#homelander x original character

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 8 )

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: After the disastrous spectacle that was Homelander's birthday celebration, America's "disgraced" hero is forced to reconcile with the demons in his head, and what that means for Layla, the woman standing precariously in their path.

additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, threats of violence, themes of abuse, canon deviation. 🖤

Sleep is a scarcity. Homelander fades in and out of consciousness, but he never truly rests. It’s strange to sleep somewhere he can't see the comfort of his own gaze endlessly mirrored back at him. Those mirrors make the world so much bigger, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind how small it is. What would normally be a dark, claustrophobic thing is now a great deal safer than the open expanse of a stage.

Layla’s warmth and the faint weight of her arm around him is the only thing that keeps him somewhat tethered. Her heartbeat is a steady metronome against his back, her breaths warmly ghosting over his neck and shoulder. It’s been hours, but it feels too soon when the covers move on his skin as she readjusts in her sleep, pulling her arm from him. He lifts the blanket and rolls to face her. 

She’s turned away from him, her dark hair fanned out in a wild splay on the pillow beneath her. Light from the unsleeping city spills in through the window, illuminating her figure. It’s strange to see her sleeping in day clothes and not the sleepwear he’s used to seeing her in. She didn’t have the time to change tonight. She was too busy taking him back into her arms, into her bed, into her life. He brushes his knuckles down between her shoulder blades, the disheveled silk of her blouse soft beneath his fingers.

He’ll find out why Starlight’s scent is lingering on her when she wakes.

Sliding closer to her, he flattens his palm over her hip and noses at the line of her throat, inhaling deeply, chasing the scent beneath shampoo and lotion until he finds what’s simply her. Her wine flush has followed her into sleep, her skin warmer than usual. She responds to his touch with a sleepy sigh of pleasure. Even now, the sound of her voice does so much to quiet the storm in his heart. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face into the soft tresses of her hair, gritting his teeth against the urge to squeeze too tight. 

The urge to keep. 

The urge to break it all apart and let the storm rage. Instead, he keeps himself perfectly still, trying to swallow the thrumming energy coiling in his tense muscles. End this, the darkness in him hisses, tempting him. How many days has he resisted the urge to reach out, not with his hands but with this thing inside him, and ruin everything? Everyone? A flash of crimson is all it would take to cleave this world in half.

But he can’t afford to. Not then, not now.

The only way he made it out of the cold isolation of the lab, far away from the bad room, was by convincing the staff, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was good. He was their perfect man-made hero. Logically, he knows they can’t ever put him back in the bad room. He’d never let them. It doesn’t stop the nightmares.

He folds in on himself, doing his best to forget that he even has power to wield against others—a whim as sharp as glass. Now, just as then, he orders his body and mind to still, to calm.

If Layla had stayed yesterday morning, things would have been different. His tightly controlled grip on her hip flexes minutely. How can she sleep so deeply knowing that she’s ruined him?

What was she doing with Starlight?

The inkling of a deeper betrayal slithers into his mind. He slides his hand up the length of her torso, traversing the familiar scape of her body, and into her hair, coiling his fingers into a gentle fist of it. One twist is all it would take to quiet her soothing voice forever. Would hair ever feel the same to him again, or would it start to smell like burning tears and cornea? The stench of grief hits him so suddenly that his eyes sting with it, and he recoils from Layla like he himself has been burned.

Has she been scheming against him all along, too?

Fucked. He’s so completely and entirely fucked.

He exhales harshly, curling his hand into a tight fist and biting into the meaty curve just below his thumb, muffling a tearful keen. He can’t think back to that morning without reliving how horribly it went wrong, and how the dominos just continued to fall until he was losing his senses in front of the entire world.

Those moments on stage play over and over in his mind, but each instance of them grows more warped than the last. He’s starting to forget what he really said, conflating memories with nightmares. How much of himself did he really let slip? How ugly does the world think him to be now? 

He can see the headlines now.

Homelander: America’s Fallen Hero

Homelander: Vought’s Poster Boy Throws a Tantrum

Homelander: Deranged Freak Snaps On Stage

He’s spiraling worse than he did during Stormfront’s smear campaign against him. It isn’t just dissenting opinions and slander—he’s finally given them real ammunition to use against him. The question is: how much, and how will he refute it? He needs to be able to recover from this.

His voice of reason is treacherously quiet. Nothing but the dreadful echo of I warned you.

With his thoughts twisting in on themselves like a pit of angry, writhing snakes, he finds it impossible to stay still any longer. His whole body is plagued with a restlessness that turns into agony. Carefully, he extracts himself from Layla’s side and slips out of her bed. He needs to see it for himself. He needs to understand the degree of damage that’s been done to him.

Stepping out into her living room, Homelander picks up the remote for her television and flips it on, dropping the volume to such a miniscule level that he’ll be the only one to hear it. He lowers himself down onto the couch and stares, watching his body move and speak, seemingly puppeteered by someone other than himself, operating in ways he’s never seen himself behave in front of a camera before.

“I’m done being persecuted for my strength–”

Erratic.

“Persecuted for my strength–”

Unhinged.

“Persecuted–”

Alive.

If they want to take us down, we’re going to take every last one of them down with us.

The sky is just barely beginning to turn with dawn’s light when Layla wakes to a chill that rolls up her spine. Her bed feels colder than it has any right to, and as the fractured events of last night spill back into her mind, it doesn’t take her long to figure out why. 

Homelander—who knows if he’ll accept that name yet—is nowhere to be seen.

Her temples throb with the aftermath of emptying a hefty bottle of wine as she lifts herself from bed, running her hands through her hair, breaking apart the tangles with her fingers.

The breadcrumb trail of Homelander’s suit leading from her balcony to her bed tells her that he hasn’t left. The image of him streaking through the sky in the nude does occur to her, though. Straightening her borrowed blouse and tucking it back into the waist of her skirt, she steps lightly through the dark of her apartment, head on a swivel, until she spots her quarry.

Reclined on her couch, Homelander paints an image somewhere between a renaissance painting and a billboard for depression, his body illuminated by the flashing light of the television. His expression is morose, his hand sitting on the couch next to him at an angle, the remote tilted in his loose grasp. As she approaches, he begins tapping on the volume until his own recorded voice fills the empty space between them.

It’s his tirade from last night.

“Hey, babe,” he drawls from the couch, voice pitched low and despondent. The way he pops each consonant makes the pet name sound downright derogatory. “So, what’s the verdict?” He asks, lazily gesturing to the television with the remote. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” His gaze slides from the screen to her, his head lolling to the side with it.

Any concern or lingering sleepiness in her face is swiftly replaced with bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“‘Excuse me?’” He mocks, pitching his voice up condescendingly. Her expression hardens as he stands, the remote bouncing along the couch cushions where he tosses it. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing anything with you,” she responds tersely. She’s never been a morning person. Compound that with the ache in her skull and the naked pain in the neck standing in front of her, she’s not feeling her usual bounty of patience. Last night, he was a weepy, sopping mess. Now she doesn’t know what to expect from the tight line of his shoulders, or the agitated curl of his upper lip. “I have no idea what it is you think you’re picking at.”

“Since when are you and Starlight pals, then?” He hisses through his teeth.

Shit. Annie. She never sent that text.

“Since yesterday,” she answers, her calm stretched thin. “She saw me at the elevator. She offered a shower and a change of clothes. That’s all.” She doesn’t find it necessary to explain why Starlight might have offered such a thing. He knows exactly how she looked when she left his penthouse, bruised and disheveled.

The memory looks to serve as a crisp slap, some level of clarity filtering into the incensed glaze of his eyes. His grip flexes, and he bares his teeth in an animalistic flash of frustration. He isn’t willing to accept fault for that yet.

“Stop fucking lying to me!” He snaps, the sudden jump in volume startling her. He advances on her sharply, halting her step backwards with an iron grip, his palm against her throat, his thumb and index finger notching perfectly behind the curve of her jaw below her ears. The contact is minimal, and yet the strength in those two fingers alone is more than enough to hold her firmly in place. 

