Work Text:
You slam the door shut behind you and lean against it, closing your eyes to take a deep breath in. Your temples are throbbing with an incoming migraine, your feet hurt as if you ran a marathon in your high heels (if you looked on the stepcount of your fitnesswatch, you probably did) and your blouse sticks to your skin, smelling of sweat, Jil Sander perfume and the coffee that still stains the babyblue silk above your breast.
He'd thrown the large starbucks cup at you after finding out you got the order wrong ("Two shots of espresso, one pump of sugarfree vanilla sirup, a dash of cinnamon and full fat milk, NO foam!"(you had forgotten the cinnamon)). At least the coffee hadn't been hot anymore (another thing he'd critized of course, even though it was him who was late).
It wasn't the first time he'd thrown something at you. Last week it was a stapler, hitting your shin, after he found out that you forgot to cancel an interview that overlapped with another appointment ("What the fuck am I paying you for?") and the week before that it was one of his boots flying just past your head and into a wall, after he realised he messed up the order of the script and had been rehearsing the wrong lines all day long ("why didn't you tell me, you useless fucking cunt?!")
"He usually isn't this bad," Ashley had whispered while you crawled around on the floor of his office in your stupid pencil skirt and your stupid pumps, wiping up coffee with a papertowel. "It's just... You know."
You do know.
Stormfront.
Since the whole nazi incident, he's more on edge than ever. His last assistant was fired after accidently washing his cape with the wrong laundry detergent. The smell was wrong. He hadn't served him well enough. You vowed to do better. Because that's your fucking job.
Serving him.
Homelander.
If someone told your high school self you'd be earning your bread by waiting at America´s greatest superhero's hand and foot, you would've laughed in their face. You don't even like supes. You never understood their cult following, just like you never understood the worship of any celebrities. You just assumed they were spoiled brats and you had no desire to meet any of them in person and you were right. Mostly.
Homelander isn't just a spoiled brat, he's a goddamn psychopath. He's cold, ruthless, has a terrible temper and is probably one of the most self obsessed people you have ever met in your entire life.
If Patrick Bateman and Donald Trump had a baby, that would be Homelander.
You would love to gloat about being correct in your assumptions about him, but unfortunately, all you could do was thank your friend (Marty, who worked in the labs) for this job opportunity. After being out of work for almost two years (you studied media design not knowing that your job would be mostly taken over by AI by the time you graduated) and getting kicked out your old apartment, you almost ended up on the streets. Or on OnlyFans. Considering how physically dangerous your job here is becoming, the latter option starts to sound better everyday now...
You shake those thoughts out of your head, pushing yourself away from the door and slamming the Marc Jacobs tote bag (a happy-first-day-in-hell gift from Ashley) onto the marble kitchen island. The apartment only has two rooms, but those rooms are more than big enough to make up for that and the view out of the gigantic floor length windows is spectacular. Watching the glowing red sun go down from this high up the Vought tower could almost make you forget your shitty employers. Almost.
In front of those windows is a four poster bed with egyptian cotton sheets and a mattress so soft and bouncy it feels like you're sleeping on a cloud. It's big enough to host four people, but you haven't even have time for a single one-night-stand since you worked here. You try not to think about that.
You finally slide out of your Louboutins, wriggling your scrunched up toes and enjoying the cool tiles under your feet as you walk to the large fridge that was filled with nothing but Fiji water and liquor bottles. You never actually cook in here, despite the kitchen looking like something out of a baking show for professionals. Every day you return so late and so tired that all you can do is eat takeout and make yourself some drinks, which are starting to get Maeve-Level strengths of alcohol.
The Gin Tonic burns down your throat while you open the box of chinese noodles and dig into them as if you haven't eaten all day. Which you haven't. You tried to eat a bagle this morning, but Homelander had ripped it out of your hand and thrown it in the trash, telling you that he couldn't stand the smell of smoaked salmon this early in the day. After that you hadn't found a break long enough to get something else, so you just downed one espresso after the other until your stomach felt like it was drowning in acid.
