#homelander oneshot

[hughiecampbelle]

Malignant (Homelander Oneshot)

((TAKES PLACE IN S4E4))

Character/s: Homelander

Word Count: 1,468

Warning/s: gore, sort of all the basic warnings The Boys typically has

Requested: Hii! I’ve just found your blog, read some of your works and loveee them! Especially The Boys Preferences and imagines! May I request a platonic Homelander x reader with the prompts: Fury, Shooting Stars, “Get away from me” ? Thank youuu! - anon

A/N: Y'all when I tell you you're not ready!!! When I say I love this I mean I cannot stop smiling!!! I am Victor Frankenstein and this is my monster lol. Thank you for requesting my love! I hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Requests are open! 🔮

Get away from me. The words come out as a whimper, barely above a whisper. His features contort: insecurity, rage, struck dumb by your reaction. Despite himself, he smiles, trying make sense of it all. This is what we’ve always wanted. They deserved it, all of them. Why can’t- why can’t you see that? He takes a step closer and you react by moving further back, through the doorway. Your shoe makes a squeaking sound. Beneath the sole something squelches, wet and gummy. You don’t have to look down to know what you’ve stepped in. It’s splattered across the walls and ceiling. The entire room painted red. Faceless, headless, limbless bodies dropped across the floor. You’ve stepped on someones intestines, their insides strewn across the floor like shooting stars. Here and there are articles of clothing, a shoe without their twin, a name tag or Vought issued ID. You don’t recognize them. Many of them new hires. They weren’t around all those years ago. They took no part in what happened to you, to either of you. Bile rises in your throat. It’s the smell that’s the worst. Metallic. You can taste the iron on your tongue. Not just that, though. The heater was still on. Though the body was ash, the stench of burned skin and hair lingers. It’s thick, and hot, and disgusting. The warmth radiates off it, seeping into the rest of the lab. It leaves you fighting your nausea, your hatred, the two churning in your stomach. Why, why are you mad at me? He’s drenched in their blood. It’s dried across his face, his suit and in his hair. How long has he been with the bodies? You killed them, John. You killed them all. 

Despite what the media portrayed, your childhood wasn’t baseball games and apple pies. There was no mother to rock you to sleep or father telling you you were a great kid. There were no little sisters to play with or teasing from big brothers. No white pickett fence or a sweet, yet obedient, dog running around. There was sterility. There were test tubes, and locked rooms, and tests. There were knives, and guns, and fire. You and him, you were invincible. They wanted to test that. They wanted to see just how far you could be pushed before you broke. Your skin was impenetrable, but that didn’t mean it didn’t burn every time they shoved you into that chamber. You’d pound your fists against the door, begging and screaming, every inch of you engulfed in flames. Sometimes it still felt like you were burning. In dreams, maybe when the weather was warm. You were just a little kid. You thought (feared) this time would be the last time. This is how you would die. Your tears evaporated before they could fall. You’d call out for them, for the pseudo father figures. When that wasn’t enough, when they refused to move from their charts and lazy game of paper ball, you’d cry for John. Your companion, your brother, your friend. He’d be enclosed in his own hell. Eventually you learned to be quiet. Eventually you learned you would survive. No one was coming to save you. No one was going to stop this. You’d watch, day in and day out, first your skin, your muscles, until the fire kissed your bones. You’d come to hours, days later, completely healed. Not a single scar carved into your flesh. No evidence except your memories. 

If you were good, if you were well behaved, you might be rewarded. Taught a new game or trick. Tic-tac-toe had been an exciting discovery at the time. You’d liked playing O’s. John liked X’s. Hangman was another. Always with a dull pencil, just in case. You’d be sniffling, hiccupping, leftover from the sobbing, when they’d sit you on the lab table and ask you to guess a letter. They weren’t the kinds of words children should have heard, but how could you have known? Psychopath. Indestructible. Malignant. You didn’t know the meanings or, for a long time, how to spell them, but you heard them a lot. They were household names. If they were feeling generous, kind, they might give you more chances: add a face, a hat, a bowtie. Through tears you’d laugh at the ridiculousness, pointing out that the hanged man could not possibly be as accessorized as they were making him to be. You never liked when the game was over. Win or lose, it always meant the same thing. One man, much older than everyone else, would lift you up and carry you back to your cell as if you were his own. You’d cling to him, his shirt, clutching tight with your chubby, dimpled hands, watching over his shoulder as someone else would discard the pieces of paper, throwing them away. You wanted to keep them, have them to laugh at the silly stick figure when it was dark and you were all alone, but you wouldn’t dare ask. If not the man, then a young woman who’d lead you back, hand in hand, full of promises you both knew she would not keep. Talk of real games, with boards and pieces and cards. But when the time came again, when you did as you were told, all you were allotted was a piece of paper and pencil. 

Her body was the first you recognized. Faceless yes, but you knew her as well as you knew yourself. Barbara. She was like a mother to you. Albeit, a terrible one. A cold, uncaring, aseptic woman who studied you, who created you, made you the person you are today. Wasn’t that all mothers? She’d hush your cries, ask why you were so upset. You didn’t have the words, the vocabulary, and so she’d grow tired. Bored. When you could articulate yourself better, then you would be worthy of her time. Truthfully, you weren’t all that sad she was dead. She must’ve known what was going on. She must’ve seen or heard something. At night, when they came into your room. When they made you promise to keep it secret. Couldn’t she tell? Couldn’t any of them? Armies of psychologists couldn’t get the truth out of you, not that they were trying to. Their alliances rest elsewhere. Fear of abandonment had been ingrained into you. You’d cry even harder, begging her not to leave, not to go. She’d pretend she had no other choice, that it was your fault. You were a crybaby. A sissy. An imbecile. If you could not pull yourself together and act like an adult, she would have no choice but to get up. Beneath the hurt was a fury, a burning, but they had you trained well. Instead you screamed, begged, throwing yourself to the floor, into walls, harming yourself for an ounce of her attention. Affection. Circles of red stained the walls where your head had been bashed. Your clothes ripped and torn. Your tantrums were spectacular. Fantastical. Eventually you’d grow tired, exhausted. Bloody, you’d sit very still and breathe and wait for her to come back. Then, and only then, would she grace you with her presence.

You hoped the bitch suffered. 

Marty rests limp, his face crushed in, a hole lasered through his groin. You knew the story, the nickname. He tried to get you to call John that peculiar name, too. Try to get you in on the joke. You never did. He had names for you, too. Just as vulgar and perverted. No one ever stopped him. No one ever said it was inappropriate. You guessed when you were being gutted, sliced from collarbones to pelvis, turned into a living autopsy, harassment wasn’t such a big deal. You stepped over his body without a second though. Footsteps to follow from his skull (what was left of it) to where John stood. This is very bad. You find your voice again, inspecting the lab around you. The cake sits melted in it’s pink box. The lights flicker. There is an unsettling silence. But I, I did it for you. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. His grin is hysterical. John, you start, but the rest of your sentence clatters to the floor. He watches you, desperate for your approval, your appreciation. They did terrible things to you. They let terrible things happen to you, unspeakable things. Why should you be upset? Why should you mourn them? Why should their gruesome deaths fill you with anything but satisfaction? They deserved it. They were asking for it. You slide away the mans large intestine, wiping the blood from your shoe.  Thank you, you say finally, placing your hands on his shoulders, squeezing them. He breathes out a sigh of relief. Thank you, it means a lot.

[deebris]

From annoying to beloved

Homelander x fem!Reader

Synopsis: The new member of the Seven annoys Captain Patria with their habit of doodling in the corners all the time, but he didn't expect to end up liking it.

During the fourth season, it can be read as both romantic and platonic.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of murder, the reader has the power to control plasma, fluffy.

The reader is also kind of anxious.

Word count: 2.9k

"You gotta be fucking kidding with me." Homelander interrupted abruptly upon hearing snores in the room. "Is Noir sleeping?"

"Mmhmm," Firecracker murmured in agreement, but the masked superhero jolted awake when The Deep kicked his chair.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, guys." Black Noir straightened up, while the Captain shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom what he had just witnessed.

"Ah, what the fuck." The blonde furrowed his brows, eyes darting around the room quickly, then fixing on a specific point when something else caught his attention. He had noticed you earlier with a notebook and pencil, but now you're not writing but drawing. The irritating sound of the graphite scraping against the paper had been bothering him for some time, but he had tried to ignore it, assuming as a newcomer you were taking notes.

He wouldn't lie. Though he found taking notes utterly stupid, he liked to think someone was that focused on what he said. Not that he needed it, just opening his lips and everyone would be watching him. But as if that weren't enough, he finally realized you were dressed in regular civilian clothes.

"Radiance, where's your suit?" He asked slowly, but angrily. "Can't anyone do anything right around here?"

You finally tore your attention from the paper, meeting Homelander gaze directly. It's not that you weren't paying attention—in fact, you were, maybe more than anyone else there. It was easier to absorb things while doodling, a way to calm your nerves. Well, that or rubbing your sweaty fingers together until they hurt.

No one ever understood. Even back in school, your parents used to receive complaints about you drawing during class, no matter how high your grades were or the fact that you were the top student.

This was your first meeting with the Seven, and the last thing you wanted was to give the impression of being careless or not caring about being there. It could be said that one of the best days of your life was yesterday when Vought sent you a notice, letting you know that the greatest superhero of all had personally chosen you to join the team. After so many "retarded" - in his words - he had been forced to accept into the Seven, Homelander saw in you, above all, the opportunity to make up for Firecracker's ridiculous weakness.

When Ashley began talking about your powers, he had no doubt the last spot was yours. It was simply brilliant. Who the hell would have imagined someone would have powers to control a state of matter? You could maneuver fire, generate electrical discharges, disrupt magnetic fields, and damn it, you could split atoms as if slicing butter.

Vought's scientists said they didn't know if it was possible, but you could destroy the damn out of a star one day. Homelander wasn't a science guy, but in one of his moments of boredom, he got curious and did some research. He didn't even know that plasma crap was all that, he thought it was a cell thing or whatever.

He always thought someone with a power as peculiar as yours, and at your age, would be arrogant or just plain dumb. But you were actually the complete opposite. You didn't speak unnecessarily, and while you seemed very aware of your own actions, you had no clue how powerful you were, or perhaps ignored that fact. The blonde thought you were an idiot for it, but he appreciated the inferiority you submitted to, especially in relation to himself.

"I don't have one, sir," you replied to his question, feeling small with everyone looking.

"What the hell?" He continued, focusing on you with incredulous voice, he couldn't believe it. How did someone end up here without even having a superhero suit?

The truth was, you had never been part of any team before, nor had you received any sponsorship during your life, or even attended Godolkin University. The only thing you had were your powers, which were indeed impressive. You never chased after any position, nor were you ever obsessed with being a famous superheroine, but lately you thought it would be a good adventure to radicalize your life. That's when you applied to join the Seven.

"How do you have a name and not have a fucking suit?" He asked, boiling with anger, fists clenching tightly behind his back.

"They gave me a name when I filled out the application," you answered honestly. That day, after they chose to call you Radiance, a random and easily commercial name, you couldn't complain much and didn't want to bother, so you left it at that.

"You'll be introduced as an official member of the Seven tomorrow, how do you not have a suit?" He took his hands off his back, moving them as he spoke to express his confusion, and for a few moments you followed it movement like a child who can't keep their attention on anything for long. "Who's handling your marketing?"

You couldn't answer, so you stayed silent and no one else dared to say a word either. You had no idea who was handling your marketing, not knowing you should even have that. You glanced quickly around the table, perhaps seeking some kind of help for the situation, but everyone looked down when they realized you were staring at them. They were enjoying themselves, and that made you exhale through your nose in embarrassment.

"You know what? Fuck it, doesn't matter." Homelander brought his fingers to his furrowed forehead, letting out a loud sigh as he calmed down. "Just... don't show up like this in public until someone gives you a suit."

"Yes, sir," you replied tensely, relieved that he had resolved the matter.

Sister Sage widened her eyes in relief when she finally saw the superhero sitting beside her. She opened her mouth to begin speaking, as she had intended from the beginning, but when some sound was about to come out of her mouth, Homelander spoke to you again, this time pointing an accusatory finger at you:

"And stop drawing, damn it," he ordered, causing you to slowly drop the pencil on the table, as if caught doing something wrong with the weapon of the crime in hand. You stared at your lap throughout the entire meeting, embarrassed for messing everything up on your first day.

When the meeting ended, you followed most people out of the room, but stopped nearby in one of the hallways. You slid down the wall, crouching in a hidden corner, and lightly tapped the sketchbook against your forehead in annoyance.

"Stupid," you murmured softly to yourself. It was so ridiculous, yet it embarrassed you so much. Maybe this first day wasn't so bad after all. You would have plenty of time to prove your worth to everyone, no need to dwell on this situation. Even though you had been corrected in front of some of the most iconic supers by Homelander himself, this situation could be overcome. It was thinking about it that kept you from letting the burning tears fall.

"I can hear you whining," Homelander voice made you jump to your feet, startled to be caught once again doing something you shouldn't. He didn't seem happy, and his expression was so intimidating that you felt like Mariah Carey performing for a crowd of Eminem fans.

He approached you in slow steps and you held the sketchtebook protectively to your chest, as if that could protect you from something. He glanced down to briefly see the object in your hands and looked at you with disgust.

"If you don't straighten up, I'll kick you out. Got it?" Everything about him exuded threat. Maybe if he weren't so imposing and powerful, that sentence would have sounded a bit like the janitor from your old school scolding you for spending too much time in the bathroom during class.

You were paralyzed standing there and all you could do was a nod. But your gesture made him more aggressive.

"Answer with your mouth. Are you mute or something?" And there he was, hands behind his back again. He seemed to enjoy that pose.

"I won't mess up, sir," you said, swallowing your saliva.

"And get rid of that. Or burn it, do whatever, just get rid of it. And I better not see you with that again," he said referring to your notebook, walking away faster than before. "These kids..." you heard him mutter distantly.

After that happened, you didn't destroy the sketchtebook, but you were afraid of being caught and kept it safely tucked away in the back of a drawer in your room. What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right? You mentally made a promise to yourself not to use it anywhere else but here, to avoid causing more trouble.

It's been a week since you've been with the Seven, and several strange things have happened. You quickly realized that Homelander wasn't the pristine and merciful hero everyone believed him to be. But the truth was that deep down you already expected that. Everything about heroes always seemed too perfect and pure, there had to be a catch. Despite everything, you still remained yourself, never intentionally hurting anyone or getting involved in murders and conspiracies.

You were comfortable helping out with some minor crimes that Vought sent you to solve, but by now you suspected that sooner or later Homelander would ask you to do some of his atrocities. It was still hard to think about how to feel about it, but you weren't naive, you were already mentally preparing to submit to it or else be killed.

During that time, as you adjusted and interacted with the team, it didn't go unnoticed by Homelander that you were drawing on your own hand, or on napkins and on random sheets you found lying around, even though you hadn't shown up with your sketchtebook again. This was starting to wear on his last nerve, but he tried to ignore it. As long stayed as you were, without asking too many questions and obedient, he made an effort to continue overlooking your makeshift drawings.

"Meeting's over," the blond suddenly declared, interrupting another of the Seven's weekly gatherings while cutting off The Deep's rambling about his ideas.

"But I haven't even talked about the flying shark yet," he tried to defend himself.

"Shut up," Homelander's voice rang out sternly in the room, issuing a warning that the man promptly obeyed.

"Right. Meeting's over." Ashley nervously moved to gather the portfolios on the new soda advertisement she had come to present, but as soon as she touched the first folder, specifically the A-Train one, the superhero exploded in rage:

"Ashley! Get out!" She immediately dropped the folder in place and hurried out in her heels, unable to run in them. "All of you! Get out of here."

Everyone got up from their chairs, even you, and filed out through the front door, leaving the folders on the table. Sister Sage hesitated, thinking she might be an exception, but when his scowl deepened, she understood she should leave too.

With the room empty, Captain Patria took a few minutes to admire the view from the tower. He enjoyed staring at it sometimes, even when bored.

"Bunch of idiots," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in denial, indignant. If he had to spend one more minute with these morons, he would have a heart attack, even though that was technically impossible for him.

He threw his cape back as he turned to leave, looking down and not focusing on anything in particular. But his eyes caught something different from the other folders. It was obviously yours, with a huge drawing covering the text and images printed on it.

That was the first time he actually saw something you had scribbled. And damn, it was perfect. It was a drawing of everyone in the room, with him in the center looking angry. Just as he was. His ego flared up as he noticed that his figure was more detailed than the others'. You must have started drawing him first, hence had more time to detail him. The idea of you making him the main focus of this particular drawing made his pupils dilate. He used his super hearing to check if anyone else was around and secretly took that sheet for himself.

The next time he saw you drawing in the Seven's room, he couldn't help but wonder if you were drawing him again. As soon as he noticed you sneakily reaching for a pen that belonged to Ashley, he looked in your direction. The noise that used to annoy him now sparked curiosity. And after staring at you for so long, it didn't take long for you to look back at him too. The blond thought you would be embarrassed, like most people, but you just grinned as if you were used to being caught looking. And indeed, you were.

You began drawing Homelander more frequently when you realized he never caught you watching him. It was easier and avoided awkward situations with other people. After two whole weeks of drawing him continuously while taking advantage of this freedom, you felt capable of drawing his face without even needing to see a photo, having memorized most of his distinctive features.

Well, it seems he's finally noticed you.

Sometimes, when alone in your room, you took out your sketchbook and started practicing the memory of his facial features you had developed. Just like every other time, you became absorbed in the drawing, focusing only on the voices around you to understand what was being said. This was also a way to keep yourself engaged during conversations, so you wouldn't get restless from being still while being a mere spectator of everything. After all, you never participated much or gave opinions; Deep already did enough for two.

The meeting had already ended, but you stayed in your chair, even as everyone else left, to finish just a part of the hair. You thought no one would mind, and then you would leave as usual, but a voice caught you by surprise:

"Can I take a look?" Homelander asked, for the first time, using a gentle voice beside you. His expression was enigmatic, somewhat relaxed, and shy at the same time.

