Apr 28
✨️Ding-ding✨️
He is made out of mochi
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from Germany
seen from United States
✨️Ding-ding✨️
He is made out of mochi
ok so who’s excited for supernatural season 16 ?!?!(it’s just the boys season 5)
(idc my fav trio is back)
homie makeover..... wonder who from management she'll cook with her laser eyes for this
SOLDIER BOY ﹏ HEROGASM POLLEN.
summary ﹏ Ben wasn't here for the pleasure of Herogasm, this time. Followed by Butcher, Hughie and you, he's searching the TNT Twins, trying to make them his next victims. Though, the idea disappears from his mind when he is accidentally hit by a supe's power, making him all warm and needy.
cw ﹏ ( +18 ) mdni / smut fic. the boys member!afab!reader. herogasm setting. dub-con themes (drugged, sex pollen). dirty-talking. praise. slight jerking off. mocking / cursing. needy!ben. unprotected piv. clit stimulation. body fluids play (licking it).
reblog is a creator’s best-friend, thank you!!
One second of inattention. It’s all Ben had. One single little moment of looking away while the Supes around flowed through sex, drugs, and sins. One stupid motherfucker trying to show his powers around; losing control because of the alcohol in his system before America’s little soldier is hit in the back. Nothing should have happened, because it’s Soldier boy, right? Though he felt anger course through his body, turning his head away with furrowed eyebrows before the Supe runs away and Ben decides to let it go.
That was before the warmth ran through his body, before his thoughts became all jumbled and the blood inside his brain glided all the way down to his fat cock. The sensation made Ben stop in his tracks; a gasp escaped him and surprise took over his facial expression, because what the fuck was happening? He looked around to realize that fucking Butcher, Hughie and you are not behind him anymore. He couldn’t give the slight fuck about that, anyway.
His feet stumbled against the cocaine-covered carpet as he pushed the people around, not caring about them or the ruckus he was causing at that moment. Because all he could think about was get his cock out and stick it far up someone’s hole. All his thoughts were about a sweet, slick-dripping, tight little hole around his cock, wetness coating his balls, curses running out of his mouth.
Ben can feel all his muscles, his skin, his organs on fire now, making him groan out loud before he pushes himself inside a room.
He expects to be alone, to take care of his little problem by himself before he hears a voice entering the room behind him, closing the door. “Ben, you good?” It’s your voice. You, the cute little ass of the big bad The Boys team; all curves, all lacey bra spilling from your top, those big doe eyes looking at him like he’s America’s Greatest Hero (isn’t he?). It’s like you’re just waiting for permission to come bounce down on his cock and honestly? He wouldn’t mind that right now. Now his thoughts are filled with the probable smell of your cunt.
His ass falls down on the water-bed of the room, thighs spread, showing the bulge inside his pants. It’s waiting for attention, for a hand, a mouth, a hole. “Don’t y’want to ride my cock?” He just replies to you, and your eyes widens. “Excuse me?” The words coming out of your mouth makes him smirk, like he expected that reaction.
Though, the cockiness evaporates when a new surge of warmth runs through his body and his head rolls to the ceiling, showing the expense of his neck. It’s sweaty, Adam’s apple gulping a few times before you can hear the tiniest of whine escape him. You have no idea what is happening to him but you pity it. Ben hiss finally, before one of his hands moves to undo the zip of his military green trousers, not caring about the fact that you are in front of him—analyzing his movement, feeling your heart beating faster in your chest. You should leave, but your feet are stuck to the floor.
A gasp of your own echoes in the room when his hand pushes the black brief boxers down enough to free his heavy, leaking cock and ballsacks. His shaft immediately twitches in his fingerless gloved hand as he wraps it around the base, giving himself a few pumps with whimpers escaping him. His hazel eyes lifts up to look at you. “Got hit by some fuckass power and m’thinking with my cock now.” He grunts, squeezing his shaft in his hand while jerking himself off, hoping to evaporate some burning from his body. But it doesn’t seem to work.
“Need your cunt—fuck, just come sit on it.” You could walk away, let him take care of that by himself, acting like you didn’t see anything. But hearing the slight begging tone in his voice is enough to make you pull down on the fabric of your panties from under your skirt, letting it fall and pool at your ankles before throwing it away with a foot. Ben curses under his breath when he sees that, his grip tightening on his cock; the pinkish tip leaking pre-cum in flows, a vein pulsating when it scratches against the rough material of his glove.
