It takes him 5 hours to understand why Homelander saves him.
Then again, Becca is alive.
A mother, hidden and terrified, but alive.
When he runs to her, he doesn’t think about the fact that he should be in pieces right now, how a laser could cut off his legs in a blink, or about the kid, the blond kid the Homelander calls his son.
He cries in her arms, and she cries in his, and he hopes.
For the first time in 8 years, he hopes and fears.
Because, for the first time in 8 years, he has something to lose.
When he starts thinking again, when his eyes clear up and he can stand to not look at her for just a few seconds, he realises they’re inside.
Slouched on a regular sofa, in a regular living room, in a regular suburban house.
He looks at Becca’s eyes, and her smile, her soft laugh, her dazed joy, are like a cool balm on a painful gash, one which has been suppurating for years.
Fucking hell, she’s really alive and okay.
The kid suddenly laughs beside them, and he talks-
Billy feels his blood turning into ice in his veins, because that’s Homelander’s voice behind him, laughing with the kid.
The craziest motherfucker on the planet.
The father of her child, the one she’s been raising for 8 years.
He trembles suddenly, he clings and buries her in his arms. He tries to fuse her to him before it’s too late, if only to protect her like he wasn’t able to.
But Homelander’s laugh is delighted, a bit surprised.
With a painful gulp, he turns, and what he sees makes him breathe again.
Because Homelander is not only surprised. He’s amazed. His eyes shine, his grin is large and infectious. He’s kneeling with the kid, by the coffee table, a green pencil in his hand. His whole being is focused on his son with an almost desperate delight.
Billy has no idea if they could ever run from him, but right now might be their best chance.
He‘s tensing, ready to stand up, when Becca’s grip stills him.
He turns to her, and she’s crying again, wincing with heartbreak on her face.
Shaking her head.
And Billy knows her. 8 years, and he still knows her. She wanted kids. Already in uni she wanted kids, but they’d decided to wait for each of them to be settled at their jobs, and he…
The kid is a Supe, he’s Homelander’s, but he’s Becca’s too.
She won’t leave.
Billy squeezes his eyes shut and wants to yell in despair. Because there is no way he could force her, and he can’t lose her again, he just can’t.
Nose buried in her hair, he can only hold her tight.
“Mom, can I have some juice ?”
Billy turns towards him without thinking.
The kid can’t deny his parents. Homelander is everywhere in his features, everywhere, but Becca too. He has her ears, her cheekbones.
He has a curious blink for Billy, a head tilt, then “hey I know you !”
He can feel himself losing all blood in his face, his heart skipping a beat before thumbing hard in his chest. Becca tenses up in his arms.
“Wh- What ?” She stutters. “Will, what do you mean ‘you know him’ ?”
Hollander, in the kid’s back, has a terrible stony face. He doesn’t look away from Billy.
“I… I saw the picture,” the kid mumbles. He looks down, sheepish. “The one you have in your nightstand.”
Becca breathes out. All of them breathe out.
“It’s okay.” She smiles and reaches out to her son, “it’s okay, I’m not mad.”
Billy can’t look away from Homelander’s sudden grin.
“Your Uncle Billy here is an old friend of your mommy, pal,” he says with a soft pat on the kid’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you a glass of orange juice. A growing boy like you should always…”
Their voices diminish as they move towards a hallway and into another room.
Becca’s shaking. She takes Billy’s hands and shakes her head. “I can’t…” her voice is weak, terrified. “I can’t leave him…. I’m - I’m sorry - I’m so sorry.”
Billy tugs her back into his arms. “It’s okay,” he tries to sush her, to ease her shivers. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
When the Supes get back, he’s still rocking her softly.
“Mom ? Mom, are you okay ?”
Billy tries to swallow past a painful throat.
“Don’t worry, William. Your mommy is just really happy to see us again. Right, Becca ?”
She flinches but doesn’t hesitate to nod. “Yes,” she sniffles and withdraws from his embrace to kneel before the kid. Her son.
