Content. MDNI. Platonic Yandere. Extreme possessiveness. Obsessive protection. Isolation. Stalking. Home invasion. Emotional manipulation. Gaslighting. Jealousy. Overprotective behavior. Trauma bonding. Forced proximity. Watching from the shadows. Invasion of personal space. Soft-spoken threats. Heavy angst. Dark atmosphere. Multiple yanderes. Brother complex. Reader is constantly monitored. Psychological tension. Creepy comfort. Unhealthy attachment. âYouâre safest with usâ mentality. Slow descent into captivity. No romance. Childhood trauma. Violent training. Lab experiments. Deep guilt and obsession. Forced dependence. Emotional blackmail. Overbearing protection. No escape.
Word Count. 3,1k
N/A. I'm fucking bored u.u
Homelander
John doesnât remember a single day of his childhood in which he didn't need you.
The Vought laboratories were cold, white, and eternal. Each of you had your own room: windowless white cells with a single metal bed and a light that never fully turned off. You were only allowed to see each other every fifteen days, and it was always for the experiments. The scientists would gather you in the same testing room and subject you to simultaneous pain, as if they wanted to study how you reacted while the other was suffering.
And John always reacted the same way.
He would put himself between you and the electrodes. He would let himself be hit first. When they screamed at you, he screamed louder. When they injected you with something that made you cry, he would grab your hand so tightly that he left marks, whispering in your ear in a sweet and encouraging way while you both trembled:
âIâm going to be stronger someday. Iâm going to be so strong that no one will ever hurt you again. When I get out of here, Iâm going to take you far away. Somewhere no one can find us. I promise you. I promise.
You were his only proof that he could still feel something other than rage. His only connection to something resembling humanity. When the experiments ended and they separated you again, John would stand staring at the door through which you were taken until he could no longer see you. Then he would sit on the floor of his cell and repeat your name in a low voice before sleeping, like a prayer, before falling asleep in his blanket, dreaming of you, of both of you.
When they finally escapedâor rather, when Vought decided they were too dangerous to kept locked upâJohn didn't hesitate for a second, knowing exactly what he had to do.
He took you out of there in the middle of the night. He took you so far away that even he didn't know exactly where they were at first. An isolated house in the mountains, surrounded by forest and snow for months. No neighbors. No nearby roads. No one.
There he hid you.
And there he kept you.
Every time he returned from a mission or an interview, he would arrive with stained hands and his cape in tatters, but the first thing he did was look for you. He would find you in the kitchen or by the fireplace reading a bookâas you had no television or any possible form of technologyâand he would kneel in front of you, leaning his forehead against your stomach as if he needed to remind himself that you were still there.
âNo one knows you existâhe would tell you in a low voice, almost reverent. âAnd no one ever will. You are mine. My sister. My twin. The only person who saw me when I was weak.
His voice was soft when he spoke to you. Almost tender. But there was something in the way he looked at you that reminded you that this tenderness had very dangerous limits. If you ever mentioned wanting to go out, see people, or even be a hero, his expression changed completely. His eyes would turn cold and his smile would vanish.
âNoâhe would say simply. âYouâre not going out. Youâre not going to be a hero. Youâre not going to let the world touch you. I am the only one who can protect you. The only one who knows how.
And although he hugged you carefully, as if you were made of glass, there was a silent promise behind every gesture: if you ever tried to leave, he would find you. Because for John, losing you was not an option. It was the end of the world.
Superman
Clark always knew you were greater than him.
Not just in age. You were greater in everything. You arrived on Earth first. You learned to control your powers before he did. You were the one who found him when he was just a frightened boy in a Kansas field, and you were the one who taught him not to break things, not to fly too high, and to be kind even when the world didn't deserve it.
For Clark, you weren't just his older sister. You were his origin, the little that remained of his biological heritage.
That's why, when you grew up and decided to become a reporter at the Daily Planet alongside him, something inside him began to slowly break.
At first, he tried to hide it. He would bring coffee to your desk every morning, smiling when he saw you happy. He would defend you when Lois complained about you or your work. But over time, his protection became more intense. Quieter. More possessive.
He started appearing every time someone got too close to you. Villains who had threatened you disappeared. Journalists who looked at you strangely stopped working at the Planet without explanation. And when you asked him, Clark would only smile at you with that sweetness he had always had and say:
âI just want you to be safe. You're the only thing I have left of Krypton. The only thing that reminds me of who I am.
With time, he began to suggest that you quit your job. That you move closer to him. That you stop exposing yourself so much. That you depend only on his salary. That you depend on him.
âI can protect you better than anyoneâhe insisted in a low voice, one night on a random rooftop after defending Metropolis with you, the wind moving his cape. âWhy do you still want to be near them? They don't understand you. They don't know what you are. I do.
His voice was never aggressive. It was soft. Almost pleading. But there was a desperation behind every word that chilled you.
Because for Clark, losing you meant losing the last part of himself that still felt like Krypton. And he was willing to do anything to prevent it.
Nolan
Nolan never forgot the day he had to abandon you.
He left you on Viltrum when you were just a little girl. The order was clear and left no room for discussion: go to Earth, gain their trust, conquer a human, have offspring, and do not look back.
But he looked back. For years. Hoping that you would appear in the stars, seeking his protection, his counsel.
Every night, while he was on Earth pretending to be a hero, he thought of you. He thought of how you were too small, too fragile, even though you stood out among the few Viltrumites of your age because of the extensive training he provided you. But, the virus was spreading through the colonies and he knew that if it reached you, you would die in the blink of an eye. The idea that his little sister could be alone, sick and with no one to protect or comfort her, consumed him from within for decades.
Every time he killed someone, he thought of you, of your sideways smile with stains of your own blood on your face.
Every time Mark looked at him with disappointment, he thought of how you used to look at him with blind trust.
When he finally returned to the Viltrumite ship after the war, he found you as quickly as he could.
And he found you different.
You were no longer the girl he left behind. You were a woman. A respected warrior. And you had a son.
The child had your eyes and a small smile that reminded him of the one you had when you were little. A son whom you raised, pure-blooded, from someone he didn't know, or probably did, but refused to accept.
Nolan stood at the entrance of the room, covered in someone else's blood, his hands still trembling from the last battle. He looked at you. Then he looked at the boy. And something inside him broke in a way that even the conquest of planets had not achieved.
â...Do you have a son?âhe asked, and his voice sounded hoarse, almost broken.
You looked at him with that calmness you had always had, even as a little girl.
âYes. His name is Kael.
Nolan took a step forward. Then another. He knelt before you as if he were a subject and not the greatest conqueror of Viltrum. His large, bloody hand rose, but stopped halfway to touching you.
âI left youâhe said, and for the first time in centuries, his voice truly trembled. âI left you alone. I thought you were going to die of the virus. And when I came back... you prospered. Without me. You had a son. You became strong. And I... I wasn't here to see it.
There was a long, heavy silence.
Then Nolan looked you straight in the eyes and, for the first time, his expression was not of pride or authority. It was of something much darker.
âNever againâhe whispered. âI will never leave you again. Even if I have to kill every existing species. Even if I have to destroy the entire Earth. You are mine. My sister. My responsibility. My weakness.
From that day on, Nolan became unbearably possessive. He watched every interaction you had. He trained your son with a dangerous intensity, even more aggressive than the intensity with which he once trained you. And when he was alone with you, he would hug you so tightly that he almost broke your ribs and whispered against your hair:
âI left you once. And it almost killed me. I won't make that mistake again.
Thragg
Thragg never treated you like a fragile sister.
Since you were small, he trained you with methodical cruelty. He broke your bones so they would grow back stronger. He let you bleed so you would learn to ignore the pain. Every time you fell, he would lift you off the ground with one hand and tell you in that deep, emotionless voice:
âAgain. Faster. Stronger. Or you will die.
But there was something else behind that violence.
Because while he broke you, he also protected you.
He killed three Viltrumite warriors just because one of them had looked at you too long during training. He banished another for daring to try to win your heart. To Thragg, the world was a place that wanted to destroy you, and he was the only one who had the right to do it.
When you grew up, you became his shadow. His second-in-command. The only person he allowed to see his wildest side. And yet, when you were gravely injured after a battle, he was the one who picked you up off the ground. He was the one who cleaned the blood with hands that had destroyed entire civilizations.
âNo one else can hurt youâhe would tell you as he bandaged your wounds with precision. âBecause I am the only one who has the right to break you... and the only one who knows how to put you back together.
His obsession was silent but absolute. He didn't allow you to have close allies. He didn't allow you to have weaknesses that he couldn't control. And when he looked at you, there was a strange mixture of pride and something much darker.
Because for Thragg, love was a form of war.
And you were the only territory he would never allow anyone to conquer.
Synopsis: Youâre the complete opposite of Stillwell, and Homelander despises you for it. Itâs only when an incident occurs that leaves cracks in your icy professionalism that the hatred begins to twist into something far more dangerous.
WC: 6068
Category: Slow Burn (kinda), Power Struggle, Canon Divergence, Stoic!Reader, Emotional Manipulation, Reader is Stillwellâs Replacement {TW: Choking, Mentions of Death, Obsession, Blood, Homelander}.
I finally was able to watch the finale. An end of an era. So, in celebration (as if itâs a farewell to his character), I decided to pull an all-nighter and take hours to write up this super long fic LMAO.
And I did actually check the grammar this time. Be proud of me đđ
ăâ˘â˘ââ˘â˘ă
The sterile glow of the Vought Tower fluorescents always felt a little colder in the executive suite now. You sat behind the broad mahogany desk that had once belonged to Madelyn Stillwell, your posture straight, hands folded neatly over the latest quarterly projections. Where Stillwell had filled the room with perfume, practiced warmth, and the low purr of calculated flirtation, you brought silence and structure. No lingering eye contact. No honeyed reassurances. Just data, timelines, and an unyielding professionalism that bordered on detachment.
The other members noticed immediately.
A-Train still showed up late to briefings, but now he found a meticulously itemized schedule of his mandatory appearances on his chair, complete with suggested talking points. He'd huff, mutter something about "that new Stillwell," but he'd be there.
Queen Maeve had tested you once, in that brittle way of hers, pushing back on a disastrous PR initiative. Stillwell might have soothed or bullied. You simply tilted your head, your expression unchanging, and laid out the social media sentiment analysis, the projected stock dip, and the contingency plan you'd already drafted for its cancellation. Maeve had blinked, then nodded, a flicker of something like grudging respect in her tired eyes. She hadn't tested you since.
The Deep... well, The Deep was The Deep. You treated him with the same distant courtesy you afforded everyone else, which was, in its own way, a form of disregard he was unused to. You neither mocked him nor coddled him. You simply assigned him oceanic conservation outreach events and moved on.
But then there was Homelander.
As you figured, he resented you on a fundamental level.
"You're not her," he'd said in your very first one-on-one. He hadn't used Stillwell's name. He hadn't needed to. He stood before your desk, the perfect picture of American masculinity, yet there was a petulant set to his jaw. The patriotic cape was a slash of violent color against the muted tones of your office.
"I am aware," you'd replied, your tone as even as the hum of the server room. "My name isâ"
"I don't care what your name is," he cut in, that blindingly white smile not reaching his eyes. It was a mask, and you could see the screws holding it in place. "Stillwell knew what I needed. She understood the team. She understood me."
He leaned forward, the air thickening with the pressure of him, a subtle thrum of contained power. The lights in your office flickered, a barely perceptible stutter. "You're just a placeholder. A suit filling a chair. Don't get comfortable."
It wasn't a threat. It was a diagnosis. He wanted a reaction. Fear, deference, a crack in the composure. He wanted to see Madelyn Stillwell's ghost flinch in your eyes.
You simply met his gaze, your own unflinching. "Iâm quite comfortable, thank you. Your itinerary for the next two weeks is finalized on your tablet. The press conference for the youth center initiative is scheduled for Thursday at noon. I expect you to be familiar with the talking points." You gestured vaguely toward the device resting on the corner of your desk. "If that's all, I have a budget meeting with Ashley."
The dismissal hung in the air, cold and sharp. The twitch in Homelander's jaw was the only outward sign of the tempest you sensed brewing behind those placid blue eyes. He stared at you for another long moment, a predator assessing an unnatural prey, before straightening up. The smile returned, wider and more vacant than before.
"Sure thing," he chirped, all false brightness. "Don't work too hard."
And that became the rhythm of your days: a slow, deliberate game of chess played on a board of corporate strategy and volatile superhuman egos. Homelander would arrive, seeking a crack in your professional armor, and you would respond with schedules, projections, and an unassailable calm. You learned his tells. The slight tightening of his fists when he was forced into a charity event he deemed beneath him. The way the temperature in the room would plummet a few degrees when you used the word "no," however professionally couched.
He despised you for it. Not with the hot-headed anger of a teenager thwarted, but with a deeper, more resentful venom. You were the antithesis of everything Madelyn Stillwell had been. Madelyn had understood the power of the soft touch, of whispered validation. She'd created a co-dependent ecosystem where he was the sun, and she was the most skilled reflector, bouncing back the light he needed to see. She gave him control by making him believe he was in charge of her.
You gave him nothing. No ego-stroking, no covert glances of admiration, no gentle hand on his bicep to soften a directive. He was a line item. The most valuable, most dangerous asset, but an asset nonetheless. In your world, assets were managed, not mothered.
You'd poured over the files Stillwell left behindâmeticulously organized, of courseâand then gone deeper, accessing archives restricted even to the previous management. You read every psych evaluation from Dr. Park, every interview transcript from his childhood at Vought, every redacted report from mission debriefings. You knew about the lab, the name he'd been given before the cape and the flag had been stapled on, the loneliness that sat at the core of him like a black hole.
You knew it all because your job was risk management, and John was the single greatest risk Vought Tower had ever faced.
This knowledge became your shield. It allowed you to view him not as the god he projected, but as the damaged man he was. It didn't make you fear him less; if anything, the clinical understanding of his volatility made you more cautious. But it sterilized your interactions, stripping them of the personal, of anything he could latch onto and twist. You didn't call him "sir" or "hero." You called him "Homelander," the brand name. You treated the brand with cool respect, and the man with clinical distance.
Until today.
The day had started with the familiar thrum of executive-level anxiety. You'd finalized the "God-U" rollout, a line of overpriced, branded merchandise that would net Vought millions but required a full afternoon of Homelander's time for a photoshoot. You had the memo on your desk, ready to be sent, when the knock came. Not Homelander's sharp, expectant rap, but a hesitant, polite tap.
"Come in," you called out, your attention still on the screen. You didnât realize how much youâd regret those two simple words.
The door clicked open, and a young man, probably no older than twenty-one, stepped inside. He wasn't a supe. He was an intern; you recognized him vaguely from the accounting department on thirty-two. He wore a Vought lanyard around his neck and carried a cardboard tray with two coffee cups. One of them, the one with "DANIEL" scrawled on the side in black Sharpie, was sloshing over the rim.
"Just... uh... leaving the reports from the last quarter, ma'am," he stammered, placing a stack of binders on the corner of your desk. He seemed too nervous to make eye contact, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Ashley said you needed them."
"Thank you, Daniel. Just leave them there," you said, your attention divided. You were typing a last-minute addendum to the God-U memo, a subtle adjustment to the licensing fees that would make legal happier.
He lingered. The silence stretched, broken only by the click-clack of your keyboard. You glanced up, ready to prompt him, and that's when you saw it in his eyes. A desperate, hungry kind of light. He wasn't looking at you. He was looking past you, at the life-sized portrait of Homelander that hung on the wall behind your deskâthe one Stillwell had commissioned. The hero's gaze was directed forward, as if looking over the shoulder of whoever sat in the chair, a constant, silent overseer.
"He's... he's amazing, isn't he?" Daniel whispered, his voice cracking. The words were soaked in a dangerous sort of reverence. "I saw him stop a runaway train last week. The news didn't even cover the whole thing. He saved everyone. He's... perfect."
You saved the document with a decisive tap. Your fingers stilled over the keyboard. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, not from an external force, but from the sudden, cold knot of dread tightening in your stomach. You had seen this look before in the files, in the clinical notes on fringe supporters, the ones that ended up in "risk management."
"Daniel, you can go now," you said, your voice losing its corporate neutrality and taking on a flatter, more authoritative tone.
But he didn't. He took a step closer, the forgotten coffee trembling in its paper cup. "I just want to understand him. To be close. I read everything. I know he likes vanilla frosting, not chocolate. I know he listens to 'Old Time Rock and Roll' before missions. I want to help."
"Put the coffee down and leave, Daniel. This is your final warning." You were rising from your chair, the slow, deliberate motion a product of training and instinct, not panic. You reached for the silent alarm button under your deskâa direct line to Tower Securityâbut your fingers stopped.
