previously known as st4rlights-gf!
✮ who am i?
my name is chloe, i'm 26 and from the uk
✮ what do i write?
this is really just a multifandom blog, so anything ranging from my favourite games and tv shows; the boys, the last of us (both), lost, 90210, tomb raider, breaking bad, the walking dead and marvel
✮ are my requests open?
yes ♡
✮ when will i post?
i will be posting whenever i feel like !
✮ do i have any other blogs?
yes! i have a supernatural blog, @stargazedwinchester. this is my main fic blog and you will find me more active there due to the following and requests sent in
ꔛ. a soul for a dime 𓂃˖ ࣪ masterlist ⭒ chapter one ⭒ next part
It was supposed to be a simple case. A three-day job. In and out. A few dead veterans, strange markings, probably a demon. But nothing about this town sits right, and the deeper they dig, the darker it gets. Dean’s distracted. Sam can feel it in his gut. Something old is watching. Something hungry. And it’s already started collecting. Secrets don’t stay buried, love doesn’t change fate, and time is running out.
「 𝒜 𝒯𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝐵𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐵𝑜𝓃𝑒 」
in this chapter... sam and dean arrive in elderspring, a quiet town that seems forgotten to the rest of the world. a series of ritualistic murders. they're in for a ride.
wordcount. 2334 type. mysterious, eerie vibes going on
warnings. descriptions of murder and mutilation (off-page but detailed), ritualistic imagery and sigils, mild language, creepy small-town atmosphere, themes of trauma and death (military-related), subtle horror elements.
notes. i am actually nervous scheduling this because !!! it's a story i've been thinking about for so god damn long and now it's coming out and i really hope you guys like it. all feedback is welcomed. a chapter per week, every sunday. don't miss it 'cause otherwise i'll miss u (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)
The Impala cuts through the thick morning fog like a blade, engine low and growling as if it knew they were heading somewhere they shouldn’t. Elderspring wasn’t marked on most maps, and maybe that was for the best.
Tucked away between dense pine woods and hills that rolled like the bones of sleeping giants, the town looked quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that sat in your chest like a weight. Houses slumped behind overgrown yards, mailboxes crooked, paint curling from porches. Even the gas station they had passed looked abandoned, a single rusting pump swaying gently in the breeze like it was trying to whisper them away.
Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes squinting against the low-hanging gray. “Hell of a welcome party,” he mutters.
Sam doesn’t answer right away. He’s leaning against the passenger door, nose buried in a thick stack of lore and crime scene printouts, brow furrowed so deep it looks like it might crack. Every so often, he glances out the window, as if expecting something to jump out of the trees.
Dean noticed. Of course, he noticed. But instead of saying Hey man, you okay?, he settled for a classic.
“Let me guess—you’ve got that special Sam tingle? Something’s off?” He should read the room. Keep his mouth shut. He decides on the complete opposite. “Ominous vibe? Demonic aura with a twist of lime for dear ol’ Sammy?”
Sam shoots him a look. “Dean, this isn’t funny. Three dead veterans. All carved up, bodies mutilated like ritual sacrifices. You saw the photos. That lost one—his heart was missing.”
Dean shrugged, one hand still on the wheel. “Yeah. I’m thinking demon. Low-level, showing off for Hell’s big leagues. Probably feeding off trauma or something nasty like that.”
“You always think it’s a demon.”
“Because it usually is,” Dean says, turning onto the cracked asphalt road that leads to the town center. “Look, we’ll find some sulfur, toss around holy water, stab the bastard, and be back on the road by Friday. Easy case.”
Sam goes quiet again, but it wasn’t the fine, I’ll drop it kind of quiet. It was that I’m calculating something deeply disturbing silence that always ended with a very emotional aura and lots of brooding.
Dean sighs, softer this time. “Okay, spill. What’s got your hair standing on end?”
Sam flips a page. “It’s the symbols. Bobby’s been digging through every type of grimoire, and some of the carvings match pre-Christian war sigils. Some don’t match anything. Not demons. Not witches. Not anything we’ve ever seen.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Dean mutters. An uneasy silence falls over them, one that Dean isn’t sure he should cover with turning up the volume or trying to pick more at his brother’s uneasy brain. He eventually decides on the latter. “Okay, so… we’ve got mutilated vets and unknown sigils. Wanna tell me what’s not demon-y about that?”
Sam shakes his head. Groans lightly. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I can’t shake the feeling that this is bigger than it looks.”
Dean doesn’t say anything right away. The Impala continues to cruise slowly into the center of Elderspring, where a faded diner sat like a relic from the 60s, its neon sign flickering out a barely-there COFF_E. A few dusty pickup trucks were parked along the curb, and a breeze kicked up the smell of pine, damp earth, and something faintly metallic.
Dean finally speaks, his voice low. “Look. We do the rounds, talk to the sheriff, and poke through the files. If this is something big, we’ll know soon enough.”
“And if it’s not?”
Dean gives him a sideways smirk. “Then I get pie and we get outta here. Easy. Out by Friday.”
Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks out the window again. Trees loom tall beyond the diner, their branches skeletal against the overcast sky. A black bird sat perched on a telephone wire, watching.
Dean kills the engine. The silence that follows is deafening.
“You buying breakfast?” he asks.
Sam blinks out of his thoughts. “You’re the one who wanted pie.”
Dean grins. “That’s dessert. I’m talking some pancakes, a side of pig. Real breakfast, Sammy.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, Dean steps out of the Impala like he owns the place, shoulders loose, face unreadable but already scanning—first the diner windows, then the rooftops, and finally Sam, who’s still got his lore goggles on.
“Let’s pretend for five minutes that you’re not possessed by the spirit of a librarian,” Dean mutters, slamming the car door shut. “You might even enjoy your eggs.”
Sam follows him up the steps, muttering something about cholesterol and decapitated corpses, but Dean isn’t listening anymore.
The bell above the door jingles as they walk in.
It’s warm inside—way too warm. The kind of warmth that sticks to the back of your neck and makes you feel like someone’s watching. It contrasts drastically with the January air that looms outside.
The diner is all linoleum and chrome, red vinyl booths cracked at the seams, a jukebox in the corner that probably hasn’t worked since Nirvana topped the charts. A couple of locals nurse mugs at the counter, heads low. No one looks up.
And then she turns around.
She’s behind the counter, half-hidden by the coffee machine, a pencil tucked behind one ear and a notepad in her hand. Honey brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Big eyes, lashes for days. That pretty kind of tired that says she hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in years, but still managed to put on mascara and lip gloss this morning.
Dean’s mouth quirks before she even says a word.
She walks over with practiced ease, hips swaying just enough to be natural, not enough to be trying. Her voice is warm when she speaks.
Her name tag reads Livie.
“Morning, gentleman. Coffee?”
Dean smiles. “That depends. Is it fresh, or does it double as motor oil?”
The waitress smiles. “Depends. You want it to taste good or wake you up?”
Dean lets out a quiet laugh, eyes following her a little too closely as she pours. “I like you already.”
Sam clears his throat—loudly.
Dean waves him off like a gnat.
Olivia finishes pouring, filling up the mugs in front of them. “Menu’s a little outdated, but the cook still knows what he’s doing. Mostly. I recommend the pancakes. And, uh… don’t ask about the sausage.”
