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geminiwritten · 1 year

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i’m yours ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: you find out that butcher slept with maeve, and attempt to ignore your feelings by going m.i.a. and going home with a complete stranger, only to awake the green-eyed monster living inside of butcher

preface: this isn’t set in canon timeline, it’s basically just using the bit where butcher sleeps with maeve as a bit of a jealousy catalyst

notes: this man has a hold on me... and i feel like this got a little rushed at the end but i still kind of like it, please let me know what y’all think! (also, i’m sorry all my stuff has the same formula, i promise i’m trying to mix it up!)

warnings: a lot of swearing, the ‘sewer-slide’ word, google-translated french, sexual content, and some soft smut

word count: 5315

Things are good, too good, but you’re doing your best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hughie and Annie are happy, MM is content, and Frenchie is excitedly creating new methods of blowing up Supes almost daily. Butcher is… well, Butcher. He’s grumpy and brash, but seems to be feeling a little more positive lately, focusing more on recon and intel rather than running in with guns blazing.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you had managed to go grocery shopping without anyone stumbling home bloody and bruised. Frenchie is humming along to the song that had been playing on the radio, carrying most of the plastic bags while MM carries one with you on his back. You were all in such high spirits that he had let you jump on his back at the bottom of the apartment stairs, carrying you up four flights as if you weighed no more than a hiking backpack.

Frenchie chuckles at the two of you as he unlocks the apartment door, entering first and pushing it open all the way. You have to duck a little, giggling and holding on to MM for dear life as he starts jogging toward the couch. He drops the bag on the floor before falling into the sofa, and you squeal as he squashes you.

“Hey,” you exclaim, still laughing, “what the fuck? Steeds don’t sit on their riders!”

“You want to ride me next, petit ange?” Frenchie calls from the kitchen.

You writhe until MM moves, standing up with a satisfied grin across his lips. You flip him your middle finger as he turns away, ushering Frenchie out of the kitchen so he can put the groceries away. You find the TV remote buried in the couch cushions, and just as the old screen flickers to life, Kimiko emerges from the hallway. She looks at Frenchie with a small smile, signing hello before her nose crinkles, and she signs another sentence you struggle to catch as your attention is called toward the master bedroom doors.

Frenchie frowns curiously, “She says that it smells in here.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you lot are stinkin’ up my fuckin’ apartment,” Butcher says, running a hand through his hair.

He looks like shit. His shirt is wrinkled and the buttons are fastened crookedly, his hair is standing up in all directions, and the circles beneath his eyes are several shades darker than usual.

“It is our apartment, Butcher,” Frenchie states, “it is the least you can after making me blow up my last two places, eh?”

Butcher rolls his eyes before dropping into one of the dining room chairs, holding his face in his hands as he takes several deep breaths.

Frenchie looks to Kimiko again before translating, “She says it smells like alcohol and sweat, and a perfume that she has not smelt before.”

“I don’t wear perfume,” you note, “every time we have to haul ass and run, the bottles end up broken or missing, so I gave up.”

MM raises his hands in defence, “Don’t look at me, I haven’t seen anyone but you lot in the past twelve hours.”

“Perhaps it is something we picked up at the shops,” Frenchie shrugs.

Kimiko signs again, and you watch her to listen.

“You can smell a stranger?” you ask with a frown.

“To reiterate,” MM says, “I stayed at a motel alone last night, I was too tired to drive all the way here after visiting Janine.”

“I stayed with Annie,” you point out, “is that who you can smell?”

Kimiko shakes her head, and your heart begins to race anxiously. Neither she nor Frenchie stayed here last night either, opting for one of his old hideouts after scouring the city for any possible missed traces that Vought could use to find you all.

MM turns to Butcher, “Was there someone here last night?”

“Why would you not tell us that there was a break in?” Frenchie demands, his face a mixture of irritation and concern.

Butcher sighs, “There wasn’t a fuckin’ break in, calm down.”

Kimiko pads quietly around the room, subtly sniffing the air around MM and then Frenchie before moving toward you. She inhales above your head and grimaces, before moving to the side and taking a deep breath over the couch.

You shoot up from your seat and stumble toward the kitchen, “Me or the couch?”

She points at the sofa.

“Butcher,” MM says, his voice demanding, “explain before I slap your hungover ass.”

Its only then that you notice the two empty bottles of whiskey, one on the coffee table and one laying on the floor. You back up slowly toward the kitchen, a fresh wave of panic washing over you.

“Someone stopped by,” Butcher mutters into his hands, “that’s all.”

You reach the kitchen bench at the same time Kimiko does, still sniffing like a police dog, and her face twists into a disgusted frown. You startle again, jumping back from the bench as if it had burnt you.

“Care to elaborate?” MM presses.

Butcher sighs, and you can feel a lump growing in your throat.

“We all sleep here too, Butcher,” Frenchie states, “and we deserve to know if it is still safe to do so.”

“‘Course it’s fuckin’ safe,” Butcher says, finally turning his head to face the room. “Maeve came by, alrigh’? Just her, ‘n’ she had some information, so we had a chat and a drink. Is that alrigh’ with you nosey bastards?”

A weight drops in your stomach, anchoring you to the floor as moisture begins to blur your vision.

Kimiko stops sniffing when she reaches Butcher, cringing and stumbling several paces back until she is beside Frenchie.

“You slept with a Supe?” MM gasps.

Butcher huffs and pushes himself up from the chair, “No fuckin’ privacy with you lot, is there?”

MM raises his hands again, “Hey, I’m not judging, just shocked.”

Frenchie’s concern melts into taunting smirk, “No need to be defensive, Monsieur Charcutier, we all have our needs, and I am surprised that you managed to woo such a beautiful woman.”

“Fuck off, Frenchie,” Butcher sighs, dragging his feet toward the fridge.

Their voices blur into white noise as you focus on the slow inhale and exhale of your breath. You wriggle your toes in your boots, forcing yourself to feel your physical body instead of the whirlwind of emotions swirling through your head. It feels like your skull is fracturing with the effort that it takes to contain the storm, but you refuse to let your feelings win. You find a bottle and push them inside, jamming the cork in just as Frenchie snaps his fingers in front of your nose.

You blink, “What?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, a soft crease between his brows.

“Yeah, sorry,” you blink again to quell your watery eyes, “what’s up?”

“Are you hungry?”

You glance over his shoulder at Butcher, his head in the fridge as he ignores MM’s demands to get out of the way.

“Not really,” you reply, “I was actually thinking about going back over to Annie’s, I think I forgot my… my socks.”

The concern between Frenchie’s brows deepens, “You forgot your socks?”

You nod, “My favourite socks.”

“Didn’t know you had favourite socks,” Butcher mumbles as he steps out of the kitchen.

“You don’t know a lot of things,” you state, plastering on a smile that you know doesn’t reach your eyes.

You can feel their curious gazes on you as you turn, retrieving your wallet and keys from the couch before striding out of the apartment door without a second glance. You pull your phone out of your pocket and text Annie to let her know that you’re on your way before switching it to ‘do not disturb’ and zipping it inside your jacket pocket, determined to forget about it until you’ve got a handle on your emotions.

The sun is setting by the time you reach the familiar street on which Hughie and Annie’s apartment is located, and you’re rather proud of the fact that you managed to focus on nothing but your steady steps the whole way here. You look up at the brick building on your left, but instead of turning toward the front steps, your feet carrying you across the street toward the park, not stopping until you’re standing in front of an empty bench.

“Something wrong with that one?” a voice asks, and you startle toward the source of it.

A young man is standing beside you, clad in running shorts and a tight exercise jacket. He doesn’t look menacing, but your whole body tenses as your fight or flight instincts battle for dominance.

“I’m sorry?”

He chuckles, “The bench, I mean. You’re frowning at it as if it’s diseased or something.”

“Oh,” you look back at the moss-ridden seat, “no, I just- I don’t know.”

“Are you alright?”

He buries his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and you let yourself relax, deciding that he isn’t a threat, just an overly friendly stranger.

“I’m fine, sorry,” you sigh, “just had a weird day.”

“That’s nothing to apologise for,” he says, sitting on the bench and looking up at you. “I know the feeling.”

You sit beside him, watching his side profile and slowly realising how attractive he is. His hair is cropped short, shorter than you usually liked, but his eyes are a stunning green and the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw is definitely something you can appreciate.

“Do you often approach strangers in the park?” you ask.

He laughs again, his eyes sparkling under the orange sky, “No, not really, especially not strangers as gorgeous as you.”

You blush at the ground, deciding to focus on your fraying shoelaces rather than the handsome stranger.

“But I figured,” he goes on, “that if I didn’t ask this pretty girl if she was okay, I might not be able to stop thinking about her for the rest of my life.”

You actually giggle, immediately cursing yourself for being so easy, “That’s a long time.”

“I know, right? I didn’t fancy the risk, and hey,” he smiles at you, “looks like it might have been worth it.”

“Maybe,” you smile back, “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Nate.”

You’re not sure if you’re an idiot or if you’ve just given up on your own personal safety, but you sit and talk to Nate until the sun is well below the horizon. You learn that he’s a journalist and a dog person, and lately he’s been more afraid of Supes than comforted by their presence. You tell him you’re a freelancer, because it isn’t technically a lie, and that you’re in between gigs at the moment but questioning whether you’re really doing what you want to be doing. Also, not a lie.

“I know that this is probably very forward,” he says, his knee bouncing nervously, “but did you want to come back to my place for a drink? I would suggest a bar, but I’m not really dressed for it, and I just get this feeling that as soon as we say goodbye, you’re going to disappear forever.”

You frown, “You’re a real long-term guy, aren’t you?”

His cheeks flush pink, “I don’t have to be.”

As you walk alongside the man you met mere hours ago, you come to the conclusion that you must be suicidal. In the current state that the world is in, who in their right mind goes home with a complete stranger? You, apparently.

His apartment isn’t far from the park, which is a little comforting, knowing that you will have a speedy escape to Annie’s place if this guy does end up being a psycho serial killer. The buildings all look the same as you approach a row of tall brick blocks, climbing the few concrete steps up to the lobby doors before scaling three flights to reach his apartment door.

It’s surprisingly well decorated inside, and you can eye a few expensive items that make you wonder if he really is a struggling journalist, or perhaps a shady underground arts dealer. You take a seat at the kitchen bench as he babbles about how crappy his landlord is and how much money he’s had to spend on the place to make it liveable. The glass of wine he places in front of you is gone within two gulps, and he happily pours you another.

“I feel like I probably should have asked this a few hours ago,” he says with a sheepish smile, “but you aren’t with anyone, are you? Engaged or married, or anything like that.”

You choke on your mouthful of cheap wine, coughing the burn away while he hurries to get you a glass of water.

“No,” you finally reply, “I’m not, at all.”

“Good,” he replies, his earnest grin returning, “I mean, it’s surprising because you’re incredible, but I’m glad.”

You offer him a smile that you hope appears coy and not at all forced before drinking down the rest of your second glass of wine. He moves into the lounge room, and you take the opportunity to pour yourself another generous glass, quickly swallowing the two mouthfuls left in the bottle while his back is still turned. You gingerly place the empty bottle in the sink before following him, dropping onto the soft leather couch as he turns on the television.

A news broadcast lights up the screen, and fiery images of a truck collision flash behind the breaking news banner that reads: ‘QUEEN MAEVE SAVES THE DAY’. Your stomach twists into a knot as the bottle of emotions you had managed to almost forget about begins to break, the glass fracturing and threatening to send you into a full-blown mental breakdown.

“Damn,” Nate sighs, “I know the Supes are pretty sketchy these days, but Queen Maeve is just gorgeous.”

With one last burning gulp of wine, you turn to the man beside you and take his head between your hands, crushing your lips against his. He gasps, but responds quickly, his hands finding your hips and guiding you onto his lap.