His face was crumbling. The reverence curdled into something frantic, unhinged. "No! You don't get it! You're like her! You just use him! You don't see him!" he shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the portrait. "You sit here in her chair, in her perfect office, and you look at him like he's a product! He's not a product! He's a god!"
He lunged.
He was clumsy, fueled by fanaticism rather than skill. He shoved your keyboard aside, the clatter a violent, alien sound in the sterile room. His coffee cup crashed to the floor, spilling lukewarm liquid across the polished wood. His hands grabbed for the lapels of your jacket, fingers digging in, pulling you forward. You were faster, more trained. You twisted, driving the heel of your palm hard under his chin. He grunted, stumbling back, but his grip didn't break. He was stronger than he looked, almost as if he were possessed by a manic energy.
The fight was a short. You drove an elbow into his ribs. He yelped and shoved you back against the deskâthe sharp edge of the mahogany bit into your lower back, a white-hot jolt of pain. For a terrifying second, he had you pinned, his face inches from yours, the coffee stain on his shirt smelling of burnt beans and desperation. You could see the flecks of spit in the corners of his mouth, the wild, fanatical blaze in his eyes. He was going to hurt you. He was going to mark the place that wasn't yours.
Then, your training kicked in, cold and pure. You stopped fighting his push and used it. You dropped your weight, yanking him off-balance, and slammed his head against the heavy wooden corner of the desk. It wasnât enough to kill him, or even knock him out, but it was enough.
The sound was sickeningly wet, a dull thud of bone hitting solid oak. He cried out, a choked, gurgling noise, and his hands flew to the back of his head. Blood, shockingly red against the wood, immediately began to seep into the grain. He slid to the floor, dazed and whimpering, the fight gone out of him.
You stumbled back, your breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. A button was torn from your jacket, and your wrist throbbed where he'd grabbed it. The room was a mess. Your keyboard was skewed, coffee was spreading into a dark, sticky puddle on the floor, and a young man was bleeding on your imported rug. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, chaotic rhythm that felt utterly alien in your carefully controlled world.
You had Daniel escorted out within three minutes. Tower Security arrived, took one look at the sceneâthe blood, your torn clothing, the wild-eyed, muttering internâand understood their orders with quiet efficiency. Of course, you would have to file an incident report, more paperwork, more containment⌠But for now, the immediate threat was gone and you were alone again in the wreckage of your office.
For twenty seven-minutes.
In those twenty-seven minutes, you did nothing but try to breathe. You couldn't call maintenance yet. You couldn't type on the keyboard. You simply stood there, trying to force your heart rate down, to re-impose the order that had been so violently shattered. The adrenaline was a sour taste in your mouth, the pain in your back a dull, pulsing reminder of your own vulnerability. What were the chances youâd find yourself caught in a confrontation like this? You had prepared for many possibilities: corporate sabotage, blackmail, media leaks. You had not prepared for a deranged fanboy.
And, so, you were just straightening your jacket, fingers brushing the dangling thread where the button used to be, when the door to your office didn't just open, it was propelled inward with enough force to slam against the stopper with a resounding BANG.
You knew immediately who it was before you even looked up.
Homelander.
The golden boy of Vought, framed in the doorway like a vengeful god descending from Olympus. He held a tablet in one hand, and the rage rolling off him was palpable, a shimmering heatwave that made the very air in the room feel thin and electrified. He didn't see the mess at first. He saw only you, standing there, and he was already primed for a fight.
"What in the fuck is this?" he snarled, his voice a dangerously low vibration that made the fillings in your teeth ache. He didn't step inside, just stood there, radiating fury. He tossed the tablet onto a small console near the door; it skittered across the surface and clattered to the floor. "The 'God-U' rollout? I'm not a billboard for cheap plastic shit! This is what I get? After everything I do for this company? A fucking toy line?"
This was the familiar danceâthe daily tantrum. Your composure was a fortress, and he was the battering ram. You would normally greet this with the same cool, detached professionalism that had become your armor. You would cite the projected revenue, the brand synergy, and the public's demand for connection.
But you didn't.
Your breath hitched. A small, involuntary sound, barely audible, but in the unnatural quiet of the room, it screamed.
And he heard it.
Homelander's tirade stopped dead. His head tilted, that predatory gaze narrowing as it swept over you, really looking at you for the first time. You knew immediately he was scanning you. The subtle tremor in your hands you couldn't quite still. The frantic, hummingbird flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat. The way your shoulders were squared for impact, not for posture. The faint, coppery scent of blood that still lingered in the air that was masked only partially by the spilled coffee.
His blue eyes, usually so fixed on their own reflection in your polished calm, were now cataloguing everything. The skewed keyboard, the dark stain spreading on the floor, the single, dangling thread on your jacket. The details clicked into place with a speed that was terrifying. The anger in him didn't vanish, but it transmuted. The white-hot, performative fury of a spoiled god cooled into something far more dangerous: the cold, sharp curiosity of a hunter catching an unfamiliar scent in the woods.
"What⌠happened here?" he asked. His voice was quiet now, devoid of its earlier booming petulance. It was worse. It was the lull before the strike.
You forced yourself to straighten up, to project the authority you were supposed to wield. "A minor security incident," you said, the words feeling thin and brittle. "It's been handled."
You both knew it was code for stay outâa line in the sand. But Homelander didn't recognize lines that others drew. He drew his own.
"Handled?" He finally stepped into the room, his boots making no sound on the carpet. He walked with a predator's economy of movement, all fluid grace and coiled power. He circled your desk, trailing a gloved finger along the polished wood, coming to a halt over the faint, dark spatter of blood. His gaze lifted from the stain to the now-empty space where the intern had been, then back to you. The question in his eyes was not one of concern. It was one of ownership.
"Who was it?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous thrum.
"Like I said, it's handled." You held his gaze, willing your heart to slow its frantic pace. And of course, he saw it all. Those blue eyes of his were more advanced than any polygraph; they saw the truth in the minute tells of your body. They saw the sweat beading on your upper lip despite the cool temperature of the room. They saw the slight tremor in your hands that you pressed flat against your desk. They saw the way you flinched, an almost imperceptible movement, as he rounded the corner. It wasn't the flinch of someone afraid of a reprimand. It was the flinch of prey that had already been cornered.
The corner of Homelander's mouth twitched. The smile was back, but it was a new kind of smile. A chilling one. A smile that didn't speak of amusement, but of something far more primal. Of something about to be unleashed. He didn't need your words. He had all the information he required from the subtle language of your falling composure. He straightened up, the smile widening, the fury from moments before completely gone, replaced by a dark, anticipatory glee.
"Fine," he said, the word casual, dismissive. "Keep your secrets."
Then he was gone, as suddenly as he'd arrived. The door clicked shut, and you were left in the wrecked silence, the aftershock of his presence lingering in the air like the charged stillness before a storm. The relief was so profound it was dizzying, your body sagging against the desk as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a cold, shaky emptiness in its wake. You had held him off for now.
About an hour or three later, you were trying to restore a semblance of order. You had righted your keyboard, your fingers flying across the keys as you typed up the sanitized version of events for your official report. That was when the news alert popped up on your monitor. A local channel breaking story. You clicked on the link, and the video began to play.
Then the phone call came.
Turns out Daniel wasnât being taken to a police station or a holding cell. Instead, he was found in a cheap hourly-rate motel room, with his eyes burned out. There was no evidence of anything else. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing to point to a supe. The official report said it was a tragic case of self-immolation.
But you knew. You knew exactly what had happened, and who had done it.
That was the moment your professional detachment shattered, not into fear, but into a cold, crystalline fury. That was when he got what he wanted. He wanted emotion from you? Wanted a reaction? Oh, he was going to get one.
Since he barges into your office often, you decided to give him the same energy he gave you. You pushed the heavy oak door of your office open and walked into the hallway of the executive suite, your steps purposeful, echoing in the polished marble. You didn't bother with subtlety. You strode right past Ashleyâs desk, ignoring her startled squeak, and straight to the door of his private quarters on the top floor of the Tower.
You didn't knock. You used the master keycard you'd been given for emergencies. The lock clicked open with a satisfying, definitive sound.
He was there, standing in the middle of the vast, sterile living room, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window at the glittering sprawl of New York City. The city lights painted him in shades of blue and gold. Like always, he was in that suit, a monument to an image he could never truly live up to. He didn't turn around, but you knew he'd heard you. He would have heard you the second you stepped out of the elevator. He was aware of every heartbeat in this building, but especially yours.
"You're going to need to start paying rent for the space you're taking up in my head," he said, not bothering to turn. His voice was a low murmur, laced with a smug satisfaction that made your blood boil. "I'm getting awfully tired of it."
"You burned out his eyes," you said. Your own voice was surprisingly steady, a stark counterpoint to the storm raging inside you.
At that, he turned. Slowly. The smirk was already on his face, confident, expectant. He was enjoying this. He was waiting for the fear, the cowering, the grateful relief of the damsel he'd "rescued." He was relishing the victory, the proof that he had finally breached your fortress.
"Aww, did the poor little intern have an accident?" he cooed, the mock sympathy a venomous poison in the air. "I hear he was a troubled kid. A real danger to himself and others. Sometimes people just... snap."
The casual cruelty of it, the effortless way he rewrote reality to cast himself as a janitor cleaning up a mess, was what broke something loose inside you. All the weeks of calculated composure, the meticulous management of personalities and risks, the hours spent buried in files that detailed a lifetime of psychological damageâit all coalesced into a single, burning point of clarity.
You took a step closer. The marble floor was cold beneath your shoes. You didn't flinch. You didn't stop.
"He touched me," you said, your voice devoid of any inflection. It was a statement of fact, a piece of data being entered into the equation. "He put his hands on me, in my office. He left blood on my desk."
Homelander's smirk didn't falter, but a flicker of something elseâconfusion, perhaps, that you weren't reacting with the expected terror or gratitudeâcrossed his eyes. He had expected you to be weak, a frightened animal he could then soothe and dominate. But you weren't an animal. You were a calculator, and you had just input the final variable.
"And you know what my job is, Homelander?" you continued, taking another deliberate step. The space between you was shrinking, the air growing thick and heavy with unspoken history. "My job is risk management. And there was a risk. A variable. An anomaly."
You were now just a few feet from him, close enough to see the microscopic flaw in the left lens of his suit, the faint, almost invisible scar at the hairline he could never quite hide. You looked up at him, not as an employee to a boss, or a subject to a king, but as one predator to another.
"Anomalies are meant to be corrected," you finished. "I had it under control. I was handling it. But you didn't trust me to handle it. You took it from me. You made it yours."
A muscle feathered in his jaw. The charade was cracking. The smirk was still there, but it was a strain now. He could feel the shift in the dynamic, the ground moving beneath his feet, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.
"Sounds like you're ungrateful," he said, his voice losing its playful edge and hardening into steel. "I did you a favor. I took out the trash."
You let out a short, sharp breath that wasn't a laugh. "A favor? You violated the chain of command, bypassed every protocol I have in place, and committed a homicide that, if traced back, could expose the entire operation. You didn't do me a favor, John. You created a bigger mess."
The name hung in the air between you, a bomb dropped in the sterile silence.
The smirk vanished. Utterly. It was wiped from his face as if it had never been there, leaving behind a raw, chilling blankness. His expression didn't fall into anger, or surprise, or the theatrical shock of a performer whose secret has been revealed. It went somewhere else entirely. It went void. The blue of his eyes seemed to darken, to absorb all the light in the room, becoming the fathomless, predatory cold of the deep sea. For the first time since youâd met him, you were not looking at Homelander, the brand. You were not looking at the petulant god. You were looking at the boy from the lab, the creature who had never been given a name he could claim as his own, and you had just spoken it aloud.
He took a step toward you. It wasn't a threat, not yet. It was a claimâa reclaiming of space. You held your ground, your body a taut wire of tension. You could feel the thrum of his power, the air itself beginning to vibrate with a sub-audible frequency that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.
"You think you're clever," he said, his voice a near-inaudible rasp. The theatrical, all-American baritone was gone, replaced by something stripped bare and dangerous. "You read a few files, think you know me? Think that gives you some kind of power over me?"
"No, John," you said, your own voice dropping to match his, a low, steady counter-frequency. You let the name settle again, a deliberate, precise weapon. "It gives me understanding. And understanding is the basis of control. Something Madelyn understood very well. She gave you a mother. A confidante. She gave you a reflection that told you exactly what you wanted to hear."
Another step. He was so close now you could feel the heat radiating off him, a palpable, nuclear warmth that had nothing to do with body temperature. You could see your own reflection, distorted and tiny, in the perfect blue of his irises.
"And what do you give me?" he murmured, the words a soft, intimate threat.
"Nothing," you replied. "That's the difference between her and me. She wanted to be the one pulling your strings. I don't. I want to cut them."
The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the faint, electrical hum of the city far below, and the frantic, trapped beat of your own heart, which you forced yourself to ignore. The air crackled around him, a static charge that prickled your skin. The muscles in his forearms were rigid, the fabric of his suit stretched taut over balled fists. He was a coiled spring, and the only thing holding him back was the sheer, overwhelming shock of your defiance. It wasn't the defiance of a subordinate; it was the defiance of an equal.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the tension broke. A terrible, terrible smile spread across his face. It was not a smile of humor or pleasure. It was the smile of a scientist who has just been presented with a fascinating, unexpected specimen.
"I could rip you in half," he said, his voice a conversational whisper. "Before you could even scream."
"Is that what you did to Madelyn? When she stopped being a mirror and started being a person?" you countered, your own voice dropping into that same quiet, dangerous register. You were gambling, betting your life on the data you'd consumed. He'd killed her not for her betrayal of Vought, but for her betrayal of him. For the ultimate proof that her world did not, in fact, revolve around him. "Or did you burn her eyes out too like you did with Daniel?"
He moved so fast you didn't even register it. Your back was against the wall, the cold glass of the windowpane pressing into your shoulder blades. The impact didn't hurt, not yet. You were too stunned by the sheer impossibility of the motion. If you thought he was close before, he was now in your space. A solid wall of impossible heat and coiled muscle. His gloved hand was flat against the window beside your head, caging you in. His other hand was pinned against your shoulder, not quite a grip, but a pressure point that told you exactly how little effort it would take for him to simply push through your body and into the wall behind you.
You couldn't breathe. Not from a lack of air, but from an overload of stimulus. The sheer, overwhelming presence of him. The scent of sterile, dry-cleaned fabric, the faint, metallic tang of something otherworldly. You felt the thrum of power in the air, not just a vibration, but a tangible force that made your teeth ache, and your vision swim at the edges. You saw him up close: the microscopic imperfections in the pores of his neck, the faint pulse beating there, the terrifyingly human detail on the face of a god.
And yet, you didn't look away. You stared up into those terrifying, empty blue eyes, and you saw the war raging within them. The rage, yes, but something else, too. A flicker of something almost like awe. A predator's respect for prey that doesn't flee.
"Don't you ever say her name to me," he breathed, the words a hot gust of air against your cheek. The "John" had been a declaration of war, but "Madelyn" was an atomic bomb, a reference to the one person who had ever truly gotten under his skin, the one who had proven that even he could be played. The one he had killed not with a blast of heat, but with the slow, suffocating poison of his disappointment.
"I will say whatever I like," you choked out, the words forcing their way past the constriction starting in your throat. Your body was screaming at you to shrink, to apologize, to show deference. You ignored it. "Because I am not her. I am not your toy. I am not your reflection. I am your manager, and you are a multi-billion-dollar asset that is currently behaving like a spoiled child."
His grip on your shoulder tightened, not enough to crush bone, but enough to be a promise. A warning. The pressure was immense, a grinding force that made you feel as if your entire skeleton was about to be compacted into dust.
You held his gaze. "You can break me," you said, your voice a hoarse whisper, each word a deliberate, painful act of defiance. "You can vaporize me. You can turn me into a smear on this very expensive window. But it won't change the facts. You are out of control. You are a liability. And I am the one they hired to fix that."
The silence stretched, a thin, taut wire vibrating between life and death. You could feel the heat building from his hand, a terrifying prelude to the eyebeams. The glass of the window beside your head began to groan, a faint, high-pitched whine as the temperature climbed. You braced yourself, a strange, cold calm settling over you. This was it. This was the risk you had managed for, the final variable in the equation.
And then, he laughed.
It wasn't the boisterous, all-American laugh he gave for the cameras. It wasn't the mocking giggle he used to intimidate. It was a low, genuine, utterly terrifying chuckle that rumbled up from deep in his chest. The pressure on your shoulder eased, though it didn't vanish. The heat subsided, leaving behind a patch of mist on the windowpane. He pulled back, just enough to look at you properly, a fascinated, almost gleeful expression on his face.
