#Billy Butcher x reader

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

candy-floss dealer

Pairing: William Butcher x Bubblegum!Reader

Summary: Butcher's sick of seeing you around the safehouse. He's had words with Frenchie, he thinks he oughta have words with you.

Warnings: 18+!, language, Butcher being Butcher, implied/referenced drug taking, smut (p in v, rough sex), I think that's it?

Word Count: 6,527

He'd seen her before. More than once, actually. Slipping out the safehouse door like a cherry-scented ghost, glitter stuck to her cheekbone and a vape pen swinging from her fingers like a bloody talisman. Always after sunset. Always with Frenchie trailing behind, grinning like a lovesick dog and waving her off like they'd just shared tea and crumpets instead of whatever illicit shit they'd actually been up to.

And every single time, Butcher had words.

"Who the fuck is she?" "She's safe." "She's a liability." "She brings me things I need." "Yeah? 'N I'll bring you a fuckin' lobotomy if you keep lettin' fuckin' strays into a CIA-sanctioned op site."

But it never stuck. Frenchie had that look in his eye—the feral kind that said he'd cut a man's throat with a butter knife if it meant protecting the little bubblegum-coloured fox he'd adopted. And Kimiko didn't exactly help, nodding along in quiet, wordless approval, like the girl was family or some shit.

Butcher never spoke to her. Didn't need to. What was there to say to a creature like that? She looked like she belonged on a sticker pack. Like the kind of bird who smelled like cupcakes and talked like a toddler. Useless, probably. A sugar-coated liability with zero survival instincts.

Still. He noticed.

He noticed the swing in her step, the way her skirt bounced when she walked, like she had no business moving like that through a world this cruel. He noticed how she never looked back. Not even once. Never glanced his way—not to flirt, not to flinch. Nothing. Like she knew he was there and didn't give a single shiny fuck.

That... pissed him off more than he liked.

There was something wrong about her, in that bright, beautiful way things get right before the world wrecks them. Something out of place. Like finding a goddamn Fabergé egg in the middle of a minefield.

And Butcher didn't trust pretty things that wandered into warzones and walked out smiling.

He smelled the change before he saw it.

Cheap weed. Burnt ramen. Something saccharine clinging to the walls like a sticky fingerprint. The kind of scent that didn't belong in a place like this. Not in a CIA-sanctioned safehouse with bullet-scarred plaster and a fridge that wheezed like it had asthma.

Butcher's boots hit the floor heavy, deliberate. Not creeping. Just announcing. And still—none of the fuckers looked up.

Frenchie was splayed on the battered couch, a grin stretched wide across his face like he'd just snorted joy itself. Kimiko sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, tapping her fingers to the rhythm of some cartoon bullshit flashing across the telly. And you—

There you were.

Perched on the coffee table like you owned it, delicate fingers unscrewing a little glass bottle filled with something neon and definitely illegal. Pink hoodie half-zipped, lollipop handle poking out the side of your glossed mouth, socks covered in anime kittens. You were all bubblegum and bare thighs and sin someone hadn't quite named yet.

And you were laughing. Laughing with Frenchie like the world outside wasn't rotting, like you weren't trespassing in a fucking war zone.

That was the last straw.

"The fuck is this, then?" Butcher barked, stepping into the room like the embodiment of a migraine. "Slumber party, is it?"

The air didn't shift. You didn't flinch. You just looked up, slow and lazy, like you'd been expecting him.

"Oh look," you said, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in venom. "The human yeast infection speaks."

Frenchie cackled. Kimiko smirked.

Butcher blinked. Once. Twice.

"Sorry—who the fuck invited Barbie back in?"

"I did," Frenchie said without missing a beat, reaching out to take the bottle from your hand. "She brings me the good things. You want me clean, non? This is the price."

"The price," Butcher repeated, voice low and sour, "is that I don't throw your candy-floss dealer headfirst out the nearest fuckin' window."

You sucked loudly on the lollipop, leaned back on your hands, and stared straight into his soul.

"Try it, and I bite."

Butcher stared. He wasn't sure if the heat rising in his chest was rage or something worse.

Jesus fuckin' Christ. She's got fangs under all that frosting.

Frenchie was grinning again, clearly delighted.

"I tell you every time, mon frère," he said. "She is safe. Like a kitten. A kitten with knives."

Butcher's jaw ticked. Something dark and electric curled low in his gut as you kept smiling at him like you knew he was already lost.

He hated you. Hated how curious you made him feel. Hated that the only thing louder than your laugh was the sudden, sick twist of interest in his chest.

And for the first time—he didn't say a word back.

You didn't look at him again. Not once.

Instead, you turned back to Frenchie with a swing of your legs and a soft hum, like nothing had happened, like you hadn't just sunk your teeth into the walking plague of the room and left him bleeding quietly in the doorway.

"Anyway," you said, uncapping the little glass bottle with a delicate flick of your thumb. "This'll keep your brain from eating itself, but only if you don't mix it with vodka or benzos or... whatever radioactive trash you've been putting in your system lately."

Frenchie took the bottle with both hands like it was holy. "You are an angel. Une bénédiction." He kissed your knuckles dramatically, then tapped the side of his nose. "I do not mix anymore. I am a new man."

"You're a lying little goblin," you said sweetly, plucking a vape from the floor beside you. "And the last time you took this, you tried to reorganise the entire fridge alphabetically and then fell asleep in it."

Kimiko, seated on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest, let out a soft breath of laughter. She hadn't taken her eyes off the TV, but her smile had been there the whole time. Quiet. Comfortable.

"I told you I would make a spreadsheet," Frenchie insisted.

You grinned, soft and sharp all at once. "You tried to use croutons as dividers."

"It was an experiment in modular nutrition," he said with mock offence, clutching his heart.

Butcher watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, unmoving. The kind of stillness that wasn't calm—just compressed pressure. He didn't know what pissed him off more: how easily you fit here, or how clearly they let you.

The air smelled like weed and detergent. The overhead light buzzed like it was dying. And there you were, right in the centre of it all—bubblegum and bare thighs and kitten socks with little skulls on the toes.

You weren't just in their space. You were part of it.

And Butcher hated it.

Too soft. Too loud. Too fucking bright. And they let you in anyway.

You zipped your hoodie halfway, slipped the glass bottle back into your glittery pouch, and tucked it into your bag with a practiced little shuffle. Then, as if remembering something, you stood with a bounce and pulled your vape from your bra—dragged a long inhale and blew a ring toward the ceiling.

"Alright, boys and ghouls," you chirped. "I got other degenerates to tend to. Try not to die while I'm gone, yeah?"

Frenchie stood and saluted. "If I do, I will haunt you from beyond the grave."

You ruffled his hair. "You already do, sweetheart."

Kimiko gave a small wave—thumb and pinky out, the casual shaka—and you shot her a wink before adjusting your bag across your chest.

And that's when the temperature shifted. It was subtle. A prickle across the spine. The kind of silence that came just before something broke.

He knew you felt it before you heard him.

"Oi."

One syllable. Snarled like a hook in the back of your neck.

You turned your head slowly toward the hallway—where he stood, arms crossed, still planted in the same goddamn spot like rot in the foundation.

"You always that mouthy," Butcher said, voice low and edged in challenge, "or just when you've got yer fuckin' fan club around?"

His tone wasn't raised. Didn't need to be. It coiled through the room like smoke.

Frenchie's smile faltered—just for a second. But you? You didn't miss a beat. You met Butcher's stare with a tilt of your head, as if sizing up a joke before the punchline.

"You always that constipated," you said, slow and syrup-slick, "or just when someone prettier than you walks into the room?"

Frenchie howled. Kimiko barked out a laugh so sharp it startled even herself. And Butcher—

Butcher said nothing. Didn't move. Didn't blink. But something in his face twitched—an almost-smile that died before it was born.

