myfireplacewentboom

[myfireplacewentboom]

Jenkins' Boy

Jenkins’ Boy

18+

Male Corpo V x Arthur Jenkins

Vincent is the perfect Arasaka employee: efficient and ambitious. Arthur Jenkins is a cold, calculating corpo with an eye for talent and a serious grudge. Vincent’s growing obsession with both his boss and his own career spirals, and he is forced to confront the realities of the corporate world he has chosen.

I’m sitting at my desk in my office booth on the main floor of Arasaka’s Counterintelligence division. It is seven minutes past eight in the evening which means I have been here thirteen hours, eleven minutes and two seconds. I know that because I am told by the timed tracker on my monitor.

The text on the screen in front of me is blurred; the letters are bleeding into each other and the page I’m reading stopped making sense a little while ago. I restart my cybernetic optics but there is no change: the words are a hazy smear of black and grey on white. As I sit there reloading and reloading my kiroshis, I surmise that this must be a mental issue and this distresses me - a scary reminder of the shortcomings of my organic brain. So I reach for the drawer besides my desk and slide it open before extending a hand inside for my latest cognitive booster -Trauma Team approved - that had been delivered by the medical corporation last Saturday as part of a subscription plan covered by my platinum insurance package. The booster is in its usual place - to the left, at the back - and my fingers wrap around it. I lift it to my mouth, my dry lips close around the cool plastic in relief, and I pump it - once, twice - with a practised hand. The swelling in my head folds in on itself like a ball of paper being tightly crumpled and my mind settles almost instantaneously.

I’m feeling sharper now, less distracted. I blink a few times and when I reload my optics again the text on the screen focuses. My vision is perfect once more so I remove the booster from my mouth and place it carefully back in its usual spot and then I resume analysing the Biotechnica intelligence files our agent recovered this evening. As I read the report I annotate my observations on a separate document and these notes I make are detailed and meticulous (I know what I am doing) and as I’m starting to finish up my eyes dart over to the tracker on my monitor again and I note that in six minutes I will allocate them to my assistant Carter Smith to log.

Harry Johnson, an assistant agent like me who I am forced to work with on this assignment, releases a slow yawn from across the other side of the booth we share. The sound is muffled but annoyingly rich and long with a finishing crescendo. I know Harry has moved his hand to his mouth, closed his eyes and stretched in his blue and white striped Appel De Paris shirt. The image I am holding in my head enrages me because I can picture it so clearly, and then Harry lets out another exaggerated yawn and something within in me that I had been quietly holding together all afternoon suddenly snaps.

Useless piece of shit. I think.

I’m confused by the intensity of the anger because I am usually very calm. My face is all scrunched up, my eyebrows low and knitted; I realise, startled, that I’m glaring at Harry through my screen. I drop the frown immediately because I do not want wrinkles and then I notice a very dry feeling at the back of my throat, so I lick my lips and swallow. My focus shifts away from Harry Johnson and I slide open my desk drawer again, pick up my booster and study it closely. I read through the listed possible side effects and I turn the booster in my palm, over and over again.

My neck suddenly goes cold and I am hyper aware.

The Assistant Director and my direct superior, Arthur Jenkins, strides back into the office. He’s a tall, forty-something man with broad shoulders, wearing a fitted black silk suit jacket and matching suit pants, a black waistcoat and a white cotton shirt with a button down collar, all from Jinguji. His shoes are polished black oxfords (also from Jinguji) which hit the ground loudly as he marches with heavy, purposeful steps. His tie is black and red striped silk done up in a tight Windsor knot and his dark hair is neatly slicked as always. A thunderous scowl is etched upon his face.

The faint murmurings of my colleagues are swiftly ended and the room fills with an uneasy silence. All faces turn towards monitors, mine included, and I ensure that my back is perfectly straight as Arthur Jenkins stops and surveys the room with a cold, critical stare.

I feel his gaze pinpoint on me, as I always do. My insides squirm hideously and the soft dusting of hairs on the back of my neck slowly rise. I think that Jenkins is studying me for some time, although I cannot turn around and be sure of this, and I feel slightly ill but also slightly pleased to be once more the focus of his complete attention.

Jenkins moves on. I chance a secret glance up from my monitor and watch as he stalks into his personal office. From my desk I have a perfect view of Jenkins’ body - his long back, his tense thighs, his perfect ass covered in black silk - and I watch until the double set of doors slide shut behind him.

I can vividly remember the day I first set eyes on Arthur Jenkins. It had been the most important day of my life - my Arasaka interview - a month before I was due to graduate from the Academy, back when my voice used to shake when I was nervous and I had not known the correct amount of pomade to work into my hair. I had introduced myself immediately when he’d walked in and had offered him my hand, which he had shaken, and then he had assessed me coolly from behind his desk as I had sat across from him in my new suit and eager smile and sweaty palms. The sweat had only increased throughout the ruthless interrogation and I recall at one point my voice had accidentally stammered when he’d asked me for my opinion on the 2023 bombing, to my humiliation. Jenkins’ face had been inscrutable up until this point. But I remember how his lips had twisted upwards at this as if he was indulging in some pleasure at my embarrassment and, sensing my fear, he had pounced on this and pressed me. I had survived well enough in that interview with all the trained confidence of an Academy boy from Charter Hill (I had later discovered that I had ranked in the ninety-fifth percentile of my cohort that year) but Arthur Jenkins had made a striking impression on me. I had cried in the backseat of my father’s chevillon as our family’s chauffeur had driven me home, where upon entering the penthouse on Jefferson Avenue I had locked myself in my bedroom and had masturbated furiously through tears.

From across the other side of the booth I hear Harry exhale when Jenkins leaves the room. He then laughs, quietly and nervously, and I find myself struggling to repress my anger once more.

“Guessing the meeting with Abernathy didn’t go well.” Harry Johnson says to me.

