#Jerry Antes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

plutoswritingplanet · 7 months ago

Text

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: guys... you can't tell me y'all weren't expecting this. Title from the song "Vicarious" by Tool. Really wanted this to be a one shot, but as usual, I have shit to say. Will be Cross-Posted on AO3 as soon as they open the site back up.

Warnings: Nothing Explicit YET, some sexist remarks and creepy behavior from the man of the hour, Questionable Corporate Ethics, Set Before The Events Of The Show, Reader is written to be Plus Size.

Summary: Sidekick projects have been scraped completely after numerous accidents, but as a viral video of your hero work makes rounds through the public, you're forced to take part in a six moths program, that will forever change your life, as well as Homelander's

PT.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

It all started with a video. An insignificant, minute-long nothing posted to TikTok by an account, that up until then, made short edits specifically of A-Train and some B-list no-name hero. Quickly, it gained traction, making rounds throughout the app, bleeding over to other services, all the way to national television. First, an independent local station, soon picked up by a Vaught-affiliated one. Normally, that's where it would've stayed. Stillwell would extend an offer of a chance at an interview, alongside one of the Seven. But for some unknown reason, that small piece of nothing climbed all the way up to the floor eighty-two of Vaught Tower.

Well, to be quite honest, Stillwell knew exactly why she was in this situation. After a very messy graduation speech at a small college, Homelander lost almost twenty points with a young adult demographic. It would've been an easy fix, if not for the delicate nature of the breached subject, and Madelyn knew, this sudden interest in a nobody from nowhere, who, coincidentally, fit the demographic perfectly, was anything but a happy accident. It was a test, both for Homelander, and for her.

Which is why, Madelyn Stillwell and Homelander, the Homelander, the most American supe to ever exist, are cooped up in your living room, glancing about the modest decor, as you pour iced tea into three glasses with tacky fruit print all over them.

You've refused every single invitation, every single Vaught representative that knocked on your door. Your inbox was flooded with emails, your phone number was blowing up two, three times a day. And yet, your answer remained the same. You were not interested in a collaboration, thank you for the opportunity, please leave me alone.

That wouldn't fly, not with Madelyn, who, pushed by the constant nagging from the upper levels of the Tower, decided a more direct approach was the right one. So, she dragged herself into this… Well, to be quite honest, bum-fuck-nowhere, and brought her star pupil with her. No one would refuse working with Homelander himself, after all. At least that's what they both thought.

-I appreciate the effort - there's a practiced, borderline bored intonation in your voice, and Homelander's hands flex on his thighs - But I've already talked with, um, Jerry? From HR? The answer is still no.

Your house is small, but cozy, with sunshine pouring through the windows, reflecting onto the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to your kitchen. An artist's home, through and through. Homelander hates it, hates the ordinariness of it all. He was so much above all this, sitting on your worn down couch physically hurt him. And the smell. The smell was the worst part. Reheated lasagna, mixing with a lingering aftertaste of cigarette smoke, and an undercurrent of weed, that almost made him retch. If it weren't for that damned video, you would be nothing more, than another brainless ant under his boot.

-Well, we - Madelyn offers her best, brilliant smile, gesturing to herself and Homelander - are very passionate about discovering new talent.

Your mouth twitches into a knowing smile, and for just a second Homelander feels flames of intrigue rising in his chest. Not for long, though, because you recline back into an armchair, taking a sip of the iced tea, and his eyes flash to the way your throat moves as you swallow. You could be hot, he concludes. Young, and with a truly spectacular rack. But there was something off about you, like you were constantly on the verge of dying from boredom, some invisible weight always on your shoulders. No amount of fake smiles and high-end makeup could cover that up.

He'd fuck you. If you'd beg him.

-We want to offer you a new, revised contract - Stillwell extends her hand with a rather thick binder of papers, and you hesitate for a moment, before reaching over. - Hopefully, it will make you reconsider.

You don't even show them the decency of looking through it, placing it on the table instead, and Homelander feels an itch form itself in the corners of his eyes. Stillwell looks taken aback as well, her brilliant smile faltering for just a second. You on the other hand, take another sip of your drink, before placing it right in the middle of the contract, the moisture from the ice creating a wet circle in the paper.

Your heartbeat is even, it doesn't pick up even a smidgen, when you look between Stillwell and America's Greatest Hero, who is slowly but surely growing annoyed by your persistent indifference.

-Thank you, but I already said no - you repeat, and this time, Homelander shifts on the couch.

-And why not? - he asks, tension entering his voice in a way, that makes Madelyn squirm - Countless supes, with much more impressing powers than you, I might add, would kill to be in your place.

"To work with me" goes unsaid, but he can see in your eyes, you read it from thin air of superiority engulfing him. Annoyingly perceptive. You nod your head slowly, before turning away from them, looking out of the window of your living room. There's a small patch of grass, and a second house, so similar to yours, but at the same time, completely different. Your chin sticks out in its direction, and Homelander follows with his eyes.

There are paper butterflies stuck to the windows, cut out clumsily, most likely by children's hands.

-My neighbour, Missus Johnson - you explain - She lives there, with her three kids. Her husband died in a fire caused by your friend, Lamp Lighter.

Madelyn stills, Homelander raises an eyebrow.

-I can afford this house, only because my mother signed an NDA, after The Deep sank my father's fishing boat. - again, your heart stays completely unaffected - Accidentally, of course.

-I was not aware… - Madelyn starts, and it's hard to decipher whether she's talking to you, or Homelander.

Someone at the research department is going to have a very unpleasant evening.

-That's alright - you interrupt her with a raised hand and a small smile - This whole neighborhood is filled with similar cases. And I'm very, very attached to this place.

Why, Homelander couldn't tell. For all he knew, this was some shit hole, right in the suburbs outside New York. Not even the half decent ones. A forgotten by everyone, dying piece of land, that housed insignificant humans, who would never amount to anything, you included. He lived in a lavish apartment, inside a miracle of modern architecture. Who wouldn't want the same?

-And - there's something new entering your tone of voice - If I'm going to betray everything I stand for, I need to give something back to those people. Does your contract reflect that?

Madelyn bites the inside of her cheek, her scrutinizing gaze making your skin itch. Still, she sighs after a moment, excusing herself with that same, practiced expression she uses on every shareholder. Homelander follows her out, nodding his goodbye to you, but before he can leave this dump, Madelyn stops him with a hand pressed against his chest. She gives him one look, makes him aware that his job isn't over, and he can feel the muscles of his face twitch.