Dean grins, eyes roaming the diner. “Sounds exotic. I’ll take the pancakes, extra bacon. And make it quick—we’re on official business.”
She glances at Sam. “And for you?”
Sam lifts his gaze from his folder, surprised. “Um… eggs over easy, and black coffee. Please.”
She nods, jotting it down. Dean smiles, pleased that his brother did get the eggs despite the cholesterol. But before he can quip at him, the girl turns on her wheels once more to face them.
“Official business?”
Dean’s eyebrow quirks. “Yeah. Federal Bureau of—everything.” He winks, leaning back. “Big fans of paperwork and federal-issued badges.”
Sam clears his throat, his frown deepening by the second, following the urge to smack his brother across the head. “We’re actually here investigating a series of homicides. Low-profile. Just following leads.”
The waitress’s lips lift in a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Gotcha. Well, the sheriff’s office is two blocks down if you need backup. And, uh, welcome to Elderspring, Agents.”
Dean reaches into his jacket. “What gave us away?” He tucks his hand away before Sam can stop him—no real badges, but they’re good at the charade.
“Clean clothes. No local accent. And you’re not scared to look people in the eye.”
That lands heavier than it should. Sam stiffens slightly, catching her tone—but she’s already walking off, ponytail bouncing, calling their order back to the kitchen like she didn’t just drop the most ominous comment in waitress history.
Dean watches her go, still half-smiling. “Well, damn.”
Sam shoots him a flat look over his coffee. “Dean.” It’s that tone again. The one he always uses to scold his older brother.
Dean leans back in the booth, arms stretched across the top like a man settling into temptation. “What? I’m just appreciating the local talent.”
“She said you weren’t scared to look people in the eye,” Sam mutters. “Normal people don’t say stuff like that.”
Dean shrugs, still watching the counter. “Yeah, well. Maybe this place just breeds spooky waitresses. It’s the vibe.”
But even he doesn’t fully believe that. Something about her doesn’t match the rest of this town. She’s not worn down like the buildings, not dulled at the edges like everyone else. She’s sharp. Awake, in a way Dean can’t explain.
For now, though, he just knows he wants to see her smile again. Or the sway of her hips. Any would be fine.
Their plates hit their table ten minutes later. Olivia returns with a smile on her lips—practiced, but easy, nonetheless. She sets their plates down with care—Sam’s eggs perfectly intact, Dean’s pancakes stacked like a carbohydrate monument to the American dream.
“Now, Agent, I do promise you,” Her gaze meets Dean’s, teasing smile in place. “Pancakes’ll change your life.”
Dean leans back with a grin that could power a small city. “Sweetheart, you already did.”
She laughs. Not the polite, tight-lipped kind you give to a stranger at a gas station, but something warmer, more alive. It’s quick, unguarded. Dean looks like he might frame the sound and hang it in the Impala.
Sam sighs into his coffee like he’s been personally wronged by the entire interaction.
Olivia lingers at the edge of the booth, resting one hand on her hip. She’s clearly in no rush, and neither are they. Outside, the town continues to press in around them—silent, stale, strange. But in here, it feels almost normal.
Almost.
“So,” Sam starts, careful, like he’s testing if it’s safe to walk on ice. “Has the town always been this quiet?”
Olivia tilts her head a little, ponytail swaying. “Depends on what you mean by quiet.”
He glances out the window, watching a single truck roll slowly down the street. “No tourists. Barely any locals. Kind of feels like it’s… holding its breath.”
She considers that for a second, then shrugs. “Elderspring’s always been the kind of place that minds its business. People don’t come here for excitement.”
Dean cuts in, fork already halfway to his mouth. “Unless they’re after life-altering pancakes.”
She gives him a look, then turns back to Sam. “The sheriff’s your best bet if you’re looking for answers. He’s not big on chit-chat, though you didn’t hear this from me.”
“We heard he’s been keeping things under wraps,” Sam says, watching her closely. “Doesn’t want attention from the outside.”
Her eyes flicker, just for a breath. “Can’t really blame him. Folks around here spook easily. Rumors spread faster than fires in August.”
There’s something in her voice—not fear, not quite—but awareness. She’s saying something without saying it, and Sam hears it clear as day. She knows. Maybe not everything, but something.
Dean’s already pushing his plate aside, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, hands folded like a man about to make a confession—or a pass.
“So if, hypothetically, we wanted to hear more things we didn’t hear from you,” he says, eyes twinkling, “what’s the best way to reach you?”
Olivia raises one brow, amused. She pulls a pen from behind her ear and scribbles something on the back of their receipt. “Try not to call after midnight,” she says, sliding it across the table. “I’ve got a sacred relationship with my pillow.”
Dean takes it like it’s gold-plated. “Duly noted.”
Before Sam can fire off a sarcastic remark, she’s already turning away, ponytail bouncing as she approaches a new table of locals.
Dean’s still watching her go when Sam mutters, “You do realize we’re here for a case, right?”
Dean grins, tucking the note into his inner jacket pocket like it’s a love letter. “What, I can’t enjoy the scenery?”
“She’s not part of the tour.”
“Says you.” He stretches like a cat, arms draped over the back of the booth. “I’m just blending in with the locals. Doing fieldwork.”
Sam groans. “Just don’t get distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.” He stands, tosses some cash on the table. “I’m extremely focused. Hyper-aware. Sharpened by potential romance and perfectly cooked bacon.”
Outside, the sky is even grayer than before. The kind of overcast that makes everything feel like it's holding its breath. The breeze carries a mix of pine needles, damp concrete, and something faintly metallic.
Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets, practically skipping down the steps of the diner.
“So, what now?” Sam asks, glancing at the sheriff’s office two blocks down.
The building is squat and unimpressive, tucked between a shuttered barber shop and a thrift store with mannequins faded from decades of sun. A single cruiser sits parked out front, empty. No one comes or goes. The blinds are drawn.
Dean’s grin falters, just slightly.
“We go knock on doors,” he says, voice low again. “Start with the sheriff, see what he’s hiding. Town this small? Someone knows something.”
Sam nods, tightening his grip on the folder under his arm. “Assuming he even lets us in.”
Dean shrugs. “We’ve got fake badges, real charm, and a trail of bodies. We’ll get in.”
They cross the street side by side, boots hitting pavement in quiet sync. Elderspring watches them pass—silent windows, drawn curtains, porch swings swaying with no one in them. It’s the kind of place that looks like it remembers being alive, but somewhere along the line just… stopped trying.
They don’t speak as they approach the sheriff’s door. The air feels thicker somehow, like they’re pushing through something invisible.
Dean reaches for the handle.
“Easy job,” he mutters, half to himself. “In and out.”
Sam doesn’t answer.
Because he knows better.
And deep down, Dean does too.
─ ⊹ ⊱ next part ⊰ ⊹ ─
ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all works ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ
hii I was the anon who requested the alphabet thing for hughie. And yeah I meant as in prompts
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ sfw alphabet challenge; hughie⋆.°
hey girl!! i will get round to doing the nsfw alphabet some point this week or next. i hope this is what you meant!! i hope you like it <3
Affection‧₊˚ Hughie would be extremely affectionate, even when you’re not dating. He would find any excuse to touch you, to be near you. He thrives when it comes to physical affection.
