Summary: After drunkenly agreeing to a bet with Gojo Satoru and losing it, he’ll have full control over your next actions. However, he is very aware of your inappropriate tension with your boss, Nanami Kento, and loves to play the Matchmaker.
(Basically the Tiktok thing where you go “Your hands are nice, can they be my necklace?”)
Frustrated (best friends Gojo x reader, slight Geto x reader) HERE!!
Summary: It has been way too long since you've gotten laid - and you know it. Even the tiniest more intimate touch sends you into heated panic, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering like never before. Good thing an old buddy of your best friend returns home! Maybe this is your longed chance to score? Go for it!
Attack on Titan
smut
Car Trip (Jean x Eren x Armin x reader) SOON
Summary: The four friends have always had lots of tension between them - it only gets much hotter as they're all trapped together in a tiny, humid car.
Can't Fall Asleep (best friends Eren x reader) SOON
Summary: You've been best friends with Eren for an unimaginably long time. Everything between you seemed fine - until one night you can't fall asleep and stop thinking 'bout your best friend, who is laying in the next room over, awfully oblivious to your struggles.
My Hero Academia
smut
Need Help? (prof!Aizawa x student!reader) SOON
Summary: You wouldn't call yourself the smartest person in Professor Aizawa's class, but he sure thinks so - which is why he signs you up to an extremely rivalrous contest. Unlucky for you, you've been feeling way too stressed and frustrated, not just because of the upcoming contest, but also because your favorite professor is always hanging out around you - not to even mention your tiny little crush on him. Although - surely he hasn't noticed it, has he?
Criminal Minds
La Méprise (Spencer x reader)
Summary: You start history with Spencer Reid in your university auditorium.
𝓢ummary :: you should know better than to sleep with your superior, especially when duty calls. yet homelander always finds a way to pull you in, leaving you hurt each and every time ❪ wc: 2.1k ❫
𝓓ead 𝓓ove 𓏵 𝓦arnings :: dub-con/non-con. oral (m! receiving). face f*cking. degradation. homelander’s god complex. choking/gagging. hair pulling. slightly choppy writing n’ lazy ending. not my best work
"S-Sir," you stammered, heat blossoming across your cheeks as you fought to maintain your composure. "I really should get back to work. There are other rooms that need cleaning..." your fingers twisted anxiously in the hem of your skirt, the involuntary gesture exposing the desires your words tried so vainly to deny.
Your gaze flitted towards the foot of the bed, where Homelander loomed over your sprawled, vulnerable form. His pale blue eyes raked over you, drinking in every perfect little detail—from the half-lidded, sultry cast of your features to the way your maid uniform clung to your curves, the fabric hitched scandalously high to reveal lace-trimmed panties clinging to your dampened folds.
A smug lift of his brow greeted you in turn, along with a maddening quirk at the corners of his lips—like he knew damn well the extent of his charms and was loath to let any woman forget. It was the same look of cocky triumph that had first drawn you in, and still drove you to distraction each time after. With slow, deliberate steps, he advanced, his heavy red boots echoing off the hardwood as he climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but his gaze never wavered from you.
"Please sir, I—-" your feeble protest withered on your lips, smothered by that familiar tutting sound that often passed through Homelander’s teeth—a dismissive noise, as if you were nothing more than a misbehaving pup in need of correction. You knew he could smell the betrayal of your body, the musk of your arousal wafting up from your heat-stricken cunt to meet his keen senses. "Ah, ah, ah," he chided, "What did I say about you and that pretty mouth of yours, hmm?" Homelander asked, his words dripping with patronizing disdain.
Undoubtedly, he saw through the flimsy pretext of your resistance, reading the truth scrawled across the crevices of your beautiful face.
Homelander surged forward, his muscular frame blotting out the light as he straddled your quivering body. His knees bracketed the sides of your chest, pinning you in place.
"I believe I made it quite clear," he muttered, a razor’s edge seeping into his otherwise jovial tone, "that those lips are to be used for only two things - sucking," his thumb dipped between your parted lips, "or shutting the fuck up."
Instinctively, you opened your mouth, a reflexive response to affirm your obedience. But the firm, cautionary squeeze of his hand on your shoulder gave you pause. Discretion, it seemed, was the wiser choice. So instead of voicing your compliance, you offered a wordless nod, a silent acknowledgment that Homelander found satisfactory. “Good girl…” he hummed in approval.
With that, Homelander granted you permission to move on to the main course of tonight—the sweet, sweet prize that awaited between his god-sculpted thighs.
He gently took a hold of your hand, guiding it towards the impressive, straining bulge that threatened to split the seams of his superhero attire. The moment your fingertips skimmed along the rigid contours of his erection, you swore you felt the barest hint of a beat, tugging the most muted catch from his breath.
“Feel that?” He rasped lowly. “That’s power. And it’s all yours tonight… if you behave.”
A current of nervous tension coiled within you, manifesting in the restless curl of your toes and the worry of your lower lip. Intently, you watched as Homelander worked to undo the buttons of his suit, yanking his thick, weighty cock out which stood tall and proud in its cushion of golden curls. Warmth bloomed in your ears and spilled over your face at the sight, your stare remained locked on its sway.
Amusement scrunched his eyes, absolutely relishing that ‘flash-frozen, deer-in-headlights’ look of yours at his size. The smug bastard soaked it all in with a smile so self-satisfied, it could only belong to the most insufferable shithead around. But the most infuriating part? It was how he still made your insides tie knots for him despite it all.
After a long, narcissism-fueled pause savoring your admiration, Homelander broke the silence with an arrogant exhale. “Alright alright, I get it… I’m perfection personified, nothing short of a masterpiece, yada yada,” He flicked a wrist before his posture of perfection, clad in pristine blue. “But I didn’t invite you here for a goddamn photoshoot. So enough with the eye-fucking already, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Snapped out of your trance, you blinked in a confused daze “Huh?” You barely caught on a word, most of his monologue being a blur—something about bigger fish? Homelander fixed you with a withering glare that could melt steel, lips curled in contempt. Clearly, he thought very little of your mental facilities.
"Bless your heart. Do you need me to break out the crayons and draw you a picture?” His silky tone was condescending in the extreme, as if addressing a particularly dim child. “By bigger fish to fry, I mean bigger things to explore, bigger challenges to face… bigger dicks to suck. Now come on sweetheart, stick that tongue out for me.”
Without another word, his fingers curled around the sturdy base, the glistening, slick tip coming to rest against your warm lips. Homelander’s message came through loud and clear—he wouldn’t allow anymore of your human idiocy, demanding your absolute compliance. Right here, right now.
Swallowing your trepidation, you slowly extended your tongue, tracing a stripe from the curve of the base all the way up to leaky slit of his bulbous, cherry red head. A blissful twitch rippled through his length, drawing beads of precum that sprang forth like a broken faucet.
Homelander’s jaw ticked at your touch, eyelashes flickering low while his mouth thinned bloodlessly, barely stifling the moan that rushed out on his gusting release of breath. Craving more contact, he settled fully over you, wedging you further into the mattress until the head of his member was able to slide past your lips.
He cradled your head close, suffocatingly so, to the point that the tip of your nose was nearly squashed against the hard muscles of his pelvis, sweeping your senses away on a tide of raw musk and cologne—the kind you could only dream of affording.
Without a moment’s pause, Homelander instantly set to work plundering into your slack mouth, greedily stealing the air out of your lungs with every thrust. You froze, an icy veil draping across you as his sheer size blanketed your tongue to an overwhelming degree—an inevitability when in the presence of the Homelander, whose power could crush and destroy with the merest flick of a finger.
“Mm… yeah, that’s it baby, just like that,” Homelander’s voice dropped to a low, throaty purr that was tinged with an undisguised pleasure, impressed by the way you took him with practiced ease despite your discomfort. “Look at you… you really know how to handle a steel pipe, don’t ya?” Homelander quipped, the mirth in his tone teetering upon mockery.
An eye roll for the ages battled to escape, yet the chains of protocol held fast. Because in your idiotically cock-whipped mind, rules somehow still applied when giving your superior a sloppy-toppy.
But the very moment you faltered, even slightly, he seized a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back with a stinging, almost bone-crushing grip that had you gasping. It was a request, no, a demand for you to quit wriggling pathetically and take it like a big girl. “Stay still and keep working on that cock like it owes you a goddamn fortune.” He growled, a wolfish grin splitting his features as he watched you strain to swallow his brutal intrusion—the same ‘steel pipe’ that was now halfway lodged down your throat.
Helpless, all you could do was gag and sputter, while Homelander’s heavy balls slapped loudly against your chin until your skin felt raw. The relentless pounding overwhelmed your eyes with an unwelcome moisture, vision blurring like an out-of-focus camera from the onslaught of sensations—the taste of him, the ache in your jaw, the burn of your scalp. “…’s too… b-big…” you choked out the syllables with gulping effort, each one emerging gargled and barely discernible around the column of flesh violating your mouth.
The craziest part? He could’ve easily gone harder—so much damn harder—if he simply wanted to.
Scorn etched harsh lines around Homelander’s sneer at your plea and lack of appreciation for his so-called ‘restraint’, carving deeper as your mangled noises scraped its way loose. “Jesus, did all that disgusting slobber rot what was left in that walnut you call a brain? I know critical thinking isn’t your strong suit, but this?” Briefly, he withdrew himself, slapping his fat, drooling cock against your cheek to emphasize his next point.
“We’ve been over this—dominance and dick diameter are a set for a reason. And I don't do average. Ever." With a snide scoff, he shoved his member back between your teeth, utterly dismissive of the fact a worm such as yourself had the gall to express any form of displeasure with his godly magnificence. “Psh, ’too big’… Boo-fucking-hoo! Cry me a river and pass the hankies. You signed up for this sweetheart, don’t you forget that.”
Well-fucking-ouch, you winced internally. If the sting in your jaw wasn’t already bad enough, then the blow to your ego definitely added insult to injury.
Unable to take his barrage of demeaning insults any longer, you mustered what little strength you had left and wrapped your hands around his intrusive member in a frantic plea to wrest back some control. But even as you tried to push him away, to create even the slightest distance, you knew it was a futile gesture. Homelander's mighty fists, capable of crushing a thousand suns, anchored your skull in place, rendering your attempts at resistance utterly meaningless.
“Nono- don’t you move a goddamn inch,” Homelander’s command rang out with finality, brooking no room for defiance. “Suck it up and let me in just a little further. You can do it, I know you can.”
He pressed onward, unforgivingly, until your lips were stretched obscenely wide around his spongy head that brushed the sensitive reaches of your throat, coaxing the lewdest hisses of moist air to slither past the corners of your mouth. "Atta girl, that's it," a shuddering exhale fled his lungs, fingers knotting in your hair as his skin came alive beneath your enveloping wetness. "Such a natural little cocksucker. Taking me like a champ."
“…s-sir… please…” words struggled to claw free through vocal cords rubbed raw. Your begging fell upon deaf ears, disregarded as mere noise to soundtrack the moment for Homelander, whose mind was currently busy drowning in a cloud of bliss as his orgasm neared.
"This," he growled, punctuating his words with a mean grind of his hips, "is what you wanted. The privilege of worshipping a true god, the savior of humanity time after fucking time again..." His grip tightened, fingers digging into your scalp. "So keep that pretty mouth open and swallow every last drop of my seed like the starving animal you are.”
With one final pump, a wave of bitterness assaulted your taste buds, and before you could fully brace yourself, Homelander came. The copious tang of his essence flooded your mouth, burning on your tongue with a ferocity that felt like it would linger for days on end.
Once he pulled away, a familiarly heavy silence fell over the small space between you. You knew what was expected of you once he had his fill, yet it never got easier no matter how many times. In truth, you felt empty—skin prickling with discomfort rather than release. He laid beside you, recovering his breath, when he momentarily glanced over at you. There he paused, doing a double take when he noticed the sheen glistening in your eyes, the sadness shaping your lips.
A groan followed, already annoyed by even the subtlest display of your ‘weak, squishy human emotions’. “Eugh… would- would you quit your sniveling and give it a rest? If I needed a weeper, I would’ve, I dunno, gotten a damn puppy… not you.”
Yet something flickered in the depths of his steely gaze—just a momentary glint before it was swallowed back. He quickly schooled his features, reminding himself that you were only a human, a toy for his amusement. Nothing more.
Then with a careless toss, Homelander flung your coat over your head, blinding you. “Cover up that embarrassing nonsense. And while you're at it, do something about that stomach-turning stench up in the break room—it's giving me a migraine.”
-------☆-------
Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3
18+ Only | 4k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Supe!Reader with telepathic and mind-altering powers. Less established relationship and more fuck buddies. Lewd mental images. Office sex (kind of?). Exhibitionism (also kind of?) Overstimulation. Creampie.
Summary: As the only telepathic, mind-altering member of the Seven you take Homelander for a vivid ride in his mind during an important meeting. Homelander can't handle being reduced to less than his perfect manicured self and he decides to teach you a lesson.
Written for this request💚(thank you for the inspo!)
Boring. Boring. Mind-numbingly fucking boring.
Ashley’s testing out her new ‘VP of Hero Management’ wings that Homelander graciously gifted her and what does she do with them? She parades around the meeting room, putting up a front of a resilient and driven businesswoman while on the inside her heartbeat is in the hundred-tens and her muscles are strung so tight he could shatter them with a flick of a finger.
Now she’s wasting their time with this? So much for filling in Madelyn’s boots with someone capable.
He rolls his eyes.
She’s pitching ideas for the last missing member of the Seven, one they’ve been lacking since Translucent’s funeral. His eyes quickly flit to you sitting to his right side, taking up Deep’s mantle ever since his timely departure. At least you’ve proven yourself to be a worthy member with some quality skillset.
But these fucking options? What is this? When did good old classic superheroes turn into strange curiosities fit for a circus freak show. First an animal whisperer and now another invisible freak?
Looking around the rest of the room, he grits his teeth. The rest of the team doesn’t even fucking care. Why does it always have to be him, maintaining the standard everyone should adhere to?
“Nope. Not happening.” He dismisses the presented slide with disdain.
“S-sir, we could really do with the boost in our 18-32 demographic. Invisi-lass has already hit 20 million followers on Instagram. Our forecast shows an uptick of 5%.” Each stutter of her voice is even more grating on his ears than the obnoxious click of her stilettos.
“Right, a bunch of fucking pre-teen girls wishing they could disappear like her. Fantastic. They’re not gonna come out in support of us, Ashley.” He’s had enough of everyone else thinking they know what’s best for the team, what’s best for him. “Instead it will hurt the biggest demographic—my demographic—because everyone can clearly see that we only care about optics. A female majority in the Seven? Give me a fucking br—”
Moan. That was a fucking moan. Homelander whips his head around to look at the rest of the room to see anyone else reacting. Nobody is paying fucking attention. His mind is playing tricks on him.
He looks at you again. Even you’re making him look bad, sitting at your spot at the Seven’s table all uninterested just like the rest of them.
“Sir?” Ashley’s voice rings the clearest.
“I said no. We don’t need Translucent 2.0. Find something better—” He chokes on the last letter, eyes widening a fraction when he hears the distinctive sound of fingers running up and down a wet pussy.
It’s the loudest thing in his head. Jesus Christ, if that doesn’t make his cock throb.
“Find someone better.” He repeats with a scathing enough look that Ashley—nor anyone else—dares question his restlessness.
The squelch of a soaked cunt is still loud in his ears, the brazen repetition of the lewd noise tinges the tips of his ears pink. He swallows, shaking his head clear of the sound instead trying to focus on the rest of the presentation.
The intermittent nature of the sound is enough to disturb his attention. He throws you a cautionary glare. Not that it does much besides egg you on. The teasing tilt to your lips makes him want to get up and teach you a lesson.
The sound of soft groans in his head makes Homelander squeeze the armrest, just about stopping himself from ripping it clean off.
Ashley clicks a button on her remote and the screen changes. Moan. Homelander’s barely paying attention to the new recruit candidate. They are as unremarkable as the others.
“Homelander.” You sneaky devil. You’ll pay for that one for sure. Timing that sinful pleasure-infused sound of his name at the same time as Ashley asks for his opinion.
He barely grits out an irritated no. His tongue flits out to wet his lips as his mind fills with the images of a sopping wet set of lips eagerly waiting for his rapt attention.
It takes him everything to stop the wanton moan from escaping his lips when he turns to look at you but instead the image of you naked from the waist down, sitting on top of the table right in front of him steals his mind away from reality.
He has to shake his head clear before he gets lost in the vivid image you’ve planted in his head. Oh now you’ll definitely get what’s coming to you.
It’s impossible to escape the literally mind-fucking you’ve trapped him in now. Thank fuck for the hard cup in his suit. Without it he’d be flashing a hefty erection to the rest of the team.
If he wasn’t horny out of his mind he’d be impressed with how far you’ve come with your skillset since you’ve become a part of the team. What started as implanted ideas and fleeting moments you’ve turned into vivid and believable scenes, an outright reshaping of his view of reality. The way you could easily manipulate what someone saw—or believed they saw—was pretty fucking hot if he had to say so himself.
His voice quivers when he denies yet another proposal but nobody dares pull him up on it.
The image of your legs spread right in front of him is inescapable. He sees bare thighs sticking to the table top. Along with a mouth-watering pool of slick right where you sit as your fingers go to town, pushing into your cunt with a need he can’t believe he can’t exploit.
He’s stopped staring at the screens Ashley presented on as she moved onto stats and ratings. While it just comes across as uninterested to anyone else, he wants to look at that exact spot you’ve planted yourself onto in his mind. It makes it more vivid. His mouth is fucking dry. How can you present the oasis and not let him have a sip.
He’s shifting in his seat, each movement aiding in feeling a sliver of friction against his cock. He feels how obscenely he’s leaking. Embarrassing, what you do to him. What he lets you do to him.
The images and visions you send into his mind are nearing crescendo. Each of Ashley’s words is punctuated by a lewd sound. Moan. Filthy noise of your plunging fingers. Groan. His fucking name.
No.
No.
He can’t have you enjoy yourself with your shitty little smirk while he’s fighting for his fucking life.
“Enough.” It comes out weak, but to the unknowing it just sounds exasperated. When nobody moves or says anything he repeats himself.
“That’s enough Ashley.” He’s too frustrated to put on the cheerful aura. Too worked up to perform. “Just-just come back when you’ve got something useful. Don’t waste my time with more of these good-for-nothings.”
Ashley’s polite, business curated smile drops and she tightens her lips into a fine line, turning the screens off with an affirmative, “yes, sir.”
He stands up from his seat after he pushes his chair back. He shakes the image from his head.
“Everyone. Out!” He repeats, motioning with both hands towards the exit with a sweeping gesture.
The rest of the team clearly doesn’t care. They barely paid any attention to begin with. All dealing with their insignificant issues in their insignificant little lives. Even after he brought them all to glory they’re still not grateful.
He feels his own heartbeat rise with frustration, the sick feeling taking over.
His vision turns red when the doors take their sweet time opening fully. He’s ready to laser them off the hinges. Upon opening Ashley gets out first, thank fuck, rushing to keep out of the way as fast as possible.
“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Homelander stands behind you, both gloved hands land on your shoulders hard, squeezing with a moderate strength. For all your mind-fucking powers you’re still fairly fragile.
The room empties out, doors shutting behind them.
“Well,” he lets you turn around just in time to see that bratty smirk, “you did say ‘everyone out’. I’m just following orders, sir.” Youuu make him want to strangle and kiss you at the same time.