"You're something else," he breathed, the smile not quite reaching the chilling emptiness in his eyes. "She was terrified of me, you know. Right up until the end. She thought she had me, but she was always walking on eggshells."
His gaze swept over you, from your defiant eyes to the steady set of your jaw, down to your hands, which remained clenched at your sides, not raised in supplication. "You're not. You're not scared at all. Are you?"
The question hung in the air. It wasn't an accusation; it was a diagnosis. He was peeling back another layer, and what he found beneath fascinated him.
"Let me be clear," he continued, his voice dropping back into that intimate, dangerous register. He leaned in again, his face so close to yours that you could see the dark fringe of his lashes, the flawless skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. "I didn't kill Daniel for you. Don't flatter yourself. I killed him because he touched my things. Because he made a mess in my house. This Tower, this floor, this office... It's all mine. You're just sitting in the chair."
He pulled back completely then, releasing you from the cage of his body. He straightened his glove, a fastidious, dismissive gesture, as if he'd just touched something dirty. "You want to cut my strings? You want to 'manage' me? Go ahead. Play your game. Run your numbers. Send your memos." He turned his back on you, strolling casually toward the window again, the picture of a man utterly in control of his domain. "Just remember what happened to the last person who thought she could."
The threat was explicit, but the dismissal stung more. He was relegating you to the same category as Stillwell. A challenge to be met, an obstacle to be removed. But you were not Stillwell. You had not come here to love him or control him through affection. You had come here to understand him, and in that moment, you understood more than ever. He wasn't a god to be worshipped or a monster to be slain. He was a black hole, a singularity of need and power that consumed everything around it. Your job wasn't to fight the pull, but to calculate its event horizon.
You straightened your jacket, your hands moving with a practiced calm to brush away imaginary wrinkles, a grounding ritual to center yourself. The adrenaline was still a tremor in your limbs, but the ice was back in your veins. "Duly noted," you said, your voice once again the cool, dispassionate tool of your trade. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mess of my own to clean up. And John?"
He stopped, his back still to you, a rigid line of patriotic red and blue. The silence that followed your use of the name was a victory in itselfâa small, sharp crack in the facade of Homelander.
"Next time you take it upon yourself to 'clean house,'" you said, your words precise and cold as scalpels, "try not to leave forensic breadcrumbs a first-year CSI could follow. Sloppy work is bad for the brand."
And with that, you turned and walked out, leaving him alone in the penthouse with the city lights and your words.
The click of the door closing behind you was the most satisfying sound you had heard all day. You didn't run. You didn't hurry. You walked back down the pristine, silent hallways of the executive suite, your heels clicking a steady, unfaltering rhythm against the marble. Every fiber of your being screamed at you, a primal chorus of fear and disbelief. You had just stood toe-to-toe with the world's most powerful being, called him by the name he hates, and accused him of sloppy work.
And you had walked away.
What you didn't know, couldn't know, was that he remained standing there long after you left, a statue frozen in front of the city he ruled. He lifted a hand, not to punch through the glass or to summon a blast of heat, but to touch the spot on the windowpane where your head had been. The faint imprint of your heat was already gone, dissipated into the cool night air. He stared at the spot, a frown creasing his brow, a look of profound, unnerving thoughtfulness on his face. The game had changed. The pieces on the board were no longer moving the way he'd anticipated. He didn't know the rules anymore. And for the first time in a very long time, that didn't infuriate him.
Synopsis: Youâre the complete opposite of Stillwell, and Homelander despises you for it. Itâs only when an incident occurs that leaves cracks in your icy professionalism that the hatred begins to twist into something far more dangerous.
WC: 6068
Category: Slow Burn (kinda), Power Struggle, Canon Divergence, Stoic!Reader, Emotional Manipulation, Reader is Stillwellâs Replacement {TW: Choking, Mentions of Death, Obsession, Blood, Homelander}.
I finally was able to watch the finale. An end of an era. So, in celebration (as if itâs a farewell to his character), I decided to pull an all-nighter and take hours to write up this super long fic LMAO.
And I did actually check the grammar this time. Be proud of me đđ
ăâ˘â˘ââ˘â˘ă
The sterile glow of the Vought Tower fluorescents always felt a little colder in the executive suite now. You sat behind the broad mahogany desk that had once belonged to Madelyn Stillwell, your posture straight, hands folded neatly over the latest quarterly projections. Where Stillwell had filled the room with perfume, practiced warmth, and the low purr of calculated flirtation, you brought silence and structure. No lingering eye contact. No honeyed reassurances. Just data, timelines, and an unyielding professionalism that bordered on detachment.
The other members noticed immediately.
A-Train still showed up late to briefings, but now he found a meticulously itemized schedule of his mandatory appearances on his chair, complete with suggested talking points. He'd huff, mutter something about "that new Stillwell," but he'd be there.
Queen Maeve had tested you once, in that brittle way of hers, pushing back on a disastrous PR initiative. Stillwell might have soothed or bullied. You simply tilted your head, your expression unchanging, and laid out the social media sentiment analysis, the projected stock dip, and the contingency plan you'd already drafted for its cancellation. Maeve had blinked, then nodded, a flicker of something like grudging respect in her tired eyes. She hadn't tested you since.
The Deep... well, The Deep was The Deep. You treated him with the same distant courtesy you afforded everyone else, which was, in its own way, a form of disregard he was unused to. You neither mocked him nor coddled him. You simply assigned him oceanic conservation outreach events and moved on.
But then there was Homelander.
As you figured, he resented you on a fundamental level.
"You're not her," he'd said in your very first one-on-one. He hadn't used Stillwell's name. He hadn't needed to. He stood before your desk, the perfect picture of American masculinity, yet there was a petulant set to his jaw. The patriotic cape was a slash of violent color against the muted tones of your office.
"I am aware," you'd replied, your tone as even as the hum of the server room. "My name isâ"
"I don't care what your name is," he cut in, that blindingly white smile not reaching his eyes. It was a mask, and you could see the screws holding it in place. "Stillwell knew what I needed. She understood the team. She understood me."
He leaned forward, the air thickening with the pressure of him, a subtle thrum of contained power. The lights in your office flickered, a barely perceptible stutter. "You're just a placeholder. A suit filling a chair. Don't get comfortable."
It wasn't a threat. It was a diagnosis. He wanted a reaction. Fear, deference, a crack in the composure. He wanted to see Madelyn Stillwell's ghost flinch in your eyes.
You simply met his gaze, your own unflinching. "Iâm quite comfortable, thank you. Your itinerary for the next two weeks is finalized on your tablet. The press conference for the youth center initiative is scheduled for Thursday at noon. I expect you to be familiar with the talking points." You gestured vaguely toward the device resting on the corner of your desk. "If that's all, I have a budget meeting with Ashley."
The dismissal hung in the air, cold and sharp. The twitch in Homelander's jaw was the only outward sign of the tempest you sensed brewing behind those placid blue eyes. He stared at you for another long moment, a predator assessing an unnatural prey, before straightening up. The smile returned, wider and more vacant than before.
"Sure thing," he chirped, all false brightness. "Don't work too hard."
And that became the rhythm of your days: a slow, deliberate game of chess played on a board of corporate strategy and volatile superhuman egos. Homelander would arrive, seeking a crack in your professional armor, and you would respond with schedules, projections, and an unassailable calm. You learned his tells. The slight tightening of his fists when he was forced into a charity event he deemed beneath him. The way the temperature in the room would plummet a few degrees when you used the word "no," however professionally couched.
He despised you for it. Not with the hot-headed anger of a teenager thwarted, but with a deeper, more resentful venom. You were the antithesis of everything Madelyn Stillwell had been. Madelyn had understood the power of the soft touch, of whispered validation. She'd created a co-dependent ecosystem where he was the sun, and she was the most skilled reflector, bouncing back the light he needed to see. She gave him control by making him believe he was in charge of her.
You gave him nothing. No ego-stroking, no covert glances of admiration, no gentle hand on his bicep to soften a directive. He was a line item. The most valuable, most dangerous asset, but an asset nonetheless. In your world, assets were managed, not mothered.
You'd poured over the files Stillwell left behindâmeticulously organized, of courseâand then gone deeper, accessing archives restricted even to the previous management. You read every psych evaluation from Dr. Park, every interview transcript from his childhood at Vought, every redacted report from mission debriefings. You knew about the lab, the name he'd been given before the cape and the flag had been stapled on, the loneliness that sat at the core of him like a black hole.
You knew it all because your job was risk management, and John was the single greatest risk Vought Tower had ever faced.
This knowledge became your shield. It allowed you to view him not as the god he projected, but as the damaged man he was. It didn't make you fear him less; if anything, the clinical understanding of his volatility made you more cautious. But it sterilized your interactions, stripping them of the personal, of anything he could latch onto and twist. You didn't call him "sir" or "hero." You called him "Homelander," the brand name. You treated the brand with cool respect, and the man with clinical distance.
Until today.
The day had started with the familiar thrum of executive-level anxiety. You'd finalized the "God-U" rollout, a line of overpriced, branded merchandise that would net Vought millions but required a full afternoon of Homelander's time for a photoshoot. You had the memo on your desk, ready to be sent, when the knock came. Not Homelander's sharp, expectant rap, but a hesitant, polite tap.
"Come in," you called out, your attention still on the screen. You didnât realize how much youâd regret those two simple words.
The door clicked open, and a young man, probably no older than twenty-one, stepped inside. He wasn't a supe. He was an intern; you recognized him vaguely from the accounting department on thirty-two. He wore a Vought lanyard around his neck and carried a cardboard tray with two coffee cups. One of them, the one with "DANIEL" scrawled on the side in black Sharpie, was sloshing over the rim.
"Just... uh... leaving the reports from the last quarter, ma'am," he stammered, placing a stack of binders on the corner of your desk. He seemed too nervous to make eye contact, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Ashley said you needed them."
"Thank you, Daniel. Just leave them there," you said, your attention divided. You were typing a last-minute addendum to the God-U memo, a subtle adjustment to the licensing fees that would make legal happier.
He lingered. The silence stretched, broken only by the click-clack of your keyboard. You glanced up, ready to prompt him, and that's when you saw it in his eyes. A desperate, hungry kind of light. He wasn't looking at you. He was looking past you, at the life-sized portrait of Homelander that hung on the wall behind your deskâthe one Stillwell had commissioned. The hero's gaze was directed forward, as if looking over the shoulder of whoever sat in the chair, a constant, silent overseer.
"He's... he's amazing, isn't he?" Daniel whispered, his voice cracking. The words were soaked in a dangerous sort of reverence. "I saw him stop a runaway train last week. The news didn't even cover the whole thing. He saved everyone. He's... perfect."
You saved the document with a decisive tap. Your fingers stilled over the keyboard. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, not from an external force, but from the sudden, cold knot of dread tightening in your stomach. You had seen this look before in the files, in the clinical notes on fringe supporters, the ones that ended up in "risk management."
"Daniel, you can go now," you said, your voice losing its corporate neutrality and taking on a flatter, more authoritative tone.
But he didn't. He took a step closer, the forgotten coffee trembling in its paper cup. "I just want to understand him. To be close. I read everything. I know he likes vanilla frosting, not chocolate. I know he listens to 'Old Time Rock and Roll' before missions. I want to help."
"Put the coffee down and leave, Daniel. This is your final warning." You were rising from your chair, the slow, deliberate motion a product of training and instinct, not panic. You reached for the silent alarm button under your deskâa direct line to Tower Securityâbut your fingers stopped.
His face was crumbling. The reverence curdled into something frantic, unhinged. "No! You don't get it! You're like her! You just use him! You don't see him!" he shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the portrait. "You sit here in her chair, in her perfect office, and you look at him like he's a product! He's not a product! He's a god!"
He lunged.
He was clumsy, fueled by fanaticism rather than skill. He shoved your keyboard aside, the clatter a violent, alien sound in the sterile room. His coffee cup crashed to the floor, spilling lukewarm liquid across the polished wood. His hands grabbed for the lapels of your jacket, fingers digging in, pulling you forward. You were faster, more trained. You twisted, driving the heel of your palm hard under his chin. He grunted, stumbling back, but his grip didn't break. He was stronger than he looked, almost as if he were possessed by a manic energy.
The fight was a short. You drove an elbow into his ribs. He yelped and shoved you back against the deskâthe sharp edge of the mahogany bit into your lower back, a white-hot jolt of pain. For a terrifying second, he had you pinned, his face inches from yours, the coffee stain on his shirt smelling of burnt beans and desperation. You could see the flecks of spit in the corners of his mouth, the wild, fanatical blaze in his eyes. He was going to hurt you. He was going to mark the place that wasn't yours.
Then, your training kicked in, cold and pure. You stopped fighting his push and used it. You dropped your weight, yanking him off-balance, and slammed his head against the heavy wooden corner of the desk. It wasnât enough to kill him, or even knock him out, but it was enough.
The sound was sickeningly wet, a dull thud of bone hitting solid oak. He cried out, a choked, gurgling noise, and his hands flew to the back of his head. Blood, shockingly red against the wood, immediately began to seep into the grain. He slid to the floor, dazed and whimpering, the fight gone out of him.
You stumbled back, your breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. A button was torn from your jacket, and your wrist throbbed where he'd grabbed it. The room was a mess. Your keyboard was skewed, coffee was spreading into a dark, sticky puddle on the floor, and a young man was bleeding on your imported rug. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, chaotic rhythm that felt utterly alien in your carefully controlled world.
You had Daniel escorted out within three minutes. Tower Security arrived, took one look at the sceneâthe blood, your torn clothing, the wild-eyed, muttering internâand understood their orders with quiet efficiency. Of course, you would have to file an incident report, more paperwork, more containment⌠But for now, the immediate threat was gone and you were alone again in the wreckage of your office.
For twenty seven-minutes.
In those twenty-seven minutes, you did nothing but try to breathe. You couldn't call maintenance yet. You couldn't type on the keyboard. You simply stood there, trying to force your heart rate down, to re-impose the order that had been so violently shattered. The adrenaline was a sour taste in your mouth, the pain in your back a dull, pulsing reminder of your own vulnerability. What were the chances youâd find yourself caught in a confrontation like this? You had prepared for many possibilities: corporate sabotage, blackmail, media leaks. You had not prepared for a deranged fanboy.
And, so, you were just straightening your jacket, fingers brushing the dangling thread where the button used to be, when the door to your office didn't just open, it was propelled inward with enough force to slam against the stopper with a resounding BANG.
You knew immediately who it was before you even looked up.
Homelander.
The golden boy of Vought, framed in the doorway like a vengeful god descending from Olympus. He held a tablet in one hand, and the rage rolling off him was palpable, a shimmering heatwave that made the very air in the room feel thin and electrified. He didn't see the mess at first. He saw only you, standing there, and he was already primed for a fight.
"What in the fuck is this?" he snarled, his voice a dangerously low vibration that made the fillings in your teeth ache. He didn't step inside, just stood there, radiating fury. He tossed the tablet onto a small console near the door; it skittered across the surface and clattered to the floor. "The 'God-U' rollout? I'm not a billboard for cheap plastic shit! This is what I get? After everything I do for this company? A fucking toy line?"
This was the familiar danceâthe daily tantrum. Your composure was a fortress, and he was the battering ram. You would normally greet this with the same cool, detached professionalism that had become your armor. You would cite the projected revenue, the brand synergy, and the public's demand for connection.
But you didn't.
Your breath hitched. A small, involuntary sound, barely audible, but in the unnatural quiet of the room, it screamed.
And he heard it.
Homelander's tirade stopped dead. His head tilted, that predatory gaze narrowing as it swept over you, really looking at you for the first time. You knew immediately he was scanning you. The subtle tremor in your hands you couldn't quite still. The frantic, hummingbird flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat. The way your shoulders were squared for impact, not for posture. The faint, coppery scent of blood that still lingered in the air that was masked only partially by the spilled coffee.
His blue eyes, usually so fixed on their own reflection in your polished calm, were now cataloguing everything. The skewed keyboard, the dark stain spreading on the floor, the single, dangling thread on your jacket. The details clicked into place with a speed that was terrifying. The anger in him didn't vanish, but it transmuted. The white-hot, performative fury of a spoiled god cooled into something far more dangerous: the cold, sharp curiosity of a hunter catching an unfamiliar scent in the woods.
"What⌠happened here?" he asked. His voice was quiet now, devoid of its earlier booming petulance. It was worse. It was the lull before the strike.
You forced yourself to straighten up, to project the authority you were supposed to wield. "A minor security incident," you said, the words feeling thin and brittle. "It's been handled."
You both knew it was code for stay outâa line in the sand. But Homelander didn't recognize lines that others drew. He drew his own.