Best Friends‧₊˚ Hughie would make a great best friend. He’s so attentive and supportive. His humor and his awkward charm are what make him the best to be around.
Cuddles‧₊˚ Spooning. You laying on his chest. His head in your lap. Like I said, he’d do anything to touch you.
Dates‧₊˚ He would have so many dates planned for you, he wouldn’t know where to start. He’d love to take you to a drive-in cinema, to take you to some low-key bar and get wasted together. Just getting to spend time with you makes him so happy.
Emotions‧₊˚ Hughie is already a very emotional guy, which makes communication flow so smooth. He’s not afraid to show you how he feels—when it comes to you, he’s sure he can trust you completely with not judging him.
Flirting‧₊˚ He’s so awkward it’s kinda laughable. His adorable smirks and light teasing are really what keeps you hooked. He compliments you like it’s nothing—yet it says everything. He doesn’t throw words around like they don’t mean anything.
Gifts‧₊˚ Hughie is the gifting type. Anything you mention, you’ve got it. A book you once mentioned in passing, a mixtape that reminds you of your childhood, or even something silly like a keychain with your name on it.
Hugs‧₊˚ Hughie is the best hugger. In any situation, he knows that they’re the best medicine. Besides laughter, of course. He’s a clinger. Meaning, his whole body will stick to you, face tucked into your shoulder, his hands trailing in your hair. He’s so warm and gentle.
Innocence‧₊˚ In my opinion, I think despite everything he’s ever said or done with The Boys, he enjoys his quiet moments where he can truly be himself. Pokemon would be his favourite downtime, something nerdy and completely innocent where he can just fully relax and not have jarring thoughts flood his mind.
Jealousy‧₊˚ He lets it eat at him until he can’t take it anymore. He gets fidgety, panicky—like he has too much in his head to actually voice. His eyes say everything.
Kisses‧₊˚ He kisses like he means it. He’s always been shy about kissing, maybe a little hesitant, but he means every one. He has full intention and love in every one.
Love Language‧₊˚ His strongest one is words of affirmation. He loves to tell you that he adores you. That you’re strong and willing and downright badass. He always tells you how lucky he is to have you in his life. He’s also big on acts of service. He loves to learn things just because you’re into them.
Marriage‧₊˚ Hughie isn’t big on having a whole ceremony, or a perfect plan. What matters to him the most is the principle of it. The promise. He’s always dreamed of having quiet domesticity, waking up next to someone he can call his lifelong partner. His wife.
Nicknames‧₊˚ He’s always loved nicknames. Especially stupid ones. Once that come from an inside joke, or from pure sleep deprivation. The worst ones usually come out when he’s vulnerable like that.
On Cloud Nine‧₊˚ You’ll catch him smiling to himself when you’re not even doing anything special. You just being there is more than enough for him. The glimmer that resides in his eyes is all because of you.
Pet Names‧₊˚ Hughie was never big on pet names at the start. He always thought they were weird. The words coming from his mouth felt foreign. Sometimes, the words sweetheart, and babe often slip from his lips as he’s comforting you. He also likes to call you his girl.
Quirks‧₊˚ Everyone and their mother knows Hughie rambles when he’s nervous. Especially if he’s trying to impress you. He’ll begin explaining something really niche, like some Billy Joel song or the history of some obscure comic book he read as a kid. He’d stop mid-sentence and say, “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
Rainy Days‧₊˚ Rainy days are his favourite exccuse to stay in and lay next to you. He would throw on a hoodie, a loose pair of joggers and make some popcorn and find a funny movie to put on so you can laugh together.
Singing‧₊˚ Hughie hates singing in front of people unless he’s really comfortable. He would hum along to the radio, or softly sing whilst he’s brushing his teeth.
Teasing‧₊˚ He’s got a quiet kind of teasing. Lots of dry humour, sarcastic little jabs and the occasional mock complaint. There’s no real bite to it, as his teasing is always laced with affection.
Unwinding‧₊˚ Hughie is one to get overwhelmed quickly. He craves a calm and quiet environment. He loves curling up on the couch with you, some silly hour-long YouTube video playing in the background as he decompresses. He feels the safest when he’s with you.
Valentine’s Day‧₊˚ Hughie LOVES V-Day. It’s the best day to absolutely shower you with love. Your favourite chocolates, that one thing you’ve been pestering him about. He loves to plan out the most romantic date, to make sure you know you’re adored.
Wild Card‧₊˚ Hughie sometimes keeps notes about you but has never shown you. They’re tucked inside of a journal hidden in his bedside drawer. Tiny paragraphs about what he loves about you, what he wants to do with you. He doesn’t think they’re good enough, but they’re full of truth.
X’s and O’s‧₊˚ He’s so affectionate once he’s comfortable. Once he knows what you both like. He’s always wanting to hold your hand, kiss your forehead. Constantly. He loves to hug you from behind when you’re doing daily chores. Physical closeness grounds him and helps him regulate his emotions.
Yearning‧₊˚ Hughie would be a slow-burn romantic. He’d stay up late with overwhelming thoughts, dreaming of ‘what ifs’. And when he falls, he falls hard.
Zzz‧₊˚ He’s a cuddly sleeper. He adores spooning, falling asleep holding your hand, wrapping around you like a blanket. He would watch you sleep, wishing he could tell you how much untold love he has for you, and you have no idea.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ you're cute when you're angry; soldier boy⋆.°
summary; soldier boy doesn't like being called grumpy.
word count; 450
pairing; grumpy!soldier boy x sunshine!reader
✧ ˚ · .
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” His voice bellows, practically rattling the windows.
You’re sitting on the beat-up armchair, the one Ben usually resides on with a whiskey glass settled in his grip. Except this time, you’re cuddled up with a hot chocolate and a blanket, your legs tucked under comfortably. He’s pacing in front of you, thumb and pointer pinching the space between his brows.
“You went in there alone—alone! And you’re sitting there with a fucking mug of God knows what—”
“Hot chocolate.”
“H-hot chocolate… like you didn’t almost get your head blown off!”
You take a sip, agreeing with every word he says. “Yeah.”
“Yeah? That’s it?” He huffs. His face is full of emotion. Confusion being the main one.
“I’m serious, y’know. You can’t do that. It’ll get you killed, sweetheart.” His voice glazed with concern.
“Alright, grandpa. Chill.” You joke, and you swear you see his lower eyelid twitch.
“G-grandpa…?”
There’s a silence that hangs between you. You’re begging to laugh, something to break the tension he’s holding over you. “I’m not that old.”
“You are. You’re like 300 years old.”
He tuts. “I’m 103. Get your facts right.”
A laugh blurts out, yet he can’t understand why you’re laughing. “What’s fuckin’ funny, huh?” He shrugs his shoulders, admitting defeat before even trying. You take one last chug of your drink, setting the mug on the table. You stand up, tossing the blanket over the armchair. Padding your way over, you stand chest to chest with Ben. Looking up at him, his hair falls perfectly over his face. He’s glancing at you. Staring at you in a way that makes you feel something.
