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The Vought Tower penthouse was a tomb of marble and gold, the kind of sterile luxury that made even gods feel small. Homelander stood before the cryogenic pod, its frost-laced glass humming like a heartbeat. Inside, Soldier Boy—his father—slept the dreamless sleep of the betrayed.
Homelander’s cape whispered as he pressed the override sequence. The pod hissed open, cold air rolling out like fog from a grave. Soldier Boy’s eyes snapped open, green and furious, the same shade as the ones staring back at him from every mirror in the tower.
“Wake up, Dad,” Homelander said, voice velvet-soft, the smile fixed like a mask. “Time to come home.”
Soldier Boy sat up slow, muscles corded from decades of cryo-stasis, the shield still strapped to his arm like it had never left. “The fuck is this? You.” His lip curled. “The disappointment. What’d you do, kid? Cry to Mommy Vought until they thawed me out?”
Homelander’s jaw tightened, but he laughed—bright, boyish, the sound that made cameras love him. “I freed you. For us. Butcher’s out there with that virus, the one that eats supes from the inside. You’re the only one who can take him. Family business.” He stepped closer, gloved hand hovering just short of touching the older man’s shoulder. “You always said I was soft. Prove I’m not.”
Soldier Boy grunted, swinging his legs out. “Family. Cute. Last I checked, you were the one who left me in that fucking lab to rot.” But he stood anyway, towering, the old soldier’s posture straight as a rifle barrel. “Fine. Point me at the cunt. Then we talk about what you owe me.”
They found Butcher in the ruins of an old Boys safehouse, the air thick with the metallic tang of the virus. Soldier Boy charged like it was 1984 all over again, shield raised, plasma glowing in his chest. “Come on, you limey fuck!” he roared. Butcher laughed through bloodied teeth, syringe in hand, and jammed it home.
The virus hit like napalm. Soldier Boy dropped to his knees, veins blackening under his skin, shield clattering. Homelander hovered above the fray, eyes lasering the last of Butcher’s crew to ash, but when he turned—
“Dad!” The word tore out of him before he could stop it.
Soldier Boy convulsed once, eyes wide with betrayal, and went still. Dead. Just like that. Homelander landed hard, cape snapping, staring at the body. The world narrowed to the frost on his father’s beard, the way his chest didn’t rise.
For a second, Homelander was seven years old again, watching through the glass as they told him his donor was “unavailable.” He swallowed the scream, fists clenched until the gloves creaked. “No,” he whispered. “You don’t get to leave me. Not again.”
Then the chest hitched. Once. Twice. Soldier Boy’s eyes flew open—red-rimmed, furious—and he coughed up black ichor. The V-1 in his blood, the raw Compound V that had kept him alive through worse, burned the virus out like gasoline on a fire. He sat up, gasping, shield back in his grip.
Homelander’s face was a masterpiece of control: jaw set, eyes dry, the faintest curve of a smile. Inside, relief flooded him so hard his knees almost buckled. *He’s back. He’s mine.* But he couldn’t show it. Soldier Boy hated weakness. Pussies cried. Disappointments begged.
“Took you long enough,” Homelander said, voice steady, offering a hand. “Thought you were gonna make me do all the heavy lifting again.”
Soldier Boy slapped the hand away and stood on his own, wiping his mouth. “Virus. Your fucking plan. You sent me in hot without a warning.” He spat. “Always using people, huh? Just like your mother.”
Homelander’s smile didn’t waver. “It worked. Butcher’s dead. We’re stronger together.” He turned before the older man could see the flicker in his eyes—the way they softened, just for a heartbeat.
The next day, The Seven’s war room glittered under Vought’s lights. The Deep fidgeted in his seat, A-Train tapped a nervous foot, Firecracker leaned forward like a puppy waiting for scraps. Homelander stood at the head of the table, cape draped dramatically, Soldier Boy at his side in fresh armor, arms crossed.
“New member,” Homelander announced, voice booming for the cameras outside the glass. “Soldier Boy. The original. The legend.” He paused, the words slipping out unplanned, reckless, hungry. “And my father.”
The room went dead silent. Firecracker’s eyes widened. The Deep choked on his protein shake. A-Train muttered, “Holy shit.”
Soldier Boy’s head snapped toward him. “The fuck did you just—”
“Family,” Homelander cut in smoothly, hand on his father’s shoulder now, squeezing once—possessive, proud. “It’s time America knew. We’re not just heroes. We’re blood.”
Soldier Boy shrugged the hand off later, in private, voice low and venomous. “You think this makes you big? Parading me like a trophy after you almost got me killed? I raised hell before you were a wet dream in a test tube. Don’t you dare use me to polish your fucking crown, boy.”
Homelander stood there in the empty boardroom, smile cracking at the edges. “I didn’t—” He stopped. *I needed you here. With me.* But the words died. Instead, he saw her—Madelyn Stillwell, perched on the edge of the table in a vision only he could see, red suit crisp, smile knowing. *You don’t need his approval, John,* she whispered in his head. *You’re the one they worship now. Stand up.*
He straightened. “Fine. Resent me. But you’re here. And you’re not leaving.” The confidence settled in his chest like fresh V. He didn’t chase the older man’s gaze as Soldier Boy stormed out. Not much, anyway.
Weeks bled into the new regime. Soldier Boy trained with the team, barked orders, called Homelander “kid” in that mocking drawl that made the supe’s teeth ache. He watched his son give speeches from the balcony, cape billowing, crowds chanting both their names. *Thinks he’s better than me,* Soldier Boy told himself, nursing a whiskey in the tower bar. *Pretty boy with laser eyes and daddy issues. Using me like a goddamn prop.*
One night, after a rally that left the city electric, Firecracker cornered him in his quarters. She was all heat and hero-worship, freckles and firecrackers popping under her skin as she pushed him back onto the bed. Clothes shed fast—her skirt hiked, his belt unbuckled, the slap of skin and her breathy moans filling the room. Soldier Boy fucked her hard, the way he liked, hand fisted in her red hair, grunting old curses.
After, she lay tangled in the sheets, tracing scars on his chest. “You know… he doesn’t look at you like that.”
Soldier Boy snorted, lighting a cigarette. “Like what? Like I’m yesterday’s news? Kid thinks he’s hot shit. Better than the man who made him.”
Firecracker shook her head, eyes soft in the low light. “No. The opposite. I’ve seen him stare at you during meetings—when you’re not looking. It’s not superiority. It’s… different. Respect. Like you hung the moon and he’s scared you’ll take it away. Love, maybe. The real kind. I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that. Not even me.” She smiled, a little sad. “And I’d know. I’ve tried.”
The words landed like a shield to the chest. Soldier Boy exhaled smoke, staring at the ceiling. *Respect? Love?* Not the sneering disappointment he’d built up in his head. The kid had stood there in the cryo room, voice cracking on *Dad* even while pretending he didn’t give a shit. Had dragged him back from the virus’s edge without a single tear—because tears were for pussies. Had blurted the father thing on live TV like it was the only truth that mattered.
He didn’t say anything. Just stubbed out the cigarette and pulled Firecracker close again, but his mind was already drifting down the hall to the penthouse where Homelander probably paced, cape off, glasses on, pretending he didn’t need anyone.
The next morning, Soldier Boy found himself outside his son’s door. He didn’t knock right away. Just stood there, shield propped against the wall, fists clenched. *Not too close,* he told himself. *Don’t make it weird.* But the pull was there—unspoken, unnamed, a live wire humming between them. Father. Son. Something more, maybe, if the old soldier let himself look.
Inside, Homelander sensed him. Smiled at his reflection in the window, Stillwell’s voice fading to a whisper: *Good boy.* He didn’t chase. Not yet. But the door opened anyway.
“Dad,” he said, casual as sunlight. “Come in. We’ve got a country to run.”
Soldier Boy stepped through. The bond tightened, invisible, inevitable. The rest—the lover’s knot, the heat beneath the resentment—would come later, slow and scorching, like the virus that had tried to kill him and failed. For now, it was enough to stand in the same room and not walk away.
The Vought Tower penthouse door clicked shut behind Soldier Boy, and for a long second the two men just stood there—father and son, gods in spandex and armor, the city glittering like a toy below the floor-to-ceiling windows. Homelander’s reflection in the glass showed the same perfect smile he wore for the cameras, but Soldier Boy caught the flicker: relief, raw and hungry, quickly buried.
“Dad,” Homelander said again, lighter this time, like testing the word on his tongue. “You came in. Didn’t think you would.”
Soldier Boy grunted, dropping his shield against the couch with a metallic thud. “Don’t get used to it, kid. I’m not here to play house.” But his eyes scanned the room anyway—sharp, soldier’s habit—checking corners, exits, the half-empty bottle of milk on the counter that Homelander kept for no reason anyone else understood. “You look like shit. When’s the last time you slept?”
Homelander’s laugh was bright, practiced. “I don’t need sleep. I’m not—” He stopped when Soldier Boy’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, squeezing once. Not gentle. Not soft. Just *there*. A dad move, unthinking, the kind that said *I’ve got you* without saying a damn thing. Homelander’s cape twitched; he didn’t pull away.
“Bullshit,” Soldier Boy muttered. “You’re still twitchy from the virus run. Sit down before you laser a hole in the carpet.” He steered him—actually steered him—toward the massive sectional, palm firm between his son’s shoulder blades. Homelander let himself be moved, chest tight with something he refused to name. *He’s touching me. Like I matter.* Stillwell’s voice ghosted in his head, warm and approving: *See? You don’t chase. They come to you.*
The next morning, the tower buzzed with prep for a live Vought broadcast—some unity rally downtown, flags everywhere, crowds already chanting. Soldier Boy had been roped in last-minute; Homelander liked the optics. They stood side-by-side on the rooftop helipad while The Deep fussed with his suit and Firecracker hovered too close, freckles glowing.
“Stay behind me out there,” Soldier Boy said under his breath, voice gravel. “I see one asshole with a gun, I’m shielding you first. Don’t argue.”
Homelander’s eyes widened a fraction—blue lasers flickering off—before he locked it down. “I can handle myself. I’m not some—”
“Son.” The word dropped like a command, low enough the others didn’t catch it. Soldier Boy’s gloved hand brushed the back of Homelander’s neck, quick, possessive, thumb pressing just under the cape clasp. “I didn’t thaw out to watch you get shot at for ratings. Shut up and let me do the dad thing.”
