Billy Butcher stormed into the dimly lit room, his jaw clenched, and his eyes ablaze. Frenchie, perched on a battered couch, looked up from his tinkering with a half-smile. The Frenchman's eyes sparkled with mischief, and Butcher knew he was in for trouble.

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Butcher?" Frenchie drawled, his accent thick as molasses. "You look like you've swallowed a bloody porcupine."

Butcher slammed the door shut, the sound echoing off the walls. "Listen up," he growled, leaning in close. "I've heard tales about your… talents."

Frenchie raised an eyebrow. "Talents? Mon ami, I have many. Which one intrigues you?"

Butcher's gaze bore into Frenchie's, and he spat out the words. "Your mouth skills."

Frenchie's grin widened. "Ah, my pièce de résistance. What do you want, Butcher? A critique? A demonstration?"

Butcher's fists clenched. "I want you to go down on me."

Frenchie's laughter filled the room, a lilting melody that danced between the shadows. "Oh, Butcher, you're a complicated man. But first, a deal. You owe me."

"What kind of deal?" Butcher asked warily.

Frenchie leaned in, his lips brushing Butcher's ear. "You tell me your darkest secret. The one that keeps you awake at night. And in return, I'll make you forget it—for a little while."

Butcher hesitated. His past was a minefield of regrets, and he'd buried it deep. But Frenchie's offer was tempting. "Fine," he muttered. "Deal."

Frenchie pushed him against the wall, his fingers tracing the scars on Butcher's chest. "Close your eyes," he whispered. "Imagine the world outside doesn't exist."

And then Frenchie's mouth was on him—soft, insistent, and wickedly skilled. Butcher's knees buckled, and he clung to Frenchie's shoulders. The Frenchman's tongue explored every crevice, unraveling the knots in Butcher's soul. For a moment, the pain, the loss, the fury—they all faded away.

When Frenchie finally pulled back, Butcher gasped for air. "Bloody hell," he muttered.

Frenchie smirked. "Not bad, eh?"

Butcher wiped his mouth, his mind a whirlwind. "What's your secret, then?"

Frenchie's eyes darkened. "We all have our ghosts."

Frenchie leaned in again, his lips brushing Butcher's. "Now, forget. Just for tonight."

And Butcher did. For a few stolen hours, he forgot the world, the war, and the darkness that clung to him. All that remained was Frenchie's mouth—his wicked, beautiful mouth—working its magic.