So, obediently, he lingers in your doorway, taking a few calming breaths, before facing you once more.

You've changed positions, your armchair abandoned in favor of sitting by the window, one leg bent in a way, that shows quite a nice view of your calf, your long skirt pooling around you. Homelander's eyes trail up with mild interest, and he indulges in his X-ray vision. He's just being curious, nothing more.

Your underwear is, well, for the lack of a better word, plain. The bra seems to be slightly ill fitted, digging into the sides of your breasts, making them almost spill from under your pits, and Homelander swallows thickly at the sight. There are little, pink hearts on your panties. The colors are dull and washed out from frequent use, and the once frilly lace is starting to fray at the edges.

Apparently Vaught's compensation was not sufficient for you to buy some decent undergarments.

-Do you want something to eat? Drink? - you ask from your place by the window, and Homelander is snatched back to reality - Do you even need food?

The bluntness of the question startles him, makes him feel defensive, but Madelyn wanted results, so he puts on a mask of his trained smile, and crosses the room. Back straight like an arrow, he looks wildly out of place between all the linens and cushions. He doesn't look at you, trapping your smaller form in the confinement of the window, as he watches over the neighboring house.

-I'm not hungry - he shoots down your offer with a wave of his hand - I've already eaten.

A lie, but he'd never stoop low enough to take any leftovers, especially from you. Still, the offer seems nice. He does like being pampered, even if it's with lackluster things. Your eyes linger on his boyish smile, another practiced thing, and Homelander shifts focus to your heartbeat once again.

-Alright then - your voice sounds indifferent as ever - Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to make some dinner for myself.

He offers a small nod, and watches you from his position by the window, as you slip past him. It does require quite a lot of manoeuvering, but you manage to stand without touching him. He has to admit, watching you balance, as you try to avoid him, was amusing. Still, your heart beats calmly, and, not wanting to be left on his own, Homelander follows you to your kitchen. The beads of the courtain drum delicately over the bronze eagles on his shoulders.

The fridge is buzzing something awful. He can see just how run down the inside mechanism is, the hinges squeaking unbearably, as you reach for a box of reheatable spaghetti. There's cheep beer inside, a moldy lemon, a carton of milk pretty close to expiring, and a half-used bottle of spicy ketchup. Homelander doesn't even recognize these brands, they're not sponsored by Vaught, that's for sure.

Cheap, tasteless, basically offering no nutritional value.

-Would you step back for a second? - he asks, already wrenching himself between you and that pathetic excuse of a meal.

Again, your body sways to avoid touching him, and for some unknown reason, he finds it very amusing.

Then, you watch with a raised eyebrow, as he turns towards your spaghetti, a red sheen overtaking his eyes. An unbearably hot beam shoots out, making the insides of the plastic packaging sizzle. Finally, that gets him a reaction, as you gasp and reel back, colliding with the barely functional fridge. Your heart does a flip inside your chest, and Homelander soaks up your shock like a man starved.

Only when the red fizzles out of his gaze do you dare to move, approaching him slowly, your eyes bearing into him in a way that is frankly uncomfortable.

He turns to you with another one of his charming smiles, trying to handle this sudden scrutiny in as flippant a way as possible.

-I had no idea you can control the intensity of your lazer - you admit, voice slightly breathless.

-Pretty neat, huh? - perhaps he's fishing for more attention, but he doesn't care, because your eyes light up for just a moment in sheer wonder.

-Super cool, actually.

Yeah. Yeah, that's fucking right, he is super cool. And your heart is beating so much faster, and finally you're looking at him as if he's more than just some guy, some living advertisement you're determined to ignore.

And then your eyes shift, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, as you zero in on his shoulder. Something akin to a wave of amusement flickers across your expression, and to his general surprise, Homelander wants to know what's the cause of this shift. Your lips pull back into a smile, teeth peaking at him in all their glory. He can almost imagine them running down his skin, before he pushes the thought back all together, as the lower portion of his suit becomes slightly too tight for comfort.

-Well, thank you for saving the spaghetti - your eyes hold a spark of amusement - My hero.

Okay, alright, he's hard. There's no point denying it. However annoying and insignificant you were moments before, your quip goes straight to his loins, burning enough, for him to consider just how mad Stillwell would be, if he'd have a taste of this newly discovered talent.

If he stands any closer to you, he might find out, because this special little moment you two have shared, is crudely interrupted by Madelyn clearing her throat. Homelander nearly jumps back, you however barely turn your head, reaching for your spaghetti and arming yourself with a fork.

-I've spoken to my supervisor - Stillwell announces, clearly peeved by the way you start chewing on the noodles - A new version of the contract will be emailed to you as soon as possible. Hopefully it will be satisfactory.

-Thank you, Miss Stillwell - you answer with an inclination of your head.

With that, Madelyn nods her goodbye at you, refusing to shake your hand, which does amuse you, you're not going to lie. Homelander however, goes all out, capturing your fork-weilding arm, his fingers sneaking around your wrist like a bracelet. Or a shackle. Then, you watch with a confused arch to your eyebrows, as he brings you closer, until his lips press onto the protruding knuckles. Now that, admittedly, gets your heart going. You were not an easily embarrassed person, not by a long shot, but you could feel blood rushing towards your face all the same.

He has to hold his breath, as he kisses your hand in that charming, gentleman way he's seen in old movies. The smell of pasteurized tomato sauce blows in his direction, like a direct assault on his senses. Still, he needed something that would make you swoon. If everything failed, he knew how to be intimidating, but for now, perhaps he wanted to try something different. Something that would yield much more pleasant results, for the both of you. Mostly for him, let's be honest.

Madelyn asks him to stay back, spy on you throughout the night, and he begrudgingly agrees, if only to mask the fact, that he would do so of his own volition, had she not brought it up. And as such, he floats into the rapidly cooling air, disappearing into the darkening sky, where you wouldn't be able to see him even if you tried. He could see you however, and hear you, and he was about to make the most of the situation.

