Title: The Butcher
Word Count: 666
Summary: They were standing alone in Bill's house. The smell of fresh meat and old whiskey spread through the air. "Have I had you before?"
Warning: hints of sexual abuse
"Bill, you say?" The voice of Bill "The Butcher" Cutting cut through the rather stinking air. They were standing alone in Bill's house. The smell of fresh meat and old whiskey spread through the air. "Have I had you before?" Amsterdam couldn't believe his ears. "For fucks sake Bill… stop fuckin around". Who was he to speak? Amsterdam was damn lucky to be alive, especially when walking around the dragon's tail. He hated him. Amsterdam Vallon hated The Butcher, but yet, here he was: standing in the house of his father's killer. He was head over heels, and he knew it. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. This wasn't closer, this was fuckin' lava. Everybody knew Bill fancied girls, and especially beautiful girls such as Jenny.
Bill wasn't a special humoristic man, not around that subject at least. "Answer the question, or want me to cut your tongue out?" his famous smile shined towards him, and Amsterdam couldn't think of anything else besides from stabbing that goddamn bastard – and make a kill. Bill started moving towards him. Amsterdam looked around for something to protect himself with. "Whats up with'cha today?" his voice sounded unusually small, young and vulnerable. Of course he knew what was up with him today, or more precisely: tonight. He, himself, hadn't even touched the bottles of whiskey, and far from gotten incredibly drunk by it. Slightly afraid of him Amsterdam backed into the walls, with no forms of protection besides from his fists. But what would fists help vs. knives? Absolutely nothing. "Bill, stay the fuck off me! You've been drinkin' too much for your own healthy good" Forced to push The Butcher away Amsterdam quickly found himself with a black eye. Stupid idea.
"Have I had you before?" his annoying American accent sounded, probably fixated on this one sentence with too little logical meaning. "No, no for fucks sake, Bill" Amsterdam repeated himself. Bill's warm hands placed themselves on his shoulders and lightly pushed him into the wall. "Then how dare you… calling me by my Christian name?" his voice went up and down in levels. Great, now he even sounded like a drunkie. In shock, despair and self protection Amsterdam grabbed both the older mans arms, and pushed them away, angry. Bill grinned, drunk as a pig, his eyes blurry and full of dark desire. He had to get out. Amsterdam looked over at the door, as if he checked how far it was, or how fast he could run. The Butchers breath tickled his tempting ear and neck. Quickly Amsterdam dodged, and ran towards the door. The cold wind threw his hat away, so that his hair hung free in the air. Grabbing the doorknob Amsterdam casted himself out through the door, but didn't come far enough before a chocking pain burned through his soft skin. As he fell to the floor, his hands took a hold of the white curtain, ruining it. The small table fell down beside him, just as well as one of Bill's flower vases broke in a thousand pieces on top of him. Bill's rough, butcher hands took a good hold of Amsterdam's shirt, and dragged him up. The other hand removed the knife from the kid's side, but only to push it towards his throat. Pulling Amsterdam up partly by his hair, Bill threw him amusingly down in one of the many sofas. Bleeding like a stuck pig Amsterdam covered the wound with his hand. "Bill, stop…" the sound of his own pathetic words almost killed him. Bill grinned before bending down, kissing the side of his lips. Unable to fight what's happening Amsterdam leaned further back in the couch to escape what would happen. Bill couldn't help seeing Amsterdam's face turning paler and paler. Was this a normal day, he'd help the boy best as he could, but now, he just didn't care. Ripping the shirt open, Bill placed himself on top of him, forcing the kid facedown.
Not able to fight no more Amsterdam closed his eyes.