#dark!billy butcher

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Diabolical 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, extreme profanity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Billy Butcher

Summary: your neighbours has some strange friends.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Ah, cunt!” 

The man’s voice rolls under your door. His accent adds a certain slant to his words that makes them sound even harsher. You hover your mug in front of your lips, steam curling from the freshly brewed tea, as your eyes drift over in detest. 

You lower it and carry it with you to the door. You lean in to see through the peep hole. The same dark hair, the same long black jacket with the patch on one shoulder, and the same lumbering form. He thumps again on the door across the hall. 

“Hughie, open up, ya skinny cunt.” 

He uses that word again. Your lip curls and you huff. He keeps on. 

You slide back the chain and your adrenaline pumps into your chest. You flip the lock back slowly and pull the door in an inch. You peer through the space as the man checks his watch and grumbles. 

“Where are ya, Hughie?” He grumbles and shakes his head. “Big fucking stick bug, won’t answer ya phone, won’t come to the door...” 

“It’s not very nice language, is it?” You chide. You’re just as surprised as the man as he stands straight and freezes. He turns to you stiffly as you let the door open a little more. 

“Eh? And who are you, then?” He tilts his head this way and that as he growls. 

“I live here. Who are you?” You say defiantly. You sip your tea to keep your nerves under wrap. 

“Wouldn’t you like know, sweetheart?” He snickers. “Oi, you ain’t happened see the skinny one lives over here?” He jabs his thumb behind him. 

You stare at him. You shake your head again. His eyes narrow and flick up and down. 

“Too good for the likes of us, eh? You and your fancy porcelain? What’s that? Royal Daulton Cuntware?” 

You gasp and bat your lashes. “Excuse me, I haven’t been rude. I’ve only asked you to keep it down. Other people live here besides your friend and they don’t appreciate hearing your profanity every morning.” 

“Eh,” he gives a crooked smirk, “you listenin’ for me, sweetheart?” 

“I don’t know you, sir, and I shouldn’t like to.” 

“Ain’t ya so proper? Sirs and shouldn’ts and tea.” He taunts. 

You take a breath and back up, “I would only appreciate a little consideration, but thanks. Have a lovely day.” 

“Oi, go on and hide then, darling.” He tugs on his lapels and squares his shoulders. He chuckles again. 

You stop the door before you can shut it all the way. You bristle at his laughter. “I don’t think you’re funny.” 

He chortles again. He steps closer and you go rigid. You can’t measure up to a man like him. You still the tremour in your hand before your tea can slosh towards the brim. 

“Well, I think you’re right hilarious. Why don’t you go on? Tell me, eh, are you more offended by the shit on my boots or the onion on my breath?” 

You steel yourself as you grip the door tightly. “Don’t come any closer.” 

“Ah, I don’t got that sorta time. Whatcha think a brute like me would do then?” He stops and plants his feet wide. 

“You needn’t be so impolite--” 

“Needn’t--” he mimics. Before you can stop yourself, the tea splashes across his face and chest.  

You recoil as the porcelain drips in your hand and you gape at his stunned grimace. His blue eyes flash and you kick the door shut as you retreat. You put the chain in place and twist the lock. You press your back to the door and listen, heart pounding, and wait. 

His treads scuff on the floor and he sighs. The floor groans as he moves and you watch his shadow beneath your door. Yet, no banging comes at the door. 

“Ah, bollocks, that’ll stain.” His grumble follows him down the hall. 

You have no idea what you were thinking. A man like that is dangerous. You don’t need his name or anything else. You can tell just by looking at him.  

You’re not the sort to associate with the type. You didn’t think your neighbour was either. Then again, you only know Hughie because he dropped a sock in front of your door. He didn’t stay to chat as he snatched it and chased that pretty blonde inside. 

You turn and stand on your toes to see through the peephole. He’s gone but you don’t dare go out and make sure. You’ll do best not to show your face again. Just drink your tea and hide, like you always do. 

[happyprincesscycle]

Billy Butcher x Supe!Reader

Summary: Billy has captured you to interrogate you about Homelander

(Your Supe powers are like Sage basically you don't have super strength)

Warnings: Tw! NON CON, Dead Dove, please don't read this if you get triggered or are not a fan of dark fics. Its my first fic so sorry if it sucks 🙈🫠

_______________________________________

“Last chance, luv ,” Butcher says, his voice dripping with menace, accent thick and unmistakable. He presses the knife harder against your skin, just enough to draw a bead of blood. “Tell me what I wanna know, and I’ll make it quick.”

