Archive of Our Own

When Rose’s supervisor tells her she’s been doing a great job at Vought’s research labs and she’ll be put on a secret project to replace someone on maternity leave, she’s ecstatic. Being a woman in science, even during the more progressive turn of the millennium, can be rough, but her persistence and late nights spent pouring over reports are finally paying off.

She’s excited as she waits for her security clearance. She’s still excited even as she signs all the required NDAs that say she’ll be sued for everything she’s worth if she breathes a word of the project outside of the facility. Rose’s enthusiasm is dampened when she learns what the hell this project she’s been assigned to actually is.

For a lack of a better scientific term, it’s fucked all the way up.

They’ve been growing a superhero in this lab. Vought’s got heroes now, of course, like the Crimson Countess. But this one’s supposed to be special. Custom-built to lead his own team when he’s ready.

Right now, he’s just a surly eighteen-year-old named John. His future name will be The Homelander, and printouts of his planned costume and branding are pinned up all over the lab. The team was supposed to release him to the public two years ago when he was sixteen. But as with every project, paper, and grant, everything takes much longer in practice. Still, the spirits around the labs are high: their picture-perfect man is almost ready to be paraded in front of adoring crowds.

Rose gets to observe him through a large one-way window in his bedroom. It’s sparsely decorated, with a twin bed in the middle and a nightstand next to it. A desk, a chair, a small wardrobe, and a bookcase, that’s all he has. He spends most of his time pacing the room, sleeping, reading, and studying with his tutor who seems terrified of his every movement. When Rose watches the subject demonstrate his powers during one of their tests, she’s horrified as well. He could massacre everyone in here without breaking a sweat and escape whenever he wanted. The only reassurance she sees and why she doesn’t quit on the spot is that one of her coworkers tells her that he’s been stronger than everyone in the lab put together for a long time. He hasn’t escaped yet.

Right now, they’re working on a project of more intimate character: sexual education. While John, Rose learns, knows everything about the birds and the bees in theory, he’s been struggling with the actual copulation process. They’ve sent a few professionals to him, but he’s never been able to maintain an erection and did not seem enthusiastic about the process of sexual intercourse in general. Pornography received a good response which real-life human professionals have struggled to recreate.

Rose attends several meetings that revolve around the pertinent question, “How can we prepare this guy for a situation where he fucks?” before finally raising her shaking hand.

“Yeah, you. New girl,” Martin, one of the higher-ups, waves at her in between two sloppy bites of his burger.

“Have we considered that he may be… um.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Homosexual? As odd as this may be, his behavior is somewhat reminiscent of a paper I reviewed earlier this year about homosexuality in animals, specifically penguins—”

“Homosexual?” Martin laughs and shakes his head. “Wouldn’t it be something if we raised him to be a…” He clicks his tongue before finishing his sentence with a heartfelt slur that makes Rose sharply exhale. “I suppose it’s as good of a theory as any. Let’s get him a male professional, then. Sandy, make the arrangements once Vogelbaum gives us the green light.”

“Same as last time?” Sandy asks, jotting Martin’s instructions down on her yellow notepad.

“Yes. Streetwalker type, not a fancy escort. If we need to make it go away, it’s easier.”

Rose doesn’t even wonder what they might need to cover up. She knows.

Being on this project is so good for her career. It’s an opportunity she can’t pass up. Rose repeats this to herself like a mantra on her way in the elevator taking her down to the lab. She keeps having nightmares about it. The ding, ding, ding it makes as it goes down each floor. She dreams it misses her stop—the last stop—and plummets to the depths of the earth.

When Billy first hears through the grapevine about this grand well-paying opportunity, his brain tells him that it’s probably fucking organ trafficking, and if he goes along with this, he’ll wake up missing a kidney. If he wakes up.

But his empty stomach and meager bank account tell him he’s skint and not in a position to turn down an offer like that. That’s how Billy finds himself in some dank basement after a fast-tracked STD test (no one is more surprised than Billy is that he’s clean) signing an NDA after an NDA.

All this money for one night? A bunch of suits organizing whatever this is? Who the hell is he supposed to fuck, some dying CEO who wants to go out with a bang with a pretty young thing? Blimey.

Once all the papers are signed, a blonde bird in a stark white coat leads him down a long hallway. She keeps sneering at him like he’s gum on the bottom of her high heels. Billy scowls back. Boy, does he hate these posh cunts who think they’re so much better than him by the sheer virtue of their more stable employment.

“You’ll be servicing a superpowered subject being raised in these facilities,” she says, making a face at “servicing”. “Your job is to teach him how to engage in intercourse with humans.” The bird looks at him, deems him too dumb to know the bloody word intercourse, and clarifies, “Teach him how to have sex.”

Ooookay. The fuck’s going on here? They want him to shag a supe? Like supes ever have any issues getting laid. And how and why is a supe raised in a facility? Ain’t supes supposed to be normal people who woke up feeling a wee bit special one day? All these questions race through Billy’s head as he’s guided to an empty communal shower. He takes a hasty shower, dipping a couple of fingers inside himself as he scrubs to make sure he’s still prepped and good to go.

When Billy leaves the shower, he finds that someone left him fresh clothes next to a pile of his own. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls the new clothes on. They’re better quality than his anyway. His jeans are especially threadbare and this here is a pair of spanking new Levis. He does grab his Hawaiian shirt from his pile. He’d miss it if it were gone.

