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blindmagdalena · 2 years ago

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Say It (chapter three)

18+ 6.3k homelander x f!reader. comeplay, lite blood, mirror sex, penetrative sex, fingering, lite dacryphilia, praise kink, instances of sublander, overstim, dirty talk, angst. chapter index. AO3.

There is an undeniable primal violence to love. It can bring out the very best in us as easily as it can bring out the very worst. In the wake of Homelander's constant oppressive brand of love, you have uncovered aspects of yourself that might have been better left buried.

You’re not sure how to describe the relationship you have with Homelander. In the beginning, you felt like an object to him. Something to squeeze and use when he needed relief. Ever since that incident in the not-so-empty hall, however, the dynamic between you has been markedly different. You practically live with him now, spending most of your days sequestered in his penthouse like Rapunzel in her tower.

Now, you’re closer to his… partner? Girlfriend? None of the words feel right for what happens between the two of you. He showers you with gifts, with love and attention. Anything you ask, he provides. In turn, he confesses things to you that would turn America upside down. He has burdened you so heavily with his sins that you feel the weight of them upon your shoulders as if they’re yours. Sometimes, when he tells you what his hands have done, you can feel the blood warm and wet on your own hands.

Tonight, you’re at his side at a private Vought evening affair. Your first public appearance. He introduces you to people as his date, but doesn’t elaborate any further, deflecting effortlessly when people ask for details. It makes you two the talk of the evening. Homelander is America’s most eligible bachelor, and you’re no one at all by comparison. So, naturally, the second Homelander leaves you alone to get some air on the large patio balcony, you’re approached.

“Hey, this seat taken?” The man asks, smiling down at you. He has his hand perched on the back of both the bar stool next to you as well as the back of your chair, his arm close enough that you can smell the spice of his cologne. It sets off alarm bells in your mind, but you know that the people here are important people. You haven’t met this man. For all you know, he’s significant to Vought in some way. You’re not just here as yourself; you’re here as Homelander’s date. What you say and do will reflect on him. You must take too long to respond, because the man clicks his tongue. “If it is–” “No, it isn’t,” you say, glancing towards the balcony doors. They’re closed. No sign of him. The evening is chilly, and only the two of you seem foolish enough to lounge outside. You look back at the man. “Go ahead,” you say, turning back to the counter overlooking the city, where you have both hands cupped around the drink you finished a few minutes ago. There’s a beat of dense silence before the man offers, “Can I treat you to a refill?” You blink, looking over at him. “It’s an open bar.”

That causes him to bark out a laugh. “Okay, touché. Can I go order you another, then?” “Is there something about me that screams ‘help, I’ve finished my drink and I’m too stupid to order another’?” You ask, frowning. Is he trying to flirt with you? He must have seen you with Homelander. The man has been showing you off on his arm for the majority of the night. He’s either oblivious, or an idiot. Regardless, you know how this could end. He needs to leave you alone. Unperturbed, the man laughs again, more surprised this time. He gives a soft whistle, pulling you from your thoughts. “Damn, you’re sharp. Most women would have just taken the drink by now,” he says, obviously trying to be playful. He throws in a wink for good measure. “C’mon, lemme order you a drink.”

It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes, remembering that you’re trying to be civil while you dissuade him from a potentially gruesome death. “They were probably afraid of saying no to you. Do you always badger women into accepting drinks from you?” The man turns in his seat, his knees nearly brushing the side of your thigh. He leans forward slightly. “Are you always this mean, or am I special?” He asks. The only thing sharper than his expensive looking suit is the line of his predatory smile. There was a time when a man like this would intimidate you, but you know something he doesn’t. There’s a much bigger shark in the water. You wonder if that shark is watching. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me what could make you special in a room full of superheroes?” You ask, rapidly losing the thin veneer of politeness you intended to uphold. The man watches you in a way that’s all too familiar to you. You’re not a person to him, he hasn’t even asked your name. You’re just a conquest to be won, an opposing force to be subjugated. Looks like you’ve hit a nerve. You can see it in the way his smile frays at the edges. Men like him are so predictable.