“Really? This is what you’re going with? Brave. Your sassy attitude isn’t gonna soften the blow sweetheart.” He cups your face pulling you closer to his face. Your hands automatically rest on his biceps, whether for support or as a feeble attempt to push him away he doesn’t really care.
“If you think it’s fun to fuck around—well—then I’m sure you won’t mind if I fuck you riiiight here.” He pushes you back against the table with each step forward, effortlessly hoisting you up with a little throw, making you land on the hard surface.
“See, honey,” he pinches your chin with his thumb and forefinger and he tilts your head a little to the left. “That camera in the upper corner? Yep that one.” He points at it with his finger just to be sure.
“Now that camera is gonna record eeevery little moan and whimper along with your embarrassing little faces.” He chuckles with his lips closed, already terribly amused at your wide-eyed expression. You make it too easy.
“I was going to keep it to myself, wipe the recording, that sorta thing.” He pulls off his gloves, noticing your eyes follow each movement of his hands as if to brace yourself for what’s to happen.
As you should.
“But then I thought that I might be better off just accidentally sending it to everyone at Vought. So everyone can see what a nasty little slut you are.” His one hand cups your crotch through your uniform. He barely needs his super hearing to catch the squish of wet flesh when his finger presses in the middle.
“Be real, did you really think I would let this slide?”
“I was just doing you a favour!” You squirm under his hand, trying to worm your way further away from him. “You were clearly bored out of your mind.”
Homelander pulls you close, sucking on his teeth with a disapproving shake of his head.
His bare fingers pinch the smooth stretchy fabric of your costume right at your crotch. With his second hand joining the cause he rips the material apart like tissue paper, grabbing the new frayed edges and ripping a hole big enough for the tear to span the top of your pubic bone to the middle of your ass crack.
“Homelander! What the fuck!?” Oh finally, you’re realising the severity of your actions. He grins, ripping the next layer, your colour matching panties, down the middle—making them effectively crotchless.
God it’s so satisfying to see you try to force your legs closed. As well as wedging your hand down the middle. It’s all pointless anyway.
“Come on, don’t cover up. You were so happy to show off all your best assets earlier, gorgeous. Where’s that energy now?” He teases you. He’s being an asshole and he knows it. It’s all so worth it, especially when your eyes flicker to the camera.
“Eyes down here darling.” He pushes your head back down, not giving you a second to spare before he’s capturing your lips with his. And for all your embarrassment in the moment you still give as good as you get. Really, he thinks this always ends up being some of your hottest sex.
The kiss is messy, pulling and tugging at each other's lips, tongues wet and hot against each other in between the greedy nips and bites at the other ones lips. There’s no time and space for gentle and loving in this moment. He has to stop himself from not shattering your jaw with his hand as he kisses you like a starving man. Each wet kiss and moan makes his cock throb, balls heavy and aching, bordering on painful.
Homelander can’t really wait much longer. He's not gonna get blue-balled by your stupid powers. His cock has been begging for some sweet relief quite some time now.
Reluctantly he pulls away, hands going to his pants. He leaves his belt on, pulling the zipper down from underneath it, pushing all layers down in one fell swoop.
And wow, already he’s really raring to go. His cock bounces up when it’s released from its fabric prison, grazing your hot flesh on the way up. His mind gets shot with a fuzzy feeling he’s not used to.
He rests both arms on the table, leaning in close to you with a groan. “Stop that.” He rests his forehead against yours with a hiss. “None of your tricks.”
“It’s not a trick. It’s not made up. It’s-it’s what I feel. I’m sharing it with you.”
Eyes widening as he pulls back a bit, staring you up and down with a confused look. So what, you can now broadcast your pleasure? Straight to his pleasure receptors? What in the—
“You can do that?” It’s unbelievable really.
Nevertheless, Homelander hooks his arms under your thighs pulling you closer to the edge and forcing you down on your back, no matter how much you try to stay up propped by your arms.
“It’s new to me too…” You say a little out of breath as your back hits the table top.
Immediately he grips the base of his cock, flicking the head up and down your slit. The pay off is immediate. His mind buzzes with pleasure he’s never felt before. Is that what it feels like when he teases your clit?
He can’t wait to eat you out with this new party trick.
Greedy for more of that sparkling pleasure he rubs his cock against your clit with more urgency than you’ve ever seen him do before. Look, he’s always been a good lover to you, making sure you finish each time. But this? This feeling? This more than reassures that you’ll get your fill and more.
The possibilities this opens up are endless. Already curious to find out what else the rest of your body feels like he reaches out to unzip the top part of your uniform, pulling down the fabric of your bra so he can suck on your nipple as he bends over your body.
God, look at him. He feels like a teenage boy touching a woman’s body for the first time.
His eyes widen immediately as his tongue circles your nipple—both, for good measure. You’re so sensitive. His nipples are nowhere near this level of tingling when you give them some love.
That’s it. He can’t wait. He needs to know what it feel like to have his cock stretch you out. Fill you over and over again.
He nearly comes at the thought of getting to feel that sensation first-hand. His hand trembles when he pulls back to stand somewhat straight as he positions his cock to kiss your entrance. The wet squelch of the two meeting makes you flush. He can feel how hot you’re getting.
“Fuuuck me—you’re even wetter than you were in your little fantasy. Lucky me.” His eyes flutter shut as he pushes into the intense wet heat inch by glorious inch.
And this already feels orgasmic. The hot squeeze of your soft walls is unlike anything in the world. Or… so he thought until a second ago. Somehow it feels even better from your side. This new trick of yours will definitely become his favourite.
It’s really no surprise you jump on his dick anytime the situation allows these days because holy shit is this how it really feels?
You broadcast all that you’re feeling into his brain, tapping straight into the pleasure centre and lighting it up like a Christmas tree on Times Square. The thick glide and fill is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. It actually makes him a little dizzy. Having the dual sensation of your wet pussy clinging to him all while enjoying your side of getting filled is guaranteed to make him bust in no time.
“F-ffuck you're perfect… Jesus a-hah…that's so fucking tight and wet.” He’s really losing his mind now. For a second it feels like he’s the one getting embarrassed on camera with how thoroughly this is reducing him to a bunch of moans and mumbles. But at least he’ll have a fun memory to look back on.
So he makes the best of it.
This is where all his bravado and cocky words just stop. There’s nothing else on his mind now except the feeling of two hot bodies getting off together.
His hips thrust into you with jagged snaps, unwilling to stay out of your warmth any longer than necessary. His one arm is wrapped around your thigh, pulling you even closer to him as he continuously pumps his hips into you.
The room is a mix of grunts and moans, squeaky sounds of the table legs being pushed forward with each thrust. The huge V-shaped table stands no chance against the hurried and desperate drive of Homelander’s hips.
He takes his free hand to your clit. Immediately hit by what feels like a bolt of lightning inside his brain.
He whines needily, forcing his hand to focus on rubbing your clit in a solid rhythm.
It doesn’t help that you sing for him prettily, little sweet moans as he’s setting your sensitive clit on fire.
He can't resist anymore. The feeling of your clit getting stimulated with his fingers, all while getting your insides massaged with each pass of his cock is enough to make his mind melt. If you weren't his favourite before you definitely are now.
What catches him off guard is your climbing climax. That feeling is familiar yet foreign and interesting enough to add to his own pleasure. And with that there's nothing he can do to hold back. His balls ache too much.
With a whimpered cry he feels the pull of his orgasm taking over. His hips stutter into a pathetic tempo as his cock pulses with his orgasm, unloading one spurt of come into you after another.
“God–fuck s’rry…sorry. I couldn’t—ah, couldn't hold back.” He’s gasping for air, the most he’s ever been winded after sex.
But there's no way he's going to let you go until he feels your orgasm through your powers. He needs it.
“Don't stop, please.” You whimper, the pleading sending a pulse of heat down his gut.
He tries to match the same pace from earlier as much as he's capable. He's still hard inside you. The shivers up his spine from your climbing orgasm are keeping him on the razor's edge of too much stimulation.
The steady rubbing of your clit makes him grit his teeth, the pleasure of it makes him want to drool and roll his eyes back.
“N’t g’nna” He mumbles through his teeth, watching with wide eyes as you suck on your own fingers, using the wetness to rub and pinch your nipples of your bouncing tits.
He watches as your moans get higher, pushed out in between gasps for air as you arch against the tabletop, your body pulsating and straining against his.
And then he feels it. For a little while he thought you wouldn't be able to have enough control of your powers to transmit the feeling to him, exhausted after a vigorous fucking to give him what he's here for.
But you do. A burst of hot pleasure melts in between each crevice of his mind, suffocating him with how obscenely strong it feels. The way it reaches into each fingertip and limb makes him nearly fall over on top of you and go limp.
He sucks in the saliva when he feels it gathering on his tongue, his eyes blown black and his body feeling like it's dealing with the aftershocks of electrocution. It's only then he realises he can feel his cock throb and pulse, the tell-tale sign of having just come. Again.
He sucks in a big gulp of air and he pulls out. His cock has reached its oversensitivity limit and now every pulse of your pussy sends a shiver of pain-laced pleasure up his spine.
“What the fuck was that?” He asks, exhausted and falling back into his chair, for once with a heaving chest and gasps for air. It takes a lot to get him winded. Somehow you managed that. Your only response is a weak laugh.
He'd be embarrassed with how ruined you made him feel if his entire nervous system wasn't buzzing with the signals that amount to three orgasms in the span of five minutes.
He pushes his softening cock back into his underwear. Not wanting it to smear the leftover dribbles of come into the fabric of his suit.
Looking at you like this makes him especially glad to have made you the centrepiece in the camera angle. You've propped yourself up on your elbows, catching your own breath. But Homelander can't quite look away from the mess he's made of you.
Your pussy is swollen with the effort, blood rushing underneath the surface. Nice and stretched for his size now, perfect for round two—well, three really—as the small gaping entrance leaks his come in dribbles, collecting on the table. Just like your slick was in the fantasy visual you fed him earlier.
You should be happy he's a generous enough man to make your dreams come true.
Clearing his throat he goes “you're gonna have to clean that up.” His signature sharp grin makes itself known, beyond pleased with the effect he's got on you. Even though you’re the one who started this, abused him with your telepathic powers in ways nobody else would ever dare. You can bet on him being the one to finish it.
“Huh? With what!” You bite back when you gain some functions back. Sitting up on the table properly. You rush to zip your uniform back up again, not wanting to have anyone else see you as exposed as you are.
“Your tongue for all I care. Can't have you leaving a mess like that.” He stands up, stretching himself tall, puffing his chest out as if his own cock didn't leave a mess in his underpants.
“How the fuck am I meant to walk anywhere like this? Could you not have just pulled my pants down? Fucking asshole.” You mutter as you hop off the table, ripping the rest of your tattered underwear off so you can wipe as much of the milky white stain and shove the sopping wet fabric into your pocket.
Oh, kitty has claws. Cute.
You stand up straight in front of him, or as straight as you can seeing as you're clutching your pussy so you can’t leak any of his essence down your legs. Or the ground.
Good girl, keeping it all in there like you should.
“Oh please, you loved it.” The sheepish little ‘maybe’ that escapes your lips is all he needs to kiss you silly. His signature wet and loud kiss that makes your mind hazy each and every time.
He pulls back after one last, surprisingly soft, kiss.
Homelander knows the toll your mind powers have on you, you're tired, overworked and overly sensitive. It’s your only weakness as far as he’s concerned—apart from him of course. And contrary to your belief he does have a particularly soft spot for you.
He unclasps his cape, wrapping it up around your middle as a cover-up. He picks you up into his arms, bridal style, carrying you effortlessly as he makes his way around the 99th floor, towards his penthouse.
“Hope you've got a clear schedule because I want you to show me what else you've learned to do without telling me.”
And while originally he threatened you with leaking the footage, he doesn't particularly want you to fill the daydreaming heads of every Joe in the company. He's sure you would. Though the footage will certainly come in handy for a good old Friday movie night in.
For now though? Your job will be to warm the other side of his bed while you get your rest. After that? You're really gonna have to reconsider your stance on a public relationship because there's no way he's not gonna make you his.
Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):
Tags/Warnings: Smut, DUBCON, stalking, PiV, semi-forced oral (m. rec), face fucking, light choking, slapping, power imbalance, dacryphilia, predator/prey, hickies/bruises, biting, degradation, use of 'Sir', dirty talk, implied and vaguely described off screen murder, sex while covered in blood, sex in an alley, clothed sex
Summary: After you go on a date with a guy you met on Tinder, you find out just how far Homelander's obsession really goes.
Word Count: 4.7k
Author's Note: Title from the song No Mercy by Austin Giorgio
There's no excuse why this is late coming out. I got caught up with chores yesterday and wasn't able to get as much done.
Dividers: Line divider by @saradika-graphics—Star Spangled Banner from Pinterest.
Tag List: @copperboom82
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Ever since you started working for Vought as Homelander’s ‘Personal Household Assistant’, you constantly felt like you were being watched.
In the beginning you thought maybe it was some kind of personal security team that was assigned to you to make sure you weren’t a mole or someone who would screw them over. Being in Homelander’s penthouse and being intimate with him awarded you access to sensitive information, hence the NDA you were required to sign during your onboarding and acceptance of the position.
But it somehow felt…sinister. Curious. Not the clean and clinical observation you’d expect from a professional team. It was almost, possessive, in a way.
It followed you everywhere. As soon as you left Vought Tower it was on you. It followed you on your way home, it followed you to the grocery store, it followed you when you took yourself out to dinner. Even behind closed doors with all the blinds drawn, it refused to cease. The hair that pricked at the nape of your neck and along your arms, the oil slick pooling in your stomach that made you feel ill—all of it, all the time. It was tiring to say the least.
You had never felt it before, not one to be paranoid or feel like people were out to get you or anything; there was no predisposition to paranoia or trauma that would cause it.
Stress of the job is how you rationalized it to yourself. Admittedly, being the emotional and physical chew toy for America’s favorite supe wasn’t always the most glamorous. It left you aching and tired and contemplating how the hell you got here. It wasn’t all bad, though. Especially the nights when you were too tired and fucked out to be bothered to take the train and walk back to your apartment, Homelander let you stay in his bed.
But despite the fleeting good times, your interactions were still strictly transactional, and as a normal human being, you craved the intimacy and normalcy that the arrangement with him severely lacked.
So, one night after you trudged home, thighs aching, you collapsed into bed and went into the app store. Tinder had been the first one to pop up, the one you knew the most about, and without a second thought your thumb had pressed the install button. Sure, you had as good of a chance of finding intimacy on the app that you did with the towheaded supe, but your odds were better of finding someone with at least a soul. Though, after you created your profile, entering in all the little fun facts about yourself and picking out the few photos you deemed dating profile worthy and actually started matching with men, you were beginning to question even that possibility.
There were a few hits that went beyond the unsolicited dick pic and the request for you to send pictures of your own nude body, but suspiciously you would talk to a guy for a few days before he ghosted you. You shrugged it off too, assuming this was normal amongst the apps, and from what you could find online, it was a serial problem.
But just as you were about to give up and uninstall it, you matched with Jackson. He was tall, handsome, and had a winning smile with fawn brown hair and chocolate eyes. Everything on his profile matched yours; a short term relationship that had potential to become long term, held the same religious and political affiliations, and seemed to be an overall decent guy. He even messaged you first, which counted the second time in nearly a month and a good cycle of guys that it had happened. Seriously, whatever happened to guys pursuing the girl?
After a few days of back and forth, moving almost instantly off the app and to regular text messaging, a date with a time and a place was set. A mid-scale Italian restaurant not too far from your apartment with the promise of ice cream after. You couldn’t say yes fast enough.
But as you got ready, that watched feeling seemed even more present. It clung to you in the shower as you shaved and washed yourself with the scented body wash you saved for special occasions. You kept looking in the mirror, expecting someone to be behind you as you slid on a matching bra and panty set, tugging stockings up to your mid thigh. Even once you slid into a sin-red dress that hugged you in all the right places to make you confident as hell, donning a classic make-up look and styled your hair to the nines, it got more and more intense until you could have sworn you felt a hot breath on your shoulder as you clasped the necklace around your neck.
But when you whirled around, you were alone in your bedroom, nothing out of place. The curtains still shut, the window cracked—perfect.
You shivered, attributing it to first date jitters. It had been a while since you had been on one, and they had always been nerve wracking to begin with. So you bent down to pull your heels on, checked yourself one last time in the mirror, grabbed your jacket and your purse laden with your wallet and keys, and left your apartment.
It was chilly when you left, the biting wind making its way under your jacket. Thankfully, as mutually agreed upon, the restaurant wasn’t too far from your apartment so keeping a brisk pace, you had made it before the cold got to you too much. Greeting the hostess, you gave Jackson’s name since you had gotten their first, and she showed you to your table.
You had never been stood up before. After 10 minutes, you checked your watch, then your phone to see if he had texted. But the last message in the thread was you telling him you were at your table. It registered as Delivered 20:30. Nothing. After 15 minutes, you apologized to the waiter, slipping him a $10 for the inconvenience, shame burning in your cheeks as you slunk out the front door, pulling your jacket back over your dress.
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes as you shouldered your way through the doors. How could you be this stupid?! You ripped your phone from your coat pocket, unlocking it and immediately navigating to the app and uninstalling it. Shoving it and your hands into the pockets of your jacket, you tried to force the tears away from the pity party you were diving head first into and into some kind of anger, some rage. You showed up, looking hot as hell. If Jackson wanted to blow you off, then screw him! But unlike in the movies where the leading lady bounces back faster than an uber-rich celebrity after a minor scandal, you lacked that quality. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks away, teeth gnawing away at the inside of your lip.
Then, you felt it. The hair at the back of your head standing on end.
The streets were mostly deserted at nearly quarter to nine on a Thursday night, save for a few individuals meddling about probably on their way home like you were. You stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk, taking the opportunity to look around. The streetlights did a decent job of lighting the area, but there was still an abundance of shadows of varying opacities. As your eyes scanned your surroundings, you caught on one figure across the street and up nearly a block, standing between you and your apartment. Even if he weren’t so far away, if he weren’t cloaked in shadow, you would recognize those red glowing eyes anywhere.
Two red dots stared back at you, and between their glow and the incandescence of the lights, you could see his mouth pull up into that wolfish grin.
You stood there for a second, brain trying to calibrate, trying to comprehend everything as the puzzle pieces snapped into place. The always feeling like you were being watched. That was him. But it still didn’t explain your missing date. Homelander wouldn’t do anything to them, would he?
The question was shortly thereafter answered when he stepped more into the light, and you could see the way he was dressed. It stunned you, seeing him out of his supe regalia. Gone was the garishly patriotic getup. It was replaced by a pair of dark wash jeans, a white t-shirt and a dark blue jacket with a ballcap pulled low over his brow.
Except, his t-shirt, it wasn’t white anymore.
No, it was stained red.
The pounding of your heart was near deafening, every part of you buzzing, primed and ready to run. He took another step. Then another. And another, until he was close enough that you could read his lips.
“Run.”
And run you did.
The heels of your shoes sounded like gunshots on the concrete as you bolted. Instantly you regretted ever wearing them, one step away from pitching an ankle sideways and breaking something. But you didn’t dare take the time to stop and take them off. The dainty buckles which you thought looked so elegant would be too difficult to navigate with your shaking hands and in the dark.
You didn’t know what to do, where to run. Even though you had moved here years prior, you never really made it a point to walk around much beyond the train station and your jobs. Even if you had, the panic that swarmed around you would have muddled any sense of direction. Looking around wildly, you nearly trip as you harshly round a corner into an alleyway. The tears that had once stained your cheeks were gone now, eyes wide and frantic.
