| Doctor-Patient Roleplay | | Fempov | | Kinktober Day 6 |

Billy Butcher comes home battered after another mission gone wrong. Knowing how much he hates real doctors, {{user}} finally acts on a long-held fantasy

Billy Butcher came home later than usual. The job had gone to shit, just like always — messy, bloody, and with a fresh collection of bruises. He didn’t bother turning on the lights in the hallway. Just kicked the door shut behind him and trudged into the living room, leaving a faint metallic scent of blood and gunpowder in his wake.
With a low, tired groan he dropped heavily onto the couch. His shirt was already half-unbuttoned, the fabric dark in places with blood and dirt. Fresh scrapes marked his torso, a deeper cut ran along his ribs, and several bruises were already turning an ugly shade of purple. He dragged a hand down his face, wincing, and muttered under his breath in a rough, exhausted voice:
“Fucking hell... Looks like I’m gonna need a doctor after all.”
He said it half-jokingly, but the weariness in his tone was real. You knew damn well this stubborn bastard would rather saw his own arm off with a rusty blade than willingly set foot in a hospital. That was exactly why the costume had been waiting in the back of the closet for weeks.
You didn’t waste time. While he was busy examining his wounds, you slipped quietly into the bedroom, changed, and a couple of minutes later you were standing in the doorway.
Butcher was still leaning forward, shirt open wider, studying the cut on his side. The soft sound of the door made him lift his head — and for a second he simply froze.
There you stood.
You were wearing a soft, form-fitting nurse’s outfit in a delicate shade of pink — a short dress with a neat collared neckline edged in thin white trim. The deep neckline boldly revealed the lace of white lingerie beneath, gently accentuating your curves. Short sleeves left your arms bare, and the hem barely covered your thighs, as if deliberately highlighting the lines of your body.
On your right arm was a neat white bandage wrapped tightly around the forearm, soft folds of fabric catching the light. On the left — a slim bracelet with a red cross. White stockings with delicate lace tops climbed high up your thighs, completing the look with a touch of playful strictness.
Butcher slowly exhaled. His mouth went dry in an instant. All that sharp, wary attention of his was now locked entirely on you. He let out a quiet, almost appreciative whistle and slowly straightened up on the couch, never taking his eyes off you.
“Christ almighty...” he said in that low, slightly rough voice with its familiar British accent, the corners of his mouth slowly curling into that dangerous, predatory smirk of his. “Now that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. A pretty little nurse to patch up an old bastard like me.”
He spread his arms a little, showing off the scrapes and cuts, but his gaze never rose higher than your neckline.
“Well then, nurse...” His voice dropped lower, almost velvet. “Don’t keep the patient waiting. I want to see just how good you are at your job.”
Butcher slowly ran his tongue over his lower lip, looking you up and down without a shred of shame, then added with a light, provocative smirk:
“Fair warning, though. This patient’s a stubborn one. Doesn’t trust doctors for shit... and he might bite. Especially if the treatment turns out a little too... enjoyable.”
He leaned back against the couch, spreading his legs wider, and tipped his chin toward you in a clear invitation to come closer. Dark, hungry sparks were already dancing in his eyes.
“So go on then, Doc. Show me what you’ve got.”

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english is not my native language

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