“Is that why you’re here with mister America himself?” Ah. There it is. “Does it make you feel real special? Real above the rest of us mere mortals?” The man asks with a slow building derision dripping from each word. He never loses that smile, but it’s beginning to look more like the gesture you know it is: he’s bearing his teeth at you. It’s funny how easy it is to reduce men to this now that you’ve seen what the worst of it can look like. This man doesn’t scare you. He can’t touch you. You are above him. You lean in. “Which answer will ensure you stop talking to me?” “You can leave any time,” he says, as if you’re the one who invaded his space in the first place. “Unless you’re looking for something.” You startle when he puts his hand on your knee, sliding up to your thigh. “That boy scout not fuck you right?” The motherfucker looks so pleased with himself. How long has he been waiting to say that? You feel your skin itch, your blood turning hot beneath it. His hand feels a scalding, noxious thing on your leg, even through the fabric of your dress. You feel sick, paralyzed with the magnitude of your own anger welling up in the back of your throat like bile. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, the drums of war to come.

Like something wild, with fangs and claws, you very nearly pounce him. The only thing that stops you is a sudden weight on the back of your neck, a Titanous grip that keeps you firmly in place. Homelander’s shadow falls over you both, and by the time the man realizes it, he snatches his hand away from your leg too little too late. You have no idea how long Homelander's been watching. “Hey, babe,” he greets you, his tone falsely jovial. You’re not sure if he’s jumping to conclusions, or if he heard the exchange. He’s wearing a broad, manic kind of smile, his hand sliding from your neck to your shoulder, the weight of it a strange comfort. You reach up instinctively to cover it with your own, sinking in against his side.

Better the devil you know.

“Hey, I know you,” Homelander continues, pointing to the man sitting next to you, his eyes narrowing in recognition. “You’re Jeff, aren’t you? Yeahh, yeah, Jeffery Brimham. You’re the new CFO over at Superplastic, huh?” Jeff, whose skin has broken into a fine sheen of sweat in the time that Homelander has been speaking, stands up with a smile that is no longer predatory, but placating. Although he is taller than Homelander, his body language makes him seem so… small. The immediate change in his mannerisms grates on you like nails clawing down a chalkboard. His spine is so rigid, you’re overwhelmed by the visceral urge to snap it.

”Yes, yes I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jeff says. He has the nerve to shoot you a glance, begging you with his eyes. Please, his expression screams, his smile tense and polite while your teeth gnash behind your lips. I was only messing around. He gestures to you. “I was just getting acquainted with your lovely date here.” “You don’t say!” Homelander goes on, that smile only growing more disconcerting. Without missing a beat, he asks, “What’s her name?” Jeff’s smile falters. “Ah, I… I hadn’t had the chance to–” “Weeell, I just think if you’re acquainting yourself, you oughta ask someone’s name first, right, Jeffery?” He prompts, grin never lessening, though you think Jeff is beginning to see it for what it is. A threat. “But hey, maybe that’s just my inner boy scout talking.”

The color drains from Jeff’s face in an impressive sweep. It satisfies something in your churning gut. Instead of the dread you normally feel when Homelander begins menacing someone in your presence, you feel the white hot stab of conviction lance through you. He’s a fucking liar, and he expected to get away with it. It’s not surprising: how many women has he pulled this little power trip on? A dozen? A hundred? What would he have done to your drink if you had let him get you one? Homelander would never let that happen, but no one else has Homelander.

Only you do. Only you have his protection… and his violence.

It’s satisfying to watch Jeff be so thoroughly emasculated by Homelander’s mere presence, but ultimately, you know it’s a hollow victory. You may walk away from this encounter vindicated, but what happens to the woman after you? Jeff doesn’t seem the kind of man to have his ego gutted, and come out of it a better, more humble man. No, he’ll find someone like you, but even more vulnerable. He’ll order them a drink, he’ll frighten them, and he’ll hurt them the way you know he was imagining hurting you.

All because he wanted to take Homelander’s squeeze down a peg. Prove himself a social equal.

This man is dangerous. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of what he has.

Standing from your chair, you lean in towards Homelander, and whisper at a volume you know only he will hear, “I want you to kill him.”

The shift in Homelander’s posture is immediate, drawn tight as a bow. He looks sharply at you, both brows lifted, but it is not a look of surprise. It’s one of intrigue. He’s calling your bluff with nothing more than a stare, waiting for what he thinks to be an inevitable surge of doubt and regret in the wake of your statement.

You stare back, meeting him with nothing but clean, numb resolution. After a beat, his expression shifts from intrigue to that familiar good natured showmanship, putting his attention back on Jeff.

