gullemec

[gullemec]

The club? No I'm meant to be with my criminal found family whose plot armor means we will never go to prison and always defeat the bad guys

[gullemec]

"Would anyone want to read --" Listen, imma stop you right there. Yes. YES, someone would want to read that. You write that weird little fucked up story. Or that domestic little slice of life story. That drabble or that 300k monster.

I promise someone wants to read it.

[gullemec]

[gullemec]

[gullemec]

Pandora's Box

Golden Cage - Chapter Two

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: The Boys send you on your first mission and you end up with more than you bargained for.

Warnings: emotional abuse, daddy issues

WC: 4.5k

A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone who liked/commented/reblogged chapter one, it genuinely means so much to me🥹 i've started a taglist as well so please let me know if you'd like to be added!

The Boys, as you’ve come to know them, waste absolutely no time.

After quick introductions to MM, a steady and level-headed founding member, and Kimiko, a silent but razor-sharp Supe liberated from captivity, Butcher starts laying out the plan with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer.

On the coffee table before you sits a small fortune in spy gear: bugs, GPS trackers, cameras, audio recorders, and a litany of tiny devices that look like they belong in a spy movie. The sheer quantity makes your head spin.

Hughie kneels by the table, carefully picking up each device and explaining its purpose. His earnestness almost makes the whole thing less intimidating. Almost. Truthfully, he could tell you just about anything and you'd continue to nod along. Seeing as you've never taken up cat burglary or espionage as a hobby, you barely understand anything he's telling you. 

“This one here,” Hughie says, holding up a tiny black button-like device, “is a bug. A listening device. You stick it somewhere, and it picks up sound within about twenty feet. Pretty good range.” He hands it to you, and you turn it over in your fingers, pretending to understand.

Behind him, Butcher leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watches the two of you silently, his sharp eyes flicking between the gear and your increasingly overwhelmed expression.

“Right,” Butcher drawls, pushing off the wall and strolling over. He snatches the bug from your hand, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. “Here’s how this works: you stick this under your dad’s desk or somethin’ that gets a lot of traffic. We’ll be able to hear every dodgy little word that comes out of his mouth.”

You nod, eyes wide, shellshocked. You're taken back to the time your mother brought you to see Spy Kids and you spent an entire month afterward somersaulting around the house and peeking around corners pretending you, too, were a spy. You had even begged her to order you a spy kit through your school's Scholastic Book Fair. The real thing, as you've come to learn, involves much less gymnastics and invisible ink than you'd originally thought. 

This is all so ridiculous. You woke up this morning prepared to face another day of monotonous lab reports, mind-numbing thinktank meetings, and unending feelings of inadequacy. Now you’re playing Inspector Gadget with a ragtag group of vigilantes to infiltrate a corrupt conglomerate that may or may not be responsible for your mother’s death. 

If you don’t laugh, you’re pretty sure you might just cry.

Butcher doesn’t seem to notice your inner spiral. “Easy as pie,” he adds, smirking like it really is that simple.

“Sure,” you murmur, trying to sound more sure than you feel.

Hughie, sensing your nerves, holds up another device, a thick black disc about the size of a hockey puck. “This one’s a GPS tracker. While you’re planting the bug, Frenchie and I’ll slap these on your dad’s and Monica’s cars. That way, we’ll know where they go and when.”

Your stomach twists. This is all so surreal.

Hughie hesitates, his brow furrowing as he takes in your face. “Look, I get it. It’s a lot. First time I got roped into this, Butcher had me bug the Seven’s meeting room. Thought I was gonna throw up the whole time.”

You gape at him. “Wait—you bugged the Seven? How the hell did you pull that off?”

“I didn’t,” Hughie says with an awkward laugh. “Got caught.”

Your eyes widen. “You got caught?” The words come out more panicked than you intend, and your sweaty palms rub against the worn fabric of the couch. “Oh, God, I can’t—this is—what if I—”

Your mind explores every possibility, every unique way this can, will, go horribly wrong. Monica finds the bug and calls security. Your dad catches you red-handed, his disappointment turning into something darker.

Or, perhaps worst of all, you succeed and uncover the truth, and it will be worse than the weight of the uncertainty you've carried.

A heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder, stopping your thoughts cold.

Your head snaps up, and your eyes meet Butcher’s. His expression is calm but firm, and his grip feels strangely reassuring. For a moment, the world seems to steady itself. You grab his hand instinctively, your fingers brushing his. He notices, clears his throat, and pulls away, leaving you colder than you’d like to admit.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, his voice softer than you expect. “Smarter than Hughie, anyway. Low fuckin’ bar, I know, but still.”

“Hey!” Hughie protests from the floor. “What the hell?”

But Butcher’s already moved on, ignoring him. “Focus on the job. We’ll be outside in the van, listenin’ through the bug. If anything goes sideways, just leg it outta there.”

The authority in his voice is oddly comforting. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve misjudged him, if there’s more to him than the sarcastic, sharp-edged persona he’s so quick to project.

Hughie looks between the two of you, confusion playing on his face.

Butcher clears his throat. “‘Less of course you have a run in with Homelander. I ain't dealing with that cunt today.”

Ah, yes. There's the asshole who kidnapped you. You nod sagely, grimacing.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins, sharp and wolfish. “That’s the spirit.”

You roll your eyes, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Hughie glances between the two of you, his confusion obvious. “Wait, is Homelander actually a risk here? Or is he just—”

“Don’t overthink it, Hughie,” Butcher cuts in, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him wince. “She’ll be fine. Won’t ya?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

But as the plan starts to crystallize, the reality of what you’re about to do settles in your chest like a weight. 

