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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

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A Transactional Relationship ( Homelander x Victoria Neuman )

18+ 2.7k mild coercion, transactional sex, blood/period, cunnilingus.

In exchange for aiding her in her political campaign, Homelander makes an outlandish request of Victoria. She attempts to dissuade him, but what's a little blood between two serial killers?

people have been asking me for a fic where Homie earns his red wings since i started writing him. i've done it. written for this prompt by @deliciouskeys! 🖤

Throughout Victoria’s life, she’s come to terms with a great number of what she would consider to be necessary evils, and there is no better example of this than being forced into doing business with Homelander.

Admittedly though, there is some satisfaction to be found in dropping in on him unannounced. It’s late enough in the evening that she doesn’t risk drawing undue attention to herself, and perhaps enough that she’ll catch Homelander entirely unawares.

As she waits at his door, part of her wonders if he’ll answer it in cute little American flag pajamas.

She could use a good laugh.

Victoria straightens up slightly when the door swings open. To her delight, Homelander does look properly caught off guard.

No pajamas, though. Too bad.

His brows are reaching for his hairline, his lips parted in bewilderment, though the curve of them melts slowly into an incredulous smile as he looks around her, confirming that she is, in fact, alone.

“If it isn’t my good friend Vicky Neuman,” he says, forearm braced in the doorway. “Don’t tell me Singer’s got you campaigning door to door for him.”

“Singer doesn’t know about this,” she says brusquely. They both know that. He just takes pleasure in making her out to be a lackey. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

His expression falters at that, gaze dipping to give her a once over. She’s not dressed any differently than usual, but he’s looking at her like she just broke out into a completely different language. After a beat, he turns sideways and extends his arm, gesturing her inside.

The door closes behind her with all the weight of an iron gate, and what greets her on the other side of it renders her momentarily speechless. The rich, dark walls of Homelander’s penthouse are decorated nearly floor to ceiling with replica paintings of various historical Americana. Historical figures–primarily presidents–spy her every step into the house while gaudy statues adorn every corner she rounds, all of them leering at her with hollow stone eyes.

She knows she wears her distaste plainly because Homelander is quick to say, “I didn’t have much say in the decor.”

“I don’t believe you,” she responds simply, giving the statue of Atlas a poke. It’s solid marble. Vought clearly spared no expense in Homelander’s eerie little superhuman terrarium. It reminds her of a themed fish tank.

God knows she’d much rather be on the outside of the glass, tapping at it just to see how he squirms.

“Rude,” he snorts, though he doesn’t press the matter. Caught him.

It’s obvious even in casual conversation that Homelander isn’t accustomed to being contradicted or corrected. He watches her with an unsettling sort of bemusement, and there are times where she gets the sense he says things just to see if she’ll refute him. She makes a point to keep it up.

“Please, sit,” he says, gesturing to a stiff looking sofa that has a very large American flag mural for a background. Of course it does.

“That’s not necessary, I’ll be quick,” she says, reaching into her bag.

“Ah, ah, ah. I insist. Sit. I won’t listen to a word you say until you do,” he says, causing her to look sharply back up at him. He’s smiling cordially, arms folded behind his back. No matter how garishly they dress him or how lightly they bleach his hair, there are moments when the predator lurking beneath cannot be disguised.

Her upper lip twitches, her initial satisfaction with whatever she thought she had accomplished–inconveniencing him?–disappearing in a flash. Of all the things in this world to despise, men and their insufferable little power trips sprinkled into every interaction certainly rank the highest. With an unfriendly smile, she sits and brandishes a thin ring binder from her bag, offering it to him.

“Don’t tell me it’s another senator,” he says, taking the binder from her. He begins flipping through. Despite his insistence that she sit, he remains looming over her. She leans back against the couch, disinterested in being face to face with that ridiculous codpiece of his.

“Nothing so exciting. More of a laundry list. Simple but tedious tasks. You can handle that, I’m sure,” she says, trying to keep too much of the venom on her tongue from permeating her words.

“I’m not your errand boy, Vicky,” he says, lacking any of her vitriol. He actually seems to be in a strangely pleasant mood. Still, she loathes how ugly he’s made her name with his snide use of that little nickname. His brows pinch as he reads. “Scholarships for Godolkin?”

“Pawns on a chess board,” she says vaguely. “Keep reading.”

He does. After a few more pages he scoffs out a half-laugh, closing the binder. “You want me to shmooze for you?” He asks, gesturing with it.

“An election is nothing but schmoozing. Your side is pro-supe, and we need that. Like I said: simple but tedious tasks. Nothing you aren’t already used to,” she says, crossing her legs.

