I wrote a tickle fic for Homelander and Billy Butcher from The Boys because I'm still obsessessed with tickling Homelander to tears (he's just asking for it basically with his entire existence). Not sure if this forum is the right place for M/M fanfic lol but maybe someone enjoys it 
It's pretty long at roughly 10k words. (Also, I can't believe I had to censor the word c*nt, this is just how Billy Butcher talks ok.)
Chapter 1
Billy Butcher is stuck in traffic when he sees the first explosion. There’s a bright flash, and a cloud of dust and debris raining down from what’s probably somewhere between the tenth and fifteenth floor of yet another half empty office building. This is where supes go to fight these days. Less property damage. Fewer deaths. Legal drama is rare. Everybody wins.
He’s not far now, so Billy decides to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way. There’s a second explosion, and the numbers on his geiger counter are spiking now. Fucking Soldier Boy and his propensity to blow shit up for attention.
It’s all quiet by the time he arrives at the building, except for a handful of spectators. Billy’s not usually one to miss a fight, but of course Homelander had to fly ahead and didn’t take him with him, not that he would have ever agreed to let that bastard carry him (the supe also didn’t offer, he can't help but notice).
Billy quickly ducks around the corner of the buiding and lights a cigarette. He’s here now, so he might as well wait for the caped c*nt to come out, make sure Soldier Boy didn’t bruise his ego too badly, maybe gloat a little, and then drive home. Drive Homelander home, too, in case he got hit by that white chest blast from hell again. It’s happened more than once now, and it doesn’t really seem to harm him much, except it fries his powers for a few hours.
By the time Billy finishes his cigarette and casually flicks the butt on the ground, all is still quiet, but there’s also still no sign of Homelander. Fucking great, now he’s got to go look for the c*nt in the nuclear wasteland Soldier Boy’s left behind. If the Temp V doesn’t kill him soon, the bloody radiation will.
This is what he gets for agreeing to this silly little scorched earth team-up make-believe whatever you want to call it.
That’s right. The media have latched on to their story, because everything has to be a fucking media spectacle these days, apparently. Vought is trying to sell them as some ridiculous arch enemies to lovers story. The lovers part is bollocks, of course, but the world can’t seem to get enough of them. (Their Q-rating is a solid 95, which isn’t the best, as Homelander has pointed out, but pretty damn close, not that Billy would give a fuck or know what a Q-rating is.)
Yeah. He’s stuck with Captain C*nt now, so he might as well go check up on him.
Billy sighs and enters the building through the side entrance. The elevator is broken after the blast, so he takes the stairs, following the blast damage in reverse. He can tell the room the supes fought in by the way that the door is ripped out of the wall and there’s a hole in the ceiling.
“Oi!” Billy calls. “Anybody home?”
Homelander is lying flat on his back amidst the rubble and shredded office supplies, arms above his head, eyes closed. Soldier Boys must have hit him from up close and knocked him out.
Billy steps closer and takes another look. Nah, c*nt’s awake. He probably heard Butcher coming from a mile away but is choosing to ignore him.
“Oi!” He repeats, bending down to tap the supe's head. “Anybody home?”
Homelander is still refusing to acknowledge his presence, but his face is twitching ever so slightly. And then Billy sees it. Underneath the rubble there’s a bloody steel pipe wrapped twice around his wrists, ends slammed into the ground, pinning his hands above his head.
Bloody hell.
It’s like Soldier Boy left the c*nt here, gift-wrapped, just for him. Ben’s got that twisted sense of humor, and the pipe doesn’t exactly look like it wrapped itself so perfectly around Homelander’s wrists through the sheer force of the explosion. Billy makes a mental note to reciprocate the favor at some point. He and Soldier Boy may be arch enemies now - doesn’t mean they can’t give each other small gifts every once in a while.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “Looks like America’s sweetheart got himself trapped.”
Homelander’s eyes snap open. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I would not have noticed had you not pointed it out.” Billy can’t quite tell if he’s annoyed or amused or a bit of both. All he knows is the bloody supe’s so fucking full of himself it’s gotta hurt him physically.
“Told ya not to get ahead of yourself, but you never listen.”
“That’s all very fascinating, but I need you to stop your lecture and help me get out of here, William,” Homelander says, unfazed. “I need to be on set in two hours.”
“Yeah, don’t think you’re gonna make that, love.” Billy smirks. And with that, he’s finally got the supe’s full attention.
“Ah, okay.” Homelander smiles and nods, then drops the smile in an instance. “And. Why. Is. That?”
Billy could tell him that he can’t break the pipe because he’s got no Temp V in his system. That would be a blatant lie, of course; he wouldn’t have headed to a supe fight without it, and Homelander knows it. Or he could tell him that it’s not his job to save his spoiled arse, so he’s going to have to wait for the Vought crew to show up.
Instead, he squats down next to Homelander and places a finger under his chin. “I just think you look awfully pretty pinned down like this. Think I’m just gonna sit here and watch for a bit.”
Homelander has the gall to sneer and cross his legs. “Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some tea to enjoy with the view?”
He looks just a little too complacent for someone in his predicament. How often has Billy fantasized about wiping that smug grin off the cocky bastard’s face. Despite his shitty upbringing, he’s got honor though, occasionally at least. It’s not terribly honorable to hit a man who can’t hit him back. It’s not very entertaining either, come to think of it.
Billy’s grin widens. Yeah, he knows what he’s going to do instead, and he suspects it’s going to be just as satisfying as beating the c*nt up. Now that he thinks about it, probably more. If he’s honest with himself, he’s always wanted to try this.
He places one hand on the supe’s chest and slowly starts sliding it down.
Homelander rolls his eyes. “You gonna grab a feel now? Really, William? That’s low.” Billy’s move has the intended effect though: his body has tensed up, and his eyes follow the hand as it trails down his suit, tracing the fake muscles.
“Maybe.” Billy straddles Homelander’s thighs. The c*nt sure looks less smug now, making a last ditch effort to twist his hands free. Futile, of course; Billy makes a mental note to send Maeve a thank you before he resumes lightly grazing his sides.
There’s absolutely no doubt Homelander can feel his hands even through the thick padding of his suit; he’s scrunching his face and trying to wiggle away, all while trying to pretend that absolutely nothing is happening and that Billy hasn’t just discovered a pretty fundamental weakness in his natural armor.
This is going to be fucking delightful. Billy feels a flutter in his stomach. He unbuckles the other man’s golden belt and starts pulling out the top of his suit, just enough to reveal a thin strip of perfect marble skin.
“Oh for God’s sake, William, control yourself!” Homelander protests. He’s still trying to hide behind a thick layer of snark and sarcasm, but he’s nervous now, and Billy wonders if he knows yet what he’s got coming for him.
He slides his hand under the fabric. Homelander’s skin feels strangely normal, soft even, not at all like the practically impenetrable suit that it really is. He lightly brushes his fingers over Homelander’s belly and gets a brief burst of laughter in return.
“What the fuck, Butcher! What-” There’s surprise in the supe’s voice, something like anger, and, as Billy notes with satisfaction, a hint of panic. No. The caped c*nt clearly did not see this one coming.
Butcher sits back to contemplate. If Homelander has lost his powers that probably means his supe-senses are weaker too. Which is a real shame, Billy thinks, but doesn’t really matter because he’s quite pleased with the reactions he’s getting so far, and this is much less likely to result in death and broken limbs. Let no one ever claim that Billy Butcher can’t spot an acceptable compromise when he sees one.
He slides his other hand underneath the dark blue fabric, squeezing both of Homelander’s hips at the same time, then watches him struggle to suppress a very childish giggle.
“This is ridiculous.” Homelander’s voice is strained; his whole body is twisting to get away from the hands that are prodding and probing his waist as they slowly slide upwards.
“You’re right, this is ridiculous,” Billy agrees. “Your silly costume’s too bloody tight, can’t even move my hands properly.” He rips the suit top open with both hands and pushes it up as far as he can, tearing off a golden eagle in the process, not that he cares. The bloody cape’s still half stuck underneath a struggling and cursing Homelander.
Billy thinks for a moment, then rips it out, folds it in half twice and pushes it under the supe’s head. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, darling.”
“You need help,” Homelander says. He’s recovered some of his composure and all of his snark. “Your, your obsession with me… it’s unhealthy, William, you know.”
“You’re the one who insists we play lovers for the cameras,” Billy points out, “and bait the media with that silly enemies to lovers fantasy Vought made up.”
“That’s… that’s just for the points,” Homelander says, a little too quickly.
Billy smirks, watching the supe blush just a little. “Yeah, sure it is.”
He takes another look at his work. Homelander isn’t half as muscular as his now shredded suit would suggest. Half naked, arms pinned above his head, strands of blond hair falling into his face, his head resting on a makeshift pillow of red white and blue… the c*nt looks pretty ridiculous. Grotesque, really, distractingly grotesque. Butcher definitely doesn’t find him attractive. Absolutely not.
Fine. So what if he does?
“Right.” Billy snaps out of his thoughts to refocus on the task at hand. He pulls Homelander’s pants down just enough to reveal red briefs (red bloody briefs, god, is there no end to this man’s tackiness?). Then he lazily runs a single digit along the line where red fabric meets pale skin, back and forth, watching as Homelander’s facial expression changes from annoyed to uneasy to actively distressed.
“Fuck! Will you stop that, you fucking pervert!” The c*nt may be hurling curses at him, but his voice is cracking now, and Billy knows he’s very close to completely cracking him open. All of this with just a single finger; he’s got to make sure to remember that spot. The thought of seeing that bloody marble statue of a body writhe and twist underneath him is fucking electrifying. He hasn’t felt this alive in years.
“Stop!” Homelander cries.
“Oh, but I’m only gettin’ started.” Billy leans forward until he lies comfortably on top of the supe, his legs pinning his thighs, one elbow pressing down on his shoulder, his own head right next to Homelander’s. It looks quite obscene, probably. If someone were to walk in on them now, they’d have questions.
“Mmmmmhhh. Where’d that smile go?” He gently cups Homelander’s face with one hand while the other moves playfully across his armpit, his belly, his sides. He can’t see where his hand is going, so he’s navigating entirely by the responses he’s getting. “Oh, you are going to smile for me, love.” That, and so much more.
Homelander is whimpering softly now, shaking his head, kicking his legs, pressing his lips together, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying anything really to distract himself. He’s not protesting anymore; he probably knows full well that any sentence he starts now is going to end in uncontrollable laughter.
Billy’s hand has found Homelander’s belly button and is drawing light circles around it before pushing his index finger in and wiggling it around. (“If you were poured out of a tube, how come you got this, love? Ah, maybe they made you with a belly button just so I can tickle you to pieces!") He’s now using both of his hands, moving up and down Homelander’s body, tickling him in two different places at the same time. (“Oh, you’re just loving this, aren’t you. You’ve been waiting for this. Trapped yourself, I bet.”)
Maybe it’s the teasing, maybe it’s Butcher’s relentless fingers, but Homelander finally breaks. He throws one last “Fuck you!” in Billy’s face before he dissolves into helpless giggles. He’s squirming and twisting, and Butcher is beginning to have trouble pinning him in place, but, hell, he’ll find a way just so he can keep listening to that sweet sweet laughter.
He bends down again until his face is uncomfortably close to the struggling, panting supe’s.
“This is going to be fun,” he whispers in his ear.
Chapter 2
Once he’s pierced through Homelander’s defenses, it’s almost too easy. This c*nt’s been trained to withstand impossible amounts of pain, but clearly nobody’s prepared him for this. Billy is running his hands all over his stretched torso, and every time he finds a new spot, it sends a jolt through Homelander’s body like an electric current, accompanied by frenzied laughter.
He could go on like this for hours, watching this jumpy c*nt squirm and twist, but Billy’s not a monster, so after a few minutes, he decides to give him a break.
The moment he stops, Homelander’s body goes limp. A fine sheen of sweat has formed on the supe’s forehead and his chest. He’s panting for air, his face flushed a soft shade of pink. Butcher can’t tell if it’s from the physical exertion or from the embarrassment of having been reduced to a panicky giggling mess so easily. His head is turned to the side, as if refusing to look his tormentor in the eye could somehow annul this mortifying experience.
C*nt looks kind of pretty with that scowl on his face, Billy has to admit.
“Are you done?” Homelander is making a half-hearted attempt to sound bored now of all things, and it’s pathetically unconvincing, really. His eyes signal upwards at his pipe-wrapped wrists. “Just let me go. I don’t have time for your antics.”
“Nah, mate. We got time.” C*nt's practically beggin’ him for more, and Billy’s not about to let him go just because he’s asking nicely.
“Christ. What do you want, William.” It’s exasperation in Homelander’s voice this time, and it’s not an act.