Fine is a relative term.

~~~

Frenchie deposits you back where he found you, the cloak of secrecy still intact. Sure enough, your heels and lab coat remain where you left them, an unremarkable crumple of fabric and leather in the shadows. It's somewhat comforting to know no one else has discovered your secret smoke spot, but disappointing all the same that not a single soul came looking for you.

Eight hours. The workday has long since ended, and it’s painfully clear that the wheels of CytoGenix churn on, unbothered by your lack of presence. You collect your things and swipe your badge, heels clicking sharply against the cold tile as the fluorescent lighting hums its dispassionate scrutiny above.

CytoGenix headquarters looms like a monument to ambition, nearly as ostentatious as Vought Tower. Fifty-five stories of cutting-edge labs, supercomputers, and glassy offices stretching high above Manhattan. Your father insisted that keeping most everything in-house kept CytoGenix self-sufficient, giving it an edge against the competition. You wondered if that same logic applied to the crown jewel of the building, his infamous combination office and bedroom in the penthouse. Your mother used to jokingly refer to the family home upstate as your father's vacation home, since he primarily lived out of the office. You couldn't deny that conducting an affair mere feet away from his work desk met the definition of efficient.

You step into the elevator now, the glass box offering a vertiginous view of the city below as it rises. The sight makes your stomach churn, so you focus on the reflective silver doors instead, breathing slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth.

The penthouse is as you remember it, coldly modern and sleek, with wide-open spaces and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the cityscape. Soft jazz hums from a turntable wedged between a pair of file cabinets, a strange touch of warmth in the otherwise sterile setting.

Your father’s mahogany desk is the only thing that breaks the space’s futuristic aesthetic. Stacks of papers teeter precariously, coffee mugs crowd the edges, and there he sits, hunched over a legal pad, scribbling furiously. He barely registers your presence as you approach, only flicking his eyes up briefly before returning to his work.

He says your name flatly, without warmth or curiosity, the same tone he might use for a colleague interrupting his train of thought.

Your heels click purposefully as you move closer, forcing yourself to breathe steadily, to keep your hands from trembling. You can’t afford to give yourself away.  He can't suspect that you're here for any reason other than a friendly meeting between father and daughter. 

Only, that in and of itself is suspect in your case. 

When you look at him now you wonder if you see anything new, a different plane of his face you'd never noticed before, a nervous tic you'd ignored. Something, anything, that might suggest his culpability in your mother's death. Did he know? If so, what did he know? Had he been a passive player, vaguely aware that it was no accident? Or had he orchestrated the entire thing, feigning his grief all this time? 

Who was the man sitting in front of you?

“Hi, Dad,” you begin, your voice carefully neutral.

“What is it?” he replies, not bothering to look up.

A flare of irritation rises, but you stamp it down. You’d expected this. “I was hoping we could talk.”

That finally gets his attention. He leans back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “About?”

“The internship,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “I just… I don’t think it’s working out. I’ve been thinking I might explore other opportunities instead.”

He stares at you for a moment, blinking slowly, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke he doesn’t find funny. Then he exhales sharply, tossing his pen onto the desk.

“Are you kidding me?” he says, his voice low but brimming with disdain. “You’re giving up already? How many times have Monica and I talked to you about seeing things through? About doing something useful with your life?”

The sting of his words is familiar, like a bruise you’ve stopped noticing. Still, it’s enough to spark a flicker of anger.

“I’m not giving up, Dad. I’m just saying this might not be the best fit—”

He cuts you off with a scoff, rising abruptly from his chair. “Fit? Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. The world isn’t about fit, it’s about work. Something you’ve clearly never understood.”

You grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself as he paces, one hand rubbing the crown of his balding head.

“I spent tens of thousands of dollars sending you to school overseas,” he continues, his voice rising. “You didn’t need a fancy education for this job but I agreed anyway, because you and your mother insisted on it. And for what? So you could come back here and whine about an internship? Biology isn’t going to help you run a company, sweetheart. Know your place.”

“I’m trying to tell you—”

“No! You don’t get to try,” he snaps, spinning to face you. “You do. You’re going to finish this internship, and then you’re going to take the seat on the board. Enough of this nonsense.”

You can see the veins in his temple pulsing, his voice growing louder with each syllable. It should scare you, the way his anger always boils over so quickly, but instead it just feels… predictable. Like muscle memory.

He's working himself into a frenzy, rising from his desk to pace around the room, reciting old adages about a hard day's work and bemoaning the laziness of today's youth, errant jabs directed toward your personal shortcomings scattered throughout.You absently consider making a bingo sheet with his favorite token phrases to bring to your next family dinner, barely concealing a chuckle at the thought of shouting BINGO! as Monica demurely chews her smoked salmon across from you.

Finally he turns to rest his head on the bookshelves that flank his desk, as though he were seeking refuge from your insolence among the leather-bound books you were certain he'd never read. 

Perfect.

As he mutters to himself, your hand slips into your pocket, fingers closing around the small bug. His voice fades into a dull roar as you focus on the desk, feeling along its underside until you find the right spot. The adhesive sticks fast.

Done.

“You’re right,” you say robotically, standing and smoothing your skirt. “I’ve been stressed. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He exhales sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Stressed? Sweetie, you don’t even know the first thing about stress.”

Have you ever been kidnapped? You think.

Your teeth clench, but you force a smile, nodding as though you agree. Your eyes drift to a velvet painting of lilies above the turntable, the soft white flowers providing a point of focus as his voice fades into background noise.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” you say suddenly, cutting him off mid-sentence. You grab your purse and head for the elevator.

