#(i have got to get butcher……………..)

[cicadalicker]

Hunters are clever bastards, which is pre-requisite when being a bubble of alt-reality is part of the job. The Egos are also smart, but it's kinda hard to be cunning when you function by pure Qlippothic instinct, it leaves little space for variation, ya know?" - Samuel Butcher, GEVURAH Branch, Samson-Division's 21th Senior Director. The mission was clear from the briefing, Spider-type Ego, Magnitude 2. Hunting grounds were a small beachside town in ▇▇▇▇ that had been affected with a bubble of altered time ever since the last week of summer, the Sinner was identified by a MTF to be a little girl, around 12, who had been sent to the town over summer break. 3 MTF team KIA, totaling 12 casualties three hours after deployment, Hunter K-184, codename: Baron, sent to hunting grounds 28 hours after discovery. Baron felt like he would pass out ever since getting off the transport, the tropical climate of the place made him dizzy. DEOS quarantine walled off the hunting grounds with fences and signs about oil spill on the beach. The whole town was a humble place, mobile homes, tents, small houses crudely painted white, a pier that had four fishing boats, Baron stood out with the uniform, white office blouse, high cut black pants and pointy black shoes, he looked like he was selling something. The tents were no help for investigation, closing off as soon as Baron got close. 'I could just bust in' he noted considering, but better not to get hostile so soon. The pier had a trio of elderly men hauling fish guts out, Baron easily noticed they seemed to repeat every single movement exactly while hauling. Under closer inspection the three locals seemed under some sort of Qlippothic effect, stuck in a short-term time loop, questioning lead to nothing regarding Ego's information, as they could merely repeat pre-loop conversations and intel. After finishing attemtps to question, Baron was able to notice one local house with barely open blinds, quickly closed when the Hunter meet gaze with the person inside. Baron knocked on the door, and elderly woman answered, refused Hunter's request to enter, but was eager to talk by the door. Lady admitted a little girl was brought here to spend summer break with her older brother, the two lived in a mobile home, woman witness couldn't recall which, Baron attested she spoke the truth. When arriving at the trailer park at the edge of the town, Baron noticed two different occurances of a short-term time-loop: A middle-aged lady on a rocking chair smoking a cigarette, cigarette went back to unlit state every 46 seconds. 'She seemed to have been inhalling that smoke for days on end' Baron noted, questioning lead to nothing, as the woman's voice was too hoarse to comprehend; Another individual seemed stuck on a larger area time-loop, young male child playing in the mud while under parents supervision, entire area of 12 meters, centered around child, seemed stuck in a 10 second loop, objects entering the area became affected aswell, as noticed when a seagull not present in the first four loops landed atop the trailer and was then trapped in following iterations. Hunter did not wish to investigate much further. As Hunter walked around the area, the Spider Ego's Web became more obvious. Spider's are Egos able to manipulate time, formed under a Sinner's intense fear of change. Hunter's Ego-Report Form marked entity as possessing 'Flies that Spin Idly' Manifestation.

"Impossible! How can you still move? My spell stops time!" "Yeah that's the problem right there buddy. You created a spell to stop time when you should have created a spell that stops me."

[whateveriwant]

I don’t know if I’ve ever really mentioned it before, but one of my favorite AUs to see Simon in is a butcher AU – especially one where he completely forgoes the military route and instead stays with his butcher’s apprenticeship until he has his own shop one day.

At the same time, one of my favorite ways to see Simon depicted is when he’s really really awkward (which, let’s be real, is basically canon lol). Like where he’s super embarrassing, totally incapable of reading social cues, borderline “Is this your first day interacting with another human being?” levels of awkward.

And so when I mash those two ideas together, it creates this whole new beast that I can’t get enough of.

Just the thought of Simon running his little neighborhood butcher shop like any other day, simply minding his business, when in walks one of the prettiest things he’s ever had the honor of laying eyes on. Instantly, there’s a voice in Simon’s head screaming, ‘Them! That one! Where’s the nearest jewelers so I can put a ring on it ASAP?!’, but the second he opens his mouth to try to lock it down, he’s making the interaction painful.

Like Reader will be asking him what product he has in stock, and in response Simon will say something like, “Got some fresh lamb in the back. It sort of… reminds me of you 😏.” This, of course, will immediately set off alarm bells in the reader’s head like, ‘Does this guy want to disembowel me and hang me from a hook in his freezer?!?!’ Meanwhile, Simon meant it in a ‘you have soft, gentle eyes’ kind of way.

Or maybe something happens where Simon gets close enough to the reader that he’s able to smell the fragrance they’re wearing. Completely unprompted, he would smile and go, “You smell like my mum,” which to him is just about the highest compliment he can pay someone, saying they remind him of his late mother, but to the reader it’s like okay can you relax, Norman Bates? At least ask for my name first before going all Oedipal on me 😭

But imagine if somehow, by some miracle, Simon is able to charm the reader to the point that they start developing a little crush on him. Any attempts to flirt back would be met with an ice cold reception because Simon wouldn’t know the signs of a reciprocated attraction if they slapped him across the face.

Like maybe one day something breaks or gets spilled all over the floor of the shop and Simon has to swoop in and lift the reader off their feet (swoon!) before dropping them somewhere safer. Reader would try to gas him up by saying how impressive it was the way he lifted them, how he must work out a lot since he’s so strong, etc etc. In response, Simon would just shrug and go, “‘S nothin’. ‘M used to handlin’ big carcasses,” like he didn’t just unintentionally deliver the insult to end all insults.

Or maybe the reader comes in one day with a plate of homemade muffins or something as a thank you for all the great cuts of meat Simon’s been giving them lately. Simon would take one look at the thoughtful gift, go, “Mmm, don’t really like walnuts,” and hand the plate back without an ounce of hesitation or realization of what he’s just done.