Butcher leans forward to deliver the line he’s been itching to say this whole time. “We spend so much time together. I want to get to know you, love.”
“Ah, right.” Homelander exhales forcefully. “And you think this is the way to get to know me?”
Billy ponders the question for a moment. He’s learned quite a bit in the last few minutes. He knows that when he scribbles a finger over his collarbone, Homelander will try to pin it with his chin but always ends up making himself more vulnerable in the process. Scratching lightly over the inside of his elbows will produce the sweetest, most innocent laughter, much to the supe’s embarrassment. (Same’s true for the c*nt’s ears of all places.) Even the softest touch on his ribcage and sides reliably leaves the supe disoriented and squealing with laughter. And then there’s that spot right above his hip bones that will make Homelander shriek and thrash uncontrollably if Billy’s hands come anywhere near it.
“Yeah,” Billy says. “Don’t see why not. Learned a lot already. Pretty sure I can build on that.”
He pulls out his mobile, and the supe’s face actually turns white.
“Tell me you’re not going to record this.”
Of course that’s precisely what Billy’s going to do. When this is over, he’s going to need some kind of insurance. But the c*nt doesn’t need to know that right now, it’s just going to spoil the mood, so he shakes his head. “Nah, just need a timer, love. We’re gonna play a little game, you and me.” He presses record and sets the phone down outside what he hopes is the supe’s field of vision.
Homelander rolls his eyes, but he stays quiet for once.
“Rules are simple,” Billy explains. “I ask you a question, you answer my question. I like your answer, I keep listening. I don’t like your answer, there’ll be a penalty. Penalty time goes up by let’s say 30 second intervals each time you fuck up. Following me so far, beautiful?”
Homelander is looking at him for what feels awkwardly long. “Will you let me ask questions, too, William?” He finally asks.
Billy considers the request. “Sure,” he says. He’s probably going to regret this, but it’s not like the c*nt can sue him if he changes the rules down the line. And he’s morbidly curious what Homelander wants to ask him. “Tell you what, we take turns with the questions, sound fair to you?”
“No,” Homelander says. “Absolutely nothing about any of this is fair. But I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“‘fraid you’re right about that.” Butcher shifts position, making Homelander flinch away reflexively. “Let’s start easy. What’s your favourite colour, love?”
The supe is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Is that a fucking joke?”
“Nah, just an easy question,” Billy says, “I’m trying to be nice here. But suit yourself.” Without warning, he digs his index fingers into Homelander’s armpits.
“No no no, don’t! Don’t! It’s blue! It’s blue okay! Stop!” Homelander is trying to pull his arms down.
“Blue like your fucking fascist little costume.” Billy pulls at the tatters that used to be Homelanders suit before sliding his hand back down into his armpit. “Should have figured.” He’s really beginning to like this single finger method. It’s shockingly effective.
“Blue li-like like the s-s-sky,” Homelander sputters between giggles. He can’t pull his arms down, so instead he’s pulling his body up to try to pin Butcher’s fingers, all while blabbering on rather desperately about flying and the different shades of blue of the sky depending on the altitude and whatnot, like that’s going to save him now.
“No cheating. You stay right here.” Billy grabs him by the hips and yanks him back down. It feels awkward because that’s how he likes to position his lovers, but it comes naturally, and the whole situation is already so fucking weird it doesn’t really make much of a difference anymore, does it.
Of course he’s come much too close to THE spot. Homelander yelps and starts struggling violently.
“Sorry, forgot that was your sweet spot, love,” Billy says. He presses both his thumbs down, massaging the supe’s protruding hip bones in small circular motions.
It’s a death spot alright. Homelander looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin. “Fuck fuck FUCK!!!” He screams before collapsing into panicked laughter. “Stop it stop it STOP!”
He’s arching his back so hard Billy thinks it’s going to snap any second now. “Oh god… Shit shit shit! Stop stop stop GOD STOP!”
“You can call me Billy, ya know,” Billy says, a sadistic grin on his face. “No need to be formal.”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO KNOW” Homelander screams.
“Right now?” Billy pretends to glance at the timer on his mobile. “Nothing, really. You have another ten seconds till your next question, love.” He’s not timing any of this, but he just can’t resist fucking with the disoriented supe’s perception of time. Between this and the loss of the senses he relies on most, this has got to be quite the agonizing experience.
After another minute or so, which he’s sure must have felt like an hour to Homelander judging by the wild frantic despair in his eyes, he finally relents.
“You fucking freak.” The c*nt is struggling to breathe. “The fuck is wrong with you.”
Billy shrugs. “A lot, probably.”
He grins, scoots back and clasps his legs around Homelander’s knees. He’s going to need a good grip because even without his powers, this bloody supe’s still putting up one hell of a fight if round one is anything to go by.
“I’m going to kill you, you know that, right?” He can barely breathe, but somehow Homelander is finding the air to issue threats. “I’m going to do it slowly. I’m going to break every single bone in your body. I’ll-” he breaks off abruptly.
Billy’s hand is hovering over his stomach.
“Fuck! Will you stop that!”
“What’s that you’re gonna do to me?” Billy asks. It’s a refreshing change to be able to cut the c*nt off anytime he wants just by wiggling his fingers in the air. “Say it again, love.”
Homelander presses his eyes shut, maybe trying to pretend like that hand isn’t there. “It’s my turn,” he says in as steady a voice as he can manage.
Billy shrugs. “Alright. Go ahead.”
He regrets it immediately when a sly smile crosses the supe’s face. It's staggering how fast this c*nt can recover. “Why did you agree to working with me? You hate Vought, you hate my kind, you want to kill me, for God’s sake. It makes no sense. So why, William?”
Fucking great, that’s what he gets after throwing the c*nt a softball question, Butcher thinks. “First of all, I agreed to nothing. And second, I’m not working with you,” he says, a little more forcefully than he intended to. “I just happen to agree that Soldier Boy’s a bloody menace and needs to go back to his little ice prison that’s all.”
“He did threaten Ryan,” Homelander agrees, but that self-satisfied smirk is still right there on his face. C*nt scored a point, and he fucking knows it.
“My turn,” Billy says. “Why are you working with me? If you tell me it’s the fucking points, I swear I’m going to set that timer to thirty minutes.”
Homelander chuckles. “Not a very original question, William.”
“Thirty minutes,” Butcher threatens. “I mean it.” The bloody supe is right, of course. Having the upper hand is making him lazy.
“What can I say.” Homelander rolls his eyes. “Clearly, it’s because I am madly in love with you.”
“Don’t think I like that snark.” Billy says, but before he can decide which spot to attack, Homelander has kneed him in the groin. It’s a dull kind of pain, not too terrible thanks to the Temp V, but unpleasant enough. Premeditated, too. The supe’s clearly waited for just the right moment to attack.
Butcher’s gonna have to find a better way to pin him down, maybe tie the c*nt’s legs so at least he can’t wiggle free so easily and kick in two different directions. He could try and tear the cape into strips, try to use that, but as appealing as the idea of destroying a U.S. flag is, he knows it’s not going to hold for very long.
Homelander’s belt though… It’s a golden monstrosity and hard to look at, but with any luck, it’ll do the job. He pulls it out from underneath the supe, who has started hurling curses at him again.
The moment he starts tugging at one of his red boots, Homelander kicks his legs violently, and Billy has to use all his strength to hold him down. C*nt practically never takes these off, and he is beginning to suspect it’s a little more than just a misguided fashion statement.
Still, he manages to pull off both the boots and the pants so that the supe now lies in front of him with nothing but his briefs and the few pieces of cloth around his arms that Billy was too lazy to tear off because they weren’t really in the way.
He wraps the belt around Homelander’s ankles, then clicks the buckle closed. It fits perfectly. “Fuck me,” Billy says, “Vought designed your fucking uniform so they could tie you up with it.” He’s only half serious, but it really is a little too perfect a fit for this to be a bloody coincidence. He’s gotta look into that, maybe this bloody company is more resourceful than he’s giving them credit for.
Homelander opens his mouth for what Billy assumes is another cocky rejoinder, but when Butcher casually runs a finger over his instep, all that comes out is a high-pitched squeal.
“What, you got a fucking foot fetish, Butcher?” He hisses once he’s recovered himself.
Billy does not. In fact, he thinks feet are kind of weird and he half regrets having gone down this route, but he can also sense he’s closing in on another death spot, and he’s not about to pass on that just because he’s feeling awkward.
He sits down on Homelander’s knees, facing away from him and bends both his big toes back with one hand. It’s like pointing a gun at the c*nt’s head, except unlike a gun this actually works and he can feel the supe getting all tense.
“Let’s try this again,” Billy says. “Why do you love working with me so much that you practically forced Ashley to switch all the other team-ups in your schedule for me?”
Silence.
Unoriginal question my arse, he thinks, triumphant. “Yah, that’s right, I know about that.”
Homelander sighs. “You’re not going to like my answer.” He pauses, but Butcher can tell it’s just for dramatic effect. “The truth is, I did it for you. I mean, who else would you be able to team up with otherwise? Nobody cares about you, William. People only like you as part of… well… as part of me, really. Without me, you are nothing.”
Butcher starts laughing. Can it be true? Is this fucking c*nt really so self-absorbed that he actually believes other people give a fuck about approval points?
“Nice one, love, nice one.” He scribbles his fingers over the bottom of Homelander’s left foot.
Homelander shrieks and tries to curl his toes and pull his feet away, but Billy is prepared and is holding him with an iron grip while his other hand is dancing over both stretched soles now.
He bends back all the toes on one foot and runs one finger over the soft underside.
He didn’t think Homelander could laugh any harder, but it’s another sweet spot, and it's working like fucking magic. The poor c*nt is losing his mind behind him. He’s howling and wheezing and desperately trying to free himself.
“Fuck me,” Butcher mumbles. “You got ticklish toes, love.”
“STOP FUCK I CAN’T I DON’T KNOW I DON’T STOPSTOPSTOP I DON’T I JUST YOU YOU ARE FUCK I CAN’T TAKE-”
It’s another incoherent string of words pouring out of his mouth, and it takes Billy a while to realize Homelander is trying to answer his question.
“In case I wasn’t clear earlier,” he says without stopping, “rule is, when I ask you a question you get one chance to give me the best answer your pretty little head can come up with. You try being cute with me, that chance goes out the window. You hear me?”
Most likely not, Billy thinks. Homelander is too busy screaming and crying and blurting out absolute gibberish. He’s sounding barely human at this point.
Out of nowhere, Billy feels two hot dots on his back. C*nt’s fucking laser powers are returning. He’s burning right through Butcher’s jacket, but it’s no more than a soft tingle on his skin; he’s on Temp V and it will be hours before Homelander regains his full strength.
He stops and turns around, a grin on his face, just in time to see the soft red glow in Homelander’s eyes flicker and go out.
“Your powers’re coming back, love. Means your supe senses are coming back. Heard that makes you lot extra sensitive.”
Maybe it’s just a rumour, how many people have even tried to tickle a supe and lived to tell the tale?, but Billy is never going to forgive himself if he passes up the chance to verify this particular piece of information.
It’s a gamble; Homelander might be able to break out of his bondage at some point, but Billy Butcher’s not one to shy away from a bit of risk. And using the c*nt’s super powers against him is just too fucking poetic, really is what it is.
First things first though. He lies down next to Homelander, brushes the hair out of his face and places a kiss on his forehead. “Your turn, love.”
Chapter 3
C*nt’s in a real sorry state, red-faced, panting and drenched in sweat. Billy gave him a good workout right there.
“Let’s clean you up a bit,” he decides.
He gently lifts Homelander’s head, pulls out the cape from underneath and starts drying his face, wiping away sweat and tears and probably a good amount of radioactive micro particles. Homelander winces at first, suspecting another attack but then calms down, and for a moment, Billy is almost certain the bastard’s actually leaning into the touch and sighing softly.
Fucking great, why does the c*nt have to pull this affectionate shit on him all of a sudden, it makes no sense. Nothing about Homelander makes any sense. Or, if Billy is perfectly honest, how he himself has been handling this situation.
He should try and choke this arsehole, stab him, break his nose, see if he can inflict damage in some other way while Homelander’s still in this weakened state. Not that it’s bloody likely to work or have any lasting effect, but he ought to at least try, right? Instead, he keeps wiping the sweat off of Homelander’s neck and chest and is rubbing his hair dry.
“Your turn,” he repeats once he’s done.
“Where’s your lair?” Homelander blurts out like he’s been itching to ask that question all day.
Billy bursts out laughing. “My what?”
“You know what I mean.” Homelander says. “Your, your headquarter… for you and your, uh, accomplices. Where is it?”
“In your mother’s vagina, that’s where our lair is.”
