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Billy Butcher often reminded you of a stray animal. One that slinks around in front of your house looking sad and hungry as you watch it from inside your warm and comfortable living room, making you think that maybe you ought to toss it something, because it has nothing and you’re comfortable as can be.
Your mother always told you not to feed strays. Not unless you want them coming back expecting more from you. Of the many lessons you’d heeded from her, that was not one of them.
Butcher was a threat to Vought, sure. Prowling around outside of their events, glaring at any of the brightly-clad super-powered humans flaunting their abilities. But you were superheroes, practically bulletproof, stronger than he could ever dream of being. He was a manageable threat at most, so you’d thought.
So when you of all superheroes caught him sneaking around Vought’s property for the first time, you hadn’t done any more than laugh at him and try to shoo him away just like you would a stray. You’d decided to show him mercy, like any good guy would.
That’s what you did the second time you’d come across him, too. Maybe he couldn’t help himself. Guy had a weird obsession with your company, but that didn’t mean he deserved to get his ass handed to him when it was easier for the both of you to let him run away. It certainly didn’t mean he was worth what little energy it would cost you to knock him around a little.
He’d begun to expect that of you, after a while. He’d get cheeky enough to greet you when you two crossed paths, knowing you couldn’t really find it in yourself to try and hurt him— you were the big powerful supe and he was just a man, after all.
By the time you’d come to realize him as a threat he’d already lost any sense of fear towards you. Hell, he’d lost any sense of caution. That was why he’d been able to get as close to you as he did.
You left Vought tower for the evening furious, sick of the PR meetings where you were told how to act, to dress, to speak to people. An effort that felt wasted, frankly, as the public barely knew who you were as one of the lesser “supes” from the company. “You’ll move up the charts quickly,” they’d promised for a year now.
A bar was a perfect place to blow off steam, and though there were certainly some bars full of supes just like you that you could have gone to, you opted instead for the first one you found off the street. It wasn’t any challenge for you to blend in in public when you weren’t in costume; you were barely recognizable in or out of uniform.
Butcher found you anyway. The guy sure had good timing; you were already drunk and pissed off by the time he sidled up beside you, speaking with that easy casual air of his, offering to buy you drinks and prompting you to rant about your day by pointing out how upset you seemed. So when he’d slid a fourth drink over to you, muttering “go on, I’ll call you a cab—” of course you’d taken it.
That’s where you found yourself now, his knee brushing yours every time your cab hit a pothole or a dip in the road. The world was slightly out of focus, the streetlights and neon signs passing by outside nothing but blurry streaks. You had no idea which part of the city you were even in, if this cab was actually taking you home.
Butcher was still talking to you, his words fading in and out of your focus and half of them lost on you anyway— you weren’t sure what exactly he meant by calling your superiors “tossers” but you’re pretty sure it’s derogatory. You turn your hazy eyes to look at him, at the way he lounges against the seat, his body turned just enough to face you. You catch a glimpse of your own silhouette across his face every time a light-up display or large store window casts enough colorful light inside your cab to let you see him.
Every light glints off the chain necklace he wears around his neck, drawing your wandering attention to the way his shirt is unbuttoned so far down that it exposes his sternum and a good part of his chest.
You squint slightly as the next light from outside hits him through the cab window— at the thin black wire that should have stayed hidden among the hair on his chest had you not been looking so closely. It’s clipped right next to one of the buttons on his dark floral button-down and disappears into his shirt. A small red light winks at you like you’ve just been let in on its secret.
Butcher makes an indiscernible sound of protest as your hand shoots out towards his collar, leaning away from you as you suddenly lurch towards him. His hand clamps around your wrist, but not before you’ve yanked the wire out from under his shirt and held it up for both of you to see.
His eyes flit between you and the wire, his furrowed eyebrows smoothing again after he takes a moment of charged silence to pull himself together. “You didn’t think I came to visit for the hell of it, did ya?”
You grip the wire tighter. It would be so easy to tear the thing in half, to snap it like a piece of cheap thread— and Butcher knows that. You catch sight of the way his Adam’s apple bobs, the way his hand twitches faintly against your wrist the only indication that he isn’t entirely calm. He stares at you for a few seconds with a guarded expression, waiting for you to reply, maybe waiting for you to tear the wire out of his shirt, but you just stare back at him and blink, your alcohol-slow brain making things difficult. "No," you finally croak out. No, of course he wouldn’t come to you unless he needed something. It was stupid of you to think he gave any more of a damn than Vought did.
