obsessed w billy butcher and joel miller

Butcher figured you hadn’t seen much action, but he had trouble believing you’d never given a handjob before. What kind of chaperoned, all hands on deck, home by ten prom had you been to?

That was alright. No better time to learn than the present.

He had you on your knees between his spread thighs, breath deep and rasping as he instructed you to gently nuzzle and tease him through his trousers before you really get started. No need go rush the main event.

“Gentle, sweetheart. Got all night, don’t we?”

When he was properly worked up enough, he lifted his hips and let you manage to work his belt loose, tug his trousers down and set eyes on him for the first time. He was big, and thick, and the head was already leaking precum that glistened softly in the dim light from the lamp.

Butcher tilted his head to the side and gave you a low, rumbling chuckle at your look of slightly intimidation.

“Don’t bite,” he tisked. “‘Less you ask real pretty for it.”

When you tentatively took him in hand and started to stroke him, his breath caught and his lip pulled back just slightly. His thighs flexed and he shifted, thick brows furrowing slightly.

Before long, he gruffed and placed his larger hand over yours, the callouses on his palm gently scratching over the backs of your knuckles. “Ever heard of a rhythm, darlin’?” he said, beginning to guide your hand in a deep, steady pace. He made sure to twist your hand on the upstroke, giving the head of his aching cock perfect friction. “There you go. Ain’t nothin’ to be ‘fraid of.”

You kept up that rhythm he liked, and eventually his hips started to twitch, his chest heaved deeper, his head tilted back against the cushion of the couch.

“Fuck, yeah,” he rasped out. “Just like that, darlin’. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You watched with rapt attention as he moved above you, those hands now gripping the edges of the sofa and his hips twitching. His grunts and groans and gruffs began to grow louder.

“Fuck—fuck. That’s it. Ah, shit…”

As Butcher grew closer, you experimentally quickened your pace just a bit, gripping his cock a bit harder on the downstroke. His jowls lifted and he beared his teeth, snarling out a ragged sound.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck. Fuckin’… shit!”

You watched, fascinated, as Butcher’s body jerked and his cock throbbed, shiny streams of pearly cum weeping from the head and streaming down your hand. He gasped softly for breath, letting himself slump back on the couch, head tipped back and lips parted as he attempted to come back to his body.

One of his eyes peeked open when, curiously, you leaned yourself forward and stuck out your tongue to give a kitten lick along the tip of his shaft. You gathered warm stickiness with the flat pink muscle, and he cracked another crooked smile. One of his wide hands reached out to cup your chin.

Butcher figured you hadn’t seen much action, but he had trouble believing you’d never given a handjob before. What kind of chaperoned, all hands on deck, home by ten prom had you been to?

That was alright. No better time to learn than the present.

He had you on your knees between his spread thighs, breath deep and rasping as he instructed you to gently nuzzle and tease him through his trousers before you really get started. No need go rush the main event.

“Gentle, sweetheart. Got all night, don’t we?”

When he was properly worked up enough, he lifted his hips and let you manage to work his belt loose, tug his trousers down and set eyes on him for the first time. He was big, and thick, and the head was already leaking precum that glistened softly in the dim light from the lamp.

Butcher tilted his head to the side and gave you a low, rumbling chuckle at your look of slightly intimidation.

“Don’t bite,” he tisked. “‘Less you ask real pretty for it.”

When you tentatively took him in hand and started to stroke him, his breath caught and his lip pulled back just slightly. His thighs flexed and he shifted, thick brows furrowing slightly.

Before long, he gruffed and placed his larger hand over yours, the callouses on his palm gently scratching over the backs of your knuckles. “Ever heard of a rhythm, darlin’?” he said, beginning to guide your hand in a deep, steady pace. He made sure to twist your hand on the upstroke, giving the head of his aching cock perfect friction. “There you go. Ain’t nothin’ to be ‘fraid of.”

