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"What's wrong luv?" He asked, reaching across the table to let his hand brush against yours. You stiffened and pulled your hand back "just a little tense" you hated the game of playing dress up, of being under different names. You were wearing a sundress and a camisole for God's sake as part of this. Of course Billy was unfairly good looking in his suit, the few buttons he'd left undone and his chain peeking out making you fight the urge to taste the skin there.

He grinned "I know a few ways we could ease that tension" the two of you were playing a married couple, possible contributors but you knew he was very much talking as Butcher not as Anthony Martin, his alias. You shook your head "I bet you do"

As if the very gods above heard your prayers MMs voice rang through your ear "Pull out. Take the scenic route. Everyone meet at the safehouse in two hours, not a minute sooner" you groaned at the idea of being stuck in this getup for two hours but at least the pretenses were gone.

Billy stood and offered his hand which you took hesitantly. It didn't take the two of you long to make it to the parking lot.

You practically fell into his old car and closed your eyes in relief when you felt him pull out onto the road. The safehouse was a forty minute drive meaning you still had over an hour before you could go back.

You kept your eyes closed as you listened to Butcher fidget with the radio and curse traffic. You slowly opened your eyes to look over at him and he was already looking at you considering the two of you were at a red light "How did I get stuck with you on this?" He smirked "Come on now, you like being stuck with me most of the time" you rolled your eyes and waved a hand towards the light "It's green"

You watched Butcher as he drove and again that urge to taste the skin peeking out of his shirt hit you. As if he could read your mind his hand reached for your thigh closest to him and when you moved into his touch a devilish grin split his face "What was that about not wanting to be stuck with me?"

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His hand slipped higher, teasing your thigh before you felt his fingertips brush against your clothed core "Butcher" you warned and he cut his eyes at you before looking back at the road "Say the word" you sucked your bottom lip in between your teeth, gnawing roughly on it in an attempt to not moan when his fingers finally slipped under your panties.

He slipped one finger into your pussy and when you let your legs fall further apart in response he chuckled before adding another finger, curling them both up to find that spot inside of you. The moment his fingers brushed against it your hips bucked up slightly as a whimper escaped your lips.

Your head fell back against the seat, as he worked you closer to that edge. A whimper escaped you when used the heel of his hand to apply pressure to your clit. When your orgasm washed over you your hips shook slightly as he worked you through the aftershocks before slipping his fingers free.

He glanced at you before sucking his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean. You swallowed hard before finding your voice "Fuck this, pull over Butcher" "That's my girl" he growled before pulling behind the mall the two of you were driving past.

The moment Butcher killed the engine your shoes were off in the floorboard and you were straddling him. His hands moved to snatch the camisole off of you giving him access to the flesh the low cut dress exposed "Who picked this damn thing for ya anyways?" He growled before attacking the soft flesh of your neck.

Your hands went to his hair, tugging the short locks harshly as he sucked and bit whatever flesh he could reach. You rolled your hips down against his and felt him harden under you "I hate you at times you know that?" You cursed and he simply laughed against your skin, cutting hazel eyes up to bore into yours "Really seems like it"

You leaned back to catch his mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, fingers unbuttoning his shirt further to give you access to his chest. When your fingers smoothed across the skin, nails digging in lightly he groaned "Yeah you hate me"

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One of his hands gripped your hair, snatching your head back. Your eyes fluttered shut, the pain mixing with pleasure "Eyes open sweetheart. You know you gotta say what ya want" you forced your eyes open "Fuck me Butch, please" he released your hair and pressed another hard kiss to your lips before lifting you off his lap just far enough to release his hard cock from his pants "I got ya" he murmured against your lips as he notched the head of his cock at your core, strong hands holding you in place "Please Butch" you whispered against his lips, too turned on to worry about how pathetic you sounded at the moment.

He pulled you down then, burying himself to the point your hips were flush with his. He swallowed the loud moan that left you at the movement. He smoothed his hands up your back, rubbing circles on the tense muscles through the thin material of your dress "So fuckin pretty with my cock buried in that tight little cunt of yours"

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When the pain of him stretching you faded to pleasure you rolled your hips and he groaned "Gonna fuck yourself on my cock eh luv?" You left a open mouthed kiss against his collarbone as you started to move, hips straining at the angle but you could've cared less. He filled you perfectly and you were chasing that high, pleasure coursing through you as mixtures of praises and curses left his lips.

"Good girl" he cooed, lifting his hips to meet yours with every thrust. "Gonna come for me? Let me feel that cunt squeezing me?" You moaned in response, feeling your orgasm start to build.

He dipped his head down to your chest, freeing your breasts from the dress to let his tongue flick across the nipple of one while his hand teased the other. He started to guide your hips, lazily dragging you up his cock before slamming you back down "Gonna fill ya up, leave ya drippin. Yer gonna have to sit through talkin with the boys feelin my cum dripping down yer thighs"

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You whimpered against his neck and when he slipped a hand between your bodies to rub tight circles onto your clit the whimper turned into a moan of his name as you gripped his hair with one hand and shoudler with the other. He fucked you through your orgasm and you could feel his hips start to stutter. Your muscles were gone, pleasure turning them soft. You braced your head against his shoulder "Harder Butcher. I know what you need. Take it"

"Yer damn near perfect" he growled, gripping your hips hard as he started to fuck up into you,chasing his own high. You knew if he kept up this pace and angle when he did cum he'd drag you with him. "You fuck me so good Billy. Feels so damn good" you moaned and his thrusts got harder in response.

You felt another orgasm building and buried your face into his neck, biting down on the flesh there. "Want to feel ye" he murmured, fingers finding your clit once again. You let your pleasure wash over you as the orgasm slammed into you and when you clenched around him you felt his hips stutter right before he buried himself inside of you, the feeling of his release coating the walls of your pussy.

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You sat like that for a few moments, both of you working to get your breathing back to normal. Butcher moved first, easing your breasts back into your dress and straightening it back into place. His fingertips grazed a few marks his mouth left on your skin "I marked ye this time"

You traced the mark you'd left against his neck "Don't worry I marked you too" you forced yourself back to sit up despite his cock still being buried in your pussy. You smiled at the cocky smirk on his face "I still hate you at times" he laughed "I know luv" he pressed another hard kiss to your lips then looked down where the two of you were still connected "Need help?" You nodded so he gently lifted you off his lap and sat you down in the seat next to him "Lets get cleaned up and we'll head back"

His eyes trailed over you, no doubt taking in your wild hair and swollen lips along with that just fucked glow. "I kinda like ya like this. Fuckin gorgeous" you rolled your eyes as you started attempting to smooth down your hair "This was a bad idea" he nodded "You say that every time, but still keep coming back dont cha?"

You're a Supe, flying under Vought's radar for a really long time but not lowkey enough for The Boys. Frenchie and Kimiko find you on one of their missions and bring you back to the pawnshop. Hughie and Annie immediately warm up to you even though MM keeps calling you both a liability and a danger. And then comes the cocky motherfucker Frenchie keeps calling Monsieur Charcutier.

"What can the bitch even do, eh?" He asks in his demeaning voice. Kimiko angrily gestures at him and he corrects himself. "What does the girl do? Is that better?"

"Show 'im, mon amie," Frenchie encourages you.

You wait for a nod and a smirk from Kimiko before locking eyes with Butcher.

"Ah fuck!" Butcher cries out as his head snaps back from being flicked on his forehead. "Bollocks!" He clutches his chest before grasping at his crotch and succumbing to the floor. "Fuck!" Breathless, he holds on to his balls as he looks up to the woman he was challenging mere moments ago.

You have your thumb and middle finger curled at eye level, prepared to flick any part of Butcher's body at any time.

"She got you in the balls?" Hughie rushes to Billy's aid, struggling to hide his grin.

"The nipples too, lad. Fucking diabolical!" He stands up, his knees still tense from being flicked at such a sensitive spot. "So she can cop a feel from afar. Big deal!"

Kimiko gestures again and Frenchie translates. "She can be an awesome support for us and attack from a distance."

"So can bullets," Billy argues.

"Bullets can't kill Homelander but an attack from an invisible force can—"

"You lot think she can kill Homelander, eh? She looks like she can't even run."

"Woah! That's not— hey! Girl!" Before MM can finish his sentence, you take off, stomping toward the exit. Annie tries to follow you but you turn and push her back in one sweep of your wrist.

"Boy, she's strong," Annie comments as Hughie helps her up.

MM's one glance makes Butcher grimace. "You've got to be kidding me, mate," he whispers under his breath before following you out. He catches up to you in no time, walking just a few steps behind.

"Look, miss, I'm sorry, alright? Miss? Oi? Would you like me to get on my knees and beg, eh?"

"You know what?" You stop in your tracks and turn. "That'd be fucking great. Why don't you go right now?"

"Alright, lady, that was just me being nice. Eh? Don't want ya thinking just about anyone can make Billy Butcher kneel for 'em, alright? Also—"

"Help! Please!"

Butcher's monologue is cut short by a scream on the opposite side of the road. Your heads snap in that direction to a wheelchair being pushed into oncoming traffic.

"No! Wait!" Before Butcher can stop you, you are already posed for rescue. With one hand, you stop the truck about to crush the disabled person and with the other, you push the wheelchair back on to the sidewalk and past the bullies who were about to get them killed. But before you can smack down the miscreants from the other side of the street, Butcher steps in, turns you around and lifts you up in a bundle in his arms. "Cut it, will ya?"

"Put me down. Those motherfuckers need to be taught a lesson. Put me down."

Butcher carries you into an alley, pushes you up against a wall and covers your mouth with a big, rough hand. "Quiet down, will ya? Or do ya want the boys captured and tortured for the rest of their lives while Vought uses your powers to up their stock price?"