He doesn’t bother putting the underwear on, either.

Once he’s out of the shower, the same woman meets him. She gives his shirt a pointed look but doesn’t say anything. She leads the way to an elevator where they go down for an uncomfortably long time. Billy doesn’t believe in God and he don’t believe in Satan, either, but he’s pretty sure they’re going straight to the deepest bowels of Hell on this one. Finally, the elevator dings, announcing their arrival at the last floor. He’s herded through a space that would look a lot like a normal office if it wasn’t for the total lack of windows and the intensely blue fluorescent lighting overhead making it resemble a secret bunker or a large submarine instead.

A few men huddled next to a board all turn their necks to look at Billy. He shoots them a grin, unwilling to show how uneasy this place makes him feel. A bespectacled dark-haired woman at one of the desks looks at Billy like he’s being marched to his execution. Maybe he is. Maybe this cunt is about to do him in a non-sexy way. Put him through the wall or something. Billy’s never shagged a supe before, and how and why would he? They don’t exactly run in the same social circles. America might be less stratified than Britain but not to the extent that superstars regularly shag two-bit rent boys.

They end up in front of a nondescript white door. The woman’s expression grows a little softer. Too late, he’s already had enough of this cunt. “Do not argue with him or do anything he doesn’t want. It’s for your own good.”

Great. Is it too late to leg it? Say bye to the money these cunts have been dangling in front of him? Will they even let him go? He never should have come here.

Fuck it. Hopefully, this will be quick.

Billy grabs the door’s handle and yanks it open.

Inside is a more normal-looking room than he thought it’d be. Bare bones, sure, but normal enough compared to the weirdness outside. It’s got a large mirror on one wall, which, no doubt, is a window to allow the scientists outside to watch their… subject like a fish in a bowl. Billy’s no stranger to sex involving more than two people but he ain’t used to having an enraptured audience that will most likely make notes and observe them like two animals in a fucking zoo. This makes his skin crawl. He’s partaken in more than a fair share of depraved shite. This might just be the worst thing he’s ever done.

And then there’s the subject himself. He’s skinnier than Billy expected an all-mighty lab-grown superhero to be. He’s got bleach-blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and a gorgeous face like it’s been carved from marble which officially makes him the most attractive client Billy’s ever had. Of course, he’s handsome if he’s been custom-made to be powerful and famous. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it’s still baffling just how fucking fit he is.

He’s sitting on a chair next to a simple desk, clad in a red t-shirt and some plain blue jeans, bare feet firmly planted on the tiled floor. He’s holding a book: Orwell’s 1984. Yeah, Billy enjoyed that one, too. Not exactly light reading, though.

“Oi,” Billy says because the silence is dragging the fuck on. “I’m Billy. Your entertainment for the night, I s’pose. What’s your name?” He belatedly realizes the scientist only referred to the man in front of him as a “subject” or whatever the fuck.

“John. They’re going to call me The Homelander. But it’s not my name just yet, so you can call me John,” he says, giving Billy a once-over. The Homelander. They couldn’t make his name more aggressively yankee if they bloody tried. Billy decides he hates it. “John” suits him better. “Weird accent. You’re British.”

An astute observation. A proper detective, this one.

“I’ve never met a British person before.” John stands up. It turns out he’s a few inches shorter than Billy, and once they’ve both made note of this fact, John slowly starts to grow taller. No, he just lifts off the fucking ground. Blimey, he can fly. He flies a slow, deliberate circle around Billy, which makes Billy think of, funnily enough, Peter Pan. Lenny used to love this tape, watched it over and over again until one day their old man had enough of that shite and tossed the thing away.

Lenny used to insist that he was one of the lost kids and Billy was like Wendy, which Billy did not like ‘cause he wasn’t a fucking lassie, now, was he? But Lenny said it was because Wendy took care of her family, and Billy took care of him. That made him feel a little more at peace with the comparison.

Sorry, Lenny. Wendy’s failed you in every way possible and now she’s about to shag Peter Pan for some hard cold cash. Try that one on for size.

“So they got a man this time. Interesting,” John hovers in front of him. He reaches out and puts his hand on Billy’s face, tilting it from side to side to get a proper, intimate look at him. Billy squints and John lets him go. “I didn’t know men can be prostitutes.”

Well, no shite. Looks like John doesn’t get out much. Or at all.

“Different strokes for different folks.” Billy shrugs. “There’s a market, believe you me.” He should be terrified of this bloke, everyone outside was. But looking up close at him, he ain’t scared. Sure, John could probably do him by snapping his fingers or whatever the fuck. But Billy hasn’t been scared to die for a long time and that went a long way to help him keep it together no matter what kind of a tough spot he found himself in.

“I’ll just have to take your word for it.”. John lands back down onto the carpet as easily as he took off. He sits back down, this time on the edge of his bed. “How does this go? Us fucking?”

“Well, you’re the client, ain’t ya? You get to decide what we do.”

“I do?” John’s facade falters for just a second. It’s almost as if the concept of deciding for himself is foreign to him. It probably is. Maybe these wankers outside the room been telling him what to do, what to eat and when to sleep… when they let him out of here to become Vought’s new shining star or whatever, they’ll either have the most obedient cunt in the world on their hands or an absolute bloody nightmare that finally gets to do whatever the fuck he wants. Billy’s betting all the dosh he doesn’t have on the latter. “Of course I do,” he collects himself almost immediately. “What do your clients usually ask for?”