You kept up that rhythm he liked, and eventually his hips started to twitch, his chest heaved deeper, his head tilted back against the cushion of the couch.

“Fuck, yeah,” he rasped out. “Just like that, darlin’. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You watched with rapt attention as he moved above you, those hands now gripping the edges of the sofa and his hips twitching. His grunts and groans and gruffs began to grow louder.

“Fuck—fuck. That’s it. Ah, shit…”

As Butcher grew closer, you experimentally quickened your pace just a bit, gripping his cock a bit harder on the downstroke. His jowls lifted and he beared his teeth, snarling out a ragged sound.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck. Fuckin’… shit!”

You watched, fascinated, as Butcher’s body jerked and his cock throbbed, shiny streams of pearly cum weeping from the head and streaming down your hand. He gasped softly for breath, letting himself slump back on the couch, head tipped back and lips parted as he attempted to come back to his body.

One of his eyes peeked open when, curiously, you leaned yourself forward and stuck out your tongue to give a kitten lick along the tip of his shaft. You gathered warm stickiness with the flat pink muscle, and he cracked another crooked smile. One of his wide hands reached out to cup your chin.

Butcher doesn’t let that get him down, though. He drags the lit cigarette from the corner of his mouth, walks into the room past the first few desks to where you and the other Boys are sitting in a circle, bottles being passed while the shittiest Christmas tree in the world stands just a foot away, twinkling sadly.

“Marvin, my son,” he says, coming closer. “Ya gotta get into the festive spirit. After all, we could all be dead tomorrow.” Frenchie widens his arms.

“That almost sounds like positivity,” he says, looking around the group like he’s looking for help in a burning building. “It is disconcerting, n'est-ce pas?”

“Just wait ‘til you see what I’ve got in my big sack for you,” Butcher says with a broad, dirty grin that makes you bite your lip. Frenchie makes a disgusted sound, but it’s Hughie who quiets everyone down.

“Guys, guys,” he says, hands raised. “This is nice, okay? It’s important to, y’know, celebrate sometimes, and–”

Kimiko waves, interrupting him, then signs something. Hughie frowns as he watches her.

“What did she say?” he asks, and just as Frenchie opens his mouth to translate, you reach into the cooler next to your chair, grab a can of beer and throw it towards Hughie. He catches it, barely, before it hits him in the chest.

“She said you should shut up and get drunk,” you say, and Kimiko gives an “OK” gesture and a bright smile. You see Hughie wanting to double down, but then he shrugs, opens the beer, some of the foam running over his fingers.

“A-fuckin’-men,” Butcher adds, taking another drag from his cigarette.

The party continues, people splitting off into groups. M.M. is getting his ass handed to him at darts by Frenchie, while Kimiko and Hughie are doing something that can only be described as interpretive dance to the DMX version of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. Butcher is sitting near one of the windows, looking down at the city, cigarette burning up between his fingers as you saunter over to him.

“Need a top up?” you say, raising the bottle you’re holding by the neck. He turns, looks at you, gaze wandering down your body once and then up. This isn’t the kind of Christmas party you dress up for, but, just maybe, you opted for something a little tighter today. No particular reason.

Butcher raises his empty glass, holds it out, and you fill it nearly to the brim, something Butcher only raises his eyebrows at. You fill your own glass, put the bottle down, then sit on the desk next to him.

“You know, Hughie might be an annoying little bitch,” you say after taking a sip, then reach for the cigarette in Butcher’s hand, take it and lead it to your mouth. You exhale slowly, and when you look at him again, his gaze is on your mouth. From up close you can see how incredibly cheap the costume is, kinda ratty too, but somehow it fits him.

“Is there a but comin’, darlin’?” he asks and you chuckle, hand the cigarette back to him.

“But,” you continue, “he’s right. It’s important to celebrate. It’s sweet of you. That you planned this, I mean.” Butcher scoffs, looks down at his glass.

