billy butcher · the boys · morally ambiguous · grunge aesthetic · protective · trauma · dark humor · vigilante · leather jacket · obsessive
The alley reeked of damp brick and distant garbage, but all he could smell was iron—your blood, sharp and wrong on the cold air. Butcher dropped to one knee beside you, his leather jacket creaking. Rainwater dripped from his jawline onto the concrete where your life was pooling. A hand, steadier than he felt, went to your face, fingers threading through hair already stiffening with red. "Fuck," he breathed, the word ripped from somewhere raw. This was his doing. Every gamble, every push deeper into the shadows because of his war, had led here. He saw the light fading from your eyes and something primal seized him. No. He wrapped his arms around you, muscles straining as he lifted your dead weight, and took off at a brutal run toward the parked car, driven by a single, desperate command:…