Homelander looks down his nose at her, studying her while he absently taps the binder against his palm. “And… What do I get out of this little transaction?”

She really wishes he wouldn’t play coy. As if they haven’t established this already. “Quid pro quo,” she says, lifting her hands in an open gesture. “Tell me what it is you want. We negotiate from there.”

He gets a look to him that tells her that’s exactly what he wanted to hear. Casually, he tosses the binder onto the far end of the couch. “Alright,” he says, and to her confusion, he lowers himself into a kneel. She draws her legs more snugly to the couch, but it doesn’t stop him from putting a hand on her knee. “I want to taste you.”

His words are immediately followed by a piercing ring in her ears, like the blare of sirens. She stares numbly at him, replaying the words again and again in her mind until they begin to lose their meaning.

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon, Vicky. Don’t play dumb with me. You really think I believe you came here to ask me to run errands?” As he speaks, he pries her legs out of the tight cross she’d put them in. She fights it, but you wouldn’t know it by watching them. The machine press of his strength is so overwhelming, so utterly insurmountable, she’s briefly dumbstruck by the feel of it. “You know what I think? I think you like having me in your back pocket. I think you enjoy feeling like you can control me, showing up out of the blue for your petty little favors,” he says with a truly feline look of self-satisfaction, settling on his knees between her legs. “But y’know what else I think? I think… I can do so much more.”

“I don’t want more,” she says through her teeth, jaw clenched. She grips the armrest of the couch tight enough to make the wood beneath the leather groan. “I want what I’m asking of you. Or are you incapable of following a simple agreement?”

He laughs, kneading both of her knees through her pants. “I’m abiding by the agreement. You said I could have whatever I want.”

He really just hears what he wants to hear. She narrows her eyes. “Not once did I say that.

“Don’t be pedantic. You asked what I wanted. I want this,” he says, sliding his hands up her thighs, thumbs pressing firm lines along the inside of her legs. “Just this. Just a taste. Just until you come.”

She slaps her hands down on top of his, halting his hands at her midthighs. “If I say no?”

Despite the minimal hold she has on him, his hands stay still under hers. It gets under her skin the way he looks up from her hands on his, how pleased he looks with the whole situation. She despises feeling like the mouse in this game between them.

Those gaudy eagle epaulets bounce as he shrugs. “Then there’s no deal. Your loss, honestly,” he says, evidently content to leave his hands right where they are.

“You’re disgusting,” she says, no longer withholding the acrimony from her voice. He looks unaffected by it–no, not unaffected. Amused. She gives his hands a shove and they lift away so easily she almost forgets how heavy they felt a second ago, poised in the air like a sign of surrender. She snaps her legs tightly shut. “Besides, it’s a bloody mess down there.”

“Oh, please,” Homelander scoffs, lowering his hands to either side of the couch, caging her in. “Don’t tell me that you, of all people, are squeamish about blood. You’ve already put blood on my hands, congresswoman. What’s a little on my tongue?”

“There is something profoundly wrong with you,” she says, feeling claustrophobic with the way he’s bracketing her in.

“And yet you haven’t said no,” he points out, leaning closer, pressing her knees into his sternum. She puts a hand on his shoulder to halt him and a little thrill runs up her spine when it works. She feels as though she’s holding a tiger at bay with her bare hands. His nostrils flare, taking in some scent that curves his parted lips into a faint smile. “In fact, you’re actually getting off on this.”

She briefly considers making her move. Boom. One big surge. All that hot blood rushing to his skull with such speed and force that not even that thick neanderthal skull can stay in one piece. Or maybe it would be the only thing that remains and all his blood and brain matter would just go shooting out of every orifice like a macabre sprinkler.

Victoria swallows the thought like bile, clearing her throat. If it doesn’t work, she’d be dead faster than a drop of blood left his nose.

“Fine,” she says eventually, ignoring the way it seems to fill his chest with air to hear. “In exchange for everything in that binder. Everything. No half-assing. Full measures taken.”

She can’t afford to lose. She keeps that in mind as she unbuttons her pants.

“Rest assured, Vicky. I’ve never half-assed anything in my life,” Homelander purrs, taking hold of her slacks and underwear in one go, helping to slide them down her legs. He slips her heels off with them, setting them aside.

Meanwhile, she slips out of her jacket, tossing it over the arm of the couch. It feels too strange to be so dressed only from the waist up.

Looking back, it sincerely bewilders her to watch him take a moment to fold her slacks before he puts them down next to her neatly placed shoes.

There’s something freakishly clinical about him sometimes.

Turning, Homelander takes hold of her ankle, and slips her heel back on.

“What’re you doing?” She asks suspiciously.