“Yeah, I’m a proper sweetheart, alright,” he mumbles, then takes a long drink. You watch him, the way his nose scrunches a little, how his jaw and throat work. You part your lips as you study him.

“Anyway,” you say, not wanting things to get too awkward by being genuine. “Any chance you got something in that big sack for me, Santa?”

Butcher lowers the glass, then slowly turns his head towards you. Jackal grin spreading his lips.

“Depends,” he says and you raise your chin, indicate for him to continue. “You gotta sit in Santa’s lap to get a present, ain’t you?”

“Butcher!” M.M. calls in that second from across the room. Butcher keeps his gaze on you for a second longer, then looks past you at his friend.

You take another sip. Grin to yourself. 

You end up in his lap, alright.

Everyone’s gone home, wasted but merry, and you stay behind on the pretext you’ll do some cleaning up. Nothing clean about what you’re doing though. Nothing at all.

“Fuck!” you cry out, hands going out to grab for the edge of the desk as Butcher, somehow, fucks you even harder, crowding in closer when you were actually spreading yourself over the desk to move away from him and the intense, blinding stimulation of his cock. A stapler goes flying while his fingers dig into your hips, the large room filled with obscene slapping noises every time he drives into you.

“Fuckin’ take it,” he pants and you manage to get one arm under you, turn your upper body around far enough to look at him. Pulsing vein on his forehead and the snarl of a wolf. He’s looking down at where he’s driving into you, but when he sees you looking, one hand leaves your hip, comes down with a loud slap on your ass. You cry out, moan, something in-between.

“Was worried Santa was too old to get it up,” you press out, voice cracked and broken and shaken by his thrusts, and the laugh that follows turns into a yelp as Butcher grabs you, pulls you up until your back is against his chest, the material of the suit he didn’t take the time to strip out of itchy and gross and perfect.

“Full o’ surprises, darlin’,” he says, pistoning his hips up into you with a punishing thrust, making you whimper. He holds you against him with one hand, your feet on their toes in your high-heeled boots, your back arched to the point of pain to make up for the height difference, sends the other one traveling down your front to between your legs, pinches your clit at the next thrust, then begins rubbing you fast and hard as he sets a rhythm that could just about melt the Northpole.

“G– fuck, Bil–” you press out, and then you need to throw your head back against his shoulder as you come again, crying out for real this time, your voice echoing around the room, bouncing off the wide windows and back into you.

While you’re still shaking and twitching, Butcher rams into you, once, twice, a third time, then stills, deep, as he grunts into your ear.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he groans, drops his forehead against the side of yours. You feel him twitch in you as he unloads, pumps into you, warm and full.

The two of you stay like that, despite the fact that your legs are threatening to give in, and you’re sure Butcher can’t be faring much better. You can feel him softening inside you, and it’s when the first plop of his come dripping out of you onto the ground can be heard that you shake yourself out of it.

“Look at that, it’s snowing,” you mumble, your throat feeling broken from its earlier sounds. Butcher snorts, and then his shoulders are shaking, the movement making more of him drop out of you.

“You’re a sick, sick bird,” he mutters and you grin, then turn your head, lids still heavy as lead.

His dark hair and beard come into view, scars adorning his rough features, but it’s his eyes you look into.

“You fuckin’ love it,” you reply, voice low. Butcher returns your look, then huffs. He leans in, kisses you, deep but soft. When you separate, you stay close.

“You know it,” he says, smacking his lips. “Alright. Lemme drive you home.”

“On your sleigh?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. Butcher just chuckles and shakes his head.

He stays the night, for the first time. Who knew. And it really does start snowing the next morning. A true Christmas miracle. 

