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walkingnearfoxes · 3 days ago

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Shifting Truths (Homelander x Reader Oneshot)

2.2k words. NSFW. Warnings for “The Boys” levels of violence, suggestive dialogue/imagery, insects, a whiff of blackmailing, and the Homelander. Supe!Reader.

You’re new to the Seven, and you’re making a great impression. Homelander seeks to end that.

There were many things Homelander did not understand about you, and he hated that he wanted to figure those things out. He should have been able to write you off as another disappointment, but he can’t. You were the first hero to join the Seven in years who he thought had some potential. You were the Changeling; you could turn into any animal you wanted in the blink of an eye. The carnage that could happen with that kind of power was delicious. You could be nearly as strong as him in your other forms - not strong enough to be a threat, but strong enough for him to respect you. With the parade of shitty teammates Homelander was forced to have so far, he had looked forward to someone that could keep up.

But then you joined, and his high hopes crashed violently through the windows. Your powers were legitimate, but you never used them as he thought you should. You leaned into the persona Vought wanted for you, presenting yourself like a dancing monkey. When young fans asked for you to turn into the cutest puppy, kitten, or pony, you obliged. All of your public relations and media focused on your playful and light personality; you were the demented lovechild of Starlight’s sickening sweetness and the Deep’s comic relief stupidity - as if Homelander needed any more of those cocksuckers.

And what’s worse, you were loved. It didn’t take long for your numbers to rival the rest of the Seven; some days, you even came close to rivaling him. What began as a hopeful prospect was quickly turning into a pest, and he couldn’t allow it to continue anymore.

The good news was that Homelander had already begun to learn your weaknesses. Your shifting looked easy to an outside eye, but it tired you over time. People around Vought got used to seeing various animals asleep around the tower. One poor assistant nearly shit themselves when you fell asleep as a wolf in the coffee lounge; Homelander could admit that was funny.

Today, he wasn’t quite as amused. He walks into the conference room for the Seven, hoping to enjoy some peace without assholes asking him about product placements, media campaigns, or movie sequels. Unfortunately, he was not alone. He quickly spots a fluffy lump on top of your usual chair.

You’re a kitten. You are asleep as a kitten on top of your chair, curled in a delicate ball.

Christ.

“A narcoleptic circus freak,” Homelander mutters as he marches forward. He stops next to your chair and stares down at your sleeping form. It didn’t matter what form you took; he was the only one who could always tell it was you. You always smell the same. He huffs in annoyance and grabs the scruff of your neck, lifting you off the chair.

If you had been in your human form, you might have gasped or cried out. As it was, you were a kitten - so you meow sharply. The extra skin on your neck stops you from feeling pain, but he’s certain your little mewl was from shock rather than hurt. Your eyes shoot open, and his nose twitches at the sight. Another dead giveaway that it was you were your eyes. Your eyes, no matter the form, stay the same.

“You’re a waste, you know,” He murmurs, pulling you up higher until your faces are level. “So much potential, and you waste it on cutesy PETA bullshit.”

Even in your feline form, he sees the distaste in your eyes. You make the tiniest of growls. He scoffs and lets go of you without warning. You shift back to human before you can hit the floor, landing in a lunge that eerily reminds Homelander of his own landings. Another roll of disappointment. You could fly.

He lets you stand back up, but doesn’t move. The result is that you are mere inches from one another’s faces. You look so young. He can’t be bothered to look up your age, but you held onto an innocence he couldn’t comprehend. Even Starlight, hypocritical Girl Scout that she was, had lost hers. What makes you so special that you get to keep it?

You stare up at him a moment, your expression unreadable. Were you annoyed? Confused? He can’t tell. Fortunately, you finally give a reply. “I’ve never worked with PETA.”

Homelander rolls his eyes so hard it nearly hurts. “Spare me,” He growls as he walks around you to his seat. “All those shelter commercials? You’re worse than the Deep with that nonsense.”

He pauses at that and looks at you over his shoulder. “You don’t fuck the dogs, do you?”

He says it to bother you, and for a moment, it works. He watches in delight as your nose wrinkles, your fists clenching and unclenching at your sides. But the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and you tilt your head in mock innocence. “That’s taking doggy style a bit too far, don’t you think?”

Damn it. Homelander refuses to find that funny or linger on the images your words plop into his head. How would you react, he wonders, if he ripped that tight uniform of yours in half and bent you over this table? Would you keep up this naive act, or would he see what an animal you really are?

Homelander shoves that thought away as far as he can and turns to stare out the windows. “You know, I was excited when you joined the team. Thought you would add something new,” He mutters. “But no. Just another piece of ass for Vought to wave around.”