 He waits for a minute - the tapping on his keyboard stops. I don’t reply. Harry seems to get the message because the keyboard starts up once more and I’m not as bothered by this sound because I can drone it out, and he does not try to speak to me again.

We work in silence. I finish annotating my report. When I’ve written down my last observation, I glance at the timer on my monitor and realise to my satisfaction that I am two minutes ahead of schedule. I send the file to Carter Smith’s inbox. Then I stand away from my desk and leave the red booth, ignoring Harry Johnson as he slowly lifts his head and looks up at me as I pass.

Carter Smith is sitting at his desk. He does not have his own booth. He is wearing an ill-fitting blue blazer jacket over a cheap cotton shirt. His tan office pants and brown brogues (brown shoes are inappropriate for a professional environment) are non-label. His dotted cotton tie is coming loose and his belt is black, so it does not match his brogues. Carter Smith’s brow is sweaty and his hair lacks pomade. He freezes when he sees me - which I find amusing - and more tiny beads collect on his too-shiny forehead like dew drops on weeds.

“Carter.” I say in greeting.

He stands up abruptly, awkwardly. I notice that he has a good two inches on me but I remind myself calmly that Carter Smith and I are the same age and he is only a junior analyst assistant in Arasaka Corporation and will never climb higher. He will never stay at the Tokyo Konpeki Plaza hotel, taste real sushi in his mouth, or wear silk Jinguji underwear like I do. Carter Smith did not rank in the ninety-fifth percentile in our interview cohort. And, I am pleased to observe, I am handsomer.

“Hi Vincent! I, um, I have those Petrochem reports you asked for.” Carter says, stumbling a little over his words as usual.

He clears his throat and blushes, and perhaps because it has been so long since my own boyish stammering, and perhaps I enjoyed seeing the weaknesses of my colleagues displayed before me, that I feel no sympathy towards Carter Smith, and I do not feel kind.

“They were supposed to be ready yesterday.” I frown.

Carter stiffens as I take a step towards him. He carries himself meekly, apologetically, and he smiles weakly but there is no friendliness behind this useless gesture. I’m aware that Carter Smith hates me but I regard this without emotion; it’s just another piece of information that I acknowledge.

“And whilst I’m here you can explain your dress code breach.” I continue, and gesture sharply towards his ill-fitting blazer and plain tan slacks. “You’re a mess. Did you really thing this was appropriate to wear to the office?”

Carter’s too-big ears turn pink and he says nothing so I have to impatiently ask, “Well?”

He looks slightly shocked, as if confused by the question, and stares back at me helplessly with his dull brown eyes. “Sorry - my other suit’s in the wash - I don’t have another. This, this is the smartest thing I own…” He trails off feebly before adding, “I, um, I didn’t have any client meetings today.”

I know that he knows this is no excuse – Arasaka rules are very clear - but I’m starting to get bored. My admonishment has lost all its fun and I’m too tired to drag the conversation out so I say, “You know what the rules are - see that this doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes sir. I’ll send you the reports now…”

My lips curl at this. Sir. I’m still young enough that this word feels odd in my head but I can’t deny the satisfaction the title gives me, hearing it coming out of my assistant’s mouth. I feel very grown-up all of a sudden, very important, and I have a smug realisation of my increasing status in the world and this makes me slightly giddy. I feel a step closer to Arthur Jenkins and his inscrutable, untouchable power and this is very thrilling.

An unpleasant smell creeps up my nose. It’s Carter Smith’s cheap eau de toilette and it’s sufficiently pungent enough to pull me from my fantasies. Carter looks at me, standing rigidly, and I realise he is waiting for me for me to speak. I remember the files I sent to his inbox and I point a finger towards his monitor. His big cow eyes follow obediently.

“I’ve sent you something – the report our agent at Biotechnica recovered this evening.  Log all of my points and cross reference the data with the Militech report from Tuesday, you know the one.” I’m saying all this with a firm, authoritative tone. “Drop whatever mundane shit you’re doing right now and prioritise this, it’s important. Details are in the attachment - you’ll see my notes.”

Carter nods and sits, sweaty forehead glistening from the glow of his screen. “Ok. Will do.” He thanks me and then he asks, “When do you want this by?”

“End of the day. Hand it to me personally before you leave tonight to buy a new suit.” I tell him coldly. “I suggest you get started. If this one’s late too, don’t bother coming in tomorrow.”

I watch as for the first time, Carter Smith’s face pales. His eyes strain and his mouth opens and closes and opens again and for a moment he looks as if he wants to say something, so I wait. But the moment passes and Carter says nothing.

I’m strangely disappointed. I wanted Carter Smith to push back at me instead of shrinking away obediently like he always did. But Carter Smith was only a junior assistant, a Watson boy, and even though he and I had attended Arasaka Academy together in the same year and pledged ourselves to the same corporation, we did not operate in the same realms. Carter Smith was a Kabuki charity case, the first in his family to join the Academy and then the megacorp, and his name did not open doors for him in the same way that mine did. He would never stand up to me, no matter how cruel or unfair I was, no matter how much I mistreated him - he has no friends here to help him and I suppose he couldn’t bear going back to Kabuki. My disappointment fades, replaced with a gleeful awareness that I possessed power over people like Carter Smith, and I was curious to test these limits.

I start to turn away from Carter - back to my booth, back to Harry Johnson - but familiar ringing swells in my head and I realise that Arthur Jenkins is calling me on holo.

I feel sick; my heartrate spikes to one hundred and six beats per minute which is enough to be considered fast and I know this because of the biometric reading notification flashing in the top right corner of my visuals. I recall the neuromotor relaxation exercises advised to me by my life coach during our last session together where he had told me I needed to control my breathing – visualising a still body of water might help, Vincent – and I breathe steadily: in and out, in and out.

I accept the call.

“Vincent here.” I say, and I wait. Jenkins’ display loads a second later and I notice anxiously that he’s still scowling – jaw tense, lips pressed tightly together.

