#frenchie x reader

[americanunaverage]

The Boys Smut- Did I Hear That Right?

Minors DNI! 18+ |The Boys Masterlist|

!The Boys overhear you having sex with (Character).

Butcher

You two barely made it through the door. His lips were on yours instantly, nipping at your lower lip with that sharp hunger that always left you dizzy. Before you could even catch your breath, Butcher had you pinned against the bed, hands rough and greedy—tugging at clothes, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs like he couldn’t get you bare fast enough.

The old bed creaked loudly beneath you as he slowly lowered himself into you, thick and unrelenting. You gasped sharply, mouth falling open in a perfect, silent O, eyes fluttering shut at the stretch. He eased in inch by inch, deliberate and deep, a low, guttural groan rumbling from his chest the whole way. No words. Just the wet, slick sound of him sinking into you, your shaky exhale, and the way your nails dug into his back as you braced yourself.

In the next room, the boys were trying—very, very hard—to pretend they weren’t hearing every single second of it.

Hughie’s face burned scarlet, eyes glued to the floor like it might split open and swallow him whole. MM rubbed his temples hard, jaw clenched tight, muttering under his breath about “goddamn animals.” Frenchie leaned back with a smirk, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Kimiko tilted her head, watching the wall with calm, fascinated curiosity, like she was listening to a particularly interesting song.

Another loud, broken moan ripped from your throat—high and desperate—as Butcher hit that perfect spot deep inside you, making your toes curl tight. The bedframe slammed harder against the wall now, rhythmic and violent. His grunts turned rougher, deeper, almost animalistic snarls every time you clenched around him, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder.

“Christ,” MM finally hissed, voice low and strained. “They’re not even trying to be quiet.”

Frenchie exhaled a slow curl of smoke, soft laugh slipping out. “I do not think they remember we exist right now.”

Hughie made a strangled little noise and yanked his hoodie up over his head like that could possibly block out the sounds—your whimpers climbing higher, Butcher’s heavy, ragged breathing, the relentless creak and thud of the bed.

Back in the room, your legs were trembling violently around his waist, voice cracking into soft, needy whimpers as he fucked you through it, hips snapping with raw, primal force. His breathing was harsh and uneven against your neck, each thrust punctuated by a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through your chest.

One last, wrecked “fuck” tore from him—low and desperate—right as you shattered. Your high, trembling moan spilled out, raw and broken, mixing perfectly with his deep, satisfied growl as pleasure crashed through both of you. The bed finally stilled, the only sounds left being your shared, panting breaths.

Silence—blessed, mortifying silence—settled for half a second.

Then Frenchie’s voice drifted through the thin wall, dry as bone:

“…Well. At least someone’s having a good night.”

You buried your burning face in Butcher’s sweat-slick shoulder, half-laughing, half-mortified at how loud you’d been. He just chuckled darkly against your hair, the sound rough and smug, arms tightening around you possessively.

“Let ‘em listen, love,” he murmured, voice gravelly and low. “Let the whole fuckin’ world hear what you sound like when I ruin you.”

Soldier Boy

The team had only been back at the safehouse for twenty minutes when the noises started.

At first they figured Soldier Boy was just being his usual destructive self—pacing, throwing shit, whatever. But then the bedframe started slamming against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm. Loud. Unmistakable.

Frenchie paused mid-pour. Hughie’s eyes widened. MM’s jaw tightened.

“What the hell is he doing now?” MM muttered, already heading toward the hallway.

Then it hit them: a sharp, breathy gasp—feminine, surprised, melting quickly into a soft, needy moan as the creaking intensified.

The room went dead quiet.

Hughie blinked hard. “Wait… there’s a girl in there with him?”

Another moan slipped through the thin walls, higher this time, raw and trembling. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, faster, paired with deep, guttural grunts from Soldier Boy—low and arrogant, the kind that said he was enjoying every second of wrecking whoever was under him.

Frenchie’s eyebrows shot up. “He brought someone back? Without telling us?”

Kimiko tilted her head, listening with quiet curiosity as your voice cracked into a desperate whimper, the bed thudding harder.

MM stopped outside the door, hand raised like he was about to knock and tell the asshole to keep it down—until another broken moan rang out, clearer this time.

That voice.

MM froze.

Hughie’s face went pale. “That… that sounded like—”

Your moan cut him off, loud and shattered, as Soldier Boy hit that spot that made your toes curl and your back arch. The rhythm turned brutal—bedframe cracking against the wall, your high, needy cries mixing with his rough, animalistic groans. No words. Just pure filth: the slick, wet sounds of him pounding into you, your legs shaking, voice climbing higher and more desperate with every thrust.

Frenchie’s cigarette nearly dropped from his lips. “Non… no way. That’s not—”

But it was. The next moan was unmistakable—your voice, raw and trembling, cracking beautifully as you tried and failed to stay quiet.

Hughie looked like he was about to be sick. “Oh my god. That’s… that’s her.

MM’s hand dropped to his side, eyes wide with pure shock. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The pace inside grew frantic. Your whimpers turned into frantic little sobs of pleasure, body jolting with every deep, punishing snap of Soldier Boy’s hips. His grunts got louder, rougher—almost snarls—cocky and satisfied as he fucked you , the headboard slamming like it might break.

Your voice broke on a long, high, trembling cry as you came hard, legs shaking violently around him. Soldier Boy followed with a deep groan, hips stuttering once, twice, before the bed finally went still.

Heavy, ragged breathing filled the sudden silence.

The boys stood frozen in the hallway, stunned into complete silence.

Frenchie was the first to speak, voice hushed and disbelieving. “Putain… it’s really her. With him.”

Hughie pulled his hoodie up over his head like it could erase the last five minutes. “I’m never going to be able to look at her again. Or him. Or… anyone.”

MM just stared at the door, rubbing his temples hard, muttering, “Of all the people… Soldier Boy? What the fuck is she thinking?”

Kimiko’s lips twitched with quiet amusement, shrugging one shoulder as if to say surprise.

Inside the room, you were still catching your breath, face buried against Soldier Boy’s sweat-slick chest, a soft embarrassed laugh bubbling up. He smirked down at you, one big hand lazily stroking your spine, voice low and smug.

“Sounds like the peanut gallery finally figured it out, sweetheart.”

Hughie

You and Hughie had waited until the safehouse felt dead quiet.

The team was supposed to be out for hours, so the second the door clicked shut behind the last person, Hughie had pulled you into his room with that shy, eager grin. Clothes came off fast—his hands a little clumsy with nerves, your laughter soft against his mouth as you tumbled onto the bed together.

He eased into you slowly, careful like always, and the old mattress creaked under you both. You let out a quiet gasp, mouth falling open, fingers digging gently into his shoulders. Hughie answered with a low, shaky groan, burying his face in your neck as he started to move.

No talking. Just soft, breathy sounds—your little moans growing sweeter and higher every time he rolled his hips, his own quiet, desperate grunts mixing with the rhythmic creak of the bed. It felt safe. Private. You didn’t hold back, letting yourself get louder as pleasure built, your voice turning into needy whimpers that made Hughie’s breathing hitch.

The bedframe started knocking gently against the wall. Then harder.

You were both so lost in it—your legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts getting a little faster, a little deeper—that neither of you heard the front door open.

In the living room, the team had just walked in.

Frenchie stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. MM’s expression shifted from tired to confused. Kimiko tilted her head. Butcher leaned against the wall with a slow, shit-eating grin.

Then your moan floated down the hallway—soft at first, then louder, higher, cracking beautifully as Hughie hit that spot that made your toes curl. The bed was really creaking now, steady and unmistakable, paired with Hughie’s low, embarrassed little grunts that somehow still sounded desperate.

Hughie froze for half a second when he heard voices, but you clenched around him and he couldn’t stop—his hips stuttered, a choked groan slipping out as he kept going, both of you too far gone to quiet down.

“Oh fuck…” Hughie whispered against your skin, mortified, but his body betrayed him with another deep thrust that pulled a high, trembling whimper from your throat.

In the living room, the silence was deafening.

Frenchie’s smirk grew. “Well, well. Little Hughie is not so little after all.”

MM rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ. They thought we were gone.”

Butcher chuckled darkly, voice carrying just enough. “Sounds like the kid’s finally getting some. About time.”

Your moan peaked—loud, broken, and completely unaware—right as Hughie’s rhythm turned frantic and uneven. His quiet, ragged groans mixed with your shaky cries until you both fell apart together: your high, trembling voice and his deeper, embarrassed moan echoing through the thin walls as the bed finally stilled.

The sudden silence was brutal.

You buried your burning face in Hughie’s chest, whispering a horrified “Oh my god…” while he looked ready to die on the spot, cheeks flaming red.

From the living room came Frenchie’s amused voice, loud and clear:

“Don’t stop on our account, mes amis! We can wait!”

Hughie groaned again—this time purely from embarrassment—and pulled the pillow over both your heads like it could hide you from the entire team.

You could still hear Butcher’s low laugh and MM muttering something about “kids these days” as your heart hammered with pure mortification.

Hughie peeked out from under the pillow, voice small and mortified. “…We are never living this down.”

Frenchie

The safehouse was supposed to be empty tonight — just you and Frenchie. The rest of the team had left for a lead that would supposedly keep them gone until morning. So when Frenchie pulled you into the dimly lit living room instead of his bedroom, you didn’t argue.

He had you bent over the back of the old couch before you could even catch your breath, skirt shoved up around your waist, his jeans barely pushed down his thighs. No slow buildup this time. He slid into you in one smooth thrust, deep and confident, pulling a surprised, breathy moan from your throat.

The couch creaked loudly under the force of that first thrust. You gripped the cushions tight, mouth falling open in a silent cry as he started moving — steady, rolling hips that quickly turned hungry. Soft, needy sounds spilled out of you with every push: little gasps turning into higher, trembling moans that you couldn’t hold back. Frenchie answered with low, raspy groans, the occasional whispered French curse slipping out like a prayer.

No real talking. Just the wet, filthy slap of skin, the rhythmic creak of the couch, and the way your voice kept climbing — broken and desperate every time he angled his hips just right and hit that spot that made your knees weak.

You were so lost in it that neither of you heard the van pull up outside.