“Yeah, that’s a good girl. Come sit on that cock, yeah?” He summons you closer, his Adam’s apple bobbing at all the thoughts he has on your sweet cunt. Ben can feel his muscles aching, his cock begging to fill something up, his brains having vivid flash of folding you in two on that fucking watery bed. You don’t even try to tease him, because you’re sure he’ll make you pay when he gets back to himself.
You move, he lets go of his cock as you straddle his hips. Both of his fingerless gloves move to grope at the fat of your ass to pull you closer. “Y’fucking want that cock that bad, uh? Didn’t even try to say no to me.” He groans quietly as he ends up wrapping one hand on his hard, leaky cock again. “I—I just want to help you.” The words escape you, and they make Ben chuckle because he sure as Hell doesn't believe you. You feel the slight slap of his tip against your clit before he rolls himself between your folds.
There, wetness pooling at your hole waits for him. “Sweet little cunt, already so wet f’me.” He grunts, feeling feverish, hips trying to rut against yours already. “Please, Ben—” You whine at him, “Please, don’t tease me.” He hums at the words, hazel eyes looking up at your face when you say that. He wants to be an asshole; it’s in his nature. He wants to tease, to mock, to make you beg. Well, he should want to do that, but Ben finds himself more impatient than you seem to be. So he nods his head, rubbing the tip of his heavy cock against your sloppy hole before you feel the push.
His bulbous head stretches the gummy spots of your cunt as he jerks his hips up, free hand grabbing at your hips to lower you down. Your hands automatically go for his shoulders, nails burying into the thick fabric of his Supe suit. You can feel his shaft molding your walls to fit perfectly around his cock; you feel it twitch, kiss every nook and crannies, forcing itself to fill you up. A groan leaves Ben’s mouth when you sit down onto his lap, his shaft buried deep inside your warmth, wetness coating his skin. “Fuckin’ squeezing me.” You hear from him.
Shaking legs around his hips, a burning sensation in your lower belly, lips gasping; you’re unable to reply to him for a second, your arms now wrapping around his neck. “M’gonna fuck you stupid, doll, you’d like that, uh?” Ben voices at you, voice cooing like he’s not the one all needy and whining in your ear at how your pussy warms him up. Both his hands are trembling as they grope the fat of your ass once more.
You can’t help but nod your head at him, though. “Yeah—Yeah, I’d love that.” He doesn’t even reply at you, hands lifting your hips up before lowering them again, fitting his cock inside your dripping cunt. You moan at the feeling, it echoes in the empty room and you forget about the Herogasm outside the room, about those Supe sniffing coke on naked asscheeks, on alcohol flowing, on anything. The feeling of his shaft kissing at the gummy walls of your inside is enough to make you almost brainless.
You follow the movement of his hands by rolling your hips, spelling your name while riding him, creating squelching noises all around the both of you. Ben hisses, hands tightening on your hips. “That’s it, that’s a good girl. Show me how much y’like my cock.” Your fingers start to run through his thick locks, not pulling yet but you almost want to. Even though he doesn’t say it, Ben’s thoughts are still in shambles; all he can think about is your cunt wrapped around him, about your wetness coating his shaft, about the moans escaping you. It’s proof he still got it.
His hazel eyes lowers to where your bodies meet and he watches as his cock disappears inside your sloppy hole, juices slicking your folds. His lips part as if he’s about to speak once more, but a loud whine reverberates from him; his eyebrows furrowing when you clench around his shaft. There’s a slight needy glaze inside his eyes, but he tries to brush it off but making you bounce faster on him. You cry out, holding onto him as his tip kisses your cervix a few times, his veins pulsating against your gummy walls. You hear the splash-splash-splash from your juices and his balls hitting your ass now.
“Ben—Ben, fuck! Feels so good!” He ends up looking at your face when you say those words, and you can finally see the glossy eyes. He’s so close to drooling all over your chest, cheeks flushed and body burning hot now. He’s losing himself in the feeling of your sweet little cunt, trying to keep control but it doesn’t work much. “Need—Fuck, I need you t’cum on my cock… I need you t’make a mess.” He gasps, jerking his hips up to meet yours.