You gave them both a little wave and turned back toward the door.

"See ya, sweets," you murmured to Frenchie. "Don't snort the fun pills. That one's oral only."

"You wound me," he called after you, clutching his chest again. "I am mature now."

"Uh-huh," you said over your shoulder. "Call me when you relapse. I'll bring snacks."

And then you stepped into the hallway—and the door clicked shut behind you.

Silence. No laughter now. No safe little buffer. Just you, your boots against creaky tiles, and the sound of someone stepping right behind you.

You didn't turn. Not yet.

"What is it now, Butcher?" You sighed, letting your bag slip down your shoulder as you faced the wall. "Forgot to tell me I'm a security risk again?"

He said nothing. So you turned. And there he was, closer now. Arms still crossed. Eyes still storm-dark. But that little twitch in his jaw told you what you needed to know.

He hadn't followed you out here for national security.

"You like mouthing off?" He asked. "That it?"

You smirked. "I like watching grumpy old men pretend they're intimidating."

"You think I'm grumpy?"

"I think you're dying to see what I say when no one's around to protect you."

That landed. His shoulders shifted. His mouth curved—not a smile, not really, but something darker.

"You think I need protection?"

"I think you need a hobby," you said, stepping into his space. "Or maybe a good fuck. Either way, I'm not giving you either."

He leaned down, inches from your mouth. The air was warm. Charged. Electric.

"Y'know what I think?"

"I'm shaking."

"I think you talk like that 'cause you want someone to shut you up."

You looked him straight in the eye, popped your lollipop from your mouth with a slick little pop, and said:

"Try me, Big Bad."

And then you walked away.

Butcher didn't follow. Not because he didn't want to. But because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what the fuck he'd do if he caught you.

It'd been weeks.

Weeks without the glitter girl. Weeks without the sticky-sweet scent clinging to the curtains or the cartoon giggle echoing down the halls. Weeks without the fucking war crime of a vape trail you left behind.

And Butcher had been glad for it. That's what he told himself, anyway.

But when he stepped into the safehouse and caught the scent of some sickly-sweet body spray clinging to the stale air—he paused. Knew what it meant before he saw it. Before he saw you.

And fuck him—you were right back on the coffee table.

Like you'd never left.

Boots tucked under you, hoodie halfway unzipped, some horror of a pink pouch open on your lap, and that ridiculous glossy lollipop hanging from your lips. You were talking, chipper as a cartoon. Giving Frenchie the rundown on some new bottle of god-knows-what you'd brought him, like you were prescribing vitamins instead of illicit pharmaceuticals.

Frenchie and Kimiko were already there. Frenchie perched on the arm of the couch, laughing with his whole chest. Kimiko stretched across the floor like a cat, nodding absently at the screen. And there you were, in the middle of it all—knees tucked under you on the coffee table again, back arched, lip glossed, smiling like sin.

But this time?

This time he was here too.

Soldier Boy. Sitting in the goddamn recliner like it was a throne, one arm tossed over the back, the other nursing a beer. Aviators still on indoors, like a right twat. T-shirt too tight, ego tighter.

"So you're like a drug fairy or some shit?" Soldier Boy was asking, giving you that lazy up-and-down. "You sprinkle a little happy dust and poof—Frenchie stops twitchin'?"

You popped your gum. "Something like that. Depends how nice he is to me that week."

"And what about me, sweetheart?" Soldier Boy drawled. "I get a discount if I smile real pretty?"

Frenchie rolled his eyes. "You smile like a serial killer."

"A fuckin' charmin' one," Soldier Boy said without missing a beat.

And you—you laughed. Not the fake kind either. A real laugh. Light and bright and warm enough that Butcher felt it sting.

Felt it in his teeth. In his fuckin' chest.

No. Absolutely not. Fuck off with that.

He hated how it made him feel. Hated how Soldier Boy looked at you like you were dessert. Hated how you didn't shut it down.

But then you caught his eye. And Butcher watched it happen. Watched the moment your gaze snagged on his, held just long enough to feel deliberate, and then—

Something changed.

Your smile stayed, but the edge dulled. You shifted back slightly. Crossed one leg over the other. Still playful. Still glitter and pink sugar and dangerous calm—but not available.

And Butcher—fuck him—felt something twist in his gut.

You turned back to Frenchie, opened your pouch, and began pulling out a new set of bottles and blister packs.

"Okay, new rules," you said, clicking your tongue as you sorted. "Yellow ones are daytime only. No alcohol. Blue tabs are for emergencies only—no more than one every eight hours or you will absolutely start hallucinating your trauma."

Frenchie nodded, suddenly dead serious. "And the green ones?"

"Don't touch the green ones unless you're dying or planning to astral project. Either way, text me first."

Butcher watched your lips as you spoke, the occasional pop of your gum as you listed dos and don'ts.

"Pink tabs are serotonin pushers," you were saying, voice all sugar and sharp. "Good for when you're low, but they'll kill your appetite, so eat something or you'll look like an extra from Trainspotting by morning."

Frenchie nodded solemnly. "I will make toast. Emotional toast."

Kimiko laughed. Butcher didn't. Instead, Butcher's voice cut through the air like a blade.

"And how the fuck do you know what any of that does?"

The room quieted. All eyes on him.

You didn't look up from your bag.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't look like you use this shit," Butcher said, stepping further into the room. "But you rattle off side effects like you wrote the fuckin' labels. So what is it? You playing scientist? Little bit of pretend chemistry? Or just parroting what your dealer told ya?"

You looked up then. Slow. Controlled. Cold.

"It's not any of your fucking business," you said flatly. "But if you must know—I'm good with chemicals. Pharmaceutical chemistry. Human biology. Neuropharmacology. Pick one. I've got credits in all of 'em."

Soldier Boy let out a low whistle. "Shit, that's hot."

You shot him a look. "Don't make it weird."

But he wasn't done. Of course not. He leaned back with that lazy grin, turned his face slightly—but his eyes stayed on Butcher.

"Didn't realise we had to clear our jokes with the watchdog first."

Butcher curled his lip.

"Flirt all you want. Just don't drag your clap through the furniture."

Frenchie choked. Kimiko looked mildly horrified. But Soldier Boy only leaned in more.

"Told you, sweetheart," he drawled, flashing you a grin that belonged in a mugshot. "You're wasted on these pricks. You ever wanna deal with real men, you let me know."

And you?

You didn't blink. Just cracked your gum once—loud. Then:

"You two wanna whip 'em out already?" You asked, slow and sweet. "Should I get a ruler?"

Butcher nearly choked. Frenchie wheezed laughter. Kimiko covered her face. Soldier Boy grinned like a devil.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Soldier Boy chuckled low. "What's wrong, Butcher? Gonna lose on length and charm?"

Butcher's voice cut sharp.

"Heard your brain's three inches shorter than your dick. And that's still not sayin' much."

That shut the room up.

Soldier Boy's smile dropped. Beer bottle thunked down on the table. "You wanna take this outside, pussy?"

But then you stood. Bag over your shoulder. Boots firm against the tile. Chin high.

"I'm not a fucking prize for you two to arm-wrestle over." You turned to Frenchie, soft again. "Text me if the green ones make you time travel."

He nodded, still blinking, like you'd stunned him. You looked at Butcher next—just long enough to let the venom simmer—then at Soldier Boy.

"But hey—thanks for reminding me why I prefer chemicals to men."

Snap.

Your gum cracked like a pistol shot in the quiet. And you turned your eyes—straight to Butcher. Locked on like a scope.

"So," you said, voice smooth and sweet like poison in honey. "Is the grumpy old man gonna walk me to my car?"

Butcher froze.

The fuck did you just—

"I can do that," Soldier Boy cut in instantly, sitting forward. "Glad to."

