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sehtoast · 11 months

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All of You is Left to Love Chapter Two: Welcome Home, Johnny (Depowered Homelander x OC)

18+ | 6.3k | Homelander's early depowered days and the ensuing torture in Vought's supe prison.

>>>>>>> WARNING: Extremely explicit torture, gore, abuse of bodily fluids for the sake of torture, and genital torture ahead. Does have a happy ending-- just very graphic to get there. <<<<<<<

Two weeks.

Or, well… He thinks that’s how long it’s been, anyway. It’s hard to tell in here. There’s no sunlight, no clock, nothing that can let him know just how long it’s been since they threw him in here.

He woke up disoriented, head pounding, room spinning as he tried to get his bearings. He thrashed and yanked to no avail against the restraints tying him to the chair. The room was dim and dark, and his grunts echoed around him. He began to panic, feeling the creeping distress of the days when they’d tie him up like this in the bad room– when they’d strap him down with titanium bars and get to work and–

All for the sake of fucking curiosity…

A cold sweat overtook him, body shivering. Only then did he realize he was naked.

Where the fuck was he?

Just when the walls around him seemed to be getting impossibly closer, a door opened, filling the room with blinding light. In walked two guards, silhouetted and fuzzy– but one thing was distinct about their shapes.

Both of them wore Vought’s specially designed anti-supe armor.

The realization hit him like a fucking train.

He was in their fucking supe prison.

“What the fuck is this!?” Homelander roared, yanking against his bindings with all of his might. When they didn’t shatter, when the hurt kicked in, that was when panic turned to fear and confusion.

Why wouldn’t they budge?

Why wasn’t it working!?

The first of the guards to approach him did so with a dark, ominous chuckle, menacing in the way he sauntered over.

“If you move,” he spoke up, amusement lacing each word. “You will be tased.” The guard raised a rod and activated it, unleashing a loud crackle of electricity right next to Homelander’s ear.

He flinched, much to the guard’s satisfaction.

Homelander swallowed hard and willed his fear to turn to bravado. “You seriously think that’ll do a fuckin’ thing to me?” He asked with a mocking laugh. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Suddenly the rod was at his thigh, arcs of electricity coursing through his body making him go stiff as a board, teeth clenched and breath caught in a silent scream of agony.

“You will do whatever I say, when I say it,” The guard said, ceasing the voltage. “Or I’ll get to poke ya!”

Homelander panted heavily, sweat beading at his brow as he registered the pain.

Pain.

There were sudden flashes in his mind, bursts of memories to distract him as the two guards hauled him by his arms down a bright hallway.

He saw Ben’s face, frantic yet comforting as he seethed in agony.

Right…

That’s right…

Fucking Butcher had finally managed to pull one over on him.

That stupid, stupid syringe slipped past his guard, and now…

He saw flickers of Ben, mostly. Heard the whispers, the promises of safety and reassurances that everything was gonna be okay– all of them repeated until his little spider was breathless.

He remembered the blinding, searing hot pain of the moment. How he writhed in agony in Benjamin’s arms as the serum neutralized every molecule of V in his body. He thought he’d fucking die before it was over. It was like his organs had caught on fire, burning him from the inside out.

Then there was… a bang? A door kicked open, perhaps, or maybe something else? A pungent gas, his eyelids getting heavy, and then… nothing.

Just now.

By the time the world came back into focus, Homelander found himself tied to another chair while one of the guards ran clippers through his hair.

He watched with wide, shocked eyes. It was too late to fucking stop them– not that he even could.

Locks of blonde fell from his head bit by bit until all that remained was a short buzz. He shivered, naked and cold.

Or perhaps it was fear.

“Nobody’ll recognize you now, pretty boy.” Taunted the guard. From up close, Homelander could make out a nametag on his breastplate.

‘Arne,’ it said.

Arne and the other guard hauled him off once again, but Homelander didn’t fight.

How could he?