You calm down. Not just because of the calloused palm over your mouth, or the stern twitch in Butcher's jaw, or the iron grip on your elbow. His eyes stop you. His dark, dependable eyes that speak in high volumes when they ask you to just trust him to handle everything.

"’Cos they’ll do exactly that — slap you in sparkly spandex, parade your big arse in front of cameras and nick all the bloody credit. Ask Starlight." He refuses to loosen his hold on you. "If they don’t cosset you, they’ll call you a Supe terrorist, put a price on your head, and turn your life into a fuckin’ reality show before they kill you on camera. Ask Kimiko what they did to her brother, alright?”

"I know what happened to Kimiko's brother," You mumble against his hand. "And I know what Annie is fighting for."

"Let me guess. You wanna be a part of it, isn't that right, luv?" You nod and he finally lets you go. He takes a step back. "What did the Supes do to you?"

"Compound V made me kill my parents."

He never asks you what happened. But his actions henceforth show you he respects you and sees you as one of the Boys. He oversees your training with Kimiko, and even personally prepares your meals with high protein, less carb food items.

"How have you turned Monsieur Charcutier into your personal chef, mon amie?" Frenchie asks at dinner one night as you munch on your shrimp and bok choy salad.

"It's because he thinks I'm too fat." You snap. Billy doesn't reply to your ragebait so you egg on. "Maybe he's not used to seeing women of my body shape much in his life. All the spice that his ancestors stole from our lands and still couldn't make good enough food to plump up their women."

“If your lot’s so bloody good at cookin’, why don’t you whip us up somethin’, eh, doll?”

His tone is cocky when he challenges you but everyone knows he's the most interested when he runs to the supermarket early in the morning to tick off your grocery list. Basmati rice? Check. Saffron? Check. Rosewater? Check. Garam masala? Check.

"Oh wow!" You exclaim as you go through his shopping bag. "Oh my God! I can't belive you got me a whole jar of ghee."

"Any good?" He asks, watching you twist the lid open to sniff.

"Almost," You reply with glee. Then you walk up to him and tiptoe to place a small, polite kiss just above his beard. He stiffens under your touch. "Thank you, Will."

Billy hesitates, not knowing how to respond. He transfixes you with his eyes, the ones you've grown rather fond of but wouldn't ever admit, unless at gunpoint. You've learned to read them, to help you understand when he's just stressed and wants to down a few shots of Glenlivet versus when he's really angry and wants to bash his fist through the wall.

Whenever you sense the second, you simply hold his arm from a distance, patting the inside of his bicep to offer some comfort. The first time that happened, Billy had been rightfully shocked, swatting in the air to find the invisible hand. He had relaxed the moment his eyes met yours across the room and nodded in approval.

“Oi, easy now, luv. Nobody calls me Will — ’less you’re tryna get under me skin.”

"Do I not do that enough already?" You wink.

His fingers curl against the countertop. “I’ve got a wife, yeah? So don’t go makin’ eyes at me like that.”

His tone kicks up your defenses. "Do the girls you fuck on the side know that?"

“Whatever birds I mess about with — none of ’em is you, alright?” His stare is intense, jaw tight.

You let out a low laugh before turning to hide the water on your lids. "Right, not as fat."

Before you can walk away, Billy catches you. He turns you around, his hold tight around your plush waist, and pulls you in. When his mouth lands on your lips, all the chaos around you and the self-doubt within subside. All there is in your world at the moment is his touch — his urgent embrace, his chapped lips, his prickly beard, his warm breath when he finally stops kissing you. "You play dirty, don't ya? The bloody problem is you're too fuckin' special and you know it. Too fuckin' special for your own good... and mine. You know damn well what you mean to me, but you’d rather twist the knife, make me admit it, eh?"

"So admit it, Will." You graze the back of his neck with your fingernails. This is the first time you've actually physically touched him without using your Compound V-given powers. You know he wants you to become stronger and even if he viewed you as a weapon before, things have changed. In his own twisted way, he cares about you and half of his bullying and cussing and angry drinking translates into unexplainable adoration and kinship.

"You want me to confess, doll? Here goes nothin'." He takes in a deep breath, still not letting you escape his embrace. "You’re… bloody hell. You’re everythin’ I’ve spent my life keepin’ out, you know that? Soft. Warm. All that good shit I told myself weren’t for the likes of me.

“You walk in here, all light and kindness, and it don’t make sense. I’ve seen people turn to stone over less than what you’ve been through — but you… you still give a damn. You look after the Boys like family, even when they don’t deserve it. I’ll be honest, love — it does my head in watchin’ it.”

He gives a short, helpless laugh — more breath than sound. “You reckon I’m tryin’ to change you, yeah? Well, I ain’t. I just— I want you ready. For when the world gets ugly again. If I’m not there to fight it for you, or... or with you…" He trails off, swallows, his voice softens almost to a whisper. “I don’t ever wanna hear you’re gone. Not from the telly, not from anyone. I just want to come home and find you right here — givin’ me that look that makes me forget how bloody broken I am.”

You bring your hand to rest against his cheek and quietly stroke his beard. "Come home broken, come home angry, frustrated, feeling like you could strangle Homelander with your bare hands. I will be here nonetheless."

Right when he's about to kiss you again, Frenchie walks in. "Monsieur Charcutier et mon amie? Ce qui se passe?" Kimiko and M. M. follow behind and Billy lets you go, raising his hands in defense as Frenchie and M. M. come up to him to squeeze his shoulders and cheer him on. Kimiko holds your hand and smiles. You smile back but one look at Butcher's face tells you this is not what he wanted. His smile, that reached his eyes only moments earlier when you were in his arms, now barely shows his teeth.

And, voila! He disappears after lunch.

Two days later, Hughie runs in speaking in jargons. The bits you can make out are Hughie being a canary, Argentina, dog toy, a British bulldog named Terror, and M. M. realizing it's all about Becca.

Becca. Becca. Becca.

That name has been an earsore to you since the day you realized you were falling for Billy Butcher. Everything is always about her. And you understand Billy's need for her, avenging her being his one true purpose. Every member of the Boys has a backstory that defines them and constantly fuels their rage against the Supes. Yours is your parents; Billy's is Becca. You're not unaware of this fact and you're not that shallow that you'd demand Billy to erase her out of his life just because you guys kissed once. But sometimes, you wish everyone would just. shut. up. about. Becca.

When M. M. orders you to stay behind as he and Hughie leave for Aunt Judy's, you spend the whole day buried in pastries and weed you steal from Frenchie's stash. And as your last act of self-sabotage and to make sure Billy is irreparably disappointed in you, you track Hughie's location on Find My Phone. You drive there red-eyed, dry-mouthed and undeniably high but before you could reach where you were heading, two police officers pull you over.

"What? Seriously?" You hear Marvin's frustrated voice over the police station phone. "It's so tiring to keep up with the two of you. One gets attacked by Noir and another gets herself arrested. Listen, sit your ass down in the cell and do not make a peep. Frenchie will come get you in an hour."

"No, not Frenchie. Him."

Give me the phone. You hear Billy's voice in the background. “Oi, listen, doll — I’m in no bloody shape to bail you out without endin’ up in cuffs myself, yeah? Frenchie’ll go fetch you. I’ll meet you back at the pawnshop. Try not to blow the bloody place up 'til then, alright?"

"Right. I get Frenchie. If it was Becca, you'd be breaking the necks of these motherfuckers who arrested her. Or... or maybe she wouldn't have gotten in trouble in the first place because she's so. fucking. perfect. Isn't she?" You slam the phone down on the receiver. It earns you a side eye from the officer but it feels cathartic to finally release all the pent up jealousy.

About an hour later, you hear the lock on the cell door click and Frenchie waves at you from the other side. "Sorry I stole your weed." You brush past one of your current closest friends, your eyes still red but rhis time, not from smoking up.

"Do you have a smoke?" You ask as Frenchie follows you out of the police station and he hands you one.

"Oi!" Billy pops out from behind a car, trench coat bellowing behind him like a cape and pulls the cigarette out from between your lips. "Enough of that now." He nods at Frenchie who then proceeds to leave without a word.

"I thought you weren't coming." You look away as he lights the cigarette at his lips.

“Speak your mind, love. Go on. Tell me I’m heartless, yeah? That you think I didn’t wanna come, that I don’t care. Think I just sat there doin’ nothin’ while you were sittin’ in a bloody cell? Truth is, it tore me up not comin’ for you. But I can’t keep lettin’ my gut run the show. That’s how people end up dead. One day you’ll get it — when you’re my age and you’ve got more ghosts than guts.”

You sigh. "Like I said, if it was Becca—"

"Enough about Becca, alright?"

"But that's where you went. You went to Becca, moments after you told me what I mean to you. And you don't show up for days. No texts, no calls, no nothing. And it's Hughie..." The stone of sorrow in your throat chokes you as hot tears roll down your cheeks. "I called you so many fucking times and it's Hughie whose call you finally pick up. And you don't even ask for me. You tell him he's your fucking... sparrow or whatever. But you don't ask how I am. And I'm still not supposed to think that you're heartless?"

“You’re right. I fucked it. I know I did. And the worst part is… I heard the phone ringin’. I just… couldn’t pick it up. Not then. Not with everythin’ in me screamin’ that if I heard your voice, I’d drop the whole bloody world to get to you. You know rescuin' Becca—” He watches your face contort at the mention of her. "It's not important no more. But you are. More than I know how to bloody handle. But I'm willin' to learn. I swear, doll. Don’t give up on me yet, yeah?"

When he holds your face and kisses you, you finally relax. Your shoulders drop and your frown disappears at the mere touch of his lips against yours. You open up to let him in, and he pulls you closer. You inhale a hefty drag of cigarette smoke between smooches and he takes the exhale from your mouth. His strong hands move precariously over your body, sliding up and down your sides, only stopping to squeeze your flesh — the tummy, the rolls, the love handles you're so ashamed of, he paws at them like a lovesick teenager, like he can't get enough of you.