He pauses, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “So, what’s it gonna be, eh? Talk, or bleed?”

You shake your head firmly, refusing to give him any information. Butcher sighs, sounding almost disappointed, like you’re just making things harder for yourself.

“Suit yourself.”

He presses down with the knife, carving a shallow cut across your chest. The pain sears through you, and you gasp, arching your back involuntarily. Butcher watches with a twisted satisfaction, his eyes gleaming as he drinks in your suffering.

“That’s just a taste,” he murmurs, wiping the blade clean on your shirt. “Next time, I won’t be so fuckin’ gentle.”

He leans in, his breath hot against your skin, before his tongue flicks out, licking the blood from your chest. He trails up to your neck, the sensation making you shudder in revulsion. You try to buck him off, but he’s solid, unyielding.

“Ah, woud' you taste that?” he mutters, nipping at your earlobe. “Fear and adrenaline—me two favorite flavors.”

He pulls back slightly, the knife glinting ominously in his hand. “Ready for round two, then?”

You avert your eyes, refusing to let him see the fear in them. Butcher chuckles, a dark, humorless sound that sends chills down your spine.

“Wot’s the matter, luv ?” He taunts, leaning closer, his voice a low growl. “Cat got yer tongue?”

He moves in even closer, his breath fanning over your face. “Y’know, I’ve always wondered what it’s like to fuck a Supe. Guess tonight’s me lucky night.”

His hips press against yours, and you can feel the hardness of his arousal. He laughs darkly as you squirm beneath him, trying to get away, but it’s no use—he’s too strong.

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” he sneers, reaching down and tearing at your pants with rough, impatient hands. “I’ll make sure you enjoy it... Eventually.”

You cry out, struggling against him, but he’s unyielding. He forces your legs apart, his grip bruising as he holds you down.

“Fuckin’ Supes,” he mutters against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “Think you’re invincible, don’t ya? But you’re just flesh and bone, same as the rest of us.”

You try to kick him, to fight back with all your strength, but he’s too fast, too determined. He grabs your thigh, pinning it down as he grinds against you, the evidence of his arousal pressing into you.

He leans in, his teeth sinking into your neck with a feral growl that makes you cry out. The pain is sharp and sudden, and you try to push him away, but he doesn’t budge.

“Please...” you cry out, your voice trembling. Butcher pauses, just for a moment, and looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.

“Please?” he echoes, his tone mocking, contemptuous. “You’re a fuckin’ Supe, love. Don’t deserve fuckin’ kindness.”

He grinds against you harder, his dark smile never leaving his face. “You’re nothin’ but a hole to fill, a toy to break. Understand? Say it.”

When you don’t respond, his hand comes down hard against your face, the slap sending a jolt of pain through you. Your vision blurs, and you taste blood on your tongue.

“Oi, I said, say it,” he snarls, gripping your chin tightly, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me you understand, you little cunt.”

Tears spill from your eyes as you nod, your voice barely a whisper. “Y-yes... I understand.”

Butcher’s smirk widens, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good girl.”

He pushes your legs wider, his fingers digging into your thighs as he positions himself between them. “Now, let’s stop wasting anymore time, eh?”

He unbuckles his belt with a rough yank, the sound ominous in the silent room. His eyes never leave yours as he positions himself, the dark promise in them making your heart pound in terror.

“Yer gonna take every fuckin’ inch of me, luv'. And yer gonna fuckin’ like it.”

You try to squirm away, desperation clawing at you, but he grabs your hips, holding you in place with brutal force.

“Stay still, you little cunt,” he growls, his voice low and threatening. He slaps your thigh hard, leaving a red, burning handprint. “This is gonna hurt. A lot.”

And with that, he thrusts into you, hard and brutal, tearing a scream from your throat. The pain is overwhelming, but Butcher just laughs, the sound dark and filled with satisfaction.

“Music to me fuckin’ ears,” he murmurs, his hips slamming into yours with bruising force.

“Please,” you whimper, tears streaming down your face. “Please, stop.”