Her godamned fucking son.
“I’m okay, Will, don’t you worry,” her smile for him is so soft, so loving Billy can’t help but dig his nails inside his fist.
The kid grins back and gulps down his juice. “Can Mr Homelander and… and your friend stay ? For lunch ?”
Homelander’s laugh is deep, “our visit wasn’t planned, son. But we can stay a little bit longer. Your mother and I need to talk anyway. So why don’t you go to your room and bring me back your trading cards ? Take your time to gather them all, okay pal ?”
The kid beams adoringly at him and nods. Homelander pats him on the head and the kid runs quickly - too quickly - out of the room.
The silence afterwards is heavy.
Homelander is glancing upwards, looking at his son probably.
“Can he hear us ? See us ?”
Becca flinches where she’s still kneeling on the floor. “No. He’s - he can’t control it yet.”
Billy’s about to get up, with no idea what to do, when he hears her whisper, “please,” she’s begging, her voice broken. “Please, don’t… don’t hurt him.”
Homelander frowns, “why would I ever hurt my son ?” Billy looks at him and he seems honestly confused.
“Get up,” he adds. “A boy needs his parents to be happy to grow up well. Especially a miracle like him.” He looks back upwards, with a soft smile. With joy and amazement.
That’s when Billy realises Becca has nothing to fear from Homelander. He won’t touch the mother of his child.
And if Becca is safe, than he has nothing to fear either.
He can’t help the smirk on his lips, while hate fills his belly anew.
Becca gets back on her feet when Homelander grabs her shoulders. “You, Becca Butcher, have given the world a miracle,” he proclaims. He cups her cheeks despite her tears and her cringe. “You’ve given me a miracle,” he whispers.
When Homelander kisses her forehead, Billy sees red. To see his hands on her body, his lips on her skin ?
He shots to his feet, “don’t touch her,” he spits, while grabbing Homelander’s biceps.
He’s like granite, and doesn’t move.
Of course, he doesn’t move. A missile hadn’t made him move.
When he looks back at Billy, his grin is amused and sinister.
“Please don’t hurt him, either,” Becca gasps, trying to place herself in front of Billy. “If you - if you’re the slightest bit grateful, please, please spare him.”
Homelander ignores her, he only stares at Billy, his grin growing into a smile.
From one moment to another, fingers surrounds his throat and his feet leave the ground. He can’t gasp, can’t even make a sound.
“No, no, no, please,” he can barely hear Becca’s voice with the rush of thumping blood in his ears. “I’ll do anything, anything you want, please -”
He tries to yank at the gloved fingers around his neck, tries to breathe in or out, but there are spots on the edge of his vision. It feels like his eyes are bulging out, his skin splitting from the pressure.
He wants to say he loves her, so fucking much, just one last time, but everything is dark.
When Billy wakes up again, still alive, he’s definitely surprised.
His throat is killing him, but at least he can breathe.
When he looks around, almost blinded by the harsh light, he realises he isn’t at Becca’s anymore, but in a leather armchair in a huge sunlit room.
A loft ? There are sofas around him. Further away, a spotless kitchen and a high table on his right, a large bed on a platform and an open bathroom on his left.
He gets up and his head spins. He has to grab the back of a settee and close his eyes to make the spots disappear. The sunlight is everywhere.
Homelander is right here when he opens his eyes. Handsome, self-righteous, and completely nuts.
Billy takes a step back. It won’t help him if that freak finally decides to dice him into pieces, but he bends his knees, takes a fighting position mechanically.
Homelander only smiles, upright with hands in his back.
“Such passion, Billy.” His fucking voice is soft, gentle.
“What do you want from me ? Where is Becca ?” He snarls. With dread, he realises he has no idea where her house even is.
“With her son naturally, like any mother should.”
Fucking hell but his smile is sick. How can everyone be fooled by a freak like him ?