"Handled?" He finally stepped into the room, his boots making no sound on the carpet. He walked with a predator's economy of movement, all fluid grace and coiled power. He circled your desk, trailing a gloved finger along the polished wood, coming to a halt over the faint, dark spatter of blood. His gaze lifted from the stain to the now-empty space where the intern had been, then back to you. The question in his eyes was not one of concern. It was one of ownership.
"Who was it?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous thrum.
"Like I said, it's handled." You held his gaze, willing your heart to slow its frantic pace. And of course, he saw it all. Those blue eyes of his were more advanced than any polygraph; they saw the truth in the minute tells of your body. They saw the sweat beading on your upper lip despite the cool temperature of the room. They saw the slight tremor in your hands that you pressed flat against your desk. They saw the way you flinched, an almost imperceptible movement, as he rounded the corner. It wasn't the flinch of someone afraid of a reprimand. It was the flinch of prey that had already been cornered.
The corner of Homelander's mouth twitched. The smile was back, but it was a new kind of smile. A chilling one. A smile that didn't speak of amusement, but of something far more primal. Of something about to be unleashed. He didn't need your words. He had all the information he required from the subtle language of your falling composure. He straightened up, the smile widening, the fury from moments before completely gone, replaced by a dark, anticipatory glee.
"Fine," he said, the word casual, dismissive. "Keep your secrets."
Then he was gone, as suddenly as he'd arrived. The door clicked shut, and you were left in the wrecked silence, the aftershock of his presence lingering in the air like the charged stillness before a storm. The relief was so profound it was dizzying, your body sagging against the desk as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a cold, shaky emptiness in its wake. You had held him off for now.
About an hour or three later, you were trying to restore a semblance of order. You had righted your keyboard, your fingers flying across the keys as you typed up the sanitized version of events for your official report. That was when the news alert popped up on your monitor. A local channel breaking story. You clicked on the link, and the video began to play.
Then the phone call came.
Turns out Daniel wasnât being taken to a police station or a holding cell. Instead, he was found in a cheap hourly-rate motel room, with his eyes burned out. There was no evidence of anything else. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing to point to a supe. The official report said it was a tragic case of self-immolation.
But you knew. You knew exactly what had happened, and who had done it.
That was the moment your professional detachment shattered, not into fear, but into a cold, crystalline fury. That was when he got what he wanted. He wanted emotion from you? Wanted a reaction? Oh, he was going to get one.
Since he barges into your office often, you decided to give him the same energy he gave you. You pushed the heavy oak door of your office open and walked into the hallway of the executive suite, your steps purposeful, echoing in the polished marble. You didn't bother with subtlety. You strode right past Ashleyâs desk, ignoring her startled squeak, and straight to the door of his private quarters on the top floor of the Tower.
You didn't knock. You used the master keycard you'd been given for emergencies. The lock clicked open with a satisfying, definitive sound.
He was there, standing in the middle of the vast, sterile living room, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window at the glittering sprawl of New York City. The city lights painted him in shades of blue and gold. Like always, he was in that suit, a monument to an image he could never truly live up to. He didn't turn around, but you knew he'd heard you. He would have heard you the second you stepped out of the elevator. He was aware of every heartbeat in this building, but especially yours.
"You're going to need to start paying rent for the space you're taking up in my head," he said, not bothering to turn. His voice was a low murmur, laced with a smug satisfaction that made your blood boil. "I'm getting awfully tired of it."
"You burned out his eyes," you said. Your own voice was surprisingly steady, a stark counterpoint to the storm raging inside you.
At that, he turned. Slowly. The smirk was already on his face, confident, expectant. He was enjoying this. He was waiting for the fear, the cowering, the grateful relief of the damsel he'd "rescued." He was relishing the victory, the proof that he had finally breached your fortress.
"Aww, did the poor little intern have an accident?" he cooed, the mock sympathy a venomous poison in the air. "I hear he was a troubled kid. A real danger to himself and others. Sometimes people just... snap."
The casual cruelty of it, the effortless way he rewrote reality to cast himself as a janitor cleaning up a mess, was what broke something loose inside you. All the weeks of calculated composure, the meticulous management of personalities and risks, the hours spent buried in files that detailed a lifetime of psychological damageâit all coalesced into a single, burning point of clarity.
You took a step closer. The marble floor was cold beneath your shoes. You didn't flinch. You didn't stop.
"He touched me," you said, your voice devoid of any inflection. It was a statement of fact, a piece of data being entered into the equation. "He put his hands on me, in my office. He left blood on my desk."
Homelander's smirk didn't falter, but a flicker of something elseâconfusion, perhaps, that you weren't reacting with the expected terror or gratitudeâcrossed his eyes. He had expected you to be weak, a frightened animal he could then soothe and dominate. But you weren't an animal. You were a calculator, and you had just input the final variable.
"And you know what my job is, Homelander?" you continued, taking another deliberate step. The space between you was shrinking, the air growing thick and heavy with unspoken history. "My job is risk management. And there was a risk. A variable. An anomaly."
You were now just a few feet from him, close enough to see the microscopic flaw in the left lens of his suit, the faint, almost invisible scar at the hairline he could never quite hide. You looked up at him, not as an employee to a boss, or a subject to a king, but as one predator to another.
"Anomalies are meant to be corrected," you finished. "I had it under control. I was handling it. But you didn't trust me to handle it. You took it from me. You made it yours."
A muscle feathered in his jaw. The charade was cracking. The smirk was still there, but it was a strain now. He could feel the shift in the dynamic, the ground moving beneath his feet, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.
"Sounds like you're ungrateful," he said, his voice losing its playful edge and hardening into steel. "I did you a favor. I took out the trash."
You let out a short, sharp breath that wasn't a laugh. "A favor? You violated the chain of command, bypassed every protocol I have in place, and committed a homicide that, if traced back, could expose the entire operation. You didn't do me a favor, John. You created a bigger mess."
The name hung in the air between you, a bomb dropped in the sterile silence.
The smirk vanished. Utterly. It was wiped from his face as if it had never been there, leaving behind a raw, chilling blankness. His expression didn't fall into anger, or surprise, or the theatrical shock of a performer whose secret has been revealed. It went somewhere else entirely. It went void. The blue of his eyes seemed to darken, to absorb all the light in the room, becoming the fathomless, predatory cold of the deep sea. For the first time since youâd met him, you were not looking at Homelander, the brand. You were not looking at the petulant god. You were looking at the boy from the lab, the creature who had never been given a name he could claim as his own, and you had just spoken it aloud.
He took a step toward you. It wasn't a threat, not yet. It was a claimâa reclaiming of space. You held your ground, your body a taut wire of tension. You could feel the thrum of his power, the air itself beginning to vibrate with a sub-audible frequency that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.
"You think you're clever," he said, his voice a near-inaudible rasp. The theatrical, all-American baritone was gone, replaced by something stripped bare and dangerous. "You read a few files, think you know me? Think that gives you some kind of power over me?"
"No, John," you said, your own voice dropping to match his, a low, steady counter-frequency. You let the name settle again, a deliberate, precise weapon. "It gives me understanding. And understanding is the basis of control. Something Madelyn understood very well. She gave you a mother. A confidante. She gave you a reflection that told you exactly what you wanted to hear."
Another step. He was so close now you could feel the heat radiating off him, a palpable, nuclear warmth that had nothing to do with body temperature. You could see your own reflection, distorted and tiny, in the perfect blue of his irises.
"And what do you give me?" he murmured, the words a soft, intimate threat.
"Nothing," you replied. "That's the difference between her and me. She wanted to be the one pulling your strings. I don't. I want to cut them."
The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the faint, electrical hum of the city far below, and the frantic, trapped beat of your own heart, which you forced yourself to ignore. The air crackled around him, a static charge that prickled your skin. The muscles in his forearms were rigid, the fabric of his suit stretched taut over balled fists. He was a coiled spring, and the only thing holding him back was the sheer, overwhelming shock of your defiance. It wasn't the defiance of a subordinate; it was the defiance of an equal.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the tension broke. A terrible, terrible smile spread across his face. It was not a smile of humor or pleasure. It was the smile of a scientist who has just been presented with a fascinating, unexpected specimen.
"I could rip you in half," he said, his voice a conversational whisper. "Before you could even scream."
"Is that what you did to Madelyn? When she stopped being a mirror and started being a person?" you countered, your own voice dropping into that same quiet, dangerous register. You were gambling, betting your life on the data you'd consumed. He'd killed her not for her betrayal of Vought, but for her betrayal of him. For the ultimate proof that her world did not, in fact, revolve around him. "Or did you burn her eyes out too like you did with Daniel?"
He moved so fast you didn't even register it. Your back was against the wall, the cold glass of the windowpane pressing into your shoulder blades. The impact didn't hurt, not yet. You were too stunned by the sheer impossibility of the motion. If you thought he was close before, he was now in your space. A solid wall of impossible heat and coiled muscle. His gloved hand was flat against the window beside your head, caging you in. His other hand was pinned against your shoulder, not quite a grip, but a pressure point that told you exactly how little effort it would take for him to simply push through your body and into the wall behind you.
You couldn't breathe. Not from a lack of air, but from an overload of stimulus. The sheer, overwhelming presence of him. The scent of sterile, dry-cleaned fabric, the faint, metallic tang of something otherworldly. You felt the thrum of power in the air, not just a vibration, but a tangible force that made your teeth ache, and your vision swim at the edges. You saw him up close: the microscopic imperfections in the pores of his neck, the faint pulse beating there, the terrifyingly human detail on the face of a god.
And yet, you didn't look away. You stared up into those terrifying, empty blue eyes, and you saw the war raging within them. The rage, yes, but something else, too. A flicker of something almost like awe. A predator's respect for prey that doesn't flee.
"Don't you ever say her name to me," he breathed, the words a hot gust of air against your cheek. The "John" had been a declaration of war, but "Madelyn" was an atomic bomb, a reference to the one person who had ever truly gotten under his skin, the one who had proven that even he could be played. The one he had killed not with a blast of heat, but with the slow, suffocating poison of his disappointment.
"I will say whatever I like," you choked out, the words forcing their way past the constriction starting in your throat. Your body was screaming at you to shrink, to apologize, to show deference. You ignored it. "Because I am not her. I am not your toy. I am not your reflection. I am your manager, and you are a multi-billion-dollar asset that is currently behaving like a spoiled child."
His grip on your shoulder tightened, not enough to crush bone, but enough to be a promise. A warning. The pressure was immense, a grinding force that made you feel as if your entire skeleton was about to be compacted into dust.
You held his gaze. "You can break me," you said, your voice a hoarse whisper, each word a deliberate, painful act of defiance. "You can vaporize me. You can turn me into a smear on this very expensive window. But it won't change the facts. You are out of control. You are a liability. And I am the one they hired to fix that."
The silence stretched, a thin, taut wire vibrating between life and death. You could feel the heat building from his hand, a terrifying prelude to the eyebeams. The glass of the window beside your head began to groan, a faint, high-pitched whine as the temperature climbed. You braced yourself, a strange, cold calm settling over you. This was it. This was the risk you had managed for, the final variable in the equation.
And then, he laughed.
It wasn't the boisterous, all-American laugh he gave for the cameras. It wasn't the mocking giggle he used to intimidate. It was a low, genuine, utterly terrifying chuckle that rumbled up from deep in his chest. The pressure on your shoulder eased, though it didn't vanish. The heat subsided, leaving behind a patch of mist on the windowpane. He pulled back, just enough to look at you properly, a fascinated, almost gleeful expression on his face.
"You're something else," he breathed, the smile not quite reaching the chilling emptiness in his eyes. "She was terrified of me, you know. Right up until the end. She thought she had me, but she was always walking on eggshells."
His gaze swept over you, from your defiant eyes to the steady set of your jaw, down to your hands, which remained clenched at your sides, not raised in supplication. "You're not. You're not scared at all. Are you?"
The question hung in the air. It wasn't an accusation; it was a diagnosis. He was peeling back another layer, and what he found beneath fascinated him.
"Let me be clear," he continued, his voice dropping back into that intimate, dangerous register. He leaned in again, his face so close to yours that you could see the dark fringe of his lashes, the flawless skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. "I didn't kill Daniel for you. Don't flatter yourself. I killed him because he touched my things. Because he made a mess in my house. This Tower, this floor, this office... It's all mine. You're just sitting in the chair."
He pulled back completely then, releasing you from the cage of his body. He straightened his glove, a fastidious, dismissive gesture, as if he'd just touched something dirty. "You want to cut my strings? You want to 'manage' me? Go ahead. Play your game. Run your numbers. Send your memos." He turned his back on you, strolling casually toward the window again, the picture of a man utterly in control of his domain. "Just remember what happened to the last person who thought she could."
The threat was explicit, but the dismissal stung more. He was relegating you to the same category as Stillwell. A challenge to be met, an obstacle to be removed. But you were not Stillwell. You had not come here to love him or control him through affection. You had come here to understand him, and in that moment, you understood more than ever. He wasn't a god to be worshipped or a monster to be slain. He was a black hole, a singularity of need and power that consumed everything around it. Your job wasn't to fight the pull, but to calculate its event horizon.
You straightened your jacket, your hands moving with a practiced calm to brush away imaginary wrinkles, a grounding ritual to center yourself. The adrenaline was still a tremor in your limbs, but the ice was back in your veins. "Duly noted," you said, your voice once again the cool, dispassionate tool of your trade. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mess of my own to clean up. And John?"
He stopped, his back still to you, a rigid line of patriotic red and blue. The silence that followed your use of the name was a victory in itselfâa small, sharp crack in the facade of Homelander.
"Next time you take it upon yourself to 'clean house,'" you said, your words precise and cold as scalpels, "try not to leave forensic breadcrumbs a first-year CSI could follow. Sloppy work is bad for the brand."
And with that, you turned and walked out, leaving him alone in the penthouse with the city lights and your words.
The click of the door closing behind you was the most satisfying sound you had heard all day. You didn't run. You didn't hurry. You walked back down the pristine, silent hallways of the executive suite, your heels clicking a steady, unfaltering rhythm against the marble. Every fiber of your being screamed at you, a primal chorus of fear and disbelief. You had just stood toe-to-toe with the world's most powerful being, called him by the name he hates, and accused him of sloppy work.
And you had walked away.
What you didn't know, couldn't know, was that he remained standing there long after you left, a statue frozen in front of the city he ruled. He lifted a hand, not to punch through the glass or to summon a blast of heat, but to touch the spot on the windowpane where your head had been. The faint imprint of your heat was already gone, dissipated into the cool night air. He stared at the spot, a frown creasing his brow, a look of profound, unnerving thoughtfulness on his face. The game had changed. The pieces on the board were no longer moving the way he'd anticipated. He didn't know the rules anymore. And for the first time in a very long time, that didn't infuriate him.
SOLDIER BOY â PLAYBOY BUNNY [NSFW + SEASON 5 SPOILERS]
Soldier Boy x fem!reader
summary: the hunt for V1 led you to Mr. Marathon's house. you thought this would go smoothly, until the weirdo admits that he used to jerk off to your old Playboy shootsâand Ben isn't happy to learn he is the only man in this whole country to not know about those.
wc: 2,681
tags: V1 supe!reader, smut, a lil jealousy, playboy bunny suit, making out, dry humping, implied size difference, fingering, p in v, orgasm control/denial if you squint, dacryphilia, one mention that reader has a bush, rough sex, doggy style, creampie
a/n: so... this took the whole month to write. this was pitched to me by @ukor02 in my comments and i just loved it so much. so sorry for the lack of content lately, life is rough lol
available on ao3
You haven't been to Los Angeles in... forever. Yet the California sun is still as hot as you remember.
"Well, this place still looks like a dump." Ben muttered as he walked next to you, boots crunching on gravel. "Just... shinier." His head tilted up to take a look at Mr. Marathon's luxurious homeâtoo white and too big for a washed-up B-lister like him. Being in the Seven for a few years really did him a favor, it seemed.
You snorted. "You say that about every city."
"Because every fuckin' city is a dump." He grumbled, before lowering his voice. "Last time we came here was inâwhat, '81?" He bumped his shoulder into yours intentionally, and Homelanderâwho was walking a step behind and looking like a sulking kid following behind his father (which, fair enough)âhad to suppress a sigh.
"Almost, '82." You corrected, climbing up the stairs to the front door.
Youâd known Ben for decades now. Seen the kid with daddy issues playing macho man after his first shot of V1 until he became America's number one tool for war propagandaâand everything in between.
"We were supposed to come back in '84 for the Olympics but... y'know. Had to go alone." You casually brought up his betrayal and alleged deathâjust a couple months before your actual last trip to LA.
"Very touching." Homelander said flatly before Ben could reply to you, reaching over your shoulder to ring the doorbell with impatience.
