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#the boys frenchie
hermywolf · 2 years
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ok yes i hate it when butcher is awful to annie or kimiko because they’re supes but it IS objectively very funny that he was like ‘okay! here’s my anti-supes terrorist group in which we hate supes and murder supes. who wants to join’ and frenchie and hughie were BOTH like ‘me! :D can i bring my supe girlfriend though’ like. how do you even react to that
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sixleggedboar · 3 months
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A friend of mine said I looked like a „french specialist“ and singlehandedly reignited my love for Frenchie.
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mcfuckity · 5 months
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While Butcher MAY HAVE lost Ryan as a son, I’m manifesting that he adopts Marie, Emma, Jordan, and Andre😌😌
Matter of fact, The Boys just share custody of all of those kids. ✨They’re a family in my head✨
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Look, they showed us Kimikos and Frenchies text history and I love that.
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lilicohirukoma · 1 year
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ichorai · 2 years
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nina cried power ; frenchie.
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track one of WASTELAND, BABY!
pairing ; frenchie x gn!reader
synopsis ; he calls you a plethora of endearing french nicknames, but you call him an asshole.
words ; 1.9k
themes ; angst, fluff, mild action
warnings / includes ; profanity, kissing, blood and injuries, near death experiences and emotional constipation <3 a bunch of french pet names, frenchie is lovesick, reader is part of the boys gang, the rest of the members are mentioned, hughie and reader are also mentioned to be close friends
main masterlist.
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The rag between your teeth tasted disgusting. Sweat and grime and flecks of blood stained the once-white fabric—which had come from Frenchie’s own shirt he tore to shreds to bind your wounds. You bit down harder, tongue retracting further down your throat in hazy revulsion, groaning in pain when you felt his hands all over your abdomen, doused with your dark ichor, his expression heavy-set with frantic concern.
“Hold still, mon amour,” he said, brows drawing together when you ignored him completely, roaring obscenities behind the fabric and thrashed even harder. What a fucking asshole. Memories of the first time you met Frenchie flashed behind your eyelids—he had stuck a gun beneath your jaw with a snarl and the rest was history. A complete one-eighty to his expression now. “HUGHIE, HOLD THEM DOWN!” he screamed, completely strung-up.
Faintly, you registered another pair of hands pinning you to the cold tiles of the floor, and your friend’s stuttering melded into the cavernous cacophony ringing in your ears. It felt as if a fire was eating you alive, trying to crawl its way from inside out. Your skin was hot, nearly scalding to the touch.
You still couldn’t really remember what happened. 
Supes… there were supes there. One moment you were helping M.M. reload his gun, and the next, half a dozen quills were sticking out of your abdomen, dripping with strange green liquid you’d come to learn was venom. You were going to die, weren’t you?
Frenchie had screamed your name—you couldn’t remember the last time he called you that. See, he always referred to you with endearing french nicknames that you really didn’t care for (lies, you were quite fond of his silly little pet names). You, however, called him an asshole. Sometimes affectionate, and most of the time, you really meant it.
But not this time.
Instead, you glanced at him with mild confusion, before looking down at your stomach, then back up at him. “Frenchie…?” you asked quietly, before collapsing to the ground.
The car ride back to base was painful. Butcher drove like a madman, and Hughie was sweating bullets in the passenger seat, constantly glancing back at you writhing in the backseats. Frenchie had situated you so your head was in his lap as he crooned reassurances that you couldn’t even hear.
God, everything was so dark. So loud. You wanted to claw at Frenchie’s arms and tell him that you hated him. Or that you loved him. Either would work. Damn it, the venom was messing with your mind. 
And that’s how you ended up with Frenchie’s shirt shoved between your teeth as you screamed bloody murder, calling him a bastard as he dug his fingers into the sloppy mess that was your stomach, muttering apologies over and over and over again.
“STOP!” you wailed, kicking at his knee when the agony tore you apart, tears streaking lines through the dirt on your cheeks. “You fuck—fucking asshole!”
He didn’t stop. 
If he did, you’d die. You weren’t a Supe, no matter how tough you presented yourself to be. Ironically enough, your utility belt clipped around your waist was shoved lower so he could work on your wounds, various sharp blades pressing dangerously against your back.
You had passed out from the pain at one point, going limp in his hold, which sent him into another frenzy. He snapped at Butcher with a fiery rage he’d never shown him before when the man offered to give you some temp V to speed up your healing. 
It took hours until he was done. You’d lost a lot of blood, but he managed to staunch it enough—it was messy, but it’d do. The red slick still left a part-sticky, part-dried residue over the skin of his hands, but he didn’t bother to wash it off. He refused to leave your side. So there he sat, shirtless and filthy, pressing kisses to the side of your sweaty head. It wasn’t often that he cried, but he cried for you. He didn’t even care that M.M. and Kimiko were sending him concerned glances. 
He just wanted you to be alright.
It was reassuring to see your chest rise and fall rhythmically. “Come back to me, mon chou. Come back.”
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You woke up with a start. The first thing you registered was the thirst. Your throat was barren of any moisture, so you croaked out a raspy, garbled noise, barely loud enough to alert Frenchie who had passed out with his head propped on your shoulder. 
He sprang upwards, eyes flying wide open and lips parted as he cradled your face. The calluses of his fingers felt rough on your cheeks, and normally you would’ve grumbled at him, tell him to bugger off in true Butcher-like fashion, but all that came out was a quiet rumble of temporary relief.
“Wa… er,” you hacked out, grimacing at the scratchiness of your voice.
“I’ll get you water, ma puce, I’ll be right back,” he rushed to say, chapped lips coming forward to hastily slant over your forehead. “Don’t move.”