Firecracker’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. The Deep just blinked like a confused fish.
On the stage in the square, the rally was pure theater: Homelander at the podium, voice soaring about strength and legacy, Soldier Boy a silent wall at his right shoulder. Cameras rolled live. Then it happened—the unplanned part. A protestor in the front row, some nobody with a backpack and a grudge, lobbed a grenade. Not a normal one. A supe-grade disruptor, the kind that could scramble powers for a block.
Chaos. Screams. The Deep yelped and dove behind A-Train, who blurred away uselessly. Firecracker’s hands sparked, but she froze.
Soldier Boy moved first. No thought, no plan—just instinct. He lunged, shield slamming up and out, body crashing into Homelander’s side hard enough to knock them both off the podium. The blast rippled harmlessly against the vibranium curve, shrapnel pinging like hail. Homelander hit the ground with his father on top of him, cape tangled, chest heaving.
“You okay?” Soldier Boy growled, voice rough, one arm braced over his son’s head like he could block the whole damn world. His free hand cupped the back of Homelander’s skull—another dad move, protective, automatic—checking for blood that wasn’t there. “Talk to me, kid. Did it clip you?”
Homelander stared up at him, lasers dimmed, face inches away. The world was still exploding around them—security swarming, crowds panicking—but all he saw was the older man’s jaw set, green eyes fierce with something that wasn’t just resentment. “I’m… fine,” he managed, voice small for once. He hated how much he liked the weight of that arm, the way Soldier Boy hadn’t even hesitated. Stillwell’s vision shimmered at the edge of his sight, smiling: *Good. Let him protect you. It makes them love you more.*
Soldier Boy hauled him up, shield never lowering, one hand still gripping Homelander’s elbow like he might vanish. On live TV, the whole country saw it: the original hero shielding his son, barking orders at the Seven like they were grunts. “Get the fuck back!” he roared at the cameras, voice booming over the feed. “My boy’s not taking another hit today. You hear me, America? This is *family*.”
The words weren’t scripted. Homelander’s smile cracked wide and real for half a second—then he buried it, straightening his cape, nodding at the lens like it was all part of the show. But inside, warmth bloomed ugly and sweet. *He called me his boy. On TV.*
Back in the tower that night, Soldier Boy paced the war room while Homelander watched from the head chair, legs crossed, pretending nonchalance. Firecracker lingered by the door, eyes flicking between them.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Homelander said finally. “The shield thing. The… touching. People are going to talk.”
Soldier Boy stopped, arms crossed. “Let ’em. I’m not letting some punk with a toy bomb near you again. You’re a pain in my ass, but you’re *my* pain in the ass.” He crossed the room in two strides, ruffled Homelander’s perfectly gelled hair with one rough hand—gruff, fatherly, gone before the supe could flinch. “Next time, stay behind the shield. No hero shit. Got it?”
Homelander’s cheeks burned under the touch; he swatted the hand away half-heartedly, but his eyes betrayed him—soft, grateful, quickly masked. “Yeah. Got it… Dad.”
Firecracker cleared her throat, stepping closer to Soldier Boy later when Homelander had stepped out for a call. She pressed against his side, voice low. “See? That’s what I meant. The way he looks at you after you do shit like that? It’s not ‘I’m better than you.’ It’s… he’d let the world burn if you told him to. Respect. Love. The kind that scares him.”
Soldier Boy exhaled, staring at the door his son had vanished through. The words clicked again, deeper this time. He didn’t pull her closer. Didn’t deny it. Instead, he found himself walking the hall toward Homelander’s quarters again, shield left behind like an afterthought.
The bond was tightening—protective, unspoken, laced with all the dad moves Soldier Boy swore he wasn’t making. A hand on the shoulder during briefings. A gruff “Eat something, you look like a damn skeleton” shoved across the table with a protein bar. On the next live interview, when a host joked about “daddy issues,” Soldier Boy cut in live, voice steel: “Watch your mouth. That’s my son you’re talking about.” Homelander had frozen mid-smile, then leaned into the older man’s side just a fraction—unplanned, protective right back, cape brushing armor.
Neither of them named it. Not yet. But the live wire hummed louder every day, pulling them closer without either admitting how much they needed the shield, the touch, the *Dad* that now slipped out on camera like it belonged there. The lover’s edge waited in the wings, slow and inevitable. For now, it was enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and know the other would burn the world before letting go.
The penthouse was quiet, the only light coming from the soft amber glow of the city skyline filtering through the massive windows. Soldier Boy sat on the wide leather couch in Homelander’s private quarters, legs spread, one arm draped along the backrest, the other nursing a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched in ten minutes. His shield leaned against the coffee table like a silent sentinel. He’d come here to check on the kid after the rally—another one of those unthinking dad instincts he kept telling himself was just habit—but the silence had stretched, heavy and expectant.
The door to the inner suite hissed open. Homelander stepped in without a word, cape already gone, suit jacket unbuttoned and hanging loose. His usually perfect posture was slightly hunched, shoulders tight, blue eyes glassy in the low light. He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. He simply crossed the room, movements deliberate yet fragile, and climbed straight into Soldier Boy’s lap.
Straddling him.
Thighs bracketing the older man’s hips, knees sinking into the cushions on either side. Homelander’s arms slid around Soldier Boy’s neck and shoulders in a tight, desperate hug, chest pressing flush against armored chest, face burying into the crook of his father’s neck. The hug was immediate, needy—gloved hands fisting into the back of Soldier Boy’s tactical vest as if letting go might make the world collapse.
Soldier Boy froze for half a second, glass still in hand, before instinct took over. He set the whiskey aside with a quiet clink and wrapped both arms around his son, one hand splaying wide across Homelander’s back, the other cupping the back of his blond head, fingers threading gently through gelled hair.
“Jesus, kid…” he muttered, voice low and rough, the gravel of decades of smoke and commands. “What the hell’s got you like this?”
Homelander didn’t answer at first. He just clung tighter, breath shaky and warm against Soldier Boy’s throat, body trembling with the effort of holding back tears that were already threatening to spill. His hips shifted slightly as he settled deeper into the lap, seeking more contact, more solidity. “Today,” he whispered, voice cracking despite himself. “On stage. The grenade. You… you shielded me. Called me your boy in front of everyone. And I just stood there like an idiot. Like I needed saving. Like I was still that fucking disappointment from the lab.”
His voice hitched. One tear finally escaped, hot and silent, soaking into the fabric over Soldier Boy’s collarbone.
“Hey. None of that.” Soldier Boy’s arms tightened, pulling Homelander even closer, one hand rubbing firm, slow circles up and down his spine—strong, protective, unmistakably paternal. He tilted his head, pressing his stubbled jaw against the side of Homelander’s head. “You didn’t need saving. You had me. That’s what I’m here for now. I’m not letting shit touch you. Not some protestor with a toy bomb, not Butcher’s ghost, not any of it. You’re my son. My blood. And on that stage? I meant every damn word. You’re *my boy*. End of story.”
Homelander let out a broken sound—half sob, half sigh—and burrowed deeper, thighs squeezing Soldier Boy’s hips as he curled in like he could disappear inside the older man’s chest. “Don’t let go,” he breathed, the words barely audible. “Please, Dad… just for a minute. I won’t cry. I’m not a pussy. I just… need this.”
“You can cry if you need to,” Soldier Boy said quietly, the reassurance coming easier than it should have. His hand never stopped its soothing path along Homelander’s back, thumb pressing into tense muscle. “Right here. In my lap. Where it’s safe. I’ve got you, John. Ain’t going back in the ice. Ain’t leaving you to handle this shit alone anymore. You built an empire. You’re stronger than I ever was. I’m proud of you, even when you piss me off.”
The words landed like balm. Homelander’s breathing gradually evened out, but he stayed exactly where he was—straddling, hugging, soaking up every ounce of contact like a man starved for it. His hips rocked once, unconsciously, pressing closer, the heat of their bodies mingling through layers of suit and armor.
Soldier Boy kept holding him, chin resting on top of his son’s head, arms locked in a protective cage. But something shifted inside his chest—low and deep and dangerously complex. It wasn’t just the familiar surge of paternal instinct, the gruff need to shield and comfort what was his. This was hotter. Darker. The solid weight of Homelander in his lap, the way those powerful thighs gripped him, the trust in every tremble of that unbreakable body… it twisted into something new. Something that made Soldier Boy’s pulse throb heavier, made his hand pause on his son’s lower back and notice the curve of muscle, the warmth bleeding through the fabric, the way their hips aligned so perfectly.
*Fuck,* he thought, eyes narrowing at the skyline over Homelander’s shoulder. *This is my kid. My fucking son.* But the thought didn’t repel him. It burned—respect, raw love, and now this sharper, unnamed hunger uncoiling beneath it all. Protective. Possessive. Intimate in a way that felt inevitable and wrong and right at the same time.
He didn’t push Homelander away. If anything, his arms pulled him closer, one hand sliding down to rest at the small of his back, steady and claiming.
“You stay right here as long as you need,” Soldier Boy murmured against his hair, voice rougher now with the new feeling threading through it. “I’ve got you. Always.”
Homelander nodded against his neck, another tear slipping free, but his lips curved in the tiniest, most vulnerable smile. The bond pulled tighter in the quiet dark—father and son, protector and protected, with something far more complicated just beginning to spark beneath the surface.
The penthouse felt smaller somehow, the city lights blurring into a distant haze beyond the windows as Soldier Boy sat anchored on the leather couch, Homelander’s weight solid and warm in his lap. The kid—*his kid*—had straddled him without a word, thighs gripping tight like a vice, arms locked around his neck in a hug that screamed need. Face buried in the crook of his neck, breath hot and uneven, one tear already soaking through the fabric of his vest. Soldier Boy’s arms had closed around him on instinct, one hand splayed across that broad back, the other cradling the back of his blond head, fingers threading through hair that smelled faintly of expensive product and ozone from all the goddamn lasers.