He spends the whole evening just watching you exist within your space. Normally, it would piss him off beyond belief. You weren't doing anything scandalous, anything that could warrant his attention. And yet, as he floats on, in time lowering himself just slightly, to get a better view, he just can't seem to look away. The spaghetti is gone in approximately fifteen minutes, as you inhale the supermarket food, walking around the living room, the kitchen, getting a few bites on the porch even. You seem so utterly unfazed by the events of the past hour, like you haven't just had America's Greatest Superhero try to convince you to work with him. It's honestly insulting, this lack of reaction.

Then, finally, he can hear a distinct ping of a new email come from your laptop, and you sit down on the couch with a small huff. Your eyes move, your lips twitch, and then he hears your heart stop in your chest. As if working on autopilot, your hand travels up, covers your mouth in shock, and you lean back against the worn-down sofa, eyes glued to the screen illuminating your face in a blue-ish light.

-...fuck… - you whisper, and despite himself Homelander floats even closer to your window.

Finally, he has the chance to peak over the curtain. To sneak into the backstage of the award winning production of your defenses, and see what goes on in those bored eyes of yours, when they're not guarded. And what he sees makes his suit feel much too tight, his body too warm. Quite an unusual thing to get so worked up about, but he's the goddamned Homelander, he can get hard whenever he fucking wants. And so, as saliva gathers on his tongue, he presses himself against the tiles on your roof, all the warmth of the day soaking into his skin through the thick material of his suit.

With a shaky hand you reach over towards your phone, putting in a number and pressing the call button, before standing straight from the couch, almost knocking the laptop over.

-Hey, what's up? - someone says on the other end of the line, and Homelander tries to focus more on the words flowing from the receiver.

-Oh, you gotta sit down for that one - you warn with an anxious chuckle, taking the familiar place by the window.

With your free hand you reach up to open the window all the way. Then, Homelander sees your fingers slip between the pillows and pull out a rather beaten up pack of cigarettes.

Naughty, naughty, he thinks, watching you produce a lighter from that same hiding place.

-Alright, I'm sat like never before.

The voice sounds vaguely female, although the shitty quality of your phone makes it hard to decipher. Your lips pull back into a toothy grin, and you blow out the smoke through the window. It curls upwards and dissipates into the air, right above the roof, where Homelander swallows thickly around a coughing fit.

-You will not believe who visited me today…

-The ICE - the voice deadpans, and you snort around another huff of smoke.

-Pretty fucking close, let me tell you - he doesn't appreciate the joke, not at all - Fucking Homelander.

The line goes completely quiet for a moment, and with every second your grin seems to be growing.

-Deadass?

-Yup - your lips purse, and Homelander zeroes in on the expression - Flew in all Star's Spangled Glory with some Vaught big fish. They tried to convince me to join the Seven.

-And obviously you said yes, because what the fuck else do you do in that situation?

Your grin slowly fades away, and you lean your forehead on the window frame.

-You didn't?

-I didn't.

Again, it's quiet.

Homelander shifts a bit in his position, adjusting against the warmed up tiles of the roof, his X-ray vision bearing into you. Out of curiosity, he looks deeper, eyes floating over your insides. You're relatively healthy. Some vitamin deficiencies, but nothing too serious. And despite that nasty habit lodged between your fingers, your lungs are clear, at least for now. There's a softness to your body, your muscles barely visible, as if you're just another gray human. Oh, and there's a bit of an eyesight problem forming, not enough to warrant glasses, but that shouldn't take long, considering your lifestyle.

-The contract they gave me was really good, you know - you muse to the phone, your leg dangling from the windowsill - Six months of working under Homelander, a Sidekick kinda situation.

-I thought they scraped the Sidekick program - the person on the other side wonders - Too many casualties or something.

-Yeah, well I guess they want to bring it back.

-Why did you say no then? I'm sure they pay is gigantic.

Again, you smile. This one much more reserved, bordering on sad. There's that strange kind of exhaustion settling into your bones again, same one Homelander noticed when he first saw you. Your shoulders slump forward, and you curl into yourself between the cushions.

-It was, it was… - you mutter - But I needed something more, for the neighborhood, ya know?

Your caller hums softly in understanding, and Homelander feels like something is passing him by. Some unspoken fact, that you and your friend find obvious.

-And - you hesitate, eyes flickering towards the laptop, your heart beat picking up ever so slightly - They sent me a revised contract. And it's fucking good. Really fucking good. It could help this entire place get back on its feet.

-But you still don't want to - the voice says for you, without judgement.

-No - you sigh - I really, really don't.

-Say no then - your friend supplies, and once again Homelander feels a flame of annoyance start to burn within him - No one else knows about the contract, there will be no expectations.

Slowly, you nod your head, clearly relieved by the way your friend reacted to the news. Homelander however, caught you right where he needed you. That's your lever. Not seduction, not intimidation, just plain, stupidly human guilt.

-Thank you - you whisper into your phone, finally smiling again - Oh, wanna know one more thing?

-Obviously.

-Homelander's wearing a padded suit.

Something's stuck in his throat, as he reels back from his position. Before he can stop himself, his eyes begin to glow red, because how the fuck did you know?

-Okay, that's bullshit.

-Unless his shoulder dislocated in the middle of talking, then no, it's definitely not bullshit.

Your friend gives out a choked laugh, one which you mirror with your own. If Homelander wasn't so utterly flabbergasted by your (correct) observation, he would've stopped to appreciate the sound. As it stands, however, he pushes himself off your roof, a couple of broken pieces falling off of the tiles. And then he's up in the air, cutting through the winds, headed straight for the Tower, leaving you in the comfort of your insignificant, smelly home.

The contract is leaked before the sun is up.

You're awoken to thousands of news articles flooding your timeline, all listing the truly wonderful and selfless points in the fated email. With a white face, you read them all, the speculations, the theories, the angry comments about you being chosen without an actual casting, while all those up and coming supes are busting their asses in auditions.

Soon enough, you're visited by every neighbour possible, congratulating, thanking you. A barbecue is set in the street, as a way of celebration, and you want to throw your phone, and subsequently yourself into the nearest river.

Madelyn Stillwell sends you an email, scheduling a meeting at the Vaught Tower. No need for pleasantries at this point, you stare at the bare bones invitation. "We eagerly await the start of our partnership" looks back at you, mocking your resolve. And thus, the end of your life as you know it begins.