“...a piece of ass, you say?”

He hears a shift in the air behind him and turns around. You had turned into a donkey.

For God’s sakes.

“That’s how you get through it all, huh?” He sneers. “Jokes. It won’t work forever. And when that Jane Goodall persona is broken, I’ll be there to collect the pieces left.”

For a moment, he’s just staring at a donkey. Then, you shift back. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you look sincerely bothered, which shoots a thrill through him. Despite all of your forms and abilities, you are still wholly human.

“You don’t know me, Homelander,” You say coldly.

He arches a brow. “Maybe I’d like to.”

You don’t have time to reply before the doors open, and Ashley comes running in. She’s already sputtering gibberish with a confused Deep and bored Maeve on her high heels. Homelander knows there won’t be more time to speak to you now, and he’s surprised at his disappointment. He gives you a lingering glance before returning to his chair and pretending to listen to Ashley’s ramblings.

He amuses himself for the rest of that meeting by glancing over at you. You’re not your chipper self, and the few times you accidentally lock eyes, your expression sours even more.

Breaking you may be more fun than he thought.

~-~

It’s a few weeks later when he notices a change in you. Your peppy personality had returned quickly after that meeting, and he left you alone. For now. He had other things to do and knew ruining you would be slow. He was surprised that something else brought you down before he could.

It was something to do with a save or mission of yours. Homelander noticed you looking over papers, spending more time in crime analytics, following Ashley around and pestering her with questions. Whatever it was, it was bothering you deeply, and he wasn’t about to wait to figure it out.

You leave Vought off the roof as a turkey vulture, and he trails you from there. If you weren’t in such a state, he’s sure you would have noticed him; your sense of smell in this form is the same level as his. Homelander had heard you once explain to Black Noir that turkey vultures had one of the sharpest avian senses of smell despite looking “creepy as fuck.” You should have been able to detect him, but you didn’t. You were focused. You didn’t stop to greet fans or admire the sky like he’d seen you do before; you fly straight to one of the shittest parts of the Bronx. That creepy ass bald head of yours suddenly looks right and swoops down on an abandoned warehouse. As quietly as Homelander can manage, which was damn quiet, he follows.

You enter the building through a hole in the ceiling, shifting to the form of a mouse once you land. Homelander watches and listens as you crawl from room to room with a clear destination.

Homelander sensed the other heartbeat in the warehouse before even landing. In the back room of this long-abandoned space, a rancid man is huddling in the corner. He’s looking through a book. Homelander’s superior vision makes out shapes the man runs his fingers over, but they don’t make sense to him. If his senses didn’t mistake him - and they never did - the book has human hair across its pages.

Homelander hears you shift. He turns his attention back to you and sees you have become a cockroach at the doorway to the man’s room. He barely bites back a sound of disgust. You scutter forward with as much determination as a cockroach can show. Homelander watches in amazement as you quickly crawl up the man’s body and into the poor bastard’s ear.

The man screams. He jumps up, sending the book flying, and bats wildly at his ear. The action was useless. You had crawled too far into the man’s ear for him to reach. The man cries out in agony and darts around the room, his fingers clawing desperately at his ear.

Then, you shift back to human. The man’s body explodes. Everything that had been holding that man together now decorates the walls. Your body is soaked in blood. For a long moment, you don’t move. You stand there, your expression cold. Then, with a huff, you turn to pick up the man’s book. You hold it in your hands, your lips thinned and eyes wild with anger.

What the fuck just happened?

Homelander stands in the hallway's darkness as you slowly flip through this book. He loathed admitting when he was wrong - but for the first time in a long time, he accepts that he was wrong with joy. He thought you were another drone, another plaything for him and Vought. But no. You aren’t an innocent. You are another player in the game. You’re just like him.

He steps into the light of the cracked ceiling, his blue eyes glowing in the room's darkness. “Well! Looks like someone’s been busy.”

You gasp, stumbling backwards with the book still in your hand. “Homelander! What are you doing here?!”

He chuckles with near giddiness. “Really? I didn’t just walk in on you in the shower,” He gestures around the red-covered room. “You just popped that guy like a zit.”

You sputter, and he wonders if you will try to deny it. Luckily for you both, your shock slowly shifts to the earlier rage. You hold up the book as if it can explain on its own. When Homelander just raises a brow in question, you open it. Sure enough, his early assumption was correct. Each page has a collection of human hair taped sloppily to the pages. His nose wrinkles as he looks back at you. “The fuck is that?”

