Chapter Text
It was the kind of taboo thing that everyone did. The kind of guilty pleasure that, at some point, became a normal part of life that Billy assumed everyone partook in. Like porn, or coke. Everyone and their mother did it, so there was no use getting into his head about it.
The idea first crossed his mind years ago. For a split second, the absolutely horrendous thought of a slice of his Becca, back in his arms, even just to hold, even just to look at, tickled at his mind. But the guilt of defiling her image, of forgoing her consent again, of replacing her with some other flesh, revolted him so deeply he stashed the idea of the infamous Doppelgänger so deep that resurfacing it now felt like a revelation.
He was promised absolute discretion. Of course, he understood this was just a matter of business to the Doppelgänger, and this “promise” was a surface-level safeguard that could be broken by a really good financial offer or even a threat. But, with the black hole in his chest consuming him as quickly as it did, fucks were in a staggeringly low supply. Couldn’t be giving them out to just anything, could he?
Knowing that you’re dying is a refreshing, liberating thing, especially if you don’t really mind it that much. The hatred that saturated every hour of every day of his life so far had to go somewhere, and at a certain point, Butcher had to admit to himself that he couldn’t guarantee it would result in the ultimate victory. But he owed himself this. The sweet release of revenge, however deceptive.
He’d put an embarrassing amount of time writing that little script for the Doppelgänger, and he was pleased to see that the exorbitant whore really was worth his penny. He had Homelander down to a tee. He wondered how many times he had fucked that petulant cunt to have learned him so well.
Butcher had thoroughly convinced himself not to cringe at his own indulgent act. Going through all this trouble to just spend the day wincing and rolling his eyes? That wouldn’t do. He had to method act, like a kid doing the part of a tree in a play. Really convince yourself this is the real deal, and you cannot laugh.
He always wanted to laugh when Homelander swayed side to side in that pseudo-confident walk he’d put on when he’d approach him. So full of intentionality that it lost all its bravado. Arms behind his back, cape shifting behind him, boots thumping, heavy against the wood flooring. He stood in his doorway, like he’d done a few years back, and the minor inconsistencies blended into the years of memories overriding them, enough to make it feel like that nerve-racking, tasty déjà vu.
Butcher couldn’t help but break the script and smile as he said his line,
“You want to watch me have a wank, it’ll cost you a tenner.”
Doppelländer didn’t break his part, though, looking up at him with dejection, and mirroring the words that came out of the real deal’s mouth to a disturbing accuracy,
“May I come in?”
In unimaginable disgust, Butcher could feel his half chub rub against his jeans. The idea of the whole thing had him so embarrassingly excited. It was hard to believe that he was actually doing this.
Smile still irresistible, he eyed the mirage up and down, the details on point, the suit an exact replica. Delectable.
Inside, he keeps his role up. Every line delivered with the same amount of malice he’d put in it the first time, with Doppelländer keeping up the attitude just right. The only problem was that Butcher was still painfully aware of the play at hand. Painfully aware it was not Homelander, it was some random man pretending to be him-
“What if, you and I, what if we share a different destiny?”
The familiar line tickled his guts the same way it did the first time, except the Dopplegänger broke the script. He got up.
It felt like a splash of cold water, as Butcher’s back pressed against the chair in shock and air rushed to his lungs.
“Oi, I didn’t tell you to get up.”
The boots rattled the whole cabin as the Dopple approached him.
“You don’t tell me what to do, William.” A smile, too wide to be genuine, crept onto the face of his enemy. “I am, still, the Homelander. Have you forgotten?” He stopped before him, at an uncomfortable distance, “Unless you want to tell me what to do, William.”
He leaned against the table, his prosthetic, laughably fake dick right in Butcher's face, and stretched his legs out next to him. As much as he hated him, as much as the mere sight of him sent daggers through his nervous system, his body reacted to the proximity of a good fucking pair of legs.