Your walls are molding themself around his cock even more, fitting him so perfectly that it feels like he was made to be inside you. Your juices drip down from his shaft, coating his balls even more, making them stick to your ass each time they slap it. The perverted, depraved and icky noises are echoing all around the room, almost combatting against the ones from behind the door. Ben throws his head back to the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing, sweat trickling down his neck. Wild thoughts of licking it pass through your mind but it’s brushed off a second later.
Your hips rolls to meet his cock, angling it toward that sweet spot of yours with little to no effort; mostly because Ben is helping with his big hands on your thighs now. You can feel his fingers buried in the fat there, almost bruising it with how firm his grip is. “Fuck—m’fuck, keep going. Y’pussy’s dripping all over me.” He says after a moment; space filled with your moans and his groanings, whinings, cursings. “I’m going to fill you up so good, you’ll feel my cum weeks after.” He groans, and the words make you gasp. You can’t help but clench your gummy walls around his shaft.
His hazel eyes lower once more, looking at that pretty creamy white ring all around the base of his cock; your pussy pushing some more each time you lower yourself to meet his pelvis. Only then, Ben decides to move one of his hands to your slick folds, pushing a thumb between them, parting them. You let a sigh escape you at the touch, feeling his cold digit explore you like that. Your chest starts to press against his own when he finally circles around your clit, smearing wetness around. There’s an arch in your butt now, making his tip hit directly against that gummy spot at the entrance of your cunt.
“Come on, doll, keep fuckin’ yourself on me. Y’doing so good.” You don’t know if he truly meant to praise you or if his thoughts are just too much focused on your cunt but you don’t care at that moment. You nuzzle your face in his neck; musk, gunpowder, Whiskey and sweat. He smells so good that you could come right on the spot just with that.
His pelvis jerks up to meet yours, cock slapping to bury itself in your dripping hole, and it comes way more sloppy than before. Your juices are making a mess on the fabric of his military green trousers, coating his balls much more; it’s slick and sticky. “Such a good cunt you have. Might need to use it more after that.” Ben grunts in your ear, you feel your thighs burning and shaking from your efforts now. The knot in your lower belly is slowly undoing itself as his thumb rolls against your clit, fingers teasing it.
Your grip around his shoulders tightens when you come on his cock without any warning, spamming on top of him, crying out his name. Juices are flowing out of you, dripping on his shaft, splash-splash-splash noises louder in the room as he keeps fucking you through it. Your back arches, ass almost lifting from his lap but he brings you down again; making you moan out. “Ben! Fuck! I can’t—” He hears from you, hissing at your walls squeezes the fuck out of him, milking him dry. “Goddamn, that sweet little pussy—Don’t worry, darlin’, I’m ‘bout to come too.” He warns you.
His hands pull you down on his cock, now using your body to slide his cock deep inside you. You expect him to fill you up like he had said he would, but instead, Ben’s curses before pulling out of you. Thick ropes of thick, creamy white semen trickle out of his pinkish tip, leaking all the way down to his member, stopping at his balls before falling in globs on the watery bed. His thighs are shaking, his breathing is labored just like yours. Ben’s hazel eyes lifts up to your face, his cock twitching once or twice before softening very slowly.
He blinks, as if his thoughts were all clear now, which makes him smirk. “Might be the best pussy I’ve had in decades, fuck. Cunt squeezed me out so good. Just need to be hit by that fuckass power again; I want to try out new positions.” You whine at his words, and his hand comes to slap lightly on your butt, making you gasp. “Ben!” You sigh, watching as he sneaks a hand down to his balls, gathering his seed in the tip of his digits.
Ben then lifts his hand up to your face, pushing the sticky fingers against your lips so you’d part them. You don’t even hesitate, letting your jaw go slack; and suddenly tasting the salty, thick semen on your tongue. You moan around his fingers, tongue curling to lick at his digits, cleaning them. “That’s a good girl, go on, suck on my fingers.” He hums at you, pushing against your tongue harder to hear whines escape you. “Bet’ya would look good with my cock deep inside your mouth.”
You nod at him, taking his fingers deeper, sucking on them like you’d do with his fat cock. You can feel the fabric of his fingerless glove scratching at the skin of your chin and cheek. It makes him hiss to see you like that; saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, half-lidded eyes looking at him, thighs still shaking around his hips. Ben ends up by pulling his fingers out of your mouth in a wet-pop noise, a smirk decorating his face.