“The zit’s trophy,” You growl, tossing the book to the ground. “He was a serial killer. He’s been tormenting this neighborhood for months.”

Homelander tilts his head. “Months, huh?”

“But Vought doesn’t care about neighborhoods like this, right?” You say with a bitter chuckle, wiping at some of the blood on your cheek. “Not to mention he’s the son of a fucking lawyer.”

You glance at the ground soaked in red. “Or…he was.”

His grin bares teeth as he saunters forward, shaking his head. “What a saint you are…but what will Vought do about this, hm? What will they do when they find out the Changeling has gone rogue?”

Your eyes widen, and that innocence he’s grown accustomed to wanders back into your vision. You look at the book and then back to him. “You’re…you’re gonna tell them?”

“I should,” He replies, stopping in front of you. “I’m team captain, after all. What kind of leader am I if I don’t tell everyone that their sweet little kitten is a monster?”

You surprise him by putting your hands to his chest, your little fingers curling into desperate fists against his suit. “Please don’t,” You whisper, and God, if that desperation doesn’t get him. “This…this isn’t normal for me. You know that. I just-”

“Took justice into your own hands?” He finishes with another chuckle. “We’re superheroes, sweetheart. Not avengers.”

Your breath hitches, and he swears he can see tears in the corner of your eyes. What a beautiful contradiction to the blood soaking your clothes. He wants to take the violence, the fear, and the adrenaline radiating off you and save it in a perfume.

“Please,” You repeat.

He hums in thought as he brings a hand up to your cheek. He notices your flinch, but ignores it. He cups your skin, his glove blending into the red dried onto your skin. His thumb slowly paints over your bottom lip.

“Don’t worry,” He purrs. “I think we can come to an arrangement.”

#the boys #homelander #my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #...im sorry #got this idea in head and needed to get it out #darker than my usual stuff #signing up for church camp as we speak dont worry

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anotherhomelanderblog · 2 days ago

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The Ravishing (Part 3)

Summary: You've discovered a certain jar, so confront Homelander about it. He doesn't react very well. Content: Homelander x fem!Reader | established relationship | The Pube Jar(TM) | angst | hurt/comfort | nonspecific S4 timeline Word count: 1.5k Author's note: For me and my desire to give the war criminal a hug, this is the most self-indulgent section.

One Two Three Four Five

Homelander's eyes are moist and distant as you step around him and gently nudge him to sit down on the bed. For someone who can never be so much as jostled without his say-so, you noticed early on how susceptible he is to being positioned like a doll. He seems to appreciate it on one level, even if away from the realm of domesticity it drives him quietly mad.

Once he’s sat on the edge of the bed – cape swept to one side, as ever – you draw close enough to cradle his head to your chest, kissing the top of it before you thread your fingers through his hair. He lets out a whimper, the first sound he’s made for some minutes, and sags into you without resistance.

“Shh… so much pain inside that head… I know, I know it’s not fair…” you murmur, teasing out the product used to slick each strand in place.

You feel him nuzzling a home for himself between your breasts, burying his nose against your sternum. Warm air starts to bloom at your chest in steady puffs, then an equally warm dampness soaks into your shirt and skin, and finally he sniffles and wraps his arms around you once more, pulling you on to his lap.

At this proximity, with his head tucked just below yours, you can see some of his roots are a silvery grey, whilst others still hold the brown shade you’ve always been secretly curious about. A part of you wants to tell him the grey looks good – he could be a silver fox someday, if he wanted, and Vought’s marketing would have to pivot for him – but you’re loathe to make this about his brand. This is about him.

Homelander: the man currently pretending he isn’t weeping into your shirt because his body, his body, pulled the ultimate betrayal. He is the same man as the one who makes you feel as flustered as a teenager with a single, well-timed glance.

“Shh… it’s okay… I’ve got you… I love you so much…” you whisper.

If anything, this makes him weep harder.

You kiss the top of his head again, resting there as you close your eyes and will your own tears to retreat. Witnessing his turmoil won’t ever not hurt; he has too much of it for the pain not to reach you. The cameras lie when they grace him. Even so, you are more than prepared to be strong for him in the ways he cannot be.

When you’re close like this, the scent of him comforts you, helps you stay steady. It takes a lot for Homelander to break a sweat, so a neutrality – a lack of any scent – surrounds him most of the time. This lack is papered over with smells from the world he brushes up against, but these smells do not truly belong to him. Not the leather, not the ozone, not the Spandex. You’re not sure if even he knows he has a natural scent, deep in his pores, but he does.