He was thrown into a cell, landing face first on the ground. It was tight, and his only source of light was a buzzing fluorescent light above his head. The only things he had were a bed, a sink and mirror, and a toilet.

That was it.

No windows save for the tiny one on the cell door. No larger space to escape to if the walls got too tight.

One feature in particular made his blood run cold.

Shackles, chained to the wall.

He stumbled for a moment, approaching the bed to thumb at a stack of clothes.

A white t-shirt and white pants.

He looked at them with disgust, refusing to wear something so degrading. Instead, he meandered to the mirror to inspect the damage.

He stared for several minutes, but it felt like an eternity as he locked eyes with the stranger staring back at him. Suddenly, his reflection took on a life of its own.

“Look what your fucking weakness cost us!” Barked his other self, causing him to recoil. “You’re nothing now! We’re nothing!”

“No…”

He stared, watching as his alter ego pointed out every flaw, every shortcoming, every ugly little blemish until he well and truly hated his reflection more than anything. His hate, however, didn’t manifest as its normal rage.

It came in tears– in fear. It came in the act of curling up on the cold cement floor to weep and mourn himself.

His head spun and all he could possibly do was hug himself and hold on tight as sobs wracked his body.

“Help me…” he whispered through pitiful hiccups. “Wake me up… Please…”

Nobody bothered him for the first night– or, perhaps it had been the first day. Not that he could tell.

The second, though, was when it began.

Arne must have been personally assigned to be his keeper, because Homelander woke to heavy knocks on his door, followed by a tray of food sliding under the gap.

Food was… not the correct word to describe the slop on the tray. There wasn’t even a fucking plate or any utensils.

“I am not fucking eating that,” Homelander grit defiantly, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach. “Fire your chef.”

Suddenly the door flew open, and in walked Arne and another guard– this one different than the last.

“Eat your breakfast, Homelander,” he taunted, waving the prod in his face. “We don’t want our resident celebrity to starve, do we?”

Homelander made to stand from the floor but was met with a sharp swing of the prod connecting with his cheekbone, knocking him dizzy against the ground.

“I said to eat,” Arne grit. “Not stand.”

Homelander stared up at him indignantly, fighting to keep his watering eyes from spilling at the stinging sensation. A hand was suddenly at the back of his neck, forcing his head lower until it was a mere inch above the tray.

“Maybe you need help adjusting to your new life. Here, let me help you!”

Arne’s boot came down hard on the back of his neck and Homelander’s face was pushed into the mush.

“There you go, buddy!” Arne laughed sadistically, twisting his foot to really make sure he rubbed it in.

The other guard failed to suppress a giggle, making no move to stop her partner��s blatant cruelty.

Homelander sputtered against the slop, trying desperately to push against the boot just enough to breathe. He tried to clamber backwards but couldn’t wiggle his head out from under Arne’s boot.

Suddenly, the prod was pressed to his back and that white hot pain shot through him, halting his lungs entirely as he seized with the current.

“See what happens when y’don’t listen? It isn’t gonna be my ass on the block because Vought’s old show horse went and starved himself.”

Homelander wasn’t sure what stained his face worse: his tears or the slop.

“Fucking.” Arne grit, jamming the point of the prod to Homelander’s side again. “Eat.”

Feeling truly helpless for the first time in… well, he didn’t want to think about it, Homelander let his tongue roll out and swipe through the mush, lapping up just enough to choke down. It tasted like nothing, but that wasn’t the problem.

It was the humiliation.

He caved under the boot of some fucking cockroach.

“That’s it, boy.” Arne smirked. “Bet it’s delicious.”

The third day was when the beatings really began.

Homelander had no idea who this fucking Arne guy was, but it was safe to say he had some kind of vendetta against him. If he’d thought the occasional tasing was rough, he was certainly proven wrong by the third day. Turns out, those chains had a use.

In fact, they were installed just for him.

Arne began the day, as he did any other, by sliding Homelander’s breakfast of mystery goo through the door hatch, watching at the window to make sure he choked it all down.