Yeahhh awkward!butcher!Simon who is totally clueless about the art of seduction has been living rent-free in my head, and now I’m making him your problem too 😌

[croquettish]

I'm curious, wdym Hans always fall in love even when we dont romance him? I love your metas so much 🩷 or maybe it was already post about it and I didnt find it. I've got so many questions to ask you coz my autistic ass often dont catch non verbal emotional expressions so you post clarify me things I don't undestand 🥺 Love you 💕

You sending me this made me realize that neither I nor anyone else (that I'm aware of) has actually gone into detail on all of this! So thank you for that!!

I want you to consider Hans' behavior throughout the games. Regardless of whether you read him as bisexual or a comphet gay man, we are dealing with a queer man who has no idea that he's queer. He's grown up sheltered and in many ways unloved. He hasn't seen any models of what love should look like in real life and only knows to interpret the world through what he's learned and read in history and literature. We know this not only because he makes it painfully obvious to anyone with eyes who sees him interacting with Henry, but also because the option to romance him exists at all. The queerness is there, it just has to be coaxed out with the promise of safety.

We also know that Henry is devilishly easy to fall in love with. See here: everyone keeps falling in love with him. And, as we've previously discussed, there is a good reason for why Hans falls in love with Henry to begin with.

Hans is already sweet on Henry and checking him out in that hot tub in KCD1 (reminder that they are canonically naked here) or at the very least finds him attractive:

In other words, Hans just needed to be given a nudge in the right direction. And Henry absolutely gives him more than a few nudges. Like, Henry. You can't just say shit like this and not expect Hans' knees to buckle:

And, as we know, Henry can compliment Hans in Italian even without the romantic context, and Hans loves it even if Henry butchers it, which none of the other love interest appreciate!

Accordingly, we see Hans' slow descent into madness... for the purposes of this meta, I deliberately ignored any and all romance scenes and instead focused on the hints we get outside of that that exist regardless of whether or not you romance him.

The list that follows is meant to serve as individual pieces of evidence that prove that Hans is in love with Henry / falls in love with Henry over the course of KCD2:

Hans is incredibly jealous. The first time this crops up is at the dinner at Trosky:

And then, famously, with Sam:

This, of course, including the conversation we can overhear several times between the two of them. And then later on, if you callously leave Sam behind and he dies, we can get confirmation from Hans!

2. He tries so hard to make Henry jealous:

THIS GIRL DOESN'T EXIST!!!!!! Not only based on this clownery on Hans' part, but also because there is no woman named Karolina in Bohunowitz to begin with.

3. He repeatedly sings Henry's praises to his face:

4. He pays close attention to Henry's state of mind and then acts on that information because he wants to see Henry happy:

5. Hans loves to cut himself off when he notices that he's getting a bit too intimate and panics:

6. Hans outrightly admits that he wants Henry to stay home at Suchdol where it's safe instead of going to meet Erik:

7. And as soon as he hears Henry volunteering for the suicide mission, he volunteers as well:

8. He's heartbroken when Godwin implies that they're going off to die. Not just that, he wavers on what he's saying at all, something that generally doesn't happen with him. He usually just says what he's going to say, he doesn't have stray ellipses showing up out of nowhere like he does here:

9. He'll take on tasks for Henry that no one else will while putting him into the position of a noble.

10. He turns to Henry when he's panicking about the wedding.

11. He is desperate to be worthy of Henry and doesn't think himself worthy at all to begin with (as evidenced by him instigating the divorce arc to begin with).

12. The claustrophobia meta is still applicable even if you're not romancing him. He still has to come to terms with his feelings for Henry, and still comes out on the other side having come to terms with it successfully.

And speaking of, then there's this whole speech:

Not just the prayer (tho jesus christ @ that) but also the bit about the tunnels. Thank Christ for tunnels because they saved Henry?? Taking the claustrophobia : homophobia parallel into account??

13. We still find the buck's blood potion and gay poetry book under his bed at the Devil's Den. (Which you could argue, as per my tags here, was possibly written by him)

14. He could still be argued to be panicking about Godwin discovering his feelings.

15. He still tries to keep the news of the engagement from Henry.

16. He thinks of them as a unit at all times, even while divorced. And this is a running theme for them! He always wants to be by Henry's side and anticipates this being the case of the foreseeable future, like when he talks about how he wants to see the holy land with Henry.

Or when he talks about how he anticipates Henry not only living at his castle, but doing so as castellan (a very prestigious fucking position!). Additionally, he would add a forge just for Henry (recall, again, that Hans' love language is gift giving!):

This similarly crops up right before they're set to torture the guy at Trosky:

He even brings this up to Henry!

There was also a lovely post that I came across a few days ago about how characters act when they're in love but terrified of it. (Many of these don't apply to Hans as far as we know in the game's canon, but that's because they literally can't—the list is meant as a reference for writers and thus is somewhat limited in the scope of its application. This isn't prose and we're not in Hans' head. But I think if you look over the list you'll find that there's a lot of overlap here.) And knowing the risk involved in a confession, it makes sense that Hans would be reluctant.

Finally, I wrote up a whole post about how Hans falls in love with Henry (and when!) that might be of interest to you here as well!!

Thank you so much also for your kind words 🥺 I should say that my evidence for things is almost never rooted in facial expressions, in part because (outside of cutscenes) we can't rely on them. There are a handful of gestures and expressions baked into the game by default. Like the beloved pointing gesture that our dear John is so fond of. It's why I always use dialogue as evidence. You can rely on tone of voice a bit more because our boys act with intent, but even that is something you can read into. Dialogue is concrete and hard to argue with. Even if it's "hey let's overanalyze this ellipsis." At any rate, I hope this proves helpful/insightful!!