"Project Delinquent"

The words are printed in an ugly, corporate font, and they stare back at you, outlining the mold you're supposed to fit in, in such a perfect way, it actually, almost makes you retch. True, during high school you were quite the little rebel, but people grown and learn, and seeing your character be watered down to that simple word, does send a wave of nausea through your insides. Even if this is hell of your own making, even if you're ready to swallow it all down with a smile, there's a pang of humiliation stinging your heart.

The armchair in Stillwell's office is uncomfortably narrow. It barely has enough room to accommodate your hips, and you wonder if this design is intentional. There is a growing ache in your calves, as you sit so close to the edge, you can't fully relax into your position, balancing on your feet instead. The armrests dig into your sides, and the way the sun is shining through the gigantic windows of the office, is shaping this charade of a meeting into an overstimulating nightmare. Still, you endure. For all the wonderful benefits enclosed in your contract, the charity work Vaught is going to supply.

Or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself, stuck between the marketing department representatives and a literal Devil of a woman.

Madelyn Stillwell doesn't know what to make out of you. Your files were filled with all sorts of questionable activity, especially around the college area. It's honestly a miracle you've managed to get your degree, and attend all those silly little demonstrations at the same time. Your criminal record has been wiped clean, weeks before you even agreed to sign the contract, just in case any leaks would find their way into the media. Leaks that were not orchestrated by Madelyn, of course.

High school rebellion was almost too easily marketable, Madelyn decided to focus on that part of your life as much as possible, her vision slowly coming to fruition. All she needed, really, was cooperation. And while you seemed to be mostly receptive to her ideas, she needed to make sure Homelander was on his best behavior. Which, well… Could go sideways in the worst way imaginable, but Stillwell tried to have some faith in her best superhero.

The idea of releasing details of your contract to the public, was a stroke of genius, she did not expect from Homelander, and she made sure he was thoroughly rewarded. With him, it was always better to choose the hands-on approach, unfortunately. With you, however, ideals were the key. Whatever feeling of solidarity you harbored towards your neighborhood, provided a leverage relatively easy to control. Still, as Stillwell looked you over, crammed into her office in your, frankly, lousy attire, she couldn't help but be just a tad worried about your compliance.

-…And then - the marketer continues with a dramatic gasp - Homelander comes in. America's Greatest Hero, offers you a mentorship. And you…

You look up at the representative with a rather sour expression. They have to work on that too. Media training was crucial. You won't be able to sell anything, if you keep grimacing like that all the damned day.

-… Are starstruck - your mouth twitches - You strike up a deal, selfless. A rebel with a heart of gold. Finally, you can make some real change happen, so you push aside your anti-corporate values, to discover, that Vaught is so much more, than you could possibly imagine.

It's hard not to laugh, and you swallow thickly, biting your lip, as a middle-aged woman you don't recognize gets up from the couch, and makes her way to the wall opposite of your torture chair. There, tucked in a corner and hidden under a black cloth, stands a mannequin, roughly your size. With a flourish you find utterly out of place, the woman tugs at the cape, and as it falls to the floor, so does your stomach. You can't hold it in any longer. A rough snort of laughter rips out of your nose, and you cover your mouth instantly.

-That better be a laugh of delight - Ashley, a ginger menace, mutters under her breath, and Stillwell turns to you with a tight expression on her face.

-Something the matter?

-I mean - you take a deep, grounding breath, tying your amusement in the back of your throat - I knew it's going to be skimpy, but this is…

You look around the room, seeing various stages of corporate outrage, and then you lock eyes with Homelander. Stillwell insisted on his participation in the meeting, as the both of you are supposed to work closely together, and throughout the whole ordeal, he looked borderline ready to die of boredom. Now, however, his eyebrows lift in a curious manner, as he takes in the, to be completely honest, horrendous costume, and your full figure. Something dangerously close to disgust twists your features, as he shamelessly drags his eyes all over your body.

Who would've thought America's Sweetheart was a fucking creep?

Rolling your eyes, you get up from the cursed armchair, your knees cracking loudly. Crossing the room, you take a closer look at the clothing, or rather, lack there of. Torn fishnets, plaid tennis skirt, and a corset top, made out of some leather-like material. Truly, a fetishists wet dream. Your fingers sample the fabric of the skirt. Surprisingly stiff, it seems to beg for a wardrobe malfunction. With a frown pulling down your lips, you lift the material up, and as expected, find no safety shorts underneath.

Homelander watches you intently, as you inspect the costume. Just the thought of your soft body in this skimpy, corporate bastardization of a rock star, makes heat rise in the lower part of his stomach. With every disapproving pull of your, and don't quote him on that, perfect lips, he's more and more convinced this whole charade is just an early birthday present. He'll have to thank Stillwell. Or better not, because as soon as he throws her a sidelong glance, he discovers, she's already looking at him. With a rather tense expression at that.

He feigns innocence, almost raises his hands in mock defeat, but decides against it at the last second. You're still watching him, torn between inspecting the costume, and shooting disgruntled looks in his direction.

Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, your hand sneaks to the front of the corset, fingers closing over the full cup, where your breast will soon reside. You give the mock leather two squeezes, and a high-pitched laugh wheezes out of your lips. Homelander's head nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look at Stillwell, confusion clear on his face.

She's looking at you cautiously. He knows that expression all too well, he's seen it multiple times during their partnership. She's calculating, with bated breath, just how much of a problem you'll inevitably become. How to turn it around in the company's favor, how to steer you in the right direction, should the need arise.

But then, you clap your hands, still giggling quietly, and turn to the designer, who's been watching your reaction with a growing distaste.

-That's one hell of a push-up bra - you comment with a raised eyebrow - My tits will fly straight out of this, if I even think about moving my arms.

Now, that's something Homelander would love to see, and you note his leering face with an uncomfortable shift in your posture.

-Your physique has to be god-like. There's no shame in a little padding - the designer answers simply, and your eyes glimmer with amusement.

-Oh, I bet - your eyes float for just a second in Homelander's direction, and he wonders if lasering you down right now would be too harsh of a reaction.

The image had to be kept up, however, and he deflects your blatant provocation with a bright smile. Or rather, it would've been a bright smile, if his cheek didn't twitch in a way, that portrayed exactly how forced his pleasantries are.

