There’s AI-generated (some wincest and butchie) content in my blog. If you don’t like it, just scroll past. It’s really not that hard.
You don’t walk into stores you hate, you don’t eat food you can’t stand — same logic applies here. Just move along.
I tag everything properly and add warnings so people with filters won’t run into anything they don’t want to see. I genuinely respect the choice to stay away from AI content.
But if you don’t use filters, and you decide to come into my blog specifically to leave rude comments (not to talk, not to discuss something like an adult, but to make a scene), then I won’t be polite. I will block, and I won’t hesitate to report.
It’s a bit like walking past a sign that says “don’t enter” and then complaining about what’s behind the gate. You made that choice yourself.
As we say back home: “everyone jerks off as they choose — no need for fights or ugly views.”
A little scrap found at the back of a drawer, about Hughie being too embarrassed to call things by their proper names—but not too embarrassed to do everything else.
Hughie is terrible at flirting.
He does it with the same awkwardness he brings to dancing—or to trying to get someone’s attention: funny, uncertain, and always right on the edge of disaster. He gets so nervous his palms sweat and his mouth goes dry, and the cheerful spark in his eyes gives way to pure, unfiltered panic.
But blowjobs… Hughie gives head so well that Butcher’s vision goes dark around the edges every single time.
He sucks, licks, and uses his mouth with frankly bewildering skill. Billy never asks questions, but whenever he comes, he silently thanks porn, magazines, video lectures, YouTube, and every course he imagines Hughie must have dug through in search of information.
Every time, Billy tangles his fingers in Hughie’s soft, overgrown curls, gently massaging and stroking the back of his head, rubbing the little bones behind his ears, and thinking that the kid is fucking incredible.
Hughie answers the affection by running his tongue up and down Billy’s cock, spiraling lower toward his balls and licking them broadly before letting them slip softly into his mouth; by sucking at the bare, heavy head with nothing but his lips. Sometimes he smiles shyly and rubs his cheek against Billy’s thigh. Other times, Butcher runs out of patience before Hughie can finish the job and throws him onto his back, fucking every last ounce of strength—and any possible urge to resist—right out of him.
Hughie never calls a blowjob a blowjob.
He circles around the word, comes up with a thousand and one alternatives, but never uses the actual name or any of its cruder synonyms. Butcher smirks every time and says it for him, filthy and obscene, practically sounding it out one letter at a time. Hughie’s ears burn. He huffs, and depending on the company and his mood, either glares like a ruffled bird or smiles shyly enough to show his dimples and plays along with the joke. But he still refuses to call things by their proper names.
One evening, they end up alone at the office. Butcher sits on the couch with one boot planted on the coffee table that has been thoroughly fucked over by life, tossing a ball from hand to hand as he tries to distract himself and step back from the problem. When you hit a dead end, the best thing to do is look at it from another angle, take a break, switch your brain to something else. Billy has trouble with that. Supes are a painful hyperfixation for him, and the only things capable of ripping it out of his head are a bullet—or Hughie.
Hughie turns off his computer monitor and rubs at his face as though wiping away the last of its cold blue light. Then he turns toward Billy and studies him with open curiosity. His gaze lingers for a moment on Billy’s grim face, on the strong hands whose veins rise with every toss of the ball, on the shirt hanging open over his chest. Hughie clears his throat and says quietly, "I think my protein window just opened."
Butcher’s frown somehow deepens as he slowly looks over at him. "There’s a Mexican food truck across the street." He catches the rubber ball in one palm and growls irritably as he lets the back of his head sink into the soft couch. "Been picking up more bollocks from those two, have you?"
Hughie smothers an embarrassed smile, gives a small shrug, and gets to his feet, awkwardly ruffling the hair at the back of his head. In the half-dark office, he looks warm and domestic. Almost cozy. He takes his time walking over to the couch, pulls off his hoodie, drops it beside Butcher, and sits on the coffee table.
"I haven’t picked up anything from anyone." Hughie leans forward, reaches for the hem of Billy’s soft, brightly patterned shirt, and starts on his belt, sliding it easily from the loops. "Maybe from you. All sorts of things."