“Here’s the thing, Jeffery,” Homelander says suddenly, cutting off the nonsensical mixture of excuse and apology Jeff had been sputtering. He claps a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Cockroaches. The city’s full of ‘em, you know? And I, well, I don’t give a fuck. I don’t have time in the day to squash every little roach I see. But my girl?” He gestures to you without taking his eyes off the man. “She hates ‘em. Caaan’t fuckin stand them scuttling around. So you know what I do when my girl sees a cockroach, Jeffery?” Jeff, sweating profusely, offers a strained guess: “You squash them?” “Yeah,” Homelander says, voice warm and low in his throat. “I squash them. Goodbye, Jeffery,” he says. Before Jeff can so much as suck in a breath, Homelander closes his hand over the man’s mouth, snaps his neck, and tosses him over the edge of the balcony. By the time the body hits the ground, a broken neck will be the least of the mortician's concerns.

You throw your hands up over your mouth, stifling your gasp. Though it all happened in an instant, you witnessed every microsecond of it. The fear in his eyes, Homelander’s gloves sinking into the skin of his face, and the resounding crack of his bones. His death was instantaneous, and you saw it in his eyes.

You caused it.

Nausea sweeps through you in a wave. You gag behind your palm, turning away from the balcony.

“Sshhhhh,” Homelander hushes, catching you in his arms. “Heyy, it’s alright. Deep breaths. Hahah, look at you,” he purrs, nestling you against his chest. He rubs your back in slow, soothing sweeps. “Wow! Did not see that one coming. You must have–”

You kiss him. It’s clumsy, your teeth knock against his, but you just need him to stop talking. Your heart is racing a thousand miles a minute, and half of you wants to throw up while the other half of you is enraptured in warped exhilaration.

For the first time in your relationship, Homelander’s power truly feels like yours.

“Take me home,” you say against his lips, giving his collar an urgent tug. Your heart hammers painfully in your chest. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Homelander lifts you into his arms with surprisingly swift obedience, and stranger than that, without comment. Instead, he’s watching you with an intensity you can’t put a name to. He’s fixated on you, and even as he lifts up into the air with you, you cannot bring yourself to look away from him, either.

He flies you up, up, up, well beyond the horror of what was just committed. The wind roars in your ears and prickles your eyes, but you know it’s not the reason they water. Tears stream down your cheeks, an awful sickly feeling settling in your gut. When Homelander lands on his balcony, you catch your reflection in his glass doors.

Murderer, you think. Your tears run black with mascara, staining your face, as if to mock your grief.

What right do you have to grief?

Homelander steps inside, the glass door falling shut behind him. The wave of heat from the penthouse gives you goosebumps, a sharp contrast to the frigid night air. He sets you down, but doesn’t let you get far. He pulls you in with two gloved hands on either side of your face, pulling you in for an oddly chaste kiss. “God, that was–that was fucking incredible,” he exhales, followed by a giddy little laugh. He swipes at your tears with his thumbs. “Hey, hey, don’t cry, babe. Not for that fucking bottomfeeder. He was garbage, alright? I heard the bullshit he was feeding you, and I heard you throw it right back in his face,” he purrs, kissing you again, each press of his lips a little firmer, a little hungrier.

“He didn’t deserve to die,” you reply dully, hands pressed to his chest. You’re worried you’ll collapse without the support.

Homelander scoffs at that. “Please. Of course he did. These guys are all the same: sick little slime puppies stuffed into suits, oozing noxious snail trails everywhere they go. Trust me, that guy had it coming,” he says, kissing your forehead, your cheek. His lips brush the shell of your ear when he says, “His pocket was full of roofies.”

His words hit your system like a shock of ice.

“What?” You had a gut feeling about it, but to hear it confirmed… “He did?”

“Ohh yeah. Definitely not his first rodeo,” he says, drawing back to look at you. He’s smiling broadly, and as you take in his expression, you finally pinpoint that look in his eyes: it’s pride. Since the beginning, you have always assumed Homelander has a fascination with horrifying you, that he enjoys getting a rise out of you. You don’t expect comfort when you cry. You expect him to fuck you.

Instead, he’s openly admiring you. Brushing away your tears with gentle, persistent swipes of his gloved fingers. He kisses your forehead again. When he pulls back, you can’t help but ask him, “Why are you so happy about this?”