“Depends on the person, don’t it? Everyone needs somethin’. Sometimes they don’t even know what it is and that’s where I come in.” Billy gestures with a flourish. “I help ‘em figure it out. It can be anything from a handjob to some nutty roleplay scenario. Sometimes they want to just talk.”That gets some interest from John, a curious spark in his eyes. So many of Billy’s clients are lonely with a capital L, that he can smell it on them. John, for all his power and the attention he’s getting from his handlers, is the same way.

“You wanna talk?” Billy sits down next to him, side by side. He feels human enough. Nice and warm. “A’ight. We can do that.”

“I want everything,” John says firmly. He sits back down on his chair and folds his hand into his lap. “Talk. Then fuck.”

Billy really wishes they could shut the scientists out. He’s a smooth talker, always has been, but having an unseen audience is killing his verbal hard-on. “You got it,” he says with a smirk. “That’s a good book you got there. Orwell.”

“Don’t you dare tell me how it ends,” John immediately says. “I haven’t finished yet. But already, hmm, already lots to think about.” He rubs his mouth, then states, easily, “I like to read.” John gestures at the bookcase in his room, stuffed with hardcovers. They’re mostly classics with a few newer ones strategically interspersed between them. It’s bolted to the floor. All of the furniture in the room is.

“Me too,” Billy says, tearing his gaze away from the heavy-duty bolts holding the desk down. “Whenever I get the time. I don’t read as many classics though. Sure, they’re good for growing a nice big brain or whatever the fuck, but I wanna be entertained.”

“I’ve been asking to get more murder mystery books,” John says bitterly. “Too much literary slop, apparently, isn’t conducive to my development.” He rolls his eyes. “When I get out of here, I’m going to read whatever the fuck I want. And watch whatever the fuck I want. Have you seen Star Wars?”

“Course I have. Bloody brilliant films. The original ones, not the follow-up steaming pile of shite they’ve been releasing.”

“Never seen any of them. I don’t get to go to the TV room that often.” John scoffs. “And when I do, it’s never the things I want to watch.”

What kind of a life is that? Always observed, can’t decide a bloody thing for yourself—and here Billy thought his upbringing was shite.

“How’d you end up doing this?” John changes the topic with all the speed of a F1 driver.

“As in here—”

“As in selling yourself for money.” Not even trying to cushion the blow, Christ on a cracker.

“Same reason as everyone else in this line of work did. Made some subpar choices, mate.” The mate just slips out. Usually, Billy knows better than to refer to his johns (lowercase j) as mate but this (uppercase J) John feels different. Like someone he could’ve been, well, mates with if things weren’t as fucked as they are. It ain’t decent or fair, locking him up. Even if he’s the second coming of supe Christ, you have to be stark raving to treat a live person like a lab rat.

“I don’t know what that means,” John says in a tone of voice that makes it very clear he isn’t happy to admit he doesn’t know something. He seems to get a little agitated and Billy can’t help but remember the warning the lady at the door gave him. Fuck it, he’ll tell this stranger his life story, whatever the fuck. He does want to get out of here alive, his body kicking in with primal self-preservation instinct where his brain cashed its chips a while ago

“I joined the Royals.” John raises his eyebrow. “Royal Marines, it’s the British army. Then I got myself wounded.” Billy taps his shoulder where a gnarly scar marks the spot like an X on a treasure map. “Did not wanna go back home ‘cause fuck that.” So his old man can beat him bloody and bruised some more? So he can see Lenny’s ghost on every chair and behind every door of their fucking house? Forget it. “My mum’s half Yank, so I got a one-way ticket and flew ‘cross the ocean to live here with her sister, me aunt. Once her patience for havin’ a random lad sleeping on her couch ended, I moved out. Met this bloke, Joe, and we started datin’. And he was the one to introduce me to this life.” Billy half-shrugs.

“Hmmmm.” John seems like he’s disbelieving his story. There ain’t anything to disbelieve. It’s the bloody truth. “Do you like it?”

“Pays the bills.” Sometimes.

John looks at him again, inspecting him like a scientist might inspect a new species of a bug he’s just discovered. Or like a tiger might investigate an unknown object in his enclosure. Should he swat it with his paw? Eat it? Play with it? His blue eyes narrow with intense, laser-focused attention as he observes Billy. He strokes Billy’s face, paying extra attention to the stubble at the edge of his jaw and the scar crossing his forehead next to his left eyebrow (courtesy of his old man when he was fifteen, that evil wanker).

Then John leans in and kisses him, clumsy but eager. Billy ain’t some kind of a stereotypical movie hooker that doesn’t kiss, so he takes the reigns, guiding the kiss without pushing too much. For the first few seconds, John doesn’t seem to want to follow, hesitant. Then he places his hand on Billy's back and pulls him in close. It’s not an earth-shattering insane incredible kiss or anything. He’s a bit uncoordinated and uses way too much tongue, but the unabashed, greedy way John presses his lips to Billy’s thrums with want. And enthusiasm and need are the hottest bloody thing.

Well, and it doesn’t hurt that John’s easy on the ol’ eyes.

Billy raises his hand to place it on the side of John’s neck. He’s good at telling what his client needs, just like he said, and John needs this for a bit. Kissing. The sloppy kind. Billy climbs into John’s lap, his knees on either side of John’s thighs. There we go. He rolls his hips, grinding their crotches together, and is immediately rewarded with a soft noise. Sensitive, then. No wonder.