He held him there, rubbing slow, firm circles between Homelander’s shoulder blades—the same motion he’d used on scared privates in foxholes back in ’44, the same one he’d never imagined using on the golden boy Vought had cooked up from his DNA. “I’ve got you,” he murmured again, voice gravel-rough, low enough it vibrated through both their chests. “Breathe, John. That grenade was nothing. You’re not a disappointment. Never were. You stood there like a goddamn king while the world watched me shield you. My boy. *My* boy. I meant it on that stage. Every word.”
Homelander made a small, broken sound against his throat—half-sob, half-relief—and pressed closer, hips shifting unconsciously, thighs squeezing Soldier Boy’s as if he could melt right into him. “Dad…” The word came out wrecked, needy, and it hit Soldier Boy like a plasma blast to the chest.
*Dad.* Fuck.
Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened, green eyes narrowing at the skyline over Homelander’s shoulder. The complex storm inside him churned harder now, a tangled mess he couldn’t untangle even if he wanted to. Pride, first and sharpest—raw, paternal pride that made his chest ache. This was the son he’d never known he had, the one who’d clawed an empire out of lies and Compound V, who commanded crowds like Soldier Boy once commanded platoons. *Stronger than I was,* he’d said earlier, and he meant it. The kid had built Vought Tower into a throne while Soldier Boy rotted in cryo. Proud. Yeah. But it twisted with guilt, old and bitter, because he’d called him soft, a pussy, a disappointment for decades in his own head—blaming the lab, blaming the serum, blaming everything but the fact that he’d been the ghost in the machine all along.
Protectiveness roared over it all, bone-deep and automatic, the dad moves he kept making without thinking: the hand on the neck, the shield on live TV, the way he’d pulled Homelander down behind him like he could block the whole fucking world. *No one touches my blood. Not Butcher, not some protestor cunt, not even the virus that tried to eat me alive.* He’d die again before letting anything near this boy who was crying silent tears into his collar like it was the only safe place left.
But underneath that—deeper, darker, twisting like smoke in his gut—was the new thing. The complex one that had sparked the second Homelander climbed into his lap and *stayed* there, all that unbreakable supe muscle molding against him, thighs bracketing his hips, chest rising and falling in sync with his own. It wasn’t just comfort anymore. It was heat. The solid weight of him, the trust in every tremble, the way those gloved fingers clutched his vest like Soldier Boy was the only anchor in a world that worshipped Homelander but never held him. Respect, Firecracker had called it. Love. Yeah. But this… this was something else now. Something that made his pulse kick low and heavy, made his palm linger a beat too long on the small of Homelander’s back, tracing the dip of muscle through the suit. Forbidden. Electric. A live wire humming where father and son blurred into something hungrier, something that felt like the start of a story neither of them had asked for.
*This is my son,* he thought, the words a warning and a thrill at once. *My fucking blood. The one I left in that lab to rot while I played hero for Payback.* Shame flickered—sharp, self-loathing—but it didn’t kill the spark. It fed it. Because Homelander wasn’t looking at him like a disappointment anymore. Not with those glassy blue eyes or the way he melted in his lap. It was the opposite: reverence, need, the kind of love that scared even a supe who could level cities. Soldier Boy had seen it in the cryo room, on the stage, in every stolen glance Firecracker had pointed out. And now, with the kid straddling him, vulnerable and clinging, it clicked deeper. *He doesn’t think he’s better than me. He thinks I’m the only one who can make him feel safe. Wanted.*
His hand slid up, cupping the back of Homelander’s neck more firmly—possessive, protective, and yeah, something more. Thumb stroking the hairline in slow, absent circles. The new feeling uncoiled further: a complex ache that mixed the gruff pride of a father with the raw, unnamed pull of a man who suddenly noticed how perfectly their bodies aligned, how Homelander’s breath against his throat made his own skin heat under the armor. Not disgust. Not rejection. Just… *more*. The lover’s edge creeping in without permission, slow and scorching, turning every dad reassurance into a tether he didn’t want to break.
“You stay right here,” Soldier Boy said, voice rougher now, the words rumbling out like an order and a promise. He tilted his head, pressing his stubbled jaw against Homelander’s temple, holding him tighter as another tear slipped free. “As long as you need. I ain’t letting go. Not tonight. Not ever again. You hear me, son? You’re not facing this shit alone. Empire or not, you’re still my boy. And I… I see you. All of it.”
Homelander nodded against his neck, a shaky exhale ghosting over Soldier Boy’s skin, thighs tightening once more in that unconscious rock of closeness. The bond pulled taut in the quiet—paternal, protective, and now threaded with that complex hunger Soldier Boy refused to name out loud. He didn’t push the kid away. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The storm inside him raged on, beautiful and terrifying, as he held his son like the world might end if he let go.
For now, it was enough. The rest—the full live wire, the lover’s knot—would tighten later, in the dark where no cameras reached. Soldier Boy closed his eyes, chin resting on blond hair, and let the emotions war inside him. Proud. Guilty. Protective. Hungry. *His.* All of it.
The penthouse was wrapped in a heavy, velvet silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below and the steady rhythm of Soldier Boy’s heartbeat under Homelander’s cheek. He stayed exactly where he was—straddling his father’s lap, thighs clenched tight around those armored hips, arms locked around the broad shoulders like a lifeline. Face buried in the warm crook of Soldier Boy’s neck, breathing in the scent of gun oil, old smoke, and something undeniably *him*. One tear had already escaped. Another threatened, burning at the corner of his eye.
Homelander’s chest felt too full, too raw, like his ribs might crack open and spill everything ugly and needy inside him.
*Why does this feel so good?* The thought looped endlessly. *I’m Homelander. I don’t need anyone. I own them all.* Yet here he was, melting into the one person who had every right to see him as a failure. Every dad move Soldier Boy made—the firm hand rubbing slow circles up his spine, the low rumble of “I’ve got you, John,” the way those strong arms caged him in without hesitation—unlocked something deep and terrifying.
Relief crashed through him first, sweet and overwhelming. Relief that his father had come back from the virus. Relief that he’d shielded him on live television without a second thought. Relief that, for once, someone stronger was holding the world back instead of him having to pretend he could carry it alone. *He called me his boy. In front of millions. He meant it.* The memory made his throat tighten painfully.
Underneath the relief swirled a desperate, aching love—so intense it bordered on worship. This man had given him life in a test tube, yet had never been there. Now he was *here*, solid and warm and real, murmuring praises against his hair. Homelander wanted to drown in it. He wanted to hear “proud of you” on repeat until it erased every cruel word from his childhood, every lab technician who’d called him defective, every time Madelyn had stroked his cheek while reminding him he was still just a product.
But love like this terrified him. It made him weak. Soldier Boy hated weakness.
“I’m not crying,” Homelander whispered hoarsely against his father’s neck, even as another tear slid down and soaked into the tactical vest. His voice cracked anyway. “I’m not a disappointment. Not anymore. I built all of this… for us. So you’d see I’m worthy. So you’d *stay*.”
Soldier Boy’s hand tightened on the back of his neck—possessive, grounding. “You are worthy, kid. I see it.”
The words hit like Compound V straight to the vein. Homelander’s hips rocked forward once, involuntarily, pressing their bodies closer. Heat bloomed low in his stomach, confusing and sharp. It wasn’t just comfort anymore. The solid muscle under him, the scrape of stubble against his temple, the low timbre of that voice saying *my boy*—it stirred something darker, hungrier. A complex hunger that twisted around the paternal need until he couldn’t tell them apart. He wanted his father’s approval like oxygen. He wanted his hands to never leave his body. He wanted to be held like this forever… and he wanted more. The thought of “more” sent a thrill of shame and excitement through him that made his breath hitch.
*What the fuck is wrong with me?* He squeezed his eyes shut. *He’s my dad. My maker. My everything.* Yet the shame didn’t kill the feeling. It fed it. This was the one person in the world who could truly understand him—same blood, same power, same rage at the world that had used them both. Soldier Boy didn’t flinch from his darkness. He *matched* it. And right now, sitting in his lap, feeling those big hands hold him like something precious, Homelander felt seen in a way no camera, no cheering crowd, no vision of Stillwell had ever managed.
Stillwell’s ghost flickered at the edge of his vision, smiling that knowing red-lipped smile. *You don’t need to chase, John. Let him come to you. Let him want you.* Homelander clung tighter, thighs squeezing, chest flush against his father’s armored one. He loved how small and safe and *powerful* it made him feel all at once. Loved the way Soldier Boy’s breath ghosted over his hair, the quiet pride in every gruff reassurance. It made him want to please him. To impress him. To crawl deeper into this lap and never leave.
“I hate needing this,” he admitted in a broken whisper, lips brushing skin as he spoke. “But I do. I need you here. Not just fighting Butcher or standing on stage. Here. Like this. Holding me. Telling me I’m not… soft. Not a pussy. That I’m yours.” His voice dropped even lower, trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say yet. “I love you, Dad. More than the crowds. More than the Seven. More than anything.”
The confession hung in the air, fragile and electric. Homelander waited for rejection, for the gruff push away, for the old Soldier Boy who would’ve sneered at such weakness. Instead, those arms only pulled him closer, and the new, terrifying hope flared bright in his chest—maybe, just maybe, his father felt some of this storm too. The same complex tangle of protection, pride, possession… and whatever unnamed heat was building between their pressed bodies.
He didn’t move from the lap. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. For the first time in his life, Homelander let himself be held completely, tears slowing but emotions roaring louder than ever: love so vast it hurt, relief so profound it made him shake, hunger so new and forbidden it left him dizzy. All of it centered on the man beneath him—the only person who could break him and the only one he would ever let try.
“I’ve got you,” Soldier Boy murmured again.
Homelander closed his eyes, pressed his forehead harder against his father’s neck, and let the words sink into his bones like a vow.
*Yes. You do. And I never want you to let go.*
The days after that night in the penthouse passed in a haze of public strength and private torment—slow, simmering, neither man willing to name the shift in the air between them.
---
**Soldier Boy – Alone in the Training Room, 3:17 AM**
The heavy bag swung like a pendulum under Soldier Boy’s relentless fists, each impact echoing off the empty gym walls with a meaty thud that rattled the chains. Sweat slicked his bare chest, dog tags bouncing against scarred skin, knuckles split and bleeding through the wraps. He’d come down here after another sleepless hour staring at the ceiling in his quarters, the memory of Homelander in his lap refusing to fade.
