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The showers in Vought Tower are perfect. Partly because it's a trillion-dollar corporation that can afford the best; mostly because the penny-pinching fucks on the 82nd floor would get a laser blast to their nuts if they skimped out on the amenities for The Seven.
Homelander doesn't know how hot the water gets and it doesn't really matter. Invulnerable skin. Maybe it's boiling. He soaks under the spray, steam billowing so thick that for normal people it would probably be hard to breathe. The blood sluices off under the intensity of the water pressure and he tips his head back against it, wishing it could be harder somehow. Already firehose-level—he wants to be pulverized. It'd feel good, after this stupid day. Saving stupid little mud-people, wading into the hostage situation created by a stupid criminal, making sure he pulverized this idiot and saved that idiot so that the whole thing could be caught on camera. He got the little boy and Maeve got the little girl and Lamplighter set the whole stupid house ablaze so that when the camera crew got there they were all appropriately framed—the flames in the background, the flag waving at Homelander's back—and Homelander's pretty sure his share of the media landscape will go up by at least a point. The little boy was wearing a Ninja Turtle t-shirt, for God's sake. Like it was custom-designed by PR. Knowing Mr. Edgar…
He cracks his neck and turns off the shower. Not worth thinking about Mr. Edgar, right now.
A thick towel to press his face into; the mirror, where he frowns at himself, tilting his head back and forth. The marketing team want him to get a haircut, but when it's long like this it can fall in his eyes like—yes, that, which he has empirical evidence causes heartrates to rise in most of the women around when it happens. Not a few of the men, too.
Speaking of—the intercom beeps, unobtrusive in the wall of the bathroom. He sighs. "I'd rather not be disturbed," he says, in his best fake-polite voice.
Yes, sir, Homelander, but—a girl. New, as far as he can tell. There's an appointment on your calendar?
An appointment. He squints at the black screen and then laughs, surprised in spite of himself. "Is it that time of year already?" he says, and the girl says um? and he rolls his eyes, hooks the towel around his waist, says, "Send him up. And a bottle of something, for my guest."
His guest. He laughs again, alone in the bathroom, and lets his hair fall over his forehead again. His body is perfect—of course, it can't be anything but—but he steps back for a moment, looks himself over. Lets his eyes hood, in the mirror, and opens his mouth to see his teeth bare. He looks good. He looks phenomenal. This body has sold more figurines than the rest of the supes at Vought combined. He's a god, walking. He licks his lips and smiles at himself in the mirror like there's a pap behind the glass, and when the elevator dings at his penthouse he walks out still wearing the smile, and says, "Sorry, I forgot you were coming," and Soldier Boy says, eyes streaking over Homelander's body, "No need to apologize, sir."
It's not the eyes. It's the voice. Homelander feels his spine go stiff, even if he manages to keep the smile perfectly in place. Polite, subservient, and just that edge of fuck you that shows he still doesn't know his place. That he still thinks he's something, when he's been second-rate for years, but the thing is—he's right. In a way. A staff member has come up in the elevator, too, with a room service tray, a silver bucket and white linens, and she hustles it into place by the coffee table with relative grace while Homelander turns the smile on her, benevolent, so he doesn't have to look at Soldier Boy's perfect fucking face.
Soldier Boy. One of the stupidest hero names Vought ever came up with, and they've had some doozies. The first hero, the man who won the war, their star-spangled boy of the old days. When it came time to train Homelander into his role, the Vought staff delivered some of the propaganda reels for him, and he'd stared up into that gorgeous, movie-star smile, the beautiful long-lashed eyes, the cheekbones, the charisma that just poured out of him. Didn't matter how cheesy it was—punching Hitler stand-ins, the winged helmet, the aw shucks golden boy crap. That was what America believed a hero to be. That was how Homelander had to model himself. It's why when Madeleine told him to wear the red cape, he went for the waving flag, instead. No matter how polished and market-tested the other supes were, he knew what would make America believe. He had the ideal example. It all started right there.
"Good to see you," Homelander says, when the room service girl has scuttled out. He keeps the smile, a little smaller. A little harder, which he knows Soldier Boy sees and has to take, regardless. "Six months, already! How the time flies."