Homelander sighs and shakes his head in mock disapproval. “Now that’s the kind of answer that would have earned me a penalty, William.”
Billy can’t argue with that. “Know what, love? It still can.” He sits down on Homelander’s elbows, pressing them down with his knees. This supe can struggle and kick all he wants now, Billy is out of kicking range.
He launches a mock attack just to see if it works, and it does. He tries a second time, and it works again. Homelander lets out the most ridiculous yelp and tries to jump away before Billy’s fingers ever touch his skin.
“Don’t… don’t do that!” He snarls once he realizes that Butcher is toying with him.
“That’s fair,” Billy says, “don’t worry, I won’t do that no more.” He brushes the back of his hand over Homelander’s side. It’s the lightest of touches, but it manages to catch the supe off guard. He lets out another high-pitched shriek before coiling and twisting on the floor trying to pin the hand.
“You ever consider becoming a belly dancer, love?” Butcher teases, and Homelander curses him between bursts of involuntary laughter.
He eventually manages to draw his tied legs up and is trying to curl into a ball - except his arms are still pinned above his head, making it all quite useless.
Billy simply moves his hands up into the armpits, drawing light circles with his finger tips, prompting more desperate giggling and squirming.
“How-h-how much lo-lo-longer?” Homelander is craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Billy’s mobile because the wretched c*nt somehow still believes that he is playing fair and is actually timing his torture.
“But I’m barely touching you,” Billy says, amused. “I’m actually thinking we should count this as a break.”
There is a soft red glow in Homelander’s eyes accompanying a particularly violent fit of giggles, but they only flicker briefly before they go out again. “Fuck you!”
“Tell you what,” Billy says, “if you can guess where our ‘lair’ is,” he’s making scare quotes with his eyes because his fingers are busy, “I’ll stop. And I’ll let you go. How does that sound?”
“Fuhuhucck youu!”
“Not today, love.” Billy’s grin widens, but he stops after just a few more minutes of cruel soft teasing.
Homelander draws in a sharp breath. Even with nothing but these light touches he’s somehow still managed to work up a sweat and run out of air.
Billy lets him catch his breath before he gets up and pushes his knees back down. The supe is suprisingly unresisting, letting Butcher uncurl him and spread him out without too much protest. Either he’s getting tired or it’s finally sinking in that there’s not much he can do. It’s only when Billy swings his leg over his knees and sits down on his thighs again that he tenses up and starts squirming and tugging at the pipe again.
Part of Billy wishes he could tie him up properly. He’s only been to Homelander’s bedroom once, and he’s got no plans to ever go there again, but the c*nt does have a posh four poster bed that would be perfect for this kind of thing. Homelander’s wrists and ankles would look bloody exquisite in silver cuffs, and he just can’t help but think that being completely immobilized would be the perfect mindfuck for this supe who is so unaccustomed to being physically overpowered.
“Your turn,” Homelander says, jolting Billy from his thoughts, and he feels almost grateful for it. How the fuck is he sitting here daydreaming about tying up his nemesis in his bedroom in Vought Tower?
“When’s your birthday, love?”
“Now you’re just wasting a question, William,” Homelander says, snickering. “Everybody knows when my birthday is.”
“No, when’s your real birthday?” Billy laughs, but he knows the joke’s on him. He’s found a way to actually torture this c*nt for information; he could make him spill all his secrets here and now, make him tell everything he knows. He should be asking about Vought and their illegal experimental drugs, their black sites, what other aces the fuckers got up their sleeves, yet here he is quizzing the c*nt about his birthday. Fucking great, Billy Butcher, fucking great.
“Why do you even care?” Homelander snaps.
He didn’t expect the supe to get all defensive about this one. Billy resists the urge to go for another hipbone squeeze. This could be interesting. “Maybe I wanna send you flowers,” he says.
Homelander sighs and starts biting his lip. There’s a look in his eyes Billy hasn’t seen before. “Can we just skip this one?” It’s clear he’s expecting no mercy though; every muscle in his body has tensed up and he’s turning his face away, squinting his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
C*nt doesn’t know his own fucking birthday, Butcher realizes, and somehow it hits him like a train. Vought must have the records but clearly never felt the need to let him know. Did he never ask? Or is this simply not a conversation he would have with his corporate owners? No doubt Billy could make Homelander admit he doesn’t know, but that just feels like partaking in these soulless corporate fuckers’ mindless cruelty. He might as well start buying Vought stock and publicly commending the company for its A+ sentient product management.
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he says. “I get it. You don’t like flowers. Suit yourself. But I get an extra question now.”
“Whatever,” Homelander says, but he actually sounds relieved.
“Alright.” Billy thinks for a moment. He’s got to make this one count. “What crimes did you commit this week? Murder anyone in cold blood? Broke the Geneva Conventions?”
Clearly, he’s not going to learn much about Vought today because for better or for worse his brain has decided it would rather know more about the twisted c*nt he’s working with, but at least he’s going to get a confession on video. That’s got to count for something, right?
“I don’t commit crimes and I don’t-” Homelander starts, but Billy cuts him off right then and there. That hypersensitive area of skin right above his atrocious red briefs has been practically begging for his undivided attention. He is scribbling his fingers from left to right and right to left, and the spot does not disappoint.
“DON’T! DON’T!!” The c*nt’s eyes light up again, and Billy can feel the heat this time. Homelander is trying to tense his muscles, but it’s plain he’s about to turn into jelly.
“Who’d we murder this week? Hmm?” Butcher repeats. “And, please, tell me something I don’t already know,” he adds quickly. He really doesn’t need to hear again that Homelander killed a man at a rally; it’s been all over the press, and he’s already given the psychotic c*nt a piece of his mind for killing in front of Ryan.
“STOP!!! I can’t FUCKING think!”
Billy laughs. “Too many to choose from, eh?” He says, but he actually pauses. “Tell you what. You’ve got ten seconds.” Just to drive the point home, he starts counting down.
“Wait!” Homelander wails. “Wait, wait! I need more time!”
“Nah. You’re stalling.” Billy plunges both hands back down, digging all ten fingers into that smooth flat belly, and the reaction is fucking mindblowing.
Temp V’s a real bitch, but Butcher’s glad he’s got it running through his veins right now. Otherwise, he’s not sure he could hold down Homelander, that’s how violently he’s bucking and thrashing now.
“STOPSTOPSTOP I CAN’T. WILLIAM! PLEASE!!” Homelander is banging his head on the floor, and just watching him is giving Billy a headache. “I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE OKAY! PLEASE! I SWEAR I SWEAR!”
“Did you really just say please?” Billy asks with mock surprise but without stopping. “Fuck, I think you meant it! Say it again!”
He’s fully expecting Homelander to press his lips shut and at least make an effort to regain some sort of dignity, but he’s dead wrong about that.
The bloody supe’s begging without any shame or reservation now, pleading with him to stop please stop, promising to be better, to be good, to do whatever Billy wants if only he could please please please stop.
Some people get less sensitive over time, but with Homelander, it seems to be just the opposite. The longer Butcher’s hands linger on a spot, the more he is reduced to a quivering bundle of nerves.
The laser hitting Billy’s chest with every particularly violent fit of laughter is beginning to sting, but he isn’t ready to call it a day just yet. He’s still got too much Temp V in his system so the c*nt can’t actually melt his skin, though the same cannot be said for his clothes. Billy looks at the growing scorch marks on his leather jacket and sighs.
“Oi! You’re ruining my clothes, love. Cut it out for fuck’s sake will ya.”
“I CAN’T-” Homelander’s eyes are still glowing, but he is actually crying now, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “I CAN’T… IT'S NOT... I’M NOT… NO NO PLEASE! PLEHEAHEASE STOP!”
Having Homelander so completely at his mercy is giving Billy a rush. He’s wondering if the bloody supe has enough of his powers back yet to read his vitals and knows how much hearing him plead like this excites him. Who’s he kidding though, Homelander doesn’t need super powers to figure out what a pair of regular human eyes can see clearly enough.
He’s not the only one, Billy realizes with mixed feelings. C*nt may be begging and crying for mercy, but his body is telling a different story.
“WHY DO YOU ENJOY TORTURING ME” Homelander screams, and Billy slows down the pace just a little. It’s still enough to leave the supe squirming and disoriented.
“Easy,” he says. “Because you’re loving it. You should see yourself right now.”
The c*nt’s throbbing erection is visible through the red cloth just fine, but just to make his point, he pulls down Homelander’s briefs. “Beautiful, that.”
Homelander actually looks embarrassed, turning his head to avoid having to look Billy into the eye. “You’re not one to talk,” he mumbles.
Billy suddenly remembers he’ll be able to rewatch, relive this moment as many times as he wants, and fuck it, this clip’s not gonna be admissible in a court of law no matter what he does now, so he might as well go all out.
He wraps his hand around Homelander’s cock and is about to give it a few strokes when there’s a flash and a loud bang right behind him.
He turns around, and through the dust, he can see the Vought c*nts moving in, guns drawn, jumpy and trigger-happy as usual, not that they can actually do much with guns at a supe fight. Butcher sighs. Why do these c*nts always have to be so fucking dramatic?
When they see it’s just Homelander and Billy, they lower their weapons, but they’re still staring, all ten of them, like they’ve never seen a man with his hand wrapped around another man’s dick before. Or, well, a sweat-drenched panting naked supe with his hands wrapped in a pipe pinned above his head.
Said supe looks surprisingly unfazed if a tad annoyed as he turns his head towards the Vought men. “Yes? What is it now?”
Chapter 4
The whole fucking SWAT team is about to shit their pants. Homelander tends to have that effect on people.
Billy wants to tell them to stop gawking (shouldn’t they be used to this by now?), but he can’t find the right words to pack a proper punch, so instead he does the only other thing he can think of: he leans down and presses his lips on Homelander’s.
For once, this enemies to lovers horse shit is coming in handy, because at least they’ll have no explaining to do. Well, less explaining.
The c*nt looks surprised at first but quickly plays along. It’s a chaste kiss, no tongue, tamer than anything they’ve done a hundred times over for the cameras. Maybe it’s because Homelander’s still a sweaty, teary-eyed mess or maybe its because his erection is pressing against Butcher’s stomach, but somehow this feels a lot more intimate than what they do for show.
“Sir?” One of the men is approaching carefully, as if any sudden movement could cost him his life. (In all fairness, normally, it probably would.)
Homelander breaks away from their innocent attempt at a real kiss. “Oh, for God’s sake, just say what you want to say.”
The man winces and instinctively takes a step back. “So sorry to bother you, Sir, but we need your help. Soldier Boy is wreaking havoc in Vegas. He’s blown up two casinos, and we think-”
“Soldier Boy is where now?” Butcher blurts out.
“-we think he may have plans to flatten the entire city.”
“Are you saying that Soldier Boy is half the way around the country?” Billy tries a second time, but the Vought team is ignoring him, as is Homelander, who is pointedly avoiding Billy’s eyes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s running through all the potential scenarios. There’s no way Soldier Boy could have fought Homelander less than an hour ago and be in Vegas by now. Maeve may have trapped the c*nt, but he can’t think of a way she could have blocked his powers. Unless of course… unless Homelander is not de-powered at all, and he’s just putting on one hell of an act. Billy’s geiger counter is still giving him through the roof readings, but everything is pointing towards a set-up, he has to concede.
Fucking great, he walked straight into one of this c*nt’s twisted horny fantasies and played his part didn’t he.
“Sir? Will you be coming?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” This is the time when Homelander would normally put on his all-American boy scout smile, but he’s surprisingly irritable, gesturing with his head towards the door. “Just wait for me outside. Shoo. Off you go.”
The guards don’t move, and Homelander sighs. “What?”
“Will you be needing a new suit, Sir?”
Homelander stares at them like they’ve lost their minds, and that’s fair, Billy thinks. “No, I’ll be flying naked. What do you think, yes of course you fucking morons, quit gaping and go get me one.”
“Get up,” Billy snarls as soon as the corporate SWAT team has scuttled out the door. “I know you can.”
Homelander shakes his head. “I honestly have no powers, William. You’re gonna have to help me out.”
That smug grin is right back on his face, and Billy wants to punch him. As fun as this was, he really doesn’t appreciate the whole set-up dynamic. Who the fuck even does something like this? The answer is staring him right in the face; Homelander does. He should have known.
“Alright,” he says. There’s really only one way to find out if this c*nt is telling the truth about his powers or not. “I’ll give you a hand, but you’re gonna have to do the hard part yourself, love.”
“Oh, fuck, no,” Homelander groans when he notices the sadistic grin on Billy’s face, going from cocky to desperate in under three seconds. “Not again, please!” He’s panicking as Billy shifts the weight of his body and clasps his thighs around his. “Stop stop stop! Vought could be back any minute!”