 But something makes you stop, your hand hovering over the button. Something about his anger and the way you learned from your mother how to deal with it, how to defuse the bomb. You turn back to face him as he sits down to resume his work, the rage leaving his body as rapidly as it had arrived.

“You know, I really miss her. Mom, I mean.”

The words seem to strike him like a physical blow. He freezes, his face unreadable. After a moment, he clears his throat and forces a tight smile. “I miss her too.”

Liar. Thief. Asshole. 

You say nothing. You leave. You hold your tears all the way down the elevator, all the way down the fluorescent hallway, all the way until ‒

Clickclickclick. 

The sound of bitchy little heels, but not your bitchy little heels. The shrill echo of your name, all false sweetness and feigned excitement. 

“Monica,” you say stiffly as she approaches, taking in her perfectly laid curls, pristine white blouse, and silk pencil skirt. The picture of elegance, the bane of your existence. 

“Darling,” she coos, her saccharine voice grating. She places a hand on your shoulder, her grip just a little too firm. “What are you doing here so late? You’re usually long gone by now doing… Whatever it is you do.”

She says it like she's not quite sure what the hell you could possibly be doing with your time that doesn't involve being hunched over a desk, awash in the glowing blue light of a computer screen. You'd endured many a lecture from Monica about work ethic and potential, always with the implication that you were severely lacking in both departments. You desperately wanted to ask her if she'd ever familiarized herself with things like fidelity or morals, but reasoned it would be easier to just keep your mouth shut.

You force a smile, brushing her off. “Just stopped by to see my dad. Nothing exciting.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you wonder if she sees through you. Can she clock your quickening heart rate, or the sheen of sweat on your face? Does she notice the frizz of your hair, the way you couldn't quite get it to sit the way it had before a hood had been thrown over it? She knows something is off, just not what exactly. 

But then the plastic smile returns, all teeth and no sincerity. 

“Lovely,” she says, squeezing your arm. “Well, don’t be a stranger. Cheers, darling.”

Monica loves to talk like a posh Londoner sometimes, like she wasn't born in Cheboygan, Michigan. You could vomit.

As she clicks away, you exhale and slip out into the alley. Across the street, the van waits, nondescript under the streetlights.

You’re vaguely aware of the bitter irony as you climb back into the van of the very men who kidnapped you hours earlier, but the relief is undeniable.

“I did it! And he didn’t even notice!” you announce, grinning despite the bizarre circumstances. Your heart thuds in your chest, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

The silence hits harder than expected. Butcher, Frenchie, and Hughie all avoid your eyes, their expressions ranging from uncomfortable to grim.

“Damn,” you say, trying to inject some levity. “Not even a ‘good job’? I was expecting at least one sarcastic thumbs-up from you guys.”

Nothing.

The tension in the van is thick and stifling, coiling in your chest like a lead weight.

It’s Hughie who finally speaks, his voice soft but pointed. “Wow, you, uh... weren’t kidding when you said your dad’s an asshole.”

The smile falls from your face. The weight doubles.

They heard.

They heard everything.

Every cutting word. Every ounce of disdain your father had casually thrown your way. All of it.

You feel like you’re standing naked under a spotlight. “Oh my God,” you stammer, your voice small and wavering. “I’m sorry you guys had to hear that. I—”

“It’s fine, ma poupette,” Frenchie interrupts gently, his voice warm. “Do not let it sit in your heart. It is... nothing.”

You nod, grateful for his kindness, but it doesn’t help. The sting of exposure lingers, burrowing deeper. Despite your rather brutal introduction, you can’t help but feel a sort of kinship with the Boys. These men have been through hell, you know that, but something about them hearing your father’s tirade, hearing things you secretly believe about yourself echoed by the man who raised you, feels suffocating.

Your eyes drift to Butcher, hoping for some sharp remark or offhanded quip to cut through the tension. Instead, he says nothing at all, his jaw tight as he avoids your gaze entirely.

Before the silence can grow unbearable, a crackle of static from the nearby receiver draws everyone’s attention. Hughie leans forward, fiddling with the dials as a voice filters through, thin and distorted. 

Monica.

“I saw her in the hallway downstairs. What was she talking to you about?”

Your father's voice responds, crisp and biting. “Bitching and moaning.” 

He laughs. Monica laughs. You wince. 

Hughie plays with some dials, attempting to improve the sound, pretending like he didn't just hear that exchange. 

When Monica's voice filters through again, it's clearer. “I come bearing good news,” she says, her tone syrupy and smug.

“Oh? Do tell,” your father replies.

“Quality Control will be testing the first batch of V2 in a couple weeks. Please tell me I can invite some of my Vought friends?”

Your stomach twists.

“Baby, you know exactly how to make a man happy,” your father drawls, his voice carrying an oily satisfaction. “Of course you can. Now, come here.”

Then, sounds. Sounds you'd rather not hear. Evidently, sounds the others would rather not hear as well, as Hughie quickly flips a switch, killing the audio. 

The silence that follows is deafening.

“What the fuck is V2?” Hughie blurts out, breaking the tension. His voice is edged with unease, his wide eyes darting between you and the others.

You shake your head slowly, the knot in your stomach tightening. “I—I don’t know. CytoGenix and Vought have done joint projects before, but it’s usually just sponsorships or tech. Nothing like this.”

Butcher leans back with a sigh. His hand moves to his face, dragging down as if trying to physically scrape off his frustration. “I don’t know what it is,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, “but it sounds a bloody sight worse than V.”

Frenchie lights a cigarette, his hands shaking ever so slightly. “If it is anything like the first, then we are in very deep shit, mes amis.”

Your chest tightens further as the implications hit you. V2. A new generation of the drug that turned people into ticking time bombs of chaos and destruction. A knot of guilt begins to form in your chest, curling tighter with every second.

This was your father’s doing.

“Whatever it is,” Butcher says finally, his voice cold and hard, “we’re not letting it see the light of day.”

His eyes flick to you for the first time since you entered the van, sharp and assessing. It’s not pity, not anger. It’s expectation.

You realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s already decided you’re a part of this fight now. Whether you like it or not.