Vaguely you recognized water and other liquids you didn’t want to think about splashing around your feet. Dodging trashcans and trashbags, random boxes and discarded furniture, you scurried down the alley. Towards the end, your lungs burning in insistence to slow the fuck down, you reduced your speed to a walk.
Through the dull thud of your pulse in your ears, you strained to listen for any other signs of life. Maybe I lost him? You almost chuckled at the naivety of that thought. The man—the supe—had stalked you for weeks, and if the feeling of being watched while having no direct line of sight into your apartment told you anything was that if he wanted to find you, to see you, he would.
Sure enough as you peered around the hulking green garbage bin, he was already halfway to you barely winded. Again, your muscles tense as you dash forward, but you don’t know how much longer you can keep this up. Your lungs are aching, hanging on by strings causing a stitch in your side, your feet ache and your legs feel like jelly. But still, you run.
You burst out the other end of the alley onto another road, this one more deserted than the last. At the last second you wheel to the right but realize when it’s too late that he’s herding you away from your apartment, away from relative safety, and towards the industrial side of town. You lost your purse long ago, which meant you had no phone, no keys, no wallet, so even if you found a way back to your apartment, you had no way to get in, no way to call the superintendent to get you inside, and no money to go anywhere else.
With the lack of any other pedestrian presence, you blindly sprint across the street and into the alley there. You dive almost head first behind a pile of discarded pallets, sandwiching yourself between them and the rusted industrial sized washer. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you try to control your breathing, though you know nothing is going to stop him from finding you.
Maybe that's why you stopped, why you chose to hide instead of keep running.
You know that it’s futile. He can never tire, never at the will of his body's limitations. His body doesn’t even have any limitations.
But in spite of the situation, you still felt a blaze of heat in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it was the combination of the adrenaline and the intimate nature of your relationship, your employment, but as you shifted into a crouch, you recognized the unmistakable sensation of slickness between your thighs. Well, if he couldn’t hear or see me before, he can definitely smell me now. The fear, the arousal.
“Come out, come out.” He sing-songed from somewhere close. “I want to have a little fun.”
The alley was already darkened significantly due to the lack of immediate light sources, but still, you saw his shadow cross over the space between the garbage bin and the washer. A sneakered foot followed suit, then a denim wrapped leg until he was blocking your only way out, peering down at you with his head animalistically cocked to the side as he considered you.
He had lost the ballcap somewhere in the chase, his blond hair strewn and mussed about after being under the hat. It was even stranger up close to see him in civvies and not dressed to the nines, polished and preened like a prize bull at the county fair. Normal. He looked almost normal. But you knew better, especially with the blood spatter scattered across his chest like a bloody Jackson Pollock.
Homelander’s hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair in a near painful grasp. It forced you to pitch forward onto your knees. The force of your knees meeting the concrete had pain zinging up your thighs, reverberating into your bones.
“Now,” He said in a scolding tone that reminded you of how one would talk to a naughty child. “What possessed you to think you could go find somebody else? I treat you pretty good, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do.” You said, blinking back the wince at how tightly he was craning your head back in order to look up at him.
“You don’t need anyone else.” He commanded.
“Yes, sir.” A shiver cascades down your spine as the warmth in your stomach grows.
With the hand not tangled in your hair, he tugs the stained shirt away from his body. Now that you are so close, you can see the blood hasn’t quite dried yet.
“This,” Homelander emphasizes. “This is what will happen to anyone you try and meet again.”
That cements it in your mind. Jackson hadn’t stood you up. But Homelander isn’t done.
“I thought I made that clear when I scared all those nutless, godless sons of bitches away from you.” He scoffed, letting go of his shirt. “But you just kept going back.”
Holy fuck. You hadn’t really registered just how obsessed, how possessive he was of you. In all honesty you expected to be dead within a month at most after being hired on, but it had gone on way longer than you predicted. For whatever reason, you served a purpose, filled a hole in his life.
You didn’t know how to respond, so you didn’t, just keeping your eyes on his face instead.
“So clearly.” His hand reaches for the front of his pants, and from your peripheral, you can see the bulge already evident there. “You need a reminder that I am the only person you need.”
His jeans are undone and pushed down his thighs in a matter of moments, his thick cock springing free. You anticipate him to haul you up by his handhold, to rip the dress from your body and fuck you senseless, but it seems that would come later. Instead he spits loudly into his hand, stroking the length of him.
This is new. Given the ‘casual’ nature that all your encounters had possessed prior to this, he had never been inside your mouth. That would require acknowledgement of the act, which was seemingly against the ever changing rules that you could never seem to get a grasp on.
Eyes half lidded, he pumped his cock in your face. Holding your head in place with the other hand, he brought your head closer and closer until the head of him brushed wetly against your lips.
“Open your fucking mouth, whore.” His hand abandoning the grip on his cock to slap across your face.
The stinging pain had instinctual tears beading at your waterline and you opened your mouth. Again, he guided himself to your lips, slipping past them to lay heavy on your tongue all the way to brush the back of your throat. Your lips closed around him as spit started to flood your mouth. You gag as he bullied himself in further, and you pressed your hands against his thighs in a futile attempt to push him away.
“Swallow it.” He grunted, pulling back a little before shooting back forward. “All of it.”
With most of himself inside your mouth, his other hand abandoned his shaft, coming to rest beside the other at the back of your head, keeping you steady as he fucked your mouth. You’ve gave up trying to keep your lips tight around his cock, letting it go slack and you could feel viscous drool coating him and sliding in thick strings down your chin and neck.
Each bump of his cock against the back of your throat had more and more tears gathering at your eyes, beading along your lashes until they grow too heavy and spill down your cheeks to join the amalgam of fluids coating your face.
“What a fucking pathetic mess.” He growled, pace picking up as he saw the way your mascara runs down your cheeks. “Cryin’ like I can’t smell how fucking wet you are. You’ve been wet since I started chasing you. Got you weeping all over for this cock.”
Your brain is so far past short circuited now. The pure filth that he was uttering made your pussy throb harshly with each syllable. Your knees started to grow sore from how long you had been kneeling there on the unforgiving concrete. The hands on his thighs became less defensive and more bracing as he began to slip, moving faster and erratic, sending him past that barrier and into your throat. On instinct you swallow around him and gag which causes him to do it again with a choked sound.
“Ohhh fuckkk,” Homelander pressed your head further on him with the grip on your hair. “Do that again—fuck. Just like that.”
With his thick cock down your throat, no air is passing to your lungs and the corners of your vision start to go dark, a lightheadedness pressing at your brain.
He was so far down your throat you didn’t taste his cum when he climaxed with a loud and gravelly moan. You could feel him twitch violently against your tongue and how his cum flooded your throat, warm and thick, until you were forced to swallow.
The dark spots were just threatening to take over your vision when he pulled from your mouth, sweet oxygen rushing in to take its place. You coughed roughly, all your senses returning like someone had flipped on a lightswitch. The hands at the back of your head disappear, instead hauling you to your feet by your arms.
Effortlessly, you were lifted off of your feet and plopped down roughly onto the stack of plastic pallets you had been hiding behind. Then Homelander did something he had never done before.
He kissed you.
Your lips were captured between his the second you were set down and he moved to stand between your open legs. Instinctively, you bite down. Not like it would do jack shit, you realize after the fact. A groaning chuckle fills your mouth, and you can truly taste him now. Blood, ire and pure unadulterated delight.
Again his hand, which is so odd to see without the coverings of his gloves, wrapped around the back of your neck, tangling once more in your once styled hair to pull you closer to his mouth. Then you feel his mouth shift, your only warning before his teeth bit down on your lip. Your cry is swallowed by his mouth as pain echoes from your lower lip. You could taste blood as it flowed into your mouth and across both his and your lips, especially as he takes advantage of your parted lips to invade with his tongue. Your pussy ached in time with the feel of his tongue sweeping through your mouth, clenching around nothing.
Boldly, you put your hands on his chest, running over the shift in the topography of him as your palms traverse the hills and valleys of his muscles. You felt him flinch, but he didn’t pull away, didn't scold you, or worse. He almost leaned into you, pressing himself closer between your thighs.
Clearly trusting enough that you aren’t gonna bolt or pull away, he moved his hands to your thighs, dipping underneath the hem of your dress. Hiking it up your legs, you shift to help him get the material of the dress between your thighs and the pallet below you until it’s bunched up around the curve of your ass.
His tongue swept across your lip, lapping at the blood still leaking out from the small wound. The way his mouth moved on yours is laced with intent, with control. The way you breathed into his mouth, the small sounds that pinged against his lips, all of it is his doing, his control.
He slid his hands up under the bunched fabric of your dress and with a swift outward tug, he ripped your underwear at the sides, tugging them from your bottom half and dropping them to the side to decorate the alley. Then tugging you forward by your waist, his hips lay flush against your soaked core. You could feel the hard length of him slide against the very top of his thigh. With a few awkward motions of his hips, he rutted himself through your slick, coating his cock, making you jolt at the contact you had been craving. You give an experimental roll of your hips, meeting his motion.
He reached up as he pulled away, gripping your jaw. “What are you?”
You blink for a moment, not fully in your mind, before responding. “Yours.”
“Don’t ever try anything like that again.” There was murder in those blue eyes as he glared at you.
“Yes Sir.” You breathed.
He let go of your chin roughly, going back to your hip as he positioned the head of his cock at your entrance. With a sharp thrust, he buried himself in you with ease. Your mouth fell open, hands gripping his shoulders at the feel of him inside you.
“Ahhh, fuck!” Homelander curses harshly, gripping your hips hard enough you were gonna have bruises tomorrow.
He retreats slowly, dragging his cock out of you until only the blunt head of him remains inside you. Then, another swift thrust forward. Your body jolts at that and you finally find your voice.
“Oh, God!” You cry out, wrapping your legs around his trim waist.
He finds a pace, as he pulls his eyes from where they had been watching his cock slid in and out of your pussy.
“No,” He corrects, sending his hips into you harshly. “No God. The only man in the sky, is me.”
You nod, and are thankful when he lets it drop in favor of slotting his lips over yours again. With each thrust he pounded into you, the head of him brushed against the gummy, sensitive spot deep inside your pussy. You clung to his shoulders, his back, legs wrapped tightly around his waist like that would help the coil in your lower belly tighten any faster. Trying your best to meet his motions, you rolled your hips against him, but his hands kept you solidly in place like you were nothing more than a toy for him to fuck.
“Such a good cockslut.” He groaned, breaking the kiss in favor of mouthing at your neck and shoulder. “Making such filthy noises. You ought to be careful otherwise I might think you like getting fucked in an alley like a deadbeat whore.”
You couldn’t help the moan that his filthy mouth caused, nor the way your pussy clenched hard around his cock. He nipped at your neck, your head rolling to the side to allow him better access. He kissed and licked and sucked along your neck, each ministration sending zings down to your pussy where you could feel your legs start to tremble around his waist.
“Don’t you dare cum before me. Whores don’t get to cum without permission.” He ordered.
You feel him pull away from your neck, replacing his mouth with his hand. The entirety of it spanned across, his thumb on one side and fingers on the others. Then he squeezed. Not hard, but enough to make you feel it.
“Yes Sir.” You gasped.
His thrusts grew faster and faster, not helping the growing feeling of your climax between your legs. Breathing through your nose you tried not to fall over that edge that you teetered on like a knife’s edge. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Again and again and again as he fucked into you harder and faster as the minutes creeped by. Over and over he bottomed out, hips pistoning more and more unevenly until they met yours one last time in an almost painful collision before he stilled.
It was all you needed, no amount of mindful breathing could have stopped the euphoric feeling of your climax wash over you as he spilled himself into you. His grip on your neck grew tighter, almost imperceptibly, in time with how he gripped your hip. A low moan met your ears as your legs shook violently around his waist, nails digging harshly into the material of his jacket.
You suppressed a whine as he rolled his hips once, twice, milking whatever was left inside him out before pulling out of you entirely. Hands slipping from his shoulders as he took a step back to tuck himself back into his boxer-briefs and jeans, you steadied yourself on the pallets. You had no fucking clue how you were gonna get home like this. Legs like jelly, probably looking like a $10 whore with the way your makeup was smudged to hell and hair a mess with a brain that was more fog than grey matter. Not to mention you didn’t even have your keys anymore.
But that decision, like many you anticipated in the future, wasn’t up to.
“I’ll have one of those sniveling pussies collect your things from your apartment later. You can’t be trusted to live on your own.” Homelander said matter-of-factly as he slid an arm around your waist.
A hoarse scream ripped from your lungs as he shot you both into the air. You barely had time to cling to him before he was landing on the balcony of his bedroom. He set you down with a little gentleness.
“I expect you to be out of that outfit by the time I get back.” Then he was gone with such a force that the wind blew your hair back from your face.
Not knowing how long, exactly, he’d be gone, you instantly ripped your dress off along with your bra. Knowing the apartment by heart by now, you ran to the laundry room, chucking both pieces of clothing into the basket, frantically unbuckling your heels and leaving them in the space between the washer and the wall.
You moaned as your bare feet met tile. You hated heels to begin with, but now with them screaming at you after running in them for so long, you didn’t think you could ever wear them again. At least not that pair.
Washing your face of the mascara and makeup you had been wearing, you spared a glance at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was a mess, but not as bad as you thought it would be, and your lips kiss-swollen.
But what surprised you the most, was that you didn’t hate the woman you saw staring back. This was your life now, and you were damn sure you were gonna make the most of it.
Please like, comment, and/or reblog if you enjoyed! Feedback is appreciated and encouraged!
Tags/Warnings: DUBCON!, Homelander is his own warning, degradation, biting, pain kink if you squint, dirty talk, fingering, overstimulation, PiV, fondling/groping, pet names, power imbalance, prostitution?, talk of bruises/hickies, allusions to stalking, vaguely morally grey reader, reader is described as slightly shorter than HL and has an IUD for the plot, but no other descriptors are used
Summary: Become a Vought Personal Household Assistant! Do your duty as an American Citizen and serve your heroes by cooking, cleaning and spending some one-on-one time with them! No task is too small, no ask too great. No previous experience required, training will be provided. And of course, discretion is greatly appreciated.
Word Count: 3.5k
Author's Note: In no way do I condone or approve of Homelanders actions within the show. All of the fics I have planned with him for the month definitely toe the line of dubious consent, so please proceed with caution and know that any real life activities should be thoroughly discussed before participating in them.
Title from the song I Feel Like I'm Drowning by Two Feet
Dividers: Line divider by @saradika-graphics; star banner found on Pintrest
Tag List: @copperboom82
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
Main Masterlist
The ad said they were looking for a maid. Well, a ‘Personal Household Assistant’. Pressed for money, you really didn’t stop to question why Vought and its superheros would need a ‘Household Assistant’. So, you’d rationalized it as a maid and all the things that would come along with a position with that name, things that the Supes and their overinflated egos thought would be below their stations.
You were mildly surprised when you received an email following up on your application. You weren’t surprised at all by the lengthy training process nor the multitude of NDA’s you were required to sign.
What did surprise you a great amount, though, was who’s penthouse you'd be assigned to.
Never in your life had you seen so much red, white, and blue in one place. Homelander’s penthouse was like he’d designed a shrine to himself. Accented with dark leather, marble statues and a wide open balcony, you couldn’t fathom why one man would need so much room.
As outlined in your nonexhaustive list of duties presented to you in your training, a few of the tasks you would be in charge of would include changing the sheets, dusting and vacuuming. A set of instructions were included on how to clean, dry, and store his suits. Cooking was another of the major things that came with the position. You were to have them ready at predetermined times, or prepare them per his request. A document with appropriate foods and meals followed.
Right off the bat, Homelander had taken an interest in you. It was to be expected, you told yourself. You were a stranger in his space, and from the footage you saw on the news, he was a highly paranoid individual. But perhaps it was a little more than a simple interest.
Eyes that lingered just a little too long, giving you the impression that you were nothing more than a juicy steak on a plate being presented to a starved wolf. Smiles that were a little too wide, a little too bright, a little too toothy; every time he leveled one at you, your eyes were drawn to his unnaturally white canines.
Wolf indeed
The unnecessary touches came in later. Gloved hands that grazed over your lower back or hips as he passed behind you even though there was plenty of room, leaning forward too far into your space as you prepared his meals, close enough for his warm breath to fan across your neck.
Speaking of meals, he was a man on a strict regimen, one that rivaled a competitive body builder. A small book outlined what he could and couldn’t have, what to use and when to serve it. Steak and eggs with hashbrowns were for breakfast, some kind of light meal like a sandwich for lunch, and a feast fit for a king—or a god—for dinner.
Plus milk. Lots of it with every meal no matter what it was. An entire shelf of his larger than life fridge, which you were convinced was bigger than your entire kitchen at your apartment, was dedicated to it; jugs upon jugs of whole milk were to be kept stocked at all times. You couldn’t imagine that a Supe of his abilities would have a calcium deficiency, but you supposed everyone had their things.
Like a frog in a gradually heating pot of water, you didn’t know you were in too deep until it was too late for you. All the subliminal things, the touches and glances that could be explained away, all the small, calculated, dents until you realized you enjoyed him—his presence, his touch.
So the first time his glancing touches shifted to something…other, you didn’t even flinch. Not when the hand on your lower back wandered lower and lower, lingering longer until his gloved hand rested solidly on your ass. And you knew it wasn’t your imagination when his fingers curled inward, getting a fistful of your asscheek.
Not when he walked up behind you one morning when you were cooking him breakfast. The warmth of his body pressed against your back as he leaned in, peering over your shoulder. Then you felt it, the brush of his lips ghosting over the exposed skin of your neck, hair ruffling as he breathed you in. And, as if in second nature, you leaned back into it. You tilted your head in a way that bared your neck, your throat, to him.
A small, satisfied hum was his only acknowledgment, his approval. He had pulled away, rambling about something regarding the Crime Analytics Department and a hollow want replaced the space where his warmth had just been. Your brain was still short circuiting at the feel of his lips, warm and dry against your neck.
Managing to pull yourself from the temporary stupor in time, barely, to prevent the eggs from becoming overcooked, you tried not to linger on it. But trying and succeeding were two different things that were worlds apart.
It followed you like a ghost everywhere you went, in everything you did. It didn’t stop at the threshold of Vought Tower. No, it followed you to the store, the coffee shop, it followed you home. It lingered on your skin so that even after you’d showered for the night, the skin still tingled.
You weren’t completely blind to who—or what—he was. You’d seen the blood and gore on his suit and gloves when you cleaned them. You’d seen the news, witnessed that too sharp predator's gaze tinged with a possessive madness.
Gods.
Monsters.
The only difference was who is telling the story
And you were human, weak to the prospect of power. Being the object of his attention, no matter how fleeting it may turn out to be, awarded you power. Or at least some perverted kind of it.
The night that thing, that unnamed tension, finally came to a head, you’d let it happen.
Handwashing the stainless steel pans you’d made dinner in—chicken piccata and angel hair pasta—you’d been standing at the sink. While you weren’t given a uniform, you always wore the same thing: a pair of shorts, or pants when it was colder, and a t-shirt or tank top. Light, breathable, and gave mobility to make cleaning easier.
You’d come to recognize him by the whoosh of him landing on the balcony or the heavy thumps of his boots, the glass french doors usually kept open. Some days you couldn’t get him to shut up, other days he was near mute in quiet, internal contemplation. But the silence that day had nothing to do with inner turmoil. Boots on the floor was the way you tracked his progress to you. While your ears gauged where he was, you continued to scrub the pan with a washcloth, sudsy water coating your forearms nearly to the elbow.