“That didn’t bother you before, did it.” The c*nt may have been miffed they got interrupted, but he hardly seemed embarrassed.
Homelander opens his mouth to protest some more, but his complaints quickly turn into soft moans when Billy wraps his hands around his erection and continues where he left off earlier.
He’s got only spit for lube, and normally, the result would probably be a bit underwhelming, but not with this horny, touch-starved c*nt it isn’t. He’s arching his hips and thrusting into Billy’s palm all while moaning so loudly that if anyone’s still in this fucking building, they can probably hear him. It takes less than a minute until his eyes start glowing and he shoots out a ridiculously large load all over his stomach and Billy’s chest like some overexcited teenager.
“Fuck.” There’s an idiotic, blissful smile on Homelander’s face as his body relaxes and his eyes return to their normal blue color. “I did not expect that, William.”
“Bet you didn’t.” Butcher grabs Homelander’s still twitching cock and starts rubbing his thumb over the tip, jolting the supe out of his blissful post-orgasmic haze.
“No no no dooon’t!!!” Homelander squeals.
“Nah, you ain't done yet, I can tell,” Butcher says, mercilessly flicking his thumb over the supe’s cock.
The effect is not unlike a particularly well-placed tickle, only his squeals and giggles sound more desperate now, and his whole body is spasming and shaking uncontrollably. From the reaction, Billy is almost 100 per cent certain nobody has ever done this to Homelander before. This poor overstimulated c*nt had no clue someone could weaponize his own body against him like this.
Billy starts pumping his fist as he keeps running his thumb over the same spot. Homelander is bucking and thrashing like a wild horse now.
“NOHOHOHO! STOHOHOP!! I CAN’T I CAN’T I CAN'T PLEASE I CAN’T!!!”
“Careful, love,” Billy tells him, “ya don’t want to hurt yourself down there, tear anything off by accident.” Can he even hurt himself? Probably not, but just to be sure, he presses the palm of his free hand down on Homelander’s stomach to pin the center of his body in place. Of course, that’s only making things worse.
Homelander is tugging so violently at the pipe it’s creaking, but that’s all it does because apparently whoever laid the pipes in this building paid attention to quality. Billy is a little worried Homelander might try to break a bone on purpose just to try to squeeze his hands through the metal. But it looks like his invulnerable supe body is preventing him from taking even this most desperate of escape routes. Fucking poetic indeed.
“Try pulling your arms to the side instead of down,” Billy tells him.
He keeps rubbing his thumb over his glans until he has forced a second watery load out of Homelander, who collapses on the floor, panting and wheezing, completely spent and just about ready to pass out from exhaustion.
Billy’s tempted to go for a third round and maybe a fourth just to see how far he can push this supposedly invincible c*nt, but he’s already made other plans. Homelander probably doesn’t know this about his own body, either, but he is currently little more than a pile of raw, overstimulated nerve endings - defenseless, and about to lose his fucking mind along with any semblance of dignity or control.
Billy almost feels sorry for him.
He grabs Homelander’s hips with both hands like pinchers and gives them a good squeeze, digging his fingers in with full force.
The red lasers that come shooting from Homelander’s eyes like a reflex almost knock Billy off the supe’s body.
He’s trying to plead with Billy, but the words won’t come out this time. He’s lost all control over his limbs, his body turned to pudding, shaking with silent laughter, unable to scream or cry or beg. His face has turned a dark shade of red. Just as Butcher starts to worry he might accidentally suffocate this poor c*nt, he takes one gasping breath. All the words that were stuck in his chest come pouring out, mixed with the most desperate high-pitched laughter Billy has ever heard in his life.
“OH GOHOHOD NOHOHO! PLEHEHEASE PLEASE PLEASE BILLY PLEASE!! THIS IS TORTURE BILLY PLEASE!!”
Fuck, it’s Billy now, Butcher thinks.
And then, with another sudden jerk, the pipe finally snaps, and Homelander’s arms shoot down to fend off Billy’s hands.
“There you are.” Billy could probably try to pin him down and continue, but breaking that bloody steel pipe with anything less than full supe strength is pretty fucking impressive, if he’s perfectly honest. The c*nt has earned himself a reprieve. “Took you long enough,” he adds.
There’s no response, and Billy feels a pang of guilt. Maybe he’s taken this too far.
He wraps his arms around Homelander and draws him close. The supe’s still shaking, but he’s not pushing Butcher away, so he keeps holding him, rocking him gently until he’s beginning to calm down.
“That was bloody impressive,” he says.
“What?” Homelander looks up, and there’s something soft and solemn and vulnerable in his eyes that gives Billy feelings he’d rather not think about. “What was impressive?”
“You,” Billy says, and he's not even saying it just to speed up the aftercare; he bloody means it, he realizes the moment he says the words out loud. “You’re one tough c*nt, you know that? Most people can’t stand five seconds of this, but you-”
“Oh, shut up,” Homelander says, but he’s suppressing a smile now and cuddles up to Billy.
“And the way you broke that fucking pipe, that was just-”
“Shut up, asshole, or I’m going to have to punch you in the face,” Homelander says, resting his head on Billy’s chest.
“I do have one question,” Billy says after a moment of silent contemplation. “If Soldier Boy is in Vegas, then how the fuck did you manage to lose your powers all by yourself?”
“Nice try,” Homelander grins, “but I’m not going to just tell you how to do this little trick.” He still looks completely wrecked, but his wit seems to be coming back. “For what should be obvious reasons,” he adds.
Billy glances at his geiger counter again. Whatever this little trick is, it seems to involve copious amounts of radioactive material and is probably terrible for the environment as well as any NYC resident without V in their system.
“You know I could make you tell me,” he says, briefly enjoying the sudden look of silent terror on Homelander’s face before adding, “Some other time.”
Homelander sits up, rubbing his wrists. The damage is limited given the strain they’ve been put through, but there are red marks cutting into his skin.
“You know you could have just wrapped yourself up in that thing and pretended you had no powers,” Billy says. “Made things a little easier on yourself.”
“I wanted it to be real.” Homelander shoots back. “It’s not the same if I can free myself any time. You wouldn’t understand,” he adds defensively. He gets up and starts stretching his limbs like a lazy cat. “I wanted to know what you would do to me.”
“Oh, did ya.” Try as he might, Butcher can’t look away, and he suspects this manipulative c*nt knows exactly what he’s doing and what effect it’s having on him. “Got a bit more than we bargained for, eh?”
“Well, yes, I didn’t think you were going to fucking tickle rape me,” Homelander says, but he almost sounds pleased with himself, like he’s won some kind of prize for getting Billy to pay him so much attention for the better part of the hour. He picks up what’s left of his cape and lets out a dramatic sigh before tossing it aside and cursing Vought for being cheap and using the wrong fucking fabric again.
“What the hell did you think I would do?” Butcher asks, amused.
Homelander slips into his pants and boots before tying the belt back around his waist. “Don’t know. Didn’t really think that part through… Fuck me, I suppose.”
Billy laughs. “I kinda did, love.”
Homelander leaves the remark unacknowledged. “Did you take my gloves?” He asks. “I put them on that chair right there.”
“What the fuck would I do that for?”
Homelander shrugs. “Trophy of your conquest, I suppose. Fuck do I know how your sick mind works.”
“My sick mind, huh? That’s a bit rich coming from someone who left himself gift-wrapped for his arch enemy to find and who gets turned on from being all helpless and tickled to pieces.”
“Oh please,” Homelander says. “We’re not enemies, we're partners now.” But he’s blushing just a bit.
Billy picks up his phone, realizes it’s still recording and presses the stop button.
He thought he was inconspicuous enough, but of course Homelander notices and turns around. The c*nt’s super hearing has probably recovered enough that he can hear Billy’s fingers. “I want a copy of that,” is all he says. “Gotta know what you have on me,” he adds quickly when he sees Butcher’s smirk.
“I’ll send it to the group chat, love.” Billy says.
Homelander spits a “Fuck you” at him, but it sounds almost affectionate by the c*nt’s standards, and he’s making no effort to grab the phone from Billy.
He’s levitating for just a few seconds before he sinks back down to the floor and lands with an uncharacteristically loud thud. “Well, I won’t be flying us to Vegas,” he says matter-of-factly.
Us, Billy thinks. Bloody supe just offered him that sky ride. Or rather, didn’t offer because he can’t fly at the moment, but same same, it’s the thought that counts. Us. Butcher is cursing himself. Why’s he even thinking about that word now?
“Just so it’s perfectly clear, there is no us,” he grumbles.
“Of course not,” Homelander says. “That would be ridiculous. Think you can drive us to Vought airbase?” He pauses and laughs. “Never mind. At your pathetic human speed, Soldier Boy will be gone by the time we make it to Vegas.”
Billy doesn’t take the bait. He does make a mental note, however, because he didn’t know Vought even had their own airbase. He may not be very good at interrogating Homelander about his new employer, but as long as he keeps working with this self-important c*nt, he’ll be drip-fed all kinds of useful information. Obviously, that’s the only reason why he’s even doing this, he assures himself.
By the time Vought security return with a new suit, Homelander is fully in his element again, prancing around and being the most annoying c*nt he could possibly be. He picks out the top, cape and gloves. “Help me get this off,” he commands, stretching out his arms so that his Vought servants can pull off the sleeves of his old uniform and help him slip into the new one.
Billy can’t help but wonder if this is how he gets dressed in the morning: ordering around some poor intern working for ‘exposure’ and ‘experience.’ Probably. Hopefully, he’ll never have to find out.
The elevator is working again, but Billy doesn’t feel like facing the media spectacle he knows must await them downstairs, so he tells the others to go ahead and takes the stairs.
When he finally makes it outside, Homelander is standing in front of a row of mics and cameras and a cheering crowd of what must be hundreds of people, telling them some wild story about this new super villain he just chased and killed.
Behind him, the SWAT team is carrying out a body, and Butcher wonders if they just asked one of their own to slip into the body bag and lay very still.
Just as Billy wants to quietly slip away, Homelander turns around and points at him. “There he is!” He announces. “Give it up for Willllliam Butcher.”
Fuck. This fucking clown show. Billy steps forward, musters what he hopes is a passable smile that doesn’t look too painful and nods at the cameras.
“Everybody. Please!” Homelander has raised his hands and is trying to calm down the crowd. Billy is instantly wary because he has that look on his face that’s always there when he’s about to spring some nasty little suprise on someone. “We have a special announcement to make.”
We, Billy thinks. Yeah, this is not good.
“It’s been eleven years since the great state of New York decided to give every American the right to chose the partner they love.”
Fucking hell, Billy thinks. The fuck does this c*nt think he’s doing?
“So today-” Homelander pauses to let the words sink in with the crowd - he’s got public speaking skills, Billy has to give him that - “today, I am proud to announce that Billy and I-” another pause, and now he’s just doing it to torture Billy, who knows exactly what’s coming and has no way of stopping it.
Somewhere at Vought Tower, people are either popping bottles of champagne or making desperate phone calls because their insane sentient product is going off-script again, but all of that is little consolation to Butcher.
Homelander gives his audience his most charming smile. “Everyone. Today, Billy and I are making it official… We are going to get married!”
The crowd erupts in cheers, and Homelander is basking in their applause the way he always does. He has interlaced his fingers with Billy’s and is yanking their hands up in the air before taking an actual fucking bow like the bloody circus this is.
Oh, you’re going to regret this, Billy thinks. He leans over and presses a kiss on Homelander’s cheek. “What, you some kind of shy maiden now, and the first man who touches you down there has to marry you?” He hisses. Part of him is hoping that one of the press microphones is close enough to pick up his words.
Homelander grins. “That’s actually funny, I like your sense of humor, Billy Butcher.” He wraps his arms around Billy’s shoulders and kisses him, and it's a proper kiss this time.
It tastes a little bit salty and a little bit sweet, and it’s not entirely unpleasant, Billy notes with a hint of despair. If he’s not careful, he’s going to be stuck with this c*nt for real.
Homelander finally pulls away and turns back to the crowd, telling them anecdotes of their lives together, what led to this momentous decision etc. etc.
Billy pulls out his mobile while the attention seeking c*nt is busy preening. There’s a message from Maeve. “Wanna fuck?” Butcher sighs. He likes her simple, direct style.
“Turn on your telly,” he texts back. “Got kidnapped by HL. No need to send rescue. Will send update later.”
He turns off his phone and steps back next to the supe, wrapping his arms around his waist.
Just as Homelander starts talking about Butcher's plans to move into Vought Tower with him, he gives him a pinch, light enough that it causes no bouts of convulsing laughter, but sufficient to make Homelander giggle into the microphone loud and clear for everyone to hear and fighting the urge to squirm out of his grasp.