The rest of the night is a blur as you attempt to give all of your attention to this stranger that you barely know instead of confronting the green-eyed monster roaring in your belly. He finishes once on the couch, pretty quickly, but you’re not one to judge, before you drag him into the bedroom and away from the incessant news broadcasts of Queen Maeve’s heroic act.

It isn’t your alarm that wakes you, or the sound of Frenchie and MM arguing about how to cook eggs, but rather the unfamiliar scent that douses your breath. Your body trembles with anxiety and your eyes snap open, darting around the strange room as your thoughts scramble to remember how you got here.

“Fuck,” you sigh at the sound of someone snoring beside you.

You gently roll over and slip out of the sheets, cold air immediately nipping at your naked body. You find the nearest item of clothing and slip it over your head before tiptoeing out of the bedroom and into the lounge room. Nerves and hunger mingle inside of your stomach, making you overwhelmingly nauseous by the time you find your jacket thrown over the back of the couch.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter as you retrieve your phone from the pocket.

Dozens of missed calls and text messages fill your lock screen, several from Annie and Frenchie, a couple from Hughie and MM, but the majority of them listed under Butcher’s contact name, ‘Big Willy’. You thought it was funny a few days ago.

You quickly text Annie that you’re okay, you’re incredibly sorry, and that you’ll fill her in as soon as you see her. You find your jeans and wriggle into them before finding your panties and tucking them into your back pocket. You scoop your bra and your shirt off the floor on your way to the kitchen, and check your phone again for a reply from Annie. Nothing yet.

You drink the glass of untouched water from the kitchen bench before splashing your face and trying to calm the vibration of nerves coursing through your body.

“Hey.”

You startle at the sudden voice, turning to find Nate in nothing but sweatpants as he emerges from the bedroom.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He frowns, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-I’m fine, just- uh, my friends have been calling me,” you gesture to your phone, “and they’re pretty worried.”

“Oh,” he lets out a long breath, “I didn’t even hear it ringing last night.”

You smile weakly, not bothering to explain that you were intentionally avoiding your phone all afternoon.

He steps forward, “So, did you-”

The apartment door bursts open, splinters of wood scattering across the floor as you squeal and Nate jumps away from the blow. Your heart is racing, but your body reacts as it was trained to do, and you dive for a knife from the block beside the stove before freezing as you recognise the figure stalking through the broken door.

“Butcher,” you say, “what the fuck?”

His head snaps toward you, the crease between his brows softening and his eyes looking almost vulnerable as realises that it’s you.

“I’m sorry, but who the fuck are you and why did you just break my door?” Nate speaks up.

Your stomach sinks as Butcher’s attention is turned toward the shirtless man, murderous intent returning to his face.

“Who the fuck am I?” he spits, “Who the fuck are you?”

Nate looks tiny compared to Butcher, his narrow frame absolutely dwarfed by Butcher’s broad height and intimidating stance.

“I-I’m Nate,” the smaller man says, “and this is my apartment, that’s my door that you just destroyed.”

“Yeah?” Butcher taunts, stalking forward, “An’ what’re you gon’a do ‘bout it?”

Nate looks at you, his eyes frantic and begging for help.

“Butcher, calm down, he’s-”

“Calm down?” he whirls toward you, “You want me to fuckin’ calm down?!”

“Hey, man,” Nate says, “we can talk, you don’t have to-”

“Nate,” you put your hand up, “I’m sorry, but please shut up.”

“Nate,” Butcher repeats mockingly, “if you value your life, I’d listen to ‘er.”

You drop the knife on the bench, “Butcher, can we just leave, please?”

“You don’t get to make any requests right now, sweethear’,” he says, taking a heavy step toward you, “not after the shit you put me through for the past twelve fuckin’ hours.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawls sarcastically, “maybe ‘bout the fact that you fuckin’ disappeared! You didn’t answer your damn phone, didn’t tell anyone where you fuckin’ were! I got a call from Hughie askin’ if you were back home, ‘cause you texted Annie ‘n’ told her you were comin’, but didn’t fuckin’ show up!”

A pebble of guilt drops into your stomach, but you ignore it, squaring up to him with a scowl.

“So?” you shrug, “I’m an adult, I can do as I fucking please.”

“Not without tellin’ me!” he exclaims, “Not if I don’t know where you fuckin’ are or if you’re even fuckin’ alive!”

“You’re not my fucking father, Butcher!” you shout back, feeling another fissure in the bottle of emotions. “I don’t belong to you, I don’t have to ask you for permission to live my own fucking life!”

His jaw twitches, a tidal wave of emotion crashing through his eyes all too quickly for you to try and discern any of them.

“A-Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” Nate asks timidly.

You and Butcher turn to him in unison, exclaiming at the same time, “No!”

A beat of silence passes, and Butcher’s glare doesn’t falter. You take a deep breath to try and sooth the storm of frustration threatening to consume you.

“Butcher,” you say softly, “can we please leave?”

His head snaps back toward you, his eyes scanning your body as they fill with realisation.

“Did you fuck her?” he asks, turning back to Nate.

He doesn’t respond, his mouth hanging open as he takes several steps back.

“You gon’a answer me?”

“Butcher,” you say again, “cut it out.”

He takes another menacing step toward Nate, “I asked you a question.”

“W-We slept together, yes,” Nate stammers.

The laugh that leaves Butcher’s lips is chilling, sounding almost mad.

“Oh, pardon my French,” he says, “perhaps I should’a asked if you made sweet fuckin’ love to this gorgeous woman right ‘ere.”

“For fuck’s sake!” you shout, “Stop it, stop whatever the fuck this is, and let’s just fucking go!”

“You’re tellin’ me that you fuckin’ disappeared so you could hide out with this fuckin’ twat?” Butcher exclaims, “You let me worry myself fuckin’ sick so you could get a lousy fuck?”

The bottle explodes, shards of glass cutting you from the inside and sending white hot waves of frustration and anger, and despair rolling through your body.

“I can fuck whoever I want, Butcher!” you scream, startled by the volume of your own voice.

His eyes narrow, but his lips don’t move.

“And you can fuck whoever the fuck you want,” you spit, “obviously.”

You snatch your phone off the bench and stomp toward the door, turning to Nate with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, about… this.”

You continue down the hall and the three flights of stairs, not bothering to check if Butcher is following until you’re outside. The temperature is significantly lower than it was yesterday, but your stubbornness doesn’t let you show it as Butcher strides past you toward the car haphazardly parked at the curb.

You climb into the passenger’s seat, sitting as close as you can to the door and hugging your clothes against your chest as you stare out the window. Tears fill your eyes, your nose growing hot and your cheeks undoubtedly red as you use every ounce of self-control you still have to stave of the inevitable. All you need to do is make it home and make it to your bedroom, and then you can cry. You can curl up with your face in your pillow and sob, and admit that you’re jealous, that you’re hurt, and that you love a man who doesn’t even understand the meaning of that word anymore.

“You look like shit,” he grunts.

You sniffle, keeping your face turned away from him, “So do you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get much fuckin’ sleep,” he says as the car comes to a halt, “I was up all night worryin’ ‘bout whether or not you were fuckin’ alive.”

“Well, I didn’t get much sleep either,” you retort, before pushing the passenger door open and stumbling out.

You hear the car door slam as you hurry up the stairs and into the building, taking the steps two at a time until you reach the apartment door. To your great relief, it’s unlocked, and you let yourself in before Butcher has even made it into the hallway.

“Oh, my goodness, mon amour,” Frenchie gasps, “you’re alive! You’re okay… are you okay?”

You don’t realise your crying until you try to look at him, your vision blurred by heavy tears as they fall in fat droplets down your cheeks.

MM steps forward, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, “I’m fine, I was with a-a friend.”

“A friend?” Butcher echoes, the door slamming behind him.

Your blood sizzles in your veins, heated by the overwhelming frustration coiling in your chest.

“How the fuck did you know where I was?” you demand, spinning around to face him.

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you have my fucking phone bugged?”

Butcher blows a long breath out of his nose, the thick vein in his neck throbbing under his red skin. “Look,” he says, “I know that whatever the fuck just happened wasn’t ideal, but why can’t you fuckin’ see this from my point of view?”

“Our point of view,” MM corrects, “we were all worried.”

“I get that!” you exclaim, “I fucking understand that, but what I don’t understand is why Butcher is still acting like such a fucking cunt. You can see that I’m fine! I’m alive, so what’s your problem?”

“What’s your problem?” he snaps, “Why didn’t you answer your fuckin’ phone? Why didn’t you tell anyone where you fuckin’ were? And why the fuck did you go home with a complete fuckin’ stranger?”

“Oh, shit,” Frenchie murmurs.

“Maybe I just needed a fucking break.”

The room falls quiet, the only sound being Frenchie’s soft footsteps as he backs away. You use the clothes in your arms to wipe the fresh fall of tears from your cheeks and try to ease your shaky breaths as you wait for another onslaught of reprimands.

Butcher sighs, “Go shower.”

“What?”

“You need to shower,” he says, stepping forward.

You frown, “Why?”

“You look like shit, and you sm-” he stops himself, pausing when you take a small step back.

“I look like shit and I smell,” you finish for him, “thanks, Butcher.”

You drag your feet toward the bathroom, dropping your clothes on the floor and staring at your wrecked face in the mirror. Your hair is a mess and your face is blotchy and red, with streaks of black painting your cheeks. The shirt hanging loosely from your shoulders is unfamiliar, and something akin to disgust settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Give me your clothes,” Butcher says as he appears in the reflection behind you.

“Why can’t you just fucking leave me alone?”

He sighs, “I’m tryin’ to help.”

“I don’t want your fucking help,” you turn to him and lean against the vanity, “go offer it to someone else. I’m sure Maeve would love to see your fucking name pop up on her phone.”

His frown disappears, and you can feel the air shift. Fuck. Now you’ve done it. The shards of glass sticking you from the inside have cut right through your chest, slicing it open as your ribcage cracks and unfolds, presenting your pathetic heart to the man who already held it in his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back with determination.

“I-Is that what this is-” he struggles for words, running his hands through his hair, “for fuck’s sake, Y/N.”

Your breath comes and goes in short gasps, the lump in your throat crushing your windpipe as it demands to be felt.

“For fuck’s sake!” he exclaims, before taking one step forward and slamming the bathroom door shut.

Fear sparks through you, and you whimper, “Butcher, please don’t-”

Before you can finish, he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a vice hold as he rests his chin on the top of your head. You sob into his shirt, tremors wracking your exhausted body as every bit of fear and frustration tears you apart from the inside. You’re not sure how you let yourself get this emotional. Maybe it’s the fact that the world is falling apart, and you’re supposed to act like you’re ready to save it? Or maybe it’s because you’re fucking tired of having everything you love ripped away from you, every chance you think you might have at happiness taken from you by the cunts in the sky who call themselves ‘Superheroes’.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

The turbulence inside of you quells simply because you finally acknowledged it, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Butcher,” you croak, looking up at him through tear laced lashes, “kiss me?”

He hooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts it up, leaning in to meet you the rest of the way before his lips brush yours. It’s hesitant and soft, barely a touch, and he pulls away too soon.

“You need to shower.”

“Oh,” you try to wriggle out of his arms, but they’re too strong.

“I can smell that fuckin’ twat all over you,” he growls, “an’ it’s makin’ me fuckin’ sick.”

Realisation slaps you across the face, giving you the strength to remember how to hold yourself up as he pulls away. His fingers curl into the material at the neck of your shirt, ripping it apart right down the middle before pushing it off your shoulders and tossing it on the floor.

Another growl rumbles through his chest and the air in the room shifts again, now thick with a tension that has your heart throbbing in anticipation. Your mind races, your thoughts riding rollercoasters as you struggle to catch up with his fast hands. Your jeans are unbuttoned and pooled around your ankles in less than a second, and he takes another moment to devour your naked body before moving to turn on the shower.