His mind hurried to find a response that would fit the script, the character of himself he’d built up for this. Whatever sentences he formed felt too scripted, too implausible, and too theatrical. Not like he didn’t usually speak theatrically with Homelander. Not like every exchange they had wasn’t filled with pedantic nonsense. But right then, at that moment, he had nothing to say. His eyes darted from his face to his thighs. He’s paying this cunt a lot of money, way too much not to touch just because he’s out of words. His skin touched the rough polyester of the puffed-up Homelander suit, slipping between his thighs and back out.
“And you’d listen, too, right?”
Doppelländer shifted to lean on his hands behind him, moving his thighs against his hand.
“You want me to? You want to tell The Homelander what to do so bad, you’d risk everything to just have a taste, right?”
“I ain’t risking shit, son, I’m halfway out the door anyways. What are you gonna do, kill me? Have at it.”
“I would never kill you, William. I mean, I could, many, many times, but I didn’t, oh no, I wouldn’t.” He leaned down, condescension spilling from his face, “You know that, right?”
It felt almost like he was being genuine. His eyes squinted, eyebrows pressed together, he put one hand on Butcher’s arm, as if he was genuinely asking, reassuring. Not in the script, not what he wants at all.
This concerned act pissed him off. He felt the familiar rage pump into his heart, and he yanked his hand from between his legs before kicking his chair back and standing face to face with the little cunt. He grabbed his face with such sudden force that Doppelländer’s eyes shot up with fear, and he could feel the man’s breath shudder.
“Fuck you think you’re talking to like that? Your little fuckbuddy? Your nazi cunt of a girlfriend? Have you lost all semblance of your fucking mind?”
It was okay to lash out. The Doppelgänger was used to this, anyway; he signed off on everything short of murdering him. Butcher didn’t want to think further into the implications, but the Doppelgänger knew the risks of this specific job and still took it. He’s in no short supply of customers. This is fine. He’s a fucking supe anyway.
Homelander’s glassy blue eyes, widened in shock, darted back and forth from his, before a smile started to slither its way on his ugly mug. Undeniably handsome, ugly mug.
It was working, brilliantly in fact, because he was so fucking angry he could flip him over and rage fuck him so hard the table would fall apart, and he wouldn’t even stop. But no. He’s got 24 hours with this cunt, and he’s planning to make every hour worth it.
“William…?” he mouthed, barely audible words escaping his squished face.
“What?” he whispered back, pushing his legs apart and getting within millimeters of his face.
“What the fuck…” he stops to giggle, before gripping his arm, weakly, aimlessly, showcasing his inability to put up a fight, “is your problem?”
Butcher slapped him across the face with such ferocity, he could feel his own hand buzz with the recoil. Homelander swung to the side, catching himself against the table, knocking over the newly brewed cup of tea, and sending the scorching hot beverage down the table. He attempted to jump up from the fiery heat spreading around his ass, but Butcher grabbed him by the neck and pinned him to the table, squashing his body against the rest of the liquid. The glass broke under his back, and he squealed with pain. ‘Supes heal fast,’ Butcher reminded himself before he could feel too bad, ‘he’s fine.’
“You..” he wheezed, clawing at the hands closing his windpipes, “you’re obsessed with me.. I’m.. I’m the center of your fucking universe, aren’t I? Oh, William, William-”
Butcher made a sound he didn’t know he could make in response - a hard, guttural growl. And because even that wasn’t quite enough to express his disdain, he lifted his whole torso up with one hand and abruptly slammed his head back into the table. Heard a weak, dry cracking sound from it and knew he had to move this shitshow somewhere soon, or else they’d both be in blisters.
“I fucking hate you,” he managed to spit out.
“Two sides… two- ah,” he giggled between wheezes again, rushing another wave of adrenaline-fueled anger through Butcher’s veins, “sides of the same blade, Will- William.”