Butcher just laughs again, cold and merciless. “Stop?” he echoes, as if the very idea is absurd. “Why the fuck would I do that, luv'? We’re just gettin’ started.”

[the-soulofdevil]

Hughie Campbell

Billy Butcher

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

Butcher Billy

[moopiter]

this popped into my head like a flash bang at wallmart earlier

now someone draw butcher lighting them on fire

[vergeltvng]

THE BOYS 4x01

[karlurbanism]

Karl Urban in And Soon The Darkness

[hrwinter]

i really did think the reason agatha killed witches was to buy more time for Nicky by bartering with death. since we don’t see her do that until she has the baby. but after, she kills like idk “her share” for no reason at all it looks like? i have QUESTIONS and i don’t want anyone but JAC SCHAEFFER to answer them

[reileionard21]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Diabolical 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, extreme profanity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Billy Butcher

Summary: your neighbours has some strange friends.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The reverberation of copper ripples through the air. You nearly slip under the water as you jolt. You grip the edges of the tub and sit up. Another crash thunders and you scowl. Your peace is shattered. 

Candles, music, a book, and a steaming bath. It's a perfect night. Or it was. 

You wait and listen. Silence. You let yourself back and reach for the novel on your bath table. Another egregious cacophony has you splashing yourself with water.   

You growl and slide the table out of the way as you stand. You grab your towel as water slakes off of you. You pay no mind to the mess that puddles below each step as the thrashing continues.  

You storm across the apartment, sliding dangerously on the hardwood, and you put your eye to the peephole. The man grins, as if he can see you and shakes the box in his hands. The metal echoes again. 

How dare he? It's almost nine in the evening! You tear open the door, your hand clasped around the knot of your towel, and you snarl. 

"Must you make so much noise?" 

He cackles at you as he hugs the box of cymbals and bells. "Eh, I'm just doin' good ole Hughie a favour. He's been talkin' 'bout getting into drumming so's I say Hughie, I know a guy. Can get you everything you need." 

"I don't...care." You bluster. "Should you even have those in a box? There are bags meant for that." 

"Who cares? You just bang on the things anyhow. Well, then," he turns to the door behind him. "Seems like my pal isn't in." He drops the box and the raucous clamour makes you groan. "I'll just leave 'em here for him. Buddy that I am." He spins back to face you. "And you can get back to listening to Bach and drinking your oolong." He makes a motion which could be tipping a cup or something more heinous. "Your majesty." 

You furrow your brow and roll your eyes. "All I asked for was a bit of decency. It wasn't any sort of insult but I see to you, any thought of being kind is offensive." 

"Talkin' to me about being decent and you're stood out here in a dish towel," he scoffs. 

"I--" you look down, remembering yourself. You move to hide behind the door. "Well, you disturbed me--" 

"You are disturbed, ain't ya, sweetheart?" 

You sneer. "Fine, whatever. I'll make sure Hugh gets his drums." 

"Hugh?" He chuckles. "You are something." 

"Good night, sir." You back up and close the door. Your certain to lock it too.  

His laughter keens through and friction brushes up the other side. "It's Butcher, not sir, love." He taps and you flinch, "have yourself a good night, won't ya? Don't think of me too much." 

You huff and have a mind to open the door again. Not, that’s only what he wants. You retreat and trod back to the bathroom. The water’s tepid and the scent of the candles grows overwhelming. You shut off the music and pull the stopper. So much for relaxing. 

The tension needles across your shoulder. You blow out the wicks and snatch your book from the table. You go to your room and flip on the bedside lamp. You put the novel on your pillow and pull on a night gown.  

You recline and crack open the book. A long honk blares from outside. That’s not unusual but what is, is the successive short toots that follow, almost in a rhythm. You try to ignore it. The honks vary, long, short, soft, loud. You realise the offender is doing a rather poor job of honking out Beethoven.  

You know exactly the culprit and you won’t let him know you’re bothered. Let him waste his own energy not yours. Besides, if he had any sort of nuance, he’d realise you don’t sit around and listen to classical. You appreciate vintage music but you’re not pretentious. You simply have your tastes. Nothing wrong with that. 

You lay back and your eyes gloss over the words without reading. You may not want to give him the satisfaction but it doesn't mean it’s not working. Several rereads of the same paragraph have you fed up. You sink down and drop the book. 

