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“Try not to bugger each other,” Butcher says, as he goes.

Hughie stares after him for a moment, eyes wide, and then he looks to Frenchie, expecting to exchange a rueful glance, one where they mutually wonder what the hell Butcher was thinking when he said that.

Instead, Frenchie is checking him out. He gives Hughie a questioning sort of nod, a wordless confirmation that he’s up for it if Hughie is.

It- sort of helps. Hughie’s been on the verge of a nervous breakdown for days now, weeks even, and he had been wondering if it had just broken him permanently, left him receptive to all offers of sex from potentially murderous psychopaths. Except Frenchie’s offer holds no appeal to him whatsoever.

He shakes his head, hoping that he looks more stunned than disturbed by the offer. He is, of course, both those things.

Still, Frenchie shrugs, ambivalent, and strolls off.

Hughie lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. How the fuck is this his life?


The others come back down to the basement, moments after he presses that fucking detonator, and Butcher nearly soils himself laughing when he sees the state of Hughie.

Hughie almost finds a little humour in the situation along with him. Mostly he’s trying not to cry. It’s bringing back terrible memories, and he doesn’t feel like he can move, and it’s Butcher who shoves him amiably in the direction of the big sink, while Frenchie swears in at least two languages about the blood and viscera splattered all up the walls.

He feels numb. It’s only vaguely that he recalls how to walk, the only thing grounding him the hand on his back, not quite warm. Butcher helps ease him out of his overshirt, tosses it onto a counter, making Hughie flinch with the way it slaps down, heavy with blood.

“You did a great job, Hughie. It’s always tough the first time.”

Hughie contemplates the terrifying prospect of having to do that again, and then his thoughts take a sharp left turn because Butcher wants him to stay. He blinks, and his eyelashes are heavy with blood. Something drips from him, and splats onto the floor.

Hughie stares at it. Butcher literally pulls a knife out from nowhere and uses it to cut Hughie’s shirt, right down the middle. He starts at the throat, and Hughie doesn’t even flinch, although he does wonder if the accelerated pounding of his pulse is visible, and what that means about him.

It’s pushed back off his shoulders, Butcher careful to only touch the cleaner inside and to sort of wrap it in itself, so he doesn’t end up covered in gore. It’s kind of like he’s done it before. The tip of his knife makes a soft chiming noise when he taps it against Hughie’s belt buckle, and then he steps back, standing between Hughie and Frenchie’s occasional curious glance, to watch.

Hughie kicks off his shoes first. They’re not too bad, had been mostly covered by his pants. He’ll sponge them off. His socks are now about the cleanest thing he’s wearing, but he unfastens his belt, pulls it clean of the loops to set it aside, and then he drops his pants and steps out of them, cautiously kicking them aside. He puts the socks with the belt, when he peels them off, and then he’s standing there in his underwear. Kind of cold. But cleaner than he was, just his face and hands splattered with gore, and Butcher nods expectantly in the direction of the sink then stands there while he soaps his hands roughly five times and leans forward, mentally preparing himself to touch the horrors of the rest of his exposed skin. 

He’s bent over the sink and scrubbing at his face, hair dripping, the water swirling red, when he glances in Butcher’s direction.

It’s impossible not to notice. It’s at his damn eye level. He stares, initially speechless, and then he stands, flipping his wet hair out of his face to look Butcher in the eye. “Why are you hard?” He has to know.

“Why are you?”

Hughie checks. He isn’t hard, actually. But he checks. And that’s enough. When he looks up, it’s to meet Butcher’s triumphant grin.

Hughie sighs. “So I guess we’re doing this again.”

It’s meant to sound- something. Vaguely exasperated or resigned maybe. But Butcher crowds him against the metal sink until it’s digging into the backs of Hughie’s thighs and there’s a tall, dark, smouldering psychopath pressed all along his front, looking down at him even though nobody has ever been this close and also bigger, before. He’s gorgeous, and strong, and he’s hard, pressing against the crease of Hughie’s groin when he wedges his thigh, thick with muscle, between Hughie’s legs. So it’s definitely a trick question when he asks, “You wanna?”