The rage was palpable. He’d lost himself in the fantasy now, fully, his mind disengaged from the concept of the Doppelgänger, locked in on destroying Homelander, debasing him, fucking him so hard, so so hard, he-
A knee jammed against his balls with surprising strength. He doubled down, dropping the soft, pulsing neck in his hands, hard against the table. Getting kneed in the balls while you’re hard was apparently worse than usual, much, much worse. He stumbled back so much that he landed against the wall, all thoughts completely escaping his mind momentarily. But as cynical laughter erupted from in front of him, despite the numbing pain between his legs, rage surged him forward, still stumbling, throwing an unaimed hit into the general direction of Homelander.
“You fucking CUNT!”
His fist landed on his chest, padded and safe under his stupid costume, and he threw another blind punch, landing on his stomach, before stumbling forward, face landing on the giggling clown’s lap, gripping his exaggerated shins for balance.
“I’m, I’m,” the bastard couldn’t stop laughing, “I’m sorry, Billy, I couldn’t help it, the, the opportunity was right there! I’m sorry, awwww, I’m sorry.” The cunt had the audacity to lean down and pet his hair, before leaning further and resting his face against the top of Butcher’s head. “I’m sorry, I really, ah, hah, I really am. This wasn’t in the script.”
“Don’t fucking mention.. the fucking script, you idiot…” Butcher struggled to push the words out of his lungs, the pain still throbbing in his whole groin. “What the fuck, the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Awh, honey, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t-“ the asshole kept laughing.
Now Butcher couldn’t help but want to genuinely, earnestly, fucking beat his face in. He strengthened his grip on his shin and then, with all the force in his body, yanked him down. The body above him plopped unceremoniously to the floor with a loud thud and a wheeze. Before Doppelländer could orient himself, Butcher was on top of him, legs a bit weak still, but the anger enough to drive him. He wrapped his hands around his neck again, now with a force of intent, and slammed his head into the ground once, then twice, then three
“STOP-! Ahh, ugh, Bill-“ a breathless yelp this time, so satisfying to his ears, and his recovering dick, “Billy stop!”
“Or what, huh? You gon laser through my skull?”
“Nuh- no! Just, why, wh..” He wrapped his hands around Butchers arms again, “Why are you doing all this? I’m, I’m in your house, I’m telling you, I’m telling you,” his face was turning blue, and Butcher wanted to hear the end of the sentence, so he loosened his grib a bit, allowing him to drag in a breath, “I’m telling you we share a, a destiny, and you’re here, angry, why, why angry?”
“You fucked my life!” He felt the surge of anger, and then of guilt, “You hurt my Becca! You fucking, you filthy fucking cunt, you fucking hurt my Becca!”
Something gloomed over the blue eyes under him. He couldn’t handle it anymore, the submissive little stare - as if this was a hookup, as if this was a romantic encounter. So he swung his fist up and landed a wet punch against his cheekbone.
A yelp escaped the body beneath him as Doppelländer’s legs instinctively pressed together.
“Oh, no, no no, you don’t get to,” Butcher mumbled, pushing his legs apart and shoving himself between them, one hand still holding him still by the neck.
“William, William, hey, listen, William-“
Butcher’s free hand gripped the fabric on his ass, digging his nails into the padded layer and ripping into it with such force that he actually broke through, if only just a little. Enough.
“BILLY! WAIT-” The scream was so desperate, he thought the Doppelgänger was owed an Oscar at the very least. That whiny little yelp, though a sound he’d barely ever heard Homelander make, felt so accurate, so gutter, he felt his twitch painfully in the restraints of his jeans. “I’ll do- I’ll do it myself! I want to, I want you, I do!”
“You fucking shouldn’t.”
He took his hand from off his neck and let him talk, just enough to spit the script out.
“Billy, Billy, listen, William? Billy? Please? Don’t do this, please?”
Just what he wanted to hear. He leaned down with hunger, biting the exposed part of Homelander’s neck so hard a yelp wheezed its way out of it, and he was so close he could feel it burn out of him. His hips pressed against Homelander’s ripped pants, his boner gliding over the torn fabric, and he could feel the buckle of his belt rip it apart more. He forced his head to the side and bit his ear, then his neck again, then shoved his hands under the collar of his costume and yanked it down. The velcro of his chest piece came shrieking off, then ripped from the seam entirely. A shuddering chest, so much smaller than what the costume portrayed, trembled hard at the exposed air. He couldn’t help but lean down and take a bite of the bare skin, hard enough that Homelander’s hand bounced up to push him away. He raised himself up, grabbing the hand fighting him. He brought it to his mouth, struggling to single out a finger, any finger, and bit into it. A loud yelp wheezed through Homelander’s throat as his legs kicked in the air.