Billy takes advantage of the way your shoulders slump in disappointment and yanks the wire free from your grip. He flicks it between his fingers like a cigarette before tucking it away into his jacket pocket. "C'mon now— don't tell me you’re really surprised. You think I'd waste my time sittin' through your drunk soppin' about Vought's bullshit if there wasn't somethin' in it for me? Face it, love… ya walked right into this one."
You shoot him a half-hearted glare, sinking back against the leather seat of the cab. The lights passing by outside are starting to give you a headache, and you don’t want to look at the stupid bastard sitting next to you anymore, so you lean forward and press your forehead against the partition separating you two from your cab driver. “What do you even want from me? What’s the point of wire-tapping me?”
“I’m recordin’. Folks like a nice visual.” He leans forward as well, tilting his head to try and meet your eyes. You keep your gaze on the floor, but your jaw tightens in response. Recording. Fucker. “Can’t imagine Vought’s gonna be too happy to see their up-and-comer is already out spilling Vought secrets to anyone willing to play nice with him.”
You shut your eyes and groan softly. “You’re blackmailing me?” The question comes out defeated and incredulous. “I don’t have anything for you. Vought doesn’t tell me… secrets or some shit you’d want.”
“Not important enough for that, huh?”
You don’t deny it. “Shut up.”
That earns you a soft little chuckle. “You do have somethin’ I want.” When you don’t reply, eyes still closed, he pokes lightly at your shoulder, as if checking to see if you’ve passed out. “I could be convinced to keep this recording to myself if you hand over a vial or two of V.”
That snaps you out of your slump. “What?”
”I know you’re pumped full of the stuff.”
His assumption that you would take a steroid to boost your powers hits a nerve, not just because it’s an insult to your perceived strength but because it’s true— how else were you supposed to have any hope of moving up the ranks?— and after an already shitty day it pushes you over the edge. It’s about time you remind him just who he is compared to you, that he’s damn lucky you treat him the way you do.
You grab him by the collar— closing your fist around that little red light still clipped to his shirt— and yank him further down to your level. Butcher gasps in a way you didn't think someone like him was even capable of, his eyes flying wide open as he finds himself inches from your face.
His eyes flit back and forth as you lift your head from the partition. “What makes you think you’ve got the right to ask me for anything?” Your voice is just above a growl, slurring together from the alcohol still flowing through your blood.
His expression twists into a snarl, and he tries to pull away from you— but your grip only tightens on his shirt, refusing to let him move. A sick sense of pleasure coils in your gut as you watch him strain against you for a moment, before a hint of panic settles into his features as he realizes he can’t get away from you.
”I thought you hated supes. Now you wanna be one?”
“Fuck off,” he spits, “I’m not turning myself into one of you self-important cunts.” One of his hands finds your thigh, bracing himself against you as the cab lurches again, nearly throwing you two together. “I’m leveling the playing field.”
“Oh, sure. Leveling the playing field.” You actually smirk at him, enjoying the way it makes the muscles in his neck clench. “You want to be one of us ‘self-important cunts.’”
That comment pisses him off enough to try and fight you again, but you use the grip you have on his collar to shove him back against the cab seat, making the leather creak under his sudden weight. Your other arm braces against his throat, pressing just enough to remind him who’s stronger here, just enough to make him cough and claw at your wrist. "Christ—the fuck you think this is?" He chokes out between strained breaths. His fingers dig into your forearm, blunt nails scraping skin uselessly as you glare down at him through hazy vision. “Fucking bastard.”
“Fucking hypocrite.” Your arm keeps him in place when you let go of his collar. As you’d suspected, the little red light clipped onto his shirt— now wrinkled where you’d held it— is still blinking, still capturing all of this. Then your mouth is right against his skin, speaking into the little device on his shirt. “You wanna stop this recording?” There’s a very obvious threat of what you’ll do if he doesn’t in your tone.