You pull your iPad from your bag to plug it into the wall, so it could charge overnight and your fingers brush against the gift bag you had received earlier. Immediately you remove your hand again, as if you touched a poisonous snake.
It was a christmas present from Maeve's personal assistant Jody. She was biting her lip when she gave it to you and considering her shit-eating grin, you should've known better than to open it in public. But you had been stressed and impatient, so you ripped the sparkly reindeer paper off right then and there.
It was a dildo.
And not just any dildo. A red, white and blue striped and star spangled dildo.
Homelander edition.
You hadn't even known what to say.
Maeve almost spat out her martini when she saw your flabbergasted expression. You'd never heard her laugh like that before. Ashley rolled her eyes so hard, you feared they would disappear inside her head, but when she turned around and left, you could've sworn you saw a smile tug at her tight lips.
Needlessly to say the other people on set had a ball, teasing you about it all afternoon. The only good thing about it was that Homelander hadn't been there to witness the highlight of everybody's day, since he had taken the lunchbreak to fly off to god knows where. A small mercy.
You finish the noodles and pour youself a second drink to bring to the bathroom with you. Hot, rose scented steam fills the air as you finally strip out of your dirty clothes and sink into the bubbly water of the jacuzzi. You shift around until one of the jets hits your back right where it hurts and rest against the white porcelain. It has started to rain outside and the pitter patter against the windows is a nice, soothing white noise.
Slowly, you start to relax, the booze doing its best to placate your mind, while the whirlpool massages your overly tense muscles. It almost feels like several hands are caressing your body and you find youself slightly aroused despite the stressful day you've had. Your libido apparently doesn't care about your work problems.
You down the rest of your gin and lean back, closing your eyes and giving into the sensations of the water whirling around you.
You try to imagine it being someone, someone nice and sweet, the kind of boyfriend you never had, because you're stupid and always go for the bad guy, the fuckboy, the misfit.
Your ex, Dan, had ditched you for a bartender two days after you started working here, because he had felt neglected by you and your insane workload. Even though he was an asshole, you can't really blame him. You have zero time for any relationships out of work. You literally fucking live here now.
At least you don't have to break up with him now. You have the suspicion that he'd been cheating for a while and you never know how to start a conversation about something like that. The sex had been great though and he really hadn't looked too bad with his jet black hair and his piercing grey eyes...
But it's not Dan's face that pops up in your mind as you slide a hand between your thighs.
It's Homelanders.
That is a new rock bottom.
You groan in frustration, desperately trying to conjure up someone else, but your mind comes up empty, as if no man besides him has ever even existed in your life. And in a way he has been the only man in your life, for months now, teasing you, berating you, wagging his long gloved finger at you...
Homelander, awful, disgusting Homelander, scratches the itch you sometimes wished you could just get rid of forever.
Even in the water you can feel your own wetness increase by the thought of him, the memory of earlier today playing in your mind...
You had used the rest of the break to hide the toy at the bottom of your bag, which you had left in his trailer, when he suddenly landed on the roof, back from his little trip, heavy steps telling you he was moving towards the door. You pulled the zipper shut and threw the bag under the table, your heart beating against your ribcage like a frantic bird...
Your circle your fingers faster around your clit, trying to find a quick release, to not draw out this shameful fantasy...
The door opened and he waltzed in, a smug smile on his face. You felt caught, even though you hadn't done anything bad. You hated this, the way he reduced you to a bumbling school girl, always waiting for you to mess up again.
His smile was that of a shark, showing too many sharp teeth to be nice. "Who do we have here?"
"I was just looking for my bag, Sir", you stuttered, pulling it back out from under the table. "I stashed it here, so no one could steal my stuff..."
His jaw twitched with irritation. "How many times have I told you not to leave your shit lying around here? Why do I always have to repeat myself?"
He wasn't yelling at you (yet), he was talking in that mockingly authoritative voice that said: Not Angry But Disappointed.
