Chapter Text
Apartment 4B smelled like cheap disinfectant and cheaper ego. Billy Butcher knew it from the first day that blonde bastard moved into the building. John—that's what he said his name was, though Butcher swore he must have a 70's pornstar surname—was the neighbor from hell.
Every morning, classical music at full volume. Every night, the same white BMW taking up two parking spaces. And that fucking face. That fallen angel face with blue eyes that seemed to look down on you even when you were standing at the same level.
—Hello Butcher tried one afternoon in the hallway, holding a grocery bag.
John—tall, upright, in that white t-shirt that clung to every treacherous muscle—didn't even turn his head. He just made a sound between a grunt and a sigh, as if talking to a mortal was beneath his divine status.
—Arrogant fucking cunt, Butcher thought, clenching his teeth.
______
"The Rusty Anchor" was a shithole with cold beer and hungry men. Butcher went there to forget, to drink until Rebecca stopped appearing in his dreams.
And then he saw him.
John was at the bar, alone, three empty glasses lined up like fallen soldiers. The yellowish bar light made him look ethereal, impossible. His shirt was unbuttoned to his chest, revealing pale, defined skin.
But he never went unnoticed. Never.
"Hey, princess," a guy with a three-day beard approached from behind, putting a sweaty hand on John's shoulder. "Isn't it time to go home?"
John turned his head slowly. His gaze was pure ice.
"Take your hand off me."
"Come on, don't be like that..."
Butcher watched from his corner. His beer tasted bitter. —(Not your problem), he told himself (He's an arrogant bastard. Let him rot.)
But then more arrived. Two, three men with predator eyes and shark smiles. They surrounded John like crows over carrion.
"He's pretty drunk, huh?" one of them laughed, touching John's thigh. "Let's take you home, gorgeous. We know a quiet place behind the bar..."
John tried to push them away, but his movements were slow, uncoordinated. The alcohol had done its job.
Butcher was on his feet before he realized it. His own drunkenness gave him courage and removed his inhibitions.
"He's with me," he growled, grabbing the collar of one of the guys' shirts.
"And who the fuck are you?" the bearded man spat. "His dad?"
"His..." Butcher searched for the word. "His fucking boyfriend. So take your hands off before I break them."
Laughter. Spit. And then, violence.
Butcher's fist connected with bone and cartilage. The bar exploded into chaos: flying chairs, broken bottles, screams. Butcher felt no pain, only adrenaline and that primitive need to protect what... what? That idiot who despised him?
Ten minutes later, he was dragging John up the building stairs. The blonde weighed more than he looked, or maybe Butcher was drunker than he thought.
"You're a... son of a bitch..." John murmured, unconscious, his breath smelling of expensive whiskey. "A fucking... nobody..."
"Shut up," Butcher grunted, searching for his keys.
Butcher's apartment was dark, messy, smelled of tobacco and loneliness. He threw John onto his unmade bed, the blonde's body bouncing softly on the mattress.
And then, silence.
John breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling under that wrinkled shirt. His face was flushed, not just from the alcohol, but from the fight, the excitement of violence. His parted lips, pink, inviting.
Butcher sat on the edge of the bed. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Arrogant, stuck-up, fucking faggot cunt..." he whispered.
But his hand wasn't listening. His hand rose, trembling, and touched John's chin. The skin was warm, soft as broken promises.
"Why do you have to be like this?" Butcher leaned in, his breath mixing with John's. "Why can't you be... normal? Why do you have to get me like this?"
John moaned in his sleep, turning, and the shirt opened more. His nipples, pink and small, hardened against the cold air of the room.
Butcher moaned, low and wounded. He was hard, painfully hard, and drunk, and fucked up, and he wanted...
"Just a touch," he justified, his fingers unbuttoning more buttons. "Just to see..."
John's skin was perfect, sculpted, a map of vanity and expensive gyms. Butcher lowered his head, his mouth finding the left nipple, sucking, licking, feeling it harden under his tongue.
"Mmah..." John moved, arching his back, unconscious but reactive.
"Shhh," Butcher came up, grabbing John's jaw harder. "Just... let me. You're so fucking despicable..."
He kissed John's neck, bit his earlobe, his hand sliding down the flat stomach, finding the bulge in the jeans.
John moaned again, louder this time, and his eyes opened between sleep and confusion.
