🧋

You pulled up to your place in record time. You didn’t bother using your house keys, just barged through the unlocked front door to face the burly man leaning against your kitchen counter, his feet and arms crossed loosely. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked, throwing your bag down so hard, your phone flew out of the side pocket and clattered loudly onto the floor, the harsh sound echoing off the walls adding to your surprise.

“Shit,” you muttered, noticing the haphazard cracks over the screen. You quickly picked up your phone and placed it on the dining table. Dammit, the one time you didn’t have a screen protector and it completely shattered. 

“You betta’ watch ya mouth, luv,” Butcher said slowly walking towards you. “Or I’ll fill it with something and watch it for you.” 

Chest to chest, you stared up at him for a couple seconds, not the least bit intimidated by the older man. In fact, though you didn’t want it to, your stomach fluttered at the invitation. 

“Why are you here?” you asked again. “This isn’t our arrangement.”

Butcher smirked his signature look as he placed a calloused hand against your neck with his thumb on your cheek and held your face close to his. 

“And that’s exactly our problem, luv. Been too long since I’ve arranged your body how I want.” 

He stepped into you, his hand flying down to lift one of your legs and hook it around his hip, forcing your own hips to widen. His lips crashed into yours, more teeth and tongue than actual kissing and you staggered backwards from the impact. Butcher’s other hand supported your lower back as he took advantage of you being off balance to push you against the nearest wall.

A dull thud made you dizzy as you tried to recall the last time you’d seen Butcher. It had been a bit unexpected when you met a love interest who moved your relationship along quickly, and pressed you to make a decision: quit being a sugar baby, or quit being a girlfriend. It made sense they had asked for that; other things in life had transitioned too. You finished your second degree. You got a real job, with a salary, benefits, and a retirement package. You moved out of your parents’ place and into this apartment yourself. You didn’t need the money from sugaring anymore to survive. 

But you did like it. And even more than you liked the money, the desire for something you weren’t supposed to have was thrilling. 

You couldn’t give up Billy Butcher. It was too difficult for you to even think of breaking off the arrangement you had — to never see him again, to never touch him again, to never experience the wicked pleasure he’d send coursing through your veins again. So you didn't even try to quit, just changed the terms. Discrete meet ups became secret chats, and wads of cash became private bank transfers. Although you couldn’t feel his body literally, you still got to have a part of him. You still experienced sexual gratification with each other, just in different creative ways. Teasing took a whole new, dangerous form. It could go on for days, sometimes a week, until you, more often than not, would finally crack and send a lewd video of yourself in the shower, wet and desperate, the hot water pouring over your smooth skin, drowning out your groans. On occasion you’d use the removable shower head as a vibrator on your clit to really put on a show for him, and he always rewarded you generously with a familiar ping to your checking account and sometimes a short video in return, a hastily taken one of his dick in hand, seed spilling over his fingers and dripping down to his wrist. 

Even when that love interest ended as quickly as it started, you didn’t change the routine with Billy. You wanted more than anything to see him in person again but the physical distance an online-only arrangement created between you two felt safer. You knew in your heart being a sugar baby for that man was risky. You thought about him all the time. It was obsession. It had gone too far already. But there was a relentless hunger that probed at you, a craving that ate at your insides for his strong arms to hold you up, pin you down, manhandle you in any way he wanted; for his filthy words to degrade you, then praise you, then challenge you, all in that commanding tone of his; and finally for his thick cock to fill your tight wet pussy, pumping in and out of you so roughly you completely lose control until you’re screaming and he’s painting your walls with hot, sticky cum. You simply loved Butcher fucking your brains out. 

The abrupt increase in pressure of his hard bulge into your center yanked you out of your thoughts. You opened your eyes you hadn’t remembered closing and looked down at the length straining through his jeans. 

“Already forgot what he looks like in person?” Billy chuckled lowly. 

He wasted no time dropping your leg down and using both his hands to attack his belt. You bit your lip in anticipation, but Butcher wasn’t going to allow you to enjoy the show. With one hand, he grabbed your hair, forcing you down to your knees while the other wrestled his pants halfway down his thighs. 

