#The homelander x reader

[solitaryearthperson]

Infatuation

Summary: What is it about you that has Homelander so infatuated?

(The reader is gender neutral. The ethnicity/race is preferably a person of color.)

Why you?

That was the million dollar question that kept going through Homelander's mind. There was nothing truly special about you. You were nothing like him and his teammates. You were - he couldn't help how hard his face cringed at the reminder - human. No Compound V or Temp V. Only regular red human blood coursing through your veins with no harmful or life-changing chemicals. Just human. Sure you were good-looking. Sure you were smart, and polite, but so were many of the other dumb, cocksucking fans he had to smile for and pretend to give a fuck about. So what made you different from them?

When did this even begin?

He couldn't really pinpoint the exact date that your beauty, poise, and civility had caught his attention. He thinks maybe a month or two ago. He could distinctly remember how pissed off he was at Ashley, not because she had did anything herself, but because she was the one delivering the bad news to him, and how that was the first day, you had spoke to him.

"What," he asked, his voice low and strict, while dripping with disbelief at what Ashley had said. He tried his hardest to keep facing the large windows of the Seven's meeting room, and keep a cool composure, his arms crossed behind his back.

"Um-um," she repeated, her mouth opening and closing, almost resembling a fish. Her green eyes widened in fear at what the Supe in front of her may do.

"Ashley," he said, his irritation at her hesitance to speak was making him even more angrier by the second. "Say that again."

"Well, I-you,...uh," she gulped and tried to speak again, her words coming out easier this time. "Your points has gone down significantly, by at least 60."

Hearing it repeated made his crystal blue eyes become engulfed in ruby red and he kept his gaze towards the windows, already sick of hearing and smelling the rank fear that was emanating from Ashley, and not wanting to make the smell worse. "How the fuck are my points down that much?"

The calmness of his voice made Ashley want to hurry and leave the room, but instead she nervously gulped down some of her fear again, and spoke, "People have not truly forgiven the Stormfront situation and the civilians that you accidentally lazered in half on the last mission made it worst. Their families and friends are all in mourning and sharing their grief online."

"Oh come on," he yelled, finally turning away from the window and seating himself in his usual seat at the large table, his face frowning in irritation. "Both of those things were fucking accidents! Stormfront is dead and those people have been dead for, what, weeks now. Almost a fucking month!"

Ignoring the harshness of his raised voice, Ashley continued, "Vought thought it could really help if you made an apology video or interview to get people back in your favor-"

"Abso-fucking-lutely not," he said, his tone stern and leaving no room for argument. "It was a fucking accident and they need to get over it already." The rage inside him was rising higher and higher and he knew that more redness was coming to his eyes the more he listened to Ashley and the bullshit that she was spouting. He was sick of having to apologize for who he is and how powerful he is.

"Mr. Edgar thinks that-"

At the very mention of his name, Homelander's fist quickly connected with the surface of the table, leaving a large crack in the glass. The sound of his fist hitting it made Ashley quickly quiet and she instantly took a deep breath in, waiting for his next words.

"Get the fuck out," he told her, closing his eyes, and laying his head back against the chair.

"Yes sir," Ashley quickly replied, rushing out.

At the time, she had quickly forgotten that you were with her, and had left you alone with the most dangerous Supe of them all.

"Mr. Homelander, sir," your voice, while small, had still interrupted the quietness that had taken over the room and was beginning to calm Homelander, and he quickly opened his eyes and looked to you, his red gaze freezing you in place.

"Who the fuck are you," he asked.

"I'm (Y/N)," you replied, nervously holding your folders and documents close to your chest. "I'm Ashley's assistant."

"And...?" Every part of his body language screamed that he was ready to murder anything right now.

"I was just gonna say that I'm sorry that you're under so much pressure," you told him, your voice still meek, but a little more confident as you see that you have kept his attention. "I'm pretty sure for a person like you, it can be hard to be like others and make mistakes."

"Exactly! Fuck! Thank you!" he suddenly exclaimed, making you slightly jump, but you quickly hid it, and returned the wide smile he threw to you, happy to see the redness from his eyes finally cool down to blue again. "No one gets how hard it is to be me. No one is ever truly grateful for what I do. Right?"

You silently nodded your head, happy to see the Supe no longer angry.

