Domesticating Billy Butcher wasn't something I'd aspired toward when I took the assignment given me with poise and grace. Ignore the discomfort I openly experienced when learning of my new role, please. Without my questioning my superior's sanity, I clearly displayed ample poise and grace. At least that's what I planned to keep telling myself.
Back to the domestication of one William "Billy" Butcher. This wasn't my goal, but neither was having sex with the man. That being said, there was something very toe curling about seeing him wearing nothing but his boxers, standing in my kitchen, arguing with the box that held at least part of the dinner he was preparing for us about how fucking idiotic it was for something so small to take so bloody long to cook. If you doubt me, I dare you to see it for yourself and prove to me your toes didn't twitch even a little at the sight.
"I could give you a hand," I offered from where I'd been leaning against the doorway, watching in amused and slightly aroused silence. He shot me a look over his broad shoulder, eyebrow raised and I had to give myself a cool down talk. Jumping him in while he was trying to cook dinner wasn't going to get either of us fed. Although, dessert was always pretty damn filling. I pushed off the door frame and was in his arms with the irritating box tossed behind me, our mouths meeting and his arms wrapping around me so he could pull me tight against him.
"This my shirt, Ronnie?" I might have pilfered his clean shirt, buttoning it carelessly, but it managed to cover me almost to my knees regardless. Sighing as his mouth met the curve of my neck, I nodded. "Looks better on you, but I bet it'll look fucking amazing on the floor." And then he tugged it off of me and kept kissing down my body, wait, I wanted dessert first. I started to argue, but then his mouth confirmed that I'd ONLY been wearing his shirt and I couldn't remember being hungry at all.
Dinner didn't burn, of course it didn't cook either, since I'd interrupted Billy BEFORE he turned the oven on and put anything in it. We ate Hot Pockets, which he was shocked I had in my freezer, what fucking neanderthal doesn't keep Hot Pockets on hand? We sat at the table, but we were so close together that we could have been on the floor, his shirt was covering me again, his boxers in place, and we were savoring our little warm gooey meal.
"You constantly surprise me," he told me as we were putting the dirty plates in the dishwasher. I must have looked confused because he went on. "Buffets, naughty in the office," I almost reminded him that he was the instigator of those office moments, but he kept going. "Hot Pockets, tough as fucking nails, but sweet as sugar, Veronica Taylor, you're a fucking constant source of amazement."
Shutting the dishwasher door that stood between us, I closed the gap. "Hark who's talking, William Butcher." I traced up his arms, from wrist to shoulders, with my fingertips. "Who knew you could make pancakes, wash clothes, and attempt to make dinner?" He was smiling down at me. "And I have it under good authority," from the report I wrote on the subject, I added in my head, "that you're also fucking diabolical."
His mouth met mine, but unlike when I interrupted his dinner making, this kiss reminded me of the first kiss we shared. Slow, tempting, testing the waters. Like he wasn't sure, as though he didn't know how I'd receive his advances. Even as I went on tiptoes, letting his neck take a break from leaning down, and my fingers slid through his hair, Billy kept the slow pace. As though, if either of us pushed harder, moved faster, the bubble would burst and we would implode or disappear.
We kissed for hours, or so it seemed, just enjoying the taste of one another's mouths. The feeling of his tongue teasing mine, still so slow and sweet that I would have enjoyed it for days.
We didn't have days to enjoy ourselves. Monday came, as Mondays always would come, and I smiled into the warm chest of the man lying next to me when the alarm went off. I could get used to it. Having him with me, next to me, warm against me as we drifted off. And that scared the hell out of me.
"Morning," he muttered, lips touching my head. "Ugh, work." My smile grew and I kissed his chest, glancing up to see him staring down at me. Growing bolder from the attention, I took a slow tour down his body, thinking that I could make his morning, and mine, infinitely more enjoyable with a couple minutes of focused attention.
Billy told me he'd meet me at the office, and I grinned because I knew that he needed a change of clothes, even if we'd laundered his. He kissed me as he helped me into my car, telling me that he'd kill to wear the shirt that smelled exactly like me, but that he'd get not a fucking thing done if he did. Except me, he offered with a smile, and then he drove away and I was shaking my head as I pulled out behind him.
I was sitting in my office, door closed, clicking through work emails when the knock came. Shaking my head, reminding myself to mark the upgrade for Billy's key fob to urgent, I stood barefooted to answer the door. It wasn't Billy. Nor was it Joseph, Anthony, or any of the men who normally rapped on my door.
Looking up at his smug face, I had to remind myself that he was invulnerable, or nearly so and hitting him or being rude could be construed as an act of aggression and he'd welcome an excuse.
"Homelander," I offered with a small tilt of my head. "To what do I owe the-" I couldn't say pleasure so I left it dangling.
"I think you should invite me into your lovely office, Dr. Taylor," his voice was quiet, so I could hear the excited muttering voices from down the hall, clearly he'd been noticed. "The conversation I want to have, well, it's not one you'll enjoy your underlings being privy to, I assure you."
Stepping back, hoping against hope that traffic would keep Billy at bay until I could diffuse whatever situation this was, I let him in cape and all.