Pairing: reader! FBI agent/super! Billy Butcher. Warning: the text contains violent scenes, murder, profanity, explicit sexual content, and themes related to addiction and corruption.
short description: You are a federal agent who makes a dangerous deal with Billy Butcher to avenge your partner's murder, but their collaboration turns into a toxic obsession and a forbidden relationship that blurs the line between duty and personal war.
~10.000 words
English is not my first language
Working for the FBI was your favorite thing to do, if you didn't count the stupid supes who constantly got into trouble, adding more paperwork. You'd notice the news from Vought about the main seven on the TV in the main lobby, on your way to the cafeteria where your colleagues were discussing the news. New faces appeared on the wanted board, with Vought's signature, and you, as regular police who already had plenty of cases besides supes, are obligated to comply. After finishing reading the information, you glanced briefly at the portraits, recognizing only one guy you've been looking for a long time. You sigh and click your tongue, heading for your uniform to go warm up before patrol. Running, shower training, an hour passed and you're already replacing a colleague at his post. Patrolling the territory on a sunny day with heavy gear gave you nothing, except for supe guys who tried to rob a store, among whom was a slime guy. After another report on your location and situation.
Billy Butcher stood, leaning his shoulder against a rusted pipe on the roof of a warehouse in dock number seven. The New York wind tugged at the hem of his black trench coat, and he, squinting, watched the people of his old "friend" nicknamed Slimy, a petty scumbag type with the power of liquid shit, scurry around below. That is, he could seep through any crack, which made him an incredibly slippery bastard to catch. But right now Butcher couldn't care less about Slimy. He was waiting for you. Over his radio, tapped into the feds' frequency, came a dry, stern dispatcher's voice, and then that very voice. Calm, quiet, almost devoid of emotion. As if every report caused you physical pain.
"...subject moving to sector 7B, blue building, third floor. Requesting backup..."
Butcher grinned, he'd dug up your file a month ago. He'd let the feds find Slimy on purpose. Because Slimy was bait. And bait is needed to catch not a fish, but a small, angry little fish in uniform. The blue military uniform fit you perfectly, the black holster on your hip and combat boots added severity. Your hair was pulled into a tight bun, a cap on your head, with the edge of a headset visible from underneath. You moved silently, professionally, but Butcher saw the main thing: your face. Even now, when you were surely focused, eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line. She got him going from the first look.
You walked past him within two meters, not noticing. Because Butcher knew how to disappear when needed.
"And where are we rushing off to, eh, love?" his voice, low, soaked in cockney and cigarettes, tore through the silence like a rusty knife.
You flinched. Instantly. Your hand shot to your holster, and Butcher froze, not even thinking of hiding. He stepped out of the shadows, lit by a dirty beam. Long coat, a loud Hawaiian shirt with faded palm trees, jet-black hair more disheveled than usual, heavy jaw, stubble turning into thick beard. He tilted his head sideways, squinting, and the corner of his mouth curled up into a nasty, smug grin.
"Put the gun down, sweetheart. You're pointing it at the wrong bloke. I'm not that slippery cunt you're looking for. Although.." he took a step forward, heavy as a bear, "truth be told, I'm the same kind of cunt, just with better taste in shirts."
You didn't put it down. Good. Butcher liked it when his prey showed teeth. He noticed how your eyes widened when you recognized him. Oh, yes. You knew who he was. Every file. Every episode. Fucking Butcher, the supe hunter who hasn't been caught in three years.
"Billy Butcher," you said flatly. Not a question. A statement. "You're wanted in four states. And you decided to take a walk right under my nose?"
"That so," he drawled, taking another step, closing the distance to a dangerous two meters. "You remember me. Well and good. Then let's skip the tricks, yeah? I'm here on business. That runny little cunt you came for owes me a couple of liters of blood. Personal. And I want to collect my debt."
You took a step back "fuck you.." he suddenly made a sharp motion with his hand, and one of the tentacles slipped out from under his trench coat. Dark, oily, alive. It lazily coiled around his own forearm, demonstratively not for attack, just like that. "Don't be scared. It's not for you. Yet. See? I control this crap. Unlike some people who can't control their perpetually offended face." He nodded at your face.
"Did someone hurt you in childhood, or is that genetic defect a permanent 'I'm about to puke' expression? Just asking, for the record." Butcher put the tentacle back under his coat and raised his hands demonstratively, showing he was unarmed. "Stay out of my business," you mutter, putting your gun away.
He took another step. Now only a meter separated them. She smelled. Fucking hell. Not of gunpowder and sweat like regular feds, but of peach and something sweet. It was maddening. The contrast between your uniform, your perpetually sour face, and that smell created a dangerous cocktail in his head.
"Disappointed," he lied, grinning even wider. "Expected to see a hardened bitch who's been chasing me for half a year. But I see... what? A cutie who got lost on her way to shooting practice. Are you always this prickly, or just when meeting exceptionally charming criminals?"
"You're not charming. You're a problem. And I'm already tired of problems for today." you answer.
He leaned in a little closer. Close enough for you to feel his breath.
"The problem is that your department doesn't have a single lead on the supe 03 case. But I do. Two photos, an address, and a layout of his den."
You froze. For a second. Something flickered in your eyes that Butcher couldn't miss. Pain. Anger. Hunger.
"How do you know about 03?" you asked, your voice becoming quieter. More dangerous.
"I know a lot of things, love," he grinned. "I know he killed your partner. I know the case was buried because he works for Vought. And I know you look for him every day when you think no one's watching."
In the distance, noise came. SWAT. Your unit. Butcher straightened up, fixed his shirt collar, and took a few steps back into the darkness and disappeared. Leaving behind only the smell of tobacco, and your uneven breathing. You just realized: your personal hell was only beginning. And Billy Butcher, leaving through the back exit and hearing your ragged breath over the radio, was smiling in the dark.
"Perfect," he thought, but the smile faded from his face as soon as he disappeared around the corner. Fuck. Your smell had his throat dry even now. And it wasn't about access to the files — Frenchie would have hacked the database without you in a couple of days.
It was about you. The way you looked at him. The way your fingers gripped the holster. The way your voice faltered on the word "partner." You were alive, real, angry, and Butcher knew it from the first second: he didn't give a damn about the bloody documents. He wanted you to keep looking at him like that. He wanted you to chase him. He wanted you to think about him.
And he was ready to play for a long time. Very long. And very dirty. Because Butcher wasn't used to losing. And you were his new obsession.
The patrol ended. Immediately after returning to the department, the most active stage of "paperwork" begins. While filling out the report, your colleagues had already handed over the weapons and special equipment assigned to them. You were left alone in the room, a lonely lamp burning above your head. All you have to do is turn away to take the service logbook for recording the results of inspections and special incidents during the shift. He waited. Patiently. Fifteen minutes later, the lights went out in the corridors of the FBI building. The guards went to the break room on the first floor. Upstairs, only she remained. Butcher went down through the basement, where the old air conditioner hadn't worked for three years. Butcher makes his way into the basement through the ventilation shaft that Frenchie calculated from the old building blueprints. He hangs on his hands, squeezing into the narrow space, and hears the guards walking overhead.
In the basement, he connects Frenchie's device to the server. Lines of code run across the screen. Three minutes later, the system says: "Access granted." He exhales and heads upstairs.
But he has exactly seven minutes before the system reboots and logs the breach.
He runs up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. His heart is pounding, and he's on the floor with your office.
The black trench coat blended with the shadows, heavy combat boots made no sound on the old linoleum. He stopped in the doorway. You were sitting with your back to him. Straight back, hair pulled up, catching the soft, almost gentle light of the lamp. A pen in your hand. A stack of papers in front of you. Butcher leaned his shoulder against the door frame, crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted his head sideways. And watched. He liked the way you moved. The way you exhaled barely audibly, but he could hear it across the room. The way your fingers gripped the pen when you remembered his face. He stepped into the room.
"You know," he said, drawing out the words, "when I was a kid, my old mum used to say: 'Billy, if someone stares at you that long, either you'll fall in love or you'll throw up.'"
He took another step. The coat rustled softly, brushing the floor. It smelled of old paper, dust, and your sweet scent. Even from ten meters away, even through the smell of cheap coffee from the machine in the hallway. "Don't know which of the two I should be thinking about, sitting behind you," he continued, a hoarse laziness in his voice. "Because, on one hand, you're sitting here writing a report on me like a good little schoolgirl. And on the other..." He stopped at her desk. Butcher leaned in, resting his palms on the edge of the desk, and ended up right behind your head. About thirty centimeters away. A masculine, pungent smell of tobacco and something animalistic. He exhaled heavily and noisily, so you could hear his breath. "And what did they call me, eh?" he whispered almost into her ear, looking at the papers.
"Asshole – my favorite version. Short and to the point," you answer shortly. He straightened up and slowly walked around the desk. He did it brazenly, walked along her side, brushed your holster with his coat sleeve as it lay on the chair, and stopped opposite you. Now he could see your face completely. The lamp light hit your eyes, making them softer, warmer.
You slowly put down the pen, letting him know you heard him but weren't going to play by his rules.
"You know, Butcher," you said evenly, looking straight at him, "if I wanted you arrested, I would have called security before you even crossed the threshold. But I didn't."
He straightened up. Frowned. This wasn't what he expected. You weren't trembling, weren't angry, weren't trying to scare him. You were simply stating a fact. As if he were a guest you'd been expecting.
"And why didn't you?" he asked, interest creeping into his voice.
You slowly turned on your chair. Looked up at him. Your face calm, eyes cold. But Butcher could see: you were sizing him up. Calculating. Like an opponent on the battlefield.
"Because I have a question for you," you said. "One. And if you answer it honestly, I'll think about whether to arrest you right now or let you go." Butcher smirked. Crookedly. Defiantly.
"Well, go on. I'm all ears."
You rose from your chair. Slowly. Walked around the desk and stood opposite him. Two steps away. Now you were face to face. You were shorter, but you looked at him as if he were an insect under a microscope.
"You know who killed my partner," you said, and your voice wavered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest crack in the armor. "You know it was a supe with the callsign 03. I know he used to work for Vought. I know the case was buried because he's a useful asset. But there's one thing I don't know."
Butcher was silent. Watching you. He liked the way you spoke. The way you clenched your fists, trying to keep control.
"I don't know where he's hiding," you said. "I've been looking for him for two years. Two fucking years I wake up thinking about the fact that he's still breathing. That he walks the streets, eats, fucks, lives his life while my partner lies in the ground. And I know that you know where he is."
You took a step toward him. Now you were almost close enough to touch. You could feel his breath. He could feel yours. "Are you going to tell me where he is, Butcher? Or did you just come here to piss me off?"
Butcher looked at you. In her eyes, he saw anger. Real, animal anger that hadn't subsided for two years. You were ready to tear him apart if he said the wrong thing. And it got him going. More than he was willing to admit.
"I know where he is," he said slowly. "And I'll bring you the information, but you'll owe me one." He tossed a couple of photos of him from some club, and you recognized him.
He heard you exhale, nervously. "And what do you want in return?" you asked quietly. Butcher smirked. Ran his hand over his beard.
"I need access to a closed file in your database. File number 7701. The case on a supe with the callsign 'Ghost.' He's been officially declared dead for twenty years. But I know he's alive. And I know he changed his name. I need his movements over the last four weeks."
You frowned, and distrust flickered in your eyes. Dead but alive? Changed his name? This smelled of something bigger than just a Vought contract.
"You're speaking in riddles, Butcher. Why should I believe you won't set me up? Or that you even know what you're talking about?"
"Because," he leaned toward the desk, closing the distance to dangerous, "if I lie, you'll find me. And you'll have the right to shoot. This time you won't miss." You looked him straight in the eye. For a long time. Then slowly nodded.
"Fine. But I set conditions. My conditions. First, I'm not just giving you the files. I'm giving you half. You get the second half when I personally see 03's body. Second, if you deceive me, I won't go to my superiors. I'll come to you myself. And you won't want me to come." Butcher smirked, but respect flickered in his eyes. She wasn't just nodding. She was bargaining. Good.
"Deal, love."
"I need a couple of days to prepare the documents," you answered, trying to keep a cool head.
A couple of days later.
His portrait on the wanted board drills into you every day.
Butcher sat in the same van, but now on a different street. Where the docks meet the industrial zone, where it smells of fuel oil and rust. Frenchie had handed him the documents, and he was reviewing them when a window popped up on the laptop with the tracking of one specific work vehicle. Yours, to be precise. He'd put a bug on your car. Because Butcher isn't an idiot. If you're his key to the federal database, he needs to know where you breathe, sleep, and work. So far he'd been watching you clean, from a distance and without your knowledge.
Butcher had learned your route. And this time, when your car rolled out to another call — another supe scumbag smashing storefronts on the south side — Butcher was already there. Not to intercept you. He was there to watch. Observing as you led the detained suspect to the car. Same combat boots and strict uniform.
"Well hello there, love," he whispered, leaning toward the dirty glass. Fast. Professional. Not a single unnecessary move. She ducked around the corner of the building, dashed to another car, crouched down. Calmly. Coldly. There was no panic in her movements, only that same fierce focus he remembered from the warehouse. The supe downstairs was yelling, demanding money. She ignored him. Waited. Calculated. Butcher could see your lips moving as you talked over the radio with the tactical team. Not a stupid frontal assault, but something more cunning. He pulled out the second radio, the one he'd tuned to your department's frequency. Pressed the button and spoke low, almost a whisper:
"Hey there, little one. Your friend on the right" he'll hit a dead end in three minutes. There's no exit. Just a wall. If you want to take him alive, better send your people down the left flank. There's a staircase to the roof." He was sure she recognized his voice. The radio was silent. Then your voice came through, even, calm, emotionless:
"Shut up."
Butcher grinned. Grinned so wide his beard shifted. "Oh, come on, sourpuss. I'm helping you. Free of charge. No strings attached. Just want to see how you handle things when you don't have to wipe your cops' noses."
A minute later, the federal team indeed went down the left flank. The supe retreated, hit the dead end, started panicking. Five minutes later they took him. Alive. No casualties. A perfect operation.
Butcher watched it all, slowly dragging on his cigarette. Watched her walk to the car, adjust her cap, get behind the wheel and drive away.
"She didn't even look back," he thought. "Bitch."
But that was the point. You didn't look back. You just did your job. Ignored him like a pesky fly. Got angry. Stayed silent. And that made him keep coming back.
The police car returned to the department. The supe was dealt with, and you were in your office filling out reports. He parked the van on the same street, between the dumpsters, and leaned back in his seat, watching the lights come on in the third-floor windows. Your office. Corner window, dim lamp, a silhouette moving behind the desk. Butcher pulled out his radio. Tuned it to the department's frequency, but stayed silent. Just listened. The airwaves were quiet. Only the rare chatter of the night shift — dull, monotonous. Reports, requests, confirmations. And then he heard your voice. Quiet, even, tired:
"...request for case number 4472, subject detained, sent to holding. Operation report will be ready in an hour."
You were talking to someone on the internal line. He smirked and pressed the button.
"In an hour, huh. And here I thought you were heading home already. Drinking tea without sugar, sleeping in your jammies, dreaming about cops."
You went quiet. He could hear the silence hanging over the airwaves. And in that silence, he could feel your irritation. It hung in the air, even through the speaker.
"Butcher," you said quietly, and in that one word there was so much weary anger that he almost laughed out loud.
"She remembers my name," he drawled, licking his lips. "I'm touched, honest. Brings a tear to my eye. Though that's probably the rain." He paused, giving you time to respond. "Alright, don't get your knickers in a twist, love. I didn't call just to piss you off. Well, not just for that. I want to discuss our deal."
Silence fell. He heard you take a deep breath. Then your voice, dry, prickly like broken glass:
"I don't negotiate with criminals."
Butcher snorted like an old dog who'd just heard a stupid joke.
"Oh, you holy innocent. You negotiate with criminals every single day. It's just that usually they're on the other side of the table, and you're on this one. I'm offering you something better..."
Meanwhile, what was really happening in the bunker. He was sitting in the bunker — the basement of a former meatpacking plant that Frenchie had turned into their headquarters. It smelled of dampness, old concrete, and gun oil. A lamp burned on the table, lighting up scattered maps, photos of supes, and empty whiskey bottles. Butcher stared at the monitor — at a blinking dot on the map. Your car. It was parked at the department. As always. He stood up, paced around the bunker. Frenchie looked at him strangely. Too long. Too knowingly.
"You're watching that little fed again, yeah?"
"Shut up, Frenchie."
"I'm not saying it's bad," the other shrugged, returning to his wires. "It's just you never used to sit for hours staring at someone else's car. What, you having a romance?"
"What the fuck romance?" he growled. "She's my key to the database. Through her I get the files. Through her I get to Ghost. That's it. End of story." Frenchie raised his hands in a placating gesture. Butcher had stopped believing in women who looked at him with a smile. Smiles were fake. But your anger was real. Pure. Like a knife. And it cut him every time he thought of you. Heavy footsteps echoed off the concrete. He stopped at the wall where an old city map hung, and ran his finger along the line he'd memorized. Your route. From home to the department, from the department to the warehouse, from the warehouse back to the department, the operation sites of her unit. He knew every turn you made, every parking spot. He knew you stopped at the same coffee shop in the mornings and came out three minutes later. You had become something more to him, and it pissed him off to the point of grinding his teeth. "She's just a key," he said aloud, trying to convince himself. "Just a fucking key to the database. That's all. To you, I'm just an asshole who messes up your work."
"That's it," he said, pulling his trench coat off the hook. "In half an hour we meet at the point. I'm going for an answer." he grumbled into the radio to you.
MM raised an eyebrow, not looking up from his documents. "Right now? Isn't it too early?"
"She's had time to think. I gave her time." Butcher threw the coat over his shoulders, adjusted the collar of his Hawaiian shirt peeking out from under the black fabric. "If she hasn't decided yet, I'll make her decide. I can't wait any longer."
The van pulled onto an empty road, and Butcher turned on the radio. Some old love song started playing from the speakers... and he turned it off, because the silence was worse. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" he thought, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles went white.
"I shouldn't be thinking about her. She's the enemy. She's a fed. She's the one who'll stand in your way."
But the closer he got to your office, the faster his heart beat. He parked in the same spot — between the dumpsters, in the shadow of an old tree. From here, the entrance to the building was visible. He got out of the van, slammed the door, and walked toward the entrance. Heavy footsteps on the asphalt, coat flapping in the wind, hair disheveled as always.
You stood by the railing, staring into the darkness. In your hand was a brown envelope. Inside, copied files. Your career. Your life. Everything inside that envelope. Butcher stepped out of the shadows silently. His coat billowed in the wind, hair disheveled.
"Showed up," he said, approaching. "And here I thought you'd changed your mind."
"Don't hold your breath," you handed him the envelope. "This isn't everything you asked for. Ghost's movements over the last four weeks. Addresses, dates, times after I destroy 03 and that you didn't deceive me."
Butcher took the envelope, quickly scanned the papers. His face remained unreadable, but you saw the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.
"Excellent," he said. "Perfect." He tucked the papers into his coat's inner pocket.
"And now," you stepped toward him. For the first time, you were closer than he was. "Where is he? You promised an address. You got half the files. Now it's your turn." Butcher looked at you. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed. "You're not joking, are you? You're actually going to kill him."
"That's none of your business," you said.
"You don't even know if you can pull the trigger when you see his face."
"I'll find that out when I put a gun to his head. And you... are you giving me the address or am I turning around and leaving?"
Butcher smirked. Shook his head. "Fuck, you were made for this world, weren't you? Just as dirty as me, only you pretend to be clean." "Well, then," he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to you. "Here. He's there. In the old warehouse on 17th Street. Only two exits. I checked."
You took the paper, unfolded it, quickly checking the address. You stood alone in the dark, clutching the address of your partner's killer. Your heart pounded. Inside, anger boiled, intertwined with something cold and dangerous.
The old warehouse on 17th Street smelled of dampness, rust, and cheap fuel. You stood on the balcony, your back pressed against a concrete pillar. Your fingers gripped the pistol so hard your knuckles went white. Down below, in the dim light of a single lamp, he sat. Supe 03. You recognized him immediately. The same empty, cold eyes like a fish washed up on shore. The same crooked, arrogant smile, as if he knew something others didn't. He sat at a wooden table, sprawled in his chair, twirling a small packet of bluish powder in his fingers. "Veil" — the shit Vought distributed through couriers like him. The drug gave supes a temporary boost but made them addicted, broken, forever in debt to the corporation. The perfect project: create a problem, sell the solution, and let the little bastards run after new doses themselves, breaking the law while the feds chase them. An endless conveyor belt. 03 held the packet up to the light, smirked, and said something to his partner. The guy laughed. The voice was the same. The very voice you'd heard during the interrogation two years ago. But then you heard Butcher's voice. You were supposed to pull the trigger.
You'd repeated it a hundred times over two years. Every night when you couldn't sleep. Every morning when you looked at your partner's photo. Every time you walked past his empty desk at the department. "Pull it," you told yourself.
But your hand trembled. Finely, treacherously. You couldn't stop it. The pistol wobbled in your fingers, and you saw the barrel tracing figure eights in the air. Your breathing faltered. You inhaled too deeply, too loudly. Your ears rang. You tried to aim again, but everything swam before your eyes. And then you heard his voice. Not 03's. Your partner's voice. "Come on, rookie. Don't disappoint me." A hallucination. You knew that. But the voice sounded as clear as two years ago, when he lay on the asphalt, bleeding out, and you stood over him unable to do anything. "Shut up," you whispered. "Shut up, please." "He's right there. Just pull."
You gripped the pistol with both hands. Tried to steady your breathing. But your fingers still trembled, and sweat stung your eyes, and your heart pounded so loudly you thought they'd hear it downstairs. You couldn't. There it was. Two years of rage, two years of planning, two years of obsession, and at the crucial moment you simply couldn't pull the fucking trigger. The realization hit you harder than any bullet.
And at that moment, a voice came from behind you. Low, hoarse, with a slight smirk. He stood right behind you. You hadn't heard him approach. He'd simply appeared from the darkness. "I knew you couldn't do it," he said quietly. "Well, was it worth my time?"
You turned around. Butcher stood two meters away.
"You followed me," you whispered. "Of course," he shrugged. "You thought I gave you that address out of the goodness of my heart? Out of nobility?" he smirked. "No, love. I gave you that address to test you. And you failed."
"What test?" your voice trembled. You tried to pull yourself together, but everything inside was shaking.
"I wanted to see if a proper fed who wears a uniform and kisses his badge at night could cross the line," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "To see if you're worth my time at all. Or if you're just another hypocrite living in your little white world."
"I just can't... I'm not a killer," you hissed.
"No," he shook his head. "You're not a killer. And that makes you useless in my game. Why would I need a fed who can't shoot?"
He stepped toward the railing. Looked down at 03, his guards, the crates of V-drug. Grinned.
"But you know what? I still need you. Your access to the files. Your uniform. Your face. So I'll do it for you. But don't think I'm doing this for you or your dead partner. I don't give a shit about him. I don't give a shit about your revenge. He's a Vought courier. He knows where the V-drug is distributed. And I want that chain broken." You didn't have time to say anything. He simply vaulted over the railing and crashed down. Heavily.
03 jumped up, drew his gun. The guard raised his rifle. Two partners froze with vials in their hands.
"Who the fuck are you?" 03 barked, aiming at Butcher. Butcher rose. Slowly. Calmly. Adjusted his shirt collar and grinned his nasty, smug grin.
"I'm your nightmare, cunt," he said evenly. "Vought paid you to haul their shit? Well, I'm here to collect my debt." 03 fired. The bullet didn't enter Butcher's shoulder — it fell and clinked away. He didn't even flinch. Just looked at the hole in his coat, then at 03, and smiled wider.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." And then it all happened. He struck first. A tentacle burst from under his trench coat and wrapped around the guard's rifle. Butcher yanked, the rifle flew from his hands, the tentacle shot further into the guard's chest with such force that he flew into the wall and collapsed like a broken doll. The crack of ribs — and silence. Second strike — the tentacle coiled around one of the partners' throats. Butcher jerked his hand, and the body hit the floor with a wet sound. Two in a second. 03 fired again and again in panic. Bullets tore through the coat, grazed his shoulder, ribs, thigh. Butcher didn't react. He walked forward, tossing people aside like mannequins. Fast. Dirty. Professional. 03 dropped the empty gun, grabbed a knife, lunged at Butcher. But the tentacle was faster. It wrapped around his arm, squeezed — and the knife clattered to the floor. A second tentacle gripped 03's throat and lifted him into the air. Butcher stepped closer. He looked into 03's eyes — those same empty fish eyes that had laughed at you two years ago. "You thought Vought would protect you?" he asked quietly. "They gave you powder and said: 'Run, little dog, deliver our shit, and if you get caught — we don't know you.' And you ran. Like an obedient bitch."
03 choked, trying to break free. Butcher smirked. "Vought won't even notice you're gone. To them you're just expendable. And now you'll rot in this warehouse with your crap. No one's coming to save you. Because no one needs you."
He squeezed the tentacle harder. A crack sounded. Just a crack. 03's body collapsed to the floor and didn't move anymore.
Slowly, he raised his head and looked at you. You were still standing on the balcony. Pistol in hand. Tears on your cheeks. You hadn't noticed you'd started crying, remembering the department's rules — not to send officers to their own relatives who'd been affected, yet you'd come alone.
"Come down," he said evenly. Your legs wouldn't obey. You stepped over the guard's body, then over the partner's. Walked up to Butcher. Stopped two steps from 03's body. He lay on the floor, arms spread. Eyes open. Empty. Dead. But you felt no relief. Only emptiness.
He stepped toward you. You raised your pistol. Aimed at his chest.
"You killed them all," you said. "You didn't even interrogate them... You had no right," you whispered.
"Right?" he smirked. Crookedly. Tiredly. "And you had the right to drag him by the balls for two years and still not shoot? You think I killed him for you? No. I killed him so he wouldn't spread that crap to another hundred streets. While you were gathering your courage, he would've sold Veil to fifty supes. Fifty families destroyed. Fifty lives. And you're crying over one bastard."
"You're a monster," you whispered. "Yeah," he nodded. "And you knew that when you agreed to the deal. Did you think I'd play your games? That I'd take them alive because it says so in your handbook? Don't forget about the rest of the documents — I did my part." He took your hand with the pistol and slowly lowered it.
"And one more thing," he said without turning around. "I know you turned on the recorder on your belt. The recording won't do anything. I took them all out clean, and you're still standing there, not shooting me. So write it all off as self-defense. If, of course, you want to keep your job."
You sat at your desk, staring at the monitor, but didn't see a single letter. The report on the discovered warehouse with illegal V-drug. During the attempted arrest, the suspects offered armed resistance. During the shootout, all members of the group were eliminated. The warehouse was seized. Physical evidence sent for examination. You finished, although it took you longer than usual. Your fingers trembled so badly that the lines jumped. You blamed it all on self-defense. Your superiors believed it. Or pretended to believe it. What difference did it make. 03 was dead. You were supposed to feel relief. But instead, you felt only nausea.
You stood up abruptly, barely making it to the bathroom. You vomited into the toilet from the smell of blood on your clothes, from the memory of the crack, from the way Butcher had looked at you before leaving. How he said: "You're crying over one bastard."
You looked up at your reflection. Pale, wet, with red-rimmed eyes. You covered it up. You lied in the report. You're a federal agent, and you just covered for a killer.
But inside, deep down, where that very anger at 03 lived, something short-circuited. Not relief. Not freedom. Only emptiness. And a strange feeling, as if you owed Butcher. Owed him for doing what you couldn't bring yourself to do.
Damn you, Billy Butcher, you thought, wiping your face with cold water. You made me an accomplice. A day off tomorrow. You could sleep in. For the first time in a week. You reached for the desk drawer where the second half of the Ghost documents lay. Just to check it was there. Your fingers found the envelope. You exhaled. Closed the drawer.
What have you done? All night you didn't sleep. You lay in the dark, stared at the ceiling, and replayed every second at the warehouse in your head. The crack. Butcher's gaze. How he said: "You're crying over one bastard."
And hatred. Deep, searing hatred for supes, which had grown in you since your first day on the job. You saw them destroy cities. Vought covering for them. Ordinary people dying while supes got bonuses. You hated them all. Every single one.
But Butcher was worse. And you couldn't take your eyes off him. The next morning you skipped training and worked on reports. And you thought. He won't come. He got what he wanted. He used you and will disappear. As always. Anger boiled up inside. At him. At yourself. At the system. At everything. Why did you agree? Why did you give him the files?
Although you knew the answer. Because he was the only one who understood your anger. The only one who didn't try to say "everything will be fine." He just looked at you and told the truth. Dirty, cynical, but the truth. You sat like that until evening. No one came.
You came to the department earlier than usual. Just to keep your hands busy. You sat down at the computer, entered your login and password. Opened the archive of cases from the last five years. And froze. The case on supe 03 was closed a week after your partner's death. Not "suspended." Not "transferred." Closed. Classified as "not subject to review." Signed by Harrison.
You scrolled further. Two more cases. Three more. All supes who "accidentally" ended up at the epicenter of tragedies. All closed with the wording "insufficient evidence." At the bottom of each file — a note: "Vought, confidential." You let out a breath. Leaned back in your chair. So that's how it is. The system isn't just broken. It's rigged for them. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Heavy. Measured. You recognized them immediately, even though it was impossible. Security on the first floor. Access control system. Three checkpoints, cameras, code locks. He couldn't have gotten through.
But when your office door opened, and Butcher appeared in the doorway in a fresh white shirt with a tie and a perfectly cleaned trench coat, you weren't surprised. You just sighed tiredly. "How did you get in?" you asked, not even looking up from your papers.
"Difficult," he closed the door behind him and leaned against it with his back, crossing his arms. "Very difficult. Had to pretend I'm a new trainee from HR. Can you believe it, no one even checked my ID." "Because you forged the ID?"
"Because people look at the uniform and believe," he smirked and walked into the office, dropping onto the visitor's chair. You looked up at him. He looked perfect. Hair slicked back, though slightly disheveled, shirt fresh. Even the smell wasn't tobacco and sweat, but some cheap but pleasant cologne.