You stare at the ceiling and sigh. You can’t even put on a movie or music. You won’t be able to hear it. 

As if on cue, silence. You exhale. Thank god. 

An engine rumbles and you hear it steer down the alley outside. You hear the tires crawling just below your window. Another wall of sound rises and has you nearly jumping out of your skin. Heavy metal pumps through the wall and has you gritting your teeth. 

It’s him. That imbecile. 

[rogue205]

Season 3 Finale Rant…

(Kinda sounds like my other post… 🤷‍♀️ Oh well)

I feel that Soldier Boy is an anti-hero and not a villain. He’s labeled as such because his morals do not align with those of “the good guys”.

Honestly, the show runners kept insisting that SB was bad and had to be stopped by any means necessary but they never showed us why he was apparently so bad. And no, I don’t believe that he “faked his PTSD induced blackouts so he could kill tons of people on purpose”. He’s damaged but he sure as hell ain’t gonna acknowledge or admit it.

Putting it lightly, he’s an ass in every sense but he was also the only one who didn’t go back on his word and betray those whom he had allied with while they shanked him. How does this make him bad? Even after Hughie tried to go back on the deal by teleporting away with Mindstorm, SB still kept to it. Frankly, Hughie is very lucky all he got was a punch in the face/chest. He deserved it too.

And from what we see, SB is not the one constantly on the edge of a massive breakdown and constantly threatening to destroy humanity because he can. That’s Homelander. SB got what he wanted, justified revenge on his former teammates for selling him to Russia. He only stuck around because he had made a deal with Butcher to destroy HL. And he was gonna do it too only for everyone to flip against him at the worst possible time.

The Boys better watch out. They literally delivered their only chance of defeating HL to him on a silver platter. Unfortunately we’re likely gonna have to wait until season 5 to find out what his plans for SB are. I’m betting “Winter Soldier” because SB is going to have massive trust issues, especially getting betrayed again, and he already showed that ‘family’ is not a motivation for him especially since there was no paternal type emotional connections made whatsoever between him and HL or him and Ryan. Despite the fact that he’s since admitted he wanted kids but Vought f-ed that up good.

It’s just too bad that I have very little faith in Eric Kripke to actually stick the landing on his ideas. At least Supernatural made it past season 5 before this problem occurred, The Boys didn’t even make it to season 3. The finale conflict was forced AF and I still don’t believe The Boys would spontaneously team up with HL over a damn kid. Not sorry Ryan, but you should be dead.

My opinion.

[milesdrift]

Funeral Flowers (RedVelvetDemise), the homelander fic on ao3 is my love. ITS SO GOOD.

Single mother reader (never married), love square sorta (three guys on her), and shes a Vought SUPE!

The three guys are: (in no particular order since the final releationship hasn’t been confirmed.)

1. Homelander

2. Billy Butcher

3. Unknown

[theredofoctober]

SPITE— The Boys fic, Billy Butcher x reader, crossposted from AO3, reader uses she/her pronouns

TW: Violence, noncon

The super villain known as SPITE (reader) has been stalking Billy Butcher. He captures her, and chaos ensues...

Read after the cut

---

"You little cunt."

The words lose their meaning quickly in the lurching dark through frequent repetition.

Their first utterance is a hiss against your ear as you're dredged from the street to some rank basement, roiling in your captor's grip like a sturgeon all the way down.

The second usage of the phrase errupts in a catankerous grunt as their speaker attempts to bind you to a chair, a gyre of your tulle and satin costume half-smothering him as you thrash, and kick, and bite.

"You little cunt," snarls Billy Butcher, for the third time, as you clip his jaw with your forehead.

Then, with a vicious grin, he spits a gout of his own blood into your face.

"Like that, do you, you fucking supe slag? Don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from."

His shackles your throat with his fist, smirking as you flinch from the red razors of his teeth. He wears a mask of revulsion, the whites of his eyes within it shocking, horrible.

You can't seem to look away.

"Not so brave, now, are you, flower?" asks Butcher. "See, I've been following you, and just picture my fucking surprise to find out that you've been trying to do the same to me. And just me, that is; you've kept well out the way of my Boys. You've been very clever about it, I'll give you that. I doubt they even have a clue who you are."