"I have to pretend to like and listen to these fucking idiots and apologize to them for helping them!" He let out an incredulous laugh at the thought of apologizing to the public again.

An idea came to you when he said that, and you quickly voiced it, "Maybe you can get their favor again without having to apologize for it."

He quickly furrowed his brows at your idea and quickly gestured for you to continue.

"Plenty of celebrities make apology videos and people always know that it's fake. Maybe you should donate money to the families of the victims instead. You won't have to make some embarrassing video or do an interview."

"A donation?"

"Yeah. Fans love when famous people donate something of theirs. Money, clothes, cars. You win the favor of fans you lost, and more."

He was silent for a second, his face full of contemplation and for a second you were scared that you had gone too far, proposing an idea like this. He might see it as an insult that an assistant was giving him advice on how to get fans. You had sworn your heart was about to beat out of your chest by his silence, but a suddenly growing smile on his face quickly calmed it.

"That is perfect! No having to grovel to those idiots."

"Would you like me to get Ashley to help set everything up?"

"Yeah! Do that! Now!"

You made your way to the door and was about to leave the room, when suddenly his voice made you stop. "Hey! What's your name, again?"

"Um, it's (Y/N)," you told him.

"(Y/N)," he repeated, liking the way it sounded on his tongue. "Thanks."

You quickly left the room after that and went to get Ashley to tell her about the idea, and you didn't know it, too naive to realize it, but Homelander had already began making a plan in his head to see you again.

That was it. That was what caught Homelander's attention. Unlike other regular people, and even other Supes, you were the one who understood the pressure he was under, who understood how great he was, how better he was. Soon after that he began making an effort to talk to you. After Ashley would report things to him, he made sure to pull you aside and make conversation, and he surprisingly found it addictive to hear your voice, whether you were talking about your day, your favorite meals, current shows you were watching, he needed to hear your voice. Every now and then, he could hear the tremble in your voice as you spoke to him, fear still running through you at the fact that you were speaking to him of all people. That tremble did things to him. He disliked hearing it as he wanted you to be comfortable around him and trust him, but at the same time, he loved hearing it, reminding himself of the immense power he had over others even when he doesn't do anything.

It wasn't long before he used this power to find your address. He found himself relieved that you lived in a pretty safe neighborhood, not wanting anything to happen to his favorite person. HIS? Yes, HIS. Just the thought of you accepting his affections, a life of being with him, of coming home to finding you ready to hear about his day and please him was already making him loose his already deranged mind, but he knew that you needed time. You needed to still be fearful of him, but at the same time, realize that he would be the best partner for you. And now as he looked at your sleeping form, he listened to the soothing beat of your heart, wishing he could lay his head upon your chest and take a deep slumber with you. Wishing he could wake up next to you, and make love to you first thing in the morning. Make love to you at Vought. Make love to you when he comes home from work. Make love to you before going to sleep. But he knew he needed to wait just a little bit longer. Not too long or else, some dumb imbecile will think they have a chance with you and he'll have to take care of them. But soon you would realize you belonged with him and no one else.

[happy74827]

Something Like Bliss

[Homelander x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Even in moments that seem serene, you can’t let yourself forget the truth of who he is, and what he’s truly capable of {GIF Creds: dilfgifs}

WC: 1714

Category: Hurt/No Comfort

After nine months, I felt another Homelander fic was necessary. Especially after seeing Antony in G20 🙊

『••✎••』

The penthouse is quiet tonight, except for the faint hum of the city below. You’re perched on the edge of the suede couch, fingers tracing the seam of a throw pillow, its fabric too perfect, too pristine, like everything else in this place. Homelander’s place.

The air smells faintly of his cologne—something sharp and expensive, like cedar and steel—and it clings to everything, including you.

You shift, your bare feet brushing the cool marble floor, and glance at the clock. He’s late. Not by much, but enough to make your stomach twist. He doesn’t like being late. Or rather, he doesn’t like anything that suggests he’s not in control.

The door hisses open, and there he is: the world’s greatest hero, Homelander, striding in like he’s stepping onto a stage. His cape sways behind him, catching the dim light of the chandelier, its red fabric almost liquid in motion.