"What are you doing here, Butcher?" you asked coldly.
"You gave me only half the documents. I'd have done the same. But now I need the second half. And you won't arrest the new trainee, will you? I'm smiling at you, I smell of expensive cologne, I'm acting like a fucking gentleman, and you can't do anything?"
You recoiled. Grabbed your handcuffs from the desk.
"I'll arrest you for breaking into a federal building, for assaulting an agent, for complicity in murder, for..."
"For what, love?" he interrupted quietly. His voice dropped lower. "What exactly are you arresting me for? For saving you from what you couldn't do? Or because I'm clean as a whistle and have an alibi for the whole night?"
You froze. The handcuffs clinked in your hand. He wasn't looking at you mockingly, no. He was looking with interest.
"You won't arrest me," he said calmly. "Because you need the second half of the documents to feel safe. You want to have dirt on me. And I understand you. I'd do the same." You were silent. You looked at him. His fresh shirt, his perfectly slicked-back hair, his feigned friendliness. He wasn't hiding that he was pretending. He was doing it on purpose. To annoy you.
"You're trying to be a strict cop," he smirked, shaking his head. "Straight back, jaw clenched, eyes from under your brow. 'I'll arrest you, Butcher. I'll put you away, Butcher.' You even make your voice lower on purpose to sound more serious. It's amusing."
You clenched the handcuffs so hard your knuckles went white. "I can call security."
"Call them," he shrugged. "Just tell them I'm the new HR trainee who brought you coffee. By the way, I brought you coffee." He nods toward the edge of the desk. You hadn't even noticed when he'd picked it up.
"Did you actually bring me coffee?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "With milk. No sugar. You always drink it without sugar, I noticed. And by the way, you should work less. You've got bags under your eyes. Not a good look."
You looked at the coffee. Then at him. He sat there, relaxed, smiling, looking at you like you were his personal entertainment. "You're insufferable," you said. "I know," he spread his hands. "That's my charm."
You were silent. "I'm not going to ask you nicely," he stood up. "I'll just sit here until you give it to me. I'll breathe your air, look at your pretty face that gets even prettier when you're angry. You can arrest me. But you won't."
"Why are you so sure?"
"Because if you wanted to arrest me, you'd have done it back at the warehouse," he walked up to your desk, leaned his palms on the edge and bent down. "But you didn't. You gave me half the documents, even though you knew I'm a criminal. You don't want to arrest me. You want me around. Because I'm the only one who can give you what you want. The truth." You wanted to object. Wanted to say he was wrong. That you hated him. That you'd arrest him at the first opportunity.
But the words stuck in your throat. He looked you straight in the eye, and there was no mockery in his gaze. Only tired, cynical understanding.
You slowly opened your desk drawer, took out the envelope and placed it in front of you. But didn't hand it over. You looked at Butcher straight on.
"First answer," you said coldly. "Ghost has been dead for twenty years according to the documents, but you're asking for recent movements. You're lying."
He froze. Smirked crookedly, with respect.
"You're sharp. That turns me on, you know."
"Don't dodge the question."
Butcher sighed heavily. Ran his hand over his face, dropping the mask. "He's alive. Changed his name. Vought buried his case because he knew how to kill Homelander. I've been looking for him for three years. These papers are the last thread."
You looked at him. Didn't look away. And at that moment, something clicked in your head. You remembered everything: supes who destroyed neighborhoods, looked down on you, laughed at your uniform. Those who killed your colleagues and walked away smiling. You'd hated them since the first week on the job. Every day you saw their faces, arrogant, confident in their impunity. And you saw that Butcher hated them too. Just as much. To the point of grinding teeth. A common enemy. Common dirt.
"Fine," you said. "I'll give you the second part. But not for free."
"Oh, I knew you'd say that." He grinned wider. "Lay it on me."
"I'm coming with you. On the next operation. I don't want to sit in an office while you kill them."
Butcher whistled. There was no surprise in his eyes. Triumph. She'd fallen into his trap. On her own. Her hatred for supes was the key, and he'd just provided the lock. Now she'd be close. Under his control.
"You serious?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
"You heard me," your voice didn't waver. "I'm with you. Or I burn the envelope."
He smirked. Slowly, with satisfaction. She didn't just agree — she wanted this. She needed his goals as much as he needed her access.
"Deal," he said, and his voice dropped lower. "But by my rules. You do what I say. No whining. No dragging your feds in. And we work as equals."
"Equals?" you smirked. "You're running from me, Butcher. Not the other way around. Remember that."
He took the envelope from your hands, and his fingertips lingered on your skin longer than necessary. The scent of peach hit him like a wave. Fuck. He was supposed to leave. Now. But instead he stepped closer. Stopped by your shoulder. Leaned in, and his voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper:
"You know, love, I want you to catch me. Someday. When I stop running."
He walked out without looking back, but inside everything was buzzing. She'd fallen for it. And she was his. Now they had a common enemy. And that bound them tighter than any documents.
You stood in the middle of the office. The door closed. You looked at the empty chair where he'd sat, and something new was boiling inside. Not just hatred. You hated supes. He hated supes. And there was a terrible, dark, right connection in that. You didn't want to admit it. But it was there.
THREE WEEKS LATER
You stood by the patrol car, adjusting your cap. The sun was blazing mercilessly, the gear pulling your shoulders down, and the radio crackled in your earpiece. "All units! Information received on a possible location of Billy Butcher in the area of 14th Street, warehouse complex. Code red. Repeat: subject is extremely dangerous. Perimeter封锁." You rolled your eyes. Harrison's voice on the radio, calm, confident, as if they were talking about catching a stray dog.
Extremely dangerous. Sure. You knew it was a false lead. Because you'd adjusted the coordinates in the report yourself this morning when no one was watching. Shifted them three blocks east. Enough for the team to search empty warehouses, but not enough to raise suspicion. You got behind the wheel, started the engine. A colleague — a young trainee with eager eyes — jumped into the passenger seat. "Did you hear, boss? Butcher! The one and only. We'll get him!"
"Uh-huh," you grunted, pulling out of the lot. "Don't get your hopes up." The car moved toward the designated square. You drove calmly, within the rules, but irritation grew in your chest. You pretended to be looking for him. That you were a model agent following orders. But in reality, you were waiting for him to show up on his own.
Because Butcher always showed up on his own. Twenty minutes later, the patrol arrived at the designated point. Warehouses. Empty. Abandoned. You got out of the car, gestured for the trainee to stay put, and walked along the wall. Gun in hand, breathing steady. Inside the building, it smelled of dampness and rust. You walked through the main hall, checked the corners. No one. And then you heard him. A low, hoarse voice with a slight smirk came from right behind you.
"Looking for me, love? Well, I'm here. Standing here watching you try so hard. Harrison must be proud of you. Such an obedient girl."
You spun around. Butcher stood there, leaning his shoulder against a pillar. Black trench coat, disheveled hair, a smug grin. He looked down at you like a predator eyeing its prey.
"Did you come here just to watch the show?" you hissed, not lowering your gun. "I'm trying to save your ass, and you're having fun?"
"Well, don't see my favorite fed lying to her superiors every day," he approached. Easily. Silently. Stopped two meters away. "Couldn't miss a show like that." You took a step back. The gun was still aimed at him.
"You're an idiot, Butcher. If someone spots you here, I won't be able to cover for you."
"There's no one here. Just you and me. And your trainee outside who thinks you're checking the perimeter. By the way, he's cute. But he looks at you like a puppy. It's annoying."
"Shut up," you lowered the gun but didn't holster it. "Why did you come? Couldn't just wait until evening?"
"Could have," he took a step forward. "But I wanted to see you in action. How you get angry when you have to lie. How your eyes light up when you think about me."
You rolled your eyes, but something inside faltered. He knew. Knew you weren't angry at him — you were angry at yourself. At the fact that you liked lying for him. "You're insufferable," you said.
The trainee's voice crackled over the radio: "Agent, are you there? Subject located?"
You pressed the button. Your voice even, calm. "Negative. Clear. Returning."
A couple of hours later, you were back at your apartment. You stripped off your uniform, took a shower, put on an old t-shirt and sweatpants. For the first time in a week, you felt human. It smelled of mint shampoo and coziness. A knock came at the door. Three short ones. Pause. Two more. You smirked. Predictable as always.
You opened it. Butcher stood on the doorstep. In a wrinkled shirt with the top buttons undone, hair disheveled. And he smelled of cheap soap and tobacco.
"Running from you is becoming my favorite hobby," he said, walking into the apartment without an invitation. "You're too good at tracking me down. Can't afford to miss a single capture of me."
You were silent. You looked at him. His stubble, his smug grin, the way he looked at you — greedily, possessively. "Why did you come, Butcher?" you asked quietly. He stepped closer. Now just one step separated you. "I brought your magazine," he said, walking into the apartment without an invitation. "And something else." He pulled your spare magazine from his pocket and set it on the nightstand. Then, without looking, he pulled your service logbook from inside his coat. "That... where did you get that?" you breathed.
"From your car, when you were talking to the trainee," he smirked, tossing the logbook in his hand. "You were too engrossed in conversation. And I like to test how attentive you are." You stepped toward him, snatched the logbook from his hands. Anger boiled inside — and something else, something you refused to acknowledge.
"You steal my things, Butcher. It's becoming a habit." "Only yours, love," he stepped closer. Now just one step separated you. "Others don't interest me." You were silent. You looked at him, his smug grin, the way he looked at you greedily, possessively.
"Why did you come, Butcher?" you asked quietly. He stepped closer. Now half a step separated you. You could feel his breath. "I found him," he said. His voice turned serious. "Ghost. Your second half of the documents gave me an address. He's alive. Living in a suburb of Baltimore, under the name Richardson. Works for Vought."
You exhaled. Everything inside tightened. You wanted to ask about Ghost, about the plan. But instead you asked: "And you came here just to tell me that?"
"No," he tilted his head sideways. "I came to tell you that tomorrow I'm going there. And I want you to be there with me."
"Why? So I can cover for you again? So I can lie to Harrison?"
You finished working on the documents, it was already too late, you were waiting for him to leave your apartment again.
"You know what I noticed over these three weeks?" he asked quietly. "That you're crazy?"
"That you stopped flinching when I show up next to you. You're already used to me," he leaned in, almost touching your ear with his lips. "And you stopped lying to yourself. You know you want me here. With you." You took a step back. Your back hit the wall. He followed you, closing the distance. "Put your tentacles away, Butcher," you whispered, and your voice wavered. He smirked. Slowly, almost lazily, one tentacle slipped out from under his shirt. Dark, oily, alive. It lazily coiled around your ankle. Lightly. Almost weightlessly. "You said put them away. I didn't," he looked down at you. "What are you going to do? Catch me again? Or give me a chance, love?"
You didn't move. You looked at him, and inside you, fear and something far more dangerous were fighting. You wanted him to put the tentacle away. And you wanted him not to. "Let go," you said quietly. He didn't. The tentacle moved higher, to your knee, then to your thigh. You sighed, and there was no protest in that sigh.
"You're trembling," he said. His voice dropped lower. Hoarse. "Are you scared of me? Or scared of what I'm doing to you?"
"I'm not scared," you raised your head, meeting his gaze. "I'm angry."
"At yourself? For not stopping me?" he leaned in even closer. Now his lips were almost touching yours. "Or at the fact that you like it?"
You were silent. The tentacle slid higher, wrapped around your thigh, squeezed gently. And you didn't push it away. Didn't say no. He smirked, looking into your eyes. "That's it. Now you're mine, love. And we're just getting started."
Over all these weeks, Butcher had become a part of your life, uninvited, arrogant, but unbearably desired. He would appear in your office when no one was watching. Leave notes on your desk. Steal your things, sometimes the pen you wrote reports with, sometimes the hairpin from your hair, sometimes your badge again. And every time he would return them. Sometimes in person, sometimes slipping them under your apartment door. And sometimes leaving them on your pillow, so that you would wake up and smell tobacco and cheap soap, and next to you, emptiness. You got angry. You cursed. You threatened to arrest him. But when he looked at you, that anger turned into heat, and you gave in.
He came without knocking. Standing in the doorway, with your badge in his hands, the one you'd been looking for three days. "Butcher," you stood up from the couch. "Seriously? You stole my badge?"
"I took it," he corrected, walking into the room. "It smells like you. I couldn't help myself." He walked up to you. Stopped a step away. Held out the badge. You took it, not taking your eyes off him. And then he released the tentacles. Two. One wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. The second slid along your arm, your shoulder, rising to your neck. Stopped at your collarbone. "You're angry," he whispered, looking into your eyes. "But you're not leaving."
"You won't let me leave."
"Because I don't want you to leave," he leaned in. Touched his lips to your forehead. Softly. Almost weightlessly. You didn't move. Just looked at him, at this dangerous, cynical bastard who had stolen your things and your heart. When you reached for him, he could no longer step back. His hands slid over your shoulders, and after them, the tentacles, warm, alive, with a slight pulse, ran down your back, descending lower to your waist. You didn't resist. Didn't try to stop him. Because over these weeks, Butcher had become your weakness. Your dark, quiet secret that you carried under your uniform like a second layer of skin. One tentacle wrapped around your thigh, lifting it, pulling you toward his body. Another slid over your stomach, paused at your ribs, feeling every curve through the thin fabric. He looked down at you with such greed that you couldn't breathe. There was no mockery in his gaze. Only hunger. Only that very feeling he had denied for three weeks, hidden behind dirty jokes and cynical smirks. Now it had broken free, and Butcher no longer wanted to hide it.
The tentacles held you firmly but not painfully. One tightened around your waist, pressing you to his chest so that you felt the heat of his body through the buttons of his shirt. The second slid down your thigh, slowly, almost lazily, teasing through the blue fabric of your uniform. The third slid between your bodies, touched the bottom of your stomach, and you flinched at that touch. "You know how long I've waited for this?" he asked, his voice low, hoarse, soaked in cockney and tobacco. "You have no idea how many times I wanted to just break down that fucking door and take you right here. On that couch. On the floor. By the window so the whole city could see who you belong to now." He leaned in, touched his lips to your neck where the vein was pulsing. Felt your pulse quicken under his breath. And smirked because you didn't pull away.
"Billy," you said, your voice breathless but insistent. "We need to talk. You can't just come here and do this whenever you feel like it." He stopped. Looked at you. There was no anger in his eyes, no. More like surprise. And respect. "Talk?" he repeated, amusement in his voice. "You want to talk when I'm standing in your apartment, holding you in my arms and wanting you so badly I'm ready to tear down this fucking wall?"
"Yes," you straightened up, despite his tentacle still squeezing your thigh. "Because I'm not just a toy you use when you're bored." You saw his face change. The smirk disappeared. He looked at you seriously, and something warm appeared in his gaze. "You think I'm using you?" his voice became quieter, calmer. "You think I came here every night just to fuck you, little one?" You were silent. Looking at him.
"You're the toughest bitch I've ever met," he said, and there was no mockery in his voice. "You get angry at me, you threaten to arrest me, you call me a bastard, and then you look at me in a way that makes me forget why I even came. I wasn't using you. I wanted to be near you."
Butcher looked at you. Long. Hard. Then he smirked, but there was no malice in that smirk. Only fatigue. "You're too smart for your own good," he said quietly. "Yes. I came for business. You were the key to the database. You know that. But, fuck," he ran his hand through your hair, and his fingers tangled in the dark strands, "I didn't expect you to become something more. I didn't plan this. I didn't want to fall for a fed who wants to put me in prison." You froze. Your heart skipped a beat. You didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say. Just looked at him, at this man who had burst into your life and made you feel what you'd been trying to hide. And you reached for him. The first kiss was yours. You rose on your tiptoes, wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your lips to his. Butcher froze for a second, apparently not expecting it. And then he responded. Hard. Hungrily. Like a man who had waited for this his whole fucking life. His tongue slid into your mouth, and you tasted tobacco and the bitterness that was only his. The tentacle on your thigh squeezed a little tighter, rising higher to your waist. He felt you trembling slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he felt every movement, every breath. "You wanted to catch me," he continued, pulling away from your lips and looking into your eyes. His hand went to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your chestnut hair, pulling slightly, making you tilt your head back. "And now what, little one? Caught me?" You were silent. You looked at him, and in your eyes he saw fear. Not the kind that makes you run. The other kind. The one that appears when a person knows that something is about to happen that will change everything. He pressed his whole body against you, pushed your back against the wall, and you gasped quietly, almost inaudibly. The tentacles, two of them, were already sliding along your arms, rising to your shoulders, while the third was moving down your leg, caressing through the fabric of your uniform.
"I want to tear this uniform off you," he said, and there were no more jokes in his voice. Only truth. "I want to see what's under it. I want to feel your skin. I want you to come on my hands so loud that the neighbors call the police. And then I want to do it again. And again. Until you forget your own name."
"If you stop now, I'll kill you," you whispered. He smirked that very smirk that drove you crazy. "Just try it, love," he said, and his hands pulled the fabric from your shoulder, revealing your skin.
You looked at him, at his dark, disheveled hair, at his brown eyes that burned with desire, at his rough hands that touched you so gently that you couldn't breathe. You didn't even have time to blink before your head touched the pillow, and his massive figure loomed over you. The light from the streetlamp filtered through the curtains, painting stripes of light and shadow across his face. Butcher looked down at you, and there was so much hunger in that gaze that you couldn't breathe. He was in no hurry. He was studying you. Every single second.
"You're so small," he whispered, running his knuckles along your cheek. "So fragile. And so fucking strong. You have no idea what you do to me."
You wanted to answer, but he covered your lips with a kiss. Deep, greedy, almost rough. His tongue slid into your mouth, and you tasted the tobacco and bitterness that was only his. You ran your fingers through his hair, jet black, thick, disheveled, and gripped it, pulling him closer.
"Butcher," you breathed against his lips.
"Billy," he corrected, pulling away from your lips and starting to kiss your neck. "For you, Billy. Just Billy." His hands slid over your body. Rough, scarred, but so careful, as if he was afraid of breaking you. He unbuttoned your shirt, one button at a time, slowly, as if savoring every moment. You felt his breath on your skin, and it drove you crazy. The tentacles, meanwhile, had already slipped under the fabric, caressing your stomach, sliding along your ribs, rising to your chest. One of them touched your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you arched, digging your fingers into his shoulders.
"You're trembling all over," he whispered, touching his lips to your collarbone. "Is it because of me? Or because of the cold?"
You didn't answer, turning away in embarrassment. His lips touched your neck again, moved down to your shoulder, to your chest. You threw your head back, dug your fingers into his back, feeling the muscles roll under the fabric of his shirt. He was hot. Heavy. Real.
"Undress," you whispered, and there was a plea in your voice. "Please, Billy. I want to feel you."
He pulled back. Looked at you, and you saw something dangerous light up in his eyes. He took off his shirt, and one button fell to the floor and rolled somewhere under the dresser. He didn't pay attention. He was only looking at you. His body was covered in scars. Thin lines, rough welts, old marks from bullets and knives. You ran your fingers over one of them, and he froze, looking at you. He didn't answer. Just leaned down and kissed you softly, almost reverently. And then his hands and tentacles began their game.
He pulled your bra off, and the tentacles immediately wrapped around your chest, stroking, squeezing, playing with your nipples. One of them slid down your stomach, descending lower to the waistband of your pants. He unbuttoned the button, pulled the fabric down, and you were completely naked before him. He looked at you, and fire burned in his eyes.
"My god, you're beautiful," he breathed, and there was no trace of his usual mockery in his voice. Only reverence.
He lowered himself, kissing your stomach, your thighs, the inside of your thigh. The tentacles spread your legs, gently but insistently. You felt their warmth on your skin, their slight pulse. One of them slid along your groin, touching your wet folds, and you gasped, gripping the sheets.
"Billy," you whispered.
"Quiet, little one," he answered, and his breath touched your clit. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." He ran his tongue along your folds, slowly, savoring, and you arched, moaning. And then his tongue found your clit, and he began to trace it with the tip, in circles, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing down. At the same time, one of the tentacles slid inside you, warm, alive, slightly rough. It moved slowly, exploring every inch, touching the walls of your vagina, finding those sensitive spots. A second tentacle joined it, sliding alongside, stretching you, filling you. And the third, the thinnest one, began to play with your clit, circling around it, lightly squeezing, teasing, while Butcher's tongue continued its work.
You were gasping. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you gripped it, pulling him closer. The tentacles inside you moved in rhythm, sometimes spreading apart, sometimes coming together, touching the walls, massaging them, finding that spot that made your vision go dark. One of them lingered at the entrance, playing with the edge, sliding along the wet folds, teasing, not allowing full penetration. And the other penetrated deeper, touching your cervix, and you cried out, feeling a wave of pleasure surge and break against your insides.
"Billy, please," you begged. "I'm going to..."
"Yes," he growled, feeling you clench around his tentacles. "Come for me, little one. Show me how you come." His tongue pressed harder on your clit, the tentacles sped up, and the orgasm washed over you completely. You arched, cried out, feeling waves of pleasure roll through your body, as the tentacles continued to move inside you, prolonging every contraction, every spasm. You clenched around them, and he felt every movement you made. When you finally collapsed onto the pillow, exhausted, he rose above you. His eyes burned, and you could see him breathing heavily. His cock was hard, tense, and you reached for it, wrapping your fingers around the head, sliding along the skin wet with precum. He groaned, throwing his head back.
"You're driving me crazy," he breathed.
"Then take me," you whispered. He loomed over you, his hands planted on either side of your head. The tentacles, two of them, wrapped around your thighs, lifting them, spreading them. One slid between you, touching the head of his cock, guiding it. He pressed against your entrance, and you felt his hot, hard flesh against your folds. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice hoarse with desire. "I want to see your eyes when I enter you." You looked at him. Into his brown eyes, where fire burned, into his disheveled hair, into his rough face that was now so open, so vulnerable. He slowly entered you, and you felt him fill you, his head touching your cervix. He paused for a second, letting you get used to it, letting you feel him completely.
"God, you're so tight," he breathed. "Can you feel me inside you? Can you feel my head touching the deepest part of you?" You nodded, unable to speak. He began to move slowly, deeply, and every movement sent waves of pleasure through your body. The tentacles squeezed your thighs, your waist, your chest, and you felt surrounded by him. From head to toe. One of them slid to your clit and began to play with it, circling, gently squeezing, matching the rhythm of his movements. The second slid between your bodies, touching his balls, stroking them, and he groaned, speeding up.
You ran your fingers through his hair, gripped his shoulders, and he growled your name as his movements became deeper, faster. The head of his cock touched your cervix with every thrust, and you felt something hot and unstoppable building inside you.
"Billy," you breathed. "I'm going to..."
"Me too," he growled. "Come with me, little one. Come on my cock." The tentacle on your clit sped up, and you felt the orgasm wash over you. You clenched around him, and he felt every contraction, every spasm. He followed you, with a loud groan, breathing your name into your hair, and froze, trembling all over, spilling into you in hot spurts.
You lay in silence. Only your breathing and the sound of your hearts beating in unison could be heard. Butcher lifted himself up, propped himself on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair fell into his eyes, and you reached out to brush it away. He caught your hand, pressed his lips to your wrist, and his eyes, brown, deep, with that warm spark, looked at you.
"I was yours from the moment you first pointed a gun at me," he admitted. "I just didn't want to admit it."
He rolled onto his side, pulling you to him. You buried your nose in his chest, feeling his heart beating under your cheek. The tentacles slowly retracted, leaving warm traces on your skin, and you closed your eyes, breathing in the smell of tobacco and something familiar. You felt his semen leaking out of you, mixing with your moisture, and the sensation was so intimate, so right.
"Billy," you whispered, touching his chest with your fingers, tracing the scars. "Will you stay?"
He looked at you, and in his eyes was that very warmth he never showed anyone. "I'm not going anywhere," he answered, pulling you closer. "I'll stay. I'll always stay, if you let me."
You lay there in silence, in the dark, to the sound of rain outside the window. His hand instinctively held you, pulling you closer, and his breathing became steady and calm. You ran your fingers over his stomach, feeling the muscles twitch at your touch. You wanted to stay. With him. Forever.
Warnings: just smut with a lil bit of plot lol🔞 and cursing/dirty talk
//
“Thaaa’s it. Nice’n slow, love.”
A quiet gasp escaped your kiss-swollen lips.
“Really feel it deep inside ya.”
Your hands leaned against his chest to support every slow roll of your hips. Billy’s callused hands guided your movements, fingertips bruising your soft skin. Dark eyes flicked between your flushed face and your heaving breasts every time his cock brushed that special spot inside. He’d smiled like the devil himself when you told him he’d been the only one to find it—or reach it for that matter.
“Billy—fuck,” you whimpered.
“W’at is it? Hm?”
“You’re so—so…” Your trembling voice trailed off, focused on grinding down into his lap.
Billy sat up a bit in the loveseat with a breathy chuckle, spread legs adjusting their stance. “So w’at, pet? Deep? Big? Handsome? Take ya pick.”
Your head fell back between your shoulder blades with a loud moan, hips increasing their pace, but he wasn’t having it. He liked watching you slowly fall apart—seeing the pleasure build with every stroke, every gasp, every touch under his precise command. You’d lost your train of thought as your eyes followed him leaning forward and gently kissing each peaked nipple.
Hot breath fanned over your skin as he chuckled. “If that lad could see you now. Ridin’ the boss’s cock while he wanks off thinkin’ of ya. Tsk tsk tsk.”
A tiny whimper slipped out, nails digging into his skin.
“A sweet bird like you needs a sweet lad like ‘im.”
You shook your head. “D-Don’t want sweet.”
A dark rumble vibrated against your palms. “I know. Tha’s why you’re ‘ere…beggin’ to bounce on me cock, innit? Ya need somethin’ mean’a.”
Your head bobbed up and down.
“Lil’ bunny likes the big bad wolf,” he crooned in his gravelly voice, “I give it to ya how ya need it.”
He watched as you took one of his hands from your hip to press against your breast. He was quick to knead the plush flesh before taking your nipple between his fingers, rolling and tugging it until you whined.
“My poor mate Hughie. Can’t work up the courage to ask ya out. Can’t see through those lovesick eyes to see you’re spoken for,” he teased.
“Ngh! Fuck, you feel so good, Billy!”
The way his cock slid along your walls had shivers trickling down your spine. Pleasure simmered closer and closer to boiling over with each drag against your g-spot. You couldn’t take your eyes off him: his whole upper body exposed by his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, jeans and boxers shoved down to his thighs, dark eyes watching you just as closely with a lazy smile.
The sound of a cellphone ringing cut through the lusty fog.
You felt it vibrating in his jeans pocket. Billy snaked his hand from your hip to the phone, the screen illuminating his face as he read the caller ID. His expression changed to one of pure mischief.
“Speak of the devil.”
He flipped the phone, showing you Hughie’s name lighting up.
You tensed, but couldn’t bring yourself to stop.
You came to a halt when he swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Hughie, my son. How can I be of service?” He asked the question so casually.
A nervous pit formed in your stomach. Billy grasped your hip with his free hand and began urging your movements. You tried to fight it, but that mounting pleasure was hard to ignore.
His smirk widened as you continued rolling and bouncing along his length.
‘Good girl,’ he mouthed.
You heard Hughie yammering on about something, and you bit your lip to keep silent.
Billy was no help. He thrust his hips up, forcing a small moan to burst forward.
He turned his attention back to the call. “Nuffin’. Just the telly.”
You held back a whine as his hand shifted to circle a thumb over your swollen clit. The sexual tension seemed to thicken with the threat of being heard by the guy who possessed a not-so-secret crush on you.
“Listen, mate. It’s bloody late, and I’m tryin’ to have a beer and a wank to a rivetin’ performance of Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft. F’ink this conversation could wait till tomorrow?”
You barely heard Hughie stumble over an awkward apology before Billy hung up. He tossed the phone to the couch before grabbing your other hip, guiding you into a faster pace.
“That was a close one.”
“You’re—You’re terrible,” you stammered.
“Not as terrible as you, love. Felt this cunt squeezin’ down on me like’a python the whole time,” he chuckled. “Dirty lil’ bird likes the thrill of gettin’ caught.”
His hips began meeting your movements. More pathetic moans escaped as he worked with you. The immense feeling spread from the bottoms of your feet to behind your eyes, ascending towards that wonderful peak that would have you seeing stars.
“How ‘bout a kiss, darlin’?” he asked, that cheeky smile still spread across his face.
You leaned down, smashing your lips to his before you felt burly arms wrap around your body. Billy planted his feet more firmly and began brutally thrusting. He growled over your loud cry, continuing his assault on your mouth and cunt.
Gasping, you pulled away to press your mouth to his neck. “Yes! Oh god, yes!”
“Tell me how much ya like it,” he commanded.
“I—I love it! I love your cock, Billy!”
“Ya gonna cum on it? Scream my name?”
“Yes! Make me cum!” you wailed.
You trembled and moaned into his sweaty neck as your orgasm washed over you. Euphoria flooded from your core, shockwaves vibrating to the rest of your body. His name and a plea to cum inside bled together with your exquisite sounds of ecstasy.
Warmth flooded inside your cunt as Billy moaned in your ear. Your body began to twitch with overstimulation as he thrust a few more times, ensuring every last shot of his spend was inside.
Both of you settled into the comfortable aftermath. Your body rose and fell with his panting while still clinging to him. Goosebumps rippled across flushed skin as his hands skimmed across your back in comfort. You responded with gentle kisses down his neck and chest.
“Right where ya want ta be, aren’t ya?” his hoarse voice broke the post-sex silence.
When he felt you nod against his peck, he chuckled, reaching down to place a gentle kiss to your head.
Pairing: Billy Butcher x You (Reader) || Rating: Explicit || Word Count: 4k || BeYoursBB FIC MASTERLIST
Summary: Although you blend in with the boys on the outside, Butcher knows how to make you feel like a woman when he’s inside. (Timeline for this work is Season 5, Episode 1)
Author's Note: This is my longest and most self-indulgent piece of writing yet! I just kept wanting to throw in more cuz a masculine presenting straight woman like me still wants to be fucked like a princess hahaha.