“You’re all the fucking same! Agendas, lies, all of you trying to control me, use me, and you—you’re exactly the fucking same. You’ve taken everything from me,” he snarls. Despite his fervor, his grip remains remarkably controlled. Sometimes it’s as if his mind and his body are two independent entities: one an unstable, emotionally malnourished psyche, and the other a finely tuned weapon.

The human mind wants dangerous things to be ugly, but even now, Homelander’s twisted, angry expression is not an ugly thing. Though adrenaline surges the thrum of her heart, it isn’t laden with the fear any reasonable person would have. The thrill coursing through her isn’t rooted in some comfort that he won’t hurt her. It’s the knowledge that he—more devastating than any man she’s ever known—absolutely will if not handled correctly.

It’s like holding a thundering storm in her bare hands.

Layla stares wide-eyed and astonished, so thoroughly unaware of what he’s accusing her of that she struggles to speak around the hard lump in her throat. He leans closer yet, clutching her with all the same strength, tenderness and menace of the ocean cradling a ship.

“I killed her,” he whispers, the words passing between them like a confession to God himself. He’s so near, she could rest her forehead against his if she wanted. “I killed her for lying to me. I’ll kill you, too.”

Madelyn Stillwell. The name returns to her like a ghost, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Or was it Stormfront? The unnamed mother of his child? One was the victim of a domestic terrorist, one committed suicide, and the third is yet undetermined. All of them are apparent casualties of Homelander’s turbulent presence in their lives. Is she to be the fourth in a string of tragedies? Rage swells so suddenly in her heart that she almost chokes on the fire of it. What right does he have to interrogate her and  threaten her?

“Are you glad?” She asks, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hand holding his wrist in turn. “Are you glad to have killed her?”

His expression flips as if he’s been struck, crinkled brows shooting up. “What?”

“Will you be glad to have killed me?” She asks tightly, her nails biting ineffectual crescents into his titanium flesh. Her tone is sharp and no longer meant to soothe. She speaks to cut. “Or will you just be even more alone?”

Like hers, his eyes turn glassy. “No,” he says softly. She doesn’t know if that’s an answer or a plea.

“Let me go,” she tells him firmly, fighting to hold onto the fires of her own indignant anger. His abrupt flashes of softness and vulnerability compromise her resolve.

“Go where, Layla?” He snaps, suddenly loud again. His broken desperation and seething anger make his voice reedy. “Where the fuck could you go that I wouldn’t still feel you? Kill you, fuck you, love you; you’re in my fucking head!”

You’re all the fucking same!

She isn’t dead, but he’s treating her like a ghost nonetheless. As if she’s already one of the many specters haunting him.

“You love me?” She asks him, snatching that precarious lifeline out of the messy slurry of his words. She’s not sure that he knows the meaning of it. 

Does she?

The tension in Homelander’s face goes slack, stricken to hear those words fall from her lips. His mouth opens and closes as he tries and fails to form the right words. It’s too vulnerable to say yes, and too complicated to say no. Ultimately, he can’t bear to answer first.

“Do you love me?” He asks, defensive, as if she were the one who brought the terrifying gravity of love into the equation in the first place. The weight of it turns her tongue to lead.

There’s an adolescent sense of fumbling in this moment that would be endearing if he were not clutching her jaw with inhuman strength, the whispered promise of her death hanging over them like a creaky guillotine. In another life, this could have been a very sweet confession.

“Do you?” He prompts her again, desperate. He cups the back of her head with his other hand, taking a step closer. His chest bumps her forearms where she has them tightly braced, hands clamped tightly over his wrist. It’s a meager barrier to uphold, but she does so steadfastly. His hold on her is suffocating, his agonized ocean eyes filling up her vision. He’s larger than life, leaving space for little else in her life ever since he crashed into it.

Even when he’s gone, she is consumed by him like a fever that refuses to be sweated out. When her career first began, she knew well enough not to entertain superhumans. It wasn’t a bias she held against them per se, but the opposite: she knew from the start that she would become intoxicated on the danger of them. Homelander is the epitome of everything she’s ever been too afraid to let herself love. He’s the first person to ever be enough of a risk to scare her, and enough of a reward to satiate her. She can feel her destruction lurking in him just as plainly as her parents found their own in their shared thrill seeking.

“I want to,” she whispers, a secret she’s denied even to herself until now. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”

He exhales roughly, something like hope softening the tension in his expression before he screws his eyes shut, another wave of agony contorting his features. His forehead thumps gently against hers. “I don’t know—I don’t know how else to be. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make it easy.”

Finally, he releases her jaw from the snare of his grip, only to take either side of her face between his hands, pulling away to look at her. He’s always been younger than her in a multitude of ways, but in this moment, the agonized youth in his eyes takes her breath away. “I was—I was made to be loved. I was supposed to be everyone’s hero. They poked and prodded me, manufactured me in a-a fucking lab to be perfect, but no one—”

Layla’s eyes widen, her heart seized. What?

Homelander bares his teeth like a wounded animal, breath hissing in and out of his clenched teeth as tears roll down his cheeks. “But no one does, no one fucking does, no one loves me,” he says through his teeth, nearly choking on the words. “I don’t understand how to make it easy, Layla,” he sobs, hands shaking on either side of her face. She can’t tell if it’s from sheer emotion, or the restraint it takes not to crush her between them.

“So just—tell me what I need to do, please,” he begs her, devastatingly beautiful in the same way the sprawling webbing of a shattered mirror is. “Tell me how to be easy to love.”

Breathless, Layla stands there with her heart bleeding so freely, so painfully, that she swears there’s warm blood soaking onto the pristine white blouse she wears.

There is a monster in Homelander. At times, she can feel the claws of it in his grip on her. Hear it growling in her ear. When it comes to handling monsters, banishment is always the remedy. Slay the beast, free the man. Homelander’s monster is not so easily felled, nor is she certain it should be. He was not born with sharp teeth and claws. From what she’s gathered, they were filed into fine points long before he was a man.

People like to think of the monster within them as an outside force. Corruption, propaganda, the devil. Layla has spent enough time in bed with people’s deviance to know better. The proverbial devil is not outside of humanity, but embedded deep within It cannot be safely extracted any more than a beating heart can.

But corruption isn’t a heart—it’s a stomach. 

It craves and yearns, it twists and aches and growls when hungry. Just as Eve ate of the apple, humans take bites of sin to satiate their monster. Like people, monsters come in a wide variety of shapes, temperaments, and cravings. Some beasts can be satisfied with a nibble here and there. Others require more. Some never learned how to know when they’re full.

After all he has been deprived of, Homelander may never be truly satisfied, but does that mean he doesn’t deserve to be fed at all?

No, Layla thinks. It doesn’t.

Both of their faces are streaked wet with tears as they hold one another’s gazes. Gingerly, she brings her own hands up to cup his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. “Okay,” she whispers, afraid her own voice of reason will hear her. “Okay, my darling.”

Relief helps smooth the crease between his brows, but it doesn’t dissipate entirely. “Say it,” he urges her, the hands still upon her face giving the faintest nudge. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” she says, teary and quiet, but with conviction. She leans in, and he allows her to, no longer holding her firmly in place for fear that she might suddenly vanish. “I love you,” she says again, a promise that ghosts his lips. He shudders. “I love you. You’re in my head,” she says, echoing his own words back at him. Her lips brush against his in a not-quite kiss. “You were from the start.”

He exhales a pained, keening sound, pushing his fingers into her hair and pulling her deep into a feverish kiss. His hunger for her is voracious, and his desire is a force she might not withstand—not by virtue of its violence, but because of its sheer magnitude. He kisses her fiercely, one arm slipping around her middle to keep her body from bowing under the weight of his love.

“I love you, too,” he breathes, the relief in his voice palpable. She takes the air of it into her lungs like it might save her. “I love you so fucking much.”

It’s dangerous, she knows, to trick herself into believing she can satiate his mountainous hunger. Danger is like an ice bath, though. You grow accustomed to the bite of it.

