i write stuff

currently deep in Billy Butcher brainrot. sarah | 30 | copywriter by day, author by night. FAQ & RULES

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

FAQ & Rules

FAQ:

What do you write?: I mostly write x Reader fanfictions. Sometimes spicy, sometimes not. What fandoms do you like writing for?: The Boys, Cyberpunk 2077, Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Marvel, Star Trek, Star Wars What characters do you write for?: [a list will soon follow] // Lets say nearly everyone from my listed fandoms Do you post your writing anywhere else?: Yes, on my Ao3. Usernames areThe_biotic, pyre-fyre and celestisdivinitusinsaniavero Do you write longer fics?: Not anymore. (See Ao3 for older stuff, if you want to) I write for a living and keep the structured work in that area. There is no time for coherence on this blog.

Rules:

Please credit me if you write something based on my stuff. I love being tagged and mentioned in your posts.

I write what I want to, I don't do this for profit. So don't rush me, don't push me, don't make me hate my favorite hobby.

Be kind. The world is mean enough.

Send your requests through the ask box. I am a deeply disorganized person, I will lose it otherwise.

I will not write smut with minors or aging up of underage characters.

I will not write for real people / actors. (No hate but I don't even like that I am a real person. yikes.)

I will not write non-con.

I will not write crossovers. (I never get it right and it makes me nervous.)

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

The best idea ever.

Eddie x Volt x f!Reader

TW: Dom Volt, rough, oral f! giving / receiving, vag penetration, sword crossing, sloppy messy bisexual deprivity.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

That one time you thought Charles wasn't interested

young!Charles Xavier (Wheelchair) x f!Reader

TW: very dirty smutty telepathy? [18+ MDNI]

You lie in bed, staring at the intricate patterns on the ceiling, wishing desperately for sleep. It’s impossible. You’ve been tossing and turning for hours, the sheets tangled around you like an accusation. Why can’t you let this go? But you know why. It’s because you can’t stop replaying the evening over and over in your head, trying to decide if it was a date with Charles or not.

The restaurant was cozy and intimate, the kind of place with candlelit tables and red velvet booths. You remember how he looked across the table, his blue eyes catching the light and making your heart do somersaults. Everything about the evening felt like a date—the way he touched your hand on the table, the way he complimented your outfit, the way his smile made you feel like the only person in the room. And yet...

And yet, there was something maddeningly friendly about it all. You think of the way he talked, his voice warm and engaging, making you laugh with stories from his university days. How he managed to weave intellectual debates with flirtatious undertones. But he never crossed that line, never gave you any real indication that it was more than just a friendly dinner.

You think about the end of the evening, on your way back to your room in the mansion, his wheelchair gliding silently over the polished floors. He paused, smiled that devastating smile, and said goodnight. And that was it. No kiss, no hint of something more. Just goodnight. It left you baffled, standing there like an idiot in the hallway.

Maybe you misread everything. Maybe you wanted it to be a date so badly that you imagined the connection. You were so sure he liked you, the way he always seemed to find reasons to spend time together, the way his eyes lingered just a little too long. But now you’re not so sure. You might have built it all up in your head.

You roll over, punching the pillow in frustration. It’s annoying. He’s annoying. Why can’t he just be clear about what he wants? You felt so certain tonight, convinced that he’d make a move, that he’d finally show you that this was more than just friendship. But as the dinner stretched on, you started to realize that maybe he doesn’t see you that way at all. The thought gnaws at you.

And now here you are, alone in the dark, feeling foolish and sad. The mansion is quiet, the only sound the rustling of the sheets as you shift. You sigh, trying to push the thoughts away, but they cling.

You’re wrong. The words echo in your mind, startling you so much that you bolt upright in bed. There’s no mistaking that voice, its familiar warmth and playful tone. 

Charles. You glance around the room, half expecting to see him there, but of course, he’s not. He’s speaking to you telepathically, and you feel a rush of emotions—surprise, hope, and then a sharp flare of anger. How long has he been listening?

Get out of my head, Charles. You practically shout in your head, accusing him of listening in. There’s a pause, and you can almost picture his amused expression before he responds, apologizing for the intrusion. 

Apologies, darling. I didn’t want to pry. You don’t buy it for a second, and he chuckles, the sound echoing through your mind.

You see in your mind how he leans back in his chair, folding his hands nervously in his lap. I haven't dated in years, he admits, his voice tinged with a mix of embarrassment and sincerity. 

Not since before … the accident. He lets out a small, awkward chuckle. 

I'm out of practice. I wanted to do it right, you know? Without relying on my telepathy to read your mind. He sounds so vulnerable. 

