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“Cool,” Ryan says, turning the cellphone over. Shiny, black, new. He smiles up at Homelander who is standing at the foot of his bed, hands on his hips. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” Homelander waves nonchalantly, though he’s obviously pleased with the boy’s reaction. “Kinda crazy you don’t already have one, actually.”
A thoughtful look passes Ryan’s face as he sets the phone aside. “I don’t really have anyone to call, though.”
He’s always had an idea that it was normal for kids his age to have their own cellphone, and sometimes he’d ask his mom if he could have one, but every conversation led down to the same conclusion: There’s really no point. He’s never very far from home, the neighborhood has always been perfectly safe, so he won’t have to call 911 for help anytime soon. And, well, he doesn’t have any friends…
Homelander huffs, musing over the remark for a beat. “You can call me.”
Ryan chews his lip, considering the suggestion. It’s not that he doesn’t like the idea, but… he doesn’t really know Homelander that well, even though the man is supposedly his dad. They did just meet today after all. What would they even talk about anyway?
Homelander seems to be a fan of baseball, but Ryan isn’t really big on sports; there’s no one to play with, and his mom has never taken him to a game. Homelander doesn’t seem interested in movies, well, movies he doesn’t star in, and he has a niggling hunch that Homelander thinks his Lego animations are silly. And not in a good way…
“You know, Ryan,” Homelander starts, walking around to the side of the bed, hands behind his back. “When I was your age, I didn’t have many friends either.”
“Mom says being lonely makes you know yourself better.”
“Well…” Brows knitting, Homelander tilts his head, considering the statement. “Guess that’s not wrong, I suppose.”
Nodding, Ryan shrugs.
If he were being honest, he’d prefer things to be different. Like in the movies, going over a friend’s house for sleepovers, and hanging out after school. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t wish there was someone else to play with. Another boy or girl to talk to and share his toys with.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Homelander asks, wagging a finger between them. “Man-to-man, you know?”
Once Ryan nods and crosses his legs, scooting back to make room, Homelander tucks his cape aside and sits on the bed. There’s a pause while Homelander folds his hands, eyes downcast as he thinks about his next words. When they come to him he gives a light, awkward chuckle, eyes flitting from the floor up to Ryan.
“My dad and I,” his head shakes slightly. “We never played catch in a yard with a World Series ball. Truth is…” His gaze skims to the side. “I never had a dad. Or a mom.”
Ryan squints, nose wrinkling. “Wait you… You didn’t?”
Watching the man shake his head, as if ashamed, his brain tries to wrap around his words. That doesn’t seem possible. Everyone has a mom and dad. He knows that’s how babies are made. (Although, the exact details are foggy because Mom started getting flustered, saying he’s not old enough to know the rest right now.)
So what could Homelander possibly mean by that?
“You see, sometimes it’s hard, Ryan, being…” Eyes rolling, an insufferable sigh leaves him. “Superior to every single other person on the planet. It’s—it’s isolating. And gods should not have to feel that kind of… pain.”
Ryan listens closely, pulled in by the gravity of his words and openness in his eyes that creates a creeping feeling in Ryan’s tummy, like ants marching around his insides. As Homelander goes on, something shines in the depths of his eyes, kinda like how the lamp light bounces off the hard edges of the golden eagles on his shoulders.
“Because that is what we are, Ryan. You and me.” A hand lifts and cups Ryan’s cheek. Reverence echoes, not only in Homelander’s eyes, but in his voice as he exhales: “We’re gods.”
Ryan blinks, holding Homelander’s determined gaze, mind reeling as the hand holding the side of his head pulls him forward.
“Son, we can do anything we want. And no one can stop us. Now that… that’s a good feeling.” Slightly cold skin strokes his cheek as glimmering icy pools bore into pure baby-blues. “A really good feeling.”
Butterflies join the ants in Ryan’s tummy. His face twists in confusion.
So much of what Homelander said today was so... strange. Talk about powers. Being a superhero. And now this stuff about being better than everyone else because they’re… gods?
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. Just doesn’t make any sense.
Because if all of that were true, wouldn’t Mom have told him?