You turned the stack of post-it notes, also taken from Ashley, for him to see what you had drawn, fearing what he would say. You weren't ashamed of drawing people, much less of them catching you doing it. You feared because he found your habit annoying.

He observed the drawing, seeing his posture from the side, upright and imposing. He wondered if you drew him exactly as you saw him, or if it was just another caricature of reality, like those Photoshopped pictures spread around. He looked much better than he imagined, though he had that superiority complex that made him see himself as a god.

For a moment, he was offended to see his image stamped on such despicable things as scraps of paper and these damn post-it notes. Your fingerprints were also visible stains, and the paper was slightly wrinkled from his sweat. He had noticed that sometimes you drew calmly, as if you had all the time in the world, and other times it was like drawing on a boat in a storm. Today seemed to be the latter situation.

"Do you like drawing me?" He glanced at you.

"I do," you shrugged. That was the simplest and most truthful answer you could give. "Sorry, I won't do it anymore," you said, thinking he was bothered by it.

"Why?" He ignored your apology.

"You're drawable... I guess," you stared at the table, not understanding the flow of the conversation.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" He asked in a louder voice, turning to face you, obviously confused. "Is this some artistic shit?"

"It's just that you're easy to draw because you have unusual characteristics. It's a good thing," was your answer, and it inflated his chest with narcissistic pride. Unusual, that's what you said, but to him, it was like being called extraordinary.

"Next time you draw me, try using a sketchbook," he said sternly, pretending to reject your work, but deep down, he just didn't want to show that he really liked it. That statement was his way of encouraging you to continue, but at the same time, it was so ironic, considering he got mad at you just when you were drawing him in the sketchtebook that day.

"But you asked me to get rid of mine," you said simply, your voice dwindling with each word of the sentence, not wanting him to find out that you had never thrown it away.

"I'll get you a new one," he said dismissively, taking the entire stack of post-it notes with him, including the drawing, as if you wouldn't notice.

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

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Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[geminiwritten]

undercover ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: you have to go undercover as butcher’s wife to vought’s annual supe celebration - prompt (that i don’t remember where i saw it, i’m sorry!): “I bet you one hundred dollars that you’re hard right now.” *he stands up and drops $100 on the table*

notes: i wrote this in one day and you can tell!!! it’s so rushed, i’m so sorry, but also i’m just hot for this man and refuse to stop??? let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, very small alcohol consumption, very light smut, and a bit of harassment from an unwelcome dude

word count: 6496

“You have a thing for Butcher?” Hughie gasps, the apartment door swinging open as he steps inside.

Annie’s eyes grow wide, her hand covering her mouth to try and hide her cheeky smile. You scowl at her before turning to Hughie, his face a comical mixture of disgust and amusement.

“What have I said about eavesdropping on movie night, Hubert?” you demand, calling him by the stupid nickname you know he hates.

He rolls his eyes, “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I texted Annie to say I was on my way home. It’s not my fault you’re practically shouting about the fact that you want to fu-”

“Hughie,” Annie giggles, “be careful.”

“Hey,” he says, turning to her, “I’m just repeating what I heard.”

You hold your face in your hands and groan, sinking back into the soft couch cushions and praying that they might open up and swallow you into a different dimension.

“I’m sorry,” Annie sighs, “I honestly just lost track of time.”

Hughie drops his keys and wallet on the kitchen bench alongside two plastic bags that wreak of cheap Chinese food. Your stomach grumbles at the smell, and you reluctantly pull yourself off the couch before dragging your feet toward the kitchen.

“So,” Hughie says with a grin, “how long has this been going on then?”

“Nothing is going on,” you state, “and it’s certainly none of your business.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone,” he begins helping you unpack the bags of food, “besides, I had a sneaking suspicion. You do kind of look at him like-”

You pull a butterknife out of the draw and point it at him, “Like what?”

He freezes, his hands flying up on either side of his head in surrender.

Annie laughs again, “Okay, you two, cut it out.”

You put the knife down and retrieve three full sets of cutlery before setting a stack of bowls beside the containers of food. Hughie serves himself first before Annie fills her own bowl and you last, already shovelling mouthfuls of noodles into your mouth as you move back toward the couch.

“You know,” Hughie says between mouthfuls, “if you wanted to talk about it, I might be able to help.”

You scoff, “Yeah? How?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know, talk to him.”

“And say what?” you drop your fork into your bowl, mocking Hughie’s voice as you say, “Hey Butcher, do you think Y/N is hot, because I know she dreams about fucking you.”

He scowls at you, “I can be subtle.”

Annie giggles, hiding her face behind her bowl as Hughie casts his glare toward her.

“I appreciate your concern, Hughie,” you say, “but I think I’ll just stick to fantasising about him in the shower.”

His expression morphs into disgust as he begins choking on his mouthful of food, his face turning bright red. Annie’s laughter fills the room, and you join her while Hughie struggles to compose himself.

To your surprise, and relief, Hughie agrees to keep your little secret to himself. He doesn’t even make a stupid face the next day when the three of you arrive at the boys’ current hideout, finding MM, Frenchie, Kimiko, and the man himself huddled around the dining room table.

“Righ’ on time,” Butcher says with a grin, “let’s get to it, then.”

You knew he was excited about this next mission, if you could call it that. Everyone was, in fact, because thanks to Annie’s excellent intel, you were all attending Vought’s annual ball. A night of celebration to thank the mighty Supes for keeping the streets safe, or as Butcher liked to call it, Vought’s annual wank-fest.

“Your invitations are all sorted,” Annie says, pulling a small handful of envelopes out of her bag. “Hughie came up with all your aliases, so please stick to them, or you’ll be kicked out in a heartbeat. Security is tough at this thing, and there’ll be no talking yourselves out of a bad situation.”

She looks pointedly at Butcher, but his smirk only widens.

“Frenchie,” Hughie says, “you’re going as a member of the tech team, so you’ll be behind the scenes and keeping an eye on the cameras for anything suspicious.”

Frenchie rubs his hands together excitedly, taking the envelope from Annie and tearing it open.

“Monsieur Felipe Lavigne, senior security technician,” he announces, reading the ID card aloud.

“MM and Kimiko, you’ll be with me,” Hughie goes on, “we’ll be posing as press on behalf of the city council. There’s a huge group of council members and associates, so all we have to do is blend in.”

MM takes two envelopes and passes one to Kimiko.

Hughie turns to you, “I originally had you listed as press too, but then decided it might be smart to double down on Butcher’s alias, give him another level of cover, you know?”

You frown, tilting your head sceptically as he hands you and Butcher an envelope each.

“You’ll be attending as prospective stakeholders, invited by corporate to bask in the glory of Vought in the hopes that you’ll invest in their cause,” Hughie explains. “An affluent couple from upstate New York, recently immigrated from Britain after growing bored of your rich English lifestyle.”

You’re almost positive your brows have reached your hairline as you stare at the envelope in your hands, your trembling fingers struggling to pull the ID badge out.

“Brooklyn Williams,” you read aloud.

Annie shoots Hughie a look, promising that he would be paying for this later, and you realise that he must have made this decision in the past twelve hours without consulting her.

“William Williams,” Butcher says, frowning at Hughie, “really?”

Despite being the target of several unhappy stares, Hughie chuckles.

Frenchie snickers too, “At least you will not forget it, eh?”

“Smart move, Hughie,” MM speaks up, “Butcher is the one most likely to be caught, but with Y/N in tow, he might think twice about putting himself in danger.”

Butcher rolls his eyes, “Do none of you ‘ave any faith in me?”

Hughie, Frenchie, and MM respond in unison, “No.”

The seven of you spend the next two hours going over the details of your aliases and the agenda of the function. It’s going to be a huge event, which meant little risk of actually running into Homelander or anyone who might recognise any of you. Annie won’t be able to help on the night, being one of the spotlight attendees, but that isn’t what’s was making you nervous. You’re going to have to spend a good five hours pretending to be married to Butcher, the one man you desperately want and the one man you were trying very hard not to fall in love with.

After what feels like forever, Frenchie announces that he is going to get dinner and Annie bids you all goodbye to check in at Vought tower. Hughie sets his laptop up at the desk in the corner of the lounge room while MM excuses himself for his nightly facetime call with Janine.

Kimiko turns to you, signing a question about what you were all going to wear on the night.

“Annie helped me organise some things,” you reply, gesturing toward the suitcase by the door. “You should try it on now, and if you don’t like it we can find something else.”

You know Kimiko isn’t a fan of cocktail attire, and you definitely didn’t want her walking into the dragon’s den worrying about the way she looked or if she’d be able to fight should the need arise.

“What ‘bout me, love?” Butcher asks, his signature smirk curling the corner of his lips.

Your cheeks burn under his gaze, “You don’t get a choice, you’ll be wearing a suit.”

He chuckles, “I do love a stubborn woman, must’ve been why I married you.”

Your pulse thrums in your ears, and you fail to think of a sarcastic retort, instead turning away in the hopes that he hasn’t already noticed the bright colour in your cheeks.

Kimiko drops the case on its back with a thud, unzipping it quickly and throwing it open to pull out each of the bagged costumes. There are four suits of various styles with varying accessories, and two dresses. She stands holding the one labelled with her name, dragging the zip right down the middle and revealing the soft black fabric of her dress. It isn’t quite full length, hemmed just below the knee in a pencil skirt style and devoid of any embellishments. A simple black dress with long sleeves, fitted but flexible.

She grins, signing to you that it is perfect and thanking you for not putting her in anything ridiculous.

“We chose two pairs of shoes too,” you say, “in case you don’t want to wear the heels.”

Butcher strides toward the suitcase and picks up the last bag, but you follow him, quickly snatching it out of his hands before he can pull the zip.

“My dress can wait until the night,” you hold it behind your back for good measure, “I’m still not sure about it.”

He quirks one brow, “You’re not wearin’ latex, are ya?”

You roll your eyes before turning on your heel, taking your dress into your room and tucking it into the back of your closet. You fall back on your bed, your chest rising and falling with deep breaths as you try to calm your erratic pulse. It’s just one night, you can hold it together for one night, right?

The next two days pass in a blur of preparations and planning, and before you know it, you’re staring at the dress hanging in your closet with a towel wrapped around your body. Your hair is clean and curled, pulled into a half up do with twisted gold pins creating the illusion of diadem just below the crown of your head. You took a little longer to do your makeup than usual, out of practice in the art of winged eyeliner and false lashes, but in the end, you were proud. Now, the dress.

Your fingers are numb as you pull the zipper down, revealing the red silk material of the gown that Annie convinced you would be a good idea. You blame her for this just as much as Hughie.

“Come on, Y/N,” MM calls through your bedroom door, “we have to go.”

You sigh and throw your towel aside, hurriedly pulling the dress off its hanger. The material is cool against your skin, sliding easily over your curves and fitting your body like a tailor-made glove. You twist awkwardly to secure the zip before turning to the mirror.

The dress is floor length, a few inches of the red silk pooling at your feet, with a long slit reaching scandalously up to your left hip. The straps are about an inch thick, and the neck cowled, showcasing your breasts and the perfect amount cleavage. The silk hugs your torso, and you’re a little startled at just how good you feel in this dress.

Another knock at the door has you rushing to slip into your beige heels, and you check that your underwear are pulled high enough to not be seen in the slit of the dress before opening the door. MM’s jaw drops.

“Holy shit, Y/N.”

You blush, “Thanks.”

Being the gentleman he is, he tears his eyes away from you, offering you his arm with a cheeky grin plastered across his face.

In the lounge room, Kimiko is helping Frenchie with his tie and Hughie is struggling to secure his suspenders to his trousers. Your breath catches when your eyes land on Butcher, dressed in a classic and perfectly fitted black tux. He has even trimmed his beard and styled his hair, still a little dishevelled but holy shit, does the sight of him make your mouth water.

“Damn,” Hughie says when he sees you, “nice dress.”

“Nice suspenders.”

He chuckles, “Are we ready?”

Butcher turns to you, his jaw going slack and his eyes dark. Your chest squeezes, your lungs struggling to draw enough breath as your head spins from the lack of oxygen.

“Ready,” MM says beside you.

“Good,” Hughie tucks his ID badge into his shirt pocket, “I’ve organised two cars, one for Y/N and Butcher, and the other for the rest of us. Once we’re there, we can’t slip up, keep your masks up and don’t even look at anyone you think might recognise you.”

You check your small black clutch for your ID badge and phone.

“Earpieces are too risky tonight,” he continues, “so keep your phones on you, and if one of us is out, we all abort.”

Kimiko checks her own purse and the boys check their pockets before you all shuffle out the door. Hughie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko exit the building first, leaving you and Butcher alone in the lobby.

“You ready, sweethear’?” he asks, gazing at you with the same dark eyes as before.

You nod, “As I’ll ever be.”

After a minute, you exit the apartment and climb into the awaiting car. Butcher greets the driver as the car pulls away from the curb, and you take the chance to pull your phone out, typing out a quick message to Hughie.

‘I’m going to kill you.’

Your phone pings before you can put it away, and you quickly turn it to silent before reading his reply.

‘You’re welcome ;)’

A warm hand on your bare legs startles you, the heat sinking into your blood and making it sizzle through your veins.

“You sure you’re alrigh’?” Butcher asks.

“Yeah,” you mutter, “just nervous.”

His thumb rubs soft circles on your thigh, sending shockwaves of desire right to your core.

“Nothin’ to be worried ‘bout, love, I’ve got you.”

Your eyes almost roll back in your head at the sound of his deep voice. He truly does not know how much he does have you, all of you.

“Thanks, Billy,” you whisper, your voice unsteady.

His eyes don’t leave you for the duration of car ride, and your pulse refuses to settle. Anxiety and desire tangle in your stomach, twisting it into loops and winding the knot in your core even tighter than it already was.

Eventually, the car stops, and you both thank the driver before climbing out. You’re not at the main entrance of the building, but there is still a ridiculous number of security guards standing around, and barriers preventing anyone without an invitation from getting within twenty feet of the door. Butcher wraps an arm around your waist to guide you forward, his warmth shielding you from the cold night air.

“By the way,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you look fuckin’ delectable in that dress.”

Another wave of heat washes through your veins, and it takes every ounce of focus for you to not stumble up the walkway. Two security guards step forward as you both flash your ID badges.

“Mr. and Mrs. Williams,” the guard in front of Butcher says, scanning the barcodes on the badges, “welcome to Vought tower.”

The security guard in front of you is younger than the other, his blonde hair slicked back and his mouth etched into a sleazy smirk as his eyes rake up and down your body. He winks as he steps aside, and Butcher notices, his expression twisting into a scowl.

Just as you reach the doors, Butcher’s hand slips from your waist to your ass, squeezing it as he dips down and plants a hot kiss against your neck.

“Fuckin’ perve,” he mutters, before guiding you through the doors and down the corridor.

Your mouth is dry and your knees wobbly, but you move with practice and manage to appear cool and collected as you step into the huge event room. It’s extravagantly decorated with drapes of sheer fabric hanging from the high ceilings and a huge crystal chandelier in the centre. There are dozens of round tables, all set with fine silver-wear and obnoxious centrepieces made of red and white roses.

“Nice to know where all our money will be going if we decide to invest, darlin’,” Butcher says with a cheeky grin.

You giggle, letting him guide you through the clusters of elegantly dressed attendees toward where you assumed your table would be. You don’t remember ever finding out that piece of information, but you assume either Hughie or Annie told Butcher while you were still reeling about having to play ‘happy couple’ with him.

You listen carefully to snippets of conversations as you pass, waiting for anything interesting to catch your attention. Butcher stops at an empty table and pulls out a chair, you smile in thanks before taking a seat, quickly shuffling forward to avoid flashing everyone due to the ridiculously high split in your dress. Butcher notices though, chuckling to himself as he takes the chair beside you.

Before you can speak, he places a hand on your bare leg and squeezes, knocking every thought right out of your head.

You gasp, “I-It’s hot in here, is it hot in here?”

“I think that’s jus’ you, sweethear’,” he replies with a wink.

The room quickly fills with guests, conversations growing louder and drowning out the soft music playing over the speakers. Eventually, a woman takes the stage and the room falls quiet, listening to her lengthy introduction about how grateful Vought were for this night and how wonderful it is to be able to celebrate America’s finest superheroes. You can barely hear her though, your ears filled with the thrum of your pulse as Butcher’s fingers draw patterns on your leg. Your core aches, and you shift in your seat only to feel the dampness between your legs.

When the room erupts into applause, Butcher’s hand freezes, and you turn to see Homelander striding onto the stage, his hair blinding beneath the bright spotlight.

“Hey,” you whisper, placing a hand on top of Butcher’s, “you okay?”

He turns to you and his scowl relaxes, a soft smile pulling on his lips. “Yeah,” he replies, “I’m good.”

You slip your other hand beneath his, praying that he doesn’t notice how sweaty your palms are as you play with his fingers beneath the table. Although you had started in the hopes of calming him, you find your own sense of relaxation in his touch, focusing on the feeling of his skin as Homelander drawls on about Vought and The Seven.

After what feels like an eternity, he finishes his speech and the room cheers again. The woman returns to the microphone to announce the first course of food before music and conversation fills the air, and you turn your attention toward the centre of the table. Butcher grips your hand as you attempt to move it, entwining his fingers with yours and only allowing one of your hands free.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you two at one of these events before,” the woman beside you says.

She’s older but extremely elegant, with a pendant around her neck that you don’t doubt costs more money than you’ll ever get to see in your bank account.

“We’re new in town,” you reply, your voice very slightly lilted, “just moved from London’s east end, actually.”

“How charming,” she places a hand against her pendant, “I’m Lucille, and this is my husband, Jack.”

The podgy man beside her nods, his cheeks and nose bright red as he guzzles from his glass of champagne.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you say, “I’m Brooklyn, and this is my husband, William.”

You cast a glance at Butcher, only to find his eyes already locked on you, sparkling under the soft yellow lights. He has dopey smile on his lips and an emotion you can’t discern floating behind his gaze. Your stomach flips.

“You do make a charming, if you don’t mind my saying,” Lucille says.

You nod, your cheeks tingling with warmth, “Thank you.”

“So,” her husband, Jack, speaks up, his voice gruff, “what brings you here?”