He’s immaculate, as always—blonde hair swept back, not a strand out of place, suit pristine, the star-spangled blue clinging to his frame like it was painted on. But you notice the little things, the ones most people miss. How there was a slight tension in his jaw, a muscle ticking just below his ear. The way his gloved hands flex at his sides, fingers curling ever so slightly like he’s restraining himself from something.

His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, scan the room before landing on you, and for a split second, they’re not the warm, practiced gaze of America’s savior. They’re sharp, predatory, and assessing.

"You’re still up," he says, his voice smooth but with an edge like he’s testing you. He tilts his head just a fraction, and the light catches the faint stubble along his jaw—barely there, but enough to remind you he’s not entirely the polished god he presents to the world. There’s a humanness to him buried deep, and it’s in these moments you see it most clearly.

You nod, offering a small smile, careful not to overdo it.

"Couldn’t sleep," you say, keeping your tone light and neutral.

His eyes narrow slightly, and you wonder if he’s using that x-ray vision of his, peering through you, searching for a lie. You’ve learned to keep your heartbeat steady around him, not because you’re afraid—though you’d be a fool not to be cautious—but because he notices everything. The faintest uptick in your pulse, the slightest catch in your breath. He’s like a shark in the water, circling for blood.

He crosses the room in three long strides, his boots silent on the marble, and drops onto the couch beside you. Too close. His thigh brushes yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric of your lounge pants. You don’t move away. You’ve learned that, too. He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. It’s deliberate, that touch, a reminder of his presence, his power. His head lolls slightly, and he’s looking at you now, really looking, his gaze heavy, almost suffocating.

"You look tired," he says, but it’s not concern in his voice. It’s observation like he’s cataloging you. His eyes flick over your face—your slightly chapped lips, the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your hair falls messily over one shoulder. You feel exposed, like a specimen under a microscope, but you don’t flinch. You meet his gaze, noticing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, the blue of his irises almost swallowed by the black.

He’s intrigued, maybe even pleased, that you’re not cowering.

"Long day," you reply, keeping your voice soft but steady. You tilt your head, mirroring his posture, and let your eyes drift over him in return. The faint crease in his suit at the shoulder, where it’s been stretched just a little too tight. The way his chest rises and falls, slower than a normal man’s like he’s consciously controlling his breathing. The tiniest nick on his chin, barely visible, a remnant of some fight or stunt or god-knows-what. It’s gone by morning, always is, but right now, it’s there, a crack in the facade.

He hums, a low sound in his throat, and his fingers at the back of your neck start to move, tracing lazy circles. It’s not affectionate, not really, but it’s not threatening either. It’s possessive.

"You know, I’ve been thinking." He says, his voice dropping, softer now, almost intimate. He pauses, and you notice the way his lips twitch. But it’s not quite a smile. It’s more like he’s testing the waters. "Maybe living blissfully isn’t such a bad thing."

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning you’re not sure you want to unpack. You study him, searching for the tell. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s a glint in his eyes, a hunger that’s always there, just beneath the surface. He’s not talking about peace or contentment, not the way normal people would. He’s talking about control. He’s talking about a world where he doesn’t have to fight for it, where he can just be, and everyone—everything—falls in line, including you.

You swallow, and his eyes track the movement of your throat, a predator’s instinct.

"Blissfully?" You echo, letting the word roll off your tongue, testing it. "Like… what? No more cameras? No more Vought breathing down your neck?"

His lips curl into a smile now, sharp and a little too perfect, like a magazine cover come to life.

"Something like that," he says, but there’s a darkness in his tone, a weight. He leans closer, and you catch the faintest whiff of something metallic on him—blood, maybe, or the residue of whatever he’s been doing tonight. His gloved hand moves to your knee, and he squeezes just enough to make you aware of his strength. "You ever think about it? A life where none of this—" he gestures vaguely, the motion encompassing the penthouse, the city, the world "—matters?"

You hesitate because you know he’s not asking. He’s probing, searching for weakness, for loyalty. You notice how his shoulders are just a little too stiff, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s not sure of you, not entirely, and that’s dangerous. But it’s also an opportunity.

You lean forward, closing the distance between you, and his breath hitches—just for a fraction of a second, but you catch it.