-There will be a press conference, seven PM sharp, where you'll be introduced to the public - Ashley informs you, her eyes glued to her tablet - Homelander will give a welcoming speech, explain that you're a temporary member of The Seven. Then, you'll need to say a couple of words. We'll send you the talking points ASAP.

-Right… - you mutter, not particularly thrilled by the idea of public speaking.

Stillwell looks over her shoulder towards Homelander, giving him an expectant, raised eyebrow. Slowly, he moves from his spot by the window, hand extended in a greeting, teeth flashing in a smile. Your eyes involuntarily shift towards his rather sharp canines, and for the first time, since you've signed the contract, you truly feel uneasy. His eyes are almost unnaturally blue, a perfect, American shade, that glimmers just a tad too dangerously. There's no need for super senses, he can feel your nerves in the very air you breathe.

-Welcome to The Seven - his voice is smoother than you've ever heard before - Fireball.

Wait a god-damned minute.

Confusion covers all previous feelings, and to Homelander's growing annoyance, you leave him with his hand extended, in favor of turning towards Stillwell.

-That's not my name - you point out, and Madelyn nods her head in a practiced expression of understanding.

-Due to some copyright intricacies, we can't let you use Smirnoff - she explains.

You suck in a deep breath through your teeth, looking back towards the costume. A moment's hesitation, you close your eyes as you breathe out, and once again Homelander feels as if he's able to peak under a carnival mask you carefully placed upon yourself. He lifts it just enough, sees the way muscles on your neck twitch. Your jaw sets in a way, that is slowly becoming intoxicating, and then you turn back to him.

-I'm honored - your voice is hollow, locked far away in the column of your throat, and you don't have enough strength to even attempt a smile.

That's alright, he has enough charm for the both of you, his imposing stature pushing towards you, as his arm sneaks around your shoulders.

Fuck, you're warm. He can feel the heat of your skin seeping into his costume. There's a vaguely familiar smell clinging to your form, mixing with the scent of cigarette smoke. Jasmine flowers, he concludes, and absent-mindedly remembers a rather large bush growing in your backyard. He wonders, if you'd let him fuck you, if he showed up with a bouquet at your door. Women seemed to like those, and although you didn't strike him as the most romantic person, he's positive he could charm his way into your pants.

-I'll show you to your room, sweetheart - perhaps he's laying it on a bit heavy with the nickname.

He can hear Stillwell's heart jump, and he immediately knows, he's going to have to sit through a stern talk later today. You, on the other hand, wrench your head to the side, disgruntled with this new form of familiarity. Your entire body goes tense, and you try to wriggle yourself further away from him. On instinct, his fingers dig into your shoulder, a mockery of a friendly expression, and with just a small fragment of his true strength, he pushes you forward, out of Stillwell's office.

He can do whatever he wants, and Madelyn is getting awfully pushy with guarding you from him. You're just a temporary toy to satisfy the higher-ups. A six months worth of an experiment, that he's forced to be a part of. After your contract is up, Vaught won't care whether you live or die, and you bet your rather ample ass, he's going to exploit that to the fullest. Not only is it borderline insulting, to deny him life's simple pleasures, it's pathetic.

-Nervous about the press? - he asks in a light tone, his jaw clicking softly, when your slide out of his grasp as soon as the doors close.

The casualness of this question throws you in a bit of a loop, but with a couple of rapid blinks, you're back to normal, letting him lead you towards the elevator.

-Public speaking isn't my best asset - you mumble.

Homelander presses the call button of the elevator, then leans against the wall, watching you with a strange twinkle in his eye.

-Sounds like someone's not a people person - he notes, wiggling his finger at you in a manner that is confusingly playful.

-I am a people person - you defend yourself, albeit a bit awkwardly - Just… Not when there's a lot of people.

He laughs at that, a practiced, almost theatrical bark that's as fake as his hairdo. All you have the strength to do, is flash him half of a smile. Thankfully the elevator pings before any more small-talk is required, and you slip into the confined space, standing in the corner. His eyes roam freely all over your body, a shameless act that makes your guts twist, makes the already small space of the elevator even more stuffy. And then, he enters after you, pressing a button to the right floor, and taking a spot much too close to you, than what's necessary.

You suppose it's one of the things you'll have to get used to. This constant invasion of your personal space. Perhaps, if it were someone else, someone that wasn't as empty as you, those actions would've been more intimidating than annoying. Alas, as you watch his chest rise and fall in steady rythm, out of the corner of your eye, his actions remind you of a petulant, spoiled child, rather than America's Greatest Hero. "I can't play with this toy? And what if I do this?" For just a second you entertain the idea of gentle parenting Homelander, and the thought makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

-Something the matter? - he asks, tension sneaking into his friendly tone.

-Just happy to be here, sir - you answer, and he knows it's a blatant lie, another one of your snarky provocations.

Doesn't matter for now, there will be a time to teach you some manners.

The elevator arrives at the right floor, and you bolt out of your place as soon as the doors slip open. Homelander follows closely behind, before closing the distance in a couple of long steps. Then, he's in front of you, and you nearly collide with his form, as he suddenly comes to a stop, in front of a pair of large doors. "Fireball" is etched into a small plack, and you throw the offending piece of metal a withering glance.

-That's your stop, sweetheart - he comments, and once again, you grimace at the nickname - Take a look inside, I'm sure it will blow your socks right off.

Why is he talking to you like you're a fucking child all of a sudden, you'll never understand. The door clicks softly, as you open it, revealing your living space for the next six months. The sight chokes a laugh out of you, because truly, the ammount of "punk" memorabilia is staggering.

-Does cocaine addiction come with the package, or…?

He doesn't even react to your joke, and you don't blame him. For all his creepiness and fake interest, he doesn't strike you as the funniest person on earth. There are guitars hanging over a rather large bed, there's a pristine stop sign next to them, which you suppose is meant to look rebellious. The usage of leopard print is tacky at best, and you truly start to wonder if they even consulted someone out of the corporation to design the space. Most likely no, wouldn't want to waste resources on such a small project.

-Fireball - Homelander's voice is barely above a whisper, but it makes your heart jump all the same.

He's standing so closely behind you, you can feel the warmth of his breath at the back of your neck, but for some unnknown reason, you can't force yourself to move. Instead, you feel him take a deep breath trough his nose, his chest brushing against your back. Your eyes stay glued to a drum set, pushed against a gigantic window. Light reflects off of the cymbals, in your mind you're already playing it, far away from this nightmare of a superhero.