He sucks in a sharp breath, his voice coming out raspy and strained. The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “Fuckin' hell. There’s the real supe buried under all that merciful hero bollocks." He wets his lips, still pinned but now staring up at you with a cocky smile on his face. "Knew ya had teeth somewhere under there."
You blink, grip loosening slightly in surprise—not at the words themselves, but at the way you feel his pulse jump like this is exciting for him instead of terrifying. His grin only widens when he catches your hesitation. The hand on your thigh twitches, and his other hand reaches around to grab the scruff off your neck, holding and not yet pulling, like he’s scolding a misbehaving cat.
"Go on then," he dares, throat bobbing against your arm as he swallows hard, his breath coming faster despite how calmly amused his tone sounds otherwise. "'Not like I can stop ya if you really wanna snap my neck right here." His thumb actually dares to run lightly up the curve of your neck and rest in the dip where your head meets your nape, brushing lazily at the fine hair there. He’s almost fucking gentle with it, and that, not his taunting, is what makes you snap because god fucking dammit why isn’t this stupid bastard threatened by you?!
His hand barely tightens on the back of your neck when you actually wrap your hand around his throat. You squeeze hard, harder when that infuriating smug grin remains plastered on his lips even as his face turns red, and as you’re about to include both your hands you’re interrupted by a loud rapping noise from the other side of the partition. “Keep it down back there, assholes. Jesus.”
A hot wave of embarrassment washes over you as you glance through the little window in the partition to see your cabbie shaking his head. When you turn back to Butcher you’re glad to find him similarly wide-eyed and flushed pink. He scowls and shoves at your chest. “Get off me.”
You relent, letting him push you away so he can sit up. Butcher takes a deep breath as soon as your weight is off him, rubbing his neck and coughing as he adjusts himself. He still looks more amused than upset, watching you through the corner of his eye as you sink back against the leather seat.
Your head pounds as the adrenaline starts to subside, and you lean against the window of the cab, the cool glass a pleasant sensation against your face, heated with embarrassment. The silence that follows is tense, both of you avoiding each other's eyes and trying to collect yourselves. Butcher keeps gingerly massaging his neck, and you can’t help but roll your eyes— you hadn’t been that rough with him, had you?
The cab pulls up in front of the driveway of your house, and the driver turns around to tell you the price— “39.70—” with tired eyes that look between the two of you as though he’s seen too many similar conversations in the back of his cab. “And I want both of you out.”
Butcher rummages through his pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, which he hands over to the cab driver before going back into his pocket to find the rest of the funds. You take your wallet out of your jacket pocket and hand your debit card over to the driver to pay the charge, figuring Butcher’s twenty would serve as a nice tip to the cabbie for his trouble. But even as the charge goes through, you leave another twenty percent tip out of sheer embarrassment that you’d nearly strangled a guy in the back of this poor man’s car. It seems to sweeten his mood, because as you and Butcher exit the cab the driver tells you to “have a good night” before driving off.
“I had that covered,” Butcher grumbles as he follows you into your driveway, still stuffing what looks like a mess of ones and fives back into his pockets. He shoves in front of you, blocking you from heading into your house. “You saw me handin’ him cash, yeah?”
“Are you actually mad that I paid the fare?” You scoff, brushing his shoulder as you push past him up the driveway. “You should be thanking me for sparing you a forty-something-dollars charge.” You start walking toward your house without checking if Butcher follows you because of course he does; it’s not like he’s got anywhere else to go and it seems he’s not done yelling at you.
"Fuckin’ hell, you supes really can't stand not bein' the bloody hero in every situation, can ya?" Butcher, and more importantly the recording, follow you up the steps and through the front door. He slams it shut behind you for emphasis. “Savin’ folks who don‘t need savin’ just to feel like you mean something.”
“I wasn’t saving you.” The throbbing headache from earlier doesn’t subside, so you grab a bottle of painkillers from your bathroom cabinet and shake out three into your hand before heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. “I had the money and you didn’t. I wasn’t gonna sit there waiting for you to dig through your pockets.”
The concept of personal space is lost on him as he follows directly behind you while you fill your water glass. You actually have to nudge his shoulder to get him to give you enough space to lift your glass to your mouth.
“Plenty of money from your nine-to-fiver as a Vought lapdog?” You glare at him over the rim of your water glass as you down it, and in the absence of your telling him to shut the hell up he continues, “pourin’ coffee for The Seven pays you well, does it? Or does the extra money come from gagging on Homelander’s cock in-between refills?”