The game is on, Billy thinks, trying to figure out why he’s not really upset about any of this when clearly he should be. The game is fucking on.
It's pretty long at roughly 10k words. (Also, I can't believe I had to censor the word c*nt, this is just how Billy Butcher talks ok.)Chapter 1
Billy Butcher is stuck in traffic when he sees the first explosion. There’s a bright flash, and a cloud of dust and debris raining down from what’s probably somewhere between the tenth and fifteenth floor of yet another half empty office building. This is where supes go to fight these days. Less property damage. Fewer deaths. Legal drama is rare. Everybody wins.
He’s not far now, so Billy decides to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way. There’s a second explosion, and the numbers on his geiger counter are spiking now. Fucking Soldier Boy and his propensity to blow shit up for attention.
It’s all quiet by the time he arrives at the building, except for a handful of spectators. Billy’s not usually one to miss a fight, but of course Homelander had to fly ahead and didn’t take him with him, not that he would have ever agreed to let that bastard carry him (the supe also didn’t offer, he can't help but notice).
Billy quickly ducks around the corner of the buiding and lights a cigarette. He’s here now, so he might as well wait for the caped c*nt to come out, make sure Soldier Boy didn’t bruise his ego too badly, maybe gloat a little, and then drive home. Drive Homelander home, too, in case he got hit by that white chest blast from hell again. It’s happened more than once now, and it doesn’t really seem to harm him much, except it fries his powers for a few hours.
By the time Billy finishes his cigarette and casually flicks the butt on the ground, all is still quiet, but there’s also still no sign of Homelander. Fucking great, now he’s got to go look for the c*nt in the nuclear wasteland Soldier Boy’s left behind. If the Temp V doesn’t kill him soon, the bloody radiation will.
This is what he gets for agreeing to this silly little scorched earth team-up make-believe whatever you want to call it.
That’s right. The media have latched on to their story, because everything has to be a fucking media spectacle these days, apparently. Vought is trying to sell them as some ridiculous arch enemies to lovers story. The lovers part is bollocks, of course, but the world can’t seem to get enough of them. (Their Q-rating is a solid 95, which isn’t the best, as Homelander has pointed out, but pretty damn close, not that Billy would give a fuck or know what a Q-rating is.)
Yeah. He’s stuck with Captain C*nt now, so he might as well go check up on him.
Billy sighs and enters the building through the side entrance. The elevator is broken after the blast, so he takes the stairs, following the blast damage in reverse. He can tell the room the supes fought in by the way that the door is ripped out of the wall and there’s a hole in the ceiling.
“Oi!” Billy calls. “Anybody home?”
Homelander is lying flat on his back amidst the rubble and shredded office supplies, arms above his head, eyes closed. Soldier Boys must have hit him from up close and knocked him out.
Billy steps closer and takes another look. Nah, c*nt’s awake. He probably heard Butcher coming from a mile away but is choosing to ignore him.
“Oi!” He repeats, bending down to tap the supe's head. “Anybody home?”
Homelander is still refusing to acknowledge his presence, but his face is twitching ever so slightly. And then Billy sees it. Underneath the rubble there’s a bloody steel pipe wrapped twice around his wrists, ends slammed into the ground, pinning his hands above his head.
Bloody hell.
It’s like Soldier Boy left the c*nt here, gift-wrapped, just for him. Ben’s got that twisted sense of humor, and the pipe doesn’t exactly look like it wrapped itself so perfectly around Homelander’s wrists through the sheer force of the explosion. Billy makes a mental note to reciprocate the favor at some point. He and Soldier Boy may be arch enemies now - doesn’t mean they can’t give each other small gifts every once in a while.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “Looks like America’s sweetheart got himself trapped.”
Homelander’s eyes snap open. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I would not have noticed had you not pointed it out.” Billy can’t quite tell if he’s annoyed or amused or a bit of both. All he knows is the bloody supe’s so fucking full of himself it’s gotta hurt him physically.
“Told ya not to get ahead of yourself, but you never listen.”
“That’s all very fascinating, but I need you to stop your lecture and help me get out of here, William,” Homelander says, unfazed. “I need to be on set in two hours.”
“Yeah, don’t think you’re gonna make that, love.” Billy smirks. And with that, he’s finally got the supe’s full attention.
“Ah, okay.” Homelander smiles and nods, then drops the smile in an instance. “And. Why. Is. That?”
Billy could tell him that he can’t break the pipe because he’s got no Temp V in his system. That would be a blatant lie, of course; he wouldn’t have headed to a supe fight without it, and Homelander knows it. Or he could tell him that it’s not his job to save his spoiled arse, so he’s going to have to wait for the Vought crew to show up.
Instead, he squats down next to Homelander and places a finger under his chin. “I just think you look awfully pretty pinned down like this. Think I’m just gonna sit here and watch for a bit.”
Homelander has the gall to sneer and cross his legs. “Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some tea to enjoy with the view?”
He looks just a little too complacent for someone in his predicament. How often has Billy fantasized about wiping that smug grin off the cocky bastard’s face. Despite his shitty upbringing, he’s got honor though, occasionally at least. It’s not terribly honorable to hit a man who can’t hit him back. It’s not very entertaining either, come to think of it.
Billy’s grin widens. Yeah, he knows what he’s going to do instead, and he suspects it’s going to be just as satisfying as beating the c*nt up. Now that he thinks about it, probably more. If he’s honest with himself, he’s always wanted to try this.
He places one hand on the supe’s chest and slowly starts sliding it down.
Homelander rolls his eyes. “You gonna grab a feel now? Really, William? That’s low.” Billy’s move has the intended effect though: his body has tensed up, and his eyes follow the hand as it trails down his suit, tracing the fake muscles.
“Maybe.” Billy straddles Homelander’s thighs. The c*nt sure looks less smug now, making a last ditch effort to twist his hands free. Futile, of course; Billy makes a mental note to send Maeve a thank you before he resumes lightly grazing his sides.
There’s absolutely no doubt Homelander can feel his hands even through the thick padding of his suit; he’s scrunching his face and trying to wiggle away, all while trying to pretend that absolutely nothing is happening and that Billy hasn’t just discovered a pretty fundamental weakness in his natural armor.
This is going to be fucking delightful. Billy feels a flutter in his stomach. He unbuckles the other man’s golden belt and starts pulling out the top of his suit, just enough to reveal a thin strip of perfect marble skin.
“Oh for God’s sake, William, control yourself!” Homelander protests. He’s still trying to hide behind a thick layer of snark and sarcasm, but he’s nervous now, and Billy wonders if he knows yet what he’s got coming for him.
He slides his hand under the fabric. Homelander’s skin feels strangely normal, soft even, not at all like the practically impenetrable suit that it really is. He lightly brushes his fingers over Homelander’s belly and gets a brief burst of laughter in return.
“What the fuck, Butcher! What-” There’s surprise in the supe’s voice, something like anger, and, as Billy notes with satisfaction, a hint of panic. No. The caped c*nt clearly did not see this one coming.
Butcher sits back to contemplate. If Homelander has lost his powers that probably means his supe-senses are weaker too. Which is a real shame, Billy thinks, but doesn’t really matter because he’s quite pleased with the reactions he’s getting so far, and this is much less likely to result in death and broken limbs. Let no one ever claim that Billy Butcher can’t spot an acceptable compromise when he sees one.
He slides his other hand underneath the dark blue fabric, squeezing both of Homelander’s hips at the same time, then watches him struggle to suppress a very childish giggle.
“This is ridiculous.” Homelander’s voice is strained; his whole body is twisting to get away from the hands that are prodding and probing his waist as they slowly slide upwards.
“You’re right, this is ridiculous,” Billy agrees. “Your silly costume’s too bloody tight, can’t even move my hands properly.” He rips the suit top open with both hands and pushes it up as far as he can, tearing off a golden eagle in the process, not that he cares. The bloody cape’s still half stuck underneath a struggling and cursing Homelander.
Billy thinks for a moment, then rips it out, folds it in half twice and pushes it under the supe’s head. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, darling.”
“You need help,” Homelander says. He’s recovered some of his composure and all of his snark. “Your, your obsession with me… it’s unhealthy, William, you know.”
“You’re the one who insists we play lovers for the cameras,” Billy points out, “and bait the media with that silly enemies to lovers fantasy Vought made up.”
“That’s… that’s just for the points,” Homelander says, a little too quickly.
Billy smirks, watching the supe blush just a little. “Yeah, sure it is.”
He takes another look at his work. Homelander isn’t half as muscular as his now shredded suit would suggest. Half naked, arms pinned above his head, strands of blond hair falling into his face, his head resting on a makeshift pillow of red white and blue… the c*nt looks pretty ridiculous. Grotesque, really, distractingly grotesque. Butcher definitely doesn’t find him attractive. Absolutely not.
Fine. So what if he does?
“Right.” Billy snaps out of his thoughts to refocus on the task at hand. He pulls Homelander’s pants down just enough to reveal red briefs (red bloody briefs, god, is there no end to this man’s tackiness?). Then he lazily runs a single digit along the line where red fabric meets pale skin, back and forth, watching as Homelander’s facial expression changes from annoyed to uneasy to actively distressed.
“Fuck! Will you stop that, you fucking pervert!” The c*nt may be hurling curses at him, but his voice is cracking now, and Billy knows he’s very close to completely cracking him open. All of this with just a single finger; he’s got to make sure to remember that spot. The thought of seeing that bloody marble statue of a body writhe and twist underneath him is fucking electrifying. He hasn’t felt this alive in years.
“Stop!” Homelander cries.
“Oh, but I’m only gettin’ started.” Billy leans forward until he lies comfortably on top of the supe, his legs pinning his thighs, one elbow pressing down on his shoulder, his own head right next to Homelander’s. It looks quite obscene, probably. If someone were to walk in on them now, they’d have questions.
“Mmmmmhhh. Where’d that smile go?” He gently cups Homelander’s face with one hand while the other moves playfully across his armpit, his belly, his sides. He can’t see where his hand is going, so he’s navigating entirely by the responses he’s getting. “Oh, you are going to smile for me, love.” That, and so much more.
Homelander is whimpering softly now, shaking his head, kicking his legs, pressing his lips together, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying anything really to distract himself. He’s not protesting anymore; he probably knows full well that any sentence he starts now is going to end in uncontrollable laughter.
Billy’s hand has found Homelander’s belly button and is drawing light circles around it before pushing his index finger in and wiggling it around. (“If you were poured out of a tube, how come you got this, love? Ah, maybe they made you with a belly button just so I can tickle you to pieces!") He’s now using both of his hands, moving up and down Homelander’s body, tickling him in two different places at the same time. (“Oh, you’re just loving this, aren’t you. You’ve been waiting for this. Trapped yourself, I bet.”)
Maybe it’s the teasing, maybe it’s Butcher’s relentless fingers, but Homelander finally breaks. He throws one last “Fuck you!” in Billy’s face before he dissolves into helpless giggles. He’s squirming and twisting, and Butcher is beginning to have trouble pinning him in place, but, hell, he’ll find a way just so he can keep listening to that sweet sweet laughter.
He bends down again until his face is uncomfortably close to the struggling, panting supe’s.
“This is going to be fun,” he whispers in his ear.
Chapter 2
Once he’s pierced through Homelander’s defenses, it’s almost too easy. This c*nt’s been trained to withstand impossible amounts of pain, but clearly nobody’s prepared him for this. Billy is running his hands all over his stretched torso, and every time he finds a new spot, it sends a jolt through Homelander’s body like an electric current, accompanied by frenzied laughter.
He could go on like this for hours, watching this jumpy c*nt squirm and twist, but Billy’s not a monster, so after a few minutes, he decides to give him a break.
The moment he stops, Homelander’s body goes limp. A fine sheen of sweat has formed on the supe’s forehead and his chest. He’s panting for air, his face flushed a soft shade of pink. Butcher can’t tell if it’s from the physical exertion or from the embarrassment of having been reduced to a panicky giggling mess so easily. His head is turned to the side, as if refusing to look his tormentor in the eye could somehow annul this mortifying experience.
C*nt looks kind of pretty with that scowl on his face, Billy has to admit.
“Are you done?” Homelander is making a half-hearted attempt to sound bored now of all things, and it’s pathetically unconvincing, really. His eyes signal upwards at his pipe-wrapped wrists. “Just let me go. I don’t have time for your antics.”
“Nah, mate. We got time.” C*nt's practically beggin’ him for more, and Billy’s not about to let him go just because he’s asking nicely.
“Christ. What do you want, William.” It’s exasperation in Homelander’s voice this time, and it’s not an act.
Butcher leans forward to deliver the line he’s been itching to say this whole time. “We spend so much time together. I want to get to know you, love.”