“You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”
He jerks his head to the side. “What?” He scoffs, attempting to hide the fact that the apples of his cheeks flush a lovely rose colour.
“Cute? Did you just call me cute?” He repeats, and you nod. Standing tall in front of him doesn’t make you look intimidating. In fact, he finds you quite cute.
“Yeah. You should be grumpy more often.” With that, you turn on your heel and head toward the stairs.
“You stress me out, far too much, sweetheart.” He calls to you, as you hesitantly walk up the stairs. Part of you wishes he’d follow. Part of him wishes he could just have the balls and follow you, too. You hum a reply, just loud enough for him to hear.
Ben sighs, turning around and his eyes skim over the armchair. He collapses in to it, wiping his forehead.
“I need a lie down.”
“Alright, grandpa!”
He gazes upwards, eyeing the staircase as he rubs his hand over his face.
summary; you work undercover for vought, and homelander has taken a liking to you.
word count; 707
pairing; homelander x reader
✧ ˚ · .
It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.
You’re a new intern. At Vought. And you’re definitely not undercover for the Boys.
You walk through the halls, folders tucked tightly under your arm, workers scurrying past you, making no effort to even look at you.
Turning into the main office, you’re greeted with every one of the Supes sat in their designated chairs. You stand there as they glare at you, as if you don’t belong. Which is true, of course, but they don’t know that.
You grin awkwardly at them, Homelander standing with his hands behind his back, awaiting you to seat yourself. He smiles back, his lips tight, eyes bored. You pull up a chair among the other executives.
You’re really only supposed to be doing this for a week — gathering intel mostly for Butcher, then dipping once your week is up. You initially hired to be apart of the PR team for the Seven, but mostly Homelander. Since he’s the face of the Seven, no one else realistically needs a PR team. They don’t need to be controlled like he does. Even then, no one can truly govern him.
They’re blabbering about some boring shit—stuff that has nothing to do with you. All you need to do is sit and look pretty. But you can’t help but feel Homelanders eyes on you.
“We need to boost public sentiment for Homelander. Any ideas? Y/N?”
Your head perks up. Brain fog suddenly clouding your answers. You hesitate, looking around the room. The room falls quiet, and all eyes are on you.
“We need something for younger audiences,” you begin, glancing up at Homelander awkwardly. “Maybe we can show more of Homelanders vulnerable side. Where he’s doing something ordinary—talking about what inspires him, what drives him… something unscripted and raw. People respond to authenticity. It’ll remind people that he’s not just for show, but someone to look up to. Like a role model.”
The executives look at each other, mingling among themselves. Homelander walks toward you, his hands remaining behind him.
“Ordinary, huh?” He scoffs lightly, but something about his body language reads that he’s curious. He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “You think I’m ordinary?”
He’s not mad. He’s intrigued. You clearly have the right ideas, and as a new intern, he’s wondering what you’re really doing here.
“N-no,” you clarify quickly, “just relatable. That’s what the youth like these days.” You chuckle half-heartedly, and a couple of execs close to you agree, nodding to each other.
His eyes flick over you, like he’s scanning you for errors.
“What’s your name again?” He asks, and your stomach flips.
You give him your alias, and he takes a step back, glancing away for a quick moment. He repeats your name, as if he’s storing it in his brain.
The meeting carries on as normal, but Homelanders eyes don’t leave you. Even when someone else talks, his eyes flick back to you like a habit.
-
Being the first one to leave the meeting, you escape to the elevator. You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, the tension rising from your shoulders slightly, until—
Fuck.
Homelanders hand marginally stops the elevator doors from closing fully, and he steps inside, standing next to you.
The weight from your shoulders suddenly fall back, like a ton of bricks.
It’s silent, until he takes a breath. “You did really well in there, considering it’s your first day.” He compliments, and you smile at him. “Not many people talk about me like that.
“I meant every word.” You say, keeping the confident tone in your voice.
There’s a pause that hangs in the air between you both, before he turns to look at you. And this time, he really looks at you.
“You’re not scared of me, are you?” He asks, his question feels recycled. You know people are scared of him, and they’ll always tell him the same answer.
“No. Should I be?”
“You tell me…” He pauses. His hand waves in the air, his pointer finger landing in front of your face. “I know things. But what I don’t know…” He exhales, and you can feel the hotness of his breath ghost past you.
hiii!! I’m the same anon who requested the Hughie headcanons. Is it alright if I requested more, but nsfw this time?
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ nsfw headcanons; hughie⋆.°
hey girl!! thank u so much for requesting these, i'm having so much fun writing them <3 i hope you enjoy!!
✧ ˚ · .
Hughie is an incredibly awkward guy. Nervous as hell. He’ll overthink everything, but once he gains confidence, that’s when he really shines.
He loves dirty talk. His heart skips a beat when you whisper something dirty in his ear. He’ll try to act cool but it never works. You make him so flustered.
Hughie is desperate and clingy. He loves to make love, more than just a good fuck. He’s always holding your hands, planting kisses all over your body and telling you how good you feel.
He’s whiny. Needy. He begs. A lot.
Hughie is a gentle dom. He likes to guide you and whisper praise in your ear. He’s so soft with you when he wants to share those intimate moments with you.
Hughie loves to go down on you. It’s his specialty. He loves to hear the noises you make.
He’s surprisingly strong, though he doesn’t look it. He uses his strength to pin you against the wall, fucking you with your legs wrapped around his waist.
After a bad day, he lives for rough sex with you. He feels the need to drown himself in you whilst everything else goes to shit.
He has a secret stash of polaroids that you send him. He has a drawer at home with them in, using them when he’s thinking about you at night.
Doggy style is his favourite position when he wants to let off some steam.
Morning sex is his favourite. He loves to tease you by pressing himself against you, kissing your shoulder up to your neck, asking for permission in that sexy morning voice before things get really heated.
It’s his favourite because he loves to spend that sacred time with you, where there’s no rush and no real reason behind it. He loves to devour you whilst he has you.
summary; deep hears someone--something call for him from the depths of the atlantic ocean.
word count; 1,479
pairing; the deep x siren!reader
my first smut piece, pls be nice <3 (tbh im proud of this one lol i got carried away)
warnings; the deep/kevin, penetration, p in v, deepthroating, sub!deep x dom!reader
NOT SFW!! MINORS DNI!!
✧ ˚ · .
Living in the deep blue can be isolating at times.
You’ve had your fair share of encounters with horrid, desperate men, luring them into the open whilst they’re vulnerable, taking what’s rightly yours.
They should know better.
You feel the ripple of the water wrap around your body as you flow through the sea, searching for something—anything—to pass the time. Until something catches your eye.
Or someone.
An emerald green and gold figure flows past you, causing the water to ripple and move you gently. The figure stops in its place, a face staring right toward you. He’s far enough away that you hum a melody, your vocal chords vibrating against your stomach as if you’re guiding him by echolocation. A hypnotic chorus leaves your mouth, entrancing him.
He swims toward you, his eyes locked onto you.
You’re nothing he’s ever seen before. An ethereal being floats before him, scales shimmering against the reflections of the moonlight, your hair floating gracefully; each strand has its own movement.