"Butcher...?"
"Shut your fucking mouth," Butcher whispered against his lips. "Before I regret saving you."
And then, drunk on alcohol and hate and repressed desire, Butcher did what he'd wanted to do since he saw that bastard in the hallway: he kissed him. Hard. Violent. Like a declaration of war disguised as passion.
Because some neighbors aren't conquered with kindness.
They're conquered with blood, sweat, and moans in the darkness.
The kiss was a clash of teeth and saliva, of desperate need. Butcher deepened it, his tongue invading John's mouth, searching, claiming. But John didn't respond. He didn't speak. He didn't protest. He just let out a low, confused, dazed moan while his hands weakly rose to push Butcher's chest without strength, without conviction, like a distant reflex.
Then, silence.
John went still, his breathing deep, regular. The alcohol had finally won. He was asleep, unconscious, submerged in a black, impenetrable sleep. His face was relaxed, lips parted, chest rising and falling calmly.
Butcher stopped. He was panting. He was hard, painfully hard, every fiber of his body screaming for relief, for release, for *more*.
But he wasn't a rapist. A bastard, a drunk, violent, yes. But not that.
"Fuck," he hissed, his hand trembling over John's abdomen. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."
He moved away from the bed. For a moment. Just to breathe, to think, to not lose himself in that temptation of perfect skin and parted mouth.
But his eyes couldn't look away.
John slept deeply. The open shirt revealed everything: the pink, small nipples, the sculpted chest, the flat stomach rising and falling with each tranquil breath. The pants were unbuttoned, revealing the edge of expensive underwear, evidence of a body that didn't stop being fucking perfect even in sleep.
Butcher stood by the bed, watching. His own breathing was a pant, an animal sound in the dark room.
"You're a..." he whispered, his hand lowering to his own fly, squeezing his hardness through the denim. "An arrogant, stuck-up, son of a bitch..."
He unbuttoned his pants. He freed himself. He was burning, the tip dripping, needing friction, needing *something*.
And he had John. Asleep. Vulnerable. Saved by him.
His hand began to move. Slow at first, watching every detail of that inert body: the way the moonlight came through the window and outlined every muscle, the softness of those lips that had never truly smiled at him, the curve of those hips that moved with arrogance even walking down the hallway.
"Look at you," Butcher panted, speeding up the rhythm. "Look at you, asleep, innocent... and me here, fucking hard for you..."
John didn't move. He didn't speak. He just breathed, deep and calm, oblivious to the scene of desire unfolding beside him. A low moan escaped his sleeping lips, an involuntary sound, perhaps a dream, and Butcher almost came right then.
"That's it," he hissed, his fist moving faster, more desperate. "Moan for me, angel. Even if it's in dreams..."
He watched John's chest rise and fall, those pink nipples exposed, that pale skin screaming to be touched, bitten, marked. But Butcher limited himself to watching, to devouring with his eyes what he couldn't fully take, to using that perfect body as fuel for his own release.
Butcher's hand slapped against his own body, the wet, rhythmic sound filling the room. He was close. So close. Eyes fixed on John, on that angel face, on that body that drove him crazy with hate and desire.
"John..." he grunted, the name coming out like a curse.
He came
Hard. Intense. An explosion that ran down his spine and made him double over, shooting onto his own hand, onto the floor, panting, trembling, his vision clouding for a second.
He stayed like that, bent over, breathing hard, looking at John who was still asleep, innocent, unaltered.
"Fuck," Butcher whispered, wiping himself with the edge of his shirt. "Fuck..."
It was the best wank of his life.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still panting, still hard despite the orgasm. He looked at John, really looked for the first time without the fog of violence or alcohol.
He had saved him. That arrogant, stuck-up bastard, who greeted him with false cordiality in the hallways. He had saved him from those animals at the bar.
And now he slept in his bed, trusting him, even if only because he was unconscious.
Butcher stood up, slowly. He found a blanket and placed it over John, covering that tempting body, hiding it from his own hungry gaze.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, gently touching John's cheek. "Tomorrow you'll look at me with those superior blue eyes. And I'll remember this. And you'll know nothing."
He sat in the armchair next to the bed, watching John sleep, waiting for dawn.
Because some neighbors are conquered by saving them first.
And then, by touching them in the darkness.
But only enough to not completely break them.