“Did you not get my message?” Jenkins demands angrily. Dread builds up inside me.

“No - I’m sorry - what message? I’ve been away from my desk.” I say, and I swallow.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Just finishing that Biotechnica report you wanted done. It’s almost there, should be with you this evening.” I explain and as I say this I look at Carter Smith pointedly.

Jenkins nods curtly. “Good, fine. Let your assistant handle it - come to my office. I need to talk to you in private.”

His short tone twists my stomach. I wonder if there have been any faults in my recent performance and I think back on my latest defensive operations - Tokyo, London, Seoul - I had been pleased with the results at the time but doubt begins to creep into my mind and a wash of icy panic envelopes me.

“I’m coming.” I say.

Jenkins doesn’t reply. He ends the call and my view refocuses on my immediate surroundings, where I see Carter Smith staring very hard at his screen. I ignore him and turn, embarrassed. I remind myself that I don’t care what Carter Smith thinks.

I march towards the antechamber that leads into Arthur Jenkins’ private office, straightening my silk suit jacket from Jinguji that I have paired with matching black pants and a red micro-twill shirt with a classic collar. On my way, I catch faint murmurings from some of the colleagues I pass, whose eyes I feel pointed towards the back of my head like knives. One muttering catches my particular attention.

“Don’t look now but that’s him - Jenkins’ boy.”

Jenkins’ boy.

I bristle and flush hard with indignation and something else and there’s a slight tightness in my pants which I do my best to ignore. My spiralling anxiety deflates the growing tent in my slacks but I realise that no matter the outcome here - even if I’m fired and kicked out of Arasaka like Joey Livani had been yesterday with my implants switched off - that I will masturbate vigorously to this nickname tonight.

I step into the antechamber and then maintain a still position facing forwards with my feet evenly spaced apart, as instructed to do so by a disembodied female voice. A blinding blue light hits me as the security scan hones in on my face and it’s very uncomfortable but I don’t blink. Perhaps it is the growing dread in the pit of my stomach, but as I stand there bathed in blue light I wonder what it would feel like for visitor authorisation to fail and to be gunned down by the turrets above the door. I wonder if I would die before my crumpled, bullet-ridden body hit the floor or if I would feel anything at all.

The camera completes its assessment of my face and the double set of doors in front of me slide open smoothly.

My black leather oxfords echo on the floor of Jenkins’ private office. The room is dimly lit but the vibrancy of Night City’s corporate plaza behind the glass back wall casts neon streaks across its length. I can see the mega towers of rival corporations - Militech, Kang Tao, Petrochem - giant concrete monoliths surrounding the plaza like gravestones, blocking out the sky. Two enormous projected koi fish - one orange, one blue - swim in a circle above a sea of gridlocked cars. If I squint I can just about make out the vague shapes of people on the ground, tiny enough that they don’t really look like people at all but more like a variety of little coloured bugs I could step on. Arthur Jenkins stands behind his desk arms folded, a dark silhouette against a blazing urban hellscape. He does not turn around as he speaks.

“Have a seat, Vincent.”

I do as I am told. My erection has completed deflated by now because I’m so worked up and in my head.  I run through, over and over, my latest defensive operations until there is nothing left to analyse because by now they’ve bled into each other. I am reminded once more of the shortcomings of my organic brain except this time there is no cognitive booster waiting in its usual spot in a drawer beside me to be thrust into my mouth and pumped.

Slowly, Arthur Jenkins turns around and looks at me. His face - inscrutable, coldly handsome - is agonisingly calm and after he sits opposite me he pulls from his desk an expensive looking bottle of Japanese whisky and two crystal glasses, and I’m surprised at this. I am offered one, and I summon the Arasaka employee in me and accept, although I dislike the taste of spirits.

“I was gifted this in Kyoto last month by my counterpart.” Jenkins tells me as he rotates the bottle in his hand and inspects it.

“The culinary scene there is unrivalled.” I state.

“You’ve been to Kyoto?” He asks.

“Some time last year.” I say, although I haven’t.

“I despise the Japanese.” Jenkins says casually. I laugh lightly in response although it wasn’t a joke. “But they make good whisky.”

He opens the bottle and pours with large, steady hands. Amber liquid spills from the mouth and into my glass. A wave of lust crests over me and as I watch Jenkins’ hands I imagine them gripping my thighs and spreading them apart.  He kisses the inside of my legs before his hands move to my waist, slowly gliding up my naked body and running over my pectoral muscles until they find my throat, where they wrap around and squeeze the life from me.

When I raise the glass to my lips I meet Jenkins’ eyes. Then I drink with perfect precision.

The whisky swirls around my mouth. It’s Yamazaki – drier and smokier than the American bourbons I order when I have to when I lunch with Brandon Tsang and Frank Nostra. I hold the whisky and chew on it like I should before swallowing and as it runs down my throat it burns but I don’t cough. Jenkins drinks from his own tumbler. I watch - stomach squirming, throat on fire - hoping that he doesn’t ask for my opinion on the bottle because my head already feels light and I’m not well versed in whisky from Japan and I have never actually been to Kyoto.

Jenkins drains all of his. “Fucking Abernathy bitch has screwed me over.” He says suddenly.  I’m startled by the spite in his voice and almost drop my glass. “I was this close to making Director. Smeared me with the Osaka report this morning in front of a load of Japanese execs. Now she’s been the one promoted to Director of Spec Ops. The cunt.”

Right – his meeting with Abernathy that Harry Johnson had mentioned to me earlier. I feel a weight lift from my stomach as I realise I’m not the cause of Jenkins’ fury. The biometric reading notification flashes and tells me my hormone levels have stabilised.

Jenkins has worked himself up now. “Should have known she’d take all the credit for that Jakarta ploy. It was my idea to dump all that synthetic oil into the ocean. And for what? Now she’s on the eightieth floor and I’m stuck in Counter Intel. Need to get back at her, teach her a thing or two; show her what you get when you fuck with me.” He pauses for a moment, looks at me, and seems to remember my presence. His eyes sweep over me approvingly.