[bowxs]

I have a request but just if you have the time🧡🧡: Reader is Butchers niece and he wants her to babysit Ben. She hates it because she actually wanted to go clubbing that evening and appears at Bens motel room in the worst mood and dressed like sin. Ben teases her that clubbing is a waste of time for pretty young women (because of his ancient mindset) so she bluntly tells him she wanted to go there to find someone to hook up with because women have needs too. So he takes it in his hands to get rid of that problem for her.

im so sorry this has been in my drafts for weeks😭 i love love this idea tho thank u!!

its kinda rushed but i tried! i havent been feeling too well so i hope it doesnt suck

• i was thinking of making different readers and making fics based off of them (+ mood boards and outfits, the whole thing!) let me know if that could be a good idea or not (and give me ideas!)

divider from @uzmacchiato

you loved uncle butcher, except for when you didnt. you hated when he dragged you into his stupid plans and made you miss out on time with your own friends

however much you hated it though wasnt enough to make you say no. this time he called you was no different, with little to no warning he asked you to ‘watch over something’ at his place.. whatever that meant

so as always, you just grumbled into the phone about needing more warning and some compensation for your troubles before you were en route to the address of uncle butcher’s appartment

what you didnt expect was to open the door and be met with a grown ass man in a tracksuit and a half smoked joint in hand. god this was not what you needed right now

“listen i didnt pay for a hooker and i ain’t got any money on me but if you wanna give me something for free” ben wriggles his eyebrows at you, manspreading on the couch as he watches you slam the door

“im NOT a hooker.” you huff, clearly starting the night off on the wrong foot. half of you wanted to call billy- tell him to get someone else to deal with his bullshit- but the other half felt too bad to say anything

“youre sure dressed like one, sweetheart. dont wanna give a man the wrong impression now” he chuckles from the couch, taking a drag of the joint, the smoke pouring out of his mouth as he laughs. god he was a dilf if youve ever seen one.

you had only been there for an hour and ben- you learnt his name- was on his third joint, still somehow not high. you had made it most of the hour with minimal conversation, which you figured was a good thing. until it wasnt.

“so why are you dressed like a hooker, doll? i mean you said you aernt one but i beg to differ” he chuckles again, and youd never thought a laugh could sound hot, but you also thought youd never baby sit a grown man

“i WAS going to go clubbing until i got called to watch your ass instead” you explain but you dont miss the way his face contorts as you say ‘clubbing’. god, how old was this guy?

“women like you aernt meant to go clubbing, doll. im practically saving you” he says so confidently it irks you, and you scoff at that, rolling your eyes at the cocky, old man attitude

“the only thing your doing is stopping me from having sex, ben.” you practically scowl at him, fed up with his attitude. sure, it was a stupid thing to be upset about, but damnit if it hasnt been atleast 3 months since youve had a good fuck

“oh sweetheart, you dont need a club to get some half assed, mediocre at best sex. when you have the best fuckin’ dick youd ever have right here” and only then did you notice the semi he was sporting in his sweatpants

he was going fast like most of the guys youve hooked up with. he didnt jackhammer into you like he had something to prove- nono. he knew he was good and he knew he could show it to you right

you were on your back on the couch, dress scrunched up around your waist, panties dangling from one ankle as he pumped in and out, in and out, in and out, like some kind of orgasm-summoning ritual, each thrust felt calculated

“god- that feels so- so good” you moaned out, your body was limp on the couch, tits practically bouncing out of your dress with every thrust of his hips

“not god, doll. just me” hes still cocky- god you wanted to smack the smirk off his face- tell him you wished youd gone clubbing instead. but you were a terrible liar.

he leaned down, bringing your legs to your chest in the process. thank god for yoga. his lips were on your neck without a second thought, sucking a small mark- a reminder- right below your jaw. goodluck explaining that one to your friends

“hadn’t fucked a pussy this tight in decades” he grunts out next to your ear, only making you clench around him at his words. you didnt know he actually means decades. “billy shoulda- fuck- brought your pretty little ass over sooner”

“dont talk about- oh fuck- about him” you manage out in between mewls and whimpers, hating to have to think about your uncle billy right now.

“why, doll? dont wanna think about big ol’ billy finding out you came all on his couch cause of me?” his words will filthy, disgusting even, and you practically grimaced at the thought of it. but that small part inside of you liked it. liked the idea of someone finding out what you two did, and it only pushed you further to the edge

your orgasm came before you could say anything, your legs trembling on bens shoulders as he fucked you through it, but he was just chasing his own release

he pulled out minutes later, and with a few quick pumps of his hand, his cum stained your bunched up dress and billys couch. you really hoped you could play that off as a food spill

ben didnt give you aftercare or say anything about it after, but he did stay true to his word, and maybe you were a bit thankful this one time that uncle billy asked you to baby sit.

[boyakishan]

I'm Chinese. Zhang youming (not in hanzi so I don't fucking know how this is meant to be read), it's like. A little weird. But I've heard dumber.

A fun part about how I right is like; it's based off real life.

Very rarely does someone ask where the name comes from. And even rarer does the named person know why or where it's from.

"... Idk, my mom thought it was cool."

"... My mom likes Greece."

"it's for a legal dispute."

And the best part; I can just make shit up.

Dave Porter.

His family's the people who run the port, like, practically. They're that family that run the opposing side of the port, but they audit the other end and the other family. (The Porters) Audit them back.

And Dave. Dave is just a name that gets picked out of a list using a series of dice if The Porter can't decide on one.

And yes. They do go by Porter. That's the grammatically correct name because last names are case sensitive and equally; the Porters were the original group, and Porter people are the other family that was made as frienemy and as a half disgrace send off place.