Then, he had been behind you. Unabashed, his front had pressed against your back and you could feel the hardness of him against your lower back. In a silk smooth voice, he had told—instructed—you to keep going. So you had. You scrubbed away as his hands, still encased in his gloves, dipped in between the elastic of your shorts and your skin and pulled them down your legs, your underwear having gone with them.
You had cum twice by the time he pulled out of you, his spend starting to drip down your leg. Your grip on the edge of the sink was the only thing keeping you upright, your jelly legs threatening to give way.
It only continued from there. Some days you could anticipate it. Days when the press conferences went awry, when Stan Edgar pissed him off, or when some man named William Butcher, who you’d learned about through Homelanders ramblings, got just a little too close to bringing about his downfall.
Those were the days when you came home with bruises on your hips and hickies on your neck and shoulders, when you felt a pair of eyes on you from the darkness until long after you had crawled into bed for the night.
Others you couldn’t predict. Changing the laundry, dusting the inordinate amount of shelves in the penthouse, restocking the fridge. Any time, anywhere. Your bottoms were bullied down your legs, his fingers teasing across your pussy before the fat head of him pushed his way inside you until he was fully seated and your hips were flush against each other. The anticipation of it all flooded your panties, meaning when he did pound into you, he was met with little resistance.
It was rough, raw, unforgiving, and you ate it the fuck up.
The dryer cycle had just ended when the thump of Homelanders boots on the balcony reached your ears despite you being on the very interior of the penthouse. The publicity event must not have gone well then, you thought, which meant today was gonna be one of those days. The small, irregularly shaped bruises on your thighs and hips had just faded, but it seemed more would be replacing them before you left for the night.
A heat stirred low in your stomach, your chest tightening in anticipation. Overaware of everything, you tried your best to continue about unloading the dryer. It was mostly towels, the soft fabric pleasantly warm against your skin as you folded them all neat like, one ear on the sounds of him moving around the penthouse.
Then, there was nothing. Placing the towel from your hands into the basket, you paused. Normally, you could hear his footfalls, or hear him muttering to himself under his breath. The silence wasn’t malicious, but teasing.
A game, is what this was, you realized. A fucked up remix of cat and mouse. But you knew that part of the fun, for him at least, was you acting like you didn’t know. Like you weren’t in on it.
So back to folding towels it was. Each fold, each tuck, each sheet of fabric piled neatly into the basket you could feel was scrutinized. There was this feeling, like the hairs on the back of your neck were on end, the feeling of being watched. From where you didn’t know. You hadn’t heard the door slide open, but for a man of his stature, Homelander sure knew how to move quietly when he wanted to.
And he really must have, because your feet must have made it 6 inches off the floor when heavy hands landed harshly on your waist.
“You know,” His voice was heavy with calculation. It always was, each word measured and hanging on his tongue like it was thought out. “You really should just walk around here naked.”
Breath hitching as those hands, encased in soft leather snaked around to rest on your belly, you attempted to pull another article from the laundry basket.
“These truly are such a nuisance.” You flinched as he tugged the waistband away from your waist, only to let it snap back. “Should be able to have access to you whenever I want.”
“Don’t you already?”
You spoke now, voice barely over a whisper. Not in defiance, but in a teasing encouragement; an attempt to diffuse the bomb given skin that was Homelander, even if it took more courage than you cared to think about.
Silence was your only answer. Not an empty silence, all awkward and dangerous, but one of heat and anticipation. That was until the sound of ripping fabric replaced it as he tore both your shorts and underwear in one motion.
“That’s more like it.” His sentiment punctuated by a slap to your now bare rear.
That hand found its way back to your stomach, now resting unimpeded against your flushed skin. But, instead of resting there unmoving like it had been, his index finger traced teasing circles around your belly button. With each rotation, it traveled lower and lower until you were trembling; little tremors wracked your body, ones you were sure he could feel vibrating underneath the softness of your lower belly. Against your backside you could feel him, hard as steel, as he stepped into that empty space.
“I can hear your heart racing.” You shuddered as he leaned in, speaking directly into your ear. “Smell how wet you are.”
A pause as he nuzzled his nose into your hairline.
“Tell me, are you afraid.”
“N-”
“The truth, please.”
You loosed a breath. “Yes.”
“Good.” His lips smacked as his hand shifted even lower, those small circles finally teasing around your clit. “You should be.”
Your hips bucked up into his hand, chasing his fingers. His thick digits swirled across the sensitive bud in alternating directions, gliding easily aided by your arousal. Legs far past trembling, you felt like a baby deer trying to stay standing, bracing your hands on the edge of the dryer.
But Homelander was already there, arm spanning across your chest, big hand fondling one of your breasts as he kept you steadily upright. Between the preternatural heat radiating from his body and the pleasurable burn of arousal pulsating from your core, a haze had started to overtake you. Any rationale was left in the dust as you tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth to keep from whimpering too loudly.
“Fucking pathetic.” He mused, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve barely even touched you.”
Your lip drops from where it had been caught between your teeth, mouth dropping open with a reply, but nothing coherent came out. Not when his hand between your legs slid lower, his middle finger dipping into your entrance to the first knuckle. Curious, experimenting, it entered you just barely before sliding back out. Even though it was one digit, with the thick padding of the glove your walls dragged along every time he retreated.
Your head lolled back, resting solidly against his shoulder, as a ragged moan ripped from your throat when it finally pushed all the way to the last knuckle. The sound your pussy made as he retracted his hand, only to bully his ring finger in alongside the other one was obscene.
“Homelander.” You managed to gasp, one hand clinging to the arm he had across your chest.
“She found her voice.” He crooned. “Was beginning to think I’ve fucked you dumb.”
A sad, pathetic whimper was the only retort you could muster as that coil low in your belly began to tighten, your inner walls fluttering around his fingers. It was only spurred on when he adjusted his hand so that you were now grinding your swollen clit against his palm, the material and stitching of them providing much needed friction.
Your heavy breathing matched his, his lips not straying much from the shell of your ear. Hips bucking erratically, you pushed yourself closer and closer to that edge, needing the release. Closer and closer he guided you, curling those deft fingers up towards your belly button to stimulate that spot within you. At first he’d had a hard time finding it, but now months later, he knew all the ways that made you fall apart, using them to his—and you supposed, your own—advantage.
If it weren’t for his arm across your chest, you would have pitched forward as your orgasm ripped through you. The edges of your vision blurred as waves of euphoria cascaded through your lower belly and sent shocks up your spine.
“That’s it.” He mocked in that overly patronizing tone. “Good girl.”
If the remnants of your orgasm hadn’t sent a shiver down your back, his words definitely did.
His fingers retreat from your slick-soaked pussy, dragging a shiny trail up your belly under your shirt before pulling away. Not trusting your unsteady body, you didn’t even try to turn as he took a half step back. Not that you would, anyway. Not once did he permit you to look at him while he was inside you. You didn’t mind, much. This was transactional, mostly at least.
Again, that fire was stoked back to life as you felt him press back up against you, running the length of his cock through your folds, covering himself in your arousal. You knew the blue and red suit covering his body had a generous amount of padding built into the lining, not that he wasn’t muscular, but the suit’s physique you were sure could only be achieved by chronic use of steroids. The one part that didn’t need padding?
The thick head of him caught at your entrance as he rutted himself against you, causing both of you to moan in sync. Ten dull aches dug into your hips as he gripped them hard, finding purchase there. His shallow thrusts worked his cock in and out of your pussy until his hips sat flush against your ass. Curved just right, he sat sheathed inside you, pressed up against every sensitive part.
“Thaaaat’s it.” Voice ragged and gruff in your ear. “Open up for me, slut.”
A harsh kick to the inside of your lower legs had you spreading your stance further, sending him impossibly deeper inside of you. Then, he started to move, setting your already decimated and fucked out body on fire. You were trapped, nowhere to go between the dryer and the unforgiving pace he’d set. Too much, too soon after the first orgasm he’d coaxed out of you.
But you were just a human at the mercy of a god, so you were helpless to the tears brimming in your eyes, the wanton moans and whimpers and broken pleas that fell on his deaf ears. Body molten and pliable, he used his bruising grip on your hips to pull you back to meet every thrust.
It wasn’t long before your legs were trembling again, every time he bottomed out sending you barreling towards the edge. You tried to hold off, tried to control your breathing, Deep inhale through the nose, out through barely parted lips.
It didn’t fucking help. Not when Homelander’s teeth closed around the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You cry out, the sound tailing off to a moan as the pain of his teeth digging into your skin trails down to further stoke the fire of arousal in your belly. Pleasure rolls through your body in great waves as your second orgasm crashes over you.
But he’s not done with you. Not even close.
Your orgasm, your inner walls clamping down around his cock only spurs him on further. His groan sends vibrations through your skin before he pulls away, tongue sweeping over the indentations of his teeth.
Now it truly was too much. With a series of rapid blinks, the tears that had welled up in your eyes rolled down your cheeks in fat droplets. A sob wracked your body as his cock pounded into you, suit stimulating your oversensitive pussy and clit.
“You can fucking take it.” Homelander snarls, somehow managing to fuck into you even rougher than before.
Your hips grow sore between his unyielding grip and being pushed into the corner of the dryer with each thrust. Every sound from your mouth grows weaker, the edges of your vision blurring as the sheer amount of arousal and pleasure clouds your senses, your brain, your nervous system. Muscles and bones are replaced by jelly, pliant and complicit to his will and his needs.
Through the haze, you register his movements becoming erratic, jerky, no longer the even strokes he’d started out with. His faint grunts and groans evolved into moans and something that resembled whimpers as he slipped a hand around your throat, keeping your back flush with his chest as he came with a choked moan.
Hips grinding against your ass, warmth filled you. Not once had you considered why the Vought hiring team assured you were on some kind of long term birth control, but after the first time you were glad you had an IUD.
Only once you could no longer feel him twitching inside you did he pull his now flaccid cock from inside you. It was by some unknown miracle that you could stand mostly on your own as he reached around you to grab one of the folded washcloths to wipe himself clean.
“Thanks for the fun.” He said, that ever present chipper tone back in place as he patted you on the ass before walking away. Not long after a whoosh indicated his departure.
Using a different washcloth you cleaned yourself of his cum, which was now leaking out of you. On unsteady legs, you managed to throw both soiled washcloths in the hamper and made your way to his room, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs from his laundry and putting them on. It’s not like he’d miss them or even knew they were there in the first place. Sighing, you went back to the laundry room, the task seeming moot now.
You just huffed an incredulous laugh to yourself. “Anything I can do for America’s Hero.”
Please like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed! Feedback is encouraged and appreciated!
summary: homelander has taken an interest in you, vought's new intern. no matter how you look at it, as a good or bad thing, it ends the same way: him getting what he wants.
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, dubcon, p in v, oral (m receiving), body worship, sir kink, obsessive behavior, manipulation/coercion, age gap (reader in early 20s)
wc: 7.7k (oops lol)
a/n: hehe. never thought i would write for this man but it was pretty fun :) comm for my sweet beloved @gor3-hound love you so very much mwah mwah <33
At the junction of the V-shaped table, Homelander sat. With his back to the skyline and his gloved hands folded in front of him, he held the posture of a statue. Ashley had been rambling on and on and fucking on for the past five minutes about shit he couldn't care less about. Her nasally voice bounced off the tile floors and painted ceiling, ricocheting around him like a rogue bullet. Only his impregnable skin didn't protect him from the discomfort of this situation.
It was moments like these that really made him regret killing Stillwell.
That woman knew how to handle things. As manipulative as she could be, at least she wasn't absolutely insufferable. How could Stan let Ashley replace her? She was a poor excuse of just about everything. Absolutely spineless, unintelligent, reactionary, and opportunistic. He really couldn't picture any person on this Earth genuinely liking her.
However in the midst of his mental complaints, he realized that the annoying sound of her speaking was directed at him. All the other stares in the room were zeroed in on him too. A-Train observed in cautious silence. Noir's goggles reflected Homelander's own image right back at him. Maeve judged with a sideways glance. And Starlight prepared for the worst.
He tore his own bright blue eyes from the door opposite the table and refocused them on Ashley. They scanned over her thinning ginger locks down to her gaudy outfit - a piss poor attempt at imitating power.
"What?" he asked, his voice cutting through the air with a force similar to one of Maeve's swords.
Ashley blinked in return. Fear swirled in her wide eyes. She tried to maintain that empowered appearance she so desperately wished was real, but he could see the innate urge to cower bubbling within her.
"Was that lineup for the funeral ok with you, Homelander? A-Train and Noir open, Starlight sings, and then you close?" she repeated.
Now it was his turn to blink. Like he could actually give a shit about the order of segments for Translucent's funeral. He swallowed hard. While she projected a mirage of power, he had to do the same with level-headedness.
"That's fine, Ashley. Have those two go first, and Starlight can follow up with Amazing Grace or whatever shitty hymns they teach in that hick town she's from, and then I can finish us out," he responded.
He could see how her knuckles were going white around the edge of her clipboard. She gripped it for comfort, as if that could save her from his potential wrath. It only irritated him more. If he wanted her dead, he would turn her to ashes where she stood. How hard she braced herself in advance wouldn't matter in the slightest. But people could be so foolish in moments of terror.
"Well speaking of that," she said before clearing her throat, an attempt at a natural transition, "We were trying to decide what song she would sing. Maybe one of our originals? Or do you think it would be more tasteful to go with something from an outside source?"
Gritting his teeth, he buried the urge to unleash the bright beams of red from his sockets. His hands slid off one another and pressed down onto the cool table.
"Do you really need me to decide what song is going to send Translucent to the grave?" he replied, "I don't care what you play, and no one else attending will either. They'll be focused on working up some tears for the useless dipshit they never had the displeasure of knowing. Instead of trying to gain their approval, we should be working on finding the next member of the Seven who can replace him. There's no use dwelling on the past. We need to be preparing for the future."
He paused to let his words permeate the room, giving everyone a chance to absorb the sentiment and adapt accordingly. With his pupils still trained on Ashley, he planned on continuing his tirade, but his train of thought came to an abrupt halt.
Soft pitter-patters of footsteps clacked down the hall outside this room. They sounded in a delicate rhythm, only audible to him. As they grew louder, he caught the scent of the source too. Airy and light. A stark contrast to the brash perfume Ashley doused herself in.
The doors at the front of the room slid apart to reveal you.
You stood there for a moment. The realization that you'd interrupted something was visible in your eyes. The small spheres cast down as you wobbled in like a fawn that sensed wolves watching from nearby.
Ashley turned to face you, a glower already set on her features. The resentment she held for everyone else in this building awoke from its usual dormant slumber because there was finally someone weaker she could take it out on.
Once you reached her, your hand rose and gave her a thin stack of papers.
"I'm sorry for interrupting. It's a memo from 82. They made it sound urgent," you explained, everything about your temperament meek and timid.
After a brief pause to let you marinate in the few moments before your inevitable humiliation, she snatched the papers from you. Her eyes roamed over the page with disinterest. Even if the information conveyed by the small black letters was important, he doubted she would give it any reaction. She wanted to lash out, and she was going to, whether it was justified or not.
"They couldn't have emailed me this?" she snapped, as if that was something you could control.
"I don't know. I'm sorry. I'll check next time," you offered.
"You better or you'll run out of next times," she threatened, "Incompetence like this won't fly here. You're in the big leagues now, so act like it. Think before you do something instead of taking commands like a lap dog."
"I'm sorry," you replied, ducking your head again.
"Don't be sorry, just do better," she commanded.
"I will," you agreed.
"Good. Just get out of here now. Go pick up my lunch," she told you.
His lips curled into a scowl as he watched the scene play out. It was pathetic - not you, but Ashley. He hated seeing the fucking smirk on her face as you walked away. She had nothing to be smug about. She was nothing more than a feral coyote going after the scraps the other predators didn't take.
To make matters worse, when she returned her attention to the group at the table, she saw the look on his face. She saw the disdain, but instead of striking regret into her, it only deepened her sense of self-satisfaction.
She thought the look was for you. That he was disgusted with your mistake. Annoyed with your intrusion.
He couldn't have that. Not when that assumption was the farthest thing from the truth. Honestly, he didn't know if he was even capable of feeling such ire towards you. Not his precious little fawn.
Rising from his seat, his glare remained on Ashley. She did show a little fear then.
"You know, I don't have all day, Ashley. I'll open Translucent's funeral, Starlight will follow up with a song, and that will be it. A-Train and Noir can have the day off, because let's be honest, nobody will give shit either way," he mocked.
"But, sir-" she said, clearly confused by his sudden impending departure.
"I have more important things to deal with. If you need anything else, I'm sure one of the others can help you," he dismissed.
With that, he stepped back from the table and began heading to the doors. He hoped if he was fast enough he could still catch you. Even in a building as sleek and modern as this one, the elevators could be quite slow.
Walking out into the hall, his head swiveled in the direction you would have gone. For once, his own portrait didn't catch his eye. He didn't even think about stopping by Stillwell's office to reminisce. Instead, he just headed down towards the elevator. His red boots thudded across smooth tile in rapid succession, covering the path you'd just taken.
Finally, after a few feet, he spotted you. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Eyes glossy with embarrassment. Tip of your polished shoe tapping against the ground. You startled when his voice boomed across the space, calling out your name. So cute.
You looked at him with fear in your eyes, but disgust didn't fester in the pit of his stomach like it did when others gave him that anxious stare. Another feeling bloomed inside him, one he couldn't really place. It was just that the nervous gleam over your pupils didn't make him hate himself and all the circumstances of his life that put him in his position.
Instead, your wide eyes and pouty lips made him feel strong. You made him feel like a hero. A real one, not the artificial caricature that Vought projected to the world. With you nearby, he felt like the kind of guy who deserved the American flag blowing off his back with a pretty girl cradled in his arms and a dead enemy at his feet. When you gazed up at him, he could only imagine that the pride rushing through his chest and confidence pooling between his hips was the feeling his creators intended for him.
"Did you need something from me, sir?" you asked, reminding him that he actually had to provide a reason to talk to you. Just wanting to stare at you like a psychopath would not suffice unfortunately.
"Oh no," he waved off, "The meeting just finished up. I was heading out too. I saw you, and I realized I haven't really taken the time to get to know you yet, which is unfortunate because I usually like to be familiar with the newer people we have working with us."
A complete lie. Before you, he didn't remember ever giving any of the interns a second glance. They were true nuisances. They were Ashleys.
"Oh... well I'm around whenever you wanna talk. Ashley keeps me busy, but I'm sure I could make an exception for you," you replied.
"You absolutely can make an exception for me," he chuckled, "If Ashley gives you any trouble, just let me know, and I'll make sure she remembers who's really in charge around here."
It wasn't until he heard your heart rate increase that he realized those words probably came off as threatening. Well, they were threatening, but you weren't supposed to see him that way.
"I'm kidding," he forced out with a laugh, "Just joking around like I do... I just don't want you to worry about getting in some kind of trouble for me sniffing around you."
You huffed out an awkward laugh of your own and nodded. "I'll be sure to make some time for you in the future then and let Ashley know it was at your direction."
"Great," he said with probably too much enthusiasm.
His jaw clenched into one of his usual tight smiles. He averted his eyes from you and looked towards the numbers on the elevator. Fuck, it was reaching the bottom. He didn't want to let you go, but it wasn't like he could just stroll down the street with you to go get Ashley's lunch. His mind scrambled to come up with a solution.