"Yes, sir," Soldier Boy says. He's standing with his hands neatly behind his back. In uniform, the modern one they've designed for him—sleek blue pants tucked into his boots, the tac-vest subtly starred. No eyemask, in the building, but Homelander saw the spec design when they were sending out the updates. It looks good on him. Everything does.
"How are things going in Chicago?" Homelander says. He moves over to the room service cart, casual. There's water rolling down his back, he can feel the chill trail in the air. He wonders if Soldier Boy is looking at it. "The second city. Payback's guarding it well, I heard."
"We're trying," Soldier Boy says, and Homelander pops the cork on the champagne bottle, rolling his eyes where the Boy can't see. That fucking voice. He must know how infuriating it is. "Stormfront was a great addition to the team. Big hit with the 18-34 demo."
"You've got a good mind for the business, don't you," Homelander says, turning with a champagne flute, and Soldier Boy smiles, politely. He has dimples—fucking dimples!—that peek up only when his smile is like that. A little fake, a little frustrated. "C'mere. Been a while. Have a glass."
Soldier Boy blinks at him, slowly. It's a calculated just-long-enough pause before he walks over, his sleek boots quiet on the polished tile. He only removes one hand from behind his back to take the flute—no gloves, presumably left somewhere with the eyemask—and his hands are manicured, perfect too. He's got an inch on Homelander in the boots and Homelander has to fight a very real, very stupid impulse to float upwards to ensure he still has the height advantage—but that's silly, of course. He's read up on their relative stats, in the Vought database. He outclasses Soldier Boy in every single one. Other than age. Other than how Soldier Boy was first. Other than how he set the standard, and became the archetype no one could ever hope to live up to.
Soldier Boy takes a sip from the champagne. In the propaganda films, you couldn't tell that his eyes were green. Freckles, too, which they'd put on the posters to show off how down-home American boy-next-door he was. Pretty, perfect Boy Scout. He tips the glass down, licks his lips, and Homelander says, friendly, "Oh, I didn't think to ask. It's okay for you to have a drink, right? I won't get in trouble with your sponsor?"
A freeze. Just a millisecond, just enough for someone with preternatural senses to notice. "It's fine," Soldier Boy says, and his hand doesn't even tighten on the glass. He's very good. "Alcohol doesn't have any power."
Homelander sits on the couch, his towel splitting over the stretch of his thigh. Soldier Boy's eyes follow it. No matter how infuriating he can be, this part at least is fun. Easy. "That's great to hear," Homelander says, plummy and encouraging. "I'm glad we won't get any more word of—problems. After all, we're the heroes, right? We're the ones who're supposed to have the power."
He wonders how close the fuck you is to Soldier Boy's pretty, pouty lips. He gets a smile from them, instead, and the champagne flute goes back to the room service cart, exactly one sip gone and no more. "So," Homelander says, and doesn't invite the little shit to sit. "How can I help you? What merits the trip all the way to the Big Apple, champ?"
Like he doesn't know. Like it isn't all over the request to keep the appointment—the uniform, perfectly pressed—the neat part of his hair, the military precision of the stance—the way his eyes flick from Homelander's bare legs to his bare chest to his face—the way his heart beats, in Homelander's ears, just that little bit faster.
"I was sorry to hear about Lamplighter's retirement," Soldier Boy says.
"Yeah," Homelander says, nodding. He crosses his ankle over one knee and Soldier Boy's eyes hardly flicker. He smiles. "Yeah, that was a tough one. But when a hero's done, we've got to let them walk away. He served his time, you know? Of course, I guess you know better than anyone."
Slight part of the lips as he takes a breath. Homelander lets the silence sit, still smiling, and says, "Aw, come on. I know what you want to ask. You asked six months ago. And six months before that, and six months before that. You want to ask me a question, you've earned the right, no matter how many times I answer, Soldier Boy." He affects a frown. "What was your alias, again? I can't really call you Boy."
Soldier Boy tips his head. "John, the first time," he says. He raises his eyebrows. "Like yours, right?" Little fucker. Homelander doesn't let his expression change. "Jack, now. I suppose they think it's more modern."
"Jack," Homelander says, and gets a nod, and then he says, "Well, how about it, slugger? What did you want to ask?"