He glances over at her, and for the first time, she doesn’t see arrogance or condescension in his expression. He looks a little sheepish, actually. “I like them,” he tells her simply, putting the other one back on as well.

Deciding to let it go, Victoria leans back against the couch. Homelander eagerly nestles back between her legs, spreading them. She reaches backwards in an arch, behind her head, and grips the back of the couch, tense and thrumming with a sickly kind of anticipation that makes her gut churn. She glances down at him, and to her dismay, she finds him just staring between her thighs, gloved fingers digging into her inner thighs where he’s keeping them spread.

“What? Do you even know what you’re–” looking for, she means to ask snidely, but the words turn into a hiss as he dips down and ruthlessly sucks her clit.

“Mmmmhm,” he hums. Even the sound of that is smug. The pull of his lips is indescribable, so relentless that it doesn’t feel human.

“Jesus Christ, Homelander,” she grits out, her other hand moving to grab a fistful of his–surprisingly soft–Barbie blond hair. “Softer. Your mouth feels like a goddamn Dyson,” says, giving his hair a harsh pull. It makes him moan. Embarrassingly, the combination of that noise and the way he instantly, obediently eases his mouth on her feels… good. Very good.

Initially, she’d resigned herself to closing her eyes and enduring him until the stimulation provided a bodily response that would satisfy him enough to stop. Instead, she watches him, taking in the sight of her hand balled up in his hair, his expression. His eyes are closed, head slightly tilted. He looks different like this, expression content. Downright blissful, even.

“Use your tongue,” she hears herself say, giving his hair another yank. Already she’s more of a participant than she told herself she would be, but if she’s going to do this, she may as well do as she pleases. He lets out a light grunt, flattening his tongue and nuzzling in against her, moving his head back and forth. It sends a spark of pleasure through her that makes her buck her hips, breaths coming in progressively more shallow huffs.

Lifting her leg, she catches her heel on his shoulder and jams it in, using it as leverage to grind up against his mouth while simultaneously pushing his head down. He’s so compliantly loose-limbed that she can almost believe she’s overpowering him. Using him. He makes an appreciative noise low in the back of his throat, holding her thighs tightly to either side of his head.

She can tell from the way he’s rocking that he’s thrusting his hips, but there’s nothing for him to move against. He’s putting his all into laving his tongue in aggressive patterns, matching her energy as she fucks herself harder and faster on his tongue. Insufferable as he may be, he eats pussy well enough that she can feel herself climbing steadily towards the edge of climax.

All she has to do is come, and then this is over.

She gives his hair a sharp upward pull, but aside from a moan, his pace doesn’t lessen. “Stop,” she growls with another pull, and this time he lets her lift him. She doesn’t know why, but she knows she has to see him. Look him in the eye.

Their eyes meet, and the state of him makes something in her stomach lurch. He’s a fucking mess, blood smeared on his mouth and chin, tongue dragging hungrily along the seam of his lips. He looks drunk on her, eyes hazy and blown so black she can hardly see the eerily bright blue of them.

Victoria swallows, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. She holds him there, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t protest. He just watches her, wholly pliant and awaiting her next move. He’s so utterly beneath her at this moment, stupid for the taste of her cunt and eager to please. It’s so intoxicating that it would make her angry if it didn’t feel so good.

She shoves him back down on an upward thrust of her hips and he moans for her. That tongue of his is immediately back on her, swirling as he absolutely devours her, hungrier for her than ever. This time she skyrockets back up to the precipice, biting back strained little moans. She doesn’t want him to know just how good it feels; the fact she’s actually going to finish is bad enough.

She bites down on her tongue and comes hard, her whole body tensing up as she all but crushes his head between her thighs, arching her back. Maddeningly, he licks her through her orgasm, moving his tongue with the pulse of her body with inhuman precision. It makes the aftershocks last twice as long, which leaves her limp and panting on the couch, his face pressed firmly between her thighs while she savors the process of coming down with his tongue still tracing languid figure-eights on her pussy.

“Enough,” she says eventually, lazily pushing him back with the heel she has on his shoulder. He falls back onto his ass with a satisfying thump, his hair thoroughly mussed and his face a mess. He smiles so dreamily at her, you’d think he was the one who came. He licks his lips in a slow, purposeful display that should make her roll her eyes. Instead, her sensitive clit throbs as she follows the movement of his tongue.

Fuck, she thinks woozily.

This may just be the beginning of a problem.

