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‘You alright?’ Hughie’s voice cut through the dense silence of the hallway.
He was glancing at Butcher, concern clear in his eyes. It was the same worry he’d shown when insisting on following Butcher home – unspoken, until that moment. Butcher had hoped it’d remain unspoken until he was home and couldn’t hear it. Seemed outside his front door was as far as his luck extended.
The answer to his question was “no”, though he wanted it to be “yes”. It should’ve been “yes”. Nothing was wrong. Nothing more than usual. They were still snooping, still hunting supes, still alive. Nothing had changed. Except, Butcher hadn’t seen Homelander in two weeks.
Or; hadn’t gotten a visit from him in two weeks. He’d seen the cunt plenty; on the telly, on posters, on his phone. In Vought’s run-up to their Easter celebrations, their golden boy was plastered everywhere. All facsimile smiles and platitudes – hands clasped behind his back. No inclination anything was amiss, no hint he felt he should be anywhere else.
It irritated Butcher, and he’d tried not to think about it. But with little to distract him – no Homelander coming to perch on the edge of his bed every evening – it was all he could think about. At first, he’d carried on like it didn’t matter, brushing off the questioning looks from the boys. Because it didn’t matter. When he and Homelander had entered into their pact, Butcher had only cared about finding a way to put him in the ground for good. How Homelander spent his time wasn’t important. Whether he hung around in Butcher’s flat or on the fucking moon didn’t matter if it didn’t get in the way of killing him.
The fact they were now sleeping together didn’t change that. And if recently, “sleeping together” meant watching television, eating dinner, chatting, not always actually fucking, that changed nothing either.
That was clearly the case for Homelander.
But evidently not for Butcher.
‘Butcher?’ Hughie’s voice came again.
Butcher turned to him, hand halfway through turning the key in the lock. The poor lad’s eyes were creased with concern, and he wondered how long he’d been brooding since he’d been asked the original question.
‘Aye, I’m fine.’ He shook his head, gave a small smile and nothing else.
Hughie didn’t believe him, Butcher could tell. With how put out he’d been the last few days; he didn’t blame him. Maybe it was for the best that Homelander kept away. If whatever had changed for Butcher meant he was this bothered by a fortnight apart, maybe it should change back. It would give Hughie less reason to turn that wide-eyed concern on him.
‘Well, if anything’s ever not fine…’ Hughie left the offer unsaid.
‘Don’t you worry about it, lad.’ Butcher opened the door. ‘I’m more than fine.’
Hughie’s throat worked like he intended to say more, before he nodded, letting the topic drop. He gave Butcher one more long look, then headed back down the hallway, leaving Butcher to slip into his flat.
‘Happy Easter, mate,’ Butcher mumbled, too late.
The traffic noise from outside hummed in the background as Butcher traversed the empty flat. People rushing to visit family and drag their sprog to easter egg hunts. Butcher never celebrated Easter himself. The most he could remember doing was singing songs about chocolate eggs during assembly as a child. What that had to do with God, he didn’t know.
He knew how he’d be celebrating today, though; lying in bed with a drink, and nothing else. He definitely wouldn’t be tuning into the televised Vought Easter egg hunt. The one Homelander had been grinning in interviews about.
Stepping into the bedroom with a sigh, he flicked on the lights and almost jolted at the sight waiting for him.
‘Happy Easter.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Butcher muttered.
‘That is who today is about.’ Homelander grinned from where he sat on Butcher’s bed. ‘Though I know you’re a heathen, so you can pretend it's about someone else instead.'
Butcher barely heard him, focus stolen by what he was wearing. A sheer, white babydoll nightie hung loose over his chest and thighs, complete with ribbons, lace, the whole nine yards. A pair of matching underwear peeked out from underneath, barely concealing anything, from what Butcher could see. Atop his head, a headband with a pair of cheap white bunny ears glued to the top was slotted into his hair, mussing it. He’d positioned himself in the centre of the bed, posed like a page three girl. The whole thing was so cartoonishly sexy, Butcher almost laughed.
He fought the urge, settling for staring instead. He tried to seem unbothered, like he should’ve been. It shouldn’t matter to him – as he’d been telling himself for the last fortnight. No part of Butcher should be pleased to finally see him.