“Ah, right.” Homelander exhales forcefully. “And you think this is the way to get to know me?”
Billy ponders the question for a moment. He’s learned quite a bit in the last few minutes. He knows that when he scribbles a finger over his collarbone, Homelander will try to pin it with his chin but always ends up making himself more vulnerable in the process. Scratching lightly over the inside of his elbows will produce the sweetest, most innocent laughter, much to the supe’s embarrassment. (Same’s true for the c*nt’s ears of all places.) Even the softest touch on his ribcage and sides reliably leaves the supe disoriented and squealing with laughter. And then there’s that spot right above his hip bones that will make Homelander shriek and thrash uncontrollably if Billy’s hands come anywhere near it.
“Yeah,” Billy says. “Don’t see why not. Learned a lot already. Pretty sure I can build on that.”
He pulls out his mobile, and the supe’s face actually turns white.
“Tell me you’re not going to record this.”
Of course that’s precisely what Billy’s going to do. When this is over, he’s going to need some kind of insurance. But the c*nt doesn’t need to know that right now, it’s just going to spoil the mood, so he shakes his head. “Nah, just need a timer, love. We’re gonna play a little game, you and me.” He presses record and sets the phone down outside what he hopes is the supe’s field of vision.
Homelander rolls his eyes, but he stays quiet for once.
“Rules are simple,” Billy explains. “I ask you a question, you answer my question. I like your answer, I keep listening. I don’t like your answer, there’ll be a penalty. Penalty time goes up by let’s say 30 second intervals each time you fuck up. Following me so far, beautiful?”
Homelander is looking at him for what feels awkwardly long. “Will you let me ask questions, too, William?” He finally asks.
Billy considers the request. “Sure,” he says. He’s probably going to regret this, but it’s not like the c*nt can sue him if he changes the rules down the line. And he’s morbidly curious what Homelander wants to ask him. “Tell you what, we take turns with the questions, sound fair to you?”
“No,” Homelander says. “Absolutely nothing about any of this is fair. But I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“‘fraid you’re right about that.” Butcher shifts position, making Homelander flinch away reflexively. “Let’s start easy. What’s your favourite colour, love?”
The supe is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Is that a fucking joke?”
“Nah, just an easy question,” Billy says, “I’m trying to be nice here. But suit yourself.” Without warning, he digs his index fingers into Homelander’s armpits.
“No no no, don’t! Don’t! It’s blue! It’s blue okay! Stop!” Homelander is trying to pull his arms down.
“Blue like your fucking fascist little costume.” Billy pulls at the tatters that used to be Homelanders suit before sliding his hand back down into his armpit. “Should have figured.” He’s really beginning to like this single finger method. It’s shockingly effective.
“Blue li-like like the s-s-sky,” Homelander sputters between giggles. He can’t pull his arms down, so instead he’s pulling his body up to try to pin Butcher’s fingers, all while blabbering on rather desperately about flying and the different shades of blue of the sky depending on the altitude and whatnot, like that’s going to save him now.
“No cheating. You stay right here.” Billy grabs him by the hips and yanks him back down. It feels awkward because that’s how he likes to position his lovers, but it comes naturally, and the whole situation is already so fucking weird it doesn’t really make much of a difference anymore, does it.
Of course he’s come much too close to THE spot. Homelander yelps and starts struggling violently.
“Sorry, forgot that was your sweet spot, love,” Billy says. He presses both his thumbs down, massaging the supe’s protruding hip bones in small circular motions.
It’s a death spot alright. Homelander looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin. “Fuck fuck FUCK!!!” He screams before collapsing into panicked laughter. “Stop it stop it STOP!”
He’s arching his back so hard Billy thinks it’s going to snap any second now. “Oh god… Shit shit shit! Stop stop stop GOD STOP!”
“You can call me Billy, ya know,” Billy says, a sadistic grin on his face. “No need to be formal.”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO KNOW” Homelander screams.
“Right now?” Billy pretends to glance at the timer on his mobile. “Nothing, really. You have another ten seconds till your next question, love.” He’s not timing any of this, but he just can’t resist fucking with the disoriented supe’s perception of time. Between this and the loss of the senses he relies on most, this has got to be quite the agonizing experience.
After another minute or so, which he’s sure must have felt like an hour to Homelander judging by the wild frantic despair in his eyes, he finally relents.
“You fucking freak.” The c*nt is struggling to breathe. “The fuck is wrong with you.”
Billy shrugs. “A lot, probably.”
He grins, scoots back and clasps his legs around Homelander’s knees. He’s going to need a good grip because even without his powers, this bloody supe’s still putting up one hell of a fight if round one is anything to go by.
“I’m going to kill you, you know that, right?” He can barely breathe, but somehow Homelander is finding the air to issue threats. “I’m going to do it slowly. I’m going to break every single bone in your body. I’ll-” he breaks off abruptly.
Billy’s hand is hovering over his stomach.
“Fuck! Will you stop that!”
“What’s that you’re gonna do to me?” Billy asks. It’s a refreshing change to be able to cut the c*nt off anytime he wants just by wiggling his fingers in the air. “Say it again, love.”
Homelander presses his eyes shut, maybe trying to pretend like that hand isn’t there. “It’s my turn,” he says in as steady a voice as he can manage.
Billy shrugs. “Alright. Go ahead.”
He regrets it immediately when a sly smile crosses the supe’s face. It's staggering how fast this c*nt can recover. “Why did you agree to working with me? You hate Vought, you hate my kind, you want to kill me, for God’s sake. It makes no sense. So why, William?”
Fucking great, that’s what he gets after throwing the c*nt a softball question, Butcher thinks. “First of all, I agreed to nothing. And second, I’m not working with you,” he says, a little more forcefully than he intended to. “I just happen to agree that Soldier Boy’s a bloody menace and needs to go back to his little ice prison that’s all.”
“He did threaten Ryan,” Homelander agrees, but that self-satisfied smirk is still right there on his face. C*nt scored a point, and he fucking knows it.
“My turn,” Billy says. “Why are you working with me? If you tell me it’s the fucking points, I swear I’m going to set that timer to thirty minutes.”
Homelander chuckles. “Not a very original question, William.”
“Thirty minutes,” Butcher threatens. “I mean it.” The bloody supe is right, of course. Having the upper hand is making him lazy.
“What can I say.” Homelander rolls his eyes. “Clearly, it’s because I am madly in love with you.”
“Don’t think I like that snark.” Billy says, but before he can decide which spot to attack, Homelander has kneed him in the groin. It’s a dull kind of pain, not too terrible thanks to the Temp V, but unpleasant enough. Premeditated, too. The supe’s clearly waited for just the right moment to attack.
Butcher’s gonna have to find a better way to pin him down, maybe tie the c*nt’s legs so at least he can’t wiggle free so easily and kick in two different directions. He could try and tear the cape into strips, try to use that, but as appealing as the idea of destroying a U.S. flag is, he knows it’s not going to hold for very long.
Homelander’s belt though… It’s a golden monstrosity and hard to look at, but with any luck, it’ll do the job. He pulls it out from underneath the supe, who has started hurling curses at him again.
The moment he starts tugging at one of his red boots, Homelander kicks his legs violently, and Billy has to use all his strength to hold him down. C*nt practically never takes these off, and he is beginning to suspect it’s a little more than just a misguided fashion statement.
Still, he manages to pull off both the boots and the pants so that the supe now lies in front of him with nothing but his briefs and the few pieces of cloth around his arms that Billy was too lazy to tear off because they weren’t really in the way.
He wraps the belt around Homelander’s ankles, then clicks the buckle closed. It fits perfectly. “Fuck me,” Billy says, “Vought designed your fucking uniform so they could tie you up with it.” He’s only half serious, but it really is a little too perfect a fit for this to be a bloody coincidence. He’s gotta look into that, maybe this bloody company is more resourceful than he’s giving them credit for.
Homelander opens his mouth for what Billy assumes is another cocky rejoinder, but when Butcher casually runs a finger over his instep, all that comes out is a high-pitched squeal.
“What, you got a fucking foot fetish, Butcher?” He hisses once he’s recovered himself.
Billy does not. In fact, he thinks feet are kind of weird and he half regrets having gone down this route, but he can also sense he’s closing in on another death spot, and he’s not about to pass on that just because he’s feeling awkward.
He sits down on Homelander’s knees, facing away from him and bends both his big toes back with one hand. It’s like pointing a gun at the c*nt’s head, except unlike a gun this actually works and he can feel the supe getting all tense.
“Let’s try this again,” Billy says. “Why do you love working with me so much that you practically forced Ashley to switch all the other team-ups in your schedule for me?”
Silence.
Unoriginal question my arse, he thinks, triumphant. “Yah, that’s right, I know about that.”
Homelander sighs. “You’re not going to like my answer.” He pauses, but Butcher can tell it’s just for dramatic effect. “The truth is, I did it for you. I mean, who else would you be able to team up with otherwise? Nobody cares about you, William. People only like you as part of… well… as part of me, really. Without me, you are nothing.”
Butcher starts laughing. Can it be true? Is this fucking c*nt really so self-absorbed that he actually believes other people give a fuck about approval points?
“Nice one, love, nice one.” He scribbles his fingers over the bottom of Homelander’s left foot.
Homelander shrieks and tries to curl his toes and pull his feet away, but Billy is prepared and is holding him with an iron grip while his other hand is dancing over both stretched soles now.
He bends back all the toes on one foot and runs one finger over the soft underside.
He didn’t think Homelander could laugh any harder, but it’s another sweet spot, and it's working like fucking magic. The poor c*nt is losing his mind behind him. He’s howling and wheezing and desperately trying to free himself.
“Fuck me,” Butcher mumbles. “You got ticklish toes, love.”
“STOP FUCK I CAN’T I DON’T KNOW I DON’T STOPSTOPSTOP I DON’T I JUST YOU YOU ARE FUCK I CAN’T TAKE-”
It’s another incoherent string of words pouring out of his mouth, and it takes Billy a while to realize Homelander is trying to answer his question.
“In case I wasn’t clear earlier,” he says without stopping, “rule is, when I ask you a question you get one chance to give me the best answer your pretty little head can come up with. You try being cute with me, that chance goes out the window. You hear me?”
Most likely not, Billy thinks. Homelander is too busy screaming and crying and blurting out absolute gibberish. He’s sounding barely human at this point.
Out of nowhere, Billy feels two hot dots on his back. C*nt’s fucking laser powers are returning. He’s burning right through Butcher’s jacket, but it’s no more than a soft tingle on his skin; he’s on Temp V and it will be hours before Homelander regains his full strength.
He stops and turns around, a grin on his face, just in time to see the soft red glow in Homelander’s eyes flicker and go out.
“Your powers’re coming back, love. Means your supe senses are coming back. Heard that makes you lot extra sensitive.”
Maybe it’s just a rumour, how many people have even tried to tickle a supe and lived to tell the tale?, but Billy is never going to forgive himself if he passes up the chance to verify this particular piece of information.
It’s a gamble; Homelander might be able to break out of his bondage at some point, but Billy Butcher’s not one to shy away from a bit of risk. And using the c*nt’s super powers against him is just too fucking poetic, really is what it is.
First things first though. He lies down next to Homelander, brushes the hair out of his face and places a kiss on his forehead. “Your turn, love.”
Chapter 3
C*nt’s in a real sorry state, red-faced, panting and drenched in sweat. Billy gave him a good workout right there.
“Let’s clean you up a bit,” he decides.
He gently lifts Homelander’s head, pulls out the cape from underneath and starts drying his face, wiping away sweat and tears and probably a good amount of radioactive micro particles. Homelander winces at first, suspecting another attack but then calms down, and for a moment, Billy is almost certain the bastard’s actually leaning into the touch and sighing softly.
Fucking great, why does the c*nt have to pull this affectionate shit on him all of a sudden, it makes no sense. Nothing about Homelander makes any sense. Or, if Billy is perfectly honest, how he himself has been handling this situation.
He should try and choke this arsehole, stab him, break his nose, see if he can inflict damage in some other way while Homelander’s still in this weakened state. Not that it’s bloody likely to work or have any lasting effect, but he ought to at least try, right? Instead, he keeps wiping the sweat off of Homelander’s neck and chest and is rubbing his hair dry.
“Your turn,” he repeats once he’s done.
“Where’s your lair?” Homelander blurts out like he’s been itching to ask that question all day.
Billy bursts out laughing. “My what?”
“You know what I mean.” Homelander says. “Your, your headquarter… for you and your, uh, accomplices. Where is it?”
“In your mother’s vagina, that’s where our lair is.”
Homelander sighs and shakes his head in mock disapproval. “Now that’s the kind of answer that would have earned me a penalty, William.”
