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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

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Any Port in a Storm

18+ 1.7k homelander solo fic. masturbation, selfcest? praise kink.

Homelander struggles to put himself first during his "Me Time," but a friendly voice comes to the rescue: his own.

yes this is the bath fic i said i would write. no it's not what i was supposed to be working on. happy kinktober!

Homelander’s world is spiraling out of control.

The world saw him. The real him, and they fucking loved it.

At least, some of them had.

The rest were calling him a murderer.

He’s been channel flipping for nearly an hour listening to the different reports. Biases everywhere. Footage recut, reworked, every witness giving their own spin to the narrative. No one seems to care about the truth. They’re too concerned with their own petty little agendas. Half the time they don’t even talk about him, just what this means for two opposing sides.

They want him in jail. Him, Homelander. America’s Favorite Hero.

The remote cracks in his hand. He hisses out a tight breath and stands, tossing the plastic shrapnel onto the couch. He needs to blow off some steam. Take care of himself.

God knows no one else will.

He runs a bath, turning the water as scaldingly hot as it will go. He lets it fog up the mirrors and the windows in his bathroom, inhales the steam while he undresses. Once the bath is mostly full, he turns off the faucet and slides in, the heat drawing a low sigh out of him as he sinks into it. The water doesn’t hurt, doesn’t even turn his skin pink, but it does seep in and help alleviate some of the tension in his muscles.

Resting his head back on the curve of the tub, he closes his eyes, taking a moment to simply be. The weight of the world has been on his shoulders for so long, he doesn’t know how to be truly weightless, not even when he flies. This comes close, though. The water laps idly back and forth, taking on his weight, before settling still around him.

For all that he cannot control in his life, there’s at least one thing that never fails him.

Adjusting, he moves his hand from the edge of the tub and settles it at the base of his soft cock, huffing a breath from his nose. He strokes slow and shallow at first, sifting through the images behind his closed eyelids for something suitable. All he needs is the thought of a warm hole, something tight and reverent wrapped around his cock. He’s not picky right now, whatever does the trick.

Any port in a storm, after all.

His mind's eye constructs vague shapes: lips, a flicking tongue dragging over the head of his cock before they take him down their throat. He lets out a breath, cock giving a weak twitch in his hand, but he’s still far from even a half chub. He needs something more. He imagines reaching down and feeling soft hair, stroking his fingers through it. It morphs blonde, and blue eyes look up– ”It’s not even gay if it’s with yourself.” Homelander hisses through his teeth, opening his eyes to banish the image– the memory–of his stolen face peering up at him with weak, watery eyes. Fucking Doppelganger.

Whatever momentum he’d gained has vanished. He gives his cock an impatient, irritated tug, as if it’s somehow at fault, and settles back down, closing his eyes. C’mon. C’mon, soft. Long hair. Something… Something else.

Turns out not any port.

Starting over, he tries to find his way towards something less existential. Something easy, sexy, wet and good. He imagines hands first this time, strong hands in his hair, on his chest, pinning him down and riding him fast and hard. He squeezes his cock just like she had, remembers how good it had felt to fuck someone who wanted him as bad as he wanted them, how eagerly she’d thrown him around, climbed in his lap. They never did fuck in a bed.

A puddle of blood in a bed. That’s all that was left of her.

“Fuck!” He snaps, giving his cock a yank hard enough that it actually hurts a little.

He’s losing it. He’s been fucked with so thoroughly, been robbed of so much, and now this? He doesn’t have a single good memory to pull from, and his amorphous fantasies turn around to bite him like serpents. Even now, he can hear Stan fucking Edgar in the back of his mind leering about bad product because he can’t even get a proper boner going.

“You fuck–you fucking–” He’s jerking himself hard and fast, half hard only by sheer stimulation, but it doesn’t feel good.

Whoa, whoa! Hold your horses, his inner voice calls, drowning out the noise. Jesus Christ, take a breather. Let go of your dick before you rip the damn thing off, he says to himself, finally easing the tension in his grip. He opens his eyes, panting, on the verge of tears as he rubs at his face in exasperation.

That’s it. Relax. That’s what you’re here for, right? To relax.

He nods, pushing his hands through his hair, breathing shallowly.