Warnings: swearing, oral sex (female receiving), mutual masturbation kind of, spanking (just once lol), unprotected p in v, very light bondage (restrained but not actually tied up), little overstimulation and mention of size difference, creampie
Awake on your bunk, you stared up at the ceiling of the classroom you called your bedroom in the abandoned school that served as the boys’ safe house. It had been five days since Butcher, Annie, and Kimiko rescued you and the guys from Freedom Camp 47 and you were still adjusting. Unlike Hughie and Frenchie, who reconnected immediately with their partners, the person you had been most excited to see had hardly interacted with you besides an initial side hug of reunification.
The thought of reuniting with Butcher again was often the only thing that drove you forward when you were stuck in that internment camp for a year. You weren’t able to stay endlessly optimistic like Hughie. You didn’t dive into black market trading to keep busy like Frenchie. And you weren’t interested in beating up the other prisoners for entertainment like MM.
You were tough as nails, strong as a bull, and could fight as well as any one of the boys, but sometimes, you just wanted to be a girl. And a girl was allowed to daydream, even if those daydreams bordered a delusional crush on her older boss who would never, in any universe, reciprocate. On the most basic level, you just weren’t his type. Not that you really knew the women Butcher had been with, but from the ones you’d seen, you concluded at minimum, being gorgeous was a requirement — one that you didn’t physically meet in a traditionally feminine sense.
From the small mannerisms you developed, to the way you walked, talked, and dressed, your masculine exterior was all that most men saw, and passed on. Most days, the way you presented yourself did not bother you in the slightest; it was how you felt most comfortable in your own skin after all, and a man’s opinion was quite low on the list of things you valued. But on the rare occasion when you wanted someone specific to notice you, you couldn’t help but wish to lean more “girly.” If only you knew how to do a little makeup, or style your hair, or have the patience to paint your nails — maybe then you’d garner the attention you wanted. You looked to your friends, Annie and Kimiko, who were badass women just like you, but still had a feminine charm. You had yet to discover that balance for yourself.
You let out a huff and threw the blanket off. The only cure you had for restlessness was exercise, so you quietly changed out of your pajamas into a t-shirt and shorts, then tip-toed your way down the hallway to the classroom you used as a gym. It wasn’t the most complete set-up, but contained the essentials and even had an extra large mirror propped up so you could check your weightlifting form. You put down your water bottle, and connected your Bluetooth headphones to your favorite playlist.
You quickly found a flow state transitioning from your warm up routine to lower body lifts to an ab circuit to finishing with upper body lifts. Midway through, you got so hot you had to shed the shirt to use as a towel. Towards the end of your workout, you were so focused on doing single arm rows bent over on the bench, that you didn’t notice Butcher standing in the doorway until you looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror. You almost didn’t recognize him wearing only a white tank top, gray sweatpants, and…slides?
“Jesus!” You dropped the dumbbell to the floor with a loud thump and pushed your headphones down around your neck. You immediately sat down so your butt wasn’t up towards him anymore. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see your form crap out on those rows,” he answered.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m a little out of practice. Freedom Camp didn’t really have equipment y’know.”
Butcher sat on the empty bench across from you. His eyes flicked up and down your body, almost imperceptibly. But it was enough to make you self-conscious of your worn out appearance. You removed your headphones, picked up your shirt to wipe yourself off, and left it hanging on one shoulder so it at least partially covered your damp chest.
“Even without, you’ve maintained your size. Maybe even got bigger.”
You stared at him blankly. He was complimenting you like a guy and internally you were screaming. Truthfully, you had worked very hard to maintain your physique in camp through body weight exercises despite a lack of protein and nutritious meals. If it was anyone else who mentioned this, you would have taken pride in them acknowledging your consistency, but the girl in you wished he hadn’t commented on your body at all.
“I know it was hard in there, luv,” he said, placing his hand on your knee. His touch sent a shock of electricity through you and you involuntarily squeezed your thighs together. “But I knew I didn’t have to worry about ya.”
You nodded, trying not to overthink his statement, when again, he meant well. He obviously had a lot of confidence that you’d be fine and hold your own, which you did. Nevertheless, it made your heart sink a little that he had no idea how much of your strength had come from the simple hope of seeing him again.
You took a swig from your water bottle. “So, why are you up? Can’t imagine you wanted to join for a quick midnight pump.”
Butcher raised his eyebrows slightly. “Hard to sleep with all that grunting yer doin’ in here.”
Warmth rushed to your face, remembering his bedroom was right next door, but you tried to play it cool. “My bad,” you answered. “I’m almost done.”
You stood, picking up the dumbbells to re-rack and replace them with a different weight for your last exercise, incline bench press.
“Need a spot?” he asked.
You nodded a “sure” and adjusted the bench from laying flat to propped up at a thirty degree angle. Butcher stood behind your head as you sat with both feet flat on the floor and each dumbbell resting on top of your thighs. You hiked up the weights one at a time, letting the momentum bring you back against the bench, then squeezed your shoulder blades together, causing your spine to arch and push your chest out.
Butcher hovered his hands under each of your elbows, following your movement up and down each rep in case you needed assistance. The first and second set were challenging enough — doable, but not easy. The third set was when you felt your arms start to shake.
“C’mon, luv, that’s all ya got?” Butcher challenged, refusing to support your arms. “I’ve seen you lift heavier than that.”
You grunted, muscles tense under the strain, until at last, you reached your failure point, unable to extend your arms fully anymore. You carefully lowered the dumbbells onto the floor on either side of you.
“Man, fuck you,” you panted, lungs heaving. “You’re not even helping.”
Butcher chuckled. “Got distracted. Was enjoying the view.”
You sat up and focused on his reflection in the mirror, tracking his eyes downcast. At the angle you had been laying back, then his gaze would align right above your…
As your brain connected the dots, Butcher’s hand came under your chin, twisting it to the side enough so you could choose to either maintain eye contact with him in the mirror, or talk to him face to face. He wasn’t harsh with it, yet it felt thrilling. Your boss was an inch away from giving you a hand necklace and that sent a wave of heat straight between your legs.
“Why‘ve you been avoiding me, luv?” Butcher questioned, in a much softer tone than you expected. “Did I really make ya that uncomfortable when we got back? Swear I didn’t see too much when you were changing outta those camp clothes.”
You stood, grabbing his wrist as you faced him, confusion morphing into defensiveness. “What are you talking about? I haven’t been avoiding—” You paused, processing, then released his forearm. “Wait— you— were checking me out?”
Butcher’s face contorted into something akin to taking offense. “What? Just ‘cause you got muscles ya think I’m not gonna fancy a peep? I still have eyes.”
He gave you the same once-over as earlier, but now you could definitely tell his gaze lingered on your breasts.
“You might borrow from the blokes’ closets, but I know you’re just a girl under alla those clothes.” His mustache gave away the slightest twitch of a smirk.
The nervous pit in your stomach — familiar when in Butcher’s presence — began to dissipate at this new information. You allowed yourself to take the chance to copy him, raking your eyes across his own muscular chest, dark hair peeking out from under the tank top, and down all the way to the faint outline of a bulge through his gray sweatpants. You bit your lip subconsciously, to which Butcher gave a smug grin.
“Speak ya mind, luv. I take it you like what you see as well?”
Replacing that dissipating unease was a swell of confidence. You smiled, relaxed, took a step back and crossed your arms in front of your chest. Your biceps flexed naturally, and you felt even more assured knowing that being buff wasn’t a deterrent but actually the baseline of his attraction to you.
You regarded him carefully, then took another chance. “You’ve seen me shirtless multiple times. It’s your turn to show some skin.”
Amusement flickered in Butcher’s hazel eyes but he didn’t hesitate, stripping off his tank top to join your shirt in its pile near the benches. “Careful darlin’,” he warned. “You sure this the way you want to get even?”
In mere seconds, your new-found confidence surged into brazen disregard for your dignity.
“I don’t want to get even. I want to get off.”
Once the words glided off the tip of your tongue, there was no taking them back. You did not have the slightest clue what possessed you to say them in the first place. But you promised to pray later to whatever higher power took hold because the searing kiss that followed was not anything you could have dreamed of. With the intensity Butcher planted his mouth on yours, the heat of desire would have melted you into a puddle had he not been clutching your neck and face in both of his big hands. With each breath he deepened the kiss, his tongue battling for dominance that you were more than willing to give into. You may have started this, but fuck if you knew how to finish it. It was out of your hands, and you were entirely in William Butcher’s.
“Cheeky little thing,” he muttered, reaching down and encircling your waist. In one fell swoop, he picked you up: one arm supporting your lower back and the other cradling your knees. Naturally, you draped your arms around his neck and immediately felt like a princess. The ease with which he carried you straight out of the gym and ducked you both through the door into his own room while never once breaking from the kiss made your heart flutter. You felt light as a feather, and were still floating when he set you down in front of his bed.
You both stepped out of your shoes, and Butcher wasted no time yanking your shorts and underwear off, claiming a spot on his mattress in the process.
“C’mere,” he ordered as he laid back, motioning with his fingers. “Sit on my face.”
You scrambled on top of him, leaving a trail of kisses up his torso. You maneuvered yourself into a sixty-nine position, thighs straddling his head, then hesitated, hovering over his mouth.
“Don’t get shy on me now. You said you wanted something, and I can provide,” Butcher tsked playfully.
“You told me to speak my mind.”
“And I’m sure fuckin’ glad I did. Now sit.”
He pulled you down and the instant his tongue hit your entrance felt like fire and ice. Butcher lapped at you firmly and precisely, like he was painting a picture onto your walls, his tongue the brushstroke. His eyes were closed in a look of appreciation, savoring every drop of your essence while you basked in the awe of being his muse. You experimentally shifted your hips, your inner thighs scuffed by his scratchy beard as you grinded down into his face. With one arm holding your waist, he snaked his free hand into his own pants and revealed his swollen member. Without missing a beat, he stroked it in time to your movement.
“Fuck, Butcher,” you sighed in disbelief.
You always assumed he was big, and to get the front row seat to this delicious sight was unreal. Before you could stop yourself, two of your fingers flew to your clit and you rubbed quickly, a tight coil of pressure beginning to stir in the pit of your stomach. Balancing one hand on his abs, you leaned forward to wrap your lips around his cock, but he held you back with the hand around your midsection, as if to say “No, you just watch.”
So you did. You watched him touch and tease himself, noting how his fingers curled along the vein, deftly tugging at the head of his shaft every time his hand slid to the apex of it. His thumb spread the leaking precum across his tip and it took every ounce of restraint in you to not lick it up yourself. The pressure in your center steadily rose and you could feel a new sheen of sweat start to drip down your neck. Everything together — his display of self-pleasure, your own fingers on your clit, his beard soaked from you, and his dexterous tongue still intently exploring every inch of your slick pussy — threw you into a jolting climax. You came crying incoherent mumblings with the visual of Butcher handling himself at the same time he ate you burned into your memory. Your whole body shook, and your legs weakened, collapsing you, nearly suffocating the man responsible. No one had ever been able to do that before.
“Fuckin ‘ell, luv,” Butcher steadied you down into the empty space next to him, a single strangled breath escaping him. “You taste fuckin’ exquisite.”
He held you with both hands as he pressed kisses and bites along your neck and collarbone, his hot, hard length tucked into his clothes again, forming a tent. You breathed deeply, inhaling his manly scent, then helped yourself to his lips, glistening with the remnants of your sweet tanginess. When you pulled away after catching your breath, Butcher had a smirk plastered across his handsome mug.
“We haven’t even done your cardio yet, darlin’. I need ta know how gorgeous you look bouncin’ on my cock.”
You smiled at this suggestion, eagerly straddling his hips once he removed his bottom layers. Together you guided him into you, a relieved groan slipping from both your throats when his tip first breached your wet cunt. You took your time easing onto his girth, until he was buried in you to the hilt. Butcher relished in watching each inch disappear into you, his hazel eyes drinking you in.
“Let me see those beautiful tits,” he commanded, sitting up.
You whipped off your sports bra, tossing it behind you. Butcher cupped each tit, kneading the soft flesh, then followed with his mouth sucking each nipple to a hardened peak, prompting an arch in your back as you began grinding at a comfortable, even rhythm. The stretch to accommodate his size felt incredible, and you were at the perfect angle for your clit to rub against his pelvic bone.
“Butcher, you feel amazing,” you moaned.
“Just Billy, sweetheart,” he grunted. “Say the same for you—fuck—you’re so fuckin’ tight.”
Placing your arms around his neck kept him caged to your frontside. His mouth worked overtime to pepper you with hickies across your boobs while his rough hands glided up and down your spine causing goosebumps to rise over the sensitive skin. You threw your head back in blissful stimulation and quickened your pace, the tension in your core building again.
“You like this, don’t ya?” he asked. “You might fit in with the boys, but at the end of the day, you just want a real man to take care of ya.”
You nodded. “Please,” you exhaled, “Please, Billy, I need you.”
“How bad?”
You felt his hands drop to your waist with a sudden downward force, holding you still on top of his throbbing cock.
“How bad d’you need me?” he repeated. He leaned back, taking in the view of your growing desperation as you squirmed for friction, and peered up with a mischievous glint. “How long you been waitin’ to be split open on this cock?”
Without warning, he lifted and slammed you back down on his length, the sheer force from his pelvis meeting yours driving your whole body forward. You yelped and grabbed at his shoulders to hang on, digging your nails into his freckled skin as he set a punishing pace. Each thrust hit that spot deep inside that you could never quite reach yourself, the spot that made your eyes roll back into your skull and melted your brain to mush. Words escaped you, and forming sentences was unfathomable.
“Still pretendin’ you're shy?” Butcher smacked his palm against the thick of your ass, forcing a vulgar noise out of you. Your eyes snapped open to meet his, which were darkening with lust every passing minute. The way he was bucking into you was mind-numbing — rough, passionate, like he was racing himself to witness you come undone for him.
“Billy,” you whined, barely able to hear yourself over the obscene sounds of slapping skin. The unbearable heat emanating from your core felt like it would combust, and your body tensed.
“Good, just like that,” Butcher encouraged. “Don’t put on a front with me. I got ya, pretty girl.”
You emitted a pathetic whimper at his coaxing. Butcher studied your every reaction like a hawk. He slowed down enough to pull you into a greedy kiss, as if you weren’t already totally consumed by all of him. As his tongue danced with yours, he focused his ministrations on your swollen clit, his fingers gently teetering you on the edge of ecstasy while relinquishing his control of the tempo to your own grinding hips.
“Shit—” you cursed. “Billy, I—I’m so close.”
“You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Just let go.”
His voice was milder now, not as demanding. As the tension rose to its peak, you caught his eyes again, still dark with an intense hunger, but also with a flicker of something deeper in them.
You quickly grasped the word: yearning. Yes, that’s what it was, had to be. He yearned for this moment as much and as fiercely as you. Your body, mind, and heart settled for a moment realizing this; then his next words arrived like an invitation.
“Let me feel you come on this cock.”
With a gasp, shockwaves coursed through your body up to the crown of your head all the way down to your curled toes, making you shudder as your walls clenched around him. Butcher was so deep, you could have sworn he rearranged an organ or two. Your juices coated him thoroughly, seeping out and slicking his balls.
“Tha’s it, tha’s it, pretty girl. You feel so fuckin’ good—Give it to me,” Billy groaned, his words steering you through your roller coaster of pleasure while he enjoyed every sight and sound of you falling apart for him all over again.
You planted your hands firmly on his chest to stabilize yourself as you continued riding out your high. Exhaustion from your previous two hour workout was finally catching up to you. Your lower body was sore, especially your quads, and your arms slowly turned to jelly, to the point where by the time your movement stilled, you were laying almost flat against the wide expanse of Butcher’s torso, fingers entwined in his thick hair, your lungs struggling for oxygen. You felt so fucked out, it didn’t even register that Billy flipped you over to your back until your wrists were pinned above your head in one of his big hands and his weight was pushing you into the mattress.
He smirked, looking down at the wet, wheezing mess he made of you. His eyes seemed to glow with a renewed, enlivened thirst. You realized he still had not finished, and instead had pulled out, trailing his heavy, rock-hard member through your damp folds. He leaned down to nip at your exposed biceps and you trembled from the new sensation.
“Yer so strong, luv,” he cooed. “How’s it feel to be so small for once?”
On cue, you tested yourself and strained against his grasp. As expected, he didn’t budge. You couldn’t help but giggle. “Feels nice, Billy.”
Tossing your legs over his shoulders, he pressed down even harder, simultaneously plunging into you with one harsh thrust. You were given no time to adjust before Butcher was back to fucking you like a madman, and honestly, you could hardly blame him at this point. He had been edging himself all night for you to get yours first; you were ready for him to devour all that was left of you for his.
“Fuck!” you screamed. “You’re so fuckin’ big, Billy, I can’t—”
“You can take it, luv,” he rasped, one hand on your waist while the other still anchored your wrists above which would surely show bruises tomorrow. “I ain’t gonna break ya. Just need a little more.”
At the current angle, with your feet in the air, your face practically between your knees, and his dick assaulting both your g-spot and clit, your whole body was twitching with overstimulation.
“Billy, please,” you begged, close to tears. “I need you to come inside me, now.”
“One more time, gorgeous, and I’ll fill you up. Wan’ta feel your pretty cunt come one more time.”
With all the strength you had left, you wrapped your ankles around his neck, your calves digging into his shoulders and forcing his head down towards yours, close enough for you to kiss him. The surprise attack loosened his grip on you, and you slipped both hands out from under him, one tugging the hair on the back of his head as you made out, the other landing on your sensitive clit. Sparks flew instantly at your touch and for the second time, your pussy trapped Butcher’s aching cock in a vice. The pounding of his hips synched with the pounding of your heartbeat echoing in your ears, which drowned out the growl he released as he broke away from your lips. With furrowed concentration, he held you down as he kept his promise and filled you with streak after streak of his warm sticky cum.
Completely dazed and speechless, your whole body spasmed with after shocks as Butcher pulsed inside you until softening. Carefully, he untangled your bodies, rolling you onto your stomach. Propping himself up on an elbow, he used his other hand to massage your tired muscles, starting at your shoulders, and working his way down your back, to your glutes, and hamstrings.
“Not sure how we’ll top that, luv,” Butcher admitted after a few minutes. “But it was a long pent up year for me. I ain’t gonna wait anymore when it comes to you.”
You side-eyed him quizzically, brows tilted. “You saying you missed me?”
“Just ‘cause I wasn’t worried about you, doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinkin’ about ya. Felt fuckin’ sick when I heard you got picked up with the others. ‘M sorry I didn’t break ya out sooner.”
You couldn’t help smiling. “I missed you too. Had no idea I was your type though.”
Butcher scoffed. “What type did you think I liked? I ain’t tryna fuck a fairy.”
He leaned down, the bed frame creaking as it shifted under his body and you could feel his overbearing weight on top of you again. He grabbed the back of your neck as he kissed your temple, then stayed next to your ear.
“But if you ever try another fuckin’ jiu jitsu move on me, I promise I’ll throw you in a position yer never gettin’ out of.”
Summary: Billy Butcher, an awkward and stern man, dances with his wife at a work banquet, reminiscing about their first meeting at university. The next morning, they establish a ritual of dancing in the kitchen every morning, and although Billy never learned to dance, his wife appreciates his tenderness and care.
Warnings: The text contains a romantic scene with elements of flirting, subtle hints of intimacy, and some explicit language. The themes of vulnerability, male insecurity, and acceptance in relationships are explored.
English is not my first language
Word count ~700
The hall is buzzing. Waiters dart between tables, glasses clinking. Billy Butcher stands at the edge of the dance floor, feeling out of place. The white shirt you ironed this morning while he stood next to you, watching the steam curl around your fingers, fits perfectly, but the tie still feels like a noose to him.
He looks at you, his girl, in that dress. All he knows about dresses is that they come off. But now… now she looks so stunning it takes his breath away. Light fabric, thin straps, your hair now pinned up in an elegant bun, baring your neck.
"Come on, Butcher," you laugh softly, reaching your hand out to him. "Don't just stand there like a statue. You're my husband, you're supposed to ask me to dance."
"Supposed to, eh," he rasps with that characteristic Cockney accent, and in his brown eyes flashes that familiar, well-known smirk of his.
"And what if I say I'd rather go pour myself a whiskey before those wankers drink the whole bar dry?"
"You can say that," you reply calmly, looking up at him, "and tomorrow you'll be ironing your own shirts."
Butcher snorts, but his heavy, massive palm gently closes around your fingers. He leads you to the center of the hall. Silence around, slow music playing – something old, bluesy. He places one hand on your waist, feeling, the other holding your delicate hand. And he feels like an idiot all over again.
Because he still doesn't know how to dance.
"Billy," you whisper, burying your nose in his chest. "You're stepping on my feet."
"I'm trying not to crush you, love," he growls into the top of your head. "You're like a bloody dandelion in those heels. I'm afraid you'll break."
You laugh softly, and it's that laugh that makes something warm spread through his chest, making it hard to properly stay angry.
"Remember college?" you suddenly ask. "It was even worse back then." Butcher laughs quietly, deeply. Fuck, does he remember. A tiny stuffy hall, a stupid disco, snotty students. And you, so young, seeing him for the first time as just an awkward bloke. You whispered "one-two-three, one-two-three" in his ear while he, huge as a wardrobe, methodically tried not to stomp on your feet with his army boots.
"You told me I looked like a wounded elephant in a china shop," he smirks. "And you still didn't run."
"I knew you'd learn," you reply softly, gently touching his stubbled cheek with your fingers, tracing his jawline. "You just need time." He looks into your eyes. There's no fear, no judgment. Just light and calmness. The music ends. He reluctantly lets you go, but suddenly you take his hand and pull him toward the exit of the banquet hall.
Home. Kitchen. Early morning.
The kettle is boiling on the stove. You, already in your usual t-shirt with your sleep-mussed hair, walk barefoot across the cool tile floor, swaying slightly as you reach for a teacup. Butcher, disheveled, wearing only old trousers, comes up and wraps his arms around you from behind, burying his nose in the top of your head. His thick beard tickles your neck. You hum a familiar tune under your breath.
"Hey," he whispers hoarsely. "Wanna dance?"
You turn around in surprise:
"Now? In the morning? You have an operation in an hour."
"Fuck the operation," he says, grinning into his beard as he holds you in a slow, clumsy dance right in the middle of the kitchen.
"I decided. Every morning. Until you stop giggling and tell me I finally stopped looking like an elephant."
You snort into his shoulder. Yesterday you were in a beautiful dress, he was in a perfectly pressed suit. But now, in this chaos of the morning kitchen, amid the scent of your shampoo and black tea, you feel truly happy.
He never did learn to dance properly. But he always holds you as if you're the most fragile and precious thing in his cursed life. He melts at your touch, waits for your kisses and your words.
You rest your head on his chest and whisper:
"You stepped on my foot, Billy."
"I know, sorry, love," he growls, kissing the top of your head. "But you're not going anywhere anyway."
From that morning on, they had a ritual. They'd put on old music on a small speaker and move around the kitchen. Billy waited for it every day. Waited for you to finally tell him: "You did well today, Billy. I'm proud of you." And he melted like ice in the sun, because with you. With you, he was just Billy – your husband, who loves you very much and dances very badly.
Butcher holds you, head tucked under his chin like a keepsake.
Listening to your steady breath, as it fills the promise of your lungs; to your pulse, as is quickened under the brush of his rough fingertips, cigarette ash lining the dry texture.
Here you were, whole, human, busting with potential like a germinating bud. His fingers threaded through your hair and he sighed.
"Love ya bird." He whispers moving his hips again. He says it sweet and tried, like hes ordering another drink he knows he shouldn't.
You don't know what to do with the knowledge you can never have him so you find peace in the sweat, in his boots muddying your entryway once in a blue moon, in his warmth blanketing you so effectively you can't seem to recall the stress outside your own apartment.
After, he makes you pancakes and you rub his shoulders, trying and sometimes failing not to ask nosy questions.
Until eventually he is dressed and standing at your doorway looking for all the world like he doesn't want to leave.
He makes you promise you'll keep safe and only laughs in return when you demand to hear it back with all of the indignance of a spurned i love you.
He pats your cheek and kisses you until you feel shaky and then he disappears into the night.
-Warnings: Possessive/dominant Butcher, female reader, daddy kink, pet names, heavy dirty talk,intense friction,explicit sexual acts, biting/marking, size difference,finger sucking,praise heavy, missionary position, creampie/breeding themes.
Summary: Butcher isn’t interested in being gentle tonight. He’s in a mood to remind you who’s in charge, and he’s not stopping until you’re a complete whimpering mess, begging him to fill you up and calling him exactly what he wants to hear.
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The bed frame groaned under the weight of him, a rhythmic violent thud against the wall that matched the frantic pounding of your heart. Billy was like a force of nature, his large calloused hands gripping your hips, forcing your legs wide apart as he dominated you from between them. His frame was a wall of muscle and heat, his body a heavy and immovable weight pressing you deeper into the mattress.
He didn't just fuck you, he was dismantling you with every thrust and groan.
Every time you felt yourself starting to spiral and squirm, he felt the internal clenching and shifted, his hips grinding in a slow torturous circle. He angled the head of his cock hard against your G spot, aiming for it with each thrust that made you loose your mind. Each time he pulled back, the sound of his balls slapping wetly against your soft skin filled the room, a primal cadence.
“Look at me, pet.” he growled, his voice a low gravelly rumble that vibrated right through your chest. “Don't ya dare close them eyes. I wanna see you loose it for Daddy.”
You forced your eyes open meeting his intense, dark gaze. He smirked and his expression was sharp and possessive. “That’s it, look at ya,” he hissed, his cock stretching you until you felt completely full. “You’re so fuckin’ small, aren’t ya? Tiny little thing, so tight and wet..it’s like you were made to take me, pet. You're just a messy, filthy little thing when Daddy’s inside ya.”
All you could do was whimper in reply and he took that as a challenge, slowing his pace just to tease the edge of your climax. “Strugglin’ are ya?” he murmured with a wicked glint in his eyes. “I can feel you twitchin’ baby. You want me to finish you off, don’t ya? Be a good girl and tell me who owns this sweet, tight pussy.”
He paused, his hand moving to your jaw, forcing your mouth open. He slid two of his fingers past your lips, commanding, “Suck ‘em.Let Daddy see how good you can be when you’re told.”
You were desperate, your body aching for release, and you didn’t think, you just gasped out, “Billy, please.. I can’t take it.”
Butcher’s eyes darkened instantly. He yanked his fingers out, his expression turning lethal. He didn’t hesitate, his hand darting up to clamp firmly around your throat, just enough to hold you in place, while he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
“Don't you ever call me that again,pet.” he hissed with possessive rage. “I ain’t Billy in here. You call me Daddy. You only ever call me Daddy, understand?”
“D-Daddy..” You whimpered.
“That’s a good girl,” he purred, the shift from rage to praise so sudden made your head spin. He plunged back into you, heavy and deep, his hips driving against yours with such force it knocked the wind from your lungs. “C’mon. Don't you dare go quiet on me now. I wanna hear every filthy sound ya make while im buried deep inside ya. Open your mouth and tell Daddy how much you need this, you little slut.”
A half sob escaped your lips as you could feel your legs beginning to shake.
He drove into you, his movements thick and all consuming, his hand moving down to firmly massage your clit. “Yeah, just like that,” he cooed, his voice thick with lust. “You’re so fuckin’ needy, ain’t ya? Daddy loves hearin’ you mewl like a little kitten.”
You were clawing at his back, completely unravelled, your voice cracking as you sobbed, “Daddy, please..please, i need you to finish, just give it to me, fill me up!”
Butcher let out a harsh satisfied laugh, his hips slamming into yours with renewed, punishing force, “You want Daddy’s cum, don’t ya? You want me to fill you up so much you’re leakin’ all over my sheets?”
“Yes,please,Daddy i want it all!” you screamed, your body seizing under him.
“Then give it to me,” his voice dropping into a guttural, possessive growl as he felt you tightening around him. “Cum for Daddy, right now pet. Let go for me.”
You shattered, a loud, ragged sob tearing from your throat as your body bucked into his. He didn’t waste a second, his grip on your hips bruising as he let out a low groan “Good girl” he growled, his voice a breathless command. “Daddy’s gonna cum, take it all, pet. Every drop. That’s it.. Fillin' you up so everyone knows exactly who you belong to.”
He gave one final violent shove, his body locking against yours as he erupted inside you, pumping himself deep and hard until there was nothing left to give, pinning you to the mattress and claiming you completely...
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Loveddddd writing this! If you have any requests for more Daddy butcher (Or anything else!) feel free to send them over!! Also open to talk about you may think he's into :3
Billy, from a family cursed by an ancient forest, has been preparing since childhood for a deadly hunt for a mythical doe with golden horns in order to remove the curse from his family. Entering the thicket, he encounters not just a monster, but the living soul of the forest, which makes him doubt everything his fathers taught him.
Warnings: Cruelty and violence, Hunting scenes, killing of a living being, Psychological pressure, Atmosphere of paranoia, obsessive repetition of fear, loss of identity and memory, feeling of hopelessness, Bodily changes, Death and loss, curse, lack of a happy ending.
~2800 words
English is not my first language
His first gun weighed more than he did. Billy was seven years old when his father put him on his knees in the snow and said:
«The forest is evil. It breathes. It waits. It wants you to forget the way home. Your job is not to let it win.»
His father said this every morning. His grandfather said this every night. His great-grandfather, whose portrait hung above the fireplace, looked at Billy with glassy eyes and also silently said this. In their family, there were no men who died in their beds. They all went into the forest. They all returned to the earth, but not to the human one – to the one that smelled of moss and decay.
Billy learned to shoot before he learned to read. His fingers remembered the cold of steel better than the warmth of his mother's hand. He knew: when his turn came, he would have to enter the forest. Not to survive. But to bring back a trophy – the golden horn of the doe that had cursed his family many centuries ago. Only then would the curse be lifted. Only then could his son live not in the shadow of the forest, but in the sun. That was how he got the scar on his forehead and yet another lecture about gun safety.
"The forest is evil," his father repeated, adjusting the sight on Billy's rifle when he turned ten. "It beckons. It whispers. It promises you what you don't have. But if you enter, it won't give it back. It will only take."
«What does it take?» Billy asked once, when they were sitting by the fire, and the flame traced long, flickering shadows across his father's face.