It was humiliating to be forced to eat with his hands like some fucking animal. But it was either this or the prod, and… well…

He was left alone for a few hours after that. That’s all he ever was anymore. Unless Arne came in, of course.

Homelander stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore how tight the walls felt that day. He wondered where Ben was. If his little spider was okay. If, god forbid, they took him, too. He imagined Ben coming to save him, but…

He’d been so terrible to his little spider. Did he even deserve it?

As much as his heart ached and yearned for his Benjamin, it was the thought of his love that kept him sane. The only warmth he found at night was in his memories of his bug boy’s arms wrapped tight around him, of the songs he’d sing and hum, of his smile…

Benjamin was his lighthouse in this horrible, horrible storm.

A banging at his door stirred Homelander from his daydreams and in walked Arne with yet another nameless guard.

“Shower time, inmate.” Arne stated bluntly. “Stand.”

Homelander obeyed, as he’d learned to do, and allowed them to cuff him for the walk. He stumbled, weak from dehydration. They hadn’t given him any water, and he had too much pride to drink from the sink. It was one of the few things he had control over, anyway.

When he tripped over his own feet, Arne gripped him by the back of the neck, lifting his face from the floor.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He spat, squeezing the back of Homelander’s neck harshly as he shook him. “Get the fuck up!”

Homelander clambered to his feet, guided by the harsh grip at his neck, and trudged on.

When they finally arrived at the shower room, he was forced to strip in front of Arne– who made all sorts of derogatory comments about his body to the other guard.

“Skinny fucker, ain’t he? They really shoved his ass in a padded suit and figured nobody’d ever see that he ain’t all that?” Arne chuckled loudly. “They definitely were overcompensating for him, too. That supposed to be a dick?”

Homelander grimaced, making his way over to the area he’d been told to stand, roughly three feet ahead of a wall. He’d half expected a spout of water, or, well, anything else.

Instead, just as he looked down, he was blasted with a torrent of water, knocking back against the wall where he hit his head. He made to cover his face with his arms, but nothing helped. Nothing reduced the blistering force, no matter how tightly he curled up into a ball.

Homelander howled in agony when the blast veered between his legs, pummeling his cock and balls just long enough to make him unfurl and heave.

“I do fuckin’ love this thing,” Arne hooted while he practically drowned Homelander the cold force of the hose they used on unwilling participants.

When the blast finally stopped, Homelander’s skin was blisteringly raw, sensitive to the air around him. Even the slightest graze of air against his skin felt like he was being burned.

“Up you go.”

When he didn’t move, Homelander was met with a swift kick to his side. He rolled over, wincing in pain.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Arne chided. “I said get,” kick. “The,” kick. “Fuck,” kick. “Up!”

“Christ, man!” The other guard called out, voice somewhat shaky. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“I don’t remember askin’ for your fuckin’ opinion,” Arne shot back, continuing his onslaught until Homelander somehow managed to rise to his feet.

Things only got worse when he got back in the cell. Instead, he received the first of many very personal beatings. He was thrown against the wall first before Arne lifted him to stand in place as his personal punching bag.

God, he wanted to hit back. But his body was so…

It just felt like jelly. And it hurt so fucking bad…

“You fuckin’ supes,” Arne panted as he brought his fist to Homelander’s jaw for the umpteenth time. “Always lookin’ down on us humans. Treating us like shit, like we’re just playthings for you to fuck around with!” He gripped Homelander by the jaw.

“How’s it fuckin feel to be one of us?”

Homelander lost track of how many times he’d been hit. He’d damn near blacked out, crumbling to the ground when he simply couldn’t fucking take anymore. When all that was left of him was a ragdoll body, Arne finally smirked down at him, leaving him with one last parting gift.

A boot pressed against his balls, pushing down so hard that Homelander’s vision whited out while he moaned in agony.

A guttural scream tore from his throat when Arne stepped his full weight on him.

He thought they were going to burst by the time Arne finally let off.

