[As many times as he's fantasized about doing absolutely dreadful things to Homelander, it's never as much fun when they're forcing his hand and he doesn't even get to pick the tools he gets to use.
This isn't his game and there are so many worse sins to punish Homelander over than pride.
But he strikes anyway, again and again. He watches blood drip and skin tear and it's all so fucking diabolical, twisted. Appropriate for one of God's punishments, right? The sadistic bastard that he is.
[None of this is new. He just needed to remind himself of that. Of what he is.
His body may jolt and shudder at the strikes, but none of it hits him, none of it is real. He's invulnerable. Made of steel. Godly. He's there but he's not. He's just being tested, and he can't. fucking. fail.
It's all just... nerve endings. Organic mechanisms. All he needs to do is sever a few threads. Transcend. Evolve. Be better.
His vision blurs and darkens, eventually, and his body goes limp. When he feels nothing at all, the restraints loosen.]
[He barks out when the restraints start to loosen, the whip dropped in favor of trying to catch the other before he collapses to the floor.
He might have managed to make himself nice and closed off to the pain, made himself accept each blow like it weren't nothing at all. Maybe Butcher understands it -- the times he's gotten punched or lashed at with a belt.
But he's not letting him fall to the bloody floor and stay there at least.]
[Something else kicks in before Billy can catch him. A shot of adrenaline that awakens a last reserve of strength, a burst of speed that puts him on the other end of the room within a split second, glaring at the source of his pain with wild, uncomprehending red.]
[Shit. He holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture when Homelander is suddenly across the room, looking at him like he has every intention of turning that laser sight on him.
He might recognize that look, enough to know he might be in trouble here in a wee bit.]
Oi, c'mon now. Deep breaths, John. You're done with your punishment... we can see ourselves back home.
Yeah? You can reach all the way to your back, can you?
[He crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tightening briefly. Half tempted to walk out and leave him and half worried if he does, the cunt will do something... rash.]
[Like he fucking asked to get locked in a room to whip Homelander out of the blue. But if Homelander wants to act like a cunt about it, he can go right ahead. What Billy wants to do is head down to the lobby and get a drink, who gives a fuck what time it is. He needs it.
He shrugs out of his coat at least, offering it over.]
Here. Just bring it back in one fucking piece when you come back.
[Getting the blood out of it's going to be a pain, but it won't be the first time.]
[He convinces himself it's Princess he needs to check up on, not Billy and his stupid coat.
He slips into their temporary suite late in the evening, when most of the hotel has quieted down. Princess is curled up on the floor by the door, snoring noisily, and she squiggles towards him without fully awakening when he crouches down to pet her.
Billy seems to have passed out already, and the bed reeks of alcohol. There's a pang of... something, in Homelander's chest.
Maybe he's overreacted, taking off like he did. But his famous pride won't let him take it back. It still stings, for some reason.
He strips off his shirt to let his bandaged back breathe, before slipping into bed next to Billy. There's enough space that they don't need to be touching, but he'd rather be close than sleep on the couch.]
[He doesn't care that Homelander left. Of course not. Why should he?
He's drinking-- for many fucking reasons. Hell is shite is top of them. To keep the nightmares at bay might be another. To improve his shite mood is another - not that whiskey ever does that, or drinking like a man who wants to die.
Or at the very least, doesn't give a fuck if he does.
But none of it is to do with Homelander. Absolutely not.
He groans quietly when the bed shifts, but it's a little delayed, and might be because he felt the bed shift or whatever phantoms in his dream are being fucking cunts. Either way, he cracks open his eyes and-- looks to the side.
There's a groggy little grunt at the sight.]
Look who got 'imself patched up.
[The words are a bit slurred together, a bit too drowsy sounding to qualify as properly awake.]
[Never mind the half-empty bottle of whiskey within easy reach. He shifts a little bit to his back and enough to kick the blankets down a little further while still maintaining-- maybe a tiny bit of modesty. His dick is still covered at least.
[Fucking seriously? Drinking in bed, straight from the bottle, when he's already more than drunk enough?
No, no, no. That's not happening.
There's a flare of red before Homelander restrains himself and reaches to grab the bottle out of Billy's hand instead. Mr. Tough Guy can't really compete with super strength, now can he?]
[It's not the real reason he's objecting to this, but it might as well be. He doesn't want to fight Billy, but he's sitting up anyway, wincing as the wounds on his back make sure to remind him of their presence.
He keeps the bottle out of Billy's reach, more than ready to toss it out the window if it comes to it.]
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[As many times as he's fantasized about doing absolutely dreadful things to Homelander, it's never as much fun when they're forcing his hand and he doesn't even get to pick the tools he gets to use.
This isn't his game and there are so many worse sins to punish Homelander over than pride.
But he strikes anyway, again and again. He watches blood drip and skin tear and it's all so fucking diabolical, twisted. Appropriate for one of God's punishments, right? The sadistic bastard that he is.
Loving father... what a load of shit.]
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His body may jolt and shudder at the strikes, but none of it hits him, none of it is real. He's invulnerable. Made of steel. Godly. He's there but he's not. He's just being tested, and he can't. fucking. fail.
It's all just... nerve endings. Organic mechanisms. All he needs to do is sever a few threads. Transcend. Evolve. Be better.
His vision blurs and darkens, eventually, and his body goes limp. When he feels nothing at all, the restraints loosen.]