~~~

The van pulls up outside your apartment building on the Upper East Side. After the chaos of the day, the sight of the familiar facade feels almost surreal. A part of you wonders how you’re supposed to just... walk back into your life as if everything hasn’t been irrevocably altered.

You glance back at the men in the van, your kidnappers turned allies, and feel a pang of awkwardness. “Alright... goodbye, I guess?” you offer, your voice uncertain.

Butcher gives a dry, humorless smile. “In a week’s time, come back to the laundromat. Bring some clothes, do laundry like a good little citizen ‘til one of us shows up. If you’ve got a tail, they’ll think you’re just there to bleach your knickers.”

“Okay, I can do that,” you reply quickly, trying to sound more confident than you feel. Deep down, you want to prove yourself to them, to him. To show you’re not the helpless daughter your father paints you to be, in spite of what they heard today.

In spite of what you think of yourself every day. 

You climb out, but before you can take more than a few steps toward the building, a hand grabs your elbow. You turn, startled, to find Butcher standing there.

“Let me walk you up,” he says, his tone gruff but somehow quieter than usual.

You blink. Butcher? Offering to walk you up to your apartment? You glance back at the van and catch Hughie and Frenchie craning their necks, their expressions mirroring your own disbelief.

“Uh... sure,” you say, fumbling for words. “I mean, I’m fine. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t respond, just nods toward the building. Reluctantly, you lead him inside.

The elevator ride is suffocatingly quiet, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but his expression is unreadable.

You feel a little silly leading the man into your lavish, paid-for-by-daddy apartment, knowing that he'll rest his head on a cot in the basement of a laundromat tonight. You wonder idly if he has an apartment to call home, or if, like your father, he too shits where he eats. You wonder why he feels the need to come in and see the apartment, but nothing about him being in your space feels intrusive. 

When you open the door to your loft, you hesitate for a moment before stepping inside. “Well, this is it,” you say, your voice faltering.

He follows you in, his eyes scanning the space. The eclectic decor—a mix of warm woods, mismatched textiles, and knickknacks—feels so far removed from the sterile confines of CytoGenix. You can’t help but notice how out of place Butcher looks here, yet oddly... fitting.

You watch as he pokes around, taking in the details. The art prints on the walls. The stack of books on the coffee table. The half-empty cup of tea you’d abandoned this morning, now cold.

For a moment, you imagine him here. Standing in your kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. Slouched on the couch, the trench coat swapped for something softer. Following you up the stairs to the loft.

Your cheeks burn, and you shake the thought away violently. What the hell is wrong with you?

His voice cuts through your daydream. 

His voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts. “I had a proper cunt for a dad too,” he says, his tone soft and almost hesitant.

You blink, caught completely off guard. “Oh?”

He doesn’t look at you, instead focusing on a small photo on the shelf—a candid shot of you and your mother from when you were small. He picks it up, his thumb brushing lightly over the glass. “Used to say the same shit to me and my brother. Called us lazy, useless... worse things, sometimes.”

His voice is flat, but there’s something raw beneath the surface, something unguarded.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say. “I’m... sorry,” you manage.

He sets the photo back down and finally looks at you. “Don’t be. He’s six feet under now. Good riddance.”

There’s no malice in his tone, just a hollow sort of finality. For a moment, the Butcher you’ve come to know, the sharp-edged, foul-mouthed enigma, feels human.

But as quickly as he let the walls down, they slam back into place. “You got your mum’s autopsy report here?” he asks, his voice clipped and businesslike.

You nod, the sudden shift catching you off balance. “Yeah. I’ll get it.”

You head upstairs to retrieve the manila envelope, your hands trembling slightly as you pull it from its hiding spot. When you return, he takes it from you without a word, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

The two of you stand there, the silence heavy. You want to say something, anything. To thank him for helping you, to ask about the man behind the trench coat, to yell at him for upending your life in the span of a single day. But the words stick in your throat.

It’s Butcher who finally speaks. “I’ll look into it,” he says, tucking the envelope under his arm. “See if it’s legit.”

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. Then, without another word, he turns and heads for the door.

“Well,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder, “I’ll see you in a week.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The sound of the lock clicking into place feels deafening in the quiet that follows.

You sink onto the couch, the events of the day crashing down on you all at once. 

An eternity seems to have passed since that midnight phone call, since the sterile voice on the other end of the line informed you that your mother was gone. The grief had consumed you, left you hollow and detached, moving through life like a shadow of yourself. You had gone through the motions, not even making the slightest effort to force life into your flat affect. Every single day you met the world with a brave, numb face, waiting until the apartment door clicked shut before allowing the full-body, hyperventilating sobs to overtake you. 

And then, in a single day, everything changed.

You glance at the photo Butcher had touched, your mother’s warm smile frozen in time. The guilt of betraying your father gnaws at you, tangled with the confusing comfort you felt among the Boys, and your inexplicable attraction toward the man who had both abducted and protected you.

Shaking your head, you retreat to your room, shedding your clothes and crawling beneath the covers. The too-big bed feels impossibly empty, and you lay there staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on you.

You stare half-lidded at the ceiling waiting for the familiar pull of your chest as the first sob claws its way out. When the tears finally come, they’re violent and unrelenting, wracking your body until it physically hurts.

Eventually, exhaustion claims you, and you dream of your mother.

Taglist: @mystic-writings

[gullemec]

hi omg! i don’t know if you’re doing a taglist for your butcher fic but if you are, i’d love to be on it!! it looks great so far i can’t wait to see what comes next 🫶

hello!! thanks so much i'm so glad you're enjoying it🥹 i will absolutely start a taglist!!

if anyone else would like to be tagged pls let me know!! 🫶

[gullemec]

love men who fall into "my girl is mad at me i hope i die" category but who also regularly do things to piss their girl off. duality of man

[gullemec]

Golden Cage chapter two will be posted tomorrow! I appreciate the response so far and I'm so excited to share this <3

[gullemec]

truly nothing more magical than finding a good fic and then going to their profile and finding out there’s a whole goldmine in there of fics just begging to be read. what a beautiful world we live in.

[gullemec]

[gullemec]

i love reader. idc if she’s a bimbo or a crybaby or a little unhinged. good for her tbh. i love her in all shapes and forms. she is barbie. she is a doctor and a student and a barista and she can take five dicks at the same time. what a beautiful world we live in.

[gullemec]

William Butcher.

[gullemec]

Golden Cage - Series Masterlist

read on ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Series Summary: As the daughter of a powerful pharmaceutical magnate, you've spent your life in the shadow of your family name. In the wake of your mother’s sudden and suspicious death, you’re left untethered, searching for something, anything, to make you feel alive again. But when a chance encounter thrusts you into the chaotic world of The Boys, a ruthless Supe-killing vigilante group, your carefully constructed reality begins to unravel. As the lines between hero and villain blur, you are forced to question everything you thought you knew about yourself, your family, and the world around you.