“Too fuckin’ easy.”

Hours went by after the guard left, but all Homelander could do was lay on the floor and weep, tears mixing with the blood seeping from his mouth and nose, from the gash at his brow bone. His alter ego’s voice mocked him, mocked Arne, mocked the whole fucking situation. He did nothing to help with the pain and humiliation; he simply exacerbated how lifeless John already felt.

“B-Ben…” he hiccuped through a tight sob, crying out for the one person in the world who could possibly save him. The one person who ever really gave a damn about him…

He called out for his little spider over and over, voice small and quiet, praying that saying Ben’s name enough would summon him and everything could be okay.

He laid there all night, naked and shivering.

Cold.

They never did give him new clothes.

By the approach of the second week, Homelander had grown used to the nebulae of bruises marking his body. Every other day, Arne would drag him to the shower room and hose him down, pelting all of his aches and pains raw all over again. All that, and he wasn’t even clean. Homelander was at least partially convinced Arne enjoyed making him suffer his own body odor.

His face was seemingly forever swollen, battered black and blue from the amount of times he’d been socked in the head. By now, he couldn’t recall what his face looked like when it wasn’t broken.

He decides to count himself lucky that the most permanent of the damage so far was simply a chipped molar.

The worst, though, was how fucking thirsty he is. He still hasn’t released that last scrap of pride, silly as it was not to just drink from the fucking sink. It was the last thing he could control, the last low he could stop himself from stooping to, but it seemed it wouldn’t be long until he would have to. The only liquid to have touched his parched tongue came from when he’d be hosed down, but it just wasn’t enough.

Perhaps the guards had begun to realize he was on the cusp of severe dehydration. He should’ve known better when one of the regular ones walked his food tray in rather than use the hatch.

Homelander was shocked to find several things different about the setup. The first being that there was an actual fucking plate for his food. A paper plate, but a plate no less. The second, a spoon– plastic, but still a fucking spoon.

The third?

A plastic cup of water– with fucking ice, too.

The first few aggressive gulps didn’t even register taste, but when they finally did…

“Jesus– Fuck!” John gags, spitting the liquid out and swatting at his tongue as though he could smack the bitter, salty taste off his tongue. If he would’ve only had his superpowered nose, he’d have fucking known better…

From outside the door, he can hear Arne cackling. The realization of what he drank had him running for the toilet, heaving up what little was in his stomach, gagging even more when the taste of bile touched his tongue.

He fails to hear the sound of the cell opening.

“Oh, but you gotta drink up!” Arne sings, words gripping Homelander with terror.

A hand catches the back of his head and he’s being shoved further into the toilet, face submerging into the putrid muck inside.

“Can’t hear ya in there,” Arne taunts, yanking Homelander’s head from the water for but a moment. “What’s that?” He asks over the sound of heaving gasps. “Still thirsty?”

John barely has time to gasp a full breath before he’s underwater again, thrashing to free himself to no avail. He was too weak now.

Too weak to do anything but accept whatever was done to him.

After fighting for his life for god only knows how long, he was cast off to the side, gasping and sputtering, face and hair stained with his own vomit.

“Who’da ever thought Homelander was a fuckin’ piss drinker?” Arne laughs as he exits the room, kicking over the tray of food on his way out. “Bon appetit!”

John weeps silently for what must have been an eternity before he finally finds enough gumption to put his head under the sink, rinsing off the dried crust from his face and hair as best as he could. He splashes water over his battered face until his arms begin to ache. Even then, he still didn’t feel clean.

He brings handfuls of water to his mouth, swishing it around to rinse and spit the taste away. Eventually, he succumbs. Presses his mouth to the edge of the faucet and sucks heaping gulps of water, drinking and drinking until it sits heavy in his gut.

The man in the mirror looks back at him, prideless and ruined. Battered and broken.

Just another toy for someone else’s sick sadism.

