[Homelander doesn't pull off... who's he to insist? Especially when he only seems to double down on what he's doing, continue with enthusiasm that's... almost charming. Fuck.
There's another groan when the pleasure pulses through him as he spills himself into the waiting mouth, expression twisting in pleasure as he pushes forward just a bit. He probably shouldn't, but fuck-- he wants more of that slick heat around his cock, wants to see himself slide further past those lips.]
[At this point, he's not sure he could take his mouth off Billy even if he wanted to. He's almost hypnotically attuned to the weight of the cock in his mouth, the smooth slide of it against his lips, the salty taste at the tip of his tongue.
It's perfect.
All of that intense, meditative focus doesn't stop him from choking when cum hits the back of his throat. He pulls back, coughing as tears prickle in his eyes.]
[Butcher feels boneless for a moment -- the hangover more of an annoyance than all encompassing throb in his temple, pleasure thrumming along his nerves. The coughing draws out an amused, breathless huff.]
[If he busted Homelander's balls now, over this, it wouldn't be conducive to keeping a pet supe very loyal, would it? So even if it wasn't exactly skilled, he'll give him a wee bit of praise.
Hard to fuck up a blowjob too bad anyway.
He lets out a sigh where he's laid back on the couch, holding out an arm to coax Homelander closer.]
[Bloody brilliant, huh? Billy might be exaggerating a bit, but that doesn't stop Homelander from cracking a smile, feeling very pleased with himself and his accomplishments in the field of blowjobs.
He shifts his jaw around, trying to loosen the tension that's built in there, before crawling up and stretching out over Billy like an oversized cat.]
[Well, if he wants some pointers, Butcher will be glad to give them later... but right now? He got off, so he can't complain too hard, can he? He huffs a sigh out as Homelander crawls up over him. He takes the opportunity to pull him down into a kiss--
Well, briefly. The comment has him huffing out in amusement.]
I thought I was always an asshole... [He could be so much worse than he's been, he's sure...]
Mm, feeing fine for now. You want me to change the dressing on your back soon?
[Well, there's asshole and there's asshole, and last night, Billy was a different flavor of asshole than the one he's gotten used to. A lot more unpleasant.
He's not sure if it was just the alcohol or... something else.]
Mm...
[There's slight tensing in him before he fully flattens over Billy, pressing his nose into his shoulder.]
[Yeah, well. They've all got their bad days, don't they? Best to not think about it too deeply.
Especially when he's-- pretty relaxed. Enough that he brings a hand up to brush through Homelander's hair again, patting it idly back into place. As much as he can in his current position, anyway.
His eyes drift shut for a moment and he breathes out a sigh.]
[He's still and quiet for a while, not too eager to budge from his strategic position, resting and breathing and taking in Billy's warmth, basking in the gentle touch.]
Did you feel bad? About, uh--about having to hurt me?
[He asks it softly and phrases it carefully, unsure if Billy would even be willing to touch the subject. But Billy's never handled him with kid gloves, so maybe asking him is fair.
And maybe that'd explain why he got so drunk last night. Trying to numb out the discomfort.]
[Fucking seriously? You can't blow a guy and then bring up shite like that. Feelings or whatever Homelander's getting at. His jaw tightens for a moment.
That's not an easy fucking question to answer, especially when he's still trying to reconcile this little fucking puppy with the cunt he ended up marrying and all the fucking sins between them.
Sins this one doesn't even carry or know about yet, in some cases.
Butcher isn't a good enough man to care if he doesn't share them... almost. But it's a wee bit complicated when whatever little bit of conscience he's got left reminds him that this is a lad that's been raised and abused in a lab, made into what he is as much as Butcher was shaped into the raging cunt he is.]
I don't like my hand fucking forced. [He decides after a moment.] If I'm gonna do something, I want it to be because I bloody well decided to do it, lad, and for the reasons I decide. Not just getting a fucking barbed whip in my hand and punishing you because some cunt up above says you've been naughty and need a bit of a spanking.
