Em

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.”

"Go check on her," M.M tells Hughie to check on you. He had sent you to lay down an hour before and was stern about it. He had entered full dad mode and wasn't accepting no for an answer, not having the physical strength to argue anyway you simply agreed and had gone to lay down.

Your exhaustion was blatantly obvious, you were yawning consistently all day and fighting to stay awake. The exhaustion showed in your eyes, how they were drooping closed and it was all you could do to fight them open and help the team. Ultimately it was one of the days you were rendered useless to them and in general. The pain from a migraine you had sense waking up this morning only made matters worse. You felt and looked like a zombie, if zombies could comprehend feeling pain. You woke up after eight this morning and before two M.M was scolding you and sending you to rest; for breakfast you had birth control and Excedrin and wished you had a RedBull to chase it, when you finally could eat through the day you had part of your leftover philly cheese steak sub and later a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was right after the sandwich he sent you off and since then you really had been trying so damn hard to sleep because you wanted to, you needed to, your body was screaming at you to. Yet, here you were, who knows how many ASMR videos in, which usually helped, and nothing, the same body screaming at you to sleep wouldn't let you. You weren't tired because you didn't get proper rest, as of late your going to bed early and sleep schedule had been fucked but you despite going to sleep later woke up later and still got your 7-8 hours give or take.

"Y/N.....," you hear the door open and even more light slips into the room. "Hey, MM sent me to check on you.....," you were hidden completely under the blankets and stuck your finger out to flip him the bird. "Yes ma'am," he caught the hint and closes the door and returning to the team in the office.

"Well--," MM asks him, he starts to speak to answer when the office door closes softly behind him and he turns to see Billy.

" 'ow is she gents?" He walks over to them, his boots sounding on the floor

"She flipped me off, she's buried under the blankets--," Hughie answers

"I sent her to bed about an hour ago......she's not sleeping?" He asks Hughie who shakes his head

Billy sighs, "Thanks gents, now get the 'ell out'a 'ere, you too," he looks to Kimiko

"You kicking us out man?"

"Yes, it would appear so. Go see Janine and Annie, yeah? Kimiko, go buy some new pain' for ye' nails, yeah?" He holds up a twenty between his fingers that she happily takes

"Yeah, alright man....let me know how Y/N is doing later," MM agrees as he grabs his coat and he and Hughie leave. He stops shy of the office door, "what's that?" He points to the bags Billy is carrying.

"It's nuffin', fuck off will ya?"

"Why are you so eager to get rid of us?" MM asks, somewhat defensively.

Billy rolls his eyes, "what? Woul' ya like ter stay 'n 'ear me fuck 'er to sleep?"

"Absolutely the fuck not. Later man," MM grabs Hughie's shoulder, pushing them both out of the door, "let's go see Annie and the baby"

"Yeah, yeah. Please. Hey Butch-....I hope Y/N feels better......"

"Yeah.....me too Hughie....me too, give the Mrs and the li'le one my love"

"Will do," Hughie smiles and leaves with MM

When the office room clears out Billy lets his head fall for a moment and then releases a sigh, his knuckles turn white as his grip tightens around the handles on the bag and he wills himself to go to the room you're in trying to rest.

Once again more light seeps into the room, Billy didn't bother knocking because it would cause more noise.

"Oi, playin' 'ide and seek are ya?"

"Oi, listen here 'Arry Pot'a whatever Honeydukes bullshit you're tryna sell me, I ain't in the mood, take your Fizzy Whizbees and shove 'em or I'll grab you by your Curly Wurly's and punch you in the Camel Balls"

"Feelin' like dog shite and still mock'n me, making 'Arry Pot'a references and you don' even have 'da proper' str'enf' ter hold up yer 'ead or not sound like cornbread yer'self," Billy smiles seeing you still fight to have wits about you and to be witty even feeling so weak and defeated. He almost lets a small chuckle out when you flip him the bird and mumble "Fuck you, kiss my cornbread ass"

"That is the plan my love," he closes the door to stop that light from seeping in and then walks to the window. He sits the bag down in the chair by the window and reaches into it. The room becomes darker and you glance over to see he had gotten a dark gray fabric to cover it like curtains, making the room as black as it could be without the walls being painted. You sigh in relief, "Oh thankyou Jesus," you say in a soft breath.

"Far from him love...."

"Ain't we fuckin' all," you muster a soft laugh, "I can still thank him"

"Right good point ya got there," he smiles and slowly comes over to the bed, kneeling beside it where your head sticks out from under the blankets. He strokes the hairs on your forehead with his thumb, his hand gently resting on your head. "Light is hurtin' you more in'nit?" You nod.