The front door opened quietly. The team stepped in, expecting silence… and walked straight into the soundtrack of Frenchie fucking you over the couch.

Your moan rang out — high, raw, and unmistakable — right as he drove in harder. The couch was really moving now, scraping against the floor with every thrust. Frenchie’s breathing had turned rough and primal, deep grunts mixing with your whimpering cries, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the open room.

Frenchie froze mid-thrust when he heard the footsteps, but his body betrayed him — hips giving one last involuntary roll that pulled a loud, shattered whimper from you.

Butcher stopped dead in the doorway, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, fuck. Didn’t expect a live show in the living room.”

MM turned his head away fast, muttering, “Jesus Christ, Frenchie…”

Hughie looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. “Oh god… that’s… they’re right there.”

Kimiko tilted her head, a small amused smile tugging at her lips as another desperate moan escaped you — your voice cracking beautifully as Frenchie couldn’t stop himself from giving one more deep thrust.

Frenchie’s face burned, but he stayed buried inside you, one hand still gripping your hip. He let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh against your back.

“Mon dieu… we thought you were gone until morning,” he called out, voice hoarse and thick with accent, trying to sound casual even while he was still pulsing inside you.

Your cheeks were on fire. You hid your face in the couch cushion, mortified, body still trembling around him.

Butcher chuckled low and dirty. “Clearly. Carry on, then. Don’t let us interrupt the romance.”

Frenchie groaned — half embarrassment, half lingering pleasure — and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. He whispered softly against your skin, only for you to hear, “I should have taken you to the roof, chérie…”

The team started awkwardly dispersing toward the kitchen, muttering and laughing under their breath, while you stayed bent over the couch, heart racing, Frenchie still buried deep and trying and failing to stay still.

The embarrassment was overwhelming… but the way he twitched inside you told you he wasn’t entirely sorry.

Homelander

The boys were out chasing another lead, leaving the safehouse quiet for once.

You knew you were making a terrible mistake. You were supposed to be helping them take him down — feeding them intel, staying on the inside. But somewhere along the way the lines had blurred completely. One secret meeting turned into stolen nights, and now here you were: heart racing as “John” slipped through the back door in civilian clothes, no cape, no suit, just that dangerously soft smile that made your stomach flip.

He didn’t waste time. The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both, his hands were on you — surprisingly gentle at first, then hungry. He had you on the bed in seconds, clothes pushed aside just enough. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, your head fell back with a shaky gasp, mouth forming a perfect O.

No loud talking. Just breathy, intimate sounds.

Your soft moans filled the small room as he moved — deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak steadily beneath you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound almost vulnerable, every time you clenched around him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the rhythm slowly built.

You were so lost in him — in the way he felt, in the way he whispered your name like a secret — that neither of you noticed the front door opening.

The team had come back early.

They stepped inside quietly, expecting an empty safehouse… until your voice drifted down the hallway.

A soft, needy moan. Then another, higher, trembling.

MM froze. Hughie’s eyes went wide. Frenchie tilted his head, cigarette halfway to his lips. Butcher’s expression darkened instantly.

Then it came — clear, unmistakable, wrapped in a broken whimper:

“John…”

The entire room went ice-cold.

Butcher’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. “Did she just—?”

Another moan from you, louder this time, cracking beautifully as Homelander hit that perfect spot deep inside. The bedframe started slamming harder against the wall, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin growing filthier. Your voice kept slipping out — soft cries turning desperate, repeating that name like a prayer:

“John… John—”

Homelander answered with a low, possessive growl, hips snapping faster, the sounds turning primal and urgent. Just raw need as he fucked you deeper, your moans climbing higher and more wrecked with every thrust.

Frenchie exhaled slowly, voice hushed. “Putain… she’s with him. She called him John.”

Hughie looked sick. “She’s supposed to be helping us… and she’s — oh god.”

MM rubbed his face, voice tight with betrayal. “We trusted her.”

Butcher’s eyes were murderous, but he didn’t move — just stood there listening as your high, trembling moan peaked, voice breaking on “John” one last time as you came hard around him. Homelander followed with a deep, satisfied groan, hips stuttering before the bed finally went still.

Silence crashed down.

Then Butcher’s voice cut through the wall, low and dangerous:

“Well, well. Looks like our little mole’s been playing both sides… and enjoying it.”

Inside the bedroom you froze, face buried in Homelander’s neck, horror flooding through you as reality slammed back in. He just smirked against your hair, voice soft and smug, barely above a whisper:

“They heard you moan my name, darling. My real name.”

Your heart hammered with panic and lingering pleasure. The boys were right outside — and they knew everything now.

I'm thinking of expanding the homelander story. She sees him behind their backs vibes.

Update 4/8/26 - Story has been posted (No More Secrets)

[yandere-wishes]

・┆✦ʚ Had a few dreams about you, I can't tell you what we did ɞ✦ ┆・

⭒⌒★ Yandere!The Boys x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓀𝒾𝒹𝓃𝒶𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 ♡ ｡ ゜

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑It's such a shame it ended this way ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

✮⋆˙ Homelander

He wasn't supposed to get this attached, he knows that. At first, it's easy to pretend, to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close to whisper sophomoric quips into your ear so you'd squint throwing your head back and laughing, even though the dirt of the joke is lost on you. But that's the problem right there, that odious jovial laugh coupled with that eerie righteous gleam carved into your eyes. Your voice sounds like early morning birds and those housewives in old infomercials. Domestic, blissful, so utterly painfully innocent that it punctures his steel heart. You make it so hard not to fall in love.

According to the public -and Vought - you two are not quite lovers, but there's clearly something there, squirming below the surface, trying to break free. 'More than friends' is what they call you. It's what the public wants, a build-up, a love story they can watch unfold through their screens. The Golden Boy and the People's Sweetheart. But the error of it all itches under Homelander's skin. You are his lover, his darling, his whole damn world. He doesn't need the suckups and tyrants to tell him how and when he can love you. He already does, he's already crossed the line, gotten too attached.

The thoughts creep in, or rather invade, when he notices how your fans touch you, how those wretched mortals have the gall to slurp up gallons of your attention and love. You really are made for the people, aren't you? Not for him, never him.

No, he can't have that...

"You all right?" he asks vice grip on your body as he soars through the sky. You're tucked into his chest sniffling, tears dried out and pleas laying dead upon your tongue. He has you now, He'll never let you go. He's so high up one misstep and you'll plummet to your doom. Still, that's better than letting those insects lay a finger on you. He does this every time your fans ask for pictures, every time someone gets too close. He picks you up and flies away. But this time, this time he's going too far, flying too fast. You don't know where he's headed but you have a feeling you might never come back. "I love you," Homelander says, voice booming through the thick winds, "I can't...I can't let them have you, you belong to me. Besides what kind of boyfriend would I be if I couldn't keep my own darling safe?" the humor and technicality that you aren't 'really' dating it lost on you when you start to notice how cold it's gotten, how the ground is pitch white how the snowflakes land like doomed omes upon his golden hair...

"I'll keep you safe," He promises. "Far away from those disgusting, filthy mortals, and then once it's all burned down and built anew, I'll lay it all at your feet." His lips seal his promise, binding you as he lands on the tundra.

⋆˙⟡ Black Noir

Little hearts are dancing around your face as you nervously strangle a lock of hair around your finger. The hearts spin and swirl floating over to pivot around Black Noir's head. You look so adorable mulling over your costume changes, over the limited options Vought has bestowed upon you. You remind him of cartoon bunnies and fawns frolicking through evergreen forests hiding from cruel poachers and hunters. Forced into cages to be leered at

You plague him with lovelorn paralysis, too dazed to think straight to move, just replaying your voice in his head while scribbling your name across papers, love notes, and endless doodles of your essence. He draws you with fluffy ears and a cotton tail, draws himself -black wool and big sheepish eyes- saving the poor bunny from the monstrous masses. And maybe it's not just a fever dream, a relapse in reality. Maybe it can be true. He just has to pluck you away in the dead of night, fib a little tale about some supervillain having killed you. Vought will find a replacement, and you will be safe tucked away in his room. Forever his, his sweet little bunny.

𓆩♛𓆪 Queen Maeve

Her heart yearns for you. Aching from your mere smile, from the haunting sparkle in your eye under the right light. "I love you," she says, thousands upon thousands of times. But you never say it back, she's not meant for you to love, she can't belong to one person. But the world doesn't need to know, the people shouldn't get the right to choose her wishes. Do your bones ever sing for her? Maeve wonders. Hum her name between the marrow and plead for her firm touch.

It's savage the way she hauls you from your home, unbefitting someone who truly believes in freedom, unbefitting her epithet of 'Queen'. But it's the only way she knows how, instinct upon desperation. You're staring out the window, glaring at the stars as she kisses up your neck. Locked away forever with her, high above, hidden from the world's cruel gaze. You can belong to her forever, with no guilt and messy shards. Just you and her and the love clawing at her throat.

⋆𓆝 The Deep

He wants to watch you drown. Maybe that's not a thing to admit to someone. Especially someone you claim to love. To tell them, tenderly, while running your fingers over their bones and curves, that you want to watch the air slip out of their lungs, replaced with the gorgeous crystalline liquid of his essence. Deep watches as you push the glass to your lips, head tipped back, giving him the perfect view of your slender neck. He thinks it'd look better with his teeth marks and kisses marring your smooth skin. He thinks it would look better adorned with deep sea pearls and fingerprints.

He weighs your cheeks in his palms, pushing just enough to watch the pellucid tears ripple from your eyes. He has you caged, cornered in the dark of Vought Tower. Begging, pleading for you to stay with him, to be his. You once told him you feel like a shark, a great white, forced to live in a donut tank, and he couldn't help but understand every single word coming from your mouth. He won't be your tank, he swears, as he drags you up the emergency flight of stairs that eventually bleeds into the Seven's penthouse complex. No, he'll be your water, your ocean, aqueous salvation keeping you safe from every dreadful one and thing on dry land. You can drown for him, drawn in his enthrallment, in this desperate thing he calls "love". Drown in his kisses that feel like swallowing seas and starfish. Drown for him, belong to him, be his…

ঌ✦໒ A-train

When you glare at him he feels like spitting back. Shoving something sharp between your eyes, or cracking your skull on the pavement. He hates you, hates the way you make his heart beat faster than V fixes, hates how he needs to feel you close just to feel alive. But what he hates most is that you're always out of reach.