The door opened shortly after, Mr. Marathon's jaw going slack as he took in the three famous faces standing at his door. "Oh myâholy shit." He opened the door wider, ushering you in. "Come in, come in."
The interior was just as white and detestable as the exterior, and you couldn't help but make a face when you saw the guy's self-portait hanging in the entrance.
"Homelander, it is really, uh... reallyâgood to see you!" He stammered, vibrating with both excitement and anxiety. "Wâwhat brings you by?"
"Relax, we're just here to talk."
"Yeah! Great, awesomeâ" His gaze drifted to Ben, one hand vaguely gesturing towards him. "Soldier Boyâwow, big fan, sir. I actually, uh, popped my cherry in your Underoos."
Ben was about to dismiss this awful conversation when Mr. Marathon spoke up again with renewed excitement, his gaze turning to you.
"Andâyou!" He exclaimed with a breathy chuckle of amazement. "God, i definitely rubbed one out to your Playboy bunny shoots more times than i can countâthe pages were stuck together, i had to find another copy."
Silence.
Long, horrible, awkward silence.
Homelander looked like he was considering just lasering the place to pieces.
"...Shoots?" Ben was the first to break it, eyes narrowing at Mr. Marathon and tilting his head like he'd heard wrong. "What shoots?" His eyes then snapped towards you with not-so-subtle interest. "Playboy?"
"Benâ"
"Since when the hell were you doing Playboy?" He finally asked with a confused shrug, struggling to believe he could've missed something as juicy as this.
"Since you were busy snorting half of Nicaragua and never came back." You shrugged back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn't about to let you brush this off. "It was the eighties! You did your fair share of stupid shit, too!"
He gave you a once over, completely ignoring your point. "...Full nude?" He asked shamelessly, raising a brow at you.
"Of course not!"
"They still out there?" He ignored your whining as well, already turning back towards Mr. Marathon.
"Seriously?" You deadpanned.
"Wellâi might still have a... clean copy."
âââ
Mr. Marathon was still bleeding out on the marble floor, head crushed to pieces when Ben bent down with a grunt, plucking something glossy from under the rubble.
"No fuckin' way. He does have a copy." He muttered, thumb rubbing the dust off the magazine cover.
There you are.
Curled up on a loveseat in a black satin teddy and ridiculous bunny ears, one heel dangling off your foot while you smiled at the camera like there wasn't a single thought behind those eyes. Big hair, dramatic makeup, and a fluffy white tail to top it all off.
America's Sweetheart Finally Lets Loose!
"Oh god, burn it." You gritted your teeth in disgust, glaring at the magazine like it could bite.
"Fuck no, this is gold."
Homelander made a sound somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. "Can we focus?"
"You're insufferable." You grumbled, ignoring Homelander's complaining.
"And you were apparently more flexible than i remember." He clicked his tongue approvingly. "Jesus."
He stopped on a certain page that made him grin like a kid on Christmas Day. "Oh, now thisâ" He let out a low whistle. "Damn."
You lunged for it instantly. "Give me that!"
He jerked the magazine out of reach effortlessly, laughing as you smacked uselessly at his arm. "No no no, hold onâ" His eyes flicked over a full-page spread. "You said no full nude."
"It's not full nude!"
"There is one ribbon covering your tits."
"That doesn't count."
"Kinda does, though."
Homelander stared straight ahead with the thousand-yard look of a man questioning every life decision that had led him here, his facial tics starting to act up.
Ben kept grinning as he finally lowered the magazine enough to look at you properly, and there it wasâthat smug, annoyingly entertained look that always riled you up.
"Can't believe every asshole in America got to see this before me."
Homelander finally snapped. "Are you two done flirting over a dead body?"
âââ
"You bought this?"
"Yeah."
You stood in your room back at Vought Tower, Ben at your side with his chest puffed out and an infuriatingly proud grin on his pretty face.
He'd been pounding on your door five minutes ago, insisting that this was an emergencyâbefore dropping a package on your mattress and demanding you open it.
You regretted it the moment you ripped the carboard open and caught a glimpse of black, shiny fabric.
"How did you evenâ"
"Spent three fuckin' hours figuring out that... that jungle website." Ben shrugged with an edge of frustration.
"WhaâAmazon?" You let out a huff of a laugh, the very entertaining image of him grumbling and cursing at a screen for three hours straight popping in your mind.
"Yeah, whatever. Site kept askin' me about cookies or some shit."
"You learned online shopping for this?" You huffed in disbelief, carefully digging through the plastic bag to pull out the costume, staring down at it with conflictâand maybe a bit of pink on your cheeks.
Fighting the internet just to see you in a skimpy bunny suit was actually pretty romantic, by Ben's standards.
"Won't you put it on, sweetheart?" He leaned towards you, hand reaching to grope the meat of your ass and head ducking down until his hot breath hit the shell of your ear. "Figure if every Tom, Dick, and Harry got the photoshoot, i oughta at least get the sequel."
You folded, eventually.
And you realized you'd rarely seen Ben this invested.
Took you in his arms the moment you walked out, changed in this bunny suitâthat you insisted was stupid and raunchyâhands all over your curves and squeezing flesh like he had to make sure this was real. They slid down to your waist again, pinching the soft skin through the satin fabric appreciatively.
"Stop making that face. Smile a little, bun." He teased, amused by how commited you were to looking annoyed despite how red your ears were turning. He could feel your body burning under his palms, flushed and squirming.
"This is not funny."
"Yeah? I think it's hilarious." He retorted, flicking the white fluffy tail on your lower back and tugging at the ears on your head just to rile you up some more. You were about to protest like you always did when he interrupted you, lips crashing hungrily against yours while he pulled you closer until there wasn't an inch left between your bodies.
You squirmed without much conviction when he steered you towards his bed, the empty package falling to the floor as he pushed it off carelessly and sat down on the edge, pulling you onto his lap.
"You're such a pretty bunny, i might just fuck you like one." He purred, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Wouldn't you like that?"
The grumpy but slightly shaky whine you let out told him everything he needed to know. You're still embarrassed, but so damn into itâand it's exactly what he wants.
One finger hooked into the collar of your bowtie, pulling you in for another rough kiss just to draw more of those adorable grumbles out of you. He was as mean as you remembered, always trying to dominate with his tongue and biting on your lower lip whenever he didn't get his way.
His other hand slid to your hipbone, urging you to grind against him and guiding your movements while his own hips thrust up, the hard line of his erection rubbing deliciously against your clothed slit. He reached for your chest to caress one breast possessively, grunting at the way you arched your back and pressed further into his palm whenever he pinched your nipple through the fabric.
"Gettin' all excited just from a little rubbin'." He murmured against your lips teasingly as he felt you grind harder on your own, chasing more of that sweet friction as your heart pounded through your ribcage and against his hand. "C'mere, bun."
He never stopped kissing you as he maneuvered you onto the mattress, switching your positions until he hovered above you, forearms braced on each side of your head to avoid crushing you under his weightânot that you'd mind. He only pulled back to take you in, from your flushed cheeks to the way the satin strained against your curves. So vulnerableâand fucking delicious.
"Look at you," He muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly rumble. "All red and pouty. Actin' like you didn't want this the second you saw the damn box."
He trailed kisses down your neck, leaving harsh bites and hickeys on the way to your collarbone until he nuzzled his nose into your cleavageâleaving one last open-mouthed kiss on your sternum.
"Roll over." He ordered with a nudge to your thigh with his knee.
"Really?"
"What, you ever seen bunnies go at it in missionary, smartass? Ass up." He didn't wait for you to move, manhandling you onto your stomach and lifting your hips up, bunny ears tilting forward as his fingers tangled in your hair to keep your face down. He hooked his thumb into the crotch of the teddy to pull it to the side followed by a sharp tearing sound that made you jump, mesh snapping to form a jagged hole in your fishnets as he ripped it apart.
"Fuck," He hissed at the sight of your dripping pussy, pink and puffy under that bush of yours he loved so much. "You kept bitchin' all night, but look at that. Little bunny's soaked, just waiting for the big bad wolf to tear her apart." He let out a condescending chuckle, thumb swiping through your folds as he spread your cheeks apart. He relished the way you shuddered and let your head fall forward into the sheets, whimpering softly.
"Pathetic." He snorted, two fingers abruptly breaching past your ring of muscleâearning himself a surprised little yelp. "All tight and snug." He commented, digits already curling and scissoring inside of you while his free hand tugged his pants off, his hard cock springing free from its confines.
"Hnn, Benâ" You couldn't help but whimper as he scratched that spongy spot along your walls, voice muffled against the comforter.
"Yeah, yeah. Stop complainin', you're gonna get it." He scoffed, fingers sliding out of your pussy with a wet squelch. He watched you clench around nothing at the sudden feeling of emptiness, wordlessly begging to be filled. "You gonna be good?" He asked, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle with the hair at your nape, fisting his cock with the other to press the blunt head of it against your slick folds.
"Yes," You nodded frantically, hips twitching with need. "Please, Benâ"
"Please what?" God, you could still hear that infuriating smirk in his voice.
"Please, nghâfuck my pussy..."
"Atta girl."
He buried himself in one harsh thrust, savoring that desperate cry you let outâsomething between a moan and a sob that made his dick twitch inside you.
"You like that? You like being stuffed full, bunny?" He drawled mockingly, pelvis pressing against your ass in a deep grind that made you whimper some more. He leaned down until his chest pressed against your back, body blanketing your smaller form.
"Yeah... you love takin' my big fuckin' cock. Always have." He pulled out just enough to make you whine, before slamming back inside you over and over again, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your pathetic, muffled cries filling the room.
"Good girl. Good bun..." He grunted appreciatively against the side of your neck, hand sliding from your nape to grip your jaw and lift your head just enough to catch a glimpse of that flushed face and those glazed over, teary eyes.
"Tâtoo muchâ" You choked out, each thrust making your body jolt forward.
"Aww, really?" He cut you off by squeezing your cheeks with his fingers a few times, thumb and index finger digging into the squishy fleshâlike you were nothing but a cute pet. "Can't handle it, sweetheart?" His movements stopped abruptly, leaving you whining and squirming at the sudden loss of friction.
"You either take it all, or get nothin' at all. And judgin' by the way your legs are kickin' for more right now, i reckon you prefer the first option." He chuckled cruelly, his free hand kneading your hip. "So, are you gonna take it or not?"
You nodded desperately, chin pressing into his palm. "No no, use your words." He nuzzled further into your neck, his beard scratching against your shoulder.
"Mmnâi'll be good... iâi'll take your cock, pleaseâ" You barely had the time to beg that he was already hammering into you again, thrusts shallow but hard, balls slapping against your sensitive mound.
"Yeah you will," He grunted while you choked on your own moans and saliva, his grip on your hip tightening bruisingly. "Like the good little bunny you are."
He didn't slow down when he felt your walls tighten and your moans turning into shaky wails, pounding into you until you finally came, gushing around him with a throaty, almost inhumane sob.
"Good fuckin' girl, cummin' so hard on this fat cockâ" He felt that familiar heat pool in his gut, thrusts turning sloppy and slightly uncoordinated. "I'm almost there, sweetheartâyou can take it."
He came with a roar, hips flush against yours as he spilled himself as deep in you as possible, holding himself there until he was empty. "Fuckânghh, fuck..."
Your knees gave out the moment he pulled out, goosebumps rising on your skin when you felt your pussy drool with his hot, thick release. The mattress dipped next to you as he let himself collapse, one arm sliding between your waist and the sheets to pull you closer.
"C'mere." He panted, reaching to take those ridiculous ears off your head. A miracle that they stayed on the whole time. "Let's get you out of this, hm?"
He fumbled with the buttons on the cuffs, pulled the zipper down your back and tugged the torn fishnets down your legsâuntil you laid bare and dazed.
"Y'know, all those dickheads probably fantasized about this," He pulled the blanket over you, tucking you in gentler than you'd expect him to, before getting comfortable himself with a proud grin on his face. "But i can say that i got the real fuckin' thing."
so this is something inspired by an ask by the lovely @hazynbabyblue, hope you guys enjoy reading as much as i did writing hehe <3 as always comments and reblogs are super appreciated xoxo
adrian chase x reader, stalker!adrian chase x reader
warnings: sadistic, voyeuristic and stalker behavior. rough sex. hints of noncon. SMUT. please read at your discretion since this may have upsetting or triggering topics for some people. Content is obviously 18+, MINORS DNI.
Adrian is restless as he drives back to Evergreen, his knee keeps bobbing up in place, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, yet his mind is anywhere but.Â
Thank god the near week-long mission was finally over, it was really distracting him from his priorities.
From his daily patrols as Vigilante, his routine. From you.
His nightly visits since he had first saved you a few weeks ago had grown from sporadic to almost every day.
Because he needed to make sure you were still safe. Duh.
Nothing to do with him not even thinking straight without a daily fix.
Nothing to do with how easy it is for Adrian to climb up high, hide in the pitch black darkness, hidden by the branches of the tree that stands right outside your window.
To watch you undress and put on that oversized t-shirt you always wear after work, watch you dance around the room to a tune he hears in his head 24/7 now.
Adrianâs mouth twists upwards at the memory, even starts humming the song on reflex.
God you just make it so easy for him to watch you lay in bed, to see you slip a hand inside your night shorts, moaning pathetically into the emptiness of the bedroom. The faint obscene sounds reaches his ears every now and then.
Some special nights, he even gets to see you use your toys.
âNo fuuuuucking wayâ He had whispered to himself as he looked on for the first time in utter disbelief.
The wide open curtains, your blissful ignorance.
The way you were using the rubbery material so aggressively to pleasure yourself. It was making Adrian all but choke on his own damn spit.
His hand mindlessly glided down to grope and tug at his groin, subconsciously imitating the rhythm and push of your own hands. The tightness in the lower part of his suit growing unbearable.
Adrian shuddered with every grace of the fabric against his skin, his little shattered cries blending in with the noise of foliage swaying around with the wind.
No one around to hear his debauched whimpers. No one to see the crime fighting Vigilante rubbing one out, out in the open. Like the peeping pervert he actually is.
No one to interrupt the private show that you were unknowingly giving away just for him, almost every day.
âHey, can you park right up here?â Chris interrupts Adrianâs blatant daydreaming from the passenger seat of the Sebring.Â
âWait- Hold on. I thought you said I was taking you to your place?â Adrian asks with a few confused blinks, shifting in place on the drivers seat, incessantly trying to hide how rock hard he is.Â
Just thinking about you does that to him now.
âWhat are you? A fucking Uber?â Chris retaliates with unwarranted yet unsurprising aggressiveness. âI just need you to snatch something up for me. My new King Kobra vinyl just arrivedâÂ
Adrianâs face goes pale as he starts maneuvering towards the sidewalk, the music store emerging in his line of sight.
He gulps, loudly. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This is where you work.Â
Yeah. He's followed you here a couple times too. Y'know, just making sure you dont get mugged again on the way to work or back. No other reason.
âWhy can't you go pick it up?â Adrian protests, voice whiny and petulant. His palms are growing damp with the mere idea of having to walk in there and face you for the first time, up close, no glass window in between and on top of it all, without his Vigilante mask on.
He already knows Peacemaker wont let him scurry away from this.
"What the fuck do you mean why? I almost got my leg fucking blown off yesterday!" Peacemaker argues in his high octane voice, hilariously gesturing to his heavily bandaged limb. âYou want me to walk in there like this? I could barely get in this fuckass car-"
âYeah well, I got shot in the back three times so-" Adrian interrupts with a nasty twist of his head, doesn't appreciate the insult to his car. And clearly hiding something too.
Not that Peacemaker gives a shit about any of that really. He just wants to get home and play his damn record and sleep for the next week or two.
Theres a charged silence as Chris stares at him in incredulity, a glare Adrian pretends is not there as he faces forward in annoyance.Â
âAlright cut the bullshit okay?- That was days ago and you literally shot up outta the gurney like it was fucking nothingâ Chris near yells, because of course he knows about Adrian's regeneration powers. âSo stop being a little prick and do this for meâ
âď¸âď¸âď¸
Adrian's heart is literally lurching from inside his chest just watching you type out the name of the album into the system.
His hands are clammy at his sides, all the filthy images he's memorized begin flooding his vision uncontrollably, incessantly and blindingly fast.
Because fuck, you're ten times hotter than he remembers and now he can even see the hem of your black underwear peeking out from the top of your jeans.
The same one he's seen you take off a dozen times before.
Adrian's eyes only just manage to snap back up in time before you catch him staring at your midsection, looking as if he were in some kind of trance.
"You're a friend of Chris?" You ask, with what he assumes is a very convincing customer service smile.
He registers your mouth moving but not a single word that comes out of it, he gawks at you for a second before the words begin decoding in his brain.
