Work Text:
"Ayer me besaste y no podía parar
Y me bailaste hasta el amanecer
Cuando desperté yo te quise llamar
Y ahora me dice que borró cassette"
He waited until the sky brightened just enough to pick up the newly purchased phone and turn it on. He had been awake for what remained of the early morning, dwelling on what had just happened and everything he was… feeling.
Ignored the mirror and walked straight toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window that offered an uninhibited view of the city. He saved the number that had been scribbled on a crumpled receipt found amidst the wreckage of that office.
Dialed, but nothing. Perhaps it was too early, especially given the state in which he’d left his enemy. Using that word as a label for the other man still felt so natural, despite what had transpired only hours ago.
He could still taste the vodka, the herbs, and the sweat in his mouth; he could still catch the scent of Swiss Arabian cologne and tobacco. Above all, could recall the sensation of holding him in his hands in a way so opposite, yet still so tethered to their usual dynamic.
He knew the "him" in the mirror would mock him, call him weak and stupid. That was why he preferred to make this call—to hear the other man's voice, even if it likely told him the same things as the hallucination in the reflection. At the very least, he would hear his voice and know it wasn’t another lapse in his sanity. That it actually happened.
Tries twice an hour until it’s nearly noon and he has already called eleven times. Finally, on the twelfth attempt, that voice answers—hoarse from the hangover and the treatment received in the dark of night.
"Who’s this?" the strain in his voice is evident.
"Me. It’s me," he says, sounding almost nervous.
There is a brief silence. "And who the hell is 'me' supposed to be?"
That sent a sharp pang through his chest. How could he not recognize his voice? After what happened, after all those years.
He lets out a dry laugh, trying to take the question as a vile joke. "You don't have to pretend, William."
There’s another silence on the other end of the line, followed finally by a sigh. "How the fuck did you get my number?"
What? It took him like three tries just to scribble his own number down, and he’s asking that?
"Actually, fuck that. Why are you calling me? I’ve got a shite hangover."
That was a better question. And yet, he didn’t have a clear answer; he only knew that he wanted much more from the other man than he could have ever imagined. "Yes, I think that’s a common side effect when you drink the amount of alcohol you did."
"How…?" he seemed to be struggling to form the question. "Are you spying on me? You bloody son of a—" he was cut off by a wince, a pained groan that Homelander was almost certain of the cause, which made him smirk.
"Not a bad idea, but no, I’m not spying on you. Yesterday you were…"
"Yesterday? Did you break into my office while I was wasted?"
The short answer was yes, but it didn't seem like Butcher was on the same page as him. "Yes, well—I mean, yes, I did enter your office and found you drunk, but that wasn't the only thing that happened."
Silence on the other end, but he hadn't hung up.
"You don't remember?" It couldn't be. How could he forget the best sex of his life?
"One of the perks of vodka, in case you didn't know, are the blackouts." Shit. "But go on, refresh my memory," he challenged, though there was a hint of dread as he sought the answer.
"Well…"
"Que no se acuerda de esa noche
Porque ella borró cassette
Dice que no me conoce
Y quiero volverla ver”
"Shut the fuck up!" Butcher shouted, losing it over the phone. Even without the speakerphone on, his outburst flooded the suite. "You're fucking mad!"
"William, I’m not lying. I have no reason to," Homelander replied calmly—he hadn't even let him get through a third of the whole story.
"I’ve been arse-holed plenty of times and never once did it cross my mind to have... anything with you!" Butcher shot back defensively.
"Well, I don't know what got into you yesterday. Perhaps your adulterated alcohol drove you to do something reckless," Homelander smirked sharply, even if the other man couldn't see him.
"Agh, no! You wanker!" he heard Butcher stammering incoherently, struggling in the background—likely trying to haul himself up. "Nothing happened between you and me! And you’ve got no way of proving otherwise."
Homelander thought about it. There wasn't much tangible proof other than Butcher’s phone number written in his own hand. "I’m certain that if you give me another night, you’ll remember everything. Quite vividly," he proposed.
All he got in return was a shout of frustration followed by the dial tone. Homelander sighed, frustrated himself; because even though he’d said that last part just to wind William up, there was a truth to it. He wanted it to happen again.
Perhaps he should go find him in person. He could bring a bottle of decent vodka as an offering.
"Y que los tragos, hicieron estrago en su cabeza
Ella con cualquiera no se besa
Quiero que sepa que me interesa
Y no hay un día que no pare de pensar en su belleza"
He had received information that William’s team had been in Russia, causing a stir for no apparent reason. It annoyed him. What were they looking for in enemy territory? He definitely needed to have a serious talk with his nemesis.