But I never did that before, and I felt… insecure. You cross your arms.

You? insecure? you retort in your mind, skepticism lacing your words.

You felt him shifting nervously. 

When I was younger, he confesses, I used my telepathy to figure out the perfect moment to make a move. His voice was tinged with regret and he pauses waiting for your reaction but continues when you stay silent. I realize now that was wrong, and I didn't want to repeat that mistake with you. I wanted everything to be perfect, he continued, but it just made me so self-conscious that I froze and didn't make a move at all. His earnest tone hung in your head, but despite his sincerity, a prickle of irritation remained, tightening your chest.

His words are earnest, and you want to believe him.

"Why are you in my head now?" you demand out lout, your voice tinged with frustration. "If you know it’s wrong." 

There's a pause.

You’re about to repeat the question, thinking he’s ignoring you, when you sense something else, a shift in his demeanor. 

You feel it then, a ghostly sensation brushing against your arm. It’s soft at first, like the lightest touch of a hand, and it travels slowly up to your neck. You shiver and it makes your skin tingle and your heart race. You know it’s him, using his telepathy in a way you’ve never experienced before, trying to avoid to answer your question, and it’s working. 

The feeling is so real, so immediate, that you can’t help the goosebumps that rise along your skin. You lie back on the bed, letting the sensation wash over you, every nerve alive with excitement. Charles’s voice is in your mind again, amused and tender, You like that. You can barely think straight, but you manage to send back a breathless Yes.

He admits, I've been doing this for weeks now, listening to your dreams before I go to sleep. It's become my nightly ritual, I couldn’t stop myself.

The confession makes you blush furiously, and you respond, I don’t know if I like that. 

He chuckles softly, I know.

You gather the courage and ask, Did you listen even when I… you know? There's a moment of silence. Then his voice returns, warm and unashamed. 

I did, he admits, always wishing I could be there to touch you myself.

His honesty takes your breath away, and you’re caught between feeling exposed and incredibly turned on. You didn’t expect this, this boldness from him after the way he acted tonight. 

The telepathic touch grows more insistent, more daring, and you arch into it, craving more. You feel him trail down your neck, ghosting over your collarbone, leaving a path of fire in its wake. You can hardly stand it, the delicious tension building inside you, the intimacy of knowing it’s Charles, that he’s finally showing you how much he wants you.

Can you feel it? Charles's voice echoe in your mind, his telepathic presence growing stronger and more insistent. If I were there, if I weren't … like this, I'd show you exactly what I want. I'd start with your lips, he continues, tasting you until you couldn't think of anything else but me. The sensations accompany his words and your lips tingle, making you gasp. 

You feel the ghost of his kisses trailing down your neck, and you arch into the sensation. I've never felt anything like this, you whisper telepathically, losing yourself in him. I didn’t know you could do this.

Charles's telepathic touch shifts to your breasts, and you moan. 

Feel that? Those are bites on your beautiful breasts, he teases, his voice low and intimate. I'd suck and tease those pretty peaks, leave you breathless and begging for more. 

Beneath your nightshirt, you feel a surge of sensation as your nipples harden with an intensity that almost stings, straining against the fabric, demanding attention. You can’t help but touch them with your fingertips.

You pant. "Charles, please,” you murmur, but he wasn't finished.

Maybe I'll ask Hank for the serum again and when I have my body back I can fuck you like you want me to, he told you, his words bold and raw. 

Your face turns red as he throws your own fantasies back at you. "Charles," you breathed, overwhelmed but craving more.

The sensations grow more intense, more consuming, and you feel telepathically compelled to raise your arms above your head. You let him, let the invisible restraints hold you in place, trusting him completely. You feel pressure on your throat then, as if a hand is wrapped around it, and the thrill of it nearly sends you over the edge.

He’s dominating you with his mind, with his power, and he asks if you still think he doesn’t want you. 

Do you still think I don't want you? The question was playful, yet carried an edge of challenge. 

Phantom sensations grip your core, switching between relentless, tantalizing strokes on your clit and bold lashes that circled with purpose. You feel something tighting inside you, each touch igniting a fire of need and desire, leaving you breathless and craving more with every ghostly caress.

Well? He asks again.

But you can’t answer, can’t form words, only moan as the pleasure built and built, bringing you ever closer to that exquisite peak.

When you finally climax, it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. You see stars, bright and dazzling, and Charles’s smirking face in your mind, as if he’s right there with you. You’re breathless, floating.

As you calm down, your thoughts are a mixture of orgasmic bliss and irritation. It takes awhile but when you trust your voice again, you need to say it.