Hughie has so many problems, and Butcher being both the good cop and the bad cop while not actually being a cop in this cell of Hughie’s own making is probably the least of them.

It reminds him of something he heard. Doing something once is making a mistake, doing it twice is making a decision. Somewhere else, he saw that it takes three instances to form a habit.

He almost laughs, because his dad told him to come home before he did something stupid, and it’s been too late since that time in that fucking car.

“Yeah, I want to.”


Oh, shit, they’re not alone. Butcher turns his head to shout, but he doesn’t move back. He has to hear Hughie swallowing thickly, must feel him tense when he sets his hand at the small of Hughie’s back, skin to skin. At least the hang of his coat is keeping Hughie’s bare legs from view.


“Go get us some cleaning supplies, will ya? Take your time.”

That last is a predatory murmur, spoken to Hughie’s lips, urging him to tilt his chin up so they’re sharing air, each breath bringing them closer. Neither of them jump when Frenchie drops something with a clatter and storms out, cursing, although Butcher’s lip twitches upwards, apparently involuntarily. He’s kind of a dick.

But it makes his eyes seem less dark, brings out some gold or green in the brown, and Hughie is feeling surprisingly alright with this decision. It’s life-affirming, isn’t it? They both survived. They faced genuine superheroes, and they won.

He leans in, not because he thinks it’ll work, but because he doesn’t want to wait, any more. And true to form, Butcher leans back before their lips touch, and says, “Turn around. And bend over.”

Hughie does. He feels sparks shoot up his spine when Butcher steps in between his legs, widening his stance with nudges of his knee against the inside of Hughie’s thighs, and presses the hard, thick line of his cock into the crease of Hughie’s ass. Their heights match up pretty well for it, something Hughie’s never had before. And he’s never had hands on him that curl around his hips, thumbs pressing into the small of his back like they might meet in the middle with just a little more effort.

He lets out a long breath and relaxes. The stainless-steel counter next to the sink is clean, if a bit wet, and it’s cold but warming from his body. His nipples are hard and sensitive, not quite objecting to the temperature. The cool surface draws some of the heat away where his face and chest threaten to tinge red with how exposed he is, how vulnerable.

Except not an hour ago he stood up to a superhuman and he won. It seems like nothing, compared to that, to press his ass back, demanding more.

“If this sort of shit is what gets you hard, Hughie, you’ll have to stick with me,” Butcher muses, tracing idle patterns on Hughie’s bare thighs with his fingertips. “There are all sorts of things I could show you.”

It seems futile to point out that it’s Butcher himself that gets Hughie hard. His reactions, his perversions and his open enjoyment of what others would flinch away from- that’s what Hughie wants more of. Someone who can never be appalled by anything he might do or say. Someone who sees him at his worst and never lets it stop him from being himself.  A constant.

“Show me,” Hughie pants, and if he wishes there were something in his mouth it’s just because he needs something to stop him from trying to voice all the thoughts that run around in his head. He’s bracing his weight on his arms, fingertips to the wall but he folds them beneath his head, instead, and he bites down on one of his knuckles. It’s almost enough.

A warm, calloused hand runs up his spine, fingers sliding into his hair, scratching briefly at the back of his skull. It makes him shiver, and the sudden clenching of a fist and yank of his hair makes him groan, tiny pinpricks of pain shooting right to his cock.

“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Hughie rolls his hips back in answer, and Butcher releases his hair, leaves him supporting his weight on his elbows, spine arched, and seems to take the time to count every fucking rib on the way as he runs his fingers down Hughie’s back to slide under the waistband of his boxer briefs and ease them down.