You stumble out of your jeans as he quickly sheds his own clothes before wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you under the warm stream of water and holds your body against his, the feeling of his bare skin making your head spin. He takes the bottle of bodywash from the small shelf and pops the cap with one hand, turning it upside down and squirting a ridiculous amount all over your chest and his.

You giggle and he grins, returning the bottle to the shelf before crushing his lips against yours. The soap makes your skin slide against his in the most delicious way and you can feel your core clench, eliciting a wanton moan from your open mouth. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth and claiming you with hungry, sloppy kisses.

“Didn’t think you’d be jealous,” he murmurs against your mouth, “didn’t think you fuckin’ cared about me.”

You slide your hands across his bare shoulders and behind his neck, finding purchase in his wet hair and tugging gently as you kiss him with every ounce of passion that you have.

“I do care,” you sigh when his lips leave yours to lap at your neck, “I am fucking jealous.”

“Sweethear’,” he whispers, his hands moving to your breasts, “you’ve got nothin’ to be fuckin’ jealous ‘bout.”

His mouth leaves your skin as he turns you to face the wall, pressing his body against your back before pushing you into the tiled wall. You gasp first at the sudden cold, and then at the feeling of him grinding himself against your ass.

“I’m yours,” he growls, his lips against your shoulder, “always fuckin’ have been.”

You still manage to speak despite the pleasure of him threatening to overwhelm you. “Then why?”

One hand wraps gently around your throat while the other splays across your lower belly, teasing the place just below that aches for his touch.

“‘Cause I never fuckin’ dreamed that I’d have you,” he says, his lips at your ear now.

You reach back with one hand, holding the nape of his neck as you turn so that your mouth can meet his in a messy kiss.

“You’ve always had me,” you murmur, “I belonged to you the day I met you.”

His hips buck against your ass, pressing you against the wall and making you whimper.

“You’re mine,” he says, moving back just enough for you to turn around.

You nod as you lean down to kiss his neck. Your tongue laving at his wet skin before your teeth sink in and he hisses, one hand squeezing your hip as the other smacks against the tiled wall.

“All yours.”

You place your hands against his chest, pushing him back enough for you to drop to your knees, your hands trailing down his body until they reach his hips. You dig your fingers in and look up at him through your wet lashes.

“Show me who I belong to.”

END.

#billy butcher #billy butcher x reader #butcher x reader #the boys #karl urban #frenchie #mm #mothers milk #hughie campbell #starlight #queen maeve #homelander #oneshot #one shot #imagine #fanfic

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marrziy · 1 month

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The Boys x Male Reader

.•✪ Resumo: os personagens de "The Boys" usufruindo do seu peculiar e prazeroso superpoder. ⋆͙̈

Leitor!bottom

Você se considera um super-inútil, mas não odeia completamente estar em tal posição. De qualquer forma, você não se vê salvando o mundo e, mesmo que ser uma pessoa comum fosse o ideal para você, ser o melhor parceiro sexual de qualquer um lhe garante muito mais do que você conseguiria em um emprego comum numa vida comum.

O seu corpo não chega a ser indestrutível, mas é resistente. Afinal, é preciso ser forte para aguentar tanto pau e porra. Você não sabe como funciona, apenas aceitou que a sua bunda vicia e que quem prova vai à loucura. O seu buraco é requisitado; quem te fode sempre acaba tendo o melhor orgasmo da vida e pede bis, isto é, quando não morre de prazer.

🔞 Dark | sexo rude | protuberância na barriga

HOMELANDER empurra os quadris com tanta força que faz você, alguém que desde virgem sabe trepar como ninguém, gritar. O seu corpo está curvado contra a mesa de reunião dos sete há pouco mais de uma hora. Você perdeu a conta de quantas vezes Homelander gozou dentro nos últimos minutos, apenas sabe que não foram poucas.

O seu estômago cheio e a quantidade gritante de sêmen escorrendo da sua entrada confirmam isso.

A porra acumulada no seu buraquinho esguicha para os lados a cada investida bruta. O choque de peles espalha a bagunça gosmenta no chão e na mesa, para que um pobre funcionário se encarregue de limpar mais tarde.

O pau inchado do loiro orquestra uma cantiga molhada enquanto se afoga na própria porra ao desaparecer no seu corredor esponjoso. O sêmen quente, plantado com pressão em seu interior, às vezes borbulha, vazando para fora com bolhas pouco duradouras na composição espessa.

Você sente os efeitos do composto V estalando no ato curvar o pescoço e ver o seu ventre contendo o pau de Homelander, que só não atravessou seu estômago graças à sua resistente pele maleável. A protuberância em sua barriga some e aparece de acordo com os movimentos desesperados do super entre suas pernas.

Você pode até afirmar que está fora de si por estar babando e gemendo, mas não se compara ao homem choroso te comendo. Ele treme, tão desleixado que erra o seu buraco vez ou outra. Os olhos azuis dele estão marejados e os lábios vermelhos de tanto morder. O herói evita te tocar com as mãos, com medo de acabar quebrando o brinquedinho favorito dele.

Há 30 minutos, você tentou pará-lo, já cansado, dolorido e também por ter mais o que fazer, mas foi ignorado. Ao insistir, inutilmente tentando empurrá-lo pelo peito, você quase teve suas mãos desunidas dos pulsos.

Agora você se mantém pianinho, contraindo para ouvi-lo gritar e apressar aquele que talvez fosse o último orgasmo dele te inundando.

— Porra! E-eu te amo! – ele geme alto, e você sabe que não é sincero, Homelander sempre reforça isso. Ele fica assim quando fode, manhoso e estranho, sem a imponência usual. — Queria que você tivesse um útero pra eu encher de menininhos! Todos seriam fortes igual ao pai!

Manhoso e estranho pra porra.

Ele urra rouco e prolongado, forçando-se dentro do seu anelzinho dormente até não deixar espaço vazio dentro de você, arruinando suas entranhas com mais uma carga abundante do líquido branco. O membro grosso incha no seu interior e o formato exato do pau de Homelander marca o seu abdômen, cada vez mais robusto devido às investidas duras.

Ele cai exausto em cima de você, sentindo a própria liberação lambuzar o pau pela incontável vez seguida. À medida que geme no seu ouvido, ele volta a meter preguiçosamente com o pau meia-bomba - que permanece grande ainda assim - e, mesmo três minutos depois, consegue o feito de gozar mais uma vez, contraindo as bolas e liberando jatos grossos no seu reto judiado.

🔞 Degradação | Leitor dom | Hughie brat/sub

HUGHIE é uma vagabunda, uma cadelinha que adora latir entre quatro paredes. Você, mesmo sendo um dos sinônimos de vadia, sente-se puro o suficiente para chamá-lo de putinha.

Ele duvida dos seus poderes, assim como você também duvida às vezes, afinal, não dá para comer o próprio rabo. A única evidência que você tem são as expressões exageradas - semelhantes às feições bizarras de uma garota num hentai - dos homens que te fodem quase que loucamente nos seus dias úteis e inúteis.

Mas aquilo não é dúvida, é vontade, do tipo que pulsa na calça.

É notável que Hughie quer que você prove para ele a veracidade dos boatos que ele escuta nos corredores da empresa sobre você e o seu cuzinho de mel - apelido que te rouba um ano de vida sempre que você escuta.

No momento em que ele abre as pernas, afastando as coxas e exibindo o volume marcado no terno, passa a ser visível que o que ele realmente quer é um gostinho do que muitos já provaram.

Depois de tanto ouvir as experiências dos colegas de trabalho, o pobre homem se sentiu tão tentado que doeu todos os dias até hoje, quando ele finalmente criou coragem, entrou no seu escritório e se sentou na poltrona em frente à sua mesa, sorrindo ladino com a provocação na ponta da língua.

Deu certo.

Você pousa as mãos nos joelhos dele, agachado no carpete com o rosto próximo à virilha coberta do homem mais novo. Com a língua para fora, você desliza o músculo pela saliência de Hughie, sentindo o pau dele contrair através da lã azul. Mas você é interrompido por duas mãos nas laterais do seu rosto, apertando suas bochechas e erguendo seu olhar. — Pelo que eu saiba, o seu buraquinho gostoso não é a boca… – ele murmura, sorrindo jocoso.

Você ri soprado, convicto de que irá derrubá-lo e maltratar. — Quanta pressa… tá tão desesperado que não aguenta uma preliminarzinha? – você se apoia nas coxas dele para levantar e, propositalmente, afunda as unhas na carne censurada. — Ok, vou te dar o que você quer, só não vem com chororô pra cima de mim se a sua piroquinha não der conta do recado, tá? – sentado nas coxas de Hughie, você empina a bunda, arrastando o quadril em cima dele até estar pressionando os glúteos na área necessitada do rapaz, que grunhe em resposta.

Você desabotoa o zíper da calça social dele e ele faz o mesmo com a sua. Hughie fica com a peça estagnada no meio das coxas, enquanto você se levanta para se livrar totalmente da sua antes de retornar para o colo do mais alto. Você resmunga ao sentir o zíper dele roçando na sua pele, mas logo esquece.

Ambos se encontram de cueca e com a camisa branca parcialmente desabotoada, friccionando seus membros enquanto se beijam furiosamente e trocam apertões sedentos em regiões aleatórias no corpo um do outro.

Hughie suspira durante o beijo. Com dificuldade, ele consegue falar contra seus lábios. — Em quan-quantas rolas você teve que sentar pra… pra conseguir um ca-cargo tão bom em… em tão pouco tempo? – Hughie impulsiona o quadril para cima, simulando estocadas, já dominado pela vontade de afogar o ganso.

— Em algumas, e todas eram maiores e mais grossas que a sua. – o homem abaixo de você estremece, principalmente por ter os mamilos provocados pelos seus dedos astutos, mas as suas palavras também têm peso nisso.

Hughie gosta desse tipo de coisa.

— Puta merda… – um risinho acompanha suas palavras. Você se diverte testemunhando a agitação patética dele. — Cê nem disfarça. – você torce os biquinhos inchados de Hughie entre os dedos, se deleitando com as contrações que arranca dele. — Se orgulha? Tem culhão pra assumir que é uma putinha patética que fica de pau duro quando pisam em você? – sua mão desce, apertando o pau de Hughie na cueca, enquanto a outra reveza entre apalpar o peitoral e o abdômen do mais novo. — Depois eu que sou o pervertid…

Você congela ao ouvir o som de algo rasgando.

Sua face neutra captura o sorriso maroto de Hughie. É a primeira vez que você deseja tanto fazer alguém chorar.

Ele tem as mãos firmes na sua bunda, separando as bandas com a ponta de três dedos ameaçando entrar no seu anel rugoso, agora exposto após Hughie rasgar sua cueca.

— Era a minha favorita… – você finge denguice, forçando um lábio trêmulo enquanto sorrateiramente desfaz o nó da gravata dele.

Lerdo. Você constata.

Ele está perdido nas próprias sensações, tão focado em esfregar a ereção no seu corpo e em dedar seu buraco que nem percebe as suas intenções perversas.

— Não é como se você não pudesse comprar outra. – responde Hughie. No momento em que você rodeia a seda no pescoço dele, ele sorri ainda mais largo do que antes.

Ele anseia que você dite quando ele pode ou não respirar.

Isso te deixa fraco, faz com que você se imagine empalado no pau dele, que prova não ser pouca coisa ao saltar glorioso da cueca, batendo no abdômen e ultrapassando a altura do umbigo, contrariando suas provocações anteriores.

Você bate na cabecinha inchada com a ponta dos dedos, arrancando um resmungo de Hughie. — Até que é grandinho. – você finge não estar surpreso. — Mas, não é questão de eu poder comprar outra, seu estúpido. – com uma mão na extremidade esquerda da gravata e a outra na direita, você estica ambos os lados. A pressão no pescoço de Hughie limita a chegada do ar nos pulmões, mas, em compensação, faz o sangue pulsar quente e forte nas veias do pau. — Eu comprei porque gostei, porra.