As he approaches you, his hands tenderly touch your waist, fingers tracing over your gills and the top of your scales that meet your hips. Deep’s eyes meet yours with pure wonder and excitement. “I thought your species was a myth…” He begins. You blink slowly at him, an ominous smirk grows upon your face. He’s too… ambitious.
You throw him back with force, a grunt slipping from his throat as he gapes at you with hurt and confusion. “What’re you doing?” He huffs, moving closer toward you again. You gaze upon him, humming.
“You’re eager.” You whisper, your voice practically moving through him. It’s almost like he can feel your voice, as if it’s in his head. But you’re right there, your mouth moving. How is this happening?
You swim toward him, the tip of your tail grazing his shin lightly, your hand travelling toward his lower torso. “Did you think I’d make it that easy?” You tease, your lips close to his ear. You can sense the goosebumps running down his body, a breath hitching in his throat.
He’s paralyzed. Whether it’s with fear or because of you, something pangs in your chest, a feeling of satisfaction and thrill. The Deep shakes his head.
“You want me, don’t you?” you purr, your fingers leading from his torso up to his jawline, making his head move to the side, guiding as you circle around him. He nods, his pupils enlarged with need, his hand moving toward you once more. His fingers trace over the ridges where your scales meet your smooth skin, his breathing haltering despite being submerged. You hum, the sound vibrating through the water.
The Deep groans. He’s desperate. You laugh at him, circling around him once more. “Patience,” you murmur, and you glide your fingernails across his torso, down toward his member. You decide to close the distance between you both, feeling him hard against your skin.
“Please. F-fuck, please.” He begs. You tut. “Poor thing,” you keep your voice low and syrupy. “Do you want me to make you feel good?” You taunt him, and he nods with frenzy. The corners of your lips curl into a smile, pulling him in so your lips are barely touching.
“I have something to show you.” You move away for a slight second, revealing a slick, neat slit below your belly button. His gaze darts down to it, the scales shimmering as they part slightly. His expression darkens as deep as his fantasies are; a wicked smirk latches onto his face. Something wild and enthralling flickers behind his eyes, his lips part as if in a silent worship.
His fingers trail along the slit, fingertips edging themselves in, gasping as you feel the light pressure. He removes his fingers before removing his pants, exposing himself before you. Something about this makes your heart skip a beat—something different from the norm. You blink helplessly at his throbbing dick, the tip a deep pink. You blush, seeing how hard he’s getting for you, the slightest move and you’re afraid he’ll combust right there.
Tracing your fingers from the base of his cock to the tip, you rub your thumb over his slit, causing his head to toss back and let out a strangled moan.
“All of this? For me?” You drawl, and he sighs in agreement. You align yourself with him, his tip gingerly touching your entrance. Placing both hands on either side of his face, your palms rest under his jaw. He rests his forearm under the small of your back, inching himself into you.
It feels as if he’s completely stretched you out, but yet there’s more. Each movement of his releases a moan inside of you that you didn’t know was there. He’s watching you with real carnality. Lust.
He thrusts in, causing you to latch onto the nape of his neck, digging your fingernails in. He gasps in shock, but doesn’t pull away. In fact, he thrusts harder with predation. The Deeps cock slips in and out of you, filling you and emptying you with each movement. The thickness of him comes as a surprise; the rocking of his hips moves faster and faster. You press your lips to his, sloppy and needy. The Deep pulls away.
“F—fuck,” he stutters, his movement slowing. The muscles in his biceps define as he grips onto your hips, shaking the feeling away. “You don’t get to slow down.” You threaten, and he looks at you vulnerably. His breathing has faltered and his chest rises and falls.
He plunges into you once more, his tip grinding against your wall, the base of his cock buried so deep inside of you, you wish there was more of him to receive. You push yourself down on him, your slit throbbing with ache and pleasure. “I-I’m close…” He pleads, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “Not yet.” You whisper, clenching around him just to hear him whimper more. And he does.
“Beg for it.”
“Please, oh my God, please. I’m so close.” He cries, his bottom lip wobbles ever so slightly, and you pull yourself off of him. He glares at you with consternation. Even under water, you can tell his dick is sopping with cum.
He doesn’t say a word. You readjust so you’re facing his pelvis, sticking your tongue out, the tip of it meeting his slit. Your tongue is long enough to reach the base of his cock, taking all of him as he reaches the back of your throat.
Being a siren, you have little to no gag reflex. Your autonomy isn’t exactly the same as a human, but more like a spirit residing in an empty vessel. You have needs, of course, which explains the autonomy waist down. Other than that, you’re just a fucktoy with a brain and a mouth. An ungodly one at that.
You tighten your lips around his cock, pressing the back of your tongue tight against the top of his dick that lays inside your mouth. The ridges from the roof of your mouth cause him to shudder under your control. His hands find your hair, gripping relentlessly as you suck him off. The Deeps whimpers and cries are what send you over the edge.
Opening your slit again, you push yourself onto him, a loud groan escapes his throat. You moan, the hum vibrates against your chest. He’s losing himself in you, as if you didn’t just stop him from releasing himself. His breathing is ragged, every thrust and slick grind pushes him closer and closer. “Fuck,” his voice is strained and needy. Desperate.
And that’s when you take exactly what’s yours.
“I-I’m gonna—” He breathes, spilling inside of you. A deep, shuddering force draws from the center of his chest, his power—his very being—rushes into you like a crashing wave. A tsunami. It makes your body hum with a newfound strength. Your skin glows an electric blue, a glimmer of ethereal energy flashes before him, coursing through your veins.
His tasteful moans turn into something full of anguish and hurt. His grip on you weakens as he floats away from you.
“W-What have you done…? I—”
The Deep pauses. A sense of panic fills him as he suddenly can’t breathe under water anymore. His eyes dagger into you. You swim toward him, hand reaching for his cheek. You stroke him, shushing him as he tilts his head at you. “You gave yourself to me, didn’t you?”
He blinds slowly, trying to move, to think. But he can’t. His movement is helpless. His connection to the ocean—the very thing that made him exactly who he was—is gone.
Watching him is amusing, seeing him scurry away toward the shore. He’ll probably make it back.
You slip away, into the depths of the Atlantic ocean, your body beating with stolen power as you anticipate your next victim.
summary; after an awful day, hughie comes to you to help patch him up.
word count; 986
pairing; hughie x fem!reader
✧ ˚ · .
The door swings open, Hughie in front with the rest of the Boys behind him.
You’re sitting on the sofa next to Annie, who thought to keep you company as you decided to sit this fight out. Hughie throws the car keys onto the counter, his face ridden with frustration.
His eyes meet yours, passing you an awkward smile. Annie jumps up to assist Kimiko and Frenchie, Butcher going straight to his room. The tension is palpable, and it makes you wonder if there’s something deeper than just a bad day.
You look at Hughie—properly look—dried blood on his forehead, and his lip’s busted. He has blood on his hands, too, and you’re unsure if it’s his or someone else’s.
You joined the Boys before Hughie did, and you took a liking to him almost instantly. You definitely do not have the balls to do something about it, though, so you basically admire from afar. Each time you see him, your heart skips a beat, and sometimes you wish you knew if he felt the same. Standing up, you make your way over to him.