"Billy, I ain't dyin', it's the same old shit just a different day"

"Well I do believe you told me to fuck you and kiss your arse," he pushes himself to stand

"Billy.....like you said, I can't even hold my head up....I am so tired and it hurts so bad I want to cry," he sees the tears brimming your eyes, "I can't even cry, I'm too tired to cry....," you literally were, you had no strength, "I want to sleep and I can't.....I need to sleep and I'm trying I just can't ....," you explain and watch him walk over to the Excedrins and grab two, placing them in your hand before going back to the bag and giving you a pink Wild Berry Red Bull.

"To wash 'er down, yeah?" You graciously accept the gift, taking the pills and some sips of the drink and he takes it once you've enjoyed half of it he takes it and places it on the table with the pills.

"I know love, I know you like to par'icipa' yeah, but, this time, just lie down there and be my pillow princess, yeah?" He asks, placing a finger under your chin as he gets in the bed, sitting on your side. "I 'eard this old wives tell, if ya fuck a woman right, she either gets really ditzy or she gets really sleepy, 'alls right ter sleep," he smirks as he says it and slides his trench coat off, tossing it on the floor as he lays down next to you, looking in your eyes. "Wat' do ya say love?"

"Okay...can't hurt, but, I ain't movin'.....," you try to smile and he kisses your forehead and taps your thigh, "lie on your back love"

You comply, turning from laying on your tummy to your back, he waits letting you get comfy, "please just don't make my head move too much"

"Yes love, don't worry, I plan on going easy," he says as you get situated he unbuttons his Hawaiian shirt and lets it fall to the foot of the bed and he crawls over you and brings his hand behind your neck to bring your lips to his. The kiss isn't like when you and Billy usually go at it like wild animals, hot, heavy, passionate. It's soft, gentle.

You close your eyes and kiss him back as his hands slip to slide your shirt off over your head.

His lips move to your neck as he buried his face in it and you hum and gently reach to grip his hair, he moved back to kissing your lips ever so gently, it wasn't so gentle that it was a wisp of a peck, it was still incredibly sensual and he was lingering. You almost think for a second you feel his hand on behind your neck shake and his lips quiver but think nothing of it when he proceeds.

His hand on your neck slides down your back and unhooks your bra and he slips it off of you, only then did his lips move from yours. You're thankful so you could breathe but also he was thankful your eyes were closed. It gave him a second to quickly wipe his face on the back of his hand before bringing his thumbs to tease your nipples just how you liked, he brought his head down to suck one as he flicked and slapped the other, listening to your soft moans.

"Ya know I love t' 'ear your pret'y lit'le sounds for me love, love to 'ear you get loud for me when we are go'in wild yeah, but today, you don't 'ave to. I'm 'appy just see'in' the pleasure on your face," he smiles and kisses you again when moans begin to slip from your lips, your eyes remain closed

Your mouth falls open into an o when his hand slips grips your thighs and parts your legs and his hand slips between them, then two thick fingers slip into your wet folds and he began pumping them in and out agonizingly slow when you whimper. He knew that was a sign you didn't like that. "I'm 'orry love," he quickens the pace and your head falling back tells him that is much better. He chuckles softly and begins rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb.

"Oh love, you really are ti'erd aren't you? Ya usual'ly love to torture me 'till I'm leakin', ridin' on me thigh before ye' even let me stick me dick in ya...yer' legs are shakin'," he stops, removing his fingers from your pussy, he kisses your thighs before slipping his pants and boxers down to free himself from the confides of his clothes and leans back over you.

He holds his weight on one arm and lines himself up with the other, he slowly, gently sinks in and bottoms out with a grunt. "So fu'ing warm love...," he moves slowly, easy thrusts, only easy thrusts, keeping his promises to you. "It's workin' love," he smiles down at your face.

"Stay awake a bit longer," he instructs gently.

"Wait," you tell him softly and he stops, "everything al'ight love?" His brows furrow as he's worried he's making the pain in your skull worse. You nod and move into downward dog, one of your favorite positions. Honestly, you weren't a huge fan of missionary.

"Harder," you give the best smirk you can muster in your current condition, he's biting his lip at your ass and cunt on full display for him.