«Memory,» his father answered. «First you forget your children's names. Then you forget your own name. And then you forget that you are human at all.»
And he showed Billy his palm. On it, right at the cuticle, a thin bark was already beginning to show. Dry, hard, unyielding. His father laughed then – dryly, like the crackling of branches.
«I can already feel the wind blowing through me,» he said. «You have to finish this, son. Finish it for all of us.»
His entire childhood was preparation for one shot.
The forest greeted him with a silence that was louder than any scream.
Billy crossed the border at dawn, where the last trees of the village parted, giving way to the first trunks covered in silvery moss. His father said: «Never go in without an iron rim on your gun. The forest does not like iron, but it fears it.» Billy carried a double-barreled shotgun.
Three steps in.
The fourth.
On the fifth, he turned around, but the village was already gone. In its place stood a wall of fog – dense, milky, smelling of rotten bark and something sweet, like overripe berries. The skin on the back of his neck tightened, as if the forest had touched him with invisible fingers. For the first few hours, he walked along animal trails. The trunks were too straight, too smooth, as if someone's hands had rubbed them. The bark on them gleamed like old skin, and in the crevices Billy noticed eye sockets – empty, but aimed at him. His father had walked the same path twenty years ago. And his grandfather. And his great-grandfather, whose name no one remembered anymore, because the curse ate not only bodies but also memory. Billy carried three bullets on his belt – and only one for himself. The barrel of the gun felt hot even in that icy air. But hotter still was the aching emptiness under his ribs – the place where fear used to live. He thought only of the golden horn, which, once broken, would make the curse disappear forever.
He kept his finger on the trigger.
In the second hour, he heard footsteps. Not animal ones – human ones. Soft, with a hint of moisture.
He stopped. The footsteps stopped.
«Who is there?» he asked, and the gun trembled in his hands.
There was no answer. Only the wind stirred the leaves, and a drop fell from an upper branch. It landed on his shoulder. It was warm, like blood.
In the third hour, he noticed that the trees were changing shape. Their branches reached for him not like branches, but like arms – too long fingers, bent at the elbows. Beneath the bark, faces were emerging. Not clear ones, but blurred – like fingerprints on wet clay. Billy could hear them breathing. The forest breathed deeply, slowly, like a sleeping beast.
"The forest consumes everyone who enters it," they said in the village. The old men crossed themselves when Billy walked past. The old women hid their eyes. He was already dead to them. And he almost believed it himself.
Billy looked ahead. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the faces slowly open its mouth – silently, wide, like a fish thrown onto the shore.
Gold flashed between the grey trunks, like a sunbeam in a broken mirror. Billy fired without thinking – pure muscle memory, honed over years to automatism. The bullet embedded itself in the bark of an old oak, a couple of inches from where the doe's head had just been. The fur flared up and vanished. He rushed after it, tearing his face on branches, scratching his hands on bark, feeling the forest move around him. The trees changed places. The trails closed up with moss behind him. But he ran. Because whoever stops in this forest ceases to be human. On the third night, he came across an old hut. Inside it smelled of dry herbs and decay. On the walls hung guns – old, rusted, with names he had memorized as a child. They had all made it to this hut. They had all sat here and waited. And none of them had come out.
Billy lit a fire, staring at the red embers. He saw his fingers beginning to grow a thin bark at the very cuticle, where the nails meet the skin. Wood. The first sign. He scraped it off with his nail, and under the bark was fresh pink skin, but it was moist, like a plant's. The forest was beginning to dissolve him. The forest was digesting him alive.
He lay on his back, looking up at the canopy, feeling his lungs fill with something viscous, like resin. And then, suddenly, gold. She stood right in front of the hut, at shooting distance. Her antlers – thin, delicate, like lace – shimmered as if molten metal burned inside them.
«You came to kill me,» she said, and her voice sounded not in his ears, but in his chest. Like a second heart. Like an echo in an empty well.
Billy laughed hoarsely. The laugh came out dry, like an autumn leaf.
She stepped closer. And he noticed that her legs, graceful as branches, left not tracks on the moss, but flowers. Small, white, with cold centres. They bloomed behind her and died within a minute, leaving a faint scent of bitterness.
«You are not the first,» she said, kneeling beside him. He looked at her, and for the first time in many years, he did not see prey. He saw something that wanted to die. That longed for it the way a traveller longs for water. She wanted him to kill her. Not because she hated life – but because she was tired of being the only one.
«The forest is eating you,» she said, touching his temple. «In two days, you will stop remembering your name. You will become an oak. In three days, the wind. And in four, you will be gone altogether. Only roots. Only rustling.»
«I know,» he whispered.
She stood up and stepped back. Her antlers gleamed in the morning light, and he noticed that one of them was chipped at the tip. As if someone had already tried to saw it off. As if someone had almost succeeded.
«You want to save your village. And your people. So I will tell you the truth. The golden horn does not belong to me. I am merely the keeper. The horn is the forest. Break it – the forest dies. And everyone inside dies too. I die too. But if you kill me – not the horn, but me – then the curse will be lifted. Only that way. Your bullet must not hit the horn. It must hit the heart.»
Billy looked at her, and his hand gripped the gun. She smiled. Her smile was warm, alive – too alive for a creature that was supposed to be a myth. Time in the forest flowed differently – it did not pass, it crept, like resin down bark. She told him about the forest. About how the trees remember every step, every word, every tear. About how she became the soul of this place not by her own will, but because someone had cursed her many centuries ago. And now she could not die. Could not leave. Only wait until the true hunter came.
She spoke, and Billy looked at her hands, with fingers that ended in a faint golden glow. She touched his shoulder, and where her fingers met his skin, the pain receded. The bark on his hands became softer. His breathing deepened.
«We could be together. Here. In the forest. You would not become a tree. You would be… mine. And I would be yours. The forest would stop eating you, if I asked.»
Billy was silent. In his chest beat one heart – duty to his father. She looked at him with such hope that he wanted to close his eyes. She was beautiful with that special beauty that does not appear in people's dreams, but comes to them just before death. Her eyes were like lakes, deep, reflecting all the stars that had never been lit above this forest. He gripped the gun tighter, and the cold steel burned his palm, pulling him back to reality.
«The forest is evil,» he heard his father's voice. Clear, hard, like a gunstock. «It beckons. It whispers. It promises you what you don't have. But if you enter, it won't give it back. It will only take.»
She is the forest. She promises him love. She promises him life. But his father warned him. His grandfather warned him. His great-grandfather was silent, but his glassy eyes in the portrait also warned him.
«You are lying,» said Billy, and his voice wavered. The forest cannot love. The forest only takes.
She recoiled. The pain in her eyes was real – too real to be an act.
«You said I had to kill you,» he said, raising the gun. «You said the bullet had to hit the heart. You are deceiving me. You want me to stay. You want me to forget who I am. But I remember. I remember everything.»
«I am not deceiving you. If I leave, the forest will remain alive. It will breathe. It will wait for the next one. Only the horn… if you break the horn, everything will end.»
Billy looked at her antlers. Golden. Warm. Radiating light. And in them swirled the same longing as in her eyes. He believed her. He believed every cell of her, every breath. But his father's voice was louder.
She fell asleep at his shoulder at dawn. Exhaustion had broken her – she had waited too long, been alone too long. Her breathing became steady, the golden light on her antlers dimmed, becoming like ordinary gold – dead, cold, lifeless.
Billy looked at her. At her face, relaxed in sleep. At her hands, which had touched him so tenderly. At her lips, which had whispered his name.
He raised the gun. And lowered it. He raised his hand to her head, running it through her shining hair to the patterned antlers, thinner than his little finger, and so beautiful. She opened her eyes the moment his fingers touched the gold. Her gaze held not pain, not terror – only quiet, infinite sadness. She did not cry out. She did not try to stop him.
She whispered:
«I forgive you.»
Crack. The golden horn split like a dry branch. Light burst from it – blinding, white, searing – and died. At that same moment, the ground beneath Billy's feet shuddered. The forest groaned. The trees began to die. Not fall – simply wither. Leaves curled into tubes, blackened, fell off. Bark cracked, revealing dry, dead wood. Moss turned grey, turning to dust. Grass wilted, breaking like old bones.
And she – the doe, the soul of the forest – was melting before his eyes. Gold flowed out of her like water from a broken jug. Her body became transparent, like morning mist. Her eyes were still open, and there was no reproach in them. «They killed me seven times,» she smiled weakly. «Each time I was born again. But now… I will not return.»
She touched his cheek. Her fingers were almost weightless now.
«You won, hunter,» she whispered. «You destroyed the evil. I hope it was worth it.»
She vanished. Simply dissolved into the air, leaving behind only the smell of wet leaves and the broken golden horn in Billy's hands.
The forest died hard – with a wheeze, with a crack, with the smell of rot and ash.
Billy looked at the horn in his hands. It was broken. The curse was lifted. He was free.
But freedom smelled of death.
He walked back for three days. The forest no longer moved, no longer whispered, no longer beckoned. It was dead. Dry trunks stood like burnt matches. The silence was so deep that his ears rang. No birds, no animals, no wind.
On the fourth day, he reached the border. Where the wall of fog had once stood, there was now emptiness. Dead land stretched to the horizon, and in the centre of that emptiness stood a lone willow.
Billy walked closer and saw that at the very base, among the roots, something golden was hidden. A small, broken horn. Just like the one he carried in his hand.
He knelt and touched the ground. It was dry as ash. No moisture. No life. The willow stood, and in its branches Billy heard a whisper – not in any language he knew, but something natural, something that flew in and scattered the morning dew with the dawn. Billy raised his eyes to the sky. It was grey, empty, without sun. Butcher looked at his hands. The bark on them was gone. He was human again.
His name was carved on a stone in the centre of the square. They gave him land, built him a house, found him a bride – quiet, rosy-cheeked, smelling of bread. He married. A son was born to him. Everything was as it should be.
But every night he dreamed of gold. He dreamed of her – the doe with human eyes. She stood in the centre of the dead forest, by that willow, and looked at him without pain, without reproach. Only with sadness.
The forest beyond the village border no longer gave berries. At first, the old women wondered why the raspberries did not ripen and the blueberries fell off green. The mushrooms, which used to sprout from the ground like soldiers after rain, no longer appeared. Then they fell silent. Hunters returned empty-handed – no hare, no boar, no bird. Game had vanished, as if it had never been there. Traps stood empty for weeks, and rust appeared on them faster than usual, as if the earth itself was turning away from metal.
Now there was emptiness there. A grey, dead field that stretched to the very edge of the sky, and in the centre of that field stood a lone willow, like the last candle in a dark church. It had not died. It was the only living thing in all that emptiness, and its green seemed so bright, so wrong against the grey, lifeless earth. Its trunk was thick, twisted, covered in cracks, but from those cracks no resin flowed – from them came a faint golden light. It pulsed, like a slow heartbeat. The wind stirred the willow's branches, and its leaves rustled thinly, high, almost painfully. They were golden. Not yellow – real golden, shimmering like molten metal, like scales, like fire.
He reached out and touched one of them. The leaf was soft, almost velvety, but when his fingers squeezed it, it did not break. It simply grew warm, like a coin held too long in a fist.
They left the next day. Billy loaded a cart – dry bread, a sack of flour, warm clothes, a cradle for his son.
A month later, they reached a new place – a town by the river, where the earth still remembered moisture.
Billy did not return. He no longer slept peacefully. He knew: the willow was waiting. It would wait forever, because gold does not die. It simply waits for someone to touch it again.
And one day, when his son grows up and asks:
«Father, what is a forest?»
He will answer:
«The forest is evil. It breathes. It waits. It wants you to forget the way home.»
willow in many cultures is considered a symbol of sadness, sorrow and mourning. This association is due to its characteristic appearance of drooping, long branches that resemble tears, as well as its frequent appearance in funeral rites.
Summary: A young warm-water mermaid, who grew up in a pack where the depth is considered deadly, accidentally meets a kraken living at the bottom in the wreckage of an old ship.
(CW / TW): Violence / Trauma, Psychological Pressure, Social Rejection, References to Death, Emotional Vulnerability
~2600 words
English is not my primary language.
You were one of the warm-water mermaids, with hair that gleamed like seashells and scales that sparkled beautifully in the sun. Frequent games by the water were cheerful pastimes with your sisters and friends; your brothers from the pod taught you how to catch small fish for supper, driving predatory and dangerous fish farther away from the family. You always thought that the same fate awaited you as your other friends.
While gathering underwater shells, you would notice beautiful stones and corals on the deep bottom, and sometimes entire sunken ships. Mermaids had long been forbidden from approaching them, warned about the danger of the wreckage and the unpleasant cold water in the depths. The boys always broke this rule, bringing their girlfriends trinkets or baubles from the cold bottom. You wrinkled your nose when yet another merman returned from the cold depths without a reprimand, while your girlfriends loved to bask in the warmth by the empty shores.
One day, you noticed a pattern—the trinkets had similar imprints. On the glass remained a damp, predatory burn, a flawless ring, as if etched by acid. You weren't stupid; the sudden shipwrecks in that area and the elders' frequent talk about the kraken were the reason for the ban on stealing his trinkets and descending to the bottom. Your interest was only fueled by this, making you want to go down and see for yourself.
The elders announced one day that they would soon leave this place, and you managed to slip down unnoticed to where you had never been. The water felt colder and darker. Your fingers slid over rough rocks, eager to descend faster. You didn't notice the too-large drop-off near the very bottom. The stone met your tail with a clang, as if you had struck crystal against granite. Silvery scales scattered like a fan, swirling through the water like coins. At the center of the bruise gaped a ragged wound, like a bitten pearl, and the edges of the scaly covering curled upward, exposing tender, twitching flesh. Panic immediately rose to your throat, making you cover the bruise with your hand and look around. The dark water thickened the panic, and the smell of your own blood reminded you that a predator would find you faster than you could return.
And worst of all, what you had so longed to see at the bottom. The ship lay on its side, its keel deeply embedded in the sand. Its masts were broken like matchsticks and stuck out at unnatural angles, tangled with brown seaweed. Instead of sails, tattered rags swayed in time with the current, like the wings of dead birds. Light barely reached here. Sunbeams trembled somewhere above, and in the hold reigned a greenish-blue twilight, where the outlines of cannons and barrels dissolved into ghostly shadows. Around you was absolute silence—no creaking, no knocking, only the muffled pressure of water against your ears.
Curiosity overcame fear, and the mermaid swam closer to the large vessel. Inside it was even darker, and her eyes struggled to adjust as she tried to make out something. She dived through a breach and saw not the bright baubles her brothers often brought from the bottom, but a pile of tentacles that she mistook for thickets of coral or anchor chains. Only upon closer inspection did she notice that these "ropes" were too perfectly shaped and covered not with growths but with suckers, each the size of her palm.
The kraken did not move. He was wedged into the hull so tightly that he seemed part of it. His enormous body filled the entire captain's cabin, pressing the rotted deck downward. Two of the thickest tentacles coiled around the broken bowsprit like snakes, frozen in that pose. A third hung down through the breach, motionless like a stalagmite. He wasn't crushing the ship—he was sitting in it, like a spider in a discarded jar.
Inside, she felt everything turn to ice. She smelled a mixture of old wood, iodine, and something musty, like from a deep cave. And most of all—silence. The kraken breathed so slowly it was imperceptible. But she knew he saw her. In the darkness of the hold, only the outline of his bulk was visible, and that outline filled the entire space, leaving no room for air.
She froze. One minute. Two. She thought he was sleeping or dead. She began to slowly back away, barely moving her fin. And at that moment, one of the tentacles hanging near her slowly uncoiled, aiming its sucker directly at her, wrapping around her waist just above the cut that was again throbbing painfully. And the mermaid understood: he had known about her the whole time, just waiting for her to come within striking distance.
Her attempts to break free ended in failure, irritating her skin against the slimy tentacle. She chirped pleas in her language, incomprehensible to his ears—a wounded bird to a predator, already like a ready-made dessert. The darkness allowed your eyes to see the monster. A torso with patterns like your elders', black ink forming strange designs you had never seen. A thick chain around his neck, a beard, and slightly curly hair, with a gaze so painfully sad that all desire to fight vanished. He finally pulled back from the ship's walls, touching her tail with rough hands near the noticeable bruise. A second tentacle, covered in slime, gently pressed against the wound. The slime was cold and viscous but instantly sealed the edges of the cut with a film, stopping the blood.
The kraken made a low, pulsating sound—something between a groan and a rumble—as if explaining: "Bear it, little one, this is sea salt; it disinfects." The mermaid squealed in pain but immediately felt a third tentacle stroke her head, distracting her, like a mother calming her cub. There was a frightening gentleness in his movements, incompatible with his size. The pain subsided, and feeling the kraken release her from his embrace, she quickly swam away and hid higher in the seaweed. Marks from his tentacles remained on her body. She didn't want anyone to see her like this, so she spent the whole day by the coral, gathering food and useful trinkets so no one would notice she had returned later than usual. The elder frowned slightly at her scrape, repeating her rules about the importance of safety. You didn't let anyone treat your wound, since none of the mermaids use salty slime for injuries. You slept sweetly in the pleasant seaweed that the sun persistently warmed each morning.
The next day, trying to learn from the elders about underwater creatures, you heard the same thing: you cannot believe or trust those who live so deep.
Three days passed. Three days in which you carefully avoided the dark water, pretending you had forgotten the strange incident. You laughed with your sisters, caught fish with your brothers, and nodded at the elders when they started up their song about how "there is nothing in the depths but cold and death."
But every night, when your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you saw his gaze before you. Sad. Tired. Understanding. And the marks on your tail—neat circles, healed with a thin, pearlescent film.
On the fourth night, you couldn't resist.
The moon had just begun to silver the water when you left your native reef. Your heart pounded somewhere in your throat, but your tail carried you downward. Into the cold. Into the darkness. Where the sunbeams grew thinner and then vanished entirely. You gave yourself a chance to change your mind. But when you saw him on the border of light and shadow—huge, motionless, grown into the old ship—he didn't stir. Only his eyes—two dim green lanterns in the depths—watched you. And when you stopped a few meters away, not daring to swim closer, one of his tentacles slowly swayed forward. Not toward you. To the side. There, on the bottom, in a crevice of the rock, lay a small object—a glass ball with a flame frozen inside. Like a tiny sun trapped in a transparent cage. You swam over and carefully picked it up. And when you turned around, the kraken had already moved back a little deeper, speaking in your mermaid tongue, which you thought he didn't know: "This is for you. For coming."
You came to him at dawn when the elders left to hunt. You brought him warm water from the surface in coiled seaweed that stored the sun's heat all day. You left small fish at the entrance to his lair, caught early in the morning. Billy showed you sunken cities that lay deeper than even the bravest mermaids dared to swim. He guided your hand over the carvings on ancient columns, and you felt under your fingers a history that couldn't be read in books. He told you about people who once walked those streets, about their gods and fears, about love and war. His voice was low, like the rumble of the deep, but you heard tenderness in it. Then you finally learned his name, and he learned yours.
The elders began to notice your absence. You made excuses—exploring new currents, gathering rare shells, cleaning the reef. But the elder, the one who wore a necklace of shark teeth, once pulled you aside.
"You smell different," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Of the depths. You went down?"
You shook your head, not looking away.
She stared at you for a long time. Then she said something that made your heart clench:
"You're not the first, girl. Twenty years ago, a mermaid like you thought she loved the deep. She gave him everything. And he devoured her light."
You knew she was lying. You felt it. But there was such certainty in her voice that for a moment you doubted.
He was waiting at the very edge, and when he saw you, something warm flickered in his gaze. But you didn't swim closer. You stopped five meters away, finally seeing by the old ship the stones used for burial markings. A design too large for you to have missed while swimming near the bottom. Spirals like his tentacles, stretching into infinity, and at the center of each—emptiness. You ran your fingers over the grooves, and they burned with cold, even though the water around was comfortably warm.
"It's not a burial," his voice came from behind. You flinched and turned. He wasn't looking at you but at the stones. "It's a memorial. To those who are no longer here."
"I didn't kill them," he said quietly. "I tried to save them."
You listened to him all night.
He spoke of a time when the depths weren't dark. When forests of glowing seaweed grew on the bottom, and in them lived creatures that mermaids had never seen. He spoke of his family—of brothers whose tentacles were longer than his, of a mother who sang at a frequency inaudible to human ears, and a father who could stop a current with a single movement.
"We didn't attack ships," he said, and for the first time bitterness crept into his voice. "We guarded the border. Where the light ends, our home begins. Ships fell on their own—storms, rocks, their own stupidity. We only took what was left to keep the iron from rusting and poisoning the water."
"But the elders said…" you began.
"Your elders are the ones who conspired with hunters," he interrupted. "They were afraid. Not of us. They were afraid you'd learn the truth. That we're not monsters. That the depths aren't hostile. That you might go down and no longer need their protection."
He fell silent. His eyes—those two dim green lanterns—looked at you with such longing that your breath caught.
"She was a shapeshifter priestess—could be both in the depths and on the surface. She taught me your language. She said that one day we'd find a way to live together. Mermaids and krakens, light and darkness. They killed her because she believed in that. She was my first love."
"Why didn't you kill me then?" you asked. "The first time. I trespassed in your home, I was wounded, I smelled of blood."
"You smelled of curiosity. Like her," Butcher replied.
You began to visit him more often. Not only at dawn but also at dusk, when the water turned orange and fish hid in the coral. You stopped making excuses. You just swam away, leaving your sisters on the reef, and dove down to where he waited.
He showed you how to feel the depth. How to read the currents—not with your eyes, but with your whole body. How to find clean water even in the darkest place. He taught you the language of touch, because words were too slow for those who live in silence. You brought him fish with bright scales, and he admired them before releasing them back into the water. You brought him your laughter, your sisters', your pod's—and he absorbed it like a sponge.
The elder with the shark-tooth necklace didn't let up.
You felt her gaze on you even when you swam at the surface. She watched you silently, narrowing her eyes, and you knew: she was looking for proof.
One day, as you were returning from the depths, she blocked your path.
"You've been with him," she said, not a question. "You smell of him. Of strange water, of a strange life. I warned you, girl."
"You lied to me," you answered, and your voice came out firmer than you expected. "You said he devoured her light. You said she was a mermaid who loved the deep. But she was a priestess. You killed her. You and your hunters."
The elder froze. Her face, always calm, flickered for the first time.
"You killed his brothers and his mate to preserve your fear and your power."
"You don't understand," the elder grabbed your arm, her fingers digging into your skin. "If you learn there's life in the depths, if you stop being afraid, you'll go down. We'll lose you. The pod will die."
"The pod will die from fear," you said, pulling your arm free. "Not from the truth."
You swam to him that night with trembling hands.
He was waiting at the very edge—where light meets darkness. His tentacles swayed slowly in the water, and his eyes looked at you with that same sadness you'd seen the first time. He said nothing. Billy extended a tentacle and gently touched your cheek—where the elder had left a red mark from a slap.
At dawn, you didn't return to the pod.
You left a farewell song on the reef—a melody your sisters would recognize if they knew how to listen. You left them shells gathered from the depths and a tuft of seaweed that held the light of your last sunlit swim.
You dove down to where the water became dark and cold.
He was waiting.
He stood by his ship—old, broken, turned into his home, his prison, his sanctuary. His eyes glowed with warm green light when he saw you.
He embraced you carefully, almost weightlessly, as if you were made of glass. His tentacles wrapped around you, warming, protecting. And you pressed against his chest, hearing how slowly, deeply, like the ocean, his heart beat.
"I don't want you to cry," he said. "But if you want to—here it will always be dark. No one will see your tears but me."
He looked at you, and in his eyes a spark lit—the first in many centuries.
"You are my light."
And at that moment, as he spoke those words, everything around you began to glow. Thousands of tiny luminescent creatures, which you had never noticed before, rose from the bottom, enveloping you in warm radiance. The depth came alive—it wasn't dark; it was full of life. You just hadn't known how to see it.
"Welcome home," he said.
And you understood: wherever he was, it would always be warm. Even in the deepest darkness.
Thanks to everyone who read to the end. I will be grateful for any interaction with the post
- Warnings: smut, morning sex, spooning, possessive behavior, rough/heavy petting, dirty talk, pet names (pet, good girl). reader is bottom. no plot.
You’re still half asleep, curled on your side , when you feel the solid weight of Butcher spooning behind you. You barely have time to register he’s awake before his lips are pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck, his stubble grazing you in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.
He lets out a satisfied hum against your back, pressing himself firmly against you. He’s in no rush ,choosing to tease and warm himself against you. He moves your panties to the side just enough to find his way halfway in, letting you feel the pressure of his desire, before he reaches down and pushes the rest of the fabric aside to guide himself the rest of the way inside you in one smooth and agonisingly slow motion.
He doesn’t waste time with sweet nothings.“That it’s, good girl. Open up for me.” He murmurs into the back of your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’ve been watchin’ you sleep for the last ten minutes, wonderin’ just how long it’d take you to wake up for me,”he rumbles, his voice thick and rough with sleep.
He doesn’t give you the chance to answer as he grinds his hips to bury himself deeper inside of you. His grip on your waist tightening until you’re arching back against him, completely undone by the, sudden and intensive movement.
He lets out a low, guttural growl, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he finds his pace. It’s fast, heavy and relentless. “That’s it love” he huffs against your skin, his voice vibrating right through you. “ God, you’re so tight.. just squeezin’ me like you never want me to leave.”
He grinds down harder, making sure there's absolutely no room between you, and you can feel his smug grin against your neck. “That’s a good girl. You’re so fuckin’ wet for me, ain’t ya? Just keep shiverin’ like that.. you’re mine,all mine.”
I had so much fun writing this! My requests are open for Billy butcher imagines , so if you’ve got a scenario you’d love to read please go ahead and ask! Also drop questions if you’re wondering if Butcher would be into something and I’ll let you know with a short snippet!
Summary: Captain Billy Butcher, an experienced sailor, encounters a siren while sailing. At first, he perceives her as an ordinary maritime danger and orders the crew to muffle her singing with noise. However, his obsession is growing.
Warnings about the content: Psychological stress, The theme of obsession and self-destruction, Scenes of intimacy, Alcohol, The theme of loneliness.
~3,150 words
There was a small storm trailing the ship, and the floorboards creaked as usual. Billy was crossing off the islands they had managed to plunder over the past few weeks. Their provisions would last them a long while yet. He picked out a few more targets for raiding before consulting the entire crew.
Feeling the weather worsen, the captain barked orders across the vessel. The crew furled the sails, reducing speed, secured the cargo, and left a pair of lookouts on the bow to watch the waves and shout warnings.
The captain sent the rest below deck for safety, while he remained on the bridge to monitor the waves and wind. A light rain intensified, soaking his dark frock coat with its gilded buttons. Everything proceeded as usual. Even when the boatswain handled the sails, the captain kept an eye on whether the mast was overloaded. Wet ropes glistened under the cold light, and the blue moon traced silhouettes across the wet deck. The wind whipped his damp clothes, making them flap unpleasantly.
A thunderclap struck somewhere behind them; the ship slowly approached rocky islands. In normal times, there might have been a military ambush there, but in bad weather, nature itself was the main danger. Captain Butcher took the helm personally, sent the sharpest-eyed sailors to the bowsprit and the tops with a whistle, and turned the ship stern‑to toward the island when the wind blew onto the rocks. The wind was not strong, allowing them to leave just one tiny sail on the mizzenmast so that the stern remained downwind, but the ship would not pick up speed. The captain stood astern, watching the foam around the rocks. The moon painted cold blue waves, and he heard a sweet singing. Lifting his head toward his men in the crew, he sensed that he was not the only one who had heard the siren. Firing a shot into the air, he gave the order: "Hey, on the forecastle! Plug your ears with rags! That's Spanish witch‑poison, not a wench!" The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. To avoid spreading panic, he ordered the cannons fired with blank charges or the ship's bell rung—loud noise would drown out the sirens' voices.
The ship left the dangerous reef‑strewn area. Butcher gave orders to steer the vessel and went below. In his logbook, a succinct entry would appear: "Saw a sea monster. Gave it a wide berth. Crew sober."
Days passed, and the sweet songs still sounded at night. During a check, the captain realised that one man was paying attention to it. To tell the crew would mean being thrown overboard, so he silently blamed the drink for the problem.
Another evening slipped into night. Butcher gazed at the water—its gleam deceptively sketched a fin and a tail. As soon as darkness fell, he heard her call again. Billy looked around in confusion and caught a glitter of sea scales and what seemed like eyes, with that predatory gleam that draws your gaze. Panic stirred somewhere in his gut, making him take a few steps back. "Boatswain, question the lookouts. Who else on the bridge, besides me, looked to port during the third bell? Have them come forward," Butcher ordered, without saying what he himself had seen. And the result was disheartening for the captain: no one had seen anything except him. Although Billy was sure he had seen the gleam of her hair and wet skin, predatory eyes ready to devour him. He would never ask "did anyone see a siren"—that would sound weak, as if he were seeking support. Billy would mention "strange objects," "voices," or "smoke." And if any sailor confessed first, the captain would send him to the hold to clean out the rats.
Billy returned to his private cabin on the ship. Everything was so familiar: the narrow bed, the chart table, the chest for money and weapons, the kerosene lamp. The only thing that had changed in the past few days was the sketches of a mysterious silhouette in the water—sketches of her face, her form. He did not notice when night fell. He was on deck again, hearing her call again. Could it really be the rum? Perhaps lack of sleep was playing tricks on his old brain, making him see a beautiful mermaid over the side? In his thoughts, she already seemed real, about to drag him under with her sweet voice. The wood groaned pitifully as the captain's hands gripped too tightly. On board, everyone had long realised something was off with the captain, blaming it all on alcohol. The sea was calm, and only he paced the ship. The salt spray from over the side invigorated him even as it reminded him of danger. He stood almost at the edge, looking down at the whitecaps, in which he had managed to spot the siren that was driving him mad. Lost in thought, he did not notice the water splash nearby. "Probably a fish," flashed through his mind. Self‑deception again, trying to prove to himself that he was not going crazy over a mermaid who wanted to take him to the bottom.