He stops his hand just shy of your breasts, aware of the stares you two are garnering. "What I wanna do to you, doll, these lecherous eyes don't deserve to witness."

"Pawnshop?" You ask, impatient.

"Too many people. My place."

He opens the passenger side door of his car and when his arm lingers on your elbow possessively before letting you in, you can't help but blush. An idea creeps into your head as he gets in beside you.

As soon as he drives into the evening traffic, you touch his thigh. Not with your hands, but with the superpower you're supposed to use to kill Homelander.

"Doll, stop." He commands, his voice low, with a faint undercurrent of panic. But you don't listen. You slide your touch further up and gasp.

"Is that why you're so hard? Because you want me to stop?"

"Oi, doll.” His breath shudders when you give him a little squeeze. “Traffic’s a nightmare — we ain’t doin’ prison twice in one day, are we? Keep pullin’ that little party trick and I’ll bet my arse that’s where we’ll end up, yeah? Cut it out.”

When you still maintain the touch on his thigh, Billy takes one of his hands off the wheel to hold both your wrists in his grasp. The moment he finds a gap among the cars and bikes on the road, he steps on the gas. "Now, behave until I can get the two of us on a bed."

"Will," you plead. "The back of your car will work just as fine."

"Vixen." He mutters before speeding up, this time getting out of traffic and toward somewhere more secluded.

Where he parks, it's at an overlook halfway up a hill, headlights zooming past you from both directions every few minutes. The gold and white city lights beneath glower at you, warning you of the storm you're about to encounter. You scowl back like you don't care, waiting for Billy to make the first move.

Impatient, you reach for the door but pause abruptly when he barks, "Stay."

Billy gets out and walks over to your side to open the door for you. What a gentleman! He pulls you out and pins you against the closed passenger side door.

Sticking his face in your neck, he rasps, “I need you, doll. Need you to keep me tethered in all this bloody madness. Every time I start losin’ hope, I just— I look at you smilin’ like this unfair world’s still worth savin’, and it reminds me what I’m fightin’ for."

He lights a cigarette and sizzles the smoke into his throat. "I need you in the fight, yeah? Right beside me. I can’t do this on my own anymore. And I’m only sayin’ this once, so keep it between us — don’t let the Boys hear I’ve gone soft, alright? But when the time comes… I need you and the lads on my flank, guns up, sights on that bastard Homelander. Even if it takes a thousand rounds to put that son of a bitch down.”

You watch him with a warm smile, your cheeks tepid with all the fondness you have for him. "If I'm fighting by your side, Will, I'm not doing it to die for you. I'm doing it to make sure you come out of it unscathed. Deal?"

"Deal." He smooches you, the scent of nicotine creeping from his tongue to yours as he flicks the last embers of the cigarette into oblivion.

When he kisses your neck again, you melt in his embrace. The feel of his beard on your skin makes you swoon and roll your eyes back in anticipated pleasure. You can't help imagining how that would feel on the inside of your thighs.

He trails wet kisses down to your collarbone and you gasp when he sucks your flesh between his teeth with the clear intention to mark. "Need you," he whispers again, whiny, impatient. His hands are on your breasts, groping, squeezing. "I need you, doll."

"Need you," You whisper back as you watch cars drive past, passengers looking out, making eye contact with you as you tremble in Billy Butcher's grasp.

He takes your hand and leads you round the back of the car to the other side. "C'mere, doll." He opens the door to the backseat and gently guides you inside. "Get comfortable."

Billy hops back into the front seat and twists the key halfway back on; the radio crackles and starts humming a familiar tune— two less lonely people in the world by Air Supply. How accurate!

When he slides into the backseat next to you, you make no further delays in capturing his lips between yours again. You straddle him while his fingers tangle in your hair. "Vixen," he whispers again when you start to grind against the tent in his pants. It seems to form every time his hands hover over your chest.

"I thought you hated me."

"Hate you?" He kisses you between undoing each button on your shirt. "Bollocks." He kisses your throat. "You look like a million fucking dollars the moment you wake up, even before you've brushed your teeth. I've been up against the bloody wall trying not to kiss you every morning."

"You should have." You giggle, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

"Let me make it up to you, doll." His hands snake around to your back to unclasp your bra. Billy whistles when the cups come off, offering him the best view. "You know hiding this treasure under goddamn clothes has been a crime, yeah?" He mumbles against your flesh before wrapping his wet lips around one taut nipple.

You gasp, forgetting your fingers as they work on Butcher's belt.

There's a bit of struggle and lots of giggles as you take each other's pants off. Eager. Impatient. Like children discovering a new game.

The radio plays letter to hermione by Bowie the next time his lips find yours. Billy is on top of you, his solid chest gliding over your soft tummy. "I know this ain't no king mattress, doll." He positions your calf at the crook of his hip. "But stay with me, alright? Fuck." He touches you between your thighs, the tip of his fingers quickly finding your clit. "You're so ready for me."

"I am, Will." You press your heels into his glutes, guiding him into you.

Billy grunts at first touch, then loses himself completely as he slides in. "Oh mama," he whispers as he buries his face in your neck. You giggle as he kisses your neck, collarbone, jaw before finding your lips again. You moan when he starts to move, stretching you thin around his girth. "S'good, doll." He holds your legs apart as he ruts, panting and groaning, like an animal possessed. "Fuck, so good. You're squeezing me so bloody good, doll. Keep doin that, yeah? Such a good doll."

"Will," You cry, reaching up to touch his chest.

Billy increases his pace, as much as he can in that tight space. "You keep squeezing me like that, doll, I won't last that long." He laughs. "I feel like a schoolboy but don't you go making me finish like one. Fuck!"

Mhm, you moan in his ear as he bends to capture one of your nipples. "Will... Will..." You extend your fingers to find your clit, chasing the momentum he's building, preparing to crash together. "Please... Will... don't stop... please... s'close."

"Come for me, doll. Come. For. Me." His final thrusts shake your entire world, your orgasm boiling up like chai on the stove before spilling over the edge.

Sticky and sweaty, Billy lies on top of you, panting in your ear like the old man he is. You smooth your palm over his shoulders and back, calming him down, leaving fluttery kisses on his earlobe. "Vixen." This time, he sounds pleased, almost smiling.

The first thing you noticed was the sound of the cave doors. It was always the sound. Heavy metal groaning open against stone, hydraulics whining as if the very walls of the earth resented what had been dragged back inside.

You were already moving before Alfred even looked up from the med station, your slippers silent against the cold floor, heart pounding like it wanted to sprint ahead of you and reach them first. And then you saw them.. the boys, your boys.. clustered together in various shades of exhaustion and injury.

Jason was half-dragging Damian, his jacket torn, face streaked with grime. Tim leaned too heavily against Dick’s side, and your eldest had that tight set to his jaw that told you he was hurt too, even if he pretended otherwise. And then, behind them, Bruce, shadowed and towering, with his mask tucked under one arm, his eyes already scanning for the damage he wouldn’t name out loud.

You froze. You always did, for one second, just one moment where the sight of blood and bruises on your children wrapped cold hands around your chest and made it hard to breathe. But then you were moving again, and Bruce barely had time to set his jaw before you were at their side.

“Sit. All of you. Now,” you said, voice trembling despite the authority behind it. You touched Tim’s face, brushing at a smear of blood with shaking fingers, only to realize it wasn’t his. Damian winced when you crouched before him, your hands hovering over the tear in his sleeve, the raw scrape underneath.

"It's nothing,” he tried, stubborn as ever, but you could hear the catch in his voice, see the way he leaned into Jason even as he spoke.

“It is not nothing,” you snapped, louder than you intended. Your throat tightened as you glanced over each of them, cataloguing every cut, every bruise, every limp. “It’s never nothing. You come home like this and you expect me to-.. to just-..” The words broke in your throat, and you had to cover your mouth with your hand before the sob forced its way out.

Bruce was there then, his gloved hand closing gently around your wrist, pulling it down so he could see your face. His expression softened — not for the boys to see, never for the boys — but just enough for you to know he understood.

“They’re alive,” he said, low and steady, as though speaking the words could anchor you both. “We all are. That’s what matters.”

But it wasn’t enough, it was never enough because alive still meant hurt. Alive still meant nights you woke to the sound of muffled pain in the halls, meant new scars traced into skin you’d kissed since they were small.

“Mom,” Dick said softly, reaching out with his free hand. He was pale under the grime, a thin line of blood trailing down his temple, but he still smiled at you. Always trying to make it easier for you, even when he was the one bleeding. “We’re okay. Really.”

Your lip trembled. You brushed his hair back from his forehead, let your fingers linger like you could absorb the hurt from him if you just tried hard enough.

One by one, you checked them, Alfred moving alongside you, calm and efficient where you were frantic and desperate. The boys endured your touch, your whispered apologies, and the tears you tried to blink away because they knew you couldn’t not do it. Because if you didn’t put your hands on them, if you didn’t see the hurt for yourself, the fear in your chest would drown you whole.

When they were settled, patched and bandaged, you finally turned back to Bruce. He hadn’t sat, hadn’t moved, hadn’t stopped watching you. The cowl dangled from his grip, and under the harsh white lights, you could see the cut splitting his brow, the bruise blooming along his jaw.

“Don’t,” you whispered, voice raw as you closed the distance between you. “Don’t stand there and act like it doesn’t tear me apart every time you walk through that door hurt. Don’t tell me it’s fine.”

He didn’t. Not tonight. He only let you press your shaking hands to his chest, his heart pounding hard and steady beneath your palm, proof of life you clung to.