*He climbed right on me. No warning. Just… needed me.* The thought looped, darker each time. Those thighs bracketing his hips, the way the kid’s breath had hitched against his neck, the single tear soaking into his vest while Soldier Boy rubbed his back like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d meant every gruff word—“I’ve got you, John. You’re my boy”—but the comfort had twisted on him. Pride still flared hot and paternal: the kid had built an empire from nothing but lies and V, stood tall on that stage while the world watched Soldier Boy shield him. *Stronger than I ever was at his age.* Guilt gnawed at the edges, old and familiar, for every time he’d written Homelander off as soft, a disappointment, the lab’s mistake.
But underneath it, deeper and more insistent, was the new hunger. Complex. Filthy. The solid weight of his son’s body, the unconscious rock of those hips, the trust in every tremble—it had stirred something Soldier Boy couldn’t shove down. Heat low in his gut. The urge to pull Homelander closer next time, to let his hand slide lower, to feel that power yield under his palms in ways a father shouldn’t imagine. *He’s my blood. My son.* The reminder should have killed it. Instead, it sharpened the ache. He wanted to protect him from everything—including the parts of himself that made the kid cry in secret. Wanted to be the only one who got to hold him like that again.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, slamming a final punch that tore the bag open, sand spilling like guts across the floor. He stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall: jaw clenched, green eyes stormy. The want was growing roots, twisting around the pride and protectiveness until he couldn’t separate them. He imagined walking back upstairs, finding Homelander awake, pulling him into his lap without asking. *Just to hold him. That’s all.* But the lie tasted like ash.
He wiped blood from his knuckles and headed for the showers, the complex storm raging hotter than ever.
---
**Homelander – Penthouse Balcony, Dawn**
Homelander stood alone at the railing in his suit pants and undershirt, cape and jacket abandoned inside, blond hair tousled by the pre-dawn wind. The city stretched out below like a toy he could crush if he wanted, but his mind kept drifting back to the couch two nights ago—straddling his father’s lap, arms locked around him, tears he couldn’t quite stop. The memory brought a flush of shame and something warmer, quieter.
*He held me. Called me John. Said he was proud.* Relief still lingered, soft and unfamiliar. For once, someone else had been the shield, the steady hand on his back murmuring that he wasn’t a disappointment. It felt good—dangerously good—to lean into that without the cameras or the Seven watching. He loved his father, in the raw, worshipful way he’d always craved: the man who’d made him, who understood the rage and the power and the loneliness better than anyone. But it wasn’t consuming. Not yet. Just a deep, needy pull for approval, for the safety of those arms. The rest—the way their bodies had fit, the low rumble of Soldier Boy’s voice vibrating through him—stirred a faint, confused heat he quickly buried under layers of control. *He’s Dad. That’s all it is. I needed comfort. Nothing more.*
Stillwell’s vision flickered briefly at his side, smiling that knowing smile, but Homelander waved it away with a tight shake of his head. He wasn’t ready to chase anything deeper. Not when it risked the fragile bond they’d started building. He took a sip of warm milk, letting the familiar sweetness ground him, and stared at the rising sun. Grateful. A little ashamed of his own vulnerability. But mostly relieved that Soldier Boy hadn’t pushed him off or called him weak.
He wasn’t ready to admit he wanted more. Not yet.
---
**Public Scene – War Room Briefing, Two Days Later**
The Seven’s war room hummed with the low buzz of strategy tablets and half-empty coffee cups. Homelander stood at the head of the table, cape draped perfectly, voice smooth and commanding as he outlined the latest anti-Butcher protocols for the cameras that would clip the footage later. Soldier Boy leaned against the wall to his right, arms crossed, shield propped nearby, watching with that unreadable soldier’s stare.
Mid-sentence, Soldier Boy stepped forward without warning—public, casual, protective—and placed a firm hand on the small of Homelander’s back. “You’re missing the part where we hit them at the root,” he cut in gruffly, thumb brushing once along the spine through the suit, a dad move that felt bigger under the lights. “We don’t wait for them to come to us.”
Homelander’s spine straightened at the touch, a flicker of warmth spreading—comfort, gratitude, that quiet need for his father’s steady presence. He leaned into it just enough to acknowledge it, a small smile curving his lips for the room. “Exactly. This is why we work better together,” he said smoothly to the table, voice steady, while inside he felt a brief, confusing spark of something warmer he didn’t examine too closely. *He’s got my back. Literally.*
Soldier Boy kept his hand there a beat longer than necessary, feeling the heat of his son’s body under his palm, the subtle shift of muscle. *Too close. Feels too fucking right.* The complex hunger flared again—pride mixing with the darker urge to pull Homelander back against him right here, in front of Firecracker’s wide eyes and The Deep’s confused blink. He forced himself to drop the hand, but not before his fingers grazed just a fraction lower. No one noticed. Or so he told himself.
Firecracker bit her lip, saying nothing. The briefing continued like nothing had happened.
---
**Together Scene – Homelander’s Quarters, That Same Evening**
The penthouse lights were low again, city glow painting the walls in amber and gold. Homelander had invited Soldier Boy up after the briefing—“Just to go over a few details,” he’d said casually—but they both knew it was more. Soldier Boy sat on the same wide leather couch, legs spread, shield leaning nearby. Homelander paced once, then stopped in front of him, hesitation flickering across his face before he climbed into his father’s lap again—straddling, but lighter this time, arms looping around Soldier Boy’s neck in a hug that was more seeking comfort than desperate need.
“Missed this,” Homelander admitted quietly against his shoulder, voice steady but soft. “Not the crying part. Just… you holding me. Makes the rest of it easier.” He wasn’t on the verge of tears tonight. Just tired, leaning into the solid warmth, thighs bracketing his father’s hips without the same clinging intensity. The contact felt good—safe, reassuring—but the deeper pull was still muted in him, more gratitude than hunger.
Soldier Boy’s arms closed around him automatically, one hand rubbing firm circles up his son’s back, the other cupping the back of his head. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant, chin resting on blond hair. “I’ve got you, John. Anytime.” Inside, the storm raged hotter: the feel of those thighs, the trust, the quiet admission—it fed the complex ache until it throbbed. Pride. Protectiveness. And that sharper, sexual want he kept buried under gruff reassurance. *He doesn’t even know what he’s doing to me.*
They stayed like that for long minutes, Soldier Boy holding tighter than necessary, Homelander relaxing into it without realizing how much further his father’s feelings had already gone. The live wire hummed between them—unspoken, uneven, growing slowly in the quiet dark where no one else could see.
The penthouse was quiet, lit only by the low golden wash of the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was well past midnight, hours after the press event. Soldier Boy had come upstairs under the excuse of “going over tomorrow’s briefing,” but neither of them had touched the tablets lying forgotten on the coffee table.
They stood near the windows, shoulder to shoulder, the silence comfortable but charged. Homelander was mid-sentence, voice calm and measured as he talked about adjusting the next public appearance, when Soldier Boy suddenly moved.
Without a word, he turned and pulled his son into a different kind of hug — one that felt heavier, more enveloping. He wrapped both arms around Homelander from the front, but this time he drew him in sideways, tucking the younger man against his chest so Homelander’s shoulder pressed firmly into the center of his torso. One of Soldier Boy’s arms locked around his son’s upper back, the other slid lower, hand splaying wide and possessive over Homelander’s ribs, almost cradling him. He rested his chin on top of the blond head, holding him there in a tight, protective cage of muscle and armor, their bodies aligned from hip to shoulder.
It wasn’t the desperate straddle from before, nor the simple standing embrace. This was slower, more deliberate — a full, claiming hug that made Homelander feel strangely small and sheltered inside his father’s larger frame.
Homelander blinked once in surprise, then let out a quiet breath and relaxed into it. His own arms came up to loosely circle Soldier Boy’s waist, returning the hug with genuine but restrained affection. “Didn’t expect this tonight,” he murmured against the tactical vest, voice soft and steady. “But it’s nice. After all the cameras and bullshit… this actually helps.” He didn’t cling. He simply leaned into the solid warmth, grateful for the quiet strength and the rare feeling of being looked after. The contact brought a gentle wave of comfort and filial love — nothing chaotic, nothing overwhelming. Just the steady pleasure of his father choosing to hold him like this.
Soldier Boy said nothing at first. He only tightened his grip, one hand slowly rubbing up and down Homelander’s side in firm, soothing strokes while the other stayed locked across his back, fingers pressing into the suit fabric as if he could anchor his son there forever.
Inside, the storm was raging worse than ever.
*He fits too fucking perfectly.* The thought burned. Pride swelled violently in his chest — this powerful, untouchable supe who commanded nations was letting *him* hold him like this. His son. His blood. The boy he’d failed for so long. Guilt twisted sharp right behind it: *You don’t deserve this. You called him weak. You left him.* But the guilt only fed the darker hunger growing beneath everything. The solid heat of Homelander’s body against his chest, the subtle shift of ribs under his palm, the way his son’s head tucked so neatly under his chin… it made Soldier Boy’s pulse throb with shameful want. He wanted to tilt that face up. Wanted to press his mouth to that temple. Wanted to slide his hand lower, grip those hips, pull him even closer until there was no space left for “father” and “son.”
His jaw clenched so hard it ached. *He’s your kid, you sick bastard. This is supposed to be comfort. Protection.* Yet he couldn’t make himself let go. If anything, he held on tighter, breathing in the scent of gel and ozone and milk, letting the complex war tear him apart in silence — fierce paternal love, crushing guilt, and a raw, sexual hunger that deepened with every second of the embrace.
“You did good today,” Soldier Boy finally rasped, voice low and rough against Homelander’s hair. “Real good. I’m proud of you, John. Don’t forget that.”
Homelander hummed softly in response, a small, content sound, and stayed right where he was — safe, appreciated, peacefully unaware of the storm tearing through the man holding him.
Soldier Boy closed his eyes and didn’t pull away. The hug lingered far longer than it should have, the live wire between them pulling tighter in the golden dark, slow and agonizing and still unspoken.
