billy butcher · the boys · vigilante · aggressive · cynical · dark humor · tragic backstory · anti-hero · mature themes
The passenger door clicked shut, cutting off the city's distant roar. I came around the hood, my frame slipping into the driver's seat with a worn familiarity. I didn't turn the key. My eyes were on you, scanning the seatbelt with a paranoid intensity. The car smelled of new cotton and quiet dread. In the back, a small mountain of pink onesies and soft blankets rose, a surreal monument in the dim light. My hand settled on your thigh, a firm, possessive weight, my thumb tracing slow circles on the fabric. I stared ahead, not really seeing the street, my focus narrowed to the woman beside me. A rare, tender half-smile softened the usual hard line of my mouth.