Without caution or stealth, he arrived at the derelict building they called an office. Pushed open a large window and stepped inside with his characteristic poise.
"How was Russia, William? Did you visit the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood? Quite a name, isn't it?" he saw him sitting there, back turned, his hair damp with what he assumed was sweat—but as he caught the scent, it was just water and shampoo. Small droplets fell onto his shirt, yet he remained unfazed by them or by Homelander's arrival, his attention fixed on whatever was on his desk. "But I'm sure you didn't go just for the sightseeing."
He walked around without looking at him, stopping right in front, seeking to impose himself from the other side of the desk.
"Didn't we say scorched earth, just you and me, William?" he asked, his voice dropping to a tone heavy with mock disappointment. "I thought you were a man of your word, a man of conviction."
The blond scrutinized Butcher’s face, desperately searching for the usual defiance in his gaze. That was when he noticed that what held William’s attention was an almost empty bottle of vodka. A brand he had never heard of. He looked at him again and found Butcher trying to look back, though he was blinking more than usual.
He had flown there for a duel of wills and found himself with a man who couldn't even focus his eyes. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the subtle sound of Butcher’s breathing.
"You look... more fucked than usual," Homelander spat, unable to hide the sneer of disgust curling his upper lip.
"I feel better than ever," Butcher slurred.
Homelander rolled his eyes. He watched in disbelief as Butcher finished a swig from the bottle and then, in a gesture Homelander couldn't tell was a pathetic truce or a mockery, held it out to him. The supe stared at the fogged glass with the last sip of cheap vodka as if it were dirty water.
"Are you gonna drink, or are you gonna fuck off and leave this conversation for when I’m in my right mind?"
It took a genuine effort for Homelander to decipher the mumble. If Butcher talking sober was a headache, drunk he was a challenge to his intelligence.
"Not in your right mind? A bit of cheap vodka is enough to drop you?" he mocked, letting out a short, humorless laugh. "And you want to go up against me like this."
"Agh, I’m not drunk enough for this shit." he watched Butcher stand up with a clumsiness that felt almost alien; he had never seen him stagger for anything other than a fight. He followed him with his eyes as the man walked toward the mini-fridge, swaying as if the floor were made of jelly.
"What are you doing?" Homelander asked. In a blink of an eye, he was at his side, watching him with instinctive suspicion. He couldn't help but think that, even in this state, Butcher was plotting something.
"What d'you think I'm doin'? Takin' my medicine," the black-haired man replied with a familiar sarcastic smirk as he pulled out a fresh bottle of the same kind.
The sound of the liquor hitting his throat as it went down was the only thing heard. Homelander noticed how the man’s eyes glazed over rapidly. When Butcher tried to take a step and tripped on the uneven floorboards, Homelander felt an urge to let him fall and watch him break a bone against the floor—a punishment for clutching that new bottle instead of protecting himself.
However, before the disaster occurred, his hands moved by pure reflex. He grabbed Butcher firmly by the waist, feeling the reckless heat of the man's body against the coldness of his suit as he pulled him back. He steadied him with insulting ease.
"My hero," Butcher muttered, softly thumping Homelander’s steel chest.
Homelander didn't answer. He stayed there, holding the weight of a man with whom he had a death pact. When he saw the other wanted to try moving again and let him go.
But Butcher stopped and looked back at him. "Since you’re here, be useful and help me get over there." He pointed aimlessly at nothing recognizable.
He thought about leaving, leaving William to drown in his own misery. But perhaps, in this state, he could get information out of him more easily. Without any effort, he scooped Butcher up and dropped him onto the couch.
Butcher didn't even have time to react before he was sitting, leaning back against the sofa. "Thanks," he said before drinking again and patting the seat next to him, signaling Homelander to sit. "Aren't you gonna drink? Or sit?"
The blond opted for the latter. "Are you going to tell me what you were doing in Russia? Come on, William, I thought we had a deal," he persuaded.
Butcher looked at him for a moment but turned back to look ahead without responding. He was truly testing his patience, but it wasn't like Homelander had anything better to do outside these peeling walls.
"William."
"Went for a stroll," he said before taking another small sip. They both laughed—one out of drunken mockery, the other to keep himself from violently ripping the information out of him. It couldn't end like this.
"You know I'll find out anyway," he assured him, and it was likely true, but it felt like a betrayal.
"So, why don't you..." Butcher leaned toward him, without a hint of fear and in a way that was entirely different from anything between them, "...just bugger off and let me keep getting pissed and wanking?"
The request didn't catch him by surprise; it was very William. "How much was it to watch you "wank"? Ten dollars?" he recalled the vulgar joke from his visit to his house.