I have another dude called Dave Porter. His family used to be porters and his parents liked the name.

Another Dave Porter's family were butchers. But the Butchers swapped the name with the Porters because of the in universe mafia.

And then didn't bother changing the name after they got dismantled, partially because it was funny. But partially because as a middle man between 40% of the meat business in the city. That's a lot of paperwork to change.

british fantasy name: wicklebort smee

american fantasy name: aethiraimia “mia” windfeeler

chinese fantasy name: zhang youming (minimum two pages of in-text etymology about why they’re called this)

[reveryfics]

I know that you're not focusing so much in The Boys lately, but I had a request for a Billy Butcher/Male Reader. I understand if you don't want to do it right now, so you're free to do it whenever you want. My idea is that reader has healing powers but nobody knows because he decided not to tell anyone. He is a very gentle person, which makes sense due to the nature of his powers, and he works as a nurse or a veterinarian(?. One day, after a tough fight, one of The Boys is badly injured and the reader's consultation is the closest thing they can find. Reader tries not to use his powers, but is forced to do so in order to save one of The Boys life. And Billy is so conflicted about it, but deep inside he is grateful. Then one thing leads to another and the reader ends up being the healer of the group or something like that, and Billy tries to hate the reader, but he just can't, so he slowly begins to trust him and be protective over him.

Personal Nurse

Billy Butcher x Male Reader

Summary: Patching up Billy Butcher was your specialty; you'd done it more times than you could count. So when Hughie got hurt, you were the obvious, if not only, choice. The catch? Billy had no idea about your powers, or that you could have been healing him this whole time.

A/N: I'd definitely like to do more for The Boys, just haven't gotten around to it. The requests I do get for it are always smut, and while I'm aware it's a sexual show I don't enjoy just constantly doing smut especially when it's always Homelander. Anyway, I'm not incredibly happy with this so, I apologize if it's bad.

TW: Injury - Blood - Descriptive wounds - Brief argument - Supe reader - Nurse reader

From the moment you entered the world, doctors declared you "super abled." It wasn't a cape or the ability to fly; it was a touch, a simple brush of your hand, that could knit bones, close wounds, and banish sickness. Yet, this extraordinary gift came with a steep price. The few times you'd dared to use it as a child, driven by an innate desire to alleviate suffering, left you utterly depleted. Dizziness would warp your vision, nausea would churn your stomach, and the world would fade to black, leaving you on the precipice of unconsciousness. Your parents, loving and protective, recognized the peril this power posed to your own well-being. They made you promise to keep it a secret, a promise you had faithfully upheld, even now, years later, as an adult navigating the chaotic world of a trauma center nurse.

It was in the relentless, often brutal, environment of the emergency room that your more practical skills found their calling. The screech of ambulance sirens, the frantic cries of families, the sight of shattered bodies – these were your daily reality. And in this realm of life and death, you found solace in the tangible, in the precise application of sutures, the careful administration of medication, the calm assessment of vital signs. These were ways you could truly help, ways that didn't demand a piece of your very essence in return. You had sworn an oath as a healthcare provider, a vow to heal, and you did so with every fiber of your being, never once succumbing to the temptation to use the power that lay dormant within you, a power you had long since buried deep.

Then came Billy Butcher. You encountered him not in the sterile confines of the ER, but on a dimly lit street, late one night after a particularly grueling shift. Walking home, your mind still replaying the day's grim tableau, you were abruptly yanked from your thoughts by a gruff voice, thick with an Australian accent. A man, wild-eyed and reeking of stale beer, held a gun to your head, ranting about some perceived transgression, demanding your aid. Fear? No, not really. Annoyance, perhaps, at the sheer inconvenience of it all, but primarily, a professional resolve. You were a nurse. Someone needed help. It was that simple. You didn't hesitate, calmly assessing his injuries, patching him up with the same detached efficiency you applied to any patient.

That night was the beginning of a strange, unsettling ritual. Billy, it seemed, had an uncanny knack for finding trouble, and an even more uncanny knack for finding you. He'd materialize at your door at ungodly hours, battered and bruised, his usual swagger replaced by a strained grimace. And every time, you'd find yourself tending to him, the familiar motions of bandaging and disinfecting a testament to your professional duty, even if your personal boundaries felt increasingly blurred. You’d offer your couch, a tacit invitation for him to rest and recover, a space he invariably occupied until his wounds allowed him to vanish once more. This relationship, if you could even call it that, was anything but conventional, far from healthy. He received your unwavering medical attention, a service rendered without question. What you received in return was... less tangible. A crude, albeit oddly endearing, sexual joke about his hypothetical romantic interests, a testament to his peculiar brand of humor, was often the extent of your recompense. Yet, despite the lopsided dynamic, an unspoken understanding had formed between you. Billy, for all his gruffness and chaotic energy, had never pushed you further than you were willing to go. And in those quiet moments, when you were meticulously cleaning his cuts or setting a bone, you knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that if the roles were ever reversed, he would be there for you, just as you were for him.

That unspoken pact, that strange bond, was precisely why the mention of Homelander and Vought sent a shiver of dread down your spine. Billy's vendetta, his reckless pursuit of revenge, felt like an escalating game of Russian roulette. Each time he appeared at your door, more gravely injured than the last, a cold knot tightened in your stomach. You were scared, truly scared, that one day he would arrive, his injuries beyond your nursing capabilities, beyond the practical limits of your medical knowledge. And in that terrifying moment, faced with the ultimate test, you knew, with a heartbreaking certainty, that you still wouldn't be able to bring yourself to use your healing powers, the very gift that could save him. The cost was simply too high.

