Chapter Text
Shock and awe, indeed.
It’s the first thing Butcher feels when his hands slide along the bare skin of Homelander’s throat. It feels fucking divine, like angels singing, like the warm beams of a summer sun, like the Gods themselves reached down to bless him with bliss.
It's sickening. It's wrong. It's fucking diabolical, but Butcher still drags his thumb along Homelander's thunderous pulse from where he has him pinned on the fucking wall, surrounded by the rubble of Herogasm, fighting to the death with his sworn enemy that he's apparently fucking made for.
What a fuckin’ joke, he thinks furiously, and growls as he tightens his grip to snuff out that shocked, awe-filled light in Homelander’s bright blue eyes. It does nothing but make the cunt gasp, so he lets him go, severs that blissful link to their rotten souls, and slams his fists into the supe’s chest. The wall crumbles behind Homelander, and then Soldier Boy’s back up at Butcher’s side to slam his fist into the cunt’s face.
Butcher never did care for the idea of soulmates. Scorched earth was always much more suited for a piece of shite like himself.
He’s screaming at Hughie to leave as Soldier Boy’s chest glows lethally, burning the air around them, preparing to fry the rest of the mansion to dust and ash. Homelander’s head is pinned to the ground by Butcher’s hand, and it’s haunting how right it feels to have their bare skin touch so solidly, especially in the throws of their final battle.
Butcher has to play on Hughie’s soft side to get the lad to listen. “Do it for fuckin’ Reggie!”
He hates that Hughie’s soulmate is the cunt that killed his girlfriend, the spark that brought him into the Boys’ blaze in the first place. Hates even more how perfect they seem now, how well they click and match each other, even when they're no longer together.
But he’s glad Hughie listens, breathes out in relief as the lad teleports out with a grim nod, and feels disgusted with himself as he lets his soul sing with ecstasy and rapture by that bare touch on Homelander's thrashing face before they’re blown to kingdom come–
It doesn’t happen. When Hughie bursts away, Homelander regains leverage. He roars against the ground with red-hot eyes, throws a hand back and grabs Butcher’s duster with an immovable grip, uses all of his inhuman strength to toss Soldier Boy off and take off into the air with a boom.
And wherever he’s going, he’s seemingly determined to bring Butcher with.
They move so fast that it stuns Butcher, leaves him dizzy and lightheaded until he’s thrown into a building– when the dust clears and the ceiling stops crumbling down from above, he realizes he got tossed into a fucking abandoned mega-church, and laughs to himself hysterically.
The novelty of it doesn’t last long, as Homelander is crashing down in a second as well, grabbing Butcher by the throat and pinning him against the wall, just as Butcher did to him just minutes earlier in the mansion.
“I knew there was something about you,” Homelander says with wonder, his blue eyes wide, lips quirked up in an astonished half-smile, “but I never imagined this. I knew we were the same; I thought you were just the other side of my coin, and you are, but it’s so much more than that.” His growing grin is crooked, manic, psychotic. “You’re mine.”
“‘M not fuckin’ yours,” Butcher grits out, his hands going to break that deadly strong grip, but Homelander seems determined to keep him pinned against the wall like a fly in a spiderweb.
Butcher’s no measly fucking fly. He’s a goddamn shrike, and he headbutts the cunt to relish in the crack of his perfect fucking nose.
Homelander staggers backwards, but he’s still smiling; Butcher wants to wipe it off his face and knock his fucking teeth out with it. He blasts yellow beams, hoping to knock the cunt down to the ground so he can pummel his bleeding skull in, but Homelander dodges it easily as he rises in the air. “Come on, now, William. You don’t even want to discuss this? You have to admit, it makes sense. You can try to deny it all you want, but you’re the yin to my yang. My other fucking half. You even got my powers. You still want to fight, after this revelation?”
“Oh, we ain’t just fighting, cunt,” Butcher says with a psychotic grin. “I ain’t stopping until you’re dead in the fuckin’ ground. A smear of blood and bone under my fuckin’ boot. A grim warning for what’s to come for all the other supe cunts like you.”
Homelander is quiet for a moment, contemplative. Then he shrugs. “Baby steps.”
His eyes glow red, and he charges.
They fight until all the pews are splintered messes of wood, until the audacious cross at the front of the church is broken and singed from heated laser beams, until Homelander’s suit has become tattered and his nose is bleeding, as are Butcher’s teeth and knuckles.
“We’ve been at this for hours, William,” Homelander says, but he’s panting heavily, favoring his left side, and that’s more satisfying than winning the bloody lottery. “How much longer will that poison in your veins keep you in fighting form?”
Butcher grins, crazed and tinged with red. “Figured that out, have you?”
“It was a decent idea,” Homelander admits, sauntering closer as his ribs heal, and Butcher readies himself for another attack. “But I’ll admit, even before our little discovery, I’m fond of you. No one’s been able to get under my skin the way you have. And if we’re going to keep this up, I want you to be fully aware of the circumstances at hand.”
He fixes Butcher with that look, the intense one that means all humor is gone, that he’s the leader of the fucking Seven and you’ll listen to what he has to say.
Fuckin’ prick.
“You can take your advice and shove it up your star-spangled arse,” Butcher drawls, and charges.
It’s more swinging fists, stunning kicks, growls and roars as they tear into each other. It only stops when Butcher’s got him pinned to the wall again, but fuck, Homelander’s suit is shredded, exposing so much bare skin, and he feels like a live fucking wire from where Butcher’s got a grip on him. It leaves them gasping in both pain and euphoria, their bodies pressed so close it feels electric, their breaths practically mingling with the little space left between their sweat-drenched faces–
With one more growl, Homelander rips his gloves off and tosses them aside, tangles his fingers in Butcher’s hair and drags nails through his scalp, pulls him forward to close that last fucking inch, and desperately crushes their blood-soaked lips together.
It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s fucking perfect, and Butcher can’t fucking help it; he presses closer, swallows the moan it emits from the supe, bites into that bottom lip and curses himself for being such a weak fucking bastard.
It’s the V, he tries to tell himself as he tightens his grip around the cunt’s throat, digs his fingers into exposed ribs hard enough to bruise, slots his leg between Homelander’s thighs to feel the bulge beneath that horrid fucking suit. It’s the high of the drug, the strength, the power. That’s why he feels like he’s fucking soaring, like he’s mainlined pure heroin, like the stars themselves fell from the sky to dance behind his eyes. It’s everything. It’s fucking nothing.
They can’t be soulmates. Can’t be. But if anyone would be insane enough to kill their soulmate after fucking the fight out of them, it’s William fucking Butcher.