You breathe it in now like it can get you high. It’s faint, and you’re an addict. You hold him, and so you hold the world. You feel his quivering lips kiss your chest right over your beating heart.

If Homelander were anyone else – if he was just John, and John had never become Homelander – you’d not hesitate to remind him that no one is perfect. The unchanging statues that litter the penthouse are lying to him too. He’d be better off if he could abandon the whole notion he was built to house the divine. It’s so obviously tearing him apart, follicle by follicle.

But then he tilts his head up to look at you, and his bloodshot eyes find yours. He’s resigned as he examines your expression, as though he’s expecting to be rebuked for his insecurities – for needing to be weak, as you’re sure he sees it – and you’re reminded what a slap in the face those sentiments about perfection would be. You know they’d sound like hollow lines from a PR-approved script to the man who has lived his life on a pedestal.

Instead, you slide your hands down to cradle his jaw, ignoring for his sake the way it trembles, and meet his gaze head-on. You decide to tell him a different truth, though it’s one you mean just as much.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” you whisper. “You already are perfect.”

Your voice is strained with the depth of your conviction. The effect on him is almost instantaneous. His breath catches and his face crumples as fresh, traitorous tears leak down his cheeks; it’s only second nature for you to lean in and kiss them away.

“None of the things you mentioned are flaws, you hear me? They just show you’ve lived a life, that you’ve got wisdom,” you tell him, kissing his forehead too for good measure. “Your body is always gonna be special – and I’m always gonna love it – because it’s yours, okay? I love you. I want you.”

Not for the first time, you find yourself wishing touch alone could filter through flesh and bone and quell the storm inside his head.

His eyes flutter open. They’re still shining intensely, but the sadness in them withdraws as his expression shifts once again. A small, breathless smile cracks his features, and he exhales, shaking his head.

“You’re something else,” he finally says, his voice still hoarse. There’s a sense of bewilderment in the way his brow furrows, a fragility to the upturn of his lips. You hear his tongue click. “You’re the only one – the only fucking one – who sees me. Who gets it. No one else fucking understands...”

This may be his bitterness flaring back to life, his ego reasserting itself through anger: the only emotion he knows how to embrace. Up and down; up and down. The both of you can weather it, as long as he gets it out of his system here, where it’s safe.

But he disarms you.

His pupils zero in on your mouth, his face going blank for half a second, before he bridges the gap between your bodies and captures your lips in his. He kisses you with such a ferocity, you’d think he’d been starved of you for years.

A surprised hum ends up quashed against his insistent lips, but then you’re kissing him back, natural as breathing, your fingers threading through his hair once more with invigorated urgency. You can taste the salt of his tears.

He doesn’t respond to your surprise other than by manoeuvring your body single-handedly from his lap to the bed. This pulls a second surprised, pleased noise from you – then another, when he pushes you flat against the mattress. You doubt his strength will ever stop leaving you in awe.

Groaning now you’re pinned underneath him, he deepens the kiss greedily, his tongue teasing your lips open. You’d be forgiven for mistaking his sudden show of passion as an attempt to devour you, if he hadn’t moved one hand to cradle your head so very delicately in the process.

Perhaps you could live here, between his warm body and a soft bed. Perhaps the rest of the world would cease to exist.

He only breaks away when he senses you getting breathless, but even then it’s just to press his nose to your neck, where he inhales your scent like it’s oxygen. Then he's trailing needy kisses along the column of your throat, occasionally nipping and soothing the skin in turn. You’re beginning to get lost in the sensation of him. You’ve missed this.

“H-Homelander… oh…”

“You're the only one who's worthy of me,” he practically growls against your neck. “I fucking love you. You’re mine.”

And that certainly does things to you.

The familiar throbbing starts to build between your thighs – which you actually hear him take note of with a satisfied chuckle. His head bobs up again, blue eyes darkened with lust, those pointy canines you love so much growing visible as he grins down at you. The tear tracks have dried on his face.

“What was that word you used earlier, hm?” he asks, stroking his thumb along your jaw. He’s smug, voice like honey, but you just stare at him in confusion. You can barely recall what he’s talking about through the new haze that’s descended over you both – something you’re sensing has been his intention all along. His smugness intensifies. “Oh, you know which one I mean, missy.”

No man should be able to make any string of words sound as seductive as Homelander can. You know this. When he dips close to your ear, you shiver and feel the blood rush to your cheeks pre-emptively.

“You said,” he whispers slowly, drawing your torture out, “you wanted to ravish me."

The remark returns to you now. Of course you did. Trust you to sow the seeds of your own demise.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #fanfic #homelander

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