You pinch your own nipple, a little too hard, like he would, while your other hand presses a finger inside your tight channel, but it's not big enough, it'll never be big enough. You add another finger...
He stepped forward and you involuntarily stumbled back, your hips hitting the table behind you and you felt trapped. The trailer that always looked so big to you seemed awfully small now. Claustrophobic even.
"Maybe..." His voice was still too soft. You wished he'd just yell at you already. This was way creepier.
"Maybe we need to resort to other measures, " he whispered. He was right in front of you now, he was too close, so close you could smell his breath and it was warm and oddly sweet, like a child's. He leaned forward, hands gripping the table on either side of you and his glacier blue eyes gleamed with sadistic anticipation. " Maybe I need to bend you over my knee, how about that?"
You come with a small shout, squeezing your eyes and knees shut and arching of the wall of the tub.
But the orgasm is shallow, disappointing and your libido isn't nearly as sated as you liked it to be. You wished you had something a little more... fuck.
You do have something.
Standin up with wobbly knees and a dizzy head, you somehow manage to pull a towel around your body and tiptoe back into the kitchen to get that damned box out of your bag. It's still sealed in plastic, so you grab a kitchen knife with your sudsy hands, almost slicing yourself up in the process.
You don't want to get back into the water, which has cooled down already, and opt for the bed instead, ignoring the unconcealed window right next to you. If you looked out, you might've seen a shadowy figure hovering in the darkness, but you are too occupied with figuring out how to use the toy.
It had five different vibration levels and a thrusting function you were eager to try. You had never owned such an advanced toy, the only thing you had used so far was a small bullet vibrator with three settings. This was a whole other level.
You carelessly throw your towel to the floor and plop down in between the big pillows, kicking your sheets to the side to spread your legs. Wriggling your hips to get comfortable, you press the small button behind the head of the golden eagle head once and it springs to life, buzzing in your hand like a trapped bee.
You realize you forgot to get lube, but then figure that you won't need it considering the foreplay you gave yourself in the tub. You rest the blue and white tip against your wet nether lips and push.
The large bulbous head disappears inside of you and the stretch is so delicious, bordering on just the right side of painful, that you close your eyes again, muttering madly to yourself: "Oh god... yes... that's it..."
You press it deeper until the white and red striped rest is inside of you and the blunt edge of the eagles beak vibrates softly against your clit. You up the vibrations a couple of times, before hitting the second button and arching off the bed like a woman possessed when the pulsing pressure of the thrusting function is activated. It's like the toy has gotten a mind of it's own, burrying itself deeper inside of you and gliding out of your moist grip, so you let go and let it do it's work.
You might need an exorcism after this.
You realise you forgot to turn off the lights and the glaring lamp on the ceiling makes you awkward, so you turn around and bury your face in the pillow. Inside your self-made darkness it's easier to ignore the shame and imagine his hands, strong and unforgiving around your hips, leaving bruises, marking his territory...
You feel the pressure building already and it hasn't even been a minute, but you're still sensitive and the toy pumps into you like it's inhabited by the ghost of Homelander himself and you know you're about to last about as long as a virgin on their wedding night.
You're way past the point of return now and you allow yourself to indulge in the fanatasy of his stern voice, rasping orders into your ear, his hot breath on your neck, his cock hitting just the right spot that would make you see stars and...
This time, the orgasm rips through you like an avalanche. Your whole body contorts in rapture and heat spreads from your core outwards into your fingertips and little toes.
Fuck.
That was exactly what you needed.
You roll over on your back again, catching your breath and reaching down to remove the still vibrating device from your insides... only to realize that you can't.
It's still stuck snugly inside you, your hole extra tight from the orgasm you just had and it keeps moving, the handle wet with your juices and sliding out of your hands every time you try to get a grip. It's impossible to hold onto and you can't find the fucking off switch.
You whine in frustration, overstimulated and so sensitive it's actually painful now.
You look around for your towel to dry your hands and notice that you left it on the floor. You curse your carelesness, trying to sit up and...