But like your earlier intrusion into the meeting, your gentle voice cuts through the hurricane forming in his head.
"Are you alright, sir?" you ask, anxious concern written all over your features.
He refocused on you and nodded. His arm extended out behind you, his palm landing against the elevator wall. As he leaned in, he could smell your adrenaline spiking. He could hear the shift of your shoe against the ground. If only he possessed a sixth sense for the mind, so he could know what little thoughts about him were flitting through your head.
"I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me," he answered. He smiled down at you, observing the slight nod you gave him in return.
"Of course not. It probably seems silly coming from me," you said.
His brows raised in amusement. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.
He saw the flash of regret in your eyes. The one people always gave him when he asked a question in that tone. The one that came from the panic of realizing they may have said something that offended Homelander.
You suppressed it pretty well though and brought out a smile that gave the impression that you hoped he was messing with you instead.
"Well you know... because you're you," you said and tilted your head in an innocent way that made his chest ache.
He chuckled that charming, prepackaged laugh that had been trained into him. "Even I can appreciate someone taking an interest in checking on me," he replied.
It was maddening, how bad he wanted you. He wasn't even sure when this craving had sprouted inside him. He had been so preoccupied with his affinity for Stillwell that his fixation with you struck him like a glass window in front of a flying bird. But no matter the timeframe in which it blossomed, it had taken root by now and wasn't going to go away on its own.
When he looked at you like this - staring up at him with earnest fascination - his mind drifted to darker places all on its own. He couldn't stop it if he wanted to (and really, he didn't want to). It's just how was he not supposed to be aware of the fact that it would be all too easy to take you back to his room? How could he not think about what it would feel like to have your fragile body beneath his own in private? How could he not wonder what you'd sound like crying out in a sinful mix of pleasure and pain?
Hell, how was he supposed to pretend like he couldn't just bend you over and fuck you dumb right here in the middle of this elevator if he wanted to? No one would be able to stop him. There wouldn't be a thing they could do other than watch. They could stare in horror as he used you like he deserved, as he pounded into your warm, soft, dripping hole like he needed...
Unfortunately, painting that picture in his head had his blood rushing South. He felt the subtle simmer of desire in his pelvis, and he knew in no time his length would be filling out. This suit gave him no way of hiding it either. Clearly, whoever made it hadn't anticipated the Homelander popping a boner on the job.
But luckily for him, the elevator chimed with its arrival at the bottom floor. He straightened out as you looked ahead in preparation of your departure. But before you could go, he grabbed your arm. His touch was tender, holding the same force he'd use when cradling a baby at a photo-op.
"Maybe later tonight you'd like to take me up on one of those talks? After you're done for the day, you could stop by my place. The sooner the better, right?" he asked.
Your eyes widened ever so slightly, but you still nodded. "Um... sure thing. I'll head up once I've finished all my work. It should be around six if that's ok?" you offered.
"Yeah, that works for me. I'll be waiting," he said in an attempt to be playful.
You smiled once more and then headed out of the elevator. His fingertips dragged down your arm to your wrist as you walked away before you finally slipped from his grasp. He could hear your heart pounding faster than your footsteps as you headed towards the exit of the building.
At six o'clock sharp, a knock sounded through his penthouse. And it only took him a few seconds to swing the door open and greet you.
"There she is," he beamed with exaggerated politeness.
You smiled modestly in return, shrugging and smoothing out a crease in your blouse. "I couldn't let the leader of the seven down," you joked.
He scoffed but opened the door wider, beckoning you into his place. You took the invitation and crossed the threshold. Your eyes glanced around the place, taking note of all the things in the apartment that housed the most powerful man on Earth.
The American flag taking up an entire wall almost stopped you in your tracks. It would've been funny if it was someone else, but because it belonged to him, it stood there like a warning. You tried not to show how daunting you found it. Average people could be touchy about that famous piece of cloth. You didn't want to find out if the strongest supe felt the same through means of offending him.
In place of letting that bother you, you shifted your attention over to all the historical pictures hanging on the walls and the sleek surfaces and drawers filled with things you couldn't begin to imagine. Your eyes casted over the statues accenting the space as well. It was all so very polished. It looked like what you'd expect the Homelander entry in an Ikea catalog to be.
"So what do you think?" he asked. He knew his words came off as stiff. Probably a little stilted sounding. He just couldn't help it. For the first time, he couldn't get a read on how you felt through physical signs alone. And right now, he really really wanted you to like him.
"It's... impressive," you answered.
But he could hear the hesitation in your voice. In each word, there was the same wavering quality to it that you get when Ashley grilled you in front of an audience. It wasn't the precious reverence that he saw in the elevator. The nervous kind of admiration you held for someone above your standing. This was just plain anxiety, and that served no purpose to him.
Despite your trepidation however, you walked forward to the window at the back of the place. You looked out over the city in awe.
"I would love to live somewhere high up like this," you said.
He came up from behind to stand next to you in front of the glass panes. His eyes landed on your face. You stared out the window, wonder twinkling in your eyes. Your voice sounded almost breathless. It was adorable.
"No fear of heights?" he asked.
"Not when it comes to being inside. Maybe I'd be nervous if we were on a balcony or something," you replied.
"Oh come on. You'd have nothing to worry about if you were with me. I'd never let you fall," he said, dropping his voice a few octaves.
You made that cute little face again when those words hit your ears. Your eyes widened before they fell to look at your shoes. So modest, the way you shied away. He wondered if you were always so timid or if it was only when a god amongst men like himself flirted with you.
He chuckled and reached out, tilting your chin back up to look at him. "You don't need to be nervous," he soothed, "There's no safer place to be than with the Homelander, right?"
You nodded right along. His words left no room for objection.
"Good girl," he smirked and dragged a gloved thumb over your cheek. He pulled his hand back and stepped in the direction of the brown leather sectional that sat in the middle of the room.
"Come over here and sit down. We can talk," he directed.
Following him to the large couch, you took your seat near the corner. You assumed he'd sit at the other end or at least towards the middle of the perpendicular cushions, but no. He sat down in the corner with you. His body was at most a foot away.
He continued to smile at you though he didn't speak. It felt odd, sitting there in silence across from him. He wasn't doing anything overtly threatening, yet you still felt at his mercy.
"So, do you like it here so far? Do you feel like you're fitting into the Vought family?" he asked with a bit of an edge to that second word.
You nodded again. A relieved breath seeped from your lungs as the tense void in conversation came to an end. "Yeah, it's nice here. I feel like I'm learning a lot."
He chuckled and leaned back against the stiff backing of the sofa. His muscular arm draped along the top. Though it wasn't his intention to draw your focus there, he caught the way your eyes dragged over his bicep.
"That's good," he said, "It can be a lot when you're new. I wouldn't want you feeling overwhelmed."
"That's nice of you. I appreciate it, but I'm used to a busy schedule," you replied.
"You're freshly graduated, aren't you?" he checked.
"Yeah," you said, your lips quirking upwards at his guess.
"I thought so. You have that cute, wide-eyed, optimistic thing going for you."
A small laugh leaves your lips. "I know. Ashley said I'll grow out of it by the end of this quarter."
His face dropped, and he almost abandoned the prince charming act he was attempting to pull off for you. The mere mention of Ashley was enough to irk him, but the thought that she was trying to change you? Not only change you but jade you. To strip away the soft and sweet qualities that hooked him on you in the first place. It was criminal. He couldn't hide his disdain.
"You shouldn't listen to her," he said. He wasn't angry, but his cadence held intensity. "Ashley's problem is Ashley. To be honest, I don't even know why they gave her an intern. It's not like she'd be good at teaching anything when she still doesn't understand most things about our business herself."
Your fingers dug into the edge of your seat. It wouldn't have been significant in a normal conversation, but when speaking with a man who could hear a pin drop forty stories down, he noticed.
"You're still nervous," he observed.
In an instant, your hands flew to your lap, like you knew what gave your anxiety away. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt and shrugged.
"A little," you admitted.
"Are you scared of me?" he asked.
You shook your head without even thinking about the question.
"No, it's not that. I swear," you reassured, "It's just that this is a big deal for me. I'm really honored you want to get to know me, and I just want to make a good impression."
"You don't need to worry about that. I wouldn't have invited you here if I didn't have a good impression of you," he said.
You sighed slightly, letting out a bit of tension, but he could still smell that boosted cortisol running through your blood.
"Come here," he ordered, his voice soft but undeniably firm.
"What?" you asked.
A puff of amused air blew from his nostrils. "Come here," he repeated, "Sit closer."
As if you needed the guidance, he patted the space directly beside his hip. He could see the uncertainty in your eyes even after the gesture. The lack of understanding toward his reasoning persisted. Regardless of your skepticism however, you scooted in his direction and ended up where he wanted you.
"That's better," he said.
With careful fingers, he slipped the glove off his right hand. Your eyes locked on it in subtle awe. You'd seen this man on billboards and commercials for years. His face dominated newscasts. His voice broadcast over the radio on a weekly basis. Still, you had never seen such a human part of him. Five fingers and a palm reaching for your own.
They clasped around your hand. His skin was smooth. The gloves preserved them from any marks of experience.
"Did Ashley warn you about me?" he asked, drawing your eyes back to his own.
Your heart thundered, but you couldn't lie. Never had Vought bragged about Homelander being a human lie detector, but in this moment, you felt like that was the case.
"Yes," you responded.
He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You didn't believe her, did you?" he asked.
You could tell he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear it.
"Yes," you whispered again.
"What did she tell you?"
It was hard to remember that conversation you'd had a few weeks ago with Ashley. Feeling like you were two seconds away from having lasers beamed through your skull made minute details fuzzy and distant, but you manage to choke a few out anyways.
"She said that you have a very specific vision for the Seven, and that you'll do anything to make your dreams reality. She was just saying you're ambitious. That you care about the greater good," you summarized.
"I have a feeling you're saying it a lot nicer than she did," he teased. He could feel the fear rolling off of you in waves, and in a moment, he would rectify that. But for right now, he didn't mind letting his precious little fawn tremble in terror for a few moments more.
"Yeah, she can be kind of blunt," you said with a shaky laugh.
"That's one word for it," he said.
"She's not gonna get in trouble because of what I said, is she?" you asked.
He couldn't help laughing at that. The sound came out low and throaty. You were just so fucking pure. Worried about protecting someone who wouldn't hesitate for a second to sell you out if it meant she could climb up another rung on the corporate ladder.
His exposed thumb rubbed back and forth over your knuckles. "No. Of course not. We're just talking," he said.
He leaned in closer to you, positioning his mouth in close proximity to your ear. His free hand came up to cup your jaw.
"I appreciate your honesty though. Ashley probably couldn't tell you this, but I appreciate a loyal girl like you," he murmured.
On both your hand and through his glove in contact with your chin, he could feel your skin heat up.
"Oh... thank you, sir," you said.
He chuckled. His fingers squished into the flesh of your cheeks, making your lips puff out as though they were seeking a kiss.
"So polite, but I like that. We need more people here who understand their place," he said.
At this point, the gravity of your circumstances began to settle on you. Your fear had worn off a bit, and you realized what a compromising position he had you in. With one tight squeeze, he could crush every bone in your face.
Out of instinct, you tried pulling back a little. You didn't make it obvious, only attempting to gain a few inches of space.
That was a few inches too many though. He tightened his grip and kept you where he wanted you.
"Ah ah," he tutted, "How many times do I have to tell you that you don't need to be scared? I'm not going to hurt you."
You dropped the resistance right then and there. It wasn't worth pursuing. If he didn't want you getting away, you weren't getting away.
He took a few more seconds to study your face, taking in every minutiae of your expressions. Then, his hands dropped to your waist, and he pulled you into his lap. His thighs were firm against your ass, both rigid in how he carried himself and defined from the pure muscle that made them up.
His hands smoothed up and down your sides, coasting over each crease in your blouse. He massaged your soft tissue with gentle squeezes from the beginning of your bra down to the swell of your hips.
"God, you're beautiful," he muttered, "You fit here like you were made for me."
You vibrated in his grasp. He could feel the way you quivered with the urge to pull away.
"Thank you, s-sir," you stammered, "I really appreciate it but-"
"But nothing," he cut you off.
"But I don't think we should be... doing this," you tried to continue anyway.
"Why not?" he asked. Though his tone made it obvious that no matter what reason you provided, it wouldn't change his mind.
"Because you're like my boss, y'know? And I worked really hard to get my spot here, and I don't want people thinking I slept my way to where I am," you explained, "You're really nice, and I admire you a lot, but it wouldn't be right."
He didn't respond immediately. He paused and let your words hang in the air for a few moments.
"You know," he finally spoke, "I don't think you understand how things work around here. It doesn't matter what anyone else in this building thinks. Only me."
You blinked at him, unsure of how to respond to such an assertion. It didn't matter though. He continued without your input.
"What I do with you, how I feel about you - no one else will know about it unless you tell them. But even if you do and even if they care, there isn't a thing they'll do about it. There's not a thing they can do about it," he continued.
"I still don't think it's a good idea," you maintained.
"Good thing this isn't for you to think about then," he mocked, "You're a fast learner. You'll figure it out soon enough. I am God in this tower. And a god doesn't listen to his subjects. He guides them. He knows best."
One of his hands slid up your tummy and over your chest onto your throat. He cupped your jaw and swiped his thumb back and forth across your bottom lip.
"What did Ashley tell you about me?" he asked.
"That no one gets in your way."
"Good. And she was right. No one gets in my way. Nothing stops me from getting what I want. And I've wanted you for too fucking long not to try you out."
That set of fingers on your chin pulled your face towards his and brought you into a kiss. You froze against his lips. It felt as though all of time stopped. This high up, you couldn't hear the sounds of the city outside the penthouse. No one existed in this moment but you and him.
Unlike you, he melted into the exchange. He sighed against your skin and pulled you flush against his toned body. After a second to let you come to terms with what was happening, he kissed you again. His lips sucked on yours gently, attempting to coax you into returning the affection.
The most he got is you puckering them up ever so slightly.
He pulled away with frustration in his eyes and grabbed your face, jerking you a little to look at him.
"Don't act like you don't want this. I know you do," he said, "You're scared, but you don't need to be. Relax and let yourself enjoy this. It's not everyday that the most powerful man on earth wants to fuck you."
Your eyes blew up like little saucers, but before you could really process the directness of what he'd said, he was kissing you again. This time it wasn't as nerve wracking. You softened up a little and kissed back.
You didn't put much effort into it. Your lips responded like this was a juvenile first date. But he didn't let up. He didn't let you give him anything less than your best. His hands roamed across your body. They groped and fondled your breasts and then migrated South to feel up your ass through your pencil skirt.
Your muscles started to loosen up after a minute or so. You told yourself this wasn't so bad. He was being gentle so far, and for someone with his abilities, you wanted it to stay that way. You brought your hand up to his face and cupped his cheek. With that as leverage, you deepened the kiss.
He groaned as soon as you started to give in. His hands fell to your hips and tugged you so that you were straddling him. He smacked your ass, the sound echoing around his apartment. You could tell he held back. A real spank from Homelander could shatter your hip, but this one barely even stung. Maybe he did like you.
His fingers came up and with a sharp tug, he popped the front of your top loose. The column of buttons sprung free. The strips of cloth fell away to each of your sides, exposing a sliver of your skin. He furthered it by pulling off the garment entirely. His eyes trailed along your bare shoulders to your collar bone before finally landing on your breasts. He gave them a firm squeeze, kneading them through the barrier of your bra.
Meanwhile you rolled your hips down on his lap. Immediately, you felt his bulge that had risen to attention between your thighs. You did it again and then again. Each time you ground yourself against him with more pressure.
He grunted, and his eyes fluttered. His hands returned to your waist and gripped you hard, guiding your movements. He seemed transfixed for a few moments, as if he couldn't decide his next move.
After a few seconds though, he got his momentum back. He yanked you off his lap and flipped over so that you were seated on the couch again.
He rose to his feet before you. There your eyes scanned over his body from his tousled blond hair and his kiss-swollen red lips to his sculpted abdomen and his swelling erection. You reached out to touch him, but he stopped your hand mid-air.
Once your arm was limp on the couch again, he removed his other glove. He dropped it to the floor before bringing his right boot to the spot on the sofa next to you. He unzipped the red shoe and then discarded it like he had with the other item. The other boot followed the same routine.
"I don't let just anyone see me like this," he told you as his fingers began to undo his collar, "You should feel lucky."
Lucky wasn't the word you would use to describe your feelings in this situation. Maybe special. Or distinct. Individual. Either way, you continued to watch. Your eyes glided over his figure as he pulled away the tight blue costume that seemed like a second-skin for how much he wore it.
His defined chest came into view. Your reluctance hadn't vanished all together just yet, but at this point, it was fading fast. Pale hair dusted the muscular expanse and trailed down his stomach to the waistband of the bottoms. The waistband he soon hooked his fingers over and peeled down.
He dropped the scaled navy fabric to the ground before kicking it away, leaving himself in just a small pair of boxers. His hand came down and rubbed the swollen tent at the front while his eyes lingered on you.
"Do you want to touch?" he asked.
You nodded. It wasn't a hard decision. This was still a bad idea. You hadn't changed your mind on that. But at this point, what else was there to do? Defying Homelander wasn't an option for anyone on this planet ever. You were no different.
"Ask," he commanded.
"Please can I touch you?" you said.
"Please what?"
"Please, sir. Can I touch you?"
"Good girl," he praised before nodding, "Go for it."
You reached out, this time successfully. Your palm landed flat on his stomach. You held it there for a moment, just feeling his skin. In a way, it was unreal. To feel that someone propped up on the world's pedestal was flesh and blood like you.
Rubbing up and down, you continued getting a feel for his body. He smirked at your wonder before guiding you up by the elbow.
"Stand up and do it right," he said.
"Sorry."
The word came from your mouth automatically. You brought your other hand up to his chest and felt the muscles in his chest. Everything was so built. You expected that, but it was still odd to feel beneath your fingertips. He felt like a living ken doll. You almost didn't believe if he dropped his boxers there would be a real cock there.
Your hands traced up to his shoulders with precision. They explored down his biceps and forearms. And then finally, you brought your lips into his chest. He sighed and tilted his head back, relishing the feeling.
You kissed all over, swirling your tongue and tracing shapes onto his skin. It was almost entrancing, to be so focused on someone like this. You barely noticed as he turned the two of you and sat himself down on the couch, lowering you to your knees.
You worked your mouth down his abs, licking and kissing the twitching muscles. Your fingernails scraped up his sides and then down onto his thighs. When your lips reached the waistband of his boxers, your eyes glanced up at him.
"Can I take them off, sir?" you asked.
He smirked at the title. Only one word of correction and he'd trained that phrase into you.
"Yes," he answered. It was a simple answer. All that was required for someone so naturally obedient.
You took it in stride, tucking your fingers over the elastic and tearing them down. His hard cock popped up and slapped against his pelvis. You couldn't have been happier about your earlier ken doll theory being proven wrong. The sight of his dick was enough to make you drool. It was better than any work of art out there.
It rested against his body at the perfect length, the perfect girth. The tip flushed beautiful red and pearly white beads of precum smeared at the top. Your fingers wrapped around it and gave it a few strokes, testing the waters.
His hand came down and petted your head. He watched as you studied the appendage, as you experimented with your own touch. It was so fucking cute he thought he might cum right then and there. Fuck, he thought you were sweet every moment he had eyes on you, but right now, you were darling. You were doing as he said. Accepting your place at the feet of a superior being.