Hughie abre mais as pernas, criando um vão entre as coxas que quase te leva ao chão. Ele agarra a base do pau, batendo-o contra seu estômago, esfregando ele em seu corpo, espalhando pré-porra em você enquanto te encara pidão, implorando com um olhar brilhoso de cachorrinho. — Por favor… bota dentro! Eu não aguento mais!

Você se ajeita no colo dele, encaixando a ponta sensível no seu interior, também cansado de prolongar.

Hughie grita de prazer quando você senta de uma vez, o engolindo por completo com o seu anel de músculos, esmagando as bolas dele com sua bunda. — Shhh! – você aumenta o aperto na garganta dele, sufocando os gemidos escandalosos do homem eufórico.

Ele não consegue controlar os impulsos e guia-se fundo em você, apertando a sua cintura com os dedos trêmulos, empurrando para cima, sentindo e confirmando na prática tudo o que ouviu sobre o seu buraquinho mágico.

É quente, macio e muito, muito apertado.

— Caralho! Você vai entortar o meu pau! – é o que Hughie diz, mas o que você ouve não passa de uma tentativa chorona de fala.

Enquanto você geme de olhos fechados, sentindo seu interior arder, esticado para acomodar o membro necessitado, Hughie esperneia, chora, baba e contrai todo o corpo, encharcando você por dentro com um pau chorão que convulsiona sem parar.

Ele dá três tapinhas nos seus pulsos, pedindo para você afrouxar o aperto, mas como é na sua palma que reside o controle, você resolve brincar, potencializando a pressão da gravata no pescoço dele. Hughie revira os olhos e bota a língua para fora, exatamente como uma peituda num hentai fodido. Você cospe dentro e agarra-lhe a mandíbula, fechando a boca dele e fazendo-o engolir.

Aquilo foi demais para Hughie aguentar.

Você sente o calor e a umidade familiar entupir suas entranhas, te enchendo até a borda. Hughie continua metendo de forma errática e desesperada, gemendo choroso ao liberar cargas grossas no seu interior apertado, lambuzando ainda mais seus corpos com o choque de peles. A porra quente vaza aos montes e Hughie se esforça para mantê-la dentro.

Você sorri maldoso e contrai o reto, estrangulando o pau melado do homem manhoso, sabendo muito bem o que vem a seguir…

Hughie geme sem voz, com a boca aberta, porém muda. Ele volta a foder o seu buraquinho alagado de esperma, à mercê de um segundo orgasmo que escapa do pau superestimulado, mais potente e abundante dessa vez. As bolas dele contraem, batendo nos seus glúteos no ritmo dos quadris, que colidem contra seu corpinho em uma velocidade instintiva.

O último esguicho te enche com o pau grosso fincado, estático nas suas profundezas até o talo. Hughie te abraça com força, tremendo ofegante, tentando se recuperar, desejando descanso, mas o caralho dele simplesmente não amolece. — Você me quebrou…

— Eu te dei o melhor orgasmo da sua vida e você me proporcionou uma foda medíocre. Não me parece justo… eu nem gozei! – você se esfrega para frente e para trás no colo de Hughie, lambuzando as coxas, a cueca e a calça social arriada dele com a porra que escorre do seu anel esticado, ainda com o pau pulsante alojado profundamente em você. — Vai precisar se esforçar bastante pra nivelar as coisas, gatinho… – você sussurra, mordiscando o queixo dele.

Hughie choraminga, levantando da poltrona com você no colo, quase caindo devido ao tremor das pernas. Ele colide seu corpo contra a parede, unindo seus peitos suados e batendo forte no seu corredor esponjoso. — Vou te foder em todos os cantos dessa porra de escritório!

🔞 Sexo rude | sexo com raiva

BRUTO tem os dedos firmemente rodeados no seu pulso, tão agarrados que machuca. Ele puxa você para um beco, o primeiro lugar disponível que encontra, apesar de não ser nada propício.

— Billy, pera aí! Tá machucando meu braço! – você tenta acompanhá-lo, a princípio, passivo às ações contestáveis.

Mas a sua paciência não é santa; ela evapora ao ser testada.

Sua voz estoura em um grunhido quando Billy aperta seus ombros e empurra sua estrutura menor contra os tijolos da parede próxima. — Mas que buceta! Por que você tem que ser sempre tão pau no cu? Que caralho eu te fiz? – o ardor desconfortável nas costas ocasiona na face contorcida e em frustração genuína.

Na mesma delicadeza de quem acorda durante uma cirurgia e sente a incisão, voam os seus punhos fechados contra o peitoral de Bruto, acertando a musculatura coberta.

Faz, no máximo, ele sorrir.

Você não sabe o que atiçou a raiva dele, apenas consegue supor, certeiramente, que tem a ver com o grupinho de justiceiros que ele lidera, ao qual ele garante a sua completa ausência e ignorância no âmbito. Billy não te quer naquele meio.

Mas algo o frustra, e ele pretende descontar em você.

Dentro de você.

— Era pra doer? Bora, porra… cê consegue bater mais forte. – o desgraçado sabe que aquele é você dando tudo de si. Ele comprime o espaço entre os corpos, prensando-se contra a sua estrutura vulnerável, provocando ao fazer, com extrema facilidade, o contrário do que você tentou impor com seus socos exaltados. — Filho da puta… amarrotou a minha camisa! – ele curva o pescoço, dramatizando o amasso fútil no tecido floral.

Quando ergue a cabeça e pesca o seu estado acuado, Billy ri fraquinho. Nunca divertido.

A voz, as provocações e a feição risonha estão carregadas de luxúria densa, tão evidente que exala feito aura. A irritação também é notada ao fundo de cada frase, faiscando discretamente na fricção dos caninos, e exposta de maneira didática com a brusquidão com que Bruto te toca, aperta e mantém cativo naquele cantinho esquecido de Nova York.

O sol de verão atua no céu, encenando o terceiro ato daquela sexta-feira à tarde. É possível ver a luz laranja na entrada do beco, que pouco ilumina o espaço entre prédios.

Entretanto, o ambiente taciturno não te faz ceder. — Não… aqui não… – seu embargo dá pistas sobre a libidinagem que você tenta esconder e Billy passa a focar mais nas entrelinhas. — Em lugar nenhum, na verdade! Cê me tratou feito um qualquer, de jeito nenhum que eu vou liberar pra… Ei!

Você fecha as pernas quando Bruto tenta abrir caminho entre elas usando o joelho. Suas bochechas coram e você engole seco, testemunhando a feição destemida do mais velho denotar as pretensões maliciosas por debaixo dos traços.

Billy leva as duas mãos até a parte interna das suas coxas, separando-as e se enfiando entre elas sem cerimônia. — Vagabunda ingênua… tentou mesmo esconder sua ereção de mim? – sussurra rouco no pé do seu ouvido enquanto simula estocadas, esfregando o próprio volume latejante contra o seu. — Para de bancar o puritano, nanico. Você não passa de uma putinha incubada. Esse inchaço na sua calça diz tudo.

O apetite do justiceiro é voraz. Os dedos dele escorregam do seu quadril e pousam na sua bunda, afundando os dígitos na carne traseira, estapeando e apertando com gana.

Você pende o corpo para frente, preferindo a dureza de Bruto à rigidez da parede. — Se for seguir essa sua lógica esquisita, você é mais puto que eu. Seu pau falta explodir de tão inchado!

Apesar do desejo salientado a cada arfada, seu orgulho e teimosia sobressaem às vontades da carne. Você insiste nos débeis empurrões para afastá-lo, com o plus das unhas indo de encontro ao pescoço de Billy, arranhando, arrancando sangue e o fazendo grunhir.

Ser tão facilmente dominado por Bruto te deixa de perna bamba, mas também faz você querer, mais do que tudo, contrariá-lo.

— Cacete… Deixa de cu doce! – o autocontrole o abandona. As mãos de Billy trilham cegamente o caminho apontado por seu instinto animalesco; uma delas se apronta nos seus pulsos, os prendendo na parede acima da sua cabeça, já a outra ajeita-se na barra do seu short e cueca, puxando para baixo num piscar de olhos.

Nu da cintura a canela, você se sente vulnerável. O peito sobe e desce aflito enquanto você analisa os lados, preocupado com possíveis observadores à esquerda e à direita.

Notando seu incômodo, Bruto se compadece; — Relaxa. Não vai ser gostoso pra você se eu enfiar contigo tenso desse jeito. Ninguém tá vendo, então pode afrouxar o cu. – ele acaricia sua palma, buscando transmitir conforto, mesmo com intenções contrárias para atingir os finalmentes.

— Idiota. – você sorri com os olhos. — Pode me soltar agora? Quero te tocar.

— Não. – Billy segura a parte posterior do seu joelho e a articulação dobra quando ele ergue a sua perna. Ele te tem servido bem ali, em pé naquela caverna urbana. — Tô puto, sem paciência e te conheço muito bem. Só seja um garoto obediente, tá? Não quero te arrebentar demais.

Foi tudo muito rápido. Você perdeu o momento em que Bruto abriu o zíper do jeans e tirou o pau da calça, facilitando para ele te predar.

Ele inclina o quadril para frente, pressionando sua entrada com a cabecinha inchada. Billy provoca o anel muscular esfregando e espalhando sua essência na fenda enrugada, intercalando com impulsos ameaçadores, dando a entender que vai meter, mas recuando em seguida, sem nunca cortar contato.

Percebendo que ele não pretende te preparar, você recua, ou melhor, tenta e falha, pois não há nada além de tijolos nas suas costas. — Cê vai mesmo enfiar no seco? E a elegância, cadê? – sua rigidez pulsa com tamanha aspereza, mas o receio ainda é residente.

— Eu não pretendo ser gentil, foi mal, coisinha. – o sorriso cafajeste nunca deixa a face madura. Bruto mordisca seu queixo e lambe seus lábios antes de depositar um selinho casto. — Mas ó… – ele eleva o corpo sobre o seu e, por consequência, aprofunda um pouco mais a carne dentro de você. — Se tu lamber, prometo atolar meu cacete bem devagarinho na sua bunda. – Billy tem o pescoço próximo ao seu rosto, exibindo os vergões que você deu à pele. Dos arranhões, brota uma pequena quantidade de sangue. — O que cê acha, hein? Até eu prefiro assim, porque se eu meter de uma vez, vou ter que ficar um bom tempo sem te arrombar depois.

— Deve estar ardendo… – seus pulsos são libertos e você usa os ombros do mais velho como apoio.

— Nossa, você não tem ideia do quanto dói! – ele se coloca em um falso estado de lástima, fazendo beicinho e enrugando o queixo.

— Dramático. – você revira os olhos, mas acata as condições, ansiando com a barriga fria pela interação libidinosa.

Seu músculo molhado escapa da boca entreaberta, atraído pelo rubro. A língua quente encontra o ferro, que, na ocasião, se assemelha ao suco conservado na polpa de uma maçã. Você troca o suor por saliva e sente o salgado suave junto ao sangue que quase inexiste, nascido das feridas. É viciante e você quer mais, então puxa Bruto pela nuca e inicia uma escavação com os dentes. O ouro que você encontra é vermelho.

— Filho da puta… Era pra você limpar a porra do sangue, não tirar mais. – ele chia, esmagando sua cintura até te ouvir choramingar. — Bem, se você não cumpriu a sua parte, o que me impede de não cumprir a minha?

Você nega freneticamente com a cabeça, mas vê-se lacrimejando, tremendo e gemendo no instante em que Bruto ignora a resistência do seu buraco despreparado e empurra com força. É tão apertado que um impulso não foi suficiente, apenas metade entrou. Billy enfia os centímetros restantes, sentindo seu estômago acomodar a ponta enquanto o comprimento é esmagado pelo corredor esponjoso.