But you didn't even look at him. You just lifted a hand—graceful, slow—and held it out in a stop without taking your eyes off Butcher for a single second.

"I wasn't talking to you," you murmured. "But I'll keep that in mind for next time."

The room went quiet. Butcher felt it in his spine. The tension. The heat. Like someone'd just lit a match behind his ribs.

And then you cocked a brow. Head tilted. That bubblegum pop mouth twisted into something almost smug. Almost dangerous.

"Well?" You said.

Fuck.

He didn't say a word. Didn't move when you cocked that brow, didn't answer when you tossed the challenge across the room like a lit match. Just watched as you turned with a toss of your hair, hips swaying like you knew he was going to follow.

And fuck him—he did.

Of course he did.

He trailed behind you as the door shut, boots heavy on the scuffed linoleum, and you? You were a fucking vision of chaos in motion. Half his size, all legs and attitude, miniskirt bouncing, pink hoodie riding up the curve of your back. You walked like the hallway belonged to you. Like you'd paved the fucking floor with your own glitter.

He kept his distance. Just a few steps back. Far enough to pretend it was casual. Close enough to clock the way you popped your gum every few paces, loud and sharp and deliberate. Like punctuation.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Every sound was a middle finger.

Butcher's eyes dipped once—just once—to the curve of your thighs, the sway of your hips. He let himself look, let it hit like a blow to the gut. You were small. Soft-looking, sure, but dangerous in ways you probably didn't even know yet. Or maybe you did.

That was worse.

The lot was mostly empty when you reached your car. Streetlamp buzzing above like a dying insect. Butcher stopped beside you as you clicked your keychain and lit up the machine in front of him.

He squinted.

It was pink. Of course it fucking was. Tiny, boxy, obnoxious. Covered in stickers. One Powerpuff Girl flipping the bird from the back window.

Jesus wept.

You turned to face him, one hand resting on your hip. Still chewing, still unreadable. And when you spoke, it wasn't a question. It was a bullet wrapped in satin.

"So, William... you the type to do dates—or is it just one messy fuck to get all that grumpy bullshit out of your system?"

He blinked. Scoffed. Looked away like that'd shake something loose.

"Ain't thought about it."

You raised a brow. "No?"

"No."

You smiled. Real slow.

"Liar."

He grit his teeth. "And if I was?"

"Then you're coy. It's cute," you said, stepping closer—just close enough that he caught the scent of your perfume again, something synthetic and sharp and you. "I don't mind."

Butcher stared at you, the smirk twitching at the edge of your mouth, the way you tilted your chin up like you were waiting for a punch and daring it to land.

"You're trouble," he muttered.

"You love trouble." Your voice was soft now. Velvet-wrapped and dangerous. "And you've definitely thought about it. Thought about what it'd feel like to get it out of your system. Rip it out of your ribs and put it somewhere hot and messy and mine."

He clenched his jaw. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"You gonna keep playin' coy, William?" You murmured, eyes locked on his. "Or are you gonna be a man about it?"

He didn't answer. Didn't trust his voice not to betray the fact that he'd absolutely thought about it. More than once.

And if he was smart, he'd walk away. Right now. But Butcher had never been all that fucking smart.

You didn't move right away. Just stood there, one hand on your hip, the other hanging loose at your side, the pink strap of your bag riding high across your chest like a weapon holster. The streetlamp cast your shadow long across the cracked pavement, a soft silhouette with bite, and Butcher—he couldn't fucking look away.

You were chewing your gum slow now. Not lazy. Loaded. Like every snap between your teeth was another nail in his goddamn coffin. That smug little smile still playing on your lips, like you already knew he was fucked. Like you were doing him a favour by letting him watch you walk away.

He should've turned around. Should've made a cutting comment and left you standing there like the chaos you were.

Instead—he stepped forward.

A single step. Just enough to close the distance between you. Not quite touching. But he could feel your warmth, your perfume, that faint sugar-sharp scent clinging to the night air like a curse. You were a full foot shorter than him, head tilted back just slightly to meet his eyes. No flinch. No nerves.

You stared like you'd already decided how this would end.

Then, slow as sin, you reached into your bag. Fished around between your glittery pill cases and lip gloss tubes, and pulled out a sad little scrap of notepad paper—creased, purple-lined, with some cartoon frog in the corner giving a peace sign.

Of fucking course.

Butcher watched you uncap a pen. Watched you scrawl something in big, looping numbers across the page. Each stroke deliberate. Confident. Like you weren't just writing down your number—you were writing him a problem.

Then—casually—you popped the gum from your mouth, rolled it between two fingers, and stuck it right on the edge of the paper. Pressed it in like a kiss.

You stepped in—close. Pressed the whole thing into his palm, fingers lingering just long enough to make it clear it wasn't an accident.

"For when you stop pretending," you said, voice low and syrup-slick. A wink followed, fast and clean. "Night, William."

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Because he was standing there, in a piss-yellow parking lot under a buzzing streetlamp, holding your fucking phone number, complete with used chewing gum and cartoon frogs, and trying not to visibly sweat about it.

You turned without another word, hopped into that ridiculous pink clown car, and fired the engine.

The music hit like a shotgun blast—something synth-heavy and violent with bubblegum vocals screaming over it. Bass shook the tiny frame as you adjusted your mirrors and didn't look at him once.

Then, just before peeling out of the lot like a bat out of pastel hell, you threw him a two-finger salute. Sharp. Dismissive. Final.

And then you were gone. Burned rubber. Candy scent. Blown speakers. Gone.

Butcher stared at the empty space you left behind like a man who'd just been mugged by a fever dream. He still had the paper in his hand, crumpled now from how tightly he'd clenched it. The gum was still warm. Still soft. He could feel it through the page.

His cock was half-hard. And he hated that.

Inside, the mood hadn't shifted at all.

Frenchie was still on the couch, cackling at something Soldier Boy was saying—some bollocks about a bear trap and a stripper. Kimiko had curled up in the armchair now, watching the boys like a woman observing animals through glass.

None of them looked at Butcher when he walked back in.

Good.

He didn't want them to.

"You alright, mon frère?" Frenchie asked without looking, stuffing popcorn into his mouth with both hands. "You look like someone pissed on your cornflakes."

Butcher ignored him. Didn't pause. He passed through the room like smoke, tension in his shoulders and that crumpled paper burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

"Goin' to bed," he muttered.

That got Soldier Boy's attention. The smug cunt chuckled.

"Better jerk off before you sleep, Butcher. You're lookin' a little tense."

Butcher didn't answer. Didn't flip him off. Didn't give him the satisfaction. Just disappeared down the hall, boots echoing, heart hammering, half-hard and angry and more rattled than he'd admit if you put a gun to his head.

And in his pocket? That fucking number. Still damp. Still pressed between his fingers like a threat.

He hadn't called.

Not because he didn't want to. But because calling meant admitting something.

That he'd thought about it. About you. About what you'd said, and how you'd said it—with that glitter-glossed smirk and the gum pressed to paper like a kiss-shaped curse. The note lived in the back of his sock drawer now, folded between worn cotton and denial, burning a hole in his fucking resolve.

He'd taken it out twice. Once drunk. Once sober. Both times, he folded it back up with shaking hands.

It'd been weeks. Enough time to pretend it didn't matter. Enough time to lie to himself in peace.

But today?

You were back.

He walked into the safehouse and the heat hit him first. The air was thick, swampy—no proper ventilation, windows shut tight against the kind of daylight that burned the skin off you in minutes. Sweat clung to the back of his neck.

And there you were.

Sitting on the same goddamn coffee table like it belonged to you. Hoodie discarded in a heap beside you like it meant fuck all—exposed now in some little pink slip of a dress that barely covered your thighs. One knee tucked under you, the other swinging lazily. A sheen of sweat gleamed at your collarbone, glinting where your dress clung to you in all the wrong places.