Over the next few days, his food arrives swamped with urine. He has to flush the contents to hide that he’s not eating. He begins to starve, becoming weaker and weaker with every passing day. His stomach begins to moan and roar regularly and painfully as he becomes miserably fatigued.

No longer could he stand without a dizzy spell taking him back to either the floor or his bed, and he counted himself lucky that he had started to simply pass out when Arne would decide he was overdue for a good beating.

At least when he woke up dangling from the chains, the only thing left to feel was the aches.

These were the days when he truly doubted he could continue on. Doubted if he’d wake up in the morning, doubted if he’d see the sunlight again.

If he’d ever see Benjamin again.

Between the pain of the beatings, starvation, mental anguish, and his broken heart, he didn’t know if he could take any more.

On the fourteenth day, he was chained again, begging for mercy as Arne drags a blade across his right cheekbone, tip digging deep. The blood that seeps from him feels deceivingly warm, like one of those gentle caresses he’s so longed for. The blade trails down to flit across his neck, nicking his adams apple before slicing down the front of his shirt.

“You know,” Arne begins, teasing the point down the dip of John’s marred chest. “They said I only had to keep you alive. Didn’t say shit about what I could and couldn’t do to ya while I’ve got ya.”

John clenches his eyes shut in sheer terror, his blood running cold as the knife dragged from the waistband of his pants to trail over the curve of his penis.

“W-Why…” He chokes, his voice a squeaking whisper.

God… He’d finally broke hard enough to ask.

“Why not?” Arne counters. “You know, I’m not actually a workaholic. Used to have a family, a gaggle of kids, the whole deal, yeah?”

He didn’t look up to meet Arne’s eyes. He’d learned several times now that he was not permitted to look him in the eye.

Only equals did that.

“Till you came around, that is.” The guard continues, tone souring. “Ever think about your collateral damage, Homelander?”

The knife came up to his left breast, slicing slowly, making him hiss in pain.

“Ever think not to be so fuckin’ careless with those fancy fuckin’ lasers of yours!?” Arne rips the knife down, cutting deeper before the tip of the blade escapes John’s skin.

“I’m not gonna stop till you’re begging to die! Just like my little girl did! Begged, with her fuckin’ guts falling out, to die!”

The knife touched his shaft again and, for a split second, pure unbridled panic tore through his body.

“I’m gonna–”

Suddenly, the room went totally black.

After a moment, the emergency lights kicked on, illuminating everything in a dim red.

“Goddamn outages…” Arne grumbles, sheathing the knife to mutter into his radio. “You know, they’re having trouble payin’ the bills after all the shit you’ve done.” He grips John by the throat, holding tight until he begins to turn purple.

“You–”

Suddenly, a thud– a real fucking loud one at that.

Then, creaking. A loud groaning sound from the door that has barred him from the world this whole time.

Perhaps his eyes were deceiving him. His brain must be playing tricks, because there’s no way–

There’s no way he caught a glimpse of something red just barely peek over the window to the door.

There’s no way. It couldn’t be. It was all a sick, twisted trick to give him hope when there was none left.

But then… Why was Arne bracing himself..?

His cracked lips curled into his first smile in weeks.

Within the blink of an eye, the door was torn straight off the hinges, and hope stood at the threshold. Hope had come for him.

His prayers had manifested and hope had come for him.

In walked Benjamin, his beautiful, beautiful Benjamin, head tilting to the side in a calculating, cold observation.

“And just who the fuck–” Arne begins, but is silenced when Ben webs him to the wall.

“Johnny…” Ben breathes, removing his mask before falling to his knees before his love, gently taking John’s battered, bloody face in his hands.

His heart about fucking stops at the sight of him. Rage boils deep in his core as John falls into him, straining against the chains to nuzzle into his neck as close as physically possible.

“S’Okay,” he murmurs, removing his gloves to properly caress him. Ben strokes carefully up and down the length of his back as he listens to every detail John sobs against him. Every harrowing fucking word.