Suddenly, a wave of cool air hits your damp skin, making you shiver.
You turn your head to the left and realize to your horror that the window is wide open... but that's not the worst part. The worst part is the evil object of your desires standing right there on the edge of balcony, head cocked to the side like a curious animal. A dangerous animal.
For a second you want to believe you're just hallucinating, but then he moves, the boots leaving clumps of dirt on the floor, the scent of rain and smog invading your senses and he's right there and he's way too real.
Hands clasped behind his back and a confident swagger in his step, he walks into your room like he owns this place, like he has any right to be here. And he probably thinks he does.
"If it isn't my little slave... Didn't think you for an exhibitionist," he snickers, shaking his head and one of his usually so perfect strands comes lose, falling into his forehead. The rain has turned his blonde helmet into a mess of soft, wavy curls. Has he been outside the window the entire time? And also: does this man straighen his hair every morning?!
"Homelan - ah!" you interupt yourself as another wave of unwanted pleasure ripples through you. "Fucking hell..."
"Language!" he snaps, only half jokingly (there's a swear jar in his office filled with your heard earned dollar notes).
You groan, closing your eyes so you don't have to see his distractingly pretty face. He looks like the cat who's about to get the cream.
"It's rude to ignore a guest, you know?"
"Fuck off!"
"I don't think so... It looks like you're in need of some... Personal Assitance."
You feel the leather of his glove, stroking your knee and his touch is featherlight, as if he's trying to be gentle. It's almost nice. It's maddening.
Angry, at him and at yourself, you open your eyes again and kick. He effortlessly catches your foot in the air, long before it can reach any vital part of him and his fingers dig into your ankle like a warning. His strength is effortless and terrifying and you feel like a small bird in his hands, all petite and hollow boned.
He slowly shakes his head and there it is, that terrible patronizing look in his too-blue eyes that brings you to heel, whether you want it or not.
"Someone's being naughty," he chastises, his fingers slowly, teasingly gliding down your calf, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "That's not how you behave when you ask someone for help."
He licks his lips and his eyes are glued to the apex of your thighs, watching the thick length of the toy disappear between your glistening folds again and again. Hypnotized.
"I don't... need your... help..." you gasp out, not liking the evident hunger in his gaze.
"Oh really?" he raises exactly one eyebrow (how does he do that?) and his hand travels past your knee, down your thigh. "I heard these batteries last up to four hours... I wonder how many orgasms you can endure until this thing gives you a heart attack..."
The thought of him watching you fuck yourself to death turns your stomach and floods you with heat at the same time.
You should see a therapist about this. And about Homelander. Once he's gone... But he doesn't look like he's going anywhere. He's smiling down at you like a god who made you suffer just so he could be the one to save you... after you begged, of course.
Fuck this, fuck me, fuck my fucking life...
"Please," you finally manage to press out between clenched teeth. "Help me... Please."
His awful smile widens and his canines shine in the harsh light. You wished it was darker. You wished you didn't have to see him.
"Please what?" His fingers have passed your knee, reached your shaking thigh and are now digging into your soft flesh, waiting for the correct answer.
Fuck him. Fuck him all the way into space...
"Please... Sir." You can't believe you're degrading yourself like this. But then again, was this really that different than what you're doing during the daylight?
His hands wander in between your legs and just when you think he's gonna hit the pause button, he pushes the toy back inside, deeper, until the head hits your cervix and you flinch violently from the intensity of it all. You can't even tell whether it feels good or bad anymore, it's just too damn much.
"Fuck!" you cry out, slamming your head back into the pillows. "What are you... ugh!"
"Such a greedy little gir," he says with a sly grin, watching you writhe under his cruel gaze. "Have you ever had one this big? It's the largest in the collection after all. And it's modelled after the original..."
You don't believe a word he says.
"Arrogant.. prick!" you sputter, lifting your head just enough so he can see the glare in your eyes.
He winks at you. "Don't believe me? I can show you..."
"What?" you gasp. "No, just... Just take that stupid thing out and..."
