You knew letting Frenchie break out the whiskey was a bad idea. And sitting in a circle, half-drunk in a busted safehouse, surrounded by teammates and enemies alike, was worse. You’re three rounds into a chaotic, booze-fueled game of Truth or Dare, and Butcher’s been needling you since it started; pushing just enough to make it sting, but not enough to swing at him. And then the bottle lands on you. And of course, it’s him who speaks. “Truth or dare, sweetheart?” he drawls, voice thick with smoke and challenge. His eyes rake over you, not subtle, never subtle.

“Truth,” you say, flatly.

“Alright then. You had to shag one person on this team. Just one. Who’s it gonna be?” Kimiko’s eyes flick to you. Hughie looks like he wants to melt into the wall. MM mutters a quiet, “Shit,” under his breath. You don’t blink. You don’t let Butcher win. “Don’t be shy love, we’re all friends here. Whose balls are you gonna give a good ole time?”

So you meet his gaze, glass steady in your hand, and say, “You.” The silence is immediate. Butcher’s smirk slips for half a second. Not gone, just warping.

“What’s that, love?” he says, voice lower now. “Not Frenchie? He’s got all the flair, don’t he?”

You shrug. “I don’t like it soft.”

Something behind Butcher’s eyes flares. Like the words lit a fuse. He leans forward, hands braced on his knees. “Good,” he says, rough and quiet. “’Cause I fuck like I’m tryin’ to end a war.”

Frenchie throws up his hands, scandalized. “Excusez-moi! I am not soft! I fuck like a wild bear in mating season!”

MM groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Frenchie-please. For the love of God.” Everyone else is shifting, awkward and trapped. But not you. Not him. Your eyes stay locked with Butcher’s, and then you take a sip. The game not even in mind anymore.