You know, you say gently, we could talk about how you feel about the wheelchair. I bet we could have fun without the serum, withouth mindblowing telepathic sex. Your voice is sincere, filled with genuine care. I just want you to know that I like you, just the way you are.

He pauses, and for a moment, you worry that your words have pushed him away. But then he speaks, his voice soft. I hope that one day I'll find the courage, he admits, but until then, let’s try to perfect this method, huh?

His promise makes you tingle again, and you can't help but smile.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

That one time, Charles had a slip-up.

[Listen, I watched Apocalypse again, and this has been on my mind ever since. I love this man so much, it hurts.]

young!Charles Xavier (Wheelchair) x Reader TW: Oral (f!receiving), dirty telepathy.

You're pacing the front of the classroom in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, chalk in hand, as you sketch out Mendelian genetics on the blackboard. The familiar screech of chalk against the slate is comforting. You're in your element here, explaining the logic of dominant and recessive genes with an enthusiasm that hopefully borders on infectious.

"Any questions so far?" you ask, facing the class. But it's not their faces you seek; it's not them you crave validation from. No, if you're honest with yourself, you're playing to an audience of one—the one who's not even here today: Charles.

Of course, you've seen him around the mansion—how could you not? Charles Xavier, with his sharp wit and sharper suits, his intense eyes. Even seated in his wheelchair, he carries himself with a grace and confidence that sets your heart racing. His presence lingers like in the study halls, and every so often, when your paths cross, his warm eyes seem to twinkle just for you.

"Miss?" A student's voice pulls you back to reality, and you shake off the daydream with a laugh that you hope sounds more professional than flustered.

"Sorry, I got lost in thought. What's your question, Jamie?"

As you navigate the minefield of mutant teenage curiosity, something shifts within you—a sudden invasion of vivid and unexpected images almost knocks you off-balance. There you are in your mind's eye, but not as you are now. Instead, you're perched on the edge of Charles' desk, the mahogany surface cool beneath your fingertips, the ambient light dancing across your—

No. Stop that. This is neither the time nor the place for such fantasies. You cough to dispel the inappropriate mirage and refocus on the lesson. It must be the pollen of spring air wafting through the open windows, you tell yourself, or perhaps the strain of teaching genetics has finally cracked your decorum.

You walk back to the front of the class, your mind still reeling from the vivid images that seem to have hijacked your thoughts. You clear your throat, attempting to regain composure as you refocus on the genetic intricacies of Punnett squares. But it's difficult—oh, so difficult—when you think of Charles's mahogany desk, your body is there, on top of documents and pens, spread like a sacrifice for him.

"Adenine pairs with thymine," you recite, your voice a little too breathy. You fumble slightly with the chalk, and it drops to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, you're hit with another wave of those illicit thoughts. 

You’re sprawled across that desk now, papers fluttering to the floor like they’re too shy to watch. Your thighs are parted, your panties soaked through, and Charles stares at you like you are his favorite meal. His breath is hot against your skin, puffing out in little gusts that make your core throb like it’s got its own heartbeat.

“You’ve been thinking about this for weeks, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. His tongue darts out, tracing the crease where your thigh meets your swollen center. 

He doesn’t stop there. Oh no, he is just getting started. He’s kissing his way up the inside of your thigh, his lips soft and wet, a hint of teeth scraping against your skin in the best kind of way. And then he’s there, right on your hot flesh, his tongue brushing against your clit.

“Charles,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as his tongue slips between your folds, lapping at your juices. He’s good at this—too good—and you know why: He can read your thoughts and understands precisely what drives you wild. You’re already shaking, your hips jerking up to meet his mouth as he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his lips. 

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice cracking as he slips two fingers into your dripping wetness, curling them, hitting that sweet spot inside you like he’s got a roadmap. Your thighs are trembling and you can feel the heat building in your core, white-hot and unstoppable.

“I want to hear you,” he growls against you, his breath hot and wet, and then he’s devouring you again, his tongue flicking against you in hard strokes while his fingers move at that delicious pace.

And that’s when you feel that sweet, soul-crushing wave of pleasure that starts in your toes and rips through your body like a hurricane. You’re coming, hard, your heat clamping down on his fingers as he licks and sucks you through it, drawing every last drop of ecstasy out of you until you’re a quivering, sobbing mess on his desk.

It's like being jolted awake, and suddenly, you're back in the classroom. The daydream bursts like a balloon, and you're aware of your surroundings. You're standing in the middle of the classroom, giving a lecture about... wait, what was the topic again?