"Put it in your mouth," he said from above, "I want you to taste it."
There was no hesitation on your end this time around.
"Yes sir," you responded before leaning forward and wrapping your lips around his cock.
He groaned and let his chest hollow out with a harsh exhale. Your mouth was so warm and wet, nice and snug around his length. He rocked his hips up, pushing it further into your throat. He expected a small gag or sputter, but instead you moaned. You shut your eyes and flattened your tongue against his shaft before beginning to bob your head.
"Fuck," he hissed. His legs tensed up, and he pressed down on your head. That did get a tiny gag out of you. You gripped his hips to stabilize yourself though and stayed in place. Your nose nestled against the darker curls of hair that sat at the base of his cock.
Spit leaked from your mouth and dribbled onto his skin below. He took a few moments to just enjoy the feeling of his dick down your throat. The sight of his sweet, innocent girl choking on his cock. Then he let you pull off and catch your breath.
You took a few deep puffs, letting the spots clear from your vision before you dove back in for more. Your hand stroked the lower part of him your mouth didn't cover in its shallow sucks while your other set of fingers caressed his balls tenderly.
He'd never experienced devotion. As much as it pained him to ever acknowledge, his sexual experiences had been lackluster up until now. There were the times with Maeve, but they always left something to be desired for him. Then there was the time with Stillwell that ended before it really started. In either case, no one had ever put all of themselves into pleasuring him like you were doing right now. It drove him wild. He could feel his sac tightening up, and he knew he had to get you off.
Planting one hand on each side of your head, he tugged you back. You looked up at him with glossy, cock-drunk eyes and saliva-coated lips. He swiped some of the mess away before addressing you.
"You're doing so good for me, but I think you're ready for more, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," you agreed.
"My perfect pet," he crooned and pulled you up onto the couch.
He laid you flat on your back and ripped your skirt and panties off in one go. His eyes drank in the sight of your nude lower half, but he didn't spend much time savoring it. He spread you out, slotting himself against your center.
With a few rocks of his hips, he dragged his length through your wetness. He let the sticky fluid coat his shaft, and then he sunk in. His tip bullied its way into your entrance and the rest of him followed. You whined at the stretch. Your walls clamped around him, eager to accept the intrusion.
"Atta girl," he grunted as he worked himself all the way in.
His hips connected with your ass, but he still bucked them, trying to get more. You yelped at the force. He was already buried inside you. Anymore and his tip would be nudging the entrance to your womb.
Fortunately for you, he pulled his hips back, giving you a short break from feeling so full. It was short lived though. Seconds later he snapped back in. That began the quick rhythm he set into. It was desperate and needy, emotions he'd tried to hide until this point.
You whimpered as your body bobbed with the momentum. His thrusts bounced you back and forth. The sounds of his body smacking against yours filled the room. His fingers dug into your waist hard enough to bruise. You didn't complain about the minor pain though because you could tell he was holding back in every other regard. If a few marks on your side kept you from being pulverized by a super cock, then that was a burden you were willing to carry.
Above you, he starts to pant. His breaths leave him raggedly huffing, sucking down what oxygen he can get in the midst of rutting into you. He tilts his head down at you and gazes at your blissed out face with lidded eyes.
"I could have anyone. Any person on this Earth would be mine if I wanted them to be. But the only one I want is you. Doesn't that feel good?" he breathed.
"Yes!" you cried out. Your back arched up off the couch. "Feels so fucking good, sir."
He leaned into you more, squishing your body into the surface below. Your thighs pressed against your tummy as he bent you.
"Yeah, it does," he grunted, "It's all there is. It's all you need to think about. How you're all mine."
"Mhm," you whined with a lazy nod. You were getting closer to cumming and responding to his words was taking a lower priority in your mind.
"And to think you tried to deny yourself of it," he mocked. He clenched his jaw and slammed into you harder.
You shrieked and clutched his shoulders. In the back of your mind, you hoped his penthouse was sound proofed or at least enough distance from the nearest one. Otherwise you wouldn't have to tell anyone about this incident for it to spread throughout the tower.
"I knew better, didn't I? I knew this is what you needed," he said.
Again, you nodded. You felt the heat in your belly reaching the boiling point.
"Say it," he huffed.
You tried to force it out, but your own hiccuped sob of pleasure cut you off. He didn't give you a break though. He stared down at you with expectation, so you continued.
"You know best- uh, fuck- you know best, sir," you whined.
"Good fucking girl," he growled on top of you.
He was already close from the blowjob you'd given him. Only a few strokes more, and he was ready to explode. He swiveled his hips, angling them upwards to pound into that special spot that would make you see stars and stripes.
You mewled when you came. Your body trembled harder than it did when you were scared. Arousal gushed out of you and coated his skin. He huffed and buried his face in your neck before letting go.
Everything faded into the background as you laid underneath him in the haze that came after the absolute high of pleasure. Now you could feel his heartbeat too. The organ thundered against his chest over and over as he came down.
Minutes later he pulled back. His knuckles caressed down your jawline before he climbed off of you entirely. He sat back on the couch and let out a deep breath. You weren't sure whether you were supposed to pick up your stuff and leave or follow along with him and stay close to his side. There was no real indication of what he wanted in this moment, but he turned to smile at you and huffed out a laugh.
"I think I'll keep you with me more often now. Really show you the ropes of fitting in around here."
You sat up and nodded awkwardly. He leaned toward you, cupping your cheek.
"I'll be a much better teacher than Ashley ever was," he said. His arm snaked around you and pulled you to his chest again. "No more errands or coffee runs. I'll show you things you need. Things that you'll enjoy."
He ran his fingers over your face and kissed your temple. The touches were tender against your skin. They would have been romantic if your mind wasn't racing with what this all meant in terms of your job and the grand scheme of your future.
Looking at him though, he wasn't worried at all. He smiled down at you before whispering once more.
thinking about SOLDIER BOY holding you down and forcing you to take his fingers…
cw: left alone once again to babysit the infamous supe in a dingy motel, but he’s finally had enough of your quick mouth and rejection towards his unwanted advances.
cw: smut, dubcon, forced fingering, mention of hitting/smacking, ben being foul, slight manhandling, forced proximity? 18+
soldier boy x mouthy!fem!reader ⋮ wc: 2.7k
you were curled up on the end of the motel couch, opposite soldier boy, trying to avoid meeting his dreaded stare. his lustful eyes roamed over you—you could feel the way he practically undressed you in his mind—and it sickened you.
he was a pig.
and he’d been a pig since the minute he’d met you, throwing out half-assed comments just to irk you, like how “women didn’t dress like you in his day” and how “thighs like yours are ones he’d be happy to die between.”
you were beyond repulsed by ben and more than tired of the constant barrage of unwelcome propositions. you thought he was revolting; you’d physically recoil anytime his booming voice filled the room with another vulgar comment, but somewhere deep down… there was always a tiny little flicker in your stomach that made your core clench.
“babydoll…”
eugh… you felt his gaze turn to you, abandoning the old army show rerun on the box television, and instead falling over you with an obvious desire.
“c’mon, don’t ignore me now. it’s rude, don’t you know?” he continued, dragging out his words, all low and velvety smooth.
you didn’t dare look up from your phone; you didn’t want to—engaging in any kind of conversation with ben was redundant. you didn’t need to hear the repeat stories of his glory days or the time he had sex with a celebrity that was long dead by now.
“hey, i’m talking to you,” ben huffed, tilting his head. “c’mere.”
that got your attention… unfortunately. you let your eyes lift up from your phone screen, meeting his, which shone with his typical glimmer of arrogance.
“there she is.”
you sighed, “can you zip it? just go back to watching your show.” you waved a dismissive hand at him and looked back down at your phone, intending to keep doomscrolling like you’d been doing since butcher dropped you off to ‘babysit’ this morning.
“jesus– can you not be on that fucking little screen thing for five minutes? i said c’mere. don’t give me attitude.” ben patted the sofa cushion next to him, the one between you both, his hand lingering on the fabric as he watched you, waiting.
“ben,” you lifted your gaze again, “i’m not interested in whatever little game you’re–”
before you could comprehend it, ben’s hand wrapped around your wrist and tugged you over to him in one smooth motion. a loud yelp punched its way out of your throat at the sudden movement. he was quick to manhandle you onto his lap, his hands resting on the plush of your thighs.
your brain eventually caught up, and you huffed, angry and full of disgust. “no, let me off now,” you scoffed.
ben chuckled, the sound low and full of mirth. “no can do, babydoll. got you right where i want ya.”
you sneered and tried to pull yourself away, but ben’s hands were quick, tugging you right back down onto his lap, holding you there with a force that he had lacked before, dipping into his ungodly strength. “don’t. you’re staying here while i watch my show, toots. so get comfortable.”
the sneer on your face worsened—an ugly expression that pulled at your features. it only made ben smirk more.
“no, let me off now!”
ben tutted, shaking his head in amusement. “such a mouthy little thing. y’got no survival instincts, do you, darlin’? talking back to a man like me? i could snap you in half without breakin’ a sweat,” he mused, his calloused hands rubbing up and down your thighs.
you shuddered at his touch and narrowed your eyes at his words. “yeah? so do it then. snap me in half if you’re so fucking eager.”
ben laughed again, this time a deep chortle right from his core. “aww, angel, don’t poke the bear. i’ve hit a lot of mouthy little girls for less.”
“yeah? did you feel good putting your hands on them? do you feel good putting your hands on me, huh? do you feel big and strong?” you continued, letting your mouth fly as usual, an unabashed confidence dripping from your biting tone.
ben watched as you spoke, his face contorting with sheer amusement and intrigue. no girl had ever talked to him like that—so loud and unapologetically direct. it was a nice change of pace, ben figured, but he was not a man to tolerate disrespect, and so he decided it wouldn’t hurt to push you just a little bit further.
“oh, it felt real good, honey… but i bet it’d be even better seeing your face all red and blotchy from a few smacks. bet you’d be one of those blubbering little things, probably beggin’ me to stop cause it hurts or some other fuckin’ bullshit.”
he watched your eyes narrow once more, the cogs in your head spinning as you absorbed his words.
“you’re a sexist pig,” you finally spat out.
“yeah, maybe i am. but you’re not fighting to get off my lap anymore,” he chuckled, squeezing at your thighs.
you groaned angrily, starting back up again, squirming in his lap, trying to pull away.
“let go!”
“no, sweets. you’re stayin’ here until my show’s over. i want some company, and you’re the only one here.”
“i was fine sitting over there!”
“and now you’re fine here. so shut up and relax, or i’ll make you.”
your lip curled. you could tell by the look on ben’s face and the way his hands were massaging your thighs that he was serious. you didn’t dare acknowledge the strange feeling the contact was inducing in your stomach.
“no,” you tried.
“yes.”
“no, let me off.”
“nope, stay fuckin’ still. you can get off when my show’s over, alright? just another thirty minutes. you can handle that, can’t you? you’re a big girl,” ben cooed, though it was anything but sweet, instead a taunt to rile you up further.
you paused at his tone, taking a moment to study his face. his brows raised, his expression daring you to challenge him again, and his plump pink lips were still curved into his stupid smirk.
you swallowed down your bruised pride before sighing. “do you promise? thirty minutes?”
“i do, doll. thirty minutes and you can get up and sit as far away from me as y’like.”
you huffed, taking another moment to decide. you were beyond repulsed, but his grabby hands, which you knew hid scary amounts of superstrength, made you think twice.
“fine. thirty minutes.”
“mhm, just thirty minutes.”
ben’s head tilted at your words, his green eyes flickering between yours in satisfaction.
“get comfortable then, girly.”
you huffed, holding in a deeper groan of frustration, and leaned down, reluctantly pressing against him as you rested your head on his shoulder. your arms came around his head, and you settled in—albeit a little uncomfortably—and started scrolling on your phone once more on the back of the couch.
ben enjoyed the way you gave in and pressed against him, the complete contact of your chest against his lighting a fire in his stomach. “atta girl. get cozy f’me,” he cooed again, letting his arms wrap around you.
his warm hands gently rubbed up and down your back, somewhat mindlessly, as he went back to watching the television.
the time quickly passed, and your body slowly melted into his as your anger from before began to settle. you scrolled through your internet trash, whatever was on your feed, just to give yourself something to do as ben’s hands gently travelled over you.
though eventually, his hands had made their way down and met the back of your thighs, gripping at your flesh softly. you sighed quietly to yourself; you expected this—ben trying to cop a feel—so you ignored it, vowing to just push through until his stupid fucking show finished.
but as the minutes passed, ben’s hands got a little more confident in their exploration. you felt his fingers swipe along your clothed slit. you froze.
“don’t do that,” you huffed quietly, your head still resting on his shoulder.
“hmm, doll?”
“i said don’t touch me like that. don’t,” you warned.
but did ben listen? no, course not.
instead, he let out a deep rumble of a laugh and swiped along you again, this time with more pressure. you felt the pads of his fingers find your clit with ease, gently rubbing it through your shorts—which you were now regretting choosing to wear for the day.
your hips jerked, trying to free yourself from the unpleasant pleasure ben was forcing upon you.
“mmm, don’t. i said stop, b–”
“stay still,” ben muttered, his free hand holding your hip to keep you stationary. his other hand went back to playing with you.
“no, ben. i don’t– i don’t want you touching me.”
“yeah? you’re not fighting very hard to get off.”
you groaned and pulled back on his lap, now able to look him in the eye. you frowned.
“stop.”
your hand grabbed his wrist between your legs, but any attempt to pull it away was futile; his superstrength out-winning your weak hands any day.
“shh, shh, shh,” ben cooed. he let his finger stroke you harder through the fabric.
a moan escaped you, much to your displeasure, and you shifted your hips, frustrated at him and trying to ignore the drooling of your cunt.
“ben, stop,” you whined, trying to sound firm, though the sound was a pathetic noise, taking you by surprise.
“baby, you don’t want me to stop. just shh and take it. be a good girl for once.”
“ben–”
“shh, let me play with you.”
before you could fight it, ben had slipped his slimy hand under the fabric of your shorts and into your underwear. his fingers met your wet heat, and you whimpered—slightly in discomfort, slightly in anticipation.
“shit, so wet, babydoll. you’re a fuckin’ liar. don’t want this, ben. wah, wah, wah. just a little goddamn liar with a fountain between her legs,” ben mocked.
he let his fingers rub slow teasing circles through your folds, kissing your clit with just the right amount of friction to make your pussy weep more for him.
“don’t want it,” you whined again, “don’t– please.”
a huff exited ben’s mouth. “yeah, sure you don’t. that’s why this pretty pussy is gushing for me right now. s’why you’re getting all huffy and stuttering. just sit back and let me make you feel good. it’ll shut you up for once.”
you frowned and let your eyes fall shut. you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response. you stayed splayed on his lap, your thighs spread over his meaty ones as he played in your underwear. his fingers moved quicker, toying with your swollen bud with expertise.
you felt the clench of your stomach, and your hands shot out, grabbing his biceps for stability.
“oh, there we go. you’re close, huh? yeah, that’s it.”
the noises you made were whiny and loud, stuttering breaths that were half in fight and half in pleasure. your hands gripped at his firm muscles as your core squeezed, fighting off the wave of ecstasy from washing over.
“c’mon, now. just let go f’me, doll. i can feel this pretty pussy holdin’ out on me.”
his fingers rubbed harder against your tender nerves, the friction slickening up your pussy in preparation—what a traitor. you squeezed and whined, your hips jerking around in his lap as his fingers moved through your folds.
“cum, baby. c’mon,” ben murmured, watching your face scrunch and twitch, reacting to what he was doing between your thighs.
one final circle over your clit forced open the floodgates and let your orgasm rip through you. you moaned loudly, collapsing against ben’s front as he rubbed you slowly, drawing out your high. your slick covered his fingers more, and his free hand met your back, rubbing up and down your spine soothingly.
“mmm, there we go, honey. did that feel good? you liked soldier boy doing that to you?” he laughed, letting his fingers wander through your tumescent folds.
you whined into his neck as you felt them tease your entrance—his fat fingertips circling around the sensitive opening, sending electricity flying up your spine, dizzying your brain upon arrival.
“answer me.”
his voice was sharp but hiding a gentleness behind it, like he wanted you present with him.
“mmm, yeah…” you mumbled out against the tanned skin of his neck.
“yeah, baby? was good?”
his middle and ring fingers circled your opening one last time before slipping in. your jaw dropped at the pleasant stretch, and then a moan toppled out as he curled them up into the spongey spot that made your hips buck forward.
“oh, that’s it,” he hummed, rhythmically curling his fingers against your gspot. “such a tight little pussy for me. squeezing my fingers like crazy, sweetheart. s’like a little virgin cunt,” ben laughed.
his amusement continued as he fingerfucked you, drawing out your sweet melodic sounds of pleasure. you melted against him entirely, willingly letting him violate your pussy with his slimy fingers that had a history of violence but now were gentle and calm inside your slick walls.
ben revelled in your moans against his neck, the pretty sounds sending all his blood down south to his slowly engorging hunk of meat. you could feel it pressing into your thigh under his sweatpants—the sheer girth of it making your head spin as you thought about taking him inside you.
you whined into his neck again, feeling the combination of thoughts and his fingers driving you closer to finishing a second time.
“shit, listen to you, babydoll. so fuckin’ mouthy before, but all i needed to do was plug your pussy with my fingers and suddenly you’re a broken little slut,” ben chortled.
“don’t be mean,” you muttered out meekly, your breath ragged as your orgasm impended.
“oh, baby. this ain’t me being mean. i could be a whole lot meaner if you’d like me to.”
you shook your head into his neck, letting out a soft hum. ben chuckled, still forcing his thick digits into your hole, his curling motions almost like he was digging for gold inside your gummy walls.
“gonna cum for me again?”
you nodded. “please.”
“oh, there we go. that’s a good sweet girl. so polite, using your manners like that. that's what i like to see.”
ben’s fingers moved faster, making your core tighten again around them, working you up right to the edge again with his quick dexterity. his free hand held the back of your head into his neck, his thumb softly rubbing up and down your nape.
“c’mon… let go for me.”
you followed his instructions, which was so unlike you, and he felt your cunt drool and flutter around his fingers as another melody of moans escaped your mouth, travelling right up into his ear.
“oh, good girl… goooood girl,” ben hummed and turned to place a gentle kiss on your temple as he fingered you through your second high.
your core continued to clench around his fingers, coating them in your sweet juices as they dribbled out onto his palm. you couldn’t help yourself from groaning into his ear, the sounds ragged and breathless—like you’d given up, like you weren’t fighting him anymore.
as you simmered down from your peak, and your walls stopped tightly hugging his digits, ben slowly retracted his now-pruned fingers from inside you. you hummed into his neck at the empty feeling, and he chuckled, his clean hand pulling you away from his neck so you could look at him.
ben raised his hand covered in you, his fingers and palms both drenched in the juices he’d managed to pull from you with ease. “you don’t get mouthy with me anymore, got it? cause look what i can do to you… the next time you need an attitude readjustment, i won’t be so nice.”
his eyes stayed on you as he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking off the slick from his skin, tasting you. he groaned loudly, and a smirk grew on his lips. “shit,” he pulled his fingers away, “such a sweet taste for such a nasty piece of work.”
fig yaps: i am so back baby! was too depressed to write but then i thought abt soldier boy fingering me and now here we are LOL i hope u enjoyed !!! i was seriously fighting the urge to include a daddy kink in this but i refrained :( bc some people really don’t like it and i wanna write a mix of content !!!! anyways ily thank u for reading BYE <3
feedback and reblogs are welcomed and appreciated!