Billy backs up a little, glances on the sides. There is too much light here, not enough shadows.
That’s when he realises he’s in a building, in an apartment very very high in it, and that there are no walls. Not one fucking wall anywhere. But with a motherfucker like Homelander, why would one need walls, right ?
He can see only one glass door, leading to a balcony.
No elevator. No way out for him.
When he turns back to Homelander, the fucker is staring at him with a smirk. He hasn’t moved.
“What do you want ?” He repeats with a rough voice.
Adrenaline is flooding his body, he’s breathing deeply, eyes focused.
It won’t do any good against a Supe, especially Homelander, but he won’t beg for his life. He can’t think of anything he could bargain with, any pressure point to push against.
Stillwell was supposed to be his weakness, and he’s killed her himself.
If Billy’s right, and he knows he’s right, his kid is his weakness, now that he knows about him. But Billy can’t use him. Not with the way Becca looked at her son.
So he’s fucked. But he’s known that ever since Translucent’s death.
“Do you want to see her again ?”
The question throws him off. What the fuck ?
Homelander rolls his eyes, and moves. Billy flinches, but that sick arsehole only walks slowly around the sofa.
“The question isn’t that difficult, even for a simple mind like you,” he drawls. “Do you want to see your beautiful,” he breathes in, eyes half-closed, “delightful,” he breathes out, “wife, again ?”
Billy’s shaking, grinding his teeth. Homelander’s already tried to piss him off, back at Stillwell’s, but his plan was good. Too good to ruin it by trying to punch his fucking face. Or he thought so at the time.
But now, his hate is blazing.
Homelander might not have killed Becca, but he raped her, got her pregnant and ruined her life and Billy’s.
He stops backing up, lets the fucker slowly get close. “What do you think, arsehole ?”
Homelander shakes his head, fucking tuts at him, “Billy, Billy, Billy…” He’s barely a foot away. “Your rage -”
Billy strikes him. A textbook right hook, bended knees, all his strength exploding in his arm.
His fist is stopped. Evidently, and so easily, while Billy winces with the backlash pain in his shoulder.
Homelander suddenly yanks him forward, enough for him to stumble against a brick-like chest.
“Your rage is exquisite,” Homelander murmurs, his lips brushing Billy’s ear.
The icy feeling oiling down his back right now, freezing his limbs, cramping his stomach, he’s pretty sure Becca felt it too, 8 years ago.
He fights back. Of course he fights back, but he already knows it’s useless, it won’t make a fucking difference. Might even make it worse for him to struggle, if the vibe he’s getting from Homelander is right.
But he can’t do nothing, so he fights.
He can’t get Homelander to let go of his fist, so he goes for a left uppercut and a low kick in a knee.
A sidestep, then Homelander grabs the collar of his tee and tugs. The fabric rips like paper.
“You fucking cunt,” Billy tries a headbutt, gets dodged, “don’t you fucking touch m-” He shouts when his leg is viciously kicked out from under him. He falls to his knees, right hand twisted above him in Homelander’s steel fingers.
Again, he targets the side of a knee with all he has. He hears a grunt, sees a spasm in the thigh below that bloody suit, but Homelander barely flinches where a human would have collapsed.
He’s slapped and suddenly he’s on the wooden floor, dizzy, coughing blood from a bitten tongue.
“Mh, I must remember to go easy with you.”
Billy hears steps near his head, boots creaking. He snarls and gets back up. He barely feels the hand at his nape before his coat and the rest of his shirt are torn off his back.
He’s gasping, spitting blood, but he gets on his feet, with both hands free.
Half-naked, barehandedly fighting a Supe that wants his arse, but still.
“You sick fuck,” he pants, backing up towards the kitchen island.
Homelander he sees, has removed his gloves.
He’s about to grab a knife, useless but better for his nerves than nothing, when his hair is seized from behind. He yells, his scalp on fire, while being dragged back towards the sofas.