“Nice suit.” He says.

“Thanks.” I say, pleased. “It’s Jinguji.”

Jenkins pours himself another drink and studies the glass in his hand. I admire the way he holds the glass - lazily, easily, conveying a deep sense of self-reliance and …inner conviction, I decide; he and the tumbler are one. “You’re wondering why I called you here.” Jenkins states. He looks at me with cold blue eyes.

“Is this to do with the Seoul report?” I ask quietly.

Jenkins’ brow furrows. “What? No, nothing like that.”

He pauses for a moment, looks me up and down again. His face shifts into a familiar detached neutrality. He composes himself utterly as he assesses me, and I am distinctly reminded of my Arasaka interview two years ago. My mouth starts to feel uncomfortably dry. When Arthur Jenkins speaks to me again his voice is hard and deliberate.

“Listen carefully; I’ll only say this once.”

He swirls the whisky around the tumbler and I watch in silence as a drop of liquid spills over the top of the glass and runs down his hand - gold gleaming in the dark.

“I need people on my side, people I can rely on when the time comes.” Jenkins says. “I’ve been monitoring you since you first interviewed with me, you know. There are going to be some major changes around here soon and I need people like you, Vincent. I like the way you operate; you and I work well together. It would be a shame if anything were to happen that would stop that.”

He did not say it directly, but I was experienced enough in the corporate world to know what Jenkins was getting at. Behind the glass wall, a black and red Arasaka AV glides elegantly up to a landing pad above us. Jenkins’ eyes do not leave mine.

“Can I continue to count on you?” He asks softly. His fist is clenched tight around his glass. I know that there is only one acceptable answer here.

“Yes.” I say.

My head feels light and the word had slipped easily out of my mouth, but I had meant it. I’m flattered Jenkins has asked me, has invited me here in private to drink expensive whisky he had been gifted in Japan. He had not asked anyone else; he had only asked me.

He’s studying my face closely. I can see the initial suspicion - the gears turning in his head as he considers my answer, our history, my intentions. Then he relaxes, satisfied with my sincerity. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

He leans back into the chair and drinks smoothly. I watch his as his body spreads assertively – the broad cut of his shoulders pressing his black suit jacket firmly into the dark leather. My eyes trace the outline of Jenkins’ mouth. His lips are full and fleshy as he smiles slowly and I imagine them kissing the inside of my thighs and his tongue slipping out and licking my cock.

“One more thing, so you can be sure you made the right decision.” Jenkins says. “Loyalty should be rewarded: I’m promoting you to agent, effective immediately. You’ll take over Livani’s patch: Europe - Frankfurt. I assume you know why he won’t be doing it anymore.”

Agent.

I run the word over and over again in my head until it sounds funny and loses all meaning. My silk pants grow agonisingly tight. An Arasaka Counterintelligence Agent at twenty-three years old - I might be the youngest agent in the entire Night City branch. The thought of this causes a very smug smile to flit across my face.

Jenkins raises his glass of Yamazaki. I match his toast and drink, downing my glass. The whisky burning through me is a lot stronger than I’m used to and I wince. It’s Yamazaki, a Japanese whisky that Jenkins had been gifted in Kyoto, which I have never been to. The room feels very warm and a pink flush dusts my cheeks.

“You know, you remind me of myself when I was young.”

I don’t hear the rest of what Jenkins says. I’m lost in a light haze - the city skyline behind him is a multi-coloured blur - but it’s a pleasurable experience and his voice makes me hard.

“Come here.” Jenkins commands with a wave of his hand. His lips are curled into a smirk. “Come on.”

The room sways gently. One of the giant projected koi fish - the orange one - swims leisurely past the glass back wall, illuminating the room in a soft sunset glow.

I walk unsteadily until I’m standing before him. I can smell him now - his hair, his breath, his skin.  Pepper, vanilla and spices - strong and musky. I want to breathe into his neck, run my tongue up his face and taste the stubble and sweat. Jenkins looks me up and down. I feel his gaze linger between my thighs, on the outline in my pants.

“You’ve even styled your hair like me.” He says. He runs a hand through my carefully slicked locks and I shiver pleasantly. “Cute.” He intones each syllable.

“I - I …” I say weakly. I don’t know where I’m going with this sentence. Jenkins’ touch is very warm on my face and in my hair and I realise I have never been held like this before. A deeply repressed longing, not only for touch, but for more than that - for genuine connection - swells within me and it is so overpowering and my erection is so sore that I think, blissfully - I love him - andit seems to me as he pushes me firmly onto the floor and unzips and slips down his silk pants to reveal his hard, pink penis, that he loves me too.

He fucks my mouth until I choke. Then he pulls out - his pale cock glistening with my saliva - and throws me onto his desk and my slacks and underwear are easily removed. Jenkins kisses the inside of my thighs then grips my legs and then my waist. He sucks and kisses my stomach, my nipples, my neck, then pushes my knees up to my chest.  I feel his hot breath and his tongue.

A finger is thrust inside me, then two, and it hurts. He hears my cry and grins. I think he’ll force himself inside me then but he coats me in lube and saliva before pressing his penis against my asshole and pushing it in. His hips start bucking, he pants as he ruts. Then his thrusts grow sloppy, his breathing laboured, and it’s all over. He orgasms - eyes wild, mouth open - and hot semen shoots into me and onto my thighs and onto the desk and drips down my ass.

His penis is already going soft as he pulls away. I’m lying on the desk stroking my cock and I look to Jenkins confused but he says nothing; he’s not looking at me. He’s watching the Night City skyline.

