謝瑤環

Butcher stares at Homelander, trying not to laugh "How the bloody hell did you accomplish that, mate?"

Homelander shakes his head slightly, but can hardly make any sound. The ballgag is lodged so deep in his throat that he can't speak, breathe, or even gag with any sound, ironically. His hand is clutching his throat, and his eyes are wider than Butcher's ever seen them. It's panic, and Butcher can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. 

He's fucking the cunt because he has no way to kill him, and it feels like the second best thing– to see Homelander underneath him, legs up in the air, or on all fours, spreading his legs, raising his ass up invitingly. He broadcasts pure neediness in any position, and when Butcher thrusts into him it's rough, it's violent, it's nothing like making love, no matter how much the cunt seems to enjoy it and pretend it's something along those lines. 

But this– oh, this doesn't feel like a consolation prize. Homelander looks like he's dying. His eyes are bugging out, face turning red, maybe from the strain of trying to cough the rubber ball back out. He must have inhaled so sharply that the straps of the gag just snapped and the whole thing got pulled in beyond fingers' reach.

Homelander lets go of his own throat, hands flailing, settling on Butcher's wrist, as if pleading for help, and Butcher worries that his bones are about to get pulverized if Homelander spooks any further.

"Alright, stop panicking." Butcher is surprised to hear himself reassure this cunt, but he does need his wrist back. "Can't you just use the strap to pull it out?" Homelander gives it a few experimental tugs– too few, by Butcher's estimation– before shaking his head. When Butcher tries, it doesn't budge, but he doesn't give up as easily– stands up, makes Homelander kneel on the floor, and plants his foot against the supe's shoulder for leverage to pull with all the strength he has. All that happens is that the thick reinforced strap separates off the gag itself, sending Butcher crashing to the floor, still clutching it in his hands.

"Stop crying," Butcher grumbles as he gets back on his feet and sees tears making wet trails down Homelander's face. "Can't you just- I don't know- swallow it down or somethin'?"

Homelander glares before crawling over to the chair where he folded up his suit in irritatingly neat fashion. He's not so neat about it now, scattering clothing on the floor to retrieve his phone. Butcher assumes he’s going to text someone at Vought about his predicament, but instead he thrusts the phone display in his face after he's done typing.

"Can't swallow. It's in my windpipe William come on"

"Then why don't you go back to your handlers and let them… handle this."

Homelander starts typing furiously again. The gag was supposed to shut the cunt up for a short time, but this is turning out to be more effective than anything Butcher hoped for.

"not going home like this"

"You don't gotta tell 'em all the gory details about sleeping with the enemy and getting your rocks off by gettin' into humiliating positions. I'm shocked that got stuck given how well you can take cock down your throat anyway."

"Don't flatter yourself you're not as thick as this gag"

Any other person would have expired by now from lack of oxygen of course, but Homelander seems to be fine other than his foul mood. In fact, the typing seems to have distracted him from his panic.

"I'm just tryin' to help. You're the one who got yourself into this ridiculous mess."

"You were fucking me hard. I gasped. So sue me."

Butcher can't help but be pleased with the idea that he did have a hand in this predicament, through fucking Homelander too hard, no less. "I could try to give ya the Heimlich maneuver. But I'd probably have a better chance running a car over your ribcage."

Homelander throws him a dirty look and turns away, not even deigning to type a response to this.

Butcher takes advantage of the supe sitting in profile, and gropes around Homelander's throat. It's clear where's lodged– Homelander's throat bulging wide around it, feeling hard. Experimentally, Butcher tries to push in and upwards– not with so much force as just gentle coaxing, trying not to think about how close this feels to wringing this cunt's neck. But to no avail, of course. Even when he thinks he's moved the rubber ball a few centimeters upwards, Homelander's throat muscles pull it right back into its prior position. But Homelander melts into his touch, closing his eyes and relaxing. All that's missing is a deep sigh on his part.

It takes Butcher trying out about five different tools– and almost an hour sitting crosslegged on the floor, Homelander's body lying across his lap, mouth wide open so Butcher could peer inside and operate. Finally, after digging out some of it chunk by chunk with an adjustable wrench, Butcher watches Homelander roll over and cough the rest of it out.

"So are we continuing?" Homelander asks after having a glass of water.

"It's three in the morning, mate. My legs fell asleep even if I haven't, and my neck is sore from craning down to see what I was doin'." Butcher gives a short incredulous laugh when he sees how disappointed Homelander looks. "Don't you need a breather after that?"

Homelander shrugs and does something that Butcher absolutely detests– picks him up and transports him to bed faster than Butcher's brain can process what's happening.

"You said your legs were asleep and your neck hurts," Homelander says in preemptive apology, probably seeing Butcher's expression. "You can just lie there. You don't have to move if you're tired."

"I'm assuming you'd like me to be hard, though."