“You can touch me, John.” Billy grabs John’s hand and slips it under his floral shirt, sliding it up. “It’s a’ight.” John quickly catches up, feeling him up and even pinching his nipple. He’s oscillating between uncertainty and cockiness, bashful and then insistent. Billy meets him where he’s at, snogging him harder and faster when he seems to get bold with it and slowing down to a gentle touch when he hesitates.

He tastes so fucking sweet. He feels so fucking nice. It’s a job, and Billy usually doesn’t really let loose, concentrating on the client’s enjoyment. But with John, he’s enjoying it too even if he’s keeping the whole educational aspect of this romp in the back of his mind. John’s got one hand on his waist, another planted on his chest, and he’s giving this kiss all he’s fucking got. Billy leans back to glance at John and sees his reflection move out of the corner of his eye.

Fuck, that’s right, they’re being watched. Billy almost forgets it for a second here and there and then he catches a glimpse of that mirror and he’s reminded that they’re putting on a kinky show for a bunch of horned-up scientists. He throws a glance at it out of the corner of his eye as he sucks on John’s tongue, eliciting another breathy noise out of him. Sick fucks.

“Suck my cock.” John’s mouth is spit-slick and shiny in the fluorescent lights. His hard-on has been pressing against Billy’s crotch for a good few minutes already.

“Say please,” Billy says without even thinking about it. John’s grip on his waist tightens, uncomfortably so. That’s gonna bruise and John doesn’t even seem like he’s putting any effort into it. “Oi, easy.” Billy grabs John’s wrist to steady him, but he might as well be pulling on a fucking steel beam. His hand doesn’t budge.

Billy’s not sure if it’s his imagination. Probably is. But he can swear he hears a gasp of horror on the other side of the mirror. He’s done something he shouldn’t have.

John’s expression grows petulant and angry. But then it smooths out, replaced by want and need. “Alright. Suck my cock, please. Billy.” This is the first time he says Billy’s name, and it seems like he’s tasting it on his tongue. And he likes what he tastes, too, because he smiles. His white-toothed grin must’ve been engineered special to make all lads and lassies weak at their knees. It works on Billy, too, even though he’s a bloody professional and is supposed to be above having his heart skipping for a john.

“Since ya asked so nicely.” Billy slips off him and to the floor, settling down on his knees between John’s eagerly spread legs.

“I ain’t gonna, but normally, you might want to use a condom for this. To avoid STDs,” Billy says, randomly remembering his sex ed role.

“I don’t get STDs. Or any diseases,” John scoffs like getting gonorrhea is for plebs. Alright then. Billy undoes John’s jeans with a well-practiced motion and pulls him out. Of course he’s big. Fuck. But reasonably big, and thank fuck for that, ‘cause Billy would not appreciate his guts getting rearranged by some kinda twelve-inch lab-grown monster.

He puts his mouth on the tip and looks up, making eye contact. Blowjobs have gotten so routine, suck here, bop head there, always look up, all demure and slutty. But Billy’s actually getting harder by the second here. Been a long time since that happened all by itself without having to imagine something that would turn him on. He puts on a good show, for John and the voyeur fuckfaces outside, bopping his head back and forth. John just sits there like a good boy with his hands on his thighs and moans so pretty.

Billy pulls off with a wet pop and takes John’s hand. “You can put your hand in my hair. Guide me where you like it the most.” He remembers the steel grip on his waist that’s still aching a little and gulps. “But maybe don’t pull too hard, luv.” Or he’ll pull his fucking scalp off. John slides a hand in his hair, almost gingerly. Tender.

Some blokes wanted the girlfriend experience so they were gentle. But it feels different with John. With everyone else, even the most delusional types, it was bloody clear it was just pretend for pay and then they’re gonna say adios. But John’s touching him like it really means something to him.

Billy sucks him harder to put these thoughts out of his head. He bops his head, cradling John’s bollocks in his hand. Then he leans forward, tipping down until the tip of John’s cock hits the back of his throat and he chokes and gags a little, just enough, just how blokes like it. He looks at him again, mouth stretched wide. Must be painting quite the picture. John’s looking all kinds of disheveled himself, his hair in disarray from how much he’s dragged his free hand through it, his cheeks flushed a bright pink.

He comes all of a sudden, down Billy’s willing throat, and for a split-second, there’s a bright flicker of red in his eyes. But he closes them as soon as that flicker appears and covers his eyes with his hand for good measure.

Billy stumbles back, John’s annoyingly good-tasting come (what the actual fuck, did they engineer him to have his come taste good?) bubbling on his lips as he sputters.

“What the fuck was that?”

“My lasers. Would’ve killed you if I let go,” John says nonchalantly. Jesus fuck. Billy’s been shot at before, he’s been hit before but this is probably the closest he’s ever come to dying. “I haven’t ever orgasmed with anyone else. Didn’t know my lasers would do that. Or maybe it’s just that you feel so fucking good.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, quit worrying. I stopped it in time, didn’t I?” John pulls Billy up to his level until Billy’s standing on his knees and John’s bending down. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he adds. “And I want to hurt people often. But not you.”

Well, doesn’t John know how to make a bloke feel special? But what else could you expect from someone who seems to get no affection from anyone but a random rent boy? Billy reaches out, petting his hair, and he all but purrs at the touch. Fucking hell. He should get it over with before he does get lasered. John looks at him, eyes soft. Who would believe these same eyes nearly did him in a few moments ago?