Scratching the hand holding him doesn’t do anything. He tries to struggle, to pull a kitchen chair to him with his foot, but Homelander is too fast. He raises him to his knees on the plush carpet. He grabs Billy’s jaw with his other hand, forces his head back to look up at him, no matter how much Billy claws at him.
The motherfucker looks delighted.
“This is fun,” Homelander chuckles. “Definitely not used to this.”
Billy spits on him. His blood and saliva don’t reach his face, but his suit is ruined. His smile only grows.
“You fucking arse-rrgh-” Homelander’s thumb, lodged between his teeth, cuts him off. Biting down on him feels like trying to chew rocks. He trashes back against the hand in his hair, pushes against his finger to get him out of his mouth.
Homelander tuts and press down on his tongue, towards the back of his throat.
Billy gags. He gags and pants and tries not to vomit when the taste of that motherfucker’s skin registers.
The hand in his hair moves away. The sound of a zip, quiet but so near, makes him growl and flail.
He can’t belie-
Well no, he can believe it. He’s known Homelander’s sick nature for 8 years.
He just hasn’t expected to be among his… what ? Hunting pool ?
“Now, you have choice, Billy,” hums the fucking cunt who’s holding his dick a few inches away from his face. “If you bite, I’ll break every bone in your wife’s wrist.”
Still half suffocating with blood and an alien thumb in his mouth, panting with rage and hate, Billy can’t hold back a muffled yell. He winces, coughs and a few tears leak away at the corners of his eyes.
When he glares back up at Homelander’s face, he can see his dilated pupils, his quick breathing, his psychotic smile.
He’s enjoying every fucking second of it.
“Don’t stop struggling on my account, pal,” he whispers down at him. “But bite me, and I’ll make her feel it. Every, fucking, bones.” His grin is so twisted. “And if you’re good, you can see her again.”
Then he removes his thumb and yanks Billy against his crotch.
He can’t ignore the smell of him now, the feel of his pubic hair, of his flesh, dragging on his cheekbones, in his beard, against his eyelids and nose and lips.
He gags again, bile at the back of his throat. Mindlessly he trashes around, strikes as hard as he can, but in a second both his wrists are secured in one fist, held above his head. Homelander’s other hand, the one clenched in Billy’s hair keeps him where he wants him.
He can’t catch his breath anymore. Every gasp gives him another whiff of Homelander’s skin, of his arousal.
His head is tilted back forcefully. Homelander flexes his hips and suddenly his leaking dick is against his lips, moist and inescapable.
Oddly, Billy is shocked enough to open his eyes. Seeing Homelander’s suit half undone, his weirdly normal navel, his naked hips, his fucking prick, he struggles with renewed vigor. He roars and spits and yells. He glimpses Homelander’s sick grin. “No ! No, you mothe-” Fingers dig into his cheeks, keep his jaw open long enough for Homelander to finally enter and rape his mouth.
Billy clenches his eyes shut and stops breathing.
He’s never done this before. Never felt the want, the need, never felt any attraction towards any fucking cock, and he’s -
Becca, he thinks desperately. Becca, and please.
Please, he screams in his head, and somehow, somehow, he doesn’t bite down.
Instead, he gasps around the weight on his tongue, his heartbeat fast and so loud in his ears.
He still hears Homelander’s soft moaning chuckle. His free hand slithers back at Billy’s already bruised nape, his grip turning vicious again right before he starts to move.
Between the taste, the smell, the fear of scraping anything, the pain from his bitten tongue, Billy is overwhelmed from the get-go. He can barely breathe, or unclench his jaw, or cover his teeth with his lips.
He has seen horrible things in the past 8 years, done most of them too, but right now, no matter how much he tries, he can’t blank his mind. He can’t stop his struggles, his muffled whimpers.
Homelander drives into him slowly, unyieldingly, again and again. His pleased gasps are quiet, but often followed by a deep moan. Especially when Billy tries to free his hands.