You wait a beat for Butcher to reply, but he only watches you with that same expression.

“To be totally honest with you, I’m not sure,” you reply with a half-hearted laugh, “we have been thinking about investing, but I do wonder why a company of this immensity even needs investors.”

Jack chuckles, “You’ve got that right, seems greedy, doesn’t it?”

Lucille frowns at her husband before turning back to you, “We don’t do it for them, we do it for our grandkids, for their future. In the hopes that they will have a future, a safe one. This world is a nasty place.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” you sigh.

She nods, “That’s why it’s important to protect what you love, and hold on to it.”

Butcher’s hand squeezes yours, making your heart thump violently within your chest. You turn to him and meet his eyes, the fire in your veins blazing with a new intensity and heating every inch of your skin.

“I-If you’ll excuse me,” you stammer, pushing your chair back, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Butcher nods as you stand, and you can hear Lucille strike up new conversation while you weave between the tables toward the exit. Fresh air fills your lungs the moment you reach the foyer, and you pull your phone out of your bag, finding Hughie’s contact name with trembling fingers.

‘If I survive tonight, I WILL kill you.’

You hit send and turn toward the bathroom, almost stumbling when you see the same blonde security guard who had been stationed at the doors.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his slimy smirk loading the question with innuendo.

“I’m okay,” you reply, “thank you.”

He steps forward before you can move, “You sure? You look a little flustered. Perhaps a step outside might help? It does get awfully hot in here.”

The first spark of fear rattles up your spine.

“I appreciate that, but I just need to use the restroom,” you say.

His smirk doesn’t falter, “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I’d be more than happy to escort you. Can’t have a stunning woman such as yourself wandering the streets alone.”

You force a polite smile onto your face as you step around him and hurry down the corridor toward the bathrooms. With one subtle glance over your shoulder, you see him watching, still standing at the end of the hall looking almost predatory.

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, turning sharply into the first stall.

You close the toilet lid and sit on top if it, holding your head in your hands and counting your breaths. After a minute of trying to wrangle your wild thoughts, you decide that Butcher is either a fantastic actor or… in love with you. Your heart aches to agree with the latter, but your brain fights for reason, reminding you that you’re in an incredibly sensitive situation and he is only acting like this to keep up the façade.

You sigh and stand up, panic piercing your chest when you remember the pushy security guard waiting for you in the foyer. You find your phone again, tapping on Butcher’s name and quickly typing out a message.

‘Don’t freak out, I’m totally fine, but I need you to come get me. Foyer.’

You count to thirty before exiting the stall and washing your hands, pleasantly surprised by your reflection in the mirror, aside from the deep red splashed across your cheeks. You walk calmly out of the bathroom and down the corridor, ignoring the spike in your pulse when you see the back of the security guard still standing there.

He turns around at the sound of your footsteps, a smirk curling his lips. “Hey gorgeous, are you-”

“There you are,” Butcher calls, striding toward you.

He wraps an arm around your waist, his hand splayed across your lower back as he presses your body against his. You don’t have time to respond before his lips capture yours. Your knees almost buckle, your hands gripping his shoulders for support as his mouth moves against yours and your mind goes completely blank.

He pulls back ever so slightly, his forehead still touching yours as he whispers, “I missed you.”

The feeling that bubbles in your chest makes your heart want to explode.

“Better get back in there,” he says, carefully releasing you.

You nod, unable to summon a single word as he looks at you like that, his pupils blown and his lips swollen from the kiss. He takes one of your hands in his and pulls you toward the doors before casting a menacing scowl over his shoulder at the security guard.

“Did he touch you?” he asks, his voice low.

You shake your head, “No.”

“Good.”

“Wait,” you tug on his hand before he can walk through the doors.

He frowns as you pull him to the side, into an alcove beneath the grand stairs that lead up to the private rooms above the event hall. He doesn’t resist when you press him against the wall, your hands on his chest and your body covering his. You look up at him through your thick lashes, and you can feel a soft groan rumble through his chest.

“I’m not sure we were convincing enough,” you whisper, before surging up and pressing your lips against his.

His hands hold the back of your head as he tilts his own to deepen the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips and making you whimper. Your ears fill with the erratic thrum of your heart and the soft moans from the man in front of you, making you forget about everything that isn’t him. The fire rushing through your veins collects at your core, burning with need and making you clench as his hands wander down your back to cup your ass.

Time loses all meaning as you tangle your limbs with his, your body throbbing almost painfully. You have to stop yourself from clawing at his clothes, every desire within you craving to tear his suit apart and absolutely devour him.

Eventually, your lungs begin to burn, and the short gasps between kisses aren’t enough to appease them, so you pull away. His pupils are huge, consuming almost all of the colour in his eyes as he studies your face with a small smile.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs.

You open your mouth to tell him the same when someone clears their throat, and you both snap toward the sound. Hughie is standing a few feet away, his ID badge now on a lanyard around his neck and a notebook in his hand. His face looks pained, struggling to contain what would be a hysterical laugh if you weren’t all supposed to be undercover.

You stumble back from Butcher with wide eyes, your mouth trying to form words but no sound comes out.

Butcher straightens his jacket and clears his throat, “Sorry, mate, as you were.”

Hughie takes a deep breath and turns toward the room, and you have to commend him for his self-control.

Butcher looks down at you, “D’you think that was convincing enough?”

You giggle, “Maybe a little too convincing.”

He smirks and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, wiping at the smeared lipstick. You know you must look like a wreck, your makeup smudged and your face blotchy and red, but you don’t care.

“Better get back in there before you get me arrested for public indecency,” he says, taking your hand in his.

You laugh again as he leads you back into the room, guiding you through the throngs of people and toward your table. Lucille greets you with a smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she surveys your flustered state. Butcher sits and shuffles his chair closer to yours before placing a hand on your thigh, much higher than where it was before.

“It’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Lucille whispers to you.

You frown, “What is?”

“That love and passion,” she replies with a grin. “He just adores you, I can tell. Don’t ever let go of what you two have, it’s rare.”

You try to hide your smile, but it’s almost impossible. “I won’t.”

You’re not sure what you’ve missed but you assume it was Annie’s speech as the chatter around you is filled mostly with her name. The woman from before returns to the stage to rave some more, though you don’t bother trying to pay attention. Butcher is watching you with hungry eyes, filling your head with filthy thoughts and absolutely soaking your panties.

“So, Mrs. Williams,” he says, his voice low, “got any plans after this?”

“Not really,” you reply, “but I do think there’s a toy in the top drawer of my dresser calling my name.”

He swallows thickly, “Is that so?”

You nod, “I’m feeling a little wound up.”

“Perhaps I could help you unwind,” he whispers, “think I’d do a better job than that fuckin’ toy.”

“That’s a bold statement, are you sure?”

His fingers dig into your thighs with enough pressure to bruise, making your whole body jolt.

“Oh, I’m fuckin’ sure.”

His hand slides up your thigh and you part your legs instinctively.

He smirks, “Good girl, so responsive.”

The burning in your core pulses, sending white hot waves of desire up your spine to cloud your mind. His fingers brush the crotch of your panties, barely a touch but enough to make you sigh softly.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, “so ready for my c-”

Cheers erupt throughout the room, drowning out his voice and startling you out of your stupor. His hand slides back down your leg and his smirk breaks into a devilish grin when you look at him with a scowl.

“Sorry, love,” he says as he retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket.

You take a moment to collect your thoughts, drawing steady breaths and trying to focus on anything but the man beside you. He chuckles at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket.

“Was that your mistress?” you tease.

He raises his brows, “Is that jealousy I’m hearin’?”

You slide your hand up his thigh, stopping just below his crotch to squeeze.

“You tell me, do I have anything to be jealous of?”

His voice is almost a groan, “Never.”

“Good.”

You slide your hand over his crotch, relishing in the way his whole body tenses before you pull back and fold your hands in your own lap. He sighs and takes a generous gulp from his glass of champagne, grimacing at the taste before leaning toward you with an arm over the back of your chair.

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that?”

You turn to him, your face barely an inch from his, “Oh, baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

He leans back in his chair, his jaw tense but his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You fond of that dress?” he asks casually.

“This old thing? Nah.”

He nods once, “Good, because I’m goin’ to fuckin’ destroy it.”

The woman sitting on his other side chokes on her mouthful of champagne, casting an abhorrent glare toward the two of you before completely turning her back. You have to swallow your laughter, averting your gaze to your lap as Butcher chuckles quietly.

You feel your purse vibrate at the same time that Butcher reaches for his pocket. You pull your phone out and check the messages, finding several from Hughie.

‘We’re here to WORK, not fornicate.’

‘I just spent five minutes laughing to myself in the toilet.’

‘The shows closing soon, we should leave before the crowds. Unless you and Butcher are busy ;)’

“D’you think you can make it out of here without your knees bucklin’, love?” Butcher asks with a smirk.

You tuck your phone away and twist in your chair so that your legs are toward him, parting them slowly. The red silk slides against your skin and the split opens with your legs. Butcher’s gaze drops, his whole face turning red as his eyes grow wide.

“I bet you a hundred dollars that you’re rock hard right now,” you whisper, leaning forward.

His jaw twitches as his gaze moves to your chest, and you smirk before twisting toward Lucille.

“We’re going to duck out before the masses, but it was lovely meeting you,” you say, “and best wishes to your grandkids. They’re lucky to have such incredible grandparents.”

She smiles at you, her eyes watery, “It was lovely meeting you too, dear.”

Her husband grumbles a farewell and you smile politely at the rest of the table who you hadn’t bothered to meet before turning back to Butcher expectantly. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling at the way he shifts in his seat.

“Pleasure meeting you,” he nods toward Lucille and Jack.

He pushes his chair back and stands up, drawing a hand out of his pocket and dropping two fifty dollar bills onto the table before stepping back. A grin breaks across your face as you snatch the money and stand up, taking Butcher’s outstretched hand and letting him lead you out of the room. You almost stumble at the pace at which he drags you through the crowds, not stopping until you’re through the foyer, out the doors, and a good distance from the building’s entrance.

“You owe me,” he growls, yanking on your wrist so that you fall into his arms.

“Take whatever you want,” you whisper, “I’m all yours.”

Another rumble vibrates through his chest, and the knot of anticipation in your stomach twists tighter.

“Good, you’re here,” Hughie calls, his feet slapping against the pavement as he jogs toward you.

Butcher’s hold goes slack, and you take a reluctant step away from him as MM and Kimiko follow a few paces behind Hughie. The cold air nips at your bare skin, making you shiver.

“Where’s Frenchie?” MM asks.

“On his way,” Hughie replies with his phone in his hand, “and the car is close.”

You startle at the feeling of material falling around your shoulders, and glance up as Butcher steps in front of you, his arms guiding his blazer over your trembling body. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, looking up at him through your thick lashes as his lips curl into a soft smile. He moves back to stand at your side and wraps one arm around you, pulling you against side.

Hughie’s grin is so wide you want to slap it off his face.

“Not a word,” Butcher mutters.

Hughie chuckles, “I didn’t say anything.”

MM is clearly amused, and even Kimiko is giggling when Frenchie comes jogging up behind them.

“Did I miss something?” he asks, his brows raised as he looks from Butcher to you.

“Car’s here,” Hughie announces, and you all step toward the curb.

Hughie climbs in the front seat and greets the driver before texting rapidly on his phone, no doubt messaging Annie to let her know you were all safe and heading home. Kimiko and Frenchie shuffle toward the back of the van, and MM grumbles when neither you nor Butcher volunteer to join them. He squeezes between the two of them on the backseat before Butcher helps you into the van, and you take the single seat behind the passenger as Butcher falls into the last seat behind the driver.

You shrink into his jacket, enveloping yourself in his scent and relishing the warmth that his body had left behind. His eyes don’t leave you for the duration of the trip, studying your face, lingering on your lips, and moving up and down your body over and over again.

The drive feels much longer than it should, but the car finally pulls up outside your apartment block and you all pile out. Frenchie begins rambling about pieces of information he overheard, and MM fills in some of the gaps with snippets that he picked up in the press crowd. You almost feel guilty that you did nothing but dry hump Butcher and chat with an elderly rich woman, but that guilt washes away the moment you step inside the apartment.

“Bed, now,” Butcher tells you, tugging you by your hand toward the master bedroom.

“Y/N,” Hughie calls before you can disappear, “I thought your bedroom was that way.”

You turn to him with a frown, finding that stupid boyish grin stretched across his lips as the rest of the room watches you with amused faces.

“I’m not going to sleep, Hughie,” you say, before turning to Butcher, “I’m not tired.”

You catch a glimpse of his disgusted expression before you turn and rush into Butcher’s bedroom, followed closely by the man himself. His hand catches the collar the jacket and pulls it off of you as you step toward the bed.

“Not tired?” he asks, starting on the top button of his shirt.

You sit on the edge of the bed and kick your heels off. “Not at all.”

“Good.”

In two strides, he’s right in front of you, using his knee to nudge your legs apart so he can stand between them. His eyes trace up your bare leg, stopping where the red material reveals an inch of your black panties, and he sighs.

“So,” you say, leaning back with your hands on the bed, “what do I owe you?”

His self-control snaps and his hands yank at the opening of his shirt, ripping the rest of the buttons apart before he shrugs it off his shoulders. He straddles your hips and pushes you back, his lips assaulting your neck as you writhe beneath him.

“You said, I could take whatever fuckin’ I want,” he mutters against your skin.

You only moan in response and he sinks his teeth into your neck, hard enough to leave a bruise before soothing it with his tongue.

“I’m gon’a take all of you,” he growls, “but first-”

He sits back suddenly, his fingers making quick work of his belt and the fastenings of his trousers.

“I made a promise to this dress,” he finishes, before gripping the material on either side of the slit and ripping it.

You gasp as the silk falls loose around your body, tearing right up to the neck and cleaving the dress apart entirely. His eyes rake over your bare skin as he licks his lips and drops onto his hands to hover over you, grinding his hips down and eliciting another moan from your mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he sighs, “you’re gon’a kill me with those pretty noises, sweethear’.”

“Butcher,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I need you.”

His elbows buckle and his body falls on top of yours as his lips capture yours in a searing kiss.

“You have me,” he murmurs against your mouth, “you’ve got all of me.”

END.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Homelander fucking you in front of the 7😏

oops, my hand slipped

"What's the matter? I thought we're all adults in here."

Homelander let out a gluttoral sound as he sank even deeper into the great armchair, keeping his poker face on. If it wasn't for the lewd sounds echoing through the room, no one would suspect you were currently giving him the time of his life.

Not that he was subtle about it either way - he wanted them to know what's going on, wanted to brag about you almost as much as he needed all eyes to be on him.

John grinned quite satisfied as he looked down, observing you kneeling beneath him where you belonged. This whole time your gaze was locked on the only man that mattered, and though he would never admit it,he was just equally mesmerized.

He could see his own reflection in those eyes that never left him, and he couldn't deny that it turned him on even more. You were in a trance, eagerly working on his cock as if you were made just to please him.

Feeling himself being close he spread his legs even wider, balling a fist in your hair just to ram his whole lenght inside your throat.

Whatever Ashley was currently stammering about was interrupted through a deep groan of his, head falling back in ecstasy as he filled you up.

As always Homelander was quick to regain his composure, running a hand through his ruffled blond strands before putting up his trademark smirk.

"C'mon up sweetheart, I'd like you to meet the team." John lend you a hand, almost chivalrously helping you up. He gestured for you to sit on his lap, his gloved thumb shoving some splashes of his cum from your cheek into your mouth. "That's no good. You need to be more grateful for what I give you."

Never breaking eyecontact you grab ahold of his wrist, tongue running over his fingers as you savoured every last drop. "Yeah like this, good girl..." he growled, engaging in a messy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.

"Well, this is Y/N, say hello everyone! Isn't she amazing?!" All people in the room were visibly uncomfortable, mumbling flustered greetings to themselves and unsure whether they were supposed to watch or would be punished for it.

Well, you couldn't care less about them, quickly waving them a "hi guys" before focusing your whole attention on Homelander again. That's what he loved most about you: A whole room full of the most infamous supes, and yet it was like only he existed.

"Nah ah-ah" John scolded you playfully, two firm hands on either sided of your hips ramming your pelvis against his crotch, feeling him get hard again. "We're done when I say we're done."

You nodded mutely, giving him your most inviting smile as you slowly sank down on his cock, his mouth slightly agape. Chuckling bashfully, you start riding him with your head buried in his neck - but John had other plans.

"No need to hide, beautiful" he purred into your ear, softly nibbling at the sensitive skin before janking you back by the hair. He licked his lips with a predatory glint in his eyes, enjoying the view of your clothed tits bouncing in the rhythm of your movements. You gasp when he catches one in his mouth, tongue sucking and twirling around the sensitive skin of your nipple.

He then spun you around to look at the crew, bucking his groin even deeper against yours all while remaining seated. "Show them the pretty little face you make when you cum."

Goosebumps rise against your skin when you feel his lips trace thoughtful kisses along your spine, just to sink his teeth into your shoulderblade.

One hand was on your neck holding you in place, the other found the hem of your shirt, tearing it apart to reveal your chest. "It's impolite to stare" he suddenly warns the Deep, both thrilled by his display of possession yet not willing to share you too much. "If you get too excited, I'll have to laser your dick off."

John then proceeded to pinch your nipples just before cupping both of your breasts, squeezing hard enough to hurt just the enjoyable amount. You had long lost control over the volume of your moans, interrupting the conversation between those two.

Out of a whim he lifted you off of him, the empty feeling making you whine. "Relax, darling. I'm feeling generous today" he chuckled darkly at your pathetic plead, quickly bending you onto the tabletop, cheek pressed against the surface.

"Continue the meeting, Ashley" Homelander grinned mischievously as he started pounding into you from behind now, "I can multitask."

[dianesdiaries]

first day, nervous? | Homelander x Y/n

-Homelander is introduced to his newest assistant after Ashley went AWOL, and Y/n's expectations were more then she knew

-Soft foreplay/tension

NOTE: this is a draft so I might finish it later!!

"Hey, you're finally here! Took long enough".