“Are you okay?” you whisper, the strain is practically radiating from him. “Yeah. Just a bad day, that’s all.” He huffs, shrugging his hoodie off of his shoulders. He hisses in pain, pressing his hand against his shoulder. You move behind him to help him take it off, laying his jacket across the counter, glancing at the blood seeping through his shirt. “Hughie…” you inhale, recoiling at the sight of the injury.
“It’s not that bad,” he chuckles softly. “Not that bad? Hughie, look at you. You’ve got blood everywhere.” You reply, concern taking over. You like Hughie, like, really like. It’s no surprise he comes back with new cuts or wounds, but it still upsets you.
Hughie sits down on the bar stool, waiting for you to finish digging out the first aid box. It’s cute that he knows the deal by now, that when you stay behind, you look after him. Hughie watches you dig through the drawers and cupboards for it.
You pick the kit up, placing it next to him. His eyes are still on you, watching the way your fingers are sifting through the plasters and medical tools, picking out bandages and antiseptic wipes. He knows he’s been staring for a little too long, but thankfully you don’t notice. He couldn’t be in a relationship—he can’t. It’s too dangerous. There’s nothing less than what he’d want. Right?
You tear open the packet of wipes with your teeth, spitting the tip onto the counter and removing the wipe. Moving toward his face, you unfold the wipe and tilt his head with your pointer finger. Hughie’s breathing freezes for a second, a small piece of your hair falls in front of your face as you lower yourself to his level. He reaches up and tucks it back behind your ear.
“Thanks,” you smile at him, you glance at him once, just once—before looking away completely. It feels wrong. Totally, utterly wrong.
Until it doesn’t.
Naturally, you don’t touch someone who isn’t your close friend or partner. So why did he tuck that piece of hair behind your ear? Why is he staring at you when you’re doing the simplest of tasks? He doesn’t even know himself, never mind you. You’re completely oblivious to him falling in love with you right in front of your face.
You slide the wipe across his face, removing the dried blood and then gently dabbing the cuts that remain fresh. He hisses slightly, but doesn’t move an inch. There has been far too many times where you’re patching him up, it’s like it’s routine by now.
You finish up cleaning his face, stepping back from his face. “Take your shirt off.” You turn around quickly, picking up the long tweezers and unwrapping the bandages and padding. “You’re not gonna ask me to dinner first?” He jokes, and you snort. “Unfortunately not, Hughie.” You reply as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his slightly toned chest and exposed collarbones.
-
It takes a little bit of time to nosy at what the hell has happened to his shoulder. There’s a couple of tiny shards of glass in his wound, so you pick them out and place them on some tissue on the counter. “He stabbed you with a bottle?” You repeat what he’s just told you, and he nods. “Believe it or not, yeah. He did. Fuckin’ hurt.”
You share an awkward smile, and he gives you a look.
“What?”
“I just… I feel really bad that you have to patch me up every time.” He admits, his eyes darting to the floor, avoiding eye contact with you.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I feel like it shouldn’t be your job to make sure I’ll make it to see tomorrow. It’s too much for you.” He replies, his glossy, chocolate eyes meeting yours. There’s something amiable behind them, something that resembles his late father.
“No, it’s not. I kinda like it.” You admit, it’s probably something you didn’t really think about admitting, but it makes him smile. “How come?” He asks, tilting his head.
“Because I get to look after you, Hughie. Someone has to.” You declare, sighing quietly to yourself.
He exhales a small laugh, shaking his head. “Lucky me, huh?” he jokes, but there’s something in him that softens, like he’s searching for a real answer. You remain quiet, wrapping the bandage around his shoulder, pretending like you don’t feel his eyes on you.
“All good?” You step back, flashing him a warm, loving smile. He returns one.
“Yeah.” He says, quieter this time. In his head, all he can hear is what you just said.
Someone has to.
And for some reason, he wishes—just for a second—that it wasn’t out of duty. That maybe, just maybe, it was something more.
hiii!! is it alright if I request general Hughie x fem! reader headcanons ?
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ fem!reader headcanons; hughie⋆.°
hi girl! i hope you enjoy!! if you're wanting them a little more specific just let me know <3
✧ ˚ · .
He’s always coming up with new playlists he wants to share with you. He’s a little old school, so sometimes he’ll burn the playlists onto a CD for you to share in the car.
You’re constantly sharing inside jokes with one another. No one else gets it like Hughie.
He’s constantly looking out for you, sometimes it’s not as subtle. His usual response would be “What? I just wanna make sure you’re okay, that’s all.”
If you’re ever upset, he’s always there for you. He’ll bring you snacks, your favourite drink, or just give you company when you need it. It’s like he knows exactly what to do without you asking.
He doesn’t move a muscle if you fall asleep on him. He makes sure you’re comfy, obviously, but once you’re settled, that’s it. He’s a statue.
Hughie loves documentaries and listening to audio books with you. He pauses them every few minutes to discuss what’s just happened. It’s slightly annoying, but it’s Hughie.
Hughie will catch himself staring at you, watching you closely. Your quirks and little subconscious movements fascinate him because you’re you.
He thinks the world of you. When he’s out, if he sees something in a shop window knowing you’ll love it, he’ll buy it for you there and then. You mention something you like? It’s yours. It’s his way of saying that he cares.
Most of the time, he agrees with everything you say. “Right? That’s what I was gonna say!”
Although you both work really well together, he dislikes when you join the Boys on their missions. He’s petrified of losing you.
You were the one that grounded him after Robyns death. He was messed up for weeks - but he knew that you were the one he could count on when it came to needing a shoulder to lean on.
Hughie remembers every little detail about you — it’s like he’s stored it neatly in a folder inside his brain.
summary; butcher abandons you to go on a dangerous mission.
word count; 678
pairing; butcher x reader
✧ ˚ · .
“You’re leaving? Again?” You scoff, peering at Butcher. He presses his lips together tightly, taking another swig of whiskey. “Why can’t I come with you?”
“It’s dangerous, sweetheart. I can’t risk anything happening to you.” He speaks, his voice gruff and strict.
He does this all the time. He barely gives you any time to think everything over before he’s out in another state again. You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing heavily. “Every. Damn. Time. Do you even hear yourself?” You huff, getting close to him. “You know I can help. Just let me come with you! Nothing will happen!”
“You don’t get it.” He turns away from you.
“Turn around and fucking look at me.” You threaten, and he does, slowly. “You think you’re protecting me by keeping me here? What if something happens here? Then what? You’re not here to save me, then, are you?” Your words come out like a plea, like you’re begging him to think twice before he does anything stupid. Butcher looks as if he’s already made up his mind. He stands tall, confident. He looks sure.
“Fucking say something, for fucks sake!” You scream, inching toward him. He’s silent, watching you lose your mind. “You’re a fucking coward, Butcher!” You shove him, hard, your palms colliding with his chest, but he barely moves. He just stands there, taking all of it. “You think you’re protecting me? You’re just running, just like you always do!”
“I ain’t gonna watch you die. Not gonna happen. You stay here, you’re safe, yeah? No one will get you here.”
Your chest rises, rage and heartbreak clawing at your throat. “So you’d rather leave me behind? You’d rather make me watch you walk into your own fucking grave?”