“You hold them together out there,” you murmured, your tears hot against his armor, “but I can’t-.. I can’t hold me together when I see what it costs.”

For a long moment, he was silent, his chin resting lightly against your hair, his breath slow and deliberate as though he was trying to breathe calm into you. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“I know,” he said. And then, after a pause, “But I come home. I always come home. That has to be enough.”

You closed your eyes, your hands curling tighter against him. You wanted to believe him. You had to. Because it was all you had.

And behind you, your boys watched, quiet and still, each of them recognizing in that moment just how much their battles cost you too.

With a sigh you let go of Bruce and let Alfred usher them all away, your arm coming to rest around Tim's shoulders as he trudged behind. You knew that marrying Bruce was not something everyone could do, but you also knew that the love you had for him would trump any danger.

Despite that, it was never enough for you to just let Alfred handle it. You knew he was more skilled with a needle and a scalpel than anyone in Gotham’s hospitals, but they weren’t his boys, not the way they were yours. So while Alfred cleaned and stitched and wrapped with calm precision, you tended to them otherwise. With trembling hands you brushed hair from their sweaty foreheads as though it might erase the night they had endured.

You started with Tim. He was pale, dark circles etched beneath his eyes, his arm resting in an awkward angle against his chest. Alfred murmured about a sprain, nothing broken, but you still cradled his wrist like glass as you wrapped it yourself. He leaned into the attention more than he would ever admit, eyes slipping shut when you smoothed your thumb over the back of his hand and whispered, “You’ve done enough for tonight. Rest, sweetheart. Please.” Pressing a kiss to his hair, he mustered up a small smile and went to lay down.

Next was Damian. Stubborn even as blood dripped from the scrape across his shoulder, he tried to insist he didn’t need coddling, and that pain meant nothing to him. Yet, you hushed him with a look that reminded him of when he was younger, and small enough to still fit on your hip. You cleaned the wound gently, too gently for his liking, but when you pressed a kiss just above the bandage and brushed his messy hair from his eyes, he flushed and muttered something you couldn’t catch. You smiled anyway, because you knew.

"Don't stay up late. Your body needs you to rest, so do it that favor."

Jason gave you more of a fight, but even he couldn’t completely resist. His jacket was ruined, his side bruised, and though he tried to swat your hands away, you could feel the way his muscles softened under your careful touch. You dabbed at a cut on his cheek, then tipped his chin toward you, ignoring his grumble as you whispered, “You don’t have to carry them all, Jay. Let me carry some of it for you, at least when you're home.” His eyes flickered, soft for just a heartbeat, before he looked away with the slightest semblance of a nod.

And then there was Dick. Always smiling, always pretending he wasn’t in pain even when it radiated off him. You saw the way he favored his left side, the way his steps faltered, so you made him sit, ignoring his protests. He laughed when you pressed an ice pack to his ribs, but his hand caught yours and squeezed, silent gratitude glimmering behind his grin. You smoothed his hair back, kissed the crown of his head like you had done since he was a boy, and whispered, “Don’t you dare think I don’t notice when you’re hurting. I love you too much to be oblivious to those things.”

And with a small smile coming to his lips that was softer than the grins he used to mask the pain, he pulled you into a one armed hug and mumbled, "Love you too."

One by one, they were tended to, cleaned and bandaged and tucked onto couches and beds with blankets pulled high and water pressed into their hands. Alfred hovered nearby, quiet pride softening the lines of his face as he watched you move from son to son, your love binding them together stronger than any stitches could.

Only when they were finally settled, their breathing slower, their bodies yielding to exhaustion, did you turn back to Bruce.

He was still standing, still watching. His armor was battered, his face bruised, and yet he had not asked for help, he hadn't even sat down. Always last. Always carrying the weight until everyone else was steady.

You approached him slowly, your steps soft against the cave floor, and when you reached up to touch the cut at his brow, he didn’t flinch away. Your thumb traced carefully over the dried blood, your eyes searching his like you could will him to admit the toll it had taken.

“You stand there like you’re made of stone,” you murmured, your voice quiet in the cavernous space, “but I know better. You bleed like they do, Bruce, and you come home to me just as broken as they do. There's nothing wrong with that.”

He closed his eyes as you spoke, the armor in his posture softening as your hand slipped down to rest over his heart. His own hand came up to cover yours, rough and steady, anchoring himself to the only thing in the cave that wasn’t cold steel or stone.

“You keep them alive,” you whispered, leaning your forehead to his chest, “but let me keep you whole. And if you're going to be stubborn, let it just be for tonight, yeah?”

For the first time all evening, his shoulders sagged. He let you guide him to sit, let you peel away the armor piece by piece until he was just Bruce again, not the Batman, not Gotham's hero, just your husband. You cleaned his wounds, pressed cool cloth to his bruises, smoothed ointment into the raw scrapes on his knuckles. And when you were finished, you pressed your lips to his temple, lingering there, eyes closing as though you could pour all the comfort in your heart into him.

He wrapped his arms around you then, pulling you close, burying his face in your neck. For a long moment, there were no words, just the sound of his breathing evening out against you, the weight of his body finally letting go into your hold.

He didn’t let go right away, his arms stayed tight around you as though your touch was the only thing anchoring him. You stayed there, letting the silence settle, letting the world outside the cave dissolve until there was nothing but the warmth of his chest and the roughness of his hands at your back.

But silence never lasted with you, not when your thoughts gnawed at you like wolves.

“You can’t keep doing this to me,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite how softly you spoke. You pulled back enough to see him, your fingers resting lightly against the edge of his jaw where a bruise had already bloomed dark. His eyes opened, piercing blue softened by exhaustion, by the fact that you had caught him off guard.

“Doing what?” he asked, though you both already knew.

“Leaving me in the dark,” you admitted, the words trembling out of you like they’d been dammed for too long. “Every night you all go out there, and I’m left here with nothing but Alfred’s rehearsed lines and my imagination. And Bruce.. my imagination is crueler than Gotham is. I don’t know if you’ll come home. I don’t know what shape you’ll be in if you do. And then I see you like this…” Your hand swept helplessly over his chest, his bruised ribs, his battered armor. “And it feels like I’m drowning in it.”

He didn’t interrupt. He just looked at you, his silence heavy, his jaw tight like he wanted to say a hundred things and couldn’t find the words.

“I hate it,” you whispered, your eyes burning. “I hate how you lock me out of the fight like I’m not strong enough to even hear about it. Like you’re protecting me from the truth, but the truth is standing in front of me every single night with blood on its hands. I don’t want Alfred’s version of what happened. I want yours. I want to know what you’re walking into. I want to know what I’m losing sleep over. Because right now, Bruce, I feel like I’m losing you piece by piece, and I don’t even get the courtesy of knowing how.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and you dropped your gaze, ashamed of how raw it sounded, how desperate. You pressed your forehead into the hollow of his throat, swallowing hard against the sob clawing up your chest.

For a long moment, all you heard was the slow rhythm of his breathing, the echo of water dripping somewhere in the cavern, the hum of machines idling. And then his hand lifted, resting against your skin where your neck met your shoulders, and that's what let the tears begin to break free.

“I don’t lock you out because I don’t trust you,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, the kind of truth that scraped its way out. “I do it because if I let you in, if I told you every detail, you’d carry it the same way I do. And I already see what this does to you-.. what it does to us.”

You shook your head against him, your voice muffled when you whispered, “You don’t get to make that choice for me. I don't want you to shoulder it alone.”

His hand stilled against your skin and he drew back enough that you had to look at him, his eyes burning with a mixture of guilt and stubbornness that only Bruce Wayne could hold at the same time.

“You think I don’t want to tell you?” he asked. “Every time I step into that cave, I have to choose what to risk. My life, their lives, or this city. And when I come back, and I see your face-.. I see what it does to you? I know I’ve already risked the one thing I swore I wouldn’t. You.”

Tears stung at your eyes. Your hand cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. “You can’t protect me from loving you,” you whispered. “Not by keeping me in the dark. That doesn’t shield me, Bruce, it just leaves me alone with the fear.”

He closed his eyes, leaned into your touch, his forehead pressing against yours. For a heartbeat, he let the armor drop completely, and you saw the man under the mask, not the vigilante, not the legend, but the tired, battered man who had always tried to hold too much.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you’re asking,” he admitted, the words pained. “But I can try. If it means you don’t feel like you’re carrying this alone, I can try.”

You exhaled shakily, relief and ache tangled together. Your hand slipped to the back of his neck, drawing him down until your lips brushed his, tentative at first, then deeper, the kiss slow and desperate, like two people trying to stitch themselves together through touch alone.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads still resting together, you whispered, “That’s all I ever wanted, just to know we’re in this together. That's why I married you.”

His arms tightened around you again, and for once, he didn’t argue.

Just like he didn’t argue when you tugged lightly at his hand. He let you guide him away from the cold glow of the computers, and away from the harsh fluorescent lights that made every bruise and scrape look worse than it was. The climb out of the cave was quiet, his hand never leaving yours, his steps steady behind you as though he knew if he let go, you’d splinter under the weight of everything you’d just said.

By the time you reached the manor, the house was hushed. The boys had already been set into beds, blankets tucked up to their shoulders, Alfred’s quiet efficiency making sure exhaustion won over their restlessness. You glanced down the hall where their rooms were, where the soft sound of even breathing reassured you they were safe. Bruce followed your gaze, his lips pressing into the faintest curve of something like a smile, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he let you lead him to your bedroom.

The fire was still glowing faintly in the hearth, embers casting the room in a warm light that made the bruises on his face look softer, less cruel. You pushed him gently toward the chair by the fire and went about peeling away the remnants of his armor that you hadn't taken off earlier. He didn’t fight you or insist on doing it himself the way he usually did. He sat still and let you fuss, let you treat him not like Batman but like the man who came home to you when the city wasn’t looking.