“-e-every day, he fucking– I– I can’t–” he hiccups, words spilling free faster than he can make them make sense. It’s messy, it’s out of order and hurried and babbled and–

And…

“Shh…” Benjamin shushes him, gently moving John’s face away to look at him. “I’ve got you, Johnny.” He says as he brushes his thumbs through the scruff on John’s cheeks. Ben reaches up and grasps a chain, snapping it from the wall in one clean yank. He repeats the action on the other side and John’s arms fall.

He rubs at them, breathing feeling and blood flow back into his love’s arms.

Ben is the first touch of warmth John has felt in so very long…

The shackles remain at John’s wrists, but Ben reassures him that they’ll be broken off later.

“You’re safe now, Johnny. You’re okay.” The web-head coos, fingers dancing at the nape of Homelander’s neck as he hugs him close, letting him muffle his cries. “It’s over, baby. We’re gonna go home…”

Once John’s tears dried, once the gruesome details were all out in the open, the web-head finally pulled back.

“Who?” Ben asks.

John can see something dark twist in his eyes. Something he’s only seen once before.

A violent promise.

A wordless vow.

“Tell me who did it…” Ben murmurs.

Tell me so that I may paint a mural of blood in your honor.

With a trembling finger, John points directly at Arne.

“H-Him.”

Ben smiles at him sweetly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, drawn out and gentle. He places his mask in John’s hands before his stands, walking over to Arne slowly.

The way he looks at him… Like a predator about to toy with its prey.

The first thing Benjamin does is remove Arne’s helmet.

John realizes for the first time that he’s never seen Arne’s face before. Now that he has, now that a real face was attached to the man who tortured him, he’s almost afraid he’ll never stop seeing it.

“Man, he made you sound like a real tough guy,” Ben teases, his tone dry. “You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”

In a flash, Ben rips Arne from the wall, leaving tattered scraps of his anti-supe suit behind in the process. He throws the guard to the ground harshly. His head makes a dull thunk against the cement.

John skitters to jump onto the bed. It’s as if Arne being anywhere near him induces pure panic, which only makes Ben’s blood boil hotter.

Arne scrambles to his feet quickly, attempting to make a break for the door, but Ben catches him by the throat, hurling him to the ground once more.

“What’s wrong? Don’t like this game?” Ben asks, tossing Arne back down after another failed attempt.

Though his eyes were swollen and his vision somewhat limited, John watched closely. Part of him was afraid this was a dream. That blinking would dispel the illusion and he’d be back in those chains, standing on shaky legs as Arne cut away at him like a true butcher.

Ben grabbed Arne by the collar, hoisting him up to reattach him to the wall.

“I think you need a taste of your own bullshit,” Ben muses slowly. He grips Arne by the hand, squeezing harder and harder until he could feel the warning creaks of bones under too much pressure. Arne began to scream and writhe while Ben simply grinned, increasing the force more and more until–

“JESUS– OH FUCK!” Arne howls, head thrown back against the wall as Ben shattered his hand.

“Whoopsie daisies!” Ben giggled.

John cringed at the sight of Arne’s hand, but a flood of relief hit him. Somehow, the sight of the guard’s dominant hand, the one he always hit him with, being shattered brought him comfort.

“Mmm,” Ben hums. “Nah, not enough. Not yet.”

Suddenly, Benjamin drove his fist into Arne’s gut, making him hurl.

The realization that Ben hit him full force stirs something in Homelander. Ben never uses his full strength on others, not even on other supes.

He truly meant for the guard to feel every bit as helpless and weak as he’d made John feel.

“Shame,” Ben tuts, stepping away from the mess. “Hey, babe.” He peers over at John. “Didn’t you say he stuck your head in your puke?”

John nodded timidly.

“Welp. Guess it can’t be helped then. But first…” Ben lifted a hand to Arne’s face, resting his fingertips in various spots. He willed the setae in his fingerpads to embed, letting them burrow deep before slowly pulling back, ripping the flesh from his face.

He didn’t even wince at Arne’s screams.