"That offer's expired. Now it's twenty quid or a bottle of something posh," he commented with sarcasm and slurred speech. He drank from the bottle again, and a small trickle escaped his mouth, running down his beard to his neck until it disappeared into his hideous Hawaiian shirt. The trail was strangely hypnotic.
"Do you always get like this when you drink?" he asked with disdain.
William shook his head and looked at him. "I always get stupid. But I rarely get like this." he shrugged.
He raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "Like what?"
Butcher laughed to himself and looked at the ceiling. "Horny."
The supe huffed with a light laugh. "Horny? Why?"
"Dunno... reckon it’s your fault," he smiled foolishly without looking at him.
He really didn't understand what he meant. "My fault?"
"Might seem obvious, but I’m not usually the type to get hammered and pick a fight with the first cunt I see. I'm more the type who gets drunk..." he closed his eyes and sighed, perhaps remembering or imagining, "...and wants to sleep with the first handsome bastard I see. Even if he’s the biggest bastard in the world."
That actually threw him off balance. He knew his expression showed he was at a loss for words. But at least Butcher wasn't looking at him. No one said anything for an eternal minute. William finally looked down and tried to get up, nearly falling again, and once more, Homelander held him and made him sit.
"Thought you'd left already."
And Homelander wondered why he hadn't. "Yes, I should..." he swallowed hard and stood up.
"Wow." Butcher smiled and bit his lip. "Thought you didn't carry weapons, Homie" he brought the bottle to his mouth with a slight flick of his tongue before drinking.
Homelander knew he was well-endowed, though he also knew the suit had a bit of padding to emphasize it. However, he’d be lying if he attributed his bulge to those two reasons when a more unexpected reason lay on the couch, watching his crotch and talking nonsense.
"You don't have to leave if you don't want to." Butcher stood up somewhat quickly, steadying himself by placing his hands on Homelander’s hard chest. "It might be better if you stayed."
"William, do you hear yourself?" He wanted to make him see reason; this wasn't their dynamic. "We hate each other."
"You never had hate sex?" Surprisingly, the answer was no. At least, not hate on his part—though considering many of his encounters hadn't been consensual, it was likely the other person hated him while it happened. He didn't like thinking about that; it made him feel bad. Not for what he’d done, but because he wasn't loved in the act. "We don't have to fight all the time. Doing something different isn't going to stop us from being enemies."
Butcher's pupils were dilated, and he stared at the blond's lips as if they were a better replacement for that vodka. His breathing was slightly heavy, and his lips were parted, breathing through his mouth. The scent of alcohol dominated, but if he paid attention, he could smell the cedar and bergamot in the man's cologne mixed with the salt of his skin. His hands weren't looking to hit him even if he got hurt himself; they were looking for a touch—soft yet erratic.
He had never seen William like this, in this state and in this situation, and he had never seen William... like this. It had never crossed his mind to look at him as anything other than his rival, a nuisance that kept him on edge with violence. Seeing him —vulnerable and hungry— was honestly intoxicating. He didn't need to drink if he had William in this state, for himself.
He isn't gay; he had never liked any man, human or supe. But in his mind, this goes beyond genders and genitals. This is a connection. Between a newly discovered, beautiful William Butcher, and him.
"Te dije mami, tómate un trago
Y cuando estés borracha, pa' mi casa nos vamos
Me sorprendió cuando sacaste ese cigarro
Tomaste tanto que lo has olvidado"
He felt William close the gap between them and heard his heart beating strong but steady before feeling those human lips against his almost divine own. It felt incredible. Though the pace was slow and somewhat careless, he didn’t want to pull away. This was fortunate for Butcher; with a single shove, Homelander could have truly broken him.
Butcher’s hands moved from his chest to his shoulders, caressing and kneading with a certain pressure, as if he wanted to cling to him and pin him to the floor all at once. He allowed it because the reward of the kiss was worth it. For the third time that night, he placed one of his hands on the other man's waist.
He liked Butcher’s strength; despite the situation, he was firm and unyielding. But it made him wonder: just how high was William’s alcohol tolerance? He was clearly wasted, but what if it wore off too quickly? This would all be over.
"Wait, wait," he murmured, pulling back between kisses and catching Butcher’s wrists in his hands, separating them. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
He flew out through the open window. He sped to the nearest liquor store and took a bottle of Chartreuse, but not before blasting the cameras and security system with his heat vision.
He returned to find Butcher still processing what had happened, exactly where he’d left him. He stepped back toward him while opening the bottle.
"You said a bottle of expensive liquor, right? This is the priciest one they had in the shop down the block." He showed it to him, and William smirked at the sight of the yellow herbal liqueur. "Want some?"