You slam the glass down on the counter, feeling water slosh over the edge onto your hand. “How dare you insinuate— you don’t even know— just— watch your goddamn mouth,” you stutter uselessly, so furious at that comment you don’t even know where to start yelling at him for it. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Try and make me. See how that looks on the record.”
Your eye twitches. Once. Twice. Then you snatch up the wiretap on his shirt and throw it on the floor with what should have been your full strength, but you’re not really running on all cylinders right now. In any case, the device shatters instantly, as well as part of the floor. Dammit. That tile was expensive. He makes a swing on you, and you on him, but he’s faster when you’re like this.
His fist closes around yours, pushing it up and over your head and away from his face. Then his hand plants firmly on your chest and shoves you backward with enough force that you stagger until your back hits the fridge with a hollow thud, glass bottles inside rattling ominously from impact. With your free hand you manage to catch yourself against its handle just fast enough not to lose footing completely, but by then he’s already up in your personal space, and he still won’t quit running that stupid mouth of his, “Still a little drunk, are we? I could see that comin’ from—”
Your hand leaves the refrigerator handle and grabs the back of his head in a second, and you finally fucking shut him up. You don’t know why biting is the option you go for; maybe your limbs are too weighed down from the booze, maybe you’re not really trying to bash his head in, but you open your mouth and lunge without thinking. Unfortunately, your mouths crash together, and rather crudely as well, teeth knocking together and lips not quite meeting, but despite it being a terrible kiss it does elicit a startled yelp from him and that means you win.
He jerks away sharply, and you let him go. His brow is furrowed, eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners, and his nose twitches. All things that any normal person would be ashamed to see after a kiss— or whatever the hell you guys just did qualifies as— but you meet his eyes and watch him like you want him to be disgusted with himself for kissing you.
He’s back against your mouth a second later with better accuracy, kissing you like he’s trying to turn your own tactic back on you, like this is another pissing contest between the two of you that he refuses to lose. This time it lasts longer, a battle of wills— who hates himself more, loser pulls away first— but in the end lung capacity is the deciding factor and Butcher disconnects to suck in a breath. He doesn’t go far, his lips still brushing yours as he pants, a majority of the air he gets being tinged with your own breath. He takes it in with greedy pulls, like you’re a cigarette he’s taking a drag of.
The third time your mouths meet his tongue gets involved, sliding against yours before you can try and pull that move on him. When his tongue retreats slightly you press your teeth into his bottom lip, making him wince.
When you break apart again he turns away and swipes a thumb over his bottom lip like he’s checking for blood, but you’re already moving in to attack him again, this time landing an open-mouthed kiss on his jaw. His beard ends up between your teeth, and you pull away quickly, but not before tugging at the pieces you get in your mouth.
Your hand moves further up his scalp, closing your fingers around the longer strands for a better grip as you pull his head to the side, bearing his throat. A shudder wracks through Butcher's body when you pull his hair, and for a moment, he actually whimpers before he quickly drowns out the sound with a swear.
You elect to ignore it and instead sink your teeth into his Adams apple. He releases your wrist and lets out a strained, desperate, noise as you dig the nails of your free hand into his side and suck hard on the skin of his throat like a fucking vampire. You taste blood.
His hand clamps back down around your wrist again, this time a little further up your forearm, but it’s not to push you away anymore— he’s actually tugging a little bit, holding onto you to try and ground himself. He squirms against and not away from you, his hips rutting against yours as he grunts through clenched teeth. He’s hard, and you realize with dawning horror that you are as well. With him this close you can smell his cologne, his sweat. You can hear the blood coursing through him as his heart beats like it’s going to burst from his chest and run away. It’s aggravatingly arousing.
You run your tongue over his broken skin, feeling the vibrations from the groan he lets out on the tip of it before pulling back to look at him. “You’re enjoying this?” It’s a taunt, a blow to his pride to point out that a bit of manhandling got him hard, but your voice comes out too breathless to carry any teasing.
Butcher pants harshly, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow up the color of his irises, and he rolls his hips forward again. “Get on with it,” he huffs.