He releases your throat and wipes his hand on the garish fabric of his shirt with a laborious theatricality.

"So," he continues, "either you were trying to kill me off—which you are absolutely shit at, by the way—or there's something else you're after. Wonder what that could be?"

Butcher kicks a chair leg, and you rock upon it like a bowling pin.

"Look at ya," he sneers. "Running around here, dressed like some clown's tart— sorry to tell you, love, but the circus ain't in fucking town."

Swallowing dryly, you attempt to scrape the chair backwards, inch by inch, across the floor, putting space between yourself and the man with the coarse velvet of murder in his voice.

Butcher watches your retreat, shaking his head.

"Where are you gonna go, sweetheart? You can't use your fucking fairy magic powers when you're all tied up like that, so don't get any ideas. You're cosied up with me for a bit. So let's have a chat, shall we?"

With your voice obstructed by a makeshift gag you merely widen your eyes in response.

"Well, love, I'm glad you asked," says Butcher, with an acid sarcasm. "There's only two ways you're leaving here tonight: either as strawberry slushie at the bottom of a fucking rubbish bag, or all in one piece, except for your dignity, that is. Better make up your mind. I don't have all night."

He pauses, pretends to consider.

"Well, I do, but I wanna spend it cracking open a couple of beers with the lads, not down here chin-wagging with a bleedin' Supe."

Butcher's gaze is thick with the dregs of an old and bitter madness: you feel more than undressed by it, skinned, rather, your muscles flayed from the bone.

"Look at you," says Butcher, coldly. "Sitting there in all that pink bollocks looking like something Piglet shat out after a mad one in The Hundred Acre Wood. What's it all about, eh?"

He kicks suddenly at your calf, his boot rending layers of candyfloss fishnet thread with a blow that will surely bruise.

"Nobody's making you wear this shit; Vought won't touch you with a bargepole after all the stunts you’ve been pulling on the sly. Your own kind don't want anything to do with you. You're a loner. So what were you doing prancing about in this silly fucking get-up? Waiting for me to notice?"

Butcher shunts your chair back against the wall, tipping it at an angle that, at his high vantage, likely allows a view that is particularly obscene.

"Don't be shy," he leers. "Every time you threw a kick at me I could see right up at your knickers. And they're fragile little things, ain't they?"

You strain against your bonds, bucking with such an indignant gusto that the ropes start to fray against your muscles.

"Oh no you fucking don't," says Butcher, and slaps you so hard across the cheek that you're still again in an instant, your ears sirening from the blow.

"You don't wanna piss me off, darling," says your captor, grimly. "See, I could really fucking hurt you, but I don't wanna manhandle you more than I have to, savvy? Then again, I think you're gagging to be roughed up. Didn't put up much of a fight, did you, and now I've got you right where I want you—"

You mumble your objections into the wad of lace against your teeth, but Butcher ignores you, caught up in the rhythm of his spiel.

"—Seems like you're desperate for me to give you a good seeing to. Well, don't worry, love. Daddy's here."

He's being ironic, you think, but as a strange combination of want and loathing twists his countenance you begin to change your mind. 

"I can't stand your sort," Butcher mutters. "Filthy mutants, the lot of you. But seeing you in this mess I might have it in me for a pity fuck."

He shoves a thumb into your mouth and pulls free the gag, wincing as his fingers come away wet with drool.

"Well," he says. "Speak up, love. Do you wanna shag, or die?"

"Neither," you rasp. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Butcher's smile is blood and ice.

"See, I thought you'd say that. So I took the liberty of popping all the security footage I've got of you onto a nice little pen drive so I could play it back to you, remind you how many times you’ve tiptoed around me about in your glorified stripper wear without finishing the bloody job. Let's have a gander, shall we?"

He fumbles for a remote, and a vast television screen illuminates in the centre of the room, revealing picture after picture of you tracking Butcher across the city by night. You recall taunting him with your proximity, enjoying the game; it's how you always hunt your targets, hounding them until they go mad with paranoia, an end hastened by hallucinations cast like spellwork from your fingertips, each more awful than the last.

Butcher, however...

He had been difficult. He'd barely seemed to respond to your assaults, no matter your pressure upon his mind. 