And then his stomach falls out of his ass for an instant, at the thought of you knowing anything about him at all. Because he's the one who's supposed to be doing the stalk- wait no, protecting.
But then, it immediately clicks, the receipt he just gave you has Christoper Smith's name on it.
"For sure! we're more than that actually. We're best friends, besties! i guess is what most people would call it nowadays-" He word vomits, subconsciously tries to impress you.
At that you giggle, and Adrian swears he might just sink into the wooden floor. He loves that sound.
"Well he does have an unconventional yet amazing taste in music" You offer with a cheeky raise of your brows, as if you're sharing an inside joke with him.
Adrian stares blankly, clearly and quite understandably not putting two and two together.
If anything, theres only a flare of jealousy that starts inside him.
Chris has known you all this time?
How did this escape him? He had been so fucking thorough.
"Same goes for his friends apparently" You clarify, giving him a knowing quirk of your mouth. That alone, makes an idea that only a second ago Adrian would have never even thought possible pop inside his head.
Holy Shit. You are flirting with him.
He huffs out a sheepish laugh, not sure what to say next, because all the blood is rushing to his dick and all his brain is capable of thinking is that he wants you so so freakin' bad.
Wants you two to kiss, to fuck, perhaps even get married.
I mean- He already knows almost everything about you, it only makes sense.
What time you get in and outta bed. Your favorite coffee place. All the songs you play over and over. What kind of food you like. He knows what your favorite candle smells like. He knows about your closest friends, even knows where some of them live.
More importantly, he knows exactly what gets you off, how rough you like it when you fuck your-
"Looks like your boyfriend was out patrolling with Peacemaker last night." An unrecognizable voice comes from behind you.
Adrian is seething at the interruption, his eyes are burning holes into the side of your coworkers face before the sentence manages to snap him out of it.
Boyfriend?
He's pretty sure you dont have a boyfriend, i mean, he would know.
But Peacemaker? Last night? Adrian's thoughts reel with the implications.
Your coworker and friend stands beside you, phone in hand, doesn't spare Adrian a single glance before he turns the screen to show you videos of Vigilante and Peacemaker destroying some private property and overall causing mayhem.
"Can you knock it off! I just think he's cool" You laugh light-heartedly with a push of your friend's shoulder, but theres an embarrassed blush that immediately rises to your cheeks when you meet Adrian's eyes again for half a second.
So they were flirting with me. Adrian thinks, his pulse quickening. As if he needed any more confirmation.
The notion of this, along with the fact that you are basically admitting to having a crush on Vigilante right in front of him, its all making him slightly nauseous. But like, in a very very good way.
"He saved my life y'know?" You try and argue, a deceitful dreamy sigh destroying your facade.
Adrian can't help but reminisce and grin stupidly at the memory.
God did he enjoy knocking that asshole that tried to mug you straight into the fucking pavement.
His stomach flips just recalling the image of you standing next to him in shock, splatters of blood (not yours) soaking your clothes and hair, the shaky sound of your voice as you thanked him for coming to your aid, your body trembling with fear when he approached right after ending the job for good, a maniacal laugh startling you as he introduced himself as the Vigilante.
It was all Adrian needed for a full blown obsession to fester within him.
Turns out, it was all you needed too.
"Yeah and you've wanted to fuck him ever since. Whats new." Your friend snaps back with an infuriating mocking laugh, as if there aren't any customers around.
As if Adrian isn't standing right there, pupils blown wide and mouth fully agape.
All the nightly visits start flooding his mind, images of you moaning out an indistinguishable word as you arched your back like some damn contortionist. Oh shit.
"You want to-" Adrian repeats your friend's words unconsciously, as if that will help digest the damn near gut punch that this new information feels like.
But then theres the synchronized snap of you and your coworker's head at the shock of him even chiming in.
Right.
"I mean-" Adrian corrects himself with a shake of his head, before things can get even weirder, if thats possible. "He is indeed insanely cool! I dont think anyone could blame you for uh-"
"Jesus fucking christ!" You bark with an embarrassed laugh, lifting your arms up in surrender.
"Just go grab this from the stock that arrived this morning will you?" You snap at your coworker as he whistles sarcastically, pushing him to go on his way with the name of the album printed out.
But then, it's just you and him again.
Adrian has to control the god honest smugness that is taking over his features, but still, his shining eyes and slightly upturned mouth carry the same weight of it.
"Sorry about that." You say, sounding a lot more nervous than when he first walked in.
The unnerving glint in his stare is causing your skin to prickle too.
"He's not my boyfriend by the way. I dont even know who he is, honestly it's stupid-" You blabber out, feeling the need to salvage the situation.
But Adrian sulks at those words, twists his mouth in disapproval.
"Not stupid at all actually" He comments, the irony of it all tickling his insides.
He debates on whether he should tell you the truth about his alter ego Vigilante right in broad daylight, with Peacemaker still waiting in his car. But he's too much of a professional to do that.
Besides, he's got much more pressing and urgent matters to act upon now.
"What time do you get off work?" Adrian interrupts before you could reply with something else, it barely sounds like a question, theres not a hint of casual romantic intent or wonder in his voice, only an urgency and impatience that would sound concerning coming from any other guy.
To his unknowing advantage, Adrian's painfully and dangerously your type.
You were even actively anticipating he would ask that question almost as soon as he walked in, when you so clearly and shamelessly saw the outline of what he was hiding inside those jeans of his.
"In a couple hours" You answer, a coy little smile forming on your lips. "Here let me give you my number, i'll text you" you insist, eagerly reaching in to your pockets to find a marker.
Adrian laughs internally as you grab at his wrist and turn it upward to write on his palm.
He already knows exactly what time your shift ends, knows that this is the day you usually stop to buy take out for dinner and down it completely while watching some shitty horror movie.
"I'm Adrian by the way" He comments with a nonchalant shrug even though theres goosebumps erupting all over his body. His eyes are expectant, because he needs you to say it back. Your name.
This is the first time he hears it, loud and clear. The final piece of his ever growing puzzle. And you give it away, so freely, it almost feels like he's cheating.
And you, so ignorant to not think about it twice because god is he cute with those stupid spectacles. I guess this is what they call poor survival instincts.
âď¸âď¸âď¸
There was something rather off, something that maybe you should have pondered for a minute or two before allowing Adrian Chase into your home.
Someone you literally just met.
Something about the way he had started to edge towards a parking spot near your apartment complex mere seconds before you had let him know it was right up ahead.
The worrying thought pops into your head when it's already too late anyways.
It resurfaces for only an instant before Adrians tongue is slipping inside your mouth, moaning like a man who god honest sounds like he's being tortured or stabbed to death. His hands are everywhere it's incredibly distracting, your hair, your neck, your chest, your ass, as if he cant decide what he should attach to first.
Adrian's sounds are high pitched and so incredibly noisy, you can barely focus on the blaring warning sirens going off in your mind because of them.
He drops to his knees on the hallway before you even reach your bedroom, grabbing on to your jeans and pulling at them on the way down as if it were too important of a task to leave for later, aka just a few steps ahead.
Adrian finds what he's looking for, a complete unfiltered close up view of your underwear.
"God,-" He chokes before he attaches his mouth at the skin right above them, licks a painfully long stripe upwards until he reaches your mouth again. "Those are soooo fucking hot-" He says, and sure it's a normal enough comment to make, but it's the way he says it that makes your breath hitch. It's knowing, almost reminiscing. Your skin crawls with something you cant quite distinguish.
Is it arousal or some gut instinct to run away? A nervous laugh is all you can muster in response.
You were doomed from the beginning.
Because you're already sobbing into Adrian's mouth before you even get the chance to tell him you need more time to properly accommodate his length inside you.
Adrian is relentless, harsh, determined.
He fucks like he knows. Knows that you like it when it stings.
Still he laughs in surprise when you involuntarily tighten around him for the first time, quicker than you have ever experienced, quicker than he has ever seen from you thats for sure. "Holy Shit! you're like sooooo easy to break in" He says, with a pitiful whimper of his own.
"Has anyone fucked you like this before? Kinda seems like i'm the first with the way you're basically swallowing up my dick already-Fuuuuck!" He buckles above you, feeling a second wave hit you so hard his own breathing is cut short, his movements requiring ten times more effort with how you're clenching around him, even your arms and legs lock around his frame with a tight grip.
His questionable choice of words are not registering, if anything, they're only making you turn your head to the side, avoiding his eyes and his face, trying to distract yourself from how aroused they truly make you, the sensitivity growing unbearable but simultaneously not enough.
But you still shake your head no. Because it's the truth.
Because this is something that had been kept hidden in fantasies, behind thick curtains and a durable glass of shame.
But Adrian sees you. For longer than you could have possibly imagined.
For longer than you would have ever allowed him to.
"I guess thats why you usually just fuck yourself with your hand or those insanely big toys huh?- How the fuck does that not hurt though?- Like, holy shit! the way you use them-" He comments with a tactless laugh right against your ear, moans at the words like it's the very thing thats driving him to go harder, snappier.
Like he's not dropping the most insane, most revealing, most self-condemning information.
"But I'm better right? Fucking- please tell me I'm better, It would really mess with my self esteem if you were to tell me I'm not doing-" He continues, his voice going thin with the effort it takes to talk.
"How the fuck do you know that?" You ask, head snapping back to meet his eyes, blood rushing to your ears, heat flooding your face, heartbeat so intense it nearly blinds you.
And yet, you dont push him off you. And yet, you're still shaking beneath him.
"Adrian what the fuck are you-" You near sob, in worry? in pleasure?who really knows at this point.
"You should reaaaally think about closing the blinds before doing all that shit, like c'mon- there are some real perverts out there you know?" He admonishes, severing the blame from Adrian to Vigilante for his own amusement.
It all finally clicks.
"How long have you been spying on me?" You ask. Voice breaking, tears flooding your eyes in fear and utter shame.
"I mean- probably as long you've been fucking yourself thinking about Vigilante-" Adrian humiliates you, a scary and impersonal smile rises on his lips, a tight lip one that reaches his eyes but in a way that makes his face all the more deranged to look at.
reader who inhales some experimental aphrodisiac while on the latest mission.
the transport home is awkward to say the least. youâre whimper, humping your seat lamely while youâve practically soaked through your panties, cargos, and down onto the seat itself.
âeyes forward, men.â says price from the drivers seat. his calm demeanor gives nothing away if it werenât for his sweating palms that have a death grip on the drivers wheel.
you whine- a fucking delicious and needy whine. âpleaseâŚplease captainâŚplease can someone help me? please? pleasepleasepleaseplease?â
âoh lord,â mutters soap from beside you. his eyes are oddly focused on the pattern of the roof. âlord please give me the strength right now.â his fingers twitch with ache and his leg is anxiously bouncing up and down. he continues to mumble prayers- which is odd since soap isnât known to be a religious man.
âplease- please itâs so hot. need to take these off. please,â you beg, hands fumbling with the button and zipper of your cargos.
âstop it, kid. Kyle, soap, hold âer down.â
gaz and soap look at each other, face full of emotion- uncomfortableness, concern, arousal?
âS-sirâŚdonât think itâs a good idea for me to touch the lass right now.â Soap admits, taking a slow and deep breath as his eyes unwillingly stare you up and down.
Gaz steps up. Not because heâs eager to touch you, not because he needs an excuse to get his hands on you- but because he genuinely believes that if anyone can have the restraint, it would be him. âIâve got it, sir.â
he bunches your hands together by the wrist, bringing it away from your pants that are left unzipped but still fully on.
you let out a broken sob that just breaks his heart but stiffens his dick. âNonononono, just a little touch please? please? Hurts sâbad. Need toâŚjust once, please?â
gaz gulps, and for a second his grip loosens on your wrist. âGarrick!â
gaz jerks, meeting the stare of his lieutenant whoâs sweating at the base of his mask. âweâre almost there. keep it together.â
you squirm, crossing and uncrossing your legs in any attempt for a piece of friction that is just never enough.
the rest of the ride is painfully silent, each man thinking the same thing but none of them willing it out loud. It feels like ages when the transport is finally parked at the base and three heads turn to their captain for his decision.
reader who inhales some experimental aphrodisiac while on the latest mission.
the transport home is awkward to say the least. youâre whimper, humping your seat lamely while youâve practically soaked through your panties, cargos, and down onto the seat itself.
âeyes forward, men.â says price from the drivers seat. his calm demeanor gives nothing away if it werenât for his sweating palms that have a death grip on the drivers wheel.
you whine- a fucking delicious and needy whine. âpleaseâŚplease captainâŚplease can someone help me? please? pleasepleasepleaseplease?â
âoh lord,â mutters soap from beside you. his eyes are oddly focused on the pattern of the roof. âlord please give me the strength right now.â his fingers twitch with ache and his leg is anxiously bouncing up and down. he continues to mumble prayers- which is odd since soap isnât known to be a religious man.
âplease- please itâs so hot. need to take these off. please,â you beg, hands fumbling with the button and zipper of your cargos.
âstop it, kid. Kyle, soap, hold âer down.â
gaz and soap look at each other, face full of emotion- uncomfortableness, concern, arousal?
âS-sirâŚdonât think itâs a good idea for me to touch the lass right now.â Soap admits, taking a slow and deep breath as his eyes unwillingly stare you up and down.
Gaz steps up. Not because heâs eager to touch you, not because he needs an excuse to get his hands on you- but because he genuinely believes that if anyone can have the restraint, it would be him. âIâve got it, sir.â
he bunches your hands together by the wrist, bringing it away from your pants that are left unzipped but still fully on.
you let out a broken sob that just breaks his heart but stiffens his dick. âNonononono, just a little touch please? please? Hurts sâbad. Need toâŚjust once, please?â
gaz gulps, and for a second his grip loosens on your wrist. âGarrick!â
gaz jerks, meeting the stare of his lieutenant whoâs sweating at the base of his mask. âweâre almost there. keep it together.â
you squirm, crossing and uncrossing your legs in any attempt for a piece of friction that is just never enough.
the rest of the ride is painfully silent, each man thinking the same thing but none of them willing it out loud. It feels like ages when the transport is finally parked at the base and three heads turn to their captain for his decision.
A/N: This has been sitting in the drafts for a HOT minute, along with the links taking up the majority of my note page lol, enjoy freakazoids!!
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, bottom reader, p in v, rough sex, fingering, squirting, overstimulation, powerimbalance (?), cunnilingus, groping, choking, riding, size difference, manhandling, deepthroating, blowjobs, pegging, slapping. Let me know if any links are broken/warnings are missing!!
(GIF) You and Nolan settling down after a long day.
Nolan's thick fingers plunging into you easily.
You know Nolan's secret of killing the Guardians, he needed to take the stress out on you.
Nolan treating you just the way you like him to, hand around your throat, using just a speck of his power.
Taking Nolan's thick cock.
Nolan working your throat to take his cock.
Nolan forcing every little moan and orgasm out of you.
Nolan showing his strength while making you unable to think straight.
All dressed for Nolan for when he comes home.
Can't get enough of Nolan's girth.
Sometimes, Nolan can be too much to handle...
Nolan making you squirm.
Nolan didn't care about the Guardian's funeral, he wanted to take you instead.
Nolan fucking you hard.
You were so shocked to see Nolan agree to pegging, but he's able to lose himself around you, and only you.
By default, you recognize, he wants to be under the influence because he knows you have counter-spells to dispel your own magic, yet he chooses to stay unfathomably horny to fuck you?Â
Yeah, the only person heâs fooling is himself, not you.
You feel him begin to tug on your bottoms as you continue teasing him, reverently kissing his way down your spine to your pants. âYou sound so formal. You can say fuck, you know.â
He lowers into a crouch while tugging your bottoms and underwear to your knees in one tug. The male stares at the thin line connecting your slick, soaked folds to your dampened underwear, legs twitching for a moment at the lab's coolness washing over your bare lower half.
Your face then burns as you look over your shoulder, standing upright for a moment, and embarrassed at how hard heâs staring down there.
âI thought you wanted to have sex.â
He continues his staring at the sight, and he hates how barbaric he feelsâsalvia pooling in his mouth and the urge to bury his face there until next week. The scent of your slick bathes his senses, and he grits his teeth for a moment, restraining, as he feels the dampness in his own underwear worsen.
You glare flusteredly down at him then lean over the table again, giving him a full view of your dripping folds as he remains on one knee. You rest your arms on the cool table, relaxing your full weight on it. âYouâre staring too hard.â
The dark-haired maleâs fingers squeeze into the sides of your thighs as his thumbs pull your folders apart, spreading the slickness further. Your face immediately burns at feeling yourself become extremely exposed, and you let out a noise of embarrassmentâthis almost feels perverse with how he stares at your pussy like heâs trying to tattoo the sight into his mind.