I catch my reflection in the glass. I see myself how Arthur Jenkins sees me: inexperienced, obedient, pliable. A startling innocence that I had never recognised in myself before is shown for the first time and I suddenly feel very young, very self-conscious. I realise despite my new title I was still the Academy boy playing pretend in an adult world that was rapidly hurtling towards me, and I feel alone. I’m afraid.

A koi fish - the blue one - swims slowly past. The light washes the office in a blue hue so it looks like water is flooding in and we will drown. It’s cold; I’m naked. I wipe Jenkin’s semen from my stomach with my pocket square and put my clothes back on.

My footsteps echo quietly back to the antechamber. As the double set of doors slide open, Jenkins calls my name.

I turn. He’s a black silhouette against a blazing neon sky and I feel very scared. His tone is threatening when he speaks.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

#cyberpunk 2077 #corpo v #cp2077 #male v cyberpunk #male v #arthur jenkins #fanfiction #fanfic #cyberpunk v #cyberpunk

[myfireplacewentboom]

Of Articles and Agreements: Chapter 1

In which British journalist Darcey Li, columnist for The New York Opinion, writes a scathing article and draws the unwanted attention of Vought and the target of her criticism, America's greatest superhero himself: Homelander. Forced into a fake relationship with the hero to boost his image after the recent revelations regarding Stormfront, Darcey finds herself succumbing to the whims of the shady corporation, and to the affections of the man she thought she hated.

Chapter 1 

Homelander: America’s hollowest hero.

I scrutinised my manager’s face as his beady eyes worked down the freshly written article I’d just handed to him, gulping hot tea from my Waterstones flask. It was half-eight in the morning and cold at this time of year, the New York February chill being harsher than what I was used to in London. Supposedly, a blizzard was on the way. My scarf still wrapped tightly around my neck, I found myself longing for dull, English drizzle.

I wondered what he thought of it. Greg had an annoyingly adept poker face, and it was often difficult to gauge his thoughts before he spoke. He would hum here and there, pausing to re-read and re-assess. Each time he turned a page he would give his fingers a loud lick. I watched him with quiet self-assuredness.

It was a sledgehammer of an article. Probably the bluntest, dare I say meanest, piece I’d ever produced. I could only describe it as a complete character annihilation of America’s greatest superhero. With all the recent revelations, I had had plenty of ammunition.

It wasn’t that I hated Homelander, or any of the Seven. In fact, some years ago I was much like everyone else; wide-eyed and in awe. I would ogle daily at the news, captivated, consuming video after video of Homelander saving people from burning buildings, terrorists, and supervillains. It was uplifting and inspiring; addictive, even. I was, as others in Europe, desperately envious of the excitement and glimmer taking place on the other side of the Atlantic.

But I grew disillusioned and found myself absorbing superhero media not with adoration as I once had, but with cynicism and uncertainty. My mother had always said I had a nasty, suspicious mind. Maybe I just grew up. The absurdity of it all struck me out of the blue. I had been coming back one evening in my home town Beckenham, South London. I’d just finished a weekly Sainsbury’s shop – I remember struggling with the bags - and was walking back to my car, when on the way I passed by the local cinema. It was a fairly small, nondescript place, I’d walked past it dozens of times before. I remember they were showing the new film, Homelander: Brightest Day. The trailer was playing on loop on the screens inside and there were giant posters on either side of the door. It was here that the superhero’s flashing smile struck me in a way I can only describe as unnervingly uncanny. Perhaps it was the overwhelming ubiquity of the man’s perfect face plastered across the coffee cup in my hand, the posters on the wall, and on the crumpled pack of peas in my shopping bag. Disgust had bubbled in my throat like bile and I’d quickly turned away.

The news of A-Train’s tragic incident with the Queens girl and The Deep’s predatory nature made me even sicker. I realised these ‘heroes’ we worshipped were as flawed and imperfect as the rest of us, albeit with deeper pockets and massive marketing teams. Then, the bombshell unearthing of Stormfront’s racist past finally killed my love of superheroes once and for all. I was determined to let the world know who they really were.

Greg turned back to me, his face blank. My confidence wavered; was it too harsh? Maybe he’d ask me to tone it down, avoid alienating readers. But The New York Opinion was infamous for not pulling any punches.

“Gutsy, topical, and controversial.” Greg broke out into a toothy grin, slapping the article on his desk and stabbing at it with one fat finger, making me jump in my seat. He rose from the desk, coffee in hand, and smiled widely. “Everyone’s going to be reading this by lunch I can guarantee it, left and right-wingers alike. No one can ignore that title”. He slurped loudly and gestured through the glass behind me. I turned and saw Mike the intern stumbling towards us, juggling numerous coffees.

“Great job, Darcey.” Greg beamed at me again as he held open the office door. I smiled back, rising from the armchair.

“I had a lot of fun writing it.”

“Thanks, Greg, morning. Morning, Darcey. Wow, isn’t it cold today?” Mike said, bustling into the office. Downing the rest of his drink, Greg reached out to him and swapped a hazelnut latte for my Homelander article.

“Oh, what’s this?” Mike peered at the papers stuffed by his armpit, glasses slipping down his nose. “Thanks”. He said, as Greg repositioned them.

“It’s my newest article, about Homelander. That he’s a hoax and a fraud. That America needs to reject its dependency on superheroes.” I said, emphasising the last sentence and standing up a little taller.

I was proud of the work I’d produced and excited to get my article out to the public. I’d written pieces dismissing the country’s love of superheroes before, but this was my biggest one yet. Vought had finally fucked up so badly, the American people were bound to listen. The anticipation hung in the area around me, my excitement causing little shivers to course electrically through my body. Or, perhaps that was just the early February air.

“Wow you sure have it out for them!” Mike said, and laughed. “You’re, like, our personal version of the FBSA or something.”

I laughed with him, sipping from my flask. “It’s cultural differences. I just don’t get it. And someone needs to take them down a peg.”

Greg turned to the intern with new seriousness. “Mike, take that to the photocopiers ASAP. We want it printed and distributed before lunch. Anna’ll help you and show you how.” He held the door open for the boy.