His teeth creaked into a wide smile, almost as forced as the wide floor-to ceiling doors that ringed in my ears. I shuffled quietly towards the curved slim table, as the slender man ran his fingers along the rims. Blonde silky streaks ran through his hair, his eyes squinted as he pushed his strands back. Homelander was a peculiar choice for a leader. As I sat down and watched him glide around the table, he leaned daringly close into my presence. "So what made you decide Vought? I checked your resume you know, you seem pretty-under qualified. Sorry", Homelander chuckled away the awkwardness of his sentence. It was pretty clear he thought I didn't have the brains for it. "Well", I pushed my glasses back into my face, avoiding the gaze of the daring supe. "I've been in association with many government institutions and have worked for-"

"Blahhh Blahhhh"

It took a minute for me to take in his approach. So far, in the past six minutes we've gotten to know each other I can already see how 'bright' my future will be at Vought. "I want the real truth. Everybody comes here looking for fucking power- whether they have it or not. So, again. Why are you here?" he asked, his voice became stern as he ran his fingers across my shoulders. My body bolted at the feeling, his gloves curving along my collar. The one thing I could be sure on was his need for praise. He wanted me to tell him how great he was. He needed to hear exactly what I thought of him so he knew how to approach me. And he found exactly how. By fear.

I chuckled nervously, "Well, I-uh.. Was looking for a new job because I guess I got tired of the same... form after form stuff, you know?", sweat leaked like a tap from my temples, streaking through the bright curtains that swayed back and forth. Homelander dove into the next chair, quickly spinning mine to face him. My legs became entrapped between his, his arms leaning between my seat. "I think.. You'll find just what you're looking for here. Besides.. you work for me. Right?", his eyes asserted a cold shiver through my body. "That's right, sir". "And you'll do whatever I say?", the air became still with his words. my breaths encased into my cavity, the struggle to find wiggle room became worse. Of course he's my boss but.. God, he was so close. I bit my lip at the careless thought of us, I'd already had fallen for what he had planned before I walked into that room.

"Yes sir".

"Anything?", curiosity sparked in his words as he leaned closer, his hands barely caressing between my legs.

"Yes, sir", the yearning in my voice grew louder, my back arching to the sharp feeling of his fingers climbing inside my shirt. His lips pressed into mine, his passive hand making its way through my pencil-tight skirt. The soft hum of his grunts buzzed against my lips, it drove me crazy. He knew exactly what I wanted. He knew the words to say. He felt my heart pace before I had the chance to sit down. An unpredictable supe is never good news, so why do I want it so bad?

[previousloversandmuses]

Alright. The boys is back. You guys got me. Mainly because I am incredibly proud of my writing in this series, the next THREE parts will be uploaded at the same time. It should be in the next week or so. Stay tuned. After that, I will do a cutie little build up moment for the finale, and then we can celebrate me actually finishing a fanfiction!!! Yay!!!

At the end of the day, what do we want for our main character?

Taglist under the cut. Too lazy to add the new names right now. Check out my bio for the masterlist and to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @sl33pylilbunny @Lanassmarty @Sydneyyyya @1-800shootmeplease @muhahaha303 @nancymcl @speedyrebelfan @ghh05ttt @agentorange9595 @let-me-luve-you @peachytits @darkdahl @deans-spinster-witch @soggybasementfries @ladysparkles78 @madamthemoo @lyarr24 @sadlittlecountess @mickaelly007 @mrscountryclub @vtheoneandonly @decadentanchorwerewolf f @wonderland2022 @buckybarnes-1917 @rebeccathefangirl @daisy-the-quake @tiredbibitch @greyish-wallpaper @previousloversandmuses @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @justrealizedimmascifygurl @broimamy @freewastelandstrawberry @breadsgalore @savagemickey03 @franblaq6466 @lustendreams @atinylittlebee @VtheOneandOnly @supermanredundie @fandomferretagain

[staarboyyy]

┏━━━━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━━━━┓

-ˋˏ [ bowie | 19 | any pronouns ] ˎˊ-

┗━━━━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━━━━┛

┆ ┆ ┆ ┆ ┆ ┆

┆ ┆ ┆ ┆ ⏳ ₒ ‍ ‍

┆ ┆ ┆ *:･ﾟ ↷ ⋯ ♡ᵎ ✦ ⌇ ʷᵉˡᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ↴

┆ ┆ *ೃ bowies tumblr!

┆ ‍⊹ꮺ˚ banner credits ! *₊°。

¨🎞

✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧 ; all characters are 18+, written by adult(s), for adults, in adult scenarios. These scenarios can range from explicit, to gorey depending on the given tags. minors do not interact!

★📎 {} .. if requests are open, please be patient with completed drabbles! i am only one person with two weak malnourished thumbs, have mercy :(

☆💬。・i write for characters that have been considered "controversial" in the past, such as homelander, soldier boy, amanda young, etc. if those characters/sources bother you, please feel free to block me and my tags !

☆・．❕「tags」

-ˋˏ #bowies fics [all fics]

-ˋˏ #bowies requests [requested fics]

-ˋˏ #bowies headcannons [ all headcannons ]

-ˋˏ #bowies comfort tag [reposts of fanart of sources i love]

-ˋˏ #bowies silly tag [funny reposts]

-ˋˏ #pretty colors!!!@ [reposts of fanart of sources i love]

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

fic request status ; open !

headcannon request status ; open !

✩°｡⋆saw franchise x reader - all gender neutral

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: amanda young x reader

drowning ; unhealthy dynamics, descriptions of violence, s/h mentions slight stockholm syndrome, menetions of kidnapping, fluff, no smut - strangely soft moments and recalling memories of being taken in by amanda and john [ romance ]

quiet morning ; fluff, sleeping with socks, sleepy morning, buffmanda, pervymanda, straddling, teasing - amanda insists you both sleep in. [ suggestive ]

choice ; stroke mentions/slight descriptions, surgery mentions, panic attacks, grounding, hand holding, fluff, "i hate everyone but you" trope - after john has a stroke, you find yourself slightly split between two sides of the same coin. [ angst / romance ]

territory ; apprentice!reader, jealousy, amanda being a guard dog, anatomical terms for vagina, degradation, dubcon if u squint, biting, sadistmanda - amanda catches you and mark going over your lastet work. [ smut ]

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: mark hoffman x reader

worthy test ; dead dove, detective!reader, kidnapping, smut, gender neutral anatomy, gags, rough sex, slapping, needles, drugging, unhealthy dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, size difference kink, age difference, creampie, big ol man tiddies YEEHAWW!! - you and your team of investigators have been after jigsaw's apprentice for months, yet waking up bound to a chair makes way for suprises more sinister than you could have imagined [ smut ]

══════════════════════

✩°｡⋆the boys x reader - all gender neutral

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: homelander x reader

compliance ; sublander, bloodplay, knifeplay, handcuffs, dom/sub dynamic, consent, communication, prior planning, oral sex - getting homelander in a vulnerable position where you put him in cuffs he's not allowed to break. [ smut ]

supernova ; depowered!homelander, homelander reffered to as john, angst with a fluffy ending, domestic sweetness, anxiety attack, eating difficulties - john feels lost after losing his powers despite settling into a "normal" life with you. [ angst / romance ]

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: soldier boy x reader

negotiations ; dubcon, forced orgasms, slight daddy kink, glove kink if you squint, size kink, southern charm, drug use, wall sex, no pronouns used for reader but afab anatomy is repeatedly mentioned - upon joining The Boys to take down Homelander with the help of Soldier Boy, you come to realize he's much more of a hard bargain than you anticipated. [ smut / slight romance ]

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: frenchie x reader

people will talk ; weed smoking, alcohol references, fluff, intoxication, cozy fic, - late night meetings between you, frenchie and a joint [ fluff ]

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: frenchie x butcher x reader

team building ; reader has vagina, weed use / intoxication, supe reaper, enemies to lovers if you squint, hell yeah for long buildup, threesome, lap sitting, oral [receiving / giving], spitroast, lots of petnames - As a Supe on the run, joining The Boys can be nerve wracking - Easing up tension is no easy feat. [ smut ]

══════════════════════

✩°｡⋆fallout x reader - all gender neutral

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: cooper howard [the ghoul] x bounty!reader

paid in kind ; gunplay, breathplay, bondage, spitplay, hairpulling, oral [ m receiving ], throatfucking, wallfucking, creampie, accidental yearning, prolonged eye contact is sexy, switch!cooper is underrated, mentions of past sexual experiences, nondescript reader genitals, rad x as ghoul birth control - you've been running for weeks, but there's nowhere he won't find you. [ smut ]

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .: prewar!cooper x barbara howard x reader

summer lovin' ; costar!reader, hot tub time!, fluff beyond belief, relationship not labeled but everyone flirts with everyone!, alcohol mentions/consumption - after working on a film with cooper, you never imagined just how charming both of the howards were. [ romance / fluff ]

✩°｡⋆ Unexpected

; ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ thomas shelby x reader fic [ smut - specified anatomy ]

summary ; the shelby's and your family have worked together for quite some time. when your mother made a bold move against the lead shelby brother, you took to going to apologize personally.

tags / warnings ; intoxication, spanking, grinding, pleasure denial, thomas shelby being a bitch, smoking, masturbation, facial, cumplay if u squint, explicit consent, power imbalance

i. evening ,, ii. morning

═════════════════════

⊹ꮺ˚ masterlist will be updated bi-weekly!

⊹ꮺ˚ for a more accurate list, check #bowies fics ! <3

[sillysheriff]

little writing drabble / practice for homelander based on one of his first birthday spectacular events 🤞

i used this opportunity to make a little origin story for his 'humans are toys for our amusement' quote as well. . . so it's kind of an au moment(?!), but also heavily inspired by canon events such as the mirror dialogue and him rewatching videos / scrutinizing himself on television.

the ending is a little rushed but it's cool this is fine!

hope u enjoyyyyy 🤗

[v1nsmoke]

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐌 // 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

oneshot - frenchie (the boys) x gn!reader

tw: mentions of drugs

summary: the hideout is boring, and the only person making your stay worth it agrees

fandom: the boys

a/n: yall just need to hear me out on this one

tags: -

wc: 1.7k

Day two of doing nothing. Apparently we aren’t, but I get the feeling we are.

It was the second day since Butcher left the rest of the group in the underground hideout, declaring that he had a plan. Nobody knew where he went, and he didn’t answer the calls. He left you very few instructions: Don’t let anybody in, and don’t let anybody out. Afraid of what might happen if any of you broke this one rule, you didn’t even order food. That’s how you happened to eat a shit ton of instant ramen in two days. There was plenty of that.

Frenchie walks into the main room, sitting down beside you.

“Bonjour,” breathes out as he leans back on the couch.

“Hey there, man. How you doin’?” You ask. 

“Same old, nothing new, maybe a little tired. What about your fine self?”

“Nothing new.”

“Well, aren’t we a fun pair,” he chuckles.

“Boredom is a fun thing, isn’t it?”

He just shook his head jokingly.

“Oh yeah, loads of fun. Totally my favorite pastime.”

“What’s our next move? Or more like Butcher’s next move…” you ask.

He just rolled his eyes in reply.

“Butcher’s out doing whatever he’s doing, we are supposed to wait. Fun.”

“As always. Where’s the treasured teamwork? I’ll rot here in this basement.”

“And he’ll be sitting pretty in a bar somewhere, sipping on some overpriced bourbon,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Classic Butcher. He’s sitting there, saying ‘Oi, a boa ov oota!’ Strong ass British accent…”

He busts out laughing at the imitation, deeming it way too accurate.

“Yeah, that’s him! Bloody prick, eh?” He says the second part in a deep tone and a more British accent.

“Oi prick, don't disrespect ya briish mate! I’ll rip that bloody face of yours off!”

“Oh my God! I heard that perfectly in his stupid voice! You’re good at impressions.”

“Should I try yours?” You suggest with a smile.

He paused for a second, his expression morphing into a cheeky grin.

“Yeah, go on and give it your best shot, love.”

You clear your throat, then begin.

“Hey, mon cher, look at my new, elite style!” You speak with a passionate, strong french accent. “And then you’d show the weirdest clothing combination in fashion history!”

Frenchie dramatically gasps, his hand on his chest.

“Mon cher, you’re speaking to the king of fashion!” He speaks as he gestures at his eccentric clothes.

“Oh c’mon, you really think black and red striped jeans, a torn black shirt and a military green jacket is ‘style’? No way”

“You’re forgetting my matching chain, love. That’s the most important part. And the eyeliner,” he proudly adds, smirking.

“And the five different earrings,” you continue.

“Exactly. Now you’re catching on, cher,” he nods in agreement.

“I like the guyliner, though.”

He seems taken aback at the sudden statement, but he didn’t mind it at all. Nobody ever compliments his style, and for a reason.

“Yeah? You think it fits me?” He asks with a cheeky grin, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s cool!”

He smirked lightly as he tilted his head.

“You think I’m cool, huh?”

“I said the guyliner is cool. Are you the guyliner?”

“No?”

“Then there, you have your answer.”

He pouted jokingly and dramatically sighed.

“You wound me, love.”

“Excuse me manners, cher,” you reply with a similar pout.

“Oh but of course, ma biche. How rude of me,” he chuckled as he reached forward to pat your head affectionately.

“You didn’t do no wrong, pookie,” you smile.

He just rolled his eyes playfully, ruffling your head with one hand before pulling back.

“You’re a troublemaker, sweetheart,” he sighs with a smile.

“And you’re a sweetheart, troublemaker,” you reply.

He laughed and gave you a lopsided grin.

“Damn, you’re good at this, cher.”

“Unlike you in fashion.”

He gasped audibly and dramatically, bringing a hand to his chest in mock-offense.

“How dare you insult my perfectly curated and stylish outfit! I am deeply wounded by your words!”

“You sound like a little British boy right now,” you chuckle at his words.

Frenchie scoffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, feigning irritation.

“I’ll have you know, darling, that I sound nothing like that bloody Brit!” He imitated Butcher’s voice.

“Oi, mate, you’re not bad at imitations yourself!” you exclaim.

A bright idea sparked in his head. He chuckled lightly, the mock-offense disappearing from his face.

“Yeah, I’ve had a lot of practice. You think that’s good, you should hear my impression of the others.”

You raise your brows, curiosity eating you up.

“I’m here, ears wide open,” you say.

“Oh? You want more impressions? You really think you can handle my incredible mimicry skills?”

“You handled mine, I’ll see if I can handle yours.”

He smirked, his eyes glinting with playful mischief.

“Alright cher. You asked for it. Who should I imitate first?”

The voice was up to you now.

“Well, I almost said Butcher, but we’ve already been through that. Kimiko doesn’t speak, so she’s out of the question… Wait, could you try Homelander?” you ask after thinking out loud.

Frenchie chuckled and nodded. He pushed himself out slightly, assuming a confident and somewhat cocky demeanor as he began mimicking the “hero”, perfectly capturing his mannerism and voice.

“Are you asking me if I can do a good Homelander impression?” He chimes with a wide smile, his tone sounding serious. Yes, definitely Homelander. “Of course I can. I’m the best at everything, including impressions.”

“You had me at the ‘I’m the best at everything’ part,” you smile. The similarity was undeniable.

“See? I told you I was good,” he chuckles and continues the impression, channeling Homelander’s arrogance and superiority complex.

“And I never doubted it, cher.”

He smirked proudly, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Oh, I know you never doubted me. I’m simply too charming and talented for you not to believe me.”

The moment is broken by the door to the basement opening. Butcher steps through it, marching down the steps towards the group. Frenchie paused, immediately snapping out of his playful mood and straightening up in his seat. He glanced over to Butcher as he strides down the stairs, a mix of annoyance and curiosity on his face.

“So… Do you have anything?” You ask Butcher, breaking the silence that engulfed the room until that point.

Butcher shook his head, frustration etched across his face. He leaned against some boxes, crossing his arms. 

“Nah, not a goddamn thing. It’s like the bloke’s dropped off the bloody face of the earth.”

“What’s next? Or are we just going to sit here and look nice?” Hughie asks. 

Butcher let out an irritated huff, but before he could respond, Frenchie chimed in with a sarcastic tone.

“Oh, how exciting. Another day of sitting around doing absolutely nothing, How lovely, innit?”

“As you say, mate,” you jokingly reply, evoking the memory of when not too long ago, you and the man sitting next to you were joking about Butcher’s accent.

Frenchie chuckled at your response, glad that somebody finally shared his annoyance.

“Yeah, that’s about how exciting it is around here. We’d be better off watching paint dry, honestly.”

“I could paint something, and you could watch it dry,” you say in a serious tone.

He just chuckled, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Oh what a stellar idea, cher. Spending countless hours staring at paint drying, sounds like the absolute best way to waste time.”

“Should I get to work right now? Or should we spend another day doing nothing, and only then watch paint dry?”

“How about we take a minute to savor the sweet thrill of doing absolutely nothing? Maybe play a little game of “stare at the ceiling,” he sighed.

“Oi, how magnificent of an idea! We must get to it this bloody instant, mate!”

He suppressed a laugh, shaking his head slightly at your persistence.

“Ah, yes, the most thrilling and invigorating activity: ceiling gazing! Let the game of boredom commence!”

You throw your head back, eyes now fixed on the white, almost moldy ceiling, the paint visibly peeling off. Frenchie joined in with you, mimicking your position by throwing his head back and staring up at the ceiling as well. He tried to fake intense concentration, but a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he spoke.

“Ah, this is the life. Staring at a crumbling ceiling, what a brilliant way to spend our time. Truly exhilarating, cher.”

“Couldn’t have said it better, cher.”

He chuckles and glances over to you, his smirk widening.

“Well, we’re the masters of the art of doing nothing, aren’t we? Who needs exciting adventures and fun missions when we have ceiling watching and paint drying?”

You sigh, straightening up in your seat.

“Don’t we have something down here? Board games, pencils, anything? Or did Butcher forget that he was working with kids in adult bodies and forgot to child-proof everything around here?”

Frenchie thought for a few moments, before a devious glint appeared in his eyes.

“You know, I think we might have some stuff lying around here somewhere. I recall MM bringing some board games last time we had a “team bonding night”, whatever that was supposed to be.”