When he takes you, he leaves no room for argument. No room for reason. You're in the convenience store one-moment buying ice cream and Diet Coke. And the next you're high above the ground in a room with locked windows and doors. A-Train tries to reason, tries to apologize sheepishly for the crude "date" -as he calls it- blushing mess, charisma, and charm rotting in the pit of his stomach as he tries to kiss you, tries to hold your hands, and shows you how much he loves you. But that glare, that damn glare never leaves your gorgeous eyes. It's fine, it's cool, you'll learn to love him, you have nowhere else to go, you can't leave him now. Eventually, his love will catch up to you too.

⭑.ᐟ Soldier Boy

His love is so utterly cruel, all anger and radiation and gunpowder inhaled. He loves you he swears even when his kisses are all teeth and tongue and knife cuts. And at first, it's exhilarating being with the quintessence of heroics, the perfect man, the world's bravest. Old fashioned and rough around the edges, until those edges start drawing blood. Until he's ready to murder anyone who so much as looks at you. His excuses are plentiful, sweet, innocent thing like yourself knows nothing of the world's cruelties. Those people are evil they want to hurt you, hurt him, steal you away, and break you apart. And Ben just has to protect you, someone unmarred by the terrors and pains he's gone through, you're his sanctuary his Eden, he needs to keep you pure.

Whatever he's slipped you has made the lights throb and the walls spin. You thought it would be fun to drag him to a nightclub, to show him this century isn't so bad. But when he pulls you onto his lap, mouth on yours, slipping something round down your throat with his tongue, you start to realize this may have been a bad idea. He's cruel when he pushes you off his lap, laughing as you try to stand and fail. He coos in your ear, all patronizing synonyms of 'I told you so'. The next morning, you don't know where you are, just that you can't leave; he made sure of it. He has you locked away, hidden, and safe. And perfectly broken for him and only him.

ᯓ★ Starlight/ Annie January

She utters your name in absolute, little wish upon a star that someday you'll be hers. When Annie asks you to move in with her, she makes it sound like a covenant, like rehearsing a verse from a childhood dream. Be close to her, be with her, she's so sick of being alone, of being used. She needs someone to make the pain go away and mold her back into something resembling a human being.

She's a supernova on the brink of explosion and she knows it's a cruel fate to tie to you. But she can't help it, not when your lips are so soft and your eyes so innocent. Not when you remind her of why she even became Starlight in the first place. Her eyes flicker gold trying to imprint herself into you, so utterly terrified you'll leave her for another less broken girl. She can't have that, it sounds so callous to force this all upon you. To leave you locked away in her childhood home. But she has bruises that never healed right and eyes that have seen too much. And you're just a human, a human who holds her heart in the palm of your hand. She'll protect you, scare away supe and mortal so you'll forever remain in her arms.

⋆☾ Billy Butcher

He locked you away the moment he realised he loved you. The moment the shards fell into place and Billy woke up with your name on his tongue he knew he had to hide you away. He's meticulous about it, classic in the deed. Blind folds and gags, and reassuring words that are always too gruff to be comforting.

He treats you like a princess, wiping away your tears, kissing you as tenderly as he can. Makes you your favorite foods and buys you whatever your heart desires. Just don't break his rules, don't leave the house. Please! It's all he asks for, love. And should you ever succeed in running away. Well, Butcher has no claims against breaking your bones to keep you compliant, after all, he knows what the alternative is, and he knows what the world could do to you. In comparison, this is a mercy. So just be a good bird and let him take care of you. Alrigh' love?

˚꩜｡Hughie Campbell

Hughie never kidnaps you, not really, he doesn't have the heart to take your freedom away like that. But he's always too close, body pressed to yours. You can feel his heartbeat echoing within your bones, flesh-to-flesh exchanging traumas. He's so anxious all the time, worried and lovesick all in the same breath. His presence is your cage; you can never escape his closeness.

The first time Hughie kisses you, it tastes like guilt and dead butterly cacoones. Like a boy who's trying to understand who he is through you. His fingers squeeze the flesh of your arms, scared that you'll slip away. Be taken from him the moment his lips leave yours. You can almost call him sweet if he weren't so suffocating. Lost puppy boy who won't leave his favorite chew toy alone. Kicked one too many times by the cruel world to let you relive such a fate.

˚✿° Frenchie

It's a little too easy to love you. Not love at first sight or last sight, just a love whose seeds have festered deep within his blood, taking bloom every time you appear to assist on another suicide mission.

And maybe that's it, the thought of dying that makes you so appealing, like a bomb that is a fraction of a second from exploding. Frenchie thinks you're more weapon than human, all revolvers and demolition, all dying and surviving, and every oxymoron he can think of. Because the truth i,s you are a gun, a pistol, pointed blank at his heart, ready to shoot.

He's careful when he blows up your house, timing it perfectly so that you're far enough to remain unscathed but close enough to see everything. And he knows Butcher and Hughie can't really put you up. It's the problem with being vigilantes, you're always fleeing from safehouse to safehouse like famine-driven rats. But Frenchie has a place, and you're free to stay with him until you sort this whole mess out. Just help him out with his orders, with the modifications the clients need. He has you so close, and he promises he'll be so good, so tender, and doting. You would never want to leave! But should you ever decide to break his heart, to wander off, he has you chipped ready to find you and drag you back. Maybe this time he'll cuff you to the bed until you readjust.

[bohemianblasphemy]

idk if you’ve done this yet so ignore it if you have but thoughts on thigh riding with the boys (and also ben)?

A/N: I love me a bit of thigh riding 🤭

Butcher:

Billy goes absolutely feral for the way you drag your pussy along his leg. His fingers would dig into your hips, guiding you along him, feeling how wet you were… smirking when your clit would bump his skin making you jolt and gasp.

“Look at ya, gonna cum on my thigh huh? You fuckin’ better… or you ain’t gettin’ off at all.”

Hughie:

Hughie is basically worshipful when it comes to you doing anything. I feel he’d be a little bit hesitant when you bring it up, unsure of how much pleasure it’d give you but as soon as you started to gasp from the feeling, he couldn’t help but be hypnotised by how beautiful you looked and sounded.

“You’re so- god you’re so pretty, so so pretty baby…”

MM:

If anyone is gonna talk you through it, it’s MM. He’d sit back and watch, chuckling, making remarks about how good you are for him and grabbing at your flesh to egg you on.

“Yeah baby, you look so gorgeous like this… gonna make you cum on my thigh like the good girl you are.”

Frenchie:

Much like Hughie, Frenchie is in awe of the way you move- using his thigh, letting you go at a pace that you were comfortable with, cradling your face to keep your gaze on his own.

“Mon Coeur… don’t stop, want to see you fall apart.”

Soldier Boy:

Ben is mean and cocky about you riding his thigh. He’d sit back, lighting up a blunt as he watched you rut against his leg. He’d smirk when you’d moan, giving your ass a smack to urge you to go faster. Would never let you look away from him, eyes locking into yours.

“What a desperate slut you are… getting off on my thigh. Cmon, you can do better than that, show Daddy how good this pussy is for him and maybe he’ll let you get off on his cock.”

[myfictionalcorner]

The Boys Preferences - dating them💫

a/n: started catching up on the boys so that i can watch season 5 when it comes out. instantly had ideas for dating headcanons so had to write them out...went a bit crazy with soldier boy but well... let me know if you want a detailed version for any of them♡

Billy Butcher; Hughie Campbell; Frenchie; Soldier Boy

Billy Butcher

❤️‍🔥dating Billy Butcher hits like a freight train you didn't see coming - one minute he's all sharp edges and "fuck off" energy, the next he’s just… there. Showing up, staying longer, leaving pieces of himself behind until somehow he’s part of your life - and you don’t remember when that happened, and he sure as hell isn’t going to point it out.

❤️‍🔥he doesn't do grand declarations. No candlelit dinners, no flowery speeches - that man has no time for that. Instead, he starts showing up unannounced at your place after missions, coat still smelling like gunpowder and rain, and just... stays. Doesn't ask, just kicks off his boots, cracks open a beer from your fridge like he owns the spot on your couch, and watches you move around the kitchen with this quiet, hungry look that says you've become the only thing keeping the rage slightly at bay.

❤️‍🔥protection is his default love language. He walks street-side without thinking, drapes his coat over you in the rain even if he's freezing, shadows you on bad nights like a guard dog who won't admit he's worried. It's not sweet whispers; it's him checking your locks twice, hand on your back in crowds, voice dropping low: "Anyone touches you, they're done." He won't say it outright, but every move screams you're the one thing he refuses to lose. He's seen enough blood, lost too damn much to lose you too.

❤️‍🔥jealousy? It's instant and ugly-beautiful. Some bloke at the bar lingers too long on your laugh? Butcher's jaw clenches so hard you can hear it. His arm snakes around your waist, voice dropping to that low, lethal drawl: "Oi, mate. Eyes up here or i'll rearrange 'em." He doesn't raise his voice. And frankly, he doesn't need to.

❤️‍🔥his pet names escalate hilariously when he's tipsy. Starts with "love," ends up calling you "my little pain in the arse."

❤️‍🔥he doesn’t do “dates,” not really. What you get instead are long nights that blur into mornings: cheap takeaway, too much whiskey, the telly droning in the background while he throws out sarcastic commentary just to make you laugh. It always starts with light, easy banter, him leaning back like he doesn’t give a shit… until he does, until the conversation drifts somewhere more honest. You’ll catch him staring, not soft exactly, but intent, memorizing. And if you call him out, he scoffs, rolls his eyes, mutters a low “oi, don’t flatter yourself, love” like it’s nothing. But he doesn’t look away, doesn’t break the moment. He stays right there with you until the night runs out.

❤️‍🔥lies roll off his tongue smooth as breathing: half-truths about where he's been, what he's done, who he's hurt. You catch him manipulating the boys, twisting facts to keep control, and wonder how much of that spills over to you. He says it's to protect you, but it leaves you second-guessing every "i got this, love," every promise he makes in the dark.