"Maybe," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You let your hand rest on his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle beneath the suit, the steady thrum of his heart. It’s slower than yours, unnaturally so, and it reminds you of what he is. Not human, not really, but close enough to fool you if you let him. "But you’d get bored, wouldn’t you? Without the chaos?"

His laugh is sudden and sharp, and it startles you. It’s not the warm, rehearsed chuckle he gives on talk shows. It’s raw, almost unhinged, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Bored?" he repeats like the word is absurd. His hand moves from your knee to your face, cupping your chin, with his thumb brushing your lower lip. His grip is firm, not painful, but there’s no mistaking the strength behind it. "Oh, sweetheart, I’d find ways to keep busy."

The pet name is new, and it sends a shiver down your spine—not entirely unpleasant, but you’re not naive enough to think it’s genuine. You study his face, the way his eyes are locked on yours, unblinking, like he’s trying to see into your soul. The faint scar above his eyebrow is almost invisible unless you’re this close. The way his blonde lashes catch the light, too perfect. It makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

A toy? A puzzle? A threat?

You tilt your head into his touch, just enough to make him think you’re leaning into it, and his grip softens, his thumb lingering on your lip. "Bliss sounds nice," you say, keeping your voice low, almost seductive. "But you’re not the type to settle, are you?"

His smile fades, just for a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something real, something vulnerable. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that mask of confidence, but you’ve seen it now, and you file it away.

He leans back, releasing your chin, but his hand stays close, resting on your thigh, a silent tether. "Maybe I could be," he says, and it’s almost convincing, the way his voice softens, the way his eyes search yours. Almost.

You don’t push him. You’ve learned that, too. Instead, you lean back, mirroring his posture again, and let the silence stretch. The city hums below, a reminder of the world outside this bubble, but here, in this moment, it’s just you and him. His fingers tap idly on your thigh, a restless rhythm, and you notice the way his shoulders have relaxed just a fraction. He’s comfortable, or as close to it as he gets.

Maybe living blissfully isn’t such a bad thing, you think, but not in the way he means it. For you, it’s about survival, about navigating this man who could crush you without a second thought. It’s about noticing the little things—the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, the way his hands betray his restraint—and using them to stay one step ahead. Bliss, for you, is keeping him close without letting him consume you.

"You’re staring," he says suddenly, his voice teasing, but there’s an edge to it like he’s daring you to admit something. His lips quirk, and you notice the faintest dimple in his cheek, another imperfection he’d never let the cameras see.

You smile, small and careful, and shrug. "You’re worth staring at," you say, and it’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth he thinks it is.

His laugh is quieter this time, almost genuine, and he pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. You let him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the unnatural warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart.

For now, you’re safe. For now, you’re his. And maybe, if you play this right, you can stay that way.

[komotionlessqueenmm]

Incorrect Quotes

(Y/n) - My tits are awfully heavy, mind holding them for me for a while? 😏

Homelander - I think you mean my tits. 😈

(Y/n) - ...😐

Homelander - ...😅

(Y/n) - ...😐

Homelander - Please! 🥺

[lilacliquors]

kinktober day eighteen: biting / marking

pairing: homelander x reader

word count: 568

notes: happy day eighteen! this was another free for all, and today's prompt is always a possessive one. and who better to choose than homelander? hope you all enjoy <3

there was no denying you were nervous as you entered the conference room on the top floor of vought tower. you’d been called in urgently, and it could only mean one thing:

the homelander needed you specifically.

these days, that was never a good sign. a lot of the time, if someone was wanted by homelander by name, they didn’t come back, and their job was up on indeed within hours. and the mere thought of never being heard from again terrified you.

the doors slid shut behind you, and you swallowed thickly. homelander was standing by the windows, his back to you with his hands clasped. you were too scared to even open your mouth, but you didn’t have to worry about that for two long.

“so glad you came when called,” he said, his voice echoing through the room. he turned around to face you, and he was … he was smiling. but it wasn’t a warm, friendly smile. no, it was humorless, it didn’t reach his eyes, and something about it sent a chill down your spine. he beckoned you closer, and with shaky legs, you walked over, and made an involuntary sound as he set a gloved hand on your shoulder.

“it’s so good to see you again,” he said, that same smile on his lips.