#homelander x victoria #viclander #homelander x victoria neuman #homelander #homelander fanfiction #in true ME fashion #this ended up being way longer than i meant it to be #woooooooo my first viclander fic #i'm not sure if i'm happy with how i characterized her but #i did my best!#my writing

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crescentfool · 7 months ago

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i've been doing a bunch of tartarus runs in reload lately, and it got me thinking about how i miss certain ways FES's clunky gameplay can characterize minato… (ramble about the great clock mechanic + leveling up party members in reload vs fes under the cut)

when i got to yabbashah block in tartarus (block 3), i remember commending the developers for adding the great clock mechanic. it's a much more convenient way to keep party members at the protagonist's level- so when you think about p3 from the perspective of trying to make it easier for people to play, the mechanic succeeds in this respect.

but now that i'm in adamah block, and that i've done lots of my once-a-month tartarus runs… i think that i got a little too dependent on it, and the way that i played through reload feels like a vastly different experience from how i played FES.

in reload, my party's levels are very lopsided. minato, yukari, akihiko, mitsuru, and fuuka are all level 90+, meanwhile junpei and aigis are at level 79, and then… poor ken and koromaru are at 71 and 64 respectively. (i never got to have a great clock for them…)

meanwhile, in FES, my party's levels were much more evenly distributed and were at least level 90. i did all of this manually for every monthly tartarus run because i enjoyed having options available for the taratarus guardians and monthly operations.

with how i perceive minato, i feel that the way i played FES feels more in-line with his character than me dawdling around waiting for the great clocks in reload.

FES's gameplay loop left me with the very strong impression that minato has to work twice as hard as everyone else in SEES does. it makes sense because, yeah, he's the leader, but something about having minato run through tartarus multiple times with different groups of people just to make sure that they are adequately prepared speaks volumes about his character, to me.

and while the tired mechanic is present in reload to some degree, most notably with allowing you to freely raise your courage stat when you visit edogawa after school… the tiredness system doesn't hit the same way that FES does, i think.

the way your party members in FES will call it quits when they return to the entrance floor at tartarus when they're tired, versus minato, in spite of all his tiredness and sickness, still pushes through tartarus because it's his responsibility…. idk!!! i miss that! i feel like this really hammers home the difference between minato and the rest of SEES, how minato doesn't really see himself as a human with needs worth respecting as long as he's useful to someone.

i don't think that tartarus being tedious (in FES especially) is not what most people would describe as fun, and i can respect people thinking it's a slog. but, regardless of how it feels to play, it doesn't change that FES's gameplay loop is a fundamental building block in how i perceive minato…

of course, i do recognize that you can just opt to NOT use the great clock in reload (and it's great when players are offered the choice to not partake in mechanics)! i definitely think that if someone really wanted to, they could manually level up party members, but i do feel that kind of playstyle isn't necessarily "incentivized" to the type of people who are into playing games for Having a Good Time. it's kind of like… "why would you do that when there's a much more convenient option available to you."

in any case! despite my woes, i do want to emphasize that i'm glad that reload has a much more smoother gameplay loop than the original P3 did, because it does make the game more accessible to people. having played both FES and reload, it feels very strongly apparent to me how the core gameplay formula of persona has really been refined in the past 18 years (to think og p3 was 2006 and reload is 2024.. time flies!). and reload has made revisiting a story that i love so dearly much, much easier because the gameplay just bops!

at the same time, due to my "i miss characterization informed by weird and dated FES gameplay quirks" woes, i still think that playing FES is worthwhile. (really, i feel this way about all iterations of p3! i think it's worthwhile to see what each version and side media has to say even if it doesn't Land™ for you.) but i also understand why people wouldn't want to play it, so i will keep writing posts about things i liked from FES's gameplay because i'm still very fond of FES (especially in respects to minato. these mechanics are so telling about him!!!) 💪

#lizzy speaks #persona 3 #persona 3 reload #<- specifically mentions of mechanics. no added story content just tartarus talk #minato arisato #today on lizz life: lizz wakes up THINKING about minato for the NTH time and is compelled to write a tumblr post about it #tartarus in reload is excellent looking and fun but i keep thinking about what i liked about how FES characterizes minato so #here i am... LOL... with my 790 or so word ramble... im so normal about the blue boy #i needed to get my feelings out there somewhere i just could not stop thinking about HIM HE IS IN MY BRAIN 24/7 #me playing reload last night like 'minato would not fucking wait for a great clock to make sure that SEES is adequately prepared.'#and yet my sloth brain awaits the great clock... LOL gameplay convenience is not lost on me #i'm stuck in tartarus rn im grinding rubies and stuff trying to get equipment so i can throw hands with elizabeth its going to be fun #im still not done with this game i continue to be haunted by tartarus i fucking love that tower unironically #uh usually id ramble more in tags but. go read my post!! because i like analyzing FES gameplay mechanics!! i am full of passion and love!

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