As much as you’d like to deny him, to let your lips brush over his neck a couple times just to hint at what you might do until he begs for it, you can’t even edge yourself that much. The second your mouth is against his flushed skin you press your canines into his neck and revel in the noise you get from him, hungrily sucking another mark onto his throat.
The kisses you give him, if one could even call them that, are neither gentle nor loving. You’re pissed, you’re horny, and for whatever reason you just wanna fucking bite this guy, which is exactly what you do. His head is already tilted back, exposed, and you take the opportunity to get lower, in the crevice where the side of his neck met his shoulder. He continues to groan and squirm. His head tilts to rub against your hair as you land another harsh bite.
When you’re satisfied with the severity of the bruise you’ve left on him, you begin to pull away to find the buttons on his shirt— he already always wears the thing half-undone but you want it open all the way— but he puts a hand on the back of your head and pulls you back against his throat. You tide him over for a moment with some light nipping at his neck while you fumble with the fabric, feeling your way down the line of buttons. He takes the moment to breathe, and you can feel his breath ghosting the shell of your ear as he pants raggedly.
He keeps one hand on the back of your head, but his other hand finally lets go of your arm and slides up under your shirt, trailing up your spine and pulling your shirt up along with it. Once you get the buttons undone you draw his shirt open like window curtains and push it off his shoulders, and it drops down to hang loosely from his elbows. Both his hands are on you now, dragging his palms up your sides, and you let him pull your shirt over your head and toss it to the floor alongside the little plastic pieces of the shattered wiretap and cracked tile.
You drag your mouth along the newly exposed skin, leaving a trail of saliva as you move down his chest to close your teeth around his collarbone. His hips jerk forward and another hoarse noise falls from his open mouth. You bite down a little harder when you feel his fingernails scrape down to the small of your back, his other hand fisting in your hair. The sting is gone all too soon, healing factor kicking in to erase the marks seconds after he makes them, and for the first time in your life you regret that your skin knits itself back together so quickly.
You grab his hips and pin them in place against the counter to stop the way he’s desperately rubbing against you. You unlatch your mouth and bite down again just barely further down his clavicle, trying to get that reaction again, as if the scrapes might stay this time if he digs in harder. As if maybe you’ll get to keep the evidence of his fervent attempts to hold onto you scrawled across your back until the next time you see him— because you will. You will be seeing him again.
His fingernails press indents into your skin, but don’t move this time. A quiet swear rushes out past your ear, followed by your title— not your name, your title, the hero alias the whole world knows you by. You can tell he immediately regrets letting himself say it from the way his jaw clicks shut. Your lips curl into a pleased smile against his skin.
The next time his hips grind against yours you grab him by the belt to still him. Your fingers hook into the leather and yank it free from its loop, leaving it hanging open around his hips— you don’t spend any more time than you have to on getting him out of his clothes. As soon as his zipper is undone his hands join yours, shoving his pants and boxers down his hips.
You have to take advantage of a moment when he doesn’t have a grip on your head to look up at him and shoot him the most withering glare you can muster, because you certainly don’t want him to think you’re doing this for any other reason than wanting to put him in his place. He dares to look at you expectantly, canting his hips up toward you and looking at you through hazy, half-lidded eyes.
You hold eye contact as you lift your hand up to his mouth, running your thumb over his bruised lower lip. His mouth follows the movement of your hand, frowning as you prod at the corner of it, before finally parting enough to let your thumb push inside.
You know better than to push inside all the way— strays usually bite. All you do for now is press the pad of your thumb against one of his sharp canines, testing him, watching for him to snap so you can pull your hand away in time. Nothing happens. His eyelids droop, eventually closing when your thumb ventures further.
When your thumb manages to press over the flat of his tongue without any trouble your pointer and middle fingers move to follow. His tongue swirls around your intruding fingers, guiding them towards the middle of his mouth, tongue arching to close off the back of his throat.
You feel him breathe through his nose, heavy and hot against your knuckles. His tongue curls around your fingers, pressing them against the roof of his mouth and making his own shoulders jump. He doesn't seem bothered by this at all, if anything he's enjoying having his mouth stretched open in this way, and that’s what disarms you. Your fingers brush over his teeth for just a second, and that’s when he clamps down.