“I want to fuck you.” John grins as Billy scrambles to his feet. “Please?”

“Quick study, ain’t ya? Alright, this is the kinda sex where STDs or no, you really wanna use a condom if you’re sticking it into a bird’s cunt. You do not want any whoopsie sprogs—”

“Billy, stop.” John stands up. “I know they put you up to some kind of teaching me the basics of sex thing, but they did explain the theory back before they brought me the first hooker. I know how to put a condom on. But I want to fuck you without one. It probably feels better. Right?”

“Right,” Billy says. “That’s… that ain’t inaccurate. How do you want me?”

John glances at the mirror. Billy wonders if he’s looking at the scientists, but he seems to be looking at his reflection, seemingly unhappy with it because he’s frowning. Okay.

“I like this one. I don’t want to hurt him,” he states to the mirror. “I like you.” He glances back at Billy. Maybe he’s talking to the creep crew on the other side. Or maybe he’s seeing things. “And I want you down on all fours. Saw that in a movie once. Couldn’t stop thinking about that, actually.”

He’s still got his cock out. And he’s hard all over again.

“Wanna take my clothes off?” Billy says, pulling John’s fingers to the buttons of his shirt. John fumbles as he unclasps the top button. Then he clearly gets annoyed with the whole concept and just yanks it open, the buttons flying any which fucking way and the shirt hanging in tatters.

“Oi!” Billy snaps. “I liked this fucking shirt.”

“Oh.” It didn’t even seem to cross John’s mind that someone could care about something as trivial as a shirt. “Sorry?”

“Whatever,” Billy mutters. To be fair, with all the dosh he’s getting from this, if he gets out of this at all, he can buy himself all the fucking shirts he wants. Still, it’s a matter of principle. John pulls the remains of the shirt off Billy and strokes his shoulders in what is probably supposed to be an apologetic way. He moves his hands lower under Billy’s encouraging gaze and undoes the jeans they gave him at the entry.

He pulls them down Billy’s hips and looks fucking mindblown at the sight of his dick. Billy’s ain’t gonna be too humble about it: he’s got a nice cock, good enough that some people pay him to fuck them, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t warrantee a reaction like that.

“I’ve never seen another man’s cock,” John says matter-of-factly even though his eyes are shining. “Not like this.” He reaches out, touching him hesitantly before gripping him tight. Too tight.

“A’ight. Easy,” Billy says with a hiss and John does relax his hand a bit. “Try strokin’ up and down.” Normally, he’d suggest “do what you do when you wank” but he suspects John could have some kinda supe techniques that would leave a normal bloke’s cock bent and bruised. John seems to catch on that he can’t go hard, and he makes his touch almost too cautious instead. It feels nice enough, though. Better than a death grip. “There’s a good lad.”

John all but preens at that. Doctor Butcher takes one look at that display and diagnoses him with a praise kink. Hardcore praise kink. He notes that for future use.

“Don’t it bother ya that they’re watchin’?” Billy asks as he finishes sliding his jeans off. There’s no way to sexily take someone’s socks off, so he just yanks them off himself. “This is supposed to be private.”

John shrugs. “That’s just how it is in the lab,” he says, a rehearsed line someone else must’ve told him over and over again to get him to accept his place as a lab rat. Fuckin’ hell. “Does it bother you?”

“I ain’t chuffed,” Billy says, then clarifies off John’s quizzical look, “Happy. I ain’t happy.” He gets on the bed, down on all fours anyway, even if it does allow John’s handlers to get a good long look at his arse. Again, he ain’t exactly the shy type, but something about them not being turned on or wanking, just silently observing makes it feel really wrong.

“I’ve already prepped myself, but I could teach ya how to—”

“Do I have to do that?” John says, impatient. Excited, even.

“No.” Billy sighs. “Go right ahead.”

He grabs the headboard tight. There’s a brief rustling noise behind him and then John lines himself up and pushes inside. Ah, fuck. Yeah, he’s big, and it stings and smarts, but Billy can take it, can’t he? It’s his fucking job. Be embarrassing if he couldn’t do that one fucking thing.

“Feels good,” John informs him as he bottoms out. He grips Billy’s hips. He seems braver. More confident now that he’s had some time to explore Billy’s body. The jury’s out on whether that’s a good thing or a bad one. “You feel good.”

“You can move now,” Billy says, glancing over his shoulder. “Go ahead.”

John does, and, fucking ouch. Billy lets go of the headboard, hissing in pain. Oh, that bruised something inside him, he’s pretty sure.

“Fuck,” he groans eloquently. “Take it easy.”

He’s breathing hard. This wanker could kill him. Fuck him dead. Wouldn’t that be a fun way to die, starring in an underground snuff flick?

“I’m sorry,” John says, and he sounds like it. He reaches out, petting Billy’s hair. It’s an unsure motion. It’s how someone who’s terrified of dogs might’ve petted a mutt they decided to make an exception for. It’s sweet.

“Let’s try again. Dial it down to 60 percent of whatever that just was.” Billy scrambles back to his previous position. John’s cautious now, his touch feather-light, his thrusts barely there. “A’ight, you can go a bit harder than that, mate.” Finally, they settle into a rhythm that strikes that perfect middle between “was that a gentle breeze up me arse?” and “bruising my non-existent cervix”.