“STOP!!”
He obliged, throwing him a smug grin, saying,
“Apologies, your highness,” before pulling the gloves off with the tips of his teeth, ever so gently.
Somehow, the wheezing man underneath him managed to build up a smile equally as smug, and proceeded to push out a,
“You’re so… fucking… hot, Billy-“
That earned him another smack, jerking his face against the floor. Before he could pick himself back up, Butcher’s hand grabbed his cheeks and yanked him back, face inches away again, and hissed.
“You’re not into this.”
Bloody teeth, those pointy canines glistening in the lamplight, exposed themselves in a stretched-out smile - so fucking cynical, so smug. Homelander whispered, choking up on his own blood.
“I’m so into this.”
Another smack, harder this time, so hard his head hit the floor with a loud thud and blood spattered at the impact. Homelander gasped, shocked by the force of the slap. He started to speak again, but before the words could even form, a punch landed on the same spot as the slap, sending his face back down to the bloody mess on the floor. An “ah,” much more of shock than of pain, involuntarily escaped the man underneath him, so he put his fist against his cheekbone and shoved it into the wooden boards, squeezing hard enough to hear the soft skin squash against it.
“You’re not fucking into this, mate, you understand? You fucking hate this. I fucking hate you, and you need to hate this. You NEED to hate this.”
Homelander mustered a quiet whine and a measly attempt at pulling his hands from under his grip, before whispering, voice shaking,
“I hate this…” Butcher’s fist lifted from his face, and he turned it to look at him, eyes shot with blood and tears, the exposed flesh of his cheek glistening in the lamplight, so raw, so visibly painful, “I want you to fuck me, so hard, but not like this, Billy. Not like-
Another slap, another punch, and another slap again. This was fucking delectable. At some point, between the punches, he realized that Homelander’s legs had stopped straddling his sides, and his fingers were defenselessly relaxed against his grip. The only noise he made was soft crying, groaning, and, periodically, a devastated giggle. The sort you make when you just cannot believe what is happening to you.
Satisfied with the show of complete submission, he released his grip on his hands and leaned back, reaching into his pocket for his switchblade. He clicked it open, and Homelander, Doppelländer, whichever, let out a shrieking gasp.
“Don’t worry, son, ain’t gon cut you.” He smiled, pressing his palm against Homelander’s crotch, “Just giving myself a good entrance, if I may.”
Homelander winced, then let out a soft, almost cartoonishly pleading,
“Please..”
“You have reservations, sweet cheeks? You wanna say no, or something? Maybe you wanna stop?”
“Yes, Billy, stop, please..? Pl-
“You never gave anyone the luxury of stopping now, did ya?” The knife pressed into his crotch, and the blonde mess under him drew a sharp breath in before closing his mouth with his now free hands. “Don’t you worry, everyone knows your dick ain’t that big. Prolly a shrimp in there, ain’t it? A shriveled little pecker, right? This is all just fluff, a show of what? Some fucking alpha male dominance? Fuck you.” He dug the knife in, doubting for a second that it would pierce through his actual dick, but of course it didn’t. Of course, it slid right there, the styrofoam package Homelander so proudly displayed to the public. He slid through the first layer sloppily, delivering cuts to the fabric on his thighs, belly, and crotch, and then ripping it apart, digging through layers of Homelander to get to the layer of soft human flesh. Tidy orange underwear hugged the hard dick under it, decently sized at that, to which Butcher frowned with displeasure.