Your free hand clasps his throat, getting him to let up enough to pull your fingers out of his mouth. His eyes open just enough to see your enraged expression, and he smiles like he’s proud of himself.
You’re about to wipe your soaked hand off on his beard just to get that ridiculous grin off his face when the feeling of his hips jerking towards yours again gives you a better idea. You let yourself look properly lower for once tonight, because you’d been far too distracted by glaring daggers into his soul earlier to really get a good look at him, and Christ does Billy Butcher have thick thighs under those straight-cut jeans. A drop of precum beads at the tip of him.
The smug smile drops away with a sharp exhale when you drag your thumb over his slit, collecting the wetness there. You smear it over the tip of his cock, dragging your thumb down to press into that spot beneath the head that makes his stomach tense up visibly under the thick curls of his happy trail. Butcher bucks up with a surprised groan when you begin to rub tight little circles over the area. In retaliation, you wrap one hand around his base and squeeze hard enough to make him hiss, payback for the premature thrust.
"Stay fucking still," you mutter before tugging open your own belt, fumbling slightly as you attempt to extract yourself from your pants with one hand. One of his hands releases its death grip on the edge of the counter and reaches to grab your hip, guiding you forward so that both your cocks brush together. You take both of you into your hand, making the two of you groan nearly in unison at the sensation.
You move slowly at first, trying to find a steady rhythm that works for the both of you. When you look up at his face again his features are tensed with concentration, his lips pressed together to keep any more of those noises from escaping. His eyes follow the movement of your hand as he begins to roll his hips into your fist.
Precum eases the way as you slide against each other, your paces both frantic and erratic but otherwise unmatched. A noise bubbles up from the back of his throat when you twist your wrist just right on an upstroke, his head falling back and putting the marks you left on him earlier on full display. The sight of them again makes your gut tighten. They’re still bright red with irritation and already turning purplish in the center, and when you run your fingers over them his shoulders twitch and goosebumps prickle along his skin.
You can feel your combined mess seeping through your fingers as you pick up the pace, the wet noise of it audible amongst the heavy breathing and groaning between the two of you. The white-knuckled grip on your hip finally lets go, and moments later you feel Butcher’s fingers brush over the inside of your wrist, asking permission to take over. You only allow him to move your hand out of the way and assume the position you were just in because he has the good sense to look at you pleadingly with those large dark eyes and unfairly long lashes. He spits into his palm to mimic the way your fingers were covered in his saliva earlier and starts up at a faster pace than you had been moving. Saliva and precum glisten under the overhead lighting as you glance down at your now free hand.
You smear the mixture over the tips of your fingers before reaching around to his ass, spreading him apart and circling his entrance with your middle finger, a silent fuck you that uses both meanings of the phrase. His breath staggers out of his lungs like he’s been punched in the gut, and for a moment he struggles to find his voice. He leans his weight against the counter, his eyes flitting up to meet yours.
"Yeah?" You prompt him when he opens his mouth, but shut up as soon as you hear yourself. Your tone sounded too soft, too much like teasing or even encouragement rather than the coldly indifferent attitude you're attempting to put out, so you press lightly against him. His eyelids flutter before his gaze finds yours again.
“Quit waitin’ around, I ain’t gonna fuckin’ beg you for it.”
You take your time teasing the tight ring of muscle until it gives way under pressure, pushing inside just enough to make him clench. His hips jerk forward at the intrusion before rocking back onto you, and when he rolls forward into his fist again with another moan it makes your cock twitch between his fingers.
The pace of Butcher’s hand is uneven as he struggles between chasing friction and fucking himself on you. His grip around both of you is tight and unforgiving but otherwise terribly inconsistent, stuttering whenever you push your finger deeper into him with tiny thrusts. A loud moan escapes him when you curl your finger upward just slightly, entire body tensing before shuddering violently enough that for half a second you think he just came, but his dick is still hard next to yours in his hand.
As soon as you sink in past the second knuckle you start fucking into the clutch of his fist, letting loose a string half-swallowed sounds yourself from between gritted teeth while trying not lose what little rhythm either of you is managing at this point. Butcher’s legs are shaking so badly beneath yours now that you’re starting to wonder how much longer he can keep up before collapsing against the counter, so you move things further along. A bead of sweat rolls down from beneath those dark locks plastered across his forehead when another finger stretches him further open alongside the first one.