Learn from your mistakes, champ. You know what all this is, don’t’cha? You’re still too reliant on other people. Even the ones that’re dead and gone, you’re clawing at them to help you. Make you feel good. They’re poison, and you don’t need ‘em. Y’never did.

He presses the base of his palms into his temples, swallowing back the surge of sadness like bile, his throat burning with it.

“I’m so fucking alone,” he grits out.

You are the only person you’ve ever needed. C’mon, snap out of it. Lemme show you.

Sucking in a breath, he grinds the wetness from his eyes with his palms, exhaling roughly, and then sinks his hands back down into the water. He moves to reach for his cock again, but stops himself.

Not so fast. I’m driving now.

Instead, he slides both hands down the length of his torso, his sides, down his thighs, and back up. He moves slowly, touching his chest, his nipples. He focuses simply on the feeling of being touched, on how little his hands feel like his own right now. He tips his head back while his hand settles on his throat, squeezing lightly.

Feels good to be touched, doesn’t it?

“Yes,” he sighs, swallowing against the press of his palm. He tweaks his nipples with his other hand, sliding back and forth under the water, rolling his thumb over it until each nub grows hard and sensitive. At least those still work.

Quit being so hard on yourself. You’re perfect. You hear me? Fucking perfect.

He licks his lips, nodding. “Yeah… Yeah, m’fuckin’... M’fuckin’ perfect…”

The hand on his chest moves gradually lower, pausing to trace patterns on his stomach. He can’t remember the last time he touched himself like this, slow and exploratory, as if he were a lover new to himself. His hand slips lower, but he bypasses his cock entirely, cupping his balls beneath it. He makes a little noise at that, planting his feet flat in the tub so that he can rock himself gently, water sloshing back and forth with him as he rolls against his palm.

You feel good, don’t you?

“Yeah,” he rasps, the hand at his throat squeezing as he speaks, reminding him of his hold, of his strength.The feel finally makes his cock jump, which has him smiling a little. His middle finger rubs at the soft flesh of his perineum, pressing in lightly. His hand moves up from his throat, cups the side of his face. His thumb strokes over the jut of his parted lips.

Go ahead. Kiss. Know you want to.

He does. He desperately misses kissing someone. Feeling their lips soft against his, their breath on his lips. He might love kissing more than he loves fucking. He purses his lips against his thumb, kisses it like he would another person, the noise of it soft and wet in his ears. He opens his mouth enough to take his thumb between his lips and lap at it like it’s someone else’s tongue.

Atta boy.

He screws his eyes tightly shut, thrusting up. His cock has filled out all the way now, and it bobs against his stomach a few times, the warm water flowing all around him. “M’ready,” he says feverishly, half muffled around his thumb, fingers cupping his cheek. “M’ready, wanna touch.”

So touch, his voice says, amused. No one’s gonna tell you ‘no’ ever again.

He pulls his hand up from his balls and wraps it around the base of his shaft, squeezing lightly before pulling his grip slowly up the length of his cock, shivering. He feels sensitized all over, hyper-aware of the same body that felt numb to him moments ago. His cock is hard and heavy in his grip, the thick vein along the underside throbbing. He angles his hand so that the pads of his fingers follow the line of it as he strokes himself. He moans against his hand, turning his head to push deeper into it.

Who are you?

“Homelander,” he pants, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he thrusts, fucking the tight channel of his hand.

What are you?

“A hero,” he says, brows furrowing. He feels hotter than the bath water ever was, his eyes burning red behind the veil of his lids. He bares his teeth like something wild. An animal never to be caged again.

No, no. You’re more than that now. You’re not just their hero. What are you?

“A fff–a god, I’m–I’m a fucking god!” He roars, slamming up against his fist at the same time heat and light erupts from his eyes, the wild surge of it shooting straight up and through his ceiling. His toes curl and his back arches into a perfect curve, wave after wave of pleasure lapping through him in one of the most earth shattering orgasms he’s had in fucking years.

The porcelain around him cracks from the push of his body, his foot breaking through the bottom right side. Water rushes out of the tub, but he doesn’t care in the least. He sinks to the bottom as it empties, high as a kite on his release, and the sound of his own voice purring affirmations in the back of his mind. His own palm remains warm on his cheek, thumb stroking along his skin.

He doesn’t need any port. He is the storm.

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #cozy corner kinktober #mirrorlander #if you squint lol #my writing #smut

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