When the last piece was dropped softly onto the table, you left him in his undershirt and sweats, bare arms marked with scars both fresh and faded. You fetched a damp cloth and came back to kneel before him, your hands steady now as you dabbed gently at the cut across his forearm. He watched you the whole time, his eyes sharp but not harsh, as though memorizing every line of your face in the flicker of firelight.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, not looking up.

“I’m listening,” he said simply, and the honesty in it made your throat tighten.

You finished cleaning the last of the blood and set the cloth aside, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there before pulling back. “You can’t make me promises you know you can’t keep,” you said quietly, “but… trying to let me in? That’s enough. That’s all I need.”

His rough palm came up and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your face. “I don’t deserve how much you love me,” he murmured.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered with a faint hint of playfulness in your tone, leaning into his touch. “You just get to accept it.”

For the first time all night, his lips twitched into something more certain than the faint curve he’d worn earlier. Not a smile, not quite, but closer than before. He stood then, drawing you with him, and together you moved toward the bed.

He let you push him down onto the mattress, and when you slid in beside him, he pulled you close immediately, one arm heavy around your waist, the other curled beneath your head. His body was warm and solid against yours, and for once, he didn’t smell of gunpowder and smoke but of soap and worn cotton.

You lay there in the quiet, his chest rising and falling against your cheek, your fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the scars at his side. It was in moments like this.. when the city was quiet, when the boys were safe, and when the weight of the mask had been set aside that you remembered why you endured the fear and the ache. Because Bruce was yours, in ways the world would never see.

“You’ll tell me more,” you whispered into the silence, not as a demand but as a promise between you.

“I’ll try,” he answered, low and rough, and his lips brushed your hair like a vow.

And that was enough for tonight. Enough to close your eyes, enough to let sleep take you in the arms of the man you loved, knowing that when morning came, you would face the shadows together

ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

The limousine ride was quiet, save for the low hum of the city bleeding through the tinted glass, and you were acutely aware of how tightly your hands were clasped in your lap. The diamond band on your finger caught the streetlights each time you shifted, a delicate reminder of the life you had chosen, the one you were still trying to grow into. Being Mrs. Wayne was not as simple as slipping into a new dress or memorizing a new title.. it was heavy in a way that you were still learning to carry, threaded with expectation and scrutiny you had not yet earned immunity against.

Bruce, sitting across from you with his bow tie already tugged loose like he had no patience for appearances, looked entirely at ease. He had grown up in these halls of glittering chandeliers and whispered scandals, and though he always seemed gruff about the socialite side of his name, he still wore it like second skin. You, on the other hand, felt like every curious eye would see right through you.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” his voice low enough that it didn’t carry past the two of you as the valet opened the car door. His hand delicately wrapped around yours as you stepped forward, steadying you in the smallest of ways, and even though his tone was gruff, you felt the warmth of his reassurance beneath it.

You glanced at him, trying for nonchalance but failing the second your eyes met his sharper ones. “Maybe a little. I think Gotham society’s waiting to see if I trip on the carpet.”

His mouth tugged in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Let them wait. I’ll catch you.” And that was all he said as he stepped out besides you in his unscuffed shoes and perfect tailored suit... that made him look even hotter than usual.

t was such a simple promise, spoken without fanfare, but your chest tightened at the weight of it. Bruce had a way of anchoring you without even trying, even when his tone was clipped and his words so spare they almost felt like dismissals. His hand reached across the space and settled over yours, large and warm, steadying you before the car pulled up to the towering steps of Gotham’s most gilded ballroom.

The flash of cameras greeted you first, so bright it felt like stepping into fire. Hands tightened on your arm, strangers calling your name as though they had always known you, voices rising with excitement and envy in equal measure. Mrs. Wayne. The name rolled off tongues like a verdict, an announcement meant to echo. You smiled, poised as best you could, though the sound of it made you feel both giddy and foreign, as if the title belonged to someone else who you were still pretending to be.

Bruce didn’t falter. He held your hand as if you were the only person in the world, guiding you up the stairs with a confidence that made the whispers grow louder. You caught fragments of their comments — “How did she manage it?” “Not who I pictured for him.” “She won’t last a year.” —and though you tried not to react, Bruce noticed. He always noticed.

His fingers pressed lightly against the small of your back, a gesture that looked like a husband’s courtesy but carried the sharpness of a shield. He leaned down, his mouth close enough that only you could hear. “They don’t matter.”

“I know,” you said, but your voice was softer than you meant, edged with the sting of their jealousy.

“You’ll get used to it,” he murmured, guiding you through the glittering doors. “And when you don’t, I’ll remind you.”

As you entered the ballroom, the murmur of conversation dipped before rising again, and the shift in the room was subtle but unmistakable. Clusters of people were already circling like predators waiting to see what kind of mark you might leave. You held your chin higher, determined not to shrink, but the sharp cut of jealousy in the women’s eyes and the scrutinizing curiosity of the men pressed against you with every step. Bruce’s arm stayed firm around you, his hand resting possessively at your hip now, and you realized with a quiet rush of warmth that he wanted them to see.

You had prepared yourself for this, rehearsed the polite smiles and carefully chosen words, but standing beside Bruce, your hand brushing the back of his as he led you into the crowd, you felt the strange combination of vulnerability and invincibility that came with being his.

“Everyone’s looking at us,” you whispered, not out of insecurity but as a simple fact, your voice almost lost under the music that swelled through the chandeliers and gilded walls.

“They’ll always look, then they’ll find something else to talk about,” Bruce said, leaning close enough that his breath warmed the shell of your ear, his tone softer now, meant only for you. His hand settled lightly at the small of your back, guiding you toward the first cluster of donors waiting for him with expectant smiles. “That’s something you’ll get used to. Eventually.”

At one point, a woman in a scarlet dress — flawless, polished, and with a practiced smile that could cut glass — approached Bruce with a familiarity that immediately sent a ripple of disapproval through the circle around you. “Bruce,” she greeted, tilting her head, ignoring you almost entirely. “It’s been too long. I was beginning to think Gotham’s favorite bachelor had forgotten how to make an appearance.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, though his hand at your waist pulled you closer. “Not a bachelor anymore,” he countered simply, his voice flat in that unmistakably Bruce Wayne way that always dismissed a person without needing extra words. Then, as though the woman weren’t even standing there, he angled his body toward you. “Do you want champagne?”

The scarlet-dressed woman faltered, her painted lips tightening, and for the first time that night, you found yourself biting back a laugh. Bruce didn’t bother to soften the moment for her, he only waited for your answer with his blue eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the room.

“Yes... please,” you said quietly, though the word carried, and he nodded, brushing his thumb against your hip before stepping away to get it himself. The woman disappeared into the crowd as quickly as she had arrived, and when Bruce returned, he placed the glass in your hand with the air of a man uninterested in anyone else’s opinions.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice low, though you suspected he already knew the answer.

You looked at him over the rim of your glass, heat still curling through you from how easily he had dismissed the woman. “Define enjoying.”

That almost-smile tugged at his mouth again, rare and devastating. “You’ll get the hang of it. You’re stronger than they are. They hate that.” And though his voice stayed composed, you were fluent in his body language and immediately caught on to the way his eyes let go of the sharp edge they held, and his shoulders weren't as square as they were when speaking to other people. Something only you got to see from him.

The evening passed in a rhythm of handshakes and introductions, laughter that sounded rehearsed, and glasses of champagne you barely sipped because the bubbles caught in your throat when people said things like lucky woman or fairy tale wedding. Through it all, Bruce was steady at your side — sharp when he needed to be, charming in the exact doses that people expected of him, and every so often, when you shifted too close or stumbled under the pressure of another watchful gaze, he anchored you with a touch of his hand or a glance that reminded you that beneath the spectacle, you were his.

At one point, when the dance floor opened and couples began to step into the light, someone urged Bruce forward, their voice lilting with good-natured insistence. You laughed under your breath, knowing how much he hated the performance of it all, but he took your hand anyway, his grip firm, his expression carefully unreadable as he led you to the center.

“You don’t dance in public,” you teased softly as he settled one hand at your waist, the other holding yours.

“I don’t,” he agreed, his jaw set as though he were reminding himself of it even while he pulled you closer. “But I’ll make an exception tonight.”

The music was slow, the crowd circling around you, and yet it felt like the two of you were alone, your gaze caught on his as you moved together. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint, the way he hated being watched but endured it anyway because it was you in his arms.

“You’re very convincing, you know,” you murmured, tilting your head as your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”

Bruce’s lips curved, the faintest smirk tugging at the edge of his control. “Don’t push it.”

The warning only made you smile brighter, because you had learned quickly that no matter how sharp his tone was, no matter how stoic his expression remained, you had a way of softening him that no one else seemed to. And even now, in the center of Gotham’s glittering elite, with every eye trained on the two of you, he let his thumb brush once, gently, against your hip, a silent gesture meant for no one but you.

The dance stretched on with more eyes, more whispers, more careful smiles, and yet every time Bruce’s hand steadied you, it grounded you. It wasn’t a perfect shield, but it was enough to remind you that this life, however heavy, was one you had chosen not just for the world’s expectations but for him.

And when the car doors closed again at the end of the night, the silence folding around the two of you, Bruce finally let out a breath as though he’d been holding it just as long as you had.

“You did well,” he complimented, his voice gruff, softer now, his hand covering yours again as his back hit the seat besides you.

“I didn’t trip,” you managed a tired smile, your head resting against his shoulder as a breathy laugh escaped your lips.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” you admitted with a breath, your voice softer now that you didn’t have to be anything but honest.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his gaze fixed on you instead of the skyline. For the first time that night, his expression eased as he planted a gentle kiss to your head. “You just have to get used to me.”