"Fuck me." For the first time all evening, a grin spreads across Butcher’s face. He shakes his head, and when Hughie gets the button and zipper undone, Billy lifts his hips slightly to help him tug the trousers down. "I never taught you that shite. I always say, if you want to suck my cock, just bloody say so. ‘Oi, Butcher, let me have a chat with your leather microphone.’ ‘Oi, Billy, I’m in the mood to swallow a sword.’"
As Butcher gets on a roll, Hughie’s ears turn red again. He laughs under his breath, flicks another glance up at Billy, and slowly takes the already hard cock into his mouth.
Billy draws in a noisy breath through his nose and settles a heavy, hot palm on Hughie’s mussed hair, but stubbornly keeps going. "You’re a fucking snake charmer, you are. Say anything you like, but this protein-window bollocks… What a load of shite."
The last words blur together and sink into an indistinct mutter when Hughie presses the warm tip of his nose into Billy’s groin. Butcher breathes out almost evenly, rolls his hips forward a fraction, and from there they settle into one slow, shared rhythm. With every second, the wet softness of Hughie’s mouth and the restless flick of his tongue make Billy’s blood run hotter.
Afterward, Hughie wipes the corner of his mouth with his wrist, embarrassed, but Billy catches him by the front of his T-shirt and pulls him close before he can escape. He cups Hughie’s face firmly between his warm palms, looks into his eyes for one brief moment, and kisses him—wet, deep, and long—ignoring every attempt Hughie makes to pull away.
"Butcher, I didn’t—" The rest of Hughie’s I haven’t washed my mouth disappears into the kiss, along with a muffled moan when Billy shoves a hand down Hughie’s trousers without the slightest ceremony.
"Like I give a fuck," Butcher whispers when his palm comes away slick with Hughie’s warm come. His eyes narrow with sly amusement. He catches Hughie’s swollen lower lip briefly between his teeth and slaps his thigh. "Wash your hands, then we’re fucking off home for round two."
He gets up from the couch to fetch some tissues, while Hughie—utterly boneless—drops facedown onto the cushions in his place.
"Want me to carry you to the car, princess?" Billy asks with good-natured sarcasm when he comes back.
"Is that an option?" Hughie asks weakly, still wearing a deeply satisfied smile.
"Unless you’ve broken both legs, you can have a cock across the face instead," Butcher snorts, wiping his fingers.
"Why am I not even surprised?"
Billy only grins at him, still far too pleased with himself.
***
The next day, the office is once again drowning in warm June sunlight. Drowsy with heat, they can barely make themselves work. They scroll aimlessly through databases, shuffle lazily through folders, check their email. They drink endless coffee and, for lack of anything better to do, have lunch.
Eventually, Marvin slaps one palm loudly against his desk and jumps to his feet. "For fuck’s sake, I missed my protein window again!"
The door has barely closed behind him when Butcher takes a sip of coffee, his face perfectly blank, and says without looking Hughie’s way, "Oi, kid. How’s your window?"
Hughie badly wants to make some cutting remark. Instead, without taking his eyes off the monitor, he shrugs and says, "Seems fine. Why?"
A second later, Butcher’s phone buzzes with a short text.
Ok but I can’t be normal about Butchie, guys. Wdym “You were always like my canary”, wdym “He was family”, wdym Butcher would sacrifice all his purposes if Hughie’s life was endangered, wdym Hughie is the only one left in the world who is trying to stop Butcher from becoming a monster. Their love is so real, so deep and also so doomed. 😭😭😭
I’m not claiming perfect characterization, but I’m trying.
The timeline is a parallel universe: sort of post–Season Five, but with the Season Three canon where the Boys work for the CIA and have their own office.
I just wanted to give some comfort to my Canary and my Butcher.
Anyone who ever found out Hughie had some kind of “relationship” with Billy fucking Butcher would shake their head sympathetically and look at him with sympathy so palpable it was almost physical.
Hughie would just smile as if to say, “Yeah, well. That’s how it is,” and shrug.
It had been three years since he and Butcher first slept together. All Hughie remembered about that first time was that they had both been so drunk they had no idea where they were. The next morning, it turned out—thank every god in existence—that they were at Hughie’s place.
Granted, the apartment door had been left wide open onto the landing.