"In case you're wondering, I saw your poxy visions," he announces perceptively, rapping the television screen with his fist. "But you underestimate the level of fucked up I've witnessed in my life. I've seen scarier shit in my morning routine."

The screen flickers, and you're faced with a shot of yourself standing in Butcher's shadow, so close to him that your breath is almost on the back of his neck. How smug you'd been in the thought that he hadn't known you were there, that you were so extraordinarily clever, and daring.

Humiliating to think that Butcher had followed you with equal stealth, despite his limitations.

"Tell me why you picked me to wind up," he demands, "and not Frenchie, or M.M., or any of my mates. Why am I so special? You've heard my theories. Now it's your turn."

You don't immediately answer, keeping a mutinous silence.

Butcher approaches you with a slow, heavy tread, a killer's prowl, and leans into you, smelling of beer and cologne, and his own congealing blood. You wonder what he makes of your own scent: sweat and sugar, the remnants of perfume, petty irritants for his rudimentary human senses.

Smirking, you say, "You despise us all so much, Billy. I wanted to see what your face would look like when you realised that a Supe had killed you."

"Nah," says Butcher, shaking his head. "I'm not convinced. I reckon you wanted to know how hard a 'normal' like me could hate-fuck you when you got caught in the act."

He shunts a knee between your thighs—each lashed to either side of the chair, conveniently apart—and grinds an apex of bone against you, forcing a reluctant shiver through your core.

You're afraid to move, lest you provoke him; you can't be silent lest Butcher thinks he's won.

At last you settle to hiss between your teeth, "Why don't you just do it? Like you said, I can't use my powers with my hands tied like this. So what's stopping you? Why don't you just do what you want, Mr King Shit of Fuck Mountain?"

"That's not my style," says Butcher, with a sneer. "I want you to ask for it. Beg like the pathetic cunt you are. I'm giving you a choice."

"I'm tied to a chair, genius. I don't have many choices."

"You were trying to murder me, sweetheart. You're lucky you're getting any options."

"You could just let me go."

"And put up with you tormenting me for another bloody month? Not likely."

You burst into sudden laughter and Butcher freezes, his face clouded by sheer loathing. 

"Shut up," he snarls. "Shut up right fucking now."

Butcher makes a fist, and you wonder what he means to do: violet an eye, shatter a tooth, break bone like a glass in some grimy pub. As your laugh continues he aims a punch and misses as you weave your head aside, splitting his knuckles on the back of the chair.

"Shit!"

"You're a hypocrite," you say, as he wipes off the blood. "I know all about you. Your hard-on for killing Supes. You act like you think you're better than us, but really? I think you're a jealous little fanboy."

"Who's the fucking fan here?" snarls Butcher. "Admit it. That little stalking act— you've been flirting with me."

You wrinkle your nose.

"You wish."

"Don't have to wish. I reckon if I was to feel that snatch of yours right now you'd be wet through."

The laughter dies in your throat, and you edge about in your seat, attempting to shimmy your skirt further down over your hips.

"Wouldn't mean anything," you mutter, at last, and Butcher gives you a cunning look.

"Only that getting smacked about by a man who wants to kill you is your cup of tea. And I'm starting to think it is."

He shrugs off his vast coat, throwing it aside. Veins stand out on the backs of his hands and arms, and you realise, suddenly, that he is serious in what he means to do, entirely so. You could die tonight, and the worst of it is that no one would care.

"Make your mind up, Spite," says Butcher. "You know what's on the table. You pick, or I will. I don't think you'd like that. My crowbar wants to make friends with every one of your stupid fucking Supe bones."

The peril of your situation is unavoidable. You move your lips, the sounds escaping at such mite softness that Butcher cranes his ear towards your mouth.

"What did you say? Speak up, darlin'."

With a sudden lunge you snap at Butcher's earlobe and latch on with grinning teeth. Blood crests your tongue in a grisly baptism, and as the man wrenches from your grip you see how badly he wants to hurt you.

"Oh, you sneaky little fucker!" he barks. "That's it; I've had enough of that mouth."

In a punishing scuffle Butcher stuffs another wad of torn fabric between your jaws, thrusting it so far down your throat that you almost choke. Then he drags your hips forward on the chair and scrambles for his zipper, his face murky with rage. 

"You wanna play, Supe? Then let's have some fucking fun."