Morning light creeps slowly into Layla’s condo. Homelander trails her as closely as her own shadow, breathing in against the crook of her neck while she cooks breakfast. He’s partially dressed in his undershirt and underwear, his suit folded neatly upon her vanity for the time being. It’s nice to feel his arms around her without the obstructive padding of his suit. Without the bulk of it, she fits more closely against him, his superhuman warmth like a particularly cuddly space heater pressed against her back.

“One egg or two?” She asks him, plucking one from the container on the counter.

“Mmm… Two,” he says, the deliberation making it sound more like a trivia answer than a preference.

She cracks four eggs into the pan, one at a time. “Over easy, medium, hard…?”

He grins against her neck, and she gives his hand at her hip a playful little swat with the back of her silicone spatula. “I dunno,” he says, nuzzling her. “However you like it.”

“Have you never had eggs before?” She asks, looking back at him. 

He’s got his chin propped up on her shoulder. His gaze flickers up from the sizzling pan to meet hers. “Just scrambled.”

…I was made… manufactured in a fucking lab…

She swallows a small lump in her throat, turning back to the eggs. She flips them all over easy and plates them with the toast. When she takes the toast off of the plates and begins slicing them into strips, Homelander makes an inquisitive noise.

“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, shooing him to the table as she plates their breakfasts and carries them to the table.

Homelander sits, and she sets his plate down in front of him. She sits on the adjoining corner to his, but within seconds he has a grip on her seat. The chair legs groan as he slides her closer to him, smiling at her look of surprise. “That’s better,” he says, his knee bumping hers.

He’d likely prefer she be in his lap. There’s always a lingering sense that she’s never quite close enough, even when they’re pressed tightly against one another. He might not be satisfied until he finds a way to open her up and crawl inside.

Huffing a small laugh, she gestures to his plate. “Use the toast sticks to break the yolk,” she tells him, and then demonstrates on her own meal, jabbing a piece of toast into the soft yellow yolk, coating it properly before taking a bite.

Blinking, Homelander does the same. He hums appreciatively, nodding with a mouthful of food.

“My gramma insisted that all food tastes better when it’s dipped. She always made my breakfasts this way,” she explains, her smile tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. “I can’t remember the last time I did it for myself.” 

Silence follows. She glances up to find Homelander staring intently at his plate, a cut of toast pinched between his fingers, dripping yolk back down onto the egg. Layla takes a breath to speak, but that inhale is all it takes to snap him from his thoughts, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers.

“Ryan would like this, I think,” he says. She can tell he’s working to keep his voice conversational.

“Ryan?” She echoes, though it clicks a second after she says it.

“My son,” he confirms, clearing his throat gently. She shares his trepidation as he enters this particular topic of conversation, considering the fallout the last time it was broached. He dips the toast again and takes another bite, seemingly buying time with deliberate chews.

Layla bites her tongue, choking back her own knee-jerk response. She likes children just fine, in theory. She’s had very little practical experience. Still, words of unbidden advice bubble up on her tongue as if she’s an expert. She wants to tell Homelander to go to the boy, talk to him. He told her that she had taken everything from him, presumably referring to his very public meltdown, but that isn’t true in a number of ways. He has a son out there somewhere, confused and without either of his parents.

It sets a sympathetic churn in her gut. Grieving her own parents as a child made an adult of her far too soon. She may not have raised any children herself, but she can speak as a child who was left behind.

“He’s nine. He’s strong,” Homelander continues tentatively. “I mean, really strong. Strong like me,” he says, pride underlining each word, driving out the hesitance. “He’s so much like me. I never thought I’d see it, but he’s real. He’s—” he breaks into a small, incredulous laugh. “—He’s a miracle. A real, born miracle.”

Unlike you, she surmises from his tone. He said that Vought had made him. The world has been rocked by the revelation that supes are the result of Vought’s pharmaceutical ventures, but the way Homelander talks of his son makes him sound different. An exception to that fact, somehow.

“You should go to him,” she encourages, still holding onto a level of cautiousness on the matter. “I was left behind by my parents. I don’t wish it on anyone.”

“I didn’t leave him behind,” Homelander corrects sharply. She was right to tread lightly. “He left me,” he says, though he doesn’t speak with anger so much as he does woundedness. He’s never expressed anything but love—bordering on reverence—for his son, and yet he has completely roadblocked himself from reaching out.

It’s complicated, he told her before.

“He’s nine. It’s not his job to uncomplicate things or bridge the gap,” she says as gently as she can muster, though even she can hear the weariness in her own voice. “It’s yours. He needs you to be the adult, to help the world make sense. It’s one thing to give him space, but you can’t abandon him.”

At first, there is a flash of petulant defiance in Homelander’s eyes, obvious in the tight set of his jaw. To Layla’s relief, however, it fades into quiet consideration. He looks back down to his half-finished plate.

“You can’t take personally what anyone, much less a child, does out of grief,” she says softly, reaching out to put her hand atop his where it rests on the table. “Ryan needs wisdom. Support. People who love him. He needs his father.”

He looks up at her with a level of vulnerability in those ocean blue eyes that never fails to pull her into the depths. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says firmly. To this day, she can’t imagine what she wouldn’t do for just one more day with her own father. 

Slowly, the wateriness of his gaze becomes a sparkle. Homelander smiles. He has as many smiles as an ice cream shop has flavors, and this one says he’s just had an idea.

“What?” Layla asks after a beat, an edge of suspicion to her tone.

“Nothing,” he says placatingly. His smile shifts. She knows that flavor of smile. That one means he’s lying. “Just relieved is all. Could I use your phone?”

It’s a wonder the ease with which Homelander glides from mood to mood, as if he puts each one neatly in a box before he takes out the next one. Layla only hesitates for a second before she nods, sliding out of her chair to go and fetch her cellphone. She still needs to text Annie.

“Jesus,” she says softly, staring at her screen with a deep crease in her brow.

“What?” Homelander asks, leaning in his seat.

She has thirty missed calls, and about as many text messages.

THIS IS ASHLEY BARRET. HAVE YOU SEEN HOMELANDER? IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS, PLEASE CONTACT ME. PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS. MISS ALDEN PLEASE CONTACT ME AND ONLY ME IF YOU HAVE SEEN HOMELANDER. IF YOU CAN PLEASE INFORM HOMELANDER HE IS UP.

Ashley Barret. Layla recalls the name from Homelander’s initial booking. She had been the one to handle the details and arrange payment.

“Ashley Barret is very desperate to find you,” she says, reading the texts as she walks back towards him. ���She says that you’re… up.” She stops at the table, looking at him. “What does that mean?”

The chair legs scrape audibly against the floor when Homelander stands up. “Give me that,” he says, taking the phone from her outstretched hand. His expression pinches tightly as he scrolls through the messages, lips parted. “I’m… up,” he says slowly, processing the words that mean nothing to Layla. With a tap, she hears a dial tone. Homelander holds the phone to his ear.

“Miss Alden–” answers a feminine voice immediately.

“What do you mean I’m up?” Homelander interrupts, a harshness to his voice that Layla doesn’t expect to hear outside of an argument.

“21 points with your base,” Ashley says breathlessly.

Homelander’s expression softens, becoming wonder-like. “What did you say?”

“21 points. They loved your speech!”

He looks at Layla, familiar glassiness returning to his eyes. He lifts his loose hand, which curls slowly into a fist, as if he’s taking hold of something precious, some nebulous concept of grace he had thought lost. 

“A massive 44% uptick with white males in the Rust Belt.”

“Yes,” Homelander hisses through his teeth, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Fuck yes! Yes!” With that same hand, he suddenly takes hold of the back of Layla’s neck, pulling her into a deep kiss. Her noise of surprise is muffled against his lips, his tongue a slick demand on hers.

“They’re saying you’re confident and unapologetic!” Ashley’s voice continues to prattle from the phone, though Layla’s finding it hard to pay attention with the way Homelander’s taking a fistful of her hair, bowing her back, kissing her hungrily. “That you’re not afraid to be yourself!”