Soldier Boy—he's not a Jack, never has been or will be, made in a bottle as much as Homelander was—he licks his lips again. His eyes aren't hopeful. They've danced this dance before and he's never been allowed to lead. It's making Homelander's dick swell, just looking at him—all precise and pretty, in his navy blue uniform with its embossed stars, a dark shadow of where Homelander has taken his place—asking for something only Homelander can give. Begging, without any real expectation of reward.
"I've done some good work with Payback. I think I'd be a great member of the team here at the tower," he says, all smooth despite everything. "I'd like a place on the Seven."
There it is. Homelander takes a slow breath, savoring it. This is the—what, fifth time? "You think you can replace Lamplighter?" he says, while Soldier Boy looks at him, steady. "You thought you could take A-Train's place, before. It really takes something special, to be one of the Seven. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," Soldier Boy says, and it's not polite, now, not faking. There's bitterness, but not only bitterness. They both know what's coming.
Homelander drops his eyes. There's a bulge, in those sleek dark pants. Yeah, they both know what's coming. "Why," he says, letting the smile fall away, "do you think I should let you onto my team? You think I don't know all the things you've done? All the mistakes you've made? What if it got out? Boy. You think that's an acceptable risk, for the reputation of the Seven?"
Silence. Soldier Boy swallows. There's pink in his ears—one of his few, solid tells. Homelander studied that, too. He uncrosses his ankle, letting his knees go wide, and spreads his hands. "I'm waiting to be convinced," he says, and it's not a surprise, not at all, when Soldier Boy nods and goes to his knees—but fuck, it's good anyway, and the surge of blood to his dick is so fast that it jerks, under the towel, knowing it's time to play.
Jack Starr—yeah, Vought wasn't subtle, with the secret identities. Jack Starr, who evolved from John Felix, who evolved from, who evolved from. All the way back to that original Soldier Boy, that handsome Johnny who served his country proud and came home a hero, who starred in movies and started the merchandising arm of the company and made the heroics profitable. Who found the darker side of celebrity—drinking, drugs, sex of all sorts, and whose picture with his mouth stuffed full of dealer cock nearly destroyed Vought's reputation in 1958, and whose lips Homelander about rubbed himself raw over, when he was studying everything there was to know about the first hero as a teenager, prepping to become the hero America needed. He read everything, watched everything, and even with all the drugs and misery and getting shunted in a new hero identity from this crappy team to that awful posting, it was still something insane, insane, to look behind the mask or the eyeband or the distracting uniform and see those pretty, pretty eyes. That mouth, made for the movies. Made for—
"Do it slow," Homelander says, and Soldier Boy pauses with his hands undoing the towel, glances up. His ears are really red, now. He nods, and pulls the towel away, and isn't at all surprised to see Homelander's dick already swollen, ready. He gathers it up with one of those soft, perfect hands, and that first touch—Homelander's thighs clench, the soft heat a shock even when he's trying to control himself. A little glance—those eyes, jesus—and there's a slow, squeezing pump, from the base to the head, a swipe of soft thumb, before Soldier Boy, American icon, nudges up between Homelander's knees and lets his eyes fall closed and applies his pretty, pursed mouth right to the tip of Homelander's dick, kissing it like a sweetheart before he licks, swipe of wet heat, and then goes down to the base in a long, delicious slide.
Fuck—fuck, it's good, he's good. He knows it and it's infuriating and it's still true. Homelander forces himself to grab onto the back of the couch instead of Soldier Boy's head, forces himself not to hump up. He wants to enjoy the display before he takes over, and Soldier Boy puts on quite the fucking display. It's slow, just like he was ordered to do, but that doesn't mean it's not thorough—his throat opens up like his real superpower is cocksucking instead of immortality, and Homelander tips his head back against the couch, feeling the deep ripple as Soldier Boy swallows around the head of his dick, the soft hands splaying over his thighs and gripping, stroking, trying to make it oh-so-sweet.