His brows pinch briefly, and his lips part on a slightly baffled little smile, like you’re asking him something you should already know the answer to. “Because, you silly goose,” he begins, kissing you again. “It turns out that you’re just… like… me,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss. “And it means you’re never, ever gonna leave me.”

With that, he draws you into a tight embrace, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You can feel his contented smile against your skin. Your mind is alight with a static-like buzz so intense, you swear it’s vibrating your teeth.

He’s right. With one simple sentence, you’ve finally given yourself over to his mania. The phantom blood you have felt on your hands is now a real thing. Wielding Homelander like a weapon, you killed a man, and somehow… you’ve never been more relieved. The knot in your chest slowly begins to unravel itself, and for the first time in months, you take a breath that actually fills your lungs.

There is a weight gone from your shoulders that you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying. As if you have been holding a bow drawn tight for months on end, you have released it, and your muscles can finally relax.

You don’t have to hold onto it anymore. That heavy, aching thing inside your chest that tangled around your heart and made each beat of it painful. You have feared succumbing for so long, and yet now that you have, you can relinquish the white knuckle grip you’d had on your own morality. The bubble has popped, and the blood is real.

The blood is real.

Homelander pulls back to look at you, still stroking you, soothing you as he might a frightened beast. Your breathing is sharp and irregular, and he doesn’t have to tell you that your heart is racing. It thunders in your ears. He cups your face in his hands, and you tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His own eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted. He’s watching you, palpable anticipation in his gaze, though for what you cannot say. Part of you wonders if, now that you’ve surprised him, he’s just waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You brace your hands on his chest. “Take off your clothes.” Your voice is quiet but firm.

His pupils dilate. With a twitch at the corner of his mouth, he takes his hands from your face, and slips off both of his gloves, dropping them to the ground. Your throat feels dry. You swallow, watching him peel open the flap of his suit top, revealing the fitted undershirt beneath. He shrugs out of it, and the padded bulk of it falls to the ground with a thump. One by one, he toes out of his boots, maintaining eye contact with you all the while.

His pants are next, heralded by the familiar metallic snap of his belt coming undone, followed by the hiss of his zipper. He pushes his pants and underwear down in one fell swoop, his cock bouncing free, already full and heavy. You take a step back, causing him to tilt his head curiously. You continue backwards, towards the bed, beckoning him with a finger. With that same fixated obedience, he follows you, taking his undershirt off on the way.

You’ve always thought him beautiful in the same way a forming hurricane or an encroaching thunderstorm is. You feel compelled to watch, to witness the creation of something incredible, even knowing full well it could destroy you. Perhaps the only thing more intoxicating is the notion of leashing such a disaster, and feeling it hum at your fingertips.

The back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, and you sit slowly. Your whole body is thrumming, your heartbeat pulsing between your thighs. You want him, and you have all the proof in the world that he wants you. Terrifyingly so. You think he might devour you, tear you apart to your barest threads, if not for the fact he would lose you in the process.

Homelander stops barely a foot away from you. In his eyes, you see that same prickling anticipation. Your gaze drifts down over the scape of his chest, where swirls of thick dark hair betray his natural coloring. He’s broad, but nowhere near as bulky as the suit would lead folks to believe. He’s lean, his musculature cut as cleanly as polished marble. His hips curve into the perfect V, which guides the eye directly to the heavy swell of his cock.

You’ve never taken this much time to simply look at him. Every so often, you see the muscles in his stomach flex. His hands curl in and out of fists. He’s either growing impatient, or insecure. There was a time you never would have thought a man like the Homelander could be insecure, but you know better now. You know the way his eyes turn glassy when he fucks you, and how desperate he is to hear you say that you want him. That you love him.

Glancing up at him, you see that his breaths have deepened. He licks his lips when you look at him. His brows furrow slightly with his unspoken uncertainty. He cannot read your expression. When you look beyond him, to the mirror above your heads, you’re not certain you recognize yourself at all anymore. Tears have streaked mascara down your cheeks in sharp black lines, and darkened the circles beneath your eyes. There is a sharpness to you now that you’re not sure you’ve ever seen before. It’s like looking into the eyes of a strange animal wearing your face.

“Get down on your knees,” you tell him. His nostrils flare. You see the bob of his throat as he swallows, and then slowly, he sinks down onto his knees in front of you. Less than ten minutes ago, you watched him snap a man’s neck with the flick of his wrist because you told him to. Now, he continues to move how and when you tell him to.