Now hyperaware of the hand still holding his cheek, Ryan wants to move away from the touch, settle into bed and sleep on all of this, but the intense stare holds him in place. A pair of icicles nailing down his soul.
He isn’t expecting Homelander to lean in, so when he does, Ryan reflexively draws back, brow furrowing when the man presses a kiss to his forehead.
It feels weird. Only Mom gives him head kisses.
But he is your dad, a voice in the back of his mind points out. Sure, but still, they just met… He’s more ‘stranger’ than ‘father.’
Just when Ryan thinks the kiss is a little too long, Homelander pulls away and looks down at him like before. Intense and unblinking, but there is something different in his eyes, a deep focus, as if memorizing every detail of Ryan’s face. A corner of his lips quirk, and his eyelids lower. Like he’s thinking.
Bare skin idly strokes Ryan’s cheek again, and as the silence stretches, the air around them changes. Thickens.
It doesn’t feel right.
He squirms. More and more he’s starting to—Remember, Mom said ‘hate’ is a strong word—really dislike those cold eyes. It’s like they are looking through him. Seeing things nobody else could, or should.
Another one of Mom’s phrases pops up. It’s not polite to stare. Should he say it? He wants to but... is it rude to tell an adult that? To say that to his ‘dad’?
Struggling with his thoughts, he nervously bites his lip. An icky feeling rolls through him when Homelander’s gaze drops. His Adam’s apple bobs behind the red and gold collar, his gulp loud and clear in Ryan’s ears. A shiver tickles his spine when their eyes meet again.
The kind that comes when he’s watching a scary movie, and he knows something bad is about to happen.
Homelander’s mouth opens, then shuts, then pinches to the side while his eyebrows scrunch in some form of, what? Ryan can’t tell, and he doesn’t get a chance to ask. His thoughts derail as the heel of Homelander’s hand gently tilts his head up.
A sharp spike shoots through his belly, eyes widening as the man leans in. Jerky and hesitant. Unsure.
(Images flash by. Something he’s seen in Disney movies. The part where the prince takes the princess’ chin, closes his eyes, leans in and… and…)
The weird spike shoots up to his chest. He gasps as biting cold roots dig into the space around his heart.
No. There’s no way that is going to happen, right?
Heart beating faster with every closed-in inch, he turns his head away; only managing to smush one cheek against Homelander’s large palm before lips land on the other cheek.
He freezes, breath hitching while Homelander kisses his cheek again. And again. And again.
For a moment, he thinks of Mom, and all the times she soothed him after he hurt himself. Like the time he scraped his knee after falling off his bike, or when he slipped off the monkey bars at the park. But his tense muscles and shallow breaths tell him this is different… This is… wrong.
Eyes snapping shut, he silently hopes, wishes, prays that’s all the strange man will do. (Please.) Prays that he’ll let him go, say good night, and leave. (Please.)
It’s not.
He doesn’t.
Slowly, delicately, the peppering kisses trail across his small face. His lungs burn, aching for him to release the air he’s holding in, but breathing is far from his mind.
One, he doesn’t want to take in the weird smell coming from Homelander that’s making his nose itch (a harsh combination of leather and something like bleach). Two, he’s too focused on the shape of Homelander’s mouth against his skin. Afraid of what it means that it’s creeping closer and closer to his—
A squeak escapes as lips catch the corner of his mouth.
Homelander holds the kiss, pursing his mouth a little, adding more pressure. Ryan doesn’t—can’t—react, only shivers as little panicky tremors shoot through him.
With a light sucking noise, Homelander breaks the kiss and stills. Ryan doesn’t (want to) know what expression he’s making—can’t bring himself to open his eyes—but he does feel the man’s breath (warm, minty) ghosting over his face, heat rolling off his broad body.
That weird spike in his gut grows bigger, pulsing chills through the roots in his chest.
He… he should be calling for his mom, right? Should be yelling, kicking, and screaming for her. Like when he wakes up from a nightmare but can’t bring himself to leave the safety of his bed and run to her bedroom door.
Only, he can’t.
It feels as if there’s a frog stuck in his throat, and his throat is a big snake, wrapping ‘round and ‘round the poor frog and squeezing.