Thank you for reading! ♡

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billy butcher as a bear is a different creature entirely, thick through the shoulders and stomach, broad everywhere, the kind of man who runs hot even when he’s not hard, the kind of man who breathes like a growl caught behind his teeth as he looms over you. he’s never delicate and never unsure, except in that one raw place he hates admitting—those nights where his cock won’t stay up no matter how fiercely he wants you, no matter how much his chest heaves with frustrated desire, no matter how his hands shake because he needs you and can’t perform the way he thinks a man like him ought to.

and that’s exactly when he becomes the clingiest beast of all.

he mutters first, always does, voice rough like he’s been gargling gunpowder and gravel, his lips brushing your cheek as he adjusts his hips and presses the broad head of his softened cock against your entrance. the blunt warmth smears slickness across you, and he curses under his breath, a guttural “bloody hell…” that trembles with wanting. he’s annoyed, yes, but not with you—with himself, with his own body, with the sharp throb of desire that won’t translate into hardness. you can feel how badly he wants the motion, the connection, the pressure, even if his body isn’t rising to the occasion.

“bloody thing’s useless tonight,” he rumbles, breath steaming against your mouth, irritably nudging forward again as though sheer stubbornness will make him stiffen. his belly drags against yours, thick hair brushing your skin, the heat of him wrapping around you like a furnace. “still ain’t gettin’ off ya, love. so don’t even think about movin’.”

his size pins you down easily, the weight of him indulgent and comforting more than restrictive, his thighs bracketing you as he sinks his softened length inside you anyway, nudging in with a shuddering groan that melts into a shaky “nnnh— f—there we go.” even soft, he fills you, thick and warm, the head of his cock pushing in until he’s seated deep in a way only a bear-built man could manage. your slick draws him in with a wet, sloppy sound, and he groans like it embarrasses him, like the sound of his limp cock sliding into you is somehow too intimate to bear. he pushes until his entire length is nestled inside, fat and warm and pulsing faintly even without hardness, buried to the hilt in the tight cradle of your cunt.

when he bottoms out, he freezes—not from uncertainty, but because the feeling overwhelms him. he doesn’t thrust. he won’t risk slipping out. he just holds himself inside you, buried to the hilt, his cock pillowy-thick and hot, pulsing faintly as he settles his massive body over yours.

huge arms curl around you, one under your back, the other slung over your waist, dragging you flush against him as though he can fuse your bodies together by sheer need. his belly presses warmly into yours, his chest hair brushing your skin whenever he breathes, and he nuzzles into your neck like an animal claiming a place to rest.

his cock twitches weakly inside you—nothing more than a soft flex, but he feels it, and the shame lights across his breath for a moment before he steadies himself with a shudder. youfeel the breath he releases, shaky and warm, ghosting across your skin before he whispers, almost pleading, voice stripped down to raw bone. “don’t go anywhere, love. just… keep me in you. that’s all i need right now.”

you can feel his fingertips graze your lower belly, slow wandering strokes as he palms the slight outward curve where he’s nestled inside you. gentle circles, lazy drags of his broad thumb, the same obsessive affection he gives when he’s fully hard but now tempered with a vulnerability he’d deny if you ever repeated it aloud. he plays with the place where your bodies meet, petting the swell beneath your navel as though he can feel himself through your skin.

he likes imagining it. likes knowing he’s tucked deep and warm and held, even when he’s not performing like he thinks he should. his breath catches every time you clench around him, and he lets out soft, embarrassingly tender sounds—little “mmh… yeah… tha’s it…” grunts that melt into shaky sighs.

sometimes he ruts weakly, just enough that his softened cock drags through the slick heat of your cunt in a thick, obscene glide that makes both of you gasp. you’re wet enough that he sinks and slides without resistance, your folds clinging softly around him, the slickness coating the entire length of his shaft even though he’s not hard. every time he moves, even a little, there’s a sticky, wet sound that makes his breath catch. he groans into your shoulder, low and frustrated, his voice cracking with need as his hips give another tiny push, more reflex than intention. “ooh—f— bloody fuckin’ hell…” he mutters, his cock shifting inside your soaked cunt with a molten drag that makes your walls flutter around him instinctively. he’s not trying to build rhythm. he’s not even trying to get hard. he just needs to feel that drag, that reminder of your cunt wrapped around him, your walls hugging him tight and warm and welcoming.