Billy ruts back against him, fingers flexing on the headboard as he rolls his hips, fucking himself on his cock, showing him just how much he can give. John’s breathing grows heavy and laboured as he thrusts at the correct, Billy-approved pace, and it feels way too good for a shag from a first-timer. They really made him bloody perfect at everything, even fucking someone’s arse.

Billy drops his head, biting on his bottom lip to stifle a groan.

“No, I want to hear you,” John says, and Billy does just that, gasping and moaning and it’s not even fake and played up like it usually is with him whenever he says trite shite like yeah, yeah, daddy, ugh, fucking me so good or whatever. Blimey. He’s fucking loving it.

“I’m close,” John whispers into his ear, draping himself across Billy’s back.

“Give me a reach-around,” Billy says.

“A what?”

“Fucking touch me,” Billy blindly feels for John’s hand and pulls it to his own cock. “Ain’t gonna come without that.”

John yanks him up, the two of them kneeling on the bed now. One hand grabbing Billy’s chest, he gives him a nice wank, and that gets Billy spilling in no fucking time, ‘cause he’s been teetering on the edge for a while now. He ain’t seeing stars, but he comes pretty close.

“Fuck. You sound so pretty,” John pants against his ear, and then his body tenses behind Billy and he’s coming too, spilling hard. Once he’s sure John’s got his lasers under control and isn’t going to double-tap him in the back of his skull, Billy relaxes against him, loose-limbed, and lets his arse be filled up, nice and wet and sloppy. He feels himself dripping, come leaking out of his wrecked hole and staining the comforter. Fuck, but there’s some sick pleasure in this.

John drops Billy back onto the bed and lies down next to him, pressing close. He’s still in his t-shirt, nude from the waist down. His cock is flaccid for all of two minutes and then it stirs to life again, pressed against Billy’s thigh.

“I want it the other way,” John says once he’s fully hard. No hesitation. “I want you to fuck me.”

Billy blinks up at him, processing his words. Has he completely lost it and started hallucinating? No, his johns asked him to top before, he just didn’t expect it from this bloke. “The other way? You want me to bugger you?” Billy raises his eyebrow.

“If that means do what I just did to you, sure. I want you to bugger me.”

“Well, you’ll have to give me a moment.” Billy clears his throat. “I ain’t got the refractory period you do.”

“I got Viagra,” John says enthusiastically, opening the drawer of his nightstand. “Lube, too. All kinds of stuff. They stocked the drawers before you came.”

Fuck’s sake. Those bloody creeps, tossing shite for enrichment into their golden boy’s enclosure. If Billy had a crowbar and a moment alone with them…

“No need for measures quite that drastic,” Billy says. “Gimme a few.” Honestly, he half-expects the scientists to burst in here and say that this experiment is over and they’re not letting Butcher arsefuck their perfect subject but no one comes in. He takes it as permission to shag.

“Lemme finger you first. I’ll get there by the time you’re open,” Billy says, grabbing the lube. “Lay back. Spread your legs.”

John’s all too eager to do what Billy says right now, flopping back onto the pillows. Billy slicks his fingers up with the provided lube.

“Relax and think loose thoughts,” he says, stroking the inside of John’s thigh. His skin feels smooth and soft. Wouldn’t think it’s actually bulletproof or whatever. John shivers under his gentle touch and looks at Billy like he’s never had anyone touch him carefully in his entire bloody life.

Billy slips his index finger inside, or, at least, tries to. “Blimey, have you ever relaxed in your life? They shoulda stocked this draw of yours with poppers.”

“What are poppers?”

“A drug. Makes your arsehole unclench,” Billy says with a sigh. “Alright. Look at me. I’m not tryin’ to hurt ya, so quit trying to keep me out. You can trust me. I’ve made you feel good so far, haven't I?”

John nods and finally relaxes just enough for Billy’s finger to slip inside. Yeah, that’s the stuff.

“This the position you want? Could be easier to take it if you’re on your hands and knees.”

“No. I want to see your face. You’re like one of those movie stars,” John says. “I’m guessing not everyone’s that attractive out there in the real world.”

“Well, thanks,” Billy smirks. “Not too bad on the eyes yourself.”

John shrugs as if it’s obvious he’s hot, but this wee chinwag does relax him enough for Billy to squeeze a second finger in. He’s still pretty tight. If he doesn’t snap Billy’s cock off while they’re fucking, he’s gonna feel nothing short of bloody incredible. Such a tight squeeze.

“Good lad,” Billy says, smiling at him as he drizzles liberal amounts of lube over his hole. John groans at the cool touch, or maybe at the praise. “There we go. Open up.” Third finger. Gotta make sure he’s prepped prepped.

Billy crooks his fingers inside just right and John jerks up, gasping. His eyes flash red for a split-second which makes Billy’s blood grow cold, but nothing else happens. No lasers, just loud, desperate panting. “What was that?”

“That’s your prostate. Feel good, don’t it?” Billy smirks. John nods, his blonde hair falling into his face. “Will feel even better once I’m hittin’ that with my cock.”

He pulls his fingers out, gives his own by-now-hard cock a few pumps (thank fuck it cooperated), and wipes his hand on the comforter. Guess John did take a lesson in fingering, after all, even though he didn’t wanna bother with Billy’s arse.

“Ready?” he asks, lining himself up. Supposed to be routine by now, this. But today it’s anything but. John nods, breathless, and Billy pushes right inside.

