𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒶

There is nothing in this world that would make John push him away. He is under him, splayed and content with leaking holes and pretty cock bobbling against his abdomen. Billy exhales and leans against the wall, his head feeling cold tiles on the wall. John calls his name, not his usual ‘William’ he calls him "Will, Billy, my love, Butcher, I want you, take me, tiger. Take me already, faggot.’ His pretty lips widened and showed a bloodied smile. The hurt that he inflicted and Billy’s hips moved on its own into his fist. John’s lips moved, he whispered ‘fuck me, hard’ and pulled Billy in. He could not pull back or say ‘no’. He probably would never say ‘no’ to this bitch. His legs looked so sexy, long, toned and covered in fake ‘Malibu’ tan. His skin smelled like honey and that rough buzz on his head didn’t make John less appealing of a treat. Billy halted his breath, trying not to come just from the look in John’s eyes. Sultry whore with his hole open and inviting. He calls for him, pulls him in to endure his heat, takes him, and be his man. Butcher groans and bites his wrist. Cold water runs down his back sobering the Brit. Reminding him how insane this is. His hard  cock twitches in his fist, gripped in between strong fingers. He closes his eyes and John in front of him, shaved, bloodied, with sparkling tears in his gentle blue eyes. His legs are spread, shaking  and his sensitive hole is vacant. He says his name like it is a prayer and Billy fucking comes. 

Breathless, he leans to the wall and lets a cold shower wash off the spunk. His mind is far away, still trapped in John’s embrace. His fist still goes up and down his cock, feeling every vein under rough fingers, trembling under the needy touch. He is needy. He needs John to ride him, calling him ‘Will, Billy, tiger’ and ‘luv’ with his newly gained British accent. He is getting good at it. Even ‘Butcher’ will do. His lips are so pretty on his square face, so neatly placed, a good curve to it, cupid’s bow just calling to be kissed and admired. His little bird, only his. Billy inhales, his breaths are rugged and shallow. He can’t let go of an illusion. John’s took an honoured space in his heart. There, on a golden pedestal used to be his wife. A woman that could make him flutter. She was dethroned. His heart was jumping with only one look at the blue abyss of John’s eyes. It is in his face, mouth and how his lips part when he speaks. With his sick Homelander mannerism. Assured of his power, his disgusting narcissism. Because Billy liked his power trip, his self-assuredness and unwavering self importance. Because Butcher is broken. He can’t love normal things. He finds them boring and mundane to the point that he starts breaking them just to make them funny or interesting. It is about fixing or finding the way to fully destroy it. He was fucked up like that, his father made sure of that. he probably would ruin it with Becca give or take another year.  Because it was true. She wanted kids. He didn’t. She wanted a mortgage and a ‘nest’, he shuddered at the idea of that daft rubbish. It wasn’t always sunshine  and daisies with Becca, she had her temper, bossed him around, and thought of him as a big baby at times. He didn’t mind but if we are honest here, Billy was fucked like that. He hated and loved people who told him what to do. He would complain, whine and make poisonous remarks. Then he would obey, like a trained fucking good boy because otherwise he would get bollocking. He was not that different from John, innit?  

If Becca told him to be a nice lad he would be, but he would always ruin something. He just couldn’t help himself, he enjoyed the  things that were broken and needed care. He yearned to be a better caretaker than his bloody old man. Deep down he knew that twelve hours of work shift can’t be easy, but he also didn’t see a reason to wallop his kids after that just to ease his frustration with shitty life, government and the rest of rubbish. Not even a man enough to go against someone your size. Billy whined into his fist and bit it, shamefully stroking the last moments of his ecstasy. The peak of his orgasm is almost gone and John is still behind his eyelids, with his pretty flushed cheeks, those that hide his hole, and lips that whisper sweet nothings. He can afford this fantasy, because this is just what it is. His sick fantasy. His pretty bird, John, with his lean, sculpted legs on both sides of Billy’s body. Riding him into oblivion, whispering his name, anything but ‘William’, and kisses his lips. Just like Becca did, with her bosom into his face, her long hair tickling his nose and forehead. She was the one. A perfection he didn’t know how he captured. Now it is John and his flat, hairy chest in his sight. And he likes it, laps at it, squeezes flat pecs under his fingers. Leaves marks under his nails like he owns the guy. And he does. Because John would let him own him. He knows it. 

His heart  had failed him. His heart moved on. When his mind still recalled Becca, he felt abandoned and empty with her image, when is warm and welcoming, so obedient and right here John was available. Just take him. He won’t mind. He owes you his life. Even if he doesn't want you, you could force the guy to accept you, innit? Billy screws his eyes shut and moans into his fist, riding the madness that sweeps his feet and makes him tear up a bit. A thought of John on his knees in front of him what did it. His little bitch. His. His nice, cute, blonde twat. No matter that John was not actually blonde. He was for Billy. His cute, adorable bimbo with lean legs that could put models to shame. Fuck Vought for making him this perfect. And why didn’t they make him walk the runway? 

Billy rides the waves of his orgasm, trying to ignore the ringing in his head and hot tears at the corners of his eyes. Lord, he is not young anymore, why is his dick so agile? Is he discovering something about himself he didn’t know? Fuck John. Please go and actually fuck him, Billy. Stop. For fuck sake.  

The cold shower forced him to finally start thinking clearly, his cock is somewhat calmer and Billy bites a moan back. This is not real. He loved his wife. He loved her more than anything. John’s welcoming legs spread, showing what he is missing. Inviting. He is not a faggot. But it is John. This sculpted, twisted by corporate beauty. Like they actually made his genetic code in the lab, to the point of his bottomless blue eyes. No, wrong. He was, in fact, made in a lab. Poor lad, was just a complicated experiment that went on for far too long. Billy whimpers into his fist and leans against the wall. He needs to evict John from his head and heart. That place belongs to Becca. She is his weakness, his strength, his drug… and John’s inviting gaze and parted lips in front of him. His strained cock against Billy’s groin. His sharp nails dig into his tanned back with need and urgency and Butcher hates himself when he jumps into the deep. He dethrones his wife. His poor dead wife. John fucked her, gave her what Billy refused to give, and his Nazi girlfriend killed her, then John, slut that he is, dethroned her from her altar in Billy’s heart. 

Billy is not an idiot. People should move on from loss at some point. Grief is not forever. People live on. Forget or learn to live with a hole in their hearts. It happens everyday. Love is a setting sun, smoking gun. It hurts. It's a fatal flaw and a broken jaw. He can take it. Ain’t no point to love if you can’t handle the pain that it comes with but why is he willing to move on now? Why is he thinking of her and him as equals in his heart? Billy whines under the spray of water. John smiled at him in his head, spreading his pale long legs as it is the most warm and welcoming place in the country. And it probably is and that makes Billy hate himself and bite his wrist until it bleeds.  

read on ao3 soon hopefully.

writing this while watching "another round" and "the hunt" and drinking whiskey is quite interesting experience. That man is love of my life and I never intended to love him.