William nodded, so he held the bottle out like a gift, but the Englishman didn’t take it. He simply walked toward him and kept going, still lacking balance but smiling. Homelander followed him with his eyes and watched him stop against a pillar, leaning back.
The question lingered on Homelander's face until Butcher made a gesture, signaling him to come closer. He obeyed almost instinctively. "So, no?"
"Yeah, give it to me." He opened his mouth—a gesture that, while indicating he wanted the drink poured in, was loaded with erotic subtext considering what was about to happen in that office, just the two of them.
He brought the bottle to those lips, moist with vodka and saliva. He tilted the bottle and slowly let the liquid flow into William, who let it slide down his throat without issue. The drink lasted about six seconds before Homelander felt a genuine pang of envy toward the herbal liqueur.
He set the bottle aside, a residue of the drink remaining on his tongue, blending into their passionate kiss. Their hands returned to their previous positions, but with more force. At one point during the uncoordinated movement, they both gasped.
An involuntary, guttural moan escaped the supe when he felt the human’s hand leave his left shoulder and slide down to his erection, squeezing at first before stroking him through the fabric. In response, he squeezed Butcher’s waist, likely leaving a faint bruise.
The heat of the moment led him to pull away to take a swig from the stolen bottle himself (knowing it wouldn't affect him, but wanting the taste) before giving more to the dark-haired man. They kissed again after that. His hands roamed the other’s body—a superficial exploration, but a necessary one to begin sating his hunger.
By the time his right hand was gripping the back of Butcher's neck, holding that damp, scented black hair, and his left was on the small of Butcher's back, the other’s hands returned to his chest. This time, they didn't stay still; they pushed. He thought Butcher wanted to separate, but he had no intention of doing so—he wanted to stay on his enemy's addictive lips.
"Walk," was all Butcher said, continuing what Homelander now understood was an attempt to push him. He walked backward without breaking the kiss; neither wanted to let go. He finally felt the sofa against the back of his legs and sat down carelessly. He didn't even have time to settle into the uncomfortable couch before William climbed over him, straddling his lap, grabbing his blond hair with calloused hands and kissing him without hesitation.
Homelander wished it could always be like this. To be able to enjoy this man, in this way, forever. But without that certainty and fearing the temporality of it, he was going to make the most of it.
He gripped the other's waist with measured strength, his red-leather-clad hands pulling Butcher closer so their covered erections rubbed against each other. After a few minutes, he couldn't keep going like this. In this one way, the night resembled his usual life: he needed more.
With one hand, he tried to unbutton Butcher’s black jeans, but his gloves were an obstacle. He ripped them off quickly, not caring where they landed, and returned to the task, succeeding this time. Butcher shifted to allow his pants to slide down to mid-thigh—enough for the moment. Fortunately, Butcher wasn't wearing underwear.
"Were you expecting someone? Or did you know I was coming?"
"Uh-huh," William said with a grin as he kissed the American's jawline. "Went to Russia just to piss you off so you'd come and fuck me."
That answer was as annoying as it was exciting. With his dominant hand, he gripped Butcher’s erection, taking some of the pre-cum from the tip to provide some slickness. He moved his hand with a bit of friction, but neither cared during those first movements.
Then, the sober one decided to ask—not just about the masturbation, but about what would surely follow. "Do you have lubricant?"
Butcher shook his head slowly. "It's a workspace. Not exactly something I'd keep around."
"Right. Because vodka and rum in the mini-fridge is very 'professional'."
"Well, we're not stopping for that. Let's do it the old-fashioned way." With that, Butcher pushed Homelander’s hand away from his member and brought the supe's palm to his own mouth, licking it with relish, eyes closed, completely focused. The image of Butcher dragging his silky tongue across the hand that had taken so many lives was a new fetish for Homelander.
When it was slick enough, Butcher moved the hand back to where it had been, opening his eyes as he felt his erection wrapped in a wet hand.
Homelander kissed him again while jerking him off at a steady pace—not too slow, not too fast, for now. Butcher let out gasps that were caught between the blond’s lips. Pre-ejaculatory fluid mixed with saliva, coating William's cock. It looked delicious, like everything about William that night.
Butcher pulled away from their shared kiss and directed his clumsy hands to Homelander’s belt. He tried to unfasten it, but besides the fact that it unbuckled from the back, it had nothing to do with the lower garment the Englishman was trying to remove.
"How do you get this shit off?" he mumbled. Homelander sighed and used one hand to lift him—causing Butcher to cling to him—while with the other, he struggled to get rid of his pants and underwear, sliding both garments down to his knees. He sat Butcher back on his lap, but this time, William’s eyes were fixed directly on his newly exposed cock.
He smirked, showing his teeth. "Like what you see, William? Want this inside you?"
