through you as easily as a bullet could. But you wield something just as dangerous, your disapproval. With a single rejection you’d be the winner of this battle.

Your expression shifts. There’s a tragic recognition in your eyes, a mix of heartbreak, understanding, compassion, a resigned sort of grace, and some unreadible emotion he recognizes from the night of the storm. It’s as if you can see right through him and the swirling hurricane of his emotions to the very heart of his despair. The hand not resting on his wrist reaches up to softly brush a tear from his cheekbone. He twitches at the sensation. He hadn’t even realized it was there. You gently shush him as you stroke his face and at first he recoils from the sudden tenderness. He’s too raw for something so gentle. But you don’t stop and soon he can’t help but nuzzle into your palm. You speak to him gently, like you might talk to a startled horse.