[It isn't that simple though, is it?]
Why the hell did you wander off, then? If we're sharing and caring.
[Well, that... makes sense, even if it's not entirely satisfying to hear. He would've liked for there to be a personal component, not just Billy resenting his lack of autonomy. But, fine.
He breathes a sigh through his nose.]
I--I was weak. I let you down.
[Not just by being a whiny fucking baby who couldn't take a beating without blubbering, but by forgetting to acknowledge Billy's presence in his life. He hadn't even meant it like that, but--that's what it sounded like. Like he only cared about Vought.]
[There's an annoyed grunt at that, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. Maybe there were misunderstandings on both sides, or maybe not.]
What are you talking about? I wasn't fucking let down. [Not by the crying, at least. He's still pissed about he Vought shite, however Homelander meant it.
He huffs out a sigh, quiet for a moment.]
God's the biggest cunt there is. Here, back home. Any-fucking-where you go. He can sit by and watch all the little kiddies suffering, but he turns up his nose at us, eh? [His fingers continue to pet through Homelander's hair idly, despite the frustration just underneath his skin.]
I didn't want to do that shit. [He can think of plenty of ways to leave Homelander crying or punished, but-- he hadn't wanted to do that. There'd been no real release in it, just this-- sick, twisted churning in his gut in the end of it.]
Seems you were more worried about what Vought thought of you than what me or God did though.
[Maybe he's being unfair, but he's still irked by it in ways he doesn't particularly like to delve into.]
[He's not sure whether to feel relief or disbelief at that; Billy's never lied quite so blatantly, though. Not that he recalls.]
It's not--
[How the fuck is he supposed to explain it? What he is? How there were times when he didn't even believe anything existed outside the walls of the room he was confined to, how he thought that he was only imagining the doctors and the tutors into existence, putting himself through endless trials because the truth of existence was too horrible for any sane mind to bear.]
Vought's all there ever was. God was just... another story. He wasn't any more real than a bunch of ugly dead presidents.
[Vought couldn't have him grow into some God-fearing religious nut. He needed to know the right words to say, the delicate topics to sidestep so that he could connect with the people he was meant to protect, but no more than that. He was never meant to believe it.
He tried praying, a few times. Nobody ever answered, and he always felt stupid afterwards.
God's nothing but a story for gullible children. Billy, though...]
I was trying to tell you to not waste your fucking tears over what these cunts do... just gets all nice and tingly. It weren't disappointment.
[It was the closest thing to a pep talk he'd had at the moment when his own head was swimming with nasty shite, but apparently-- well. Whatever. What's done is done now.]
[Maybe he's primed to feel like a disappointment, expects everybody to see him that way once the flash and the dazzle wears off. A sweet, shoulder-sagging relief settles through him when Billy disputes it. Saliva sticks in his throat, and he swallows before he can speak.]
Yes. Of course I do.
I've... never had someone like you.
[Somebody who doesn't just want to hone him into some distant ideal.]
[He tilts his head curiously. He doesn't seem to have any intention of shoving Homelander off though, putting any distance between them just yet at least.
It isn't so bad, the heat and the weight of Homelander against him.
[He swallows, and spends a few seconds breathing onto Billy's shoulder, looking for an answer.]
You're real.
[All he's ever known were puppet masters and drones acting their part against a backdrop of emptiness. Labs and corridors and conference rooms, full of manufactured smiles and buzzwords.
Billy exists as he is, in defiance of all that, even if it means reeking of alcohol and dejection.]
[He repeats the word quietly, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Yeah, well. He's a damn lot more real than Vought and all its pretty little performances, parading supes around like monkeys for entertainment and covering up all the shite flinging behind the scenes.]
Mmm.
[He snorts at the question, rolling his eyes. Is he real?]
