billy butcher masterlist

HOLY MOLY YES. a compilation of physical affection from butcher coming right up. domestic to hurt comfort pipeline uknow – sorry this took forever!!

The teaspoon clinks against the ceramic mug on the countertop, wayward drops of tea pooling around where metal meets granite as you put it down. Footsteps peel around the doorway and Butcher’s hand is pulled to one of two mugs as a moth to a flame.

Your own mug warms your chilled fingers, and you catch Butcher’s eye as he takes a sip from the unsweetened beverage, fingertips clamped around the rim. He winks, and with the knuckle of his index finger nudges underneath your chin. It’s quick, it slips past, but it says “thank you,” — or, more likely, “thanks, love.”

—

Your shoulders are hiked up to your ears, face inching closer to the screen of your laptop with every moment. You can’t make sense of the encrypted files sweeping across the screen and time is running out. Butcher is watching his own screen across the table, head resting on his hand, fingers splayed over his mouth.

You place a foot in between his, squeezing his leg in-between yours. He’s too far away to comfortably hold his hand, but he allows your legs to slot perfectly with each other; the comfort of his presence however, is not enough to keep at bay your panic.

His eyes flit to you when you exhale a bit too sharply. Chair legs screech across the ground and his hands warm your shoulders. Thumbs rub against your cool skin, pressing deeper as Butcher works towards the base of your neck. Bubbles of stress pop deep within your muscles, and whatever brief pain is evoked swiftly dissipates.

“You’ll get it. Don’t you worry,” he says quietly.

_

The office – or more accurately, the Boys’ hideout – is bustling. MM and Annie are leaning over his laptop, Hughie is peeling newspapers apart with a highlighter in hand, and Butcher is making coffees. You’re stood in front of the whiteboard, making a plan for your next Vought operation. You’re replaying every version of the plan you write, erasing and rewriting until the creases of your fingertips are filled with marker residue. You startle at fingers grazing your lower back. The corner of Butcher’s mouth lifts, and you watch him place a mug on your desk.

“Whiteboard eraser lives over there, y'know.” He gestures to the stand, where it does indeed rest next to the other pens. You roll your eyes playfully.
“I prefer it this way. Helps me think better,” You say. His hand returns to your lower back, fingertips slipping just under the hem of your shirt.
“If you say so.”

-

The surface of your skin glasses with ice as you begin to believe that heat is a myth. Your blood is speckled with shards of the stuff, and Butcher sits on the other side of the sofa. He doesn’t cuddle, you know that — he zips around who knows where all day and knows the sorts of sticky teasing that would seep into the minds of the Boys.

He uses the left armrest of the sofa to keep his head propped up, staring blankly at Vought News as they report another “incident” induced by one of their heroes.

A shiver runs up your spine, teeth knocking against each other as cold sets into your bones.
“What does warmth feel like?” You joke, curling into yourself.
“You’re cold?” His eyes scan your shivering body.
“Aren’t you?”

Butcher shrugs. You scoff in disbelief, a vapour of your breath floating through the air immediately in front of you.
“Unbelievable.”

You turn back to the TV, only for your peripherals to alert you to movement from Butcher; he’s lifted his arm up and opened his coat to you. Your jaw drops, “are you sure?”
“Well, ‘urry up, before I change my mind,” he doesn’t say it meanly. But you close the space between you in a blink and gently settle into his side. The excess of his coat wraps around you, and so does his body heat. His hand squeezes your shoulder and you feel a feather-light kiss to your head.

this one just– this is genius, i think very fun i miss jensen ackles so much, we actually go way back and by that i mean dean winchester fanfic pahaha anyway enough vidia lore || tw misogynistic comments

Soldier boy watches your movements as he eats. You’re making drinks for everyone, a spring in your step as usual, your perfume makes the air smell pink and the hem of your skirt dances with the wind you’re creating while grabbing teabags and instant coffee.

He hums. Something drops something in the kitchen and you know it’s Butcher when, “Fucking hell,” swiftly follows. Soldier boy’s concentration remains steadfast.

“You know, sweetheart,” you’re still not used to the lilt in his voice, dipped in arrogance, but dripping with honey. “You could get any man you want.”

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thank you!!! much love <3 I haven’t had a stomach bug for a while but hopefully this is at least still reminiscent of what it’s like!! cw mentions of throwing up

The Boys point Butcher in your direction when he comes home, throwing his coat over the back of the couch.

In your bedroom, you’re twisted in the sheets as if impersonating some ancient Greek deity, unable to find a comfortable enough position to rest in. Butcher raises an eyebrow, never having seen you like this before.

“What’s the matter with you?” He asks. You smush your face into the pillow next to you, taking a deep breath to relieve the pain whirling around in your stomach.

“Hurts,” You say.
“What hurts?”
“Stomach. I think I’m dying,” you say, putting two fingers to the pulse point on your neck.

“You’re not fucking dying, don’t be daft,” he says, approaching with heavy footsteps. The back of his icy hand touches your forehead and he winces.

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aaaah yes i will give this a shot!! :) ps i wasnt sure if r would actually break up w him after a fight so instead of take him back its more like a forgive and move on situation !! hope thats ok:)

He appears in the doorframe, holding onto the knob as if expecting you to tell him to piss off. But you don’t. Of course you don’t, because that’s what he does.

Something inside of him twisted when you had spun on your heel to seek refuge in your bedroom. Your shiny eyes dissolved all his organs into a guilt-flavoured goop, and now it sloshes inside of him with every step, bubbling up and sitting not quite right in his stomach.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fingers twisting tighter around the knob. His cheek indents where he begins to chew it, and your sniffle breaks the silence. Your eyes sting and you sit with your knees to your chest for comfort, wishing that the awful hot shame and hurt inside you would dissipate at last. He inhales slowly, his eyes flit over to you.

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insomnia club unite !

Your phone’s bright light stings your eyes, and your shoulder becomes uncomfortable after having been leaned on for the best part of forty minutes.

You click the lock button and put the phone on your bedside table, turning over to try and get to sleep before Butcher gets home. When is he supposed to get home? You pick it up again, twisting your body in the sheets as you lean over. Chills prickle up your arms at the movement and then at the time: he’s late.

But he’s capable, you think, putting the phone down. If you sleep now, soon you’ll wake to see his adoring eyes and hear his voice dripping in toffee as he says good morning.

It’s too hot. Images of potential realities where Butcher doesn’t come home flash behind your eyelids. You frown, a hot frustration bubbling inside you.

You’re wide awake.

Pressing your face into your pillow doesn’t help like you thought it would – it simultaneously caresses your face and resists your attempt to flatten it. Not comfortable.

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