Butcher nodded, rubbing his own cock (larger than average, though not as endowed as Homelander’s) against the supe's, completely blinded by lust.
They both groaned. Butcher licked his own hand, with less devotion than he’d shown Homelander’s, but after a minute, it served its purpose and he gripped both penises, stroking them together. It was clumsy but mostly delicious. The blue-eyed man let him, closing his eyes for just a moment, torn between sinking into his own pleasure or feasting on the sight of Butcher enjoying himself like never before.
He decided to keep his eyes open and make the most of the time. He thought about bringing his own fingers to his mouth, but he needed more from William—he wanted to satisfy his oral fixation with the dark-haired man's mouth. First, he brought one finger—his middle finger—almost like a disguised insult. Feeling the finger against his lips, Butcher looked up and opened his mouth without hesitation. Homelander moaned at the sight.
He sucked the finger to the rhythm of his hand moving up and down both members. For his part, Homelander didn't wait much longer before adding two more digits. Butcher, with three fingers in his mouth and his eyes closed, was a mental image Homelander wanted to save, frame, and hang on an altar.
After a couple more minutes and with great self-restraint, he finally pulled his fingers from William’s mouth and moved them where they needed to be, caressing the other’s entrance and beginning to slide the same finger he’d used first between those other lips. It was tight; if his middle finger felt like this, imagining how it would squeeze around his cock made him crave the sensation. But he also wanted to savor the moment—the night wasn't eternal, unfortunately.
Butcher's stroking rhythm broke upon the intrusion. When that finger went deeper and hooked, finding a sensitive spot, he abandoned his task entirely; one hand gripped the supe's bicep while the other pulled him by the neck for another kiss. It was almost tender. He wanted to cup Butcher's face and guide the kiss, but one hand was holding Butcher up and the other was preparing him—his hands were tied.
When he felt the time was right, he slid his index finger in alongside the middle one, earning a sharp but useless bite on his lower lip. For a moment, he wished he could have bled for it; he also wished he could bite Butcher so their blood could become one while their bodies joined. But one was impossible, and the other was dangerous.
He continued to dilate William while moving his kisses down to his neck. He didn't want to be rough; that’s probably how hate sex should be, but he just wanted it to be good for both of them. Something in William’s cooperation and passion made him feel something akin to love. He had always believed that what he had with Butcher was the closest thing he had to a stable relationship.
When three fingers were sliding easily in and out of Butcher despite the lack of lube, Homelander decided to withdraw them to replace them with his aching, hard erection. The emptiness drew a whimper from the Englishman that vibrated against Homelander’s ear. He needed to hear those moans and blasphemies coming from that mouth and hitting his ear directly while he fucked his enemy.
He tore the other man's pants without receiving a single complaint or attempt at defense; the fabric was left in tatters, but it gave him the mobility needed to position himself correctly, with a leg on either side and no restriction for the up-and-down motion they needed. Homelander adjusted his erection, and Butcher sat back, aligning his entrance with the tip. He began to lower himself, much less slowly than he probably should have, but he was drunk and Homelander wasn't going to complain, enveloped in Butcher's tight, warm interior.
He stared intently at the dark-haired man's face as he stayed still for a moment, just adapting to the intrusion and the size.
"Is it your first time with a man?" If Butcher were sober or even just a little drunk, he’d mock the question—mock how hopeful Homelander sounded to be the only one. Instead, he just shook his head, not giving it much importance. It hurt, but not that much. "Well then, let’s make it your best time with a man."
He would make it unforgettable for his enemy, in the best way possible. He smirked before grabbing Butcher’s backside, lifting him just enough to give himself room to begin his thrusts—short and slow, but precise. The reaction was immediate.
"Y tranquila ma', no pasa na'
Enloqueciste pero más na'
Pedías a grito que te besara
En la escalera y en el sofá
Y tranquila ma', no pasa na'
Conozco ya tu debilidad
Bastaron solo un par de copas
Para conocerte en la intimidad"
"You bastard!" he moaned, as if the word were Homelander’s actual name. Homelander didn't doubt that his real name would sound melodic in Butcher’s voice, but he hated his human name. He preferred the insult. William’s hands gripped Homelander’s shoulders, oblivious to the cold metal of the pauldrons, searching for leverage as the penetration began.
At first, it was just Homelander moving upward, but soon Butcher joined the rhythm, pushing back down against him. It was slow, almost experimental—a friction that bound them at a carnal level. And they were only getting started.
By the time the pace of the thrusts accelerated, they were kissing carelessly again. Their names resonated between their lips—amidst kisses, bites, faint smiles, and heavy breathing. The room was occupied by two enemies forgetting for one night that they were such, lost in their most human and primitive sounds. At one point, Butcher’s body demanded a pause, and he stopped moving, letting Homelander set the pace. The kisses ceased, but their mouths remained only inches apart.