Você o abraça, gemendo palavras irreconhecíveis e descontando a dor e o prazer com mordias e arranhões em qualquer pedaço de carne à disposição.

Está tão fundo. O pau de Bruto esmaga suas entranhas e rouba sua vitalidade, transformando você na vadia perfeita que geme, controce e contrai.

A pélvis dele bate contra a sua a cada investida violenta, o quadril colidindo até o talo. O som molhado ecoa pelo beco e com certeza os ouvidos nos apartamentos acima ouvem os gemidos e estocadas, talvez até estejam se divertindo com o show.

Se fosse com qualquer outra pessoa, Billy duraria horas, mas é com você e esse seu estranho e maravilhoso poder de extrair tudo daqueles que ousam tirar uma casquinha.

As bolas inchadas, cheias de porra para liberar, batem contra seus glúteos no ritmo frenético e desesperado que Bruto adota. Ele geme manhoso, se provando mais cadela do que você.

Quando ele goza, te enche tanto que o sêmen escorre em cascatas para fora do seu orifício dormente. A transparência espessa é quente e abundante, mas o justiceiro não se contenta com apenas uma liberação. A sensação de atolar seu interior com cargas grossas é incrível demais.

O pau dele não para de contrair; você sente cada latejar, cada pulsar das veias.

Prever o futuro não é uma de suas habilidades, mas naquele momento, é perfeita a imagem que você tem da sua figura cambaleando para fora do beco, mancando e andando esquisito para evitar que a porra acumulada no seu buraco escorra por entre suas pernas trêmulas.

⣿A parte do Homelander desse tamanho 🤏 comparada com a dos outros. Perdão qualqer erro, terminei e postei direto, mal revisei

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valeskawhore · 2 years

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IMAGINE:Homelander x Supe!fem! Caretaker.

Imagine being the caretaker of Homelander when he as younger? But you’re a supe so you were always considered ‘different’ from the rest and actually cared enough to stick around the poor boy.

Like for instance; as we all know,

Homelander had no one growing up because of his growth testing. He was super strong and could melt or crush anyone within seconds if they didn’t do things his way.

He had blowups and relapses growing up that affected his mental state so bad, that the scientists that were experimenting on him, had no idea how to stop him anymore.

Then they found you.

A lowlife supe with a bleeding heart of gold for children. You were invincible before but after vought internationals ran you through some tests…. You were unstoppable.

Fire proof, laser proof, your bones were indestructible.. your skin was as strong as diamonds! And most importantly, your aging process was so slow in fact, you stayed 23 for 4-5 years.

They had you take care of Homelander when they couldn’t reach him within the lab. You wouldn’t get hurt and they made sure of that.

Years later, after he finds out his son is alive and with Becca dying during pregnancy: (just an AU)

He finds you.. taking care of the sweet boy, his son.

•~•~•~•~•

Imagine Homelander having a weird obsession with you and not knowing why? Like he just felt tied to you completely with no explanation because vought wiped the memories of you both under the contract you both had set.

You would get paid handsomely to act as a mother towards him and set him straight during his early years But once he turned 18, vought did their best to erase every memory of you Homelander had but some gaps were too hard to fill so he gets deja fu when something reminds him of you.

A mother and her children taking a stroll to the park, for instance.. It just never made any sense to him as to WHY he felt so attached to that scene and felt the creeping cold sensation of loneliness crawl up his spine every time.

But now he knows.. and he demands you sit down with him and explain everything. It took him so many years to find you, it’s the least you could do..

#the boys x reader #the boys #homelander #homelander imagines #homelander x reader #yandere homelander #billy butcher #hughie campbell #frenchie #amazon #prime #amazon prime

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romeulusroy · 2 years

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Imagine Hughies reaction when Soldier Boy takes an interest in you, his partner:

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Hughies eyes were wide, wild, with emotions you couldn't quite pin down. "Is it really that crazy? You're the only one he listens to. He respects you. He's never called you a bad name or, or rolled his eyes at you. He likes you, y/n." His thoughts were moving faster than his mouth could. He was frantic, furious, and jealous. Soldier Boy could have anything in the world and yet he wanted you. He wanted to impress you, make you laugh, get your attention. Hughie wasn't even sure Soldier Boy was capable of being on his best behavior and yet, around you, he did his best to do so. He knew it sounded crazy to be so upset. You wanted nothing to do with him. You couldn't stand him. But he just couldn't help it, watching that idiot make heart eyes at you all the time.

"Hughie, I'm with you. I love you. If you're right, then it's a harmless crush. It's not going anywhere and it's not hurting anyone or anything besides your ego. We can use it against him, keep him in line." You shrugged, wishing he would just drop the subject. So what if he did? It's not the end of the world to have some leverage over the guy. It's not like you had it in any other regard. If he wasn't cursing you all out and leaving you behind, he was getting high and drinking too much. Or worse, blowing stuff up. If he liked you then maybe you could use it to control him, make him settle down for as long as you needed to take down Homelander. It wasn't a great situation, but you had to look on the bright side.

"There's nothing harmless about him."

#hughie campbell #hughie campbell imagine #hughie campbell x reader #the boys #the boys imagine #the boys x reader #soldier boy #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy x reader #ennasfavorites

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angelyuji · 11 months

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Ok, here´s my idea with The Deep (:

Kevin falls in love with the reader who's a genuinely good person and she's a friend of The Boys so they try to keep her away from Kevin (mostly Annie) but he still manages to get closer to the reader

hey anon! i'm sorry if this isn't want you wanted :( i've started rewatching the boys and i did a thorough deep dive into his fandom page and i think i got it tbh

also sorry its short, i wanted to go full fanfic, but i felt that this was better fit for your request <3

warnings: the usual yandereness :)

you’ve been friends with hughie and annie for a while, so you’ve met the seven and the boys many times

the boys and your friends try keep you away from the seven for the most part

but (unfortunately for you) the deep had formed a crush on you

mr. kevin moskowitz is insanely insecure so when he saw someone so positive and good

he believed that getting close to you would make him a good person too

he’s not at all flirty or charming, like he’s a mess, and yet you still end up getting close with him

you’d be visiting annie at Vought and on your way to her, you will always run into kevin

he’ll talk about work then end up just telling you about the shitty things that happened to him and his insecurities

and at first, you felt really bad for him so you let him use you as a confidant, but the more you see him, the faster you start seeing him as a friend.

he believes you’d be able to change him

annie and the boys obviously are very against your friendship, but (like a dumbass) you ignore their warnings and continue your friendship

obviously, as time goes on, you continue to regard kevin as a friend, but his feelings change

his crush starts off as innocent but turns obsessive

he starts off just wanting your company to stalking to… um more!

annie would threaten to kill him if he goes near you again

but lmao that does not work cause it’ll go from meeting at Vought to meeting at cafés to meeting at each other’s homes.

once you’ve reached that stage, he’ll take you

he wouldn’t hurt you of course, unless he gets… restless

he needs your help, he needs you to fix him

and the only way to save him is using your love :)

#yandere #x reader #the boys #the deep #the deep x reader #kevin moskowitz x reader #the boys x reader #yandere the boys x reader #yandere deep #yandere kevin moskowitz #yandere x reader #starlight x reader #hughie x reader #the boys imagine #hope you liked babes!#sorry if its ass

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krtsvig · 7 months

Text

CAN PEOPLE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE MORE HUGHIE CAMPBELL FICS AND SMUT PLEASE I’M BEGGING THERE ISN’T ENOUGH

#hughie campbell #hughie campbell x reader #the boys #jack quaid #the boys imagine #the boys hughie #the boys season 3 #hughie campbell imagine

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gatorbites-imagines · 5 months

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Hey Slay boy, it’s me again. There’s not a lot of content for literally any of them so can I get like A-Train, (not the deep), MM, Frenchie, and some of Hughie

A-Train, MM, Frenchie and Hughie, as boyfriends

Headcanons

couldnt find any good gif, so i just chose this one

Reginald “Reggie” Franklin, “A-train”

Dating Reggie means you most likely are also a supe, maybe even someone well known in the community, since he cares a lot about his image.

Though, I also can see him being super open about being in a relationship with a man, since that would greatly affect his image and how people see him. So expect to be on the downlow with A-train, he still loves you though.

Later on, after everything, Reggie might start thinking about being public with his relationship with you, since you mean so much to him and he wants to be able to stand side by side with you even in public.

He still cares a lot about his image, and wants to appear as the best version of himself, so he probably acts kinda fake in public, but is more emotional and available in private.

Is a secret cuddlebug in private, and craves your approval and attention the most. Is scared hes not good enough for you, so he needs the reassurance.

Marvin T. Milk, “Mothers Milk”

M.M is a more put together partner, and is probably the best out of all of these guys to talk about his feelings, as he seems the type to sit down and talk about it, if either of you have issues in your relationship.

He always keeps a slight eye on you at most times to keep you safe, no matter where you are, since he still suffers from the fear of losing parts of his family.

Needs a daily checkup on you if you guys are ever apart, or else he cant sleep at night because he has a deep instinctual fear that Soldier Boy has somehow killed you too, so do keep that in mind if you ever travel somewhere without him.

Outside of his hate for soldier boy and his want for revenge, I could see M.M as the most likely to be able to have a domestic healthy relationship with.

Serge, “Frenchie”

Cares very deeply for his partner, so much it can put him in danger at times. If you get hurt, he loses track of what he was doing which can be dangerous.

He doesn’t appear the type to others, but I can imagine Frenchie is quite the romantic when it comes down to it. He would bake you treats in his free time, take you on dates or just have dates at home if you guys cant go out, the likes.

The type to compliment you In another language, mainly to himself under his breath, but in the morning when you guys wake up he would mumble about how handsome you are and how much he loves you.

Teaches you how to use most weapons in case you need it, or how to recognize most drugs to make sure you don’t get drugged, or any chance you might need that knowledge.

Hughie Campbell

A softy and is probably the one who loves to cuddle the most, is also most likely the most open about his relationship status. Doesn’t feel any shame about his sexuality, because as long as it’s you, he doesn’t care what others thing.

Comes to you for comfort or to feel safe after everything happens, just needs to lay in your arms and shake and cry to himself, as being held by you is enough. It might take a bit for him to tell you what’s bothering him, as he doesn’t want you to get hurt because of him.

The one who likes to borrow your clothes and wear it, even if you are smaller than him. If you have any hoodie that might fit him, hes stolen it at least a few times. Likes to be surrounded by your scent.

It takes a little bit, but after he starts, he tells you he loves you any chance he gets. Both because hes scared of losing you or himself dying, but also just to make sure you know.

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theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction · 10 months

Text

The Boys Masterlist

One Shots

High on that Vought BS - The Boys x Reader (all platonic)

(Return to the Easy Navigate Masterlist)

#theladyofmanyfandoms masterlist #theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction #theladyofmanyfandoms #the boys x reader #the boys imagine #billy butcher imagine #billy butcher x reader #hughie imagine

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goodbyetothenight · 5 months

Text

Anyone else? No? Just me? Okay

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deanoheartspie · 7 months

Text

Something RED 6

Pairings: Reader x Soldier Boy (Ben)

Warnings: None.

Summary: you knew soldier boy since you were young until the man had gotten tested he had become a whole different person. So when he comes back after Crimson and other supes send him away, it makes him angry

A/N: I love hearing your thoughts! So share what you think.

Edited?: no I'll edit all the mistakes tomorrow. 10/31

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Ben had sat at the picnic table devouring his sandwich like it was going to leave him. He had been acting a little weird, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it until he cleared his throat.

“You know, Blondie the rip-off version of me? I'm his dad”

A small laugh left your lips and you shook your head, “That's a great joke”

Ben on the other hand didn't laugh, not one bit for the first time he looked dead serious which made you gasp “How is that possible...?"