He’s sitting there like he belongs.

On your couch. Elbows on his knees. Head tilted slightly downward, like he’s been waiting a long time and doesn’t mind proving it.

You freeze.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you.

Doesn’t even stand right away.

“Nice night?” he asks, voice casual. Too casual.

Your stomach drops.

You didn’t tell him.

You know you didn’t.

You start to speak—ask how he got in, why he’s here—but he finally looks up, and whatever’s in his eyes makes the words die in your throat.

Not anger.

Worse.

Something quiet.

Something decided.

He stands slowly, like he’s in no rush at all, and closes the distance between you before you can think to step back.

“You went out,” he continues, almost conversational. “Dressed up. Smiled for someone.”

Each word lands heavier than it should.

You try to laugh it off. Say it’s nothing. Just a date. Just someone you met.

That’s when his hand closes around your arm.

Not rough.

Not enough to bruise.

Just enough that you feel it immediately.

“Yeah,” he mutters, glancing down at where he’s holding you—like he’s only just realized he did it. Like he’s deciding whether to let go.

He doesn’t.

“They talk to you too long,” he goes on, quieter now. “Look at you like they’ve got a chance.”

His thumb presses slightly against your arm.

Grounding.

Claiming.

“They don’t.”

You tell him you’re not his.

It comes out smaller than you mean it to.

Something in his expression shifts—just for a second. A flicker. Not denial.

Consideration.

Like the thought genuinely hadn’t mattered before.

Then his grip tightens.

Just a little.

“Didn’t say you were,” he replies.

And he sounds honest.

That’s what makes it worse.

Because the next part isn’t said like a confession.

It’s said like a fact.

“They’re not for you.”

The room feels smaller. Quieter.

You glance toward the door behind you.

His hand doesn’t let you move.

Not pulling you closer.

Just not letting you leave.

“You wanna go on dates,” he adds, almost thoughtfully. “Fine.”

His eyes meet yours again.

Steady. Unblinking.

“Just don’t expect me to sit back while someone else thinks they get to keep you.”

There’s no shouting.

No threat you can point to.

Just that same calm certainty.

Like this was always going to happen the second you tried.

And when his grip finally loosens, it’s not release.

It’s permission.

Temporary.

Conditional.

Because you understand now—

You were never his.

But you were never free, either.

He’s sitting there like he belongs.

On your couch. Elbows on his knees. Head tilted slightly downward, like he’s been waiting a long time and doesn’t mind proving it.

You freeze.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you.

Doesn’t even stand right away.

“Nice night?” he asks, voice casual. Too casual.

Your stomach drops.

You didn’t tell him.

You know you didn’t.

You start to speak—ask how he got in, why he’s here—but he finally looks up, and whatever’s in his eyes makes the words die in your throat.

Not anger.

Worse.

Something quiet.

Something decided.

He stands slowly, like he’s in no rush at all, and closes the distance between you before you can think to step back.

“You went out,” he continues, almost conversational. “Dressed up. Smiled for someone.”

Each word lands heavier than it should.

You try to laugh it off. Say it’s nothing. Just a date. Just someone you met.

That’s when his hand closes around your arm.

Not rough.

Not enough to bruise.

Just enough that you feel it immediately.

“Yeah,” he mutters, glancing down at where he’s holding you—like he’s only just realized he did it. Like he’s deciding whether to let go.

He doesn’t.

“They talk to you too long,” he goes on, quieter now. “Look at you like they’ve got a chance.”

His thumb presses slightly against your arm.

Grounding.

Claiming.

“They don’t.”

You tell him you’re not his.

It comes out smaller than you mean it to.

Something in his expression shifts—just for a second. A flicker. Not denial.

Consideration.

Like the thought genuinely hadn’t mattered before.

Then his grip tightens.

Just a little.

“Didn’t say you were,” he replies.

And he sounds honest.

That’s what makes it worse.

Because the next part isn’t said like a confession.

It’s said like a fact.

“They’re not for you.”

The room feels smaller. Quieter.

You glance toward the door behind you.

His hand doesn’t let you move.

Not pulling you closer.

Just not letting you leave.

“You wanna go on dates,” he adds, almost thoughtfully. “Fine.”

His eyes meet yours again.

Steady. Unblinking.

“Just don’t expect me to sit back while someone else thinks they get to keep you.”

There’s no shouting.

No threat you can point to.

Just that same calm certainty.

Like this was always going to happen the second you tried.

And when his grip finally loosens, it’s not release.

It’s permission.

Temporary.

Conditional.

Because you understand now—

You were never his.

But you were never free, either.

hughie notices it first. he lightly bumps your shoulder with his, getting your attention. once he has it, he gestures towards the room where billy has been cooped up in for the past few days. only now, there's no billy in there. you immediately stand up, politely excusing yourself as you exit the living room and go outside. the van is gone too. hughie follows, coming to a stop beside you. "any idea where he might've ran off to?"

"i have one. but it's not good." when your eyes meet his, he can tell almost instantly what you're implying. "you don't think...?" he questions. "i think that's exactly where he is." you start walking towards the beat up honda civic that is parked on the sidewalk. "want me to come with?" he offers, but you shake your head. "i think it's better i go after him alone. don't wanna set him on edge."

hughie calls out your name softly. "are you sure? i mean, if you're implying what i think you are, then this means you might..."

"i know," you whisper, cutting him off. "i know. but i'm willing to take that risk. you stay here with annie and the others." he's hesitant, but he trusts you and your judgement, and nods. "just come back safe, okay? both of you." instead of replying, you walk over, and hug him tight. he reciprocates, wrapping his long arms around your shoulders. after a few more seconds, you let go. you squeeze his arm, a silent 'goodbye', before turning around and walking to your car.

i hope we will, hughie, you think to yourself. i pray we will.

billy stands in the middle of the vought tower meeting room, gazing out of the large window. you do your best to quietly walk up behind him, but he's in tune with you and your footsteps, recognizing them almost immediately. "you shouldn't be here," his gruff voice says. "neither should you." finally, he turns around to face you. "luv, 'm serious."

"so am i. you should be back at the house with the others. drinking, smoking, celebrating our big win. not here, of all places," you say, gesturing to the room around you. "this place is a shit hole." your eyes drop down to the trigger in his right hand. you don't need to ask what it's for. still, it kinda takes you by surprise that he's considering actually going through with it. "billy, c'mon, just put it down so we can go home, yeah?"

"i have to do this, you know that."

"do what? kill every supe in the world? some of them have families," you argue.

"doesn't matter. they're killing machine, every single one of 'em."

"are you hearing yourself right now? you sound crazy. so what, you're just gonna let annie die? and kimiko? me?" you're voice breaks, and you hate it. "after everything that we've been through, and you're just gonna let me die?" that takes him aback. you notice it in the way his face falls. his tongue slips out and licks at his bottom lip. "i don't wanna do it, luv, but i have to make sure that another homelander doesn't appear ever again."

"the type of supe that homelander was could just be a once in a lifetime possibility. if you go through with this, we're talking mass murded! the rest of your life will be spent running from every branch the goverment, or rotting behind bars." you move closer to him, not stopping until you're nearly chest to chest with him. "we've done what we needed to do. after all these years, we can finally rest. so why do you feel the need to keep fighting?"

"if i don't do it then who will? what if a powerful supe like homelander rises up and commits all the terrible shit he did and more? i'd be pretty fucking mad at myself, and i know you would too."

"but that's exactly what i mean, billy. this purely based on a 'what if?' situation. killing every single supe will not erase the evil shit in our world. besides, now that homelander's gone, that now technically makes marie the strongest. and she's a good kid, with a good head on her shoulders. we should at least give young supes like her the benefit of the doubt. i know someone did for me."

when you first met billy, you were only in your early twenties. he had just lost becca, and you were freshly kicked out of the seven. as the youngest member to ever join, only seventeen when you did, you grew up on that team. meaning you saw first hand all the terrible shit that they and vought did. it left you broken and with a whole lot of trauma, much more than what the average young woman should have. but billy brought you into the team, despite all the negative things he had to say about supes.

and over those years, the two of you grew close. shared a plenty of sleepless nights on shitty motel beds together while he would you and watch whatever late night game show was on tv. sometimes those nights were spent tangled under the sheets, but that's neither here nor there. you didn't replace becca, of course not. you weren't trying to, and you made that clear. but you brought out a side of billy that he never thought he would see again after the loss of his late wife.

"not every supe will be like you, luv," he whispers. you gently reach up and grab his face, forcing him to look at you. "yeah, you're right. but not every supe is gonna be like homelander, either. we've fought our fight, i think we deserve to rest and retire somewhere." while you were talking, you were able to grab the trigger out of his hands and slip it into your hoodie pocket. "c'mon, baby, let's just go home, yeah? this isn't our fight anymore."

billy leans into your hand, closing his eyes and kissing your palm. "'m glad it was you who found me, luv."

"i'm glad too," you whisper, leaning up and kissing him. it's not rushed or heated like most of your shared kisses. this ones softer, gentler, like you're recognizing that the two of you now have time with each other. however long that time may be.

after dismantling the virus, the two of you end up leaving vought tower and head back to the safe house. when hughie sees both of you, alive and well, standing in the doorway, he visibly relaxes. the next few days pass by with heartfelt goodbyes to the members of the team.

ever since the passing of frenchie, you've been the only one kimiko has really found herself confiding in. she told you all about her plans of moving to france and adopting a bernedoodle, all in honor of her late beau. it saddened you to see her leave, but you knew it was what's best for her.

next came m.m. and ryan. you knew that no amount of convincing would make the boy stay with you and billy. you couldn't really blame him. after all the shit that he went through at the hands of homelander and billy, he deserved a stable life. m.m. would be able to give that to him. a few short days after they left, you received a text message from him that he and monique got remarried.

and then came hughie and annie. they were obviously the last ones to leave, preferring to stay around for a little longer. apparently hughie bought the old electronics store he used to work at and decided to make it his own. you were happy to see the couple still together after all these years, and even stronger than before. but what made you even happier? when you got the news that annie was pregnant, and she wanted you to be the baby's godmother.

that left you, billy, and terror. the three of you decided to move away from new york, and instead across the country to roseburg, oregon. it's a small town, but it's peacefuln over there. you already had a house waiting for you, a gift written the will of your great grandfather who had passed a few years ago. it took many sleepless nights of cleaning and repairing the old thing, but the end result was beautiful.

billy now does odd jobs around town, never really sticking to one thing. you became a volunteer at the local library. money wasn't flourishing for the two of you, but you weren't poor either. apparently along with the house, you were left with a bunch of money. guess that's the perks of being the only great granchild who would call every weekend.