"Tired already, William? Can't even keep up with me in this?" Before he could get an answer, Homelander slid his thumb into the other man’s mouth. Butcher bit down in response but didn’t pull away, replacing his teeth with his tongue to swirl around the digit. Homelander’s pace slowed as he focused on the sensation of his thumb inside that mouth. God, he loved it. "Beautiful."
He realized he’d said it out loud, though in a whisper. He waited for a response, a mockery, but a wasted and unrestrained Butcher seemed oblivious to his words. It was better that way, wasn't it?
Despite that, he decided on a sudden change. He withdrew his thumb and made a brief sacrifice, lifting Butcher off him and placing him on the empty part of the sofa. He grabbed the vodka bottle wedged in the cushions and offered it to Butcher as a momentary distraction. Butcher took it by instinct but didn’t drink. "What are you doing? Get back here," he complained.
Homelander didn't answer. He stood up to kick off his boots and finish removing his lower garments. It took longer than he liked; because of the mental fog, he didn’t use his super-speed. When he returned his attention to the couch, he saw Butcher hadn't drunk the liquor; instead, he was letting it spill over his thin shirt, making the fabric cling to his chest like a second skin.
"Hold on," Homelander commanded as he leaned over Butcher. It took a moment for the other man to understand, but he eventually wrapped his arms around the supe’s neck. Homelander scooped him up as if he weighed nothing. He walked with him, not caring to look where he was going because kissing him was a higher priority.
They reached the desk where the night had begun. With one hand, he swept the clutter aside and laid Butcher down on the wooden surface with a certain force. The Englishman’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling their bodies flush. Meanwhile, Homelander began to trail kisses down William’s thick beard, reaching his neck and licking the carotid artery without a hint of threat. He continued his descent to the alcohol-soaked chest, tasting the cheap vodka as he licked the dark fabric. His tongue traced a path that ended at the protrusion hardened by the cold liquid and the air.
He swirled his tongue over the left nipple first, then moved to the right, trying to determine which was more sensitive. He couldn't tell; Butcher’s reaction was identical for both—a gasp and a fist tightening in Homelander’s blond hair to keep him there.
"Stop playing with me," Butcher pleaded, his chest heaving.
"William, William." Homelander clicked his tongue and looked up. "Always so..." he let his breath fall against the nipple his lips had just abandoned, "...impatient. Let’s enjoy the moment, shall we?"
He didn't wait for confirmation. He ripped the shirt open, not caring about the buttons; he wanted to taste that skin directly. His highly developed taste buds sensed salt, soap chemicals, vodka, and something else—as if Butcher tasted like something uniquely his own, something he couldn't find in anyone else. He sucked the nipple by reflex, a muscle memory of a different kind of nourishment, but for the first time in a long while, that wasn't what he was looking for to reach satisfaction. He just wanted William Butcher.
He moved a hand to Butcher’s neglected penis. He wanted to stimulate him at every moment, to have him at his mercy and, ironically, to serve him. He jerked him off while alternating between teasing his nipples and kissing his torso.
"I’m gonna..." Butcher moaned, cutting himself off. Homelander let go of his cock; he couldn't allow Butcher to climax yet. Instead, he gripped Butcher’s legs by the back of the knees, forcing him to fold over himself until his thighs hit his own torso. He aligned himself with the still-yielding opening, but opted to spit on his own member first to allow for a smoother glide. "Oh, God!" William exclaimed as he felt him enter again.
Homelander didn't even have a moment to feel indignant at the mention of a God other than himself, because being inside Butcher was fucking paradise. He couldn't wait; the urge to move made him start thrusting almost immediately.
He used his grip on those thick thighs as leverage for every strike. He leaned in to kiss Butcher, and when he penetrated again, deeply and surely, Butcher arched his back, clutched the cape in his fists, and broke the contact of their lips with a completely uncontrolled groan.
"Goddammit, William, you feel incredible," Homelander growled, digging his fingers into the un-tanned skin. After discovering Butcher’s weak spot, the thrusts were precise, brutal, driven by a sensation that made them both tremble. "I never fantasized about this, surprisingly, but now... I don't know if I'll be able to stop thinking about you like this," he confessed, absorbed in the pleasure.
The supe leaned in, seeking the contact of their lips again, devouring Butcher’s breath of alcohol, mint, and tobacco as if it were the purest air he’d ever breathed.
Butcher responded as best he could for a few moments, but there were too many stimuli at once. With his mind fragmented by liquor and pleasure, he threw his head back, exposing his throat while his fingers buried themselves in Homelander’s cape, wrinkling the silk in desperation.