But he's already climbing on the bed, knocking your knees to the side to make space for himself between your legs. You can do nothing but helplessly watch as he unzipps the lower part of his suit and pulls the fleshy, superhuman equivilant to the electric device inside of you out of his pants. It's cut and clean shaven, with an upwards curve to it, just like its buzzing twin. He hadn't lied. You'd never seen or felt one this big before.
Judging by the hardness of it, he must've been aroused long before he came into your room. Was that his usual night time routine? Fly around the building and edge himself to employes getting ready for bed?
"Fuck, " you whisper, before you can stop yourself and he's glowing now, his smile impossibly wide.
"Like what you see?" he asks, slowly fisting himself, until his cock swells and starts leaking cum. "Because I do..."
You watch him watch you; his eyes roaming over your flushed skin, your heaving chest... feasting on the mere sight of you and you would lie if you said it doesn't turn you on.
The head of the toy catches your g point once more and your whole body spasms, threatening another orgasm. He notices, of course, curiously watching you in your agony.
This is hell. You're in hell.
"Just one more."
"What?" you ask feebly, all coherent thoughts leaving your mind.
"One more orgasm and I take it out," he promises and he sounds much less controlled now, raw and full of need.
He's insane. He's trying to kill you.
He leans forward and you raise your arms, weakly pushing against his chest in a last attempt of self defense, but he catches them in one hand and presses them into the pillows over your head. Your can hear your wristbones creak under his iron grip and you wriggle like a fish on a hook, unwilling to meet your demise.
"No, what are you... stop!"
You keep begging, but he won't listen. He's too far gone. If anything, your pleading only turns him on even more.
Each powerful thrust of the toy has your perky tits jiggling and his eyes are drawn to the stiff pink buds like moths to the light.
His head bows down, mouth catching your right nipple, gently flicking it with his tongue, before sucking, hard, and you're dragging your heels over the mattress, legs kicking away into nothing.
"Fuck," he mutters against your chest, no doubt hearing your heart beat against your ribcage like crazy. "If I'd known you were hiding these from me all this time..."
He moves over to your left boob, giving it the same treatment, before biting into it, teeth locking around your nipple. You yell out and jerk away from the pain, but he keps you in your place, pulling at it. The hand on his weeping cock is speeding up, his juices leaking all over on your taut stomach, into your bellybutton.
Then he sucks again, slowly, but urgently, as if waiting for the milk to come in.
Mommy issues. What a surprise.
But it doesn't leave you uneffected, his ministrations so precise and careful as if he already knows you body, an old lover using all the tricks from your book.
It's like a wire is connecting your upper and lower torso, sending signals of pleasure down your tense abs to your cunt and you tighten around the unrelenting hardness of the toy, your legs shaking from exhaustion by now. You're gonna be so sore tomorrow.
You can feel the last orgasm building, your insides twisting and knotting in their telltale signs and you just want it to be over. He seems to feel it too, watching your hips jerk faster and faster, before biting into your nipple again, the sharp pain sending you over the edge.
"Oh god..." you groan, your back arching off the bed in agony, as the last bit of pleasure is forced out of your tired body.
"No god, just me," he reminds you and then he suddenly lets go of your aching wrists to lean back, ripping the still buzzing toy out of you mid-orgasm and replacing it with his cock before you even know what's going on.
You cry out at the sudden movement, while he slams all the way inside you, somehow feeling even larger than the replica. The breath is knocked out of your lungs and you can't believe you haven't seen this coming.
"Perfect," he praises you, satisfied and sickly sweet. "I knew you could do it... Now take daddy's cock like a good little girl!"
The use of the disgusting petname makes you clench against your will and you're forced to ride out your orgasm on his cock, drawn out by his steady thrusts, hitting your overstimulated clit and g spot with every move.
He covers your slim body with his bulkier one, resting on his forearms on either side of your had and you're trapped, unable to do anything but finally wrap your legs around him in an attempt to seek some control, but all it does is bring you even closer together. The strange intimicy of it all seems to spur him on, making him fuck you harder, faster, more desperate.