âWhat are you evenââ
He immediately shuts you up with his tongue pressing flat against your entrance, hot and thick. Your complaints are cut off with a moan as the burning heat of his mouth presses more against your folds. You arch more into the wood as your legs tremble, âS-shitâŚâ
His thumbs part your folds more as his lips then press against the stiffening bud between your legs, ravenous and exploring. You bite your lower lip from the sudden pleasure and close your eyes as his tongue moves against the bud, urgently and lapping quicklyâsingle-minded in his pursuit of needing every inch of your scent drowning him.
The light-eyed male's rough fingers brush against your entrance, and he pulls his tongue from your folds for a moment, a shining thin line connecting your pussy to his tongue. Not for air, no, but for something else.
The heated male pops two fingers in his mouth, then pulls out the glistening digits. His other hand holds your hip still as his thick fingers rub against your entrance. Your nails dig into the wood as he goes ahead and pushes them both in at the same time, already trembling from how big his fingers are. If he weren't such an asshole, every aspect of him would be a godsend.
Hot, big and muscular, nearly able to lift damn-near a city, and that naturally commanding voice? The Gods knew they had to nerf him with the coldest attitudeâyet, you hate to admit it, his closed-off nature makes him all the more attractive.
A shaky moan leaves your lips as his hot fingers stretch you, and he groans at the noise, tent in his pants becoming too restrictingâhis body wants to use you like a fleshlight, yet his mind is telling him to have you orgasm more than you can countâto finally be in control of your body and subject you to the torture you put him through daily.Â
His hot tongue laps against your clit again as his fingers begin to push themselves deeper, fingers long enough to brush against your sweet spot, and thick enough to naturally be squeezed tight by your fluttering walls.
You press your face into the wood, senses on fire as your eyes flutter from his moving tongue and thick fingers. His fingers curl as he presses his face more between your legs, mind on autopilot and senses clouded with nothing but your scent.
Another moan breaks from your lips from the onslaught of pleasure as his fingers begin to pump with a rhythm. Your entrance squeezes around his fingers, and he groans into your pussy, face flushed and concentrated. Part of him believes you sound better moaning than consistently berating himâyet, just like you, he'd rather die than admit the worst part of your attitude, your teasing nature, is what makes you all the more appealing.
Your legs quiver more as your walls convulse around his digits from his moans vibrating more pleasure against your folds. A third finger then begins to push itself into the squeezing walls, and you groan from the gradual stretch of another finger; he's not being patient at all with thisâsay thanks to the aphrodisiac for that.
You fold your arms and lay your head on your arms, a bit impatient from both the expectation of being fucked into oblivion to how well his fingers brush against your sweet spot. The three fingers slowly pump into your walls and curl, stars exploding under your eyelids as you squeeze your eyes shut.
âNolan⌠just fuck me already.â
Reluctantly, he listens to you and pulls his mouth from your pulsing bud. His fingers soon pull out after, and he stares at the clear juices coating his fingers, wet and glistening.Â
Insatiably, he raises his fingers to his face and runs his tongue reverently along his fingers, instincts borderline primal from the concoction coursing through his veins as he rises to his feet.
The light-eyed male hooks his shirt into his mouth to get a view of his hands unbuckling himself. His sweat-ridddled abdomen tenses, and he lets out a silent noise when he peels his slacks and underwear off his throbbing length and to his thighs.
His cock slaps his abdomen and dribbles with pearls of white, hurriedly sliding down the pulsing veins of his throbbing girth. His cock twitches from just being exposed to the air of your lab, and he hates how he can almost cum untouched.
You lift your head from your arms and look over your shoulder, smiling as you squint your eyes. âSomeone looks happy to see me.â
Nolan instantly groans when the tense atmosphere is broken by your stupid comment. His hand immediately squeezes your hip at the quip as his words are muffled from the hem of his shirt still being held between his teeth. âDonâtâŚâ he lifts his flushed gaze to you, annoyed, âstart thatâŚâ
You grin and lean forward, pressing your chest against the table more, âStart what?â
Nolan watches you from behind and stares at the plushness of your ass and dripping trails along your thighs. He hates how cute you are despite being annoying as hellâindirectly agreeing with your earlier statement of 'you being the cute one' and 'him being the mean one'.
The male unhooks his shirt from his mouth and slowly attaches himself to your back, curling his hot body on top of your arched back. You giggle as his nose presses against yours while he rubs himself between your folds, the action being unintentionally cute as he refrains himself from pushing himself into you in one go.
âYou know,â you begin, and he can hear the smile in your voice without looking. You feel him coat his cock with your juices more as he slides his length along your slit, âthe effects start in a tame manner.â You push against him and squeeze your thighs, moaning with a smile as he kisses your shoulder.Â
âMaybe I shouldâve told you, but the effect gets stronger every time you cum.âÂ
Oh, great.Â
You tell him this now when you easily couldâve revealed this information the minute you found out the pollen was mixed with an aphrodisiac.
He halfheartedly listens to your rambling as his eyes become half-lidded from his cock, deliciously rubbing against your soft folds, âStrongerâŚâ He repeats slowly.
You lift your hand and cup his cheek, and he immediately relents to the touch, melting at the softness and warmth of your palm uncharacteristically. âItâs supposed to be taken in a small dose. Sweet with affection for foreplay, then a monster in the bedroom for great sexâthe potion was mainly for wives who hated the casual sex with their husbands.â
He doesnât stop rocking his hips, and you shakily moan from the pleasure of his shaft rubbing your clit. âAnd nowâŚâ
âNow I inhaled mist of it.â He finishes.
You hum as you feel him lie on top of you, kissing the back of your head as his cock continues sliding between your closed thighs. âYouâre being so sweet, itâs adorable.â
He scowls as his flushed face reddens more. A small tingle emerges in the base of his spine, and he feels sparks shiver until his cock twitches.
A burst of pleasure washes over him in small spurts as he keeps his cock sandwiched between your thighs. He bites into your shoulder and squeezes his arms around your waist as his hips buck, moving in tandem with each gush of cum.
The thick viscous slides down your thighs, and you let out a small whine from the pain of his canines digging into your skin.
As soon as the last of his cum spurts out, his eyes snap open as he feels a hard pang in his chest, and an incredible heat washes over him againâworse than last time and leaving him breathless.
He quickly detaches himself from your back and pulls his cock out of your closed thighs, glistening white beads of cum and sticky trails connecting him to your soft skin. His breath picks up again as his vision blurs, and his cock becomes unbearably hard again, standing tall and pulsing harder.Â
He kicks open your thighs, and you let out a squeal from the sudden motion, thighs not spreading very far due to your pants constricting the movement.Â
âThis⌠damned potion,â his heartbeat is in his ears as he stares down at the sight of your slick and cum coated thighs. Drool actually escapes the sides of his mouth as he grips your hips, overwhelmed with the idea of using your body round after round.Â
âIt feels like Iâm⌠on the verge of passing outâŚâ He breathes out as he grips your hips and presses against your entrance, as if heâll die if he doesnât fill you to the brim and more.
You immediately flinch from his grip, completely forgetting his strength was measured on an unbelievable level. âHey, hey, easy with your gripââ
âShut up,â he scowls as he pulls your hips back to him more.
Well, the potion is definitely working its magic, seeing as he became a darling to an asshole after just blowing one load.
You scowl back at him and slowly lift yourself to your elbows, âShut up?â You want to tease him so bad, but you know youâll regret it in the next twenty-four hours if you do.
âHow about you shut up, horndog, yeah?â
Yeah, you threw caution to the wind; who are you if you're not pushing his buttons?
His light eyes become an icy blue when he glares harshly at you then squeezes both of your hips, borderline painful, and surges his hips forward. You have the breath knocked out of you as his thick cock snaps in deep, knocking past your sweet spot and slamming against the deepest part of you easily. The unused bottles and your wand rattle on the table from the abrupt movement.
You almost see stars as your thighs tremble, burning stretch unbearable and no time to adjust to him. âThat... actually hurt,â you pant as your walls clench tightly around him.
He groans through his nose as he shuts his eyes, the softness of your squeezing walls deliciously enveloping him. âMaybe you deserve it for always toying with me.â
You grip the table as your walls continue fluttering around him, desperately trying to adjust. âMaybe you deserve it... because youâre always such an asshole.â
You look over your shoulder with a heated smile, deliberately egging him on further. âI mean, you came between my thighs in barely a minute. An asshole and cumming in under a minute? So impress-ive!â
You immediately squeal out the last portion of your sentence as his hips surge forward in an unrelenting pace, your relentless teasing doing its job with enraging him while on top of being desperately aroused.
The burning stretch mixes with his cock brushing harshly against your sweet spot, slamming deep; his anger is in both his pace and grip. He detaches one of his hands from your hip and squeezes your face, drawing your head back as he glares down at you and lifts your body from the tableâjostling the contents along it.
Your lips are forced into a pout as one of your eyes nearly closes from the forceful pleasure of his cock. âYou always,â he grunts, âalways insult me.â Your juices slide down his shaft, and a foamy ring begins to bubble at the base of his cock from his cum and your slick, âAnd I tell myself⌠to not fall for it.â
You whimper as his hand pulls your head back further, arching your body uncomfortably. His forehead presses against yours as he closes his eyes, âI hate you⌠all the things you doâall the annoying shit you do.â Surprisingly swearing.
Your hands no longer grip the table and grip his arm instead, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes from his slamming cock.
âAnd I always come back here,â he breathes out and lifts his forehead from yours. Your breasts bounce in your tousled bra from his pace, and his thumb brushes over your puckered lips. A bead of sweat slides down his face as the sounds of his slapping cock echo in the empty lab.
âYou tease⌠to where I think you mustâve wanted this sooner,â he drags his thumb along your lips, and you clench around his cock from the action. âNot just,â he groans from the clench, âto make me mad⌠but to have you like this.â
You squeeze your eyes shut as your nails dig into his skin, not even denting it from how reinforced his body is. Your mind is loaded with his words and his cock as you whine through your pouted lips.Â
âQuiet,â he pants, hearing that pathetic noise. His thumb is then forced into your mouth and presses down on your tongue as his other hand cups the lower part of your stomach, pressing against it. You immediately seize up and suck harshly against his finger, a harsh wave of pleasure igniting from his action.Â
His moving cock doesnât falter when he feels your soft lips and hot mouth around his thumb. He huffs through his nose, and his abdomen tenses in pleasure, body betraying the annoyance he vocalizes.
âYou and your mouth. You and your smart comments,â he lowers his hand from your tummy to between your folds. You bite into his thumb as his rough fingers quickly begin swiping the sensitive bud in quick circles, âI hate it all⌠all of it.â
Your eyes shut and roll to the back of your head as a familiar spark pools in your stomach, ready to be ignited. Your legs then squeeze shut tightly as your orgasm washes over you in hot waves, strong and lighting you from head to toe. His cock fucks you through the pleasurable convulsions, and you involuntarily rock your hips into his moving fingers.
And the worst part is that he doesnât stop when your orgasm has subsided. His drenched fingers continue rubbing the swollen clit as his cock continues its pace, making you sob and squirm under him.
He becomes harder at the sound and groans at feeling you squeeze more around him. âTake it, like all the times,â he swallows, âI withstood your teasing.â
You bite more into his thumb as you cry out more from the over-sensitivity, and he presses it in deeper, nowhere near able to register the harshness of the bite. You desperately squeeze your thighs around his moving hand in an attempt to halt its movement, but super strength is on his side; his pace remains the same, and still has you reeling.
A second orgasm immediately starts to bubble while he himself hasnât even cum a second time yet.
Maybe you were too harsh in judging him earlier.
You mewl as you feel it growing stronger again and unwrap your lips from around his thumb, moaning loudly as you release all over his cock and fingers.
Nolan moans from the juices releasing on his cock and still continues moving his fingers. You sob then let out a squeal as he squeezes your cheeks with one hand, tears of pleasure running down your face.
He soon releases his load, fucking it into you as the thick spend unloads with spurt after spurtâas if he didnât just orgasm minutes ago.
You sigh through your nose in relief when he pulls his hand away to grip your hips as he empties his sack. Your eyes are puffy and your vision blurry when you open your eyes, the heat of his spend warming you inside out. His hips slowly come to a stop, and his icy eyes stare down at you, panting.
You look better like this after all that teasing.
Before he can admire your appearance more, a harsher pang washes over him, and Nolan audibly lets out a pained noiseâthe aphrodisiac's potency coming in hotter.
His hardened cock slowly pulls out of you, and a flood of his thick cream slides down your drenched thighs, dampening the undergarments and pants at your thighs. You collapse on the table panting, and the bottles along it rattle.
His cock stands tall and dripping still, seemingly more flushed and bigger than the last time. His abs tense as he grits his teeth in painâthat fucking potion was nothing to laugh about.
He stares down at your slumped figure as a harsher wave of heat stirs his cock and warms up his body, and god, the sight of your used pussy doesnât help. Hole fluttering around nothing, dripping with white cream, clit puffyâthe heat pools in his stomach again.
You shakily try to pull yourself to stand, but then you feel a big hand on the middle of your back forcing you back down. You look over your shoulder tiredly and twitching from sensitivity, yet your eyes widen.Â
The half-alien actually looks feralâcanines peeking from his lips, pupils blown wide, and sweat-drenched hair curled at his forehead. He reaches down and easily tears through your clothes like paper, making you gasp surprised.
âNolanââ
âIâm still not finished,â he hurriedly tears off his bottoms as well, undewear and slacks yielding like paper, and shakes them off. You let out a surprised noise when his hands then grab your waist and squeeze the fat, manhandling you and turning you to lie on your back on the table. His hands cup the underside of your thighs and push them onto the table, tearing off the remaining fabric on your legs.
âNolan!â You call out urgently again, trying to gain his attention.
He pauses, then stares down at you silently. Blood is rushing through his ears as he slowly leans down over you while hiking his shirt above his abs, freeing himself from the restricting heat of the fabric. You feel small as he waits for you to continue.
âLet me,â you avert your eyes while panting, âget a break firstâŚâ
âDid you ever give me a break when you made fun of me?â
You immediately pout, frowning in frustration, âOh, come on. This is different! I only said wordsââ He leans down to your face and pushes his nose against yours, effectively shutting you up.
His hands easily push your legs to the sides of your head as he curls his burning body above you, eyes glaring as his cheeks remained flushed, âYet they still affected me, deeply.â
His lips are then pressed against yours as you claw his back from the stretch of being easily folded in half. Your senses are overwhelmed by his musky scent and hot body as he forces his tongue into your mouth.
You choke around his tongue, and he shoves it deeper as he rubs his cock along your spent folds, white cum slathering more along your sensitive pussy. Your nails dig into his back, and he only feels the whisper of scratching in place of where pain should be.
His lips feverishly move against yours as he positions his hips, flat against yours then swirling. He detaches one hand from your thigh and aligns his cock again, surging forward with little resistance this time. Your pussy stretches around him again and draws him in deeper, eyes rolling back as you try to match his desperation in the kiss.
The male groans through his nose and bottoms about, cock twitching and pulsing deep inside you. He quickly sets the speed as a deep and brutal again, the angle hitting directly into your sweet spot. The bottles on the table ring and shake in tandem, and your mind is too delirious with pleasure as you attempt to conjure a spell to have the glasses fly to a safer corner.
The pain of being abruptly folded, and the pleasure of his positioning cock has you seeing stars, eyes barely open from his moving hips and urgent kisses. His tongue is intoxicating and laps against yours as his cock drags along your walls, and your vision becomes teary again.
He both drags your body down to his cock and surges his hips forward, your sweat-drenched back sliding against the wood, cock slapping inside deeper. Nolan then breaks away from the kiss with a thick trail of saliva, and you gasp for air, panting intensely as you toss your head back.
His teeth graze along your jugular, then down the base of your neck. He then sinks his teeth into the space between your neck and shoulder, making you cry out loudly in pain. Bubbles of red appear from the pierced skin, and you almost try to push him off.
Yet your eyes roll back as your walls flutter around his cock from the severe pain mixed with pleasure, heightening the experience. Your back arches off the table when he continues using your body, fucking you through your abrupt orgasm.
You push against his chest and cry out more as he continues, oversensitivity blinding your senses. His body doesnât budge at all; itâs like pushing the world off of you!
And of course, he makes it much worse; he lets go of one of your thighs and starts rubbing tight circles on your puffy clit. Your eyes immediately cross as you toss your head back, hips trying to buck his hand off.Â
âN-NolanâMmph!â
His panting mouth captures your lips again, eagerly as you continue trying to push his body off you. Tears completely blind your vision as his cock continues hitting every sweet spot inside your convulsing pussy.