His chest pounds hard with blood and fear as lips slide fully over his. The first kisses are slow and feather light, almost shy. But soon he hears a low, content hum, and more pressure is applied, pushing him back until Homelander cups the back of his head, fingers digging into his hair, holding him still.
Oh no. Oh god no.
His breathing speeds up. He tries to speak up, to ask Homelander to stop, but the words are buried under a lump (of scales coiled around slime). He swallows hard, trying to dislodge it, but only chokes on stolen wisps of air while his heart thumps harder, faster—a bloody fist punching against its bony cage.
No, no, no, no, no, stop, please stop!
As if hearing his mental pleas, Homelander draws back, hand falling from Ryan’s head to his back.
“Woah, hey, what’s the matter, kiddo? Sounds like your little heart’s about to explode.” It is... Shaking, Ryan heaves in trembling breaths, tense as Homelander pats his back with a scoff. “C’mon, I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Calming down the tiniest bit, Ryan’s shoulders hunch up as he wrings his hands in his lap. It … it doesn’t hurt, but… it doesn't feel good either. (Like the hand on your back?)
But as unnatural blue leers down at him, waiting for an answer (The right answer, says the gleam in Homelander’s pupils) he knows that response won’t satisfy the man.
He gulps. Too afraid to break the atmosphere—afraid that something worse than mere disappointment lurks beneath the thin ice—he shakes his head robotically, like a rusty wind-up toy.
It earns him a pleased expression that makes him wish he could shove Homelander off his bed.
“Yeah, right, I’m not. And I would never do that, Ryan.” There’s now a sincerity in his eyes and voice that makes him seem almost offended Ryan would even think that. Pausing, Homelander pats his shoulder. It feels like an imitation of comfort.
“I said doing whatever we want feels good, didn’t I?” Ryan slowly nods. “Exactly. And I’m just showing you what I mean. That’s all.”
The earnest honesty wheedles into a part of the boy’s conscience, like a worm in an apple, sparking a tiny, wavering voice.
Maybe this is just your dad’s way of bonding, and being nice. He obviously doesn't mean any harm.
But the other part is screeching alarms. Warning him. Reminding him how gross he feels. That he hasn’t asked for any of this. That parents—the memory of them playing catch earlier passes, twisting and knotting his insides into a pretzel—that good parents do not do ‘whatever they want’ with their kids.
Ryan shakes his head again, hating how weak and small he sounds when he says, “M-Mom doesn’t… We, we’ve never—”
“And you shouldn’t.” Homelander’s grip tightens around his shoulder, soft eyes suddenly narrow.
Wincing, Ryan flinches under the painful touch and tone; like ice shavings shoved through snow white teeth. Sighing, Homelander’s hand returns to the back of his neck and massages the skin, as if that would help him relax.
“Like I said, son, me and you,” his voice drops to a whisper. “We’re different. She wouldn’t understand, okay?”
Pulling Ryan closer, he tenderly kisses the top of his head. The deep, shaky inhales through his nose are not lost on Ryan, nor the possessive squeeze around the back of his neck that says so much without a single word.
He... He gets it now. He’s stuck in this nightmare... A little rabbit cornered in the big bad wolf's den.
And deep down, he knows calling for his mom to save him would only make things worse.
As fingers take his chin, and Homelander’s eyelids fall shut, lips closing over Ryan’s once more, an unsettling rhythm thrums in his veins.
I can’t do anything. I’m alone…
Something inside him deflates as biting cold thorns prick his heart, making the back of his eyes sting, gathering salty water.
I’m scared…
That’s when Homelander’s mouth opens a little, molding around Ryan’s bottom lip, giving gentle, sucking kisses that make him gasp at the painful sensation of blood swelling against his skin. He is certain his lip is going to burst by the time Homelander finally lets go, eyes half-lidded as his thumb brushes over Ryan’s now throbbing lip.
He’s so close, filling Ryan’s vision. And though it’s blurry with unshed tears, he makes out the glassy haze in the man’s eyes. Cloudy with an emotion he can’t figure out. Sees the crooked smile (has it always been that way or is it because of his tears?) before he hears a light chuckle. (It’s creepy how much it sounds like a giggle.)
“Hmm, cute.”