❤️‍🔥the man cannot handle compliments. You tell him he looks good in that coat? He freezes, cheeks going pink under the beard, then deflects with the filthiest comeback he can muster: "Yeah? Wait 'til you see me out of it, darlin'." But five minutes later he's still touching his collar checking if it's on straight, secretly pleased as hell.

❤️‍🔥he pushes you away when the darkness creeps in hardest. One bad lead on Homelander, one nightmare about Becca, and suddenly he's gone for days; no texts, no calls, just silence that feels like punishment. When he finally stumbles back reeking of whiskey and regret, he won't apologize with words - he'll just stand there looking like a kicked dog until you drag the truth out of him. It's exhausting, loving someone who treats closeness like a vulnerability he can't afford.

❤️‍🔥that's why he doesn’t trust it when things feel too calm. Quiet nights, soft moments, you laughing without anything trying to kill you - it puts him on edge more than a fight ever could. Because in his experience, the good parts never last. So sometimes he’ll pick a fight, say something sharp, stir the air just to prove it was always going to break anyway.

❤️‍🔥he buys you flowers exactly once. Ugly, half-dead ones from a corner shop. Drops them on the table like they're contraband, mutters "don't make a thing of it," then never buys them again. You keep the vase anyway, just in case.

❤️‍🔥he loves when you bite back. Call him on his bullshit mid-rant, roll your eyes at his dramatics, shove him against a wall when he's spiraling. It startles him - then it lights something feral and fond in his eyes. He's spent years being feared or followed; being matched, challenged, seen without flinching? It grounds him. Makes him want to be better, even if he never admits it.

❤️‍🔥but Butcher also snaps - hard, fast. Words cut deeper than he means, especially when he's cornered or scared.

❤️‍🔥he watches you when you’re not looking. Not in a soft, dreamy way, that's not who he is; it’s sharper than that. He tracks the way your mood shifts, the little habits you don’t notice, the things that make you feel safe. He files it all away like intel. It’s instinct, not romance… but sometimes you catch him staring like he’s memorizing you, just in case. Because Butcher knows how fast something good can be taken away in this world.

❤️‍🔥after particularly brutal missions he comes home quiet and bruised. Instead of crashing on the couch like usual, he heads straight for you, pulling you down onto the bed, wrapping around you like you're body armor for his soul. Face buried in your hair, one hand splayed over your heart counting beats to remind himself that he's still here, and that you’re still here. He doesn't speak because he doesn't need to. The way he clings says everything his pride won't let out: you're the only place safe enough to fall apart.

❤️‍🔥when you get hurt, really hurt, something in him snaps. Everything else fades away: the jokes, the attitude, the constant noise he fills space with. Butcher goes cold, focused, efficient in a way that feels almost clinical. Whoever caused it becomes a problem to solve, and he handles it without hesitation, without mercy. And when it’s over, when you’re safe, when the danger’s gone - that’s when it hits him. Not all at once, but when the silence is too loud: the way his hands don’t quite leave you, hovering to check you’re still breathing; the tension in his jaw; the way his eyes keep flicking back to you expecting you to disappear if he dares to look away for even a second. He won’t say he was scared, won’t even come close to it. But you can feel it in how careful he suddenly is with you, how he lingers, how for a brief moment… you’re not just someone he protects. You’re someone he almost lost.

❤️‍🔥you get the full catastrophe that is Butcher: the sarcasm that cuts like glass. The nights he wakes up swinging at ghosts, breath ragged, and only calms when your hand finds his chest. The way he'll cancel a revenge plot if you're sick, grumbling the whole time about "stupid fuckin' priorities"; but he stays, makes shit tea, tucks the blanket around you like it's a tactical maneuver. He burns for you in extremes: he'll torch empires, sure, but he'll also sit through your favorite rubbish telly just to hear you quote lines.

❤️‍🔥at first, his obsession with revenge bleeds into everything. Plans get canceled because "something came up" (read: another supe to gut), dates turn into stakeouts, and conversations loop back to vought until you feel like a side character in his war.

❤️‍🔥but he does call you at 3 am from god-knows-where just to hear your sleepy "hello?"; he says nothing important, just "yeah... still alive. Go back to sleep, love."

❤️‍🔥but when it really matters - when the world is screaming and everything's on fire - he chooses you. You or the mission? It's you. You or his vendetta? …he wants it to be you. And when counts - when it’s right in front of him, when he has to choose now - it is. Every time. It doesn’t come easy, and sometimes the damage is already done before he gets there, that's just how he is. He won't fix himself. Won't promise clean hands or easy days. But if you're willing to carry the weight of his darkness, his loyalty, his jagged devotion - he'll hand you every broken piece and let you decide what to do with them.

❤️‍🔥loving Butcher isn't soft. It's choosing the storm because the eye of it feels like home. And once you're in, he never lets go.

Hughie Campbell

❤️dating Hughie is like someone quietly turning the volume down on the whole noisy world so you can finally hear your own heartbeat again.

❤️one day he’s nervously asking if you want to grab coffee “as friends, totally no pressure,” the next he’s memorizing your schedule so he can “accidentally” walk the same route home just to steal ten more minutes with you. He starts canceling boys hangouts without a second thought if you text that you’re having a bad day. Lingers in doorways when he should leave. Tries to choose your side in every argument, even when he knows the boys are right - and then feels guilty about it later. But being on your team matters more than winning.

❤️he loves when you tease him. Poke at his overthinking, roll your eyes at his anxious rambles, call him out when he’s spiraling. It doesn’t make him defensive - in fact, it makes him grin, sheepish and bright, because someone’s finally treating him like a person instead of a walking liability. Being matched, being seen without pity? It lights him up from the inside.

❤️physical affection is his anchor. Hand-holding, pinkies brushing, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles on your skin; he has to check that you’re still there. Because if he can feel you, then everything’s okay.

❤️he says “i love you” first… and then immediately thinks he ruined everything. The second the words leave his mouth, his brain goes oh god too soon too soon too soon and he starts backtracking at light speed: “you don’t have to say it back, i mean, not that you don’t feel it, well maybe you don’t, i just mean, timing-wise -” until you cut him off and tell him you love him too. He looks like he’s bracing for rejection the entire time, like loving you feels a little too big, a little too risky; but he just couldn’t keep it in anymore. After he says it the first time though, it becomes so easy for him. Like a dam broke. He says it softly when you’re half-asleep, murmurs it into your hair, texts it randomly in the middle of the day like “hey, i love you, just - yeah.” It never loses meaning - it just becomes something he needs to say, often and honestly, because he knows how fast things can be taken away in this world.

❤️the first time he introduces you to Butcher is an absolute disaster. Hughie’s talking too fast - “this is, uh, this is my girlfriend, she’s really smart and she's -” and Butcher just cuts in, eyes flicking over you like he’s assessing a threat: “Yeah? She knows what you’ve dragged her into, mate?” Hughie immediately goes red, stammering something about “it’s not like that,” while you’re just standing there like… this is your boss? Meanwhile Butcher’s watching the whole thing with his little smirk, clearly enjoying Hughie short-circuiting. He’s trying to figure out how someone like you ended up choosing someone like Hughie - and whether that makes you brave or stupid.

❤️his anxiety can turn into a wall between you without him meaning it to. When guilt or fear hits hard, he starts over-apologizing for everything: small things, big things, things that aren’t even his fault, until conversations feel like walking through emotional quicksand. He pulls away to “not burden you,” leaving you on the outside of his spiral, watching him disappear into his own head while insisting he’s “fine, really.”

❤️Hughie does gets jealous, but it’s actually heartbreaking. He starts looking like a wounded puppy - his shoulders hunch a little, his voice goes softer, and he’ll fidget with his sleeves until you notice and slide your hand into his. But the second your fingers lace with his, the tension melts out of him like he’s been waiting for permission to exist again.

❤️he loves when you’re proud of him. Tell him he did good, that he stood his ground, made a hard call or helped someone, and it will stick with him for days.

❤️he starts justifying things he used to be scared of. At first, he’s the moral compass, the one hesitating. But over time, being around all that violence changes him; you hear it in the way he talks sometimes, the way he shrugs off something that would’ve shaken him before. “It had to be done,” he says, too quickly. And it scares you a little, how easily he’s learning to live with it.

❤️Hughie once tried to cook you a romantic dinner and set off the smoke alarm so many times the neighbors called the fire department. He stood there in an apron covered in flour, apologizing to the firefighters while you laughed so hard you had to sit on the floor.

❤️he loves bringing you flowers, but he always picks the saddest, half-dead bunch from the bodega because “they looked like they needed a home.” Then spends ten minutes apologizing to the flowers for their rough life while arranging them in a mug.

❤️prepare for the whole Hughie package. The anxious over-apologizing. The rambling monologues when he’s nervous. The way he cries during arguments, not out of anger, but because hurting you feels like failing at the one thing he cares about most. The sweet, fumbling attempts at romance: playlists with song titles that are basically love letters, surprise picnics in the park because “you said you liked watching the ducks,” forehead kisses that linger like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he pulls away too fast (and he knows damn well you could).

❤️when the chaos outside feels too loud, he’ll turn your living room into a blanket fort, drag in every pillow he can find, and spend the night watching your favorite comfort shows while feeding you popcorn one piece at a time. It’s his way of saying the rest of the world can wait - you two get to be soft and safe for a while.

❤️he loves domestic, mundane intimacy more than anything. Grocery shopping together, arguing over what snacks to get, brushing past each other in the kitchen, sharing headphones on the couch - those are his favorite moments. In a world that’s constantly violent and unpredictable, these tiny, normal things feel almost sacred to him. Sometimes he’ll just pause, look at you in the middle of something completely ordinary, and smile softly, because this, this right here, is everything he’s trying to protect.

❤️he keeps a running list in his notes app of every random fact you mention (your favorite childhood cereal, the exact temperature you like your shower, that one obscure album that always fixes your mood) and then shows up with the cereal at 2 am after you had a nightmare. He just does it like breathing.