The apartment was steeped in the quiet hum of a late night, the kind that follows a double shift in the ER. You were sprawled on your couch, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you, forming deep, purple bags beneath your eyes. The television flickered with the muted colors of some forgettable movie, its dialogue a distant murmur in your half-conscious state. The world outside felt a million miles away, a peaceful oblivion you desperately craved.

Then, a sound cut through the silence, sharp and insistent. Voices, barely audible at first, then rising in a frantic crescendo, punctuated by a series of heavy, guttural thuds against your apartment door.

Billy's voice, raw with an urgency you'd never heard before, sliced through the fog of your fatigue. Every nerve ending in your body screamed awake. You bolted upright, heart hammering against your ribs, and wrenched open the door.

The sight that greeted you sent a chill, cold and piercing, straight to your bones. Billy stood there, his face a mask of panic, his arm wrapped around someone who was alarmingly, impossibly, covered in blood. Behind him, a frantic-looking blonde woman hovered, her eyes wide with terror.

"Couch..." you choked out, the word barely a whisper, your mind already racing, your hands instinctively reaching to shove a precarious stack of medical textbooks off the couch and onto the side table, creating a makeshift space for the bleeding figure. Billy, his own eyes fixed on you, understood immediately, and moved to follow your silent command.

You frantically shoved your coffee table, a sturdy, dark wood piece you usually cherished, screeching across the worn rug. "Billy! The kit! Bathroom, now!" you barked, your voice surprisingly steady despite the surge of adrenaline. Your eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked to the blonde woman hovering anxiously behind Billy. Recognition hit you instantly. Starlight. One of The Seven. The irony wasn't lost on you – a supe, in your apartment, covered in blood.

Taking a deep, anchoring breath, you let the practiced calm of your professional demeanor settle over you. This was an ER, albeit a very cramped and personal one. You knelt beside the unconscious figure Billy was now gently lowering onto your rug. "What's his name?" you asked, your voice even, detached. "And what happened?"

"Hughie," Billy grunted, his face a grim mask as he carefully positioned the man. "Hughie Campbell. Got himself in a proper mess."

Hughie Campbell. The name resonated. Billy had rambled about him months ago, something about him joining Billy's crusade against A-Train. Now, here he was, a civilian caught in the dangerous crosscurrents of supe politics.

Billy returned, slinging your well-stocked medical kit onto the floor with a thud. "Anne, move!" he snapped, his eyes fixed on Hughie, a rare flicker of genuine concern softening his usual hardened gaze. Starlight, or Anne as Billy called her, flinched but quickly stepped back. You didn't even register her presence, your focus entirely on the man before you. Without a second thought, you practically tore Hughie's blood-soaked shirt from his body, the fabric ripping with a harsh sound.

What you saw beneath made your stomach clench. This wasn't a standard trauma case. This was something else entirely. Hughie's chest was a grotesque tableau of injury. A deep, jagged laceration, clearly caused by some immense force, ran diagonally from his left collarbone down towards his sternum, exposing not just muscle, but the glint of what looked like shattered rib fragments. The skin around it was not just bruised, but mottled with an unnerving, almost iridescent green-purple, indicating a massive, widespread contusion. Below that, a sickeningly concave depression marked where several ribs had clearly been broken and driven inward.

As if that weren't enough, his left arm lay at an unnatural angle, twisted back on itself at the elbow. A quick, agonizingly gentle palpation confirmed your worst fears: a compound fracture of both the radius and ulna, bone shards undoubtedly tearing through soft tissue and muscle. A dark, rapidly expanding hematoma bloomed on his temple, a terrifying sign of potential intracranial bleeding. His breathing was shallow, ragged, and punctuated by a wet, gurgling sound – a clear indication of pulmonary contusion, perhaps even a collapsed lung.

This was beyond sutures, beyond splints, beyond anything you could realistically do with the contents of your medical kit, or even a fully equipped ER without specialized surgical intervention. These were the kind of wounds that, even with the best medical care, offered grim prognoses. These were wounds that would require a team of surgeons, ventilators, and a miracle. And as you stared down at Hughie Campbell, bleeding out on your living room rug, the familiar, chilling truth settled over you: this was a job for your buried power, a power you had sworn never to use.

You met Billy’s gaze, your eyes locking in a silent, desperate understanding. He knew. He could see the stark, unvarnished truth in your expression, the truth you were about to voice.

"Billy," you began, your voice a strained whisper, "there's nothing I can physically do for him. Not like this. By the time EMS gets here, he'll be… he'll be gone."

Before you could finish, Billy’s hand shot out, roughly seizing the front of your scrub top. He hauled you up from where you were crouched over Hughie, his grip unyielding. "No!" he roared, his voice thick with a raw, desperate fear you’d rarely, if ever, heard from him. "You do something! Anything! I don't give a toss what it is, but he ain't dying! Not on my watch!"

You snapped back, the fear and frustration finally boiling over. "He wouldn't be in this situation if you'd just let things go for once, Billy!" Your voice cracked with the accusation, the years of suppressed worry finally erupting. You took a ragged breath, trying to rein in your own escalating panic. "I can patch you up, Billy. I can stitch your guts back in and set your damn bones. But I can't pull some miracle out of my ass and save him!"

Billy opened his mouth, a guttural sound starting to form, but no words came out. His shoulders sagged, and the fight drained from his eyes. His bloody hands, still clutching your shirt, slid up to your chest, pressing against you as he slumped forward, burying his head into your shoulder. The familiar scent of his stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey was suddenly overwhelmed by something else entirely – a salty dampness spreading through the fabric of your scrubs.

Billy Butcher was crying.

You stood there, rigid, as the tremors wracked his powerful frame. The leader of the Boys, the man who faced down supes without flinching, was broken. And all you could do was stand, frozen in place, while he wept against you.