Have you always had this power over him, or is this new? You wonder if, like so much else in your life, you were just too afraid to even realize it, let alone seize it.

You slide forward, perched on the edge of the bed, and lift your dress slowly up over your thighs. Homelander watches, transfixed by your every movement. His breath catches watching you slip your hand into your underwear, the way your knuckles press out against the thin cotton as you curl them, teasing yourself with the tips of your fingers. You massage a slow circle through your own slick, watching the tension build in his body.

With a breathy little noise, you push your fingers inside. Homelander’s eyes flicker up briefly to meet yours, swallowed by the black of his pupils, feral and hungry. His attention quickly drops back to your hand. He tilts his head very slightly, subconsciously angling to listen to the symphony of your fingers rocking in and out of your wet pussy. His nostrils flare on a slow inhale. His eyelids flutter briefly, as if the smell of you is intoxicating him.

“What does it smell like?” You ask, emboldened by his subservience.

“Heaven,” comes his answer, the word a rasp that falls readily from his tongue. He sounds parched.

“Do you want to taste it?” You press a third finger in, rocking your hips against your hand.

“Yes,” he answers just as quickly, just as needy.

Pulling your hand out, you push off your underwear. It falls to the ground, and you bring your fingers to his lips. He looks at you just before opening his mouth, tongue curling slightly, an invitation. You press all three into his mouth, barely getting the first knuckles past his lips before he’s closing down on them, sucking them deeper into his mouth with an obscene noise. He works his tongue between them, greedily licking every bit of wetness from your fingers.

Simultaneously, you slip down off of the bed, and into his lap, straddling him on your knees. His hands move instantly to your thighs, pushing your dress back up when it threatens to cover them again. His hands are impossibly warm, fingertips sinking into the beginning swell of your ass.

Reaching between your bodies, you curl your fingers around his shaft, and hold him steady. He lets out an answering moan around your fingers, blinking his eyes open. He’s flushed, eyes glazed over with the depth of his arousal. Holding his gaze, you lower yourself until the head of his cock presses to your cunt with a wet noise. You feel his teeth graze your fingers precariously, another moan muffled by them rocking in and out of his mouth. He pants fervently through his nose, brows tightly pinched.

You sink down just enough to feel the head of his cock begin to breach you before you lift back up, and then drop back to precisely the same level. You do this again and again, tormenting him with the soaking wet kiss of your pussy, each press louder than the last. He gives a pitchy noise wrung from the back of his throat, dull fingernails biting crescent dents into your soft skin.

And then, all at once, you drop your weight down and envelop him fully, gasping at the shocking, abrupt fullness of him inside you. Homelander makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a growl, and a sudden sharp pain has you yanking your fingers out of his mouth, leaving a trail of blood dripping from his lips. “Ah, f-fuck, fuck, m’sorry,” he rasps, licking his lips of the crimson spill. “Sorry.”

You stare at the blood dripping down your fingers. Numbly, you wipe them on your dress. Homelander, through the haze of pleasure and desire, looks distantly confused by your response–or rather lack thereof–but he does not protest when you kiss him, licking the taste of your own blood and slick from his mouth.

Heedless of the blood you smear, you cup the sides of his face and begin to grind against him, adjusting to the aching fullness. He’s so wholly at your mercy that you can’t be bothered by the too-full hurt of your cunt or the sting of your bitten fingers. You focus instead on the way he huffs, expression knotted up like you’re the one who has wounded him.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. Instantly, he snaps his hips up, shocking a fractured moan from you. He takes hold of your thighs and yanks you up, lifting off of his knees into the air. Your stomach flips with the feeling of weightlessness that hits before he lands back on his feet, hitching your legs around his waist. He sinks even deeper into you in this position. Homelander’s breaths are ragged, his strength barely contained while he bounces you on his cock. He doesn’t so much as break a sweat. You weigh nothing to him: the entirety of his exertion comes from trying not to break you.

“B-bed,” you tell him, unable to help but stutter with the way his cock is pounding into your cervix. He listens regardless, though he barely even stops fucking you to lay you on the bed. Beyond him, you lock eyes with yourself in the mirror above the bed. You watch yourself push your hands into his hair, staining his golden locks with your blood. You watch the muscles in his back ripple with every thrust. He’s holding you with fervency, one hand locked on your thigh while the other cradles the back of your neck.