Yeah. [He's an ugly fucking mess, but he's real enough, eh? Or maybe Butcher just thinks he's gotten better at seeing under all the bullshit smiles and public persona to know what's underneath.]
You're a pompous fucking cunt, love, but I wouldn't put up with you if there weren't anything underneath.
[There's a slow exhale of relief, a smile hidden in the crook of Billy's neck.
He'll take pompous fucking cunt, and he'll take whatever else Billy sees in him. It means he exists, that he's not just the lack of something -- a blank to be molded, smoke and mirrors and a camera-friendly smile on top of a whole lot of nothing.
He can be himself. All of the broken things he was supposed to shed and shear to become what he was "meant" to be.
He doesn't say anything, just nuzzles Billy's neck in an awkward attempt at showing appreciation.]
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There's another groan when the pleasure pulses through him as he spills himself into the waiting mouth, expression twisting in pleasure as he pushes forward just a bit. He probably shouldn't, but fuck-- he wants more of that slick heat around his cock, wants to see himself slide further past those lips.]
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It's perfect.
All of that intense, meditative focus doesn't stop him from choking when cum hits the back of his throat. He pulls back, coughing as tears prickle in his eyes.]
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Can't say I didn't warn you, now can you, love?
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Mm.
[He knows "love" is just one of Billy's Britishisms, but it's still nice, to have it used on him.]
Was it--was it okay?
[It's clear from the uncertain waver in his voice that he really wants it to have been more than okay.]
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[If he busted Homelander's balls now, over this, it wouldn't be conducive to keeping a pet supe very loyal, would it? So even if it wasn't exactly skilled, he'll give him a wee bit of praise.
Hard to fuck up a blowjob too bad anyway.
He lets out a sigh where he's laid back on the couch, holding out an arm to coax Homelander closer.]
Come here.
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He shifts his jaw around, trying to loosen the tension that's built in there, before crawling up and stretching out over Billy like an oversized cat.]
So, uh. Are you done puking and being an asshole?
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Well, briefly. The comment has him huffing out in amusement.]
I thought I was always an asshole... [He could be so much worse than he's been, he's sure...]
Mm, feeing fine for now. You want me to change the dressing on your back soon?
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He's not sure if it was just the alcohol or... something else.]
Mm...
[There's slight tensing in him before he fully flattens over Billy, pressing his nose into his shoulder.]
Yeah. I'd like that.
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Especially when he's-- pretty relaxed. Enough that he brings a hand up to brush through Homelander's hair again, patting it idly back into place. As much as he can in his current position, anyway.
His eyes drift shut for a moment and he breathes out a sigh.]
Yeah, alright...
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Did you feel bad? About, uh--about having to hurt me?
[He asks it softly and phrases it carefully, unsure if Billy would even be willing to touch the subject. But Billy's never handled him with kid gloves, so maybe asking him is fair.
And maybe that'd explain why he got so drunk last night. Trying to numb out the discomfort.]
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[Fucking seriously? You can't blow a guy and then bring up shite like that. Feelings or whatever Homelander's getting at. His jaw tightens for a moment.
That's not an easy fucking question to answer, especially when he's still trying to reconcile this little fucking puppy with the cunt he ended up marrying and all the fucking sins between them.
Sins this one doesn't even carry or know about yet, in some cases.
Butcher isn't a good enough man to care if he doesn't share them... almost. But it's a wee bit complicated when whatever little bit of conscience he's got left reminds him that this is a lad that's been raised and abused in a lab, made into what he is as much as Butcher was shaped into the raging cunt he is.]
I don't like my hand fucking forced. [He decides after a moment.] If I'm gonna do something, I want it to be because I bloody well decided to do it, lad, and for the reasons I decide. Not just getting a fucking barbed whip in my hand and punishing you because some cunt up above says you've been naughty and need a bit of a spanking.
[It isn't that simple though, is it?]
Why the hell did you wander off, then? If we're sharing and caring.