❤️Hughie tries to be the strong one when you’re struggling, even if he has no idea what he’s doing. He’ll sit with you through breakdowns, fumbling through comfort, offering water, blankets, little reassurances like “we can figure this out, okay? we always do.” But you can see the fear in his eyes, not of you, but of failing you. And later, when you’re finally okay, that’s when it hits him: he’ll step away, run a hand through his hair, breathing shaky, because holding it together for you mattered more than falling apart himself in the moment.

❤️he gets ridiculously flustered when you initiate affection first. Pull him in by the collar, kiss him out of nowhere, or even just say something bold, and his brain just… shuts down for a second. That poor man short-circuits right on the spot.

❤️but he also second-guesses your affection. Even when you say “i love you,” part of him waits for the other shoe to drop.

❤️Hughie lies when he thinks it’ll protect you - “It was just a quick recon, nothing dangerous.” “I’m okay, really.” “It wasn’t that bad.” “You don’t need to worry.” - but they stack up until you catch him hiding bruises or deleting texts from Butcher. The betrayal stings more because you know he did it out of love, not malice, and watching him choose “keeping you safe” over honesty starts to erode the trust you both need.

❤️he can get passive-aggressive when he’s hurt instead of saying it outright. He's quieter than usual, a forced “yeah, it’s fine” when it’s clearly not. He doesn’t want to start a fight, doesn’t want to push you away. But the feelings don’t disappear, they just leak out sideways until you have to confront it.

❤️he absolutely hates raising his voice at you. The one time it happens due to stress, fear, or everything just piling up, he goes quiet immediately after, like he just broke something fragile right in front of him. Then spends the next hour hovering, apologizing in ten different ways, voice small: “I didn’t mean that. I’d never… not to you.”

❤️when he feels powerless, it eats at him. Not in a loud, angry way; but in this quiet, self-destructive frustration. He compares himself to people stronger than him, braver than him, more "useful" than him. And on his worst days, he wonders if loving you means eventually watching you get hurt because he wasn’t enough to stop it.

❤️he needs to feel like he’s contributing something real to your life. Not just emotionally - practically. Helping, fixing, being there in tangible ways. And when he feels like he’s not doing enough, it eats at him more than anything else. Loving you isn’t just about how he feels: it’s about proving, over and over again, that he’s someone worth relying on.

❤️he spirals hard when he thinks he’s disappointed you. Not just “oh no, she's upset”; it’s deeper than that. It’s that old, gnawing fear that he’s not enough, that eventually you’ll realize you deserve better. He starts overanalyzing everything: your tone, your texts, the way you looked at him earlier - until he’s halfway convinced he’s already losing you. And instead of bringing it up, he tries to “fix it” by being extra attentive, extra careful… which only makes it more obvious that something’s wrong. You physically have to pull him aside and tell him that you’re not going anywhere.

❤️when he breaks, he doesn’t lash out - he folds. Goes quiet, distant, harder to reach. Keeps everything bottled up until it spills over in the worst way: shaking hands, teary eyes, voice cracking on a “i’m trying, okay? I’m really trying.” And it hits harder than anger ever could.

❤️he won’t burn the world for you. He’ll just quietly start rearranging the little pieces of his world so you’re as safe and happy inside it as he can make you - and look at you like you personally hung the moon every single time you walk into the room.

❤️and when it counts - when the world is literally exploding around you again - he chooses you without hesitation. Mission? Paused. Revenge? Forgotten. You’re crying in the bathroom at 2 am? He’s there in sweatpants, wrapping you in a blanket burrito, murmuring “i’ve got you, i’ve got you” until your breathing evens out. He won’t always know the right thing to say, and he’ll trip over words, blush, second-guess himself. But if it’s you or anything else in the universe? It’s you. Even when he hesitates, even when he’s scared, even when he doesn’t feel strong enough - it’s still you in the end.

❤️loving Hughie Campbell is like someone finally handed you a hand to hold and meant it forever. And once he’s yours, he stays yours with every anxious, adorable, devoted piece of himself.

Frenchie

💕dating Frenchie feels like falling into a half-finished painting that somehow keeps getting more beautiful the longer you stay inside it.

💕he doesn’t love halfway. The second you matter, you matter in every sense - emotionally, physically, instinctively. You become part of his orbit, something he checks for without thinking, just like breathing.

💕he loves when you call his ideas completely deranged. When you laugh and tell him rigging a drone with fireworks is going to get him killed one day, his eyes light up because someone finally wants to argue with him instead of ordering him around or leaving him behind. It makes him feel seen - the impulsive, brilliant, guilt-ridden mess he actually is.

💕Frenchie thrives on that back-and-forth. Tease him, challenge him, question him - he needs it. Not to win, but to feel like he exists outside of being “useful.”

💕he has this habit of leaving little love notes in the most unexpected places, written in his messy handwriting. “Tu es la plus belle explosion de ma vie” tucked inside your shoe. A doodle of the two of you as cartoon characters holding hands on a sticky note stuck to the coffee maker. A single line on the bathroom mirror: “Today I woke up and the first thing i thought about was you. Merci d’exister.” He beams like an idiot when you find them, cheeks pink, already planning the next one.

💕the first time he says “je t’aime” it tumbles out while he’s stitching a cut on your arm. It almost sounds surprised, like he didn’t mean to let it escape; then he freezes, starts laughing nervously, trying to play it cool until you kiss the panic right out of him. After that it becomes his favorite phrase: whispered when he hands you coffee, texted during stakeouts, moaned against your throat when the lights are low and the world feels far away.

💕he gets the softest smile whenever you use one of his nicknames back at him. Call him “mon amour” even once and his whole face lights up like you personally handed him the sun.

💕Frenchie gets stupidly proud of the smallest things you do. You cook something edible? He acts like you just invented fire. You remember the name of his favorite obscure rapper? He tells everyone within earshot like it’s the greatest achievement in human history. He just brags about you in the sweetest, most ridiculous way. That boyish excitement, the way his whole face lights up when he can brag about “my person”, is pure, unguarded sweetness that makes your chest ache in the best way. Because you may not be able to make him forget all of his bad memories, but you can help him make new ones; memories that make him smile instead of tense.

💕his accent gets so much worse when he’s emotional. Suddenly he’s talking faster, louder, hands moving everywhere, and you’re just nodding like “yeah, totally” while catching maybe half of it.

💕sometimes he just watches you like you’re something fragile and miraculous at the same time. Not in a distant way - in a present way. Like he’s trying to understand how you’re real, how you’re still here, how you have not run off yet.

💕Frenchie doesn’t believe he deserves stability, let alone love. If the relationship feels stable, safe, real, and when things feel too good - there’s a part of him waiting for it to fall apart. And sometimes, without meaning to, he’s the one who nudges it in that direction. Pulling away, getting distant, making reckless choices… not because he wants to lose you, but because losing you feels inevitable anyway. But he doesn’t run from you, that’s the difference. He stays, even when it would be easier to disappear, even when he’s convinced he’ll ruin it eventually.

💕his anxiety doesn’t always look like fear - it looks like motion, like sudden, restless energy. Fixing things that aren’t broken, building things no one asked for, hands always moving because if they stop, his mind catches up. You learn the pattern: pull him down, wrap your arms around him, let him ramble until the storm passes and he goes soft and clingy again. “I’m not fine. But i will be. Just - stay a minute, yeah?”

💕he struggles more with forgiving himself than anything else. You can forgive him, tell him it wasn’t his fault, hold him through the guilt - but it doesn’t land the same way. He hears you, he wants to believe you… but there’s a part of him that’s already decided he doesn’t get to be let off that easily. In his head, love isn’t something he’s allowed to just have - it’s something he has to earn, over and over again, by being useful, by being better, by fixing whatever he can before it breaks. And on the days where nothing goes right, where the past feels too close, you can see it in the way he looks at you: soft, aching, almost apologetic, like he’s already bracing for the moment you realize he’s not worth the weight of it.

💕late at night he gets shy and cuddly, curling around you like a cat and whispering sleepy “je t’aime”s between soft kisses to your temple until his voice fades into happy little sighs.

💕he makes you laugh in the middle of chaos. Holds you when things get heavy. Tries, in all the imperfect ways he knows how, to be someone you can rely on.

💕when you’re hurting, he doesn’t try to fix everything at once - he just stays. Moves closer without hesitation, grounding you with a steady, familiar touch, trying to anchor you with his presence. He pays attention to what you need in the moment: sometimes that’s quiet, sometimes it’s gentle distractions, sometimes it’s just him holding you until your breathing evens out. There’s a softness to the way he takes care of you, patient and instinctive, like he’s handling something fragile but never making you feel weak for it. “Mon cœur… you do not have to be strong all the time, hm? You let me carry a little, yeah? Just for tonight.”

💕when duty calls Frenchie still goes - loyal to a fault, even when it scares him. But he always comes back to you, crawls into bed, and murmurs “i missed my favorite safe place” in that adorable french accent against your skin.

💕his past isn’t something you can separate from him - it’s woven into everything. There are names he won’t say, memories that hit out of nowhere, moments where he just… checks out. You’ll be mid-conversation and suddenly he’s gone quiet, eyes distant, reliving something you’ll never fully understand. And the hardest part? He doesn’t always let you in. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t think you should have to carry what he’s done - part of him would rather carry that alone than risk you seeing him differently.

💕some days the pull of old habits hits harder than he expects. Not always drugs - sometimes just the mindset. The urge to escape, to numb out, to disappear into something that doesn’t hurt. And on those days, loving him means watching him fight himself quietly… and choosing to stay present instead of running.

💕he won’t promise you peace or a normal life. He’ll promise you loyalty instead - the kind that survives his demons, his addictions, his bloody past. He’ll make you laugh when the world is burning, hold you when the guilt eats him alive, and fight like hell to be the man who deserves to keep you. Once he decides you’re his, he never lets go - because for Frenchie, loving you isn’t just love, it’s the first time in forever he feels like he's home.

💕loving Frenchie is like choosing to live inside a beautiful, loud, half-finished explosion that somehow keeps painting itself more colorful the longer you stay.