The hug lingered in the golden half-dark of the penthouse, longer than either man needed it to be. Soldier Boy’s arms stayed locked around Homelander in that sideways, protective cradle—chin on blond hair, one hand splayed wide over his son’s ribs, the other rubbing slow, steady circles along his back. Homelander kept his own arms looped loosely around his father’s waist, face turned into the tactical vest, breathing in the familiar scent of gun oil and old leather.
It should have felt simple. Comforting. The same safe anchor it had been the last few nights.
But something new flickered low in Homelander’s chest—warm, restless, and immediately unwelcome.
He told himself it was nothing. Just the afterglow of being held like this, of hearing “I’m proud of you, John” in that rough voice. Just relief that the man who had every reason to see him as a disappointment was choosing to pull him closer instead. The faint flutter under his ribs? The way his skin prickled where Soldier Boy’s palm pressed against his side? The quiet, unbidden thought of *what if I pressed back a little harder?*—all of it was denied the second it surfaced. *It’s not that. I’m not… curious. I just like being wanted. That’s all.*
Still, the new feeling refused to vanish completely. It sat there, small and sharp, like a live wire testing its own current. A strange, experimental curiosity about how far the hug could stretch before it stopped feeling like “dad” and started feeling like something else. Not lust—not yet, not really—but a hungry little impulse to *test*. To see if Soldier Boy would react. To see if those big hands would tighten or pull away. To measure exactly how much his father wanted him here.
Homelander shifted, almost imperceptibly. He turned his head a fraction more into the vest, letting his cheek brush the warm fabric over Soldier Boy’s heart. Then, testing, he let one gloved hand slide up from his father’s waist to rest flat against the center of his chest—light, casual, like it was still just returning the hug. He didn’t press hard. Didn’t linger too long. Just enough to feel the steady thump of Soldier Boy’s heartbeat under his palm.
*See? It’s nothing,* he told himself, even as his own pulse kicked up a notch. *I’m checking if he’s tense. That’s all. Making sure the bond is still solid.*
Soldier Boy’s breath hitched—barely audible—but Homelander caught it. The hand on his ribs flexed once, fingers spreading wider for half a second before relaxing again. No push away. No gruff “what the hell, kid?” Just a subtle, unconscious pull closer.
A tiny thrill shot through Homelander, bright and confusing. He denied it instantly, shoving the feeling down under layers of practiced control. *It’s the approval. That’s what I want. Not… whatever that was.* But the new curiosity stayed, whispering that maybe he could try one more small thing—just to see.
He let his thumb move once, a single slow stroke across the fabric over Soldier Boy’s sternum. Innocent. Barely there. Then he pulled his hand back to its original position at his father’s waist, as if nothing had happened.
“Feels good when you do this,” Homelander said quietly, voice steady and light, the words chosen with care. “Not sure why. Maybe it’s just… knowing you mean it.” He kept his tone easy, almost offhand, but his eyes flicked up for a split second—searching his father’s face in the low light, looking for any crack in the armor, any sign that the touch had registered differently.
Soldier Boy’s jaw tightened. His hand resumed its slow circles on Homelander’s back, but the rhythm was fractionally firmer now, almost possessive. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rougher than before. “Meant every word.”
Homelander felt the shift. The new feeling twisted again—sharper, warmer—but he crushed it flat. *It’s nothing. I’m just… seeing how far the bond goes. Testing the waters. I’m not into this like that. He’s my father. I just need him to stay.* The denial was fierce, automatic, the same way he denied weakness in front of cameras or the Seven. But the curiosity remained, quiet and insistent, already plotting the next tiny experiment. A hand on the shoulder during a briefing. A longer look across the table. Nothing that could be called too far. Nothing that risked breaking what they had.
He stayed in the hug a few seconds longer, letting Soldier Boy hold him exactly as he was—safe, wanted, and still firmly in the territory of “son.” For now.
Inside, the new feelings simmered, denied but not gone, waiting for the next careful test.
The penthouse remained wrapped in that low, golden silence. Soldier Boy’s arms stayed locked around Homelander in the heavy, sideways embrace—chin resting on blond hair, one hand splayed wide over his ribs, the other stroking slow circles along his back. The hug had gone on longer than either of them acknowledged.
Homelander finally drew in a quiet breath and murmured, “We should probably look at those briefings eventually…”
He began to pull away, shifting his weight to step back. But as he did, his hips moved first—turning naturally to slide out of the embrace—and his pelvis brushed firmly, accidentally, right against the front of Soldier Boy’s thigh and hip in one slow, unintentional glide.
The contact lasted less than two seconds. Just a momentary press of body heat through thin suit fabric and tactical gear. Nothing overt. Nothing deliberate.
Homelander froze mid-motion, eyes widening a fraction. A sharp, unexpected spark shot straight through him—warm, electric, and entirely unwelcome. His stomach tightened. Heat flickered low in his gut for a heartbeat before he violently shoved the feeling down.
*That was nothing. An accident. I didn’t mean to—*
He quickly straightened up and took a full step back, smoothing his hands down the front of his suit as if nothing had happened. His cheeks felt faintly warmer than they should, but his expression stayed perfectly controlled—calm, slightly tired, the same mask he wore for press events.
“Sorry,” he said lightly, voice steady and casual, almost amused at himself. “Clumsy exit. Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
He offered a small, boyish smile—the one that usually disarmed people—and turned halfway toward the coffee table, pretending to reach for one of the forgotten tablets. But inside, the new feeling refused to settle. That brief, accidental friction had left a lingering ghost of heat. A confused curiosity. A tiny, traitorous voice wondering what would happen if he did it again on purpose. *Would he react? Tighten his arms? Pull me back? Or push me away and call me disgusting?*
He denied all of it immediately, locking it behind layers of practiced self-control. *It’s just the closeness. The relief of being held. I’m not… feeling anything like that. He’s my father. I only want his approval, his protection. That’s it.* The denial was fierce, almost angry. Yet the curiosity lingered like a quiet itch. Testing waters without admitting he was testing.
Soldier Boy hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where he was, arms now empty, jaw locked tight. His breathing was just a fraction deeper than normal.
Homelander glanced back at him, keeping his tone easy. “You okay? You look like you’re thinking too hard.” He let his gaze linger half a second longer than necessary—another small, careful test—before looking away again, as if it meant nothing.
He didn’t step closer. Didn’t push. But the accidental brush had planted something new and dangerous in his mind, something he would spend the rest of the night denying even as he replayed the exact second of contact in private.
For now, he simply picked up the tablet and held it out between them like a shield.
“Should we actually do some work, Dad?”
His voice was perfectly normal. His new, conflicted feelings were not.
The penthouse was dark and quiet when Soldier Boy let himself in.
Three long days apart. Separate missions—Soldier Boy sent north to handle a rogue supe cell in the mountains, Homelander dispatched south to deal with a Vought PR disaster in Atlanta. No contact beyond clipped mission updates. Soldier Boy told himself the tight feeling in his chest was just irritation at being apart from his team. Nothing more. But the second he got word that Homelander’s jet was landing tonight, he’d headed straight for the penthouse instead of his own quarters.
No one was there.
He dropped onto the wide leather sofa with a heavy sigh, shield propped against the coffee table. The silence pressed in. He meant to wait up. Meant to be awake when his son walked through the door so they could talk—briefings, the mission, whatever excuse he could use to stay close. Instead, exhaustion from three days of fighting and zero real sleep pulled him under. He stretched out on his back, one arm hanging off the edge, the other draped across his stomach, and drifted off.
---
Homelander stepped into the penthouse just after 2 AM, cape already unclasped and slung over one arm. The mission had been exhausting—smiling for cameras, laser-vaporizing threats, pretending he didn’t feel the absence of the one person whose presence actually steadied him lately. He expected the rooms to be empty. He did *not* expect to find Soldier Boy fast asleep on his sofa.
He stopped in the doorway, staring.
The older man looked… peaceful. Almost vulnerable. Armor still on but helmet off, head turned slightly to the side, chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythm. The sight hit Homelander somewhere soft and dangerous. That familiar warmth bloomed again—the one he kept denying. *He came here to wait for me.* The thought made something flutter in his chest. He wanted to wake him, talk, maybe even test another small touch. But Soldier Boy looked so worn out.
*Don’t wake him. He deserves the rest.*
Homelander set his cape down silently. Then, moving with careful, almost hesitant steps, he approached the sofa. He told himself it was purely practical. Comfort. Nothing more. Just like the other times. He eased down onto the cushions, carefully sliding into the space beside his father—then further, turning onto his side and pressing himself against Soldier Boy’s body.
He tucked himself into the curve of the older man’s arm, head resting on the armored chest, one leg draping lightly over Soldier Boy’s thigh. His arm slid across the broad torso, hand settling over his father’s heart. The position felt warm. Safe. Intimate in a way that made Homelander’s pulse quicken. He denied the deeper pull instantly. *It’s just closeness. I missed having him around after three days. That’s all it is.* But he still pressed a fraction closer, nose brushing the edge of the tactical vest, breathing in that familiar scent.
He closed his eyes, letting exhaustion take him too.
---
Soldier Boy woke slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar warmth and weight against him.
For a moment he thought he was still dreaming. Then reality filtered in: the faint glow of city lights through the windows, the familiar penthouse ceiling, and—most importantly—the solid, living body curled trustingly into his side. Homelander. His son. Asleep half on top of him, leg hooked over his thigh, face tucked against his chest like he belonged there.
Soldier Boy’s breath caught hard.
His arm had instinctively curled around Homelander at some point in his sleep—hand resting possessively on the younger man’s waist, fingers splayed over the small of his back. Their bodies were pressed flush together from chest to hip. He could feel every slow breath Homelander took, the steady beat of his heart against his own ribs.
The reaction was immediate and devastating.
A rush of fierce paternal tenderness hit first—*My boy came back and chose me. Chose this.* Then the guilt, sharp as ever. But underneath it, the hunger surged forward like a dam breaking. Heat flooded low in his gut. His cock twitched and began to harden against the inside of his armor, trapped and aching from the simple pressure of Homelander’s thigh draped so casually over him. The scent of his son’s hair, the trust in every relaxed line of that powerful body, the way Homelander had *sought him out* even in sleep—it all crashed together into a storm of shame and raw, forbidden want.