"You're good at this," Homelander says, voice barely strained, and the only response is a slow drag up, another push down, tight and hot and perfect. That first time, Homelander didn't even ask—Soldier Boy was still in the old red-and-blue uniform and he'd been almost desperate, wanting to get out of Chicago, wanting real fame again, and he'd dropped to his knees and put his hands on the uniform belt and Homelander, faced with his heart's-rival from the past, just let him do it—let him do all the work, bobbing and sucking and fondling and using all sorts of tricks that Homelander hadn't even known existed, and when Homelander came, creaming up his throat, Soldier Boy swallowed every drop and licked his dick clean and then looked up, his lips red and his eyes hopeful, and it was the nastiest, best victory of Homelander's life up to that point to say, that was great, but I'm afraid we just don't have room for you on the team at this time. The way the shock hit, and rippled into smoothness on that pretty face. The nod, and the stand, and then seeing—in that super-thin spandex—
Homelander looks down, where Soldier Boy's steadily working, bobbing in his lap and making just the best fucking sounds. "You're getting off on this, aren't you?" he says, quiet, and Soldier Boy pulls back so that the cockhead is held just barely in his puffed lips and looks up, and his eyes—yeah, god, they're spread-dark, his cheeks flushed, his body primed up for it. Homelander drags a thumb over his cheek, where the flush is taking over the freckles, and says, "You are. Such a perfect slut. Hot for it, aren't you? Getting used like this."
A sweep of eyelashes, a slow blink. His tongue flicks over the slit in Homelander's dick and Homelander hisses, but laughs, too, because—how did he get this lucky? "Get up," he says, and Soldier Boy lifts his head, his expression controlled but still with a flicker of surprise. "Up, boy," Homelander says, harder, and that gets him to his feet, where—yeah, his dick's heavy, not hidden at all in the uniform.
Homelander stands, too, and they're close enough that their bodies brush, Homelander's wet dick standing out and brushing Soldier Boy's crotch. He grips Soldier Boy's hips, reaches behind and squeezes his ass, hard—very hard, knowing that even if he's immortal he can still bruise. It makes his eyelashes flicker, his wet lips parting, but his eyes are still heavy—heavier—focused on Homelander's and not turning away. Homelander smiles at him, not bothering to make it nice. "You'd do anything I say, wouldn't you?" he says, and Soldier Boy's head tips back a fraction. Homelander releases his ass with one hand, fits the hand around his throat. There's no nervous swallow but his heart's pounding, fast and excited. "You really would. You'd debase yourself. Is that how you think a hero should behave?"
Soldier Boy breathes slowly, his hands loose at his sides. After a moment he says, his voice vibrating against Homelander's hand, "How do you think a hero should behave?"
Christ—Homelander had forgotten. That old movie, one of the first, from back in the fifties. That golden voice, paternalistic and demanding more than anyone could give. Impossible, beloved, maddening. Homelander laughs, torn between delight and annoyance. "I love the classics," he says, and turns Soldier Boy around, and shoves him down onto the coffee table.
It's solid metal so it doesn't break, but the landing must hurt—Soldier Boy rocks forward on his hands and knees, lurching with the force. Homelander doesn't waste time. Even with Vought's extensive research into materials design it's nothing for his hands to tear the uniform free—ripping the belt and trousers in half, yanking them free of the boots, tearing at the top and tac-vest so he's exposed in the light. Pale golden skin, creamy and blemish-free except for the darkened handprints where Homelander grabbed him, and he's looking forward to more. He bruises pretty, the first hero. Homelander grips his hips, hard, slides his dick up against one strong thigh, against the perfect peach of that ass. Reaches forward and grips the remaining shreds of the top and pulls, and Soldier Boy rears back on his knees, his back curving under Homelander's orders until he's arched, presenting, so that Homelander can look over his shoulder and see his own dick, heavy with blood and standing straight out from his body. Aching for what Homelander's doing to him, and Homelander hasn't even started yet. Homelander smiles, brushes his lips over the neat turn of one freckled ear. The skin is hot against his mouth. "Show me, sweetheart," he says, warm. "Show me how much you need it."
Soldier Boy's breathing has gone shaky. His back arches a little further, his head turning away from Homelander's mouth—but he reaches back, with his bare hands, finding Homelander's hips, his thighs. Strokes down them, and then up—finds Homelander's dick, slipping up against his leg, and fists it—guides—so that the barely-wet head slips into the split of his ass, drags down, finds the hot center. Homelander breathes hot against the straining tendon in Soldier Boy's throat, the tease outrageous. "You don't want more slick?" he says, conversational, and gets in return, throaty but tense, "I can take it," and—fuck, he can—and Homelander pushes forward but it's Soldier Boy who does most of the work, arching and shoving backwards and impaling himself, splitting open, letting Homelander inside, where he belongs.