Soldier Boy

❤️‍🩹dating Soldier Boy feels like standing too close to a nuclear reactor that somehow decided you’re the only thing worth cooling down for.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t fall in love. He gets dragged into it kicking and screaming, fighting every single step like it’s a personal insult to his entire existence. One day he’s all cocky smirks and “you couldn’t handle a real man, sweetheart,” the next he’s showing up at your place unannounced at 2 am, boots kicked up on your coffee table, cracking open a beer as if he owns the damn couch. He doesn’t ask if he can stay the night, he doesn’t ask if you even want him there. He just does it, grumbling about how your bed is too soft while slowly, stubbornly, without ever admitting it out loud, rearranging his entire fucked-up orbit around you whether he likes it or not.

❤️‍🩹Ben loves when you push back. When you tell him to shut the fuck up mid-rant, when you shove his chest and call him an arrogant prick, when you refuse to flinch. It catches him off guard every single time. He’s spent decades being the strongest guy in every room, being matched by someone smaller, softer, and completely unafraid of him? It does something dangerous to him. Makes him respect you. Makes him want more.

❤️‍🩹he carries decades of resentment toward anyone who ever tried to control him, and sometimes that rage spills onto you without warning. If you ask him to slow down, to talk instead of storming off, or to consider your feelings before charging headfirst into danger, he snaps that you’re “trying to put a fucking leash on me just like they did.” It hits like a slap because it’s completely unfair; you’re not trying to cage him, you’re trying to love him - but in his mind any request for caution or communication feels like another set of chains. It leaves you walking on eggshells, wondering if every attempt at closeness is just one more thing he’ll fight against with everything he has, because being controlled is the one thing he swore he’d never let happen again.

❤️‍🩹he calls you “doll” in that low, gravelly voice when he thinks you’re asleep.

❤️‍🩹boy does he get jealous, and boy does it turn ugly fast. If someone even glances at you too long his whole posture changes: shoulders squared, jaw tight, voice dropping into that dangerous, mean drawl that used to make entire rooms go quiet: “Keep walking, asshole, before i rearrange your fucking spine and wear it as a necklace.” He doesn’t hide it, doesn’t soften it for anyone. He just yanks you against his side with a heavy arm, fingers digging into your hip, and kisses you hard enough to bruise. It's his way of reminding the entire world, and especially himself, that you’re his and he’ll burn anyone who forgets it.

❤️‍🩹he’s rough even when he’s trying to be gentle. Big hands that grip too tight, kisses that bruise, sex that leaves marks. But underneath it there’s this stunned, almost confused tenderness when he realizes you’re not scared of him. When you lean into the roughness instead of pulling away.

❤️‍🩹he calls modern technology “fairy shit” (had to🤓) and once spent twenty straight minutes yelling at your smart fridge because it “talked back to him like a damn commie.”

❤️‍🩹that's why he refuses to admit when he doesn’t understand something new and will confidently bullshit his way through it until it backfires spectacularly, like the time he tried to order food and accidentally sent twenty pizzas to the wrong address.

❤️‍🩹but as funny as his half-ass attempts at modern living are, sometimes it hits him that the world moved on without him - and it makes him meaner. He doesn’t understand half the shit around him, doesn’t recognize the rules anymore, and instead of admitting that, he doubles down. Acts like everything modern is stupid, weak, beneath him. But underneath that? The quiet realization that he doesn’t fit anywhere anymore. Except, somehow, with you.

❤️‍🩹jis ego is a living, breathing third person in the relationship. He still thinks he’s the strongest, smartest, most important man in any room, and that attitude leaks into everything. When you call him out or make a decision without his input, he gets sulky and mean, throwing around “back in my day” bullshit or straight-up dismissing your opinion because “what the fuck do you know compared to me?” It’s exhausting trying to love someone who still believes the world should revolve around him.

❤️‍🩹Ben also weaponizes silence when he’s pissed. Doesn’t yell, doesn’t argue - just shuts down completely, jaw locked, eyes cold. The silence can last days, and when he finally speaks again it’s usually laced with something cruel that hits exactly where it hurts most. He knows how to hurt people. He’s had lots of practice.

❤️‍🩹but when he really loves you, he protects you like it's his life mission. Scans every room you enter like he’s clearing a battlefield, and has zero hesitation about stepping in front of you if anything feels even slightly off. It’s not gentle - it’s overbearing, possessive, and comes from a man who lost everything once and refuses to let it happen again.

❤️‍🩹when he senses real danger he gets quiet and focused in a way that’s almost scary. He’ll tuck you behind him, shoulders squared, calculating every exit and every threat. There’s no panic in him - just cold, efficient readiness to burn the world down before it touches you.

❤️‍🩹after a particularly close call he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, silent for once, running a hand through his hair while the adrenaline fades. In those moments he looks exhausted, not invincible, and a quiet “i'd level the whole fucking world for you” comes out rough and honest instead of arrogant.

❤️‍🩹his temper doesn’t always explode outward; sometimes it turns inward and he becomes cruel to himself. He’ll stand in the mirror after a nightmare, jaw clenched, muttering that he’s still just a weapon, still broken, still worthless. When you try to pull him out of it he pushes harder, convinced that if he lets you love the mess he is, you’ll eventually see the same monster he sees and leave. Watching him tear himself down is almost worse than when he lashes out at you.

❤️‍🩹he also gets really mean when he’s drunk and cornered, throwing insults at you that feel like slaps because he never learned how to argue without trying to win.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t apologize the way you need him to. No real “i'm sorry,” no sitting down and talking it through. At best you get a gruff “won’t happen again” or a deflection like “you’re still here, aren’t you?” And sometimes he’ll act nicer after, but never directly acknowledges what he did. It’s not that he doesn’t feel guilt. It’s that admitting fault feels too much like weakness, and weakness is something he learned the hard way never to show.

❤️‍🩹he likes knowing where you are. Not in an openly controlling way; but he’ll casually ask questions that aren’t really casual. “Where you going?” “Who’s gonna be there?” “What time you back?" He won’t outright forbid anything, but he’ll make it very clear he doesn’t like not knowing. Control, for him, feels like safety - even if he’d never admit that out loud.

❤️‍🩹his idea of romance is crude, over-the-top, and completely unapologetic. He’ll “borrow” a car, drive you out to some abandoned lookout point at midnight, blasts old swing music way too loud, and then tries to impress you by shotgunning a beer while telling you war stories that he definitely should not be telling. He shows up with flowers he clearly stole from someone’s front yard and a bottle of top-shelf bourbon, tosses them at you with a gruff “here, thought you’d like this shit,” then spends the rest of the night complaining about how “this modern dating crap is for pussies” while secretly staring at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in his long, violent life. He tries, in his own completely fucked-up way.

❤️‍🩹Ben disappears after fights and doesn’t tell you where he’s going, leaving you wondering if this time he won’t come back. But he always does because despite his tough shell, you’re his safe place.

❤️‍🩹sometimes he genuinely doesn’t understand why you’re upset. You’ll try to explain how something he said hurt you, and he just… stares, frustrated, like you’re speaking a different language. “I didn’t hit you. I didn’t lie. So what’s the problem?” It’s not that he doesn’t care - it’s that no one ever taught him that words can do damage too. Emotional nuance isn’t something he was built for, and trying to learn it feels like trying to rewire his entire brain.

❤️‍🩹when he tries to be soft it comes out clumsy and rough around every edge. He’ll pull you into his lap after a long day, big hands gripping your hips a little too hard, and just sits there breathing you in without saying much. No pretty words, no long apologies. Just the occasional low mutter of “you’re staying right here tonight, doll” like it’s an order, but his hold on you says it’s closer to a plea. He hates how much he needs it (no he doesn’t).

❤️‍🩹he lets you see the cracks he hides from everyone. After particularly bad nights he’ll sit on the edge of the bed with his shoulders slumped, staring at the floor like it might open up and finally swallow him. And that’s where he really opens up to you. He’ll talk about the lab; the cold metal tables, the endless drugs, the way they broke him down and rebuilt him as their perfect weapon. The decades he lost, the friends who aged and died while he was frozen, the hollow feeling of waking up in a world that moved on without him. His voice gets rougher when he admits he doesn’t know how to be anything but a weapon anymore, that every gentle touch from you feels foreign because he’s never been touched out of tenderness. It’s the closest he ever gets to asking for help, and it only happens because he trusts you enough not to use those cracks against him later. In those moments the arrogant shield drops completely, leaving behind a tired, damaged man who’s still trying to figure out how to exist outside the role vought forced on him.

❤️‍🩹but on other nights he wakes up with fists already swinging before his brain catches up to where he actually is. He’ll shove you away hard enough to knock the breath out of you, then freeze the second he realizes what he’s done. The guilt that follows is vicious and ugly; he’ll disappear for hours, sometimes days, because he can’t stand looking at the fear and worry in your eyes. Deep down he’s terrified that no matter how hard he tries, he’ll always be exactly the monster vought spent decades turning him into.

❤️‍🩹part of him is always waiting for you to find someone better. Someone easier. Someone softer, more stable, less… him. And instead of admitting that fear, it twists into arrogance. “You won’t find anyone like me.” It sounds like ego, and it probably is, but underneath it is something much uglier: the belief that if you ever had a real choice, you wouldn’t choose him at all.

❤️‍🩹he doesn’t do “boyfriend.” He doesn’t do labels, anniversaries, or any of that "modern crap". To him, being with you means he’s claimed you - plain and simple. You’re his. Not in some soft, equal-partners fairy tale way, but in the old-school, chest-thumping, “touch her and i'll kill you” way that lives in his blood from a time when men took what they wanted and kept it. It’s territorial. It’s possessive. It’s the closest thing to commitment that man knows how to give.

❤️‍🩹it means he shows up when he damn well feels like it, stays when the mood strikes, and expects you to deal with the fact that his life doesn’t stop just because he’s got a girl now. Missions still come first when he gets called. Bars still happen when the rage gets too loud and he needs to punch something. But slowly, without him ever admitting it, things start shifting. He cancels a night out because you sounded tired on the phone. He drives the long way home just so he can keep his hand on your thigh a little longer. He bitches about it the whole time like it’s killing him, but he does it anyway.

❤️‍🩹it means he tests you constantly like the arrogant prick he is. Flirts with other women when he’s feeling insecure just to see if you’ll fight for him or finally walk away. Picks fights over nothing to make sure you won’t bolt the second he acts like an asshole. Pushes and pushes because part of him is still waiting for the moment you realize he’s too much - too loud, too violent, too broken - and finally tell him to fuck off like everyone else eventually did. When you stay anyway, it fucks with his head in ways he’ll never admit.