His cock throbs against yours and you get to watch his chest heave as he tries to remember how to breathe. You spread your fingers apart, opening and closing them a few times in a scissoring motion, which makes his eyes screw shut and his forehead fall heavily against your shoulder.
Butcher’s just babbling now, most of the sounds he makes incoherent half-words strung together amidst a slew of curses, mostly some variation of “fuck” aimed at no one in particular besides maybe himself for ending up here like this with you, and more gasps of “Jesus” and “God” and “Christ” than have ever been in uttered any church sermon. His beard tickles your neck as his lips brush your skin with every attempt at speech.
You know he’s starting to get close when his legs give out, sinking himself further down onto you. Hot, humid breath billows over your shoulder as he runs his tongue along your shoulder and just up your neck. You almost let him get off on your fingers until he suddenly lets go of your dick and wraps his arms around your waist to anchor himself, cutting your own pleasure short— that alone makes you want to punish him by pulling out but what really convinces you is when he bites again, teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder. You pull out completely and grab his ass, ripping a loud high-pitched whine out of him.
His head snaps up, his eyes glinting frustration and what might have been the beginning of tears. “What the fuck—”
“Get on your knees.”
Butcher’s jaw clenches at that, mouth curling downward like he’s fighting not to bear his teeth at you like a wild animal— like a cornered stray. He unwraps his arms from around your waist and braces himself against your hips as he leans forward. “Fuck you,” he snarls, but then he’s lowering himself down, hands moving to the back of your thighs as he eases himself onto his knees. He’s glaring lasers up at you from the floor, as if you’ll melt under his fury and let him spare what’s left of his dignity, but you meet his eyes evenly.
His eyes only break away from yours when you push your hips forward. His eyes move over you like he’s trying to figure out how to do what you’re demanding of him, so you place both your hands against the counter in front of you to brace yourself while he decides what he’s going to do.
After a moment of heavy breathing and deliberation, he opens his mouth, running his tongue over the tip of you on his way to taking you halfway into his mouth without any further foreplay. Butcher gags immediately, grasping at your thighs to anchor himself. His nails dig into your skin deep enough that they'd draw blood on anyone else. You groan as his throat spasms around the intrusion before he slides out to gasp for breath, only to shove right back down halfway again.
You resist the urge to grab at him and force him deeper, instead just letting out a shuddering sigh while staring down at where your cock disappears between his spit-slicked lips reddened from friction. “God,” slips from your throat when Butcher makes an especially obscene sound around it all.
His eyes flicker up toward yours briefly before fluttering shut again; obviously overwhelmed by the sensation already but still defiantly refusing to stop, whether out of self-hatred or out of the feeble hope he’s gained control of this encounter again, you’re not sure but don't really care either way. He pulls back slightly, just enough for the tip to rest on his tongue, then swallows you down again with a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. His hands slide up to your hipbones and clamp down again as he struggles to breathe through it, brows furrowing when you shift ever so slightly forward.
Then suddenly teeth scrape lightly along the sensitive underside of your cock, making your hips snap back involuntarily while your fingers tangle instantly into his hair, yanking his head back sharply. The motion causes a choked noise to bubble up past his throat, those hateful eyes flicking back up to burn holes through your skull. Drool pools around his gums and spills over his lower lip, soaking his beard.
“Watch the teeth.” You give his hair a short tug just to drive your point home. He just glowers up at you with tears gathering on his waterline, chest heaving and puffing air over the glistening head of your cock. When you let go of his hair he sways a bit, his forehead brushing against your hip momentarily, before he sucks in a few wet gasps and wraps a hand around the base of you to line your cock up to his lips.
The second time around is easier on both ends now that Butcher’s figured out how deep he can comfortably take before gagging. His tongue drags along your underside each time he pulls off— whether for air or in an attempt at some kind of teasing retaliation is unclear— and his cheeks cave in just enough to brush the sides of your dick when he tries to suck some saliva back into his mouth. His pace is maddeningly slow, which makes sense given this likely being his first time on the giving end of a blowjob, but you’re trying to get off here and that’s not going to happen unless you take control again. You let go of the countertop to once again thread your fingers through his hair and guide his head back, pulling him off you and bracing the back of his head against the counter. His half-closed eyelids flutter slightly as he just lets you move him as you please. You line yourself up with his parted lips and slide yourself back in.
