#lee!hughie

[tickletastic]

That Green Gentleman

Fandom: The Boys

Ship: N/A

Warnings: Mentions of needles/injections, mentions of canon-typical violence, canon-typical profanity

Summary: Butcher interrupts Hughie during a long night of work. (AN: found out during the research for this that the population of Wyoming is less than my hometown.... crazy)

“The Flatiron Building is historical” this, and “keep everything clean” that. What M. M. had failed to tell Hughie, when he had officially joined the team again, was that the Flatiron Building is also incredibly creepy at night, when you’re all alone and encapsulated by silence.

He’s working away at a stupidly tall pile of files about some leads pertaining to an up-and-coming supe that’s being eyed by The Seven, continuously eyeing the sickly green vial of Temp V that sits at the edge of his desk. He promised Annie that he’d stop, that he’d never even look at Temp V again, but finding that final, lonely vial had done something to him. He couldn’t help but keep it at an arm’s reach, he couldn’t help but imagine every scenario where he might need it, scenarios when regular Hughie wouldn’t be enough.

He tries to ignore it, but every few minutes one of the files ends up on that side of the desk, and he has to watch the vial teeter back and forth, unsure if he wants to reach out and move it to a safer place, or allow it the glass to shatter on the ground, the liquid spreading across the dirty tiles until there was none left for him to inject, forcing him to stay himself.

He manages to go an hour, sixty entire minutes, without looking towards the vial, following a paper trail about where the supe might be training, some hidden Vought-funded summer camp in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Wyoming.

Hughie hadn’t even known that people actually lived in Wyoming.

He’s so focused on the files in front of him that he doesn’t hear the door to the office open, he doesn’t even realize that Butcher has entered the room until he’s struggling against someone else’s arms, effectively knocking his files over, setting off a chain reaction that causes the vial to tip over the edge, and it feels as though things move in slow motion as he watches it fall to the floor, shattering with a clink.

The arms around Hughie unravel, and he swivels in his chair to see that it’s Butcher, who is taking in the sight of the Temp V on the floor, the Temp V that had been so incredibly difficult for them to acquire. He watches as Butcher’s face cycles between a number of emotions, anger underlying each of them. He’s almost scared, for a moment, scared of how Butcher will respond to his mistake.

Butcher, though, tries to stay as calm as possible, he tries to focus on anything but the precious, invaluable Temp V that is now spread across the floor. Frenchie had torn him apart after he had punched Hughie, and M. M. seemed to chew him out every time he remembered that it had happened. Not to mention that Butcher had felt so guilty for so long about the possibility of him failing Hughie the way he had failed Lenny.

So, instead of focusing on the green chemical mixture, or the fear on Hughie’s face, Butcher focuses on the fact that it’s three in the morning and Hughie is still in the office, slumped over and looking exhausted. Instead of commenting on how the Temp V was necessary for their next venture, he focuses on Hughie’s inability to take care of himself.

“What are you doing here, kid?” He asks, trying to soften his expression, “it’s three in the fuckin’ mornin’, what’s Starlight gonna think that you’re up to?”

Hughie’s expression twitches, flashing through a number of emotions until it lands on something between confusion and sheepishness, and Butcher almost wants to look away, thinking about how much Hughie looks like Lenny with this expression, under these dim lights.

“Uh- I was taking a look at the files for tomorrow. I thought we could get a head start on finding Echo if I put in some overtime to figure out his weekly schedule,” Hughie stutters, looking up at Butcher with intrigue.

“Well, there’s no use in you getting us a head start if you’re going to be all tired and whiny come morning, is there?” Butcher asks, bringing a hand up and putting it on Hughie’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

Hughie flinches, very obviously, and poorly, suppressing a giggle. “Uh, I guess not. I just have a few more things to look over.” He poorly manages to hide that he’s trying to evade Butcher’s hand when it gives him another squeeze, moving his head down quickly to conceal the small smile on his lips.

“I don’t think so,” Butcher says, a smirk on his lips, “we have a cot in the back, you’re going to get some sleep, or you’re not rolling with me and the boys tomorrow.”

Hughie rolls his eyes, making a move to turn his chair back around, “Butcher, why don’t you let me finish this, and then I’ll go home.”

“Nuh-uh, kid, you’re going to sleep now or miss out on tomorrow, your choice.”

“I’m finishing this,” Hughie replies firmly, going back to his files, some of which are now turning green on the floor, drenched in the Temp V.

“Alright then, cunt, you give me no choice.”

“What? Butcher, le- fuhuhuck, dohohon’t dohoho that!” Hughie squeals, trapped in his chair by Butcher, who has moved forward to keep the chair from moving away from the desk.