He outright moans against her lips. She breaks away from him with a gasp, hand pressed against her chest. “Should I give you a moment alone with Ashley?” She asks breathlessly, only half-joking. The man is absolutely alight against her, heat radiating in his touches. The news trips an alarm bell somewhere in the back of Layla’s mind, but she’s struggling to process it in the wake of his voraciousness.

“Christ, no,” he says. The phone hits the ground with a clatter, Ashley’s confused voice continuing distantly on the line. He cups both sides of Layla’s face and pulls her back in, exhaling a pleased little growl against her lips. “Did you hear? They love me. They fucking love me,” he says between kisses, breathless and downright giddy.

Drawing back, he strokes her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs, his smile broad, eyes shining with relief, joy, and something Layla can’t quite place, though it causes a small knot to form in her gut.

“They want me to be myself.”

[whereismymindnow]

I have inspiration for a new version of my OC!Harper (The Siren) and Homelander.

Watch this space.

Previous Harper/Siren work here.

[mrsdesade]

Control;

Pairing: Homelander x fem!super (Ophera as usual) TW: NSFW, smut, sub!Homelander, praise, teasing, aftercare Words count: 2,3k Note: literally a pwp, when the voices obligates you to write something different more spicy than usual

You thought you could leave, but his voice ordered suggested you to stay a little longer. To sin again. In the private swimming pool he had built in his apartment. Only because, after months, he learned that you loved taking hot baths after missions.

This time, after another demonstration of the fact that he could do whatever he wanted with your body, you decided to act bolder, ignoring his words, elegantly. Standing up from the water and walking towards the marble steps.

''You're not the only one who can do whatever he wants here. You had fun? Very well. But I'm leaving.''

''Ah, so you think you're in charge now?''

You're disobeying, you're going against his orders. He's not a fan of being challenged, he can't deny the thrilling feeling of your rebelliousness.

"Not yet, but what If I'm feeling more brave than usual?"

You came back, still standing in front of him, but he doesn't move from his position, sitting comfortably and smiling at you. You move a hand in his direction and softly touch his chin with a light gesture, moving a little his face in your direction.

There's a certain vulnerability in his expression as you move his face towards you. His eyes lock onto yours, the usual arrogance momentarily replaced with a hint of curiosity.

"Careful, doll. Don't push your luck too far."

You smiled a little, sitting on his lap once again in that long night, inside the hot water of the bathtub, and moving slowly close to his face. Showing no fear, the adrenaline of playing that dangerous game with him makes you feel alive. You know you're the only one, at the moment, that can handle him.

"You always say that, but in the end, we just end up fucking all night. You need to move on to something more creative, or I might get bored."

That dangerous last phrase, lips a few millimeters from his, just because you wanted, not thinking about the consequences, you never did. What a terrible mistake.

As you sit back on his lap, he can feel the thrill coursing through his veins. There's surprise in his eyes. He tries to keep his composure, but your words send a shiver down his spine.

"You little minx, you really think you're invincible, don't you?“

He grips the edge of the bathtub, knuckles turning white. The tension in the air is electric.

You remained still, trying to don't flinch and don't esitate, trying to be more in control of the situation. Everything is just a test, a dangerous test to see If you can keep him under control.

"Little minx, doll, etc All nicknames. I have a name, Homelander. Use it."

You ordered, pushing his patience even more. He grabs your waist, pulling you closer, until your bodies press against each other. His fingers digging into your skin as he tries to control the situation. He looks up at you with dark, fiery eyes, almost challenging your audacity.

"Oh, you want me to use your name? Is that it? You want me to remember you're more than just my pretty little toy?"

Your hands run before on his chest, then on his neck and at the end, on his blonde hair. At the beginning is just a caress, but suddenly you grab his scalp and move him in your direction with a firm movement.

"Am I really just a toy to you? A little fragile and useless toy? Really really really?"

You say in a low tone, your voice is sexy, melodic, the voice of a manipulator. Oh damn, you're really pushing him over the edge.

Homelander's breath hitches as you grab a handful of his hair, his body responding to your touch immediately. The pain from your grip is oddly thrilling, and he can't help but feel a rush of excitement coursing through him. He's absolutely not used to being dominated like this.

"What do you want me to say? That you're special? Unique? Are you looking for me to boost your confidence, Ophera?"

"Special? Unique? Oh dear, tell me something I don't know."

You purred at his ear, trying to make him shiver. To make shiver the most powerful and dangerous man on Earth. Your grip on his hair is firm, you can clearly feel his body under yours responding clearly.

That mixture of pain and desire is perfect to ignite his fire.

A low growl escapes Homelander's throat as you whisper in his ear, your voice sending a shiver down his spine. He can feel himself responding to your touch, his body betraying him, showing his desire for you.

"You really know how to tease, don't you?"

You sighed dramatically, since he's not giving what you're so kindly asking, you decided to play even more with him. Trying something more effective.

You moved on his naked lap, while he's waiting for an answer, with a decisive gesture, unexpectedly, you let him entering in you. Your eyes are fixed on his, to see every single reaction from him.

"So what about this method? This isn't teasing at all."

His blue eyes widen in shock as you unexpectedly guide him inside you, a mix of surprise and pleasure overtaking his features. He can't help but let out a gasp, his body tensing up at the sudden and overwhelming sensation.

"Ngh... F-fuck. What are you doing?"

He can barely speak, his voice strained and raspy as he struggles to control his reaction. His grip tighten, holding onto you like a lifeline.

"Just trying to be convincing.''

You smile, as mischievously as you've ever been with him, your movements are slow, absolutely intentional. Looking at him surprised by your actions. The grip you have on his hair has loosened a little. And you started caressing his cheeks, mixing pleasure and a mischievous care.

This time, you're in control.

"You're... playing dirty..."

"Of course I am, and I've just started.''

And then you add your last weapon, neck kisses. Delicate and sublime. Subtle and whispered kisses on his sensitive neck. Last shot to drive him mad.

Homelander's resolve crumbles completely under your touch, his body shuddering at the sensation of your lips on his neck. He can no longer hold back the low, shaky moans escaping his throat. He closes his eyes, unable to resist the wave of pleasure washing over him.

"Ah, f-fuck you..."

"Oh no, no no, don't say such bad words to me..."

You turn one of your kisses on his neck into a sharp bite. Interested in leaving a mark on his perfect skin. You've never stopped moving your hips, tormenting him so well. Just to get an answer. Just to feel in control. All just to assert dominance in him for a couple of minutes.

He gasps sharply, his body arching involuntarily at the unexpected sensation.

"F-fuck. Damn, don't y-you dare to stop..."

He grits his teeth, his breath coming in ragged gasps as you continue to torment him with that pleasure. He's struggling to hold onto his control, but you're driving him to the edge.

"Come on admit that I'm more than a toy for you. Or you can trust me, I'll stop on the best part."

His usual dominance is now melting away under your onslaught, you can feel it, his greedy body is already at your command, and even his proud mind is slowly getting caught in your trap of pleasure.

"You… you're more than that, ok?"

Homelander's voice is strained, his usual arrogance slowly cracking as you continue to torment him. He's frustrated, but so overwhelmed by the sensation of you moving on top of him. He looks at you with a mixture of arousal and irritation.

"You have what you wanted. Now give me what I want."

"You can do better than that, pretty boy. Give me what I want."

You've slowed down your movements, he feels the pleasure slipping away, his only way to get what he wants: is to obey you.

He lets out a frustrated groan as you slow down your movements again, denying him the release he's craving. He knows what you want, and he's clearly torn between his desire to resist and his impatient need.

"Damn it, you're really going to make me beg, aren't you?”

He grits his teeth. He hates being in this position. But the desire to satisfy his carnal desires is too strong.

"Fine. You win. You're...not a toy. You're...y-you're..."

"You're struggling baby, but you're so close. It's easy. Finish your sentence. And I'll give you what you want so badly."

You're talking with a gentle but mischievous tone, caressing his face, being caring and dominant at the same time. You move on him only when he's speaking, bringing him so close to the edge.

His body trembling under your touch. He's struggling to find the words you want to hear, and his usual arrogant composure is now replaced by pure devotion to you.

"Y-you're... something more. You're...different. I can't... I can't ignore you even if I...I want to..."

He looks at you with pleading eyes, his voice shaky as he speaks.

"Please, give me what I want. I can't stand it anymore..."

You looked at him with a satisfied smile, finally feeling that you win against him this time. You felt incredibly powerful.

"Oh, you've no idea how much knowing this makes happy. You've been so good baby. So damn good..."

Your tone is sarcastic but some sort of caring and romantic. You give him another caress, and then you decide to gave him the reward for being so obedient. You purred at his ears and started moving more faster, letting him holding you to reach his final pleasure.

He lets out a guttural moan as you begin to move faster. His eyes flutter closed, lost in the flood of sensations coursing through his body. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his ragged breaths hot against your skin.

"Oh god... please don't... don't stop. I...I can't hold it any longer..."

"Let go, release yourself. That pleasure, is all for you."

Your legs are trembling as well because of his movements under you, but this isn't the moment to flinch. You remained still and in control. Whispering lovely things to him. Like the most gentle love he ever had.

Your whispered words and comforting touch send continues shivers down his spine, adding to the already intense sensations building within him.

"I... I need... you... f-fuck..."

You gasp softly. He caught you by surprise with that last sentence, you definitely didn't expect that from him. Getting a slight emotional kick from it, his words hit your heart in an unexpected way. And you can feel a single shiver of pleasure run down your spine, stronger than the other. But you don't have much time to realize.

Homelander feels your body shudder in response, but he's too far gone to pay it much mind. He's completely lost in the moment, his mind and body consumed by the intense moment. His body shakes violently as the pleasure reaches its peak, a strangled cry escaping his lips as he finally reaches his release. His arms wrap tightly around you, holding you close against him as if you were his lifeline in the midst of the overwhelming sensations.

He buries his face in your neck once again, his body still trembling with aftershocks as he tries to catch his breath.

"...you've certainly got a knack for being… persuasive."

A calm silence hangs in the air for a brief moment, the only sound being the steady flow of the still-running water. You're immersed in thoughts, trying to understand why his previous affirmation made your heart beat, it shouldn't have happened, but his voice interrupts your flow of thought. He speaks again, while you are still gently caressing his hair.

"I don't understand how you manage to get under my skin every damn time."

He looks up to you, finding comfort and a unique form of vulnerability in your arms. Irritation and admiration running in his veins.

''...you're messing with my head. You're making me feel things... goddamn it, you're making me soft."

You remained silent until that moment, just listening to his words, not knowing what to say, but his last statement makes you laugh a little.

"Why the hell are you laughing? Hey, don't laugh at me!''

''I'm laughing because I didn't say anything at all, you're doing everything by yourself.''

Your tone has softened, and your eyes are fixed on his so unusual expressions. You're discovering parts of him you never imagined. Some of them also very ridiculous. Like the overthinking he's showing right now.

Deep down he knows that you're right — his reactions are revealing more than he probably wants to admit.

He tries to maintain his usual stern demeanor, but the corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. Can't resist a response in his usual sarcastic tone.

"Fine, go ahead and laugh it up. Just don't expect me to become all nice and mushy every time we do this."

''Don't worry, I won't tell anyone, it will be our little secret. I would never want anyone to think that the great and powerful Homelander is being put down, no matter how hot the situation is, by one of his teammates.''

You give him one last caress, resting your arms on his shoulders, showing an adorable grin on your fiery red lips, where your lipstick was still perfectly in place.

''You always have to be in control, right?''

"Damn right I do. I'm the leader here, I'm always in charge."

He rolled his eyes at your teasing, but secretly enjoyed the soft touch of your hands and the sight of your perfect lips forming that adorable grin. He tried to fight a growing smirk, but failed miserably.

"It's just that... you happen to have a way of making me... forget that."

''And you have to admit that my method is almost perfect.''

You smile, with immense charm, victorious. He could dominate the world If he only wanted to, but in this situation he couldn't fight you in any way, you make him vulnerable with just a few caresses.

''I must say... surprisingly effective."

Oh, what great power you now hold in your hands.

-------

Hope you enjoyed this as much I did! Kisses for all of you <3

[devilander]

homelander x original female character

A young, newly presented Homelander met Posey Eldridge-Mercier, talented Music student, and was instantly besotted. Connecting over trauma and shared passions, Homelander and Posey thrived in the chaos of their romance—until Vought's interference led them bitterly astray.

Thirteen years later, they meet again; and perhaps what they say is true. No matter how brutal, what you love is your fate.

"There is no democracy in any love relation: only mercy." Gillian Rose

see ao3 for more

After Posey, music lost its place in his life. 

He could still hear it, though. Phantom pain. What those sad, pathetic cripples say they felt—pain in limbs no longer attached, no longer existent. Just like Posey—no more than a phantom, a minutiae of frilly moments he'd all but forgotten. Yet, the music, the intensity of the piano (Rachmaninoff, no?), the fragility of the violin (Dvořák, right?), her dainty fingers both precise and firm; he could still hear it, now and then, as if being suddenly transported to the past. 

He couldn't fucking stand it. 

It was an unspoken rule for those at Vought Tower—from the miserable little ants to Maeve—that certain... tunes were forbidden, unless they wished for him to break their legs. Even humming, if Homelander was in a particularly foul mood, could make him snap. It had happened what, four? Seven? A dozen times? he mused, clenching his fists, a painful smile stretching his face as he listened to random investors, whose names he'd already forgotten, prattle on and on—stock prices, the company's EBITDA, ripples of rising interest. 

A rehearsed act, one he'd mastered many years ago, but grating all the same, to stand still and pretend he actually gave a shit. And the fucking music—

It was a special gala. A celebration of Vought's anniversary; an excuse for networking while booze flowed freely. The New York Philharmonic had been hired, and as the conductor took to the stage, everyone present went back to their seats. Homelander was considering leaving the event entirely—to hell with those cocksuckers—when he noticed it. As the violinists started, intensely, poignant, after the grave sounds of cellos and double basses, one sway of hands in particular called to his memory. 

Even as his eyes took her in, he couldn't believe it. It was like being doused in freezing water (oh, and he was familiar with the feeling, Vogelbaum eager to test his limits, watching calmly as water filled his lungs without killing him). And when Posey's eyes, relaxed and focused, for a brief second found his, he was certain he wouldn't, or couldn't, breathe again. The fucking nerve, how dare she? He was ensnared by his rage. 

He could do it right now, laser her into oblivion as he had done with Madelyn. He could get on the stage, grab her by the neck and—what? Snap it? Have his way with her, in front of all to see? No, no, that would cause quite a scene. He could be patient, wait for the presentation to end while he pondered on what he'd do as soon as he got his hands on Posey once again. Privately, after so long. 

keep reading on ao3!

[a-small-safe-place]

His Haven: Part 4

Part 1 2 3

Homelander x Psychiatrist!AFAB!Reader Content⚠️: This does have smut. Masturbation, mentions of oral sex, light fingering, hand job, praise kink, very light implications of edging, penis in vagina.

Your meetings with Homelander continue as normal. You've made it clear that if he doesn't comply with your boundaries, he will be transferred to a new psychiatrist, and he has done well to stay within the professional boundaries.

"Tell me about how you grew up, Doctor," Homelander says. He is looking out of your office window with his hands behind his back.

"I'm not able to discuss that. Boundaries, remember?" you say sternly to avoid leading him on. He scoffs, irritated.

"It's always these fucking boundaries. Always with the red tape with you. I'm the strongest supe in the world; there aren't any boundaries I can't break or cross." That gives you an idea of what mood he is in. Did Stan put him in his place, or was it Madelyn this time? Either way, he always brings up that he's the strongest supe out there and that he can do what he wants when one of those two has upset him.

"Is something specific bothering you today?" you ask, ignoring his comment.