"Love-"

"Billy please~," you whimper and he nods, ramming himself into you, he chuckles at the sounds that escape you, a loud groan. He leans over your back to whisper in your ear, "you are a 'errible pillow princess you are," he smirks, thrusts hard but not rough and you giggle, you're almost drooling, the sleepiness was taking over but the pain was no longer at the forefront of your mind, your head was still killing you but he was making you feel so good you could at least try to not think about it

"Barely awake and still so 'ilthy you are," when you're not paying attention he wipes another tear threatening to slip so you don't notice and continues to pound you, hard like you want but careful not to hurt you as promised. You know he's close when he starts grunting but he keeps the steady rhythm he had going as he reaches around to your clit and breast. He finishes deep in you and slowly pulls out, laying your sleepy body down and kissing your head.

"I'm going to clean up yeah?" He goes to fetch a warm wash cloth to clean you up and then tucks you in. It worked, you were sleeping peacefully, out like a light. "Oi, almos' forgo', dint' I?" He smirks and leans over, kissing your ass. "Sweet dreams love," he grabs one last thing from the bag he had brought and looks at you then grabs his shirt and jacket to redress himself. He stops, stares at you for he didn't know how long and then grabs the birth control pills from the table and sticks them in his boot. His trench coat pocket felt too easy, too obvious.

Then to let you sleep he quietly leaves the room and goes to the office, "Oi, they let ya ou' alrea'y?" He smiles seeing Hughie come in with Annie and the baby. "Wel'ome lit'le bloke," he greets the child.

"Tell him," Hughie says excitedly nudging Annie who rolls her eyes. "Okay," she smiles and kisses Hughie.

"Ge' a room will ya?"

"You're fucking crying," she says shocked

"No I ain't!" His outburst made the new baby wail and he kneels down on the floor to soothe it, "uh....no no.....don't cry uh...."

"His names William," Hughie blurts out as if he'd been holding it in, Billy looks over his shoulder at him and he stands

"Excuse us yeah?" He yanks Hughie out into the hall with him, "I'm alrea'y cryin' and you go and name your boy after me!?" He shoves Hughie who laughs, "Yeah......how's Y/N?"

"Sleep'n......she's getting worse......."

You'd always known that fitting into The Boys wasn't going to be easy. As a supe with the ability to manipulate shadows—slipping through darkness like a ghost, binding enemies in inky tendrils—your powers made you a target for suspicion from the start. But when Hughie vouched for you, swearing you'd turned your back on Vought's corruption after seeing too much of their underbelly, they let you in. Or at least, most of them did.

Billy Butcher? He took one look at you during that tense first meeting in the safehouse and spat on the floor. "Another bloody supe? What, we short on traitors now?" His voice was gravel and venom, eyes narrowing like you were just another Homelander waiting to happen. He paced the room, chain-smoking, his leather jacket creaking with every sharp turn. Frenchie chuckled nervously, Kimiko signed something crude, and MM just sighed, rubbing his temples.

"I'm not like them," you said, keeping your tone even, shadows flickering faintly at your fingertips despite your effort to stay calm. "I want to take them down as much as you do."

Butcher barked a laugh, cold and mocking. "Everyone wants a piece until the laser eyes come out. Keep your freak show away from me, love." He jabbed a finger in your direction before storming out, leaving the door to slam behind him.

The next few weeks were a grind. Missions came fast—raiding Vought warehouses, interrogating low-level supes who'd sold out for Compound V. You hung back at first, proving your worth in small ways: scouting ahead by merging with the shadows in a vent, relaying enemy positions without a sound. But Butcher dismissed it all. "Luck," he'd mutter, reloading his gun with deliberate snaps. "Or some supe sleight of hand."

One night, things escalated. The team was hitting a black-site lab where Vought was testing a new serum on captured supes. Intel said it was lightly guarded, but as you all breached the perimeter, alarms blared. Guards swarmed, and worse—a rogue supe enforcer, some brick wall of a guy with super strength, barreled through the wall like it was paper.

"Shit," MM growled, diving for cover as the enforcer charged. Frenchie lobbed a grenade, but the brute swatted it away, the explosion lighting up the night without fazing him.

Butcher fired shot after shot, bullets ricocheting off the guy's skin. "Where's your bloody magic trick now?" he snarled at you over his shoulder, not even glancing back.

You didn't hesitate. Shadows pooled at your feet, racing across the ground like spilled oil. They coiled up the enforcer's legs, wrapping his ankles, his knees. He roared, straining against them, but you poured your focus in, the darkness thickening into unbreakable chains. With a grunt, you yanked, toppling him like a felled tree. He crashed down, and before he could recover, Kimiko was on him, her fists a blur until he went limp.