Series Warnings: canon divergent (the canon is a fun suggestion), emotionally constipated billy butcher, reader has very poor self-esteem, heavy discussions/depictions of grief, language, smut (18+ MDNI), slow burn enemies to friends to lovers, emotional/psychological abuse, daddy issues, canon-typical violence, murder, alcohol consumption, implied age gap, violence toward the reader (not butcher)

New chapters posted weekly!

please let me know if I've missed any tags! <3 take care to read the tags on each individual chapter <3

A/N: I'm so so so excited to share this with the world, I have been working on this fic for so long and it's really my baby <3 I also want to say that I really went loosey-goosey with the canon here. This is essentially a story within The Boys universe, using characters from The Boys, and referencing plot points from the show, but it doesn't necessarily take place within a specific timeframe in the show and some characters won't be mentioned. Just vibes basically. Thanks for reading <3

Chapters:

One: Down the Rabbit Hole

Two: Pandora's Box

Three: Lion's Den

Four: Whiskey on Ice

Chapter Interlude: Picture You

Five: Cross the Line

Six: Red Underlined

Seven: So it Goes

Eight: Deep Blue

Nine: Light Me Up

Epilogue: The Last Page

[gullemec]

he definitely altered my brain chemistry. never gonna recover I'm afraid 🙂

[gullemec]

I don’t think I’ve ever felt a stronger urge to motorboat a dilf😽

[gullemec]

Down the Rabbit Hole

Golden Cage - Chapter One

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: After living in the throes of grief for over a year, your world is turned upside down in the space of a few hours.

Warnings: use of chloroform, mention of death, depiction of grief, cigarettes, swearing, mild non-sexual bondage

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 4.3k

A/N: Hello and welcome to my first ever fic (that I'm sharing with the world lol). I have this fully written already and will be uploading new chapters weekly. I'm so excited to share this and I hope you enjoy <3

Click. Click. Click. 

Your painfully tall Louboutins emit an incessant clatter against the linoleum as you speed-walk down the hall, each step echoing louder than the last. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, threatening to carve a fresh headache into the already frayed edges of your mind.

You hate these heels. The nude patent leather straps always dig into your Achilles tendon, rubbing your skin raw and leaving blisters you’ll have to nurse later. You didn’t even want to wear them today, knowing you’d stick out like a sore thumb amongst the other interns in their practical loafers and sneakers. As a matter of fact, you didn't want to be here today at all, coerced into this internship by your domineering father. 

But you did all of these things at the behest of your father's new wife. Monica. 

You tried not to hate your father's new, uncomfortably young wife from the moment you met her, tried not to fall into that tired, clichéd resentment people would expect from someone in your position. But, to be fair, she didn't try very hard not to be hateable. The fact that your father had been having an affair with her while married to your mother didn't help. It was the part where he married her less than six months after your mother died that really sealed the deal for you, though. 

Some days, you almost can’t blame her. Your father is a very rich man, with the kind of wealth that transcends mere comfort and slips into legend. Fuck you money, some might say, courtesy of CytoGenix, the pharmaceutical empire he built from the ground up. A foster kid turned multi-billionaire, he had worked obsessively, channeling his past struggles into an unrelenting ambition. He ate, lived, and breathed CytoGenix. When he'd had a bedroom installed next to his office at CytoGenix headquarters, you and your mother had made many a workaholic joke at his expense. While this was true, it was an open secret that your father partook in multiple extramarital affairs, and a bedroom in the office certainly wasn't the worst place to take a mistress. If it wasn't Monica that caught his attention there were troves of other twenty-something beauty queens that would have gladly taken her place, prior marriage vows be damned. 

Only, Monica didn't need his money. No, Monica Jones-Morgan is an executive at Vought International. Today's heroes, tomorrow's future. A veritable wunderkind, Monica did just fine for herself. Her motivations for pursuing your father remained a mystery to you.

And when your mother passed unexpectedly, leaving you bereft and reeling, Monica wasted no time taking the barely cold title of Mrs. Stanley Morgan. 

So Monica could fucking spare it when she insisted you dress the part of the Chairman and CEO’s daughter during your internship at CytoGenix. She had wasted no time asserting herself, down to the smallest details, like how you should dress for the internship your father insisted you take. Each morning you strolled into CytoGenix headquarters in the kind of outfits that screamed nepotism: Prada pencil skirts, Balmain blazers, and the Gucci lab coat that was embroidered with your initials.

The only thing this accomplished was earning you bemused looks from the other interns dressed in sensible business casual. You couldn't be certain that this wasn't some obscure hazing ritual intended to keep you from making friends in the office, because that was exactly what was happening. Despite your best attempts at endearing yourself to the other twenty-something interns on your rotation, you received nothing in return but pursed smiles and polite rebuffs to your suggestions to grab a drink after work. 

Earlier today, you tried—really tried—to prove yourself, clipboard in hand as you descended thirty floors into the basement lab with two other interns, Adam and Emily. The silence in the elevator was suffocating, but you held your head high. Down in the lab, you collected samples, filled a centrifuge, and for a fleeting moment, you felt competent. Useful. Like maybe your four years studying Biological Sciences at Cambridge weren’t just a vanity project.

But then Adam stopped you. His hand closed over the beaker you were holding, his smile tight and patronizing.

“I’m sure you don’t want to ruin your fancy lab coat. Let us handle this,” he said, his tone reeking of condescension, like a parent reasoning with a stubborn child.

Your mouth opened, ready to argue, but the words caught in your throat. The Gucci logo on your lab coat suddenly felt like a neon sign blinking above your head. You wanted to disappear.

Months spent trying to prove yourself and fit in with your peers, taking on the brunt of the workload and smiling politely through jokes made at your expense, all for nothing. Despite your airtight credentials and humble attitude, these people would simply never be able to see beyond your surname. You never had any strong desire to partake in this internship, but your father and Monica had needled you for months about it, insisting you needed the experience for when you would inherit the family business. If either of them had any interest in ascertaining whether or not you wanted that, they didn’t make it known.