“I get called into Vogelbaum’s lab for an experiment, some stupid shit about genetics. I basically beat my meat into a cup.” he stated very short, he ran his hands through his brown hair and sighed.

“I'm in a tough spot here yeah?”

You awkwardly nod, it did make more sense for Homlanders issues now... You were in no position to tell Ben what to do and neither was Hughie or Butcher if they found out.

“Am I the only one that knows?” you ask wondering who knows already and who you'll have to deal with.

Ben nods “That stupid shit is really mine. He's got a goddamn cape for Christ's sakes” he cringes and shakes his head disprovingly, before downing the rest of the whiskey bottle when smuggled into the basket when you had announced that you both were going for a picnic.

It grew silent. There wasn't much else to talk about it, honestly? It felt kind of weird knowing this information but then again... You were curious to what path Ben would choose. The team or Homelander?

“You should lay off the drinking, I can't exactly carry you back the motel” you teased trying to lighten up the mood, “Also back to what your were saying, what's wrong with a cape? They are pretty cool unless you have a boring looking one”

Ben gave you a side glanced and looked at you in disgust. “Y/n. It's a goddamn cape. It's just stupid.” he mutters his point and you raised a brow.

••••••••

“What the fuck is wrong him ay?” Butcher points to Ben who looks like he's conflicting all his life choices.

“Soldier boy you betta not be rethinking our agreement.” The bearded man kicked, Bens foot which nearly ended in a cat fight between the two.

“Butcher leave it alone im handling it.” you said sternly growing annoyed that she had to snap at these men like the we're children for gods sakes they are grown men!

“I talked to blondie on the phone today” Ben tells you before you left the room, stopping in your tracks and turning around.

“You what?!”

“I told him I was his father and all the bullshit.” he said waving around his blunt as he talked.

You were stunned. Annoyed but stunned. Did he know what homelander was like? Because shit like this was going to get them killed.

“Now I need to go tell Butcher this, stay here and I swear to god Ben don't touch anything” you were stressed and on your wits end at this rate. So much was happening and it was all going to fast.

“Butcher. We need to talk.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist: @hobby27 @kat-nee @globetrotter28 @tmb510 @beskarfilms @deans-spinster-witch @stoneyggirl2

#jensen ackles #the boys #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy #butcher x reader #hughie x reader #hughie campbell #billy butcher

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geminiwritten · 1 year

Text

hold on ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: you’re the youngest member of the boys and you hate that butcher insists on calling you ‘kid’ so you show him in more ways than one that you are not a child

notes: this is very weak, but it was kind of good writing practice because i definitely don’t write a lot of action (i’m so sorry if it sucks)! as always, please let me know what you think!

warnings: a lot of swearing, google translated french, age gap (not specified, but inferred) guns, violence, a dagger, explosion, descriptions of wounding (please don’t read if any of this is triggering for you!)

word count: 4310

Butcher is an asshole. You knew that from the moment you met him. He is rude, and brash, and impulsive to the point that made you believe he didn’t have an angel on one of his shoulders, only two antagonistic little devils. You often found yourself itching to dig your fist into his face, especially when he called you by the stupid nickname he coined the moment he met you. Kid, or The Kid, if you weren’t in the room. It vexed you beyond belief, and you knew exactly why.

Butcher is an asshole, but he’s also fucking gorgeous. He’s tall and broad, and his voice is so delicious, it often finds its way into your filthiest dreams. To say you were obsessed with the man wouldn’t be an overstatement, and it was no secret, everyone but Butcher himself knows it. You’ve wanted him from the moment you met him, but then he went ahead and called you ‘kid’ and you quickly realised that he didn’t see you as anything more than one of the boys. The youngest one of the boys.

“Are you okay, mon amour?” Frenchie asks, nudging you with his shoulder.

You look at the man sitting beside you, dressed head to toe in black with a bandolier slung across his body. The van rattles as it hits a bump, and across from you, MM casts an angry glare toward the driver’s seat.

“I’m good,” you reply, flexing your fingers around the gun laying across your lap.

You were no stranger to the weapon, having spent years training in the special forces before flunking out the minute you found out about the movement for Supes to be contracted into the military. You were furious and scared, and then you ran into an old neighbour whose mother used to be book club buddies with yours – Hughie – and the rest is history.

“Butcher’s on location,” MM says, tucking his phone back into the pocket on his vest.

“Make sure he waits,” Hughie calls from the front of the van. “It’ll take me five minutes to get eyes on the whole building, but he can’t go in blind.”

MM looks at Frenchie, “Are you sure about this?”

“Positive,” Frenchie replies, “They will not be prepared for a raid, and they will have the information we need.”

“And how many are going to be willing to give it to us?” you ask.

He grimaces, “Not many, but I do not doubt your persuasion skills, mon cherie.”

“Persuasion,” you scoff, looking down at the weapon in your lap.

Don’t get it wrong, you weren’t some kind of super CIA motherfucker who should be feared by all, but you were pretty swift when you needed to be. You weren’t overly worried about the mission, not with Frenchie, MM, and Butcher at your back, but you hadn’t properly exercised your training in months. You know you’re going to be rusty, and you don’t exactly know what you’re walking into, but Frenchie does, and he’s confident in your ability.

The objective was simple. Frenchie had some old friends who were keeping tabs on his and Butcher’s movements and feeding them back to someone who was then getting them to Vought somehow. All you had to do was shut them down and find out who their contact was, and probably murder more than half of them in the process. Simple, right? Except for the fact that not even Frenchie knew exactly how many men you were running in on, or what kind of weapons they had.

“We’re here,” Hughie announces, just before the three of you in the back lurch forward with the sudden stop of the van.

You button up the fastenings on your fingerless gloves and check that your bandolier is packed with extra magazines before standing up. MM opens the doors for Hughie, and he jumps up into the back of the van with his laptop under his arm. Frenchie pulls a small stool from the storage cage and plants it in front of the flip down desk as Hughie begins unpacking his equipment. No more than five minutes pass before video images start popping up in black and white squares across the screens.

“Butcher,” Hughie says, tucking his earpiece in, “can you hear me?”

You fix your own piece into your ear before routinely checking the clips and fastenings across your tact suit.

“I can ‘ear you,” Butcher’s voice rumbles in your ear, and you can feel your cheeks flush pink.

“Alright,” Hughie scans the screens in front of him, “they’ve got pretty high tech surveillance, but their security isn’t great. I’m getting twenty-two heat signatures, most in the basement, a couple on the ground floor, and three on the fourth. According to Frenchie’s intel, there are other tenants in the building, so my guess is that three up top aren’t apart of this.”

“The two at ground level are most likely security,” Frenchie says. “There are always one or two of them watching the building’s main entrance.”

“But there’s another way in?” MM asks.

Hughie nods, “Looks like you can access the basement from the back, but that’s probably their main point of access, so you’ll want to find another way in.”

“You tellin’ me there’s one fuckin’ door to this place?” Butcher’s voice comes through the earpiece again, and you have to flex your fingers around your gun to remind yourself to focus.

“The backdoor and the building’s main stairwell,” Frenchie replies.

“Two fuckin’ doors?” Butcher says. “Fuckin’ hell, Frenchie, how the hell are we s’pposed to get out if things go wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Frenchie states, giving you an incredibly confident grin.

Your stomach twists nervously, but you don’t let it show, returning his grin with a nod and a small smile.

“There are windows,” Hughie says, “but only Y/N will fit, maybe Frenchie.”

“Then we go first,” you look at Frenchie, “through the windows and make sure Butcher and MM can get in the back.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Butcher snaps. “We don’t know what kind of weapons these cunts got, and if you two get overpowered, we won’t be able to get in ‘n’ help. We all go in the backdoor, force our way in.”

Frenchie chuckles, “You are a fan of forcing yourself into the backdoor, Monsieur Charcutier?”

MM snorts while you and Hughie snicker, but there isn’t a sound from Butcher.

“Look,” you say, “I appreciate your concern, Butcher, but we have the best chance of surprising them by slipping in where they won’t expect.”

Frenchie giggles again at your unintentional innuendo.

“Listen, Kid,” Butcher says, sending wave of irritation through your body, “I appreciate your concern, but I ain’t lettin’ you ‘n’ Frenchie get killed for somethin’ as trivial as a bit of intel.”

“I’m not a fucking kid, Butcher,” you bite back, at which everyone in the van startles. “Frenchie and I will meet you at the backdoor.”

You pull your black kerchief up over your nose and crack the van’s doors open, peaking out cautiously before stepping down and into the dark night. Frenchie and MM follow your silent footsteps toward the brick building, skirting around the side until you find the low and narrow basement windows. You point at MM and then toward the back of the building, and he nods before hurrying off.

“There’s a guard waiting outside the backdoor,” Hughie’s voice comes through your earpiece.

You hear a couple of grunts before MM says, “Not anymore.”

“Do you have Butcher?” Hughie asks.

“We’re in position,” MM affirms.

You nod at Frenchie and he gestures for you to go first, so you turn to the closest window. You take a deep breath before crouching beside the window and gripping a lip in the brickwork to help swing your body through. Using your chunky black boots, you kick the window in and follow the momentum with your feet first. You hit the concrete floor with a thud, quickly darting to the side before Frenchie drops down in the same fashion.

“What the fuck?!” one of the men shouts, scrambling to get up from the old and torn sofa on which he sat.

Your hands are on your gun before you can remember thinking about it, and a gunshot bursts in your left ear as a thug across the room fires at you, missing completely. You take aim and shoot his shoulder, making him drop his gun and crumple to the floor in pain. Two more bullets hit the brick wall behind you, and two more of the gangsters fall with wounds in their shoulders. Frenchie is already rushing to the backdoor, and you cover him easily by dropping three more men with pistols and hitting one in the leg who was scrambling toward the stairs. A cluster of lankier looking men cower in what looks like a makeshift drug lab, all wearing rubber aprons and protective goggles over their eyes. You turn away from them and take down another heading for the stairs, watching him fall on top of his comrade before whipping around and firing at a thug who was pointing his gun at Frenchie. The bullet cracks as it hits him in the side of the head, but you don’t have time to regret your aim before someone tackles you from behind. You duck forward, gripping his thick arms before he can strangle you, and use his momentum to throw him onto his back on the floor in front of you with a loud thump.

Your gun is back in your hands as you scan the room over its barrel, a familiar sense a satisfaction quelling your fight mode when you find every assailant either downed or cowering with their hands up. The backdoor creaks open, and MM and Butcher march in with guns up before stopping abruptly at the sight of the pacified room.

“What did I tell you, eh?” Frenchie says, and you hear it more in your earpiece than from across the room. “She is fucking incroyable.”

“Holy shit,” MM mutters, lowering his gun.

Butcher’s eyes are wild above his face covering, filled with an emotion you can’t discern as he stares at you across the dark room.

“Alright,” Frenchie shouts, pulling his kerchief down, “where the fuck is Lafeyette?”

The room stays quiet, but the four of you slowly cast heavy glares across the fallen thugs until one of the timid lab assistants points a shaking finger toward the two men collapsed by the stairs.

“Time to talk you filthy sac de merde,” Frenchie spits, as he and Butcher stalk toward the men.

MM nods at you as he readjusts his gun and widens his stance, guarding the door in case anyone thinks of trying to escape. Your fighter instincts settle at the slight sense of security, and you sling your gun over your shoulder as you approach the small drug lab.

“What are your names?” you ask the men.

Three of them glance at the shortest of the four, and with trembling hands he moves his goggles onto his head, revealing two clean circles of skin around his bright blue eyes.

“I am Gabriel,” he says, his accent thicker than Frenchie’s, “this is Théo, Lucas, and Éliott. They do not speak English.”

“Can they understand it?”

He nods, “Mostly.”

“Good,” you nod and hold your hands up, “I’m not going to hurt you, unless you give me a reason to.”

They all shake their heads vigorously.