The team pushed forward, securing the lab. Inside, you found the captives—supes broken and begging for release. As you helped free them, guiding one trembling woman through the shadows to evade patrols, Butcher watched from the doorway. His cigarette dangled forgotten from his lips, ash crumbling to the floor.

Back at base, the air was thick with exhaustion. Hughie patched up a cut on your arm from a stray bullet, while Frenchie cracked open beers. Butcher slumped in a chair, staring at the wall, his usual scowl softened just a fraction.

"That was solid work out there," he said finally, voice low, like the words pained him. He didn't look at you, but it was the closest thing to praise you'd gotten.

You nodded, flexing your bandaged hand. "Just doing my part."

He grunted, taking a swig from his bottle. "Don't let it go to your head. Supes are still supes."

But it was a start. Cracks in the wall.

Over the following months, the missions blurred into a rhythm of chaos and close calls. You saved Frenchie's ass during a botched extraction in a Vought gala, shadows smothering the security lights and letting him slip away with stolen files. MM started calling you "Shade" without the sarcasm, and even Kimiko warmed up, sharing quiet moments where she'd trace patterns in the dark with you.

Butcher, though—he was slower to thaw. He'd bark orders at you sharper than the others, question your intel twice over. Yet, you caught him watching during briefings, his sharp eyes tracking how you anticipated threats, how your powers turned the tide without the collateral damage supes like Homelander left in their wake.

The turning point came on a rainy night in a derelict warehouse on the outskirts of London. The Boys had a lead on a Vought exec smuggling Temp V—Butcher's poison of choice. But it was a trap. Soldiers poured in, armed to the teeth, and in the frenzy, Butcher took a hit—a deep gash across his side from a knife that slipped past his guard.

He staggered, blood soaking his shirt, firing wildly. "Get the fuck out!" he yelled at the team, but you saw the exec slipping away through a side door.

"Not without you," you shot back, shadows surging to bind the nearest soldiers, their screams muffled as darkness swallowed their weapons. You grabbed Butcher's arm, pulling him toward cover. He shoved you off at first, stubborn as ever.

"I don't need your help, supe," he growled, but his voice cracked, pain etching lines deeper into his face.

A soldier lunged, and you reacted on instinct—shadows lashed out, pinning the man mid-air. Butcher finished him with a point-blank shot, then leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

You tore a strip from your jacket, pressing it to his wound. "Sit still for once."

He glared, but didn't fight it. Rain hammered the roof as you worked, the team covering your retreat. For the first time, he held your gaze, something raw flickering in those dark eyes—gratitude, maybe, or the start of belief.

"Why?" he asked later, back at the safehouse, stitches fresh and a whiskey in hand. The others had crashed out, leaving you two in the dim kitchen light.

"Why what?"

"Why stick your neck out for a bastard like me? You could've left me to bleed."

You shrugged, shadows idly swirling in your palm like smoke. "Because you're not wrong about Vought. And because... I see you fighting the same fight. Even if you hate my kind."

He chuckled, a real one this time, rough around the edges. "Hate's a strong word. Maybe you're not all wankers." He raised his glass, clinking it against yours. "To proving me wrong, Shade."

From there, it shifted. Subtle at first—Butcher including you in strategy talks without the barbs, sharing a cigarette on stakeouts, his shoulder brushing yours in tight spaces. He'd tease, call you "trouble" with a smirk instead of venom. During a brutal takedown of a Vought puppet supe, he covered you when your powers faltered from exhaustion, his hand steady on your back as he whispered, "I've got you."

One evening, after a win that felt too rare, the team celebrated in a dingy pub. Laughter echoed, but you and Butcher ended up outside, leaning on the wall under a flickering streetlamp. The air was cool, charged with unspoken things.

"You know," he said, voice low, accent thickening with the beer, "I was wrong about you. From the start."

Your heart picked up, shadows dancing nervously at your feet. "Took you long enough."

He turned, close enough that you could smell the smoke and whiskey on him. His hand came up, thumb brushing your cheek, calloused and gentle. "Worth the wait, though."

The kiss was inevitable—fierce, like him, tasting of rain and regret. You melted into it, shadows wrapping around you both like a private veil, the world fading away. When he pulled back, eyes searching yours, there was no hate left. Just respect, and something warmer, deeper.

"Don't go getting soft on me now," you murmured, but your smile gave you away.

Butcher grinned, pulling you closer. "Too late for that, love."