"Maeve broke up with me. Madelyn is cooking up some story for the public." He takes a sharp breath in. "Maeve didn't like that I was sleeping with other women, but she wasn't giving me what I needed. Sure, we had sex, but neither of us was interested in it. And for the past months, you've let me be me when no one else will." He stutters a few times during his speech. He turns to look at you. Homelander expects you to say something.

"Did Maeve say why she broke it off? You two were together for a while," you ask, not wanting to encourage poor habits.

"I said we weren't interested in the sex we were having. I'm a man; I have needs," he plainly says, as if the fact he was cheating is normal and okay. Most people would assume Homelander is shallow for cheating, but it's clear there's more to it. Unfortunately, sex isn't something you could ask Homelander about because that could give him the wrong impression.

"I would say most potential romantic partners wouldn't be too happy about your needs being fulfilled by other people," you tell him to let him know you're condemning his unfaithful behavior.

He scoffs. "Please, any woman would be lucky to have me." Homelander stares at you for a second. He's studying you; maybe he's x-raying you or trying to notice any subtle changes.

"Problem?" you question.

"No-no. I just… was thinking." Homelander can't tell you he wants to crash his lips onto yours. He can't say that he wants to feel up your breasts and get you out of that blouse you wear all the time. He can't say that he wants to pull you close and then fuck you on your desk. He knows he would cum fast being inside you for the first time, but Homelander also knows you'd be just as satisfied, if not more. Homelander can't tell you that your arousal smells so strong to him he can practically taste it.

Homelander suddenly leaves. He has to get away from you. He flies high into the sky, passing the area where a plane would be flying. In the sky, he feels alone. Homelander breathes in. He wonders if you'd ever trust him to bring you this high where only true gods can be. Of course, Homelander would make sure you're safe. He would take you high enough that the thin air was a thrill for you. He slides his pants around his thighs. Not enough for them to fall off, but enough for him to have access to his dick that's been hard since you condemned him for cheating on Maeve. You could be so stern but such a fucking tease.

Homelander begins to stroke himself. He starts slow, making sure his hand isn't wrapped too tightly. You're in his mind right now; he knows you'd be so slow with your strokes. You'd tell him how good he was doing the longer he could keep it together. Homelander strokes faster. He has no control to keep going slow, but you would. Your soft touches and soft praises would drive him crazy; they would drive him over the edge.

He says your name; he sounds like he's begging. "Please," he says with an almost pained expression. Homelander needs you, but his hand will have to do for now. The stimulation from his hand and the way you plague his mind are too much, and his cum shoots into the sky.

Homelander feels a lot of different emotions upon his release. You should be fucking begging him to even glance at you. He feels somewhat pathetic being so under your thumb. He feels fucking pissed because the semen he just shot so high in the sky should have been on your breasts, face, or somewhere inside you, not falling worthlessly to the earth. You should be the one begging for his attention the way he begged you to let him cum in his fantasy.

Homelander flies back to his penthouse. He feels more determined than ever to have you in all the ways he wants you. Maeve is no longer holding him back from a real relationship, and Madelyn wouldn't be upset because she seems to like you. After his abrupt exit, Homelander doesn't visit you for any more appointments that week.

The following week arrives, and you have yet to see Homelander anywhere. You're leaving a session with another client when you walk into your lobby and see the prettiest bouquet of your favorite flowers. A card with your name proudly sticks out. Your receptionist is gone, and the lobby is empty.

"Your receptionist almost refused to tell me what your favorite flowers were. I guess she wasn't willing to die to keep your secret," Homelander says, sounding playful, walking out of the men's restroom and effectively startling you. "I just heard that little heart of yours jump."

"Homelander, this is crossing a boundary," you say, trying to sound stern, but the shakiness of your voice tells Homelander that you're nervous.

"Enough with the fucking boundaries. I'm tired of being a fucking patient and having to throw a tantrum every time I want you to look at me. I'm not your patient anymore. I dropped you. Now, we can have what we have both been wanting." He circles you like you're his prey. "Your receptionist is out for the day. I told her you canceled your other appointments so that I could have my time with you. And then I had her send out that automated email to those psychos you insist on surrounding yourself with." He seems proud of himself, as if he's accomplished something huge, and now you cannot deny him what he wants.

"What makes you think I'm even interested in you?" you ask him with a glare.

"Don't be like that. Even right now, I can smell how aroused you are. If I left right now, you'd probably scamper home and immediately spend the night with that pink vibrator in between your legs." Homelander has such a love-hate relationship with that thing. He's watched you use it a lot, and you're moaning his name most of the time, but that toy isn't him, so he hates it.

You blush, but not in an attractive way, either. Your whole face heats up. "How do you know about that?" you ask, exasperated.

"Doesn't matter. What matters is that you want me to fuck you. Tell me that you're not attracted to me. Tell me that you wouldn't be opposed to me fucking you in your office right now. Say you don't, and I'll leave you alone about it." Homelander has no intention of leaving you alone, no matter your response.

You stay quiet, avoiding his gaze. You suddenly walk into your office. He follows. "God, you're such an ass!" you tell him. Homelander presses himself against you and presses his lips against yours in a heated kiss. He's desperate, and that makes it hard to go slow. You reciprocate and match the desperation. He doesn't taste like anything, which is a testament to how clean Homelander likes to be in his everyday life. You, on the other hand, are sweet. His hand quickly finds your breasts as if you'd decided to take them away. Homelander breaks the kiss.

"Your blouse is in the way. So is your bra." He quickly removes your top clothing that had become a hindrance. His hands are nimble, but the cold leather of his gloves is ruining the moment.

"Can you take off your gloves?" you ask. Homelander doesn't hesitate to lose them, and his bare hands are now able to feel the warmth of your breasts. Your nipples are pointed. That's a good sign. He dips his head, sucking and kissing anywhere his lips can land on your breasts. One of his hands finds its way to rest on your hand.

"I'm ready for you," you tell him breathlessly. Your cunt is soaked from the reaction Homelander is giving.

"You're delicious. I've been desperate to fuck you since I walked into your office." He drops his pants but pointedly leaves the top half of his super suit on. He trusts you, but he still isn't comfortable showing you the parts of him that he's most embarrassed about. He pulls your skirt and panties off and immediately rubs slow circles around your clit. He watches your face, trying to decipher if you're enjoying that movement.

"I like that. Keep going. You're doing so well," you encourage Homelander. He guides your hand to his hard cock, and just like he imagined, your strokes are slow. He could cum in your hand so easily if you would just go a little faster.

Before either of you can cum, he flips you over and shoves you down into the desk. Homelander tries to be gentle, but he's so eager to be inside you. You spread your legs a little more to give him better access. He begins thrusting in and out of your wet cunt.

"You feel so good. It feels better than I imagined," Homelander groans out, enjoying the feeling of your body being wrapped around his. His hands explore your bare back. His thrusts begin to become more hasty and desperate.

"I can feel that you're close," you tell him breathily. You can't see it, but Homelander's face turns red. He is embarrassed that you haven't come yet, and he's almost at the edge of his orgasm.

Homelander throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, I'm trying to wait." He wants to tell you that you feel that good and that even if he does finish before you, he will make sure you reach the same heights of pleasure.

"It's okay, you're doing well." You reach around to find his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Homelander leans down and pulls you up so your back is pressed into his chest. He wants to be touching you as much as possible while he cums. Homelander's face finds the crook of your neck. He breathes in your smell. He wants to remember it forever, the smell of your natural scent mixed with his scent and both your arousal and his. Homelander hugs you tightly from behind, and with a sharp breath in and a following moan that's muffled by your skin, he's finished inside of you.

Homelander doesn't move for a moment. He wants to stay like this, to savor you in case you disappear as you had done so many times before in his intimate moments alone.

Homelander lets go of you and pulls out. You turn around and notice the tears streaking his face. He's not crying and doesn't seem to notice the tears. "Wow, that was intense," you tell him, sensing that it would be better not to point out the tear gloss on his cheeks.

"Don't worry, I'm not done with you yet, little lady," he says, trying to sound confident. You wonder if that "little lady" bit is his attempt to remind himself and you that he's in charge. Before you can bring it up, Homelander pushes you back up on the desk, and his head is dipping between your legs.