“Icky girl, aren’t you?”
taglist ﹏ @userhotd @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @angeldoll1e @pervyangelz @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @cxlt-lamb1 @kill3ill @dolcefloral @amourflores @avasarchve @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @snoopysnote @blushhbambi @aconstructofamind @qardasngan @harleymuses @aerangi ( to be added )
my masterlist / my ao3
homelander ’john’ x fem!reader
word count: 3,054
JUST STARTED WATCHING THE BOYS AND😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛
synopsis: you get taken as hostages in a bank robbery with your husband and your baby. homelander rescues you. he sees that you’re lactating, and proceeds to break into your home one night when you’re alone.
WARNINGS‼️: noncon, piv, mommy kink, age difference (younger reader), age play, pacifier kink, lactation kink, breastfeeding, fingering (f receiving), oral on f, oral on m, belly bulge, size kink, dry-humping, sloppy kissing, forced relationship, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dacryphilia
song:
you and your husband josh have been together for two years now. highschool sweethearts. you got pregnant rather fast and wanted to keep it, so here you are. with your stroller, buying diapers.
you’re headed for the bank next, since you need to open up a savings account for heather, your baby.
you’re leaning on josh as you wait for your turn. josh is amusing heather.
then, suddenly.
”everyone get the fuck down!” a voice shouts.
six men in masks walk in, holding guns.
everybody screams.
”shut up and get down!” one of the men shouts.
you obey, getting on the ground. heather starts crying. you take her into your arms, hushing her.
a guard grabs her gun, but one of the men is quick to shoot her.
you start crying as well. josh takes you into his arms. ”we’ll be okay, baby. let’s just stay down. i bet homelander will be here soon”, he tries to calm you down.
”shut that fucking baby up!” one of the men yells at you.
you continue hushing heather, teary-eyed.
two of the men head to the back with some bank worker, and the rest stay there, guarding the hostages.
one of the men approaches you.
”new mom, huh..” he murmurs. he kneels down and takes you buy the hair.
”don’t touch her!” josh hisses.
the man grins and knocks josh out with the gun.
”baby!” you cry, trying to get him to wake up.
”shh, love”, the man says, stroking your cheek.
then, someone speaks.
”hello boys”, it’s homelander. he’s standing at the door. queen maeve is with him.
”don’t take another step or i’ll start shooting them! i’ll start with the pretty mommy!” the man shouts.
homelander is quick to use his laser on the men, taking their weapons.
queen maeve knocks two of them out while homelander starts tying two of them up.
the police rush to the building, along with some medics to make sure that everyone’s okay. queen maeve runs after the two robbers remaining, who have probably run out the back door.
josh wakes up.
”baby, are you okay?” you ask.
he nods, holding his head.
homelander approaches you.
”the baby’s alright?” he asks.
”y-yeah..” you say, starstruck.
”oh my god, homelander! thank you!” josh says.
”it’s nothing, it’s my job to keep the people safe”, homelander says with a smile. you don’t know how to explain it, but it doesn’t seem like a genuine smile. he seems fake.
heather starts fussing. you take your breast out and start breastfeeding her.
”how old is she?” homelander asks.
”four months”, you say.
”what a little miracle”, homelander says with that same, fake smile. you feel uneasy, having him watch you breastfeed. josh doesn’t seem to mind, he’s busy thanking homelander.
the police interrogates you, after that you’re free to go. you go to the hospital to get josh and heather checked out.
then you head home, tired and shocked after the day.
you put heather to sleep, then you cuddle up in josh’s arms.
”what a fucking day”, he says.
”yeah”, you say, letting out a deep sigh.
”should i cancel that trip tomorrow?” josh asks.
”no baby, you could get a promotion! we’ll be okay, i can always call my mom”, you answer.
josh kisses you on the cheek. ”you’re perfect, did you know that?” he says.
you chuckle.
the next day josh leaves for the work trip. you’re alone with heather. she sleeps and cries most of the time, so you’re either watching tv or holding her.
homelander, john is alone in the meeting room. he stayed there after all the others had left. he’s sitting in his chair, thinking about you.
a young, beautiful mom. full breasts. you were so cute, all teary-eyed and scared. until he came to rescue you. surely you would want to thank him.
you don’t know it, but homelander followed you home yesterday. he had to know where you live.
he’s thinking about it. sure, it’s wrong. for a superhero to abuse his powers like that. but does he really care? no, he doesn’t. when he wants something he gets it. and he heard you talking about that work trip with your husband, he knows you’re alone.
so he leaves the building.
you’ve just put heather to sleep. you’re watching tv and drinking some wine, pretty relaxed. the robbery is still fresh in your mind. you would feel better if josh was at home, but you’re sure he’s going to get that promotion. and you surely need it.
suddenly, a sound. it’s coming from the front door.
you stand, following the noise.
and then you see him.
homelander. standing right in front of you in the living room.
you let out a scream.