He hasn’t seen Hughie naked before, but any possible thought of being embarrassed or shy fades away at the touch of covetous hands to Hughie’s rear, the roughly accented murmur of, “Lovely,” that sends warmth flooding through him, outwards from that point of contact.

He presses his thumbs into either side of the crease of Hughie’s ass, pulls his cheeks apart, just looks for a moment and then delves to rub slowly, insistently at the hot pucker of his hole. With all the will in the world, Hughie can’t take him in like that, but he wants to, feels empty and longs to be filled, knows his body gives under the pressure more than it should. Sweat lets Butcher apply pressure just on the soft, smooth inside of that ring, rub back and forth against the sensitive nerves there in a torturous mimicry of what’s to come.

For someone who so clearly knows what he wants and so regularly goes ahead and takes it, he’s a fucking tease. Hughie’s frustrated sound makes him laugh, push in a little further, right to the edge of Hughie’s tolerance, and then the biting, desperate pressure is suddenly gone, torn away, replaced by cool air and emptiness.

Hughie keens.

“Alright, alright,” Butcher’s tone and distracted petting, one hand caressing the base of Hughie’s spine, put him in mind of someone soothing an animal, and the fucking real world wants to creep in where the haze of pleasure recedes, Hughie can’t wait any more-

He starts when the fingers that touch him, that delve between his cheeks and stroke are cold, slick with lube. He hadn’t been expecting- “You carry that with you?”

“Jesus, Hughie. Did you expect me to do it dry? I’m trying to fuck you, not put you in the hospital.”

It’s more reassuring than it should be. Hughie doesn’t doubt for a moment that if Butcher wanted him in the hospital, that’s where he’d be. Or in the morgue. The memory of him, hefting and reloading that enormous rifle springs to mind, unbidden. Hughie shudders and not at all for the right reasons.

“That’s it, come on.” The soothing words have purpose this time, are accompanied by two long, thick fingers pushing inside of him, forcing past the resistance with a burning pain that Hughie breathes through, finds comfort in. He needs to focus, and it’s no chore to let his mind revel in that touch, deep and all-consuming. Butcher admits he’s a murderer, but he’s inside Hughie, and he’s not-

“Oh, God.” He hangs his head, loses focus and clenches tight around Butcher’s fingers, making him hiss. “I just realised why you have that lube.”

“Now, sweetheart,” Butcher sounds eternally amused, has that smirk in his voice when he leans forward, nips at the curve of Hughie’s ear. “Nothing’s going to explode inside you that you won’t entirely enjoy.”

Why is Hughie laughing? Nothing makes sense, but he can feel a dangerous smile against his ear, has never considered that to be what anyone might call an erogenous zone but it’s doing something to him, at that moment, with that voice so close. He pants, “I fucking hate you so much.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

It’s- not quite as rhetorical as Hughie might have expected, although it is accompanied by a twist of Butcher’s fingers that makes him yelp, and he needs a moment to breathe because fuck, that hurts, in what his body quickly identifies as not the right kind of pain. Strangely -or not, because Hughie is rapidly revising his opinions of this man, at all times- Butcher is pretty sensitive to that, eases his fingers out slowly, adds more lube, massages that tight ring of muscle until Hughie’s relaxing all on his own before he slides them back in. It’s not quite easy, but it’s the right side of that pain-pleasure balance, and one of Hughie’s stray thoughts, just wondering if Butcher knows what he’s doing because he’s been on the receiving end of this at some point, makes him groan out loud.

Butcher does that weird thing Hughie remembers from last time, too, brushes a kiss that’s so lost in dense beard that it’s almost unnoticeable against his cheek, before he straightens up. As in, he stands up. The whole thing’s still pretty gay. Hughie’s involuntary snort of laughter turns into a sob halfway through when Butcher twists his fingers again and pushes down, against the resistance, uses the improved angle to literally pour lube inside him.