The moan that tears from him when you start fucking into his mouth shoots vibrations straight through your dick. His jaw hangs open sloppily when you pull back far enough just so he can get another ragged breath in before shoving yourself back in, rough but not so far that he chokes, over and over again relentlessly until there are tears rolling freely down his flushed cheeks while thick strings of saliva drip off his chin and onto his lap.
His hands eventually fall from your hips now that he’s lost complete control of the situation, dropping uselessly to his sides. His knees spread apart further as he slips a hand between his legs, wrapping his fingers around himself and beginning to jerk himself off at a pace nearly matching yours.
The sight of him stroking himself while drooling all over your cock sends heat flooding to your gut. Your grip on his hair tightens again when you realize he’s close— his eyes rolling back into his head, thighs tensing, hips bucking forward into the ring of his fingers— and you can't help but push yourself deeper down his throat in one final thrust, making him gag violently around you.
His entire body shudders as he spills over his fingers, thick white streaks painting the kitchen floor between his knees. The vibrations of his choked moans send you over the edge right after him. You tug his head back just enough to spill across his lips and down onto his beard rather than down the back of his throat, not wanting to risk him coughing it up all over you when he inevitably comes up for air.
The second you let go of Butcher's hair, he pulls away completely and coughs hard enough to make himself gag again before leaning forward on shaky arms and spitting a glob of saliva out onto the tile below. A string of drool and cum still hangs from lips, smearing across his face when he wipes roughly at his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.
His shoulders rise and fall with each heavy inhale until eventually some clarity starts returning behind those hazy eyes again. He lifts his head just enough to look at you with unfocused, watery eyes, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach clench— you'll convince yourself later that it was aftershocks and nothing else. The look in his eyes reminds you that this was supposed to be a display of power, a way to put this bastard in his place, but now that the anger is gone you can’t really say you won anything here, because it may have been Butcher on his knees but you still heard yourself gasp his name as you climaxed.
You take a few shaky steps backward to put some distance between the two of you, leaning back against the opposite counter. In the space left behind he lets go of himself and slowly pushes himself up on trembling knees, keeping a hand against the cabinet for balance.
It's quiet, at least for a few moments, just the sound of labored breathing and your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Butcher avoids your eyes as he stumbles past you to your kitchen sink, turning on the faucet and cupping water into his mouth. You watch him rinse out his mouth before wiping at his chin with both hands. Under the kitchen lights you can see the long strip of sweat running down the back of his neck when he turns his back to you, sliding down the slope of his shoulder blade and pooling into the dip of his spine.
He only turns to look at you when the last of your mess is running down the drain. "You could'a given me a little warning." His voice is raw, cracking slightly halfway through the sentence. He grimaces and clears his throat.
You let out a scoff that's supposed to come across much more indifferent than it does. "Would it have made a difference?" You reach for the roll of paper towels to begin cleaning yourself up, wiping the cooling saliva and precum off your hands before moving to your stomach and pelvis.
He grunts instead of responding, and reaches down to where his pants have slid down to his ankles and roughly jerks them back up. They hang low on his hips, and he doesn't bother to button them as he moves on to pulling on his shirt. The mottled purple splotches are high enough up his neck that even fully buttoned he’s got no hope of hiding them beneath his collar. Even though your anger has dissipated like a lifting fog, you let your eyes roam shamelessly over those marks with a hint of pride. Good luck explaining those.
The last of the heat on your skin fades, leaving you cold enough to regain your senses and start covering yourself up, as well. You lift your head to watch him step over the mess you two left on the floor— you groan softly at the thought of cleaning it up later— and shuffle toward the front door. “You’re leaving?”
”Wasn’t plannin’ on staying for breakfast.” He turns over his shoulder just enough to smirk at you. “You can give me that V next time ya see me.” He doesn’t leave room for you to deny him, and besides any biting retort about how you don’t owe him shit gets stuck in your throat at the dawning realization that this encounter was ending no differently than the others before.
You hadn’t put him in his place at all; hell, you’d encouraged him and then let the stray slip back into the shadows, satisfied enough to find his way back to you again expecting something else. Something more.