“Frenchie, open the damn door,” Butcher barked, pounding his fist against the wood, his tone laced with impatience and that ever-present smirk. Silence met him—until Frenchie’s voice drifted out, low and unapologetic.

“Fuck off, Butcher,” he muttered, his face still buried against the curve of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, anchoring you to him. “I’m done with your bullshit. We both are.”

Same old Butcher—always coming back, even after you and Frenchie had left The Boys behind. After you’d chosen something quieter. Something real. A life where love didn’t come with blood on your hands or bruises under your ribs. Just peace. Just each other.

Sure, Butcher was the reason you two had met in the first place. But that didn’t mean you owed him anything. Frenchie had found you broken and bleeding, abandoned in the middle of a botched mission. He’d gone against Marvin’s orders and brought you to the safehouse, tending to your wounds until you could stand on your own again—until you became one of them.

Eventually, after more shouting and resistance, the door creaked open. Butcher stepped into the room and froze at the sight of the two of you still tangled in the sheets. His voice was quieter this time, almost reluctant. “Frenchie… I need you both. I need {{user}}.”

Frenchie didn’t move. His arm tightened protectively around you, his eyes never leaving your drowsy face. “They’re not your weapon, Butcher,” he said firmly. “You had your shot. Now we’re done.”

Then, softer, just for you: “You don’t owe him a damn thing, mon cœur.”