“I can’t stop now, Hughie. I’m sure you understand, you left me no choice,” Butcher responds mischievously, his fingers scribbling over Hughie’s tummy, “now, why don’t you tell me how bad this tickles?”

Hughie shakes his head, desperately trying to turn around so he can, at the very least, see Butcher, and have the smallest amount of control in the situation. “Nohoho, Buhuhutcher stahahap!”

“‘Stop’ ain’t a number, Hughie, I need a number on a scale of one to ten.” Butcher starts to pinch around Hughie’s belly button, and Hughie doubles over, his laughter picking up.

“Fuhuhuhuck,” Hughie screeches, throwing his head back against the chair, just barely giving him enough range to see Butcher’s face, “fihihive! It’s ahahaha fihihive, plehehease Buhuhutcher!”

“Alright, alright, I’m moving, kid.”

Butcher’s hands go back up again to Hughie’s neck, and Hughie starts to snort softly, bringing his shoulders up in an attempt to block Butcher out. “c'mon kid, give us a number out of ten.”

Hughie’s eyes are closed as he tries, desperately, to block Butcher out. “Sehehe-Sehehevehen! Seven!”

“Good job, kid!” Butcher praises, and he notices the way Hughie turns pink to his ears, trying to duck his head for a reason other than Butcher’s fingers.

“Okay, now what about here?” Butcher's fingers skitter down to Hughie’s ribs, and Hughie shrieks, desperately struggling against the chair, stuck between throwing his head back or letting it drop with a soft thud onto the desk, and letting the tickles overtake him.

Hughie is laughing way too hard to muster up any response, let alone a number to rate how ticklish his ribs are. Though, in the back of his mind he’s pretty sure that Butcher already knows what the number would be. In his thrashing, he eventually settles on letting his forehead slump onto the desk, as he cackles and squeals away, his hands doing nothing to pry Butcher’s fingers away from him.

“Bu- Ihihihi- Plehehease! Buhuhutcher I cahahan’t!” Hughie shouts, tears of mirth falling onto the document that cushions his face.

“Alright, alright, Len, I’ll let up,” Butcher says, before he can catch himself. Butcher recoils before feigning nonchalance, letting Hughie scoot the chair away from the desk.

Hughie quickly turns around, his eyes now holding the same softness that Butcher had attempted earlier, despite tears still welling in the corners of his eyes from the onslaught. “Thahahat was twihisted. Eheheven fohor you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid. The boys and I need you in peak condition for tomorrow. Go hit the cot,” Butcher says with an eye roll, though he does a poor job of hiding his fondness.

“Alright, but wake me up when Frenchie and Kimiko get here?” Hughie asks, tilting his head.

“Will do.” Butcher replies, picking shards of glass up from the floor.

“I’m sorry about that, by the way,” Hughie responds, guilt seeping onto his face.

Butcher takes a moment, before finally looking up, meeting Hughie’s eyes, “no apology needed, kid, none at all.”

[thunderstruck9]

Hughie Lee-Smith (American, 1915-1999), Ball Player, 1970. Oil on linen canvas, 24 x 32 in.

[federer7]

Ball Player. 1970 (oil on linen canvas)

Art by Hughie Lee-Smith

[museum-archives]

Rooftop

1957

Hughie Lee-Smith (American, 1915-1999)

Oil on masonite

[image-junkie]

Hughie Lee-Smith, “Bondage,” oil on linen canvas, 1987.

[fanficsandfluff]

does kripke have a secret tickle fetish? that's two eps in a row with it...

[ddzzaaii]

[la-muse-noire]

Hughie Lee-Smith, Untitled (The Dancer) 1948

[luckyacid]

Hughie Lee-Smith Indecision II, 1980 Oil on canvas 32 × 34 in

[mr-km3]

Side by Side comparison of Original Paintings by Hughie Lee-Smith (Bottom 2 Images) and my versions( Top 2 pictures).

[tickletastic]

Acetone Takes Paint Off Hardwood

Fandom: The Boys

Ship: Annie/Hughie (Annhie? Hughnie?)

Summary: Hughie is totally fine with Annie being more powerful than him, but sometimes, just sometimes, his pride gets in the way.

Annie is watching the news when she hears a crash, followed by the familiar shouts of her boyfriend from their shared bedroom. She jumps up, running towards the sound when it’s followed by more curses and a few pained groans. 

“Hughie, are you-” She stops in her tracks after entering the room, a bucket of paint on her floor and a bookshelf on its side. Hughie stands crouched above the mess, seemingly trying to hold back tears, his frustration evident on his face. “Hughie?” 