You were explaining something to Frenchie—voice animated, hands waving, pill bottle in one, notebook in the other.

"It mimics a candy flip," you were saying, like it was no big deal. "But safer. No MDMA crash. No hangover. Half the hallucinations, double the serotonin. I'm calling it Kiki."

Frenchie blinked. "Like... the delivery witch?"

"Exactly," you grinned, popping your vape from your bra. "Cute name, terrifying high."

Butcher didn't announce himself. Didn't say a word.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw locked, watching as you tied your hair up with a pink elastic pulled from your wrist. Your movements were lazy, careless—flyaways sticking to your neck, sweat glistening across your skin, one strand of hair blowing loose across your cheek. You huffed it away with a pout, not even noticing the way his stomach fucking clenched watching you.

It was obscene. That level of ease.

Then Frenchie stood, muttered something about grabbing a glass of water, and stepped out. Butcher stayed frozen in the shadows. And—without looking up—you spoke.

"You gonna stand there all day, or you wanna come sit down, you scared little ghost?"

He blinked.

You didn't turn around. Didn't glance his way. Just twisted the cap off another bottle and kept talking like you didn't just wreck him.

"Jesus, William. You're worse than Frenchie's hallucinations."

His pulse kicked.

"You know," you added, voice light as air. "If you didn't want my number, maybe you should've passed it on to someone a little more willing."

He stepped forward once, slow. "You mean Soldier Boy?"

That got your eyes on him. You looked up—chin tilted, lashes heavy, that grin slinking across your face like smoke under a door.

"He's not my first choice," you said with a shrug, "but if you're really not game, I'll take what I can get."

And that was it.

Butcher snapped.

He crossed the room in three strides, one hand grabbing the back of your dress—soft cotton fisting tight in his fist—as he yanked you up off the coffee table like a fucking rag doll. You squeaked once, laughed next, boots scuffing against the floor as he frog-marched you straight down the hallway.

"Well, someone's finally feeling chatty," you said, breathless and delighted, letting him drag you with zero resistance.

Butcher didn't answer. Couldn't. Not when his blood was boiling and his cock was stiffening and you—you—were grinning like the filthy little menace you were, eyes lit up with pure chaos, hands swinging like this was just a fucking game.

Like you'd planned it.

And maybe you had. You always did.

The door slammed behind you hard enough to rattle the hinges.

You barely had time to stumble forward, his hand still fisted in the back of your dress, knuckles white around the soft pink fabric like he didn't trust himself to let go.

For a second, he didn't. For a second, he just stood there, chest heaving, pulse pounding like boots on concrete, staring at you like you'd just pulled the pin and handed him the grenade.

You weren't scared.

You looked up at him with that same fucking smirk, all teeth and glitter, breath a little heavier but no less composed. You tilted your head, mouth quirking like you were chewing on a thought.

Then—

"You gonna do something," you murmured, low and saccharine, "or just march me around like I'm—"

You didn't get the rest out.

Butcher was on you before the sentence died in your throat, both hands on your waist, hoisting you clean off the ground with a growl caught in his throat. You yelped, surprised—but laughing, too, high and breathless.

Your legs snapped around his hips like instinct, your thighs squeezing firm as he spun, caging you in the centre of his room like a man possessed.

He held you there—fuck, he held you like he was starving for it. One arm locked under your ass, keeping you up, the other sliding up the length of your back until his hand found the messy bun at the crown of your head. Fingers tangled, rough, yanking just hard enough to make your mouth part with a startled breath.

And then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not careful. But hungry—like you were the end of the fucking world and he'd decided to swallow it whole.

You tasted like bubblegum.

Of course you did.

Sweet and sticky and stupidly you, all pink gloss and danger, and Butcher wanted to rip it off your mouth with his teeth.

But then—then—you made a sound.

A low, humming little purr, amused and pleased, like the whole thing was delicious, and it hit him like a fucking thunderclap. That noise. That fucking noise.

You giggled into his mouth a second later, breath hitching as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and he cursed into the kiss because fuck, this was not supposed to be funny. But you were laughing—soft and delighted, squirming just slightly in his grip, hands curled into his shirt like you owned him already.

And maybe you did.

Because he couldn't stop. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but kiss you harder, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as he held you like gravity was a lie and your mouth was the only goddamn thing he believed in.

The kiss didn't break—it fractured.

Split open around the sound you made when his hand slid up your thigh, bunching the flimsy scrap of your dress to your waist like it had no business existing between his hands and your skin. He grunted into your mouth, shifting his grip so your back arched into him, thighs bracketing his ribs as you ground down like it was muscle memory.

It probably was.

You were burning. Skin damp, lips sticky, breathing like you'd run five miles just to get here. Your hips rocked against him, needy and sweet, your arms looped around his neck like you'd been waiting for this—for him—and just hadn't had the patience to say it out loud.

He walked you to the nearest wall like he was possessed, one arm under your thighs, the other gripping your jaw now, thumb dragging across your lower lip, smearing whatever gloss you had left.

You hit the wall with a dull thud, back flat, legs tight around him, and he shifted his weight until your core pressed hot against the bulge in his jeans. He grunted, fumbled his zipper down with one hand, just enough to free himself—barely enough.

You wriggled, giggling like a fucking heathen, all flushed and glowing, hair sticking to your temple in soft, wet curls.

"You sure?" He growled, voice low, brutal, the kind of rasp you feel between your ribs. "Last chance, love."

You opened your mouth to say something—no doubt cruel, no doubt biting.

Butcher didn't let you finish. He thrust into you without warning.

You choked on a gasp, legs tightening around him in a spasm. He groaned, low and guttural, head dropping to your shoulder as he sank into you like it hurt.

"Fucking—Christ."

You were so goddamn tight. Wet. Already clenching around him like you'd been aching for this for weeks.

"Jesus," you breathed, voice shuddering. "God, finally—"

Butcher didn't let you say another word.

He pulled back and drove into you hard, fast, all hips and fury, the slap of skin on skin already obscene in the humid air of the room. He fucked you like a man possessed—like every step you'd taken, every smartass line, every smack of your gum, had led to this.

And now?

Now you were his to shut up.

"This what you wanted?" He hissed, jaw clenched, fucking into you like he meant to leave you ruined. "All that mouth—figured I'd fill it with somethin' else but this'll do."

You moaned, head thunking against the wall, one hand gripping his bicep like you were clinging for dear life.

"I'll fuck the attitude outta you, you little cunt." He slammed into you again, rougher, harder, angling his hips until your mouth dropped open on a gasp. "But you just don't shut up, do you?"

Your nails raked his back, and you laughed—you laughed, breathless and wrecked.

"Then shut me up, William."

His hand snapped to your throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming.

"Oh, I'm gonna."

And he kept going—hard, brutal, mean. Each thrust a punishment. Each groan a confession. And you? You took it like you'd won.

Because maybe you had.

You were a fucking mess now. Sweat-slick, dress shoved up to your waist, heels kicking against his thighs as he slammed into you like he was trying to fuck the smart out of your brain. Your bun had all but come undone—strands sticking to your neck, curling wild around your face—and still you were smiling.

Still giggling like this was a game you were winning.

"Still cocky?" He snarled, slamming you harder against the wall, your moan cutting into a whimper. "Still got shit to say?"

Your head lolled back, lips parted, one wrist trapped above your head now as he pinned it there with his free hand, the other gripping your ass, guiding you down onto every brutal thrust.

You made a tiny, breathless sound. A purr. Fucking delighted.

"Always got something to say," you breathed. "You'll just have to work harder."

Butcher growled—actually growled—and drove into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The sound that left you was wrecked, cracked open, real.