Wordlessly, he repeated the process over and over again until the guard’s whole face was a blood soaked mess.

“You sure do bitch a lot,” Ben finally spoke. “I prefer my toys quiet, though. Open.” He orders, grabbing Arne by the jaw. Benjamin forces his mouth open before shooting a burst of webbing inside, clogging Arne’s throat just enough not to suffocate him.

“Much better.”

Once Ben was satisfied that Arne’s face would burn enough, he tore him from the wall and threw him face first into the puddle. He rested his foot over Arne’s head, pressing him down into it.

“Hmm… No problem doing it to others, but can’t handle it yourself?” Ben muses, twisting his foot against the back of the guard’s head. “Shame.”

Arne’s muffled screams left John feeling so satisfied. So happy just to see him feel even a fucking fraction of what he’s suffered.

Ben took a step back. The very second Arne rolled onto his back, the web-head drove his heel directly into his groin.

John swore he heard the sound of Arne’s testicles bursting, but it was mostly drowned out by the most blood curdling scream he’d ever heard. Not even he, on even his most unhinged day, had ever made someone scream like that.

“Tough luck, bud.” Ben chuckles. “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think you’ll be getting your dick up again after that one.” The wall crawler lifted Arne once more to the wall, this time positioning him upside down.

The guard seemed totally out of it, and that just would not do.

“Nope, c’mon!” Ben shouts, slapping him harshly. “Wakey, wakey!”

Arne’s eyes fluttered open in a daze.

“Now, I just want you to know,” Ben arched a brow at him, smirking. “You’re gonna feel this the whole time.”

He wasted no time in ripping the top part of the anti-supe suit away, revealing Arne’s chest. Ben pushed his thumbs against his sternum, fingernails breaking through as his flesh gave way, digging deeper… deeper…

Arne couldn’t even muster the scream at this point, just silent hisses and squeaks of agony.

Homeland watched with bated breath as Ben quite literally peeled away Arne’s ribs, snapping them away and chucking them to the floor.

“I saw once, in some shitty horror movie or something, that you can’t pass out from pain,” Ben mused nonchalantly, staring down at Arne’s agonized face. “Let’s test that.”

Ben snaps one final rib, and grins at the sight of Arne’s exposed heart.

“In the next life, keep your hands to yourself.” He says, kneeling down to be eye level with the guard. “Or I’ll fucking find you there, too.”

Ben drove his fist through Arne’s chest, snatching his heart out in one slick motion. He made his way back to John, handing over the dying organ to his awestruck lover.

“Feel it die.” Ben whispers. “Feel him die and know he’ll never fucking touch you again.”

When all was said and done, Ben carried him out. His blood drenched suit was more than enough of a threat to get them past the remaining guards without confrontation.

Much as he’d like to claim otherwise, John passed out shortly after he felt the sun shine against his face.

He shot up as soon as he came to, mind screaming that it had all be a sick joke– that he was going to wake up to gray cement walls, paper thin sheets, and that bitter cold. He yowled at the pain of his injuries, falling back to the bed.

To the soft, warm, comfortable bed… Surrounded by blue walls… In a room with a window.

The sound of shuffling from the bathroom coming his way had him bracing to be met with his abuser, but…

In ran Benjamin with an arm full of bandages and gauze, holding a water basin in the other.

“Shh, shh…” hushes his little spider as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, Johnny. You’re safe. You’re home…”

Ben strokes softly at the left side of his face, gently cooing love and tear-filled promises that wash over Homelander like a healing rain.

“I–” He began before ceasing. His throat was incredibly sore, perhaps from dehydration, but most likely because he’s spent the last two weeks screaming and sobbing. Instead, he let his tears spill silently.

Benjamin was gentle with him– something he’d missed so fucking dearly. He hated how he flinched away from his little spider, but Ben promised him that it was okay. That it was normal after everything he’d been through.

Ben worked first to bathe him. He’d assembled a tub of water for rinsing, as well as one with some soapy water. Both were warm and comfortable, swapped out each time Ben felt they became either too cold or dirty.