“Right away!”

“And Darcey,” Greg said, “Email it to me and David when you get back to your desk please. We’ve gotta get it online too, our readership stats are gonna jump. That’s the thing about superheroes; love ‘em or hate ‘em, they sure do get people talking.”

He nodded at me then went back to sitting behind his desk, waving the mouse to reawaken the desktop. The screen flashed to life. I smiled gleefully before leaving the room; things were going to get interesting around here.

“Will do.”

…

The rest of the morning went by pleasantly, but agonisingly slowly. I spent the time proofreading some of my co-workers’ work, replying to emails, and brainstorming ideas for the next piece. I mulled over trying to arrange an interview with the disgraced Homelander himself, but knew Vought would never agree to that. No, the company preferred to orchestrate its own constructed narrative through its puppet news channel anchor, Cameron Coleman on VNN. It baffled me that he was still considered a trustworthy news source by many. Besides, for all my bravado through my pen (or, rather, my laptop), it would be entirely different going up against the man himself. The idea of interviewing Homelander in person made my knees weak. I thought of his sparkling, saccharine smile and wondered if it would appear as plastic in person as it did on screen.

By ten o’clock my article was published and up on the front page of The New York Opinion, both physical copy and online. I was absolutely buzzing; it was my first front page piece since I’d moved to the paper a year ago. I felt like I was finally getting somewhere with my career, that becoming a journalist and then moving to the states was the best thing I’d done for myself. Wanting to remain professional, however, and knowing I’d lose all focus on the rest of my work should I start reading the comments, I resisted the urge to look at my phone. It was agonising.

The time soon came when I couldn’t wait any longer; I was squirming in my seat. The minute my laptop showed half one, I bounced up from my desk, gathered my handbag, and made for the lift, mumbling about going to grab lunch. I pressed the button for the first floor and nervously smoothed my hair in the mirror. The lift doors opened with a chime and I walked briskly across the crowded foyer, my small heels clicking against the shiny marbled floor towards the revolving doors.

Though the morning fog had been replaced by welcome sun, there remained a distinct chill in the city and my breath was visible in the air. The sun glittered prettily on the frost on the tops of buildings and a cold wind howled through the streets. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and fished my leather gloves out of my handbag. The blizzard would surely hit soon.

I made my way down the bustling pavement with an anxious but optimistic spring in my step. All around me, the street swelled with the chorus of urban life; taxis honked, people chatted and shouted, and an endless march of footsteps beat the ground. I loved New York, loved the city, loved being in America. I had lived in London all my life and so was used to the rush of big cities, but the infectious energy of New York City coupled with my recent career success left me exhilarated.

There was a popular café I loved to frequent near the office which did amazing paninis. The owners were attentive without being overwhelming friendly, which suited me just fine. I took a table near the back and at long last brought my phone out from my coat pocket. With shaking hands, I went onto The New York Opinion site and poured over the webpage.

Homelander: America’s hollowest hero.

There was my article, front page. Next to it, a satirical cartoon of the man. They’d given him dollar signs for eyes. My hands shook harder.

Five thousand comments.

Five thousand comments! I gasped, abandoning my panini. This was the most I’d received on one of my articles, ever - and it’d only been up half a morning.

I clicked the icon and started scrolling, desperate to gauge public opinion. I’d be lying if I denied that part of me was hungry for validation. I loved being told my writing was good, that my arguments were well constructed, intelligent, and thorough. Hunched over the table with my eyes glued to the screen, I soaked up every commenter’s praise like a sponge, my heart swelling from their flattery. They thought I was good! They thought I was right.

And yet, for every person in agreement, there was somebody in disagreement. They say five positive experiences counterbalance one negative one. That was not the case here; the site displayed an alternative equilibrium. I’d wager around half of the comments posted were in opposition to the points I’d made in the article, and in opposition to me.

There was a healthy dollop of laconic insults; I took these on the chin, unbothered. More surprising were the sheer amount of people fiercely defending Homelander, calling him a national hero and an honest, god-fearing patriot. That it was disgusting I was trying to tear down this beloved figure and that my cynicism was everything wrong with modern day America.

Truthfully, I was taken aback. I was so sure the breaking news that Stormfront was a Nazi would have dragged her boyfriend’s ratings through the mud and destroyed his affable boy-scout image. That Homelander would never recover from such a nuclear media blow. Had I really read the room so wrong? It was clear from the comments he was still cemented in the hearts of many.

I didn’t like to admit that I preferred when my readers agreed with me. I knew that was immature, that my article was harsh, and that the most important thing was that I’d sparked a conversation. The New York Opinion didn’t care whether readers agreed with pieces or not, it was all a numbers game to them. My article had got people talking; all publicity is good publicity! For more publicity meant more readers. The bosses would be happy… But I was not. As I continued scrolling through the deluge of comments, a few managed to sneak under my skin. People had evidently researched my profile; there were quite a number of messages directed at me, telling me to go back to the UK and get my nose out of others’ business. A handful of comments attacked my Chinese surname. I turned off my phone in dismay; I had never felt so self-conscious. I sat there alone in the back of the café, face burning.

I knew that facing my share of public criticism was part and parcel of being a journalist. I knew that I should laugh, brush it off, and not let it chew me up inside. I thought of controversial journalists both back home and here in the states, and of some of my steely colleagues in the office, and wondered how they were able to shrug off such intense scrutiny. Until this afternoon, I had been so sure I could have done the same. A sinking feeling of disappointing self-awareness pooled in my chest; I should have been cool and aloof, not hot and flustered.

I walked back to the office downhearted and embarrassed, unable to shake off my uneasiness with all the negative attention. I was frustrated, first at the article, then at myself for letting it get to me so much. I was a journalist, and not an inexperienced one; I should be stronger than this by now. Why was I so affected by the words of strangers? Suddenly, the soaring skyscrapers surrounding me made me feel very small.