Hughie doesn’t look up from the ground, instead he aimlessly wipes a towel through the soft yellow tone that had spilt on the hardwood floor. She creeps slowly across the room until she can situate herself on the floor behind him. Once there, she gently leans him into her until his back is leaned up against her, his head on her chest. The gesture is meant to be calming, and while he relaxes into her embrace, his face still holds the same constipated look, though tears are now freely flowing down his cheeks. “Hughie, babe, what’s the matter?”

Hughie shakes his head, as if it’ll will away the tears, but they just keep coming. Annie takes one of his hands in hers and holds it to her chest so he can feel her heartbeat. Hughie goes int a fit of sobs until his breathing starts to match Annie’s somewhat, still laced with wet hiccups as he tries to self-soothe. Annie helps by running the fingers of her other hand through his hair.

“I-I c-can’t,” Hughie tries to get out, gasping. He takes in a breath, “I fuck it all up.”

“What happened?” Annie asks, slow and sweet, like she’s trying to lure a scared animal to safety. 

“I just wanted to- to do something right f-for once,” Hughie says through deep breaths, “I j-just wanted to do it on m-my own”

Annie takes in the room and notices that one wall has been painted the same shade of pale yellow that is now covering the floor, her favourite colour. Hughie hadn’t got to the spot behind their bookshelf yet, and he had probably been trying to move it out of the way to get behind it. When she looks back down at him, his wet eyes are gazing up.

“You-you said you hated the gray,” he says with a sniffle, “I just wanted to do one thing by myself without fucking it up. But that’s what I am, a fuck-up.”

Annie shakes her head, leaning down to place a kiss on Hughie’s forehead. “Hughie, what have I been telling you? Just ‘cause you’re not a supe doesn’t mean you’re a fuck up. That’s why I didn’t want you taking that temporary V stuff, I think you’re fine without it.”

He shook his head, shutting his eye tight again like they had been when she first entered. “No, Annie, you don’t get it. I-I just want to be able to take care of you the way that you take care of me, I need you to know that I’m trying just as hard to make things work. I can’t protect you, I can’t open a jar, fuck, I can’t even paint a fucking room without screwing shit up.” 

“Oh no, baby,” Annie whispers, “I wish there was something I could say that would make you realise how much I see you. I know that you’re trying, and I know that you want to be able to protect me the way that I protect you, but that’s just something that’s different for us than it is for other couples. You’re not screwing anything up, and you don’t know how much it grounds me just to have you here, knowing that you’re safe.”

Annie reaches down to wipe the residual tears from Hughie’s face, placing scattered kisses on his forehead and his head of curls. His breaths are becoming more even as they sit there, his heartbeat matching the feeling of Annie’s through his fingertips. 

“Annie, I’m sorry,” he starts, but is quickly interrupted.

“Don’t apologize, Hughie. It’s fine.”

“No, I- well, I just get overwhelmed sometimes. I don’t ever want you to think that this relationship is all give for you. I mean,” he puts on his usual smug grin, “I knew you before you were Starlight.”

Annie laughs, gently flicking him in the temple, “correction: you didn’t know that I was Starlight, saying that you met me before I was Starlight is like saying you met me as a baby, and that’s kind of weird.”

“I guess you’re right,” Hughie laughs, nodding his head.

Annie grins down at him, pushing a curl from his face. “Alright, now come on my handsome, strong, funny boyfriend.” She reaches her hands under Hughie’s arms to lift him from his nearly horizontal position that he had managed to get to while they had been on the ground. Instead of being able to easily haul him up, Annie is met with resistance while Hughie flails out, letting out a surprised laugh as Annie’s fingers wiggle in an attempt to grab hold of him.

She’s quick to stop, confused as to why Hughie’s arms are suddenly everywhere until she looks down at the giant smile plastered across his face. 

“Are you-”

“No, no, no, no, no, no.”

They both speak at the same time as Hughie recognizes the mischevious look in Annie’s eyes. 

“Annie, no. Do not.” Hughie tries his hardest to sound stern, but even if he hadn’t been letting out nervous, anticipatory giggles, Annie is a supe, after all. She pulls him up like she had originally been trying to, placing one arm across his chest and folding her legs over his. 

Hughie tries to reason, shaking his head, trying desperately to pull her arm away from him, but he knows he’s trapped, he’s at the mercy of a supe, which would be bad enough as is, but it’s his supe girlfriend, which makes it somehow worse. 

“Annie, come on, I could make us dinner or something? We can hate-watch an old A-Train race? Maybe go to a pet store and send The Deep videos of the fish in those tiny plastic containers?”