“i - see me again?” you asked despite yourself. you didn’t recall seeing him around lately, or when he could have seen you. but there wasn’t much time to think about it as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, which definitely startled you.

“of course, silly. haven’t been able to get you off of my mind since,” he said, his eyes roaming your face, and then your body. 

you felt your face heat up, and your heart began to pound in your chest. if the homelander had taken interest in you, a mere vought employee, it mean that you were safe, as long as you played along.

“i’m … i’m touched, really,” you said, smiling nervously.

“i’m sure you are. you should only know how long i’ve been waiting to get my hands on you,” he said, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours. his kiss was crushing, and passionate in a strange way. you had barely any time to react, and then he pulled away, attaching his lips to your neck and kissing his way down.

your head was spinning, and your breath hitched as you felt his teeth nip at your skin. you felt his grip tighten around you, his gloved fingers digging into yours sides. he began to suck at your skin, leaving behind a hickey, and then another, and another. your skin was soon littered with them, and your head was spinning. he held you upright, keeping your body pressed firmly against his, and his fingers gently trailed over your marked skin.

“now that looks beautiful,” he whispered, his head tilting slightly.

“i … thank you?” you muttered, still in a bit of a daze. you heard him chuckle, and he gently tilted your head up, his finger tucked under your chin.

“you’re welcome. now, go on, back to work. show everyone who you belong to,” he said, letting you go and walking out, leaving you on your own in the conference room, still confused as to what had happened.

show everyone who you belong to …

fuck.

[bethsvrse]

me when writing

[nanamiskentos]

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条 悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

[cinnamoodles]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[mommy-mortis]

Me acting surprised when, I become attracted to the most vile unredeemable villain, again.

[lanae111]

When he’s a red flag but you need him

[dollerinna]

I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .

( black noir x fem supe!reader )

summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)

warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’

first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!

The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.

Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.

A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.

On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.

It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.

Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.

Ugh, talk about creepy.

A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.

Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.

But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.

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“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”

It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.

An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.

Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.

And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.

Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.

He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.

After all, good girls should never cuss.

Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.

He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.

Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?

Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.

Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.

Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)

Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.

Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.

With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.

“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.

Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.

Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.

Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.

Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.

He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.

The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.

However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.

─────────────────

Meanwhile…

“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.

“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.

As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.

“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.

True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.

Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.

Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.

Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.

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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭

[ghostinthemach1ne]

currently mourning homelander’s season 1 hair

[ml080504]

somebody: what do you like about men twice your age?

me: where do i start?

[writerstruggle]

i don't know what canon is. just tumblr and ao3 ❤️

[lovedeathalice]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride. Morning, noon, and night, he can pump me full and turn me into his own personal Supe making factory

[lilacliquors]

hi, can you write Homelander healthily competing with the baby for reader's milk? Actually just him wanting to be fed along with his son bc he's a baby too 🥺

he doesn't exactly stare when you breastfeed your son, he knows that would be rude. you're already a little self conscious of your body as it is, and as much as he loves your body and the amazing things it's done for him, you can't help but still feel shy.

however, you noticed him hovering. any time you went to feed your son, didn't matter if you were sitting in the kitchen, the living room, your bedroom, homelander was always nearby. he would check in on you, see if you needed anything to eat or drink, but you noticed his eyes would always linger on your breasts.

one night was especially eye opening. after finally getting the baby to sleep, you were relaxing in your room, and homelander came in to lay with you. and as he settled in beside you, he took one look at your chest, and slowly brought a hand up to massage one of your breasts. it caught you off guard, but the feeling was so nice, something you needed after a long day. and as your eyes fluttered shut, he left small kisses around your other breast.

"it's nice when you share, him?" you heard him ask, and you chuckled, bringing a hand to his hair as he licked and sucked at your sensitive nipple. and as he gave them special attention, an idea popped into your head.

the next afternoon, you were preparing to feed your son again, and you could feel him hovering again. you smiled to yourself, and shrugged off your shirt completely before calling for your husband. he poked his head into the room, and you beckoned him over with one finger. you swore you could see his eyes light up, and he made his way over, settling himself in a lower position, and as you fed your baby, your beautiful baby boy, homelander suckled on your other breast, being extra gentle near his pride and joy.

[sp1der-wid0w]

guys.. i have a problem 🤦🏾‍♀️