"Ah—" Homelander gets out, before he bites it off. Jesus christ—the heat of it, and slicker inside than it should be—he prepped himself, Homelander realizes, grinding his forehead into the bastard's shoulder. He prepped himself, slicked up and clean, knowing—hoping—"Does it hurt," he says, almost breathless from trying to hold back, and Soldier Boy drags in air, tips his head back, fucks his hips back and forth so that his asshole drags tight along Homelander's shaft, but he doesn't answer.
Homelander fucks in, sharp, lifting his head. Soldier Boy gasps, squirming his ass back into it—his head on Homelander's shoulder now, his lips open and panting at the ceiling—his hand finding Homelander's hip, dragging it closer. "I asked a question," Homelander says, fucking in again to that sweet tense heat, and Soldier Boy closes his eyes and says, "Yes, it hurts," like he's saying please, and Homelander grips hip, his throat, pins him in place, saws in and wishes he could make himself thicker, longer, could make it hurt more—could punish him, more than he wants to be punished—but apparently he'll do, because Soldier Boy whines and gasps and says, he actually says, "Oh, please," and he says, "More, I can take—more, please, please," and Homelander feels like his spine's going to explode when he says in return, "Call me sir," and Soldier Boy immediately covers Homelander's hand on his own throat and squeezes harder and says, thin and aching, "Sir, please," and then what the hell can Homelander do, but fuck him to the very limits of what his body can take?
His body can take a lot. Homelander's seen that. He humps it sharp and fast, slamming their hips together, and gets nothing but gasping, hurt relief, like he's scratching some deep itch, fulfilling a need. "Oh, sweetheart," Homelander says, grinding inside, pulsing his hips, "are you not getting it like you need? That why you need to come to New York? To get fucked like you deserve?"
No answer—how could there be, with him gasping high and desperate like that—but the talking is enough to help distract from how very fucking badly Homelander wants to just come, wants to flood the little bastard's insides, wants to use him how he so clearly wants to be used. "No one would've thought, huh?" he says, and hooks his arm around the low pit of Soldier Boy's stomach, keeping him in place as he stands up higher, braces a foot on the table to get the leverage to really haul that ass back on his dick, to make him take it as hard as possible. Soldier Boy wails, practically, his hands coming up to hold the back of Homelander's head, his body arching for it. Homelander talks into his ear, low and mean, throbbing—"Big hero. You think that statue of you in D.C. would be better if someone carved a gloryhole into it? Make it more accurate. Soldier Boy, fucks available for a dollar. America's favorite cumdumpster, right there on the Mall."
"Oh, god," Soldier Boy says, thin, and reaches for his dick, but Homelander's faster and snatches his hand, the bones in his arm grinding under Homelander's grip. "Sir—sir, please—"
"We'll put you right there," Homelander says, nasty promise in his voice. Soldier Boy's hips tilt, desperate, taking the slamming pace. "Strap you down under your own statue. Leave you there—how long? How many would you take, huh? A day? A week? Keep a running tally on your ass, make you all sloppy. Let you beg them to come in your mouth so you'd get something in your stomach. Let you piss yourself, like—oh, fuck—that club, in '82, remember? When you were so high you didn't even remember why someone might be filming? I saw it. I saw you, all drenched—and then they fucked you anyway, didn't they? Did it feel good? Is that what you wanted?"
His breath is almost-sobbing, his dick spitting wet below as Homelander keeps fucking up inside him. Homelander lets his wrist go, reaches down and squeezes his dick, and Soldier Boy says, "Oh—fuck, yes—yes, please, do it—sir, please—" and Homelander lets go immediately, pulls out, flips Soldier Boy around midair and holds him in place to shove back inside because he wants to see, he wants to see—
—that, yes, his uniform ruined and his thighs splayed wide, his body arching without any leverage midair but trying, trying to get Homelander deeper. He braces his hands on the table below himself, his eyes wet and his mouth wet and the flush streaking from his ears down his throat to his chest, his dick spitting wet on his own stomach, and when Homelander crushes in deep, holding there, he's rewarded with a rich needing moan, with the newsreel voice saying, "I'll do anything—sir, you can do anything—please—I need—"
"Say you need me," Homelander demands, barely holding back from snapping bones. "Say it."