Across the small living room, a soft, heart-wrenching sob broke the tense silence. Anne, Starlight, had moved to Hughie’s side. She knelt, her blonde hair falling around his bloodied face, and gently cupped his cold cheek. "Oh, Hughie," she whispered, her voice choked with tears. "I love you so much." Her words, soft and desperate, hung in the air, a stark counterpoint to Billy’s silent, shaking grief, and the undeniable truth of Hughie's fading life.

Your heart shattered into a thousand pieces, a sharp, ragged ache in your chest. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. You could save him. You knew, with a horrifying certainty, that you possessed the power to knit Hughie's shattered body back together. But the cost... the terrifying, unknown cost. How much of you would it take to pull him back from the brink? Would it be enough to leave you a husk, or worse?

You grabbed Billy's shoulders, the rough fabric of his jacket digging into your fingers, and pushed him back just enough for his tear-streaked face to register yours. "You look pathetic," you mumbled, the words a raw, guttural whisper, your voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "Crying over someone like this." Before he could even begin to process your insult, before a retort could form on his lips, you were already dropping, falling to your knees beside Hughie once more.

You barely registered the shift in the air, the way Billy and Anne stared at you, their expressions a mix of disbelief and stark, heartbreaking hope. They must have thought you were crazy, or perhaps simply mocking them in their darkest hour. It didn't matter. You had a choice to make, and it was already made.

With trembling hands, you positioned yourself over Hughie's ravaged body. Your right palm settled gently over the gaping wound on his chest, hovering just above the mangled flesh and broken ribs. Your left hand rested lightly on his twisted, unnatural arm. A deep breath filled your lungs, then slowly, deliberately, you closed your eyes.

A warmth, faint at first, began to emanate from your hands. It was a strange, tingling sensation, like a thousand tiny needles pricking your skin, then merging into a low hum. It wasn't just in your hands; it started in your core, a radiant heat building in your solar plexus, spreading outwards like ripples in a pond. This was it. The familiar, terrifying draw.

You felt it then, the undeniable pull. It was as if something vital, something intrinsically you, was being siphoned away. A cold dread began to creep up your limbs, counteracting the warmth in your palms. The world outside your closed eyelids started to dim, fading at the edges. You heard a faint gasp from Anne, then a choked cry from Billy, but their voices sounded distant, as if filtered through water.

The warmth intensified, growing into a searing heat beneath your hands. You could feel Hughie’s body responding, a subtle vibration thrumming beneath your touch. Muscles, torn and shredded, began to knit together, microscopic fibers weaving themselves whole again. The grotesque mottling on his chest, the angry green-purple bruises, began to recede, fading like watercolors in the rain. The shattered fragments of his ribs, which moments ago had been a jagged mess, began to realign, calcifying, reforming into smooth, unbroken bone. You could almost feel the air rushing back into his collapsed lung as it reinflated, heard the wet gurgle subside into a steady, even breath.

But with every fiber that regenerated in Hughie, you felt a piece of yourself diminish. The dizziness came first, a gentle swaying that quickly intensified into a violent lurch, as if the room itself were spinning on an axis. Nausea churned in your stomach, a wave of sickness so profound it threatened to overwhelm you. Your head pounded, a relentless drumbeat that echoed the draining of your energy. The warmth in your hands became a burning, consuming fire, and simultaneously, your own body grew cold, a clammy sweat breaking out on your skin. It felt like your very essence, your life force, was being extracted, leaving behind only an empty shell.

You clenched your jaw, gritting your teeth against the rising tide of pain and depletion. You pushed harder, focusing every ounce of your will, every reserve of your being, into the task. The compound fracture in Hughie's arm, once a sickening angle of protruding bone, began to straighten, the skin smoothing over, the bones fusing with an audible pop that would have been horrifying if you weren't so deeply immersed in the process. The dark hematoma on his temple, the silent killer, visibly shrank, receding into healthy skin as the bleeding within his skull ceased and the damaged cells repaired themselves.

The world was dissolving now. Sounds faded completely, replaced by a deafening roar in your ears. Your vision, even behind closed lids, became a kaleidoscope of swirling colors, then black. Your limbs felt heavy, weighted down by invisible chains, and a profound, bone-deep fatigue settled over you. Your knees buckled, and you felt yourself swaying precariously, your hands still fixed on Hughie, a desperate conduit of life. The last thing you registered, before the darkness fully consumed you, was the feeling of Hughie’s skin beneath your hands growing warm, healthy, and whole.

Hughie was healed. You had done it. But the cost... the terrifying, absolute cost.

Billy was there in an instant, his arms closing around you just as your knees buckled. He caught you before you could hit the carpeted floor, his strength the only thing keeping you upright. You could barely register the sound of his voice, a frantic, shocked yell that somehow conveyed both utter concern and a furious bewilderment. "What the bloody hell was that?!" he bellowed, his grip tightening. All this time he'd known you, relied on you, and you'd never breathed a word about having powers, let alone one so incredibly, devastatingly useful. The world swam, dark edges pressing in, and then everything went black.

You weren't sure how long it had been. Minutes? Hours? The sensation of consciousness returning was jarring, a sudden, violent lurch. The second you registered the feeling of bile rising in your throat, you were heaving over the side of your bed, hot, acrid vomit splattering onto the carpet below. Your body convulsed, every muscle protesting, leaving you gasping for air, slick with sweat.

"You bloody idiot!" Billy’s voice, sharp and accusatory, cut through your initial confusion. Of course, he was yelling. "What in God's name did you think you were doing, pulling a stunt like that?!"