The office was abuzz with energy when I came back in. My co-workers congratulated me as I walked past. Greg waved at me from inside his office, giving me two thumbs up. I plastered on a smile in return, my movements stiff and robotic.

Back at my desk, I tried hard to focus on my work, hoping to block out any negative thoughts through sheer determination. I started proofreading my colleague Samantha’s article on the rise of the neo-Nazi group of Stormfront fans, imaginatively dubbed ‘Stormchasers’. After the success of my Homelander article, the bosses had evidently encouraged the writing of more opinion pieces on the Supes. Greg was right; love them or hate them, superheroes sure got people talking. I was sick of it already. I regretted writing the article.

“Darcey, you’re on the news!” Samantha said suddenly, turning her monitor round to face me. I looked up, bewildered, horrified.

Sure enough, a familiar face stared back at me from the screen. They’d used an old photo, from the depths of Facebook. My face was heavily done up, my lips rouged and pouting. It was from a few years ago, a hen-do in Shoreditch. I was outraged.

“What’s this on?” I demanded.

“VNN.” Samantha said. Sure enough, the camera zoomed out to Cameron Coleman sitting at his studio desk with a grave expression. Superimposed were pictures of me and my article. The air around me grew cold.

“Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, this young woman has dragged all of America into quite the storm this morning!” Cameron said, with his eyes direct at the camera. “Darcey Li, a columnist for The New York Opinion, originally from England, has written what I can only describe as an unfair attack on our nation’s greatest hero, and an attack on traditional American values.”

Anger blossomed inside of me; I hadn’t remotely criticised American values. My article focused solely on Homelander, his relationship with Stormfront, and the excessive use of marketing stunts to boost his popularity.

“Which brings me to question,” Cameron continued, “Where all this animosity towards our great superhero comes from? Why do we as a nation tolerate the unjust, unpatriotic slandering of our beloved public figures?” He paused, slowly shaking his head.

“I, for one, question Miss Li’s integrity and motivations for writing this ungrateful piece. It seems to this news anchor that Miss Li is an overly ambitious young journalist seeking to advance her career through the use of attention-grabbing headlines. It paints a sorry picture of the state of journalism today and reveals the lengths the younger generations will go to climb the career ladder. We could all do with rallying behind our great superheroes, the Seven, and Homelander in particular, to avoid letting this distasteful article divide us.

“But now, moving onto more positive news, let’s turn our attention over to the cast of the Vought+ reality series Red, White & Blue Justice, as we have a very special Friday treat; an exclusive interview with the show’s frontrunner, Blue Hawk. Let’s welcome him into the studio everybody – Blue Hawk!”

I turned away from the monitor, heart racing. Samantha closed the browser, lips pursed.

“Don’t let him get under your skin.” She said matter-of-factly.

“I can’t believe they used that picture of me.” I said quietly. Then, more panicked, “Nobody’s going to take me seriously now.”

“On the bright side, VNN practically did you a favour - addressing your article on air. Everyone’s going to read it now.” Samantha said, readjusting her monitor and turning back to her work. “The paper’s pulling in thousands of new readers. Greg and Alan are really pleased.”

I mumbled a response. Inside, I was scared and shaking. The walls of the office seemed to close in on me and I felt the stares of my colleagues on the back of my head. Cameron Coleman’s words echoed inside my mind like a broken record on repeat.

The end of the day came, and I excused myself and hurried out the door, throwing my coat around me like protective shielding. On the subway ride home, I lowered my face into my scarf and tried making myself as small as possible, anxious that no one should recognise me. A man in a business suit carrying a copy of The New York Opinion got on the train at the next stop and sat down opposite me, making me freeze in my seat. To my relief he remained engrossed in the paper and didn’t look up. But I remained tense and sat rigid as a statue until I had got off the train at Inwood. Outside the station, the cold evening air was biting and I shook horribly.

My apartment was only a few blocks away. I walked quickly in the dark, fingers curled around my keys. Inwood wasn’t a particularly dodgy area but the winter evenings were always inky black and I was especially on edge tonight. I feared I’d been recognised on the walk home or on the subway as the author behind the country’s most current divisive article and could have been followed home. I looked over my shoulder constantly and even more so when I crossed the street and reached the old building, fumbling with the key in my shaking hands. I gave the door a good pull before rushing inside and hastily shutting it behind me, breathing quickly. Whilst the building was still cold, it was a relief to get out of the freezing night air and the possibility of watching eyes.

I took the lift up to the seventh floor. My heels clicked loudly in the empty corridor. Once I’d unlocked my apartment, I turned the lights on and staggered inside, collapsing on the sofa and slipping off my shoes. Finally, I was home.

A wave of muddled emotion came over me, a mix of frustration, disappointment, and fear. I burst into tears and then was so ashamed that I’d done so that I quickly leapt up and dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, smearing my mascara. I hated that all this nonsense bothered me so much, hated that I cried so easily. I should have been celebrating my success; I’d made my bosses at the paper happy, my colleagues were impressed, and I’d published my first ever front page piece. I should have been ecstatic. But the flood of negative comments and Cameron Coleman’s words hung over me like a raincloud. I was not used to all this attention and I was not used to being so disliked.

I wiped off my makeup and stepped into the shower, telling myself that this would all blow over soon. I was still a nobody; a young journalist from abroad. VNN would get bored and go back to plugging the latest shows on Vought+, and Cameron Coleman would stick to slagging off Hugh Campbell and the FBSA.

But I’d never been good at burying my true feelings. I stood there numbly, naked, shivering as the cold water ran down my back.

…

 It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do for you. My worries felt a thousand memories away, like a dream that had happened to someone else, and I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The morning sun streamed into my bedroom window and I awoke with a fresh perspective and a healthy attitude. Fuck Vought, fuck VNN, fuck Homelander.