-I'll see you at the press conference - Homelander's hand clasps itself over your shoulder, squeezing a couple of times, as if testing the softness of your body - Don't even think about being late, young lady.

You don't know when he dissapears, as you stand there, frozen. One foot over the threshold of your room, breathing shallow and borderline panicked. It could've been seconds, could've been hours, until your head finally snaps to the side. He's not there anymore, you're alone in the corridor, and as you slam the door closed behind you, something you've only suspected before becomes abundantly clear.

There is something deeply wrong with Homelander.

#my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #plus size reader #the boys amazon #the boys x reader #homelander #the boys fanfiction #homelander fanfiction #do we have to have a talk about how liking a character doesn't equal endorsing their actions or are we good?#it'll get much darker later down the line but for now have this blurb of barely conscious writing

624 notes · View notes

ceo-of-sloppy-women · 20 days ago

Text

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

chapter 7

Read it on AO3

Chapter 8

Sevika drags you out of bed far earlier than you appreciate. Once she’s certain you’re not going to fall asleep standing up, Sevika thrusts breakfast in your hands and drags you outside in pursuit of a local coffee stand. She has made (slightly burnt) scrambled eggs and toast, which you eat on your way to her bees as the sun yawns awake on the horizon. Once at the coffee stand, she buys herself two coffees – why on Earth she needed two was beyond you – and buys you the beverage you pick out (at her insistence). She is not persuaded by your argument that she shouldn’t waste her money on you. After all three drinks were finished being made, Sevika kept walking, trying to avoid the hustle and bustle of the early morning crowd waking up for patrols and important jobs.

Unlike yourself, Sevika is wide awake, fully dressed and walking as if she’s been awake for hours. You trudge behind her, rubbing your eyes and yawning, doing your best to keep up with her as the two of you reach the town’s perimeter fence. The guards let you pass through after checking you were armed, and you stumble out into the open valley. After spending the last few days enclosed by reassuring metal walls, the endless expanse of nature is almost daunting. You stop for a moment, gazing out across the rolling hills that meld into mountains on all sides. Scattered throughout the valley are several farms and ranches – they take up far more land than is available in the settlement, and the open fields of the mountains allow them to expand as far as they’d like. You can see goats, cattle, sheep and pigs scattered throughout the fields, along with various crops, mainly corn, wheat, carrots and potatoes. Though, none have human dwellings on them – all members of Zaun sleep inside the fence, safe from the infected.

“Come on, this way,” Sevika grunts, taking your hand and steering you off to the left.

“It’s very pretty out here – I didn’t expect there to be so much,” you comment as you follow after her, slowly intertwining your fingers with hers. She doesn’t pull away, but she does hesitate for a moment before relaxing her hand.

“Need it all, have to support everyone somehow. You’d be surprised how many cows you need for milk. Especially when almost half the population runs off of coffee grown in a jerry-rigged greenhouse,” Sevika says, her head on a swivel for any infected.

“Is the milk… pasteurized?” you ask tentatively. Drinking raw milk had been resurging before the world ended, and you are well aware of the many reasons it should be pasteurized. Pasteurization is an important process that removes deadly bacteria from the milk as the udders are rather close to the cow’s waste excrement orifices. You were not about to survive the apocalypse only to die to bird flu (or worse).

“Yeah,” Sevika grunts. She doesn’t elaborate more for a beat, as if expecting you to be well versed in the subject already. As if she’s already grown so used to having you in Zaun that she doesn’t give a second thought to the fact you have only been here for a few days. After a beat, she coughs slightly and continues: “We found this, er, councillor for Piltover trapped in the wastes a few years back, and we were about to leave him there until Jayce and Mel intervened. Apparently, he knew a lot about food safety, so he’s become our official food health and safety inspector. He helped us set up pasteurization equipment, as well as various animal diets. You’d never guess it from looking at the guy – a skinny little blond thing that could be carried off by an ant.”

“Sevika, I know you are aware I can hear you,” someone huffs from up ahead. You startle, gaze jumping from Sevika to a young man in a wheelchair holding a clipboard as he scrutinizes a cow pasture. Next to him stands a broad man holding a rifle with an exasperated look on his face. You know him: Jayce, he was with Sevika’s group.

“So what? You going to write a false report about my honey and get the only sweetener in this town banned? I know you like your coffee too much for that,” Sevika huffs, rolling her eyes as she passes one of the coffee cups to him. The man grins and takes a hearty swig despite the coffee still being too hot for even you to drink. Oh. That’s why she needed two (you thought she was just going to drink them both).

“It seems my hands are tied,” he giggles, scrutinizing you for a moment with a furrowed brow. “And who is this young lady with you, Sevika? Finally managed to scavenge someone from the wastes willing to put up with your boar-like nature?”

“You damn well know I don’t go out there to –“

You cut Sevika off by introducing yourself, holding out your hand for him to shake it. You did not need her to cause a fight this early in the morning.

“Ah, so you’re the one Silco and Vander mentioned – a pleasure to meet you! My name is Salo; please let me know if you have any further questions about food safety. I would be more than willing to exchange notes,” Salo says, shaking your hand firmly before letting it go.

“I probably don’t know as much as you do, but I appreciate the offer. Thank you. Knowing the milk is pasteurized puts me at ease,” you say politely as Sevika grabs your wrist.

“Yeah, yeah, come on; we’ve got some bees to tend to. You can rub elbows with Salo later; he’s always around doing not much of anything,” Sevika grumbles, trying to pull you away.

“One second, I have a question!” you protest. Sevika relents with a frustrated sigh, putting her hand on her hip as she waits. You turn to Jayce, who has been quietly petting a curious cow. “Jayce, I believe Sevika mentioned you have a forge?”

“That’s right!” Jayce confirms, turning to face you with a carefully practiced professional smile. The cow butts her head against his shoulder in protest.

“I’ve got a few bottles from the wastes that aren’t doing me any good sitting around. Is there a good time to swing by and get those to you?” It’s not entirely a lie – you do have a few from your wandering days that could be in better hands. Mainly, you want to give him all the empty bottles cluttering Sevika’s kitchen.

“Any time between ten in the morning and eight at night works. Except on Mondays – the forge is closed as I have a patrol route then,” Jayce informs you, giving the cow a good scritch behind the ear.

