Homelander| 𝘚𝘖𝘈𝘗

Five.

: ̗̀➛

I'd bolted into that bathroom, ran inside like a chilli pepper had invaded my ass, slamming the door behind me.

And I locked it, pointlessly, pressing my back up against the thick wood, hyper—gosh darn—ventilating.

Just what the fuck? How the fuck? What could he want with me? I was nobody, nothing, barely a speck on his radar.
Oh, my God, was it for human sacrifice? Ritual murder? Because I was drawing complete blanks as to the purpose of my visit.

This was HOMELANDER, this was BAD. But what could I do, throw myself from the window and use my tits as wings? Uh,
Write him a strongly worded letter? Tsk, fuck man.

Instinctually, I reached into my pocket for my cell, remembering that frantic ball of blinding energy named Ashley had confiscated it, 'for security purposes.'
Was she in on it, too?

My breath in tiny squeaks, everything spinning, eyes fixed on the door knob in case I saw it twitch, maybe, just maybe I was the one overreacting.

Maybe he was just a quirky weirdo who'd been held for so long on a pedestal far away from the average peasant he didn't realise how creepy this looked.

I made soap, I lived in butt shit nowhere, damn, I was an orphan, there wasn't a way a Superhero could be so skeezy, was there?

Finally inhaling, I looked around, eyes bleary as I promised myself I wasn't gonna cry.

Wasn't gonna lie, it was a nice bathroom, accentuated with blues and lux golds, with a brass, free standing bath big enough for five, a glass shower walk in that could fit twice that number, waterfall feature, fancy, but I wasn't here to see the sighs.

Cheap, crumpled jacket abandoned on the marble floor, tying my hair up in a wickedly messy bun, I got to work, not knowing what the hell to do, flying around the low lighted, super shined space for an escape route.

And I did it until I was out of breath, clutching my sides twitching with stitches, cursing as his designer shit toppled to the floor.

With no windows that lead anywhere but down to harsh, cold concrete, no little vents to escape into the ceiling with Mission Impossible style, I was starting to cry while I rooted through the shaving cream and moisturizer, seeing if I could lift the heavy back cover of the toilet to sling it at his head.

There was just products, so many products, probably ones he was legally obligated to wear. Colognes and gels and primers and powders.

He couldn't be stabbed, there was nothing in this fucking place sharp enough to anyway. Nail Clippers? Oooh, the fuck could I do give him a pedicure? I threw those bastards over my shoulder, "asshole," blinking owlishly at the undereye roller.

"Not to be rude, Misty," Homelander sing songed, meaning full well to be rude,  groused and impatient, "but my schedule is pretty packed, everything okay in there? You need some help or are you figuring out a new skin care routine?"

"No!" I slipped on the bath mat, tugging at my starched collar, "I'm just peachy. Uh...airplane food got me good." "Fuck," I slapped my own forehead.

He made a disgusted noise, entirely sceptical. 

Shit, he could see through walls I was sure of it, almost climbing them, with the man I was trapped with having the ability to also rip off doors, I inhaled deep, blotting the streaky drips.