"Gonna come inside you," he pants against your neck, your racing pulse; canines grazing your earlobe and the fabric of the suit covering his muscular chest rubs against your sensitive nipples, prolonging your torture.
"What? No!" you cry out, horrified by the implication, but by now you should know that the word means nothing to him. It´s pointless. He feels too good inside you, too large, it´s all too much, you can't, you can't...
"Shh," he shushes you, pressing his forehead against yours in a mockery of affection and you feel tears travel down your cheeks and into your hairline.
"Please," you whimper, not really sure what exactly you're begging for anymore and he smiles with false benevolence and then his mouth is on yours, crushing your lips with his own. You gasp in surprise and his tongue dips in, invading you, like he's invading you down there and it feels like you're being consumed by him, like you're being eaten alive.
His kiss is bruising, but his lips are annoyingly soft and you find yourself kissing him back, playing with his tongue and he moans into you, craving more, craving all of you.
You've truly given up now, letting him use your body however he wants and there's a new found delight in your surrender, forcing you to relax while his cock continues to spear you open as he seeks his own end inside of you. Your orgasm has slowly ebbed away and you're soft and pliable under him, only occasionaly twitching with an aftershock.
He's close now, his movements less rythmic and he stops kissing you, still sharing your breath, hot and fast, as he hovers over you. An almost painful expression contorts his angelic features, his brows scrunching up in a way that would be cute if it wasn't for the lasers beneath them.
Paralized in fear you watch the red lights of his eyes swallow up all the blue until you feel like you're staring directly into the sun. The heat on your face becomes unbearable and just when you think he's going to melt your nose off, he comes with a jerk of his hips and a choked noise in his throat, like a broken moan.
You can feel him spreading his warmth inside of you and try not to think about where to get a Plan B that worked for supe sperm. That's a problem for tomorrow morning.
The deadly lasers slowly fade and his eyes glaze over, just like every other man's after sex and suddenly he looks so young, his face smooth and relaxed.
Before he can catch you simping over him, he burries his head in your chest, his whole body going lax on top of you. It feels like being cuddled to death by a tiger. He's so hot and heavy, you can barely breath.
For a moment, you let him, a part of you relishing in the simple closeness of another body. He smells like soap and milk and the old laundry detergent that reminds you of your grandparents farm. He smells like home...
You rip yourself out of your delusional thoughts and realize you still haven't taken a breath.
"Homelander?" you finally whisper against his mop of hair, warily tapping his shoulder.
"John," he mutters and his voice vibrates through your whole ribcage.
"John," you try the name out on your tongue. It has a strange taste to it. "You´re crushing me..."
"Whoops." He lifts his head again, a mischievous smile on his face, the blonde hair falling into his eyes and god, he's beautiful. "Sorry."
Liar, you think, as he peels himself of your sweaty body and pulls out, leaving an aching hole inside of you and a mess on your sheets.
You're gonna sleep in this mess tonight, since you can't imagine moving just one inch after all this. Actually, you don't know how you're ever going to move again.
He tucks himself back in, humming happily to himself and you shut your eyes, trying to concentrate on the soft bedding beneath you. Everything hurts.
Then it's suddenly very quiet.
He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound and you open one eye to see what's the matter with him. He seems to be waiting for something.
He raises a brow. "Aren't you gonna thank me?"
Piece of shit.
You sigh, from deep within your flattened chest. "Thank you, Homelander."
"John," he corrects you again, a bit more impatient this time.
"John," you repeat obediently and close your eye again.
Pleased with you and with himself, he leans forwards and plants a kiss on your temple.
You make an unidentifable noise, indicating that you want to be left alone and he pats your head.
"Not such a useless cunt after all," he chuckles, being his old self again and steps back, smoothing down his crumpled cape. "This was nice. We should do it again."
You literally can't imagine anything worse.
"See you tomorrow! Don't be late!"
And then he's up and away, into the night, leaving the window wide open.
Asshole.