“Nuh-uh, Hughie. I wanna see that cute little smile of yours.”

“Annie- Annie plehehehehease! Nohohohoho!” Before he can even manage to get to the begging stage of his bargaining, Annie has started to spider over his tummy, pinching and prodding at the soft spots. He laughs high-pitched and bubbly, shaking his head back and forth, “Ahahannie ihihit tihihickles!”

“Uh, yeah, Hughie, I’d hope so,” she teases, dropping her head down to give him a kiss on the neck while her hand continues its work. Hughie’s shoulder shoots up, and his laughter is speckled with snorts once Annie’s lips get to his collarbones. “Even here? I’ve kissed your neck before!”

“Ihihit’s eheheasy to hiihihide laughter with mohohoaning!” Hughie laughs harder, half because Annie’s hands have started to pinch at his sides, and half because he finds himself hilarious, and Annie totally doesn’t laugh at his comment too. 

Annie decided to try a single raspberry on Hughie’s neck, and it does the job, he squeals and tries to buck, but Annie’s super-strength prevents him from going anywhere. Annie releases Hughie from the arm that had been across his chest, her legs still holding him against her, and she uses both hands to dig into his ribs while she continues to give him raspberries where his neck meets his shoulder. Hughie practically screams, his laughter only increasing in volume when a hand wanders down to his hip, the other drilling his top ribs. 

“AHAHAHNNIE! IHIHIHI- PLEHEHEASE!” Hughie screams before descending into periods of wheezing, silent laughter. Tears poke from the corner of his eyes, but not the same, frustrated ones that had been there before.

Annie finally eases up and lets her boyfriend slink back against her chest as he takes heavy, panting breaths laced with high giggles. She goes to return her hand to his hair and accidentally grazes his ear with her pinky, getting another squeal out of him. “No fucking way, here too?”

Hughie squints his eyes open, face red and a smile still plastered over his cheeks, “sh-shuhut up.”

“Big words for someone with ticklish ears,” she teases, cooing when the red shade of his face deepens.   

“Whahahatever,” he giggles, swatting at her hand when it strays too close to his ear again. 

When Hughie’s breath has finally evened out, his chest rising and falling with Annie’s, she gets a wide smile on her face. “So, what did you say about the pet store?”

[oldsardens]

Hughie Lee Smith - Portrait of a Woman

[akaanir-of-starfleet]

Untitled (Urban Scene) (oil on Masonite) by Hughie Lee-Smith (1955)

[panafrocore]

The Beach by Hughie Lee-Smith (1962)

Hughie Lee-Smith’s art conveys the alienation and isolation experienced by many African Americans during the middle decades of the twentieth century, yet his work speaks in larger terms about our inability to reach out and connect with others on grounds larger than race. That surrealistic edge to his work intensifies the emotional distance conveyed by the people in his paintings.

[imthefailedartist]

American Realism: Visions of America, 1900-1950

George Luks; Three Top Sargeants (1925)

William James Glackens; Skaters, 1920

John French Sloan

Fun, One cent, 1905

The Women's Page, 1905

Turning Out the Light, 1905

Night Windows, 1915

Jacob Lawrence, In the Heart of the Black Belt, 1947

Carroll Aument, Portrait of a Young Boy, Frontal View, 1948

Hughie Lee-Smith, Beach Scene, 1953

James Van Der Zee

Swimming Team Harlem, 1925 (T)

Couple, Harlem, 1932 (B)

George Wesley Bellows

Introducing Georges Carpentier, 1921 (L)

Counted Out, 1921 (R)

Guy Pène Du Bois; Locked Jury, 1950

Leon Kroll; In the Country, 1916

[aletdownsquid]

“The End is a bold and dramatic painting from Hughie Lee-Smith's late series of works inspired by the theatre. His depictions of figures in imaginary, staged environments recall Lee-Smith's early experiences of dance and theatre while working at the Playhouse Settlement (named Karamu House in 1941) during the WPA period in Cleveland. Lee-Smith taught art at Karamu House in the late 1930s in return for the full scholarship to the Cleveland School of Art (now the Art Institute of Cleveland) that the Gilpin Players awarded him in 1935. The End is a striking painting from this ultimate period of Lee-Smith's oeuvre. With both the figures hidden or turned from the viewer, the only faces on view are the images of a Greek tragedy mask and an African mask painted on the set. The compressed space and floating elements further create a metaphysical, dream-like space that reflects the lasting influence of Giorgio De Chirico. The End is also a very personal reflection on mortality. Painted after his move to Albuquerque in 1997, Lee-Smith was fighting his final battle with cancer at the time - he passed away on February 23, 1999 at the age of 83.”