You audibly laugh, despite meaning to hold it back.

“Team bonding night? The Boys? That’s ridiculous!”

Frenchie chuckled and nodded in agreement.

“Oh, yeah, it was hilariously absurd. MM thought it was a brilliant idea for us to all gather ‘round and play some games, claiming it was a great way to strengthen our team dynamics. As if we haven’t got enough things to worry about already.”

“The closest thing this group has to team-bonding is collective trauma and coke-snorting.”

He laughed heartily at your remark, finding it absolutely accurate.

“You’re not wrong there. We’ve got more trauma and substance abuse issues among us than a damn rehab center.”

“We should change the group name from “The Boys” to “Mentally Ill Individuals and Addicts Who Belong to a Rehab Center or Mental Hospital.”

He chuckled and nodded in agreement.

“That’s a much more fitting name for us, ain’t it? We’d be a hell of a lot more productive in a rehab center or mental hospital, that’s for damn sure.”

“They would let us do something there at least.”

He tilted his head, pretending to be deep in thought.

“True, true. In a rehab center or mental hospital, we could actually be doing something productive, like group therapy sessions or arts and crafts. Hell, maybe they’d even let us watch paint dry and stare at the damn ceiling while they’re at it. Sounds like a goddamn vacation compared to this life.”

© v1nsmokes 2024. Do not modify, translate or rewrite.

[hughiecampbelle]

Cornered (Homelander Oneshot)

Character/s: Homelander

Word Count: 1,645

Requested: Hi! Can I request Homelander x reader with the prompts “Engagement” and “I missed you”? I haven’t requested anything from anyone in awhile so I hope I’m doing this right 😆 - anon

A/N: I'm so sorry it's taken me so long my love! Writing fics has been especially hard lately. I have so many great requests, so many good ideas, but I hate everything I write and I just don't want to post something I'm unhappy with. I'm still not 100% over this, but rewriting it over and over just ends up making it worse unfortunately 😅 Writers block is so frustrating and makes me feel awful. Thank you for being so patient and I really hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

I missed you. His room is completely destroyed. Mirrors shattered, statues broken, furniture in flames. And he stands in the middle, perfectly untouched, unphased, arms stretched outward. He expects a hug. He expects a lot of things. You step over the debris, inhaling the scent of smoke, of burning, mazing through the mess towards him. It’s too quiet. Aside from the crackling of the fire, it eats through the fabric, the stuffing of the couch, you could hear a pin drop. This place had always been eerie, but it was downright frightening. His smile is wide, unfaltering. He wraps himself around you, his hand raising to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into him. He never learned to be gentle. He never learned to hug someone like he likes them. He does it out of ownership, control. He does it so that you cannot fight back. You squeeze your eyes shut, imagining a different life, a different love, anything but this. Your arms stay still at your side. I missed you so much, he says again as a sign in relief. He doesn’t wait for you to respond. He’s learned, over the years, that conversations like this lack a back and forth. They are one sided. He talks to himself. Sometimes he’s okay with it. Sometimes he’s not. At this moment, he is the latter. I missed you so much. Is he talking to himself? Responding to himself? Is he trying to comfort himself? Did you miss me? This is a test. Unable to speak, to find your voice, you nod. You make sure he can feel you do this. Good, he smiles, that's good. You did good. You passed. This time. 

It’s hard to remember a time before this. There was a childhood. An adolescence. Young adulthood. There had to be. People didn’t just wake up one day, existing instantaneously. You had to have had a family, friends, some sort of education. There are glimpses of that, of a person who lived, who looked like you, who is long gone. A best friend you shared crayons with. Maybe they were colored pencils. All you see is the colors, the dimpled hands of small children grabbing greedily at the cyan blue or cherry red. You don’t know what you were drawing, or who this other person was, only that, for a few seconds at least, you had a friend. Someone who cared about you, perhaps even loved you. There is a car ride. You’re big enough to sit in the passenger seat. It’s bright outside, green, probably Spring. The window is cracked open, the breeze kissing your face, the sunlight beaming down through the branches of the tree lined street. A feminine voice is talking to you. Her words are muffled, her tone malleable. Sometimes she sounds happy, on the verge of laughter. Other times she’s annoyed, frustrated. The scenery never changes. It is always nice out. It was always warm. You like to think of her as your mother. A maternal figure concerned for your safety, pleasantly surprised about a good grade, tired of your attitude. You’d take it all, needy for validation. A father, you’re sure, slamming a door. There’s a suitcase on the floor, between you. You’re not sure who takes ownership over it. There is yelling, a language you don’t recognize. He vibrates, his anger cartoonish. What did you do to deserve this? Are you leaving or is he? You’re older than you were in the car ride. You’re not sure how you know, only that you do. There is no beginning or end, just snippets of the middle. How does this play out, you wonder. You could come up with a story. He’s leaving and you’re trying to stop him. You’re leaving and he’s trying to stop you. You’re not sure which is better. 

There are glimpses of the past. Yours, you assume, though the line between reality and fantasy has long been gone, worn away with time and desperation. A taste of normalcy. You imagine you lived in a small town in the middle of the country, somewhere bleak and boring, somewhere you could have been extraordinary. You imagine a child version of yourself dreaming of this future down to the last detail. You wake up each morning in his bed, in his place, at the top of the tower. For a few cloudy seconds you view this world from the perspective of a stranger: there is an engagement ring on your finger, the space beside you in the bed is empty, the room you occupy is grand and expensive looking. The person who lives here, who found love, who has everything they could ever want, should be happy, right? And then, like a slap across the cheek, stinging, it hits you: you are that person. So why aren’t you happy? Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you asked for? Dreamed of? 

The haze ends your first weeks after joining The Seven. Reporters, cameras flashing, overwhelmed by voices and snapshots and microphones. You smile, doing your best to hear a question between the mumbling of the crowds. A hand pulls you through the chaos, leading you to salvation. Safely inside, he laughs, congratulating you. There’s a light in his eyes that is warm, safe. You can’t believe he’s giving you attention, let alone complimenting you. You thank him. He’s there again, behind you, a hand on your shoulder. It was reassuring at the time, a way to show solidarity between veteran and rookie heroes. Your voice shakes, fear and anxiety radiating through you. You’d never had your own press conference before. It was after a big save, though. Everyone stood back, letting you in the limelight. You debuted a new suit, a new identity, letting your name fade away. Even now it sounds alien to you. The person you were and the person you are are disconnected, isolated. It’s been years since you’ve heard someone say it. Hearing it in passing is no longer startling, it no longer grabs your attention. It’s lost all meaning. 

This was years ago. You were still fresh faced. His touch was new, exciting. His affections were innocent, friendly. This world was bright and shiny. It’s lost its excitement. It’s lost its appeal. The warmth in his eyes turned hot, burning, furious. The last time you fought they glowed red, a warning that he was not fucking around. How long ago was that? Weeks, maybe months. You’ve been good. You do as you’re told. You smile when you need to. You kiss him. You pose. You show off your ring. The story was breaking news, running through the cycle the past few days: Homelander popped the question and you said yes! You don’t recognize yourself in the interviews. You don’t recognize him either. You’re happy, laughing easily, talking about wedding plans. The interviewer, a woman with lipstick on her teeth, asks about the future. Oh, you say. The mask slips. You hadn’t thought about the future. Years now you spent getting through the moment, the minute. You didn’t have it in you to think ahead. You couldn’t. You knew what it looked like, what he’d want from you, what you’d have to give up. Not just a name or a past. That was easy. That’s what you thought you wanted. This was a lifetime. A lifetime of fear, threats, and silence. Oh, you say, and it all comes at once, the realizations wrapping their hands around your throat. He squeezes your hand, talking for the both of you, filling the silence like a pro. She turns her attention towards him, recovering quickly. No one even noticed.  It’s better today. You dress. You sit through meetings. You disappear into the background, watching everyone instead of being part of it. You don’t think too much. You’re not overwhelmed by the idea of raising his children, of spending your time secluded with him, in his shadow. You’re not disgusted by the ring on your finger or the way he kisses you. The bruises strategically placed where fabric covers do not ache as bad as they did yesterday. It’s better today. It’s manageable. Ashley goes over the next few weeks: wedding planning, florists, musicians, guests, wardrobe, cake tasting. There was so much, and yet so much was missing. A mother to cry. A father to walk you down the aisle. Friends. She wanted every part of this decision making televised. It would be the wedding of the century. She goes down the list and you only have it in you to nod. Where was Homelander? Why wasn’t he being bombarded by color palettes and types of icing and venues? It wasn’t really up to you, anyways. You could pretend. You could make decisions: a lighter palette by the ocean with raspberry cake and vanilla frosting. You could plan it all, but he would always have final say. She’s still talking, going on and on about how you’ll wear your hair and the amount of cameras, who is and isn’t allowed to drink, but you’re not really listening. You’re sinking back into the chair. You’re taking it one breath at a time. In, out. Maybe there was a before. Before him, before all this, but it’s long gone. From the moment he saw you he knew you would be his. You would do as you were told. You would follow orders. And in return, you would lose yourself. Yeah that sounds good, you say, though you’re not really listening. You’re far away from yourself, the room, the world. It was better today. The weight of what’s happened. The more she speaks, the greater the feeling becomes: dread blossoming in the middle of your chest. You were trapped. You could scream and cry all you wanted, this place was a cage and Homelander held the key. 

[vindickyoutive]

black noir being the father that stepped up :)

here’s a little snippet of ‘black noir being the father that stepped up’ WIP :) the explanation written in the heading is simply: ‘noir passive aggressively forces his way to see the experiment he technically risked his life for’

At first, he thought they were fabricating the truth just so that he’d be one-hundred percent convinced. The notion had come off to him as ridiculous, simply a stretched hope, something that wasn’t even remotely possible considering all of their limitations - and yet, all of it was real, unfolding right in front of his eyes. His one eye, for the time being.

A week had passed since the fight, since Soldier Boy’s abduction, Noir hadn’t healed properly, but that’s the least of his worries. Luckily enough, he pulled through. With the extent of the beating he had received, the severity of his injuries, including how close he had felt to his head being completely smashed inward - the scars littering his face, his head, being alive right now was all he could ever ask for.

The child, three years old now, Noir found out he was born April-May nineteen-eighty one, had bleached blonde hair and he kept chewing on his fist as he sat on the cold, pasty tiled floor, his other hand yanking at the blanket sprawled over his tiny legs.

Although he made no noise that indicated any interest in what he was seeing, Noir had lifted his hand to press his palm against the glass and slowly leaned in, ogling the boy, body language exuding infatuation.

Vogelbaum was saying something next to him, but he wasn’t listening, he kept staring at the baby, listening to the echoes of the toddler humming an unrecognizable tune.

Vogelbaum slips up and says ‘John’ in reference to their little labrat. John’s name is the only piece of information Noir feels the need to retain, the doctor begins to correct himself, seeming a little perturbed at himself due to his moment of slippage.

Noir was already repeating the name over and over in his head.

He goes inside to see the toddler, Vogelbaum lets him albeit reluctantly. Noir wonders how long he’s been carrying this invisible air of intimidation that causes individuals to sway, he questions if these people even trust him. It’s not like they trust Payback at all. Noir was the only one who decided to stay around much to the discomfort of everyone else.

Once Edgar mentioned the replacement was ‘still a child’ he knew he couldn’t leave.

Vought did a necessary task in the midst of being one of the most corrupt companies in capitalist America, and that task was getting rid of Soldier Boy. Yet, even then, they’ve once again caught themselves meddling in something sinisterly heinous, again. Noir thinks about their track record as he shuts the door behind him, the toddler scooting back, tilting his head at him as he strides over, he thinks about the evils of raising a child like this, in this type of facility.

Noir kneels, holding his hand out.

John has big blue eyes that were intensely locked onto his hand, his eyebrows dark brown, and the back of his hand has slobber on it as he extends it, touching Noir’s palm curiously for a few seconds, his wet stubby little fingers wrapping around his pinky.

Noir tilts his head and wiggles his pinky finger, curling it before poking it out, John is thrown into fits of giggles at the small action, flickering his eyes up at him, his small, white baby teeth on display as he grins at him.

His smile reminds Noir of sun rays peeking over the horizon, blanketing the skies with a fuzzy pink color before it diminishes into a blinding brightness, his laugh reminds him of singing birds twiddling about in the trees in the mist of early dawn, and when John had lightly squeezed his entire hand around Noir’s pinky, the man had felt his breath catch in his throat.

A page is turned over, and he lets himself relish in this moment, this is the most content he’s ever felt, and it’s with Soldier Boy’s son, his greatest nightmare’s very own offspring. That only keeps him grounded though, because that man is gone, and John is what is left, the potential for him is promising, and Noir is going to control it, nurture it.

From the beginning, as soon as he walked in, there was this sense of protection that crashed over him, and in this moment, the longer he plays with the bubbling boy, ignoring Vogelbaum standing outside the door, peeking through observantly, he lets the waves wrap around him.

It’s like a kilt, warm, snug.

[geminiwritten]

hot dream ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: you fall asleep in butcher’s sweater and have a rather steamy dream, not realising that everyone heard you moaning butcher’s name in your sleep

notes: this is so bad, and it makes me so sad because i was so excited to write it, but work has been so blegh that i just feel like i failed??? i don’t know, it’s definitely not my best writing, but it’s something! hope y’all can still enjoy!

warnings: swearing, google-translated french, some very incorrect chemistry, and a tiny bit of smut (i’m working myself up to actually writing it, i promise!)

^ the sweater

word count: 4691

“It’s fucking cold in here,” you say, rubbing your arms as you step into the living room.

Frenchie and Kimiko are curled up under a blanket on the couch, and Butcher is lounging on the single seat sofa with his feet propped on top of the coffee table. You know MM is on his way back from Monique’s house with spare clothes and comforters, but you also know how caught up he can get when he spends time with Janine.

“You do not have a jumper?” Frenchie asks.

You shake your head, “The last sweatshirt I had was burnt to a crisp two weeks ago.”

New York City is quickly falling into winter, the air turning crisp and heavy clouds rolling overhead as news channels warn about impending snow within the week.

Kimiko looks up at you and wriggles her arms out of the blanket to sign an apology, gesturing to the jumper she wears as the only one she has.

Butcher sighs and pushes himself off the sofa, “I’ve got somethin’.”

The tiny butterflies in your stomach flitter to life, bouncing around excitedly at the thought of wearing Butcher’s clothing. You move a hand from your arm to your stomach and curse the stupid giddiness that this man aroused within you. It’s ridiculous, really, and just a stupid crush, but he never fails to elicit some sort of irritating physical reaction within your body every time he speaks.

He disappears into the main bedroom for a moment before remerging with a black garment in hand. “Here,” he says, handing it to you, “don’t get it burnt though, it’s my favourite.”

You give him a cheeky smile, “I make no promises.”

Your fingers brush his as you take the sweater from his hand, and his eyes capture yours in a stare you cannot break. His lip quirks into that gorgeous smirk you’ve come to enjoy so much, sending those stupid butterflies into a frenzy before he turns back toward the sofa.

You release a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding and with numb fingers, find the bottom of the sweatshirt before pulling it over your head. His scent hits you like a truck, rushing through your nose and burning all the way to your lungs. Your chest squeezes around your erratic heart, your ribs aching as they struggle to contain the throbbing muscle. It feels like you’ve been punched in the sternum, and your limbs feel like jelly wrapped in the soft material saturated by his scent.

You know this sweater almost too well, having admired him in it countless times. It’s a little too big on you, but on him, it’s perfect. The thick material hugs his shoulders and fits his torso in the most delicious way. It’s ridiculous that he can make something as plain as this sweater look downright sinful.

“Better?” Butcher asks, his eyes sparkling with a mischief that makes you wonder what he knows.

You nod, “Much.”

Kimiko shuffles over on the couch so that you can squeeze between her and the arm, the side closest to Butcher. You try to focus on the lame action film playing on the television, but the smell of the jumper clouds your mind, and you can feel Butcher’s gaze wandering over to you every few seconds. You want to say something, but every string of words that come to mind are laced with innuendo and teasing, and although you’re very fond of flirting with this man, you’re not sure you can handle it in your current state.

The sun is well below the horizon by the time MM arrives back, his arms full of blankets and second-hand clothing. Kimiko takes two jumpers and a blanket before seeing herself off to bed, and MM does the same shortly after. Frenchie throws another blanket over himself and invites you to share his warmth while Butcher remains on the single sofa with nothing but his trench coat. After almost three movies, your eyelids begin to droop, and you let your head fall onto Frenchie’s shoulder as sleep slowly consumes you.

You startle awake, your mind swirling with images of Butcher. You can still see him hovering over you, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, and his wicked grin as he settles between your thighs. Heat pulses between your legs at the fading memory, and your skin feels like it’s on fire, phantom touches lingering in the shape of Butcher’s hands on your hips, your breasts, your throat.

You have to blink a few times before the living room comes into focus, bright light flooding the space through the drawn curtains as dust mites float through the air. The blankets covering you suddenly feel like they weigh a tonne, and you have to throw them off your sweaty body before you pass out.

“Good morning, mon petit rayon de soleil,” Frenchie greets you, sitting in the sofa where you last consciously saw Butcher.

“Hey,” you mumble as you sit up.

His grin is wide and cheeky, “Did you have a good sleep?”

“It was okay,” you reply, rubbing your neck, “as good as it gets on this old couch.”

“I did not have the heart to wake you,” he says, “you looked so peaceful and were… humming so contently.”

You frown sceptically, “Okay…”

MM is in the kitchen, standing at the stove with a goofy smile as he watches the eggs in the pan cook.

“What time is it?”

“Almost ten,” Frenchie responds.

“What?” you demand, “You let me sleep for that long? Don’t we have things to do today?”

MM chuckles, “We didn’t want to wake you, as Frenchie said, you were so content.”

Spikes of panic begin prickling your skin and your eyes dart from Frenchie to MM, searching their impish faces for any sign of what could be making them so smug.

“Where’s Butcher?”

“Monsieur Charcutier had to excuse himself,” Frenchie says, “but he is awake.”

MM serves the eggs onto two plates and carries them over to the table where Kimiko is sat. She grins at him before digging in to her breakfast, and your own stomach begins to rumble.