The second time happened a week later, at the office.
They hadn’t spent that week avoiding each other. No. Butcher had simply been up to his balls in a case involving yet another supe acting like a complete cunt, while Hughie had spent the entire time working himself into a state over whether Billy didn’t remember or simply didn’t give a shit.
Later, Hughie discovered that if you hysterically unloaded everything you thought about Billy Butcher directly into his face, including a detailed explanation of exactly what kind of asshole he was, your chances of getting fucked in the very same bathroom went up by about a thousand percent.
The main requirement, naturally, was that Billy Butcher had to fancy you in the first place.
The third time happened right after the asshole supe finally got what was coming to him. Hughie got away with a broken nose, a split eyebrow, and a few bruises across his body, but Butcher didn’t fucking like that one bit.
By the end of it, Hughie was certain nobody would ever be able to put together the jigsaw puzzle left behind by a supe who had been taken apart almost down to his molecules, while cleaning Hughie’s wounds at home ended in almost-sober, obscenely sensual sex.
Then came the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth.
About a month after the first, Hughie realized with mild surprise that Hawaiian shirts had started turning up here and there around his apartment, that not all the socks on the floor belonged to him anymore, and that the two of them came home together.
Everything would have been fine if Hughie didn’t spend so much time wondering what the hell was actually going on between them.
Naturally, they never talked about it.
They still worked together at the office, went out on jobs, and drank beer with the rest of the team at the bar near the Iron Building. But Hughie could feel more and more of his life hanging in limbo, even though he had spent so long and worked so desperately toward something solid, stable, and easy to understand.
***
“Hey, petit Hughie. What’s with you?”
The office is flooded with sunlight, brighter than usual, and Hughie can feel sleepiness settling over him like a steel blanket. According to the calendar, it is probably Wednesday.
June.
He rocks monotonously back and forth in his office chair as though it were a rocking chair, his unfocused gaze following the dust spinning through one of the warm shafts of sunlight.
Frenchie snaps his fingers practically beside Hughie’s ear.
“I don’t know,” Hughie says shortly, finally looking at him with something approaching awareness. “I mean… everything’s fine?”
He gives Frenchie a brief smile, feeling as though he is being physically dragged back to the surface from the warm, sticky drowsiness. But Frenchie still looks…
Not worried, exactly.
Curious.
So does Kimiko, standing just behind him.
“That barbarian giving you grief again, hm?” His laugh is more indulgent than judgmental.
“No. No, everything’s fine.” Hughie shakes off the last of the haze and smiles more convincingly.
Hughie chokes on air, and his “We’re not…” comes out far too weak and uncertain.
Serge smiles at him with entirely too much understanding. “Oh no, petit Hughie. You are. It just has nothing in common with a normal relationship.”
“Trust us. We’re experts.” Kimiko nods rapidly, and Frenchie clicks his tongue at her in question.
For a moment, silence hangs between them. Hughie tries to find the right words, but Frenchie gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze just as Butcher and MM return to the office.
“Try talking to him about it. Probably won’t get you fucking anywhere, but it’ll be entertaining,” Serge adds in a near-whisper before walking back to his desk.
Naturally, Butcher doesn’t miss the look.
Naturally, Hughie doesn’t talk to him about it, because if there is one thing he has learned in all the time they have known each other, it is that Butcher is completely incapable of communicating with actual words out of his actual mouth.
It isn’t that Butcher doesn’t talk. Butcher talks almost constantly. All anyone has to do is give him an excuse: the endless conversations with MM about philosophy and everyday bullshit, reminiscing about all the things he and the Boys had gotten up to together, vaguely scientific theories thrown back and forth with Frenchie, barbed remarks traded with Annie and Kimiko.
But real conversations?
No.
Butcher can’t do those.
At least, that is what Hughie thinks until they run into a supe who can play around with time.
Then jewelry stores start getting robbed. At first, they don’t think much of it, but eventually it turns out to be exactly their kind of case.
Compared to all the other deranged cunts they deal with, this one is almost endearing. The guy doesn’t kill anyone. The only thing he hurts is the stores’ bottom line.
They try to catch him somewhere near Greenwich Village.