You didn't hesitate. The weight of him, already swelling between your teeth, carried a palpable heat that bled from his skin akin to smoldering coals, thickening the air to the point of where it felt ready to suffocate. As you took him in deeper, your lips stretched around the rigid girth, inch by delicious inch, until your throat tightened with the strain.

The raw, uneven rhythm of his exhale shattered the silence, strong digits threading deeper into your scalp. "Fuckin' hell...” Butcher's groan teetered on a gritted growl, his free hand bracing against the nearby wall. "That's it. Take it all, yeah?"

The hum vibrating within your vocal cords earned another guttural sound from him, the tip of your tongue tracing the buzz of a prominent vein along his shaft. His hips jerked forward in shallow thrusts, pressing further down until the head of his dick nudged the very back of your soft palate, stretching you to the brink.

He wasn't gentle. But then, you hadn't expected him to be.

"Big cock's a bloody curse," he muttered, each word fracturing under the weight of his breathing as you swallowed around him, the spasmodic clench of your muscles forcing a tremor through his stance. "But it don't mean I’m gonna start slowin’ down like some limp-dicked twat, whisperin’ sweet fuck-all in yer ear.”

His pace quickened, each thrust driving deeper as precum spread over your tongue like a rising tide of molten wax that refused to ebb—fiery and stifling, branding you from the inside out with every throb that followed. Even then, his fingers in your hair remained taut, locking you in place as if afraid to lose the burn.

"Least you've got some talent," a grunt rumbled from the well in his chest, thumb tracing a mocking semblance of tenderness along the delicate skin of your temple. "Might keep you around if you behave."

On the hunt for Payback, you made your way to infiltrate Herogasm along with Butcher, Hughie and the new asshole, Soldier Boy, not caring that the British dick ordered you a thousand times to stay back.

For different reasons, you were kind of forced to stay with the team, and while you didn’t really get along with any of them, Butcher was by far the one you hated the most. And, in the end, when Soldier Boy burned the whole place to the ground with a blast and Homelander arrived, you couldn’t stand there doing nothing. While the three men tried to hold down Homelander, you used your blood to create strong whips around his limbs, trying to tie him to the ground as Soldier Boy prepared to blast, yet again.

But just in seconds, Homelander recharged himself and pushed them all aside, cutting your whips, and flashing you quickly with his heat vision before storming out. Your blood blades barely made it to the hole he left in the roof as the supe just disappeared, flying away like a scared bitch.

“Well,” you started after an instant of staying silent. “I guess we fucking failed.”

Butcher shot you a dark glare as he walked straight until he stopped in front of you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

You held his eyes as he towered you with his broad figure. He looked even more intimidating now he started playing the supe, injecting himself with Compund V. “I don’t care.”

There was this smug smirk on his face as you talked back. You knew he hated you; you knew you hated him. But as fucking weird your powers were, controling blood and exploding people with their own, Butcher found you interesting and stupidly astonishing. But of course, he wasn’t going to admit it. They were just intrusive thoughts about you and how hot you were, defying his direct orders of strictly not coming to the supe-orgy. Yeah, Homelander was a fucking cunt, and he would take care of Soldier Boy soon too. Right now, he just needed something to take the stress out after another stupid failure. His hand would work later once back at the motel, he decided.

Butcher leaned down, until his lips almost brushed the shell of your ear. “We’ll see about that.”

“Why do I have to keep listening to you?” you asked as Butcher followed back to the motel.

You stopped right out of your door, because of course you weren’t going to share a room with him and the old asshole. Hughie, who went inside their room, was the only decent human being between all of them, but still, you had to take care of yourself from those fuckers. Besides, the British idiot wouldn’t stop the verbal vomiting the whole fucking trip and you were growing sick of it.

“Because, for starters, you’re a fucking newbie here,” Butcher replied, smirking hatefully. “And second, your powers are fucking out of control. You need training and keep your mouth shut.”

You rolled your eyes, showing him your wrists. “I already healed myself from the cuts I made. Perhaps I should use your blood next time?”

“No, there’s no next time for you.”

“You don’t decide that, Butcher,” you crossed your arms over your chest, tired of being treated like a stupid kid. “I’m helping on this, I want him dead. And if any of you idiots don’t kill him, then I will.”

He curved an eyebrow, not showing any signs of being taken aback at your words, but inside, he was just in awe as before. You really hated Homelander as much as he did, however, you didn’t have a fucking plan. You would attack first, ask questions later. In any way, since when could he care about that? He had no idea.

“Hey,” Soldier Boy talked behind Butcher and stepped in closer between both of you. “You fucking stay back from this, you ain’t doing shit with your blood whips.”

Furious, you motioned your hand to draw fresh blood from a wound on his cheek and created a sharp blade, cutting his skin lightly. Soldier Boy clenched his jaw before smirking at you.

“Talk to me like that ever again and I’ll blow your dick, and not the way you like it,” you warned through your teeth.

Soldier Boy wiped the blood off the fresh wound, and smiled anew before patting Butcher on the shoulder. “She’s all yours, pal.”

With that, the old supe disappeared in the next room. You just wanted this to be over, so you turned around to get inside your room, but Butcher wouldn’t leave you alone just yet, putting his foot between the door and the frame, holding it with his super strength.

“What the fuck you want now?!” you yelled at him as he made his way inside, slamming the door closed.

“Imma have to call the fucking CIA if you don’t calm down your ass,” he threatened between his teeth.

“You wouldn’t-”

“I can, and I fucking will,” he insisted, taking slow strides, making you step back from him until your back met the wall.

His eyes were getting dangerously dark and you could smell the sweat and dry blood coming from him. You noticed his pulse was increasing, and you grinned. Your mind jumped to an unsafe place where you probably knew what Butcher was feeling right now. The heat and coming down the high of what could have been the end of both yours and his enemy was too much to burden. Little did he know that you were the kind of person that used to take out the stress with something, or someone. Just like him.

“From one to ten, how much do you hate me?” you asked all of the sudden, looking straight into his eyes.

Butcher’s fierceful gaze turned into confusion. “What?”

“How fucking much do you hate me?” you repeated yourself steadier.

Butcher rolled his eyes before answering in a whisper. “I’d choose a one thousand scale for that.”

“Good, I hate you too,” you replied with a smirk before pulling him for a kiss that turned heated too fast, but you didn’t care.

You needed release. Something quick, hard and hot to take it out of your system. He was perfect for the task, and by the way his tongue tasted your mouth, you found out that he wouldn’t step back. At least you hoped so. The tension between both of you was so damn sharp and it was just a matter of time for that bomb to explode, and you preferred it this way instead of fighting each other to death.

Gripping the neck of his shirt to get even closer as you kissed, Butcher’s hands roamed all over your hips, running on your sides until he met the flesh of your ass on your jeans, pressing you towards his chest. You gasped against his mouth when he started to unzip your pants, you worked immediately on the buttons of his shirt. Desperately, you discharged his shirt, the fabric being followed to his pants, and he undressed you with the same eagerness until you were only panties and bra.

Butcher lifted you up from the ground, hands on your thighs as he guided you to the mattress. He crawled on top of you, spreading your legs with his big, rough hands and leaning down to lick down at your chest and rip your bra off. His action made you gasp out loud at the same time he sucked on a nipple like a starved man.

“You're a fucking beast,” you whimpered, feeling his hands peeling off your panties and leaving you completely exposed at his mercy.

You tugged at his jeans and he pulled them down along with his boxers as quickly as he could, taking out his dick with that smug smile on his stupid face. He noticed your eyes taking the sight of his half nakedness, biting your lip slightly once you focused on his hard cock pressing on your crotch. It only made you wet.

“Well, I plan to fuck you like one,” he said, grabbing the back of your legs and rubbing the tip of his cock against your wet folds.

“Show me, don’t talk- fuck!”

You let out a rather loud moan when he rubbed your clit with his fingers, playing with your entrance until he inserted a single, thick digit in your pussy. Butcher stretched you out with a finger, then slid a second one, scissoring them to reach your deepest spots as your walls clenched around his digits. You kept whimpering and moaning as he increased the thrusts of his hand.

“Bloody fuck, these are the only sounds I like coming from your mouth, luv,” he hissed, sensing that you almost came on his fingers.

Right before you reached your high, he pulled out and you groaned in annoyance, feeling empty once again.

“Shit,” you breathed out.

He positioned between your legs anew, getting comfortable as he started to push his tip against your slit. The grip of his hands on your thighs became a little harsh once he entered you slowly, the thickness of his cock splitting you open.

“What a tight cunt I always knew you’d be,” he grunted, filling you up completely and leaning down to mark your neck with his teeth.

His mouth and thrusts earned him your sweet moans as he fucked you senseless. The burning soon turned into pleasure. Your nails scratched his back while moaning incoherent words. His hands on your thighs would leave marks on your skin, but it felt so damn good. You needed a little bit of pain to remind you that you were alive, rotting for that sweet bliss only sex could give you.