Oh, yeah. That’s the fucking stuff. He’s tight, deliciously so, and Billy grunts as he bottoms out. “That feel a’ight?”

“Just move already,” John demands and leans up to kiss Billy, a proper hungry snog, all tongue and a little teeth. Billy nips and tugs at his bottom lip before pulling away.

And then he starts fucking John in earnest, making that damn bedpost slam against the wall. John keeps saying “harder” and “more”, so even though Billy starts cautious, in a couple of minutes he’s giving John all he’s fucking got. John grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. Fuckin’ sap.

“Yeah, fuck,” Billy breathes out in between two thrusts. Fuck, and here he was comparing this elevator ride to a trip to hell. Some parts of it did warrant that label, but this here? Pure fucking heaven he doesn’t believe in. Heaven. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Am I the best you’ve ever had?” John asks, deadpan. Oh, he’s serious.

“I ain’t feedin’ your ego by answering that,” Billy purrs against his mouth and kisses him again, burying bollocks deep. John laughs against his lips. Billy’s heart skips a beat in a way that has nothing to do with the strenuous physical activity he’s partaking in.

He kisses him once more, gentle and tender, right before he reaches out between them and strokes John’s cock in smooth, well-practiced motions.

When John comes, so does Billy. Fuckin’ synchronized orgasms. He’s given it his all here. Vought oughta give him a medal for his service.

He pulls out and pats John’s hip. “You did good,” he says and starts looking for his clothes. Fuck, that’s right, the wanker tore up his favorite shirt.

“Wait,” John says as Billy pulls his jeans on. “I want you to stay longer.”

“What for?” Christssakes, he can’t possibly get it up again. Maybe he’ll have to say yes to that little blue pill offer.

“Hold me?” John grabs him by the wrist. “That’s how they do it in the movies.”

The girlfriend experience, then. Billy nods, but the door swings open and the blonde from earlier is standing in the doorframe. A balding man is hovering behind her, looking positively giddy. Sick cunt.

“It’s time for you to let Billy go, alright?” the lady says, taking a step inside. “Marty and I—”

“I don’t think so,” John says and shoves her out of the room. He uses the lightest touch, barely a flick of his finger, but she still hits the wall behind her hard and shakes her head, disoriented. John shuts the door with a loud clang. He uses his laser eyes to weld it shut. A wave of heat radiates the room as the red rays melt the metal.

Yeah, Billy wouldn’t have survived these hitting him point blank. At least it looks like it’d be quick.

“Don’t worry, they’ll cut it open to get us. But it’ll take them some time. Come here.” John sits back down on the bed, insistently pulling on Billy’s arm. Billy gets in bed with him and John immediately cuddles into his side. It’s pretty cramped because the bed is narrow, made for one, but they manage.

Blimey, they’re making a ticking time bomb here. In school, Billy’s class read a boring book about the people who created the nukes and how they were horrified at what they’d done. This bloke here might be worse than the atom those cunts split.

But then he puts his head on Billy’s chest and he’s looking so fucking sweet, it’s hard to believe he’s the wanker that just welded them inside. Billy pets his hair, carding his fingers through it, and John closes his eyes, a blissful smile tugging on his lips. “This feels so nice,” he admits.

Billy turns his head to kiss John’s forehead.

“You lied earlier,” John says. “When I asked you if you liked your job.”

“I didn’t lie. I didn’t say either way.”

“Your heart rate jumped,” John says. “You don’t want to be doing it.”

“Of course, I don’t wanna be doing this.” Billy groans. “Gagging on some random wanker’s knobs for money wasn’t the career path I envisioned for myself growin’ up, but it’s what I’m stuck with.”

“Do you always hate it?”

“Well, not always. But most days, yeah.”

“Did you hate it today?” John sits up, meeting Billy’s eyes. “If you lie, I’ll know.”

“Today,” Billy admits, “was a fuckin’ doozy and a half. I hated it ‘cause of…” he gestures to the mirror. “But I liked shaggin’ you. And that’s the truth.”

“That is the truth.” John smiles, satisfied. “If you hate it so much, why don’t you just quit?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Must be easier than escaping an underground lab.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Do people hurt you?” John mutters. “When you don’t want it?”

“Part and parcel of doing what I do, luv,” Billy says. He wishes he had a cigarette.

“I would’ve protected you. I’d laser every fucker who hurt you in half.” John strokes the scar on Billy's shoulder. Then he sighs. “I’m glad I didn’t hurt you today. I keep hurting people by accident. Even when I don’t want to. But when they finally say I’m ready, I’m gonna be so fucking great. The greatest hero Vought’s ever had. I’m going to have my own team. I’m going to do saves. And the audience will love me. Everyone will love me. Every single fucking person in the world.”

“Maybe temper your expectations,” Billy says. “Not everyone loves even chocolate ice cream and it’s objectively bloody amazing. You don’t need every cunt in the world to love ya. That ain’t realistic.”

“That’s what I was made for. To be number one. To be… to be a fucking god.”

Well, ain’t that lovely. “Is that what you want, though?”

John pauses. Then he says “yes” but in the way that even Billy who can’t X-ray people or whatever the fuck can tell he’s not a hundred percent committed.

He holds John and pets his hair, his back, and the side of his face until these cunts outside cut through the door.