It was his first taste of dignity in… god, he couldn’t even tell anymore. It felt like decades, even if it wasn’t.

He sighed when Ben tilted his head upward to massage the cloth into his hair, working the grime out in such a simple yet effective way. That alone made him feel so much better.

But even more so when he brushed it in soft circles against his face, removing the build up of oil and blood, sweat and tears… Stripping away the evidence of his suffering inch by inch, dabbing gently over the gash on his cheekbone.

Perhaps it was his overfamiliarity with pain, now, that kept him from wincing at the burn.

Or maybe it was the fact he was staring up at the love of his life– his hero– that truly numbed the pain.

Either way, the soothe of ointment against the cut and the patch of gauze taped in place were second only to the kiss pressed to his lips. His eyes fluttered shut and he choked on a sob, lips quivering against Ben’s

From there, he wept the whole time, taking shuddering breaths as Benjamin cleaned and wrapped him. His little spider was so gentle with him, so tender and careful. He left kisses over every splotch of black and blue, each peck a promise of safety, of love, of never suffering like that ever again.

He had forgotten what those tender promises felt like.

Now that he had them back… He could practically fucking drown in the vast sea of their love.

Ben stripped John’s lower half bare, noting each and every injury, gritting his teeth when he saw the bruises marring his genitals. For a moment, he truly believed he didn’t torture that fucking scumbag nearly enough. But… No.

No, right now he needed to stay calm and care for his Johnny. Needed to wash the past away from him and help him start clean, literally and figuratively. No amount of fury, no amount of pain inflicted on that guard would ever undo the abuse Homelander had been subjected to.

No, it was time to heal.

Homelander whimpered when Ben began to clean the insides of his thighs, tears falling even harder when Benjamin asked permission to give him a thorough cleaning rather than simply wipe over him. He stifled his sobs as he felt Ben handle him tenderly, working pliant skin around to wash him properly, front and back. It was humiliating, but… Somehow, it was alright.

“Still okay?” Ben paused, thumbing away some of his tears.

Homelander leaned into his touch and finally had his impending breakdown. Full body sobs tore through him, each one releasing his pain, his shame and humiliation, his terror and anxieties…

Everything.

Ben crawled into bed and simply held him, letting his frail lover take shelter in him. The wall crawler did the only thing he could think of and began to hum.

He hummed and hummed, pausing only when his throat clenched too tight from sorrow. Oh, how he hated what was done to his Johnny. How he fucking hated himself for not finding him sooner.

Eventually, Homelander calmed down, too fatigued to continue.

Benjamin took the time to dress him in soft clothes before carrying him to the kitchen to allow him his first dignified meal in weeks.

Much to John’s initial upset, Ben wouldn’t start him off with a full meal– though he did scarf down every morsel of the ham sandwich Ben gave him, trusting his food for the first time in days. And, oh, how the taste bloomed in his mouth.

Real fucking food.

Even the electrolyte drink Ben provided tasted heavenly.

“I just don’t wanna risk refeeding syndrome, y’know?” Ben explained gently, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. His next words were but a whisper.

“I can’t lose you twice…”

John swallowed hard against the tidal wave of emotion that washed over him. That was the only fucking reason in the world good enough to prevent him from just raiding the fridge himself.

It would be baby steps from here on, at least until he was stable. Ben doubted the full effect of losing his powers had even hit Homelander yet. He’d been far too busy just trying to survive to even realize…

But that was okay. He would be there. Benjamin would take every single step it took to adjust right alongside his Johnny. Even if it meant he, too, would stumble or fall, he’d be there.

“Welcome home, Johnny.” Ben murmured as Homelander nuzzled into the crook of his neck, both cozied up in bed. “Welcome home…”

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #whump #extreme whump #all hurt with later comfort #this hurt me very much while i wrote it but #fuck if i didn't wanna see this man whumped by someone just as fucking sadistic as he is/was- if not more #depowered homelander

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