“You’re still hard, after all that? Shite, mate, you really are fucking dense aren’t you? You’re not,” he pressed the top of his knife against the shape of his dick, “supposed to like this shit.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-,” hands rose to his defense as Homelander struggled to explain, “I don’t mean to, it’s just my body, it’s just my-
“Some concepts starting to make sense to you, huh?”
“I’m not into this, William, William, I’m not into this.” He shook his head frantically, “Please, William, Billy? Billy? Please, you can do whatever you want, just don’t cut my dick off, please? Please?”
A few other quiet, quick pleases escaped him in a hushed blabber as Butcher traced the length of his boner with the blade, reaching the sensitive skin of his taint and pushing the dull side of the blade into his balls.
“WILLIAM!” the man screamed almost theatrically, before the knife dug into the stretched fabric between his thighs and ripped through the soft cotton of the underwear.
Cutting through the rest of his boxers, Butcher unpacked the prettiest dick he’d ever seen in his life.
“They spent half the budget engineering this thing on you?”
It wasn’t huge, by any measure. Billy knew his dwarfed it by both length and girth, but it was ideal. Thick enough, long enough, curved just the right way, entirely bald, say for a landing strip with sprinkles of salt and pepper, and a pleasant, peachy pink color.
“Billy, you don’t have to do this, okay? We can just talk, talk this through?”
“Nah mate, I’m done with the talking. Although, there is one thing you forgot to say. My favorite line. You said it so, so smugly, remember?”
“Scorched earth..?” he shuddered, hands finding Butchers and gripping them pleasingly, “Shock and awe..?”
“That’s a good boy.”
The exposed penis underneath his twitched ever so slightly at the praise, and all Butcher needed to do was raise his hand before Homelander instinctively winced and hit his own head against the floor. Butcher chuckled, proud of his successful domestication of the wild cunt under him.
“Go on then, finish the line.” He leaned in closer, “Let me hear it.”
“Blood and bone..” He shifted his head to look back into Butcher's eyes and stared into them. Defiantly, insistently, and oh so deeply. “In the end, only one of us standing.. Isn’t..” he tilted his head to the side, managing a scornful look, “isn’t that what you want?”
Just like before, Butcher leaned in even closer than he had, warm breath on Homelander’s ear, and whispered, in a soft growl,
“Too fucking right.”
He licked the sweaty soft skin on Homelander’s neck and traveled up to his ear, before licking at the bloodied cheekbones and tracing his tongue to his gaping mouth. He shoved his tongue in it, glad the fucker didn’t try to kiss him back. Because this wasn’t a kiss, this was a claim. This was the same as spitting in his face, the same as slapping him around; it was debasement. It was all he’d dreamed of. Soft sobs vibrated against his tongue, and a new idea came to him. Breaking the script is fine now that he’d gotten to the blatant degradation he wanted to get to.
He grabbed one of the legs wrapped around him and threw it to the other side. For a second there, Homelander was in the fetal position, hands trying to find his knees to go into that safe space of defense, but before he could, Butcher grabbed him by the throat and propped him up against the wall. He pointed his finger at him and wagged it once, strict and quick,
“Sit.”
Homelander nodded, eyes wide, dick still hanging out in the open. The state of him was just so tasty, the costume ripped in random places, face healing but still smeared in blood, hair scattered across his face in a disheveled mess. So exposed, so scared. It was in that moment that he felt the sudden remembrance brush over him - real Homelander would have lasered his brains out, crushed his skull in with one hand, or just flown through the ceiling and let the house crumble in on him. This wasn’t real. This was, however, an act he paid way too much money for to be pulling back now. So after a second of hesitation, his fingers jumbled to unbuckle his own pants. He became so aware of his hardness fighting against the harsh denim of his own jeans, the zipper feeling like a barrier of steel and needles. He couldn’t pull his pants down faster. His dick swung up, finally freed, though still a bit sore from the kick before and the compression of his pants. He knew it would feel so great in a second, though.
As he shoved Homelander’s shuddering shoulders against the wall, he stepped over him on his knees, making him face his dick point-blank. It stood milliliters away from his pretty little face, America’s little prince and his throbbing dick in one neat frame.