“And we inspect the food on Mondays!” Salo interjects, hastily swallowing a mouthful of coffee to do so.

“That too,” Jayce assents.

“I’ll swing by the forge when I get a chance then. Thank you,” you chirp, finally allowing Sevika to guide you away.

She does so immediately, all but carrying you off as she trudges through the tall grass toward the bee colonies. They’re not too far away from where you’d stopped – just out of earshot from Jayce and Salo. Each little hutch is painted a different colour from the others, in a variety of different saturations and luminosities. If you had to guess, you might think Jinx had a hand in painting them (the little smiley faces are a dead giveaway).

You reach for the fence, and Sevika quickly snatches your hand away.

“Gear first! Do you want to get stung?” she barks, glaring at you.

“Geez, sorry,” you shy away, pulling your hand back sharply.

A look as if she’s been struck flashes across her face for a brief moment before she shies away, taking a step back. Your heart crumbles as she bows her head like a puppy that’s been kicked off the couch one too many times.

“Shit – sorry. It’s just…”

“Don’t worry about it, Sev’ –” You squeeze her shoulder gently to reassure her.

She offers you a fake smile to try and look tough, but you can see the hurt bleeding into it. “No, it’s not – you can’t just brush it off,” she huffs, carding a hand through her hair. “The world is shit enough as it is. You don’t deserve me barking at you on top of it all.”

“Sevika, it’s the apocalypse. I’d rather you stop me from doing something stupid or dangerous than clam up and let me, especially when we’re outside of Zaun. You’re keeping me safe – how can I be mad at that?”

“Sorry,” she apologizes again, her shoulders hunching forward. “I just don’t want to hurt you or drive you away. Vander always tells me I’m too hot-headed, so I’ve been trying to be nicer...”

“You’re not going to drive me away by being yourself. Or by looking out for me. Frankly, you’re stuck with me. You’ve given me free room, food, a comfortable bed, and a hot shower – plus, I don’t have to constantly worry about dying every day. I mean fuck, I can actually feel safe knowing that you’re around. I haven’t felt safe in a very long time,” you reassure her, leaning up to kiss her on the cheek as you finish. “Now, show me where the bee gear is.”

Sevika stares at you blankly for so long that you think you broke her. If human brains could fry, you’re dead certain smoke would be pouring out of her ears right now. When she finally realizes she’s just staring at you, she blinks back into reality, mumbles out something that sounds vaguely like “follow me,” and trudges off to a nearby shed. You follow after her politely, feeling just a tad bit powerful after having caused her brain to error hard enough to shut her up.

The shed is small, with barely enough space for her to step inside and get out two suits. You wait outside, taking the gear she thrusts into your hands and pulling it on carefully, not wanting to get the mud on your boots on the inside of the pants. Your patrol gear is set off to the side for later (with the exception of your pistol). Once both of you are fully dressed, you hold your breath to not snicker at how dorky the two of you look. The mesh netting is absolutely not working for Sevika! Luckily, Sevika doesn’t notice how dangerously close to giggling you are (or, if she does, she refrains from drawing attention to it). Instead, she trudges back over to the fence and holds it open for you. You slip into the small, carefully guarded area where bees are quietly buzzing, coming and going from human-made hives. Following them, you slowly approach the hives and stop a few feet back, observing them as closely as you do the crunch of grass approaching you.

Sevika places her hand on the small of your back. The warmth of her hand radiates against your body, even with all of your gear in the way. You lean into it, smiling softly as you watch the bees. A few of them fly over to investigate you, landing on your outstretched fingers and assessing the danger before flying off.

“These little ladies saved our asses when we ran out of sugar a few years back,” Sevika says, breaking the silence gently.

“Hard workers,” you hum, giggling as one lands on Sevika’s mesh netting. Right in front of her eyes. “Looks like they want to say hello – maybe it’s to demand more flowers, Sev’.”

Sevika chuckles, blowing gently so the bee takes off and flies away. Her fingers scrunch in a little against your back as you render her nervous. Tentatively, she turns to you and asks: “You keep, er, calling me that. Why?”

“It’s just a nickname… do you not like it?” you backpedal quickly, scanning her face for any sign of discontent.

“No! No, no, I like it. It’s well… no one’s given me a nickname before –“ she scratches the back of her neck awkwardly – “It feels odd.”

“Good odd or bad odd?” you probe, trying to squash your swelling heart at her earnest honesty.

“Good odd!” she says quickly, clamping her mouth shut just as fast. She coughs and straightens up a little. “Pretty lady like yourself can call me anything you wish. Only wanted to make sure you weren’t insulting me – Jinx likes to mock me with names when she’s in a bad headspace.”

Your heart swoons before you can stop it. Now is absolutely not the time – you just met the woman, you can’t possibly fall in love so fast! Yet, it feels as if she’s the missing part of your soul, and now that you’ve found her, your soul sobs for its final piece.

“Well, I can promise I’m not doing it to make fun of you, Sevika. I just like how your name feels on my tongue,” you assure her, gently blowing a bee off of her shoulder.

Sevika gulps imperceptively, glancing at the rising sun: “We should head back now. Grayson will want to assign us a patrol route, and we ought to find you a horse. You can’t ride on the back of Duchess for this one.”

“Okay, let me say goodbye to the bees first,” you chirp, turning to the bees before she can stop you. “Goodbye, ladies, keep up the good work! If we’re lucky, Sevika will let me come back and help with a harvest soon!”

Sevika mumbles something to herself far too quietly for you to hear. When you turn back around and catch a glimpse of her face, it’s bright red, and her eyes are sparkling as she watches you with an intensity that rivals the sun. Even through the mesh of the beekeeper’s hood.

“Ready now, sweet thing?”

“Yup! Let’s go see Grayson!”

The bee gear is stashed in the shed once more, and you collect your patrol gear, readjusting your backpack straps. Sevika is quiet the whole way back, steering you through the blissfully empty streets toward the horse stables. You revel in the feeling of her hand on your lower back, keeping you safe and close to her side. Your heart hammers in your chest at her quiet, gentle way of taking care of you despite her prickly and blunt demeanour. As if she softens just as much as you when the two of you are together. The stables come into view far faster when the streets aren’t busy – standing proud and tall amongst the old buildings. You can hear various horses and their riders heading out for the day or being led in to rest for the night. A loud yawn draws your attention to Vi as she heads back into town for the night with Caitlyn. Both of them look absolutely exhausted – as if they’ve been out on patrol all night. Vi is barely able to keep herself from passing out in the street, and Caitlyn is leaning heavily on her shoulder.