His fingers pierce your core, twisting deep, and you writhe like a halved worm around them.

Butcher drives his face so close to yours that your foreheads knock together, his eyes the very black of death.

"So I was right. You're making a proper mess, poor little thing."

You attempt to remain defiant, scornful, but you can barely maintain the artifice when Butcher's hand is so deep within you, each rough twitch of his fingers inducing a further slickness. Desperate, you wrench your arms against the ropes that hold them fast, hoping to wear through your bonds.

"Pack it in," snaps Butcher. "Or I will really bloody hurt you."

You believe it, but don't cease your struggling; you never relinquish a fight, whatever the cost.

Cursing, Butcher wraps a fist around your throat, squeezing until you gargle in pain.

"Now you be a good little trollop," he says, "and take my fucking cock, alright?"

He's so hard as he enters you that you see, in his expression, a dark, aching relief, as though soothing a terrible burn.

How long as he thought about this, tortured by your figure twisting and dancing around him through the rain-lashed streets in a miasma of summoned dreams? How close did he come to splaying you across a wall in some filthy alleyway, crushing you like a butterfly under his boot?

Now he has you jailed from your powers he makes you feel weak. How exhilarating that he is capable of this, a man born entirely without super abilities.

With each violent thrust the chair bangs against the wall, swinging a blade of pain up through your middle. Butcher's hands rip at your costume, tearing it between your breasts with an animal malice.

"You're tight," he says. "So fucking tight..."

He kisses your stuffed mouth with a clash of teeth, and the assault sparks the flint of lust in the secret part of you that has yearned to be dismantled by his stark hatred.

Even as you'd schemed to kill him you'd thought this man handsome, admired, coldly, his brutal methods, imagined standing over his corpse, admiring the loss of homocidal life as you might a sun beam in broken glass.

Now you are such fragments in his handling Butcher has no mercy for you. The man is out of control, taking, by instinct, in a berserker state, knowing nothing but the satisfaction of violence.

His cock jars you like a slaughterer's bolt, knifing your warmth with his ever greater heat. There is no talking, for a time, only the fever of his vengeful need. The room resounds with exerted grunts and the squeak of the chair beneath your struggling bodies; the angle of fucking is awkward, and you notice Butcher glancing at your bonds, evidently considering whether or not cutting you loose is worth the risk of you killing him.

At last he barks, "I'm gonna move you. Try anything stupid and you can kiss your kneecaps goodbye."

You nod limply, and Butcher pulls a blade from somewhere and hacks at the ropes with a careless malice, unflinching as he nicks the skin beneath. Keeping only a knot around your wrists he wrangles you over a couch and ruts you, face down, upon it, his fist in your hair, straining its roots.

"This what you thought it'd be like, you fucking brat?"

You try to brace a leg upon the floor, but your foot skids, and Butcher presses you harder against the couch cushions, smothering your ragged breaths.

"Supposed to be superior," he grunts. "Can't even put up a proper fight."

You twist under him, throwing him off onto the floor in a landslide of churning limbs, and as he staggers up after you again he's grinning widely.

"That's more like it."

As he comes for you again you vault yourself over the back of the sofa and roll into a dark corner, loosening the rope across your hands. When Butcher seizes you by the ankles and hauls you towards him you steeple two fingers at the man's forehead and flex.

What you put into his mind is the vilest image your thoughts can conjure, so corrupt that he drops you swiftly and flinches back, his face paling. 

"Fuck me."

For a moment you think that Butcher might vomit, and scrape yourself further across the ground, towards the door, waiting for the inevitable heaving to give you time to run. But he only turns his head and spits a clot of plegm into the dust, his countenance wrenched by a savage glee. 

"I knew you Supes weren't right in the head, but you're really somethin,'" he breathes. "Can see why all your quarry end up bashing their own brains in against the nearest wall. Not me, though, love. You've picked the wrong bastard."

A rare fear eats through you as you dump the last of the rope and scamper up the stairwell towards the street. As you barrel your shoulder into the door at the top it resists you, barely splintering despite your harshest efforts. 

"Supe proofed," says Butcher, smugly, as he comes up the stairs behind you. "At least against half-baked cunts like you that don't even have decent powers."