So you left. Rode the elevator back up, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, but the tears stung at the corners of your eyes anyway. Briefly, the thought crossed your mind that you might call your mother and vent to her. But only briefly, before the crushing weight of reality quashed that idea, sending an icy jab to your heart. In the time since her passing these moments happened less and less frequently, but the breath-stealing pain you felt each time you were reminded of her absence had not dulled in the least. 

Now you storm down the hallway, heels clacking angrily against the tile. The remarks from the past few months replay in your head, each one another tiny dagger:

“What a surprise, the CEO’s daughter got an internship.”

“Some of us actually had to work to get here.”

And your personal favorite: “Your dad married that lady from Vought, right? Oh my god, have you ever met Homelander?”

Your pace quickens until you can’t stand the sound of your own footsteps. You stop abruptly, reach down, and rip the heels off your feet. Looking the part be damned, if you hear another click you're going to start pulling your hair out by the root, and that certainly wouldn't be becoming of the CEO’s daughter. The relief is instant, but your anger doesn’t ebb. You toss the shoes and your lab coat aside as you shove open a side door, stepping into the cool air of the alley outside.

The smell hits you first: the sharp tang of garbage mingling with the faint diesel fumes of passing trucks. You grimace, but it’s a welcome reprieve from the sterile, clinical air of the building. Leaning against the rough brick wall, you reach into your waistband and pull out a pack of cigarettes, retrieving a lighter from your bra. Your little secret, your covert rebellion against the carefully crafted image Monica insists you present to the world.

You place a cigarette between your lips and flick the lighter, shielding the flame from the breeze with your hand. But just as the spark catches, the sound of footsteps freezes you.

Someone’s coming.

Did Adam follow you out here? Had your father been watching the cameras, sending out a security guard to extinguish the flame before you could taint your precious lungs? 

But then you see a shadow move closer, and before you can react, a cloth presses against your face.

The chemical scent is overpowering, seeping into your lungs, and panic sets in as you struggle against an unseen grip. Your cigarette falls to the ground, forgotten, as darkness rushes in from the edges of your vision.