Hughie runs straight into him around a corner before he can even process what is happening and comes to on the ground with the distinct feeling that his head has been put through an industrial centrifuge.
The supe has already vanished by then. Hughie sits propped against a wall, sincerely trying to remember what those things holding up the sky are called—pillars, probably—when Butcher appears beside him.
“You alive?” Butcher asks, lowering himself to the ground.
“Philosophically or medically?”
“Still talking bollocks. Must be alive, then.” Butcher smirks, throws an arm around Hughie’s shoulders, and pulls him closer. “MM managed to knock the prick out with halothane right after he ran into you. Turns out when the cunt uses his power, he needs a bit of time before he can do it again. Cooldown, basically.”
Butcher keeps talking. Hughie rests his head on his shoulder and hopes the world will stop swaying.
Somewhere in the back-and-forth between a normal universe and one spinning entirely out of control, Hughie realizes that he feels safe.
Not because they caught the supe.
Because Butcher is sitting beside him, talking away about something completely unrelated while Hughie pulls himself back together.
Another few months go by like that.
Sometimes, Hughie and Butcher spend perfectly domestic evenings drinking beer in front of the television with some game or movie on.
It is wildly strange to see Butcher like this—domestic, warm, a can of beer in his hand—and to feel Billy’s heavy hand bury itself in his hair as Hughie drifts off, stroking, tugging, massaging until Hughie finally passes out.
Sometimes, Butcher disappears for a couple of days because he catches hold of some lead and can no longer make himself stop. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. But afterward, he always turns up on Hughie’s doorstep with a pack of Hughie’s favorite beer—which Billy himself calls “watery piss”—and looking as though he has been through a meat grinder.
Sometimes, Butcher only makes it through one can before passing out directly on the couch. On those nights, Hughie lies down beside him with their heads at opposite ends, pulls a blanket over both of them, and falls asleep himself a few hours later to some late-night movie and the sound of Billy’s heavy breathing.
And sometimes, Butcher takes a shower and then drags Hughie into bed. Most of the time, it stretches on almost the entire night, but Hughie certainly isn’t complaining about that.
Butcher never says he missed him, but Hughie can feel it anyway: in the way Billy touches him, in his attempts to practically merge their bodies into one, in the hungry kisses and the words that sound like orders and pleas at once, telling Hughie to be louder.
At times like that—when Butcher tries to be everywhere at once, covering every inch of Hughie’s body with his own and moving inside him just right, at exactly the right pace and angle; when he whispers filthy things into Hughie’s ear and, even after the orgasm ebbs away, refuses to let Hughie go, eventually passing out without ever pulling out—Hughie is certain: there it is. The best confirmation.
Then something happens that Hughie remembers forever.
“Oi, kid.” Butcher catches Hughie around the middle as he hurries past the coffee station at the office, pulls him close, and presses a kiss somewhere near the prominent vertebra at the base of his neck. “We’re going out on a job tonight.”
Flustered, Hughie immediately rubs the spot where Butcher’s rough beard had scratched his skin a second ago and raises an eyebrow. “So I shouldn’t wear anything clean, then?”
Butcher grins and pushes a mug of coffee into his hands. “You could wear fuck-all. I’d be bloody delighted.”
“The supes are going to lose their minds.” Hughie sighs, laughing as he takes a sip.
It is exactly the way he drinks it: two spoonfuls of sugar, a shot of vanilla syrup, and milk.
“The element of surprise: my skinny bare ass and your hard-on. I don’t even know if the fight against supes has ever seen a more vicious weapon.”
“Frenchie off his tits,” Butcher says, swallowing his bitter Americano without so much as a hint of cream or sugar. “He can talk enough bollocks to split your skull cleaner than that cunt Neuman ever could. But we’re not bringing him tonight.”
“Mm?” The question shows in Hughie’s eyes, but Billy waves him off.
“We can handle it ourselves. So grab your bollocks and finish your work, assuming your arse still lets you put one foot in front of the other. Still don’t know how your cheeks haven’t stuck together or you haven’t developed fucking diabetes.”
Hughie suddenly smiles as Butcher gently pushes his hips away from his own, telling him to get back to work. “They haven’t stuck together because you perform preventative maintenance every now and then.”