“I suppose I will get my own,” Frenchie sighs, pushing himself off the sofa and walking toward the kitchen.

“I’ll have some too,” you call after him, “thanks, Frenchie.”

He smirks at you with the carton of eggs in hand, “Anything for you, mon amour. How do you like your eggs?”

“Hard boiled,” MM replies before you can, snickering as he takes a bite of toast.

Frenchie giggles too, and he quickly turns toward the stove to avoid your dubious stare.

“What the fuck are you two on this morning?”

They don’t respond as their laughter continues to bubble. Frenchie waves a hand dismissively, still refusing to look at you, before placing a pot and a pan on top of the stove.

“I prefer fried,” you mutter, still frowning.

He nods and moves the pot back into the cupboard just as the doors to the main bedroom creak open. Butcher steps out in faded jeans and yet another hideous Hawaiian shirt with only three of the lower buttons fastened. His hair is a complete mess and his cheeks flushed red; he looks as if he’d just sprinted several blocks.

“You’re awake,” he states.

You nod, “So are you.”

He chuckles, “Been awake for a couple’a hours, love.”

MM is struggling with his breakfast, his laughter refusing to subside though he does his best to quell it, his whole face turning red. Frenchie has turned his back to you completely now, but you can still see his shoulders shaking as he giggles into his hand.

“Did I miss something?” you ask Butcher as he falls into the single sofa.

His smirk just as devilish as Frenchie’s, “Nothin’ at all, in fact, I think it’s me who missed somethin’.”

“Okay,” you sigh, “you’re all being weird, and I’m incredibly sweaty, so I’m going to shower.”

“Breakfast will be ready for you when you return, mon amour,” Frenchie says, “take your time cleaning your- uh, humidité.”

Butcher chuckles as another wave of mirth hits MM, and he begins to choke on his mouthful of food. You roll your eyes before turning on your heel and stomping toward the bathroom, leaving them to their stupidity.

The cold air nips at your bare skin as you strip in the bathroom, carefully laying Butcher’s sweater on the vanity before stepping under the warm shower spray. You take your time washing your hair and scrubbing your body, hazy flashes of hot touches and wet kisses invading your mind as you close your eyes and let the water soak your skin. By the time you shut the shower off, you’re thoroughly clean and a little dizzy with desire. You dry off before wrapping the towel around your body and gathering your clothes to dash across the hall toward your bedroom.

You can’t help glancing in the direction of the living room when you step out, your eyes locking with Butcher’s dark gaze for the split second it takes you to reach your room. Your pulse is thrumming at a ridiculous pace as you unwrap the towel and turn toward your dresser. You slip on a fresh pair of panties and jeans, and turn to the sweater you’d tossed on your bed. Your stomach grumbles impatiently while you procrastinate, and you curse quietly to yourself before slipping the sweater over your head without anything underneath.

The living room wreaks of burnt toast when you remerge from your bedroom, and Frenchie is swearing at the toaster in such fast French, you can’t possibly try to understand it.

“Did you ruin my breakfast?” you ask, walking past Butcher and leaning your hip on the kitchen bench.

“I did not ruin anything,” Frenchie says with a frown, “this good for nothing piece of shit machine did.”

You can feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of your head and you know it’s Butcher, but you refuse to turn around, instead joining Frenchie in the kitchen to take over the toaster. After a few minutes of patience, the toast pops perfectly grilled and you place two pieces on each of your plates before Frenchie tops it with eggs.

“So,” MM says when you and Frenchie join him at the table, “what’s today’s plan?”

“We need to go back to the old safe house,” Frenchie replies.

“The basement,” you note between bites of toast.

He nods, “We need to gather anything we left behind that might be useful. I am running out of materials and I know we left a stash of ammunition there.”

“Who’s to say it isn’t already gone?” MM queries.

Frenchie shrugs, “We do not know, but it is worth a try.”

You want to point out that it isn’t really necessary for all of you to go, but you know that will only end in an argument, so you focus on finishing your breakfast. Once you’re all done, MM collects the empty plates and begins washing up while the rest of you go to gather your things.

You pack a small crossbody bag with your phone and keys before tucking a sheathed dagger into the back of your jeans, just in case. When you step back into the living room, Frenchie and MM are waiting by the door, whispering and giggling about something until they see you approach. You want to demand they let you in on whatever stupid joke you’d missed out on this morning, but Butcher’s heavy footsteps capture your attention before you can speak.

“Righ’ then, lads,” he says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat, “let’s get on with it.”

Your gaze lingers on his lips as he speaks before trailing down his neck and bare chest, finding a mere two more buttons fastened than before. Heat rises to your cheeks, creeping all the way up to the tips of your ears as your mouth begins to water and another blurry image of Butcher fills your mind. You see him on his knees before you, looking up with hungry eyes and parted lips, murmuring something filthy that doesn’t quite reach your ears.

You gasp, blinking rapidly to return to reality and finding three curious faces staring back at you.

“Are you okay?” Frenchie asks.

You nod, “I’m good, let’s go.”

You step between him and MM and walk out the door first, turning down the hall without bothering to wait. They’re giggling again by the time they catch up to you in the lobby, and even Butcher is wearing an amused smirk. He winks as he walks past you, pulling his car keys from his pocket before holding the front door open for the rest of you. Unlike every other time you’ve all been walking toward the car, no one calls shot gun. Frenchie simply opens the back door for Kimiko to slide in before he does, and MM follows without a single complaint.

You look at Butcher, “What the fuck?”

He shrugs, but his smirk is still saturated with amusement and the glint in his eyes tells you that this has something to do with whatever they were all being so smug about.

“You’re all pissing me off today,” you sigh, before walking around the car to the passenger’s side.

You’re not upset about getting the front seat, nor are you annoyed that you get to sit beside Butcher and practically drool over him while he has to pay attention to the road. You are, however, beginning to panic about what it is that they’re not telling you.

The drive isn’t long, and you spend most of it watching Butcher’s hands on the wheel, fantasising about how they would feel caressing every inch of your skin. It almost feels like a memory as you picture his fingers digging into your hips or wrapped gently around your throat, and you can feel your body growing hot within the thick material of his sweater. You practically fall out of the car when it finally stops, gasping for cool air and willing your mind to focus on the task at hand.

Frenchie leads the way down a narrow alley and pushes open the familiar metal door before the rest of you follow him into the dark, damp corridor of what used to be your hide out. You all stay silent for a few minutes, creeping around and checking for any unusual activity or signs that the place might be bugged or trapped. It’s definitely been ransacked, but there are thin films of dust blanketing almost every surface which indicates that whoever was looking in here had given up a long time ago.

“Okay,” Frenchie speaks up once deciding that you’re safe, “let’s see what we’ve got left.”

You split up and wander around the huge, open basement. There are two curtain dividers sectioning the space into what you used as ‘bedrooms’, and a single chipped, wooden door leading to the tiny bathroom at the very back. MM goes in there first, rummaging around for half a minute before declaring it empty.

“Is there anything in particular that we’re looking for?” you ask, turning to Frenchie, “Because there’s a lot of crap in here, and as much as I’d love for you all to rummage through my old underwear drawer, maybe we should-”

Before you can finish your sentence, Frenchie and Butcher take off, abandoning the shelves they were searching and knocking one of the curtain dividers over as they scramble toward the old dresser you used to use.

“Hey!” you shout, your eyes growing wide as you hurry after them.

They’re giggling like maniacs as they wrench the drawers open one by one, tossing out the few items of clothing that still remained in there before realising that there was, in fact, no underwear left behind.

“I was joking,” you say, “fucking pervs.”

Frenchie chuckles, “Can you blame us, mon amour?”

“Yes!”

MM is snickering in the small kitchenette as he picks through the lower cupboards one by one. As much as you want to enjoy the rare light-heartedness within the group right now, you can’t stop wondering why the hell they were all in such a giddy mood. Are they all high?

“Alrigh’ you lot,” Butcher says, running a hand through his dishevelled hair as his laughter subsides, “stop messin’ about, we’ve got a job to do.”

You roll your eyes and trudge toward where MM is, starting on the top cupboards of the small kitchen while they begin opening old crates and suitcases. Frenchie starts a pile by the stairs, stacking up anything he finds that might be useful or too valuable to abandon. There isn’t much, but there are still a couple of cases of ammunition and packets of powders that you know are combustible in some way.

“Wait!” Frenchie shouts suddenly, crouching beside an electrical socket. “Be careful. Somebody has shorted the wiring, intentionally or not, I do not know, but do not touch the outlets or anything still plugged in.”

You slowly retract your hand from beside the rusty old microwave. “What will happen?”

“You will probably be electrocuted.”

“Good to know,” Butcher sighs.

You all return to your ransacking with cautious hands and watchful eyes, skirting around anything electrical or made of metal. When you approach the refrigerator, you can hear a soft, crackling hum, and MM looks at you with wide eyes. It was never a reliable machine, but now it is most definitely a death trap.

You continue your search through the cupboards, knocking half-full packets of rice and flour off the shelves as you stretch up onto your toes to see inside. This job is probably better suited to someone with more of a height advantage, but you’ve always been stubborn, so you don’t bother asking for help.

The cupboard above the sink, adjacent to the stove – you always thought it was stupid to put the sink right beside the stove – reveals a cluster of cleaning products. You reach as far as you can, straining your arms to reach the bottles on the top shelf and groaning at the tension in your body.

Behind you, MM mimics the noise, only louder, “Ungh.”

You hear Frenchie snicker, “No, no, it was more like, mmmh.”

Your fingertips scrape the bottle closest to the front of the cupboard and you huff in frustration.

“Nngh,” MM groans again.

“Ahhh,” Frenchie moans loudly, before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

Determined to ignore them, you try to stretch up even further. Your back aches but your fingers find the bottle once again, scratching at it in an attempt to get it to move.

MM sighs seductively, “Ohh, yeah.”

“Mmm, Butcher,” Frenchie gasps.

Your stomach drops and you lose your balance, stumbling as you whirl around to face them. “What the fuck?”

Frenchie giggles as he meets your stare, “Oops.”

The bottle from the top shelf of the cupboard falls forward and knocks your shoulder, popping the cap off. The liquid inside spills all over your chest just as realisation hits you.

“That’s what all this has been about?!” you exclaim, “you heard me having a fucking sex dream and instead of waking me up, you listened?”

MM can’t stop laughing, with one hand holding his stomach while the other supports his body against the old dining room table. You’ve never seen this man so flustered, and if you weren’t so embarrassed, you might have enjoyed seeing him so overwhelmed with laughter.

Frenchie, however, has gone completely pale, stepping forward with a petrified expression. “Y/N, listen-”

“No,” you snap, “I won’t listen! You are such a-”

“Y/N!” he shouts, “do not move.”

The room falls silent and panic ripples through your body.

“Please, mon amour, stay still,” he pleads as he hurries toward you.

He steps carefully around the puddles on the floor before reaching down to pick up the now empty bottle. He studies the label for less than a second before looking back at you with panicked eyes.

“You need to take off your jumper, now.”

You frown, “What? Why?”

“This is isopropyl alcohol,” he says, “it is highly flammable. If anything in this place so much as sparks, it will catch fire and if the vapours ignite, this whole building could explode.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, looking down at the soaked front of Butcher’s sweater.

Frenchie turns to MM, “Get something, get a bag, and get ready to go.”

You remain still as your pulse quickens, “Frenchie.”

“Butcher,” he says, “you and Kimiko start taking things up the stairs, do not come over here.”

Butcher frowns, “Like hell I’m leavin’ her.”

“Frenchie,” you repeat.

“I will get her out, okay? Just take what we’ve got and let’s get out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about this crap,” Butcher argues, “I care about her, and I’m not leavin’ ‘til I know she’s safe.”

“Frenchie!” you exclaim, “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

The room falls quiet once again, and you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks as each of them turn to you with curious eyes.

“Nothin’?” Butcher asks, fighting the smirk tugging at his lips.

“Nothing,” you reply.

Despite the situation, Frenchie is the first to snicker.

“Come ‘ere,” Butcher says, “slowly.”

You step carefully out of the kitchen, avoiding every surface as your boots squelch against the wet floor. Once you’re in front of him, he shrugs off his coat and gestures for you to remove the sweater. Your heart pounds as you turn your back to him, and he holds his jacket up to shield you, though not quite high enough to block his own view. You hold your breath and pull the sweater up, squeezing your eyes shut as it slips over your head. You can feel his breath on your back as soon as it’s bare, and a whole different kind of heat rushes through you.

He drops his coat around your shoulders and you quickly hug it against your chest. His scent envelops you, even more so than it had with the sweater, and your nerves begin to ease almost immediately.

“Give it to me,” Frenchie says, holding a plastic bag open toward you.

You drop the sweater in and he ties it off.

“Let’s go.”

MM, Kimiko, and Butcher grab what they can before you all ascend the stairs. You hurry through the corridor and out into the alley, not stopping until you’re all safe inside the car.

“Did you get any on your pants, mon amour?” Frenchie asks.

You push the bottom of Butcher’s jacket off your legs to inspect. “Only a little.”

“It will not damage the clothing, but we should wash everything right away.”

You nod before glancing toward Butcher. His face is a mixture of concern and mischief, his eyes struggling to watch the road instead of you, sitting beside him and wrapped in his favourite coat.

“Should we tell someone about that situation back there?” MM pipes up.

“I will call somebody to clean it up,” Frenchie replies.

It isn’t long before you’re all quietly climbing out of the car and carrying your finds up to the apartment. Everyone kicks their shoes off at the door, per Frenchie’s instructions, and begins sorting through the bags and boxes of old materials and equipment.

Frenchie turns to you, “Give me your jeans.”

“Right now?”

He nods and you sigh, deciding not to argue. You turn away from them and open the coat, quickly unbuttoning your jeans and slipping them off before wrapping yourself back up. When you turn back around, he’s adorning that same silly grin that he’d been wearing all morning.

“Is this how it started in your dream?”

You roll your eyes and shove your jeans into his outstretched hand. “Just because you kind of saved my life, doesn’t mean I’m not still annoyed at you.”

He giggles as he takes your clothes and walks down the hall to the laundry.

“In his defence,” Butcher smirks, “I told ‘em not to wake you.”

“You what?”

He steps toward you and shrugs, “I liked hearin’ those pretty little noises you were makin’.”

The butterflies in your stomach burst to life and your pulse begins to race.

He leans forward as he whispers, “Liked it a little too much.”

You suddenly remember what Frenchie had said this morning when you asked where Butcher was: ‘Monsieur Charcutier had to excuse himself’.

“Now,” Butcher clears his throat, “you gon’a give me my coat back before you spill somethin’ else on it?”

You raise your brows, “You want it back right now? Right here?”

He glances over his shoulder toward MM and Kimiko before turning back to you, “Maybe not righ’ here.”

You step around him and walk through the kitchen toward the main bedroom, avoiding MM’s eyes as you pass the dining room table. You don’t bother closing the doors behind you, because sure enough, a pair of heavy footsteps follow closely behind. The door clicks shut and you turn around to look at Butcher. You let your eyes wander over his body, your mouth watering as you follow the collar of his shirt down his bare chest where the top buttons lay open.

“I’m not gon’a lie,” he says, his hungry gaze pinning you to the floor, “as much as I fuckin’ loved hearin’ you whisper my name… I can’t wait to make you scream it.”

His words punch you in the chest, knocking all the air from your legs as heat pools between your legs.

“Now, love,” he steps forward, “can I ‘ave my coat back?”

Your fingers tremble as you grip the lapels of the jacket, moving your shoulders so the material falls off before you open it up and let it drop to the floor. He draws one sharp breath, his eyes growing wide as they move up and down your body, devouring every inch of it as if he’s never seen anything so perfect.

He closes the distance between you and wraps his hands around your waist, fingertips digging into the flesh of your back with bruising pressure.

“D’you know how hard I came to the thought of you this morning?” he murmurs.

You can’t do anything but stare back at him, your lips aching to taste him, all of him.

“So fuckin’ hard,” he whispers before capturing your mouth with his.

You moan as you melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck and your fingers tangling through his hair as he claims your mouth. His hands squeeze your waist and pull you closer, pressing your naked body against him. The friction of his shirt against your nipples makes you gasp, and he takes advantage of your open mouth, sliding his tongue past your lips.

“Can’t fuckin’ imagine,” he mumbles against your mouth, “how hard I’m gon’a come with you on my cock.”

The ball of tension throbbing below your stomach explodes, and you use all of your strength to push him back toward the bed. He chuckles as he falls back, his hand catching your wrist to pull you down on top of him.

“Tell me ‘bout your dream, love,” he says as you hover over him, “where was I?”

You plant an open-mouthed kiss on his collarbone before biting down and making him groan.

“You were everywhere,” you whisper against his skin, “marking me, claiming me.”

He moans again as you grind your hips down, the friction of his jeans sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

“I don’t fuckin’ need to claim you,” he growls, his hands holding your hips as he thrusts up, “you’re already mine.”

He lifts you up enough to flip you onto your back, his body moving with yours and settling between your legs as he hovers over you. He dips down, his lips finding your neck and sucking on the sensitive skin before biting down hard. You moan loudly, and quickly smack a hand over your mouth to muffle the noise.

“I don’t think so, love,” he murmurs, taking your hand and pinning it to the bed, “I said, I wan’a hear you fuckin’ scream.”

END.

[anarchy-n-glitter]

The Noir Revelation

Summary: Klaus - aka The Revelation - reflects on what made her join the Seven with her therapist. During their session, a new issue comes to light causing Dr. Sorkin to suspect something else is going on in her patient's life. (Kind of Homelander x OC) Word Count: 4,229

TW: references to emotional and physical abuse, coercion in the beginning. Stay safe guys xoxo

This might be a one shot but I might do a part 2 later. If there is a part 2 we'll get more characters particularly Black Noir, so yeah this whole thing is not just about Homelander lol.

The night was chilly and quiet, a stark contrast to the busy and bustling nature of Manhattan. The wet leaves rustled in the wicked wind, shaking the dew from the branches to land in the puddles below the trees. It was the dead of night - empty - the only light came from the street lights and the neon red and blue from the diner’s sign. The clouds overhead hung lowly in the sky, covering the waning crescent moon - the last phase before the new moon.