Then, nothing.

~~~

You awake to darkness and a pounding headache, like a bass drum reverberating through your skull.

Slowly, as consciousness filters back in, details trickle in: a tightness across your chest and arms, the rough rope biting into your wrists, the scratchy material chafing your face. A burlap sack, maybe? The unforgiving metal of the chair you're tied to bites into the cushion of your ass. Most bizarrely, though, is the cloying smell of cheap laundry detergent permeating the thick air around you. 

Swiftly, mercilessly, your head covering is removed. You wince at the sudden intrusion of light and blink at the three amorphous figures swimming in your vision. 

One is tall and lanky, mid-twenties at most, with a mop of dark brown hair. He stares at you with his head cocked to the side, confusion clouding his features. To his left, a wiry man with sharp cheekbones and an unmistakable French accent is holding up a photo, tilting it side to side as if the angle might help him make sense of it. The third figure, a hulking man in a trench coat, leans against the wall at the back of the room, arms crossed and scowling like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Dude, that looks nothing like her,” the lanky one says, scrutinizing your face, and then the photo. 

“Quoi? Look closely, Hughie, it is ze same hair!” The shorter one gesticulates, moving the photo around as to provide different angles. His accent is thick, French if you had to guess. “Perhaps ze light in ze alley, it was… unforgiving, no?”

“It’s not her, Frenchie.” says Trenchcoat in the back. His voice cuts through the room, sharp and gravelly, his British accent undeniable. His gaze is pure disdain as he points at you.  “You grabbed the wrong bloody person. How the fuck did you manage that?”

The three of them descend into chaos, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations.

“You said she was in a lab coat!” Hughie yelps. “She was! And she had ze shoes!” “Well, her shoes are gone now and—” “Maybe you should’ve bloody checked her face!”

Their bickering makes your headache exponentially worse. You press your wrists against the ropes, but they’re bound tight, and frustration bubbles over.

“Hey!” you snap, your voice cutting through the argument like a whip. “I’m right here! Would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

The three abruptly stop and turn to look at you, clearly having forgotten about your presence in the room. The men exchange frenzied glances, none particularly eager to explain your present circumstances. 

“Uh… so, funny story…” Hughie glances nervously at the others, clearly hoping one of them will jump in. When they don’t, he grimaces. “We, uh… we made a mistake.” His tone is pleading, his expression desperate, but it does little to assuage the anxiety bubbling inside of you. 

“A mistake?” you repeat, incredulous. “You kidnapped me!”

“Technically, Frenchie kidnapped you,” Hughie blurts.

“Merci beaucoup,” Frenchie mutters, rolling his eyes.

Hughie sighs. “Look, we thought you were someone else, okay? This is just a… misunderstanding. No harm, no foul, yeah?”

“No harm, no foul?” you echo, your voice rising. “Who the hell were you even trying to grab?”

Trenchcoat steps away from the wall, his jaw tightening. He looks at you, then at the other two, and shakes his head in disgust. You take a mental note that this one must be the leader. “Hughie and Frenchie here were looking for some Pharma bigwig’s little wife and nabbed you instead.” He takes a moment to shoot the other two a look. “Now obviously you’re not her. Not even close. Bloody amateurs.”

Some Pharma bigwig's little wife? He can't be serious right now. 

You stare at him in disbelief, your pulse spiking. “You tried to kidnap my fucking stepmother?”

That gets their attention. Frenchie’s brows shoot up, Hughie’s mouth falls open, and Butcher actually pauses mid-step, his head tilting like he’s trying to piece together a complicated puzzle.

“Your stepmom is Monica Jones-Morgan?” Hughie asks in disbelief. He holds the photo up in front of you for the first time and you recognize it as her insufferably photoshopped LinkedIn profile picture. Her impossibly smooth skin, perfectly laid tresses, and inhumanly white smile seem to taunt you despite their current 2D form. Of fucking course Monica has indirectly caused even more trouble for you, because why wouldn't she?

“The one and only,” you sigh, not bothering to hide your disdain. 

Hughie swears under his breath. The three of them exchange glances, Trenchoat shooting them both daggers. 

“Fucking hell,” Trenchcoat mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Your old man married her? You’ve got some shit luck, love.”

“Tell me about it,” you deadpan.

“What are we gonna do now?” Hughie asks, his voice rising in panic. “We can’t just let her go—she’ll tell Monica, and then—”

“Oh, shut it,” Butcher snaps, silencing him with a glare. “You two’ve cocked this up enough already.”

For the second time in as many minutes, you watch the men fall into a barely comprehensible fray, voices overlapping and intruding upon one another as they deflect responsibility and place blame anywhere else. 

And, once again, you force them to remember your inconvenient presence. 

“I won't tell her.”

Your words cut through the air, silencing the men. They all turn to you, suspicion etched into their faces.

Trenchoat narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch. “I fucking hate that bitch. If you'd abducted the right woman,” you shoot a contemptuous look toward your kidnappers, “I can't say I would have complained.”

The room falls silent, tension thick in the air. Trenchcoat watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“Bullshit,” he finally says, though there’s no real conviction behind the word.

“Untie her,” comes a firm, commanding voice from the doorway.

You're convinced you're hallucinating this entire experience now because the woman that appears in the doorframes is the very girl that adorned the walls of your preteen bedroom, the very woman you'd seen grace every television in the city when she joined the Seven. 

“Fucking Starlight?!” You gasp out. You suddenly feel incredibly lightheaded, the room around you taking on an unreal quality, head lolling to the side as you dip down toward unconsciousness. 

Starlight rushes to your side, placing her palm on your cheek and forcing you to look at her. 

“Hey, look at me,” she says, her voice soft but urgent. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” 

You shake your head weakly, still reeling. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Not yet,” she says with a faint smile. Then, turning to Butcher, her expression hardens. “What the hell happened?”

Hughie speaks from behind her. “We messed up, Frenchie took Monica's stepdaughter instead of Monica.”

Starlight shakes her head at Hughie. “Frenchie, what the hell? They look nothing alike.” She turns back to look at you. “Are you going to be okay?” 

You nod limply. 

“We're letting her go,” Starlight speaks with such conviction that you're given a glimmer of hope that the men might listen to her. “Butcher, I'm serious.”

Butcher. 

You lift your head to take in the man you'd only identified as Trenchcoat before now. You think Butcher is an appropriate name for the man, with his broad shoulders and cold, unflinching gaze. The kind of man whose mere presence in a room elevates the danger level, who takes up space unapologetically. 

Butcher clicks his jaw, shaking his head. “And how exactly are you going to explain this to them, hm? Sorry sweetheart, we ain't buyin’ it.”

You swallow deeply, rallying up the strength to sit straight in the chair. “I guarantee you neither she nor my father have even noticed I'm even gone yet.” You hold Butcher's gaze, refusing to shrink under his scrutiny. “Maybe I could help you.”

He scoffs. “And how exactly would you help us?” His implication pisses you off, that even this stranger that just fucking kidnapped you finds you as seemingly incompetent as everyone else in your life. 

But you hold strong, refusing to wear any emotion other than resigned bemusement. You shrug. 

“You obviously wanted Monica for something. Was it a ransom? I can get you cash,” you offer, but something tells you it's not that simple. You turn your gaze to Starlight, now knelt beside you. “Do you need information for Vought or something? Why are you involved in this?” 

She just turns and looks at Hughie who shakes his head at her. Everyone in the room just looks at you, equal parts pity and worry playing on their faces. It pisses you off even more. 

“Will someone please just tell me what the fuck is going on?! I have no loyalty to Vought or to CytoGenix or to my father or his wife, okay? Just fucking untie me and we can work something out.” Despite your outward coolness, you're afraid, and you're willing to make any deal that will secure your freedom from this increasingly bizarre situation. 

Starlight huffs from beside you. “I'm untying her.” 

“Like hell we are,” Butcher snaps, stepping forward to stop her. He stops when she shoots him a look, the lightbulbs in the room flickering with the threat.

“She’s not Monica. She’s not Vought. She’s just caught in the middle of your mess, Butcher.”

Finally, with a frustrated grunt, Butcher waves her off. “Fine. Untie her. But don’t come crying to me when this bites us in the arse.”

As the ropes fall away, you rub your wrists, staring at the group that’s just turned your life upside down. You’re free. For now.

You wrap your arms around Starlight in a desperate embrace.

“Hey, it's alright. You're okay,” she soothes. She takes a step back to look you over, ensuring you're alright. “What happened to your shoes?”

You look down to find your bare feet on the dirty cement floor. An incredulous laugh escapes your mouth as you realize those damned Louboutin heels must still be in a heap with your lab coat, left in the alleyway. Like you'd evaporated and left behind a puddle of overpriced luxury brands. 

This was no dream. 

~~~

You're nestled on an old couch, warm cup of tea in hand. It’s lukewarm now, but you cling to it like a lifeline, its earthy aroma the only thing grounding you in this surreal nightmare. A scratchy blanket is tucked around your shoulders and it absolutely reeks of the same cheap laundry detergent that assaulted your nose when you first awoke in this place. This is because, as Hughie explained, you are in fact in the basement of some rinky-dink laundromat in Brooklyn. The dark and damp space is currently serving as a clandestine base of operations for the group you've suddenly found yourself thrust into. 

Around you, the room feels too quiet, too full of unspoken tension. 

Butcher sits across from you on the coffee table, his elbows braced on his knees, his intense gaze drilling into you. Starlight lingers by your side, her presence warm but oddly dissonant in the damp, shadowy basement. Hughie leans against a defunct washing machine, while Frenchie lingers on the periphery, the two exchanging occasional glances. You know they're uneasy having you here, and you can’t blame them. You’re a liability. Still, the vulnerability cuts both ways; you’re not exactly thrilled to be trapped in a basement with people who kidnapped you less than an hour ago.