He’s loving it.
Billy can’t see his face from where he is, but he knows.
And the thing is, Homelander feels- is huge. The longer this goes on, the deeper he goes, and the wider Billy has to accommodate him.
His jaw cramps, he starts to gag, first with the overflow of precome. He tries to control his throat, his diaphragm, but when Homelander’s dick reaches the back of his mouth, when it pushes past his gag reflex, he can only flail again, dribbling fluids everywhere.
Homelander, of course, holds him there, makes him choke and whimper, spasm around him with panic.
At some point, Billy remembers his suicide at that bitch Stillwell’s place.
Why is he so afraid to die now ? Wouldn’t it be better ? Wasn’t this what he wanted ?
The dick in his mouth is pulsing deep inside of him. The rush in his ears is coming back. Spots on the inside of his eyelids. He stops struggling.
Becca, he thinks again. Becca.
The next instant, he’s pushed away. On all fours, he pathetically coughs blood, mucus and spunk into the carpet. He’s shaking badly. He wants to scream and throw up.
He swallows everything back and looks up.
Homelander has sat down on one of the sofas. His trousers and pants are still around his thighs. His dick is half-hard, wet with fluids, with blood.
He’s panting, his eyes are closed.
He’s not vulnerable, but Billy doesn’t think. He gets back up to his feet and jumps him. His fingers go around his throat and he squeezes hard, as hard as he can, enough to crush a trachea if he were up against a human.
When Homelander lazily opens his eyes, his grin is pleased.
Billy knows he should be terrified. He’s about to be fried or cut in half, while he uselessly claws at a granite neck, but he can still feel his fucking cock pushing against the back of his palate, past his tonsils.
He still has the taste of his fucking spunk on his tongue.
He trembles with rage, and roars to his face, not even a word, just pure hatred.
Homelander’s eyes widen, his pupils dilated, his nostrils flaring.
Billy registers a touch on his naked flanks, steel hands around his waist, right before he’s yanked on Homelander’s lap, knees on either side of the fucking cunt’s thights.
“No !” He yells, furiously. He trashes, tries to get up, but when he can’t, he punches Homelander’s grinning face one, two, three times, again and again - he doesn’t even twitch. The blood on his cheekbone is from Billy’s knuckles, from Billy’s spit.
The fingers on his sides slip under his jeans, under his underwear, squeeze his hipbones, the top of his ass, and they slowly rip out his clothes.
The sound of tearing fabric is loud despite the thumping rush in Billy’s ears.
He can’t catch his breath, can’t breathe out without making awful sounds resonate in that huge empty sunlit loft.
He hits him again, and again.
“You don’t touch me !” He yells and punches, but he feels air on his arse, on the back of his balls.
“You sick motherfucking cunt !” He screams, but he feels fingers on the top of his thighs, pressing on the tendons in his groin.
Homelander stares and grins, exhilarated.
When Billy gets desperate enough to try and claw his monstrous eyes out, he laughs. “Billy, Billy…” Once again, he grabs Billy’s wrists in one hand. “Don’t force me to maim y-”
He headbutts the motherfucker.
Excruciating pain explodes in his forehead, blood gushes out from his eyebrow arch, runs into his eye.
His head sways downward and he sees himself. Below his immobilised hands, he’s exposed. His jeans and pants in tatters barely cling to his spread knees. His junk is hanging out, vulnerable, almost brushing against Homelander’s suit-clad tights.
Two inches away, Homelander’s cock is hard and straining again.
“No,” he rasps out, breathless.
He hears a chuckle, the same one the whole world hears in every speech this freak gives, then a hand cups his jaw, press threateningly against his trachea and makes him look up.
Homelander gives him a gentle smile, but his eyes are crazed, hungry. He releases Billy’s hands, and softly wipes the blood running down Billy’s eye, the fluids in his beard.
Then he pushes two soiled fingers inside Billy’s mouth.