It was spring, a time full of changes, and it was the end of March. The lights glimmered in the wet streets, and three lonely cars sat apart from each other in the empty diner parking lot. The night was empty, lacking any sort of excitement to keep the late night staff of Poe’s Diner going as the night dragged on. There were only a few patrons in the diner, five at most, with even less staff to watch over them.

The late nights brought in the strangest characters, and she had seen them all. From Supes who were hiding from the world to do their (often illegal) thing, to travelers who were on the road all day and night to get to where they were going. All of them were strangers, and all of them had a story. She had met so many people on her journey from a scared girl running for her life to a woman laying low for god knows how long. She served the strangers coffee in the morning, and she served them at night. New comers, regulars, the shady ones, it didn’t matter. Money was money, and she knew money was everything. 

When he arrived it was as if the clouds above parted - like a curtain being pulled across a stage to reveal the actors - as if the sky itself treated him like the god he thought he was. The ground shook briefly upon his arrival, the puddles rose and fell like waves in the ocean, and the trees trembled once more. He stood slowly, looking at his surroundings as if he landed on another planet, before zeroing in on the diner across the parking lot. His cape billowed in the chilling wind, but he didn’t shudder. He marched on. 

He was used to the sounds of cheers and applause when he landed, crowds of people would flock from everywhere to see him - to worship him. Yet, when he arrived in that parking lot on Long Island, he experienced no such thing. What he could tell, however, was that he evoked panic - fear, even - and perhaps that was just as effective.

“Was that what I thought it was?” A masculine voice whispered, panicked. The patrons hardly moved. They didn’t look up nor did they talk amongst themselves. Instead, they sipped on their strong-smelling coffee, and played with their food. The sound of the cutlery hitting and scratching the plates was almost louder than the whispering. Almost.

Bright blue eyes found the form of a young woman. She was pale, with equally pale hair that faded into cotton-candy pink and blue split down the middle. It was obviously bleached, but it made sense for someone like her. Her eyes were nearly violet and her dark, smudged makeup seemed to accentuate that feature. Darker lips were pressed into a line as she glared out the window, leaning on the counter with one hand on her hip. Her eyes met his and seemed to lock, and despite the vitriol in them he felt a connection. 

There was something about hate. Hate gets under people’s skin, gets them thinking about that other person. It’s as addictive as love but burns so much more, lasts so much longer. He didn’t need her to love him, that’s what the acting was for. She could try to kill him in private if she wanted but when others could see? 

She removed her apron, tossing it on the counter with a huff.

“I’ll take care of it.” She grumbled, much to the dismay of the cook. 

“You’ve been ‘taking care of it’ for months now. He hasn’t stopped.” At that she could only sigh. 

“Yeah, cause assholes like that don’t know that no means no.” She spat. 

He watched in amusement as the creature he considered below him marched up to him and took a deimatic stance. Her legs were shoulder length apart, with her shoulders raised slightly and her head low. She stared up at him from beneath furrowed brows, and if he didn’t know any better he’d say she was baring her teeth at him. She looked almost animalistic. His infatuation never came from a place of genuine respect, despite the fact that on paper she was virtually the same person as him. Instead it came from the way she fought back, and the fact that Vought wanted him to want her. To him, there couldn’t be another him. He was the only one who suffered, and he was the only invincible one - a god amongst men. She refused to bow. 

She would do nicely, seeing as she was an out of the box choice. Her and her bold choices would wash whatever blemishes from his previous relationship off of him and out of the public eye. She was a free spirit and she dyed her hair crazy colors, and Vought said she preferred purple over red and she… wasn’t a nazi. A low bar, but after the PR nightmare that was Stormfront, Vought couldn’t take their chances. 

“I told you not to come back.” She was seething, standing strongly from a few feet away from him. Her hand moved slowly in circles as the glow in her hand grew in size. One pink and the other blue. It matched her hair. 

It was obvious that she was using her powers as a warning, a threat. Did she want to fight him? Surely she didn’t think she would win if she did.

“Revelation, Vought still thinks you’d complete the Seven and -”

“I said leave. Leave me alone. I don’t need Vought’s blood money.” Her hands glowed brighter as the car behind her shook. “And I have a name. Use it.” She spat. He pressed his lips into a thin line as his brow furrowed. She took note of how his jaw clenched and unclenched, and she braced herself. There was a storm brewing under his skin.

“This, whatever you think it is you’re gonna do, isn’t gonna work so why don’t you put that car down,” he marched forward, pointing at the smaller woman as anger rose within him. The fear in her eyes was barely recognizable, but it was there, hidden behind fury of her own. “Talk to me. Please. We’re both adults.” She could have rolled her eyes at him calling himself an adult. The harshness of his tone melted away as he begged her to just talk. 

“Klaus, come on.” He pleaded once more, causing the woman to let her guard down.

“What are you doing here?” She asked calmly yet sternly. The pink and blue glow on her hands began to fade, but her body language did not soften. She stood up straight and crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at the man before her. 

“Aren’t you afraid your friends in there are gonna find out you have powers? We keep doing this out in the open.” He pointed out. 

“They can’t see me if I don’t want them to.” At that there was a flicker of blue light behind her. It seemed like a threat - was it a threat? Would she attack him? Surely she knew she couldn’t take him, there was no way, so why would she try?

She wouldn’t - she wasn’t going to attack him. 

“I also don’t want the last few patrons of the night rushing out cause they see Homelander’s here.” She scoffed. It was time to change the subject, Homelander decided. He took a step forward, startling the smaller woman. 

“Don’t-” He stopped himself as he let out a sigh, forcing a smile to his face as he shook his head. She was difficult, but smart. If it was under any other circumstances her fear would be almost flattering… but the mask had to go back up, no matter how irritated he was. “You know I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” She said nothing. 

She stood there choking on laughter and contempt, wanting to roll her eyes at the mere thought of him being genuine with her. If she wasn’t smart she would have spit in his face. Instead she stood her ground and she said nothing. 

“I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t want you because Vought wants me to, I genuinely like you, Klaus.” Every word felt carefully selected - hand picked to clumsily attempt to manipulate her and lure her into his and Vought’s grasp. She wouldn’t go back to Vought, and she wanted nothing to do with him. He was a ticking time bomb and she knew that the moment he showed up at her diner. She knew what he would do to her friends if she said the wrong thing, and she wanted no part in it. 

But there was always a part of her that was curious. She knew enough about him by the time he left the first time, because she was smart and while he tried to convince her she went through his mind. It was harder than if someone gave her express permission, but with enough focus she was able to do it. She found out they were similar, raised in a lab and treated like property - but his whole life he was told he would be great. She wondered if he would be able to relate to her. 

And maybe, just maybe, she could finally stop running. 

“Just one night, let me show you around the tower and then you can decide.” He represented everything she resented. 

“Let me think about it for a few days. You have no idea what you’re asking of me.” Klaus seemed a lot more reserved, the fire in her voice and posture gone, and she seemed more sad. She continued to refuse to meet his gaze. Homelander took a deep breath, then spoke.

“Fine, I’ll give you a few days.” The mask continued to slip despite his desperate attempts to hold onto it, clawing into it as a last ditch effort to keep it up, but the more he thought the more impatient he became. He walked towards her again, pointing at her. She continued to back away. “But I’ll be back, and I don’t want the run around again, I want a damn answer.” 

She knew what answer he wanted, and she knew she would have to give him what he wanted. He seemed fed up with trying to lure her back to Vought, and she didn’t blame him. They gave him a truly impossible job, and she was sure it was annoying having to go all the way out there just for the same answer over and over again. 

As he left and she took down her illusion, she was left confused and angry, but most importantly she was tired. She worked so hard to build up a life of her own after escaping Vought, making friends and finding some sort of security in her job at the diner despite knowing that the rest of her life would be nothing but running. She couldn’t help but look behind her at the diner, thinking about Jensen and Ellie. If she left, if she gave Vought what they wanted, would Homelander still come after them? If she made him mad would he threaten them to keep her in line? Would Vought use them against her? She felt nothing but guilt as she thought of the danger she put them in. She loved them deeply.

“And did you take him up on that offer?” 

The sound of her therapist’s voice took her out of the memory. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, and I’m assuming that’s when you joined the Seven as well.” The therapist could feel her patient’s eyes bore into her as she wrote her notes. Klaus was not very talkative, and it usually took a lot for her to open up during their sessions. The doctor suspected it had something to do with her ever-present paranoia regarding Vought and their influence, and while the doctor could acknowledge that she worked for the company, she took her patient’s privacy very seriously. Whatever Klaus told her would be her secret, and she made that very clear upon their first session. 

The doctor leaned forward and pushed up her round glasses, smiling warmly at her sulking patient. Indeed, Klaus was a special case and the doctor knew she was holding back out of fear. The question was who was she afraid of, Vought or the narcissistic megalomaniac the company forced her to be with? It was no secret that they paired her with Homelander not only to repair his broken image but also to control her. 

“Klaus, I really wish you would be more open with me. I know this was mandated after your incident but… I truly believe we can make this more productive than what they want out of it.” She worded carefully, hoping to finally break through the twenty year old superhero’s icy and guarded demeanor. From what she had gathered, Klaus was a very free-spirited, rebellious woman. She often showed it through her style, but the more the doctor heard about her she realized that Klaus wouldn’t hesitate to voice her rebelliousness either. Any mention of the company that essentially owned her since birth causes anger, then sadness, and then she would shut down. It made it hard to get to the center of her problems, but it was to be expected. 

The doctor could acknowledge that Klaus had been through a lot of trauma, and lately it seems like it was just getting worse. She doesn’t have many safe havens, aside from the one or two friends she made in the Seven. From what she could gather, Klaus liked Starlight a lot, but couldn’t get close to her out of fear of being judged. She assumed she wanted to be close to her due to them both being new to the group and underestimated. On the other hand the man she openly calls her friend is essentially Vought’s puppet. The doctor was sure she was aware, but chose to turn a blind eye to it. She wanted to know why exactly she would make an exception for him, and she suspected that there was more to their friendship than Klaus was letting on. It was clear from previous sessions that Klaus was desperate for some sort of connection. She was in denial. 

“Look doc, I really don’t want to air out my dirty laundry for Vought and their cronies. My life has been mine and mine alone for seven years, and then all of a sudden that freedom was taken from me. They sent that flying asshole to threaten me into coming back… into letting them put their strings back on me so I could dance for them.” Klaus was on the verge of tears, unable to hide her emotions anymore. In that moment of vulnerability something flickered away. She glanced up at the doctor with wide, frightened eyes.

She was careful, so careful and yet -

If her reaction didn’t give it away she was sure the blue flicker of light did. The mistake was corrected long before she reacted, but she knew the damage was done. She let it slip, and now she would have to answer a barrage of questions that the doctor would have.

“Have you been hiding this the whole time?” Her therapist asked, completely at a loss for words. Klaus found it hard to look her in the eye before, but now it was nearly impossible. She tried so hard to hide it. 

“Dr. Sorkin, I know what it looks like. I was told I had to hide it by the higher ups, something about ‘our heroes need to seem invincible.’ I got hurt while I was fighting.” She hoped her lies would hold up. 

“Who were you fighting?” Dr. Sorkin asked without hesitation. Klaus hesitated, unable to muster up the energy to find a good alibi. 

“Bad guys.” She muttered, making Dr. Sorkin sigh in disappointment. She couldn’t help but internally cringe at her excuse. 

“Klaus, I need you to be honest with me. What did you think I thought it was? For all I knew you did get it while fighting ‘bad guys.’ All I asked was if you had been hiding it the whole time.” Dr. Sorkin explained and she couldn’t help but put air quotes around bad guys. The usual melancholic smile on the doctor’s face faded into something more solemn and serious. She looked her patient deep in the eye before speaking again. Her words were slow and poignant, and they filled Klaus with dread. 

“Did Homelander do this to you?” 

How was she even supposed to answer that? This was a man who valued his image more than anything, one who was probably listening to her therapy session at that very moment. At that thought, she determined it was a matter of self preservation. She would have to lie again, and again until she could figure out what to do. She would have to save his image over her own wellbeing. 

He would kill her if she told the truth. She has and always will hate him, and every day she wishes Vought had sent someone else to convince her to join the Seven, someone she could have turned down safely. Now she wasn’t even allowed to visit the people she was trying to keep safe. She didn’t even know if her sacrifice made a difference. 

She opened her mouth to speak, taking a deep breath only realizing the tightness in her throat and chest prevented her from successfully doing so. She was getting overwhelmed and damning tears welled up in her eyes. It forced her to look away. She huffed and shook her head, denying any allegation or help. 

“Alright,” the doctor began, her voice quieter than before - gentler, “so you’ll be seeing a doctor then?” She was worried about her, and rightfully so. Klaus managed a small smile. 

“Already did. Broken cheekbone, shattered actually. Lots of rest and no fighting for a while until they can get me in for surgery.” That was the truth. The emergency doctor she saw seemed to know what happened, but he didn’t pry. He took her excuse in stride and simply told her what she needed to do. “He said I was lucky the bone didn’t end up in my eye, it was pretty bad.” 

“I’m so sorry that happened.” Dr. Sorkin muttered, to which Klaus shrugged. 

“Eh, what’re you gonna do? It’s all part of the job.” Except it wasn’t, and both of them knew that. 

Dr. Sorkin glanced out the window at the city. The sun was shining high with clouds being scarce.

“What’s your favorite kind of weather, Klaus?” She asked, tearing her eyes away from the window to look at her patient. Klaus quirked an eyebrow at the question. Would she resist the question and refuse to answer? Would she wonder if there was an ulterior motive? 

“Rain.” The younger woman answered. Her voice was soft and solemn, yet she wore a smile. “I like rainy days.” 

“And why is that?” Klaus shrugged.

“I like to stay inside under the blankets and watch TV, sometimes I even watch outside the window. Everything gets cooler and the grass grows. I just like it, I can’t really explain.” She remarked.

“So would you say you’re an introvert or an extrovert?” 

“That feels like a day one question, not something you ask after being like ‘hey is your boyfriend beating you? Did he shatter your cheekbone?’ Just saying it out loud… you think I’m weak, don’t you?” Klaus had the tendency to get defensive in addition to her usual guarded nature, but it was the end of her speech that got the doctor’s attention.

“What makes you believe I think that?” Her patient narrowed her eyes at the question, and for a moment Dr. Sorkin worried Homelander was beginning to rub off on her. 

“Uh, you asked if he broke my cheekbone?” She snapped back, still clearly hung up on that accusation. The doctor shook her head.

“No, Klaus, why do you believe I think you’re weak?” The mere thought of the girl before her being weak made her want to chuckle in disbelief. Klaus was far from weak both mentally and physically.

“I don’t know, I guess I just heard it my whole life so I just assume everyone sees me that way.” She was clearly trying to appease her with her answers. Her hands fiddled with her necklace, one that the doctor had yet to see her without. It was a nervous tick of hers, something she used to do in the Home and never stopped doing. It would ground her, but sometimes it reminded her of the worst times of her life. 

“But that’s not true, is it?” Worry continued to build up within her as she continued to turn the charm between her fingers even faster than before. Dr. Sorkin searched through her notes which usually sat untouched in her lap, and pulled out a packet. She held it up triumphantly.

“These are the notes from your time in the Home. Do you have any idea what they said about you?” Klaus couldn’t bring herself to look up at her. “They said that your power was exceptional, that you had the potential to become their most powerful hero yet.” 

“Their. It’s always about them.” She countered. 

“You’re deflecting. No one at the Home called you weak. Everyone at headquarters considers you extremely dangerous. Klaus, they don’t even have a contingency plan for you because they don’t have any idea what could stop you. But of course, that’s why they were looking for you for seven years. Reality warping is… it’s a scary power. If you wanted to leave no one could stop you. Now tell me, who has been insisting you’re weak and why have you been listening to them?” There was a grave seriousness behind Dr. Sorkin’s soft blue eyes, and it told Klaus that the doctor already knew who was telling her these things. 

“They can’t stop me, but they know who I care about. I put everyone I love in danger just by knowing them. And it would be my fault.” Yet again she refused to answer the doctor’s question directly, only serving to further confirm what Dr. Sorkin had begun to suspect. Just the mention of her friends told Dr. Sorkin that she was afraid of someone going after them, and she couldn’t be everywhere at once. 

“It would be exhausting to constantly have to watch them. My place is here.” There was an overwhelming sadness that came over the doctor at her patient’s words. She sounded defeated.

“I think you need to focus on yourself instead of fighting the machine. Do what’s best for you and no one else. You’re a strong person but I think you have someone around you who’s threatened by you and they’ve gotten in your ear. Reevaluate your relationship with them and ask yourself if it’s really worth it. I can tell you feel everything and everyone has hurt you in the past, but I think you use that as a crutch and an excuse to not make new friends and allies. You can move past it. I think you want to do better, desperately, but you’re too afraid to open up and ask for help. I need you to internalize that you are not weak.” 

Klaus sat for a moment, thinking over what the doctor said. She wondered how to do any of that and where to start, and worst of all she wondered how any of that would go over with Homelander. If he truly was intimidated by her things began to make more sense. 

“You got it, doc.” Klaus smiled. The smile still seemed sad, and the doctor was sure she was grappling with a lot at the moment. She knew her patient was in an incredibly toxic situation, and for a moment she wondered if she should go to the higher ups about it. There was one person who could stand up to Homelander and live to tell the tale, and if Klaus couldn’t bring herself to stand up to the menace then he could. The question was whether or not he would care enough to do it. 

She watched silently as Klaus left the room without another word. 

“I do believe my patient, Klaus aka The Revelation, is being abused by her appointed partner Homelander. She says she has loved ones - friends - on Long Island still, but stays away to keep them safe. I want her to trust me enough to open up to me, however I don’t see that happening any time soon. She feels threatened by her current partner but will not say it. This concludes session and tape four.”