You weakly lifted your head, your vision blurry, and mustered just enough strength to flip him off. "Wouldn't have done it," you croaked, your voice raw and scratchy, "if Hughie didn't mean so much to you and Anne." The words were slurred, but the defiance in your gaze was clear.

Before you could even think about trying to push yourself up, Billy was moving. He deftly stepped around the growing puddle of vomit on your floor, his hand firm on your back as he helped you sit upright against the headboard. The room still spun, but the worst of the nausea had passed. You were both breathing heavily, the air thick with the smell of vomit and the unspoken questions hanging between you.

You simply stared at each other for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by your ragged breathing. His eyes, usually so guarded and cynical, were wide with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, an incredulous shock. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice rough, almost a whisper. "Why didn't you ever tell me you could do that?"

You didn't answer him, couldn't even formulate the words. Instead, your own question, more urgent, more pressing, spilled out. "How's Hughie?"

Billy’s shoulders sagged, a wave of relief washing over his features. "He's alive," he said, the words heavy with genuine wonder. "And well. Anne took him back to their place a few hours ago." He watched you, a strange mix of awe and anger still warring in his eyes. "Kept an eye on you while you were out cold."

A heavy silence hung between you, thick with the unsaid, the raw emotion of the last hour. Then, as if a dam had broken, Billy found his voice again, and it was laced with accusation. "So, you've just been sitting on this, then? All this time? What, you just get off on watching people suffer, do ya?"

Your own anger, fueled by exhaustion and the lingering sickness, flared. "Don't you dare," you hissed, pushing yourself further back against the headboard. "I promised my parents I wouldn't use them! You saw what it did to me, Billy! It could've probably killed me! And you want to talk about me getting off on watching people suffer?" Your voice rose, trembling with indignation. "Hughie wouldn't be in this bloody mess if you weren't dragging everyone into your stupid vendetta!"

Billy opened his mouth, no doubt ready with another scathing retort, but you cut him off. "And if you don't shut your trap," you growled, your stomach lurching again, "I swear to God, I'm going to vomit all over you and that stupid Hawaiian button-up."

He stopped, mid-sentence, his jaw clenching. He shot a disgusted glance at the puddle on your carpet, then down at his ridiculous floral shirt. A low grumble rumbled in his chest, and he finally backed down, though the lingering frustration in his eyes was palpable. He pushed himself off the edge of the bed and moved to sit beside you, careful to avoid the offending stain.

"Right," he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Look, I... I owe you, alright?" The admission seemed to pain him, but the gratitude was genuine. He paused, then turned to face you, a calculating gleam entering his eyes. "And seeing as you're so bleeding useful, I reckon it's about time you properly joined The Boys."

You slowly turned your head towards him, cocking an eyebrow, a weak smirk tugging at your lips despite your depleted state. "Oh really?" you drawled, the old, familiar banter a welcome return. "So, if you can promise me the best shag of my life—seeing as you're always making those charming jokes about me being the only bloke you'd ever 'fuck'—then that'll settle your debt, and maybe convince me to join your merry band of misfits."

Billy stared at you for a beat, his expression slowly transforming from shock to a wide, genuine grin. A rare, booming laugh erupted from him, filling your small bedroom. He turned his body fully towards you, propping himself up on one elbow, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. "You drive a hard bargain, sunshine," he said, the smirk returning to his face. "But a deal's a deal. You got it." He extended a hand, palm up. "Can't wait to have you on the team."

[hploveshaftt]

HERALD THE ARRIVAL OF TMA SPOILERS.

I'm relistening to tma currently and every 3rd statement has a moment where I think "is that the web's influence?".

Take ep49 - Butchers Widow. The ambulance that drives past RIGHT as the private investigator opens to door to escape Jared Hopworth. Is that the web's doing? Because without this, the statement might not have been made. Jon might not be as aware of the boneturner.

He wouldn't be able to get his ribs removed to get marked by both THE FLESH ANDDD the buried. So the ritual wouldn't have gone off. So the web's end goal wouldn't have been met.

A bit less of a reach would be ep16. If Carlos Vittery never got marked as a child -> never had a fear of spiders -> no statement -> Martin doesn't go to the apartment and encounter prentiss -> prentiss wouldn't have invaded or would've invaded the institute at a different time as the staff wouldn't have had the warning.

[francy-sketches]

hating on game of thrones in current year is a bit cringe like girl move on etc. However my complaints are more specific than the average person so I can at least feel like I'm bringing something new to the table. Instead of writing the one bilionth 'they butchered dany we were robbed' post I'm instead going on coke rants about how they character assasinated jaime by making him unfunny and how they didn't give my favorite irrelevant minor characters enough emotional depth and actually now that I'm saying it out loud that sounds worse

[surelysilly]

the eleventh age of magic

Not too many folks like Balance, y'know?

my piece for @dpxdc-worldscollide! i did a desktop background, and it and the zine are free to download so go check it out to see all the awesome work everyone did <3

smth smth a post-AGIT au, clockwork's apprentice Danny finds himself embroiled in yet more problems over something called the Cosmic Logs and all because he wanted to embody something as simple as Balance smdh

[mysterieyes]

Hey guys did you see that they changed this panel in the comics. It’s on the offical website. You don’tn eed to fact check this because I wouldn’t lie.

[whenthewallfell]

Sorry if it's an obvious question but is "Dr. Morphling" supposed to be in reference to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ? Cause in the poster you see this shadow like figure behind her and in story Katniss has this deeply distorted sense of self where she simultaneously tries to separate her "real" self and her "capitol" self while also having the same kind of shame and guilt complex that both victorian english men and teenage girls seem share.