"Oh, I'll fuckin' work harder, alright," he spat, slamming into you again. "Wanna get smart with me? Mouth off like some little tart in a fuckin' dress?"

You shivered.

"Who wears that, eh?" He hissed, snapping his hips up. "You knew what you were doin'. Walkin' in here dressed like a wet dream and flutterin' your fuckin' lashes."

You moaned—high and hitched—and he felt you clench around him, a fresh pulse of wet heat coating him as you writhed.

"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "Knew I'd snap. Knew I'd have you up against the fuckin' wall like a little slut beggin' for it."

You gasped, clinging tighter, eyes wide and glazed.

"You like that, don't you? Bein' used." Another thrust, so deep it knocked your head back. "Like gettin' ruined by a bloke old enough to fuckin' ground you."

You whimpered.

"Fuckin' knew it," he said, teeth gritted, losing rhythm now—not slowing, just sloppier, more desperate. "All that sass—just wanted someone to shut you the fuck up, yeah?"

You whined, loud and unrestrained.

"Well, congratulations, sweetheart," he rasped, voice fraying. "You found the right cunt."

You giggled, delirious and breathless and fuck if it didn't make him even harder, because somehow you still weren't done.

"So fuckin' full of yourself," you slurred into his ear, lips brushing the shell. "All bark, all teeth—figured you'd be soft when it counted."

Butcher bit your shoulder.

Hard.

You gasped—choked—and came right fucking then. Clenching around him so hard he nearly dropped you, your whole body spasming against his chest, thighs trembling as you cried out his name like a threat and a prayer.

He groaned, desperate now, fucked you through it, fast and ruthless, chasing his own high like it owed him something.

"Gonna fill you," he growled, voice feral. "Wanna walk out of here drippin' with me, that it?"

You nodded mindlessly, mouth hung open, eyes glazed over.

"Wanna sit back on that fuckin' table in front of Frenchie, smile all smug, and let 'em wonder who wrecked you like this?"

You whimpered something into his neck—he didn't even catch it. He was too far gone. Too full of you.

Two more thrusts—

One more ragged breath—

And then he spilled into you with a broken, strangled groan, hips jerking as he held you flush, cock pulsing deep inside, your name on his tongue like blasphemy.

He didn't move. Not for a moment. Didn't dare. Just breathed hard against your shoulder, heart hammering like gunfire, fingers still clenched in your hair and around your wrist.

And you? Your breath was still stuttering.

Sweat clung to the back of your neck, your thighs twitching around his waist in the aftermath. You hadn't let go yet—not completely—and neither had he.

Butcher's hands were still locked under your thighs and in your hair, holding you there against the wall like he didn't trust the air to carry your weight. You were flushed, glossy-eyed, fucked-out and grinning like a demon in pink.

He didn't know how long he stood there like that. Seconds. Minutes. Just breathing you in.

Then—your voice, wrecked and smug, cut through the silence like a knife through silk.

"You need to put me down, old man?" You rasped, arms still draped loose around his neck. "Your ancient little arms must be struggling."

He huffed out a laugh against your throat, warm and rough.

"Cheeky little cunt," he muttered.

"You're the one who said you're old enough to ground me," you shot back, breath hitching into a chuckle. "I'm just using your words, William."

That earned a real laugh from him. Low. Gravelled. Something mean and self-aware curled beneath it. But before he could fire off a comeback, you whispered—

"Lucky for you," you purred, "I've got a thing for grumpy old men who wear shit shirts."

He scoffed, pulling his head back just enough to look at you, eyes glinting.

"Yeah? And I've clearly got a thing for bratty little slags dressed like Polly Pocket on ketamine."

You barked a soft, shocked laugh, breathless and delighted.

"Fair."

He didn't move. Still buried inside you, still holding your spent body against the wall like a fucking crime scene. The sweat between you was tacky now, clinging. The room smelled like sex and heat and tension that hadn't gone anywhere.

Then—

"So?" You asked, a little quieter now, but still cocky. "Did it help?"

Butcher's eyes flicked over your face. That smug, perfect mouth. Your throat, still marked from his teeth. Your wrecked hair and sweat-glossed skin and the way you blinked up at him like you'd won something.

And maybe you had.

He nodded.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Helped."

And in his chest, something low and unholy growled awake.

Not love. Not softness. But something feral. Something like a match still burning after it's hit the ground.

Because the truth was—

You didn't just help. You hollowed him out. You carved your name into the part of him he didn't know was still alive. And he had a feeling? You weren't nearly done. Not yet.

Not even close.

a/n: Okay, I loved writing this one omg. FINALLY writing something from Butcher's perspective felt more cathartic than I can even begin to articulate. I am Butcher, he is me. British, always calling people "cunt", jaded, daddy issues up the wazoo, creative insults... have I missed any? I don't fuckin' think so. Please let me know what y'alls think because I absolutely loved writing this one. I think I might start writing for Butcher more. You're all fuckin' welcome. All the love.

Butcher taglist: @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @losers-clvb @drakulana @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @love2liz @angelicjackles @tinas111 @lunaleah @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 <3

[enchantedflameandflower]

You couldn’t help wriggling a little where you sat on the counter as his strong, deft fingers finished taping down the bandage on your bare thigh. His fingertips inadvertently brushed over the sensitive skin on the inside of your leg and a lascivious shiver rippled through your body.

And those fucking glasses he had put on to carefully check your stitches were making you think things that were probably illegal in most states.

“Still fuckin’ hurts,” you grumbled, trying to hide your obvious rising arousal.

Then he glanced up at you, with those glasses on, and the devilish Butcher smirk in full effect. “Need me to kiss it better?”

Coming soon! Thank you for the ask @konartiste 🥰

Let me know if you want tagged!

[muldermuse]

i can’t stop thinking about spending a weekend at butchers place, him locking you in for the weekend to lay around together… smoking a joint together, making out for hours groping each other rolling around the bed then eventually deep slow sex where he whispers how much he loves you as he cums deep😩

ive thought about this ask ever since it came into my inbox

like this is my dream

i don’t even have anything to add it’s PERFECTION

[burntsaltsblog]

rewatching the boys from the beginning cuz season 1 butcher hits so good😩

[writerstruggle]

me whenever something happens

[lanae111]

When he’s a red flag but you need him

[myladyship]

"Here," you said handing over the baby. "You left this in my vagina!"

"You begged for it." He casually said, holding the baby.

[ml080504]

somebody: what do you like about men twice your age?

me: where do i start?

[delicates86]

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

[g8taloadofdisguy]

guys it’s getting bad….

[blond3ang3l]

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

Butchlander my beloveds and their baby Ryan

Butcher was of course hesitant to let you around Ryan. He was his only child so naturally he was extremely protective of him. Homelander was too but he didn't care as much since he could easily deal with you if necessary. But when they saw how happy Ry got whenever you came over. Of course you noticed and always happily embraced the boy. A lot of your time now went to caring for Ryan since your lovers could get caught up with their work.

It wasn't easy at first. All three of you trying to parent the boy. A lot of confusion with the different ways all of you thought. A mutual agreement that when it came to powers John would handle that but the "actual" parenting fell on to you and butcher.

In your line of work in modeling it wasn't that usual to see someone as loving as you. Paparazzi had taken so many pictures of you with the three leading to many speculations. The pictures were usually off guard ones but there was one in particular Billy and John loved so much. Three of you and ryan had spent an entire day at the beach. Homelander wasn't exactly the biggest fan of being seen in a "vulnerable" form but Ryan wanted you all to have a day together so why fight it?

The small boy was curled up on your lap and wrapped in his towel, only his face peeking out. The exact moment they caught was when you looked down at him only to see him smiling at you making you smile back. Something that seemed so insignificant to you meant the world to them. When Butcher saw the picture he has mixed emotions. He loved it of course because it held his child and one of his lovers but he wasn't a fan of paparazzi at all and hated them being in you guys business. Homelander absolutely loved it though. Made bought employees make multiple copies to keep on him and in his penthouse so he could look at them any chance he gets.