Billy can’t argue with that. “Know what, love? It still can.” He sits down on Homelander’s elbows, pressing them down with his knees. This supe can struggle and kick all he wants now, Billy is out of kicking range.
He launches a mock attack just to see if it works, and it does. He tries a second time, and it works again. Homelander lets out the most ridiculous yelp and tries to jump away before Billy’s fingers ever touch his skin.
“Don’t… don’t do that!” He snarls once he realizes that Butcher is toying with him.
“That’s fair,” Billy says, “don’t worry, I won’t do that no more.” He brushes the back of his hand over Homelander’s side. It’s the lightest of touches, but it manages to catch the supe off guard. He lets out another high-pitched shriek before coiling and twisting on the floor trying to pin the hand.
“You ever consider becoming a belly dancer, love?” Butcher teases, and Homelander curses him between bursts of involuntary laughter.
He eventually manages to draw his tied legs up and is trying to curl into a ball - except his arms are still pinned above his head, making it all quite useless.
Billy simply moves his hands up into the armpits, drawing light circles with his finger tips, prompting more desperate giggling and squirming.
“How-h-how much lo-lo-longer?” Homelander is craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Billy’s mobile because the wretched c*nt somehow still believes that he is playing fair and is actually timing his torture.
“But I’m barely touching you,” Billy says, amused. “I’m actually thinking we should count this as a break.”
There is a soft red glow in Homelander’s eyes accompanying a particularly violent fit of giggles, but they only flicker briefly before they go out again. “Fuck you!”
“Tell you what,” Billy says, “if you can guess where our ‘lair’ is,” he’s making scare quotes with his eyes because his fingers are busy, “I’ll stop. And I’ll let you go. How does that sound?”
“Fuhuhucck youu!”
“Not today, love.” Billy’s grin widens, but he stops after just a few more minutes of cruel soft teasing.
Homelander draws in a sharp breath. Even with nothing but these light touches he’s somehow still managed to work up a sweat and run out of air.
Billy lets him catch his breath before he gets up and pushes his knees back down. The supe is suprisingly unresisting, letting Butcher uncurl him and spread him out without too much protest. Either he’s getting tired or it’s finally sinking in that there’s not much he can do. It’s only when Billy swings his leg over his knees and sits down on his thighs again that he tenses up and starts squirming and tugging at the pipe again.
Part of Billy wishes he could tie him up properly. He’s only been to Homelander’s bedroom once, and he’s got no plans to ever go there again, but the c*nt does have a posh four poster bed that would be perfect for this kind of thing. Homelander’s wrists and ankles would look bloody exquisite in silver cuffs, and he just can’t help but think that being completely immobilized would be the perfect mindfuck for this supe who is so unaccustomed to being physically overpowered.
“Your turn,” Homelander says, jolting Billy from his thoughts, and he feels almost grateful for it. How the fuck is he sitting here daydreaming about tying up his nemesis in his bedroom in Vought Tower?
“When’s your birthday, love?”
“Now you’re just wasting a question, William,” Homelander says, snickering. “Everybody knows when my birthday is.”
“No, when’s your real birthday?” Billy laughs, but he knows the joke’s on him. He’s found a way to actually torture this c*nt for information; he could make him spill all his secrets here and now, make him tell everything he knows. He should be asking about Vought and their illegal experimental drugs, their black sites, what other aces the fuckers got up their sleeves, yet here he is quizzing the c*nt about his birthday. Fucking great, Billy Butcher, fucking great.
“Why do you even care?” Homelander snaps.
He didn’t expect the supe to get all defensive about this one. Billy resists the urge to go for another hipbone squeeze. This could be interesting. “Maybe I wanna send you flowers,” he says.
Homelander sighs and starts biting his lip. There’s a look in his eyes Billy hasn’t seen before. “Can we just skip this one?” It’s clear he’s expecting no mercy though; every muscle in his body has tensed up and he’s turning his face away, squinting his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
C*nt doesn’t know his own fucking birthday, Butcher realizes, and somehow it hits him like a train. Vought must have the records but clearly never felt the need to let him know. Did he never ask? Or is this simply not a conversation he would have with his corporate owners? No doubt Billy could make Homelander admit he doesn’t know, but that just feels like partaking in these soulless corporate fuckers’ mindless cruelty. He might as well start buying Vought stock and publicly commending the company for its A+ sentient product management.
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he says. “I get it. You don’t like flowers. Suit yourself. But I get an extra question now.”
“Whatever,” Homelander says, but he actually sounds relieved.
“Alright.” Billy thinks for a moment. He’s got to make this one count. “What crimes did you commit this week? Murder anyone in cold blood? Broke the Geneva Conventions?”
Clearly, he’s not going to learn much about Vought today because for better or for worse his brain has decided it would rather know more about the twisted c*nt he’s working with, but at least he’s going to get a confession on video. That’s got to count for something, right?
“I don’t commit crimes and I don’t-” Homelander starts, but Billy cuts him off right then and there. That hypersensitive area of skin right above his atrocious red briefs has been practically begging for his undivided attention. He is scribbling his fingers from left to right and right to left, and the spot does not disappoint.
“DON’T! DON’T!!” The c*nt’s eyes light up again, and Billy can feel the heat this time. Homelander is trying to tense his muscles, but it’s plain he’s about to turn into jelly.
“Who’d we murder this week? Hmm?” Butcher repeats. “And, please, tell me something I don’t already know,” he adds quickly. He really doesn’t need to hear again that Homelander killed a man at a rally; it’s been all over the press, and he’s already given the psychotic c*nt a piece of his mind for killing in front of Ryan.
“STOP!!! I can’t FUCKING think!”
Billy laughs. “Too many to choose from, eh?” He says, but he actually pauses. “Tell you what. You’ve got ten seconds.” Just to drive the point home, he starts counting down.
“Wait!” Homelander wails. “Wait, wait! I need more time!”
“Nah. You’re stalling.” Billy plunges both hands back down, digging all ten fingers into that smooth flat belly, and the reaction is fucking mindblowing.
Temp V’s a real bitch, but Butcher’s glad he’s got it running through his veins right now. Otherwise, he’s not sure he could hold down Homelander, that’s how violently he’s bucking and thrashing now.
“STOPSTOPSTOP I CAN’T. WILLIAM! PLEASE!!” Homelander is banging his head on the floor, and just watching him is giving Billy a headache. “I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE OKAY! PLEASE! I SWEAR I SWEAR!”
“Did you really just say please?” Billy asks with mock surprise but without stopping. “Fuck, I think you meant it! Say it again!”
He’s fully expecting Homelander to press his lips shut and at least make an effort to regain some sort of dignity, but he’s dead wrong about that.
The bloody supe’s begging without any shame or reservation now, pleading with him to stop please stop, promising to be better, to be good, to do whatever Billy wants if only he could please please please stop.
Some people get less sensitive over time, but with Homelander, it seems to be just the opposite. The longer Butcher’s hands linger on a spot, the more he is reduced to a quivering bundle of nerves.
The laser hitting Billy’s chest with every particularly violent fit of laughter is beginning to sting, but he isn’t ready to call it a day just yet. He’s still got too much Temp V in his system so the c*nt can’t actually melt his skin, though the same cannot be said for his clothes. Billy looks at the growing scorch marks on his leather jacket and sighs.
“Oi! You’re ruining my clothes, love. Cut it out for fuck’s sake will ya.”
“I CAN’T-” Homelander’s eyes are still glowing, but he is actually crying now, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “I CAN’T… IT'S NOT... I’M NOT… NO NO PLEASE! PLEHEAHEASE STOP!”
Having Homelander so completely at his mercy is giving Billy a rush. He’s wondering if the bloody supe has enough of his powers back yet to read his vitals and knows how much hearing him plead like this excites him. Who’s he kidding though, Homelander doesn’t need super powers to figure out what a pair of regular human eyes can see clearly enough.
He’s not the only one, Billy realizes with mixed feelings. C*nt may be begging and crying for mercy, but his body is telling a different story.
“WHY DO YOU ENJOY TORTURING ME” Homelander screams, and Billy slows down the pace just a little. It’s still enough to leave the supe squirming and disoriented.
“Easy,” he says. “Because you’re loving it. You should see yourself right now.”
The c*nt’s throbbing erection is visible through the red cloth just fine, but just to make his point, he pulls down Homelander’s briefs. “Beautiful, that.”
Homelander actually looks embarrassed, turning his head to avoid having to look Billy into the eye. “You’re not one to talk,” he mumbles.
Billy suddenly remembers he’ll be able to rewatch, relive this moment as many times as he wants, and fuck it, this clip’s not gonna be admissible in a court of law no matter what he does now, so he might as well go all out.
He wraps his hand around Homelander’s cock and is about to give it a few strokes when there’s a flash and a loud bang right behind him.
He turns around, and through the dust, he can see the Vought c*nts moving in, guns drawn, jumpy and trigger-happy as usual, not that they can actually do much with guns at a supe fight. Butcher sighs. Why do these c*nts always have to be so fucking dramatic?
When they see it’s just Homelander and Billy, they lower their weapons, but they’re still staring, all ten of them, like they’ve never seen a man with his hand wrapped around another man’s dick before. Or, well, a sweat-drenched panting naked supe with his hands wrapped in a pipe pinned above his head.
Said supe looks surprisingly unfazed if a tad annoyed as he turns his head towards the Vought men. “Yes? What is it now?”
Chapter 4
The whole fucking SWAT team is about to shit their pants. Homelander tends to have that effect on people.
Billy wants to tell them to stop gawking (shouldn’t they be used to this by now?), but he can’t find the right words to pack a proper punch, so instead he does the only other thing he can think of: he leans down and presses his lips on Homelander’s.
For once, this enemies to lovers horse shit is coming in handy, because at least they’ll have no explaining to do. Well, less explaining.
The c*nt looks surprised at first but quickly plays along. It’s a chaste kiss, no tongue, tamer than anything they’ve done a hundred times over for the cameras. Maybe it’s because Homelander’s still a sweaty, teary-eyed mess or maybe its because his erection is pressing against Butcher’s stomach, but somehow this feels a lot more intimate than what they do for show.
“Sir?” One of the men is approaching carefully, as if any sudden movement could cost him his life. (In all fairness, normally, it probably would.)
Homelander breaks away from their innocent attempt at a real kiss. “Oh, for God’s sake, just say what you want to say.”
The man winces and instinctively takes a step back. “So sorry to bother you, Sir, but we need your help. Soldier Boy is wreaking havoc in Vegas. He’s blown up two casinos, and we think-”
“Soldier Boy is where now?” Butcher blurts out.
“-we think he may have plans to flatten the entire city.”
“Are you saying that Soldier Boy is half the way around the country?” Billy tries a second time, but the Vought team is ignoring him, as is Homelander, who is pointedly avoiding Billy’s eyes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s running through all the potential scenarios. There’s no way Soldier Boy could have fought Homelander less than an hour ago and be in Vegas by now. Maeve may have trapped the c*nt, but he can’t think of a way she could have blocked his powers. Unless of course… unless Homelander is not de-powered at all, and he’s just putting on one hell of an act. Billy’s geiger counter is still giving him through the roof readings, but everything is pointing towards a set-up, he has to concede.
Fucking great, he walked straight into one of this c*nt’s twisted horny fantasies and played his part didn’t he.
“Sir? Will you be coming?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” This is the time when Homelander would normally put on his all-American boy scout smile, but he’s surprisingly irritable, gesturing with his head towards the door. “Just wait for me outside. Shoo. Off you go.”
The guards don’t move, and Homelander sighs. “What?”
“Will you be needing a new suit, Sir?”
Homelander stares at them like they’ve lost their minds, and that’s fair, Billy thinks. “No, I’ll be flying naked. What do you think, yes of course you fucking morons, quit gaping and go get me one.”
“Get up,” Billy snarls as soon as the corporate SWAT team has scuttled out the door. “I know you can.”
Homelander shakes his head. “I honestly have no powers, William. You’re gonna have to help me out.”
That smug grin is right back on his face, and Billy wants to punch him. As fun as this was, he really doesn’t appreciate the whole set-up dynamic. Who the fuck even does something like this? The answer is staring him right in the face; Homelander does. He should have known.
“Alright,” he says. There’s really only one way to find out if this c*nt is telling the truth about his powers or not. “I’ll give you a hand, but you’re gonna have to do the hard part yourself, love.”
“Oh, fuck, no,” Homelander groans when he notices the sadistic grin on Billy’s face, going from cocky to desperate in under three seconds. “Not again, please!” He’s panicking as Billy shifts the weight of his body and clasps his thighs around his. “Stop stop stop! Vought could be back any minute!”
“That didn’t bother you before, did it.” The c*nt may have been miffed they got interrupted, but he hardly seemed embarrassed.