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He breathes a sigh through his nose.]
I--I was weak. I let you down.
[Not just by being a whiny fucking baby who couldn't take a beating without blubbering, but by forgetting to acknowledge Billy's presence in his life. He hadn't even meant it like that, but--that's what it sounded like. Like he only cared about Vought.]
I didn't want to be around you like that.
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What are you talking about? I wasn't fucking let down. [Not by the crying, at least. He's still pissed about he Vought shite, however Homelander meant it.
He huffs out a sigh, quiet for a moment.]
God's the biggest cunt there is. Here, back home. Any-fucking-where you go. He can sit by and watch all the little kiddies suffering, but he turns up his nose at us, eh? [His fingers continue to pet through Homelander's hair idly, despite the frustration just underneath his skin.]
I didn't want to do that shit. [He can think of plenty of ways to leave Homelander crying or punished, but-- he hadn't wanted to do that. There'd been no real release in it, just this-- sick, twisted churning in his gut in the end of it.]
Seems you were more worried about what Vought thought of you than what me or God did though.
[Maybe he's being unfair, but he's still irked by it in ways he doesn't particularly like to delve into.]
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[He's not sure whether to feel relief or disbelief at that; Billy's never lied quite so blatantly, though. Not that he recalls.]
It's not--
[How the fuck is he supposed to explain it? What he is? How there were times when he didn't even believe anything existed outside the walls of the room he was confined to, how he thought that he was only imagining the doctors and the tutors into existence, putting himself through endless trials because the truth of existence was too horrible for any sane mind to bear.]
Vought's all there ever was. God was just... another story. He wasn't any more real than a bunch of ugly dead presidents.
[Vought couldn't have him grow into some God-fearing religious nut. He needed to know the right words to say, the delicate topics to sidestep so that he could connect with the people he was meant to protect, but no more than that. He was never meant to believe it.
He tried praying, a few times. Nobody ever answered, and he always felt stupid afterwards.
God's nothing but a story for gullible children. Billy, though...]
I--I do care what you think.
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[It was the closest thing to a pep talk he'd had at the moment when his own head was swimming with nasty shite, but apparently-- well. Whatever. What's done is done now.]
Hmm... [He arches a brow at the reassurance.]
Do you, now?
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Yes. Of course I do.
I've... never had someone like you.
[Somebody who doesn't just want to hone him into some distant ideal.]
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[He tilts his head curiously. He doesn't seem to have any intention of shoving Homelander off though, putting any distance between them just yet at least.
It isn't so bad, the heat and the weight of Homelander against him.
At least right now.]
What do you think I am?
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You're real.
[All he's ever known were puppet masters and drones acting their part against a backdrop of emptiness. Labs and corridors and conference rooms, full of manufactured smiles and buzzwords.
Billy exists as he is, in defiance of all that, even if it means reeking of alcohol and dejection.]
Am I... real to you?
[Does he matter?]
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[He repeats the word quietly, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Yeah, well. He's a damn lot more real than Vought and all its pretty little performances, parading supes around like monkeys for entertainment and covering up all the shite flinging behind the scenes.]
Mmm.
[He snorts at the question, rolling his eyes. Is he real?]
Yeah. [He's an ugly fucking mess, but he's real enough, eh? Or maybe Butcher just thinks he's gotten better at seeing under all the bullshit smiles and public persona to know what's underneath.]
You're a pompous fucking cunt, love, but I wouldn't put up with you if there weren't anything underneath.
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He'll take pompous fucking cunt, and he'll take whatever else Billy sees in him. It means he exists, that he's not just the lack of something -- a blank to be molded, smoke and mirrors and a camera-friendly smile on top of a whole lot of nothing.
He can be himself. All of the broken things he was supposed to shed and shear to become what he was "meant" to be.
He doesn't say anything, just nuzzles Billy's neck in an awkward attempt at showing appreciation.]