[previousloversandmuses]

FREQUENCY: Episode 2 - A Soldier Boy Story

FREQUENCY:  A Soldier Boy Story

EPISODE 2: “Uncle Sam”

WORD COUNT: 4,056

PAIRING: Soldier Boy X Reader 

WARNINGS: (NSFW) Racial slurs, fatphobia, drugs, and mentions of suicide. Foul language, mentions of sex, or sexual innuendos. 

A/N: This story is dark, and covers mature themes. The main character, as well as other major characters, are offensive in nature, and may offend some people. Please peruse with caution, and remember that this is fiction. Reader discretion is advised. Please message me for any questions, comments, or concerns. 

Masterlist | Taglist

When John and I would fuck, only he would find it easy to sleep. See, we almost always did it at Vought tower. He had thought my apartment was gross and grimy.

He would snore away, his naked body pressed against mine, his strong arms holding my waist. I’d be up all night. The tower was loud, and I was much too nosy to not listen in on everything going on. Most people had left by the time that I was laying there awake, but the important ones stayed.

Security worked all night, keeping their tabs on literally everything going on in the world. If two Pakistanis were going at it premaritally at a goat farm in the middle of nowhere, Vought would be the first to know. 

It was always funny to me that the CIA always assumed they were one step ahead of Vought. That they had the upper hand, and that no matter what, the good guys would always win. Wrong. Vought knew absolutely everything the CIA was doing. They knew every hideout, every operation, every compound, every undercover. Vought, a private company, was the global leader for national security- but no one would ever know that. 

John would shift behind me, nuzzling his face into my neck, nibbling on my ear. 

“Go to sleep.” He’d say plainly, before drifting back into his own disturbing dream. 

Go to sleep, I’d think. Funny. Little did he know I was keeping my tabs on every compound mentioned in terms of Vought, and every event to go along with it. I knew every building the CIA operated. Every property. Every piece of land. Which is why I’m so confident now that I know exactly where Soldier Boy is.

In upstate New York, the CIA has a large base. It spans acres, but in the middle rests a midcentury, concrete bunker. Strong enough to withstand the blast of a nuclear bomb…getting warmer, I think. 

After the job I did for Butcher, I went straight home and started doing research. The CIA compound wasn’t visible on any map, but thankfully I was already aware of the coordinates. 

The next day I hopped in my shitty car, and drove upstate. I started spying once I saw the first signs of surveillance, which was about twenty miles away from the location. I staked out for about a week, driving closer each day, taking note of every camera, every security checkpoint. I wasn’t in my car after I got close enough, obviously. The closer I got the more inclined I was to walk on foot. 

I understand this may seem impossible, I mean, this is the CIA after all. No one is getting past them, right? Wrong. You need to remember, no one would ever see me coming, and they definitely wouldn't see me going. I can hear cameras before I see them, and it’s the same thing with all types of security. The CIA didn’t stand a chance anymore after I was created. Nothing was getting past me. I was born for this mission.

The morning of, I made sure to leave no trace of any research in my apartment. I threw out my computer at the edge of the city before I drove upstate. I prayed to all holy, although I’m not much of the religious type, that my shitty four-door would make it all the way up there without breaking down. As I stepped on the gas, I took a deep breath, shutting off my senses as best as I could until I was in trackable distance. I’d have to savor all five, I’d need them to be as strong as possible. I was going to get my revenge. 

This may sound conceited, but I do think I have created the best plan in the history of plans: See, unknown CIA compound number whatever, although large, and unknown to me internally, is quite easy to navigate if you think about it. Let’s think about the five senses here. Sight: I could look through the walls of the building until I feast my eyes upon the, I’m assuming, frozen solid body of Soldier Boy. But this can sometimes be all encompassing, and too much work. Sound: I could always hear him out. Scope out the slowest multiplying cells in the area, until it leads me to the supe popsicle. But again, too much work for what it’s worth. Also I needed to be focusing on nearby agents, cameras, and security. Touch?  No idea how that would work, no interest in finding out. Taste? Absolutely not. I don’t even want to know how that would work. But smell? Ahhh smell. That’ll lead me right to it. I can taste the frosted formaldehyde from here, a mile away. I’ll sniff out the frost bitten captain America better than any bloodhound. Smell. That is the way. 

I park my car off in a clearing, I think it may have been used as a campsite at one point. There isn’t a camera in sight. It's the dead of night. Leading up to the compound is a long, winding, wooded road. It's a forest boundary, which is nice because I won’t be getting any sort of sound pollution. 

I begin to walk parallel to the street through the woods, attaching the silencer to my gun. As I get a half-mile away, I start to take note of small CCTV’s attached to dry, dehydrated fir trees. I begin shooting down every camera I can hear, and as far as the eye can see. This is my collateral. I know once I break him out, CIA intel will be checking every camera to see where we went. They will never see us leave. They’ll never even see me coming. I got a few hundred yards between me and the next scanner. 

I reach into my backpack, pulling out scarf, and then wrap my head hijabi style. I’m already wearing a modest, all black outfit. Maybe something similar to a burka. I thought it would steer people away from my trail by posing as a stereotypical supe terrorist. Nothing scares Americans more than a muslim being in places they aren’t supposed to be.

I can see the building now, it's fortunately surrounded by trees, making my breaking and entering a little bit easier. I don’t even know how they can see anything on surveillance with all of this blockage, I think. Hell, the pine needles are getting in the way of my quality of sight. 

It's a tight squeeze through shrubbery, but I make it to one of the side doors. Again, I shoot out every camera around me before I even get close to the area. I stop and take a listen. From my spot now, the closest heartbeat I can hear  is deep within the compound, maybe at the front security desk. Most agents have gone home by this point. 

I’m assuming, if my hearing is correct, there is an obese man sitting at a control panel at the highest point of the building. Similar to that of a bird's nest. He’s asleep, snoring so loud I don’t know how he’s not choking himself. This is too good to be true, I think.

I make my way inside, there was a codebox on the outside of the building which are the easiest contraptions to get into. I smacked the side of it, feeling for the numbers.

 I aim for each camera before it can catch me, knocking it out in the center every time. 

I take a deep breath. Formaldehyde is all encompassing. I choke on the taste. He’s in the basement. 

I go ahead and make my way down multiple floors, once again, getting rid of every camera. This part of the compound is terrifying. Tons of steel and concrete feel suffocating when you’re this far underground. I almost trip over a janitorial cart in the darkness of the stifling halls. 

I come face to face with a large steel door. It’s got to be a few feet thick at least. To the right of it is a key pad. Looks pretty high tech, much different from the one on the outside of the building. This one must be new, I think. That’s a good sign. I mean, along with the fact that my eyes begin to water, my nose hairs singing off from the stench of chemicals. 

There is a card reader on the side of it for swipe entry. I pull up my finger, and gently tap it onto the corner. It echoes through it. I listen for the preset code. I can hear each four number etchings clear as day. 4459. 

The door opens with a flash of a green light and a click. I walk slowly down the hallway. It’s stark, cold. A metallic chamber with no windows. No place for a human being to live, I think. At least he’s not awake to see it. 

I round the corner, reaching another door. Fuck. I think to myself, another lock. The code box blinks at me, then speaks to me in a robotic voice. 

“Please enter access code.” 

I look down at the machine. Again, knocking on the side of it, like the one from before.

“Please enter access code-” I jump at the sound, but before it can finish I type in the numbers again. 4459. 

Clink! Green light illuminates from a bulb over my head. The door slides open. Idiots. 

There is what looks to be a control panel. It’s windowed, and looking down into a surgical-like dip in the floor. I walk over to the glass. There are buttons and levers riddled around a console. 

About fifteen feet below me I visualize him. Most of the lights are off inside of this area, but his body is lit up. He lays like a corpse inside a see-through cryogenic freezer. His heart is beating slowly, maybe less than five beats per minute. His blood barely circulating through his augmented veins. 

I take a deep breath, it’s now or never. From what I can tell, the security guard watching over the cameras is still fast asleep. Him, the man at the very front, and the other few scattered around near the archives, are all unaware of my presence in the building. 

I open the door to the right of the panel, and make my way down the rickety metal stairs that lead to his futuristic tomb. There he is, fast asleep… or frozen? I’m not sure of the right thing to say. I lean over, looking at his face through the glass. I place both of my gloved hands palm down, feeling my way around to getting him out of there. A latch, which, as I can tell, is connected to a code box. The CIA and their codes. They are just asking for me to break in. 

I squat down next to the machine and locate the lock. I do as I do again, knocking on the side of it, and waiting to hear the notches for the numbers. 1919. Really? I go ahead and select them, and watch as the glass casing begins to open up around him. It’s like a vampire coming out of a coffin. A waft of nitrous mist cascades around the room, revealing to me then, the body of a very, very, cold man. 

He has an oxygen mask on his face. I go ahead and take that off. The chemicals they have pumping into his veins via IV drip; I rip those off too. The machines tracking his vitals, I unattached, letting them drop to the floor. I can’t see much of anything else that would be keeping him asleep. Unfortunately though, I think I will have to wait for him to thaw out. 

I look around the room, checking my watch. I've been in the building for twenty minutes now. I look over at him, he's still not moving. His heart rate is still resting at an undetectable rate. I’ve got to get moving. I start pacing around the room, rubbing my chin with my hand. Think, think, think. I couldn’t bring any ammonia or any other sort of smelling salt because I’d be able to smell it through the container. Migraine waiting to happen. I could always slap him awake, but I’d risk breaking my hand from the sheer strength of his jaw. I could warm him up myself? Rub up on his arms until he begins to heat up. 

I look down at his arm, lifting up his wrist with my fore finger and thumb. He may be strong, but I’m sure he doesn’t weigh a ton? Ugh, who am I kidding? This man has got to be over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. THINK woman, think. 

Then, by the grace of all holy, I remember the janitorial cart I almost broke my neck on earlier. That’ll do it. I check back down at my watch, twenty-five minutes have passed now. It might not be too hard to drag him all of five minutes.

So, I do just that. Wrapping my arms under his, then securing around his torso, I begin to lift up. No, this will definitely be too hard. I drop him onto the floor, then clamp my hands around his wrists. I start pulling him across the room, then I remember; the stairs. Fuck. Making my way up I’m already drenched in sweat. It's one thing having to carry someone awake, but this supe was all dead weight. I’m praying he wakes up soon. 

It takes me ten more minutes on top of the five I had already expected to climb all the stairs back up to where I saw the janitorial cart. Before I go to put him in it, I listen in again. Everyone was still where they were before. The obese security guard is still in desperate need of a CPAP machine. I smile. This is all working out for me. With the little strength I have left I hoist him up into the cart, setting him on top of dirty mop heads and rags. 

I see it before I hear it. Red lights begin to flash around the building, then the sirens begin to wail. The security guard is definitely no longer asleep. I get a good grip of the cart handles and begin to push him down the hallway with unrelenting fervor. 

I can hear footsteps gaining on us as I reach the same exterior door that I came in through. I launch him out, and watch as the cart goes tumbling onto the forest floor. Great. Maybe that will wake him up. The guards are even closer now, a floor above me. Flood lights shine around on the outside. I push him back into the cart, and gun it through the forest with a speed that rivals Usain Bolt. 

Once I reach the clearing where I parked my car, about ten minutes later, I can just now make out the glimmer of flashlights in the distance. This was a huge forest. They had no idea where I could be. I go ahead and begin to load the bastard into the backseat. He mumbles a little, making me jump. I reach my hand down to his forehead. He was definitely warming up. I buckle him in with a seatbelt, and hop in the driver's seat. I accelerate out of the lot, watching as police cars race past me just a road over. This was going to be a long drive. 

It took him a four hour drive, plus forty-five minutes in the hotel room to finally wake up.

“…helewooh…” thump thump. “….ooonclee saaamm…”

As he came to, everything was blurry. It reminded him of when he used to mix codeine and benzos. 

Slowly, but surely, he begins to focus, making out the silhouette in front of him. A girl, young and lean. She sits across from him on a chair. She snaps and claps in his direction. Leaning in a bit closer, she slaps him in the face. Now that wakes him up. 

He jolts forward, easily breaking the pitiful restraints that have him tied to the chair. Now that he thinks about it, he’s sure he’s just broken the chair too. 

“Woah, WOAH,” she waves her arms in front of his face, trying to calm him down. “Easy there tiger, I wouldn’t want you blowing up this motel.”

He shakes his head, finally waking up enough to take in his surroundings. It’s a cheap, tacky motel room in god knows where. It reminds him of the one he stayed in when those pansies brought him home from Russia. Wait, those pansies-

“Where the fuck am I?” He looks around again, running over to the windows and peeking out the blinds. He turns around holding his finger up to the young girl in the room with him. “And who the fuck are you?”

She walks towards him slowly. He takes her in. She’s young, definitely young. Pretty, to say the least, but that’s the last thing he can think about right now. Her shorts and shirt are tiny and much too tight for a girl her age. Again, he thinks of the past. Has all modesty been thrown out the window? Not that he’s complaining, really. 

“Okay, first of all, I saved you, you should be worshiping the ground I walk on.”

“I don’t even know who you are little girl.” He recoils. “Wait,” He looks her up and down. “You’re not some unclaimed child of mine, are you?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” She says, rubbing her hands down her face.

He walks forward, getting into her face. “So ya don’t know me, and you expect me to believe you got me out just out of the kindness of your heart?” 

“Yes.” She says simply. 

He nods, going back over to the window, looking outside again. 

“Where are we?”

“Pennsylvania.” 

“They got any beaners here?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Any beaners. I need to cross the border. Get out of here as soon as possible before these fuckin’ gay lovin’ commies try and throw me back into the ice again.”

“I’ll get you across the border, no problem. I don’t need any help either. Anywhere you want I’ll get you there.”

He glares at her, squinting. Looking her up and down. Hey, maybe she does look pretty good. He begins to walk around the room, searching for any hidden cameras, any microphones.

“You wearing a wire?”

“No one followed us down here.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No, I’m not wearing a wire.”

He gets back into her face. Towering over her. She shows no sign of fear. Naive, he thinks. She can feel his breath on her skin now. 

“What’s the catch?”

She smiles up at him, crumbling under his intense gaze. She feels for the back of the chair behind her then sits down. 

“Have a seat.”

“No thanks, been layin’ a lot recently. What’s the fuckin' catch, sweetheart?”

“Okay,” She sighs. “There is a catch, you're right.” 

He gets angry now. His chest visibly rising and falling. It begins to glow. Okay, now she’s getting nervous. 

“Hear me out please,” she begs, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m trying to get revenge on Vought.”

“Get in line, little girl.”

“I’m a supe. Please, please hear me out.”

“Too late.”

Okay, she’s angry now. Looking around the room she sees her keychain. It has one of those pull-able self defense devices. She reaches over to grab it. 

“If you don’t calm down, if you don’t help me, I’m going to pull this tab, and it will notify every police department, every agent in a 300 mile radius.” She’s bluffing, of course. But he’d surely believe it. Hell, they have fuckin' lesbians plastered on billboards these days. Anything is possible. 

“You’re bluffing.” He says smiling. 

“Am I?” She asks, smiling back. 

He stares at her. He says nothing. She goes to pull the pin out of the device.

“Wait,” he says. “Look, I’m old, I’m tired, and I just want to go fuck off to Costa Rica, and live my life not frozen in ice. If you want revenge on Vought, honey, by all means go for it. Girl power and all that shit. But there are plenty of other supes out there willing to help.”

She sighs, looking up at him with heavy eyelids. He smiles down at her now. She’s much prettier when she’s not being fuckin' hysterical. 

“Your loss.” She says, shrugging, pulling the cap off of the safety device. It immediately begins to flash and scream. Sending her far away from it, gripping her ears in pain. Sending him flying to the floor trying to put the pin back in. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” He yells, his hands shaking as he tries to find a way to silence the device. She doesn’t answer, just shoving herself into a corner with her hands over her ears. “Did you hear me, nutcase? How the fuck do you stop this thing!”

He throws it onto the ground now, beginning to stomp on it. He ends up with his foot halfway through the floor. All is quiet.

He looks over at her shoved into the corner. She slowly moves her hands from her ears. He’s angrier now, stomping over to her. 

“How long until these people find me?”

What? She thinks to herself. Oh yes, the bluff. 

“30 minutes. We might as well leave now, and keep driving until we get to the safe house.” Welp, there goes 50$ for the room rental. “And there’s more where that came from, so don’t do anything fuckin' crazy.”

“I won’t as long as you aren’t acting like a fuckin' lunatic.” 

“So then it’s a deal?”

“No deal.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, no deal. You can take me to this safe house and we can discuss further. That’s all I’m agreeing to. You take that, or I can just smash your head in along with the rest of your little devices.”

She rubs her chin. Walking over into the corner and picking up her duffle bag.

“Yeah, let’s hold out on the latter. Y’know, collateral land all that.”

“It really is that easy, you know? All it would take is just a snap of that spine and you’d be shut up for good.”

Her skin crawls at this. He is right. The collateral is shit. He has every right to bash her brains in and leave with no trace. What the hell can she do about it? 

Unless. 

“Look, Captain America, there is something else that could pique your interest.”

“Trust me, there isn’t much.” He looks around the room one last time before they go out the door. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any reefer?”

She closes the door just as they’ve opened it. She leans into him. This is cruel, she thinks. This is wrong. And hell, he’d have every right to kill her after they get the job done. And maybe that would be the best thing to do. Quick and easy. 

“Look, if you help me do this, I can show you to your children. To your family.” Yup, she’s rotting in hell. “I used to work for Vought. I know of their location.”

His gaze softens. Fuck, she thinks. 

“This is some sick fuckin' joke?”

“No,” She coos, placing a sweaty palm on his shoulder. He flinches. “No, of course not. And if you help me, you can take all of them down to Costa Rica with you.”

He looks at her with question, with curiosity. He doesn’t think he can trust this girl, but hell, she did just save his life.

A family? His family? People who are ready to welcome him with open arms. His own children who’d view him as a hero, as a good father. People he could make proud. Hopefully they wouldn’t be fuckin’ pussies like Homelander. What a waste, he thinks.

She bounces back and forth on her feet. He nods, not looking at her. 

“Tell me what you need in the car. And we’re stopping for alcohol and cigarettes.”

“Deal.” She says with a guilty smile, watching as he walks his way downstairs. 

Masterlist | Episode 3 | Taglist

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