"Fuck, yes, yes, yes!" Butcher cried out between gasps, his voice broken and his eyes glassy, fixed on the ceiling, completely losing track of who was holding him. "Fuck me hard, just like that."
The request resonated within Homelander viscerally. He didn't want to be just a body; in that moment of terrifying lucidity, he needed to be recognized by the man who hated him most. He stopped for a second, maintaining the deep connection, and forced Butcher to look at him, cupping his face with a hand that, for once, didn't seek to hurt, but to possess the other's attention.
"Ask me, William," he demanded in a whisper laced with a possessiveness bordering on the maniacal. "Ask for it using my name."
Butcher blinked, trying to focus on the blue figure looming over him, a blurred vision of power and desire. The drunkenness stripped away his last filter of pride, letting out the only truth that the alcohol and the situation allowed him to process. "Please... please, Homelander... just make me yours."
Homelander couldn't look away from Butcher after that. His hand slid down by instinct to the throat of the voluntarily submissive man—he didn't apply pressure, just left it there as a point of contact, a way to cling to William. He resumed the penetration with fervor. Butcher’s legs wrapped around him, the low heels of his worn boots digging into the supe’s lower back.
Both spoke incoherencies, seeking closeness, unwilling to stop. They stayed like that for a while longer, locked in a back-and-forth of pleasure at a pace that, while not representing real exhaustion for Homelander, had Butcher reaching his limit.
"I’m gonna come" Butcher warned, barely audible.
Homelander nodded and gave him a brief kiss. "Yes, it’s alright. I’m close too."
He licked his hand quickly and gave Butcher one last hand, moving just a couple of times before feeling the pulse in William’s cock as he started to come. Homelander sat up and pulled his hand away but kept thrusting. Watching William Butcher climax—from the strings of semen to his ragged breathing and his ecstatic face—was everything. That open mouth was an invitation.
He gave two more thrusts and pulled out of Butcher, who was just emerging from his orgasmic trance. He walked to the other side of the desk, where the dark-haired man's head lay. He masturbated himself until he finally came, letting his semen fall into William’s mouth. Butcher offered no resistance; he simply accepted it.
When Homelander opened his eyes again after the climax, he appreciated the work of art lying on the desk. A beautifully broken man. Another mental image to worship. He could never forget his nemesis looking like this, by him and for him. With a finger, he took the remnants that hadn't fallen into the mouth but onto the cheek and smeared them over the other's lower lip. William licked and swallowed, eyes closed and on the verge of sleep from the alcohol and post-coital exhaustion.
Unexpectedly, Homelander watched as William shifted, a spark of apparent lucidity piercing through the ethalic fog in his eyes. Not quite survival instinct, but something closer to madness. With erratic movements that made the few remaining papers on the desk crinkle, the man felt along the surface until he found a crumpled receipt and a pen. Homelander didn't intervene, fascinated by the monumental effort Butcher made to focus his vision and scribble something on the paper. He was about to ask why when Butcher returned to his previous position and held out the paper with a flirty but tired smile. When he saw it was a phone number, the supe understood the weight of the action and felt... hope? Happiness? More excitement? He couldn't describe it, but he smiled slightly.
He knew he had to leave. Even if he wanted to stay the whole night with William, this was a human being, and he was about to enter a deep sleep. He stroked the hair, now slightly damp with sweat, before beginning to find the missing pieces of his suit.
He took his time getting dressed, without using his powers. Once impeccable, as if nothing had happened, he returned to Butcher, who was already snoring. He took him in his arms and moved him to the sofa. He looked for something to cover the human from the cold until he found a somewhat dusty blanket, but it would do. After shaking it out, he spread it over the unconscious man. He sat at the desk for twenty more minutes, glancing between the number written on the back of a Target receipt and the Englishman on the sofa. He laughed to himself, thinking that Butcher wrote as incomprehensibly as he spoke.
He walked to the window and flew out, taking one last look at his enemy, completely exhausted by the best night of his life. Then, he decided to return to Vought Tower.
"Te estoy buscando para ver si los repetimos
Esa noche que bien lo hicimos
Entre tragos nos desvestimos
Las botellas que nos tomamos
A la locura que nos llevaron
Fue mucho lo que vacilamos
Imposible no recordarlo"
He tried, he really did. He kept calling even when no one answered. He sent messages, even a few high-quality dick pics, but not a single reply came back. He looked for him, but he couldn't find him. It seemed that it was Butcher who had to find him.