Butcher finally breaks the silence. “Your stepmum, is Monica Jones-Morgan. She’s an executive at Vought, yeah?”

You nod, unsure of where this is heading but too stunned to push back.

“She’s been orchestratin’ some very interesting deals between Vought and CytoGenix. That ring any bells?”

You nod again. You knew that your father's marriage to Monica had been mutually advantageous, outside of the fact that he was filthy rich with a couple heart attacks under his belt and she was young and did Pilates twice daily. It had been their plan all along to partner the companies. In fact, it had been at a meeting to discuss the venture that the two had initially met. 

Butcher narrows his eyes, watching your reaction like a hawk. “You heard anything about a new project? Something they’ve been keeping quiet?”

That you didn't know. “No? I mean, I know some things, but I'm not exactly sitting in on board meetings.”

His lips press into a thin line. “That’s what we were hoping your dear stepmum could tell us. Something big’s brewing between Vought and CytoGenix, something nasty. And if it’s nasty enough for them to be so secretive, we need to know what it is.”

You glance at Starlight, desperate for some sense of sanity in this madness. “Okay? Why is this worth kidnapping someone over? I mean, so what if my dad is working with Vought? How bad could this project possibly be?” You search her eyes for answers, but she avoids your gaze. “You're in the Seven, for fuck’s sake. What are you doing here if these guys are trying to kidnap someone that you work for?”

Butcher and Starlight share a look. You really wish everyone would stop fucking looking at each other and just tell you what's going on. She turns to look at you and places a hand on your knee. 

Starlight sighs, her shoulders slumping.  “It’s worse than you think. Vought isn’t… what you think it is. They’re not saving people. They’re killing them. Covering it up. They’ll do anything to protect their power.”

You pull back from her, head reeling. There's no way. She has to be lying. Sure, you hated Monica, but you trusted the work she did. You'd toured Vought Tower, shook hands with Homelander and Queen Maeve. Despite having grown out of your preteen obsession, you'd been pleased when you saw Starlight join the infamous crime fighting team. Vought was as American and trustworthy as apple pie and baseball. 

You blink at her, struggling to process her words. “Killing people?” you repeat, your voice almost a whisper.

But then an image flickers in your mind. A Vought stamp adorning a manila envelope, the image of it in your mind alone nauseating you. A year and a half of grieving your mother. Eighteen months of filing requests, calling office after office, and dealing with a barrage of bureaucratic red tape. The envelope was slipped under your apartment door, no postage attached. Inside, page after page of incomprehensible medical jargon, anatomical diagrams affixed with chicken scratch notes you could barely decipher. There was one thing you understood, though, and it was written in thick, block letters next to ‘Cause of Death’.

Accidental. No sign of foul play. 

They’re not saving people. They’re killing them.

“Who?” you ask, searching the Supe's eyes. 

“All of them, Homelander, The Deep, Ashley Barrett, they're all‒”

“No,” you interrupt. “You said they're killing people. Who are they killing?”

Starlight pauses, gaze falling to her lap. She considers her next words carefully, unsure of just how much information is safe to give you. With a deep breath she returns your stare. 

“Anyone that stands in their way.”

You want to vomit. 

“Katherine Morgan,” you murmur, your voice cracking. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

Starlight tilts her had. “No. Was she—?”

“My mom,” you say. “She died last year. They said it was an accident, but the report… it came from Vought.”

The room stills. Even Butcher looks momentarily thrown.

You swallow, suddenly unsure of why you're sharing this with a room full of strangers and your childhood hero. But there was something here, something that confirmed a suspicion you'd never voiced before today.

“Holy shit,” Hughie breathes. He straightens, pushing off the washing machine. “That’s how they do it. Same thing happened to me, with Robin. They covered it up. Called it an accident.”

“So does that mean…?” Frenchie asks, staring at a stricken Hughie. 

“We don't know that for sure, we don't need to scare her more than we already have,” Starlight says, patting your leg over the blanket, but it provides no comfort. 

You turn to face Hughie. “Who’s Robin?”

Hughie’s face crumples, the pain raw even now. “My girlfriend. A-Train ran through her… Literally. Killed her. Vought made it disappear.”

If you weren't already sitting, you're certain you would have collapsed onto the floor. The pungent air feels thin and suffocating. 

“So you’re saying…” You swallow hard, your chest tightening. “You’re saying a Supe might’ve killed my mom?”

“It’s possible,” Starlight says, her voice gentle. “I’m sorry, but… it’s not out of the question.”

The weight of her words hits you like a punch to the gut. Your grip on the mug tightens as your world tilts on its axis. Before you can stop yourself, you’re on your feet, the room spinning around you.

“Whoa, easy,” Butcher says, catching you as your knees give out. He guides you back to the couch with surprising gentleness, his hands firm but steadying. He crouches before you, eyes fixed on yours. 

The man still fills you with fear, and his demeanor is frankly off-putting, but something about the gentle way he pulls the blanket back around you quiets the rageful beating of your heart. You tether your consciousness to the firm grip he holds on your shoulders, forcing your mind to steady. He gestures to Frenchie, ordering that he get you another cup of tea. 

You clutch the blanket tighter around yourself, staring down at the scuffed floor. “If I agree to help you,” you finally say, your voice shaky but determined, “will you help me find out what happened to my mom?”

Hughie and Starlight exchange a look, both nodding almost in unison.

Butcher tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “And what exactly are you offerin’ to do for us?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, meeting his gaze despite the fear prickling your skin. “But if it means taking down Vought, I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me what you need.”

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and he leans back, his hands resting on his knees.

“Alright boys, looks like we've got ourselves a bonafide mole here.”

[gullemec]

Hi!

This is not my first tumblr (I have actually been on tumblr since 2010 🥴) but this is my first fic blog as I've finally decided to start actually sharing some of my work! If you're seeing this, hi! I'm so happy you're here!

Right now I'm going to be working on posting my Billy Butcher/The Boys fic, which will be roughly ten chapters long, new chapter posted weekly. After that I'm hoping to share some Joel Miller/TLOU fics I have partially completed!

Excited to share with everyone 🫶