Chapter Text
If a hangover could ever be possible from too much fucking, Butch Cavendish was feeling one right now. Anyone in the gang who was somehow not wise to their relationship likely was this morning. For a moment he checked the room to make sure all of their activity had not sent their bed crashing through the floor and into the parlor room. As he looked around, head aching, he noticed Burke had awoken already.
The Irishman was adjusting his hair in a mirror, grinning at Butch through his reflection. The shirt he wore was open, exposing the boundaries of his moko just under his collarbone, but Butch hardly noticed. What he did notice was...
"Those'r my clothes," he said, brain still muddled by sleep.
"Very good," Burke replied, tone jokingly condescending. Whilst he struggled to keep the trousers from sliding down his legs, he buttoned up the shirt, admiring himself in the mirror.
Vain little shit, Butch thought.
"I quite like these," the Irish rogue stated. "Black's very classy. Maybe I'll wear it the rest of the day."
"What, and make me wear yours??" Butch exclaimed. "I'll rip'em to pieces; they only fit on your scrawny ass."
Burke smiled, agreeing. Though he was quite fit, he was thinner than others. His pale frame was coated in wiry muscle, so at least he had that quality over someone like Skinny. The fact that Burke's arms indicated just how much damage he was capable of with a single punch set the pulse in Cavendish's groin to raging.
Slowly rising from the bed, Butch strode over to the mirror, standing behind Burke and looking at themselves. Burke grinned at him through their reflection, showing every tooth, and slipped on the braces, or else his new trousers would slide off.
"They're so big on you," Butch muttered, his voice at that familiar husky pitch. "So loose... damn easy to get my hands in."
Fingers spread, he slipped his palms down between skin and cloth and stopped at the halves of Burke's rump, cupping the cheeks. Burke moaned softly, smiling as he nuzzled Butch. All of these sounds and touches were causing Butch to forget his headache from the sex-hangover.
"Whatta ya think?" he murmured, squeezing. "A little hair of the dog?"
Another moan was released, breathier than the last, against his neck. Burke turned to fully face him, kissing a scraggly beard before slipping off the braces. The trousers fell to the floor.
In no time at all, Burke had changed his mind about wearing Butch's clothes for the day.