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[He barks out when the restraints start to loosen, the whip dropped in favor of trying to catch the other before he collapses to the floor.
He might have managed to make himself nice and closed off to the pain, made himself accept each blow like it weren't nothing at all. Maybe Butcher understands it -- the times he's gotten punched or lashed at with a belt.
But he's not letting him fall to the bloody floor and stay there at least.]
C'mon...
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[Shit. He holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture when Homelander is suddenly across the room, looking at him like he has every intention of turning that laser sight on him.
He might recognize that look, enough to know he might be in trouble here in a wee bit.]
Oi, c'mon now. Deep breaths, John. You're done with your punishment... we can see ourselves back home.
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I... can't go back there.
[He's at the brink of...something. He can't be near Princess. If he even glimpses her pathetic crying face, he'll tear her fucking head off.]
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[He nods. Well-- that's usually the safest fucking place, but...]
We don't have to go back there yet. We can go wherever the fuck we want, yeah? Maybe find a room to break into, get you cleaned up a wee bit.
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You don't need to do that.
I'll take care of it.
[It'd be too fucking humiliating to have Butcher clean up after him, too.]
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[He crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tightening briefly. Half tempted to walk out and leave him and half worried if he does, the cunt will do something... rash.]
Did they even bring you any bloody clothes?
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[Never mind that whatever mangled state his back's in is unlikely to be fixed by a shower.
He's a supe. He'll heal.
As for the clothes, he'll find a pair of pants somewhere. Who gives a fuck?]
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Fine.
[Like he fucking asked to get locked in a room to whip Homelander out of the blue. But if Homelander wants to act like a cunt about it, he can go right ahead. What Billy wants to do is head down to the lobby and get a drink, who gives a fuck what time it is. He needs it.
He shrugs out of his coat at least, offering it over.]
Here. Just bring it back in one fucking piece when you come back.
[Getting the blood out of it's going to be a pain, but it won't be the first time.]
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Keep it.
[What good is a smelly coat going to do him? He'll just get an infection or whatever other pathetic thing people get.
He's out the door the next moment, leaving it slammed open with only a trail of blood behind him.]
The next night...
He slips into their temporary suite late in the evening, when most of the hotel has quieted down. Princess is curled up on the floor by the door, snoring noisily, and she squiggles towards him without fully awakening when he crouches down to pet her.
Billy seems to have passed out already, and the bed reeks of alcohol. There's a pang of... something, in Homelander's chest.
Maybe he's overreacted, taking off like he did. But his famous pride won't let him take it back. It still stings, for some reason.
He strips off his shirt to let his bandaged back breathe, before slipping into bed next to Billy. There's enough space that they don't need to be touching, but he'd rather be close than sleep on the couch.]
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He's drinking-- for many fucking reasons. Hell is shite is top of them. To keep the nightmares at bay might be another. To improve his shite mood is another - not that whiskey ever does that, or drinking like a man who wants to die.
Or at the very least, doesn't give a fuck if he does.
But none of it is to do with Homelander. Absolutely not.
He groans quietly when the bed shifts, but it's a little delayed, and might be because he felt the bed shift or whatever phantoms in his dream are being fucking cunts. Either way, he cracks open his eyes and-- looks to the side.
There's a groggy little grunt at the sight.]
Look who got 'imself patched up.
[The words are a bit slurred together, a bit too drowsy sounding to qualify as properly awake.]
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Billy's stirring and comment prompt a small, reluctant smile.]
Look who got himself wasted.
[The words are soft, hushed by the pillow. He tries to sound more teasing than concerned, keeping a bit of a guarded edge.]
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[Never mind the half-empty bottle of whiskey within easy reach. He shifts a little bit to his back and enough to kick the blankets down a little further while still maintaining-- maybe a tiny bit of modesty. His dick is still covered at least.
He lets his eyes shut for a moment.]
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You wouldn't say that if you were.
[He's not an idiot. He could give a pretty good estimate of what Billy's blood alcohol level is at the moment.]
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[And interrupting his trying to go back to sleep to top it all off.]
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He rolls his eyes, not feeling the need to offer up a rebuttal beyond that.]
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But the problem is-- he can't fall the fuck back to sleep now. So after a moment, he reluctantly sits up in bed and reaches for the bottle of whiskey.
Maybe if he's quiet though, Homelander will just fall the fuck to sleep.]
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No, no, no. That's not happening.
There's a flare of red before Homelander restrains himself and reaches to grab the bottle out of Billy's hand instead. Mr. Tough Guy can't really compete with super strength, now can he?]
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[There's a hard glare at that. No, he can't really hold on to the bottle when it's Homelander yanking at it. That doesn't mean he's not pissed.]
Give it back and don't be a fucking cunt. Why aren't you sleeping anyway?
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[It's not the real reason he's objecting to this, but it might as well be. He doesn't want to fight Billy, but he's sitting up anyway, wincing as the wounds on his back make sure to remind him of their presence.
He keeps the bottle out of Billy's reach, more than ready to toss it out the window if it comes to it.]
Do you want me to leave?
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[He smells fine. Probably. He had to shower all the blood splatter off when he got home anyway.
The question has him giving an incredulous look.]
What are you talking about?
[He just wants his bottle back.]
Just want another drink before bed.
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...Fine.]
Whatever.
[He hands the bottle back and moves to get off the bed. He'll be better off on the couch after all. He can't stand the fucking smell.]
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