The way he fucks you is animalistic, deep thrusts with little rhythm to them. You give his hair a sharp yank, and he lifts to meet your gaze, his own eyes bleary, clouded with lust.

“You love me?” You ask, your grip in his hair tight. You cannot hurt him, but you never wanted to. You’ve realized something much more important. You can control him.

“Yes,” he hisses through his teeth, voice thin. His thrusts grow more erratic, the thrum of his body like an engine against yours, practically vibrating with the tension of restraint trembling in his inhuman muscles. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Say it,” you moan, arching your back.

“I love you,” he whines, the threads of control he has over himself snapping one by one. “Hhh, ah, I love you, I fffucking love you,” he chokes out, fucking you with a force you know will leave you bruised. You don’t care. You need it. You deserve it.

“I love you, too,” you keen, screwing your eyes tightly shut.

With that, Homelander loses it completely, slamming in one, two, three more times before he stills, burying himself as deeply as he can into you, holding you against him in a vice grip while he spills load after load of come into you. The sheer heat of it never fails to shock you, the flood of it so hot that it scorches.

Panting against your neck, Homelander gives a handful more gentle thrusts, shuddering through the aftermath of his release. He kisses your skin, nosing his way to your ear, your jaw, peppering kisses all the way to your lips. You kiss him back, albeit weakly, before the shock of his fingers pressing on your clit wrings a gasp out of you.

“You didn’t finish,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles, firm enough to make your breath tremble. Your cunt quivers around his spent cock, and you both moan. He knows you so thoroughly, knows precisely how to move his fingers to take you apart piece by piece. You feel overly sensitive, already tender from the force of his thrusts, and despite how good it is, you whimper. The noise is just the beginning of the sob building in your throat, tears prickling hotly at your eyes.

Homelander pulls back at the sound of it, his brows furrowing. “Hey, hey, sshhhh,” he soothes, bringing his hand up to touch your face instead. His acknowledgement does nothing but bring your mind fully to the surge of emotion, and you begin to cry in earnest. “Sshhh. Don’t cry,” he whispers, kissing your cheeks, brushing away the salty streaks of your tears with his lips.

“I killed him,” you sob, taking in a ragged breath. “Oh my god, I killed him. I killed a person,” you keen, trying to twist away from the warmth of Homelander’s lips, the mint of his breath, but he holds you firmly in place.

“He would’a done worse to you,” Homelander reasons. You know he means this as a comfort. “You, and a whole lotta girls like you,” he says, continuing to kiss away your tears. He licks his lips. “You didn’t kill a person. You put down a sick dog.” You can feel his smile when he presses his lips to your jaw, your cheek, your forehead, like he simply can’t help himself. His pleasure is palpable. “You saved people.”

He kisses your mouth, and you don’t fight him. You close your eyes against the flow of your tears, and slip both hands into his hair, grabbing a tight hold of it. You kiss him hard, craving the same relentlessness he had fucked you with, but his lips remain infuriatingly soft against yours. You buck your hips just to feel the dull ache of your bruising, but he stops you short with a hand on your hip, pins you to the bed.

“Stop punishing yourself,” he says against your lips, tenderly kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ll give you what you deserve.”

Your breath catches at the slip of his fingers back at your clit, coaxing a reluctant, trembling moan from you. He trails kisses down your neck, down to the neckline of your dress. As he descends, his cock gently falls from inside you. You feel the absence like an ice cold wound, a painful loss that drips from you. He doesn’t leave you longing, however. Pushing your dress up over your waist, he nestles himself between your legs, and slips his fingers into your leaking pussy, pushing them in with a wet squelch.

In the mirror above, you focus intently on the back of his head between your thighs. You’re not ready to look back into the eyes of your alien reflection. Instead, you let yourself focus on the slide of his fingers, and the sparks he ignites inside you when he crooks them just so. You exhale a shaky, pleased sigh.

“That’s it,” he coos, stroking your thigh with his other hand. “Let it go, pretty girl. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, you’re not even gonna remember who you are.” You wonder if he realizes the gravity of the appeal in what he’s saying, or if it’s simply his bravado speaking. Is this arrogance, or does he recognize the look of someone who hates what they see in the mirror well enough to know exactly what to say?