I ate my porridge leaning on the rail of the tiny balcony of my apartment, wrapped in my thick dressing gown. The blizzard had arrived in New York overnight and snow lay heavy across the city. It was beautiful to look at, twinkling in the sunlight. I remembered the pure joy I’d felt when I’d first stepped out onto the balcony after securing the deed, elated that I’d found a place to rent with such a good view. It wasn’t perfect; the building was old and my apartment was very small. Pocket-sized, I liked to call it. But it was fairly affordable, well-located and offered additional bonuses such as this. I loved leaning on the railings looking out over the city, wondering if Homelander ever tired of the sight from the skies.

The 14th of February. A rush of happiness hit me as I realised it was Saturday and I didn’t have to face going into work. Whilst I’d been invigorated by a new sense of positivity, I didn’t want to come down from this high and face reality. No, the article and all the problems it had created could be avoided until Monday.

Foolishly of me, today was the day when I decided to venture upstate. Although I’d lived in New York for a year, I hadn’t properly explored outside the city. There was so much to do already, and I had been kept busy by work.  Today I wanted to get away, see a bit more of the state and leave behind the nastiness of yesterday. Although the blizzard had hit the city, the view from my balcony didn’t quite feel real, as if it were some Christmas postcard given to me by my grandma. The snow seemed to me a magical sight, rather than a hazard I needed to avoid. I was also desperate to keep hold of my newfound optimism and was determined to go.

I put a little makeup on after I dressed, wrapping up warm with a white jumper and red puffer jacket. I packed a small rucksack and mulled over what to bring, taking out a quiche from the fridge, cutting it, and putting it into a Tupperware. I filled up my flask with earl grey and then headed out, stopping by the door to put on my boots, scarf, and bobble hat. Then I took the lift down to the ground floor and made my way outside, locking the front door behind me. The morning winter air was piercingly cold and I shivered, teeth chattering. I almost turned back. But I was stubborn and turning back to the comfort of my apartment would have felt like failing. Luckily, my car was only a street away. I almost slipped on ice getting to it.

My car was a bit naff but it had a full tank of petrol and when I blasted the heating on it was so warm. I tapped in the directions to a town called Newburgh on the Sat Nav, doing a quick search on my phone and deciding it looked like a good place to start, and pulled out, slowly on account of the ice. The route took me alongside the Hudson River, through Yonkers and heading to the Governor Mario M Cuomo Bridge. I drove carefully, enjoying the upbeat pop music playing on the radio, my mind at ease. Outside, snowflakes began falling gently down, twirling in the breeze.

…

 Things took a turn for the worse when I neared the bridge. It all happened so quickly. By now, it was snowing heavily and the wind had drastically picked up. It shrieked like a banshee and shook the car. The bridge was very exposed and the wind howled down the Hudson River. To make matters worse, the roads hadn’t been gritted enough and I felt the tires slide dangerously beneath me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white with stress. I’d long since turned the radio off. Snow pelted against the windscreen as the wipers whipped back and forth, blocking my vision. I cursed my stupidity as I drove over the water, terrified. I should never have come; it had been a reckless, foolish decision. But there was nowhere to turn the car around and I was forced to keep going.

It happened half-way across the bridge. A violent blast of wind hit the car as it skidded over black ice. I felt the tires spin wildly out of control. My hands were frantic on the wheel.

Time seemed to slow. I watched, paralysed, petrified, as the car hurtled towards the barrier.

Absolute silence.

Then a gut-wrenching scream, the hiss and squeal of brakes, and the sickening crash of steel crumpling against concrete. The windshield imploded, shattering glass everywhere. My cheeks stung. A sharp stab of pain burst from my chest. A stink of petrol filled the air, followed by a nauseating chemical reek. The sound of frenzied coughing. The smell of fire. I couldn’t see for the blanket of grey smoke and the spots of darkness dancing in and out of my vision like an explosion of tiny stars.

There was a low creak, then a shrill grating sound. My face hit something hard. There was an awful rocking sensation, like on a ride at a theme park. The creaking grew louder as I felt my surroundings swing back and forth like a pendulum. Then, a screech of metal being ripped apart, and a sudden sense of weightlessness.

Dazed, I stared as the remains of the car fell into the Hudson River. It groaned horribly against the concrete, the front a mangled metal mess, before tipping and plunging into the dark water with a tremendous splash. The river greedily swallowed it up and it was gone as quickly as it had entered. It was a terrible, sobering sight. I watched all of this numbly, hovering above the bridge, convinced I was dead. I had died, I told myself, from either the collision or the smoke inhalation, and my body was still strapped in my seat in a car at the bottom of the Hudson.

But I found myself hovering closer to the bridge, then felt solid tarmac beneath my feet. I was not dead. My legs gave way; I swayed dizzily and the ground was swept from under me again.

People were shouting- male and female voices. An ambulance siren wailed in the distant. Material whipping in the wind- a flag? There was a throbbing in my head, and the sounds came out muffled. Then, a clear voice above all the rest:

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

The voice was male, the accent sharply American – rich and buttery. Oddly familiar, and close by. I searched for the owner, but could find none.

“Ma’am?” He asked again.

I realised with a start that the voice came from behind me and, for the first time, registered the feel of the hard muscles of his chest and the firmness of his grip as he carried me effortlessly, bridal-style. An insurmountable, desperate pang of dread washed over me. I knew that voice.

Turning my head round to face my hero, I took in his blonde hair, regal features, and striking blue eyes. They glinted in the winter sun, cold and empty as glacier caves. But his smile was wide, his teeth white and gleaming. My breath hitched in my throat.

Homelander.

----

Thanks for reading <3 Feedback always welcome, always looking to improve my writing. Look out for more chapters to (hopefully) come soon. Putting the whole thing on Quotev as well. Will probably publish chapters every few weeks or so. Ta ta x

#homelander #the boys #homelander x oc #homelander x reader #fanfiction