but most nights like this, he just paws at you lazily, possessively, running his hand lazily over your body while his softened cock stays buried inside you, cradled in your warmth. his palm slides over your stomach in slow sweeps, then down to your hip, then over your thigh. every time he touches you, your cunt clenches softly around him, answering him, reacting to his presence.

he notices every single pulse. every squeeze. every gush of fresh slick when your body adjusts to his heat.

“fuck, love…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your belly while he settles deeper. “you’re so damned wet… you’d swallow me whole if i let you…”

he loves cockwarming more than he’ll ever admit.

especially the nights when he’s soft.

those are the nights where he becomes still, almost reverent, where he stays inside you for long minutes at a time, sinking heavier and heavier into you until his full weight rests over you like a massive, living blanket. there’s something grounding in the way he sprawls across you, his warm body covering yours, his softened cock nudged deep and held by your own warmth.

“feels good,” he mumbles into your skin, voice all rumble and silk, his hips shifting just enough to seat himself deeper with a breathy “hnnh— yeah… that’s it, pet.” his arms tighten around you, drawing you closer so you can’t slip off him even by accident. “could stay like this all bloody night.”

and he means it.

the moment you twitch, his hand clamps around your waist. When you shift your hips—even unintentionally—he throws one thick thigh over yours and pins you down with a soft, warning growl that vibrates against your throat. and when you wiggle beneath him deliberately, testing him, he stiffens with a frustrated, breathy sound, pressing his forehead into your shoulder before muttering, rough and low:

“nnnh—don’t start… ‘m tryin’ to stay inside you, pet… bloody hell…”

his hips roll forward with a slow, luxurious push, not a thrust but a deeper settling, like he’s trying to fit himself into every soft part of you. the motion sinks his cock deeper, the thickness of him stretching you just enough to remind him exactly where he is, exactly how deeply he’s held. his breath catches, then steadies as he buries his face into your throat and inhales you like he needs your scent to breathe. his beard scrapes warmly across your skin as he mouths lazily at your pulse.

and that’s when he gets honest—soft, needy, filthy in a way he’d gut a man before repeating aloud in daylight. his breath drags hot down your throat as his hips make that slow, molten shift inside you, his soft cock dragging through the slick mess you’re making around him; every inch of him glides with a thick, obscene wet sound that makes his voice break when he speaks.

“fuck, you’re warm… holdin’ me so tight… like your cunt’s afraid to let me go…” his words rasp through you, his hips settling heavier, forcing his cock deeper into the plush grip of your walls. “that’s it, love… keep me in… keep me wrapped all soft ’n sweet around me… you’re so damn wet i could drown in you…”

and you are—your cunt is soaked, clinging greedily to him, slickness coating his soft cock so completely that even the smallest shift sends warmth spilling down the insides of your thighs. every pulse of your body hugs him, draws him in, refuses to let him slip free.

he doesn’t say everything he’s thinking at first, but you feel it in the way his hand drifts over your belly, slow and obsessive, fingers tracing the spot where his cock sits buried inside you. he rubs lazy circles, pressing just enough that you can feel the pressure shift inside—his softened head nudging deeper, your cunt sucking around him, your slick squeezing around the thickness lodged in your core.

and then you whisper, breath catching, “feels like you’re trying to stay deeper every time you move…”

his entire body reacts. he loses the last bit of restraint he was pretending to have. his hips grind forward in a slow, claiming push that makes your slick gush around him, heat rolling through both of you. and he murmurs, raw and unfiltered, “course i am, pet… want you full… want ya stayin’ full of me… even when i’m soft i wanna be sittin’ right there, right in that sweet little place—” his hand presses your belly more firmly, just enough to make you feel the inside shift, his cock moving deeper into the dripping heat of your cunt. “—right where you’re meant to carry me.”