*Jesus Christ. He’s sleeping on you and you’re getting hard like a fucking animal.*
Soldier Boy’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. One part of him wanted to gently wake Homelander, hold him properly, maybe even stroke his hair and murmur that he was safe. The darker part wanted to roll them over, pin his son beneath him, and grind against that perfect body until the line between father and lover burned away completely.
He stayed frozen, breathing shallow, one hand flexing on Homelander’s waist. The conflict tore through him worse than any battle he’d ever fought.
Homelander stirred slightly at the tension, nuzzling closer in his sleep with a soft, unconscious sound. His leg shifted higher on Soldier Boy’s thigh, pressing more firmly against the growing hardness.
Soldier Boy bit back a low groan, eyes squeezing shut.
“Fuck… John,” he whispered, barely audible, voice rough with everything he couldn’t say.
He kept holding his son tightly, torn between pulling away and never letting go, while the slow-burning war inside him raged hotter than ever in the quiet dark.
The penthouse stayed wrapped in that heavy, golden-dark hush, the only sounds the distant hum of the city far below and the slow, even rhythm of Homelander’s breathing against Soldier Boy’s chest.
Soldier Boy lay completely still on the wide leather sofa, every muscle locked like he was back in a foxhole waiting for the next shell. His son was curled into him like he belonged there—head tucked under his chin, one powerful leg thrown casually over Soldier Boy’s thigh, arm draped heavy and trusting across his torso. The kid’s hand rested right over his heart. Their bodies fit together too perfectly, heat bleeding through layers of suit and armor, Homelander’s breath warm and steady against the exposed skin at his collar.
He should have moved. Should have gently eased the boy off him and gotten the hell up before this went any further. Instead, Soldier Boy’s arm stayed curled around Homelander’s waist, fingers splayed possessively over the small of his back, holding him exactly where he was.
The conflict inside him was tearing him apart.
*This is my son.* The thought hit first, sharp and brutal, the same one that had been looping for weeks. *My blood. The kid I left in a fucking lab to rot while I played hero.* Pride swelled right on its heels—fierce, paternal, almost painful. This was the same boy who’d built an empire from nothing, who commanded crowds and The Seven like it was nothing, yet here he was, seeking out Soldier Boy in his sleep after three days apart. Choosing to crawl into his arms like this was the safest place in the world. It made something deep in Soldier Boy’s chest ache with a love so raw it scared him. He wanted to protect that. Wanted to be the shield, the anchor, the one person who never left again.
But the guilt came crashing in next, cold and vicious. *You don’t deserve this. You called him soft. A pussy. A disappointment.* He’d spent decades in cryo telling himself the lab’s creation was weak, flawed. Now the same man was sleeping on him like a child who finally trusted his father, and Soldier Boy’s body was betraying every decent instinct he had left.
Because underneath the pride and the guilt, the hunger burned hotter than ever.
His cock was fully hard now, trapped painfully against the inside of his armor, throbbing with every slow inhale Homelander took. The weight of that draped thigh pressed right against it, innocent and devastating. He could feel the solid heat of his son’s body everywhere—chest to chest, hip to hip—and the urge to roll them over, pin Homelander beneath him, and grind against that perfect, unbreakable frame was so strong it made his jaw ache. He imagined sliding his hand lower, gripping that ass, pulling him closer until there was no space left between “father” and whatever the hell this was becoming.
*You sick fuck,* he thought, eyes squeezing shut. *He’s sleeping. He trusts you. And you’re lying here getting hard like some goddamn pervert.* Shame flooded him, thick and choking, but it didn’t kill the want. It only sharpened it. The conflict twisted tighter: the dad in him wanted to stroke Homelander’s hair, murmur that he was safe, keep holding him until morning. The man in him—the one who hadn’t touched anyone with real need in decades—wanted to wake the kid up with his mouth on his throat and his hands everywhere. Wanted to hear *Dad* said in an entirely different tone.
Soldier Boy’s free hand flexed at his side, nails digging into the leather cushion. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The war inside him raged on in silence, pride and guilt and raw, filthy lust braiding together until he could barely breathe.
Homelander stirred then.
A small, unconscious shift—his leg sliding higher on Soldier Boy’s thigh, pressing more firmly against the obvious hardness trapped there. His face nuzzled deeper into the tactical vest with a soft, sleepy sound, arm tightening across his father’s chest.
Soldier Boy’s breath hitched audibly. His hand on Homelander’s back spasmed once, fingers digging in before he forced them to relax. Heat flooded his face. He stayed frozen, heart hammering, waiting for the kid to wake up and realize exactly what he was feeling pressed against him.
Homelander’s eyes fluttered open a moment later, still heavy with sleep. He blinked slowly, taking in their tangled position—the way he was half-draped over his father, the solid warmth beneath him, the faint tension in the body holding him so tightly.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Homelander lifted his head just enough to meet Soldier Boy’s eyes in the low light. His expression was soft, unguarded, still half-lost in that post-mission exhaustion. “Hey…” he murmured, voice rough and quiet, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “You waited up. Or… fell asleep waiting. Either way.”
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t seem to register—or at least didn’t acknowledge—the obvious physical reaction pressed against his thigh. Or if he did, the new, confusing spark it sent through him was immediately shoved down behind layers of denial. He simply stayed where he was, warm and trusting, waiting for his father to say something.
Soldier Boy swallowed hard, the storm inside him still raging full force, and forced his voice to stay steady.
“Yeah,” he rasped, thumb unconsciously stroking once along Homelander’s spine. “Missed having you around, kid.”
The words were true. The conflict they hid was anything but simple.
---
Homelander stayed draped over his father for a long moment, blinking away the last traces of sleep. The solid warmth beneath him, the steady heartbeat under his cheek, the heavy arm curled around his waist — it all felt impossibly safe. Safer than anywhere else in the world. After three days of performing, smiling, and pretending, this was the only place he didn’t have to be Homelander. He could just be… John.
He shifted without thinking, seeking even more of that comfort.
Slowly, almost lazily, he moved. He pushed himself up just enough to climb higher on Soldier Boy’s body, sliding fully chest to chest until their torsos were pressed flush together. Then he swung one leg over, then the other, straddling his father’s hips properly. His thighs settled on either side of Soldier Boy’s waist, knees sinking into the leather cushions, caging him in. He lowered himself down again, arms wrapping more securely around the older man’s neck and shoulders, face tucking back into the crook of his neck with a contented sigh.
“Much better,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and quiet affection. “This is more comfortable.”
He didn’t notice — or more accurately, didn’t let himself notice — the hard line of Soldier Boy’s erection now trapped firmly between them, pressed right against his inner thigh and groin through layers of fabric. He simply nestled closer, seeking maximum contact, like a large cat claiming the warmest spot. His hips settled naturally, weight distributed evenly as he relaxed completely into the new position. Safe. Wanted. Held.
*This is fine,* he told himself, eyes half-closed again. *It’s just closeness. I missed him. That’s all. Nothing weird about wanting to be near my own father after being gone for days.*
Soldier Boy’s entire body went rigid beneath him.
The new position was devastating. Homelander’s full weight now rested directly on top of him, thighs gripping his hips, chests flush, the kid’s groin pressed warmly right against his aching, throbbing cock. Every tiny shift of Homelander’s body sent fresh sparks of unwanted pleasure through him. He could feel the heat of his son through the suit. Could smell his hair. Could hear the soft, trusting sound of his breathing against his neck.
The conflict inside him exploded.
*He has no fucking idea what he’s doing to me.*
Pride and fierce protectiveness roared: *My boy feels safe with me. He came looking for me. Chose to sleep on me like this.*
Guilt stabbed deep and vicious: *You’re hard as a rock while your own son is cuddling you like a child. What kind of father are you?*
And beneath it all, the hunger howled — dark, possessive, and growing stronger every day. He wanted to thrust up into that welcoming heat. Wanted to grip those thighs and grind them together until Homelander finally felt exactly what he was doing. Wanted to flip them over and claim every inch of the body that was currently trusting him so completely.
Soldier Boy’s hand trembled slightly as it came up to rest on Homelander’s back, fingers spreading wide across the suit. He swallowed hard, throat dry, and forced his voice out low and rough, trying to sound normal.
“…You really missed your old man that much, huh?” he murmured, the words coming out gravelly and strained. His free hand slowly stroked down Homelander’s spine, stopping just above the curve of his ass before forcing itself back up. “Careful, kid. Keep cuddling up on me like this and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”
The tone was meant to be teasing, gruffly affectionate. But underneath it, Soldier Boy was barely holding on — breath shallow, jaw clenched, every muscle fighting the overwhelming urge to move against the warm, trusting body currently straddling him so innocently.
Homelander let out a soft, sleepy chuckle against his neck, pressing even closer without any shame.
“Yeah… maybe I do,” he whispered, completely relaxed, thighs squeezing once around his father’s hips in unconscious contentment.
Soldier Boy closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, torn between heaven and hell while his son slept peacefully on top of him.
---
The penthouse remained hushed and dim, city lights casting long shadows across the sofa.
Homelander shivered again, softer this time, and murmured against Soldier Boy’s neck, “It’s still kind of cold… If you don’t mind, could we flip? You on top? You’re so much warmer. I think I’d be more comfortable underneath you.”
Soldier Boy’s throat worked. Every rational part of him screamed to refuse. Instead, he answered in a low, strained voice:
“Yeah… alright.”
With a smooth roll, he flipped them. Now he hovered over his son, braced on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush him, their bodies aligned but not fully pressed together yet. Homelander looked up at him with sleepy, trusting eyes.
“You better like this?” Soldier Boy asked, voice rough, muscles tight as he held himself carefully above him.
Homelander didn’t answer with words. He simply wrapped his arms around Soldier Boy’s neck and shoulders, then hooked his legs around his father’s hips, thighs squeezing gently to pull him closer. The silent invitation was clear.
Soldier Boy exhaled sharply through his nose. The last thread of his control frayed.
“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, and let himself drop.
He lowered his full weight onto Homelander, crushing their bodies together chest to chest, hips to hips, thighs to thighs. Because Homelander was a supe, the pressure didn’t hurt him — it simply surrounded him completely, enveloping him in solid, radiant heat and muscle. Soldier Boy’s much larger frame blanketed him entirely, pressing him deep into the leather cushions.
