Apr 28
✨️Ding-ding✨️
He is made out of mochi
seen from Russia
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from Mexico
seen from Brazil
seen from China
seen from Ireland
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Yemen
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Türkiye
✨️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 )
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.
I WANT TO F**K YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL .
( black noir x fem supe!reader )
summary: the not-so-innocent things that go on in noir’s head abt you during The Seven meetings (wc: 1.8k)
warnings: MDNI, dub-con, rough p in v, doggy style, primal play themes, size kink, gagging, sobbing, corruption kink, Homelander being a weirdo at the end… just a lil’
first fic on this blog and I lowkey hate it- ughhh sorry if it’s all over the place!
The morning sun cast its golden glow upon the Manhattan skyline as The Seven assembled in their meeting room.
Homelander paced before them, detailing some new initiative he had conceived, but his words rang as emptily as the void behind his eyes. The Deep hung on his every syllable, eager as ever to prove his ass-kissing self with poorly-timed quips. This earned him nothing but a withering side-eye.
A-Train and Maeve listened with feigned interest, checking out of the conversation all but in body. Noir sat apart, idly fidgeting with a pen as his mind wandered. But his attention was drawn not to the usual faces, for there was a new supe among them—you, the latest fresh-faced recruit to their team.
On the surface, you appeared the absolute picture of attention—eyes forward, laser focused on Homelander as he tiresomely outlined the team's objectives.
It was cute, really, how focused the newbies always strived to be. Yet beneath the facade, you were actually anything but so, not when you felt an unseen gaze assessing you, weighing you.
Flicking your eyes discreetly aside, you confirmed a suspicion you could smell from miles away: Noir watching from across the table, his expression shrouded as ever behind the visor of his helmet.
Ugh, talk about creepy.
A subtle flutter of your eyelids shifted your line of sight, choosing to trust that his thousand-yard stare just so casually happen to drift your way and not an attempt to burn his gaze into your very soul.
Besides, what else could the guy possibly think about? Training, orders from Vought, simple pastimes—usually, such painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill thoughts occupied him.
But little did you know in this moment, as he studied your presence from afar, his mental reflections took a turn less… innocent.
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“N-Noir… mmph-… please…”
It wasn’t his doing, he didn’t ask to be plagued with this sickly obsession; but every time he heard your voice, it was as if sweet, smooth-spun sugar had come alive.
An alien lust scorched Noir’s consciousness, catapulting his fevered mind into unfamiliar territory. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the sinful thoughts that stubbornly stuck to him like glue. Just the mere notion of ever being responsible for those pretty little sounds was enough for arousal to creep through his veins like a nasty virus, sapping what was left of his crumbling self-control.
Your every whine, your every moan, would be a siren's call that beckoned him to claim you, to strip away your composure until you were utterly, helplessly his. All he craved was to watch the light in your eyes dwindle, to witness your breaths dampening into shallow puffs of air that blanketed your gaze in a veil of fog, gradually muffling you into a stillness even quieter than he was.
And truthfully, it wasn’t a matter of whether you liked it or not.
Noir would ensure his touch left no room for refusal, his grasp iron-hard as he positioned your trembling, naked body on the floor to his liking—face pinned down, ass arched up, just as it should be. Yet even as he held you fast with a palm braced against your sweat-slicked spine, his other hand moved with a surprising tenderness, gently teasing loose and brushing apart the knotted strands of hair clung to your ruddied features.
He imagined the merest of touches would set your blood aflame, rumbling up a ripe groan from your core. “…Oh m-my god… fuck…” words fled your mouth on airless breaths, nearly inaudible but still enough for him to catch. In response, he’d slowly lift a finger to your glistening lips, accompanied by a soundless ‘shh’—a signal for you to behave.
After all, good girls should never cuss.
Large, strong hands would then greedily paw at the lush fat of your ass cheeks, the scratchy textured fabric of his gloves leaving blooms of red across your flesh. Spreading you open, he’d admire the way your juicy, moist folds parted slightly, the aching emptiness within your entrance eliciting an involuntary clenching—your muted moans, trapped in your throat, acting as a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of him.
He liked to think you’d be mere putty in his hands, before he was even close to fucking you.
Noir would take his sweet time exploring you, his curiosity of the human form eclipsing the immediate need to quell a white-hot carnal desire every red-blooded man gets. He was good at rearranging people’s insides, literally, but what if he flipped the script in a much different way?
Experimentally, he’d run the very tip of his gloved finger along the weeping slit of your sex, ghosting ever so lightly over your swollen, hypersensitive clit to collect your slick arousal. Then, without warning, he’d dip an entire digit into your quivering depths, reveling in the way your spongy muscles squeezed and welcomed him in.
Your breath would hitch at the intrusion, skin prickling with a visceral need as you eagerly shoved your rear back against his palm, craving more. However, just as swiftly, he would withdraw his hand, bringing it close to his face to observe it covered in your juices, inspecting how the slimy, milky-white essence connected a trail between his fingers.