His now-free arms spasm, he grabs at Homelander’s wrist to push him away, he gags at the taste of his own blood mixed with come. He can feel his eyes burning with hatred and humiliation. He bites down, teeth grinding against unyielding skin. He can’t even nick-
Becca, rings in his head, among the rush of adrenaline in his ears.
When he snaps his eyes back to Homelander’s, the fucker is smirking, one eyebrow raised. He hooks his fingers behind Billy’s teeth and drags him forward.
He flinches when he feels Homelander’s hard still-wet dick against his own, tries to hunch back, to glide away.
“Suck,” Homelander whispers, his breath hot against Billy’s face. “Suck and she’ll be fine.”
He can’t be the reason she’s hurt, he just can’t. So he sputters around the fingers, and does as he’s told with a muffled snarl and pure hatred in his eyes.
Homelander smirks and gets heavy-lidded. He wraps his free arm around Billy’s hips and yanks him close, makes him spread his legs even more with his knees against the back of the sofa.
“There,” Homelander murmurs, softly rocking Billy’s body against his own, his dick nestled in Billy’s groin. “Look at me.”
Billy can’t seem to do anything else. He burns, he’s shaking with so much rage he’s not even sure he could get up, even if he were released.
Still, he pushes against Homelander’s chest, hurts his fingers on the sharp edges of his shoulder pads, while he obeys and sucks on his fucking fingers.
Billy knows where this is going, of course, but he doesn’t use his tongue, he doesn’t give a shit to wet them well.
He’s not even sure why Homelander makes him do it. Why would he try to untighten his virgin ass ? It’s a motherfucking powerplay, that’s what this is.
And yet, when his mouth is empty, when he can finally cough freely, Homelander doesn’t hesitate to slither his arm between his thighs and breach his arse with both fingers.
“No,” Billy yelps, in a pained voice. He’s yanked firmly against an iron chest, a vice around his nape keeping his head pressed against Homelander’s neck. “No, stop, you motherfu-”
“I don’t think I will, no,” he hears right before the fingers start moving inside of him.
They’re too fast, too much at once, and not enough wet. The ache could be so much worse, Billy knows - his fingers are manicured so no sharp nails to slice him open up there at least - but it’s enough to make him shake. He gasps and clenches down.
Needless to say, Homelander is implacable. He goes deep, curls inside and drags them back out. The pressure is unrelenting, against his inner walls, over his prostate all the way to his spasming rim. Again and again.
It’s overwhelming, inescapable.
He can’t fight it, fight him, and Billy snarls with rage. “No,” he hisses, teeth grinding. He hits the back of the sofa with a fist, Homelander’s collar bone, tries to rise on his knees. He can’t move, and nothing makes the burn inside him go away.
He feels and hears Homelander’s chuckle. “Oh Billy, if you could feel yourself.” The hold on his neck makes him turn his head, and Homelander’s tongue is suddenly past his teeth. At the same time, the fingers scissor him wide open.
Billy squeezes his eyes shut and yells against Homelander’s lips, because that fucker is beyond strong and his sphincters aren’t a match for his index and middle fingers. It hurts, it hurts to be held open while he can’t stop his own body from cramping around the intrusion.
Stop, he wants to plead. Stop, but Homelander is in his mouth too. He’s everywhere, and Billy panics and trashes.
The hand on his nape moves to his jaw, keeping him still in an almost choking grip, a few inches away from Homelander. He barely looks like the superhero everyone love, when Billy glares at him. Hair wild, ravenous eyes, his face sullied by Billy’s own blood.
He doesn’t speak, but he holds his stare, radiating as much hatred as he can.
Homelander devours him. He doesn’t blink when Billy screams in his face, after having thrust forcefully three fingers barely wet inside him.
Billy gasps, fuck but he hadn’t know that kind of ache, never felt it before.
Homelander keeps him immobile, and almost delicately he starts to rub on his prostate with the tip of his middle finger.