There's no hesitation: "I need you," Soldier Boy says, immediately, the bitter stripped out of his voice so that it's true, and Homelander fucks him fast, brutal, floating them a few inches up because he can't concentrate enough to keep grounded but it just makes Soldier Boy squirm, his grip on the table lost so that he grabs at Homelander's waist, hauling him in deeper, wanting it more, wanting—wanting him—
Soldier Boy comes first, untouched, but Homelander's barely a second behind. He has to squeeze his eyes shut so he doesn't laser the wall open. Fucking—it feels like his bones are liquefying, his heart beating mad, and there's the satisfying pump and lurch of his balls emptying into a warm pit made for them but all around the clenching squeeze of Soldier Boy's now-familiar body is almost as good. Conquered, claimed. Taken over, and Homelander opens his eyes and knows they're still glowing from how the world's washed red, but even red it's just—right, to see Soldier Boy clutched up in his arms, still panting. Owned, but not afraid. Between them his dick twitches, still spending, and Homelander squeezes his hips just that little harder and it makes Soldier Boy's asshole spasm, yanking out one last clutch of jizz. Insatiable little slut.
Soldier Boy's legs are wrapped behind his back, his hands clenched on Homelander's arms to make sure he doesn't fall. They're—oh—ten feet in the air. Homelander lets himself pulse inside, warm, for another few seconds, before he descends, easy as a thought, and when his feet touch the ground he grips Soldier Boy's waist and tips him, down and down until his shoulders are set on the coffee table, his body angled awkwardly. The come puddled in his navel spills, rolling down his chest. His face is more-or-less calm but his ears are still that bright, telltale red. Homelander smiles at him, and watches closely while he tugs his dick out, and—mm, yeah, there's that flinch. Painful, but a loss. Like he wants it to just—stay. When he glances down, the asshole's swollen, red and full, and when he presses two fingers against it—it ripples, sore, but it gives up easy under the pressure. "Fucked all loose," Homelander says, "just like you like it, right?" No answer, but there's a clench around his fingers, and when he pulls them out—they're streaked white, from his own jizz. He hooks an arm around Soldier Boy's back and hauls him upright, so that he's in a carry-position, his face hovering just above Homelander's, and when Homelander offers him the two fingers there isn't a pause. He opens his mouth, calm, and lets Homelander feed him the come, and when Homelander raises his eyebrows Soldier Boy closes his lips and sucks the fingers clean, obedient as a whore and just as pretty.
Homelander drops him on the couch, when he's done. Looks him over. Still in his boots but his uniform's a last torn shred, his sleeves and shoulders still intact but nothing else left. The bruising was nice, this time, heavy at his hips and ass but a pretty handprint right over his throat, too. It'll heal, and all too soon, but for now—
"I don't think we need your kind of help on the Seven," Homelander says, and gets to watch those thick eyelashes dip, and the painful swallow as it gets past his bruised neck. God—it's even better. He hopes Vought has hidden cameras in his suite, so he can watch this footage, too. Perfect addition to the litany of disaster that's been Soldier Boy, through the years. "Chicago can keep you."
His prick's still flushed, pink and heavy against his hip. He's probably leaking on Homelander's couch. He tips his head back, calm as a king, and says, "I appreciate you taking the time," like butter wouldn't melt in his fucking mouth. A small smile, where those tiny dimples peek out. "Can I ask you to reconsider?"
Homelander licks his lips. "Come plugged, next time," he says, frank, and Soldier Boy's eyelashes flutter. Yeah. He'd like that. Homelander picks up the discarded towel and drops it in his lap. "Don't embarrass us any more on your way out of the tower."
"Yes, sir," Soldier Boy says, with a slow blink, and Homelander clenches his fists. All that and he's—unfussed. Unchanged. He walks to the bathroom so he doesn't throw the fucker from the 100th-story window, and behind him there's a slight clearing of a throat. He looks over his shoulder and Soldier Boy's standing, the towel held just barely over his crotch. "See you in six months, sir," he says, with a crooked, knowing smile, and Homelander slams the bathroom door behind himself hard enough that something in the frame cracks.