Ryan blinks rapidly in disbelief. Cute?
He doesn’t get to analyze his discomfort. The man swiftly claims his mouth again, and sickening electricity wracks his small body as wet warmth nudges his lips.
Heart pumping back into overdrive, an unbearable shame sweeps through his blood that makes his skin burn. Makes him wish he could fight back, break away and run, or even fly like a bird, and go far, far away. Or at least think about anything else but how Homelander’s tongue is tracing the seam of his mouth, pushing forward ever so slightly, wanting to… to…
Pressing his lips together, he jerks away, head shaking—“Please…”—until Homelander’s thumb and forefinger dig into his cheeks, forcing him to stop.
“Be good,” he says (warns), with the gentle lilt one would use on a misbehaving puppy.
Gulping down a sob, Ryan finds the strength to open his eyes. To face those cold orbs that hold so much hidden power, observing him with pitiless expectation. He doesn’t need to be told. A command is a command, no matter its tone.
Whimpering, eyes and throat burning hot as tears roll down his cheeks, he goes limp, lips quivering. The fingers let go, and it’s like a switch flipped. Homelander gives an easy eye-creasing smile as he wipes Ryan’s tear tracks. A parental gesture so out of place it makes his heart skip and drop into his stomach.
“Thank you,” he says (praises) with a chipper ring before slipping his tongue into the boy’s mouth. Ryan shudders, grimacing as traces of milk and mint taint his taste buds, and his insides roll as the man licks around like... like...
(A memory comes. When he was younger. Eating his first ice cream cone. There was no rush to finish. He savored the sticky, melting treat as long as possible.)
The tongue is thick enough to fill his small mouth, block his air. Long enough to easily make him gag. When his throat tightens and a weird noise creeps up at the intrusion, Homelander separates just enough to mumble ‘Sorry’ against his lips before diving back in.
Ryan helplessly gasps and whimpers around the muscle, jaw slackening as he lets Homelander invade his mouth. He is bolder now. Exploring every crevice he can reach—teeth, gums, the roof of Ryan’s mouth.
Shuddering, Ryan grips his bed sheets between his little fingers as spit pools in his mouth. His face, red and tear stained, twists all the more when the tip of Homelander’s tongue prods and caresses his tongue, making him wonder if Homelander wants him to (he inwardly winces, gut churning) lick back… but he doesn’t and prays the man doesn’t force him to.
The prayer is answered, sort of.
Homelander keeps himself busy with stirring the slick mess in Ryan’s mouth, forcing saliva to leak out and drip down his chin. (Warm, slimy, gross.) And then a fresh round of blinding tears fall when the man switches to closed mouth kisses, moaning as spit squishes and cools between their lips.
Goosebumps break out across his skin as a large hand seizes his slender neck. Naked palm hot against his windpipe, thumb softly stroking his jaw, Ryan squeezes his fists with all his might, bone-white knuckles trembling as Homelander laps at his mouth and chin like a kitten drinking cream.
Head pounding in time with his heartbeat, lungs aching for air, nerves completely overwhelmed, fat teardrops fall hard and fast down his cheek. Whatever sounds he wants to make—crying, yelling, begging—ring in his mind before dying, smothered under the deafening ripples of pumping blood.
It’s a nightmare that just won’t end. It keeps getting worse and worse.
And all he can do is drown in fear and cold and filth, waiting for this man—his so-called father—to finish taking everything he can.
He feels the mattress move under him then. His ears pick up on rustling (skin against cloth) but he can’t make out what’s going on.
He’s too aware of how the moans keep getting a little louder, a little more consistent.
Too aware of how awfully small and dirty he feels.
How for all the talk about being this supposed god’s son, the love (if he can even call it that) he’s felt so far is just a nasty flea on the back of his perfectly human mother’s true, pure love.
The aching pounding in his chest seems to reach his head then. A dizzying pain builds, hammering at the center of his forehead, more and more, as if driving a nail into his brain, until a singeing heat suddenly flares in his skull. A bright light bursts behind his eyelids.
Comes and goes within seconds. So fast he thinks for a moment he imagined it, until he blinks and no tears fall.
His eyes are dry and oddly warm. The welled up water is gone.