The distance to the water was about a metre—they had taken on so much cargo that the ship sat lower than usual. Without taking his eyes off the sea, he heard a more insistent splash that jolted him from his thoughts. The mermaid, right in front of him, was not as frightening as in those nights. From her slightly pink lips came a song that took his breath away, making him forget everything. The singing was interrupted by her laughter—like wind chimes—bringing him back to reality as she dived under the water again, surfacing elsewhere. He drew his pistol from his belt, aiming it at her. He would try to outwit her, to keep her from singing, since legends said sirens did not attack without songs. And he spoke with a slight smirk: "Hey, beauty! I'm deaf in one ear, and the other's busy—I'm counting debts here. Save your singing for the Spaniards—their silver rings brighter."
The mermaid did not dive. She paused, lazily stirring the water with her fingers, and laughed softly again, as if she knew a joke understood only by her. Her voice, even without singing, vibrated in the air, resonating somewhere in Butcher's chest with a heavy, syrupy warmth.
"Deaf captain," she said, and her voice sounded not in his ears but directly in his head, "you're funnier than anyone who's sailed here in a hundred years. But you're lying. You hear me even through wax. You hear me in your dreams." She leaned forward, and Billy saw her eyes up close. They were not empty, like a shark's, as he had imagined before—they were old. Infinitely ancient, full of hungry curiosity, and in them sloshed the same cold moonlight as on the wet deck. He did not shoot. His hand with the pistol wavered. Instead, slowly, as if in a trance, he lowered the weapon. He did not see a monster. He saw a mirror of his own loneliness.
"Get lost," he said, but his voice cracked. "You have no power. I am the captain. I am not afraid of death."
"Who's talking about death?" She tilted her head; wet hair streamed over her shoulders, baring her neck. "I don't want to drown you, Billy Butcher."
He swallowed. His throat was parched from salt and the fear he refused to admit. "If I run for help from every sea creature, the crew will think I've lost my mind. Or that I'm drunk. And the only thing worse than a drunk captain is a dead captain." She laughed again, but this time the laugh was softer, almost warm. She threw her head back, and the moonlight slid over her damp skin, the curve of her neck, the collarbones that disappeared beneath the water. Butcher noticed that the scales on her thighs shimmered not silver, as he had expected, but a strange, deep blue, like the ocean on the darkest night.
"You're not afraid of me," she said, and her voice suddenly lost that magical vibration. It became almost human. Almost vulnerable. "You're afraid they'll see the truth. That they'll see you looking at the water, searching for something... someone."
"You see emptiness," she said quietly. "You see shores that will never be home. You see your ships sinking into the water, and people dying with your name on their lips. And you see me."
Butcher flinched, as if struck. He fired a sharp, loud shot—too loud, making his head feel like it was exploding. He fell onto his back and saw not the night sky but the wooden planks of his cabin. Heavy breathing and the thumping of his heart brought him back to real life. He heard again the creak of floorboards, the murmur of conversation on deck, the smell of wood and wet ropes. And was that a dream?
The next morning, Butcher came on deck with a headache, as if he had been drinking raw rum all night, though he had not touched a bottle. The salt on his lips tasted like the echo of her voice. He scanned the crew: sailors fiddled with rigging, the boatswain grumbled while checking the lines. Everything was normal. Everything was in its place. Only inside him something had shifted, cracked.
He walked to the taffrail astern, where he had stood the night before. On the wood, barely noticeable, gleamed a transparent slime, like fish oil. Butcher rubbed it with his finger, smeared it. No doubt—it was real. But instead of the fear he should have felt, a strange, viscous feeling spread inside him. She had been here. She had spoken to me. Not in a dream. He clenched his teeth. He could order harpoons armed, pour a barrel of tar over the side to drive her away, order no one to approach the rail. But he did none of that. Instead, he ordered the course changed two points eastward, to warmer, calmer waters where the sea was clearer and the nights darker. He told the crew it was for better weather.
The boatswain, an old sea dog with a face carved by winds, eyed the captain with a squint. "Something's off with you, Captain—lately you don't look at the charts much. Just stare at the water. Looking for a girl out there, are you?" He chuckled, not realising how close to the truth he was. Butcher spun around. His look was such that the boatswain, no fool, immediately bit his tongue and stepped back toward the helm. A girl. If only they knew. If only they knew that this "girl" could be harnessed to the cannons in place of cannonballs—so much strength was in her.
During the day, he tried to attend to business. Checked the holds, counted barrels of salt beef, argued with the cook over foul water. But his thoughts were over the side. He heard the slap of waves, and it seemed to him that rhythm, a whisper, lay in that slap. He almost heard her name, though she had never told it to him.
Everything changed on the third night.
He came on deck, ordering the lookouts to stay at their posts, and stood on the forecastle, in the shadow of the furled sails. He was not waiting for her. He knew she would come. She appeared silently, rising from the dark water like a thought that had long lived in his head. Tonight she was closer, almost touching the hull with her hands. Her eyes glittered in the dark, but they no longer held that ancient predation. In them was mockery. And, more frighteningly, recognition.
"You came back here, Billy," she said, and her voice again sounded in his head, soft and insinuating. "You changed course. You brought the ship to warmer water. For me."
He wanted to snap back, to say it was coincidence, that he was the captain and had the right to change course whenever he pleased. But he said nothing. He looked at her face lit by the moon, at the shadows cast by her lashes, and understood that he was lost. She was beautiful with that special, deadly beauty that does not visit people in dreams but comes to them on the brink of death.
"Why do you come to me?" he asked hoarsely, gripping the rail so hard his knuckles went white. The mermaid smiled. Her smile was warm, almost human, but deep in her pupils flickered a cold, ancient light.
"Because you look at me not as prey," she said. "You look at me the way you look at emptiness. You don't want to kill me. You want me to fill that hole inside you. Am I right?" But never had he felt such loneliness as now, standing before her. He could order shots fired. He could go to his cabin and bolt the door. Instead, he stepped forward.
"You can't fill the hole," he said, and for the first time in years, weakness crept into his voice. "You're just a dream. Or delirium. Or a curse."
She laughed, but the laugh was quiet, melodic, like wind chimes. She leaned back, turned in the water, and for a moment he saw her tail, shimmering dark blue in the moonlight. It was mesmerising.
"Then why do you look at me, Captain Billy Butcher?" she asked, surfacing again before him. Her face was inches from his. He smelled the sea, seaweed, and something sweet, like rotting fruit. "If I'm just a dream, order yourself to wake up."
She dived, and her hand brushed against his palm resting on the rail. Her fingers were cold as water, but that cold burned him. He flinched but did not pull his hand away. He looked down at the water, where her silhouette flickered beneath the surface, and felt his heart beat faster than in any battle.
Billy did not sleep until dawn. He sat in his cabin, staring at the palm she had touched. The skin there still held a strange cold, but that cold did not frighten him—it beckoned. He ran his fingers over the spot and felt a shiver run down his spine.
In the morning, he came on deck haggard, with red eyes. The crew whispered behind his back. The boatswain, the old grumbler, dared to ask if he should have some rum to "set him right." Butcher only hissed through his teeth: "Get back to work." But he himself felt that his health had cracked. And the crack was in the shape of a female silhouette.
He ordered them to anchor near a small uninhabited islet. He said they needed to replenish fresh water, though the barrels were nearly full. He simply wanted to stop, wanted silence, wanted to hear her voice again.
In the evening, when the ship's lights were lit, he stood on the bow again. He no longer hid. Billy stood openly, gazing into the dark water, waiting. The lookouts exchanged glances but said nothing: the captain had the right to stare at the sea as long as he liked.
She appeared with the first stars. At first, he noticed only a faint glow beneath the water—her scales shimmered turquoise and silver. Then her head rose above the surface. This time she was not smiling, not singing, not mocking. She simply looked up at him, and in her eyes was silence. She swam to the hull and, nimbly gripping the chains, rose from the water to her waist. Her wet hair fell in heavy strands over her shoulders. She was silent.
"You came," he said, and it sounded not like an accusation but like an admission—like he had missed her. "Why do you want this?" he asked, stepping toward the rail. "Why do you want me? I'm old, I'm dry, I'm covered in gunpowder and salt. My soul is blacker than the hold." She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming strangely. She touched his palm with her hand, and this time he did not pull away. He covered her fingers with his rough, calloused hand. She was icy, but he felt life beating beneath that icy skin—strange, alien, but real. "Aren't you afraid I'll drown you?" she asked.
"You would have drowned me already," he replied. "That's not why you come."
She lowered her eyes and traced his scar with her finger.
"You fell off a cliff," she whispered. "Many years ago. I remember. I saw you. You swam and did not scream. You just swam, and blood trailed behind you. I thought then: this man dies beautifully."
Butcher froze. He had indeed fallen off a cliff twenty years ago. He lost consciousness and woke up on the shore with a cracked skull. Back then, he thought it was a guardian angel. But no. It was her.
"You saved me?" he whispered.
She ducked back under the water, looking away. "You were interesting. And now you stand here, and you're still interesting." She dived back into the water but left something in his hand. A shell. Small, pearlescent, surprisingly warm.
They met every night. He lowered a small boat and went far from the ship, supposedly "checking reefs" or "setting traps." The crew began to suspect something. The boatswain once said to his face:
"Captain, you walk the deck like a ghost. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you stare at the water like a lovesick lad. It's none of my business, but God forbid there's a mutiny in the hold..."
Butcher did not answer. He just looked at the boatswain with such a mix of indifference and menace that the man backed off. He was ready to kill anyone who came between him and his nightly meeting.
That night, he took a bottle of rum with him—not to get drunk, but to warm his hands. She was waiting in a quiet cove where the water was like glass. She lay on a large boulder, her tail dangling into the water, and in the moonlight she looked like a statue of silver and dreams.
"Do you have a name?" he asked, sitting down nearby but not too close. An invisible boundary still lay between them—marine and human. "We don't have names," she answered. "We are just voices. We are just water."
She lifted her head and looked at him for a long moment, her wet eyes reflecting the stars. "I thought of you as 'hot stone.' You were warm even in ice‑cold water."
He laughed bitterly and took a swig of rum.
The siren tilted her head, and her wet hair fell onto his arm, leaving a salty trace.
Butcher took her face in his hands. The mermaid did not resist. Her skin was icy, but her gaze was warm. For the first time in his life, he kissed not a woman, but the sea. He kissed what could never belong to him.
And she kissed him back. Her lips tasted of salt and seaweed, and in that taste was both death and immortality.
Hello there! This is my first experience writing fanfiction. English is not my native language, I hope you enjoyed it <3
01 . ⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ ⠀⠀⠀━╋⠀⠀𖤝 summary ::⠀⠀everyone knows you’re billy butcher’s girl, especially ben. what starts as ben flirting just to piss billy off turns into something much filthier when billy realizes you enjoy the attention more than you’ll admit. || 21k
02 . ⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ ⠀⠀⠀━╋⠀⠀𖤝 content warnings ::⠀⠀billy butcher x fem!reader x ben . established relationship with billy . jealousy . possessive billy . ben being a menace . rough sex . manhandling . degradation . praise . daddy/dada . choking / breath play . face slapping . tit slapping . nipple play . spit . oral sex . balls sucking . messy blowjobs . double penetration . creampie . cum eating . cum feeding . taking pictures during sex . exhibitionism / being watched . dirty talk . overstimulation . humiliation .
navigation . kofi
EVERYONE KNOWS YOU'RE Billy Butcher’s girl, and the funny thing is that Billy acts like he hasn’t spent months making sure of it. He doesn’t announce it with flowers or pretty words, because that isn’t Billy and it never has been.
He announces it with his hand at the small of your back whenever someone steps too close, with the way he passes you his glass without asking because he already knows you’ll steal a sip, with the way his eyes track you across every room like losing sight of you is personally offensive.
He isn’t soft by nature, not in a way most people recognize, but you know the shape of his tenderness better than anyone. It looks like him making sure you’ve eaten before a mission, even when he claims he only ordered too much by accident.
It looks like him keeping your side of the bed warm when you come home late, even though he pretends he fell asleep there because the sofa was uncomfortable. It looks like him getting irritated when you thank him, as if being seen for the gentler parts of himself is worse than being shot at.
You tease him for it constantly, because teasing Billy is one of your favorite dangerous hobbies. He grumbles, calls you a pain in his arse, and still leans into you every time you touch him. That’s love, with Billy, rough around the edges and stubborn enough to survive anything.
Your relationship has never been easy, but easy has never been what you’ve wanted from him. Billy argues like he’s breathing, and half the time he seems to pick fights just so he can have a reason to pull you close afterward.
He’s made you furious more times than you can count, usually by shutting down the second something matters too much. You’ve thrown cushions at his head, slammed doors, stolen his coat out of spite, and told him he’s impossible while he stood there with that awful little smile that said he already knew you weren’t leaving.
He’s called you trouble so many times the word has started to sound like a pet name. You’ve called him a bastard in five different tones, and he knows exactly which one means you’re actually angry and which one means you want him closer.
That’s the thing about Billy, he listens badly until he doesn’t. He misses the obvious emotional conversation, then remembers the tiniest detail about how you take your tea. He can be brutal, careless, sharp, and maddening, but with you, he tries. It isn’t always pretty, but it’s real.
Most people think Billy is the possessive one because he’s louder about it, but you’ve got your own habits too. You notice when he’s too quiet, when his jokes get crueler because something’s dug under his skin, when his shoulders sit higher than usual under his coat. You know when to push and when to wait him out.
You know how to touch his wrist when he’s spiraling without making him feel trapped. You know when his anger is anger and when it’s fear wearing boots. He hates how easily you read him, but he trusts you with it too, and that matters more than any pretty confession could.
Sometimes, when the room is crowded and awful and loud, Billy looks at you once and something in him settles. You’ve seen it happen too many times to pretend it doesn’t. You’re his soft place to land, even if he’d rather chew glass than say it in front of anyone. He’s yours too, though you usually tell him that in quieter ways.
Ben had noticed all of it almost immediately, because Ben noticed things people wished he wouldn’t. He’d seen Billy’s hand curl around the back of your neck during an argument with Frenchie, not tight enough to hurt, just firm enough to remind everyone where you stood.
He’d seen the way you leaned into Billy without thinking, as natural as breathing, like your body trusted him before your mind had to check. He’d seen Billy pass you food from his own plate and pretend it was because you were hovering. He’d seen you roll your eyes and steal another bite anyway.
Ben had watched that strange little domestic ritual with open amusement, his gaze moving between the two of you like he’d found something worth poking. At first, you’d assumed he was only interested because Billy hated being studied.
That made sense, since Ben seemed to live for making Billy’s jaw tick. Then he’d looked at you a little too long, smiled like he’d caught you at something, and called you sweetheart. That was when the problem had started.
Your relationship with Ben had never become friendship in any normal, respectable sense of the word. It was more like tolerance with sharp edges, the kind of arrangement that only worked because neither of you admitted it worked at all.
He was loud, smug, old-fashioned in all the worst ways, and so certain of himself that it made your teeth itch. He walked into rooms like he owned the floorboards, the air, and everyone’s attention by default. He made comments that earned him immediate death stares, drank from bottles that weren’t his, and had the nerve to look entertained when people snapped at him.
You’d told him to shut up before breakfast more than once. He’d told you that you were cute when you were bossy, which had almost gotten him stabbed with a butter knife.
You’d called him a walking midlife crisis with super strength. He’d laughed like that was the nicest thing anyone had said to him all week. Somehow, against all good sense, that had become a rhythm.
The awful thing was that Ben didn’t treat your irritation like rejection. He treated it like conversation. If you snapped at him, he leaned in with that grin, pleased you’d given him something to work with. If you ignored him, he made it his personal mission to become impossible to ignore.
If you rolled your eyes, he watched your mouth like he was waiting for the smile you were trying to bury. He liked getting a reaction out of you, and you knew that, but you also knew there were different kinds of attention.
Sometimes he was only winding you up because Billy was nearby and easy to provoke. Sometimes his eyes stayed on you even after Billy had left the room. Sometimes he asked what you thought before anyone else did, then pretended he didn’t care about the answer. Sometimes he remembered things you’d said days before and used them later, casually, like he hadn’t been listening at all. That was harder to dismiss.
You’d enjoyed it, though you’d rather have swallowed a live grenade than admit that to anyone. You liked being able to get under Ben’s skin, especially because he acted like nothing touched him. You liked that his grin faltered for half a second when you hit back with the right words.
You liked the little spark of victory when he laughed despite himself, like you’d dragged the sound out of him against his will. You liked that he looked at you as if you weren’t just Billy’s girl, not just the soft thing standing beside a dangerous man, but someone dangerous in your own right.
It did something to you, being seen that way. It made you feel sharper, brighter, less easy to place in the neat little box people kept trying to put you in. You told yourself it was harmless because you’d never crossed a line. You told yourself it was only attention, and attention didn’t have to mean anything. The problem was that Billy had noticed long before you’d finished convincing yourself.
Billy had started watching in that quiet way that always meant trouble. He hadn’t exploded, which made you more nervous than if he had. Billy had a temper like a lit match in a petrol station, so when he chose silence, it meant he was gathering information. He saw the way your shoulders squared whenever Ben entered a room.
He saw the way your voice changed, not softer, not sweeter, but quicker and more alive. He saw the way your mouth twitched when Ben said something stupid enough to be funny. He saw the way you looked away when you were close to laughing, like denying Ben the satisfaction mattered more than the laugh itself.
He saw the way Ben noticed too, and that made something dark and interested move behind Billy’s eyes. He didn’t like Ben, not in any simple sense, but Billy wasn’t simple either. There was jealousy there, yes, but there was also curiosity.
What turned Billy on more than he wanted to admit was the contradiction of you. You acted so sweet with everyone else, all gentle hands, warm looks, and careful words. You remembered who took sugar in their tea, checked wounds without making a fuss, and softened your voice when someone needed kindness more than sarcasm.
Then Ben opened his mouth, and suddenly there you were with teeth. You didn’t melt under his attention, at least not where anyone could see. You snapped back, challenged him, made him work for every little reaction he got from you.
Billy saw the flicker under all that sweetness, the part of you that enjoyed being provoked because it gave you permission to stop pretending you were harmless. It did something to him, knowing you weren’t as innocent as you looked.
It made his blood heat in a way he didn’t fully trust. It made him want to press on that hidden part of you and see what else came out.
He’d confronted you about it once, though Billy’s version of confrontation had started with him standing too close and pretending it was casual. It had been late, after Ben had left the flat with that smug grin still sitting on his face.
You’d been at the sink, rinsing mugs and muttering about men who couldn’t take a hint. Billy had leaned beside you, quiet enough that you knew he was about to say something unbearable. You’d looked at him from the corner of your eye and asked,
“What?” He’d lifted his brows like he was innocence itself, which was ridiculous on his face. “What, what?” he’d said, voice rough with amusement. You’d set the mug down slowly, because you already hated where this was going. “You’ve got that look,” you’d told him. Billy had smiled, and that was when you knew you were doomed.
He hadn’t rushed the point, because Billy enjoyed making you squirm when he knew he was right. He’d picked up the towel you’d abandoned, dried one of the mugs with unnecessary care, and let the silence stretch until you wanted to throw something at him.
“You enjoy it,” he’d said eventually, so calm it made your stomach dip. You’d turned toward him too quickly, and he’d caught that too. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you’d said, which had been the worst possible answer because it sounded guilty even to your own ears. Billy had hummed like a man who’d just been handed proof.
“Course you don’t,” he’d replied, setting the mug down. He’d stepped closer then, not crowding you exactly, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
“You act all sweet,” he’d said, his voice low and knowing, “then that smug bastard gives you a bit of attention, and suddenly you’re all lit up.” You’d hated how your face warmed before you could stop it.
You’d tried to argue, because of course you had. “Ben is annoying,” you’d said, folding your arms like that settled anything. Billy had nodded immediately, too agreeable to be trusted. “He is,” he’d said, like he was doing you the courtesy of confirming a weather report. That had made you narrow your eyes.
“He’s arrogant,” you’d added, needing the list to be longer, needing it to become a defense. Billy had dried his hands, slow and patient, before he looked back at you. “Very,” he’d agreed.
You’d felt cornered by his calm more than you would’ve by anger. “He’s unbearable,” you’d insisted, and Billy’s mouth had twitched. “Doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy puttin’ him in his place, love.”
That had stayed with you because he hadn’t sounded angry. He’d sounded amused, yes, but beneath that amusement had been something rougher, something that made your pulse trip even though you hadn’t wanted it to.
Billy had looked at you like he was seeing the part of you that you usually kept tucked away beneath kindness and composure. “You like it,” he’d said, moving close enough that his voice belonged only to you. “You like that he gives you something to bite.”
You’d told him to stop being smug, because that was easier than answering. He’d caught your chin lightly, not forcing you to look at him, just giving you the chance to refuse. You hadn’t refused, which he’d noticed.
“My sweet girl,” he’d murmured, and the words had sounded darker than they should’ve. “Not half as innocent as you act, are you?” You’d hated him a little for saying it, and you’d hated yourself more for liking that he knew.
After that, you’d tried harder to ignore Ben. That had lasted roughly twenty minutes. The next day, Ben had appeared in the kitchen while you were making coffee, all broad shoulders and smug timing, as if he’d been summoned by your worst instincts.
He’d reached over your head for a mug he could’ve taken from a lower shelf, and you’d stiffened on principle. “Relax,” he’d said, his voice too amused already. “I’m just getting coffee.” You’d turned your head enough to glare at him and told him, “Your arms broken?”
He’d looked down at you, close enough that you could smell smoke and soap on him. “Nope,” he’d replied, like he enjoyed making the word as unhelpful as possible. You’d shifted aside with a sharp little breath through your nose. “Then reach somewhere else,” you’d told him. Ben had grinned as if you’d just made his morning.
Billy had been at the table that day, pretending to read the paper. He hadn’t looked up immediately, and that was how you knew he was listening to every word. Ben had leaned against the counter, mug in hand, watching you pour coffee with a smile that should’ve been illegal.
“You always this bossy before noon?” he’d asked, voice warm with provocation. You hadn’t given him the satisfaction of turning around fully. “Only with men who need constant correction,” you’d said. Ben had laughed, low and delighted, and the sound had landed somewhere you’d refused to name.
“There she is,” he’d said, like he’d missed you. You’d told him to find a hobby that wasn’t bothering you. From the table, Billy had turned one page of the paper with slow precision. He hadn’t needed to look up for you to feel him noticing.
Those small moments had kept piling up, each one harmless on its own and impossible to ignore together. Ben had complimented your aim after a messy fight, and you’d told him even a broken clock was right twice a day.
He’d called you vicious, and you’d told him he sounded impressed. He’d said maybe he was, and you’d looked away too quickly. Billy had seen that. Another time, Ben had held a door open for you with exaggerated politeness, and you’d told him not to strain himself pretending to have manners.
He’d leaned closer as you passed and said he could be very well-mannered when he wanted to be. You’d scoffed, but your smile had betrayed you for half a second. Billy had been across the room, watching with his arms folded. Later, he’d kissed your temple and said nothing at all.
The fact that Billy said nothing became its own kind of pressure. You started noticing him noticing you, which only made every interaction with Ben feel more charged than it had any right to be. If Ben called you sweetheart, you heard Billy’s silence behind it. If you snapped back, you wondered whether Billy was amused or jealous or both.
If Ben made you smile, you buried it too late and felt Billy’s gaze catch the evidence. The strangest part was that Billy never pulled you away. He never told Ben to stop, not seriously, not in the way he could’ve if he’d truly wanted it over.
Sometimes he even looked as if he was waiting to see how far you’d go on your own. That made you nervous in a way you didn’t know what to do with. Billy was keeping something in his mind, turning it over, letting it become an idea. You knew him too well not to recognize that.
Tonight is supposed to be free from all of that. No missions, no blood drying under fingernails, no Ben lounging around like an arrogant ghost of bad decisions. It’s meant to be just you and Billy, the kind of night you’ve both been promising each other for days and nearly losing to chaos every time.
The flat is warm, and the outside world sits muffled beyond the windows, softened by rain against the glass. Billy stands in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, unpacking takeaway containers like the whole thing requires strategy.
You watch him from the doorway, wearing one of his shirts because you know exactly what it does to his concentration. He glances up once, eyes dragging over you before he pretends to focus on the food again.
“You’re distractin’ me,” he says, voice rough with false irritation. You lean against the frame and smile because you know he can hear it before he sees it. “You’re opening containers, Billy, not defusing a bomb.”
He gives you a look over his shoulder, and it’s so fond under the annoyance that it makes your chest ache. “Everything’s a bomb if you’re stupid enough,” he says. You walk closer, peering at the bags on the counter because you already suspect him of hiding the naan.
Billy shifts his body just slightly, blocking one bag with his hip, and that’s all the proof you need. “You’re gatekeeping bread,” you tell him.
He doesn’t even blink. “I’m preserving order.” You reach around him, and he catches your wrist with a speed that makes you laugh. “Thief,” he says, though his thumb rubs once over the inside of your wrist.
You tilt your head up at him, letting your voice go sweet on purpose. “I thought what’s yours is mine.” His eyes darken slightly, and his grip softens without letting go.
Billy looks at you for a beat too long, and the air changes the way it always does when he forgets to pretend he’s unaffected. “You’re trouble,” he says quietly. You smile because that word means more from him than most declarations would from anyone else.
“You keep me around anyway.” “Bad habit,” he replies, but his hand has already found your waist. You let him pull you a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his chest. For a moment, everything is exactly what you wanted it to be.
There’s food on the counter, rain at the window, music playing low from the other room, and Billy warm beside you in the kitchen. His thumb rests at your waist through the loose fabric of his shirt, and his mouth hovers near your temple like he’s considering a kiss.
You’re about to tease him for being romantic against his will when someone knocks at the door. The sound cuts through the room hard enough to make you freeze.
Billy doesn’t freeze. That’s the first thing you notice, and it sends suspicion through you before the second knock even lands. He barely glances toward the door before reaching for his glass, too calm, too casual, too Billy when he’s already done something he knows you’ll complain about.
You pull back enough to look at him properly. “Were you expecting someone?” you ask. He takes a slow sip, eyes on you over the rim. “Might’ve been.” Your expression goes flat immediately. “Billy.” He lowers the glass, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile and losing.
“Yes, love?” You point toward the door without looking away from him. “Who is that?” The knock comes again, heavier this time, impatient in a way your stomach recognizes before your mind does.
A familiar voice carries through the door, muffled but unmistakably smug. “You two dead in there, or should I kick it in?” Your stomach drops, then twists into something you refuse to examine. Billy watches your face so closely that you know he sees both reactions.
“No,” you say at once, because there’s no other word available. His smile finally appears, small and private and infuriatingly pleased. “You don’t even know who it is.”
“I heard him, Billy.” From the other side of the door, Ben knocks again, like patience is a disease he refuses to catch. “Sweetheart,” he calls, dragging the name out because he knows exactly what it does to the room. “Tell Butcher to stop being a rude son of a bitch.”
You turn back to Billy slowly, and he has the nerve to look comfortable. “You invited him,” you say, not asking because the answer is already written all over his face. Billy lifts one shoulder as if this is a normal thing to do on your quiet night in. “I did.”
For a second, all you can do is stare at him. The rain taps against the windows, the music keeps playing, and your dinner sits open on the counter like this isn’t a betrayal of sacred takeaway privacy. “You invited Ben,” you repeat, slower this time, giving him the chance to hear how insane it sounds.
Billy’s gaze flicks briefly to the door, then returns to you with that dark, knowing warmth that’s been haunting you for days. “Thought we could use some company.” You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “You hate company.”
Ben knocks again before Billy can answer, and you hear his muffled sigh through the door like he’s being personally victimized by your locked flat. “I can still hear you arguing about me,” he calls. “Very flattering, by the way.”
You close your eyes for a moment because if you look at Billy, you might actually throw the naan at his head. Behind you, Billy steps closer, not enough to touch this time, but enough that you feel him.
“Open the door, love,” he says, voice low and far too calm. You turn your head, giving him the most murderous look you can manage. “I’m going to kill you.”
His mouth curves. “Get in line.” Ben’s voice cuts through again, amused and impatient. “If you’re done threatening each other, some of us are hungry.”
You yank the door open before either man can make this worse, though you suspect that’s exactly what Billy wants. Ben stands in the hallway with one hand braced against the frame, jacket damp from the rain and grin already settled like he’s never regretted anything in his life.
His eyes go to your face first, then lower to Billy’s shirt hanging loose on your body, then back up with a slow kind of satisfaction that makes your spine straighten. “Well,” he says, voice warm with trouble. “Don’t you look comfortable?” You tighten your hand around the edge of the door and refuse to step aside.
“Why are you here, Ben?” He looks past you toward the kitchen, and his grin widens when he spots Billy behind you. “Ask your boyfriend.” You glance over your shoulder, and Billy lifts his glass in a lazy little toast.
That private look is back on his face, the one that says he’s been planning this longer than you realized. You look between them, heart beating faster, and understand that Ben’s arrival isn’t an interruption at all. It’s exactly what Billy’s been waiting for.
Ben doesn’t wait for a second invitation, because of course he doesn’t. He steps over the threshold like the flat already owes him a drink, broad shoulders brushing past you with just enough nearness to make your breath hitch despite yourself. You close the door behind him, and the latch clicks into place with a sound that feels much louder than it should.
The hallway disappears behind the wood, the rain turns muffled again, and suddenly the room is just you, Billy, and the man Billy invited without warning you. Billy doesn’t move from the kitchen doorway, because he’s apparently decided that watching this unfold is far more entertaining than explaining himself.
He just stands there with his glass in hand, wearing that calm, infuriating little look that says he knows exactly what he’s done. Ben’s boots hit the floor with slow, heavy confidence as he glances around the flat like he’s taking inventory.
His gaze comes back to you almost immediately, and you feel it before it fully lands. It’s warm, shameless, and deliberate enough to make your stomach twist. Then you remember, with a sharp little rush of heat, that you’re wearing nothing but Billy’s shirt.
It had felt perfectly normal five minutes ago, when you’d thought the night belonged to you and Billy alone. It had felt private, comfortable, and familiar, the kind of thing you wore when it was only meant to be takeaway, rain, bad television, and Billy’s hands on you because he couldn’t help himself.