He crossed the room, heading for the closet to change out of the day's clothes. Even with his back turned, he could feel Homelander’s gaze roving over his back as he slipped out of his shirt. His skin warmed.
‘You know, Hughie was right outside with me.’ It took all he had to not look back as he spoke, not return Homelander’s gaze, or get his own eyeful. ‘He could’ve come in with me and seen you like this.’
‘Why would he come into your bedroom?’ Homelander asked, and Butcher was gratified to hear an edge of genuine jealousy in his voice.
‘I saw Campbell outside,’ Homelander continued when Butcher turned back towards him, wearing nothing but a plain undershirt. ‘Heard him too. Sounds like you’ve been a grinch. It’s not even the right season.’ He grinned, smug, like he’d guessed what had caused Butcher’s bad mood.
He repositioned himself, giving Butcher a winning view of his legs. The way he sat was almost casual, like he belonged on Butcher’s bed. Like he had never left it empty.
‘Shouldn’t you be at that Easter egg hunt? Or whatever it is Vought does?’ He asked, looking nowhere in particular.
‘If they want me, they can come get me.’ Homelander was still smiling. When Butcher didn’t say anything, still staring at nothing, he continued. ‘They don’t need me; I got A-Train to cover. What were they gonna say? No?’ He scoffed. ‘I just told them I had better things to do.’
As he said it, he walked his fingers across the bed – and god, he really was like a page three girl. Butcher had hoped his apparent uninterest would sting the cunt’s ego, but his growing arousal was probably obvious to whatever senses let Homelander read him. Even more obvious if he just x-rayed straight through Butcher’s jeans and got a look at his cock. Being vexed with the cunt wasn’t enough to stop his dick from taking interest.
If anything, being angry was making it worse. The bitter thoughts from the past few days were quickly being replaced with images of pouncing on Homelander. Tearing off his ridiculous get-up and fucking him into the mattress. Kissing him, holding him, making him shudder. Making him feel everything he hadn’t for the two weeks he kept away.
‘Oh yeah? And where are these “better things”?’ Butcher knew, as his cock twitched, that it was a dying effort, but he gave it one last hurrah anyway.
‘William.’ Homelander’s voice dripped with satisfaction, ‘just say you missed me, and get over here.’
And even though part of him argued he was only feeding the problem, Butcher did just that.
Grabbing Homelander by the ankle, he pulled him to the edge of the bed in one rough tug. Homelander let out a gasp of surprise, though he must’ve known it was coming if he let himself be moved so easily.
‘I didn’t miss you, cunt,’ Butcher muttered, leaning in.
Before Homelander could respond, he pushed their mouths together – rough and messy. Under his lips, he felt the same smug grin from earlier, and lapped his tongue over it, licking it away. His teeth sank into soft lips, and part of him was annoyed to know they wouldn’t bruise. Wouldn’t swell, or cut, or be left with any visible mark. No matter what Butcher did, no part of him would be.
Homelander gasped again, satisfied this time, and opened his mouth, letting Butcher push his way inside. Butcher heard himself groan at the taste, and it was almost embarrassing how needy he sounded. It didn’t matter though – not when he felt Homelander’s arms fly around his neck, urging him closer.
You did miss me.
Pressing closer, Butcher roamed his hands over Homelander’s chest, down his stomach, onto his hips. The rough chiffon of the babydoll rubbed against his palms, and he hitched it up, gathering it in bunches around Homelander’s waist. Leaning back – causing Homelander to give a protesting whine – Butcher took in the figure beneath him. Slim and flushed and shivering. His nipples were perked, visible though his nightie and the curl of his chest hair. And Butcher had been right, his underwear didn’t hide anything.
They were sheer, like the rest of the outfit, and the wet patch forming on the front had turned them translucent, giving Butcher a teasing look at the reddened flesh beneath.
‘Were you already hard when I walked in here?’ He brought a hand down to cup Homelander’s cock, stiff and leaking into the fabric it was straining against. He began to palm it harshly, earning him an arched back and breathy whimper. ‘Did you work yourself up just thinking about me coming back?’