The life the two had with you was something they never thought would be. They saw themselves as corrupt. They KNEW they were inherently bad people because of how they grew up. But when it came their you and Ryan there was truly nothing they wouldn't do for you two.

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

[supernatural-bias]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ includes: billy butcher, hughie campbell, frenchie, mothers milk, kimiko, and soldier boy

↳ warnings: canon type violence and happenstances. hinted to take place during season three at some points.

↳ notes: sorry butcher is in here so much. he's the kind of guy that can't shut the fuck up, so i feel like he's always getting in everyone business no matter what

↳ song: rock me like a hurricane—scorpions

masterlist | commissions | carrd

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

• He has mixed feelings about you

• On one hand, you’re a great team player. Always making sure the job gets done, willing to put yourself on the line for the team, one of the most willing to kill a supe in a snap—second only to him—and always managing to make shit up on the fly whenever something inevitably goes wrong on a mission. Butcher has seen you fend off an entire team of armed Vought men before with nothing but a well timed lie and piece of pipe. That’s not something to scoff at, even if he does anyways

• But on the other hand, he has a feeling that you were just as much as an annoying shit as he acted sometimes

• “Sorry to say this guys—“ You said one night through the food in your mouth as Chinese takeout sat on a dirty table in front of you, curtesy of M.M and his pocketbook, “—but I think I’d betray you all for a fortune cookie. I’d betray my country for a fortune cookie.”

• "You say that like we ain’t already betrayin’ the cunts, sunshine.” Butcher eyed you from across the room as you nicked Frenchies own cookie from him while he was staring off at Kimiko for the tenth time that night

• “Too right, Butch.” You grinned like a shark at your idiotic nickname for him, and he ignored you as you did so; like he always did

• He definitely appreciates your enthusiasm behind his plans. Unlike Hughie or M.M, who despite working in the business of taking down supes seem to be hesitant about doing too much shit, you don’t seem to have a very strong moral code. That’s not necessarily a good thing in anyone’s eyes except for Butcher’s, who knows that he can always count on you to have his back in whatever situation he manages to squeeze himself into

• “Thanks for comin’.” He grunted at you while vomiting into a toilet, green bile spewing from his mouth. Butcher’s eyes burned with the urge to let out a laser beam, and he did so for a moment, splitting the porcelain throne we was leaning over in two

• “Want me to hold your hair back for you, honey?” You didn’t even miss a beat to start making fun of his situation, which made Butcher growl at you even from his current position. Despite your sarcastic demeanor in the moment, and the way he had just scorched an unexpected hole through the shitty bathroom, Butcher knew you’d help, no questions asked. And that’s exactly what you did, grabbing whatever he asked you to as he gave you a run down on the latest solo mission he had been attempting to get by with on his own

• “Jesus, poor Gunpowder huh?” You mused as you crossed your arms and leaned on the sink above him. For a moment Butcher thought you were granting the dead supe a bit of sympathy before he saw the glint in your eyes. “If the last thing I saw before I kicked it was your mug, I’d probably wanna get it over with yeah?”

• “Do me a favor. Go grab the toaster in the other room an’ take a nice bath with it, would ya?”

• “You first, Butcher.”

𝐇𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥

• The two of you are like peas in a pod. Two very weird, very cautious peas in a pod

• Even if Butcher is beside himself with annoyance at having another, as he put it, “soft cunt with a morality complex,” join the team, Hughie couldn’t be happier that someone seems to share his values on supes, on Vought; on the world, really

• In the first season or so, the two of you would probably spend a lot of time in between working with everyone else in the field to come up with a way to take Vought down the right way. Eventually,as we all know, that later falls apart, but it exhilarates Hughie to know that there’s people out there like him that want to try and put in the effort for things like that

• “Yeah, so if we can get one more witness about the Termite incident to come forward and testify—“ You bit your pen between your teeth and nodded as Hughie waved his hands over a stack of papers and talked at a million miles an hour, somehow understanding each and every word.

• “—then we could finally take a supe down legally. And that would make way for a whole round of others; Hughie you’re a genius.” You finished his sentence for him, slapping a hand down on the table with a grin as Hughie smiled. Somewhere in the distance someone snorted wryly, no doubt having heard the entire conversation. You had no doubt it was Butcher, but that didn’t matter to the either of you with how happy you were at the revelation. No matter how temporary it would turn out to be

• Hughie finds himself trusting you quite a bit. He can get attached pretty easily, so he finds himself willing to do anything to back you up—within reason of course. He still has some semblance of sanity left

• Listens to Billy Joel with you! Doesn’t matter if you all are coming back from a mission covered in blood—once it was whale guts—he will stick one earbud in and leave the other out for you as he presses play on a mix. More than once the others have found both of you passed out and snoring as the faint sound of Billy Joel plays through the headphones

• “Think we should wake them up, mon amie?” Frenchie tilts his head as he looks down on the both of you. Hughie chest rises and falls with a softness he couldn’t afford on the regular. You were positioned far away from him to have your back to him, somehow keeping your end of the earbud in as you drooled

• “Nah, let em sleep. God knows they need it.” M.M shook his head with crossed arms, the sight reminding him of better times

• “Oi! Stop ogling at the knackered sods and come help me with this, would ya?”

• “Fuck you, Butcher.” M.M said with a sigh, leaving the room to go and help anyway

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞

• He fucks with you so hard

• I mean, come on, someone that’s as excited about making bombs as he is? Someone that is willing to understand French? To shit talk everyone else to their face—especially Butcher?? He might have to marry you on the spot

• Please learn French. He will literally beg you to start. Conjugates, vocabulary, even a simple ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Anything at all. Will absolutely not judge you for your horrific accent or pronunciation if you have any

• Bomb lessons on the side, too. If you already know the basics, or are a pro, it’ll be a lot more breezy, but he’s willing to start from scratch. It’ll be nice to have a partner to help him with his creations on the team for once, and even better since he likes you

• The two of you, and Kimiko obviously, are practically joined at the hip. What I said about the shit talking earlier was real, too. All of you use different languages or sign to voice whatever you’re thinking. It’s nice to be able to speak your mind freely, and there’s the added bonus of not having M.M give you that sharp look of his, or Butcher calling you names. Anymore than usual, that is

• “What do you reckon the three of ‘em are always on about?” Butcher took a swig from his drink. He was sitting next to Hughie with a beer on one of their down days as the younger man typed away on a computer. He was watching you Frenchie and Kimiko from across the room as you all signed at each other with giant smiles on your face. Frenchie would speak occasionally, but all that came out was his mother tongue, and your face would pause for a moment as you let your brain process what he was saying. Then all of you would break out into another round of grins, something that Butcher had to deadpan at

• “Probably planning a coup.” Hughie answered Butcher without even looking up from his screen. He knew who he was talking about anyways. It wasn’t hard to guess thanks, to the occasional loud exclamation from Frenchie as you signed something particularly risqué or funny

• Butcher flitted his eyes away in annoyance from you all after he recognized the word ‘cunt’ in the passing conversation, along with a sign that was clearly supposed to represent him

• “I think at this poin’ I’d prefer tha’.” He grumbled into his cup, and all of you laughed

• “Cheer up, Butcher. At least Frenchie isn’t teaching them how to make homemade cherry bombs again.”

• “Shut up.”

𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐤

• Finally. Someone other than him can be the voice of reason in the group

• It’s tiring being the one to hold everyone together all of the time. It might help if Butcher wasn’t so much of an ass, or if Hughie didn’t feel the need to derail every plan with thoughts of his own, but M.M knew that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. So he’d take any help he could get with reigning everyone in

• Definitely bonds with you over your shared habit of wearing band t-shirts to meetups or hideouts. I’d like to imagine that at one point the both of you show up wearing the exact same one, and it goes exactly how one would expect

• “Same shirt.” M.M notices one morning, pointing at your torso with the initials N.W.A written over it. He’s smiling, and so are you as what he’s wearing in turn dawns on you

• “Same shirt!! Hell yeah.”

• Fist bumps. Fist bumps galore, man. The two of you fist bump a lot. To punctuate sentences, drive a point home, agree on stuff—anything. It’s your own way of communicating with each other without having to bat an eye

• It’ll take M.M a while, but eventually he’ll start to really open up about missing his family to you. Beyond just showing you pictures of his daughter at soccer practice, I mean. If he trusts you enough to have his back in a shoot out, then he trusts you with this

• At one point, it goes farther than his (regrettably ex) wife and daughter, and eventually branches out into what he’s willing to tell about his dad and brothers. You feel like you know all of them by the time he’s done, and that only makes the typewriter story hit harder when he finally decides to reveal it

• Let’s just say you were pretty willing to jump Soldier Boy on M.M’s half the first time you were left in a room with them

• “Just one swing I swear—“

• “He will literally beat you into a pulp.” M.M deadpanned, doing his best to avoid looking at the other imposing figure in the room as he clasped two hands on either of your shoulders

• “Listen to your friend, sweetheart. Would hate to have to scrub my hands clean of any of your blood. Getting under the fingernails is always hard.”

• “See what I mean, just one punch that’s all—“

• “No.”

𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐨

• It’s honestly great for her to be able to hang around someone that feels the same way that she does. Maybe it’s how silent you are that really draws her attention at first, but Kimiko really grows to appreciate you as a member of the team

• Probably gets a lot of joy from having a friend like you. She constantly asks to do things like have you watch movies with her or to do ‘sleepovers,’ which are really just the two of you crashing on the main room couch together

• She never got a chance at a normal childhood or friends, so you and Frenchie are the closest she gets to a peace of mind

• Not even a question about it, she’s making you learn her sign language

• Will stare at you for days on end, saying nothing but everything at the same time until you agree to learn. Once you do, it’s all over. She gets the biggest most happiest look anyone ever seen, and there’s no turning back from that

• “Kimiko, what are you doing. It’s two in the morning.” You groan at her from under the thin covers of your bed, doing your best to ignore her hands as they fly about. It’s the childish equivalent of ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’

• ‘No time to sleep. We have to go over stuff before the mission tomorrow. It will help us communicate.’ She was unnerved by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything it only spurred her on more, shaking your bed and pulling at your covers as you groaned. Even with the progress you had been making with signing over the past few weeks, your knowledge was still a bit shaky, and being half asleep didn’t help, so you only caught a few words. Enough to know what she wanted, however

• “Go away, Kimiko.” You whined. The shaking stopped, and for a moment you thought your request had worked. You were more than happy to fall back into whatever dream you had been having beforehand

• Then you heard the rushing of feet and a large weight slammed onto your legs

• “Goddamnit!—“

• Frenchie found the both of you the next morning; Kimiko looking bright eyed and bushy-tailed while you were practically falling asleep from where you sat. It was a teasing point for you over the next two weeks

• Between you, there’s moments like that where, despite Kimiko’s silence and your habit to keep your thoughts to yourself, nothing ever goes unseen or unsaid. The two of you know each other like the back of your hands, and sometimes you wonder if you’d even need her sign to communicate

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬: 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲

• If the saying ‘this town ain't big enough for the both of us’ could apply here, it absolutely would

• It’s almost ironic how bad Soldier Boy handles another version of himself. You’ve got just as much snark and anger as him, and it pisses him the hell off. Constantly.

• Maybe it’s because you didn’t fan boy over him as soon as he flashed a few cheesy lines that keeps his disdain for you boiling, or that you didn’t keep your distance when he threatened to eradicate your entire bloodline if you didn’t stop running your mouth at him

• “Need help with that?” He cocks a brow at you one day, watching with poorly hidden annoyance as you struggle to tie a knot in your shoes for the fifth time in a minute. The offer isn’t serious, and even if it was, he has no doubt you wouldn’t hesitate to kick him in the face if he bent down to tie your shoe for you

• “Need help taking my dick down your throat?” You parroted back at him while raising your voice in a false-happy tone. Finally you get the shoestrings to cooperate, completely missing the way Soldier Boy glows in a harsh warning at your attitude

• “Ladies, ladies, you’re both pretty.” Butcher calls from the room over, no doubt tired of the bickering between the two of you that had been nonstop for the past few days. “Let’s get a move on before one of you decides to claw the others bloody eyes out, yeah?”

• The fact that you’re not even a supe just ticks him off more. Only a few people have ever pushed his buttons like this, most of them being supes, and they always ended up being nothing but red paste in the next few minutes

• You make sure to point it out to him several times that you’re just acting like he always does, making sure to don a shit eating grin when he clenches his fist at your comment

• Please for the love of everything that’s holy tone it the fuck down. Some people may say that Soldier Boy has no self-control, but it sure is taking a whole lot of it not to kick you in the crotch as hard as possible

• “The feelings mutual.” You deadpan at him when he eventually shares that fantasy out loud. He knew full well that if you even so much as tried that, you’d end up with a broken ankle and your front pinned to the closest brick wall, but he had no doubts that you would go for it anyway

• Seriously. How has he not murdered you in your sleep yet

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

‘If you get grossed out by pubic hair and talking about periods, you don’t deserve pussy’ kinda characters

[writerstruggle]

nothing is better than a well-written heavy angst fic

[obsessedwrhys]

hi baby, you can make an hcs of the characters from The Boys with a Harley Quinn! readers?? With all characters including Soldier Boy

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ THE BOYS X HARLEY QUINN!READER

ᯓ★ looots of goofy shit, dark humour, gore, sensitive topics (abuse, toxic relationships, etc), toxicity, reader is fem!!

ᯓ★ Characters included (I couldn't do everyone so I just did these guys, I know yer kind missy 👴): Homelander, Black Noir (Old and New), Butcher, Soldier Boy

HOMELANDER

He's honestly so fed up with you.

Sure he loves watching you mess with people but he does not like it when YOU DO IT TO HIM!!!

"Quinn!" He'd shout for your name and you'd open the door to see him standing outside your room. You laugh when you see him covered in ketchup. One of your many pranks.

"What?? You needed the upgrade for the suit cupcake" You smiled all innocently.

That being said you LOVE pulling pranks on him.

Whether if it's putting hair dye in his shampoo or stealing his suit so he wakes up searching for it.

It's just your favourite thing to do.

There have been times he's tried to kill you due to his rage but it takes every cell in his body to stop himself because he knows that he's not able to do that.

Because why? Because he thinks you don't even deserve to be killed by him directly.

You disgust him that much.

He just wishes that you weren't such a pain in his ass.

If the pranks weren't bad enough that it had him double checking every item he uses, AKA worsening his trust issues. You've also came up with nicknames to mock his superhero status.

"If it ain't the flying dick!" You'd address his entrance to everybody the moment he walked in the meeting room.

Just imagine him suddenly stop and standing at the door like 🧍‍♂️

If you wanna know more nicknames, we've got captain narcissist, america's buttplug and sperm cell.

Trust you are never sent on safely planned missions, only the ones he knows are highly dangerous in hopes of you dying...

There was this one time he sent you on a suicide mission and he was all proud of himself, but just as he thought he finally got rid of you, the elevator door slides open to reveal you, some fabrics of your clothes were ripped and there were bruises all over your body but it didn't seem to bother you.

"What's up toots?" You'd smile even though your nose was bleeding. That's when he looked down to see the head of the guy he asked for you to assassinate.

Who also happened to be one of the most protected men in the nations by the way.