Also I really love how the expressions of the posters interact with each of the real characters to deepen them, like Katniss and Johanna not conforming to the idea of their poster selfs and refusing to be part of the spectacle while Finnick matches his, he performs but only as his own kind of rebellion. He is the only one without an ounce of makeup but that in itself only seems to call attention to his own facade, in a way his mask is made of flesh and bone but is no less of one

and Peeta's specially makes me wanna scream bc he is very much a performer too, but his painted smile, with the stark contrast of black and white sharp teeth, remind me of his hijacking, of how his own way of rebelling against the capitol via his manipulation of them got turned against him and when put in contrast to finnick's expression which is in his natural face or Katniss and Johanna's which are still covered in make up but kept truth to their real selves, it paints this image of a caged animal.

End of rambling here, your art is awesome and I love how many details you put in it and its just so fun to analyze it

First up, the guilt complex that Victorian Englishmen and teenage girls seem to share???? alsdkfjslkfj genuinely laughing out loud

I feel bad taking credit for the Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde connection since FOB did it first, but you're spot on! Also something to note is that the creative decisions are made by Peeta in universe, so a lot of it is through his own perception of Katniss and how he views his relationship with her. I'm gonna go into it in a proper deep dive later, but there's a reason her character is named after his morphling addiction.

Everything else you've said is yesyesyes and exactly what I wanted to portray, especially the way that Peeta's been trapped by the smile of his own making. Perfect, 10/10, love the way you've put it

(it should also be noted that Katniss and Johanna are the only female and non-white members of the band, and also the only ones to have full coverage painted faces)

[necrotic-nephilim]

for the recent ask game, i’m really curious about your take on 7 + 8 :P

for the choose violence ask game!

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how the fandom acts about them?

i'll be so honest: Jason Todd. i know there's a lot of argument of "who has the worst fans" and i think that question is flawed and impossible to answer, but i will say Jason fans irked me so deeply. because i read mostly 90s era Batfam, i admittedly didn't have a lot of exposure to Jason for a while, expect for his New-52 runs i'd read years ago. and since i never liked him based on those runs, i could not understand *what* his fans liked about him, or where they got some of their headcanons/ideas from. i've never been more baffled. it ranges from "oh i don't agree but you do you, i guess?" to "what character are you talking about i am BAFFLED". and it soured me on Jason for so long that i actually hate read *most* of his pre-Flashpoint appearances just to understand what on earth people liked about him. and now i can say, i love him dearly, but i can also say, i still don't know what character his fans are talking about sometimes. and i hate the fanon version of Jason who feels almost, Deadpool-ified? with this self-aware slapstick humor but a sad soft interior but also sassy and will kill a man it's just. it feels very hollow to me and it has made me almost tempted to block his character tag more than once over the years bc sometimes certain takes make it difficult to even like him. i just have to tune it out or yell about it for hours.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

i'm going to get particularly saucy with this one: that Dick Grayson has Eldest Daughter Syndrome. or more generally, that he was parentified. not a single ounce of Dick's backstory indicates him as being parentified. to be parentified you have to be a child taking care of other children either emotionally or physically because your parents are not fulfilling that role. and Dick was *never* a child at the time that another child was under Bruce's care. he has been an adult for the entirety he has known every other Batkid. and even then, the *only* one he was something you could akin to being a parent figure to was Damian, and Dick *chose* that. Dick was a grown-ass man in his late 20s who had the facilities and capacity to make the decision to be Damian's primary caretaker. he's never been parental toward any of the other Batkids, nor has Bruce ever forced upon him the role of having to raise them. did Bruce do a sort of questionable job with Dick? yeah. but i would argue Bruce did the best job with Dick of all the Batkids, and even if he was shitty with Dick, he couldn't parentify Dick bc there was no one for Dick to be parenting. and Dick wasn't parenting Bruce either. they just had a normal relationship of loving and caring for each other.

as for Eldest Daughter Syndrome i just.. i Do Not Like calling any male character "female coded" or "female rage coded" or "eldest daughter coded" because they're *not*. especially not in *this* medium. these are male characters, created by men, written by men 90% of the time, and written to be *male power fantasies*. nothing about Dick or Jason or any Batboy is female-coded bc they exist to be badass men. just because they show emotion and have complex relationships with Bruce doesn't make them suddenly women. Dick shows his anger in a very destructive, stereotypically "masculine" way. even if we strip it of gender, Dick doesn't exhibit most traits of Eldest Daughter Syndrome. he easily makes relationships with people his age, he has no issues telling Bruce no, he did not have caretaking responsibilities forced onto him by Bruce, he's not even really hyperindependent. Dick has a support system outside of the Bats, the fandom just ignores it. does Dick force caretaking responsibilities onto himself sometimes? can he be an overachiever? absolutely. but these are internal complexes that just come with making a character a superhero, it's a complex they all have. if i have to hear one more fan call him Eldest Daughter Syndrome-core or say he's a victim of parentification, i think I'll explode a little bit.

[ohno-the-sun]

More doodles of @chknbzkt guys

They live in my head rent free

[danggerine]

this started as a panel redraw and got so far from the reference that i dont think it qualifies anymore lol

(please be niceys to me w spoilers i am only in thriller bark 🥺)

[tkbrokkoli]

i thought arthur finally got a rly good night's sleep but turns out this was just the beginning of a nightmare full of The Horrors

[do-you-know-this-adhd-character]

Do you know this (noncanon) ADHD character?

Evidence below the cut!

There's a lot going on. I don't know where to start. Impulsivity, emotional dysregulation, hyperfixating, distractibility, infodumping (related to excessive talking), hyperactivity (present mostly throughout excessive talking(throughout the show, ever since his introduction actually, he's been said to blabber and talk a LOT, for longer periods of times)), sensitivity to surroundings (sensory issues?)(Specifically to noise), are all traits he presents throughout the whole show.