The liquid feels strange, by itself, but all the associations make him shudder, craving more. He wants to be filled, wants to be stretched out and taken, wants more of everything, especially-

“Oh dear fucking God!” he blurts out, when long fingers graze gently and definitely not accidentally against his prostate. He bites down on what he would otherwise have said next, a jumble of nonsensical praise and pleas, more cursing. Except Butcher just makes a sound like he’s considering whether that response is enough, and then he does it again. And again, until Hughie’s cock is hard and leaking against the underside of the counter, leaving smears of fluid behind, twitching at every kiss of the cold metal against his heated, sensitive flesh.

“Oh my God, fuck me,” he groans in the end, because he can’t take any more, he’s so fucking close and he can’t move his hands to touch himself because he needs both arms to counter Butcher’s weight against him, and it’s only gunna get worse. This is not going to be a slow and gentle fuck, he’s going to get pummelled and he honestly cannot fucking wait. He needs this.

Oh, how he needs this. He moans, long and low and well past any kind of decorum as Butcher presses his thick, hard cock inside of him in one long stroke. He buries so deep Hughie feels like he can taste him, and then he waits for a moment, with just tiny incremental shifts of his hips. Hughie can feel the soft brush of his balls against his skin, the rasp of denim because he’s still not bothered to take off his jeans.

Hughie’s mouth is hanging open, too dry for him to contemplate begging, so he braces his hands against the wall in front of him and pushes his body back, rolls his hips to try and get that angle, the slide of Butcher’s cock right where he wants it. Warm hands close around his hips again, and he realises anew that he’s entirely naked, Butcher all-but fully clothed, and it’s not even the most taboo thing he’s done in the last hour, but it still gets him impossibly harder.

It’s not actually as mindless and frantic a fuck as he’d been anticipating, Butcher relentless and strong but always tightly controlled as he begins to move. When Hughie starts to tremble, one of his hands curls around, towards Hughie’s stomach, and Hughie almost whimpers in relief because he just needs a couple of strokes, needs those warm fingers to wrap around his cock and let him thrust into them, and he can come like that.

The fingers just press, though, beneath his navel, bringing his stomach in, or up, and he yelps outright when he realises how fucking fantastic it feels, the pressure on his pubis, the way it brings his prostate within easier reach so he’s getting that electric caress with every quickening thrust.

It’s good, in a way so little else is, in his life, and he loses himself in it, the rising pleasure, the rhythm they find instinctively, effortlessly, the involuntary little moans that are shoved from his lungs with every slap of Butcher’s hips against his ass and the quickening, ragged breathing that betrays the fact that he’s not the only one getting something from this.

He doesn’t think he’s ever come untouched but he’s never had it attempted as singularly as this, cries out and sobs as his climax is torn from him, slammed out of him with such force his eyes roll back in his head. He gives himself over to it, no reason to feel self-conscious when nobody can see his face, when Butcher’s rhythm is speeding up and then it stutters as he comes, burying deep and rolling his hips to get further, that last tiny incremental distance that makes Hughie whine when it fulfils a desire he hadn’t even known he had.

Hughie’s arms give out and he collapses, the cool stainless-steel counter soothing on his skin, Butcher braced above him on locked arms, his head hanging so that Hughie feels the slightest tickle of hair between his shoulder blades.

They get a few moments of peace, and then Hughie begins to laugh, something to do with endorphins or hysteria. Butcher hisses, the convulsive clench of Hughie’s ass around him probably aggravating his oversensitivity, and pulls out too fast, which makes Hughie grit out a guttural sound of objection at the sudden emptiness and the disconcerting gush of fluid down the inside of his thigh.

They’re both so fucking human. With his face buried in his folded arms, Hughie smiles to himself. He imagines Butcher doing the same, startles when a bundle of thick, starchy fabric hits his back. Closer inspection reveals it’s a chef’s jacket.

“Roleplay?” he asks, mostly joking although he still sounds a little loopy from his afterglow, and he doesn’t need to look to know Butcher rolls his eyes.

“Get dressed. We need to clean up.”