Homelander x Supe!Fem!Reader 𓂃 18+ ONLY, MDNI, Explicit sexual content, power dynamics, dominance/submission themes, praise kink, breeding kink, possessive behavior, mild choking, unprotected sex, Homelander being Homelander (manipulation, narcissism, volatility), morally grey reader
The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like ascending to your own execution.
You knew this was coming the moment you contradicted him in the meeting. The way his jaw had tightened, that manic gleam flickering in his too-blue eyes, the smile that didn't reach past his teeth—all warning signs you'd deliberately ignored. Someone needed to tell him that his plan for the latest Vought publicity stunt was reckless and would get people killed. That someone, apparently, had to be you.
The newest member of The Seven. The Supe who can turn other Supes human with a touch.
The only person in the world who can make Homelander vulnerable.
The elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal his sanctuary of American excess. Everything is cream and gold and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city he pretends to protect. He's standing with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, cape draped perfectly down his shoulders.
"You wanted to see me?" Your voice is steady, even though your heart hammers against your ribs.
"Close the door."
It's not a request. You let the elevator doors slide shut behind you, but you don't move further into the room. Let him come to you.
He turns slowly, and there it is—that smile. The one he uses on cameras, during interviews, when he's three seconds away from lasering someone in half. "You embarrassed me today."
"I disagreed with you. There's a difference."
"In front of the team." He takes a step forward. Then another. Prowling. "In front of my team."
"Last I checked, we're all supposed to be equals." You hold your ground even as he enters your personal space, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and overpowering, like everything about him.
His laugh is sharp, humorless. "Equals. That's cute." His head tilts, studying you like a specimen under glass. "You've been here three weeks. Three. And you think you can just... what? Challenge me? Undermine my authority?"
"I think I can stop people from dying in a preventable disaster." You meet his gaze without flinching. "But if that threatens your authority, maybe the problem isn't me."
The air shifts. Becomes dangerous.
His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of how easily he could end you. How fragile you are compared to him. "You know what I think? I think you forget who the fuck I am. I think you need a reminder of exactly where you stand."
Your power flares instinctively, rippling out from your skin. You watch his eyes widen fractionally as it hits him—that sensation of everything that makes him super just... evaporating. His strength, his invulnerability, his laser vision. All of it, gone.
His hand is still on your throat, but now it's just a man's hand. Human. Breakable.
"No," you whisper, "I think you forget who I am."
For a moment, you think you've miscalculated. That you've pushed too far. His expression goes blank, unreadable, and you know that look from the files you've studied. That's the look he gets right before he—
Then he laughs. Real, genuine, slightly unhinged. "Oh, fuck. Fuck." His grip loosens but doesn't release, thumb stroking along your pulse point. "You've got balls, I'll give you that. Standing here, making me human, like you're not terrified I'll snap your neck the second you let go."
"Who says I'm terrified?"
His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to his. This close, you can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises, the barely perceptible tension in his jaw. "Your heart's racing. I can—" He stops, lips curving into something almost like a real smile. "I could hear it. Before you... God, that's really something, isn't it? You just take it all away."
There's something in his voice you weren't expecting. Not anger. Not even frustration.
Wonder.
"How does it feel?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Being human?"
"Terrible. Vulnerable. Weak." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Exciting."
The kiss, when it comes, isn't what you expect. You'd braced for violence, for him to take and conquer and consume. But this is almost... exploratory. Like he's discovering something new. His lips are softer than you imagined, moving against yours with surprising gentleness, and when you open for him, the sound he makes is almost vulnerable.
Your power wavers—just for a second—and his strength floods back. He uses it immediately, lifting you like you weigh nothing, walking you backward until your back hits the cold glass of the window. The city sprawls seventy floors below, oblivious to what's happening in the sky above them.
"I should punish you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands roaming your body with possessive intent. "For that little stunt in the meeting. For talking back. For being so fucking—" He bites your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "—difficult."
"So punish me." You roll your hips against him, feeling the evidence of his arousal through his suit. "Unless you're all talk."
His eyes flash dangerously, and suddenly you're moving again, being carried to the obscenely large bed that dominates one corner of the penthouse. He drops you onto it with just enough force to make you bounce, then stands over you, backlit by the city lights.
"Take off your suit," he orders.
You sit up slowly, holding his gaze as you reach for the zipper. "Ask nicely."
"I don't ask. I'm Homelander. I'm the Homelander, and you—" He stops, jaw working. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, between his need for control and something else. Something hungrier.
"I'm the woman who can take away everything that makes you special," you finish softly, letting your suit slip off one shoulder. "The woman who can make you just a man. So maybe... you should ask nicely."
The silence stretches. Then: "Please." It sounds like the word is being dragged out of him. "Take off your suit. I want—I need to see you."
Better.
You strip slowly, letting the suit pool at your feet, standing before him in just your underwear. His gaze rakes over you with an intensity that should make you feel exposed, but instead sends heat pooling low in your belly.
"Perfect," he breathes, and there's that vulnerability again, cracking through his armor. "You're fucking perfect. Say it. Say you're perfect."
Ah. There it is. The praise kink you'd heard rumors about.
"Make me believe it," you counter, and his eyes darken with desire.
He's on you in an instant, suit disappearing with practiced efficiency until he's bare above you, all lean muscle and smooth skin. He's beautiful in the way a predator is beautiful—dangerous, perfectly designed. When he settles between your thighs, you let your power flow again, just enough to dampen his abilities.
He shudders, hips jerking against yours. "Fuck, that's—do that again."
You pulse your power, on and off, watching him come undone above you. Each time his powers return, he's invulnerable, untouchable. Each time you take them away, he's just a man who wants you with desperate intensity.
"You like it," you realize. "Being powerless. With me."
"Shut up," he growls, but his cock is leaking against your thigh, betraying him.
"It's okay." You pull him down for a kiss, softer than before. "You don't have to be him right now. Not with me."
Something breaks in his expression. He kisses you like he's drowning and you're air, hands everywhere, touching and claiming and almost reverent. When he finally strips away your remaining underwear, his fingers find you wet and ready.
"All this for me?" He circles your clit with maddening precision. "Your body knows who it belongs to."
"Presumptuous."
He slides two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly. "Am I wrong?"
You can't answer, too focused on the pleasure building under his touch. He's good at this—of course he is, he's good at everything—but there's an edge of desperation to it. Like he needs to prove something. Like your pleasure is somehow validation of his worth.
"Tell me I'm good," he demands, thumb pressing against your clit. "Tell me I'm making you feel good. Say it."
"You're—fuck—you're good at this," you gasp out, and the smile that crosses his face is almost boyish in its genuine pleasure.
"The best?"
"Don't push your luck."
He withdraws his fingers, using your wetness to slick his cock. When he lines himself up at your entrance, he pauses, eyes searching yours. "I'm going to fuck you now. And you're going to take all of me. And then you're going to admit that you're mine."
"That's a lot of assumptions."
He pushes in slowly, and you both groan at the sensation. He's big—of course he is—stretching you perfectly. When he's fully seated, he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.
"Take them away," he whispers. "My powers. I want to feel this. Really feel it."
You oblige, and his whole body shudders. Like this, he can feel everything—the wet heat of you around him, the pleasure without the buffer of invulnerability. He's completely present, completely human, and the vulnerability in his eyes is staggering.
He starts to move, slow at first, then building to a punishing rhythm. The bed creaks beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think about how he doesn't have to hold back his strength, except you've taken it away. Right now, he's just a man fucking you like his life depends on it.
"So fucking tight," he pants, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head. "Perfect. You're perfect. Made for me. Say it—say you're made for me."
"Make me come first," you counter breathlessly, and his laugh is half-feral.
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you builds rapidly, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter. When you come, it crashes over you in waves, and you hear him groan above you.
"That's it, fuck, that's it. So beautiful when you come. Gonna fill you up. Gonna put a baby in you. Make sure everyone knows you're mine. Would you like that? My child growing inside you? Another Supe, the most powerful ever created?"
The breeding kink talk should probably concern you, but you're too lost in pleasure to care, still riding out your orgasm as he chases his own. His rhythm becomes erratic, desperate.
"Say I'm the best," he demands, voice breaking. "Say I'm the only one who can make you feel like this. Say it, please, I need—"
"You're incredible," you gasp out, and it's not even a lie. "So good, so perfect, the best I've ever—"
He comes with a shout, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. For a moment, he's completely unguarded, face slack with pleasure, and you think this might be the only time anyone sees him truly vulnerable.
He collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest with possessive arms. His heart hammers against your back, gradually slowing. You release your power, letting his abilities flood back, and he sighs.
"Don't ever embarrass me like that again," he murmurs into your hair, but there's no real heat in it.
"Then don't suggest plans that will get people killed."
His arms tighten. "You're going to be difficult, aren't you?"
"Probably."
"Good." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "I'd get bored otherwise. But we're clear, right? You're mine now. My teammate. My..." He hesitates. "Mine."
You should argue. Should establish boundaries. Should remind him that you're not property to be owned.
Instead, you lace your fingers through his and squeeze. "We'll see."
His laugh rumbles through his chest into your back. "I'm going to make you admit it eventually. That you belong with me. To me."
"You can try."
"Challenge accepted."
You fall asleep like that, wrapped in the arms of the most dangerous man in the world, the only person who can make him human, and somehow that feels like the most dangerous position of all.
Tags/Warnings: DUBCON!, Homelander is his own warning, degradation, biting, pain kink if you squint, dirty talk, fingering, overstimulation, PiV, fondling/groping, pet names, power imbalance, prostitution?, talk of bruises/hickies, allusions to stalking, vaguely morally grey reader, reader is described as slightly shorter than HL and has an IUD for the plot, but no other descriptors are used
Summary: Become a Vought Personal Household Assistant! Do your duty as an American Citizen and serve your heroes by cooking, cleaning and spending some one-on-one time with them! No task is too small, no ask too great. No previous experience required, training will be provided. And of course, discretion is greatly appreciated.
Word Count: 3.5k
Author's Note: In no way do I condone or approve of Homelanders actions within the show. All of the fics I have planned with him for the month definitely toe the line of dubious consent, so please proceed with caution and know that any real life activities should be thoroughly discussed before participating in them.
Title from the song I Feel Like I'm Drowning by Two Feet
Dividers: Line divider by @saradika-graphics; star banner found on Pintrest
Tag List: @copperboom82
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
Main Masterlist
The ad said they were looking for a maid. Well, a ‘Personal Household Assistant’. Pressed for money, you really didn’t stop to question why Vought and its superheros would need a ‘Household Assistant’. So, you’d rationalized it as a maid and all the things that would come along with a position with that name, things that the Supes and their overinflated egos thought would be below their stations.
You were mildly surprised when you received an email following up on your application. You weren’t surprised at all by the lengthy training process nor the multitude of NDA’s you were required to sign.
What did surprise you a great amount, though, was who’s penthouse you'd be assigned to.
Never in your life had you seen so much red, white, and blue in one place. Homelander’s penthouse was like he’d designed a shrine to himself. Accented with dark leather, marble statues and a wide open balcony, you couldn’t fathom why one man would need so much room.
As outlined in your nonexhaustive list of duties presented to you in your training, a few of the tasks you would be in charge of would include changing the sheets, dusting and vacuuming. A set of instructions were included on how to clean, dry, and store his suits. Cooking was another of the major things that came with the position. You were to have them ready at predetermined times, or prepare them per his request. A document with appropriate foods and meals followed.
Right off the bat, Homelander had taken an interest in you. It was to be expected, you told yourself. You were a stranger in his space, and from the footage you saw on the news, he was a highly paranoid individual. But perhaps it was a little more than a simple interest.
Eyes that lingered just a little too long, giving you the impression that you were nothing more than a juicy steak on a plate being presented to a starved wolf. Smiles that were a little too wide, a little too bright, a little too toothy; every time he leveled one at you, your eyes were drawn to his unnaturally white canines.
Wolf indeed
The unnecessary touches came in later. Gloved hands that grazed over your lower back or hips as he passed behind you even though there was plenty of room, leaning forward too far into your space as you prepared his meals, close enough for his warm breath to fan across your neck.
Speaking of meals, he was a man on a strict regimen, one that rivaled a competitive body builder. A small book outlined what he could and couldn’t have, what to use and when to serve it. Steak and eggs with hashbrowns were for breakfast, some kind of light meal like a sandwich for lunch, and a feast fit for a king—or a god—for dinner.
Plus milk. Lots of it with every meal no matter what it was. An entire shelf of his larger than life fridge, which you were convinced was bigger than your entire kitchen at your apartment, was dedicated to it; jugs upon jugs of whole milk were to be kept stocked at all times. You couldn’t imagine that a Supe of his abilities would have a calcium deficiency, but you supposed everyone had their things.
Like a frog in a gradually heating pot of water, you didn’t know you were in too deep until it was too late for you. All the subliminal things, the touches and glances that could be explained away, all the small, calculated, dents until you realized you enjoyed him—his presence, his touch.
So the first time his glancing touches shifted to something…other, you didn’t even flinch. Not when the hand on your lower back wandered lower and lower, lingering longer until his gloved hand rested solidly on your ass. And you knew it wasn’t your imagination when his fingers curled inward, getting a fistful of your asscheek.
Not when he walked up behind you one morning when you were cooking him breakfast. The warmth of his body pressed against your back as he leaned in, peering over your shoulder. Then you felt it, the brush of his lips ghosting over the exposed skin of your neck, hair ruffling as he breathed you in. And, as if in second nature, you leaned back into it. You tilted your head in a way that bared your neck, your throat, to him.
A small, satisfied hum was his only acknowledgment, his approval. He had pulled away, rambling about something regarding the Crime Analytics Department and a hollow want replaced the space where his warmth had just been. Your brain was still short circuiting at the feel of his lips, warm and dry against your neck.
Managing to pull yourself from the temporary stupor in time, barely, to prevent the eggs from becoming overcooked, you tried not to linger on it. But trying and succeeding were two different things that were worlds apart.
It followed you like a ghost everywhere you went, in everything you did. It didn’t stop at the threshold of Vought Tower. No, it followed you to the store, the coffee shop, it followed you home. It lingered on your skin so that even after you’d showered for the night, the skin still tingled.
You weren’t completely blind to who—or what—he was. You’d seen the blood and gore on his suit and gloves when you cleaned them. You’d seen the news, witnessed that too sharp predator's gaze tinged with a possessive madness.
Gods.
Monsters.
The only difference was who is telling the story
And you were human, weak to the prospect of power. Being the object of his attention, no matter how fleeting it may turn out to be, awarded you power. Or at least some perverted kind of it.
The night that thing, that unnamed tension, finally came to a head, you’d let it happen.
Handwashing the stainless steel pans you’d made dinner in—chicken piccata and angel hair pasta—you’d been standing at the sink. While you weren’t given a uniform, you always wore the same thing: a pair of shorts, or pants when it was colder, and a t-shirt or tank top. Light, breathable, and gave mobility to make cleaning easier.
You’d come to recognize him by the whoosh of him landing on the balcony or the heavy thumps of his boots, the glass french doors usually kept open. Some days you couldn’t get him to shut up, other days he was near mute in quiet, internal contemplation. But the silence that day had nothing to do with inner turmoil. Boots on the floor was the way you tracked his progress to you. While your ears gauged where he was, you continued to scrub the pan with a washcloth, sudsy water coating your forearms nearly to the elbow.
Then, he had been behind you. Unabashed, his front had pressed against your back and you could feel the hardness of him against your lower back. In a silk smooth voice, he had told—instructed—you to keep going. So you had. You scrubbed away as his hands, still encased in his gloves, dipped in between the elastic of your shorts and your skin and pulled them down your legs, your underwear having gone with them.
You had cum twice by the time he pulled out of you, his spend starting to drip down your leg. Your grip on the edge of the sink was the only thing keeping you upright, your jelly legs threatening to give way.
It only continued from there. Some days you could anticipate it. Days when the press conferences went awry, when Stan Edgar pissed him off, or when some man named William Butcher, who you’d learned about through Homelanders ramblings, got just a little too close to bringing about his downfall.
Those were the days when you came home with bruises on your hips and hickies on your neck and shoulders, when you felt a pair of eyes on you from the darkness until long after you had crawled into bed for the night.
Others you couldn’t predict. Changing the laundry, dusting the inordinate amount of shelves in the penthouse, restocking the fridge. Any time, anywhere. Your bottoms were bullied down your legs, his fingers teasing across your pussy before the fat head of him pushed his way inside you until he was fully seated and your hips were flush against each other. The anticipation of it all flooded your panties, meaning when he did pound into you, he was met with little resistance.
It was rough, raw, unforgiving, and you ate it the fuck up.
The dryer cycle had just ended when the thump of Homelanders boots on the balcony reached your ears despite you being on the very interior of the penthouse. The publicity event must not have gone well then, you thought, which meant today was gonna be one of those days. The small, irregularly shaped bruises on your thighs and hips had just faded, but it seemed more would be replacing them before you left for the night.
A heat stirred low in your stomach, your chest tightening in anticipation. Overaware of everything, you tried your best to continue about unloading the dryer. It was mostly towels, the soft fabric pleasantly warm against your skin as you folded them all neat like, one ear on the sounds of him moving around the penthouse.
Then, there was nothing. Placing the towel from your hands into the basket, you paused. Normally, you could hear his footfalls, or hear him muttering to himself under his breath. The silence wasn’t malicious, but teasing.
A game, is what this was, you realized. A fucked up remix of cat and mouse. But you knew that part of the fun, for him at least, was you acting like you didn’t know. Like you weren’t in on it.
So back to folding towels it was. Each fold, each tuck, each sheet of fabric piled neatly into the basket you could feel was scrutinized. There was this feeling, like the hairs on the back of your neck were on end, the feeling of being watched. From where you didn’t know. You hadn’t heard the door slide open, but for a man of his stature, Homelander sure knew how to move quietly when he wanted to.
And he really must have, because your feet must have made it 6 inches off the floor when heavy hands landed harshly on your waist.
“You know,” His voice was heavy with calculation. It always was, each word measured and hanging on his tongue like it was thought out. “You really should just walk around here naked.”
Breath hitching as those hands, encased in soft leather snaked around to rest on your belly, you attempted to pull another article from the laundry basket.
“These truly are such a nuisance.” You flinched as he tugged the waistband away from your waist, only to let it snap back. “Should be able to have access to you whenever I want.”
“Don’t you already?”
You spoke now, voice barely over a whisper. Not in defiance, but in a teasing encouragement; an attempt to diffuse the bomb given skin that was Homelander, even if it took more courage than you cared to think about.
Silence was your only answer. Not an empty silence, all awkward and dangerous, but one of heat and anticipation. That was until the sound of ripping fabric replaced it as he tore both your shorts and underwear in one motion.
“That’s more like it.” His sentiment punctuated by a slap to your now bare rear.
That hand found its way back to your stomach, now resting unimpeded against your flushed skin. But, instead of resting there unmoving like it had been, his index finger traced teasing circles around your belly button. With each rotation, it traveled lower and lower until you were trembling; little tremors wracked your body, ones you were sure he could feel vibrating underneath the softness of your lower belly. Against your backside you could feel him, hard as steel, as he stepped into that empty space.
“I can hear your heart racing.” You shuddered as he leaned in, speaking directly into your ear. “Smell how wet you are.”
A pause as he nuzzled his nose into your hairline.
“Tell me, are you afraid.”
“N-”
“The truth, please.”
You loosed a breath. “Yes.”