Now the shirt feels much thinner than it had in the kitchen, like the fabric has somehow turned traitor under Ben’s eyes. The hem sits high on your thighs, loose around your body, and suddenly you’re aware of every bare inch beneath it. You’re aware of your legs, your feet against the floor, the way the fabric shifts when you move, and the terrifying truth that there’s nothing underneath it.
You hadn’t put anything else on because you’d thought you were safe inside your own night. A hot rush of embarrassment climbs your throat, but beneath it, something else sparks before you can stamp it out.
You’re underdressed, exposed in a way that isn’t quite indecent but definitely isn’t innocent. The worst part is that you don’t hate it nearly as much as you should. Maybe Billy had been right, and maybe you really do enjoy the attention.
Ben notices the shirt before he notices anything else, because Ben would notice a weakness in a locked room with the lights off. His eyes flick down, not rushed, not subtle, and not apologetic in the slightest. They trace the open collar, the loose sleeves, the bare line of your thighs beneath the hem, then crawl back to your face with a slow, knowing amusement that makes you want to shove him back out into the rain.
You fold your arms because you need something to do with your hands, and because the movement gives you the illusion of covering yourself. It doesn’t work, not really, because Billy’s shirt shifts higher on one side and your stomach drops when Ben’s gaze catches it.
“Eyes up, Ben,” you say, trying for sharp and landing closer to breathless than you like. He does lift his eyes, but the grin he gives you says he’s already seen enough to annoy you with later. He takes his time before answering, his voice lazy and American and far too pleased with itself.
“I’m lookin’ at your face, sweetheart,” he says, and the pause after it feels deliberate enough to count as a crime. “You’re the one standin’ there like you forgot I’ve got eyes.”
Billy makes a low sound from the kitchen, not quite a laugh and not quite a warning. It pulls your attention over your shoulder, and you catch him watching Ben with dark amusement instead of the anger you’d been expecting.
That’s new enough to unsettle you, because Billy’s jealousy usually comes fast, loud, and mean when Ben pushes too close. Tonight, though, it sits behind his eyes like a secret he’s enjoying too much to share yet.
“Careful,” Billy says, but his voice doesn’t carry the bite it should. Ben looks past you at him, grin still in place, and reaches into the inside of his jacket with a casual kind of confidence.
For one brief, absurd second, your body tenses like he’s about to pull a weapon. Instead, he produces a bottle of expensive whiskey with a smug little flourish, holding it out like he’s just solved world peace. “Brought a peace offering,” he says, though nothing about his face looks peaceful. Billy’s brows lift when he sees the label, and even he can’t hide the flicker of reluctant approval.
Ben follows Billy into the kitchen like he belongs there, and you hate how naturally the room seems to adjust around him. “Bought it,” Ben says, sounding offended in the laziest possible way as Billy takes the bottle from him. He leans one hip against the counter, still watching you in quick, stolen glances that don’t feel stolen at all.
“Don’t look so shocked, Butcher, I’ve got class,” he adds, and the way he says it makes you want to laugh and roll your eyes at the same time. Billy turns the bottle in his hand, studying it with the kind of respect he rarely shows people. “You’ve got a pensioner’s ego and a porn star’s jacket,” he says, voice dry as dust. “Wouldn’t call that class.”
Ben laughs under his breath, and the sound settles too easily into the warmth of the kitchen. His gaze flicks back to you as if he’s checking whether you’re still standing there in Billy’s shirt, still pretending not to feel seen. “She looks like she’s got class,” Ben says, nodding toward you with that grin that always means trouble.
Billy’s eyes slide to you, and there’s something possessive in them that pins you in place. “She’s got more class than either of us,” he says, before his mouth curves slightly. “And a lot less innocence than she sells.”
Your face heats instantly, because Billy knows exactly where to put the knife and how slowly to twist it. “Billy,” you warn, but your voice doesn’t have the force you need it to have. Ben’s grin sharpens like he’s just been handed something shiny and told he can keep it. He looks between you and Billy, taking in your expression, Billy’s calm, and the fact that no one has told him to leave yet.
“That right?” he asks, his voice lowering into that rough, cocky drawl that makes everything he says sound like a dare. “Little Miss Sweetheart’s got a mean streak?” You glare at him because glaring feels safer than reacting.
“You’ve been here for two minutes,” you say, and you hate how aware you are of Billy watching your mouth around every word. “Don’t start diagnosing me.”
Ben lifts both hands like he’s innocent, though nothing about him has looked innocent for a second in his life. “I’m just askin’ questions,” he says, and Billy sets two glasses down with a heavy little clink. “You’re breathin’, so you’re startin’ somethin’.”
The whiskey opens with a rich, sharp scent that cuts through the takeaway and rain. Billy pours for himself first, a generous helping that catches amber under the kitchen light and makes Ben nod in clear approval. He pours one for Ben next, just as heavy, because apparently this is the kind of night where restraint has been left outside with the weather.
Ben watches the pour with his arms folded, expression smug like bringing good whiskey makes him less of a menace. “Now that’s hospitality,” he says, lifting his glass once Billy pushes it over. Billy gives him a sideways look, his own glass already in hand.
“Don’t get used to it.” Then Billy reaches for the vodka, and you know exactly what he’s doing before he even asks. He takes your glass from the cupboard, adds vodka, then lemonade, measuring by memory rather than sight because he knows your drink as well as he knows your moods.
The familiarity of it does something stupidly tender to you despite everything else happening around it. Ben notices that too, because of course he does, and his mouth softens into something almost thoughtful before the smugness comes back.
Billy slides the glass toward you when you finally make yourself walk back into the kitchen. “There you go, love,” he says, his voice quieter when he speaks to you, rough around the edges but softened in the middle. His fingers brush yours as you take it, and the contact steadies you for half a second.
You hate that you need steadying. You hate that Ben is watching you be steadied. “Thank you,” you say, softer than you mean to, and Billy’s eyes drop once to the shirt hanging off your shoulders. His expression shifts just enough to tell you he’s thinking something he has no intention of keeping to himself forever.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. That shouldn’t make your stomach tighten, but it does. Ben picks up his whiskey and lifts it slightly in your direction. “To quiet nights,” he says, like he hasn’t just ruined one by existing.
You stare at him over the rim of your glass, feeling the fizz of lemonade on your tongue before you answer. “You weren’t invited to my quiet night.”
Ben takes a sip and smiles like the whiskey tastes even better because he’s annoying you. “Sure I was, doll,” he says, and the easy confidence in his voice makes your fingers tighten around your glass. He lets his gaze flick to Billy before returning to you, as if the reminder is part of the game. “Just not by you.”
Billy doesn’t correct him, and that makes the room feel strange again, charged in a way that crawls over your skin slowly instead of striking all at once. You turn to Billy, waiting for him to explain himself properly, but he only gestures toward the living room with his glass. “Come on,” he says, already moving like this is settled.
You follow because apparently curiosity is stronger than irritation tonight, but you don’t let him get away without hearing you. “That’s your explanation?” you ask, bare feet quiet against the floor as you trail behind him. Billy looks back at you, eyes too dark and too amused. “Didn’t realize I was on trial, love.”
“You invited Ben into our flat while I’m dressed like this,” you say, and the words come out sharper because saying them makes the situation feel even more real. Billy stops near the living room for half a second, just long enough for his gaze to travel over you without even pretending not to.
He takes in the shirt, the bare legs, the way you’re trying to stand like you aren’t painfully aware of both men looking. There’s no shame in his eyes, only possession and something darker that makes heat crawl under your skin.
“I know what you’re dressed like,” he says, voice low enough that it feels less like an answer and more like a promise. Behind him, Ben lets out a low laugh that makes your shoulders tense.
“Hell, don’t we all,” he says, and the amusement in his tone makes you want to smack him with a cushion. You nearly turn around just to do it, but Billy’s hand finds the small of your back before you can decide.
It’s a brief touch, guiding and possessive, but his fingers press through the shirt like he’s reminding you whose it is. You swallow, because somehow that makes the whole thing worse and better at the same time.
The living room is warm and low-lit, the lamps casting gold across the old couch, the coffee table, and the scattered evidence of the night you were supposed to have. Billy sets the whiskey bottle down beside the food and drops onto the couch with casual confidence.
For one second, you expect him to leave the other side open for you, same as always. He doesn’t. He sits close enough to the middle that there’s space beside him, then looks at Ben like this has already been decided. Ben takes the invitation without asking, because asking has never been his style.
He lowers himself onto the couch next to Billy, not touching him, but close enough that the space between them feels intentional. There’s still a gap, a small one, but your mind catches on it anyway. You stand there with your glass in hand, suddenly aware that the only place that makes sense is Billy’s lap.
Billy knows it too, and the bastard doesn’t even try to hide his smile. “Well?” he says, patting his thigh once like he’s calling you home and setting a trap at the same time.
Ben makes himself comfortable in a way that’s almost offensive. He leans back into the couch, whiskey in hand, shoulders spread, one arm stretched along the back cushion like he’s claiming the room by posture alone.
Then his legs ease apart, slow and careless, and your gaze drops before you can stop it. It’s only a second, less than a second, but it’s enough. You see the spread of him, the relaxed confidence, the sheer arrogance of a man who knows exactly what his body does to a room. Your eyes snap away so quickly it almost hurts.
Heat rushes to your face, and your fingers tighten around your glass hard enough that the cold bites your palm. Billy catches it, because Billy catches everything when it comes to you. You know he catches it because his eyes are already waiting when you look at him. Ben catches it too, and his grin turns unbearable.
“Well, now,” Ben says, his voice low, amused, and far too pleased with himself. He doesn’t lean forward or chase the moment, because that would make it too easy to accuse him of something. Instead, he lets the moment sit there like smoke, thick and impossible to wave away.
“Didn’t mean to distract you, sweetheart,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it’s almost impressive. You lift your chin, refusing to let him have the full reaction even though your pulse is already betraying you.
“You didn’t,” you say, too quickly to sound convincing. Ben’s eyebrows rise, and he takes another slow sip of whiskey before answering. “Sure,” he says, dragging the word until it feels like a hand under your chin. “That why you looked away like you touched a hot stove?”
Billy’s hand finds your wrist before you can snap back, not stopping you, just grounding you enough to make his involvement impossible to ignore. “Careful, Ben,” Billy says, but there’s a smile tucked under his voice. “She bites when she’s embarrassed.”
Ben’s eyes glitter at that, and he looks at you like Billy has just confirmed something he’d been hoping was true. “Good,” he says, his voice rough with amusement. “I like a girl with teeth.” Your thighs press together before you can think better of it, and the movement is small enough that you almost convince yourself no one notices.
You’re not wet, not yet, and the distinction matters because you cling to it like proof that you still have some control. But there’s a low throb at your clit, small and insistent, the kind of pulse that makes you hate your own body for answering before you’ve agreed to anything.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, and Billy’s attention drops immediately. His expression changes, subtle but devastating, because he knows. He knows you aren’t as unaffected as you’re pretending to be. He knows Ben’s attention has landed exactly where he suspected it would.
Worse than that, he likes knowing. It turns him on, the proof that your sweetness has edges, that you can stand there in his shirt and still enjoy being looked at by someone who shouldn’t be looking at you at all.
Billy pats his thigh again, slower this time, with a menace that makes your stomach twist. “Come here,” he says, and there’s no impatience in his voice because he already knows you will. You stare at him for half a heartbeat, very aware of Ben watching from the other side of the couch.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, though you’re already moving. Billy’s smile is all teeth and patience. “You keep sayin’ that,” he says, like he loves hearing the accusation because he knows it’s true. You step closer, and the shirt shifts around your thighs with every movement.
Ben’s gaze follows the hem openly, not enough to be crude by his standards, but definitely enough to make your skin prickle. When you lower yourself onto Billy’s lap, you do it carefully, trying not to let the shirt ride higher than it already has.
Billy’s arm comes around your waist the second you settle. His other hand lands on your thigh, warm and firm, thumb resting just below the hem like he’s found exactly where he wants to start causing trouble.
The contact is familiar enough to calm you and deliberate enough to make you tense again. Billy’s palm spreads over your bare skin like he’s reminding you and Ben at the same time that you’re his. He doesn’t push the shirt higher at first, and somehow that restraint feels like its own kind of threat.
Ben’s gaze drops to Billy’s hand on your thigh, then lifts back to your face with a smile that says he’s enjoying the view far too much. “Cozy,” Ben says, voice dipped in that smug warmth of his. You glare at him from Billy’s lap, trying to look composed when you feel anything but.
“Jealous?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Billy’s fingers tighten once, clearly pleased by the bite in your voice. Ben laughs, low and rough, as if the question has delighted him instead of landing.
“Of Butcher?” he asks, spreading his free hand like the idea is ridiculous. “Nah, sweetheart, I’m just wonderin’ if you always sit that pretty when you’re mad.”
Billy’s chest moves against your back before you hear his quiet laugh, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine. He sounds entertained, not threatened, and that’s somehow more dangerous than any jealous outburst would’ve been.
“She does,” Billy says, his voice close to your ear. His hand slides a fraction higher on your thigh, not high enough to fully expose you, but high enough to make your breath catch. Then, because he’s a menace and apparently committed to proving it, his fingers pinch the hem of the shirt and tug it upward by a slow inch.
Your hand flies down to catch his wrist, more instinct than decision. “Billy,” you hiss, glancing at Ben before you can stop yourself. Billy’s mouth brushes near your ear, and you can feel his smile there. “What?” he asks, all false innocence and rough amusement. “Just gettin’ comfortable, love.”
Ben watches the whole thing with shameless interest, whiskey paused halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say anything for a second, which is almost worse than if he did. The silence lets you feel the position you’re in, perched on Billy’s lap, his arm locked around your waist, his fingers holding the hem of his shirt slightly higher on your thighs while Ben looks on from the other side of the couch.
You’re still covered, barely, but the shift is enough to make every nerve under your skin wake up. You’re not wet, you remind yourself again, but the throb between your legs pulses harder at being made so aware of yourself. Billy knows it too, because he’s evil and observant and far too pleased with himself.
His thumb strokes along your thigh, slow and lazy, while his fingertips keep the shirt from sliding back down. “You’re making a scene,” you mutter, though your voice doesn’t sound nearly as offended as it should.
Billy’s lips hover near your ear as he answers, low enough to make it feel private even though it isn’t. “No, love,” he says, “I’m lettin’ him see the scene you’re makin’ all on your own.”
Ben lets out a quiet laugh, and the sound scrapes right over your nerves. “Damn,” he says, settling back again with that infuriating confidence, legs still spread like he hasn’t got a single polite bone in his body. “Didn’t know date night came with a floor show.”
You turn your glare on him because it’s easier than looking at Billy right now. “You’re one comment away from being kicked back into the rain.” Ben smiles over the rim of his glass, not even slightly worried. “You gonna do it yourself, sweetheart?” he asks. “Dressed like that?”
You feel Billy’s fingers tighten against your thigh, not in warning, but in approval, like he likes the way Ben keeps pushing and the way you keep pushing back.
“Careful,” Billy says again, but this time his voice is darker, more amused than protective. Ben’s eyes flick to him, then back to you, and his grin turns slow. “I’m bein’ careful,” he says. “If I wasn’t, she’d know.”
Your breath catches before you can stop it, and Billy feels it because you’re sitting right against him. His hand slides another inch along your thigh, then curls around the fabric again, nudging the shirt higher in a way that looks casual only if someone is being generous. No one in the room is feeling generous.
You grip your glass tighter, trying to keep your face steady while your body betrays you in tiny, humiliating ways. Billy’s voice drops close to your ear, warm and rough. “Still not enjoyin’ yourself?” he asks, and the words settle low in your stomach. You twist slightly to look at him, scandalized and flustered and furious that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I hate you,” you say, because it’s the only safe lie you can find. Billy’s eyes drop to your mouth, and his smile turns fond in the meanest possible way. “No, you don’t.” Ben’s voice comes from beside him, dry and amused. “She really doesn’t.”
“Don’t start agreeing with him,” you snap, turning back toward Ben because at least irritation gives you something to hold on to. Ben lifts his glass in surrender, though his grin doesn’t move. “I’m just callin’ it like I see it.”
His eyes drop once more, not to your face this time, but to Billy’s hand where it’s still holding the shirt higher against your thigh. “And I’m seein’ plenty.” Your face burns so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Billy laughs softly, and his arm tightens around your waist to keep you steady on his lap.
“There she is,” Billy murmurs. “All mouth until someone looks too close.” You want to deny it. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that Ben’s attention doesn’t affect you, that Billy’s hands on your thighs in front of him don’t make your pulse trip. But your clit throbs again, insistent and traitorous, and the words refuse to come clean.
The three of you sit there in a silence that isn’t really silence at all. The rain fills the windows, the low music hums beneath it, and the clink of Ben’s glass against his ring sounds too loud when he shifts. Billy holds you in his lap like he’s got every right to, because he does, and because he wants Ben to see that he does.
His hand stays on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, maddening arcs while his fingers keep playing with the hem of the shirt, lifting it just enough to make you tense before letting it fall back a little. It’s a small game, a cruel one, and the worst part is that he’s barely doing anything. Ben doesn’t look away from you for long, even when he speaks to Billy.
“So,” he says, stretching the word with lazy amusement. “This how you two do date night?” You look at him over your glass, trying not to feel every inch of Billy beneath you and every inch of Ben’s attention beside you. “Usually there’s less of you involved,” you say.
Ben grins like you’ve complimented him, and Billy’s mouth brushes your ear as his fingers tug the shirt higher one more time. “Yeah,” Billy murmurs, dark and pleased, “but she’s doin’ just fine with the extra attention.”
Billy’s mouth finds your neck before you’ve fully recovered from Ben’s last comment. It starts like a kiss, slow and warm under your ear, but there’s nothing gentle about the way his hand tightens at your waist. His lips press against your skin with the kind of confidence that says he knows exactly how quickly you’ll soften for him.
You feel his beard scrape, then his teeth graze lightly enough to make your breath catch. The sound you make is small, almost swallowed, but both men hear it. Billy’s chest shifts against your back, his quiet laugh sinking straight through you.
Ben’s gaze sharpens from the other side of the couch, whiskey forgotten in his hand. He doesn’t look amused now, not only amused anyway. He looks hungry. The room seems to shrink around the three of you.
Billy kisses lower, dragging his mouth down the side of your throat while his hands start moving with purpose. One stays firm at your waist, holding you in place against him, while the other hooks under your thigh and shifts you like you weigh nothing.
You gasp when he manhandles you sideways on his lap, your back pressed tighter to his chest, your knees forced apart by the way he rearranges you. It happens smoothly, confidently, like he’s been thinking about this exact position since Ben walked through the door.
Your shirt rides up higher, bunching at your hips, and cool air hits the bare skin between your thighs. For one stunned second, you don’t move. Then embarrassment slams into you so hard that your hands drop instinctively, trying to pull the fabric down.
Billy catches one wrist with a low, rough sound against your neck. “Ah, ah,” he murmurs, lips still brushing your skin. “Don’t go shy on me now, love.”
You try to close your legs anyway. It’s not because you don’t want it, and that’s the humiliating part. It’s because Ben is right there, close enough to see everything, close enough that his breathing has gone deeper and his whiskey sits untouched against his thigh.
Your knees shift inward, but Billy’s hand slides down and stops you with maddening ease. He tuts against your throat, the sound low and scolding, and it makes your stomach flip. “Now, what did I just say?” he asks, voice soft enough to be intimate and mean enough to make your pulse jump.
You turn your head like you might argue, but his mouth presses under your jaw before you can form the words. His hand smooths along your thigh, then pushes it open again, slower this time, making sure you feel every inch of being spread.
Ben watches your legs part, his jaw tightening as his eyes drop. His free hand flexes once against his own thigh, like he’s stopping himself from reaching too soon.
Billy notices that too, because Billy is watching everything. “You seein’ this, Ben?” he asks, voice rough and amused, like he’s showing off something priceless and dangerous. His hand stays heavy on your thigh, fingers splayed wide over your skin, keeping you open without hurting you.
Ben’s eyes lift to Billy’s face for a second, then fall back to you like he can’t help himself. “Yeah,” he says, and the word comes out lower than before, stripped of some of that usual cocky polish. His throat works when he swallows. “I’m seein’ her.”
You feel yourself clench at the sound of it, at the weight in his voice, at how different he sounds when he isn’t just teasing. Billy’s lips curve against your neck. “Pretty fuckin’ sight, ain’t she?” Ben exhales through his nose, slow and heavy. “Prettier than she’s got any right to be.”
The praise hits you somewhere low and vulnerable. A whimper slips out before you can trap it, soft and embarrassed and impossible to take back. Your hand flies to your mouth like that will erase it, but Billy catches your wrist again and pulls it down.
“No hidin’ that either,” he says, voice warm with satisfaction. The hard line of his cock presses beneath you, unmistakable now, thickening against your ass through his trousers. You feel the change happen in real time, feel how much this turns him on, and your whole body goes hot with the knowledge.
Billy is hard because you’re exposed on his lap. Billy is hard because Ben is staring. Billy is hard because you tried to act sweet and embarrassed, but your body keeps betraying you. That realization should make you want to disappear. Instead, your clit throbs harder, pulsing between your open thighs like it wants to answer for you.
Ben sees the way you shiver. He sees the way your mouth parts, the way your fingers curl uselessly against Billy’s wrist, the way you can’t decide whether to hide or lean into it. His own body betrays him just as badly. His legs are still spread, but now there’s tension beneath the careless posture, a thick, obvious hardness pressing against the front of his pants.
He shifts once, jaw flexing like the friction isn’t enough and too much at the same time. Your gaze drops before you can stop it, catching the shape of him straining under the fabric. He notices instantly, because of course he does.
“Eyes up, sweetheart,” he says, echoing you from earlier with a grin that’s gone darker around the edges. His voice is rougher now, less teasing, more affected than he probably wants to admit. “Unless you’re finally done pretendin’ you’re not lookin’.”
Billy laughs low against your skin, and the sound vibrates through your back. “She’s done pretendin’,” he says, his hand sliding from your wrist to your stomach, holding you still against him. You shake your head once, but it’s weak and everyone knows it.
Billy’s mouth returns to your neck, kissing and biting lightly, each touch making you sink heavier against his chest. His other hand drags over your thigh, then pinches the hem of the shirt again.
This time, he doesn’t only lift it a little. He pushes it higher, bunching the fabric above your hips, until there’s nothing left to hide behind. Your pussy is on display between your parted thighs, bare and exposed under the warm lamplight.
You hear Ben’s breath catch, a quiet, rough sound that makes shame and arousal twist together inside you. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and for once, there’s no joke tucked behind it.
You try to close your legs again on instinct, but Ben moves this time. His hands land on your thighs before your knees can come together, big palms warm and firm against your skin. He doesn’t shove them open violently, doesn’t hurt you, but he stops you with the same sure confidence Billy has been using all night.
The contact makes you jolt, and the whimper that falls from your mouth is even worse than the first one. It sounds needy. It sounds like surrender. Your face burns so hot that your eyes sting. Ben’s hands tighten slightly, not enough to bruise, just enough to let you feel the size and strength of them.
“Easy,” he says, voice low and rough, his accent thickening around the word. “Ain’t gonna bite unless you ask real nice.” Billy’s mouth pauses at your neck, and you can feel his grin before he speaks. “Careful, mate. She might.”
The words make you squirm, and both men react at once. Billy’s cock presses harder beneath you when you shift, and his breath catches against your skin before he buries it in another kiss. Ben’s fingers flex on your thighs, and his eyes drop again, helplessly drawn back to the slick heat you’re trying so badly not to acknowledge.
You’re wet now, no matter how much you want to deny it. The slow throb has turned into a warm ache, and your pussy glistens under their attention, soft and flushed and embarrassingly open from the way they’re holding you.
Ben looks at you like the sight has knocked some of the arrogance out of him, at least for a second. His mouth parts slightly, his thumb brushing an absent circle against your inner thigh.
“You’ve been sittin’ there actin’ all offended,” he says, voice quieter now, more dangerous for it. “And look at you.” Your breath shakes. Billy’s hand slides up your stomach, holding you tighter. “Told you she liked bein’ looked at.”
You want to snap back. You want to be sharp and clever and difficult, because that has always been safer than admitting the truth. But Billy’s mouth is hot against your neck, Ben’s hands are on your thighs, and the weight of both their attention makes words feel impossible.
Your hips twitch once, barely there, but enough for Billy to feel it. He groans softly, a rough little sound that slips out before he can make it cruel. That sound undoes something in you. Billy’s control has always been a challenge, and hearing it fracture because of you, because of this, makes your whole body go loose and feverish.
Ben sees your expression change and goes very still. His grin fades into something darker, more focused. The room has shifted again, past teasing now, past little power plays and clever lines. You can feel the moment waiting for you to choose.
So you do. Your hand moves before your pride can stop it, trembling slightly as it settles over Ben’s wrist. His eyes snap to yours immediately, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t say anything. He waits. That almost ruins you more than the flirting had.
Billy goes still behind you too, his lips pressed to the side of your throat, his breathing rough against your skin. You swallow, fingers tightening around Ben’s wrist, and guide his hand higher along your thigh. Ben lets you move him, his palm sliding over warm skin in slow, careful inches.
His thumb brushes dangerously close, and your hips lift without meaning to. Billy’s arm locks tighter around your waist. “There you go,” Billy murmurs, voice thick with approval. “Show him what you want, love.”
Your face burns at the praise, but you keep moving Ben’s hand anyway. You guide him higher until his fingers are right there, close enough that the heat of him makes your thighs tremble. Ben’s breath leaves him in a slow, rough exhale, and his hard-on strains visibly when your hand presses his closer.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the word dragged low and almost reverent. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” The question is rough, but it’s still a question, and it makes something inside you loosen. You nod, but Billy’s teeth graze your neck in warning.
“Words,” he says. Your voice comes out small, but it comes out. “Yes.” Ben’s eyes darken. Billy’s cock twitches beneath you. The single word drops into the room like a lit match.
Ben’s fingers finally touch you. It’s not much at first, just the slow press of his fingertips against your slick folds, but your whole body jolts like he’s done more. Billy catches you easily, holding you against his chest as your head tips back against his shoulder. Ben’s hand stills for a second, watching your face with that hungry, startled intensity.
“Sensitive little thing,” he says, and there’s awe underneath the smugness now, like he didn’t expect you to react so beautifully. Billy’s hand slides down to your thigh again, pushing you open wider for him.
“Don’t tease her too much,” he says, even though his voice makes it obvious he wants exactly that. Ben’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay fixed on where he’s touching you. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His fingers move again, parting you slowly, and your breath breaks.
When Ben spreads you open, the sound he makes is almost ruined. Your pussy is slick and swollen under his fingers, flushed from arousal, your folds shiny where he parts them for a better look. Your clit is hard and exposed, twitching at the cool air and the unbearable attention.
Billy sees it over your shoulder and groans against your neck, his control slipping another inch. Ben stares like he’s forgotten how to make a joke. His thumb holds you open with careful pressure, and his other fingers spread your folds just enough to show exactly how wet you’ve gotten from being watched, handled, and teased.
“Damn,” Ben says, voice low and rough as gravel. “All that mouth, and she’s this fuckin’ pretty when she gives in.” Your thighs tremble against his hands. Billy’s palm strokes your thigh like he’s proud of the reaction. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possessive warmth in it makes you clench around nothing.
Ben sees that too, and his expression turns feral for half a second. “Oh, she likes that,” he says, looking from your pussy to Billy’s face with a grin that’s almost disbelieving. “You say that, and she just about melts.” Billy’s hand comes up to your jaw, turning your face enough that he can see your eyes. His mouth is close, his smile dark and intimate.
“Yeah?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know. “You like him seein’ how well you listen to me?” You whimper again, smaller this time, because the truth is too heavy in your mouth. Billy kisses the corner of your lips, almost sweet if not for the way his cock is hard beneath you and Ben’s fingers are holding your pussy open.
“Look at that,” Billy murmurs. “All embarrassed, but you’re not tellin’ him to stop.” Ben’s thumb shifts closer to your clit, not touching yet, just making you feel the promise of it. “She doesn’t wanna stop,” he says. “Do you, sweetheart?”
You shake your head before you can make yourself hesitate. Billy’s laugh is soft and mean, full of satisfaction. Ben smiles like you’ve just handed him something dangerous and told him to be careful with it. His thumb finally brushes your clit, barely a touch, but your whole body jerks against Billy’s lap.
The movement grinds you down against the hard length beneath you, and Billy curses under his breath, his fingers biting into your thigh. Ben watches both reactions, yours and Billy’s, and the sight makes his own hips shift slightly against nothing.
He’s painfully hard now, the front of his pants tight enough that there’s no hiding it, but he doesn’t reach for himself. He looks too focused on you, too caught on the way your pussy shines under his hand, too pleased by the little sounds Billy keeps pulling from your throat. “That’s it,” Ben says, voice low and rough. “Knew you had it in you.”
Billy’s mouth finds your neck again, but now every kiss feels like a claim. His hand stays at your jaw, keeping your head tilted enough for him to reach your skin, while his other hand holds your thigh open for Ben. The position is obscene, overwhelming, and so intimate it makes your chest ache in the middle of all the heat.
You feel Billy’s heartbeat against your back, too fast to match his smug voice. You feel Ben’s hands steady on your thighs, one still touching you, the other holding you open like he can’t bear for you to hide again. You feel your own body giving in by degrees, embarrassment turning molten, want spreading through you until it’s harder to remember why you’d been pretending.
Billy speaks against your neck, voice rough with arousal and pride. “Still my sweet girl,” he murmurs. “Just not as innocent as you wanted him to think.” Ben’s thumb circles your clit once, slow and deliberate, and his grin comes back when you gasp. “Good,” he says. “Innocent’s overrated anyway.”
Billy and Ben keep you on your knees between them like they’ve decided the rug is the only place you’re allowed to exist for now. Billy’s hand stays buried in your hair, keeping your head tipped back, while Ben stands close enough that his cock brushes your cheek every time he shifts.
Both of them are hard, breathing rough, belts open and trousers shoved just low enough to make the whole scene feel filthy and unfinished. You’re naked beneath them, shirt discarded somewhere beside your knees, nipples tight in the cool air while your pussy throbs uselessly between your spread thighs.