“John.” There’s another man on the other side of the door, one Billy hasn’t seen before. From how John jerks up to look at him, he must be important. “We agreed you wouldn’t barricade yourself in your room again.”

“Doctor Vogelbaum,” John says, immediately sitting up. Billy doesn’t like this man. He dislikes him even more than all other cunts here, and that’s a high bar. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want Billy to—”

“Billy needs to go back to his life,” Vogelbaum says in a no-nonsense voice. “And you, young man, have a long day ahead of you tomorrow if we want you ready to be unveiled anytime soon.”

“Yes, sir,” John says and throws a longing look at Billy as he’s ushered out of the room and being promised that his cheque’s in the mail.

"That's fucked up, what you're doing to him! You can't treat a person like a fucking lab rat. It ain't right," Billy says to the black-haired woman in glasses who is walking him out. She seems slightly more sympathetic than the rest of these cunts and for a second, he almost thinks he's gotten through to her. But then her face steels in a blank polite expression just as the elevator's doors open. 

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Butcher, but we have everything under control. I trust you will be discreet about what you've seen here today," she says. It's a thinly veiled threat. Everything is around these parts. "Have a good day."

Fucking hell. Billy leans against the elevator’s wall as it goes up and up and up and feels every ounce of exhaustion from today take him out at the fucking knees. He grabs at the railing installed at waist level to balance himself.

He won’t forget John, that sweet unhinged human nuclear bomb, for a very, very, very long time.

Billy takes that cheque and uses it to pave his way out of the business. Joe doesn’t like it much, but he doesn’t give a shite about what Joe does and doesn’t like anymore.

He watches The Homelander’s debut live and in color on telly half a year later. They got him in this stupid jingoistic suit with a fucking flag for a cape. He looks like an absolute wanker. Oddly enough, Billy misses him bad. Not “pet the screen of his TV set bad”, but it comes pretty close. Fuck’s sake. Rule number one of whoring around is never to get attached.

Billy gets out of the selling himself business but it doesn’t mean that he keeps his nose clean. There are plenty of less-than-savory organizations that could use a scrappy ex-military bloke, and Billy leans into that shite full tilt.

Sometimes, when he’s laying on a rooftop somewhere, a sniper’s rifle in his hand, he wonders if Homelander (not “The Homelander”, he drops that soon after his debut) ever will swoop in to stop him. Whether he’d remember him as the person who popped his cherry.

But Homelander never shows, not in real life. He’s on billboards and he’s in movies and he’s promising to keep America safe and he’s got that Queen Maeve bird on his arm which has got to be a fake thing and Billy is an idiot to long for someone he only sees on the small and big screens.

Billy meets people in bars and shags them, but it never lasts. One of his hookups is a sweet woman named Becca with beautiful long hair and a gentle smile. She’s the only one of all of them who gets his sorry heart going and maybe in a different universe, he could’ve really let himself love her ‘til kingdom come.

But in this, she deserves something better than a crook with a faded, well-worn crush on a supe who probably doesn’t even remember his name. So even though she leaves Billy her number, he never calls her.

This is for the better.

Lately, the only thing the telly talks about is the big Vought coup. The current bigwigs, Madelyn Stillwell and Stan Edgar, have been arrested on suspicion of insider trading and other white-collar crime shite. The new CEO is named Ashley Barrett and that bird is completely unprepared for her brand new title, shaking like a leaf in her first address to the nation. Billy can’t help but notice Homelander lurking behind her shoulder whenever they cut to the B-roll of their latest company party.

Billy turns off the TV and pets Terror. Time to turn in. But as he walks to the kitchen to get a nightcap, he spots a dark shadow on his balcony.

His first thought is that someone he’s crossed is here to do him. But the shadow has a very distinct silhouette, a cape flapping in the wind like a flag on a mast in a storm.

Billy opens the balcony door.

“Oi,” he says. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Billy,” John says. Not Homelander. That’s John. That’s the Peter Pan he met back when. He grew up, sure, and so did Billy. But that shine in his eyes is still the same and when John runs a hand through his windswept hair, Billy smiles. That polished man on the screen didn’t mean a thing to him. This here is who he’s been missing.

“Glad you showed up. ‘Cause I’ve been meaning to tell you something for the longest time but I wasn’t gonna pay up for one of your wee meets and greets,” Billy says.

“What?” John’s breathless. Billy smirks.

“This outfit makes you look like a proper twat.”

John laughs and yanks him close. And then they’re kissing, kissing hard enough to make up for the twenty-something years gone by.

Rose means to leave Vought’s labs. She does. But it’s stable employment, the team’s not too bad, and the daily tasks are compelling and challenging as long as you’ve got a strong enough stomach.

So she doesn’t leave. So she’s there on the day all communications with upstairs suddenly go dark and the elevator chimes, one floor after another.

It’s John. Homelander. Behind him, a bearded scarred man with fluffy black hair. He seems faintly familiar, but Rose can’t place where she’s seen him before.

“Home sweet home,” John says and smiles brightly. He places a large sheet cake on the desk in the middle of the room. “Go on. Cut it and serve it, Rose,” he says, noticing her cowering in the corner. She grabs a knife and starts cutting the cake up. “What a joyful reunion, am I right, ladies and gentlemen? Yeah? Can I get a cheer?”

The bearded man grins. Rose finally notices he’s clutching a crowbar in his hand.

The cake is cherry-flavored. The red filling slowly oozes out, thick and viscous like blood.