"Guanytosine... cytosine..." The words are suddenly foreign on your tongue, a tangled mess of syllables. You shake your head, trying to dispel the imagined orgasm, but it clings with a tenacity that makes your knees weak.

"Any questions?" you ask, more out of need to break the spell than actual inquiry. A sea of blank teenage faces stares back at you.

"Alright, then." You manage a smile as the bell finally chimes. "Don't forget to review chapters five and six. We'll be discussing mutations next class."

The students file out, their chatter and laughter a welcome distraction. Once the last one leaves, you lean heavily against the doorframe, taking in the now-empty classroom.

Fresh air. You need fresh air. Stepping outside into the crisp morning, you embrace the solace of the estate's gardens. The manicured lawns stretch out before you. You close your eyes, taking in deep lungfuls of the verdant fragrance to push out the scent of Charles that you can’t shake.

The soft sound of wheels on gravel draws your attention. The sunlight catches in his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow that's hard not to notice.

"Hello, darling," he greets you warmly, those expressive eyes meeting yours with a depth that always seems to see right through you. "How were your classes today?"

You open your mouth to reply, aiming for nonchalance. "Good," you manage, but it comes out more as a question than a statement. A blush creeps up your neck as flashes from that earlier inappropriate fantasy flicker behind your eyelids. You can feel the heat of your cheeks matching the roses beside you.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, his tone laced with concern.

Before you can fabricate some form of reassurance, his hand brushes against yours, a simple touch that sends a jolt of energy through you. His thoughts unexpectedly merge with yours, revealing the image you've been dreaming about—now seen from his perspective. 

Your cheeks flush crimson. You either revealed your secret fantasies about him or... those vivid images were actually his, projected directly into your mind.

"Charles," you breathe, looking up at him with wide eyes

"Ah, I'm sorry about that," he says, his voice tinged with embarrassment and a playful undertone suggesting he's not entirely repentant. "I suppose my thoughts were... louder than intended."

"Your thoughts..." you begin, feeling heat rise to your cheeks again. "They weren't... "

"I projected," Charles admits with a small smile. "A slip-up. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable isn't quite the word for it; more like overwhelmed and flustered beyond belief.

"Seriously?" you ask. "That happened unintentionally?"

"Well, not entirely," he replies with a grin. "It was bound to slip out eventually. But..." He chuckles alongside you, the sound mixing with the rustling leaves and distant chatter from the mansion. "Next time, I'll endeavor to keep my dirtiest daydreams to myself," he promises, though the twinkle in his eye makes you wonder if he truly intends to.

"Well, you could at least take me out to dinner first," you jokingly reply.

"I'll be by your door at seven." Charles smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

You blink, caught off guard by his swift response. "I... wait, really?"

Charles' lips curl into a playful smirk. "Unless you'd prefer to skip straight to the desk?"

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of crimson. "Dinner sounds lovely," you manage to say, your voice a touch higher than usual.

"Until then," he says softly, bringing your hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. The gesture is so charmingly old-fashioned that you can't help but smile as he rolls away.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

I am sitting in therapy crying in a hermes napkin. 15 year old me would tell me to get it together, man. 25 year old me would be proud.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

That one time you followed Butchers orders.

Billy Butcher x f!Reader TW: Oral (f!receiving), Unprotected (don't be Billy, wrap your willy), (soft) choking.

The safe house was a dingy, cramped room scattered with empty beer cans and overturned chairs. 

“I saved your life today,” you said while crossing your arms. 

Billy stood in the corner, his face contorted with anger as he yelled back: "And nearly getting yerself killed, eh? Clever move, that."

“Oh, as if you hadn’t done the same.”

“My clock is already ticking, luv,”

“You smug asshole!” 

Your voices echoed off the walls, each word sharper than the last as arguments turned to insults. Adrenaline pulsed through your veins, making your fists clench.

His jaw tightens, and he steps closer, towering over you, his gaze boring into yours. His eyes seem to pierce through your soul, exposing you. "You don’t get to control me, Butcher," you snap, your chest heaving. “And if I want to save you, that is my choice.”

He retorts, his voice low and dangerous: “Someone’s got to keep you alive, luv.” A hint of softness in his voice catches you off guard. 

You shove his chest—not hard, but enough to challenge him. He grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, pulling you closer. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You're so close you can feel the heat radiating off him, his rough hands against your skin.

His eyes flicker to your lips, and you see the conflict in his face: anger and … heat. It's like a current passing between you two, electric and undeniable. Suddenly, his mouth is on yours, fierce and desperate.

The kiss is rough, teeth clashing, as though neither of you is willing to back down even in this. His hands slide to your waist, tugging you closer, and the fight melts into something raw and consuming. You can taste the intensity of his emotions on his lips; it’s a heady mix of anger, desperation, and something far more dangerous.