Butcher’s own cock was still trapped in his jeans. He pulled away to undress, casting his undershirt aside along with his legwear. His body burned to break contact, but he knew if he didn’t, Homelander would rip his clothes to pieces eventually. It didn’t matter that the cunt would probably replace them like last time.
‘If I say yes, will it make you feel better?’ Homelander watched him from the bed, propped up on his elbows. ‘Do you want to believe I missed you as much as you missed me?’
‘I already told you I didn’t.’ He paced back over, and plucked the bunny ears from Homelander’s head. He waved them in Homelander’s face. ‘And of course you missed me. Abandoned Vought and your adoring fans to come see me.’ He slotted himself back between Homelander’s legs, a position he hadn’t realised he’d liked quite so much before.
A hand played with Homelander’s nightie. ‘And made yourself all pretty too, just to wait in bed for me.’ He leant in. ‘You’re like a bloody housewife.’
He didn’t know why he chose those words, but the brief images they conjured – the suggestion they carried – made his hips jerk forwards, grinding his dick against Homelander’s. The implications of it all weren’t lost on Butcher but, in his foggy arousal, he didn’t think about it any further than how it made his cock ache. Let another him – one not desperate to get his dick wet – brood on it later.
He wasn’t the only one affected by his words, because Butcher found himself being pulled down into another kiss. Before their lips connected, he didn’t miss the quietly whimpered ‘yes’, or the way Homelander’s eyes rolled back, glossy and unfocused. He whined into Butcher’s mouth.
Butcher ground his hips some more, staggered and unsteady, and carried on his best, even after Homelander’s legs wrapped around him. The vice-like grip made it difficult to move, but the desperateness of Homelander’s clinging only made Butcher harder. They were always rough when they fucked, but Butcher couldn’t deny this felt different. His hands were gripping Homelander’s hips with a force that would more than bruise a human companion, and if he moved against Homelander any more violently, he’d be risking damage to himself. Worth it, though, part of him chanted. Worth it.
Putting one hand back to work ravishing Homelander’s body, he let the other sneak round to find his arse, groping the flesh in handfuls. One finger slipped further, pushing aside the underwear and teasing towards Homelander’s entrance. When it met his hole, it found it slick and waiting.
Butcher groaned. The thought of Homelander preparing himself made his mind burn. Had he done it there in Butcher’s bed, waiting for him? How long had it been? Had he come, or had he waited – hard and on edge – for Butcher to come and touch him?
By the way he quaked with each brush of Butcher’s finger – heels digging into Butcher’s back, so close to crushing – Butcher would guess the latter.
‘Look at you.’ Butcher dipped the tip of his finger past his entrance, letting it slip into the tight, wet heat down to the first knuckle. ‘You’re even wet for me; you really are like a housewife.’
Beneath him Homelander moaned, high and tight. He bore down onto Butcher’s finger, trying to push it deeper.
‘Yes, yes.’ His voice shuddered with his body. ‘Like a- like your housewi-’ his voice broke off into a heady groan, head thrown back against the sheets. If he clenched down any harder, he’d break Butcher’s finger.
‘Turn over.’ Butcher’s voice was gravelly, low.
Homelander whined, detangling himself from Butcher at a speed he couldn’t comprehend. He rolled over. Another time, Butcher might’ve taken a moment to appreciate the view – pert ass, toned back, all wrapped up for him in lace and ribbons – but his hands got to work immediately. He tore the underwear away and spread Homelander’s legs. One hand pulled his cheeks apart, and then he was pressed against the entrance, the hot tip of his cock meeting the cool lube there.
His mind went blank.
‘Fuck. William,’ Homelander moaned, ‘What are you-? Please.’
Butcher pushed in. Inch by slow inch, mind hazing with pleasure. He wondered how the Easter egg hunt was getting on without Homelander. He wondered if anyone had guessed why he wasn’t there, what they’d think if they knew he’d come to Butcher instead.
‘This what you wanted?’ He grunted as he bottomed out, voice strained. ‘How long for?’
‘As long as you have,’ Homelander bit back.
Butcher rolled his hips.