❤️‍🩹it means loyalty that burns hotter than the sun. He won’t promise you a soft life, but he will promise you this: if anyone tries to take you from him, he’ll level the whole city, dammit, the whole world before he lets them. He’ll stand between you and anything that messes with you if he has to, and he’ll do it with a grin on his face.

❤️‍🩹loving Ben isn’t soft. It isn’t equal. It isn’t safe. But once he decides you’re his? He never lets go.

❤️‍🩹not even if the world ends. Not even if he has to drag you kicking and screaming into whatever fucked-up version of forever he can offer; that’s what it means to him. Take it or leave it. He’s not asking twice.

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know ♡

Thank you for stumbling onto my blog, enjoy reading 💫

[al3xisnobody]

might have to start reading x reader fanfics again, feeling lonely

[killmurderfuck]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ includes: billy butcher, hughie campbell, frenchie, mothers milk, kimiko, and soldier boy

↳ warnings: canon type violence and happenstances. hinted to take place during season three at some points.

↳ notes: sorry butcher is in here so much. he's the kind of guy that can't shut the fuck up, so i feel like he's always getting in everyone business no matter what

↳ song: rock me like a hurricane—scorpions

masterlist | commissions | carrd

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

• He has mixed feelings about you

• On one hand, you’re a great team player. Always making sure the job gets done, willing to put yourself on the line for the team, one of the most willing to kill a supe in a snap—second only to him—and always managing to make shit up on the fly whenever something inevitably goes wrong on a mission. Butcher has seen you fend off an entire team of armed Vought men before with nothing but a well timed lie and piece of pipe. That’s not something to scoff at, even if he does anyways

• But on the other hand, he has a feeling that you were just as much as an annoying shit as he acted sometimes

• “Sorry to say this guys—“ You said one night through the food in your mouth as Chinese takeout sat on a dirty table in front of you, curtesy of M.M and his pocketbook, “—but I think I’d betray you all for a fortune cookie. I’d betray my country for a fortune cookie.”

• "You say that like we ain’t already betrayin’ the cunts, sunshine.” Butcher eyed you from across the room as you nicked Frenchies own cookie from him while he was staring off at Kimiko for the tenth time that night

• “Too right, Butch.” You grinned like a shark at your idiotic nickname for him, and he ignored you as you did so; like he always did

• He definitely appreciates your enthusiasm behind his plans. Unlike Hughie or M.M, who despite working in the business of taking down supes seem to be hesitant about doing too much shit, you don’t seem to have a very strong moral code. That’s not necessarily a good thing in anyone’s eyes except for Butcher’s, who knows that he can always count on you to have his back in whatever situation he manages to squeeze himself into

• “Thanks for comin’.” He grunted at you while vomiting into a toilet, green bile spewing from his mouth. Butcher’s eyes burned with the urge to let out a laser beam, and he did so for a moment, splitting the porcelain throne we was leaning over in two

• “Want me to hold your hair back for you, honey?” You didn’t even miss a beat to start making fun of his situation, which made Butcher growl at you even from his current position. Despite your sarcastic demeanor in the moment, and the way he had just scorched an unexpected hole through the shitty bathroom, Butcher knew you’d help, no questions asked. And that’s exactly what you did, grabbing whatever he asked you to as he gave you a run down on the latest solo mission he had been attempting to get by with on his own

• “Jesus, poor Gunpowder huh?” You mused as you crossed your arms and leaned on the sink above him. For a moment Butcher thought you were granting the dead supe a bit of sympathy before he saw the glint in your eyes. “If the last thing I saw before I kicked it was your mug, I’d probably wanna get it over with yeah?”

• “Do me a favor. Go grab the toaster in the other room an’ take a nice bath with it, would ya?”

• “You first, Butcher.”

𝐇𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥

• The two of you are like peas in a pod. Two very weird, very cautious peas in a pod

• Even if Butcher is beside himself with annoyance at having another, as he put it, “soft cunt with a morality complex,” join the team, Hughie couldn’t be happier that someone seems to share his values on supes, on Vought; on the world, really

• In the first season or so, the two of you would probably spend a lot of time in between working with everyone else in the field to come up with a way to take Vought down the right way. Eventually,as we all know, that later falls apart, but it exhilarates Hughie to know that there’s people out there like him that want to try and put in the effort for things like that

• “Yeah, so if we can get one more witness about the Termite incident to come forward and testify—“ You bit your pen between your teeth and nodded as Hughie waved his hands over a stack of papers and talked at a million miles an hour, somehow understanding each and every word.

• “—then we could finally take a supe down legally. And that would make way for a whole round of others; Hughie you’re a genius.” You finished his sentence for him, slapping a hand down on the table with a grin as Hughie smiled. Somewhere in the distance someone snorted wryly, no doubt having heard the entire conversation. You had no doubt it was Butcher, but that didn’t matter to the either of you with how happy you were at the revelation. No matter how temporary it would turn out to be

• Hughie finds himself trusting you quite a bit. He can get attached pretty easily, so he finds himself willing to do anything to back you up—within reason of course. He still has some semblance of sanity left

• Listens to Billy Joel with you! Doesn’t matter if you all are coming back from a mission covered in blood—once it was whale guts—he will stick one earbud in and leave the other out for you as he presses play on a mix. More than once the others have found both of you passed out and snoring as the faint sound of Billy Joel plays through the headphones

• “Think we should wake them up, mon amie?” Frenchie tilts his head as he looks down on the both of you. Hughie chest rises and falls with a softness he couldn’t afford on the regular. You were positioned far away from him to have your back to him, somehow keeping your end of the earbud in as you drooled

• “Nah, let em sleep. God knows they need it.” M.M shook his head with crossed arms, the sight reminding him of better times

• “Oi! Stop ogling at the knackered sods and come help me with this, would ya?”

• “Fuck you, Butcher.” M.M said with a sigh, leaving the room to go and help anyway

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞

• He fucks with you so hard

• I mean, come on, someone that’s as excited about making bombs as he is? Someone that is willing to understand French? To shit talk everyone else to their face—especially Butcher?? He might have to marry you on the spot

• Please learn French. He will literally beg you to start. Conjugates, vocabulary, even a simple ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Anything at all. Will absolutely not judge you for your horrific accent or pronunciation if you have any

• Bomb lessons on the side, too. If you already know the basics, or are a pro, it’ll be a lot more breezy, but he’s willing to start from scratch. It’ll be nice to have a partner to help him with his creations on the team for once, and even better since he likes you

• The two of you, and Kimiko obviously, are practically joined at the hip. What I said about the shit talking earlier was real, too. All of you use different languages or sign to voice whatever you’re thinking. It’s nice to be able to speak your mind freely, and there’s the added bonus of not having M.M give you that sharp look of his, or Butcher calling you names. Anymore than usual, that is

• “What do you reckon the three of ‘em are always on about?” Butcher took a swig from his drink. He was sitting next to Hughie with a beer on one of their down days as the younger man typed away on a computer. He was watching you Frenchie and Kimiko from across the room as you all signed at each other with giant smiles on your face. Frenchie would speak occasionally, but all that came out was his mother tongue, and your face would pause for a moment as you let your brain process what he was saying. Then all of you would break out into another round of grins, something that Butcher had to deadpan at

• “Probably planning a coup.” Hughie answered Butcher without even looking up from his screen. He knew who he was talking about anyways. It wasn’t hard to guess thanks, to the occasional loud exclamation from Frenchie as you signed something particularly risqué or funny

• Butcher flitted his eyes away in annoyance from you all after he recognized the word ‘cunt’ in the passing conversation, along with a sign that was clearly supposed to represent him

• “I think at this poin’ I’d prefer tha’.” He grumbled into his cup, and all of you laughed

• “Cheer up, Butcher. At least Frenchie isn’t teaching them how to make homemade cherry bombs again.”

• “Shut up.”

𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐤

• Finally. Someone other than him can be the voice of reason in the group

• It’s tiring being the one to hold everyone together all of the time. It might help if Butcher wasn’t so much of an ass, or if Hughie didn’t feel the need to derail every plan with thoughts of his own, but M.M knew that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. So he’d take any help he could get with reigning everyone in

• Definitely bonds with you over your shared habit of wearing band t-shirts to meetups or hideouts. I’d like to imagine that at one point the both of you show up wearing the exact same one, and it goes exactly how one would expect

• “Same shirt.” M.M notices one morning, pointing at your torso with the initials N.W.A written over it. He’s smiling, and so are you as what he’s wearing in turn dawns on you

• “Same shirt!! Hell yeah.”

• Fist bumps. Fist bumps galore, man. The two of you fist bump a lot. To punctuate sentences, drive a point home, agree on stuff—anything. It’s your own way of communicating with each other without having to bat an eye

• It’ll take M.M a while, but eventually he’ll start to really open up about missing his family to you. Beyond just showing you pictures of his daughter at soccer practice, I mean. If he trusts you enough to have his back in a shoot out, then he trusts you with this

• At one point, it goes farther than his (regrettably ex) wife and daughter, and eventually branches out into what he’s willing to tell about his dad and brothers. You feel like you know all of them by the time he’s done, and that only makes the typewriter story hit harder when he finally decides to reveal it

• Let’s just say you were pretty willing to jump Soldier Boy on M.M’s half the first time you were left in a room with them

• “Just one swing I swear—“

• “He will literally beat you into a pulp.” M.M deadpanned, doing his best to avoid looking at the other imposing figure in the room as he clasped two hands on either of your shoulders

• “Listen to your friend, sweetheart. Would hate to have to scrub my hands clean of any of your blood. Getting under the fingernails is always hard.”

• “See what I mean, just one punch that’s all—“

• “No.”

𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐨

• It’s honestly great for her to be able to hang around someone that feels the same way that she does. Maybe it’s how silent you are that really draws her attention at first, but Kimiko really grows to appreciate you as a member of the team

• Probably gets a lot of joy from having a friend like you. She constantly asks to do things like have you watch movies with her or to do ‘sleepovers,’ which are really just the two of you crashing on the main room couch together

• She never got a chance at a normal childhood or friends, so you and Frenchie are the closest she gets to a peace of mind

• Not even a question about it, she’s making you learn her sign language

• Will stare at you for days on end, saying nothing but everything at the same time until you agree to learn. Once you do, it’s all over. She gets the biggest most happiest look anyone ever seen, and there’s no turning back from that

• “Kimiko, what are you doing. It’s two in the morning.” You groan at her from under the thin covers of your bed, doing your best to ignore her hands as they fly about. It’s the childish equivalent of ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’

• ‘No time to sleep. We have to go over stuff before the mission tomorrow. It will help us communicate.’ She was unnerved by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything it only spurred her on more, shaking your bed and pulling at your covers as you groaned. Even with the progress you had been making with signing over the past few weeks, your knowledge was still a bit shaky, and being half asleep didn’t help, so you only caught a few words. Enough to know what she wanted, however

• “Go away, Kimiko.” You whined. The shaking stopped, and for a moment you thought your request had worked. You were more than happy to fall back into whatever dream you had been having beforehand

• Then you heard the rushing of feet and a large weight slammed onto your legs

• “Goddamnit!—“

• Frenchie found the both of you the next morning; Kimiko looking bright eyed and bushy-tailed while you were practically falling asleep from where you sat. It was a teasing point for you over the next two weeks

• Between you, there’s moments like that where, despite Kimiko’s silence and your habit to keep your thoughts to yourself, nothing ever goes unseen or unsaid. The two of you know each other like the back of your hands, and sometimes you wonder if you’d even need her sign to communicate

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬: 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲

• If the saying ‘this town ain't big enough for the both of us’ could apply here, it absolutely would

• It’s almost ironic how bad Soldier Boy handles another version of himself. You’ve got just as much snark and anger as him, and it pisses him the hell off. Constantly.

• Maybe it’s because you didn’t fan boy over him as soon as he flashed a few cheesy lines that keeps his disdain for you boiling, or that you didn’t keep your distance when he threatened to eradicate your entire bloodline if you didn’t stop running your mouth at him

• “Need help with that?” He cocks a brow at you one day, watching with poorly hidden annoyance as you struggle to tie a knot in your shoes for the fifth time in a minute. The offer isn’t serious, and even if it was, he has no doubt you wouldn’t hesitate to kick him in the face if he bent down to tie your shoe for you

• “Need help taking my dick down your throat?” You parroted back at him while raising your voice in a false-happy tone. Finally you get the shoestrings to cooperate, completely missing the way Soldier Boy glows in a harsh warning at your attitude

• “Ladies, ladies, you’re both pretty.” Butcher calls from the room over, no doubt tired of the bickering between the two of you that had been nonstop for the past few days. “Let’s get a move on before one of you decides to claw the others bloody eyes out, yeah?”

• The fact that you’re not even a supe just ticks him off more. Only a few people have ever pushed his buttons like this, most of them being supes, and they always ended up being nothing but red paste in the next few minutes

• You make sure to point it out to him several times that you’re just acting like he always does, making sure to don a shit eating grin when he clenches his fist at your comment

• Please for the love of everything that’s holy tone it the fuck down. Some people may say that Soldier Boy has no self-control, but it sure is taking a whole lot of it not to kick you in the crotch as hard as possible

• “The feelings mutual.” You deadpan at him when he eventually shares that fantasy out loud. He knew full well that if you even so much as tried that, you’d end up with a broken ankle and your front pinned to the closest brick wall, but he had no doubts that you would go for it anyway

• Seriously. How has he not murdered you in your sleep yet

[nobitchs-world]

Not to be a freak but where all the pegging fics at??

[obsessedwrhys]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ THE BOYS X CRASHOUT!READER

ᯓ★ reader has serious anger issues, lots of cursing, drinking irresponsibly, violence (not too graphic), reader goes by they/them (gender: New York), I love crashing out

When I say you're a crashout, you are.

How you even got to be apart of the boys in the first place was all because of Mallory.

She knew one way or another that Butcher's pride and ego would cause the team to die, and that nobody would be able to reach his level in order to stop him.

So that's where you come in.

Your mouth dirtier than the sewers of New York and your eyes sharper than any blade to ever be made.

You're literally a ticking bomb.

"You're not doing it right" Hughie said, sitting at the back seat of the van as you try to hot wire it.

It was one of those plans where things had gone completely sideways.

It ALSO happens to be the days where you're most over the edge.

"I don't know man..." You uttered.

"Maybe... maybe SOME BITCHASS M0THERFUCKER WOULD SHUT THE FUCK UP AND STOP WHINING LIKE A 2 YEAD OLD, WE'D BE OUT OF HERE BY NOW!! WOULDN'T THAT BE WONDERFUL??!?!" You shouted at him and you can see him sinking into his seat each time a word comes out of your mouth.

"R-Right..." He gulps.

Cue another hour of you trying to hot wire the thing.

..

You guys ended up calling an uber.

Anything triggers you, the way someone's breathing, smacking their lips, even the way their eyeballs move. It makes you wanna destroy anything you set your eyes on.

Everytime you're at the office, you're either complaining, shouting, kicking things over or all of the above.

It happens so frequently that the others started to bet what you'd do first and see who wins the cash.

"Oh shit, they're here...!" Frenchie pats Kimiko on the shoulder and they quickly went back to their places, acting as though they have been working the entire time.

Even though you were still walking up the stairs, your loud voice talking over the phone could be heard. The thing is you're not even shouting, that's just the volume and you just can't tone it down.

"Fuck you mean you can't go through with my order!" You raised your voice and the two that were secretly eavesdropping made eye contact with each other.

Clearly anticipating what you'll do next.

You stood by the open window and after a while of whatever it was the person was telling you over the phone. You took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

The two shared a knowing look.

Oh boy here it comes...

"Okay fine, you can cancel the order. I don't really care" You sighed, almost too calmly and the two were confused, communicating with each other using facial expressions.

"But you know what I care about? WhoeVER THE FUCK APPROVED YOUR SHIT ASS BAKERY!! YOU CANT EVEN MAKE A CAKE ON TIME!! HA AH I MEAN YOU GOT A HIDDEN TALENT OR SOMETHING??!! NO NO, YOU DON'T TELL ME TO SHUT UP!! HOW ARE YOU, A SAD EXCUSE OF A HUMAN BEING WAS ABLE TO RUIN A CAKE?? EVEN THE KIDS ON THAT FUCK ASS TV SHOW COULD DO BETTER THAN YOU!! I—" You were gonna throw more insults until you stopped at the sound of them hanging up on you.

You stare at your phone for a moment before shouting words like 'fuck' and 'bitch' while at the same time grabbing the nearest vase of flowers and throwing it to the wall.

But that wasn't all, you then proceeded to grab a wooden chair and started smashing it on the flower until it's all completely ruined.

At the same the chair was broken, if the legs didn't break you would have went on.

You were busy catching your breath, the legs of the chair still in your hand and once you look up to see if anyone was watching.

Frenchie and Kimiko were quick to look away, pretending to be busy with the tasks given them.

"Fuck this, I'm getting drunk" You threw what's left of the chair and began walking away.

Once you were gone, Kimiko looked at Frenchie with a smirk, her hand signalling him to give over her bet money.

Here comes the good stuff.

Butcher hates you very dearly.

His accent just magically becomes thicker whenever he's angry.

His british versus your nyc is literally the fight of the century.

"We’re goin’ after that prick tomorrow as told. So if you lot wanna debate like a bunch of schoolgirls at a tea party, I’ll be at the armory loadin" He said, clearly sensing the doubt on everyone's face.

"Let me just be honest. Your plan sucks ass, and it's not the smooth firm ones but the hairy unshaved, shit stained cracks" You said and he looks at you, doing his typical head tilt.

"O yeah? Ya head full of piss couldn’t even plan a fookin’ picnic if a map was stuck to yur face. Now piss of' before I re'rrange ya fookin’ teeth"

"ENGLISH MOTHERFUCKER!! REMEMBER YOUR FUCKING VOWELS!"

You both will never get along. That's why in every mission you're paired with not him.

Neither does MM but he has no say in it 🤷‍♂️

He's tried giving you therapy but you just end up getting mad and start hitting things.

"I don't know I'm just born this way" You said, back leaned against the chair. He nods.

"Well have you ever considered taking medication?" He suggested and it ticked you off.

"Medication?? You think I got some fucking mental illness??" He tenses up, realising he has said the wrong thing after making sure he was being careful with his words for the past few minutes.

He lifts both his hands up, as if trying to calm you down as he soothes you by saying

"Alright, that's on me, I was just—"

"NONONO YOU DON'T TALK TO ME IN THAT CALM VOICE. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK ARE?? CHRIS PRATT FROM JURASSIC WORLD?!?!" Without even realising, you were already reaching for his desk lamp and throwing it at him, which he manages to dodge in time.

If you happen to be a supe, this would be your superpower.

Bhad Bhabie got nothing on you.

Homelander's first impression of you was literally you insulting him while you were pinned down by him in a fight.

He still remembers it word for word.

Your insults so wild he forgot what he was even doing anymore.

He prays to never see you again because he does not want to hear more from you. Like how you called him a Facebook's dad wet dream and his suit a rejected Magic Mike costume.

Congratulations, you just gave him another insecurity to think about 😭😭

Regardless of whatever people think of you, you've proven to the team how you're a valuable asset by pretty much being the reason why 50% of the missions were executed well.

Turns out your dirty mouth came with a clean set of skills.

However you also happen to like to get your hands dirty.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Butcher asked as you regroup with everyone else.

Some fabric of your clothes torn and you're completely soaked in blood, but it's not yours so you just grunted at him.

"Doing your fucking job while you were busy getting a blow job by your boss"

Yes, you do have several stress toys which Kimiko got for you but you happen to have this ability to destroy all of them.

So what helps you? Music obviously. If its not that then it's one of your hobbies that feels therapeutic to you.

Obviously it'd be no surprise that a rage room would be one of them.

Except every room is a rage room for you 😞

Even though the boys are scared of you, they still let you stick around because to be fair, everyone's fcked up in the group.