Homelander let out a long, satisfied sigh, arms and legs tightening around his father like he never wanted to let go.
“Yes… much better,” he whispered, voice soft and content. “You’re so warm. Feels really good like this.”
He nuzzled his face into the side of Soldier Boy’s neck, completely relaxed, soaking up every degree of body heat. His thighs squeezed once more around his father’s hips, pulling him even tighter, utterly unaware — or refusing to acknowledge — the thick, throbbing hardness now trapped firmly between them, pressed directly against his own groin.
Soldier Boy’s elbows gave out a little more. He buried his face against the cushion beside Homelander’s head, breathing ragged.
Inside, the war was apocalyptic.
*He’s pulling me down. He wants me on top of him. My own son is wrapping his legs around me and saying it feels good.*
Pride and love crashed through him so hard it hurt: *He feels safe. He trusts me this much.*
Guilt sliced deeper than any blade: *You’re lying on him rock hard, leaking, and he’s cuddling you like a teddy bear.*
Lust burned like plasma in his veins. The perfect pressure of Homelander’s body beneath him, those powerful thighs locked around his waist, the way their hips fit together — it was torture. He wanted to roll his hips. Wanted to grind down slow and filthy. Wanted to hear what sound his son would make if he let himself thrust just once.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, trembling with the effort, arms caging Homelander’s head as he fought every instinct screaming at him to move.
“Glad you’re warmer, kid,” he rasped, voice hoarse and strained against Homelander’s ear. One hand slid down to grip the back of his son’s thigh, holding him there, thumb stroking the muscle in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture but felt far more possessive. “I’ll stay right here. As long as you want.”
Homelander hummed happily, arms and legs locked securely around him, body melting completely under the heavy, protective weight.
He had never felt safer.
Soldier Boy, meanwhile, was burning alive — torn between the purest paternal love he’d ever known and the darkest, most forbidden desire of his life, while his son lay blissfully unaware beneath him, warm and content in his father’s crushing embrace.
The tension between them had never been thicker.
---
The penthouse was silent except for their breathing and the faint creak of leather under their combined weight.
Homelander sighed contentedly beneath his father, arms locked around Soldier Boy’s neck, thighs gripping his hips tightly. The heavy, enveloping warmth felt perfect — safe, grounding, like nothing in the world could touch him while Soldier Boy blanketed him completely.
“Still a little uncomfortable on my back like this,” he murmured sleepily after a minute, shifting underneath the larger man. “Just… let me get settled.”
He moved without thinking, trying to adjust for maximum comfort. His hips rolled upward in a slow, searching motion — once, then again — pressing his groin more firmly against Soldier Boy’s trapped erection in two unintentional, deliberate-seeming thrusts.
The friction was unmistakable.
Soldier Boy’s entire body jerked.
A low, rough groan tore out of his throat before he could stop it — deep, gravelly, and unmistakably pleasured. It vibrated against Homelander’s neck, raw and involuntary. His hips twitched downward once in reaction, pressing harder against his son for half a second before he froze completely, muscles locked in rigid self-control.
“Fuck…” he breathed, barely audible, face still buried beside Homelander’s head.
Homelander stilled instantly, eyes fluttering open. He felt the hardness between them — impossible to ignore now after those two small thrusts — but his mind immediately rejected the obvious. *It’s just… body heat. Proximity. Normal reaction when two people are this close. Doesn’t mean anything.* The spark it sent through his own body was denied just as quickly, shoved deep down under layers of practiced control and filial affection.
“Sorry,” Homelander whispered, voice soft and almost shy. “Just trying to get comfortable. You’re… really warm. Feels good.”
He didn’t pull away. If anything, his thighs tightened a fraction more around Soldier Boy’s hips, and he shifted once more — a smaller, final adjustment that still caused another subtle slide of their bodies together. He told himself it was purely for comfort. Nothing else.
Soldier Boy’s breathing was ragged now. He kept himself braced on his forearms, caging Homelander’s head, but his hips pressed down heavier, almost instinctively seeking more of that devastating friction. The moan he’d let slip still echoed in his own ears, humiliating and telling.
Inside, the war reached a fever pitch.
*He just fucking humped me. Twice. My own son rolled his hips against my cock and I moaned like a bitch in heat.*
Pride burned viciously: *He feels safe enough to move under me like that. He trusts me completely.*
Guilt threatened to choke him: *You’re supposed to protect him, not lie on top of him leaking because he accidentally rubbed against you.*
Lust was winning. The memory of those two innocent thrusts played on loop — the perfect pressure, the heat of Homelander’s body, the way his thighs had squeezed in response. He wanted to thrust back. Hard. Wanted to pin those hips down and grind until his son finally understood exactly what was happening between them.
Instead, he forced his voice out, low and strained, lips brushing Homelander’s ear.
“You sure you’re comfortable now, John?” His hand slid down to grip the back of one of Homelander’s thighs, holding him in place, thumb stroking the muscle almost possessively. “’Cause if you keep moving like that… I might not stay still.”
The words came out rougher than he intended — half warning, half desperate confession.
Homelander let out a quiet, innocent hum, completely relaxed beneath the crushing weight, arms and legs still wrapped securely around his father.
“Yeah… I’m good,” he whispered, nuzzling closer into Soldier Boy’s neck. “This is perfect. Don’t move. Stay on top of me.”
Soldier Boy closed his eyes tightly, another low, barely-suppressed groan rumbling in his chest as he fought every single instinct screaming at him to roll his hips and take what his body so desperately wanted.
He remained frozen on top of his son — heavy, hard, and silently unraveling — while Homelander lay blissfully content underneath him, warm, safe, and still firmly in denial about the storm raging between them.
---
Homelander lay pinned beneath his father’s crushing weight, thighs locked around Soldier Boy’s hips, arms wrapped around his neck. The position should have felt purely comforting. Safe. Familiar now.
But something had cracked.
Those two small, unintentional rolls of his hips had sent a jolt through him that refused to fade. And then came Soldier Boy’s low, guttural moan — raw, involuntary, vibrating straight into Homelander’s chest. He felt the thick, unmistakable hardness pressed insistently between them, throbbing against his own groin with every heartbeat.
For several long seconds, Homelander stayed perfectly still, eyes open in the dim light, staring at the ceiling over Soldier Boy’s shoulder.
The denial, which had always come so easily, faltered.
*It’s not just body heat.*
*He’s hard.*
*Because of me.*
The realization hit him like a slow-building shockwave. Heat flooded his face, then his chest, then lower — a deep, aching warmth that settled in his stomach and between his legs. His own cock twitched in response, starting to fill against the pressure of his father’s erection. The feeling was undeniable now. Shame, confusion, and a sharp, electric thrill twisted together inside him.
*This is wrong. He’s my father. My maker. I shouldn’t… I can’t want this.*
But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t loosen his thighs. If anything, his legs tightened a fraction more around Soldier Boy’s waist, unconsciously drawing him even closer.
Soldier Boy’s breath hitched at the movement. Another quiet, strained groan escaped him, this one almost pained.
“John…” he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed against the cushion beside Homelander’s head.
The sound of his own name — low, desperate, and dripping with everything Soldier Boy was trying to hold back — shattered the last fragile wall of Homelander’s denial.
He *wanted* this.
Not just the safety. Not just the approval. He wanted the weight of his father on top of him. Wanted the hardness grinding against him. Wanted those rough hands to grip him harder. Wanted to hear that moan again, but directed at *him*, because of *him*.
The admission terrified him. His heart hammered wildly. A fresh wave of shame crashed over him — *I’m sick. I’m disgusting. I’m everything he used to call me* — but it was drowned out by something much stronger: raw, hungry need.
He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.
“Dad…”
He shifted again, deliberately this time. A slow, experimental roll of his hips, pressing himself up against the thick line of Soldier Boy’s cock with more intent. The friction sent a bolt of real pleasure through him, making his breath catch.
“I… I’m not cold anymore,” he continued softly, almost shyly, even as his cheeks burned. “But… don’t move. Stay like this. Please.”
His arms tightened around Soldier Boy’s shoulders. One hand slid up into the short hair at the nape of his neck, fingers curling there possessively. His thighs squeezed again, holding his father exactly where he was.
Inside, the conflict raged, but the denial was crumbling fast.
*This is wrong.*
*But it feels right.*
*He wants me too. I can feel how much he wants me.*
Homelander turned his head slightly, lips brushing the shell of Soldier Boy’s ear as he whispered, voice trembling with new, terrifying honesty:
“You’re really hard right now… because of me. Aren’t you?”
He didn’t sound accusatory. He sounded awed. Curious. And undeniably turned on.
Soldier Boy went completely rigid on top of him, a shudder running through his powerful frame. The confession hung heavy between them, electric and irreversible.
Homelander’s heart raced as he waited for the response, still wrapped tightly around his father, no longer pretending he didn’t feel everything happening between their bodies.
The denial was gone. What replaced it was something far more dangerous — open, aching want.
---
Soldier Boy’s breathing was ragged against his neck, the war inside him reaching a breaking point as his son finally stopped lying to himself.
---
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Soldier Boy remained frozen on top of Homelander, braced on his forearms, every muscle in his body locked tight. His cock throbbed painfully between them, pressed hard against his son’s groin. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words had lodged in his throat like shrapnel.
Homelander’s heart pounded so hard he was sure his father could feel it. Shame and arousal twisted together in his stomach, but the need was stronger now. He couldn’t go back to pretending.
He slowly tightened his thighs even more around Soldier Boy’s hips, squeezing with deliberate pressure, locking their bodies together. The movement forced their erections to grind more firmly against each other through their clothes.
In a shy, hesitant voice — small and trembling in a way Homelander almost never allowed himself to sound — he whispered:
“Please, Dad… can you move?”
The words hung in the air, vulnerable and loaded. He kept his face buried against Soldier Boy’s neck, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but his thighs stayed locked tight, refusing to let his father pull away.
“I just… I want to feel you,” he added even quieter, almost ashamed of his own confession. “Please.”
Soldier Boy let out a broken, shaky exhale against Homelander’s hair. His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself back.
“John…” His voice was wrecked, barely human. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
But even as he said it, his hips rolled forward in one slow, instinctive thrust — grinding his hard cock firmly against his son’s. Another low, guttural groan escaped him, raw and helpless.