”shh, shh”, homelander hushes you. ”no need to scream”, he says. ”just here to make sure you’re okay”, he adds.
”i’m- i’m fine”, you say.
he takes a step closer to you. you instinctively back off.
”fine? doesn’t seem like it”, homelander says. ”you’re all alone..” he adds.
"homelander..." you start, but he cuts you off.
"call me john", he says.
he sits down on the couch. ”come here”, he says.
you just stare. ”john- get out- get out of my house”, you say.
homelander chuckles. ”are you really gonna talk to me like that? me?” he says.
he taps on the couch, signaling you to come join him. your hesitantly obey, sitting down next to him.
”what do you want?” you ask.
john chuckles. ”isn’t it obvious?” he says. he leans in, putting his arm around you.
”no!” you say, trying to back off. but he has a strong grip on you.
”you’re so young… so sweet and pure.. like the holy mary”, he murmurs.
”you’re leaking…” he says, staring at your breasts. and sure enough, your top is stained with milk.
you notice drool forming at the corner of his mouth.
he gently cups one of your breasts.
”don’t touch me!” you hiss.
”shh, mommy”, homelander whispers.
then his mouth is on yours. a wet, intrusive kiss. his tongue pushes past your teeth as he licks into you with a lot of enthusiasm.
you whimper and try pulling away, but he’s not letting you move. he keeps smacking his lips against yours, drooling all over you. he’s actually whimpering while kissing you, and you can feel his body trembling against yours.
when he finally pulls away it’s with a wet smack and a line of drool connecting your mouths.
”you’re gonna be my mommy”, he says, almost casually. ”i’m your baby”, he adds.
”no way!” you whine.
”don’t talk back”, homelander hisses.
he pulls up your top, exposing your leaking breasts. he lets out a groan at the sight.
”christ, you’re so beautiful”, he says.
you cover yourself up. he tsk’s. ”stop that”, he says, like you’re doing something offensive.
he forces your hands away, staring at your breasts.
”hold me, mommy”, he whines, putting his arms up like he wants to be picked up.
when you don’t react he forces himself on your lap, head under your breasts.
you start crying.
"shh, shh, mommy, don’t cry", he coos.
he latches onto your tits like a baby, eagerly suckling on your milk. he’s slurping loud, moaning.
it’s all over his face as he drinks, he’s messy with it.
he lets out a burp and keeps going, lapping up your milk like his life depends on it.
he keeps going for at least ten minutes, sucking and moaning and whimpering, gulping loudly.
you just cry.
when he stops he kisses you with his milk-stained lips, he tastes sweet.
"mommy’s turn to feel good", he murmurs, laying you down on the couch.
"no, no no! please stop", you sob.
"shh, mommy, let me take care of you", he purrs.
he climbs on top of you, squeezing your wrists above your head. you can feel your bones cracking from his rough touch.
he pulls down your sweatpants and underwear, revealing your cunt. he twirls his fingers on it.
"mommy’s all wet", he says with a triumphant grin.
you freeze. you couldn’t be? but you really are.
he starts kissing and sucking on your neck, going down to your breasts.
he latches onto your tits again, drinking your milk. then he starts humping your leg. his hard cock is grinding against your leg as he dry-humps you like a fucking dog. he’s whimpering while doing it too, sounding pathetic as hell.
he licks your leaking breasts clean, then he starts smooching on your belly.
"i wanna see you all round with my baby..." he murmurs, gently nibbling on your skin. he licks your bellybutton and descends to your inner thigh.
he kisses it gently before leaning in on your wet cunt. he inhales. "fuck, you smell amazing", he says. he spreads you open roughly.
"please don’t", you cry. "i have a husband", you say.
"he’s not here, is he? he left poor mommy all alone, no one to take care of you", he says, mock-sad.
he licks through your folds once, twice. you flinch. he moans. ”ahh fuck, you taste like heaven”, he groans.
his mouth crashes against yours cunt as he starts lapping up your fluids, tongue going everywhere. you cry out from the sensation.
his tongue goes to your clit next as he starts eagerly sucking on it, closing his lips around it.