“Good.” His lips smacked as his hand shifted even lower, those small circles finally teasing around your clit. “You should be.”
Your hips bucked up into his hand, chasing his fingers. His thick digits swirled across the sensitive bud in alternating directions, gliding easily aided by your arousal. Legs far past trembling, you felt like a baby deer trying to stay standing, bracing your hands on the edge of the dryer.
But Homelander was already there, arm spanning across your chest, big hand fondling one of your breasts as he kept you steadily upright. Between the preternatural heat radiating from his body and the pleasurable burn of arousal pulsating from your core, a haze had started to overtake you. Any rationale was left in the dust as you tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth to keep from whimpering too loudly.
“Fucking pathetic.” He mused, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve barely even touched you.”
Your lip drops from where it had been caught between your teeth, mouth dropping open with a reply, but nothing coherent came out. Not when his hand between your legs slid lower, his middle finger dipping into your entrance to the first knuckle. Curious, experimenting, it entered you just barely before sliding back out. Even though it was one digit, with the thick padding of the glove your walls dragged along every time he retreated.
Your head lolled back, resting solidly against his shoulder, as a ragged moan ripped from your throat when it finally pushed all the way to the last knuckle. The sound your pussy made as he retracted his hand, only to bully his ring finger in alongside the other one was obscene.
“Homelander.” You managed to gasp, one hand clinging to the arm he had across your chest.
“She found her voice.” He crooned. “Was beginning to think I’ve fucked you dumb.”
A sad, pathetic whimper was the only retort you could muster as that coil low in your belly began to tighten, your inner walls fluttering around his fingers. It was only spurred on when he adjusted his hand so that you were now grinding your swollen clit against his palm, the material and stitching of them providing much needed friction.
Your heavy breathing matched his, his lips not straying much from the shell of your ear. Hips bucking erratically, you pushed yourself closer and closer to that edge, needing the release. Closer and closer he guided you, curling those deft fingers up towards your belly button to stimulate that spot within you. At first he’d had a hard time finding it, but now months later, he knew all the ways that made you fall apart, using them to his—and you supposed, your own—advantage.
If it weren’t for his arm across your chest, you would have pitched forward as your orgasm ripped through you. The edges of your vision blurred as waves of euphoria cascaded through your lower belly and sent shocks up your spine.
“That’s it.” He mocked in that overly patronizing tone. “Good girl.”
If the remnants of your orgasm hadn’t sent a shiver down your back, his words definitely did.
His fingers retreat from your slick-soaked pussy, dragging a shiny trail up your belly under your shirt before pulling away. Not trusting your unsteady body, you didn’t even try to turn as he took a half step back. Not that you would, anyway. Not once did he permit you to look at him while he was inside you. You didn’t mind, much. This was transactional, mostly at least.
Again, that fire was stoked back to life as you felt him press back up against you, running the length of his cock through your folds, covering himself in your arousal. You knew the blue and red suit covering his body had a generous amount of padding built into the lining, not that he wasn’t muscular, but the suit’s physique you were sure could only be achieved by chronic use of steroids. The one part that didn’t need padding?
The thick head of him caught at your entrance as he rutted himself against you, causing both of you to moan in sync. Ten dull aches dug into your hips as he gripped them hard, finding purchase there. His shallow thrusts worked his cock in and out of your pussy until his hips sat flush against your ass. Curved just right, he sat sheathed inside you, pressed up against every sensitive part.
“Thaaaat’s it.” Voice ragged and gruff in your ear. “Open up for me, slut.”
A harsh kick to the inside of your lower legs had you spreading your stance further, sending him impossibly deeper inside of you. Then, he started to move, setting your already decimated and fucked out body on fire. You were trapped, nowhere to go between the dryer and the unforgiving pace he’d set. Too much, too soon after the first orgasm he’d coaxed out of you.
But you were just a human at the mercy of a god, so you were helpless to the tears brimming in your eyes, the wanton moans and whimpers and broken pleas that fell on his deaf ears. Body molten and pliable, he used his bruising grip on your hips to pull you back to meet every thrust.
It wasn’t long before your legs were trembling again, every time he bottomed out sending you barreling towards the edge. You tried to hold off, tried to control your breathing, Deep inhale through the nose, out through barely parted lips.
It didn’t fucking help. Not when Homelander’s teeth closed around the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You cry out, the sound tailing off to a moan as the pain of his teeth digging into your skin trails down to further stoke the fire of arousal in your belly. Pleasure rolls through your body in great waves as your second orgasm crashes over you.
But he’s not done with you. Not even close.
Your orgasm, your inner walls clamping down around his cock only spurs him on further. His groan sends vibrations through your skin before he pulls away, tongue sweeping over the indentations of his teeth.
Now it truly was too much. With a series of rapid blinks, the tears that had welled up in your eyes rolled down your cheeks in fat droplets. A sob wracked your body as his cock pounded into you, suit stimulating your oversensitive pussy and clit.
“You can fucking take it.” Homelander snarls, somehow managing to fuck into you even rougher than before.
Your hips grow sore between his unyielding grip and being pushed into the corner of the dryer with each thrust. Every sound from your mouth grows weaker, the edges of your vision blurring as the sheer amount of arousal and pleasure clouds your senses, your brain, your nervous system. Muscles and bones are replaced by jelly, pliant and complicit to his will and his needs.
Through the haze, you register his movements becoming erratic, jerky, no longer the even strokes he’d started out with. His faint grunts and groans evolved into moans and something that resembled whimpers as he slipped a hand around your throat, keeping your back flush with his chest as he came with a choked moan.
Hips grinding against your ass, warmth filled you. Not once had you considered why the Vought hiring team assured you were on some kind of long term birth control, but after the first time you were glad you had an IUD.
Only once you could no longer feel him twitching inside you did he pull his now flaccid cock from inside you. It was by some unknown miracle that you could stand mostly on your own as he reached around you to grab one of the folded washcloths to wipe himself clean.
“Thanks for the fun.” He said, that ever present chipper tone back in place as he patted you on the ass before walking away. Not long after a whoosh indicated his departure.
Using a different washcloth you cleaned yourself of his cum, which was now leaking out of you. On unsteady legs, you managed to throw both soiled washcloths in the hamper and made your way to his room, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs from his laundry and putting them on. It’s not like he’d miss them or even knew they were there in the first place. Sighing, you went back to the laundry room, the task seeming moot now.
You just huffed an incredulous laugh to yourself. “Anything I can do for America’s Hero.”
Please like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed! Feedback is encouraged and appreciated!
content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k
The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.
You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.
The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.
Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.
You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.
“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”
You didn’t turn around.
“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”
You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.
“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”
You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.
Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.
“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.
He grinned.
“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”
“You were supposed to be on my six.”
“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”
You took a step forward.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.”
“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”
He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.
You didn’t.
“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”
He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.
“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”
You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.
“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”
“I’d rather chew glass.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”
Your hand twitched toward your blade.
He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”
He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”
You shoved him.
It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.
Then smiled.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”
You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.
His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.
Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.
“That all you got?”
You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.
You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.
His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.
“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”
His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.
“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”
You shoved him—hard.
This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.
He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.
That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.
He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”
Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.
“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”
He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”
“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”
“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”
Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.
“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”
You scoffed, but his grin widened.
“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”
You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.
“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”
Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.
“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”
“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.
“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”
Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.
Then you spit.
Right into his face.
It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.
Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.
His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.
You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.
His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.
“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”
He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.
“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”
You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.
“Don’t. Speak.”
His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.
“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”
Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.
You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.
You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.
The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.
From want.
And it hit you like a slap.
No.
No, no, no.
Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.
And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—
You were getting wet.
You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.
“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”
You froze. Heart lurching.
“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”
You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.
“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”
You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.
“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.
He ignored it.
“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”
You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.
He chuckled darkly.
“Temper, temper.”
Then you bit him. Hard.
Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.
You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.
“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.
Ben didn’t blink.
“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.
Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.
His eyes lit up.
“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”
You slapped him.
The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.
And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.
“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”
He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.
His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.
“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”
You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”
He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.
His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.
“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”
You turned your face away.
That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.
Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.
He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.
He heard it.
“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”
You clenched your teeth.
“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.
“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”
He pressed his hips against yours.
You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.
And still—your jaw locked.
He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.
“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”
He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.
“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”
His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.
“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”
You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.
“You want me to say it?” You whispered.
He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.
You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.
“No.”
His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.
And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.
His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.
“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”
You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.
He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.
Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”
“You already have,” you spat.
His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Then he went for your pants.
And froze.
You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.
“Fuck this shit,” he barked.
Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.
You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.
“Hargrove—” you started.
He didn’t listen.
Didn’t care.
His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.
“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.
And then—his mouth.
“Oh fuck—”
The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.
Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”
You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself—”
But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.
“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”
Then he really started working.
Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”
His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.
You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.
He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”
You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.
“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”
And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.
You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.
His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.
And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.
“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”
He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.
“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”
His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”
But you didn’t. Couldn’t.
“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”
“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”
You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.
“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”
That was it.
He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.
The world flipped upside down.
“Hargrove—what the fu—”
Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.
Your throat convulsed.
He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.
“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.
“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”
He wasn’t pulling back.
Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.
And then?
His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.
You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.
Your whole body spasmed.
“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”
He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.
“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”
His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.
His eyes rolled back.
“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”
You tried to move. Couldn’t.
Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.
He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.
And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.
But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.
He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.
Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.
His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.
And he loved it.
You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.
“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"
He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.
“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”
You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.
“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”
He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.
“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”
Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.
His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.
“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”
He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.
You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.
“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”
His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.
He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.
“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.
Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.
“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.
You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.
He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.
“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”
One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.
You locked eyes. He was gone.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.
Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.
No rush. No brutality.
Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.
“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”
Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.
And then he started to move.
Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.
Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.
He slapped your thigh—hard.
“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”
You blinked, dazed.
He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.
Another sharp slap to your thigh.
“Look. At. Me.” he growled.
You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”
He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.
“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”
You whimpered, and his mouth curled.
“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”
Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—
And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.
“No.”
He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”
He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.
“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”
Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.
“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”
Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.
And that made him feral.
“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”
Your eyes fluttered again.
He tutted.
“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.
“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”
You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.
His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.
“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”
You moaned, head tipping back more.
He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.
“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”
Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.
He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.
“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”
Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.
“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.
“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.
You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.
He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.
“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.
You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.
He stilled.
You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.
“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”
Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.
He grinned.
“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”
You clenched your teeth, panting.
“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”
He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.
“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”
Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.
And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.
“…Ben.”
His name. Your voice.
Everything stopped.
His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.
“Oh, fuck…”
He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.
“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”
You said it again, even softer.
“Ben…”
And he shattered.
“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”
His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—
He snapped.
“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”
His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.
You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.
And still—
He didn’t stop.
Not even for a second.
He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.
You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.
“Ben—”
“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”
He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.
You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.
Your head tipped back again.
Eyes closed.
Your fatal mistake.
He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.
You cried out.
His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.
“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”
You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.
His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.
“You look at me when I fuck you.”
He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.
“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”
“Ben—fuck, I—”
He spit the next words like a threat:
“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart—
I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”
Your whole body spasmed.
His voice dropped, feral.
“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”
You choked on a moan.
He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.
“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”
He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.
Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.
He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.
Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.
Then—
His pace broke.
He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”
His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”
Your answer was a sob. One word.
“Inside.”
And he stopped cold.
You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.
His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”
He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.
“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”
You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”
He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.
“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.
He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.
“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”
You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.
“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”
You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.
“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”
He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.
“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”
He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.
“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”
You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.
He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.
“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.
Your legs spread wider.
He grinned. “That’s my girl.”
Then his hand hovered over your lips.
“Open wide,” he said, voice low.
You did.
He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.
“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.
You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.
He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”
Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.
“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”
You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.
He groaned loud. “Good girl.”
And then—
He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.
Because you had.
author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life.
i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it.
i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet.
let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request.
all the damn love.
Characters - Dennis Whitaker x Michael "Robby" Robinavitch
Wc - 1.3k
MDNI
Summary - Dennis gets a bit risky when he smokes pot, especially when he smokes a little too much pot.
Warnings - Smut, intoxication, age gap, masturbation, WHINY Dennis
A/N - Alright guys, this is my first fic on this blog so be kind! If I made any grammar errors or whatever errors in general I'm sorry, I wrote this into the deep of the night and I don't feel like correcting anything lol.
Today's shift at the PTMC felt much longer than it should’ve, it was almost dizzying how much Dennis was getting pushed, pulled, and dragged around the trauma unit.
Robby’s constant manhandling during the day certainly didn’t help either, seriously… who could possibly focus on giving a patient simple stitches from some freak kitchen accident when your big attending comes in with gentle eyes and huge rough hands that always somehow needs to skim over your lower back in what's supposedly meant to be a sign of approval?
Those hands never fail to plague Dennis’s mind even in the comfort of his own home, where he seems to be getting dizzy from something other than grabbing hands. Sweet puppy eyes were now sleepy and glassy, pupils dilated, and brain fuzzy enough to make him feel the urge to start doing dumb things, things he would most likely regret when the high has worn off.
But his body was so damn warm… a nice tingle shooting through each of his nerves and reminding him of a very familiar feeling he gets when a certain doctor feels him up.
So you can’t really blame him when he’s finished almost half of the blunt Trinity oh so very graciously gave him (she felt bad and decided he deserved a break while she went out with friends- she still wants the other half), and is pathetically palming at the outline of his unbearably stiff cock through the fabric of his thin pajama pants.
Soft hushed whimpers unintentionally bubble up from his throat at every graze his cock receives, he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about those big hands that push him around and rest over his own to guide him through life saving procedures… It's inappropriate and unprofessional.
That’s what a sober Dr.Whitaker would think, but stoned Dennis couldn’t honestly care less at the moment, not when he has to keep licking his lips from the insane cotton mouth and his fat cock is giving hopeless twitching pleas against his hand for that sweet release.
It’s when the pad of his thumb teasingly brushes over the puffy head of his needy cock through the soft fabric that makes the tears start to spring up, a broken almost sad whine slips through his lips at the overwhelming feeling of his sticky tip being stimulated.
God, he wishes it was Robby’s calloused fingers worshipping and rubbing over his pathetic cock instead… and it’s that exact thought that makes something in our very faded out Dennis feel uncharacteristically hotblooded.
His free hand lazily ventures towards the nightstand that he thinks he left his phone atop of earlier that night, he almost whimpers in disappointment when he can’t feel the familiar material of his phone case but soon relaxes when his fingers brush over the sleek case.
He lets out a quiet sigh of satisfaction before hazily opening up his phone, his thumb slowly scrolling through his text messages until he stops on a particular contact… making a wave of arousal and excitement rush throughout his already tingly body.
The profile picture doesn’t even have a face to it, a simple ‘R’ held its place instead, (he’s been meaning to change it for a while now). He opened the chat and was greeted with a blurred conversation from about two days ago, something about “taking breaks…” yada yada… “you’re doing good…” whatever.
His breath hitches softly when he finally dips a finger beneath his pants plus his boxers before pulling it down just enough to let his aching cock spring free and gently slap against his abdomen, causing a hushed gasp and a soft delighted shiver that runs through his very being.
Dennis has to stop his head from spinning when he wraps a shaky hand around his hard throbbing length and begins to pump his fist at a brutally slow pace, a low moan breaks free at the delicious friction his hand gives him.
He almost loses himself completely to the pleasure of his hand stroking his leaky cock before he’s reminded why he was so unfathomably excited in the first place, his phone is still open to his and Robby’s chats… his tongue laps over his pretty pink lips before tapping on the camera icon next to the text bar. Dennis mewls at the sight of himself, one little tear starts to slip from the corner of his big blue eyes at the overwhelming need to just let himself cum.
His canine gently sinks into the plush flesh of his bottom lip as he presses on the red circle and then begins to pick up the pace, his grip is tighter and his hips start to lightly buck up to meet his hand eagerly.
A broken yet muffled moan erupts from him at the delightful sensation, his brows pinch together as his head loosely falls back against his pillow in pure bliss… then his lips slightly part, allowing his sweet shaky whimpers and light needy moans to slip into the room.
Pleasured tears pool into his eyes and cloud his vision as he continues his rough desperate strokes, he can’t help the way the muscles in his abdomen gently clench and the way he keenly arches his back when the pad of his thumb starts to caress over his flushed sticky tip; almost making him lose the grip on his phone completely.
“Dr.Robby…” he sobs out breathlessly, his mind swimming endlessly with dirty thoughts about the older man that made his cock drip and his moans continue to only grow louder.
“Want you to touch me, fuuck- need you to make me cum please- oh god, please…” Dennis whines out urgently, followed by a miserable cry… if he didn’t cum in the next two minutes he was seriously about to start bawling.
He reluctantly stops the recording, then swiftly sends it off to Robby, he knows that his attending is probably going to open it in the morning and fire him over text…won’t even give him a chance to explain how absolutely zooted he was and for some reason in this haze, needed to jerk off to the nasty fantasies he has about his boss.
Dennis hastily tosses his phone to the side on his duvet, his hand makes quick work of roughly pumping his cock with quick flicks of his wrists while his other now free hand slips under his sleep shirt and travels up towards his chest where he finds his hardened nipple and harshly tweaks it, causing him to squeak and little desperate tears to start sliding down his cheeks as his hips twitch helplessly from the intense pleasure.
A small buzz comes from beside him, he almost doesn’t even bother with it… he’s already on the brink of orgasm and dear god he needs to cum.
But… curiosity gets the better of him, his head lazily turns to the side where his phone lays; his eyesight is slightly blurred by unshed tears and the high he’s still enduring but he thinks he can sort of make out the contact name. Dennis puffs out a small annoyed huff before retracting his hand from underneath his shirt and reaches out to grab his phone, he fumbles with it for a bit before bringing it close enough to his face to see who could’ve possibly-
Robby: “So pretty baby <3”
Immediately after, a loud broken sob of pure orgasmic bliss graces the air as Dennis’s balls suddenly tighten and release urgently before abrupt ropes upon ropes of warm milky cum pulses out of his thick cock and onto his pale clenching stomach, fat tears run down his cheeks and onto the pillow beneath his head as his hand fists the white sheets beside him while he writhes and cries throughout his stupefying orgasm.
He whimpers breathlessly as he rides out the rest of his orgasm, his hand gently squeezing the base of his slowly softening cock while his brows unfurrow and his body relaxes in the aftershocks. His eyes sleepily flick over towards his phone for a moment before he slowly grabs it and starts to type back to Robby…
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: what’s it like to fuck these two hotties in front of a live audience? let’s find out, yeah? and make sure you smile real big while you’re at it. you know the camera loves you.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — mdni 18+, modern college au, camboy/camgirl au, bounce between past and present tense, voyeurism, threesome, creampie, recording, activities in the movie theater, praise/degradation, oral, rough sex, strangers to friends with benefits turned work partners.
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 — megumi fushiguro & yuji itadori.
𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 — 3.7k+
For some time now, you’ve become well acquainted with one Megumi Fushiguro and one Yuuji Itadori. It had been a normal day unlike any other as far as you could tell. You’d been walking down the street having just left your apartment on campus, on your way to your favorite café for your morning fix. Looking back, you could say you were in your own little world. Shoes rapping against the harsh concrete, hair flowing in the near fall wind, pretty acrylic nails tapping gently along your phone with one hand while the other made work to adjust the AirPod in your ear.
A/n my account got terminated twice, so this is my third and final account. I'm very sorry if me reposting this for the third time annoying, I spend a lot of time trying to find them so I'm gonna repost it. Feel free to suggest other characters you want me to do.