Like how the fuck did you do it?

You're not even an ACTUAL supe!!

Regardless, he has his respects for you but really why WONT YOU LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE.

PLEASE STOP FLIRTING WITH HIM SO CASUALLY ITS WEIRD??!???!?

ALSO DONT PINCH HIS BUTT!!!

You once did that during a meeting and the sight of him yelping as his body jumps was unforgettable!!

You're JUST like a bee addicted to its pollen. P.S, he's the pollen.

BLACK NOIR (OLD)

He.. doesn't... understand you??

Why do you enjoy showering him with love??

You say it's in your nature but why do you always ask to be carried around the tower??

And why does he obliges each time??

Apparently how your mindset works is that you find extremely deadly things to be adorable.

In this case, he's the extremely deadly thing.

With his silent nature, you just NEEDED to get a reaction out of him.

You tried tickling him or making him sneeze but he always just stares at you in confusion.

You can't see his face but you can tell he's giving you the "What are you doing?" Face.

That's when your bright ass thought of a plan.

A dumb and reckless idea... but hey! You have suicidal tendencies so this is fine!

You'd put yourself in danger on purpose just for him to always come rescuing you. He has lost many body parts when doing so but you could care less, you would give him those heart eyes as he carried you back to Vought in bridal style...

Just for the managers to lock you up in a small prison cell to prevent you from pulling more of these stunts.

Though they were never enough to hold you back.

Naturally there would be rumours in the industry if you two were dating and you never hesitate to push those rumours even more.

Imagine for a premiere for your movie, you'd walk on the red carpet in a dress with Noir beside you, still in his signature suit.

"You're looking real good tonight, handsome. I'm liking what I see" You'd say with your arm wrapped around his. He looks at you as you winked at him seductively.

Someone save this poor boy from your endless flirting.

Jokes aside, there has been times he's seen you in your lowest, like that time you trashed your room with your makeup melted from your tears.

Apparently you got rejected from a movie role you wanted to get so badly. Which was Mario but stupid Chris fucking Pratt got it instead.

Seeing the state you were in, he'd grab you by the shoulders firmly and make you sit down, then putting a blanket around you. He'd leave the room for a couple of minutes... to come back with a bucket of ice cream for you to happily snack on as you rest your head on his shoulder.

BLACK NOIR (NEW)

"EW!! Get this mo'fuckin' bastard away from me!" Literally your words when you heard about the replacement.

Is a bit hurt by your disgust towards him??

But that just means he knows what he's doing right or wrong with this new role.

No because seriously everything he does, he would stop to watch for your reaction, most of the time you are never impressed.

Like how he killed those homelander fans to frame the starlighters. He'd hold the bat, his mask all bloody as he turned to see you, arms crossed, no reaction to his performance.

UNTIL at the end of season 4 where he began killing people within the company, that was what got you to start growing interest in his character.

Even though you're fine with him, for now, you really don't like it when he pushes things.

As in trying too hard to replace the old Black Noir. You just don't fw it 😡

"Hey! Hey! Harley wait up!" He'd call out for you while you ignored him and decided to speed walk away. Anyways, he manages to catch up with you.

"The team wants us to attend the premiere of your next movie together.. since.... y'know... we're rumoured to be dating??" He said and you had to stop walking to put your entire energy into giving him the most NASTIEST look. The second he sees you take a deep breath, he knew it was over.

"I ain't yer GODDAMN babysitter, and don't you think that for a second that wearin' the suit makes you my damn boyfriend, alright? I ain't here to hold yer hand and coddle you. I got better things to do than listen to yer constant whining and need for attention. So knock it off, ya copy-cat!" You'd point at him before walking off, hand on your hip.

You can bet that he asks Deep for advices on how to win your heart.

BRO IS TOO INVESTED IN HIS CHARACTER 😭

That's why he thinks making you fall for him is one of Noir's characteristics.

You love mysterious and threatening looking people? Okay gotcha.

You want hyenas for pets? Cha-Ching! Got it!

But seriously someone please tell him to stop before he gets his ass beat. He does not want that Brooklyn smoke.

BILLY BUTCHER

Ah great another crazy chick.

The only possibility to why you'd be apart of the boys is if someone vouched for you.

50/50 it's either Hughie or Frenchie.

Though surprisingly enough, you were the first to notice the symptoms of his virus. Like he could be fidgeting at the office and you'd point it out so casually that everybody turns to look at you in confusion.

Everybody thought you were crazy at first, it's to be expected, but the second his virus was confirmed to be lethal. Everybody has started to take you a bit more seriously.

Read carefully. A bit.

He finds your weapons fascinating though. Like how your gun has words engraved in it, your initials being the biggest. Not to mention the designs being the inspiration of poker cards.

"That must make you the clown" He once said when you whipped it out to shoot someone. You smile mischievously at his remark.

"Oh you'd better watch your tongue before I make you the punchline of my next joke!"

He likes you.

ONLY if you don't fuck anything up.

Sure you guys do argue a lot but theres also strange moments of understanding between you two.

There was this one time he found you alone in the office, your legs placed on the table and you were literally downing a bottle of alcohol. It was when he came closer that he noticed the bruises on your body.

"What the hell happened to you?" He said and you sniffed as you quickly wipe away the tears in your eyes.

"Oh, I'm just peachy, tough guy... Can't you see I'm having a little cry-fest over here after a lover's spat with my oh-so-darling ex-boyfriend. Yeah, he just looooves to use me as his personal punchin' bag, y'know? But don't worry 'bout me. I'll be back to my ol' crazy self in no time. Just need a minute to let the tears dry and the bruises heal"

For the rest of the night he'd stay to talk about how shitty both your lives are. You guys actually BOND over your past traumas.

The booze just making the conversation ever more fun.

Will go out of his way to take you to places for shopping or eating at a restaurant to make you feel better.

After understanding you better, he realised you're just a once normal person who became a psychotic sociopath after whatever the supes did to wrong you.

He may not show it to you but he really cares about you and would not hesitate to protect you despite how much he says he wish you'd just fuck off.

SOLDIER BOY

You have to be some kind of masochist right??

He says the most disrespectful shit to you and you just squeal in excitement from it.

It's starting to weird him out.

Everything he does or say, you love to mock him, like he could be giving orders and you'd be at the back using your hands to mimic his talking like a puppet as you mouthed along and made faces.

But he has to say, he finds your insanity amusing. Because deep down, he sees a tiny bit of himself in you.

He calls you Looney Tunes. Why exactly? Nobody knows its for his own entertainment.

He's into older women but that doesn't stop you from flirting with him. He finds your efforts interesting.

"You're a tough nut to crack, Soldier Boy, but I'll get you to crack a smile eventually" You'd say and it'll be enough to have him grinning at you.

"You gonna tickle me?" He'd say, returning the same energy.

But that doesn't mean he's interested in you, he's just toying with you.

AND YOU KNOW IT. But apparently red flags just look like a go flag to you 🤷‍♀️

Despite that, if any other guy did the things he did to you, he would be fast to knock out the fucker. That's because he knows you value loyalty and he does too.

Everything aside, he really appreciates it when at the end where everybody turned against him you stayed by his side. Just imagine him driving the car while you're in the passenger seat singing your heart out to Cherry Bomb by The Runaways.

He'd simply shake his head with a smile on his face.

But the more relationship develops, he'd actually start to show you his softer side. Not soft side. Soft-er side.

Will literally lecture you into standing up more for yourself and stop being a doormat for every man in your life.

How ironic huh?

"You might act all tough and macho, but I see that big, marshmallow heart under there, sweetheart" You'd boop him on the nose that has him rolling his eyes with a smirk.

"You already said that. Are you a broken record or just dim?" He said.

If you stay obedient and don't push the wrong buttons, he might just keep you around.