“You sick bastard,” Billy rasps out, “fucking arsehole, I’ll kill you, you hear ?” He loses track of what he snarls then, insults after insults, empty threats after empty threats. He struggles as much as he can, which isn’t much.
Homelander keeps on staring at him, fascinated and hungry.
Somewhere, Billy knows he should stop fighting. His fighting is the thing that turns Homelander on, but he can’t do that either. He can’t let go of his rage. Especially when his fucking fingers carefully pump in and out of him now, slowly stroking along his prostate.
He’s getting hard, he can feel it even if he doesn’t glance down. He’s at half-mast, but it doesn’t feel good.
He knows it’s normal with what is being done to him, but he’s still ashamed. Ashamed and so ready to tear Homelander’s throat out with his teeth, if only it would make any difference.
A long sweet push inside makes him gasp and arch away. “Stop… fucking stop ! You…” he begs, voice breaking.
His sight is blurry with tears and blood, but he hears Homelander hum.
His fingers slowly disappear from inside him, they stay on his rim a few second, burning against Billy’s skin, then they stroke up, across his taint, cupping his ballsack, before gently encircling his cock. Billy squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lips, because it wouldn’t be insults or pleas coming out of his mouth anymore.
He attempts to fight again, to hit anything without opening his eyes, but Homelander only needs to press on his trachea to hold him more or less immobile.
The hand on his dick is hot, soft, it starts to pump him slowly, and he wants to throw up. He claws at Homelander’s suit, grabs his shoulders but he quickly stops trying to wriggle out of his hold when his movements only accentuate the sensations in his crotch.
“Perfect,” he feels the whisper in his beard, across his lips, then Homelander kisses him again.
He unclenches his teeth only when he feels a painfully sweet stroke across his glans. He gasps, and feels his stomach roils, even more when Homelander languidly thrusts his tongue back inside his mouth.
The hand on his throat is like steel, he can’t move. He can’t get away.
The handjob stops. The kiss too and Billy wants to cry, from shame and relief.
He still glares at Homelander’s satisfied grin.
He only has to press down a bit, and Billy can’t breathe anymore, can feel his trachea bending under the pressure. He tries not to move, not to care, but the fear of dying is there whether he wants to or not, just like the twisted arousal pulsing in his groin.
And so he trashes, uselessly.
Homelander stares at him for a second, hungrily, before he hawks loudly, and spits in his free hand.
Billy can’t look down, but he can feel him stroking himself, coating his dick with saliva on top of all the precome he’s been oozing out of his fucking prick.
Fucking hell, he punches the fucker again, but his vision is graying out, he barely grazes him.
Homelander smirks. He slouches a bit more on the sofa, then yanks him up and close by the throat. He’s held down on Homelander’s chest by the same vice over his jaw, but at least he can breathe again.
Billy is coughing, gasping desperately when two fingers are shoved back up his arse. He doesn’t hold back his sob when they keep him open, when they press deliciously at his prostate on their way out, and when they’re replaced by something bigger way too quickly.
A gasping moan slips out of Homelander’s lips, while Billy tries to breathe through it. He feels fucking huge, even with only the head of his dick inside him. He locks his thighs and tries to kneel up, but there is suddenly a forearm at his lower back, a hand on his hipbone, keeping him where he is.
Homelander’s eyes are closed with bliss. His hips are quivering with slight pushes, in and out, and Billy can feel the coiled strength in them, in him. “Wait, wait,” he croaks past his painful throat.
Homelander gazes back at him with a grin, then he slowly pulls him down on his lap.
Billy can only pant through grinding teeth, while a long curved length slithers inside him. His fingers clutch at Homelander’s biceps. “Please,” he pleads again when he’s fully seated on him.