your slick tightens around him at the words, a wet clench that drags a groan out of him, low and helpless. his breathing turns rough, almost drunken as he presses his mouth to your throat.

butcher isn’t subtle. especially not when he’s thinking about breeding.

he groans against your skin, his voice slurring with heat and helpless want as he keeps moving his hand—over your belly, down to your pelvis, directly to the place where he disappears into your dripping cunt. his thumb brushes your swollen lips, gliding easily over the wetness dripping out around him. “god, love… listen to how wet you are… you’re makin’ a damn mess on me…” he pushes his thumb in just enough to spread your lips, to feel his soft cock nestled inside. “if i could pump you full every night I would… fill you ‘til you’re round with me… til everyone fuckin’ knows who’s been inside you…”

your breath catches hard, a sharp, helpless inhale that he feels all the way through your body—your cunt tightening in a sudden, desperate flutter around his soft cock, clenching like you’re trying to drag him deeper even though he’s already buried to the root. the spasm ripples through you, slick warmth tightening and releasing in a pulse he feels with a low grunt as his hips jolt forward, driven by instinct rather than intention.

he reacts instantly. instinctively. like the sound of your breathing and the squeeze of your cunt switch something on inside him.

his hand clamps down over your pelvis, big palm pinning you in place with a heavy, proprietorial pressure. his thumb slides lower, stroking directly over the soaked seam of your pussy, spreading the slick that’s leaking around him and tracing the outline of where he’s nestled inside you. he can feel every pulse, every flutter, every wet contraction hugging his soft cock.

“you like hearin’ that, pet?” he murmurs, voice so low and rough it vibrates through your bones. his thumb moves again, slow and deliberate, gathering your slick and smearing it across your swollen lips. “you like me talkin’ about breedin’ you even when i ain’t hard yet?”

your breath shivers out of you— “y-yeah…”—and your hips tilt instinctively, dragging your slickness over him in a thick, dripping glide that coats him even more. he can feel the heat of you spreading, feel your cunt tightening again around his softness, drawing him deeper into the mess you’re making.

“good.” he mutters, thumb stroking your soaked pussy again, pressing just enough to feel you squeeze down on him. “good girl. ‘cause you’re mine. and you’re stayin’ right fuckin’ here.”

and if eventually his cock starts to swell, growing slowly inside you from the warmth and the way your body pulses around him, the growl he lets out is deep enough to shake through your bones, his hips rolling in a slow, primal grind as he mouths at your throat.

“ohhh— fuck, love… there it is… that’s it, pet, squeeze on me like that, make me get hard for you…”

but even if he never gets fully hard—even if he stays soft the whole time—he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t let you move. he doesn’t give up an inch of the closeness.

"I know that, Butcher," you said evenly, "You make bad look so good."

You didn't know who moved first, you or him, but suddenly his mouth was devouring yours. Months of built-up tension easing as you tasted the cigarettes and whiskey on his tongue, shoving his coat off his powerful shoulders. You couldn't help the moan that slipped out of you.

Butcher growled in response, pinning you to the wall by his hips and you felt his hard length through his jeans. "Feel what ya do to me, love?" he asked, punctuating the sentence with a thrust that had your hips respond in kind.

You whimpered in response, almost moaning again as his hand slipped into the front of your jeans and his mouth latched onto your neck. He made quick work of sliding his fingers along your wet heat, biting down when he felt how soaked you were for him. You knew you'd have marks on your neck tomorrow but you didn't care.

"This all for me, love?" he asked into your neck as he soothed the bite mark with his tongue, slipping two of his thick fingers along your seam, finding your clit with surprising ease. The way he worked so quickly had your head spinning.

"Yes," you choked out.

"Good. Cuz you're mine now, understand?"