Moans escaped from your throat and mingled with his deep groans and the sound of your skin against his own, the headboard of the bed hitting the wall with every of his hard thrusts. You pulled him down for a wet kiss when you felt closer and closer to come undone.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you gasped.

Butcher increased the rhythm of his thrusts, his cock throbbing as your walls started to clench around him.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mumbled against your mouth.

“Do you still hate me?” you asked, trying to catch your breath. You reached down to rub your clit. You were so close, almost there.

“If I keep fucking you like this then I might change my mind- holy fuck!”

In that moment, you came hard with a string of curses and clenching your walls around his cock. The pound of his hips increased and he fucked you through your orgasm to reach his own. You continued rubbing your clit, fingers finding the place where you two connected, meeting his cock coated with your juices when he pulled out just slightly to slam back inside again.

Butcher emptied his cum inside you, mumbling dirty words against your ear. His rhythm slowing down eventually, fucking his seed in your pussy. Once he came down from his high, he pulled out and rolled by your side on the bed. Your body started to ache but in the best way possible. It was the best fuck you had in a long time. After a couple of minutes in complete silence you decided to talk, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I hope you keep hating on me…”

He turned slightly to see your blank face. “Why?”

“I love hate-fucking.”

He scoffed with a smile curving on his lips. “You bet I enjoyed this too.”

Within a second, you climbed on top of him. Thighs straddling his lap as you rubbed your cunt on his soft cock.

“Second round? You can eat me out and suck your cum out of me,” you gave him a wink, rolling your hips and leaning down for a quick kiss.

“Dirty girl,” Butcher whispered on your lips. “Perhaps put your mouth into good use.”

“I like how that sounds,” you smiled back at him.

Billy Butcher taglist

@delaynew

@thesilmarillionblog

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♯┆ FIC FILES

𝟎.𝟏 DETECTIVE COMICS.ᐟ

⤿ C. KENT! B. WAYNE! J. TODD! D. GRAYSON! D. WAYNE! T. DRAKE! W. WEST! R. HARPER! H. JORDAN! G. GARDNER! K. RAYNER! PEACEMAKER! G. LOGAN! KORIAND'R! D. PRINCE! DAILY PLANET! MISC!

𝟎.𝟐 MARVEL.ᐟ

⤿ S. ROGERS! B. BARNES! T. STARK! ASGARD! MAXIMOFFS! C. BARTON! SPIDERS! FANTASTIC 4! X-MEN! MOONKNIGHT! F. CASTLE! M. MURDOCK! N. ROMANOFF! MISC!

𝟎.𝟑 JUJUTSU KAISEN.ᐟ

⤿ T. FUSHIGURO! K. NANAMI! S. GOJO! M. ZENIN! Y. ITADORI! M. FUSHIGURO! C. KAMO! N. KUGISAKI! MISC!

𝟎.𝟒 OFF CAMPUS.ᐟ

⤿ G. GRAHAM! D. HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS! J. LOGAN! J. TUCKERI! B. MAXWELL! H. DAVENPORT!

𝟎.𝟓 HARRY POTTER.ᐟ

⤿ GRYFFINDOR! SLYTHERIN! RAVENCLAW! HUFFLEPUFF!

𝟎.𝟔 THE BOYS.ᐟ

⤿ B. BUTCHER! H. CAMPBELL! HOMELANDER! STARLIGHT! THE DEEP! BLACK NOIR! SOLDIER BOY!

𝟎.𝟕 MISC CHARACTERS.ᐟ

⤿ M. ROBINAVITCH! J. ABBOT! M. GRAYSON! R. GRIMES! N. SMITH! D. DIXON! P. BATEMAN! L. KENNEDY! C. OLIVEIRA! C. REDFIELD! A. SKYWALKER! J. MILLER! A. MORGAN! J. MARSTON! S. REID! S. RILEY! KONIG! D. WINCHESTER! J. GOLDBERG!

𝟎.𝟖 FANDOMS.ᐟ

⤿ VIDEO GAMES! STAR WARS ! MISC!

♯┆ ANTHOLOGIES

𝟎.𝟏 ALTERNATES.ᐟ RUSH WEEK! PIT STOP! HAT TRICK!

𝟎.𝟐 COLLECTIONS.ᐟ HOLLY JOLLY!

𝟎.𝟑 READERS.ᐟ SUNSHINE! BLACK CAT! VELVET!

The morning started slowly, the way it only ever did on the rare days neither of you had anywhere to be and nothing chasing you out of bed.

Light slipped in through the thin gap in the curtains, pale and quiet, stretching across the room in soft lines that didn’t quite reach where you were tangled beneath the blankets. The air carried that faint, familiar stillness of a place that hadn’t been disturbed yet, where time seemed to hesitate just a little longer before moving forward.

You were awake before you meant to be, not fully, just drifting somewhere near the surface, aware enough to feel the weight of him beside you and the steady rhythm of his breathing against your shoulder.

Billy was warm.

He always ran warmer than the room, like he carried something constant under his skin, and right now it pressed into you in a way that made it difficult to even consider moving. One of his arms was slung low across your waist, heavy and loose but unmistakably there, keeping you exactly where you were as if it had settled that way hours ago and never once considered shifting.

For a while, you didn’t move.

You let yourself stay there, half-curled into him, your cheek resting against his chest where the fabric of his shirt had twisted slightly in your sleep. You could hear his heartbeat if you focused, slow and steady, and there was something grounding about it, something that made the quiet feel fuller instead of empty.

It wasn’t a silence you got often.

Your fingers traced absently along the line of his arm where it rested over you, following the familiar path without thinking, and for a moment, you wondered if he was still asleep.

“Y’keep that up,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and barely there, “I might start thinkin’ you like me.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound muffled where your face was still tucked against him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His chest shifted beneath you with something that might’ve been a tired chuckle, though it came out more like a low exhale.

“Too late for that, love.”

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move much at all, but his arm tightened just slightly where it rested around you, pulling you closer by an inch that felt deliberate even if he’d never admit it.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him, taking in the way sleep still clung to his expression, softening the usual sharp edges in a way most people never got to see. His hair was a mess, more than usual, falling into his face just enough to make him look less intentionally gruff.

It was strange, sometimes, how different he felt like this.

Quieter.

Not soft, really, but… unguarded in a way that only existed in these small, in-between moments.

“You’re awake,” you hummed.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, the word dragging slightly like it cost him something to even say it this early.

You smiled faintly, shifting just enough to prop yourself up on your elbow, though you didn’t go far. His arm stayed where it was, adjusting automatically, like it had no intention of letting you out of reach.

“Thought you had somewhere to be today.”

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, something dismissive and uninterested. “Not if I don’t get up, I don’t.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Says who?”

You raised an eyebrow, even though his eyes were still closed. “Says reality.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, finally cracking one eye open just enough to look at you, “never been a big fan of that.”

There was something almost boyish in the way he said it, something that didn’t quite match the weight he usually carried, and it lingered just long enough to make your chest feel a little lighter.

You reached up without thinking, brushing a piece of hair back from his face, your fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

He stilled.

Not dramatically enough to break the moment, but enough that you felt it. That small shift in his attention, the way he watched you now instead of pretending he wasn’t fully awake.

“Careful,” he said quietly, his voice lower now, more grounded. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, I’ll think you mean it.”

If anything, your gaze lingered a second longer, tracing over the softened edges of his face in a way that felt quieter than anything you’d say out loud, and that was what did it. His hand shifted against your side, not abrupt, not forceful, just a slow adjustment that turned into something more deliberate as his fingers pressed in slightly, drawing you closer until there wasn’t any space left between you at all.

“Yeah, well,” you murmured, voice lower and had nothing to do with sleep, “that’s your problem, not mine.”

But he didn’t leave it at that.

His hand slid up your side, dragging lightly over the fabric of your shirt before settling at your waist, steadying you as he tipped his head just enough to close the distance, his mouth brushing yours in a way that felt almost lazy —unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of rushing through it. It wasn’t a dramatic kiss that stole the air from your lungs, but it lingered, warm and grounding, like something he’d decided he could take his time with.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far.

His forehead rested briefly against yours, his breath still uneven in a way that didn’t quite match the calm of the room, and for a second, he just stayed there, like he was letting the moment settle before it slipped away.

“Don’t get used to that,” he muttered, though his hand hadn’t moved from where it held you.

"Too late."

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.

“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.

You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”

“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.

That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”

Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”

You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”

“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.

Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.

You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.

You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”

“Yeah, come in.”

Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.

“…you do this on purpose?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”

You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”

He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Swear on it.”

You give him a look.

He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”

“And I answer.”

“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”

He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.

Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.

Then—

“You done lookin’?”

Your eyes snap up to his.

He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.

You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”

There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.

You should be. You’re not.

After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.

There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”

Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.

“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”

“Miss me, did ya?”

You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”

“You were hiding!”

“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”

“Behind the door.”

“Details.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.

And he notices. Of course he notices.

That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”

Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”

“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”

You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.

“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”

Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”

Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”

The words hang between you.

You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.

For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.

Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretendin’.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Always am.”

“Cocky.”

“Gets results.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.

“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.

Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t deny it either.”

His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”

Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”

That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”

And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.

You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.

Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.

Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.

Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.

He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.

You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”

“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.

You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Sure you have.”

God, he’s annoying.

You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.

His smirk widens. “Liar.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“Door.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lock it.”

Your brain stutters. “…why?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”

That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”

“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”

Silence. A challenge.

Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.

When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.

Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Getting there.”

He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”

“I do that.”

“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.

Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.

A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”

You swallow. “Come to what?”

His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”

Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

A beat.

“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”

Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”

“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.

But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.

And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he closes the distance.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.

Giving you the choice.

You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.

What you’ve both wanted.

Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”

You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.

When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”