A different kind of heat begins to pool in your stomach, and you mewl around his lips again, trying desperately either to push him off or remove his hand. It grows stronger as the onslaught of pleasure persists, and it bursts, making you see white.
Nolan pulls his mouth away, swearing as he feels you squirt on his lower abdomen from the overwhelming pleasure. Your head knocks against the wood as your tongue lolls out of your mouth for a second, not in control of your body from such a strong orgasm.Â
He keeps moving his hips and stares down at your pussy as he continues rubbing your swollen clit, enamored at how strong he made you orgasm. Your head is tilted back as your body quivers heavily on the table.
Your back arches off the table, and his eyes dilate as he watches you squirt out a clear trail of liquid from his moving hips and circling thumb. You desperately try to close your thighs, only your freed one being able to move, but he pulls his hand off your clit, keeping your convulsing body open.
Another load then gets dropped inside of your spent pussy, and it's so thick and continuous you could almost taste it. Nolan doubles over you groaning, and droplets of his sweat plop onto your heaving, nearly unresponsive body.
Then the pang happens again, worse than ever, and he growls out of frustration.
You almost thought the charade was over when he filled you up heavily again, yet itâs almost as if you felt him become bigger while inside you.
You're almost regretting not conjuring up a counter spell for the misted pollen.
Nolan doesnât give himself time to rest, fucking through his orgasm with violent thrusts and somehow more eager than the last roundâyou're gonna need a healing potion after this. He squeezes your thighs and pounds his hips against yours, sack heavily plapping against your ass.Â
He lowers his flushed face to your fucked out one and presses his tongue flat against yours. Your vision is obscured by tears as you taste his tongue pushing against yours. Your arms then shakily wrap around his neck, and he groans, digging his nails into your thighs more and slots his mouth over yours, nearly slobbering all over your lips.
Yet the sound of skin slapping and wet squelches is interrupted by a sudden phone ringtone.
Nolan briefly snaps out of his stupor, and his ear recognizes the familiar ringtone.
Itâs Mark.
He thought he had a date with Eve, isnât that why he was being replaced as a test subject? Why heâs fucking you to oblivion right now, really.
He slowly pulls his tongue out of your mouth with a wet pop, a thin line of saliva shining then breaking, yet continues slapping his hips against yours.Â
And an idea formsâcruel and the shittiest thing an older brother could do.
You stare up at him through teary, curled lashes while being in and out of consciousness, pleasure being the only thing keeping you tethered to the material world, and he presses his forehead against yours. His light eyes crinkle, âUse your,â he pants, âmagic to bring my phone over.â
You obediently raise your hand, too foggy in the mind to use your wand, and an aura surrounds the tips of your fingers. You then curl your finger, and the phone flies to clack next to your forms on the table.
Nolan presses a quick to kiss your lips as his thumb swipes the answer button, and you tiredly kiss him back, drunk off his taste, cock, and hot body on yours. He reluctantly pulls his mouth away when he holds the phone to his ear, yet he can't speak coherently over the phone when his mouth is occupied.
All the while still fucking you.
Mark perks at the quick answer, a hint of surprise in his tone. âHey, bro. Are you at the laboratory today?â
âYeah,â Nolan breathes out, staring at your fucked out form.
Mark rubs his neck at the other end as he sighs, staring at the dress clothes on his bed. It was an outfit he picked out for his date with Eve, but she suddenly had to rain checkâsomething with her family, an argument she didnât want him dragged into.
âI can,â he sits down on his sheets, âyâknow, take over. You and them never really get along that well.â
He sighs dejectedly, brown eyes staring at the messy carpet with disappointment, âEve and I are going on the date next week. Something with her family happened, so next week it is.â He picks at a loose thread on his bedsheet, squinting his eyes, frustrated, âProbably her dad being a dick again.â
âMmâŚâ Nolan responds, biting back his amusement at seeing you quickly cover your mouth with wide eyes at hearing the familiar voice over the phone. âSo you want to come over?â He asks, staring directly into your alerted depths and making sure to have you on edge; he wouldn't normally be this cruel, or care this much to instigate, but this potion of yoursâit's heightening every worst part of himself.
Mark pauses as he notes the cadence in his older brotherâs speech. âAre you already testing out stuff? You donât sound right.â
Nolan continues panting and suddenly slams harder, pushing his hips deep and cock touching your cervix. Tears run down your face as your back arches off the wood, both hands still covering your mouth. âI am. Iâm sure itâs something you,â he breathes, âhavenât tried.â
You immediately squirt around his cock in response to such harsh treatment, and Nolan falters his pace again, muttering a curse under his breath.
âWoahhh, that bad? Youâre not the one to have a potty mouth,â Mark laughs. The sight of his older brother, the one person he could never best, suffering from some little magic paints an entertaining image in his head.
Nolan holds the phone between his shoulder and ear, cupping the sides of your waist. Your lower half lifts off the table, and you look up at him in shock. Your eyes almost plead with him to not do anything drastic, yet he pulls you into his cockâusing your body like a flesh light and hips surging forward.
You let out a loud moan from under your hands, and arch harshly off the wood, eyes rolled to the back of the skull from the most brutal pace heâs done so farâwhile on the phone mind you!
âBro? You okay? You suddenly went silent⌠and I heard something in the back,â Mark laughs while Nolan smugly stares down at you with a flushed, half-lidded expression, âThat wasnât me. Iâm just,â he pants, corners of his lips twitching, âdealing with the effects of some potion.â
Nolanâs eyes glint, âThat sound was your little friend. Want to talk to them?â
You snap your eyes open horrified but then roll back from his pace, too fucked out to conjure a coherent thought.
âWhat?â Mark sits up, worried. âDid they fall?â
âNot really. It was still pretty nasty, regardless.â Fucking you nasty, is what you can tell he's alluding toâthat crafty asshole.
Nolan detaches his hand from your soft waist, no doubt going to have that area sore in its wake, just like your thighs and neck, and plucks the phone from his shoulder and ear.
âHere," his icy depths glint, "Iâll give the phone over.â
You hate him so fucking bad.
Tears are streaming down your face, youâve been moaning the entire time, and youâre on the verge of cumming hard again from the new positionâyouâre in no shape to speak to Mark.
Nolan slots the phone beside your ear, and you stare up at him angrily. You swallow to moisten your throat, knowing itâs undoubtedly scratchy, and laugh weakly.
âMark,â you breathlessly croak, eyes almost rolling back from another thrust, âH-heyâŚâ
Mark worriedly says your name with a frown, âAre you alright? What happened? That noise in the back was loud.â
Aphrodisiac thrumming stronger and clouding his rationality, Nolan decides to take it up a notch and suddenly picks you up, gripping your waist and making you wrap your legs around his waist. You squeal in surprise and fumble with the phone, shakily holding it up.
Mark winces for a moment and draws the phone away from his head at the noise, shrill and too sudden. âWhat happened?!â
âIâm fine! Iâm fine! I sweâar!â The change in position rips a moan into your throat, while Nolan's feet shuffle over the tattered clothes plastered on the floor. You cup your mouth, embarrassed and heart racing at the thought of your best friend finding out his brother is fucking you silly.
Mark presses his ear to the phone worriedly again, âYou donât soundâwhat was that? Nolan said you didnât trip, but it sounds like hurt yourself bad.â
âItâs an experiment!â You quickly lie as your world bounces from Nolan holding your sides and leaning back for a better angle, using your body like a fuck doll. You glare weakly into his eyes while he keeps his pace, creamed cock slapping into you.
âRightâŚâ Mark slowly nods, not believing you.
You try to get your voice to sound normal, but being bounced up and down after being fucked so hard for nearly an hour isnât really a feat you can manage.
âThe ones where I,â you hold back a shallow breath as you grip Nolanâs shoulder, trailing off as his cock keeps hitting the spot that has your eyes on the verge of crossing.Â
You trail off, eyes rolling back for a moment, as you lose your train of thought. You almost moan again when Nolan unexpectedly presses a kiss to your lipsâheâs trying to expose you both, and heâs doing a damn good job at making you lose your composure.
âUh⌠hello?â
You pull back from the kiss with a panicked expression, âSorry! SorryâŚâ Your eyes close, âI lost my train⌠of thought,â you swallow. âT-too many experiments going on⌠at onceâŚâ
Mark definitely doesnât believe you, yet he doesnât want to sit there and accuse his best friend of something tabooâbecause the entire time, the faint sound of something slapping hasnât stopped.
He awkwardly runs a hand through his pushed back locks, âOkay. Whatâs the experiment?â
Shitâyou almost fumble with Nolanâs phone when he lays you back on the table.
This asshole is definitely trying to make you get caught.Â
You stare up at him and try to rack your brain quickly for an excuse, âP-plantâŚâ
Mark furrows his brows, âA⌠plant?â
You immediately remember the damn plant that put you in this situation in the first place. âYes!â Nolan folds you again and does the worst thing againârubbing your clit in tight circles with his thumb. His cock continues moving as you cover your mouth to mask the moan, âY-yes! That⌠one awful plant in my lapâŚâ
Tears bubble in your eyes again from the pleasure, âC-caused so much trouble. A-and Nolan can barely help⌠because his grip always,â you swallow back a moan, âeasily hurts itâŚâ
Mark opens his mouth but then tilts his head in thought; youâre not wrong. If he remembers correctly, that plant almost has a mind of its ownâpesky and a bit of a dick. âItâs wreaking havoc now? Want me to comââ
âNo!â You cut him off, laughing nervously as you stare up at Nolan. His concentrated, red face is blurred as more tears fall down your face, âSorry⌠that wasâŚâ You sniffle, âme yelling at the plant⌠It knocked some⌠pollen-like residue overâŚâ
A half-truth⌠because it did that an hour or so ago.
Mark stands up sighing, âAlright. Iâm gonna come.â
You perk up fearfully, then your grip on the phone falters at feeling that same coil again, on the verge of coming back stronger from Nolan's vigorous rubbing.
âN-no, itâs okay! I swearââ
âThat plant is giving a sorcerer and a half Viltrumite hell,â Mark smirks as he approaches his window, âIâm pretty sure having Invincible to help would make things quicker.â
Your abused, swollen clit gets rubbed to where youâre losing your grip on the phone, and you can barely breathe from the increasing coil in your stomach pulling taut. You harshly bite your lower lip, drawing blood, as the verge of the coil snapping becomes stronger.
Mark opens the window and steps out onto the roof, âIâll get there extremely quick anyhow.â
Iron bleeds onto your atstebuds, and before you can refuse his insistence again, your grip on the phone wanes. It slips from your clammy grip and clacks onto the table as the coil snaps. You squirt out your juices around his moving finger and cock, back lifting off the table as the mixture of fluids stain the table more, as you accidentally hit the speaker option.Â
You quickly cover your mouth, still believing the phone call is set to normal audio, as Nolan continues slapping his cock into you, reveling in how your juices soak and drench his creamy cock.
Mark immediately takes his phone away from his ear in shock at the crude noise of skin slapping and pants, staring down at his phone pink in the face and flabbergasted.
Nolan perks up in amusement as he suddenly hears the shocked revelation in Markâs voice, loud and clear. âWhat the hell?! Are you two reallyââ
Nolan finally stills his hips while you pass out on the table, grabbing the phone and raising it to his face. His fingers ghost over your damp skin as he stares down at your unconscious form, a strand of hair displacing as he tilts his head.
bro what happened to the bob reynolds x reader tag i felt like it used to be popping like i could check each day and there was a bunch of new fics now i scroll on that tag and its like 5 new posts over the course of two weeks Did everyone just move on from him bc im still here
â･đŚšÂ°â§â Being Ashley Barrettâs personal assistant may have bought you killer networking opportunities in Vought but it's also made you the fixation of the most dangerous man in the nation. Homelander receives you with stars in his eyes but you would never know it. You live in a constant state of minimal terror with the supe strutting around your workplace.
â･đŚšÂ°â§â He's developed a pavlovian response to the scent of your perfume and pauses during meetings to inhale its remnants after you've left the room. He's left with a near orgasmic expression on his face every time. Once, while you were taking meeting minutes, Homelander stared at you blankly. You were certain he was contemplating snapping your neck but he was just mesmerized by the pulse of aroma fluttering at the base of your throat.
â･đŚšÂ°â§â You've never held a real conversation with him but he's stricken by the idea of you. He uses his super hearing to eavesdrop on your private conversations and gets irrationally jealous of anybody you mention with affection.
â･đŚšÂ°â§â Homelander finds your fear of him both intoxicating and frustrating. He wants you to love him but he only inspires terror when he steps into your personal space.
â･đŚšÂ°â§â He interprets your avoidance as a game. He doesn't realize you're simply trying to survive corporate day-to-day. He's only focused on his own agony and figuring out how to possess you without breaking you in the process.
â･đŚšÂ°â§â Homelander finds himself on the roof most evenings to watch your car leave the parking garage. He tracks the sound of your heartbeat until you're miles away and he hates that he needs you. He also hates that you fear him. Most of all, he hates that he's never felt more alive than when he's scaring the hell out of you.
Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader
Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.
Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disasterâValentina's controlling, the teamâs a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like heâs one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesnât stay quiet. And he definitely doesnât stay good.
Word count: ~4k
Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore. if you want to be added to my tag list just comment! <3
masterlist.
"Quiet, Bob."
The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows whereâsomewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.
It had been a long, brutal week.
Valentina had decided that the Thunderboltsâthe shiny New Avengersâneeded a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?
You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.
Like a fucking boy band.
You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.
"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."
Bucky didnât even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.
Valentina didnât stop there.
âYou,â she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. âNeed to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what Iâm paying to make you likable? Not that you arenâtâyouâre a doll, reallyâbut come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.â
It was all bullshit. Sheâd even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.
Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.
Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.
Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearanceâliterally phased through the floor and didnât return for hours.
Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."
Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.
And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.
You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.
"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"
You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.
Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.
So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.
And nowâ
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. âThe way you looked in that suitâI couldnât fucking breathe.â
You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. âYou couldâve said something.â
By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in secondsâknees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.
You thanked God for wearing a dress.
He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.
He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.
Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.
Bob swore, loud and wreckedââFuckfuckfuckââ his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.
âGod, you feel so fucking goodâtightâperfectâI canâtââ
You clapped your hand over his mouth.
âQuiet, Bob.â
He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhereâyour hips, your ass, your thighsâlike he didnât know what to hold onto first.
You started to moveâfast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didnât want slow. Didnât want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.
Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldnât help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.
Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.
âYouâre soâfuck,âyouâre so perfectâneed this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like thisâGod, yesssss"
You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.
âYou like being under me like this?â
He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.
âMhmâyesâfuck, pleaseâyou donât know what you do to me,â he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. âBeen thinking about thisâevery nightâevery time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my kneesâwanted to ruin you or be ruined, didnât even fucking careâjust needed you.â
You grinned, filthy and pleased. âAnd now youâre ruined under me.â
He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.
âYou feel that?â you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. âThatâs how deep you are. Youâre so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. Godâyou feel so fucking good."
âYouâre so fucking perfect,â he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. âSuch a good girl. God, you take me so fucking wellâlook at youâriding me like I belong to youââ
âYou do,â you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. âYouâre mine right now. You hear me?â
âYes,â he gasped. âYes, fuckâyoursâalwaysâplease god donât fucking stopââ
You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.
âQuiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."
He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept movingâfast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.
And just when he was seconds away from breakingâ
Hiss. The door slid open.
âOh my fucking god.â
Yelenaâs voice hit like a bullet.
You froze. Bobâs eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.
Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â she muttered. âThe armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, notâwhatever the hell this is.â
Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.
Yelena pointed without looking. âOh my god, this can't be happening. Youâreâon top of him. And heâsâJesus Christ, Bob!â
âYelena!â you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.
âAlright, alright!â She held up both hands, backing away. âIâll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.â She snorted. âReal in-depth work going on here.â
âYelena! GET OUT!â
âLeaving! Leaving!â she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. âJust make sure no one ends up disarmed.â
Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelenaâand her mouthâon the other side. You didnât move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.
âYou okay?â you asked, teasing, one brow raised. âShe didnât scar you for life, did she?â
Bobâs chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.
âNo,â he saidâlow, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.
âBobâ?â
His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.
âYou tease me like that,â he growled, voice rough and frayed, âand expect me to behave?â
Your breath hitched.
âYou told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.â
His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.
âYou think Iâm gonna ask again?â
You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.
âBobââ
âNo,â he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. âYou donât get to be in charge now.â
He fucked into you like a man possessedâdeep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.
âYou wanted this,â he hissed against your ear. âWanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.â
You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to youâover and over again.
âYou feel that?â he growled, pounding into you. âThatâs not deep. Thisâthis is deep.â
You couldnât even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.
And he loved it.
He didnât stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.
He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.