All logical thought falls away at the first hot, breathy swipe of his tongue. Your hips jerk, but yet again, he keeps you pinned. His fingers rock leisurely in and out of the creamy wet mess he’s made of your cunt, scissoring slowly on every outward pull. He swirls his tongue in figure-eights on your clit before eventually sucking it between his lips. You make a noise halfway between a moan and a sob, throat tight.

You focus on the noise his fingers make fucking in and out of you, on the subtle way he hums while he devours not only you, but the dripping mess of his own come. His tongue occasionally dips down when his fingers pull back, and you can feel him licking at your cunt, lapping up his and your juices from between his fingers, insatiable for your combined taste.

“Ffffffuck,” he sighs, nuzzling at your clit, slurping and even gently nipping at you. “Taste like an angel. Like heaven.”

The devil was an angel once, you suppose. Was this corruption just as inevitable?

Homelander pushes three fingers in deep, and you reward him with a full, throaty moan.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pumping his fingers slowly and deliberately. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t’cha, sweetheart? When you do, I want you to scream my name, alright? Scream it like it’s the only one you know,” he says, his voice frayed at the edges. He sounds far too riled up for a man who only just came inside you.

He only stops speaking to drag his tongue over your clit, or suck on it. He murmurs an endless litany of praise and filth into the space between your thighs, holding you steady as you tremble. There’s a pressure building within you so intense, the muscles in your stomach contract uncontrollably. It’s too much, the slow drag of his fingers sweet as sugar against the tender, convulsing walls of your cunt. You slip your hands into his hair, and though you can feel yourself babbling, you’re completely unaware of what you’re saying. You might be begging, or for all you know, reciting the pledge of allegiance. You don’t know, you don’t care. You’re wholly consumed by the warm, wet slide of his tongue, the rumble of his words against your skin, and the sinuous pull of his fingers.

Climax hits you like an earthquake, an immeasurable force that rips up through the very core of you, and when it does, you do as you were told, and you scream Homelander’s name.

The waves of pleasure that follow are indescribable. You’re battered relentlessly by pulse after pulse of tingling sensation, goosebumps prickling over every inch of your body. Your body jumps in time with each throb, and the only thing that keeps you from curling in on yourself is Homelander’s hand pressed to your stomach, holding you down while he continues to lick leisurely at your throbbing clit.

You’re crying again, fat tears rolling down from your eyes into your hairline. It isn’t grief, at least not exclusively. You feel like you’ve been untethered from reality, and every single sensation is simply spilling out of you in every way possible. Your breaths are quivering, gasped beasts all their own. “Stop,” you manage to plead, voice hoarse. “Please, Homel-lander, please–” Homelander hushes you gently, lifting from between your legs. His eyes are dark, his mouth shiny with your slick. He strokes soothing lines up and down your inner thigh while, with his other hand, he furiously jerks his cock. “S’alright, sweetheart. Look at me. That’s it, so fuckin’ pretty. Nngh, fuck. There’s my sweet girl. So… fucking… good… for me…” With one last grunt, he comes again, painting your used up pussy with the mess of it, earning a tired little jolt out of you before you settle back down.

Sucking in a deep breath, he blows it out slowly, sinking down onto the bed next to you, slipping his arm underneath you. You feel like a ragdoll as he pulls your body against his, loose-limbed and exhausted beyond measure. His chest is warm against your cheek, the circle of his arms more of a comfort than ever before. You sniffle, eyes bleary and tired, and curl both of your arms around his middle, embracing him as tightly as your feeble strength allows.

You aren’t sure there are words enough to describe the leaden weight of your bones. Your entire body is tingling like you’ve been electrified, buzzing with static from head to toe. Your mind, however, is blissfully empty. You easily lose yourself to the cadence of Homelander’s breaths, and the gentle way he strokes your hair.

“I love you,” you whisper. It’s a far cry from the power play of earlier. Now, you seek only validation. Assurance.

Homelander hums a warm chuckle, toying with your hair. “And I love you. I always knew, you know.” “Knew what?” You ask, blinking slow and heavy, your grasp on consciousness already leaving you. “I always knew you were perfect for me.”

What happened tonight, what you did, will have to be confronted eventually, but it won’t be tonight. Instead, you close your eyes, and as you have a dozen times before, you simply nod in response, and let Homelander soothe you into a deep, deep sleep.

#I SHOULD NOT POST THIS SO LATE #but here we are can you believe it #homelander x reader #homelander x you #my writing #smut #homelander fanfiction #say it

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