“Run into any trouble?” Sevika asks as they pass by.

“Nah, it’s all clear up north – for today, at least. Uneventful and peaceful. Saw a few deer, rabbit or two, lots of squirrels,” Vi shrugs, kissing Caitlyn on the forehead. “You two heading out?”

“About to – got to talk to Grayson first,” Sevika grunts, flicking her gaze to Caitlyn. “You should take her home, or your cupcake’s gonna wind up smudged with dirt.”

“And you should take yours out – get some dirt on her. Just try not to run into a horde like yesterday. Don’t need to spook her on her first patrol,” Vi says, bending down and scooping Caitlyn into her arms. She walks off, tossing a “Have fun!” over her shoulder.

“Wait – horde?” you squeak, glancing nervously at Sevika. You frantically scan her for any injuries you have yet to notice.

“Relax, we can handle a horde out here. They’re smaller and weaker – not a lot of people lived in these mountains during the old world,” Sevika grunts, continuing on to the stables. “Vi just wants to scare you so we don’t get caught off-guard today… we got a little too sloppy yesterday – the horde showed up in the middle of our chat. We didn’t realize until they were on top of us.”

“… that explains why you were so upset when you found me at Grayson’s shop,” you breathe, a sad smile warping your face into sympathy.

“What do you mean by that?” Sevika questions gruffly, hardening her gaze at you.

“You were all worked up by the horde – when I wasn’t there, you must have thought I was in danger due to the excess adrenaline built up in your system. You could have just told me, you know? The whole silent treatment fiasco was unnecessary,” you huff, knocking her shoulder with a light shove.

Sevika stumbles a bit and huffs, scuffing her boots in the mud. “How are you so damn perceptive? Just – fuck, yes, okay, I was worried!” She spins around, cupping your cheek with her hand, tilting your head up and forcing you to meet her gaze. “We live during the actual apocalypse! When you run off like that, of course, I’m going to worry. So, keep yourself safe on this patrol today, okay? If I say run, you run. No arguing.”

“Sev’, you have to trust me. I’ve survived this long; I can hold my own against the infected. I’m not stupid either; if it’s a cocked situation, I’ll run, but I’m not leaving you behind,” you argue, firmly holding her gaze. You try not to think about her hand on your face, nor the way you subconsciously lean into it.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” she grouses, conceding.

“It’s my worst quality,” you hum, lifting your hand to squeeze her wrist gently in reassurance. “Now, should we get a move on?”

Sevika grunts, dropping her hand. This time, she keeps walking to the stables and doesn’t stop until the two of you are through the door. Stalls run parallel to each other, comfortably housing many horses with fresh bedding, water and feed. Their tack hangs on nearby walls at the far end of the bar. Duchess snorts as Sevika steps inside, growing restless in her stall – eager to stretch her legs. Almost immediately, Grayson spots you and hurries over. You swoon a little at her outfit – a straining blue plaid shirt that’s rolled up to her elbows, covering an old grey t-shirt that peeks out under a few undone buttons. Blue jeans frame her figure, tucked into cowboy boots, with a pistol on her hip and a lasso, too. There’s a tan folder tucked under her arm.

“Good to see that your dutiful attitude is rubbing off on our newest, Sevika. I expected you to at least be a little delayed today on account of the new, warm bed,” Grayson says, pulling the folder out from under her arm. “I’m assigning you to the Western patrol route. It has been fairly quiet for the last few days, so expect trouble. Silco wants the area fully scouted and cleared out for a new construction project. Be mindful of the old weather station – we still haven’t found anyone to clear it out since its discovery last year.”

“Got it,” Sevika grunts, taking the paper from her. You can see some old photocopy on the back – this is scrap paper. “Only need one thing before we can head out: a horse for our newest lady here.”

Grayson regards you for a moment with a furrowed brow. You squirm under her gaze, puffing out your chest and standing taller in order to look presentable – not quite sure what she’s assessing. After a tense moment, Grayson nods her head in satisfaction. “If you will humour an old woman, I have the perfect horse in mind.”

“By all means, lead the way,” you giggle nervously.

Grayson leads you through the stables and toward the back. You fold your hands behind your back, glancing in at every horse. Most of them are unbothered by your presence – a few of them snort at you or stick their heads out to see what you’re up to. Grayson stops at the third stall from the end, planting her hands on her hips and grinning at her own genius.

“This here is a morgan. She has refused to take a rider for the past few weeks – ever since Violet cleared her for one. Ever since she was a filly, she has been gentle, kind and intelligent. Show her no fear, and we’ll get our answer,” Grayson instructs you, gesturing for you to approach the stall.

Sevika leans on a post nearby, watching you with idle interest.

You take a deep breath and step forward, approaching the stall. Almost instantly, the head of a grey, speckled morgan whips out of the stall and stares you down. You freeze in place, willing yourself not to show her fear as you hold up your hand. She scrutinizes it for a long moment – until you’re worried if you should be afraid of her – and then butts her head against your palm. You laugh nervously, scratching her snout and raking your fingers through her white mane. She huffs and nuzzles your arm, searching for any treats. Behind you, Grayson chuckles heartily and pats your shoulder.

“Good girl – see? No reason to be afraid of these gentle giants. And every reason to trust my instincts,” she jokes, pulling a treat out of her satchel and giving the morgan a beet. “She doesn’t have a name yet, so that will be up to you – we let our riders choose their horse’s name as it builds a stronger bond. But she does come with tack. I’ll help you get her ready while Sevika handles Duchess – you two can learn to trust each other out on the trails.”

“Thank you, this is very generous,” you say, still scratching your horse’s face gently.

“It’s my job. I cannot send you out ill-prepared and on foot. Besides, everyone gets a horse around here; you never know when you will need one. Vander has a habit of sending people out on salvage patrols on a whim,” Grayson reassures you, giving you a few horse treats for later. “Now, let’s get you tacked up.”

#ao3 link #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x oc #sevika #arcane #arcane fanfic #zombie apocolypse au #fanfic: no grave...

42 notes · View notes