He certainly was not done with you. Homelander made sure that you enjoyed yourself in that office, and as you leave your office, you wonder what this means for your relationship. This wasn't a regular hookup. It couldn't be after the visceral reaction Homelander had during his first orgasm when he so desperately clung to you.

Unbeknownst to you, Homelander was already waiting at your apartment. He was going to show you the other benefits of his affection.

Tag List: @randomstuffthatdontmakesense @thevanityofthefox @z3r0art

[harlowedoktravelsthemultiverse]

"You love me, right? You promise?" - H. "Johnny... hun, we're one in the same, to not love you would be the biggest mistake of my life. 君は僕のすべてだ." - M. MY FIRST ART POST!!! A lovely collab with my amazing twitter moot @kippzart who drew like... 95% of this 😅 (love you platonically kipp <3)

[daughterslaughterer]

average bi alt girl and her unseasoned chicken breast boyfriend (inspired by the pic above)

[sehtoast]

Directory and Info

howdy! welcome to the fun house where you'll find an excessive amount of homelander fanfics written by myself and shared from others. you can call me kenny! asks are encouraged and super appreciated <3

fic requests are temporarily closed (they just take forever bc I'm a full time college student lol) | request guidelines

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main tags: homelander x reader | homelander x oc | the benlander agenda

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[tartiflvtte]

Here's an artworks dump of Qilander (my oc Qilin x Homelander) <3

Soooooo many things planned for them... I started writing about them not so long ago I hope I manage to finish it ;_;

[olliveolly]

Hello people 👋🏼

I didn’t know what to draw, and after rustling around a bit I found a couple of very old but good pieces of art that were worth redrawing.

I often think that the ideal way to add some humanity to Homelander's character would be to take him away from Vought (like kick out for low ratings) and place him in a situation where he desperately needed to rely on other people for support, and he would have people who would support him, and he would also support them.

Hope you enjoy ❤️

[eclecticqueennerd]

Homelander as a Girl Dad

Trigger warning: DV, parental alienation, Homelander being Homelander.

Prompt: Anonymous asked: I don't know if someone already requested Homelander as a girl dad. But could I request him to have a supe daughter who is really close to him and loves him and yet also hates, fears him and can’t wait for the world to be rid of him.

This work is written as first a headcanon then transitions into a story. Enjoy!

You were Homelander's personal assistant and from the moment Ashley hired you, Homelander was infatuated. He would drop not-so-subtle hints of his affection and shower you with gifts and experiences you never thought you’d get. He’d take you to movie premiers and had you meet the members of the Seven. He would give you any and all dresses, shoes, and accessories you’d want. You were always attracted to Homelander; to his charm, his heroism, and his good looks. So, when you realized that the affections were mutual and he told you to call him John, you felt like the luckiest girl on earth.

When the relationship moved towards a physical one, John was as gentle as he could be with you. There were a few times when you had to remind him that you were just a normal person and not to be so rough. John would often say he’d want a family with you and that having a child would be the greatest gift anyone could ever give him. When you became pregnant and told John, both of your worlds were turned upside down. For better or worse, well it depends on your perspective.

You were okay with being in the public eye when working as Homelander’s personal assistant, and even more adjusted to it when the two of you started dating. Once the world heard that the two of you were expecting, the paparazzi increased tenfold. You were not able to go anywhere without paparazzi taking pictures and asking questions. One time the crowd of photographers was so dense, that a paparazzi accidentally bumped your baby belly too hard and made you stumble over in pain. Once that story went public, you were not allowed to leave John’s penthouse without him accompanying you. There were rumors that Homelander ‘took care’ of the photographer, but you chose to not believe them. Your sweet and charming John wasn’t capable of something so awful.

John is a busy man, attending meetings, social events, and the occasional hero work. You spent the majority of your days in the penthouse, there were people cooking for you and waiting on you hand and foot. You grew lonely, most of the people there either working in their positions to get a paycheck or out of fear, not speaking to you often. Whenever John came home, you’d run to him and embrace him, him being your only source of interaction. You’d ask him how his day went, sometimes he’d tell you, other times, he’d ask how the baby was.

When you gave birth, John was a little disappointed that it was a girl. You would reassure him that girls can do whatever boys can and that sometimes a father-daughter bond is stronger. John perked up after hearing that. In the beginning, John would be put off by the care of having an infant. They stink, they’re loud, messy and so goddamn needy. He did like the perk of you breastfeeding, it was always incorporated into sexy times with him. You thought of it as an undiscovered kink of his.

When your daughter was older, around toddler age, that’s when John started to take more interest in being a father figure. He’d teach Callie, your daughter, how to walk, how to use the potty, how to read. In the beginning, you were fine with it, it gave you a chance to take some time for yourself and watch the two of them bond. As time went on, you noticed that John would start to leave you out of the conversation and bonding experience as a family.

As time went on, John pushed you out more and more when interacting with Callie. He’d be the one taking care of her daily needs, ignoring you when you’d ask for updates on how she was doing in school, how her doctor’s visit went, and other important information. When you spoke to John about how you were feeling left out, he showed you a side of him you’ve never seen before. Hatred, malice, disdain. John wanted to be the sole caregiver to Callie. There were times that he’d shut you away in a room all by yourself, making you a prisoner in your own home. There were times when John would make the move to smack or attempt to hit you, but he’d always stop himself. After a while, he revoked your privilege of calling him John, you now had to call him Homelander.

You’d ask Homelander what went wrong in the relationship for him to treat you this way, but your inquiry was met with hostility. You began to contemplate leaving the penthouse whenever the two of them left for an outing. You know Homelander would never hurt Callie, he adores her. So, one day, you left…

“I’m home dad!” Callie said as she threw her schoolbag on the floor and walked into the kitchen to grab a snack. It’s been a few years since her mother left and she was told by her father that it was because her mother didn’t love her anymore. Callie was hurt by what her father told her, but she had no reason not to believe him.

“Hey sport, how are you today?” Homelander said as he threw his muscled arms around Callie. Callie grimaced but accepted the hug. Homelander noticed the change in her mood, he pulled himself away from her and asked,

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh, don’t lie to me missy. Tell me, what’s up?” Callie looks around the room, wanting to look at anything besides her father.

“I… uh… don’t think that you can help me with this. It’s something moms usually talk about.”

“Of course, I can help you, Callie. You can trust me with anything.” A few moments of silence and then Callie said,

“I got my period today.” Homelander blinked at Callie. Damn… I don’t know how to help her with that he thought. Homelander grabbed Callies’ hand and the two of them went to the entrance of the penthouse.

“Where are we going?”

“I have someone we’re going to talk to.” The two of them appeared in front of Ashleys office. Homelander opens the door, and a voice rang thru the large room,

“What the fuck have I told you about knocking Ashley?” Homelander and Callie came through the threshold. Ashleys demeanor went from hardened to frightened the moment she laid eyes on the man. Callie noticed this was a common theme with anyone that came across her father.

“Homelander, Callie. H-how can I help you?” Ashley said as her hand flew up into her red hair. Homelander sat Callie down on the sofa in the lounge area and went to mute the TV that was displaying the news.

“Callie here is now a woman. She needs to know some helpful tips about periods.” Callie turned to her dad and gave him a look that can be conveyed as ‘what the fuck?’ Homelander just shrugged as Ashley cleared her throat. Ashley walked from behind her desk to sit herself onto the armchair to the left of Callie. Ashley let out a nervous chuckle, looking at Homelander before she spoke,

“We’ll, as you know, periods are a normal thing for women…” Ashley looks around the room, trying to find inspiration in what she’s telling Callie. “Periods are a beautiful and natural thing for a young woman to have! They mean that—Oh my god!” Ashleys attention went to the TV screen, as did the other two. Displayed was a picture of a tall, bearded man in a trench coat and next to him, was you. The caption on the picture stated, “SUSPECTS WANTED FOR THE DEATH OF TRANSLUCENT” Ashley began stuttering, mumbling, and furiously twisting her hair in her fingers. Callie stood up and walked towards the TV, closely inspecting the picture of you in your disguise. Homelander approached the TV and promptly turned it off.