Who knew light fondling and agonizing silence was all the foreplay you needed? (or at least, in Noir’s fanciful pornographic depictions of you)
Once done playing with his food, he’d drag his knees closer to your body, his hips flush against your ass, leaving your peripheral vision filled with nothing but his imposing, darkly-clad figure dwarfing your own. Without hesitation, he’d reach down to remove the codpiece off him, freeing his hefty cock which sprang forth in the air, where it stood rock-hard, veiny, and impossibly large.
Wrapping a hand around himself, the thickly-roped, buzzing veins were betrayed by each gritty pull of his glove, drawing a guttural grunt from behind his balaclava. He’d guide his erection between your warm folds, the engorged ridge of his tip prodding against your bundle of nerves, sending electric jolts of pleasure to crackle through your core, before he began to sheathe himself inside you with a push that drove him home.
With a grip possessive and firm around your waist, Noir quickly fell into a steady, almost robotic rhythm of sturdy pushes and pulls. Each punishing collision of your bodies was answered by the lewd, rapid sounds of skin-on-skin, making damn sure you felt every single inch of him as he rutted into you like a man possessed.
He’d only hope to see you struggle taking him all in, envisioning how the sheer scale of his size forced the very air out from your gasping lungs.
“P-Please Noir!… ngh-… my body can’t handle this much,” your once-lovely voice now ragged and frail, scraping sobs grinding your vocal cords near silence as you churned and coiled like a fawn caught in the clutches of a big, bad wolf. “Be gentle, I’m begging you!—-” You choked out weakly, bordering on a soft, pitiful whine.
Expectantly, a weighted silence followed suit from Noir. In his typical, unsparing fashion, he slipped a glove from his hand, jamming it into your mouth and effectively gagging you into silence, as if to say—pipe down, be a good girl, and take my cock like you’re supposed to.
Even without a single word uttered by him, it worked like absolute fucking magic.
Your torso would practically collapse under the onslaught, wobbly limbs giving way as you let Noir use your arched up, offering form like a personal fleshlight. His hips would retract further back in an excruciating slowness, simply marveling at your wetness coating the base of his member like a second skin, only to slam back into you with raw vigor.
Your tight, gummy walls would be offered absolutely no time to adjust to the relentless invasion of his girth, the sheer thickness of his cock forcefully stretching out your cunt to shape him, to the point it felt like he was trying to split you into two.
He’d yank your flexing thighs back to meet his brutal series of thrusts, burying himself into you to the very tilt as the fleshy head of his cock kissed your cervix, igniting a searing white bolt of static to lance through your vision, momentarily fracturing it.
The all-consuming, dizzying sensation hit you like a ton of bricks, toppling your senses and wrenching a strangled sob out from your slack jaw once more. This earned you another biting touch from Noir’s thumbs pressed into your sides, as if seeking to wring every gasp out of your chest, to hear your moans rattle through your ribcage.
However even your rawest cries were swiftly muffled, swallowed by the balled-up glove shoved roughly between your teeth, which reduced you to nothing more than a gagging, pleasure-drunk whore for him to claim.
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Meanwhile…
“Welp, that about covers it for today,” Homelander announced with a thunderous clap, loud enough for it to ring through Noir’s ears and bring him back to the present.
Slowly, Noir spun his head back towards Homelander, who had just finished addressing the team while his own thoughts drifted to places where even the pearly gates of heaven wouldn't give him the time of day.
“Now shoo- and no more sloppy behavior. I’ll be keeping an eye on each and every one of you.” Homelander dismissed them with a casual wave and a chuckle laced with another one of his thinly veiled threats.
As everyone, including little-miss-oblivious-you, got up to leave the meeting room, Homelander sauntered over to Noir, heartily slapping a heavy hand onto his back. “Earth to Noir! I know that look—thoughts a million miles away behind that sphinx-like mask of yours,” giving a sly little shrug, he slanted a meaningful look towards Noir’s codpiece. “But methinks, someone here isn’t as impenetrable as I thought…” A thin wry smile played his lips, a subtle hint at his x-ray vision allowing him to see a particular something-something of Noir’s that was currently just as hard as his body armor.
“It might do you good to line that suit with zinc. Wouldn't want any unwanted eyes peeking where they shouldn’t, do we?" An amused exhale, part sigh part snicker, slipped out of Homelander as his gaze swept over Noir once more.
True to form, all he received in turn was Noir’s standard muteness, as soundless as a grave.
Homelander eased the quiet with a huffed laugh, rocking back on his heels as he tilted his head in playful study of Noir. "But don't worry," he added with a knowing smirk, "it happens to the best of us. But do try to keep your head in the game! And not with your other one, ‘kay buddy?” Homelander jested in mock-reproach as he landed one last waggish, firm slap between Noir's shoulders, flashing his gleaming white yet eerily pointed grin.
Noir remained statue still, no hint of feeling betrayed by his rigid posture despite the toe-curling awkwardness of the encounter, or perhaps he'd yet to fully realize Homelander had peered within and seen his aching, raging hard-on behind the suit's facade.
Noir silently watched Homelander shoot two playful finger guns, his cape swirled shut behind him before leaving the room.
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Pssst- Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3
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Apologies if there are any grammatical errors here, cuz I’m alr so done with this fic 😭😭😭