His silence sickens you.
You slap him before you can think better of it—your palm connecting with the side of his cheek in a sharp, hot crack. His head barely turns, like he expected it.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
“Say something!” You beg this time, your vision blurred with furious tears. Your throat feels hot and dry. “You wanna know why I’m leavin’, yeah?” He begins. “I already watched someone I love get torn to shreds by some fuckin’ Supe kid, and I ain’t doin’ it again. I ain’t standin’ over your body, covered in blood, knowin’ I coulda stopped it!”
You swallow. Hard. You understand where he’s coming from, but you’re not her. You’re not Becca.
“You’re not her, and I get that. But it don’t matter, the end’s the same. You stick with me, and you die. That’s it. That’s how it goes.” He speaks, softer this time. You breathe in through your nose, exhaling harshly.
“So… what, you’re deciding what I do now? Like you’re the fucking boss of me? I don’t think so, you arrogant fucking bastard!”
Butcher laughs this time, but he’s not amused—he’s fuming. “Someone’s gotta make the choices around here, and it sure as shit ain’t gonna be you, darlin’.”
You scoff.
“Why the fuck are you makin’ this harder than it has to be?”
“Because I love you, you fucking idiot!” You scream at him, tears rolling down your face, like a dam that’s broken open.
“That’s exactly why I have to do it.”
You watch him as he turns to grab his coat, heading for the door.
“Butcher—”
He doesn’t look back; in fact, he yanks the door open and slams it shut behind him.
You’re met with silence. You look over at the bottle of whiskey he left on the counter, picking it up and reading the label. Staring at it, you fling it at the wall, the bottle shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces, the liquid spilling out and pooling onto the floor. The rage inside you isn’t satisfied, so you wipe everything off of the countertop, sending it across the room. The clatter of glasses smashing echoes throughout the kitchen, tears distorting your vision.
No matter how much you could’ve destroyed the place, he wouldn’t come back.
hii i love ur blog!! could u do something that’s hughie x fem reader? <3
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ crush; hughie⋆.°
summary; hughie has a little crush.
word count; 661
pairing; hughie campbell x fem!reader
thank you for requesting! i hope you like it ml <3
✧ ˚ · .
“You’re like a lost fuckin’ puppy, mate.” Butcher comments, making Hughie scoff. “N-no, I’m not.” Hughie shrugs. Butcher rolls his eyes at him, his dimples showing as a smile forms on his face. “A lost, lovesick puppy. Just tell her.”
“I can’t do it, man.”
“You can, Hughie. Don’t be a big baby.”
“I’m not—fine.”
You’re sitting on the sofa, your headphones drowning out any shit Butchers spitting at Hughie. You love Butcher, of course, but sometimes his sly comments are unbearable. Sometimes you wish it was easy to just mute everyone out.
There’s only one, though, that you would—maybe—let bother you, and he’s walking over to you now.
Hughie sits down next to you, sighing as he allows himself to relax. Butcher is watching from the other side of the room, a whiskey glass resting in his hand. Hughie looks over at him, pointing daggers to leave you both be. Butcher huffs, exiting the room.
“Y/N?” Hughie hesitates at first. His first thought was to not interrupt you as you looked so at peace in your own little world. You look up at him, his gaze is soft and friendly. You slide your headphones off, placing them in your lap. “What’s up?”
Hughie looks down at his lap, he’s pinching at the skin on the back of his hand. You notice the change in atmosphere, once comfortable now awkward. You notice he only pinches his skin when he’s nervous about something.
Hughie chuckles anxiously, averting his eyes from yours. You sit up, turning to face him. You cross your leg under the other. “Hughie?”
He looks at you this time, flashing a shaky smile. “I, uh, have to tell you something.”
“Have to? You look like you don’t want to, Hughie.” You cross your eyebrows slightly. Hughie keeps his gaze on you, in turn, causing your stomach to twist. He looks away, before darting back at you.
“I’ve been hiding something from you for a while, and, uh, I kinda don’t want to hide it anymore.” He begins. Your entire attention is on him.
“I really, really like you. And not in a ‘you’re my friend and you’re, like, really cool’ kinda way, more like a ‘I feel like a lovesick puppy and I can’t take it anymore’ kind of way. It’s completely cool if you don’t like me back—I mean, it’s not cool… well, it is, but rejection isn’t a nice feeling. I respect what you want to do either way… but, yeah. Whenever I see you with other guys, I wonder why can’t it be me? I thought to myself that it’s not your problem to solve, it’s mine. And that’s why I’m letting you know now.”
Hughie takes a deep breath, visibly seeing the weight lift off of his shoulders. You can’t help but look at him, and you really look, the way his hoodie is practically engulfing him, his hair a little messy from the amount of times his hands have run through it before confronting you.
“What is it about me?”
“Oh! Uh, you’re, like, super pretty, and… well, you’re a badass, you have a smart mouth and you can stand up to Butcher. Even I can’t do that. Sometimes. And… going back to the ‘why can’t it be me?’, you’re way out of my league, for one, and for two—”
You place your hands on either side of his face, pulling him in for a kiss. He stiffens from the sudden connection, his eyes still open. Hughie realises that this isn’t fake, it isn’t in his head. It’s real. And clearly, you feel the same.
He kisses you back, his hand leading toward your waist. His heart races, his dream girl took the plunge to do something he didn’t have the guts to do. Not yet, anyway.
You pull away, chuckling gently. “You’re rambling, Hughie.” You hush, quickly glancing at his lips, then his eyes. He laughs. “So, you like me?”
summary; your love language is giving gifts, and the person who deserves it the most is kimiko.
word count; 241
pairing; kimiko x reader
✧ ˚ · .
You clung to Kimiko as soon as she joined the Boys.
She was just like you when you got caught up with… well, everything. Defensive, guarded, and tired.
Tired of being stuck in the same cycle. Running around, Supe after Supe.
When she lost her powers, thanks to Soldier Boy, she spends most of her free time drawing and making art. Kimiko uses old pens and pencils found around the place, scrap pieces of paper from notebooks, sometimes newspapers.
You feel the need to change that.
“Kimiko,” you call her, and she looks up. A warm smile growing on her face. “I brought you a gift.” You say, holding it behind your back. She turns to face you, her brows furrowing slightly. “What is it?”
You pull the gift from behind your back, revealing a dark navy blue sketchbook alongside a small metal case containing oil pastels and artists pencils. Her eyes light up at the set you’re presenting to her, her smile only getting wider. Her eyes glisten like stars are dwelling in them.
“Thank you,” she signs, “you really didn’t have to. Why?”
“Because you’re my friend and I love you. It’s my way of telling you that.” You tell her, and she pulls you into a hug. She immediately opens the set, examining every pencil and testing them on the first page of her book.
You would give anything if it meant the people you loved were happy.
summary; after a heated argument with annie, you're left badly wounded.
word count; 538
pairing; annie january x reader
✧ ˚ · .
“Y/N, I’m telling you, you cannot give up!” Annie yells, stepping forward toward you sitting with your head in your hands. “Annie, for fucks sake, I can’t take this anymore! I’m not made for this! I’m not like you, I’m not like everyone else! I want a normal life!” You spit, clenching your jaw, your eyes jabbing into hers. “How many more fucking times do I have to say it?” You ask her, your voice wobbling.