“Okay that’s enough for today. I think this kiddo has some homework to do dontcha bud?” Homelander grabs Callies hand and drags her out of Ashleys office. A million thoughts ran through Callies mind. ‘Why would mom join the bad guys? Why did she kill Translucent? Why did she leave me?’ Homelander picked up on the hurt on Callies face and said,

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll get it all taken care of.” Homelander took Callie back to the penthouse and said that he needed to step out for business and that she could order a pizza for dinner. When gone, Callie gathered her key fob and left the penthouse in search of you.

*

It had been a few hours looking in the area you’d been photographed, but Callie had finally found you in the subway, tucked away in a corner waiting for the train to arrive. She took in your appearance; sunglasses, ballcap and a leather jacket with the lapels pulled up to hide your face. Callie approached you slowly,

“Hey mom.” You spun to face her, freezing at the young girl standing before you. It’s been years since you’d seen Callie, at least in person. You’d seen her on TV many times, making appearances with your ex. She was a perfect mix of both you and Homelander.

“Callie. What are you doing here?”

“I saw you on TV.”

“It’s not safe for you to be here honey.”

“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that after how you left us. After how you left me!” Callie began raising her voice, emotions starting to grow inside her. You approached her slowly after noting the fists Callie was making and said,

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” A tear ran down Callies cheek. You desperately wanted to reach out and wipe it away, you however treated her like she was a frightened animal, careful with your movements.

“Why did you leave?” You never wanted to answer that question, wanting Homelander to have that special bond between father and daughter untarnished. Before you could open your mouth, you heard the train approach, looking in its direction, you were torn. Now was your chance to escape, but you also wanted to set things straight with your daughter.

“Callie… I-”

“Trains ‘ere.” The man that was with you earlier on the TV broadcast appeared next to you, voice heavy with a cockney accent. Callie looked at both you and the tall man, named Billy Butcher. Callie had heard her father speak of him from time to time and how he was the bane of his existence. Once the train stopped, you made the difficult decision to part ways with Callie, you didn’t want her getting caught up in all your bullshit. Homelander will keep her safe, he would never let anything happen to her. As you found your seat on the train, Callie sat down next to you.

“Callie!”

“You never answered my question, why did you leave?” Looking between Callie and the subway train floor, you told her everything. How Homelander was the nicest man you’d ever met, and he slowly showed himself to be a monster. You told her of the domestic abuse and the times that he would alienate you from being a mother to Callie.

“I love you so much Callie. I never wanted to leave you, but I couldn’t stay with your father. I knew he would never lay a finger on you, you’re all he’s ever wanted.” Callie’s world was rocked. Her whole life she’d heard from her father that she wasn’t loved by you, that the only reason why you wanted to be with her Homelander was because of fame and fortune.

The train rolled to a stop a few stations from when the three of them went on. As you got off the train, Callie followed you and Butcher. Callie noticed the whispers between you and Butcher, you look back at her.

“Callie you can’t come with us.”

“I’ve finally found you after all these years and now you want to push me away?! It’s not fair!” Callie clenched her fist and punched a brick pillar, knocking the blocks loose. Callie’s face widens in shock, she’s never done that before. She didn’t even know she had the strength.

“Callie, what we do, is too dangerous for you. I’ll give you my number so we can text but know that I can’t always reply. Butcher, go ahead to the hideout, I’ll take Callie back home.” You and Callie catch a train ride to a subway stop just a block from Vought tower. On the train, you two talk about school and what her favorite subjects are, its art, what flavor ice cream she likes, it’s the same as yours, and Callie asked you what to do when it came to periods.

“It’s important to keep yourself clean, shower at least once a day. There may be times when you will have a stain, don’t worry. This happens to all of us at some point. If it happens at school and it’s on your pants, wear a sweatshirt around your waist if you can. Also, don’t wear white pants if you can help it.” Callie absorbed as much information you had to give about the subject, appreciative that you’re willing to talk about such a sensitive topic. Callie was beginning to question her father’s animosity towards you, you were so warm and welcoming and kind, the opposite of his descriptors was for you. Finally reaching your destination and standing outside of the tower, you give Callie a quick hug.

“Text me anytime but please, don’t tell your father about this. I don’t know when I can see you again, but if this plan pulls through then it may be sooner than later.” Callie nodded her head and went inside the building and into the elevator. Callie stepped into the penthouse and saw a worried Homelander standing next to the kitchen island.

“And where were you?” Homelanders voice low, eyes narrow, almost like he knew what she was up to, he just waiting for her to confess. Callie met his menacing glare with one of her own, and replied,

“Out.” She then left to go into her room, revulsion filling her thoughts about her father. Homelander the world's greatest and strongest superhero, was a calculating cruel man who filled her head with lies in an attempt to hate her own mother. Callie hoped whatever plan her mother had up her sleeve worked.

taglist: @marvelspn-bishes @lazygrungekid @wiiwiiwii666 @z3r0art@jameshetfieldscumdump@sleepyqueerenergy@citrys@chungledown-bimothee@otherworldlycraft@jensensnackles69 @star-ligh7 @memoune0987 @archiveofthalience @pibetaphi2000 @amberembers @itsyellow @need-a-life-or-grass @lover1307 @z3tabyte @katherine-ann1 @stankyleg05 @lustendreams @psychoticbirb

[maria-crossover]

Got you some OC x Canon again... This autistic baby girl is Marili ^_^✨ and she's dating the psycho male Barbie :|

[angelically-yours]

Name: Layla Mae Pierce

Codename: “Archangel”

Age: 22 years old

DOB: November 21st, 2002

Eyes: Green

Hair: Auburn

Height: 5’ 2”

-Born in [REDACTED], Nebraska. Lived a relatively normal life until her wings started to grow around the age of 6. Her Father was anti-superhero so when her Mother found out, she kept her angel safe. Subject kept them secret until the age of 13. Subject's Father found out and [REDACTED][REDACTED][REDACTED]

-Homeless, Subject ran away and fled for New York City, the place where her favorite heroes were. Subject was captured by Vought for testing [REDACTED] at 16.

-Subject went under the following tests: - [REDACTED] - Endurance through stress - [REDACTED] - Regenerative ability - Empathic ability - [REDACTED] -Subject was stolen on 07/??/2022

-Current Location: [UNKNOWN]

-Current Affiliations: - Homelander - [REDACTED] - William Butcher

©Vought Intl. (2022)

"God loves you, but not enough to save you."

(Hiiii :33 Welcome to my page for silly shitposting lmao)

(I will be posting fanart, reposting fics and other things related to The Boys! Hope you enjoy ♥)

Lace Header by: @aquazero

[mrsdesade]

Guilty of simping once again your honour 🖐🏻😔

I'm so grateful for the love and support you're giving to Ophera even If she's just an OC, love all of you so damn much ✨🌈💕💖🌟

Fandom: The Boys Name: Ophera (Miranda Reinslayer) Age: 33 Pronouns/Sexuality: she/her - straight Hair colour: obsidian black Eyes colour: light red Height: 1,75cm Languages: American English Job/Occupation: working superhero for the Vought; third member of the Seven, performer and worldwide famous singer Powers: metals manipulation, her tendons and vocal cords are made of thin metal and she can sing wonderfully Pairing: no one (abusive relationship with Homelander, faking to be a couple for the media) Parents: raised in a laboratory by Madeleine Stillwell and a group of scientists

Like: rock live music - smoking - ride her motorcycle - doing missions outside the country - Ashley - Starlight Dislike: theatre - musical - radical religion - electric shocks jokes - flying high - skyscrapers (she suffer from vertigo) - sometimes Homelander - Edgar

________

bonus: incorrect quotes for these two idiots

[victorcreedkisser]

More doodle dumps yall !!

[huevinart]

This is my OC's x Canon

I leave you Violette (my oc) and her beloved Syzoth. Each one holds their chibi version✨🦎💚