”a-ahh, no- stop”, you mewl.
he doesn’t stop. he just chuckles and keeps eating you like a starved man.
your legs are shaking already. his fingers are digging into your soft skin as he eats you, surely bruising. he’s holding back, of course he is. he could crush you in the blink of an eye. but he won’t.
”come for me, please mommy”, he whines, almost like a child.
he’s making out with your cunt hungrily, drooling all over you.
you squirt on him then. he swallows everything. then he takes off his glove. he shoves two thick fingers inside you, hooking them.
you cry out, arching your back.
he starts pumping his fingers in and out of you while sucking on your clit.
you’re squirting all over him, the couch is a mess at that point.
”c’mon mommy, come for me”, he murmurs.
and you do. you sob as you come, your fluids wetting his face and fingers, your legs shaking uncontrollably.
homelander kisses your inner thigh and leans in on your breasts again.
”mommy, i want you to breastfeed me again”, he says.
”i don’t wanna!” you cry.
he starts pouting, his face slightly flushed, eyes glossy.
”but i’m your baby..” he mumbles.
he ignores your pleas as he starts drinking your milk again, smacking loudly.
your breasts are swollen and sore, red from where he’s sucking.
he has his eyes closed as he enjoys the taste of your milk.
”pet me”, he demands, and goes back to sucking on your nipple.
you reach out with a shaky hand, petting his hair. he starts literally purring, nuzzling his face even harder against yours tit.
he stops after another ten minutes and forces a wet kiss on your lips.
then he starts peeling off his suit. you freeze under him as he removes his clothing, revealing his toned chest. his belly is round from your milk.
he peels it all the way off, revealing his boxers. his cock is rock-hard.
”i want mommy to make me feel good”, he says, pulling down his underwear. his cock slaps your inner thigh.
”come here”, he orders.
”no”, you resist.
”i won’t ask a second time”, he hisses.
you hesitantly lean in on his cock. it’s huge. long and thick, the tip angry-red and already leaking precum.
”suck it”, he says.
when you hesitate he grabs your head and forces his length inside your mouth, all the way to your throat. you gag. it tastes salty, warm. his balls are smushed against your chin as he keeps you buried there.
then he starts thrusting. hard and rough, mouthfucking you without any gentleness.
you’re gagging and crying, but he doesn’t care.
he’s moaning loud and filthy, keeping you by your hair.
”fuuuuck yes, take it mommy”, he groans.
you taste his salty precum on your tongue.
”fuck, can’t come yet. i need you”, he murmurs. he pulls his cock out and makes you lie down again.
he rubs the tip of his cock against your entrance.
”no, no!” you cry.
”just relax”, he coos.
he starts pushing in, not gentle at all. it feels like he’s breaking you from the inside out, that’s how big he is.
”it hurts!” you sob.
”shh, mommy”, he purrs, stroking your cheek.
your belly bulges once he bottoms out. he puts his hand on the bulge. ”that’s where”, he says. ”that’s where i’ll breed you”, he continues.
you shake your head with teary eyes. homelander just grins.
he almost completely pulls out, only to slam back inside you with a force so strong your whole body aches.
he sets a brutal pace, thrusting inside you, balls slamming against your ass.
he’s fucking you without any softness or kindness, but like he wants to break you.
he leans in to force a sloppy kiss on your lips. you shut your mouth as hard as you can as response. homelander scoffs and squeezes your nipple so hard that you let out a whimper. that’s when his slimy tongue pushes inside your mouth.
he eagerly twirls his tongue against your teeth and gums, then against your tongue.
wet, filthy smacks fill the room as he fucks you, your squirt dripping on his cock.
you’re crying, cheeks wet with tears. he starts kissing away your tears, tongue dragging lazily on your cheek.
”a-ahh fuck mommy i’m gonna cum”, homelander whimpers.
”not inside, please!” you cry.
”yeah, you’re gonna have my baby”, homelander whispers.
”no!” you sob.
he doesn’t listen, but buries himself inside you for one last time. you feel hot, thick spurts of cum pouring inside you.
he crashes on top of you, head on your breasts.
”i’m hungry again, mommy..” he says.
then he starts suckling at your breasts again. your milk flow doesn’t stop.