“Are you here because you want to be?” you ask them.

“No,” Gabriel replies, and the other three shake their heads again.

“How did you get here?”

“Théo and I came together,” Gabriel says, “without papers, and Monsieur Toussaint said he would get us citizenship. Lucas and Éliott were here already, and they have kept us from leaving.”

You gesture to the bench full of laboratory equipment, “You make drugs for them?”

“Oui,” he nods, “Lucas is a- uh, how do you say un scientifique?”

“A scientist,” MM calls out from behind you.

“Oui,” Gabriel nods again, “he teaches us to cook.”

You frown, “Do you have any family here?”

“Théo has family in America,” he replies.

“Does he know where they are? Can you contact them if we help you leave?”

His bright blue eyes sparkle with hope, “Oui!”

You nod, “Good, we’re going to try and help you, okay?”

You barely finish your sentence before MM screams your name, and you feel the weight of a large hand on your left shoulder, dragging you back and blocking your ability to grab your gun. You crouch under the pressure and reach your thigh holster with your right hand, gripping the hilt of your dagger. You unsheathe it as you turn in a full one-eighty, escaping the assailant’s grasp and sweeping underneath his arm with your dagger outstretched. The blade slashes horizontally right beneath his kneecap, causing him to buckle as you rise to your full height and lacerate his throat. You leap back to avoid the spray of blood and falling body, watching the man slump face first into the concrete floor at your feet.

When you look up, you find every pair of – conscious – eyes on you, a mixture of terror and disbelief written across the room of faces.

“Are you okay?” Frenchie asks, though there is more pride than concern in his expression.

“I’m good,” you reply, crouching down to clean each side of your dagger on the dead man’s shirt before tucking it back into your holster.

Butcher drops the collar of who you assume is Lafayette, and you still can’t read his face behind his kerchief as he stares at you.

“Uh, guys,” Hughie’s voice speaks into your ear, “someone heard the gunshots, you’ve got emergency response on site in less than five minutes.”

Frenchie swings his foot into Lafayette’s stomach before nodding at MM, “Let’s go.”

You turn to the four lab assistants and gesture toward the backdoor. They scramble to remove their protective gear before hurrying toward MM who guides them out. Frenchie jogs past you, but Butcher stops and holds his hand out.

He pulls his kerchief down, “I’ll do it, you get out of ‘ere, Kid.”

“Fat chance,” you scoff, “now go.”

You’ve already got the gas canister in hand, and he knows you’ll pop it before he can argue, so he turns and mutters something inaudible as he stalks toward the door.

With your kerchief securely up over your nose, you release the pin and throw the gas into the room before turning to the lab table. You work quickly, pouring the two vials that Frenchie gave you into an empty beaker and setting it atop a lit burner. In five long leaps, you’re out the door and slamming it shut before sprinting away.

Butcher is waiting for you just around the side of the building, his hand outstretched. You barely have time to grab it before a huge explosion blows through the low basement windows and shakes the entire building. Butcher pulls your body against his, pivoting so that his back is to the blast as it knocks both of you off your feet. You hit the ground and your ears ring, but you don’t feel a single bit of debris hit you thanks to the body lying on top of yours.

“Fuck,” Butcher curses, though his voice sounds distant in your ringing ears.

You look up at him, his face inches from yours and smattered with dust and dirt. The adrenaline coursing through your veins has your whole body on high alert, overly aware of every part of him that is pressed against you.

He looks down at you, his pupils blown wide as his gaze darts to your lips. He licks his own, his chest heaving against yours and your head spins with a thousand filthy thoughts. For a split second, you think he might kiss you, and your breath catches in your throat in anticipation, but then he pushes himself up and offers his hand. You sigh and take it, letting him haul you off the ground.

“You alrigh’, Kid?” he asks.

“I’m not a fucking kid,” you spit, snatching your hand from his.

You run toward the van and leap into the open doors, Butcher at your heels. Hughie slams on the accelerator before Frenchie has even closed the doors, and you instinctually grab onto the nearest thing to steady yourself. It just so happens to be Butcher, and you know not from the scratch of his beard against your temple as you cling to him, but his scent. Warm and woody, with hint of apple-scented soap and whiskey.

You retract quickly and fall into the seat on the opposite side of the van, resting your head back against the blocked-out window.

“What the fuck, Frenchie?” MM exclaims. “You said that would be a small explosion, that it would look like an accident.”

Frenchie grimaces, “I did not account for the other reactants in the lab.”

Butcher sits quietly across from you, his eyes trained on you as you do everything you can to avoid looking in his direction. You focus on your gun, unlocking the empty clip and clicking the safety on. MM and Frenchie speak with the four timid men huddled at the back of the van, asking them a series of questions before deciding where would be best to take them.

After a painfully long drive, Hughie stops the van and Frenchie helps the four men out of the back doors. He tells you all to go back to the safe house and he will be there soon. The rest of the ride home is tense and silent, MM not daring to speak once he sees the irritated frown on your face as you fiddle with your equipment, packing it into cases and locking it in the van’s storage cage.

Once safe inside the decrepit apartment you currently call home, Hughie grins at you, “Holy shit, Y/N, you are fucking bad ass.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, starting on the clips of your tact suit.

“I wish I saw all of it,” MM says, “you’re deadly.”

A small smile quirks the corner of your lip, and you let out a small sigh as you release the last buckle on your Kevlar vest. You drop the heavy thing on the dining table along with your bandolier.

“I’m still pissed that you didn’t listen to me,” Butcher states, at which you roll your eyes, “but you did good, Kid.”

Your head snaps in his direction, your eyes narrowing at him. “Do I look like a fucking child, Butcher?”

Hughie’s grin vanishes and MM freezes on his way to the couch.

“Do I?” you press, holding your arms out as if to emphasise your attire. “Because a fucking kid couldn’t do what I just did, yet you insist on calling me by that fucking name!”

He doesn’t flinch the way Hughie does, nor are his eyes as wary as MM’s. He remains his usual cool self, though his frown is more curious than irate.

“Didn’t realise it bugged ya so much,” he says.

“You don’t fucking realise much, do you, Butcher?” you snap, before turning on your heel and marching toward the room that was designated yours.

You march inside and slam the door, but a pair of heavy boots are hot on your heels, and you curse the landlord for not installing any locks as the door swings open again.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Butcher demands, slamming the door once again behind him.

You unzip your outer jacket and throw it on the bed, “Didn’t I make it clear?”

“Uh, no, actually,” he steps toward you, “I’m not fuckin’ pissed about the raid, I’m pretty fuckin’ impressed, but you’re still throwin’ a tantrum like a fuckin’-”

“Like a child?”

His eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms over his chest, “I was gon’a say kid.”

You clench your fists in an attempt to refocus your frustration, digging your fingernails into your palms until it stings.

“Look,” he says, “I know you’re capable, and fuckin’ talented with a gun, but I wasn’t tryin’ to be a dick, I was tryin’ to keep you safe.”

“Because I’m so young and stupid?” you ask, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I can’t fucking handle myself even though I just prevented all of you from getting your fucking asses kicked?”

He sighs, “I never said you’re fuckin’ stupid.”

“But I am young,” you mutter, your voice revealing more emotion than you intended.

His brows shift into a dubious frown, “What’s this fuckin’ obsession with your age?”

“What’s your obsession with my age?” you snap, “Calling me ‘kid’ all the time and acting like you’re my fucking babysitter.”

“Oh, so fuck me for caring ‘bout your safety, is that it?”

“No, Billy, that’s not it,” you sigh, tearing your gaze from his to focus on unclipping your thigh holster.

“Then what is it? ‘Cause I don’t know what I’ve fuckin’ done!”

Your holster comes loose and you grip the hilt of the dagger with white knuckles, standing straight again.

“You haven’t done anything!”

“Then what haven’t I fucking done?!” he exclaims, unfolding his arms and throwing his hands up.

The little voice in your head splits into a thousand, screaming a thousand different commands at you. Cry, yell at him, throw something at him, scream, hit your head against the fucking wall, punch him in the throat… kiss him.

Your ears, still numb from the explosion, fill with the sound of your thumping heartbeat as you take three quick steps toward him. His height is intimidating, but you don’t have time to regret your decision as your fingers curl into the material of his shirt and pull him toward you. You have to stretch onto your toes, your other hand finding his chest for stability as you crush your lips against his.

For a second, you think you’ve seriously fucked up, but then his mouth begins to move against yours and your knees buckle. His arms catch you, wrapping around your waist and holding your body against his as his tongue slides across your bottom lip. You part your lips with a sigh, and he takes all control, claiming your mouth and wiping your mind of any thought that isn’t him.

In two easy steps, he backs you against the bed, sitting you down without his lips ever leaving yours. He crawls on top of you, straddling your thighs and catching your hands as they find the buckle on his belt.

“Love,” he sighs against your lips, “hold on.”

You blink up at him, slowly coming down from your high, “To what?”

He chuckles, “I meant slow down a sec.”

“Oh,” your cheeks burn, and you snatch your hands out of his grasp. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever fuckin’ apologise for that,” he says, a dopey smile on his lips, “but I don’t know-”

“I do,” you interrupt him, holding yourself up on your elbows.

He raises his brows, “What do you know?”

“I know that I want you,” you reply, “and I know that you want me. I don’t know if this is a good idea, but it fucking feels like it, so please, Butcher… please.”

“Fuck,” he groans, his eyes lingering on your lips before trailing down your body to where he sat. “I know I want you, but why the fuck do you want me?”

You snort, “You’re kidding, right?”

He only frowns.

“Butcher, I have wanted you from the moment I fucking met you,” you fall back against the bed with a sigh, “I don’t know how you haven’t fucking noticed.”

He leans over you, holding himself up with a hand either side of your head. “Why?”

His voice is so deep and his eyes so dark, you struggle to breathe as your clothes suddenly feel like they’re strangling you.

“Because you’re-”

“An asshole?”

You giggle, “Yes, and rude, and brash, but you’re also fucking beautiful.”

His heavy breathing suddenly stops and his eyes widen as they search yours, as if looking for some sense of deception or sarcasm. You open your mouth to reassure him but he swallows your words with a kiss, his lips crashing into yours with bruising force. His mouth moves across your jaw and down your neck, and you whine when pulls away before quickly realising that your high-neck undershirt is in the way. His fingers find the hem and yank it up over your breasts, not bothering to remove it completely before his lips assault your chest, biting and soothing your skin in five separate spots as you writhe beneath him.

He moves down, placing a kiss on your sternum and your stomach, before pausing at the waistband of your pants and looking up with hungry eyes. “You sure ‘bout this?”

His hot breath fans your skin and goosebumps rise in response.

You nod, “Yes, please, Butcher. Yes.”

The buckle and button are loosened in a second, and he groans at the sight of your lacy black panties. He places a hot, wet kiss just above the hem before sitting back and unbuttoning his own shirt. He doesn’t manage to shrug it off though, because you take the opportunity to grip either side of it and pull him back down on top of you. The feeling of his skin against yours makes your whole body clench, and you know you’re kissing him sloppily but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Your fingers find his belt again, struggling to remember how the damn thing works when he pulls away with a gasp, “Hold on.”

You frown, “What now?”

He chuckles, “No, sweethear’, not like that.”

His hands take yours guiding them up over your head until you feel the wood of the headboard at your fingertips.

“I said, hold on.”

END.

#billy butcher #the boys #karl urban #billy butcher x reader #one shot #imagine #fanfiction #homelander #hughie campbell #karl urban x reader #butcher x reader #mothers milk #mm #frenchie

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marrziy · 2 months

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Como sempre, um petisquinho antes da janta 🤭 só falta escrever a versão do Bruto, então talvez eu poste amanhã (spoiler: não vai acontecer

#imagines #male reader #imagine #fanboy #leitor masculino #male!reader #x male reader #fanfic #male reader smut #bottom male reader #the boys #the boys smut #homelander #hughie campbell #billy butcher

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bittersweetarts · 7 months

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How to Disappear - Chapter 1

Soldier Boy (The Boys) x OC

Word count: 2389 words

Summary: Eden Reid can't help her curiosity, and Soldier Boy can't help but take advantage of that curiosity.

