Chapter Text
Homelander brings a hand up to the visor of his baseball cap as he ascends the stairs, mumbling a word of greeting to the stranger descending them. The scent of the dingy motel he’s found himself in abuses his nose with its unknown stains. He even believes he passes a pool of dried blood as he gets to the third floor. His eyes glide over the building’s chipped paint and crumbling structure, threatening to cave under the pressure of Homelander’s steps down the open hall. His ears pick up the sounds of moans, screams, and sex.
“Was my bed too soft for you?” He asks after he’s slid the key into the door and slipped into the even worse motel room. Butcher’s made himself at home in the horridly decorated room, his boots kicked into a corner, lounging on the bed that’s possibly riddled with bedbugs, the television playing some godawful movie from the 90s. He almost looks at peace in the room. Homelander narrows his eyes at him, moving no further than his spot in front of the door.
“You took your bloody time,” Butcher grunts. His eyes lock onto Homelander, blindly searching for the remote to mute the television. There’s something about him now, this sudden change of scenery that he’s thrown onto Homelander out of nowhere. “Take a cab, did you?” He means it as a joke, Homelander can see it in the way Butcher doesn’t wait for him to answer and stands from the bed instead.
Still, it doesn’t stop Homelander from answering as Butcher grows nearer, “I did, actually, yeah.” Butcher’s brows arch, faking an interest in what Homelander has to say as he crowds him against the door. Homelander glares up at him, “Can’t exactly fly here without being spotted,” he hates himself for how low his voice gets, nearly a whisper when Butcher finally settles against him, his hands disappearing into the sides of Homelander’s jacket.
“How was the ride, then?” Butcher asks, another vacant question.
“You’re not fucking me on that bed,” Homelander answers a question of his own, one Butcher hadn’t thought to ask but should have. His eyes glide over Butcher’s shoulder at the bed still holding the man’s indent. Yes, Homelander took a cab all the way to this shitty fucking hotel just to give the man blue balls, it’s what he deserves. “Or even in this room, for that matter.” His eyes find Butcher’s again.
“Didn’t ask you here to fuck you, I know better,” Butcher says, simply, though his hands don’t cease their wandering under Homelander’s jacket. “Just wanted to see you, that a crime?” He asks this question truthfully, even brings a hand up to properly lean on the door Homelander’s pressed against and wait for an answer. He tilts his head, gazing down at Homelander with eyes containing something he’s never seen before. Anticipation? Yearning? Impatience?
Homelander can only hum a reply before he averts his gaze again.
“Should be,” He mutters, eyes bouncing around the room he’s stood in, as if only now just taking it in. Butcher scoffs at him before openly laughing, forcing Homelander’s eyes to find him again, narrowed with warning. “Everything you do is a crime,” He adds, nearly flourishing at the grin Butcher gives him. He has to force himself to look away again, lest he embarrasses himself.
“I’m going on a trip,” Butcher says, suddenly, forcing a look of confusion onto Homelander’s face. He must enjoy the look because that smirk that Homelander’s despises slides onto his lips again, “Gonna be gone a few weeks, didn’t want you to worry your pretty little head if you didn’t hear from me. Ain’t I considerate?” The smirk never leaves his lips, possibly basking in the sight of having Homelander hanging off his every word.
“This could’ve been a text,” Homelander mutters, ready to fly through the door with sudden disappointment. It’s not what he should’ve said, it gives Butcher the false notion that he cares about the man. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, he only finds himself in the shitty motel room to enjoy his warmth. Not because he likes the way Butcher smells, or enjoys the man’s rough callused fingers. He could get those things anywhere, at any time, Butcher is just a convenient choice.
“Yeah, could’ve,” Butcher says, dipping down to catch Homelander in a startling kiss. His hand, the one still warm against Homelander’s hip, inside his jacket, tugs him forward, pressing them flush together. Homelander’s hands never find him, they stay in the pockets of his jacket, balled into tight fists as to not lose himself as he kisses the man back, possibly with more earnest than given. He’s very aware of how he chases after Butcher when he pulls away, nearly slipping into the desperation of this meeting.
It hadn’t been that long, Homelander knows that Butcher thinks it. But, when Homelander’s spending most of his time surrounded by imbeciles and obsessive fans, he almost finds himself hoping Butcher would be waiting for him when he gets back to that apartment of his in Vought Tower. Ryan would let him in, he knows it, his son adores Butcher, loves when Butcher drags him to that office of his, full of scoundrels hunting organizations testing on supes like Vought.
This isn’t that. This, is a pleasure thing. It’s the main reason why Homelander has to sneak the man in at night, it can’t be more than that. Homelander has a job to do, keeping his son and the sad fleshy human’s of New York, of the world, safe and William Butcher already tarnishes that enough. What they have going on now, is fine, there are no feelings, just sex. Great sex, phenomenal sex, sex that forces Homelander’s brain to fog up with only ‘Butcher, Butcher, Butcher’ for a few hours after a hectic day.
Suddenly, he thinks that he could let Butcher have him in this horrid motel room. If he shuts his eyes and maybe forces Butcher onto his back, he could imagine they’re in his bed, as they usually are, in the dead of night after Ryan’s gone to sleep. There’s a rush that comes with that scenario. He’d rob himself of the sight of Butcher beneath him as he sets the pace for the night, riding him as agonizingly slow as he can manage as almost a form of torture for the man. But, just the thought makes it worth it in the end.
“I’ll call you, yeah?” Butcher says, before he’s shoving Homelander through the open door of the room. Homelander, now staring at the number of the room, wonders how he could’ve lost himself so far that Butcher could get the door open to begin with. He stands there for a moment longer, registering everything he’s been told and basking in the humiliation William Butcher had just thrusted onto him. He hopes the British fuck doesn’t call.
Only, that had been six weeks and two days ago, not that Homelander’s been counting, and (per his hopes) not a single call, text, for even a fucking email.