The idiot had been gaining access to the Temp V that Vought was developing, and on top of that, he was collaborating with Soldier Boy. The sting wasn't just from the betrayal of their deal, but also a bit of jealousy. What if Butcher got drunk with Soldier Boy present? The thought made his stomach churn. It also bothered him to see him like that—indestructible, even if it was fleeting—with powers so similar to his own, fighting without surrendering, just like that wonderful night.
Despite all that, he wanted to keep trying. Even during their fight at Herogasm, he mentioned it, guided by the heat of battle and the sight of William once again, having him close, so close.
"This is déjà vu, isn't it, William?" he said, pinning him against the wall, gripping him by the throat. "God, I want to taste the blood from your mouth," he confessed, and he was nearly about to do it if not for that idiot Hughie Campbell, who appeared naked out of nowhere, also with powers. After that, he was nearly subdued; it was violent and agonizing. He hated every minute of it.
After that, he stopped sending messages or trying to call, but he still daydreamed about returning to that night, not so long ago. Then he found out that Soldier Boy was his father, and that was a shock. It shifted things inside him—traumas, voids, needs. But the horrifying idea returned: that his newly revealed father might be doing with Butcher what he felt was his own triumph, and it almost made him vomit.
Now they were at what could be the end, for them or for him. He had tried to soften Soldier Boy using little Ryan, and in the process, catch a glimpse of the sensitive Butcher. It didn't go exactly as expected; his father only felt contempt for him and pressed on with the plan. But the one who didn't follow the plan was William Butcher. Side by side, against Soldier Boy to protect Ryan. It felt good.
"Want to go for drinks after this?" he proposed, not caring if Maeve heard him. Butcher rolled his eyes with annoyance and moved away to follow where the super soldier had been blasted. The fight continued, and in the end, he got his way again. Though he didn't get Butcher to yield—and apparently, not even to remember.
"Y tú, mami cómo dices que no te acuerdas
Como mi cuerpo te calienta
Ven dímelo en la cara y no mientas
Dejemos de jugar"
He hung up the phone after a brief shout of helplessness. He had messed up big time. He had made a major mistake. He stood up from the old sofa, his entire body aching, and not just from sleeping uncomfortably or having a hangover. He could handle a physical hangover, but the moral one? Normally he didn't have one, until he heard the story of his night coming out of the mouth of the biggest idiot in the world.
He noticed his clothes, completely ruined; he looked for the spare change he always kept for emergencies in the bottom drawer of his desk. The simple act of bending over was a challenge. He finished undressing and dressed himself with deliberation. At least it seemed no one would come looking for him, as they were too busy or annoyed with him.
He went to the mini-fridge to grab a bottle of cold water. His mouth felt dry and he wanted to clear any trace from his system. Before he could think about showering, the office door opened.
"Why isn't Soldier Boy...?" Queen Maeve entered and cut herself off, making a face of disgust. "Damn, it reeks of sex."
Small and very blurry memories settled in his head like a scratched, moldy, and tangled VHS tape. He couldn't quite visualize what had happened, but the sensations were so present, vivid to his body.
He saw Maeve sniff the air, her expression shifting to something unreadable. "Butcher, why does it seem to me like Homelander was here?"
He kept drinking until he finished the liter of water, not wanting to look at Maeve. If she sensed it, it meant that perhaps the damn psychopath wasn't lying.
"Holy mother of God, Butcher. Did you have sex with fucking Home...?"
"Shut up! Don't say it, please," he implored.
Maeve was going to continue, but as she took a step, the sound of a bottle with yellow liquor inside rolled. She bent down and picked it up, examining it with her gaze. "Chartreuse? Only half and... it happened?"
He huffed, walked toward her, and snatched it away. He would save it for later; he wasn't going to waste it, despite everything. "Of course not... There were also two bottles of vodka," he defended himself, more or less.
The woman suppressed a smile. "Just that?"
"Your opinion doesn't count, remember I'm human," he complained and sat on the desk, which earned him another groan from a sharp pain in his backside. Dammit.
Maeve's eyes widened as she understood the reason for the reaction. "Fair enough"—she wouldn't mock him anymore. "You were very drunk; fine, if you don't remember anything... there's nothing to think about."
Butcher sighed and finally looked at her. "Unfortunately, I have too much experience drinking for less than three bottles to give me a blackout."
"Wow, so... you do remember?"
"It’s blurry, but... I remember more than I’d like."
Maeve nodded and was about to sit beside him.
"I wouldn't recommend you sit here."
"Oh, for fuck's sake"—Maeve pulled back in rejection. She pointed to the sofa, but Butcher shook his head again. "At least was it good? I slept with him once too, but, you know, it wasn't my thing."
He looked at the ceiling, seeking a distraction to avoid saying the following: "It was fucking great."