WARNINGS: Some depiction of violence, misogyny, and the usual TW for it being The Boys (Amazon)

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - AO3 Page

Chapter 1: An Act of Kindness

Eden Reid was at the start of her daily fucking crack ass of the dawn morning jog across Laurance Harbor Beach, sandy-brown hair up in a high pony, dressed in her usual bland sweats and black running shoes, when she came across him, unconscious along the shoreline, the waves repeatedly caressing him, gently, before retreating.

As she stared at him, the young woman noticed his tattered costume and the bruising littered on his face and skin, and that he did not appear to be breathing. For a moment, Eden contemplated what to do, because she knew that she couldn’t take him to any emergency room or call 911.

Because she knew exactly who he was.

Of course, she knew exactly who he fucking was, pretty much most of the world knew who exactly he fucking was.

He was Soldier Boy, the old leader of Payback, fought in all those important wars in the last century, America’s first and greatest Supe, a man who was supposed to be dead and yet somehow was now alive, lying on the beach in front of her.

And apparently now a Super-Terrorist, according to the news outlets, who for the past week have only been reporting on the attack on the Seven Tower, and how Queen Maeve had successfully saved the country with her sacrificial takedown of Soviet-brainwashed Soldier Boy; his defeat was supposed to be symbolic of a new age for freedom and safety for the masses.

Unlike most of the people Eden knew though, she wasn’t blinded by the lies fed to the masses on a silver spoon by the media and corporations like Vought International.

Eden knew, Eden knew all too well that Supes were nothing but selfish bastards at best, and that none of them give a single fuck about saving others. Eden knew that the mainstream media hyperinflated the heroism of ‘heroes’, and failed to report the deaths of normal civilians, who were nothing more than simply collateral damage. And Eden knew that if she was told that unconscious man lying before her was nothing but a villain, then that was not the full story.

And she knew this all this because if her abilities were not so weak, she would have been just another Supe on Vought or some other fuck’s payroll, spouting the exact same bullshit.

But no, her ability of super strength was, ironically, too weak to even be considered as a D-list Supe, despite her family’s dreams for her, and now in her mid-twenties, she wastes her days away as a receptionist at a private clinic in East Brunswick. So much for the glamorous life of the ‘super-abled’.

However, her abilities were not weak enough apparently to carry the heavy ass man before her. Although he did not appear much taller than she was, he was at least twice her size, and as she lifted him up into her arms, Eden gave a silent prayer, hoping that she wouldn’t see a single living soul as she carried the unconscious vigilante to her car, and that the oversized grey zip that she draped over him concealed his appearance well enough.

What the fuck was is my problem? Eden thought as she dropped Soldier Boy into the trunk of Mazda, a black SUV she bought years ago when she moved out of her childhood home.

Eden didn’t need this shit. It’s been years since she dropped out of Godolkin and left behind the world of fucked up Supes and drugs, and she was at peace living in solitude at her cabin by Norvin Green Forest. She didn’t need to get herself involved in dangerous shit. So why had she gotten herself involved by kidnapping the unconscious man who was lying in the trunk of her vehicle?

Eden couldn’t explain it. To call it a curiosity would be an understatement; it was more like a compulsion. She had acted thoughtlessly, as though she were possessed by something, and now, on her half hour drive back to her home in the woods, Eden began to regret what she had done.

Days passed and life continued as normal for Eden. She kept her unconscious house guest in a spare bedroom of her small cabin, and went to her 9 to 5 throughout the work week as usual.

In a way, Eden hoped that if Soldier Boy woke up in her home, he would simply leave, and that she would not have to meet him or explain anything. But every evening, following her commute, Eden was greeted by her dark home, and when checking on her guest, she found him unconscious, but still alive and in her spare bed.

Eden often thought about whether she should call the cops or to dump the unconscious Supe back at the beach (or literally anywhere else). But she did not do that, because she knew that by this point, it would simply make her a walking target either for Vought or the government, and really, it was a miracle that she had not been caught transporting him to her place from the beach. For all she knew though, some government entity or Vought was spying on her this very minute.

So instead, the young woman resigned herself to the guest bedroom, where she left Soldier Boy to lay on the queen-sized bed, most of its real estate which he occupied. As he lay there motionless, Eden would periodically cleanse his face and exposed skin with a damp wash cloth (not knowing what else to do that would help him), before covering him with a light blanket. For the rest of the night, Eden would sit on the cream armchair by him, mindlessly watching the news on the small TV set in the room, on low volume, while thinking about anything and everything.

It's not that Eden did not have anything else to do, or that she had no one. Eden prefers to consider her lifestyle as a self-imposed exile, because she knew that she could not rely on anyone. Disconnecting herself from the world, being in nature, was healing to her, and even if she wanted to, she couldn’t get herself to trust anyone, not anymore.

And so, Eden spent several weeks like this, working during the day, going on her daily runs (though now in the forest rather than the beach), and barely sleeping at night, passively watching the news and her unconscious guest, who’s bruising slowly faded away. Soldier Boy looked exactly as he did in his old film, Red Thunder, Eden noticed, and had not aged in the slightest, which bewildered her.

But despite being the vision of health, Soldier Boy did not wake, and Eden did not know what to do.

More often than Eden would like to admit, Eden watched Soldier Boy, observing his long lashes and the way his now steady breathing never wavered – not even when Eden would wipe a damp wash cloth across his body – and she noticed how quickly his stubble grew into a fuller beard, but never to the point of the point of overgrowth, despite the lack of grooming.

Eden also noticed how humorous it was that practically the only topic on the news channels was Soldier Boy himself, and how it was reported that he was not a Super-Terrorist anymore, but an odd dichotomy of hero and victim to Soviet radicalization. And so, the narrative shifted, not that she believed it to be the full truth. Yet something Eden knew to be true was not on any news channel or online forum: Soldier Boy was not dead but alive, albeit unconscious in some cabin hidden away in the mountains.

Or rather that was the truth, until Soldier Boy regained consciousness.

It happened so quickly, and Eden was not entirely awake to even process exactly what happened.

One moment, Eden was drifting into sleep, in her usual seat on the armchair, with the lamp lights dim, the moonlight from the window behind filtering into the room, and the TV white noise drowning out the silence. The next moment, Eden found herself gasping for breath, suffocating, as two strong hands wrapped around her throat, pinning her to the armchair.

Eyes still half-asleep but now tearful, Eden met the vicious stare of her now-awakened guest, and suddenly, she came to her senses. Mustering up all her strength, Eden pushed against his chest, the supe-strength of which took her attacker by slight surprise. His hold on her throat relaxed slightly, and Eden quickly grabbed his wrists to keep his grip loose.

“Let me go –” Eden choked out, trying to breath.

As though confused, Soldier Boy tilted his head, but his expression remained in its remorselessly neutral expression. Fear shot through her veins when Eden realized that her strength did not affect him but rather spiked the smallest amount of curiosity.

“I was just trying to help you.” Eden sputtered out incoherently as she felt the grip began to tighten again. Soldier Boy narrowed his eyes at this, and then right on cue, something else caught his attention.

The tiny TV in the room switched to midnight rerun of The Cameron Coleman Hour on the Vought News Network, and broadcast invaded the room, with the image of Soldier Boy plastered over the screen.

“Good evening everybody, welcome back …” Cameron Coleman’s voice echoed throughout the room.

As it did, Soldier Boy loosened his grip on Eden’s throat, letting her go. Eden’s hand shot up to her neck, strands of her sandy-brown hair falling to her face as she gasped for more air. Her skin felt sore, and she knew that if she were a normal person, she would have been dead by now, at the very least from a broken neck.

“… and please welcome our guest of the evening, Defense Secretary Chris Barney.” The cheering track played on TV bounced off the walls in the guest room, while the camera panned from Cameron Coleman onto a burgeoned man his early-thirties, already balding, and Soldier Boy’s attention was entirely captivated by what was on TV.

“Mr. Secretary, thank you so much for joining us.” Chris Barney, in his mechanical voice, thanked his interviewer as well, and Eden, with her hands on her tender neck, watched as Soldier Boy was entirely captivated by the TV interview.

“I want to kick off by asking you to directly respond to the idea that Soldier Boy and this new age of Super-Terrorism, which involves Supes living in our country, should be the Pentagon and American public’s top concern.”

“See Cameron, I am not going to beat around the bush. Soldier Boy’s attack in Manhattan is an isolated incident, and the FBSA has taken great strides in tackling this matter, and in the mere weeks past, there is already a significant reduction in the number of violent incidences within the public, both super-abled and not. So to answer your question, no it is not a concern for both the Pentagon and America, especially as Soldier Boy is an isolated incident, and dead at that.”

Chris Barney’s voice bounced off the walls, and as it sounded off, and he answered follow up questions relating to terror attacks, which Soldier Boy ignored, as he began to speak over him, his voice both low but loud, full of contempt.

“So that’s it, huh – I’m dead. I’m fucking dead to the American people. Again.”

Eden did not know what to say, and took a step back, the back of her legs now pressed to the wooden side table by the bed.

“I fought for this country. I fucking gave up my life for this fucked up country, and what do I get in return? Fucking nothing.”

As he spoke, spitting out each syllable, Eden noticed how Soldier Boy clinched his fists tightly, and wondered whether he would just destroy her home, or kill her as well. She remained silent, not daring to even breath too loudly as though that would set him off. But Eden’s heart was beating at a million miles per minute, and she was sure that Soldier Boy could hear it.

Reminded of her presence, Soldier Boy turned around and glanced over Eden, as though he were a predator contemplating whether his prey was worthy of slaughter. His deliberation lasted only a few moments. With only two tall strides, Soldier Boy, in his tattered costume, came face-to-face with the young woman stood before him, brushing away a thick strand that had fallen in front of her eyes.

“What’s your name doll?”

Soldier Boy’s voice was deep, and though he did not swear or say anything malignant, Eden was still frightened, but willed herself to not shake in her fuzzy slippers.

“Eden,” Eden responded quietly, but Soldier Boy’s furrowed eyebrows made her paranoid that he either hadn’t heard her, or that she hadn’t actually said anything.

“Eden Reid, um, Sir.” Eden said once again, only slightly more audibly, while looking to the ground, so as to avoid his burning stare. At this, Soldier Boy chuckled and gently took push a hand to her chin, tilting her face upwards, making her look back at him again.

“Well, aren’t you sweet, Miss Reid.” Soldier Boy spoke, the side of his mouth tilting upwards. Inching his face closer, he continued speaking, his breath blowing over Eden’s face. “Have you got any pills, sweetheart?”

Eden shook her head slowly, now shaking slightly and regretting her personal stance on being drug-free.

“Weed?”

Eden shook her head again, and she felt her heart speed up anymore. At this, Soldier Boy turned away to let out a frustrated sigh, before facing her again.

“A good girl. Surely you can be resourceful and find something, doll. Age of feminism and all.”

Soldier Boy’s tone was condescending, but thankfully, Eden knew that her co-worker, Matt, had an affinity for her and substance abuse, so she might be able to score something from him. Pressing her lips together, Eden nodded, which made Soldier Boy smile. Letting go of her chi, Soldier Boy turned around and sat on the armchair to his right, paying attention to the TV again, which was still playing the Cameron Coleman interview rerun.

“Well then, chop-chop sweetheart. And afterwards, you can tell me where the fuck I am and why the fuck I’m here with you.”

Author's Note: This is an AU story where rather than getting captured, Soldier Boy/Ben ends up projecting himself into the Hudson River. I am not a Geography or Physics major, so none of this actually makes sense or is realistic.

– Chapter 2

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