Billy looks down at you like he’s proud of the mess he’s made, and Ben looks like he’s fighting not to lose what little patience he has left. “Look at you,” Billy mutters, voice low and cruelly fond, as his thumb drags over your wet bottom lip.
“All that mouth on you, and now you’re finally quiet.” You try to answer, but Ben taps the head of his cock against your cheek before you can get anything out. The slick, warm contact makes your eyes flutter, and his grin turns dark at the way you don’t pull away.
“She’s quiet because she’s got better things to do,” Ben says, rough and smug, his hand closing around himself. Billy laughs under his breath, tugging your hair just enough to make your throat stretch. “Then she’d better get on with it.”
Billy takes your mouth first again, and he doesn’t ease you into it this time. He pushes the thick head of his cock past your lips with one firm roll of his hips, groaning when your mouth stretches around him. He’s not long enough to make you panic, but he’s so thick that your jaw aches almost immediately, and the burn makes your thighs tremble.
You wrap one hand around the base of him, slicking him with spit as he uses your mouth in short, rough thrusts. Ben stands beside him, watching with his jaw tight, one hand stroking himself slowly while the other comes down to your face. He taps his cock against your cheek, then drags it along your skin until your face is smeared with him while Billy is still inside your mouth.
“Damn,” Ben mutters, his voice rougher than before, “she looks good with her mouth stuffed.” Billy’s fingers tighten in your hair, and his hips jerk at the praise even though he acts like it doesn’t get to him. “Course she does,” he says, looking down at you with a sharp, possessive smile.
“She’s been gaggin’ for it since you walked in.” You moan around Billy, and both men hear how much you like being spoken about like you’re not fully innocent. Ben’s cock twitches against your cheek, and his grin comes back meaner. “Yeah, she likes that.”
Billy pulls out just enough to let you gasp, but he keeps the head of his cock resting against your lips. Spit trails from your mouth to him, shiny and messy, and Ben’s eyes track it like it’s the best thing he’s seen all night.
You’re breathing hard, lips swollen, cheeks hot from the slaps and the humiliation and the way your body keeps saying yes before your mouth can. Billy slaps your cheek lightly with his fingers, a quick sting that snaps your attention back to him.
“Eyes here, love,” he says, voice rough with warning. You look up at him immediately, and his expression darkens with satisfaction. Ben laughs softly from beside him, clearly enjoying how quickly you obey even while your hand is still reaching for him. You wrap your fingers around Ben’s cock again, stroking him while Billy keeps your mouth close.
Ben’s breath catches, his hips pushing into your hand before he can pretend he’s in control. “That’s it,” Ben says, his grin turning strained, “don’t leave me out just because Butcher’s got you trained.” Billy’s mouth twists at that, jealousy flashing hot in his eyes. “She’s trained because she likes bein’ useful,” he says, pressing his thumb against your tongue until your mouth opens wider.
Ben takes over with a rough hand at your jaw, guiding your face toward him before Billy can push back in. His cock slides over your parted lips, heavy and hot, and you open because you’ve already stopped pretending you won’t. He groans the second your mouth closes around the head, fingers sinking into your hair as if he’s been trying not to grab you too hard.
Ben is longer, and every inch you take feels like a challenge he’s daring you to meet. He doesn’t shove all the way in, but he controls the rhythm with enough force to make your eyes water. Billy stands close on your other side, stroking himself while he watches you work, his expression tight and hungry.
“Look at you takin’ him,” Billy says, voice darker than before, like he hates it and loves it at the same time. The words make your pussy clench so hard you nearly lose your rhythm. Ben feels the way you moan around him and curses, his hips twitching forward.
“Christ, she’s filthy,” he says, brushing wet hair away from your face with a hand that’s too rough to be tender. “Mouth full and still actin’ like she wants to be praised for it.” Billy reaches down and slaps your cheek again, not hard enough to scare you, but enough to make the sting bloom bright. “Don’t encourage her,” he says, even though his voice sounds like he wants exactly that.
You don’t wait for an order before lowering your mouth from Ben’s cock to his balls. The shift makes him freeze for half a second, his hand tightening hard in your hair as your lips brush lower. His balls are heavy and warm against your tongue, and the first slow suck makes a rough sound break out of him that doesn’t sound smug at all.
Ben’s head drops forward, eyes fixed on you like he can’t decide whether to mock you or praise you. “Well, hell,” he breathes, voice gone low and wrecked, “didn’t know you were this eager.” Billy’s hand comes to the back of your neck, steadying you as you suck Ben messily, spit slicking your lips and chin.
You look up through wet lashes, and the sight of Ben losing that clean, cruel composure makes your stomach burn with pride. Billy doesn’t let you enjoy it too long, because his cock is still hard in his hand and his patience is a very temporary thing. He grips your hair and pulls you back just enough to make you gasp.
“My turn,” he says, rough and possessive, and the words land like a command your body already knows. You let Ben slip from your mouth with a wet sound, and his breath comes out sharp when you leave him shining. Billy tilts your face toward himself, his grin mean as he adds, “Don’t look disappointed, love, you’ve got plenty to choke on.”
You take Billy back into your mouth, and the thickness of him forces your lips wide again. Your hand wraps around what you can’t fit, stroking him while your tongue presses along the underside of his cock. He’s rougher now, hips snapping in short thrusts that make your throat work and your eyes sting.
One of his hands stays in your hair, and the other cups your cheek in a way that would be sweet if his fingers weren’t pressing possessively into your skin. “That’s it,” Billy mutters, breathing hard as he watches your mouth stretch around him. “Knew you were a greedy little thing under all that sweetness.”
Ben steps in close again, his cock brushing the side of your face while you’re full of Billy. He taps himself against your cheek, then drags the wet head over your temple and down toward your mouth, smearing himself over your skin like he’s marking what he hasn’t fully gotten to keep.
“She’s got two hands, Butcher,” Ben says, voice rough with impatience. “Don’t hog the whole damn girl.” Billy pulls your hair just enough to make you look up at him with watery eyes. “She’s not a girl,” he says, voice low and possessive. “She’s my filthy little woman.”
The words make you moan around him, and Billy’s hips stutter at the vibration. Ben catches the reaction and laughs, but it’s breathless enough to expose him too. You reach for Ben again, hand sliding up and down his cock while your mouth stays full of Billy.
His skin is hot under your palm, slick where you’ve already made a mess of him, and you tighten your grip the way he’d demanded earlier. Ben’s groan sounds almost angry, his hand coming down to the back of your head as if he needs to touch something or he’ll come apart too soon.
“Attagirl,” he says, rough and mocking, though there’s real strain under it. “Knew you could handle a little work.” Billy pulls out of your mouth with a wet sound, then slaps your cheek with the heavy head of his cock instead of his hand. The contact makes you gasp, and your tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting him from your own skin.
Billy’s eyes go almost black at that. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, gripping your jaw. “You’re worse than I thought.” Ben grins down at you, stroking himself through your fist. “No, she’s exactly as bad as you hoped.”
Billy shoves you toward Ben again, rough enough that you have to catch yourself with both hands on Ben’s thighs. Ben doesn’t complain, and the way his muscles tense under your palms makes you feel powerful for one brief, dangerous second. Then his hand closes around the back of your head and guides your mouth back onto him, taking that illusion away as quickly as it came.
You suck him messily, letting your tongue flatten along his shaft before taking him deeper, and his cock drags heavy over your tongue. Billy stands at your side, stroking himself with one hand while the other keeps slipping down to your face, your jaw, your throat, wherever he can feel you working.
“Don’t get soft on her,” Billy says to Ben, voice rough and taunting. “She likes it when you’re mean.” You whimper around Ben because Billy’s right, and the sound makes Ben’s fingers tighten. “That right, sweetheart?”
Ben asks, pulling your head back just enough for you to gasp around the tip. “You like bein’ talked to like a dirty little thing?” Your eyes lift to his, dazed and wet, and the answer is written all over your face. Ben’s grin turns savage. “Yeah, thought so.”
You slide lower on Ben again, dragging your tongue down his length before taking one of his balls into your mouth. His whole body reacts this time, hips jerking, chest rising hard, his hand snapping tighter in your hair. The sound he makes is raw, deep, and so unlike his usual smug voice that Billy laughs under his breath.
“Careful, mate,” Billy says, stroking himself slower now while he watches. “She’ll have you embarrassin’ yourself.” Ben shoots him a look, but it loses half its bite when your tongue moves again. “Shut your mouth,” Ben says, but his voice breaks slightly on the last word. Billy smirks, stepping closer until his cock rests against your cheek while you suck Ben’s balls.
“Busy mouth,” Billy says, tapping your face with himself again. “Look at her, though, all eager to keep both of us happy.” You moan around Ben, and your pussy throbs so hard it hurts. You’re soaked, slick on your thighs, knees aching from the rug, and still you don’t want them to stop.
Ben’s free hand drops to your shoulder, gripping hard enough to hold you in place as he breathes through the pleasure. “Fuck, she’s good,” he mutters, like admitting it annoys him. Billy’s smile widens. “Told you she had hidden talents.”
They drag you back and forth between them after that, rougher now that the softness has burned away. One of them is always in your mouth or against your face, while the other uses your hands, your cheeks, your tongue, anything he can reach. Billy pulls you to him by your hair, makes you take his thickness until spit runs down your chin, then pushes you low enough for your mouth to work over his balls too.
The second your lips close around him there, his control fractures in a way that makes your whole body flare with heat. His head tips back, throat working, his free hand pressing hard against the back of your head. “Fuck, love,” he breathes, and there’s a crack in the roughness that makes your chest feel tight.
Ben watches, stroking himself slowly, his grin smug but his eyes fixed and hungry. “That shut you up,” Ben says, and Billy’s glare would be more convincing if his breath weren’t wrecked. You suck Billy messily, tongue and lips wet, feeling the weight of him against your mouth while his cock presses hot against your cheek.
Billy looks down at you with a kind of pride that makes you clench around nothing. “That’s my girl,” he says, voice low and ruined. Ben’s cock twitches visibly at the phrase. “Yeah,” Ben mutters, stepping closer, “share some of that loyalty over here.”
Ben gets impatient and pulls you back by the hair before Billy can answer. The motion is rough enough to make you gasp, and Billy lets him do it with a dark little smile because this is apparently the game now. Ben guides you up to his cock again, tapping the head against your swollen lips until you open.
“Don’t make me ask twice,” he says, voice low and mean. You take him in with a soft, wrecked sound, and his hips push forward, slow but forceful, making you feel the length of him. Billy’s hand comes down across your cheek again, the sting landing while Ben is in your mouth. The combination makes you moan so hard Ben curses above you.
“She likes that too much,” Ben says, voice tight, though he doesn’t pull away. Billy crouches slightly beside you, catching your face in one hand so he can see your eyes. “Course she does,” Billy says, thumb smearing spit across your cheek.
“She’s just been waitin’ for someone to stop treatin’ her like she’s delicate.” You tremble at that, because it hits too close and both men know it. Ben’s fingers stroke through your hair once, then tighten again. “Then we won’t,” he says.
They make you try both again, and this time it’s nastier because you’re already messy enough that everything slides too easily. Billy presses his thick tip to one side of your mouth, and Ben presses his to the other, both of them watching as you open wide with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
You can’t take them both, not properly, and they know that. You can only manage the heads, your tongue trapped between them, spit slicking over both cocks as your jaw aches around the impossible stretch. Billy groans first, low and vicious, his fingers digging into your hair hard enough to make your scalp sting. Ben’s breath leaves him in a rough laugh that almost sounds like disbelief.
“Look at that,” Ben says, voice thick with arousal. “She’s actually tryin’.” Billy’s eyes stay on your mouth, his control hanging by a thread. “Greedy little mouth,” he mutters. “Doesn’t know when to stop.”
You whimper around both of them, and the vibration makes them curse nearly at the same time. Ben pulls back first, jaw tight, and drags his cock over your cheek instead. “Not yet,” he mutters, like he’s reminding himself more than you. “Not done with this mouth yet.”
Billy takes advantage of Ben pulling back and pushes into your mouth again, claiming the space immediately. His thrusts are rougher now, shallow but demanding, making your eyes water while your hands brace against his thighs. Ben moves behind your shoulder, stroking himself while watching your lips stretch around Billy’s girth, his own expression caught between hunger and frustration.
“You’re hoggin’ her again,” Ben says, but his voice sounds too wrecked to be properly annoyed. Billy glances at him, breathing hard, and pulls your hair enough to make you look up while still full of him. “She can handle it,” Billy says. His eyes drop back to you, and his smile turns cruel.
“Can’t you, love?” You nod as well as you can, and Billy groans because the motion drags your mouth around him. Ben’s hand reaches down to cup your face, his thumb pressing into the spit at the corner of your lips.
“Jesus, she’s a mess,” he says, sounding like he wants to ruin you further just to see how far it goes. You reach blindly for him, stroking him again, and his stomach tightens under your hand. “Yeah,” Ben mutters, “keep doin’ that.”
By the time they switch again, your mouth is swollen, your cheeks are wet, and your thighs are trembling from the ache of being left untouched. Ben takes your mouth with a rough hand in your hair, and Billy moves down your side with his eyes, watching your tits, your shaking legs, your soaked pussy, the way your body keeps begging even while your mouth is busy.
“Look at her,” Billy says, voice low and degrading, almost conversational. “Cunt’s drippin’, and we haven’t even touched it in ages.” Ben grunts as your tongue presses under his cock, his hips rolling forward before he checks himself. “She doesn’t need it yet,” he says, though his voice is strained.
“She’s got her mouth full.” Your pussy clenches hard at that, wetness slipping down your inner thigh. Billy notices and gives a rough laugh, then slaps your cheek again, softer this time but no less humiliating. “Dirty thing,” he says, and his hand slides briefly over your throat, feeling the movement as you take Ben.
Ben pulls out enough to let you breathe, then taps his cock against your lips. “Tell him,” Ben says, voice dark. “Tell Butcher you like bein’ used like this.” You gasp for air, eyes flicking between them, and the only thing you manage is a broken, “I like it.”
That confession nearly unravels both of them, though neither cums. Billy’s hand tightens around his cock, his jaw locking as he stares down at you like you’ve just given him the best and worst gift of his life. Ben’s grin fades for half a second, replaced by something hungrier and more serious, before he grips your jaw and pulls your mouth back to him.
“Damn right you do,” he says, and the praise sounds like degradation from his mouth. You take him again, then Billy, then Ben’s balls, then Billy’s, until the rhythm turns sloppy and instinctive. They keep you moving with hands in your hair, hands on your jaw, hands at your throat and shoulders, never letting you forget there are two of them and only one of you.
They slap your cheeks when your attention drifts, tap their cocks over your face when your mouth is full, and tell you exactly what you look like kneeling there naked and ruined. Your body burns with it, clit throbbing, pussy soaked, nipples aching, jaw sore, and every filthy word makes you wetter. Billy keeps calling you his, even when Ben’s in your mouth. Ben keeps calling you greedy, even when he’s the one pushing for more.
Neither of them lets themselves finish, not yet, though you can feel how close the edge keeps getting. When Billy finally pulls you off Ben and back toward him, his thumb strokes over your wet cheek with cruel tenderness. “Still with us, love?” he asks, voice rougher than before. You nod, dazed and desperate, and Ben laughs low beside him. “Good,” Ben says, cock still hard against your cheek. “Because we’re nowhere near done.”
Billy’s hand tightens in your hair one last time before he pulls you off Ben, and the sudden emptiness makes you gasp like you’ve been dragged up from underwater. Your mouth is wet, swollen, and aching, your cheeks marked with heat from their hands and the messy smear of both of them.
Ben is breathing hard above you, cock still in hand, jaw clenched like he’s fighting the urge to shove right back between your lips. Billy looks at him, then down at you, and that same silent agreement passes between them again, quick and wordless and cruel. It makes your stomach drop before either of them touches you.
You’re still on your knees, naked, soaked, trembling, and both of them are looking at you like they’ve decided your mouth was only the warm-up. Billy crouches first, catching your jaw in his hand and making you look at him properly. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, smearing spit across it as his eyes search yours beneath all that mean amusement.
“Still with us, love?” he asks, voice rough enough to scrape. You nod too quickly, dazed and aching and desperate enough that shame barely has room to breathe. Billy’s eyes narrow, not satisfied with that, and his fingers press harder into your jaw. “Words.” Your throat feels ruined from taking them, but you manage it anyway. “Yes.”
Ben’s breath shifts behind him, heavier, like hearing you say it does something filthy to him. Billy smiles then, slow and dark, before his hand slips from your jaw to your throat. “Good girl,” he says first, almost sweetly, and then his mouth twists. “Good little slut.”
The words make your pussy clench so hard your thighs shake, and both men see it. Ben laughs under his breath, stepping closer until the heat of him crowds your side. “Hell,” he says, voice rough and smug, “she likes that.” Billy doesn’t look away from your face as his thumb strokes along the front of your throat. “Course she does.”
His grip closes, controlled but firm, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch and your eyes flutter. Your lashes roll back before you can stop them, pleasure and pressure making the room blur at the edges.
Billy watches it happen like it’s the prettiest confession you’ve given him all night. “Look at that,” he mutters, and his voice drops into something crueler. “Gets called what she is, and she damn near melts.”
Ben’s hand comes under your arm, and Billy catches the other, and between them, they haul you up from the rug like they’ve run out of patience for letting you move yourself. Your legs feel weak, knees sore, thighs sticky with your own slick, and you barely get your balance before Billy turns you toward the couch.
Ben moves behind you with too much ease, crowding your back, his cock hot against your ass for a second as he leans in near your ear. “Told you we weren’t done,” he says, voice low, smug, and rough around the edges. You shiver, and he laughs like he feels it all the way through you.
Billy sees the reaction and grabs your chin, pulling your attention back to him before Ben can keep it. “Eyes on me when he’s talkin’,” he says, his voice sharp enough to make your pulse jump. His hand slides down your throat again, claiming the line of it while Ben’s fingers bite into your hip.
“Greedy thing’s got two men on her and still doesn’t know where to look.” Ben’s hand smooths over your stomach from behind, dragging slowly upward until his palm cups one of your boobs.
His fingers find your nipple and pinch lightly, rolling the hard peak until your breath breaks. “She knows exactly where to look,” Ben says. “She just likes actin’ too dumb to choose.”
They move you like you’re something to be arranged exactly how they want. Billy sits back on the couch first, thighs spread, cock hard and flushed against his stomach, one hand already reaching to drag you over him. Ben stays behind you, big hands on your waist, guiding and forcing at the same time until your knees are on either side of Billy’s hips.
You end up straddling Billy, hovering over his lap, your hands braced on his shoulders while Ben stands at your back. The position leaves you open between them, exposed, your pussy slick and swollen under both their stares. Billy looks down between your bodies and gives a rough little laugh.
“Fuckin’ look at her,” he says, not to you, but to Ben. “Mouth full two minutes ago, and she’s still drippin’ like a proper little cum dump.” The phrase hits you so hard you almost fold forward, but Ben’s arm locks around your middle and keeps you upright.
His other hand slides to your chest again, fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple until you whine. “She likes bein’ called that,” Ben says, almost pleased. “Bet she’s been waitin’ all night to hear it.”
You whimper because they’re talking over you like you’re not there, like your body is evidence they’re both examining. It makes your face burn, but your pussy clenches in full view of Billy, and his eyes snap down to it immediately. He laughs again, meaner this time, while one hand settles at your thigh and pushes it wider.
“There it is,” he mutters. “Can’t even pretend she hates it.” Ben leans over your shoulder, his chest brushing your back, and you feel his cock slide hot between your ass and his stomach as he looks down too. “You hear that, sweetheart?” he asks, though he still sounds like he’s talking to Billy more than to you.
“Your cunt’s givin’ you away.” You try to lower your head, but Billy’s hand comes up to your jaw and keeps you exposed to him. “No hidin’.” His thumb presses into your cheek, making your lips part as he studies you. “Not after you got on your knees and sucked us like a desperate little slut.”
Billy spits on his fingers first, shameless and filthy, then brings them down between your thighs. The wet heat of it makes you jolt before he even touches your clit. He drags his slick fingers through your folds, spreading you open with slow, possessive strokes while Ben watches over your shoulder.
You’re already soaked, but Billy still looks pleased with the mess, like it belongs to him because he made you admit it. Then Ben’s hand appears beside his, rougher and broader, his fingers pressing your folds apart so both men can see you clearly. “Pretty little pussy,” Ben says, voice low, and the praise sounds almost mean because he says it while spreading you open.
Then he spits too, directly onto your pussy, the warmth landing against your clit and sliding down into Billy’s fingers. Your whole body jerks. Billy groans at the sight, cock twitching under you. “Christ,” he mutters. “She likes that.” Ben’s fingers roll your nipple harder from behind, and your back arches against his chest. “Yeah,” he says, breath hot at your ear. “She’s nasty as hell.”
You do like it, and they know it. Your hips twitch downward, chasing anything, friction, pressure, relief, but Billy’s grip on your thigh stops you from taking too much too soon. Ben’s hand comes down against your ass with a sharp smack, not enough to break the rhythm, just enough to make you cry out and arch.
“Don’t get impatient,” Ben says, his voice rough with amusement. “You’ll get what you can handle.” Billy looks past your shoulder at him, one brow lifting, his hand still working spit and slick through your folds. “And what makes you think she can handle both of us?”
Ben’s mouth brushes the side of your neck, his grin felt more than seen. “Look at her.” He pinches both nipples now, cruel little rolls that make your chest shake with every breath. “She’s already actin’ like a slut who wants to be split open.”
Your breath shakes because he’s right, and because Billy’s face says he knows it too. Billy’s eyes come back to yours, and the dark satisfaction there makes your thighs tremble. “Yeah,” he says softly. “She will.”
Billy guides himself beneath you, thick head pressing against your slick entrance. Even after everything, the first push makes your mouth fall open. He’s not the longest, but he’s so thick that the stretch steals the air out of your lungs, forcing you to sink down slowly while his hands clamp around your hips.
“Easy,” he says, though his voice sounds anything but calm. You try to take him too fast, desperate and shaking, and he jerks you back with a rough grip. “Don’t be stupid, love.” His thumb digs into your hip as he holds you above him, letting only the head stretch you open.
Ben watches from behind, one hand still at your chest, the other wrapped around himself. “She’s tryin’ to swallow you whole,” he says, breathless and smug. Billy’s jaw tightens.
“She always gets greedy when she’s embarrassed.” His hand moves back to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes go glassy again. “Ain’t that right?”
You sink lower, inch by inch, until Billy is seated inside you, thick and deep enough to make your thighs shake around his hips. The stretch is familiar and still overwhelming, made worse by Ben standing behind you, waiting and touching you like patience is running out of his body.
Billy’s head falls back against the couch for one second before he forces his eyes open again, unwilling to miss your face. “Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it.” His hands move to your ass, spreading you, holding you open as Ben steps closer behind you.
You feel Ben’s cock slide against your slick folds, nudging where Billy already fills you, and panic flares with arousal so hard your fingers dig into Billy’s shoulders. “Billy,” you gasp, not sure if it’s a warning or a plea.
Billy’s hand comes up to your throat again, grounding you, making you look at him. “You said yes,” he reminds you, voice rough but focused beneath all the filth. “You still mean it?” You nod, frantic, and force the word out. “Yes.”
Ben groans behind you, and the sound is almost too much before he even pushes in. He spits into his palm, slicks himself with rough, impatient strokes, then spits again over the place where Billy is already buried inside you. The sensation makes you clench around Billy, and he curses, hips jerking up once before he controls himself.
“Fuckin’ hell, don’t do that,” Billy growls, even though his hands pull you down harder. Ben laughs under his breath, but it’s strained, his usual arrogance cracking under the pressure of what he’s about to do. “She can’t help it,” he says. “Poor thing’s full and still beggin’.” His tip presses against your entrance alongside Billy, and the stretch goes from intense to impossible.
Your whole body locks up, breath punching out of you in a broken whine. Billy’s hand tightens around your throat, not cutting off all your air, just taking enough control that your eyes roll back again. “Breathe,” he orders, and the command comes out like a threat and a promise at once.
Slow feels like a joke, because there’s nothing gentle about being opened around both of them. Ben pushes in by brutal little increments, forcing your body to make room while Billy holds you down on his cock. The pressure is obscene, hot and splitting, every nerve in your pussy screaming as both of them fill you at once.
You choke on a sound, forehead dropping toward Billy’s shoulder, but he catches your hair and pulls your head back. “No,” he says, voice low and cruel. “Let him see your face.” Ben stills behind you, breathing hard against your neck, his cock only halfway in and already making you feel like you’re being ruined from the inside out.
“Jesus Christ,” Ben mutters, and for once he sounds genuinely shaken. “She’s tight as hell.” Billy’s mouth curves, but his eyes are blown dark. “Told you,” he says, talking like you’re a thing being proved right in front of him. “Pretty little cunt’s spoiled, but she’s still got to work for it.” Ben’s hand slides from your hip to your stomach, pressing low. “Shit,” he says, voice dropping. “You can feel us right here.”
Your gaze follows his hand down, and the sight nearly wrecks you. There’s a subtle bulge low in your tummy where both of them are stretching you full, a faint, obscene pressure under Ben’s palm that makes your breath stutter when he presses on it. Billy sees it at the same time you do, and his entire body goes tense beneath you.
“Fuck,” Billy says, voice rough with disbelief and possession. “Look at that.” Ben’s palm stays there, rubbing slowly over the small swell like he’s memorizing what they’re doing to you. “We’re makin’ room where there wasn’t any,” Ben says, and his voice is so filthy and fascinated that your pussy clenches around them both.
Billy’s hand snaps back to your throat, squeezing as his hips jerk up under you. Your eyes roll back again, pleasure and pressure and humiliation crashing together until your mouth falls open.
Ben’s other hand pinches your nipple hard, and your whole body trembles between them. “Dirty little cum dump,” Billy says, almost panting now. “Look what happens when we fill you up proper.” Ben huffs a wrecked laugh against your shoulder. “She likes the proof.”
They start moving in tiny, cruel shifts at first. Billy rolls his hips up while Ben pulls back just enough to push in again, and the combined drag makes your vision blur.
It isn’t fast yet, but it’s already too much, every movement forcing you to feel both of them separately and together. Billy keeps one hand on your throat, squeezing in little pulses that make your lashes flutter and your body go loose for him.
Ben’s hand stays at your stomach, pressing over the bulge, while his other hand keeps playing with your nipples from behind. He pinches, rolls, and tugs until your chest aches and every little shock runs straight between your legs.
“She’s shaking,” Ben says, almost conversational, like you aren’t trembling between them. Billy looks down at your body, then back at Ben with a cruel little smirk. “She does that when she’s gettin’ treated like the slut she is.”
Your nails dig into Billy’s shoulders as another broken sound slips out of you. Ben thrusts shallowly, and your whole body jolts. “Yeah?” he says near your ear. “This what you wanted, sweetheart? Both of us makin’ a cum dump outta that pretty pussy?”
You can’t answer right away, and Billy doesn’t like that. His hand leaves your throat long enough to slap your cheek lightly, sharp enough to snap your focus back to him. “Answer him,” he says, voice rough and dark.
Your lips part, but the next slow grind of Ben’s cock alongside Billy’s turns the words into a gasp. Billy smiles like that’s answer enough, but he still waits because he’s a bastard. “Yes,” you finally manage, voice shaking apart.
“I wanted it.” Ben groans behind you, his forehead almost touching your shoulder for a second before he straightens again. “There she is,” he mutters. “Knew she’d say it if we stretched her enough.” Billy laughs, but it breaks into a curse when your pussy clenches around both of them.
“Fuck, love,” he hisses. “Keep squeezin’ like that and we’re not gonna last.” Ben’s hand presses lower on your stomach, making you feel the bulge and fullness all over again. “Then she’d better learn to take it.”
The rhythm builds slowly because it has to, because there’s too much of them and only so much of you. They don’t stop talking over you, about you, like your whimpers are just another part of the room. Billy says your pussy’s taking them better than he expected, voice rough with pride and disbelief.
Ben says you were made for trouble, that all that sweet little attitude was hiding this, a woman who’d end up split open between them and still try to act shy. You hear every word through the haze, and each one makes your clit pulse harder. Billy’s thumb finds it again, slick and spit-smeared, and starts rubbing slow, mean circles while Ben holds your hips open from behind.
The pressure of both cocks inside you, Billy’s thumb on your clit, Ben’s fingers abusing your nipples, and his palm pressing your lower stomach is enough to make your thighs shake violently. You cry out, and Ben’s arm clamps across your chest, pinning you back against him while his fingers keep twisting one hard nipple.
“There you go,” he says, breathing hot against your ear. “Let Butcher hear how much you like bein’ shared.” Billy’s mouth crashes against yours, rough and possessive, and his hips snap up harder. “She’s not bein’ shared,” he growls against your lips. “She’s bein’ shown off.”
That makes you break into a sobbing moan, because Billy can make possession sound filthier than sharing ever could. Ben laughs against your shoulder, but his thrust stutters like the words hit him too. “Yeah?” he says, voice ragged. “Then show her off right.” Billy’s eyes flash, and suddenly his hands are on your hips again, lifting and dragging you down with a strength that makes your breath vanish.
Ben matches him from behind, timing his shallow thrusts to Billy’s movement until you’re caught in a rough, coordinated rhythm that leaves you helpless between them.
Your pussy is stretched so full that every thrust feels like it’s taking you apart and putting you back wrong. You can feel Billy’s thickness grinding against one side, Ben’s length pressing from the other, both of them slick with spit and your own wetness.
Your head falls back against Ben’s shoulder, and Billy immediately grabs your throat to keep your face visible. His fingers squeeze, your eyes roll, and he groans at the sight like it’s going to ruin him. “No hidin’ from me,” he says. Ben’s mouth brushes your ear, his voice dark with amusement. “Or me.”
They keep you there, pinned between them, while the quiet night Billy promised turns into something ruinous and loud with breathing, skin, and filthy praise disguised as insult. You’re trembling so hard now that they have to hold you up, Billy from beneath you and Ben from behind, both of them using that to move you exactly how they want.
They spit on their fingers again, on your clit, on where you’re stretched around them, making the whole thing wetter, messier, more obscene. Billy talks about how sweet you looked in his shirt and how much better you look with it gone, split open on his cock and Ben’s like you’d been waiting for it.
Ben says he knew you were trouble the first time you glared at him, says he should’ve known your mouth wasn’t the only greedy thing about you. You whimper through it, trying to keep hold of Billy’s shoulders while Ben’s hands bruise your hips and squeeze your tits from behind. Neither of them lets you disappear into the pleasure quietly.
Every time your eyes close, Billy snaps your name. Every time your head drops, Ben pulls it back. Every time your body clenches, they both groan like you’re testing them on purpose. And through all of it, they keep talking like you aren’t in the room, like you’re something they’re using and admiring and ruining between them. You hate how much it turns you on, and you hate even more that they both know.
Billy feels you start to come apart before you manage to say it. Your thighs clamp uselessly around his hips, your nails dig into his shoulders, and your whole body starts shaking between them like you’ve been wound too tight for too long. Ben feels it too, pressed behind you, his hand still at your stomach where that obscene fullness shows beneath his palm.
He lets out a rough, almost disbelieving laugh when your pussy starts fluttering around them both, tight little pulses dragging a curse out of Billy and a sharp groan out of him. Billy’s thumb keeps working your clit in slow, cruel circles, not letting up even when you jerk against him.
“There she is,” Billy says, voice wrecked and mean, his eyes fixed on your face. “There’s our filthy little slut.” Ben’s hand slides up from your stomach to your throat, replacing Billy’s grip with his own, fingers firm and controlled around the front of your neck.
The pressure makes your lashes flutter, your breath catching in a broken whimper that only gets worse when Billy’s hand drops to your tits.
He slaps one, sharp and filthy, then the other, watching your nipples bounce and harden under the sting. “Cum for us,” Billy growls. “Go on, love. Show him what my girl looks like when she’s ruined.”
Your orgasm hits so hard that it nearly takes your voice with it. For a second, you can’t do anything but shake, mouth open, eyes rolling as Ben’s hand holds your throat and Billy’s cock grinds up into you from beneath.
Then the sound breaks out of you, loud and helpless, both their names spilling from your mouth in a ruined, sobbing rush. “Billy,” you gasp first, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Ben.” Ben groans against your ear when you say his name, his hips snapping forward harder, forcing another cry out of you.
Billy’s hand comes down against your tit again, the sting melting straight into the pleasure tearing through your body. You don’t even know when the words change, only that your head is gone and your body is too full and too sensitive and too desperate to stay proud.
“Daddy,” you whimper at Billy, and the look that takes over his face is almost dangerous. Then your head falls back against Ben’s shoulder, and the name slips out for him too, softer and needier.
“Dada, please.” Ben’s grip tightens at your throat for one controlled second, just enough to make you gasp around the word. “Fuck,” he snarls. “Say that again.”
Billy’s whole body goes tense beneath you, jealousy and arousal twisting together in his face. He slaps your tit again, rougher this time, and the sting makes your pussy clamp down around both of them so hard that Ben swears into your neck.
“Little cum dump’s got names for both of us now,” Billy says, voice harsh, but his hips buck up into you like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Ben laughs, breathless and mean, his hand still at your throat while the other arm locks around your waist to hold you steady. “She sounds good beggin’ like that,” he says, thrusting shallow and hard, making you feel every inch of him alongside Billy.
“Bet she’d sound even better askin’ for what she really wants.” Your orgasm is still rolling through you, still making your thighs tremble, but the words drag another desperate ache out of your body. Billy’s thumb presses against your clit again, and you sob. “Please,” you choke out, voice thin under Ben’s hand.
Billy’s eyes narrow, his mouth wet and parted as he watches you struggle to speak. “Please what?” he asks. Ben’s mouth brushes your ear, cruel and hot. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell us what you want us to do to that pretty little cunt.”
You barely get the sentence out. It comes out broken, filthy, and desperate, torn apart by the way they keep moving inside you. “Cum in me,” you beg, voice shaking so badly the words nearly blur. Billy’s hips stutter beneath you, and Ben goes still for half a second like you’ve punched the air out of him.
Then you say it again because their reaction makes you reckless. “Please cum in me.” Billy’s face twists with something possessive and ruined, his hands grabbing your hips hard enough to pull you down against him. “Hear that?” he says to Ben, like you’re not there, like you’re just a soaked, trembling thing split open between them. “She’s beggin’ for it now.”
Ben’s hand flexes around your throat, his thumb stroking once along your jaw when your breath catches. “Yeah,” Ben says, voice rougher than it’s been all night. “Wants to be filled up like a good little cum dump.” Your pussy clenches again, and both men groan at once. “Please,” you whimper, turning your face toward Billy, then back toward Ben as much as his grip allows. “Please, Daddy. Please, Dada. I want it.”
That breaks whatever restraint they’ve been pretending to have. Billy’s hands become bruising on your hips, lifting and dragging you down onto him in rough, grinding thrusts that make your whole body jolt. Ben matches him from behind, his hips snapping forward in short, punishing strokes, keeping you pinned between his chest and Billy’s body.
They aren’t soft now, not even a little. Their words get nastier, their rhythm harsher, their hands less patient as your body turns loose and trembling between them. Billy calls you a greedy slut for asking so sweetly after pretending you were shy. Ben calls you a perfect little cum dump against your ear, his voice shaking with how close he is.
Billy keeps slapping your tits, alternating between the sharp sting of his palm and the rough squeeze of his fingers around your nipples. Ben’s hand stays at your throat, firm and grounding, controlling just enough air to make every sensation blur into something dizzy and desperate.
Your eyes roll again, and Billy groans when he sees it. “Fuckin’ look at her,” he pants. “Gone stupid on our cocks.” Ben bites out a laugh, thrusting harder. “Good. That’s how she should be.”
Billy cums first, because the way you’re clenching around both of them is too much even for him. His whole body locks beneath you, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, hands dragging you down so hard you feel him buried as deep as he can get. “Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking around the word. “Take it, love.”
Then he spills inside you, hot and thick, his cock pulsing hard as cum fills you from beneath. You feel every twitch of him, every hot rush, and the sensation makes you sob because Ben is still moving behind you, grinding his cock alongside Billy’s while Billy empties into you.
“There you go,” Ben mutters, voice ragged at your ear. “Daddy’s fillin’ you up.” The words make you clench so hard Billy curses through his own orgasm.
Ben’s grip on your throat tightens for one last dizzying second before he lets it ease, his other hand pressing low on your stomach as if he can feel Billy’s cum inside you. “My turn,” Ben says, and his voice is no longer teasing. It’s wrecked.
Ben follows with a harsh groan, hips driving forward and holding there as deep as your body can take him. His hand leaves your throat to clamp around your waist, pulling you back against him while Billy holds you down from the front. “Fuck, sweetheart,” Ben grits out, his voice cracking into something raw. “Take mine too.”
Then he cums inside you, hot and heavy, pulsing into the same stretched, soaked space Billy has already filled. The feeling is overwhelming, too much heat, too much fullness, too much wetness as both of them stay buried and twitching inside you. You can feel their cum mixing deep in your pussy, slick and warm, making the stretch wetter and messier with every tiny aftershock.
Billy’s breathing is rough against your chest, his forehead briefly pressing to your collarbone like even he needs a second. Ben groans into the back of your shoulder, his body trembling once behind you.
You’re still shaking from your own orgasm, still clenching weakly around them both, and every pulse makes cum shift inside you. “Good girl,” Billy murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked. “That’s it. Take all of it.” Ben kisses the side of your neck, messier and rougher than tender. “Looks like she loves it.”
For a moment, no one moves properly. You’re pinned between them, full of both of their cum, your body limp and trembling, your tits sore from Billy’s hands and your throat still tingling from Ben’s grip. Billy’s fingers stroke over your hip, almost absent, while Ben’s palm spreads across your lower stomach one more time.
“Hell of a thing,” Ben mutters, still breathing hard, and there’s a rough satisfaction in his voice when he feels how full you are. Billy looks down between your bodies, eyes dark and hungry even through the exhaustion. “Want to see it,” he says, and the words make your stomach twist again despite how ruined you already feel.
Ben pulls out first, slowly, and the loss makes you whimper. A wet sound follows, obscene and soft, and Ben curses when he sees the first slick spill of cum start to slip out around Billy’s cock. Billy grabs your hips and lifts you off him next, careful enough not to hurt you but still rough enough to make your thighs shake.
His cock slides free, and the combined cum immediately starts dripping back down onto him from your pussy, thick and white, mixed with your slick as it trails over his shaft and lower stomach. Billy stares at it like it’s a claim made visible. Ben lets out a low laugh behind you. “Jesus,” he says. “Look at that mess.”
Billy doesn’t let you hide from it. He keeps you lifted just enough, one arm strong around your waist, while his other hand dips between your thighs. His fingers scoop through the cum dripping from you, gathering the messy mix before it can slide too far.
Your face burns when he brings it up toward your mouth, but you open before he has to tell you. Billy’s eyes go dark at the obedience. “That’s my girl,” he says, pushing his fingers between your lips. The taste of cum hits your tongue, salty and warm and filthy, mixed with you, mixed with both of them, and you moan around his fingers because you love it.
Ben moves in too, his hand following Billy’s, fingers sliding through the mess still leaking from your swollen pussy. “Greedy even after all that,” he says, amused and breathless. He brings his fingers to your mouth next, and Billy pulls his free just enough to let Ben feed you too.
You suck Ben’s fingers clean without hesitation, eyes half-lidded, body still trembling between them. Ben’s grin turns wrecked and satisfied. “Damn,” he murmurs. “She really does love bein’ our cum dump.”
Billy’s hand comes back to your jaw, not harsh this time, but still possessive enough to make you look at him while Ben’s fingers slip from your mouth. “Swallow,” he says, voice low and ruined. You do, because there’s no part of you left pretending you don’t want every filthy piece of what they give you.
Billy watches your throat move, and something soft and dangerous flickers under all the degradation. Ben’s hand slides over your hip, squeezing once, while his mouth brushes your shoulder. “Good girl,” Ben says, and the praise sounds almost obscene after everything else.
Cum is still dripping from you, slow and sticky, sliding down your thighs and onto Billy where he sits beneath you. Billy notices, of course he does, and his thumb strokes over your swollen lower lip. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Full of us, fed from us, and still lookin’ like you’d ask for more.”
Your laugh comes out broken and breathless, half a whimper. You lean into his hand because you can’t help it. “Maybe I would,” you whisper. Billy’s smile turns dark again, and Ben’s laugh rumbles against your back. “Course you would,” Billy says. “You’re ours now, love. No point lyin’ about it.”
You pout up at them before you can stop yourself, lips still swollen, eyes glassy, body trembling in that loose, ruined way that makes Billy’s gaze sharpen all over again. It isn’t even a practiced pout, not something you mean to do to get your way, just the natural little downturn of your mouth when Billy’s hand leaves your jaw and Ben’s warmth shifts away from your back.
You feel too empty already, too exposed, too full of them and somehow still needy enough to hate the distance. Billy notices instantly, because Billy notices every pathetic little thing you try to hide from him. His hand tightens around your waist, and for one stupid second you think he’s going to pull you back onto his lap.
Instead, he lifts you with a rough little grunt, making your thighs shake as cum slips hot and sticky between your legs. “Look at that face,” he mutters, voice hoarse and mean around the edges. “Still fuckin’ poutin’ after all that.”
You try to answer, but the sound that comes out is just a soft, embarrassed whine. Ben laughs under his breath, stepping closer like he can’t help wanting to see what Billy’s done to you from every possible angle.
Billy sets you down on the chair beside him, rough enough that you gasp when your bare skin meets the cool seat. The chair creaks beneath you, and your hands fly to the arms of it, fingers curling hard as your body tries to remember how to sit normally.
There’s nothing normal about it, not with your thighs slick, your pussy sore and swollen, cum still leaking out of you in slow, humiliating little drips. Billy doesn’t let you close your legs. His hand catches your knee immediately and shoves it back open with a dark look, like he’s offended you’d even try to hide now.
“No,” he says, simple and sharp. “Don’t get shy after beggin’ for us to fill you.” Your breath catches, and Ben makes a low sound from where he stands in front of you, still half-dressed, still looking unfairly smug and wrecked at the same time. “She’s tryin’ to look innocent again,” Ben says, voice rough with amusement. “Cute.”
You glare at him, or at least you try to. It comes out weak, ruined by the way your body keeps shaking and the way your lips are still parted like you’re waiting for someone to give you another command. Ben sees that too, because Ben has become dangerously good at reading all the little cracks in your pride.
His eyes drop between your spread thighs, and his grin fades into something darker when he sees the mess they’ve left behind. Billy’s cum and Ben’s cum keep slipping out of you, thick and white against your flushed, swollen pussy, trailing down toward the chair in slow, obscene streaks.
You feel it and shiver, half embarrassed and half turned on all over again. Billy sees the shiver and reaches over, fingers digging into the soft inside of your thigh. “Still twitchin’,” he says, like he’s talking to Ben more than you.
“Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself now.” Ben steps closer, one hand coming down to grip the back of the chair above your shoulder. “Sure she does,” he says. “She’s sittin’ there waitin’ to be told.”
The words make your stomach dip, and Billy’s fingers flex like he feels the reaction through your thigh. “That true, love?” he asks, leaning back on the couch like he isn’t still hardening again at the sight of you ruined beside him.
You swallow, throat tender from Ben’s grip and Billy’s commands, and your voice comes out smaller than you expect. “Maybe.” Billy’s mouth curves, slow and wicked, and Ben’s brows lift like your answer has delighted him. “Maybe,” Billy repeats, dragging the word out like it’s something filthy. “That’s not what you sounded like five minutes ago.”
Your face burns hot, but you don’t look away fast enough. Billy reaches over and catches your chin before you can try. His thumb presses into your lower lip, smearing what’s left of the wetness there. “You had plenty to say when you wanted our cum in you.”
Ben makes a low sound at that, like the reminder gets under his skin too. He crouches in front of you, not kneeling fully, just lowering enough that his face is closer to your open thighs. The position makes your breath go thin, especially when his hands settle on your knees and push them wider for himself.
“Christ,” he mutters, looking at the way cum keeps leaking from you. “She really did take it all.” Billy’s eyes are on you, not between your legs, watching your face twist with embarrassment. “She loved takin’ it,” he says. “Didn’t you?”
You bite your lip, and Billy’s hand comes down on your thigh, a sharp slap that makes you jolt. “Don’t bite that lip unless I tell you to.” Your eyes fly to his, and your voice shakes when you answer. “I loved it.” Ben’s grin comes back, slower this time, rougher around the edges. “Yeah,” he says. “I know you did.”
Ben’s gaze drops again, and this time he doesn’t just look. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out his phone with a calmness that makes your whole body tense. Billy’s eyes flick to the phone first, then to your face, his expression sharpening with warning and interest all at once.
Ben notices that too, because he isn’t stupid, just infuriating. “Relax,” he says, though his voice stays dark and hungry. “I’m askin’.” Your breath catches as he tilts the phone in his hand, not lifting it fully yet, giving you the chance to say no. Billy’s hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding despite how rough he’s been with you.
“You want that, love?” Billy asks, and his voice drops softer beneath the filth. “Want him keepin’ a picture of what we did to you?” The idea hits you so hard your pussy clenches, pushing more cum out in a slow, humiliating trickle. Ben sees it happen, and his jaw tightens. “Shit,” he mutters. “That’s an answer if I’ve ever seen one.”
You still force yourself to speak, because Billy’s eyes demand it and Ben’s phone stays lowered until you do. “Yes,” you whisper, cheeks burning so hot you feel dizzy. Ben’s grin turns dark, satisfied, and almost reverent in the worst possible way.
“Yeah?” he asks, thumb hovering over the screen as he shifts closer. “You want me takin’ pictures of this pretty ruined pussy?” Your thighs twitch, but Billy’s hand keeps them open. “Say it proper,” Billy murmurs, thumb stroking once along your inner thigh. Your voice shakes, but the want in it is embarrassingly clear.
“I want him to take them.” Ben exhales slowly, like the words have knocked something loose in him. “Good girl,” he says, and the praise sounds obscene coming from his mouth. “Knew you had a little exhibitionist streak in there.” Billy huffs a rough laugh beside you. “Little?”
The first picture makes you flinch even though you asked for it. Ben angles the phone down between your thighs, capturing the spread of your legs, the swollen shine of your pussy, the thick cum dripping out of you and smearing against the chair.
The soft click feels louder than it should, sharp enough to send a pulse straight through your clit. You cover your face on instinct, but Billy catches your wrists before your hands can hide you. “No,” he says, dragging your arms down and pinning them against the chair.
“You wanted it, so let him see your face too.” Ben’s eyes lift to yours over the phone, his grin crooked and filthy. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “Don’t hide now.” He takes another picture, this one wider, catching your ruined expression, your bare chest, your open thighs, and Billy’s hand holding you in place.
Your stomach twists with shame and pleasure at once. “Fuck,” Ben says softly, looking at the screen. “That’s one hell of a souvenir.”
Billy leans over enough to look, his shoulder brushing yours while Ben turns the screen slightly toward him. The sight of them both looking at the picture while you’re sitting right there makes your whole body burn. Billy’s mouth curls like he’s proud and possessive and half tempted to ruin you all over again.
“Look at her,” he mutters, voice rough. “Looks like she’s been thoroughly used.” Ben’s thumb swipes once, checking the picture, and his eyes flick back to you with something hungry and pleased. “She looks like she needs to be looked at again,” he says.
You make a small sound, and Billy’s hand slides from your wrist to your throat, not squeezing yet, just resting there like a reminder. “You hear that, love?” Billy asks. “He’s already plannin’ what he’s doin’ with those.”
Ben lifts the phone again, angling for another shot of your pussy leaking over the chair. “Damn right I am,” he says, voice low. “I’m keepin’ these.”
Your breath catches harder than you expect. “Keeping them?” you whisper, even though you already know the answer. Ben’s gaze rises to yours, bold and shameless, but there is still that pause, that tiny space for you to take it back if you need to.
You don’t. You sit there with Billy holding your throat and Ben crouched between your thighs, and the thought of him leaving with proof of you like this makes you throb. Ben sees it in your face before you can say anything.
“I’m gonna stroke myself to them when I get home,” he says, rough and deliberate, watching your reaction like it’s the real prize. “Gonna look at that pretty little cum-filled pussy and remember exactly how you sounded beggin’ for us.”
A whimper slips out of you, helpless and immediate. Billy’s fingers tighten slightly at your throat, his smile darkening as he feels you melt under the words. “Fuckin’ knew it,” Billy murmurs. “You like that.”
Ben takes another picture while Billy says it, capturing your face mid-whimper, lips parted, eyes glassy, throat held in Billy’s hand. The humiliation of it makes your pulse thunder, but you don’t ask him to stop.
You can’t. You love the attention too much, love the idea of being kept like this, love knowing Ben will have to look at you later and remember what it felt like to ruin you with Billy.
“You’re sick,” you whisper, but there is no bite in it. Ben laughs, low and pleased, lowering the phone just enough to meet your eyes properly. “Maybe,” he says. “But you’re the one spreadin’ your legs wider every time I point this thing at you.”
Your gaze drops because he’s right, and Billy’s thumb strokes along your throat like he’s rewarding the honesty your body keeps giving away. “She can’t help herself,” Billy says. “Likes knowin’ she’ll be kept.” Ben’s smile turns slower. “Oh, she’s bein’ kept all right.”
Billy’s hand moves from your throat to your jaw, turning your face toward him while Ben takes another photo from the side. This one catches Billy’s fingers on your face, your ruined mouth, the bruised flush in your cheeks, and the cum still leaking between your open thighs.
Billy kisses you after the click, rough and possessive, his mouth swallowing the soft moan you give him. Ben makes a quiet sound behind the phone, and when Billy pulls away, you see the way Ben is staring at the screen like he’s already imagining later. “That one,” Ben says, voice rougher. “That one’s gettin’ used a lot.”
You shiver, and Billy laughs against your mouth. “Dirty little thing,” he says, not unkindly, but still mean enough to make your stomach twist. “You hear him talk about jerkin’ off to you and you damn near shake.”
Ben shifts closer, phone still in hand, and his free fingers slide along your inner thigh, smearing through the mess there. “Can’t blame me,” he says. “Look at her.”
You try to pout again, partly because you’re overwhelmed and partly because you know they both react to it. Billy sees it first and clicks his tongue, eyes narrowing. “There’s that face again.” Ben immediately lifts the phone, like he has been waiting for exactly that.
“Hold that,” he says, voice turning sharp with command. You freeze, lips parted in that soft little pout, thighs still spread by Billy’s hand. The picture captures it, the ruined softness of your expression paired with the filthy evidence between your legs.
Ben looks at the screen and lets out a rough laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be a problem.” Your voice comes out breathy, almost shy despite everything. “For who?” Ben’s eyes lift slowly from the phone to your face.
“For my right hand,” he says, and Billy laughs so hard under his breath that you feel it through his hand on your thigh. “Romantic bastard, ain’t he?” Billy says.
Ben stands again, still looking down at you like he’s not finished deciding what he wants to remember. He takes one more picture from above, getting the whole wrecked shape of you in the chair, legs open, chest bare, throat marked faintly from their hands, mouth swollen from them both.
Billy keeps you in place through it, one hand on your thigh, the other at your chin, forcing you to look up instead of away. The click lands, and you feel it everywhere. Ben studies the screen for a long second, his expression almost stripped of humor now. “Yeah,” he says softly, more to himself than either of you. “I’m definitely keepin’ that one.”
Billy looks up at him, possessive amusement cutting through his exhaustion. “Don’t wear it out.” Ben grins, finally sliding the phone away. “No promises.”
Your thighs tremble, and another slow drip of cum slips out of you. Both men look down at the same time, and Ben’s grin turns wicked again. “Might need one more.” Billy squeezes your thigh, holding you open as he murmurs, “Smile for him, love.”
now lets discuss butcher coming home to find you wearing just his black sweater (yall know the one) and a pair of panties i just KNOW that man would go absolutely ape shit and fuck you stupid
A/N: so sorry for the radio silence, but also yall I hit 1k followers 🥺🫶🏻 thank you my bbys xxx
A sigh left butchers mouth as soon as the apartment door closed behind him. It had been a long day, staring at files but not reading them, the endless yapping of the other guys in his vigilante group - he needed to just decompress, relax… and being home with you sounded like a dream come true.
As soon as you came into view- your back towards him, bare legs on display, the swell of your ass adorned with those laced trimmed cotton panties he drooled over and that black sweater- his sweater you kept swiping from his limited amount of clothing he owned.
Not that he minded seeing you wear it, but it sure made it hard to keep himself in check when you looked so irresistible.
When he made his way to you, immediately pressing his nose into your hair and muttering greetings and how much his missed you… all while his rough fingers smoothed down your sides, creeping up under the sweater to feel the heat of your soft skin, smirking while hearing your breath stutter while you try to make words form…
“My sweet girl, wearin’ my stuff… looking like a right fuckin’ four course meal.”
Billy wouldn’t wait, lifting you to the counter and standing between your legs before kissing you harshly and hungrily - moving swiftly to pull your panties off and unzip his own pants.
“Fuck Billy- been thinking of you all day-“ you muttered, trying to pull off the jumper but being stopped by him.
“Nuh uh- ain’t takin’ that off…” he’d rasp, fingers collecting the slick of your pussy, using it for lubing up his cock as he strokes it. “Gonna fuck you in it.”
He pulled you forward, sinking to his knees to taste you on his tongue - making slow, deliberate circles on your clit before he stood back up, knees cracking slightly as he lined himself up before sheathing himself inside you - a pleased grunt leaving both of you as he rocked himself into you.
Your walls fluttered around his cock, moaning his name as he fucked into you faster- hearing him grunt when you tugged on his hair, egging him to thrust harsher into you.
The onslaught of you crying out his name, he indulged in it - biting down on your shoulder as he continued and rubbed his thumb on your clit.
“So perfect f’ me…my girl.” He’d breathe out, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep his pace amidst his oncoming orgasm. “Cmon- cum for me-“
He pressed his lips hard onto yours, swallowing your cry of passion as you came hard - your cunt convulsing around him gave the last motivation to come deep inside you.
Billy rocked every little drop he gave into you, softening his kisses to your lips and cheeks.
“Billy…” you whispered, cheeks red and mind fucked dumb - but your eyes still sparkled with need for more. “Felt too good.” You grinned softly.
He smirked, thumbing your bottom lip.
“Yeah lovey, I know… but I ain’t just stoppin’ there tonight. Need to have more of you in my jumper.”
Butcher holds you, head tucked under his chin like a keepsake.
Listening to your steady breath, as it fills the promise of your lungs; to your pulse, as is quickened under the brush of his rough fingertips, cigarette ash lining the dry texture.
Here you were, whole, human, busting with potential like a germinating bud. His fingers threaded through your hair and he sighed.
"Love ya bird." He whispers moving his hips again. He says it sweet and tried, like hes ordering another drink he knows he shouldn't.
You don't know what to do with the knowledge you can never have him so you find peace in the sweat, in his boots muddying your entryway once in a blue moon, in his warmth blanketing you so effectively you can't seem to recall the stress outside your own apartment.
After, he makes you pancakes and you rub his shoulders, trying and sometimes failing not to ask nosy questions.
Until eventually he is dressed and standing at your doorway looking for all the world like he doesn't want to leave.
He makes you promise you'll keep safe and only laughs in return when you demand to hear it back with all of the indignance of a spurned i love you.
He pats your cheek and kisses you until you feel shaky and then he disappears into the night.
Next door neighbor Billy Butcher x F!Reader Here’s part 1 please give it a like too🫶✨
tw: cum swallowing
Artblock sucks especially when your best friend commissioned you to make a cover art for their upcoming crime novel. The main character was about rugged middle aged man, a runaway assassin.
This isn’t your first time drawing men. Though gritty art wasn’t your strong suit, you needed the money. Your friend hadn’t given you a due date, so there was no rush. Still, staring at online references wasn’t getting you anywhere. You needed something more—someone to draw inspiration from. You already knew who that someone was. The problem was that while he was the perfect muse, he was a terrible idea.
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“Thought you wouldn’t ask ,luv” He hung his coat and storm to your living room like he owns the place. Rolled your eyes, sign of annoyance.
“Do I need to take off m’clothes?” Butcher said while already unbuttoning his shirt
“Maybe just the top” you said begrudgingly. He smirked at your response. Various poses was shown to him, he was expected to do two to five poses. He started with both of his arm resting on his waist. Butcher can’t help to boast his chest a bit.
“I need you to hold still for a long time, okay?”
“Anythin’ for you ,doll”
You start your sketches with a pencil, nice thin lines, then bold lines to accentuate the curve of his muscles. Dust from the eraser kept forming more and more. The floor was covered by it by the time you finish one arm.
The paper wore thin after being erased too many times. One paper, two paper. Another pose and the other. Paper scrap thrown here and there. You can’t seem to get the fluidity of the muscles right. You scratch your head in frustration. Second guessing your ability to draw.
“Oi! Wrinkles doesn’t suit y’face. Why don’t ya take a break?”
His voice broke your busy mind. You nodded yet, your eyes lingered on his arm. Butcher noticed you zoning out and it strike a cord in him. You come closer to him, eyes still lingering on his toned arm. Your hands suddenly moved by itself, hovering slightly above his skin. Your sudden touch awakened something in Butcher.
“Oh sorry! I didn’t meant to do that!”
“No worries, luv.” he awkwardly replied
Gaze shifted to the clock, an hour and half has passed. Mind still thinking of ways to make the best shade of shadows and the strokes of pencil. A small cough from Butcher broke the tension. He knew your head was still not in the room.
“For fuck sakes ,luv. What’s on yer mind?!”
Again, his voice snapped you back to reality. You didn’t realized how lost you might look. You were used to making art alone and tend to zone out when you’re stuck. Feeling guilty for ignoring him, you decided to get it off your chest.
“Can I feel your arms just to get the fluidity of the muscles?”
Butcher ears perked up and rubbed his chin, pretending to think of a good response. Your eyes gleamed in desperation as if pleading for him to accept. He didn’t expect that kind expression from you.
“You owe me two pints of beer ye?”
You jumped in excitement and without any doubt starts massaging his arms. Butcher unironically grunts, trying to hold his composure. You didn’t give him room to breathe. Eyes locked on his muscles, genuinely admiring how built he was.
Occasionally, you will feel the contours of his muscles, gliding your fingers gently on to his skin. Then, suddenly you found yourself guilty, leaning to close to him, your knee grazed his crotch. But, you feel a warmth radiating and something hard wedged between it. Before you realized what it was, Butcher unconsciously grunted.
“Ah fu— I didn’t mean to lean in that close!”
“C’mon ,luv. It’s not ye first time meetin ’ him. He loved your company”
His comment made you shift your focus to it directly. You paused on how the sheer size of it was stretching the fabric of his pants. He’s right, you’ve seen it. But, not up close. No excuse this time, you were caught zoning out and starting right at it.
“Don’t you wanna study…how he looks? Maybe y’need more than just reference?”
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“Grip it tighter” you said
While standing, he obeyed your command and gripped his length tighter. You did need a reference for how hands grabbing an object looked, and he had insisted on showing you. He gently began to move his hand up and down. His hand circled around the tip, twisting it like a doorknob.
You could see the veins on his hands in contrast to the ones on his cock, his dirty nails, and the calluses on his fingers, all in detail. Yet your fingers were no longer holding the pencil to sketch instead, they were busy rubbing your own clit.
The next thing you knew, his hot tip was hovering over your swollen lips. You parted your lips and rolled your eyes up, making eye contact with him. Butcher was never ready for your cheeky response.
“Let me fuckin’ paint your lil mouth”
You opened your mouth wider while sticking your tongue out. The tip of his cock sat nicely on your tongue. The wetness and heat radiating from your mouth sent rushing waves of excitement through his body. He grunted as his body jerked, and a string of thick, translucent cum splattered all over your mouth. Not a drop was wasted as you licked it all clean while Butcher grinned in exhaustion.