If he stays still, there is no pain. A weight, a foreign pressure where there shouldn’t be, but no pain. Please, if he just… if he could just take a few moments to breathe, simply breathe, he might get used to-
He’s lifted back up, deliberately, and he gasps again, his whimpers mixing with Homelander’s low moan. His inner muscles are spasming out of control, his heart is thumping hard and fast, he’s - he can’t -
The hand on his jaw slides down along his neck, on his collar bone, and Billy would give anything to hurl on that fucking arsehole, at right this moment, if only the consequences wouldn’t fall on Becca.
He can’t help but think of her, then. How this is what she endured at the hands of that very same man, 8 years ago.
And she’s alive. She survived.
Billy has no idea if he can be as strong as her, but he can try. He can do that for her.
So when he’s pushed back down just as slowly, he tries to control his gasps, to gulp back his panic, to relax his muscles.
Except this time Homelander pushes his hips up, and Billy can’t help his howl, and the desperate sob afterwards.
It hurts, but the worst part is not the pain. He’s felt worse in his life. No, he’s just- he’s overwhelmed with heat, pressure, with the total loss of control of his own body.
“Stop,” he begs quietly, “please stop.” But Homelander only chuckles and drags him up and down his lap, lazily, his grasp unyielding on his hipbones.
His other hand glides down to one nipple, his thumb lingers there without any cruelty, a soft caress, up and down just like inside him, again and again while he’s lifted and pushed down, Homelander’s prick burning him up with its merciless presence.
And that thumb, it’s -
It’s something Becca liked doing. Getting him worked up by just brushing a nail against him through his shirt.
It’s something good that isn’t tainted in Billy’s mind, despite all the sins he’s committed during those 8 years of searching.
Something good that’s blazing in his mind, through 8 years of abstinence.
Billy feels himself getting hard again, and he lets his tears run down his cheeks, because why not ?
Crying in front of Homelander ? It’s not as shameful as enjoying his own rape. Nothing could be. His dignity is already lost.
“There,” He hears him murmurs, “just like that.” Homelander’s voice breaks in a pleased sigh, and his rhythm picks up. His hips ripples slightly more and Billy can't hold back a low moan of his own when his prostate blazes with pleasure.
His nipple is left alone. Fingers wrap themselves languorously around his cock and start to pull at him, hard and sweet.
Between them, and the waves of breathtaking heat inside him, he - he’s -
Billy lets his head fall forward. He intended to rest on Homelander’s shoulder, but a forehead is against his own suddenly, and Homelander is right there, panting against his mouth. He stares at Billy’s lost eyes while Billy whimpers again, and again, brokenly, caught between bliss and humiliation.
At some point, the cadence below him is lost, the hand on his hipbone turns vicious - thankfully not enough to break bones - and Homelander comes with a heavy groan.
The fingers on his dick are joined by five others, and they’re everywhere. Pulling around the base, caressing his glans, stroking and cupping his sack, rubbing oh - just right on his hole, and he - Fucking hell. He shouts when he comes, squeezes his eyes shut and curls on Homelander’s shoulder, the spasms almost violent while the hands keep on tugging at him.
Him whimpering in over-stimulation is enough to make Homelander stop, weirdly enough. His hands slide to Billy’s hips and they stay like that for a while.
He doesn’t want to open his eyes. To admit what has just happened.
But he remembers. There is only one person who could be worth… everything. With a difficult swallow, Billy raises his head and looks blankly at Homelander.
Homelander who is staring at him with a smirk. Who raises an eyebrow.
“Can I see her again then?” Billy asks. He ignores how hoarse his voice is.
“Mmh,” Homelander hums and taps a finger on his chin, as if he has to think about it.
Billy’s blood freezes in his veins. Becca.
“Well,” Homelanger finally drawls, and he moves his legs a bit. With a start, Billy feels his inner muscles fluttering instinctively around the dick still inside his arse.
The still hard dick inside his arse.
“As long as you stay good,” Homelander chuckles. He grasps back Billy’s jaw and gives him a large smile.
Billy trembles, and drowns in rage when he hears, “And as long as Becca is, too.”