Homelander opens his mouth to protest some more, but his complaints quickly turn into soft moans when Billy wraps his hands around his erection and continues where he left off earlier.
He’s got only spit for lube, and normally, the result would probably be a bit underwhelming, but not with this horny, touch-starved c*nt it isn’t. He’s arching his hips and thrusting into Billy’s palm all while moaning so loudly that if anyone’s still in this fucking building, they can probably hear him. It takes less than a minute until his eyes start glowing and he shoots out a ridiculously large load all over his stomach and Billy’s chest like some overexcited teenager.
“Fuck.” There’s an idiotic, blissful smile on Homelander’s face as his body relaxes and his eyes return to their normal blue color. “I did not expect that, William.”
“Bet you didn’t.” Butcher grabs Homelander’s still twitching cock and starts rubbing his thumb over the tip, jolting the supe out of his blissful post-orgasmic haze.
“No no no dooon’t!!!” Homelander squeals.
“Nah, you ain't done yet, I can tell,” Butcher says, mercilessly flicking his thumb over the supe’s cock.
The effect is not unlike a particularly well-placed tickle, only his squeals and giggles sound more desperate now, and his whole body is spasming and shaking uncontrollably. From the reaction, Billy is almost 100 per cent certain nobody has ever done this to Homelander before. This poor overstimulated c*nt had no clue someone could weaponize his own body against him like this.
Billy starts pumping his fist as he keeps running his thumb over the same spot. Homelander is bucking and thrashing like a wild horse now.
“NOHOHOHO! STOHOHOP!! I CAN’T I CAN’T I CAN'T PLEASE I CAN’T!!!”
“Careful, love,” Billy tells him, “ya don’t want to hurt yourself down there, tear anything off by accident.” Can he even hurt himself? Probably not, but just to be sure, he presses the palm of his free hand down on Homelander’s stomach to pin the center of his body in place. Of course, that’s only making things worse.
Homelander is tugging so violently at the pipe it’s creaking, but that’s all it does because apparently whoever laid the pipes in this building paid attention to quality. Billy is a little worried Homelander might try to break a bone on purpose just to try to squeeze his hands through the metal. But it looks like his invulnerable supe body is preventing him from taking even this most desperate of escape routes. Fucking poetic indeed.
“Try pulling your arms to the side instead of down,” Billy tells him.
He keeps rubbing his thumb over his glans until he has forced a second watery load out of Homelander, who collapses on the floor, panting and wheezing, completely spent and just about ready to pass out from exhaustion.
Billy’s tempted to go for a third round and maybe a fourth just to see how far he can push this supposedly invincible c*nt, but he’s already made other plans. Homelander probably doesn’t know this about his own body, either, but he is currently little more than a pile of raw, overstimulated nerve endings - defenseless, and about to lose his fucking mind along with any semblance of dignity or control.
Billy almost feels sorry for him.
He grabs Homelander’s hips with both hands like pinchers and gives them a good squeeze, digging his fingers in with full force.
The red lasers that come shooting from Homelander’s eyes like a reflex almost knock Billy off the supe’s body.
He’s trying to plead with Billy, but the words won’t come out this time. He’s lost all control over his limbs, his body turned to pudding, shaking with silent laughter, unable to scream or cry or beg. His face has turned a dark shade of red. Just as Butcher starts to worry he might accidentally suffocate this poor c*nt, he takes one gasping breath. All the words that were stuck in his chest come pouring out, mixed with the most desperate high-pitched laughter Billy has ever heard in his life.
“OH GOHOHOD NOHOHO! PLEHEHEASE PLEASE PLEASE BILLY PLEASE!! THIS IS TORTURE BILLY PLEASE!!”
Fuck, it’s Billy now, Butcher thinks.
And then, with another sudden jerk, the pipe finally snaps, and Homelander’s arms shoot down to fend off Billy’s hands.
“There you are.” Billy could probably try to pin him down and continue, but breaking that bloody steel pipe with anything less than full supe strength is pretty fucking impressive, if he’s perfectly honest. The c*nt has earned himself a reprieve. “Took you long enough,” he adds.
There’s no response, and Billy feels a pang of guilt. Maybe he’s taken this too far.
He wraps his arms around Homelander and draws him close. The supe’s still shaking, but he’s not pushing Butcher away, so he keeps holding him, rocking him gently until he’s beginning to calm down.
“That was bloody impressive,” he says.
“What?” Homelander looks up, and there’s something soft and solemn and vulnerable in his eyes that gives Billy feelings he’d rather not think about. “What was impressive?”
“You,” Billy says, and he's not even saying it just to speed up the aftercare; he bloody means it, he realizes the moment he says the words out loud. “You’re one tough c*nt, you know that? Most people can’t stand five seconds of this, but you-”
“Oh, shut up,” Homelander says, but he’s suppressing a smile now and cuddles up to Billy.
“And the way you broke that fucking pipe, that was just-”
“Shut up, asshole, or I’m going to have to punch you in the face,” Homelander says, resting his head on Billy’s chest.
“I do have one question,” Billy says after a moment of silent contemplation. “If Soldier Boy is in Vegas, then how the fuck did you manage to lose your powers all by yourself?”
“Nice try,” Homelander grins, “but I’m not going to just tell you how to do this little trick.” He still looks completely wrecked, but his wit seems to be coming back. “For what should be obvious reasons,” he adds.
Billy glances at his geiger counter again. Whatever this little trick is, it seems to involve copious amounts of radioactive material and is probably terrible for the environment as well as any NYC resident without V in their system.
“You know I could make you tell me,” he says, briefly enjoying the sudden look of silent terror on Homelander’s face before adding, “Some other time.”
Homelander sits up, rubbing his wrists. The damage is limited given the strain they’ve been put through, but there are red marks cutting into his skin.
“You know you could have just wrapped yourself up in that thing and pretended you had no powers,” Billy says. “Made things a little easier on yourself.”
“I wanted it to be real.” Homelander shoots back. “It’s not the same if I can free myself any time. You wouldn’t understand,” he adds defensively. He gets up and starts stretching his limbs like a lazy cat. “I wanted to know what you would do to me.”
“Oh, did ya.” Try as he might, Butcher can’t look away, and he suspects this manipulative c*nt knows exactly what he’s doing and what effect it’s having on him. “Got a bit more than we bargained for, eh?”
“Well, yes, I didn’t think you were going to fucking tickle rape me,” Homelander says, but he almost sounds pleased with himself, like he’s won some kind of prize for getting Billy to pay him so much attention for the better part of the hour. He picks up what’s left of his cape and lets out a dramatic sigh before tossing it aside and cursing Vought for being cheap and using the wrong fucking fabric again.
“What the hell did you think I would do?” Butcher asks, amused.
Homelander slips into his pants and boots before tying the belt back around his waist. “Don’t know. Didn’t really think that part through… Fuck me, I suppose.”
Billy laughs. “I kinda did, love.”
Homelander leaves the remark unacknowledged. “Did you take my gloves?” He asks. “I put them on that chair right there.”
“What the fuck would I do that for?”
Homelander shrugs. “Trophy of your conquest, I suppose. Fuck do I know how your sick mind works.”
“My sick mind, huh? That’s a bit rich coming from someone who left himself gift-wrapped for his arch enemy to find and who gets turned on from being all helpless and tickled to pieces.”
“Oh please,” Homelander says. “We’re not enemies, we're partners now.” But he’s blushing just a bit.
Billy picks up his phone, realizes it’s still recording and presses the stop button.
He thought he was inconspicuous enough, but of course Homelander notices and turns around. The c*nt’s super hearing has probably recovered enough that he can hear Billy’s fingers. “I want a copy of that,” is all he says. “Gotta know what you have on me,” he adds quickly when he sees Butcher’s smirk.
“I’ll send it to the group chat, love.” Billy says.
Homelander spits a “Fuck you” at him, but it sounds almost affectionate by the c*nt’s standards, and he’s making no effort to grab the phone from Billy.
He’s levitating for just a few seconds before he sinks back down to the floor and lands with an uncharacteristically loud thud. “Well, I won’t be flying us to Vegas,” he says matter-of-factly.
Us, Billy thinks. Bloody supe just offered him that sky ride. Or rather, didn’t offer because he can’t fly at the moment, but same same, it’s the thought that counts. Us. Butcher is cursing himself. Why’s he even thinking about that word now?
“Just so it’s perfectly clear, there is no us,” he grumbles.
“Of course not,” Homelander says. “That would be ridiculous. Think you can drive us to Vought airbase?” He pauses and laughs. “Never mind. At your pathetic human speed, Soldier Boy will be gone by the time we make it to Vegas.”
Billy doesn’t take the bait. He does make a mental note, however, because he didn’t know Vought even had their own airbase. He may not be very good at interrogating Homelander about his new employer, but as long as he keeps working with this self-important c*nt, he’ll be drip-fed all kinds of useful information. Obviously, that’s the only reason why he’s even doing this, he assures himself.
By the time Vought security return with a new suit, Homelander is fully in his element again, prancing around and being the most annoying c*nt he could possibly be. He picks out the top, cape and gloves. “Help me get this off,” he commands, stretching out his arms so that his Vought servants can pull off the sleeves of his old uniform and help him slip into the new one.
Billy can’t help but wonder if this is how he gets dressed in the morning: ordering around some poor intern working for ‘exposure’ and ‘experience.’ Probably. Hopefully, he’ll never have to find out.
The elevator is working again, but Billy doesn’t feel like facing the media spectacle he knows must await them downstairs, so he tells the others to go ahead and takes the stairs.
When he finally makes it outside, Homelander is standing in front of a row of mics and cameras and a cheering crowd of what must be hundreds of people, telling them some wild story about this new super villain he just chased and killed.
Behind him, the SWAT team is carrying out a body, and Butcher wonders if they just asked one of their own to slip into the body bag and lay very still.
Just as Billy wants to quietly slip away, Homelander turns around and points at him. “There he is!” He announces. “Give it up for Willllliam Butcher.”
Fuck. This fucking clown show. Billy steps forward, musters what he hopes is a passable smile that doesn’t look too painful and nods at the cameras.
“Everybody. Please!” Homelander has raised his hands and is trying to calm down the crowd. Billy is instantly wary because he has that look on his face that’s always there when he’s about to spring some nasty little suprise on someone. “We have a special announcement to make.”
We, Billy thinks. Yeah, this is not good.
“It’s been eleven years since the great state of New York decided to give every American the right to chose the partner they love.”
Fucking hell, Billy thinks. The fuck does this c*nt think he’s doing?
“So today-” Homelander pauses to let the words sink in with the crowd - he’s got public speaking skills, Billy has to give him that - “today, I am proud to announce that Billy and I-” another pause, and now he’s just doing it to torture Billy, who knows exactly what’s coming and has no way of stopping it.
Somewhere at Vought Tower, people are either popping bottles of champagne or making desperate phone calls because their insane sentient product is going off-script again, but all of that is little consolation to Butcher.
Homelander gives his audience his most charming smile. “Everyone. Today, Billy and I are making it official… We are going to get married!”
The crowd erupts in cheers, and Homelander is basking in their applause the way he always does. He has interlaced his fingers with Billy’s and is yanking their hands up in the air before taking an actual fucking bow like the bloody circus this is.
Oh, you’re going to regret this, Billy thinks. He leans over and presses a kiss on Homelander’s cheek. “What, you some kind of shy maiden now, and the first man who touches you down there has to marry you?” He hisses. Part of him is hoping that one of the press microphones is close enough to pick up his words.
Homelander grins. “That’s actually funny, I like your sense of humor, Billy Butcher.” He wraps his arms around Billy’s shoulders and kisses him, and it's a proper kiss this time.
It tastes a little bit salty and a little bit sweet, and it’s not entirely unpleasant, Billy notes with a hint of despair. If he’s not careful, he’s going to be stuck with this c*nt for real.
Homelander finally pulls away and turns back to the crowd, telling them anecdotes of their lives together, what led to this momentous decision etc. etc.
Billy pulls out his mobile while the attention seeking c*nt is busy preening. There’s a message from Maeve. “Wanna fuck?” Butcher sighs. He likes her simple, direct style.
“Turn on your telly,” he texts back. “Got kidnapped by HL. No need to send rescue. Will send update later.”
He turns off his phone and steps back next to the supe, wrapping his arms around his waist.
Just as Homelander starts talking about Butcher's plans to move into Vought Tower with him, he gives him a pinch, light enough that it causes no bouts of convulsing laughter, but sufficient to make Homelander giggle into the microphone loud and clear for everyone to hear and fighting the urge to squirm out of his grasp.
The game is on, Billy thinks, trying to figure out why he’s not really upset about any of this when clearly he should be. The game is fucking on.