”god, you’re like a fountain”, he sighs, almost dreamily.
he’s slurping your milk loudly, kissing your breasts at the same time.
then he gets up, clearly to search for something.
he comes back with a children’s book and a pacifier.
”mommy, read to me”, he says, sitting on your lap like a child.
”i’m not doing that”, you say.
”yes you are”, homelander says, squeezing you hard, threatening.
you open the book with shaky hands. homelander puts the pacifier inside his mouth, resting his head on your breasts.
you feel sick to your stomach.
he’s sucking loudly on the pacifier, grossing you out.
as you read you notice his cock hardening again.
you finish the book and homelander gets up, dressing himself. he dresses you next.
you think it’s finally over, but he grabs you, scooping you up into his arms, walking out the door.
”stop, let me go!” you yell. he ignores you and starts flying.
you scream.
the city looks small under your feet, his speed only making you really see lights.
he takes you to his apartment at the vought tower. no one is around at nighttime, at least you don’t see anyone.
at his apartment he starts immediately kissing you. you cry and squirm, but he won’t budge.
"you like smooches, mommy?" he asks, kissing your teary cheek.
you shake your head, bawling. you can’t seem to stop sobbing.
"take me back! my baby is there!" you cry.
"don’t worry, i already have someone going to take care of heather while your idiot husband is away", homelander says.
"from now on you’re mine, you’ll live here with me", he says, like it’s final.
"no, no way!" you yell.
"shh", he hushes you. then he forces his lips on yours again.
he pulls away to make more of his terrifying promises.
"you’ll give birth to my baby", he says. "you’ll be my wife", he adds. "you’ll have everything you could ever want. clothes, perfume, jewelry. i’ll spoil you rotten", he continues.
"i want my husband!" you sob.
"he’s useless, i’ll love you so much better", homelander says.
"now come here and give me a kiss", he says, making a kissy noise at you. you shudder.
"if you don’t obey me maybe i’ll crush your husband’s head", he threatens you. "or i’ll crush little heather. she’d be so easy to pop", he says, like he’s discussing the weather.
you start crying harder, but end up leaning in and putting your lips on homelander’s.
he moans against your lips, cupping both your cheek’s.
"see? so much better when you do as i say", he says with a smile.
he starts removing his suit again. you dissociate until you see him standing in front of you only in his boxers again.
"you know what to do", he says.
you gulp and kneel, pulling his boxers down. his hard cock slaps your cheek.
you take his tip inside your mouth, twirling your tongue on it. homelander moans loudly.
"deeper, mommy", he says.
you obey, making his cock reach your throat. you gag, but keep going, your tears wetting his cock.
homelander’s moaning loud and filthy, grinding himself against you.
"fuck, you’re good", he says.
his cock feels hot and hard inside your mouth, it’s twitching, leaking precum. you swallow it, you have no choice.
it’s too big, your jaw is hurting.
he finally comes with a loud grunt. you taste his salty cum on your tongue. you whimper and try pulling away, but he grabs you.
"swallow it. every last drop", he demands.
you obey, gulping down his fluids.
you start coughing when he finally pulls out.
"hold me", he demands, laying down on his bed.
you’re trembling.
panic hits you. you start rushing to the door, trying to get away.
homelander is quick, caging you into his arms.
"no, no, no, mommy’s not going anywhere", he says. "now we’re gonna cuddle", he demands.
he forces you into his arms on the bed, pulling the covers on both of you.
he takes the pacifier from the bedside table and puts it inside his mouth, clearly soothed by it.
"good night, mommy", he says.
The Replacement
[Homelander x Female!Reader]
Synopsis: You’re the complete opposite of Stillwell, and Homelander despises you for it. It’s 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 Stillwell’s 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 it’s 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 😎😎
『••✎••』
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 is—"
"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. "I’m 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 behind—meticulously organized, of course—and 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 personal information, 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 didn’t realize how much you’d 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 desk—the 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 desk—a direct line to Tower Security—but 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 one. You drove an elbow into his ribs. He yelped and shoved you back against the desk—the 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 wasn’t 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 scene—the blood, your torn clothing, the wild-eyed, muttering intern—and 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 you’d 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 dance—the 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 out—a 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 wasn’t 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 Ashley’s 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 damage—it 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 else—confusion, perhaps, that you weren't reacting with the expected terror or gratitude—crossed 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 you’d 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 claim—a 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 itself—a 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.
It intrigued him.