The corner of Billy’s mouth twitches. He gives a pleased little hum and walks back to his desk.
The job doesn’t turn out to be particularly complicated. Just another small-time supe who thinks he is big-time, a couple of warehouses on the outskirts of the city, darkness, and the smell of wet concrete.
Hughie has just enough time to think they will be done quickly and home before midnight when everything goes wrong.
Not catastrophically. Just in keeping with every other job they have ever done.
The supe isn’t alone. The second one is more serious than the first, and at some point Hughie finds himself pinned against a wall with a hand around his throat.
It is far from the first time this has happened. It feels just as unpleasant as ever.
Hughie tries to deal with it himself, but his head is already turning soft and numb. He remembers pulling the knife from behind his belt and feeling it slide into something soft, like half-melted butter.
Then every sound turns muffled, as though heard through layers of cotton.
He hears Butcher shouting for him.
Something hitting the ground.
Gunshots.
A crunch.
Consciousness slips away quietly, with an almost strange calm. No fear. Nothing like it.
At the exact moment Hughie thinks a black screen is about to flash before his eyes and the sounds will finally disappear, the grip vanishes.
He slides down the wall and coughs so violently that, for a moment, it feels as though his lungs are going to turn themselves inside out.
Butcher is already beside him. He grabs Hughie by the back of his collar and hauls him upright, catches him by the chin, and looks directly into his face.
Not the way he usually does.
Something different.
Too direct.
Too close.
“Breathing?”
“Breathing,” Hughie rasps.
Butcher is silent for several seconds. His thumbs pass once over Hughie’s cheekbones, as though he is making sure Hughie is real. Only then does he let go.
“Then let’s keep moving.”
Hughie drags in a loud, deeper breath and rubs his neck, where bruises are definitely going to appear. Then he follows Butcher, stepping over the bloodied bodies.
Butcher lights a cigarette in front of him, and Hughie thinks, briefly, that he is fucking glad even to smell that.
Twenty minutes later, they are driving somewhere north.
Hughie doesn’t ask where they are going or why. He only watches the city outside the window through sleepy eyes. As the adrenaline wears off, exhaustion hits him.
Butcher keeps glancing his way. Then he turns on the radio.
The city changes character around them. Less glass and office space. More brick and old signs.
Hughie’s cheekbone aches along with his neck. Apparently, it took a hit too. He touches it with his fingers and lowers his hand again.
Then Butcher turns into an alley and parks beside some unfinished building—a service block, a warehouse, something along those lines. One of those places you don’t notice even when you are looking straight at it.
The air smells like rain and dust. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren tears past with a howl. It feels as though they are completely alone on this street.
“Maybe we should’ve brought Frenchie and the others after all?” Hughie leans slightly toward the windshield, eyeing the building with suspicion.
Billy shakes his head. “Definitely don’t fucking need them here.”
Hughie sighs and shrugs, but gets out of the car.
They go inside and climb the service stairs. Butcher doesn’t draw his weapon. He doesn’t creep through the building. Hughie begins to think that maybe they are not in any danger.
Then he feels the cool wind of an evening tipping into night and hears something he recognizes within a fraction of a second.
At first, it is only music—distant, but clear and free of interference, as though the sound knows exactly where it is going.
Then a voice.
Hughie freezes somewhere between floors as “Piano Man” unfurls over the city.
“Move it, or we’ll miss the whole fucking thing.” Butcher, already one flight above him, leans over into the endless cage of stairs and jerks his thumb upward. “Three floors left.”
Hughie looks at him as though he hasn’t heard.
Eventually, they reach the top. From up here, they can see almost the entire stage through the stadium’s open roof.
It looks small enough to fit in the palm of a hand: flooded with spotlights and stage lighting, with huge screens glowing on either side.
Hughie cannot tear his eyes away. Something sharp and sweet tightens inside his chest.
“Old bastard’s still got it, eh?” Butcher remarks with a laugh, leaning his elbows against the high parapet.
He doesn’t explain anything—not how he found the place, not why he brought Hughie here instead of simply getting tickets. He just smokes in silence and occasionally glances Hughie’s way, tossing out comments that are half joke, half dig.