Your fingers twist in his unkempt beard, pulling him toward you as you stumble back against a table. He immediately lifts you on top of it. The rough stubble grazes your skin as he ravages your mouth with fervor. "You drive me bloody insane," he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and hoarse. It’s a confession that leaves you shuddering against him.

His hands trail over your body, rough and deliberate, as he watches your every reaction with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You can feel the desire pulsing through him like a living thing; it’s intoxicating. He hesitates for a moment as he reaches your waistband with shaky hands before tugging it down at your nod of consent.

As he rips the pants from your trembling body, he exposes your bare, quivering legs. With hunger in his eyes, he buries his face between your legs and inhales deeply. "Bloody hell, woman," he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

He teases you mercilessly at first, running his tongue just along your inner thighs, sending shivers down your spine. With one skillful motion, he guides your underwear from your hips along your legs, and the moment the piece of fabric is free, he puts it in the pocket of his coat.

“Really?” you ask as he grins mischievously. 

“Oi, I’ll need something to wank to when you get yourself croaked.”

You roll your eyes and try to pull him upwards, but he firmly holds your hips in place. He's teaching you who's in control now, and it's not you. 

His tongue grazes your most sensitive spot, and you gasp, arching into him. Billy growls against you, the vibrations intensifying every sensation. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he works you expertly, alternating between teasing licks and firm pressure. 

The tension builds rapidly, your breath coming in sharp pants. Just as you're teetering on the edge, Billy pulls back, leaving you aching and frustrated. He smirks up at you, eyes dark with lust. "Not yet, luv," he says gruffly. 

You whimper in frustration, your body trembling with need. Billy stands, his hands sliding up your thighs as he positions himself between your legs. He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "I wanna 'ear ya beg for it, luv," he growls.

Pride wars with desire inside you. You want him—God, do you want him—but you're not one to beg. You meet his gaze defiantly, your chest heaving. "Make me," you challenge.

A wicked grin spreads across his face. "Oh, I intend to."

His fingers ghost along your inner thighs, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most. You squirm, trying to increase the contact, but he holds you firmly in place. 

"Patience, luv," he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

His lips trail down your neck, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp nips that make you gasp. Your hands roam over his broad shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath his coat. You tug at the fabric impatiently.

"Off," you demand, voice husky with desire.

Billy chuckles darkly. "Givin’ up so easy, luv?"

You glare at him. "That wasn't begging. That was an order."

"Is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Well, too bad I’ve never been good at following orders."

One hand grips your throat; the other pushes two fingers roughly inside your soaking-wet pussy. 

Your breath catches as his fingers curl inside you, stroking that perfect spot. The pressure on your throat intensifies slightly, just enough to make your head swim. Billy's eyes are locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand. 

He grins wickedly. "That's the idea, luv. But not until you beg for it."

His thumb circles your clit as his fingers continue their relentless assault. You're trembling, so close to the edge but not quite there. Billy leans in, his beard scratching deliciously against your neck as he whispers in your ear.

"Come on. Let me hear those pretty words."

You bite your lip, still fighting against the urge. But you can't hold back as he curls his fingers just right.

"Please," you gasp out, your resolve finally crumbling under the onslaught of pleasure. "Please, Billy. I need you."

A triumphant grin spreads across his face. "There's a good girl," he purrs, his fingers still working you mercilessly. "Tell me what ya need."

"You," you moan, past caring about pride or dignity. "I need you inside me. Now."

Billy growls, a sound of pure, animalistic hunger. In one swift motion, he withdraws his fingers and opens his zipper. While positioning himself directly in front of your aching core with one hand, he brings the one covered in your juices to his face. You cry out as he enters you, the stretch delicious and overwhelming, as he licks your taste from his fingers. He slides inch by torturous inch inside of you, stretching you to your limits. Your nails dig into the table as he fills you, every cell in your body screaming for more.

He pauses for a moment, letting you adjust. "Fuck, luv," he groans.

Then, he starts to move, and coherent thought becomes impossible. 

His thrusts are deep and forceful, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate for more friction. Billy's hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, using the leverage to drive into you even deeper.

"Bloody hell," he grunts, his face contorted with pleasure. "You feel so good, luv."

You can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you. The table creaks beneath you with each powerful thrust, the sound mixing with your gasps and Billy's low groans.

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss hungry and desperate. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging sharply. He growls into your mouth, the vibrations adding to the onslaught of emotions.

"That's it," he pants against your lips. "Take it all.”

You're lost in a haze of sensation, every thrust driving you closer to the edge. Billy's lips trail down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You know you'll be covered in marks tomorrow, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"Look at me," he growls, his voice rough with desire. You force your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze.

"What a good girl," he murmurs, never breaking eye contact. “Now come for me, Luv."

His hand snakes between your bodies, finding your clit and circling it roughly. The added stimulation is too much, and you shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your walls clench around him, and Billy curses, his rhythm faltering as he chases his release. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, groaning your name as he comes.

You both stay frozen for a moment, panting heavily as the aftershocks ripple through your bodies. Billy's forehead rests against yours, his breath warm on your face. Slowly, the world comes back into focus - the dingy safehouse, the overturned chairs, the lingering tension in the air.

Billy pulls away first, his expression unreadable as he tucks himself back into his pants. You slide off the table on shaky legs, wincing slightly at the soreness. An awkward silence descends as you straighten your clothes, neither quite sure what to say.

"So," Billy finally breaks the silence, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "… you can actually follow orders, eh?”

You roll your eyes but can't suppress a small smile. "Don't get used to it, Butcher. This was a one-time thing."

His eyebrow quirks up. "That so?" He steps closer, his hand coming to rest on your hip. "Cause I reckon we've got some unfinished business, you and me."

Your breath catches as he leans in, his lips barely brushing your ear. "Next time," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, "I won't go so easy on ya."

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

So I started writing some spicy stuff but I was depressed and now it turned angsty - oops.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

Billy Butcher

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Billy Butcher

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Billy Butcher

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Billy Butcher

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[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

That one time Billy Butcher liked his birthday.

Billy Butcher x Reader TW: vulgar language, a twinge of cringe

Billy's birthday was a sensitive subject. You knew that even before things got serious between you. Since you know the grumpy Brit, you know that his positive feelings about himself are usually drowned in a bottomless pit of whiskey. God forbid he does something good for himself for once. But you were sure you could get a smile from him on his birthday this year as you adjusted the bow on your head. 

He was due to walk in the door in a few minutes, and you couldn't wait to see his face. 

It felt like an eternity until you heard the door slam shut.  Finally! Then you recognized the familiar thud of his coat hitting the sofa. 

His sarcastic voice echoed through your apartment like a bad sitcom: “Honey, I'm home.” 

“Happy birthday!” you shouted to let him know you were waiting for him in the bedroom. 

As expected, he grumbled in response to the birthday wish. "Don’t start with that birthday shite, love."

“What if I let you make a wish?” you asked back ominously as you smoothed the sheet before you. 

The grumbling became more annoyed and louder, telling you he was about to walk in. "The only bloody present I’d want is a chainsaw shoved right in Homelander’s—"

He paused abruptly in the doorway when he saw you lying on the bed stark naked with nothing but a red bow on your head. His eyes slid hungrily down your body before he stepped closer and murmured, "...but the consolation prize ain’t too shabby, eh?"

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

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[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

That one time Hughie tried to talk to Butcher about his feelings for you.

Drabble | Billy Butcher x fem!Reader

TW: alcohol, vulgar language, self-sabotaging the usual Billy Butcher Shenanigans

Hughie leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed and a determined look on his face. “You know, you should just tell her.”

Billy didn’t even look up from his whiskey glass, swirling the amber liquid lazily. “Tell who what?” he muttered, his tone sharp.

“You know who,” Hughie pressed, stepping further into the room. “You’re into her, man. Everyone can see it. The way you act around her—it’s like she’s the only one who gets a pass from the Butcher attitude.”

Billy let out a humorless laugh, finally looking up. “Yer talkin’ out yer arse, Sunshine. Jog on.”

“Come on,” Hughie said, his voice getting more insistent. “You care about her; she cares about you. So why are you acting like such a coward?”

Billy slammed the glass down on the table, the sharp clink echoing in the room. “Watch yer fuckin’ mouth,” he growled, standing up and looming over Hughie. “Me and her got shit to do with you.”

“Whatever,” Hughie shot back, refusing to back down. “But it’s got everything to do with her. She deserves to know, Butcher. And maybe you deserve a shot at being happy for once.”

Billy let out a low growl, stepping closer until he was right in Hughie’s face. “You listen here, ya daft git. If I let her in, she gets hurt. That’s how this shite works. I ain’t gonna let that happen, so drop it.”

Hughie held his ground, his voice steady. “You already care about her. Pretending like you don’t isn’t protecting her. It’s just you being too scared to try.”

Billy grunted. For a moment, it looked like he might throw a punch, but he turned sharply away. “Get outta here before I lose my patience,” he muttered, but his voice lacked the fire to sell the line.

Hughie hesitated, then sighed and turned around.

As Hughie left, Billy stood there, staring at the wall, his fists trembling. He grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured another glass, thinking of you.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

The three times Billy Butcher nearly kissed you.

Billy Butcher x Reader

TW: blood, vulgar language, gambling, puking

The first time Billy nearly kissed you, it shocked you to the core. You were both crouched behind a dumpster, barely catching your breath after a chaotic firefight. Blood and grime smeared across both your faces as Billy leaned close to check your injuries after you held your aching stomach with both hands.

"You alright?" he muttered, annoyed when he saw it, his voice rough.

"Fine," you clapped back, still panting.

"Oi, don't give me that crap. You alright or what? And don't even think 'bout lyin' to me, love. Let me see," he ordered while trying to grab your hands that you pressed tightly against your side, the sharp pain radiating through your ribs, making it hard to breathe. Billy was in front of you in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the blood seeping through your fingers.

"Let me see," he demanded again, urgency now clouding his voice.

"I'm fine," you bit out, turning away slightly, trying to shield the injury from him. "It's nothing."

"Don't give me that gobshite." His voice was low, clipped, as he grabbed your wrist. "Move your bloody hand."

You jerked away, clutching your side tighter, the motion making you wince. "Billy, I said I'm fine!"

"And I said move," he snapped, his grip firm but not harsh as he wrestled your hand away. You squirmed in his hold, but he was stronger, and his patience was wearing thin. "Stop fightin' me, dammit! I know you're a tough little bird, but I'm not lettin' you bleed out 'on my watch."

With a final tug, he pried your hand away, revealing the deep gash underneath. His jaw tightened, a string of curses slipping from his lips. "Fine, yeah?" he growled, yanking a rag from his coat. "This ain't bloody fine, luv."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped you cold. Beneath the irritation, there was a flicker of something raw—fear. You let him work in silence, biting your lip to stifle the pain as he pressed the rag firmly against the wound, muttering under his breath the entire time.

His hand cupped your cheek to wipe away a streak of blood, his face inches from yours. For a second, his eyes flicked to your lips.

"Billy," you murmured, the blood loss making it harder to keep your eyes open. Has he always been this pretty, or was it the blurriness?

"Shut it," he grunted, leaning in closer. "I ain't lettin' you bloody die, y'hear me?"

His blurry face came closer, and just as his lips nearly brushed yours, your consciousness slipped from your grasp and left only darkness. The last thing you heard was a muffled "bloody hell!" from the man you apparently had a thing for. It was just your kind of luck to realize this while you were bleeding out behind a dumpster.

The second time Billy nearly kissed you was kind of planned. Billy had insisted you play his "date" during a sting operation, claiming it was the only way to blend in at the posh event. "With a daft bird on me arm, no one's gonna give me a second look."

You gave in, but not without a fight.

"Act natural, luv," he whispered, slipping his arm around your waist as you entered the casino. "Put on that look like you're gaggin' to shag me later—just 'cause I'm loaded, yeah?"

The goosebumps on your arm reminded you that, since that near-death experience a few weeks ago, you thought way too often about him that way. Not that he needed to know that. So you let out a grunt, but you snuggled up to him like a cat in heat to complete the picture. Him gambling away money that the boys stole beforehand, you behind him arms around his broad shoulders, occasionally caressing his neck with your fingers while roaming your hands over his body. By accident - of course.

Halfway through the night, the target on your blackjack table asked how long you'd been together. Shit, didn't that guy ask you that already when Billy wasn't around? Shit, shit, shit. You prayed that Billy would give the same noncommittal answer you gave, and without missing a beat, Billy grinned and leaned in. "Feels like it was just yesterday I fell for her. Time fuckin' flies when you're not miserable, eh?" The asking man leaned back, seemingly happy with his answer, and you let out a long breath. Thank. Fuck.

You forced a tight smile to hide your hammering heart. "Absolutely."

Then, to sell it, and because you were so relieved, you bent down, your lips hovering dangerously close to his bearded cheek. His head suddenly turned, now facing you coming closer to him. Just a few inches before your lips touched and your heart raced. Were you really going to—

"Oi, mate!" another drunken gambler on the table barked before it could happen. "This ain't that kinda party!"

Billy pulled back, glaring at the interruption. "Yeah, you're right—it's the party where I nick all yer bloody money." he smiled, put down his cards, and yelled: "Blackjack! Knew I was gonna clean you lot out."

The third time Billy nearly kissed you, it was kind of inevitable. After a particularly long night at the Irish pub you sometimes met, you got ridiculously drunk. Celebrations didn't happen often in this line of work, but tonight was one of the few wins you and the boys could remark on your calendar. That and the absurd amount of money Billy won in the casino a few weeks ago led you to this evening. "Right, you tossers—drinks are on me tonight! Get ready to get properly rat-arsed!" Billy had shouted before slamming a few bills down at the bar. You would have phrased it differently, but your thoughts about the evening were similar. You really needed to drown those stupid feelings you have tried to hide for months now.

The pub was alive with laughter and chaos, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer and cheap whiskey. Billy leaned over the table, a cocky grin plastered on his face as he raised his glass towards you and the already half-asleep Hughie next to you. You laughed along, downing another shot, the burn doing little to quiet the storm inside you. Drink after drink, you tried to drown it—the ache, the longing, the way his stupid grin made your heart twist. But with every toast, every fleeting glance he threw your way, it only grew worse. By the time you were too drunk to stand, your feelings were a roaring fire, impossible to ignore, even as you stumbled through the haze.

The best idea you ever had popped into your head: You were going to do it. Tonight, you were going to kiss him.

You stumbled your way to the object of your desire, which took significantly longer than you anticipated, falling a few times and even confusing him with a barstool in between. But the moment you reached him, you fell into his arms. Before you could apologize or set your plan in motion, he held your face with both hands, and all air left your lungs.

"You're alright, y'know," he slurred, his voice rough but uncharacteristically soft. "Better'n alright. Bloody brilliant."

"Than...ks," you replied, every thought leaving your head.

"No, no, listen," he insisted, stroking hair out of our face while his pretty face got blurrier by the second. "I'm tryin' to say somethin' here." His hands gripped your shoulders, and his eyes locked onto yours, unusually intense.

"You're the only good thing in my shite life," he muttered, leaning in close. "And I—" He leaned closer.

Before he could finish or close the gap, you hiccupped loudly, then bent over with a groan. "Oh, shit," you mumbled, clutching your stomach, before emptying it on his shoes as the lights went out.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

Billy Butcher GIFs #1

Oi, c*nts. I made some gifs. thank me later.

[celestisdivinitusinsaniavero]

Shit. I didn't mean that, luv.

he is not a violent dog - he doesn’t know why he bites.

Billy Butcher x Reader | he is irritated and snaps at you before apologizing

TW: verbal abuse, angsty if you squint.

Loving Billy Butcher means dishing out and also taking it. Even if you knew that, it still hurt every time his words cut deep.

The door slammed shut behind him, rainwater pooling at his boots as he stormed in. His coat was soaked and dripped on your hardwood floor, and his face was a scowl of anger and exhaustion. You barely had time to say hello before his voice cut through the cozy atmosphere of your apartment.

“Oi, don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” he snapped, his tone harsher than you’d heard in weeks. Today must have been bad. “You told me to come ‘round, so don’t get pissy ‘bout a bit o’ water on yer floor.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his bark. “I wasn’t looking at you like anything.” You set the tea on the coffee table next to you, standing up and crossing your arms to match his energy. 

No way would you let this amazing and gorgeous but awfully maladjusted man walk all over you. „What happened?“

“Oh, piss off,” he shot back, running a hand through his wet hair. “I don’t need yer bloody sympathy.”

You didn’t move, eyebrow raised as you watched him pace like a caged animal. Finally, you sighed, stepping closer. “You’re a bastard sometimes, you know that?”

He stopped, his shoulders heaving as he glared at you. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you’d just—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. His eyes softened, guilt flickering there for just a moment. “Shit. I didn’t mean that, luv.”

You reached out, your hand brushing his arm. “I know.”

For a second, he hesitated, looking like he was fighting himself. Then he let out a low growl, shaking his head. “This day’s been a right fuckin’ mess. People dyin’ left, right, and center… an’ me, useless as tits on a nun.”

“You’re not useless, Billy,” you said firmly. “But you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

He scoffed, his rough hands gripping your shoulders. “I don’t deserve this. You. After the shit I’ve done…”

“Maybe not,” you replied, smiling, “but I’m here anyway. So deal with it.”

His lips twitched into a faint, crooked grin, but it didn’t last. He reached for you, pulling you roughly against him, his grip almost desperate. “Come ‘ere, love,” he muttered while pulling you towards his chest, his voice low and raw in your ear. “Just gimme a sec, love. Hold me, yeah? Before I muck it all up like everythin’ else.”

You didn’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him as he buried his face against your neck. Even Billy Butcher had his breaking points, and you’d be damned if you let him face them alone.