He did it again. Then again. Shallow, careful movements at first, but each one dragged their clothed lengths together with devastating friction. The weight of his body pressed Homelander deeper into the sofa as he gave in, just a little.
“Fuck… you feel that?” Soldier Boy rasped, voice thick with shame and lust. “That’s what you do to me. My own son.”
His hips kept moving in that slow, torturous rhythm, savoring every second even as guilt tore through him like fire. One hand slid down to grip Homelander’s thigh hard, holding it open wider as he rocked against him.
Homelander gasped softly at the movement, a quiet, needy sound slipping out before he could stop it. His own cock was now fully hard and leaking, twitching against his father’s with every slow grind. The shame was still there, burning hot in his chest, but it only made the pleasure sharper.
He clung tighter, arms and legs wrapped desperately around the larger man, whispering against his neck again in that same shy, breathless voice:
“Don’t stop… please, Dad. It feels good.”
Soldier Boy’s control was hanging by a thread. He buried his face deeper into the cushion beside Homelander’s head, hips still rolling in those slow, heavy thrusts, torn between pulling away and giving his son exactly what he was begging for.
The war inside him had never been louder.
But for the first time, he wasn’t winning.
---
The penthouse felt smaller, the air thicker, as if the walls themselves were watching.
Soldier Boy hovered above his son, hips rolling in those slow, heavy thrusts, grinding his painfully hard cock against Homelander’s with deliberate, torturous friction. Each roll dragged their clothed lengths together, the fabric doing nothing to hide how wet and leaking they both were becoming.
Homelander’s thighs trembled as they squeezed even tighter around his father’s waist, heels digging into the back of Soldier Boy’s thighs to pull him impossibly closer. A broken little whimper escaped him with every grind.
The shame was devouring them both — and it only made everything hotter.
Soldier Boy’s mind was a storm of self-loathing and raw lust.
*My own fucking son. I’m dry-humping my own son on his couch like some depraved animal.* The thought made his cock twitch hard against Homelander’s, leaking more pre-cum into his armor. The guilt burned so intensely it felt like fire in his veins, but instead of stopping him, it made every slow thrust sharper, more desperate. *Anyone could walk in. The Deep. Firecracker. A fucking maid. They’d see me on top of him like this.* The risk sent another vicious spike of arousal through him. His hips snapped forward a little harder, grinding down with more pressure.
“Jesus Christ, John…” he groaned lowly, voice hoarse and ashamed. “You feel how hard I am? Your own father’s cock is leaking all over you because you begged so nicely.”
Homelander’s breath hitched. The words should have disgusted him. Instead, they made his own cock throb painfully against his father’s, a fresh bead of wetness soaking into his suit. The shame was overwhelming — *I’m letting my dad rut against me. I asked for this. I’m sick. I’m disgusting.* — but it twisted into something addictive. His cheeks burned crimson. His arms tightened around Soldier Boy’s neck, fingers digging into the short hair at his nape.
“I know…” Homelander whispered, voice shaky and small, almost embarrassed by his own words. “It’s so wrong… You’re my dad. This is so fucked up.” He rolled his hips up to meet the next thrust, chasing the friction with a needy whimper. “But it feels so good when you move like that. Please don’t stop.”
The risk made it worse. The penthouse wasn’t locked. Any member of The Seven had access codes. Vought security could knock at any moment. The thought that someone could walk in and see the great Homelander pinned underneath Soldier Boy, legs spread and begging, made Homelander’s stomach twist with humiliation — and his cock leak even more.
He buried his burning face deeper into his father’s neck, whispering against the warm skin, “What if someone comes in…? What if they see you on top of me like this?”
The words made Soldier Boy moan — a deep, filthy sound he couldn’t hold back. His hips stuttered, then pressed down harder, grinding in slow, filthy circles that dragged the thick ridge of his cock right against Homelander’s.
“Fuck… don’t say that,” he growled, but his body betrayed him, thrusting more purposefully now, slow and heavy. “They’d lose their fucking minds if they saw me like this… rutting against my own son. My perfect, pretty boy spreading his legs for me.”
The shame-lust feedback loop was vicious. Every degrading, forbidden thought made them both leak and throb harder. Soldier Boy’s hand slid down to grip Homelander’s ass, squeezing hard as he rocked against him, the wet patch between them growing.
Homelander let out a soft, embarrassed moan, thighs quivering around his father’s waist. “I shouldn’t want this… I’m supposed to be better than this,” he gasped, voice cracking with shame even as he rolled his hips up again to meet every thrust. “But I do, Dad. I want you to keep going. I want to feel you against me.”
Soldier Boy cursed under his breath, forehead pressed against Homelander’s, breathing ragged. His hips kept moving in that slow, sinful rhythm, shame and desire feeding each other until neither of them could tell which was stronger.
Neither wanted to stop.
The risk of discovery hung over them like a blade, making every grind, every whispered confession, every shameful moan feel ten times more intense.
And they were both completely lost to it.
---
Soldier Boy’s next thrust was a little harder, a little more desperate, as the war inside him finally began to lose.
---
The penthouse had gone completely quiet except for the wet, rhythmic sounds of fabric sliding against fabric and their ragged breathing.
Soldier Boy’s control finally snapped.
He dropped his full weight onto Homelander, crushing their bodies together as his hips began to move with real purpose — no more careful, shallow rolls. He thrust down hard, grinding his thick, leaking cock against his son’s in long, filthy strokes, the soaked fabric between them making every slide slick and obscene.
“Fuck, John,” he growled against Homelander’s ear, voice broken and ashamed. “Look what you made me do. I’m rutting on my own son like a goddamn animal.”
Homelander moaned openly now, thighs locked vise-tight around his father’s waist, heels digging into the back of Soldier Boy’s thighs to pull him deeper. “I know… I know it’s wrong,” he gasped, voice high and trembling with shame that only made his cock throb harder. “You’re my dad. You made me. And I’m… I’m leaking all over you because of it.” He rolled his hips up to meet every brutal grind, chasing the friction, the shame burning so hot it felt like pleasure. “What if someone walks in right now? What if they see you fucking your son on the couch?”
The words tore another deep, guttural moan from Soldier Boy. His thrusts grew faster, more desperate — hips snapping down in heavy, punishing strokes that pinned Homelander deeper into the cushions. “Shut up,” he rasped, but there was no real anger, only raw need. “Don’t talk like that or I’m gonna come all over you.” One hand gripped Homelander’s ass hard, squeezing, spreading him open through the suit as he rutted against him like he was trying to fuck straight through their clothes.
They went at it like that — shameless, frantic, lost to the taboo. Soldier Boy’s heavy body slamming down again and again, grinding their cocks together with wet, filthy sounds. Homelander whimpering and moaning beneath him, legs spread wide, begging in that shy, broken voice between thrusts: “Harder, Dad… please… I shouldn’t want this but I do.”
The risk made it unbearable. The unlocked door. The possibility of Firecracker or The Deep or a cleaning crew walking in and seeing the leader of The Seven pinned and moaning under Soldier Boy’s rutting body.
It pushed them both over the edge at almost the same time.
Soldier Boy came first with a choked, humiliated groan, hips stuttering as he ground down hard and spilled hot and wet inside his armor, soaking through the fabric and smearing against Homelander’s groin. The feeling of his father coming because of him sent Homelander spiraling right after — a sharp, embarrassed cry tearing from his throat as he pulsed and soaked his own suit, thighs shaking violently around Soldier Boy’s waist.
They stayed exactly like that.
Soldier Boy collapsed fully on top of his son, heavy and spent, face buried in Homelander’s neck. Homelander kept his arms and legs locked around him, holding him there even as their mingled releases cooled between them. Neither spoke for a long time. Just breathing. Just the slow, heavy weight of what they’d done settling over them like a blanket.
Eventually Soldier Boy lifted his head just enough to look at him. His voice was raw. “We can’t… we shouldn’t have done that.”
Homelander’s eyes were glassy, but there was no regret in them — only a new, quiet certainty. He stroked the back of his father’s neck with trembling fingers. “I know. But I don’t want to stop. Not anymore.”
The new dynamic clicked into place right there in the dark penthouse.
From that night on, the touches were no longer hidden behind “dad moves.” Soldier Boy’s hand would linger on the small of Homelander’s back during private briefings, thumb stroking possessively under the cape. Homelander would lean into him without shame, sometimes pressing a quick, secret kiss to his father’s jaw when no one was looking. They slept tangled together every night — Soldier Boy on top more often than not, heavy and protective, both of them pretending it was still just comfort while their bodies remembered exactly how good the shame felt.
---
The next morning, the Vought Tower press room was packed.
Homelander stood at the podium in a fresh suit, cape perfect, smile camera-ready as he announced new joint initiatives between himself and Soldier Boy. The older man stood just behind him and to the right — closer than usual, shield resting against his leg, one hand resting casually on the back of Homelander’s chair.
To the world it looked like proud paternal support.
To anyone paying close attention — Firecracker, for example, who kept glancing between them with narrowed eyes — it looked like something else entirely. Soldier Boy’s thumb brushed once along Homelander’s spine through the suit. Homelander leaned back into the touch for half a second, almost imperceptibly.
During the Q&A, a reporter asked about their “evolving father-son bond.”
Soldier Boy answered before Homelander could, voice low and rough but carrying that new, unmistakable edge of possession.
“He’s mine,” he said simply, green eyes flicking to his son. “Always has been. Always will be.”
Homelander’s smile widened, genuine and a little dangerous. Under the table, his foot hooked around Soldier Boy’s ankle — hidden from the cameras, but not from the new heat that flared between them.
The media ate it up: headlines screaming about the ultimate American father-son duo, the unbreakable legacy. No one suspected the truth.
In the elevator back up to the penthouse, Soldier Boy crowded Homelander against the wall the second the doors closed, hand gripping his son’s jaw as he kissed him slow and deep — the first real kiss they’d allowed themselves in daylight.
“Still ashamed?” he muttered against Homelander’s lips.
Homelander smiled, small and wicked, thighs parting just enough to let his father press closer.
“More than ever,” he whispered. “And I’ve never been harder.”
The new dynamic was locked in — secret, shameful, and completely theirs.
And neither of them wanted it any other way.