‘Fuck.’ There was the distinct sound of Homelander’s fingers tearing through his bedsheets. His head fell forwards onto the mattress. ‘Fuck. Since the last time I fucking saw you. Since I flew off the fucking balcony- William.’
Homelander’s back arched, hips jerking to try and push Butcher deeper. The tight heat of him was something Butcher didn’t think he’d ever tire of. Wrapping around him perfectly like it was made just for that purpose. He gave a slow, deliberate thrust before coming to a stop, folding himself over Homelander’s back. One hand gripped Homelander’s hair, pulling his head back so Butcher could press his mouth to his ear.
‘Of course it's been that long, of course.’ Butcher could hear his own voice trembling, rough and unsteady and betraying a neediness he usually only saw reflected in Homelander. ‘You’re not my housewife, you’re just mine .’
Until they killed each other and themselves. Until the end.
‘Yes, yours. William,’ Homelander gasped. He never said Butcher’s name so often, but now it seemed to be his favourite word. ‘Yours, yours.’ He babbled out, slurred and sure and nearly adoring .
‘ Mine.’ He confirmed, and for a moment, he was surprised by how real it sounded.
Maybe whatever had changed should change back, but Butcher suddenly wasn’t sure it could. Wasn’t sure he cared. All he cared about was the way Homelander was struggling back against him – like having Butcher buried to the hilt inside him wasn’t enough – and the fact that he was his.
Letting Homelander’s head drop down to the mattress, Butcher leaned back. His hands smoothed over Homelander’s back before coming to grip his hips. He pulled out, a long drag that earned him a beautiful gasp, then snapped back forwards. The sound of their skin connecting punctuated the thrust, almost as loud as Butcher’s own groaning.
‘Fuck.’
Butcher wasted no time setting a brutal pace, skin stinging each time it met Homelander’s arse. He wasn’t going to last, not with how Homelander looked. Not with how he sounded, how he felt. Not after how Butcher had waited.
Never again, he thought, not convincing himself he didn’t know what it meant.
Beneath him, Homelander was falling apart. He writhed, hole clenching and hips grinding against the bed – signs he was close to finishing. Butcher reached a hand underneath him, grasped his weeping cock, and gave him a few short tugs. Homelander gasped, arched, then spilled into Butcher’s fist. His body went boneless.
Butcher was close to following him. He continued to roll his hips until they stuttered, and finally his orgasm ripped through him. Some primordial part of his brain that wasn’t blank with pleasure obsessed over the fact that he was filling Homelander, marking him in the deepest place. It didn’t matter if he left no bruises; he’d left this, and Homelander would know.
Soon, it became hard to hold himself up, and he collapsed on top of Homelander, full weight pressing him into the mattress. Muffled by the bedding, Homelander let out a little sigh. Minutes passed like that; Butcher atop him as the afternoon deepened and the sweat cooled on their bodies. Despite the stickiness, it was the most comfortable Butcher had felt in a while.
At last, Homelander spoke.
‘You know, it's not convincing when you say you didn’t miss me, and then do all that.’ He shifted beneath Butcher as he spoke, and even with the gentleness of the movement, Butcher was reminded he could throw him off as soon as he wanted. Still, he remained where he was.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, love,’ Butcher said, as if he still had face to save. As if denying it made a difference. ‘You’re the one who-’
‘Yes, I know.’ Homelander smiled, satisfied. ‘You can just say it.’
‘Shouldn’t you be running back to that Vought thing?’ Butcher replied instead. ‘You’re more than fast enough to make it.’
Homelander shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s nearly finished. What I am going to do is take a shower.’ He shrugged Butcher off.
Butcher let himself fall to the side, watching as Homelander made his way to the bathroom. So, he was staying there. Butcher repressed a smug smile.
‘You can order dinner or something, if you're hungry,’ Homelander said, picking the bunny ears up from where they’d fallen.
‘Gonna put them back on?’
‘You wish,’ Homelander scoffed. ‘This thing itches like a bitch.’ He gestured to the nightie. ‘You’re lucky I-’ He stopped himself, seemingly stunned by something, then disappeared into the bathroom.
Butcher stared after him for a moment - silent and disgustingly satisfied - then followed.