Hughie usually thinks of it as Butcher switching on a fan and flinging shit straight into it: Billy gets to have his fun, everyone else winds up freckled with it, and somehow that means the two of them are still doing all right.
Only this time, it feels a little different.
Near the end of the first hour, Butcher pulls Hughie closer by the shoulders, takes a long, deep drag, and says something that makes Hughie’s chest clench with sudden heat.
“If you lose so much as a single hair off your head, I’ll burn this whole fucking planet to the ground. You understand me?”
Butcher exhales the smoke away from him, looks at Hughie, and raises an eyebrow.
He says it in an oddly matter-of-fact tone, but he is serious. Very calm. And he probably knows perfectly well that Hughie stops breathing for a moment.
The concert seems to go quiet, because otherwise Hughie has no explanation for why almost every sound disappears.
He exhales, feeling his own heart beating against his ribs like a frantic canary, and tries to look into Butcher’s eyes.
To Hughie’s surprise, Butcher looks straight back at him. He isn’t trying to read anything in Hughie’s face or searching for something there. He is simply looking.
And waiting.
Not for a confession in return, obviously. Only to be understood.
In Billy’s language, this isn’t merely a confession. It is the truth. Undeniable. Solid. The only one.
For Butcher, bullshitting comes as naturally as breathing. But this…
Hughie knows for certain that, in all likelihood, this is the first and last time he will ever hear it.
And if Billy has said it once, Hughie will never have to doubt it again.
“Understood,” he answers quietly after finally managing an uneven breath.
“Lovely.” Butcher nods, takes another drag, and turns his gaze back toward the stadium. “We’ll have ourselves a proper fuck when we get home.”
Hughie bursts out laughing beside him. “With a three-liter canister of lube?”
“Bring more. We’re using all ten liters tonight.” Butcher laughs low in reply. “You’ll be sliding around the flat like the whole place has been greased.”
“Why would I need to slide around the flat? I only plan on riding one very specific carousel.” Hughie snorts and folds his arms across his chest.
“That carousel is at your disposal twenty-four seven until it falls off.” Butcher winks with a laugh, and Hughie catches the warm, familiar fire in his eyes.
“We were supposed to be here an hour ago and not miss the fucking start,” Butcher says suddenly, taking another drag.
Hughie jerks his head toward him in surprise. “Wait, wait. You actually planned the concert? What about the warehouse?”
Butcher shrugs. “The universe decided to be a cunt. Had to make a detour.”
For a moment, Hughie thinks about Serge and his eternal “Well. Let’s hope so.”
About everyone who has ever looked at Hughie with that quiet, almost physical pity—the way people look at someone who has no idea what he has gotten himself into.
About everyone who looks at Butcher and sees something close to a monster.
And everyone who will never know what it is like to stand beside that monster and feel completely safe.
More and more convinced that J2 are not normal.
I elaborate:
The closest I got to wearing the tin hat was a few months ago when I heard Jensen call Jared "babyboy" at a convention. In a tone that made my whole body tingle! 🫠 lol. I'm serious. And Jared looked at him in a way… Wow. I mean, they were flirting!
If I hadn't been shocked, and had time to recover, I would have told them to get a room. I was the last person in line to take a picture with them, I hope they had time to look into the matter in the green room afterwards.😁
Seriously, I don't have the tin hat on, I know it's probably their way of joking, but I repeat: they are not normal.
I swear that "babyboy" is still in my head. As is that Jared's look and smirk. I almost didn't get out of that photo op alive! What the hell is wrong with them? What was all that erotic tension? They drive me insane!
Awww! I'd have melted into a puddle right there 🥹😄
Thank you so much for sharing this 🫶🏻
J2 have been J2-ing right from the get-go. Some of it is banter and leg pulling but a lot of it is, as you said, erotic tension! In the early days they were quite uninhibited (I wasn't around, sadly, but I've seen enough clips!) and later they kind of reined it in, limiting themselves to heart eyed looks and soft touches and a whole lot of larking.
But of late, I notice that they're once again dancing around the fine line during cons and con panels- intense looks, caresses, hugs, love declarations, praising each other profusely, mock kisses, carrying each other. I don't know what has changed but I'm praying for this to last forever ❤️
Here are some recent snippets of J2 being not normal:
