#the boys whump

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Five Homewarming

He was scared. He wanted to go home.

Hughie watched the thin, pale light of dawn spread across the room he was already beginning to refer to as his own. Even if it was for the sake of brevity, calling the place where he slept ‘his room’ felt like a bad omen; as though he was already accepting his fate after less than a day. The more he thought about it though, the more hope seemed like a fool's errand. He didn’t know where he was. He might not even be in the States. Escape would mean trying to outrun a creature he couldn’t hide from, who could smell his sweat and hear his blood, whose eyes could see farther than Hughie could run, all in completely unknown terrain.

The only time he would be able to make a run for it was when Homelander wasn’t there, but depending on how far away he was from Vought Tower, that didn’t give him much of a head start. Besides, just because Homelander wasn’t there didn’t mean he wasn’t watching.

He had discovered the cameras last night, artificial eyes glinting in dark corners. Hughie could only hope they were used only by Homelander when he wasn’t there to keep an eye on Hughie in person. The thought of anyone, even some anonymous Vought employee just doing their job, seeing what Homelander had done to him was an entirely new low that Hughie couldn’t bear to sink to.

Hughie lay in bed, listening to the silence of the house. He was used to the ever presence of New York City, cars, trucks, the angry horns of traffic, neighbours above and below stomping, shouting and laughing, a constant thrum and movement, a pulse that could never still. Here, it was silent. Hughie wasn’t used to silence. He wouldn’t leave the house unless armed with earphones. Now all that was left was the sound of his own breathing. He could hear his heartbeat if he listened hard enough. That couldn’t be normal. It had to be the V.

He was a supe now. Hughie still didn’t know how he felt about that. He would say that he was lucky he survived, but whether death was the better alternative remained to be seen. He hadn’t wanted to be a supe nor had he asked to be one. He couldn’t think about what he was now without coming back to who had turned him into one. There was so much to process. Too much. It all lay before him as he stared up at the ceiling, a horrid, tangled mess. One thread led to another. He couldn’t think about one fucked up thing without accidentally jumping to the next.

The only reason he was a supe was because Homelander wanted him for a son.

Rules had been given, but Hughie still didn’t know fully what lay in store for him. What did it mean to be Homelander’s child? It all depended on what fatherhood and childhood looked like to a man like him. Control and punishment featured heavily, but physical affection seemed to be just as prescriptive. In a way, it was worse. The violence that he liked to hide behind that veneer of care and concern frightened Hughie in a primal way, but there was something equally foul in his performance of affection, the squeezes, the strokes, the ‘kiddo’s and ‘little boy’s, the warm smiles and sighs of concern. There was something insidious about it, more ominous than simple violence.

Hughie had to wonder how much of it was performative. If it was just an extended torture, a way to fuck with Hughie’s head, then that would make it somewhat bearable; but what if Homelander actually meant all of it? He had gone to extremes to make sure Hughie fit the part (as much as a twenty seven year old man could fit the part of an eight year old boy)- though he might not consider pumping Hughie full of near lethal drugs extreme. What if he really did truly intend for Hughie to be his son? Would that be better or worse than just a tool to use against Butcher? It was, in part, delusion and fantasy. It had to be. Hughie was obviously an adult and undeniably a prisoner, but those plain facts were proving to be no deterrence. It seemed that Homelander was determined to make a child out of him.

Hughie turned over in his bed, wrapping the comforter around himself. He wasn’t going to think about how that seemed to align with everyone’s view of him. His dad still spoke to his paediatrician. Frenchie called him petite. M.M. called him kid. Butcher said that he was his canary; and now there was Homelander. He had killed Translucent and he was still the kid. He had helped leak Compound V to the public, saved Frenchie and M.M., he felt like he had done so much, and yet he was still just the kid. No matter what he did, the title that was thrust upon him was impossible to shirk. The bite of it was softened by love and well meaning, but it still stung; and now it was being doled out with cruelty and malice. He wondered how much of it he would be able to take.

There were worse things Homelander could do with him. It was difficult, but Hughie felt the need to seek out silver linings wherever he could, even if they were more grey than silver. He could have Hughie in a hole in the ground. He could be torturing him. He could have killed him in a hundred different painful ways. He could have let him die after the first time the V ripped the life out of his body. At least he was in a comfortable bed. He wasn’t restrained or in any pain. It was still a cage, but at least it was a gilded one. It was nicer than the basement he and the boys had hidden out in not some months ago. Those things weren’t much, but they were something, at least. Did he desperately yearn for his girlfriend, his friends, his bed, his clothes, his freedom? Yes. Did he wish to wake up from this nightmare? Yes, but maybe it would help to remember that the nightmare he was in could be a whole lot worse.

Hughie spent a few more hours moving from one side of the bed to the other, tossing and rolling like the contents of his mind. Eventually, he got out of bed. He wouldn’t be allowed to hide from Homelander all day and at least this way it was on his own terms. He would have to take whatever little freedoms like that that he could find.

When he went downstairs, there was no smell of food to greet him this time. The silence was absolute. Hughie moved about the ground floor, head on a swivel, but his gaoler was nowhere to be found. He went back upstairs, going through every room, even daring to creak open the door to what he could only assume to be Homelander’s room. He went back downstairs, the knowledge that he was alone settling on his shoulders. There was a mixture of relief and dread at this. Homelander had said he wouldn’t be spending every day at the cabin and it made sense, he was Homelander , but it felt like a trick somehow. Or a test. Maybe Homelander wanted to see what the mouse would do while the cat was away. Hughie stood in the middle of the living room, looking around himself. He wanted to look around. Homelander hadn’t said that he couldn’t and it wasn’t as though there were going to be any weapons he could use against him. Even with god juice pumping through his veins, he was still helpless. Perhaps it was a useless exercise, but Hughie still felt the need to familiarise himself with his surroundings. It was better than sitting around, awaiting fate.

He started in the living room. The books that lined the walls were all hardbacks, so it was nearly impossible to tell if any of them had ever been read, but Hughie still doubted it. All he could find were encyclopedias and dictionaries. Nothing someone would ever sit down and actually read. He turned on the TV and was greeted with a no signal sign. He then checked the TV cabinet and recoiled. Every single Disney movie was there on blu-ray, neatly lined up in chronological order. This was all he had to watch? Not that he hated Disney, he grew up on it like nearly every other kid from the 90s, but this was it? He didn’t want to think about how else Homelander planned to infantilize him. The cabinet doors were shut with a quick snap.

The more he explored the house, the more surreal it felt. It had never been lived in. There was nothing personal about it. It was like staying in a hotel or a showroom. It was a blank slate, designed to look like a home. Hughie wasn’t sure if he would actually want to stay in a second home of Homelander’s, but it didn’t make it any less creepy. He ended up in the kitchen, his stomach yawning open. On the kitchen island there was a landline, but Hughie’s hopes weren’t raised. When he lifted the receiver, he found that there were no buttons to press. It was purely to receive. He returned the phone to its cradle. So, there would be times when Homelander couldn’t just fly over to him. He would have eyes on him, but he wouldn’t always be available to actually come. It made sense; and it gave Hughie the tiniest bit of hope. It wouldn’t be much of one, but he might have a head start after all.

Finally, he turned to the fridge. He didn’t remember it being so heavily adorned with magnetic letters yesterday, but then again, it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind either. His stomach fell as his eyes fell on a note pinned under the letter ‘h’. Dread settling in his stomach, he began to read.

Hughie,

I’ll be gone for a few days, so eat and shower as much as you need. The fridge will be restocked by the time you wake up. I expect you to be in bed by the time it gets dark. Be good.

Love,

Dad

Hughie read the note until he could no longer see. He stared until the tidy scrawl blurred into an illegible mess. He had permission to eat. To bathe. He hadn’t been given a curfew, but a bedtime . And the way it was signed off. He hadn’t thought it was possible to vomit from sheer rage and revulsion, but he felt terribly close. Violence exploded through him. The fist that had been curling at his side swung straight into the fridge door. He had expected an explosion of pain, split skin, bruised knuckles, for his appendage to crumple against unyielding metal. He hadn’t anticipated his fist to continue through the metal. When his hand fell away, he found, to his horror, a perfect mould of his fist indenting in the fridge door.

“Holy shit.”

He looked down at his hand. There wasn’t even a cut. He had forgotten about the V. He could do shit like that now, punch holes in metal doors. The shock of it had evaporated his fury, and now the shrill sound of a phone ringing destroyed his awe and replaced it with panic. There was no way he couldn’t answer. It could only be one person. Swallowing, discovering that his mouth was suddenly dry. Hughie went over to the phone and picked it up.

“Did you just break the fucking fridge?!”

The snarled hiss curled into Hughie’s ear. He gripped the receiver tight, his insides transformed into a writhing heap.

“I- uh-”

“I leave you alone for one morning.” Hughie could hear the wrathful finger cutting the air with a stern jab. “One morning and you are already tearing the house apart! I thought you would be better than this. I thought after yesterday you’d know better than to throw a tantrum over some simple instructions.”

Hughie was not about to pick apart the horrible inaccuracies of that statement. They had not been simple instructions. It had been a list of privileges so basic that Hughie had never even considered them as such. The privilege to eat when he wanted, sleep when he wanted. Those sorts of restrictions were given to patients, to prisoners; and of course, to children.

“You are lucky that I am a busy man this morning, or else I would be over there right now turning your ass red.”

A wave of humiliation, fear and disgust, shivered up Hughie’s spine. Heat flushed across his face and his neck, his stomach twisted and flipped. He was going to throw up before he'd even had breakfast.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Hughie tried to swallow, though there was no moisture left in his mouth. “I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not,” Homelander growled. “If I see you throwing another tantrum like that, you’re going to regret it. Understand?”

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

“‘Yes’, what?”

Hughie wasn’t going to say Dad. He refused. It was a near certainty that it would be forced from Hughie’s mouth sooner or later, but if Homelander wanted to hear it, it would have to be pried from between his teeth. A stiff “yes, sir,” was the best he could do. Fortunately, this time, it was enough.

“Good. Behave yourself, Hughie. I’ve got my eye on you.”

Hughie waited until he heard the line go dead to put the phone down. Then, he sank down onto the counter until his face was cradled in his hands. Echoes of the conversation swarmed his mind. Homelander was more than rich enough that something like a fridge would be immaterial to him. It wasn’t about the money. It was about exerting control over Hughie, shoehorning him as much as possible into this role of child. Keeping him scared, keeping him small; but knowing it didn’t stop it from working. The call had been immediately after he’d thrown the punch; Homelander had been watching him from the moment he’d woken up. He was still watching him now- but Hughie could never know for sure when that surveillance would end, not without running the risk of pissing Homelander off even more.

He wouldn’t have even done it if he’d known he could do so much damage. He’d forgotten about his powers. His anger had been so consuming he’d forgotten about everything except what had been on that note. As much as he would have liked to stay in that exact position for another hour or so, Hughie didn’t enjoy the thought of Homelander watching how his seams were already so easily picked; so he moved over to the fridge. Perhaps the infringement of destroying the note might have been ignored or forgiven had Hughie not put a fist shaped dent in the fridge door, but he was already in such hot water, he wasn’t going to dare try it now. He tried not to look at it, but out of the corner of his eye, he still caught a glimpse of the words. By the way his stomach rebelled, he wondered if he would even be able to keep anything down.

-

The TV remained the only remedy to the uncanny silence of the house. Hughie opened the windows on the ground floor (the ones in the top wouldn’t budge), but even the sounds of the ambience outside, the wind moving through the trees, the trills and songs of birds, wasn’t enough. He was used to the bustle of humanity, so much so that instead of it overwhelming him, he was overwhelmed by its absence. He put the TV on and decided to watch the Disney films that he hadn’t watched as a kid, so as not to taint those childhood movies by association. It was going to be a lot of princess movies. He listened as he did the washing up, trying to focus on that saccharine voice singing into the well, to lose himself in the music rather than digging a pit in his mind. Rather than think of Homelander choosing which camera to observe him from. How many Disney movies would he have watched by the end of this? How many would he have seen, over and over again? What if there wasn’t an end to this? What if the boys never found him? What if they weren’t even looking for him? What if he never found a way out?

The water had turned cold. Hughie let out a breath, looked down at his hands to find that his fingers had pruned. How long had he been washing the same plate, lost within himself. Had Homelander witnessed that too? Hughie listened for the television and found the string of a song that he could hold onto. He put the dish on the rack, drained the sink and dried his hands. He continued to wring the towel in his hands as he frowned in thought. What could he do now? What was he allowed to do? The thin ice that he had found himself on after what had happened with the fridge wouldn’t have thickened in such a short space of time. He was reluctant to even head outside lest it sparked Homelander’s ire.

In the end, Hughie settled for sitting on the couch and watching Snow White in a glazed stupor. The tea towel was twisted and wrapped around his hands, so much so that at some point, letting it go felt impossible. It was the second day and already he felt as though he was losing his mind. He couldn’t forget about the cameras. He was a bug in a jar and at any moment, Homelander might give him a shake just because he could.

I’ve got my eye on you.

He couldn’t relax. He couldn’t think and when he did, it was the mental equivalent of doom scrolling, a rapid fire spiral into hopelessness. How the fuck was he supposed to do anything? He couldn’t try to escape. He couldn’t even start to plan without Homelander seeing. Homelander couldn’t watch him all the time; but it didn’t matter, because unless he was asleep in the next room, there was always a chance that he might be watching. Even then, there was his hearing. What if Hughie woke him up? What if Homelander never stayed the night? What if this was his life? Forever? Or until Homelander got tired of him or realised that Hughie was an inadequate substitute for an actual child.

The movie had ended. Hughie’s breathing was sharp and shallow, the tea towel wrapped tight around his hand. Was Homelander watching his quiet breakdown? Was he supposed to be doing something different? Was there a way that he could get this wrong? Did Homelander want him to keep up the act too? The act itself had yet to be properly defined and it hadn’t been made at all clear what it was to be when Homelander wasn’t present.

Be good.

He was a grown ass man. He shouldn’t have to be good. What did good even look like to Homelander? Or perhaps the definition of what bad was would be better, so that Hughie could avoid it? Either way, Hughie was floundering. Homelander probably wouldn’t kill him, but Hughie wouldn’t make the mistake of ruling out that possibility. The worst he had done thus far, at least physically, was spank him. He was still mortified by it, even being threatened with it made his insides squirm. It had been total humiliation, not to mention deeply violating in a way that Hughie hadn’t expected. He had been too angry to really consider it, but afterwards, when Homelander had ‘checked on him’, he had felt how deeply wrong it was to be undressed against his will. Hughie knew that it could be so much worse and if it was someone else, someone harder, tougher, someone who had been through real pain, they would probably find it laughable. Hughie hadn’t been through worse though; but there was still time. While Homelander was determined to go through this parental charade, Hughie wasn’t about to rule out worse violence. He was a supe now. He could take a lot more than before. Homelander would have to worry so much about accidentally murdering him in a fit of rage, which was convenient, as his temper flared frequently out of control. It took little to piss him off or maybe Hughie (completely unintentionally) just got under his skin.

Unable to sit still any longer, Hughie rose to his feet and began to move about the house, like a caged, feral thing. There were no blind spots that he could find. There was no privacy. Not even the bathroom, he had discovered last night, much to his fury and horror, was free of surveillance. The sudden, desperate need to not be observed, led Hughie pulling himself under his bed. He stared up at the white of the mattress, broken up by the slats of the bed frame. He listened out for the phone downstairs, but as the seconds dragged on, the silence remained. He didn’t know if there were any cameras that were angled to catch the space under the bed in frame, but he had the feeling that this was the closest he would be able to get to a moment alone. Breaths came a little easier, a little deeper.

The thought had yet to have fully formed yet in his mind. It was still shapeless when his hand began to lift of his own accord. With the nail of his thumb, he dug into the wood, carving down. Then, another line next to it. A tally. Two days. Perhaps the whole underside of the bed would one day be covered in tallies. Maybe Homelander would find out somehow and even this rudimentary method of timekeeping would be robbed from him as well.

His face twisted. His eyes burned. He shut them tight and pressed the heels of his hands into his sockets until shapeless colours bursted out in his vision. He was scared. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be brave any more. He had thought it was over, it should have been over, why couldn’t he just exist, why couldn’t he just be okay for one second? Why couldn’t he go home? He just wanted to go home.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[asidian]

Just when I thought this show couldn't break my heart again, I caught this little detail on my rewatch.

When Charles is in that lake getting rocks pelted at him, it's full dark. We see a light that's probably meant to be the moon through the trees, already a ways above the horizon.

But when Charles saves that boy from the bullies earlier the same day, it looks like it's late afternoon, judging by the light and the shadows.

If we go by the change in lighting, probably at least three hours have elapsed between when Charles saves that boy and when he finally escapes the bullies himself.

It makes sense, honestly. Those rocks pelted at him, slowed down by the water, would never have been enough to cause internal bleeding. They would have had to hurt him before he ever got in the lake.

In the comics, Charles is tortured extensively by the bullies who end up killing him.

If we go by the lighting and the implications here, it's the same in the show. We just only see the very start and the very end of it on-screen.

[runraerun]

Steddie Amnesia Fic: 1/3

-> Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

cw: lots of head trauma/brain injury/recovery stuff.

Steve wakes up in the hospital with someone snoring loudly on his leg, mouth open, drool getting soaked up into the scratchy hospital blanket over him.

Steve just stares.

It’s… Freddie? No, that’s not right... Eddie! Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, known delinquent and drug dealer… resting his head on Steve’s lap.

What the hell…?

Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.

It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.

“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.

“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.

But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.

“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”

Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.

“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.

One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”

Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?

“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”

Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”

Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.

“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.

Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.

And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“

“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”

“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.

“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.

Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.

“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.

That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.

Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.

The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.

Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.

In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.

A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.

Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.

He’s a head trauma patient, now.

It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.

Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.

And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.

He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.

Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.

The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.

It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?

It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.

What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.

It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.

Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.

No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.

And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.

Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.

Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.

The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.

He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.

“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.

Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”

“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.

Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”

Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.

It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.

Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.

“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”

“Steve, I don’t think—

“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“

“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.

Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.

“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”

Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”

Eddie raises a brow.

Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”

Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”

He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.

“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”

Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”

Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”

Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.

He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.

He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.

“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!

“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”

Steve flees the van on unsteady feet, not daring to look back.

[yet-another-heathen]

On conditioned whumpees...

Y'know, I think one of the things that people get wrong with conditioned whumpees is their rules. Specifically, when a whumpee was in long term captivity/training and they later get released or escape.

Most people write them as latching onto a caretaker or new whumper, and begging for new rules so they know they're doing something right. A new set of laws to live by, a new framework to behave to.

And that's... not really how conditioning works.

Conditioning means automatic reactions. Your body doing something that was trained into you without consulting your brain first.

There is no decision making. There is no choice. The trigger hits, and you are immediately performing the correct action regardless of anything else.

You're told to kneel? Your knees have already hit the ground. You're supposed to be standing in one part of the house when a certain noise is made? You've launched into movement before you even realize what you heard.

These rules are woven into the fabric of your body. And they are insurmountable. The conditioning overrides emotion, internal conflict, hesitation, beliefs, wants... everything.

Your whumpee may very well hate what is being done to them, and after the moment has passed they're cursing themself and their whumper. They're still a person on the inside. And that person is still very much alive. Most of the time, they will have some level of awareness that what's being done to them is wrong. They'll be angry. They'll be hurt. And they will hate that there is nothing they can do about it.

But the next time that trigger occurs, the response still hits them exactly the same.

So now take your whumpee out of that situation. They ran away, were rescued, were sold. They got out. Now they're with new people, a new caretaker, a new whumper. Or they're on their own and trying to make their own way in the world.

But those conditioned responses are still there.

There's no turning them off. You don't just replace them with new rules. They are in your every fibre. They have been built into the very framework of who you are.

The next time someone says the word "kneel", your knees are on the ground again. No matter where you are, or who you're with. The response happens before you can stop it. If they don't know why, everyone looks at you like you're insane. And you feel like you are.

Deconditioning is an agonizing process that takes more effort than I can even begin to describe to someone who's never experienced it.

Every time they hit that trigger, that response will still be there. Over, and over, and over, and over.

Breaking those rules down takes YEARS. And it is a constant effort that the whumpee has to choose to undergo every single time. Progress is measured milimeter by milimeter. You're told to kneel, and you kneel. You're told to kneel, and your mind catches up with the fact that you already did it— but a little sooner than it did before. Then a split second sooner. Then as you're doing it. Then you feel the impulse just before your knees hit the ground. Then you have a split-second of resistance before you go down. On and on and on and on, inching toward progress despite the fact that you're fighting with all your might. And that progress is anything but linear.

You don't just start obeying new rules. You don't latch on to your caretaker's new way of doing things and drop everything that you were conditioned to do before. These rules don't just get replaced.

Conditioning is not a belief system. It's a flinch response. Programmed deeper than the instincts you were born with.

You can be ordered not to obey the old command, and moments later when the trigger comes, you will anyway. Because in conditioning, the action comes before the choice.

These rules, these laws of your existence, come above everything else. And if your new whumper wants to replace them, they are going to have to beat the new rules into you so often and so severely that the pain becomes stronger than the old conditioning. At which point, the newly desired response will very, very slowly start to take over.

You're not swapping out new rules. You're layering new, worse conditioning on top of the old. And your brain will spend time stuck in that split-second between both responses before one finally grows stronger than the other. And even then, the change will not happen quickly.

That is what your conditioned whumpee is up against. That is what makes it such a horrible—HORRIBLE— and powerful tool.

[kaciart]

Accidental Cryotherapy: Falling through a frozen lake / Hypothermia

Collab with @asidian scenes from their fic Shelter From The Cold

-

Patreon | Ko-Fi

[thisgameissonintendo]

ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴏʏ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇꜱ | ᴇᴅᴡɪɴ ᴘᴀʏɴᴇ, ᴇᴘɪꜱᴏᴅᴇ 8

[the-bloody-sadist]

Full on twt just in case it’s too intense for tumblr 💀 SEE HERE

I accidentally got addicted to HSR because of chicken wing boy by the way, didn’t expect to love aventurine while I was at it

[whumpypepsigal]

A Quiet Place: Day One (2024)

#just breathe

[whumpski]

Boy Kills World (2023)

[mischefous]

OOGHHHH- man this fic, this fic I come back to very often to re-read. especially chapter 2. When FanJoyJuly was announced I was like this one. this is the fic I wanna draw for.

the whump, the emotion, the recovery was so painful but so rewarding. everything that was described was so tangible. I could feel everything Four was experiencing in such heart-wrenching detail. I felt the unbridled fear of the Chain when they were helping him through everything. this is one of my top favorite fics in my little hoard that I love coming back to.

just be mindful of the tags in this fic. but give it a read! IT'S SO FREAKING GOOD! thank you to @cluelessmoose for this amazing fic💙

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Four Incentive

“We can either do this standing up, or we can do this over my knee.”

No matter how he tried to spin it, it didn’t feel good. Pissing on Becca’s promise within a month or two of making it to sacrifice Ryan for Hughie, or abandoning Hughie to his fate to keep Ryan out of Homelander’s clutches. Neither was a solution, but there was only one right choice. The boys and Starlight had all agreed that handing Ryan over to Homelander was a catastrophic idea. Even if they were to ignore the ethics of leaving a child with his murderous, Nazi fucking father, the inherent dangers of creating another Homelander was too big of a reason to ignore. Even the fact that Hughie himself would probably agree with the decision brought no comfort to Butcher. Hughie wasn’t the sort to throw anybody to the wolves if he could help it, especially not children.

The wound of Becca’s passing was still sore and wide open; Homelander taking Hughie was pouring salt in his blood. Butcher had to wonder just how much more he could stand. What else could Homelander take from him? How else could he make him suffer? Butcher hadn’t given Homelander an inch when he’d given the news, showing up at his flat to tell him in person what he had done with Hughie; but they both knew it was a front. There’d be no point to it all if it didn’t hurt.

The only silver lining was that, at least in theory, Hughie was still alive. There wasn’t much point in hostage negotiations without a hostage. Corpses made for poor bargaining chips. ‘Probably’ wasn’t good enough though. Until Butcher saw it with his own eyes, Hughie was Schrödinger's cat, both alive and dead. Homelander had promised proof, though was yet to make good on it; and in the meantime, there wasn’t much any of them could do besides wait. They could hardly plan a rescue mission if they didn’t even know where Hughie needed rescuing from. 

They were in the Flat Iron when it happened. Butcher was pouring himself his fourth whiskey of the day, pointedly ignoring the frowned looks of disapproval and concern that were thrown at him. Frenchie and Kimiko were skiving off at Frenchie’s desk, talking to one another in a silent blur of hands. M.M. was there, tidying up the place; no one had bothered to remind him yet that he didn’t work with them any more. He came every day on his lunch break, with the vain hope that they had something, in spite of assurances that he would be told as soon as they had anything.

Butcher knocked back his drink without a grimace and wondered how long it would all last.  Over forty eight hours without a word and the silence was reaching its breaking point. He’d snap sooner or later, say some things he’d regret, because Hughie wasn’t around to put him back in his place any more. No more canary to chirp harsh truths, to irritate him into making the right choice. Butcher wished he could feel free of his moral compass, but he was shackled by its absence.

With a sigh, he began to trawl through his emails,  trying to kid himself that he was working. Not in the way Hughie was. It wasn’t the scrambled email address that piqued his interest, nor that it got flagged as spam. It was the heading. Butcher wasn’t versed well in technology. He was no luddite, but he wasn’t overly fond of it. He could hear Hughie scolding him for clicking the link, talking about how he technically knew more about hardware than software, but he knew enough to know that the antivirus they had wasn’t the best, despite being a branch of the government. He wished the kid was there so he could smack him upside the head and tell him to shut up.

For once, it was a good thing he didn’t listen to Hughie.

It took him a second to understand what it was that he was seeing. It was a live camera feed of different empty rooms and a lawn at different angles, surrounded by thick forest. It took a little navigation before he found him. Before he found them .

“Shit.”

Heads turned at Butcher’s breathy exclamation. His gaze didn’t waver. If he blinked, he might miss it. If he moved, Hughie might be gone again, forever.

“It’s Hughie.”

The other three scrambled to Butcher’s desk, crowding around his chair to stare at the screen; and there he was, living and breathing, the tinny sounds of his footsteps just audible. Following Homelander outside. Butcher scrambled to click on the right screen at Frenchie and M.M.’s insistence to follow Hughie. They watched, breaths held tighter in their chests with every step, watching Hughie walk to the tree like he was about to face a firing squad. What happened next was too quick for anyone to actually see. There was a collective shout of dismay as they saw lasers firing directly at Hughie, but horror quickly turned to confusion. For Hughie was now in the forefront of the shot, panting hard and completely naked. The conclusion was reached at the same time, but Butcher was the one who verbalised their realisation.

“He turned him into a fucking supe.”

There were no microphones outside, so they could only guess what it was that was happening. They saw Hughie’s dismay and embarrassment, turned to panic as Homelander moved over to him. From what Butcher could guess, it looked like a countdown on Homelander’s lips. Hughie disappeared without warning and Butcher was left scrambling to find where he’d gone. Naked still, he was in a bedroom, rifling through its drawers.

“He cannot teleport his clothes,” Frenchie murmured.

“He’s lucky to be alive, dosin’ him up with V.”

If Butcher wasn’t enraptured with the live feed, then he was drinking in the proof of Hughie’s life remaining intact. There wasn’t space in his head to question why he’d been turned into a supe. They could muse on Homelander’s insanity later. For now, they all watched Hughie go down the stairs. While the outside wasn’t miked up, the house seemed to be bugged at every corner.

“No, no, no, no, no,” M.M. muttered, as Hughie’s voice rose and Homelander’s became more serious.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’, lad?” Butchered murmured, leaning in closer to the screen.

When pushed, Hughie tended to run his mouth. Butcher had thought the kid to be smart enough to button his lip when talking to his captor, but emotions were evidently running too high for rational thought; and Homelander had run out of patience. They all flinched as one as they watched Homelander grab Hughie by his ear, dragging him to his side. Whiskey and bile roiled painfully in the pit of Butcher’s stomach as the sounds of Hughie’s cries came through his computer. Butcher had never witnessed a car crash before, but he’d seen shit worse than car crashes. He’d learnt to look away, because there was no point adding another scar to his collection, because after the tenth and twentieth and thirtieth time of seeing some horrific shit, it lost its magnetism; but not this time. He had to watch. Butcher was compelled. Whatever Homelander was about to do, he needed to see it. If he was on the cusp of snuffing out one of the last few lights in his life, then he needed to bear witness.

Nobody breathed as they watched Homelander hoist Hughie under his arm like he didn’t weigh a thing. The horror remained as Homelander roughly tugged down Hughie’s pants; but then, bafflement took over everything. Homelander wasn’t killing him. What he was doing could barely pass as a form of torture; but it did class as child abuse.

Uncomfortable didn’t cut it. Seeing Hughie being beaten up would have been its own kind of torture, but there was a whole layer to this that was entirely different. It was more than just seeing him in pain. They were watching him be humiliated. Homelander was treating him like a child, scolding him like a child and Hughie was incapable of doing anything besides responding like one. By being audience to his punishment, they became unwilling participants in his humiliation; and they themselves were being punished by witnessing it. Hughie probably had no idea they were watching. He hadn’t seemed to notice the cameras yet; but Homelander knew and that was enough. It was plenty.

He had been meticulous. There were no blindspots. Every camera in the room offered a different angle to Hughie’s mortification, and the sounds of struck flesh and his furious cries were being picked up on every microphone.

Nobody was able to tear themselves away. The feed was in colour, so they could see the angry colour Homelander’s hand left behind. They watched Hughie flail, heard his angry screeches, saw his legs kick and his fists pound, yet Homelander didn’t waver. It was when Homelander’s voice cut through the tumult of pain and fury did Butcher finally act. He heard Hughie again, trying to explain to him how you couldn’t just unplug computers at the socket, Butcher, it wasn’t good for them, you had to shut it down first. He ripped out the plug.

Butcher sat up and turned to them all, a hard look in his eye.

“We didn’t see that. None of us saw it, alright? When we find him, we didn’t see diddly fuckin’ squat. Got it?”

A chorus of solemn, tight lipped nods were his response. But then-

“Turn it back on.”

Butcher’s head snapped to M.M., strong arms folded across a broad chest. His face was pinched in a brittle expression, worry and anger and nearly everything that Butcher felt reflected back at him.

“What?” Butcher snapped. “You ain’t seen enough?”

“It’s still Homelander. I wanna make sure Hughie’s not dead.”

Butcher paused, then bent down to plug his computer back in with a muttered swear on his breath. It was a tense wait for everything to come back to life, but the feed was back on the screen soon enough. They heard the muffled sounds of screaming before Butcher could find the right screen. It only brought a little comfort to see that Homelander wasn’t present, but not much more. Hughie was kneeling on a bed, a pillow wrapped in his arms and crushed against his face, shoulders bowed as he curled around himself. Another moment they weren’t supposed to see. Homelander had weaponised their need for proof, forcing them to invade his privacy, turning them into unwitting voyeurs.

“He ain’t dead.” Butcher clicked off of the feed. They had already seen too much. “That’s enough.”

He sat back in his chair, staring at the email. It was better than nothing. It would be encrypted to all hell and it wasn’t good enough, not in the slightest, but it was something. He read the heading and felt the desire for violence coil in his gut.

INCENTIVE.

Homelander was going to die. Even if Butcher went down in the process.

-

The adrenaline crash hit Hughie hard. He’d had no intention of falling asleep, but somehow he ended up collapsed face first on the bed, the pillow still wrapped in his arms. The sun was setting outside, yet despite its parting, the room was pleasantly warm. Hughie pushed himself up. He rested on his hip and rubbed his face with both hands. Fuck. Homelander was probably still downstairs. Colour rose to his face as he thought back on what had happened. Just thinking about it was making him cringe.

It wasn’t just what had happened either. It was his response to it. The thought of how he’d dangled off of Homelander’s arm, thrashing and screeching, rather than taking it still and silent made him nauseous. It would have been better if Homelander had just beaten him up. Torture would have been better. Torture wasn’t… that . It wasn’t something you did to kids. Not that anybody should hit their kids, but a spanking was a punishment traditionally intended for children and that was why Homelander had done it. Because it cut deeper than a simple beating. Because it made Hughie small.

It was to infantilize and humiliate, and the worst thing about it all was that it had worked. Hughie had been humiliated. He was mortified. It made him want to curl up in a hole and never come back out. Because it was “for children”, the fact that he’d reacted the way he did made it so much worse. Crying out when you were being beaten was understandable. Screaming whilst being tortured was acceptable. But kicking up a fuss over being spanked? That was just pathetic. It was laughable. It had hurt too. It was still hurting now, the sting faded to a warm ache.

Hughie pulled his hands away from his face and looked down at them, as if his palms held all the answers. His shoulders slumped in a bone weary sigh. How the fuck had his life come to this? Abducted by a psychopath forcing him to play house. Forcing drugs and powers upon him just so he could fit into his fantasy. How long would this go on for? Or rather, how long could Hughie survive? 

“Hughie?”

Homelander’s voice came up from downstairs, but Hughie jolted as though it had been whispered in his ear.

“Y-yeah?”

“It’s time for dinner.”

Hughie’s face returned to his hands. It hadn’t been twenty four hours and he already wanted to die.

“Okay, I’m coming,” he called, reluctance seeping into his tone.

Hughie trudged to the kitchen, the back of his neck and his cheeks already burning. In spite of his embarrassment, Hughie forced himself to look Homelander dead in the eye when he came into the kitchen. It didn’t matter that the face he put on was kind, that the smile he wore was gentle. He knew what it was trying to hide: an insufferable smugness.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?”

For once, Hughie finally understood Butcher. He’d always wondered how he’d managed to stand up to Homelander, talking to him as though he couldn’t slice him in half at any second. It was his rage. It overrode even the instincts of self preservation. For just one moment, Hughie would have given anything to punch Homelander, regardless of the consequences. Unlike Butcher though, his desire to survive was greater than his fury. For now.

“Fine.”

Homelander hummed. It took all of Hughie’s willpower not to back away as Homelander moved towards him. Resistance was pointless. Even suped up, it was obvious that Homelander was still far more powerful than Hughie. He could do little more than yell when Homelander pulled him forward, wrapping an arm around his chest, pinning his arms to his side.

“Hey!”

Two fingers had snaked between Hughie’s waistband and were already working them down.

“It’s alright,” Homelander chuckled, sending a thrill of embarrassment up Hughie’s spine. “I’m just checking on how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine!” Hughie yelled, trying to wriggle out of Homelander’s grasp, but fingers bit into the flesh of his upper arm and the almighty arm squeezed until pulling in a deep breath was nearly impossible.

“We can either do this standing up.” Hughie could hear already how Homelander’s patience was beginning to thin. “Or we can do this over my knee.”

Hughie slumped forward, head hanging low. Fuck. What choice did he really have? He couldn’t stop Homelander and he had no idea how to use his powers or if they could even be useful in this situation. Maybe he couldn’t teleport great distances? If he could, it was far too early to tell and Hughie wasn’t about to try it now.

“Which one, Hughie?” Homelander asked, the sternness in his tone bordering on dangerous.

“Standing up,” Hughie mumbled, monotone and defeated.

“Good boy.”

Hughie’s form stiffened, shoulders hunched up to his ears, his face burning hot as Homelander bared his ass once more. A noise escaped his clenched jaw as a splayed hand gave a generous rub over his cheeks and thighs.

“Hm. You’re still pretty pink, Hughie.”

Hughie had never prayed so hard for the earth to swallow him up before now.

“Your healing factor’s pretty slow,” Homelander commented casually, pulling up Hughie’s clothes once more with a loud snap of his waistband.

The arm keeping him in place finally released him, but Hughie remained where he was. He had nothing to say. His face burned. His vow to keep eye contact was broken. He couldn’t even raise his head. His hands were curled into fists, tremors rippling up his arms. Was this supposed to be his place in life? The victim. The loser. The pathetic one, the small one. To be always humiliated and forever looked down upon, no matter how hard he raged against it? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t fair.

“Hey.”

It took Hughie a second for his brain to catch up. Both arms encircled him this time. A hand was between his shoulder blades, another on his head. Stroking his hair. His chest was pressed flat against Homelander’s. His eyes widened.

“I just needed to make sure you were alright. Okay?”

Rage was watered down with fear and confusion. Being held by a man who could turn him into lunch meat with one squeeze gave Hughie a stark reminder of his mortality. If Homelander wanted him to sink into the embrace, Hughie would just have to disappoint. He was actively fighting off the urge to shove Homelander off him. He didn’t want him anywhere near him. He didn’t raise his arms. He stood, awkward and stiff, praying for it to be over.

“Okay,” he answered. There was nothing else to say and luckily for him, it worked.

Homelander finally pulled away. He clasped Hughie by his arms, giving him a squeeze and a smile. “C’mon. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Hughie nodded and hoped that at least one of them would choke on their food so that this nightmare could end.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[asidian]

Alright. It is time. Buckle up.

Why you should be watching Dead Boy Detectives: the targeted-specifically-at my-readers edition.

Meet the leads, our two ghost boys:

Edwin Payne: Fussy, repressed intellectual type from the Edwardian era. Exceedingly gay for his partner and best friend. Tortured in hell for seventy years on a technicality because he was ritually sacrificed as a prank gone wrong. Endearingly awful at people and dealing with emotions or his own wants.

Charles Rowland: Impulsive, people-pleasing wildcard from the 80s. Heart eyes 24/7 at his best friend but has zero self-awareness. Badly abused by his asshole of a father. Beaten to death because he saved a kid from bullies. Endearingly awful at sorting his own emotions or talking about his problems.

Some highlights:

/slaps hood you can fit so much trauma in these two

Both leads get sobbing breakdowns that happen on screen. The actors are incredible at crying

Both leads get much-needed hugs

The absolute devotion between the two of them. The shared history that lives in their dialogue and how they work together like people who have been each other's Most Important Person for literal decades

I mean, I'm talking in-canon Orpheus and Eurydice reference level of devotion here

The protective way Charles puts himself physically between Edwin and damn near every threat in the show

They're just fun together. Their interactions and banter and how they work as a team is a delight

Their shared plot arc literally involves them learning to talk to each other and communicate more so that they can be there for one another about their respective issues

The symbolism. God. They are metaphorically and literally one another's light in the darkness

But what about stuff that isn't the main duo? Just wait, there's more:

This show is unabashedly, unapologetically queer. It's there in the text and the subtext. The whole show lives and breathes it

So many good, complex, well-written female characters. The Bechdel test gets blown straight out of the water in episode one and they never look back. Headstrong amnesiac psychic learning to be a better person! Quirky meta commentary matchmaker! Cynical lesbian butcher! Delightfully sadistic witch! They are all amazing.

[audience voice] But I'm here for the hurt/comfort. How can I whump ghosts? Worry not, my friends. Canon has you covered. Not only are there ways, there are ways that happen on-screen. The hurt/comfort and rescue are also on-screen. Yes, it is amazing

Absolute chaos, really cool supernatural cases and creatures, a surprising amount of humor, charming writing, and a cast that absolutely nails it on the acting and chemistry

There is an extremely suggestive trickster type who is also the king of cats. He's a cat in human form. He hits on Edwin nonstop. Charles gets blisteringly jealous

All of the leads have well-thought-through, fully developed, emotional character arcs. They're all messy and flawed and sometimes lash out in their pain, but at turns can be incredibly supportive and kind and loyal

A character who is a crow who is also a boy, who is tortured by his witch/creator and also is crushing hard on one of the leads

There are so many incredible details in the setting, costume choices, prop decisions, etc. that you only catch after you know what it's laying the groundwork for. The level of care that went into this show is phenomenal

It's only eight episodes. The time investment barrier to entry could not possibly be lower

Anyway, tl;dr, if any of this sounds appealing to you, you should give this show a watch.

Dead Boy Detectives is well worth your time. It's easily my favorite show in years.

[breezy-cheezy]

No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”

Storm | Buried Alive

This part really struck me, and I wanted to draw it! Luffy is just trying to protect his little family, and while the Lapins nearly got them killed, he still helps pull one out of the snow....because he recognizes they're trying to protect their family too. And I love that ;v;

BASICALLY A PANEL REDRAW here's the panel

[kennahjune]

Steddie

I’m joining the s3 steddie train :D

…

Steve was late. He was so late and so dead. Robin was going to kill him— he’d never make it out of Scoops Ahoy alive.

This was his thought process after dropping Will Lucas and Max off at Mikes. This was also his thought process the entirety of the way to Scoops while he shoved his way through the mall.

The moment he entered the small shop Robins eyes locked on him in a glare. Steve barely gave her a second before he was going to the back room to get ready for his shift.

He heard the back room door open behind him.

“You’re—“

“24 minutes late I know,” he said as calmly as he could while trying to relax his breathing.

“Yeah and—“

“And you get an extra 25 minutes for your break, yes Robin I know!”

Steve finally closed his employee cubby and turned to look at Robin. “Look. Im sorry I was so late today but Will, Lucas and Max are assholes when they’re being petty and they needed a ride to Mikes cause all the others were busy! I’ll take closing shift today to if you’re really that mad.”

Robin stared at him angrily from the doorway. “Fine.” She uncrossed her arms. “And yes, you will be taking the closing shift tonight. I have a study date with a friend that I can’t miss.”

“It’s summer vacation?”

“Shut up!”

Steve shrugged when the door closed.

He closed the door to his employee locker with a little more force than necessary. He had a migraine building and the bright, florescent lights of the mall weren’t helping in the slightest.

He walked out and began his shift.

…

Eddie wanted to enjoy his day off. Preferably by himself. But Gareth and Jeff decided that his personal life was their personal life. So here they were.

He had wanted to spend the day away from the mall, considering that that was where everyone seemed to be nowadays. But the guys were insistent.

So they were walking around. It wasn’t too bad, considering Eddie had gotten himself a new record and tape with his newest paycheck. They were sitting at the fountain when Gareth shouted right in Eddie’s ear:

“HOLY SHIT!”

Eddie just about punched him with how hard he jumped. Jeff spit out his Pepsi all over Eddie.

While Eddie was worrying about getting the sticky drink off of his skin, Gareth continued with; “is that HARRINGTON in Scoops?”

Well. Now he has Eddie’s attention.

Sure enough, just in Eddie’s line of sight, was Steve Harrington in a sailors uniform and a dorky hat.

A dorky hat that was soon snatched up by his current customer, Billy Hargrove.

Jeff clapped him on the shoulder and leaned over him to get a better view. “Is that Hargrove?”

“Yep.” Eddie popped the P.

“It looks like he’s messing with Harrington.”

“Yep.” Another pop on the P.

“And Harrington looks like he’s gonna fucking explode.”

Eddie agreed. Harrington was red in the face and not in the cute blushy-way he usually gets (don’t ask why Eddie knows that). He was talking back to Hargrove, probably something bitchy and sarcastic in typical Harrington-fashion based on the way Hargrove seemed to recoil for a moment before jumping back.

“Should we do something?” Gareth asked skeptically. Jeff shrugged where he was pressed against Eddie’s back.

“I’m going in.” Eddie stood and nearly knocked Jeff down in the process.

“Hang on—“

“Nope! Wish me luck, boys!” Eddie yelled over his shoulder while he dashed over. He heard them both get up and follow him.

…

Steve wanted to cry.

His head hurt so fucking bad and his back was killing him and he had ran into a shelf earlier and had a killer bruise on his arm and leg from it and everything was too fucking much.

Then, in all his asshole and dick glory, in came Billy Hargrove.

At this point, Steve would rather take another plate to the head then have to deal with his annoyingly aggravating voice. Hargrove came in, probably expecting Robin to be there, but got Steve instead. And honestly Steve would rather deal with him then leave Robin with him.

So he’s been enduring it, giving his own comments and comebacks but overall hating his life and just wanting to curl up and die.

Then his savior showed up. In all his black leather and chains, Eddie fucking Munson.

Hallelujah.

Hargrove seemed to back down the moment Munson showed up. Which wasn’t too strange considering that Munson supplied over half of Hawkins’ weed supply. Including Steve’s own for a while. He hasn’t bought in a while cause of the brat brigade.

But not the point.

Hargrove nodded to Munson. “Munson.”

Wow. Real cool, Billy. Steve held back a snicker.

“Heeyyy, Hargrove!” Munson cheerily greeted. But there was something about his smile that was off, to Steve. It seemed tighter than usual, his eyes not crinkling with the motion like normal. Don’t ask why Steve knows this.

Munson’s eyes seemed darker, too. Like he was angry. Maybe Hargrove didn’t pay him? Steve couldn’t bother to care with how bad his head started to pound.

He shouldn’t be at work with this migraine. He knows that. His doctor’s told him this multiple times. But he owes it to Robin for being late so much and he needs to prove to his dad that he can take care of himself.

“So what brings you here, Billy?” Munson asks casually, stepping farther into the shop. Steve seems to finally be forgotten about, and he places his head down on the counter. The cooled surface definitely helps with the spinning room.

He hears Hargrove say something back, but he isn’t paying attention anymore. His eyes are stating to go blurry and he really needs to sit down. But then Munson says something that catches his attention:

“Just leave Harrington alone, man. Last I checked he did nothing to you.”

What the hell? Steve wished he could lift his head and see what Munson was doing. What he looked like when he said that. If he looked as mean as he sounded.

Steve only lifts his head a few moments later when he feels a hand on his back. He shoots up quicker than he intends, and nearly falls back down if not for the hands still holding him up.

“Shit,” he grumbles quietly to himself, whining even quieter at the sudden rush of pain and the black dots in his vision.

“Easy there, your highness.” Munson.

Steve blinks slowly, letting Munson set him down in a booth. He doesn’t remember walking over but he’ll take it. He puts his head back down and intertwines his fingers behind his head. He groans quietly again, the pounding slowly receding.

“Hey man, is there something we could do? Do you need anything?” He heard Munson ask.

We? Steve wants to ask, but finds himself not caring. “Water, and my bag from the back please,” he rasps out. Talking makes the pounding worse.

He hears someone rush off to the back and a moment later a hands on his back again and is helping him sit up.

“Here ya go sweetheart.” Munson slides the glass of water and bag over to him.

Steve silently reaches into his bag and pulls out his small “to-go” med-kit. He carries it around mainly for the kids. Mike tends to be clumsier than he comes off as and Max is always trying out some new skateboarding tricks. From inside the kit he pulls out a pill bottle and swallows 2 with the water and goes for another 2 before a hand stops him.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to take more than 2.” This voice is new but familiar. Steve squints past the blurriness and makes out someone he recognizes from school; Gareth Emerson.

“4,” Steve manages past the lump in his throat. Munson, Emerson, and someone else Steve doesn’t quite know look at him. Munson continues to hold Steve’s hand on the table, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. It weirdly intimate but the comfort is very welcome.

“4 what?” The other guy asks.

“4 pills. I usually take 4.”

Munson and Emerson both wince. The third guy looks at him like he’s insane. Steve finally recognizes him as Jeff,… something. He actually never got his last name.

“Dude— are you trying to overdose!?”

Steve winced at the sudden loudness, whining quietly. Munson shushed Jeff and Steve heard him rush out an apology.

The bell over the door dinged at that moment, and Steve found himself face to face with Max, Mike, Will, Lucas, and— for some reason— Jonathan.

“Uh— hi?” Steve attempted for a greeting.

“‘Hi!?’” Mike yelled. “Hi yourself man! We called your walkie at least 4 times!! What the hell?”

“Are you ok? Why didn’t you answer?” Will asked in a much quieter tone.

Lucas and Max wasted no time before slotting themselves in the booth with Steve. Munson remained across from Steve, and Emerson and Jeff now hovered farther away, but Lucas slid right in next to Munson and Max next to Steve.

“What the fuck, Harrington?” Max demanded. But she clung to his shirt tightly.

“Language, Mayfield,” he reprimanded quietly.

Mike paused where he stood. “Why are you talking so quietly? Shit— do you have a migraine?”

Suddenly 4 pairs of little eyes were gazing at him with unmasked concern. Holy shit was this overwhelming.

“Guys—“

“Why didn’t you say that, Steve?” Lucas asked.

“Are you ok? How long has it been going on for? Asked Will.

“Why are even here if you’re not able to function properly?” Mike reprimanded in his own caring-ness.

Max clutched to him tighter. “Why aren’t you at home? You could’ve called in sick or something!”

“Shhh!” Mike shushed her.

“Don’t shush me—“

“Shut up!” He whisper shouted. “You have to be quiet and try to control your temperature while resting in a dark, quiet room to try and help with migraines. Pain killers help to but no more than 3.”

Everyone stared at him. He went a little pink under the sudden attention.

“Nancy gets migraines a lot from reading in the dark.”

Jonathan came over right then. Steve was suddenly overwhelmed by all the people surrounding him.

“Uhm—“

“Hey,” Munson called. Steve forgot about him for a good moment. “This is cute and all, but maybe we should not surround him? Poor boy looks like he’s gonna cry.”

Everyone turned to look at him. Tears had— in fact— sprung to his eyes.

“Sorry!” All the kids rushed out quietly at the same time. Max climbed out of the booth and Munson and Jonathan both assisted with helping Steve to the break room. Jeff and Emerson stayed with the kids, but Mike came with them since he seemed to know what he was doing better than the 3 of them.

On their way back to the room though, Steve’s legs nearly gave out from under him. Shit. It’s one of those days. Munson just barely managed to catch him under the armpits while Jonathan got him by the waist.

“Woah there, sweetheart.” Munson grunted.

“Careful, Steve,” Jonathan said quietly.

“Sorry. Spinning.” Steve exhaled shakily.

Mike came rushing back after realized they weren’t with him. “Damn. Spinning? Are you able to walk? Or are they gonna have to carry you?”

Jonathan looked up at the mention of having to carry Steve. “Yeah— I’m not able to carry him. I am so not strong enough for that.” He had the decency to look apologetic.

Munson chuckled quietly and the sound reverberated through his chest where Steve’s head was. It was soothing.

“Don’t worry Big Byers. I’ve got him no problem.”

Steve was given no warning before he was being picked up in a bridal carry. He winced sharply and laid his head on Munson’s shoulder. Jonathan whistled lowly from somewhere beside them and Steve blindly kicked his leg in his direction, scoring in kicking him in the arm. Jonathan snickered.

…

When Munson chased off Hargrove he didn’t expect for Harrington to all but collapse in on himself and try to fucking overdose on like 5 pain killers. He also hadn’t expected to be bombarded by 4 kids and 1 Jonathan Byers. Least of all did he expect to be carrying Harrington bridal style to the break room of Scoops Ahoy.

Somewhere behind him, Gareth turned the sign on the door to closed. Eddie silently thanked him.

The kid— who he vaguely remembers as Nancy Wheeler’s younger brother— opens the door and startles a half asleep Robin Buckley.

“Hello,” Jonathan throws her way before pulling a chair out for Eddie to sit on.

“Uh— hi? What the hell—“

Eddie takes the seat with Harrington in his lap. Robin looks dumbfounded.

“Migraine,” Jonathan helpfully supplies.

“Really, really bad migraine. Vertigo included. Full package tonight, folks.” Mike adds.

“Ok— um, is he ok? He doesn’t look ok. If it was so bad why didn’t he just call in sick?”

“That’s a good question,” Mike retorts quietly while rooting around in a freezer.

“What are you looking for”, Robin asks.

“Ice pack. The dumbass has everything in that first aid kit of his except a damn ice pack.”

“Language,” Harrington reprimanded quietly from where his cheek was against Eddie’s chest. Eddie chuckled quietly when Mike retorted with a half-assed “sorry”.

Eddie couldn’t help but admire the now sleeping Harrington in his lap. He bent in half like a shrimp, his knees just about to his chest, and his hands gripping tightly onto Eddie’s still-Pepsi-soaked t-shirt. But he looked so at peace while asleep. Like he hadn’t just had the worst migraine Eddie’s ever seen and wasn’t just about to pass out on his feet. Eddie smiled.

Mike comes over silently, managing to sneak up on Eddie and make him jump slightly and causing Harrington to whine. He’d been whining a lot today. And under “different circumstances” Eddie would’ve found it hot as fuck.

“Sorry,” Mike whispered. He seemed to be able mellow out a lot when he actually tried. He seemed like such an asshole out at the booth but now he seems quieter. These kids really cared about Harrington, huh?

“Here.” Jonathan helped him out and gently picked up Harrington’s head. Eddie caught Harrington actually kind of leaning into his touch. A strange but endearing friendship. Mike placed the ice pack— now wrapped in a cloth— on Eddie’s chest where Harrington’s head lays.

Harrington lays back down and is out like a light soon enough.

Eddie zoned out until there’s a very, very soft knock on the door. When he looks up, Jonathan is letting the other 3 kids in while Jeff and Gareth stand in the doorway.

“Is he ok?” Asks Jonathan’s little brother.

Jonathan nods and pats his head. “He’s ok, Will.”

The redhead walks over and takes a silent seat next to Eddie so she’s next to Harrington. She takes Harrington’s hand in hers and proceeds to just sit there and hold it.

“He’s ok, Max. Just a migraine,” the third kid, Lucas he thinks, reassures with a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“That’s what he said before. And then he was in the hospital.”

Woah, what?

“Hm?” Lucas looks at him.

Oh. He said that aloud.

“Wait what?” Robin asked quietly.

Jonathan’s whistled lowly. It seems to be a bit of a tic for him. “Yeah uh— funny story. Hargrove broke a plate over Steve’s head last year and nobody realized how bad it actually was until he passed out after claiming it was only a migraine.”

“He ended up in the hospital for like 2 weeks,” added Lucas.

“He needed several stitches on the side of his head.” Max unhappily supplied. Lucas squeezed her shoulder.

“It was a stage 4 concussion,” muttered Will and Mike put his head on his shoulder.

Eddie caught Gareth and Jeff’s eyes across the break room. Huh.

The Will kid came up to Eddie suddenly. “Thank you. For uh— helping with Steve. It means a lot to us. He means a lot to us.”

Mike, Max, and Lucas all nodded.

“Hang on,” Lucas piped up. “Who are you?”

…

So uh— set myself up for a part 2 there :’D

Part 2

[kaciart]

Day 5 - Stealing my breath (give it back): “I'll count, you just breathe.”

imagine if his mom died and passed over

no unfinished business

maybe he always thought he'd get a chance to talk to her as her unfinished business

-

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