He slams you against the door, dizzying you in the blow. The next thing you're aware of is being dragged back down to the basement, and although you rail him with blows and waves of toxic thought Butcher manages to lumber back over the threshold again.

"I'm not finished with you," he says, and lets out a yelp as you sweep a foot under one leg, bringing him down onto the concrete floor with a resounding boom.

Spitting out the gag, you snap, "Go on, kill me, fuckface. I'm waiting. Make it good for me!"

"I'll make something bloody good, that's for sure," Butcher retorts, and he pins you on your back, arms trapped beneath you. "I never leave a job half-done."

He kisses you again, his tongue gilding your throat, and you feel his hardness between your legs again, undetered by the fight, likely strengthened by it. This is a man who feeds on brutality: why should his fucking be any different?

This time when his cock enters you his right hand follows, finding your clitoris with a nimble ease. You loathe the way he makes your body jump to his touch, the stupid, whimpering moans that pass your bleeding lips with the ruthless beat of his thrusting.

You detest how easy it is for him to mould your obstinance into something needy and mewling, as though he knew this potential was there from the beginning.

"How's that feel?" asks Butcher, thickly, a devilish blaze in his eyes. "Tell me. Is that good, you little cunt?"

"Yes!" you blurt out, and hate him for making you say it, for the fact that it is true. "God, don't—"

You attempt to bring your knees together, to dislodge his hand, but you can't shift Butcher's weight, only trigger him to fuck you deeper, rolling his fingers between your heaving bodies until you're slick as an eel with perspiration.

"Go on, make some noise," croons Butcher, "'cause you're gonna come so hard you'll forget how much you hate me."

Your mouth opens to protest, but to Butcher's grinning satisfaction you can do nothing but let out hoarse, quavering cries, all rational thought simmered to steam on the pinnacle of your ecstasy.

You've never known pleasure so sharp, so clean. You're still in the throes of it when Butcher bucks against you one last time, flattening you beneath him as he fills you with his groaning release.

He rolls off and lies beside you for a minute, seeming to gaze at the ceiling, with something between disgust and a quiet smugness. 

Then he says, into the lull, "You want a drink?"

You sit up slowly, disliking the precarious wobble in your arms as your brace yourself.

"Why," you say, slowly, "the fuck would I want to drink with you, Butcher?"

Getting to his feet he shrugs, and fumbles about on a table for a bottle of something murky and likely possessing the qualities of turpentine.

"'Cause you're still sat on your arse rather than trying to kill me again, so I reckon you need a bevvy. And I know you ain't got anywhere else to go."

Butcher pours you a shot of the dark liquid and eyes you with a cagey interest when you don't immediately take it.

"I'm the only one of your marks that isn't a Supe," he says. "I haven't figured out your M.O. yet. Be easier to pick your brains when you're pissed. Might loosen you up a bit."

"Not a good idea," you mutter. "Might realise we've got more in common that you think."

You outstretch a hand and pluck the glass from him, sniffing the contents suspiciously.

"Ain't poisoned, Spite," says Butcher. "Be fucking rude, after what we just did."

"It'd be bang on character, then," you reply, coolly, and drain the glass in a wincing swig. "Christ. How do you drink this shit?"

"I've got a strong stomach. Or kidneys. Take your pick. So, now you're watered, speak up. Why did you come after me?"

You wind your arms around your knees and look at Butcher sideways, thinking, with some annoyance, how much your answer will stroke his ego.

"A lot of Supes out there are afraid of you. I just wanted to know why."

[homelander-rp-blog]

Continue from here. @mksf-rp .

He gasps and immediately hates himself for it, trying to be gentle, Billy isn't a supe and can easily get hurt if John won't be cautious with him. He hides his face in older man's neck when he peels off his underwear. Rotates his hips a little like giving the Brit a lap dance. I'm going to kill him if he dares to talk about it to anyone!

"Just.. get done with it.." He demands but can't use his stern voice, too lustful and aroused to think of anything else other than getting Billy to touch him more!

"Do something already Goddammit or I'll break your hand!" Voice comes out needy. He won't but he really needs William to make a move before he'll be up and flying out of that window..

[karlurbanism]

Karl Urban in And Soon The Darkness

(Deleted Scene and BTS)

[mannyblacque]

Inglourious Batman

Art by Butcher Billy | Instagram