The word slowly comes as does his recent science lesson. (“What happens when water gets really hot and turns into a gas?” Mom asked him, and he said it...)
...Evaporates.
What?
Hot pants of air and vibrations against his lips steal his attention.
If he had more strength, more will, he would be covering his ears right now to block the vulgar whines and moans coming from Homelander. “Fuck, oh fuck, I’m gonna, gonna, ah—!”
It can’t be more than a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity passes before Homelander pulls back with a guttural groan, face contorted in pain, despite the pleased noises he was making earlier. He then briefly rests his forehead against Ryan’s, breathing and shivering while the boy sniffles. When Homelander seems to have come down from his high and sits up, horror swirls in Ryan’s chest.
He doesn’t know what’s worse. The dazed toothy grin spread across Homelander’s flushed face. (A monster relishing his perfect meal.) Or the shiny strings of saliva connecting their mouths.
Either Homelander doesn’t notice the strings or he doesn’t care. Just looks down at his pants and rolls his eyes with a click of his tongue. Curiosity overriding his shock, Ryan follows his gaze, brow wrinkling at a small dark spot in the fabric of the man’s crotch. What happened? Did he… did he pee on himself?
“Ryan?” A voice calls from the hallway. “Is everything okay?”
Homelander blinks fast. Ryan freezes up.
Looking over his shoulder, Homelander clears his throat, placing a hand over his lap. “Oh, we’re fine and dandy, Mom,” he answers, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, then turning pointedly to Ryan: “Aren’t we, bud?”
There’s that look again. (Be good and say what he wants to hear.) The unspoken ‘or else’ sticks out like thin, spidery cracks in glass.
He rubs his heavy dry eyes, then his wet nose. “Y–Yeah, uh, we—we’re okay, Mom.”
“Alright.” She doesn’t sound convinced, but the door doesn’t move. “Hurry up and say good night, he needs to rest for school tomorrow.”
As her shadow backs away, Homelander winks at Ryan with a boyish grin. Like they just got away with sneaking a cookie before dinner...
“Well, I enjoyed that.” Homelander says casually, swiping up his gloves. “That was nice. Very nice. Thank you.”
Besides an occasional sniff, Ryan stays silent. Stays completely still. Doesn’t respond to the smiling Homelander wiping (or smearing?) spit off his sore, tingly lips.
Homelander chuckles, good-naturedly. “You know you can say it back.”
A deep burning annoyance, sharp and unrelenting, claws at the edges of Ryan’s heart, burning away the cold spiky roots that had previously filled his chest.
And why on earth would he do that?
God, Ryan wishes he would fucking leave already. Wishes Mom would come in and hold him and make the weird man go away fore—
His stomach drops when a strong hand plops on his leg and squeezes. “Say it.”
Ryan presses his lips together, taking in a deep, snot-dripping inhale. “Th-tha–thank you…” A thick eyebrow raises: Aren't you forgetting something? “D-Da-Dad.”
“Good boy,” Homelander says, bright and encouraging, like Ryan got an answer right on a pop quiz. He then wipes the excess spit off Ryan’s chin before ruffling his hair with the same hand.
“Oops, sorry.” He laughs. “That’s kinda gross.”
Jeez, compared to everything else that happened in the last Ryan-can’t-even-guess-how-many-minutes? That’s almost funny.
And then, at long last, the man’s weight lifts off his bed as he stands and walks to the door.
Finally.
Finally.
Oh Ryan can’t crawl under the covers fast enough. But of course, the awful man doesn't just walk out like Ryan hopes he would.
He stops at the door, looks over his shoulder and says (so much like a TV father that it makes Ryan sick): “I love you, son.”
Again, Ryan stays silent. Can't help but notice how the crack of light from the hallway shines off Homelander’s wet, pink lips. Is... is that what his own mouth looks like? Worse? He wants to bury his face into his pillow. Wants it to be tomorrow already so he can have an ordinary day with Mom, and forget any of this ever happened.
(Then give him what he wants. Get it over with.)
“Um, I…”—queasy, scared, his eyes pinch close—“I love you, too.”
He hears Homelander sigh. Satisfied.
“This is nice.”