You tried not to moan at the sight of his hard member springing free from his boxers. You slowly slid your fingers up and down the hot, heavy flesh, cupping and squeezing a couple times in other areas for good measure. 

“You better pay me,” you sassed him, even while admiring it.  

“Don’t act like that’s what ya care about, darlin’,” he shot back. “And don’t fuck ‘round. Only action I got for months was my own hand ‘cause of you.” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you obeyed. You felt his tip twitch at his name as your lips enveloped him. 

He grunted as your tongue teased the head and underside of his shaft. With satisfaction, you tasted his salty precum leaking. Your moan sent a vibration down as you sucked him in deeper and added a hand to stroke him from the base. 

“Oi!” Butcher exclaimed. “I told ya not to fuck around.” 

You felt hands weave into your hair and pull you back. Without warning, he thrust into your mouth so fast you almost choked. You reached for his waist to steady yourself. 

“You can take it, luv,” he encouraged. “I know you can.”

You nodded, loving how he coaxed you into being his play thing. You wanted nothing more at this moment. Months of video and phone sex could never make up for this sensation. The urge to please and pleasure him coursed through you, straight down to your warm cunt. 

He briefly squeezed one of your hands in his. “Tap me twice to stop.” 

The way you looked up at him then, mouth full of his cock, eyes darkening with lust, and desperate to satisfy, almost made him bust right there. 

He took a steadying breath and with both hands controlling your head, fucked your face with such ferocity, you thought you’d black out. Sloppy wet sounds from your mouth against his length echoed off the kitchen walls as drool dribbled messily down your chin. Tears shimmered at the corners of your eyes as his dick slammed into the back of your throat over and over again. 

“Tha’s it,” he muttered, watching you struggle for air. “Atta girl, ya taking Daddy so well.” 

Your heat throbbed from the praise and you hummed appreciatively. You enjoyed the way his tall frame towered over you, using you, slutting you out, but your senses were fading fast as you grew lightheaded. You were unsure how much longer you could last. You just needed a second to get one solid inhale but the man was relentless. 

“Fuck—” you gasped finally, using both hands to force him away, his dick releasing from your mouth with a pop. “I’m sorry,” you apologized, embarrassed, catching your breath. 

Butcher was quick to adjust his pants and bring you up to your feet, supporting your waist. “Did amazing f’me, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a slow, deep kiss. 

He separated and held your chin, a serious look in his eyes. “I told ya t—”

You shook your head. “I didn’t want to stop,” you clarified, still a little breathless. “I still don’t.”

He regarded you carefully for a moment, then grinned smugly. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not even fucking close to being done.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.

“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.

You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”

“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.

That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”

Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”

You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”

“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.

Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.

You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.

You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”

“Yeah, come in.”

Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.

“…you do this on purpose?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”

You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”

He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Swear on it.”

You give him a look.

He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”

“And I answer.”

“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”

He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.

Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.

Then—

“You done lookin’?”

Your eyes snap up to his.

He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.

You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”

There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.

You should be. You’re not.

After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.

There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”

Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.

“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”

“Miss me, did ya?”

You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”

“You were hiding!”

“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”

“Behind the door.”

“Details.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.

And he notices. Of course he notices.

That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”

Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”

“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”

You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.

“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”

Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”

Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”

The words hang between you.

You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.

For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.

Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretendin’.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Always am.”

“Cocky.”

“Gets results.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.

“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.

Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t deny it either.”

His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”

Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”

That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”

And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.

You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.

Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.

Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.

Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.

He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.

You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”

“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.

You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Sure you have.”

God, he’s annoying.

You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.

His smirk widens. “Liar.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“Door.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lock it.”

Your brain stutters. “…why?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”

That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”

“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”

Silence. A challenge.

Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.

When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.

Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Getting there.”

He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”

“I do that.”

“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.

Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.

A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”

You swallow. “Come to what?”

His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”

Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

A beat.

“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”

Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”

“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.

But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.

And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he closes the distance.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.

Giving you the choice.

You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.

What you’ve both wanted.

Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”

You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.

When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”