You have been dating Annie for the best part of two years. Two whole years worth of a normal life you’re not getting back. You love Annie, obviously, but this life? It’s so easy for her. She’s unstoppable. You? Quite the opposite.
She turns around, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Frenchie almost died because of me. He’s vital to us, and you expect me to accept that? What if he died?”
“But he didn’t!” She retorts. “Listen, if you quit, you’re still on Vought’s radar. There’s no one to back you up. If you stay, you have everyone here. We can keep each other safe.” She attempts to stay calm, to resolve this. You sigh.
Standing up, you walk over to Annie. “I’m exhausted, Annie,” you huff, your eyes glossing over. “Vought isn’t going anywhere. Nothing we do is ever going to be good enough. We’ve tried and tried and nothing seems to work. I just want to go home.” You gasp, your sight moving from her face to the floor.
“You want to go home?” She repeats, her chest rising up and down. “You think just because you want to go home, they’ll let you? You get to just—just go back to how life was?” Her tone changes, frustrated and sullen. She runs a hand through her hair, avoiding all eye contact.
“Annie-”
“No!” She raises her hand in the air; a burst of yellow-white cracks fly through the air, bolts hitting your shoulder. Searing heat lashes through your entire body, pushing you toward the floor. A hiss escapes your lips as the pain spreads from your shoulder toward your toes. You lay there, helpless, as the colour from Annie’s face drains almost completely. “Y/N!” She rushes over to you, instantly falling to her knees.
“I’m so sorry,” her voice is small now, “Y/N, I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to…” her voice cracks, her hand drapes over your hair, her fingertips running through, combing it. Tears fall desperately down her face, strangled cries escape her throat. You look up at her, terror and panic covering your face. Your body shakes from trauma.
You sit up slowly, and she watches your every move. Your bottom lip wobbles, mouth partly open. “I—I need a break.” You look at her, disdain coursing through your veins. You somehow find the courage to stand up. Annie remains on the floor, glancing up at you, eyes full of sorrow.
You’re clutching your arm, attempting to dull the pain, but when you look down at Annie, this definitely hurts more than the blisters forming around your wound.
“We need a break.” You turn around, heading toward the door. Annie sits there, wishing she could do something. Wishing she could turn back time, just five damn seconds.
summary; butcher is suffering from the side affects of temp v. you're the only one that gives enough fucks about him to do something.
word count; 902
pairing; butcher x fem!reader
this is my first ever the boys one shot! pls be kind and pls no spoilers (midway through s3)`♡´
✧ ˚ · .
Butcher isn’t affectionate.
Everyone who’s ever known Butcher knows this. Hell, his main form of affection is calling you a cunt with a cheeky smirk plastered on his face.
You’ve noticed that he’s been acting off lately. Ever since he lost Becca, he’s become careless, more than usual. His words are sharp and powerful, and if you didn’t do as he says, you know you’re in for it.
Yourself, Frenchie and Hughie are going through an elaborate plan to stop Homelander, whilst Kimiko sits with her headphones in. “Excuse me,” Butcher gets up from his seat, hurriedly making his way to the bathroom. Your eyebrows cross, shooting Frenchie and Hughie a look.
He’s done this too many times recently, and all he says is that he’s fine. He’s always fine. Butcher never wants anyone to worry about him, but that’s all you can do. There’s something horribly wrong with him.
Hughie shrugs it off, but you can’t shake the feeling that he needs someone there with him. “I’m gonna go check on him.” You get up, leaving the boys to figure out a solution between themselves. You quietly knock on the door of the bathroom, a rough grunt emerging from the other side. “Go away, Hughie,” he huffs, and you sigh. “It’s Y/N.”
He’s silent.
“Can I come in?” you turn the handle slowly, the door creaking lightly, the rusted hinges make the door vibrate quietly. Butcher looks up at you, defeated. His eyes are full of hurt and annoyance. You purse your lips.
“What have you done?” You shut the door behind you, crouching down to his level. He’s sat with his arm resting on the toilet seat, his big, leather jacket enveloping him. His hair is wild and his beard untamely. He probably feels just how he looks.
“Nothin’, sweetheart. Now, leave me alone, would you?” He spits, and you don’t budge. “Butcher,” you eye him. “What have you done?” You repeat, sliding your back down the wall and sitting on the floor opposite him. He looks away from you, clenching his jaw. You can sense the frustration build up in him, yet it’s all his fault. Glancing up at the countertop, you notice a needle, a tiny glass container, and a belt on the floor beside him. Piecing the puzzle together, he’s taking V.
Butcher is watching you go through every possibility that you have in your mind, the way your eyes are scanning over everything and analysing exactly what he’s done. Your eyes widen before meeting his. He chuckles. “You’ve taken V.” You huff, and he brushes it off.
You sit up properly, crossing your legs, hunching over. “You’re fucking taking V. What the fuck is wrong with you?” You yell at him, and he hushes you. “Not too loud. The Boys don’t know about it.”
“Well, no shit!” You quickly get up to examine the small tube, a green tinge barely noticeable. “That isn’t compound V,” he starts, “It’s temp V.”
You shoot a glare at him. “It makes you a Supe for 24 hours. Nothin’ crazy.”
“Yeah, like that makes it better. Where did you get this?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”
He’s snarky and damn well funny, but you don’t make a sound. Butcher freezes in position before throwing up in the toilet.
It’s green. Radioactive green. Smooth, too. You can’t help but look at it, how this poison is ruining him. Rushing to his side, you rub his back and aid him as much as you possibly can. You reach over for some toilet paper, ripping some off so you can wipe his mouth. “You okay?” You ask him, sincerity in your tone. He grunts, his eyes remaining closed. His head rests atop his hand that’s still over the toilet seat, and you use the back of your hand to check his temperature on his forehead. “You’re burning up.” You sigh, and he doesn’t respond.
“Butcher?” panic starts in your voice, but you keep the volume to a minimum. You push him back toward the wall as he lays half conscious, attempting to take his jacket off to help cool him down. Standing up, you rapidly search the room for some sort of cup, container, anything. When you find a plastic cup, you pour him some cold water and wipe a little across his forehead. Butcher eventually comes round, groaning and eyelids flickering. “Here,” you guide the cup toward his mouth, and he reluctantly takes a few sips. He looks at you, his eyebrows scrunched together, that typical mean-guy look he shoots at everyone. You place the cup on the counter, sitting back down in front of him. “You tell anyone,” he breathes heavily, “and I mean anyone about this, you’re fuckin’ dead, yeah?” he threatens, and you shake your head.
“Threaten me all you want, Butcher, but this is your problem. My mouth is zipped.” You smile at him, and he chuckles. “That a girl.”
When you exit the bathroom, Hughie turns his head to you. You nod at him, and Butcher follows close behind you.
“Are you alright, Monsieur Charcutier?” Frenchie speaks up, nodding his head.
“He’s got food poisoning, that’s all.” You lie, looking back at Butcher, who’s unable to hide his smile. He leans close to your ear.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” he mutters, his rough, hushed voice makes your stomach flutter.