You had half the mind to chuckle at that. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
He disappeared through the door, and you suddenly felt cold without his presence. A tremor spidered up your spine. The pain in your abdomen was still there, now dulled to a faint throbbing. You realized that your bandages were far cleaner than when you had passed out, face clean and free of dirt.
A queer sort of sadness wrapped its dark palm over your heart. Frenchie took good care of you.
M.M. appeared by the doorway, wearing a mildly guilty expression.
“Hey,” he said, ambling closer. “How you feeling, kiddo?”
You lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. 
Gingerly rubbing the back of his head, M.M. whistled out a long exhale. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re hurt. And you saved my life. Thank you. Frenchie definitely gave me a mouthful when you were asleep.”
You allowed for a small grin to play at the corner of your lips. 
“He never left your side, you know,” M.M. mumbled. “He really cares about you. Loves you, even.”
After a considerably lengthy silence, you cracked open your mouth to hoarsely whisper out, “He’s an asshole.”
M.M. regarded you with a quirked brow. “And you aren’t? Come on. The two of you are perfect for each other.”
“He doesn’t love me,” you said in a small voice, staring at a particularly interesting spot on the floor. “He loves the idea of me, but not me.”
“What?”
The sound of that French accent by the door made your heart drop down to your stomach. Your eyes shot up to see Frenchie holding a glass of water, staring at you with an expression that so clearly read anguish.
M.M. pursed his lips awkwardly and sent you one last nod before doggedly bowing his head and striding out. Frenchie didn’t acknowledge him, gaze glued on you, shuffling forward and holding out the glass.
You made to take it from him, but he merely tutted, using his free hand to lift your chin and raise the cup to your lips. If you weren’t so desperately impatient, you would’ve protested. Just this one. This one time, you’d let him take care of you.
The water was heaven on your tongue. You gulped down so quickly that you nearly cried with relief, droplets falling from the corner of your mouth and meandering down your jaw. 
“Slowly, slowly, mon trésor,” he crooned, before placing the glass down. There was a tender look to his eye that you misliked. Asshole. “Good?”
“Good,” you croaked. A frown molded over your visage.
“What was that about, mon amour?” he asked, sitting on the mattress. “You think I don’t love you? Why on earth would you think that?”
When you refused to meet his eyes, Frenchie slotted his palm beneath your chin once again, gently running his thumb over your jaw until you reluctantly moved your irises to meet his.
“There you are. Bonjour, mon chou.”
“Hey, asshole.” 
Much to your chagrin, Frenchie threw his head back and laughed. It was a genuine laugh, full-chested and lively. 
“I love you. I love you so fucking much. I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t know how to get you to believe me.”
You wanted to believe him so badly. Was it because you loved him, too? Or was it because you just wanted any love?
 “Then show me.” The words were soft—so quiet it was near indiscernible. 
Initially, there was a beat of shocked silence. Then, Frenchie didn’t waste any time leaning forward and kissing you gently, enveloping your lips with his own. He cradled your jaw with shaking fingers, nose slotted against yours so that it brushed your cheek when he angled his head to the side. It was so slow, so soft, so very warm that you nearly crumbled into a million pieces under his touch. 
He kissed like it was the last time he’d ever be able to do so. His brows furrowed in concentration, as if this was his one and only chance to show you just how much he adored you. 
When you finally broke away, you had a palm pressed against his bare chest. He knocked his forehead against yours affectionately, a pleased grin playing on his lips.
“Do you believe me now?” he asked. Before even giving you the chance to reply, he swooped back down to kiss you again. “And now?”
“You’re annoying, you know that?” you replied easily, though with a fond smile etched over your mouth. A sudden wave of bashfulness tumbled over you. You tilted your head slightly, averting your gaze once more. “Thank you. For saving my life. I could’ve died if it weren’t for you.”
He waved your sentiment away. “Bah, I didn’t do much. I cried—and I nearly pissed my pants. I was afraid you’d… you…” The words died on his tongue. He didn’t have the heart to finish his sentence.
“I’m okay,” you susurrated, leaning forward so that his nose bumped into yours. “Thanks to you. I owe you one, asshole. I owe you big time.”
“You don’t owe me anything, mon ange. I just need to know that you’re alright,” he whispered, lips only a hair's breadth away from yours—
Before Butcher sauntered in with his stupidly loud voice.
“Honeymoon’s over, you cunts!” he announced with his incredibly thick accent. Frenchie looked as if he was ready to commit homicide, and you could only muffle a snort of amusement, patting his bare shoulders in mock sympathy. The bearded man saluted you with a roguish leer. “Y/N, glad to see you’re back in tip-top shape. Hughie’s been a nervous little bird ever since you went down.” You most definitely weren’t in tip-top shape, but you supplied him with a forced smile that was far too wide to be deemed natural. It was nice to hear that your old friend was worried for you, though. 
Butcher clapped his hands together. "We’ve got some business to attend to."
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tectoniccyborg · 6 months
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Couple a crazy kids
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parockeen · 2 years
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The boys is actually just a silly little series about sociopathic milf loving captain America getting chased by the accent mafia. Tell me I’m wrong.
Also why is black noir in the comics actually fucking satan and in the series just a poor little silly meow meow.
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badpanini · 2 years
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am i right or am i right guys
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legendsofentity · 2 years
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the way kimiko was so proud of frenchie for standing up to butcher--
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reaperkiller · 2 years
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i'd like to hear about your family. keep them alive a bit longer. if you'd ever like to teach me.
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hermywolf · 2 years
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the boys + textposts 23/?  
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wiltgraham · 1 year
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The Boys S3E08
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bonsoir ma chère i would love to request getting drunk with Frenchie from The Boys if it's not to much to ask, male reader would be best but you can keep it neutral too, i just wanna share a bouteille de Chardonnay and make out with him, please and thank you 😊
The French Kiss
Pairing: Frenchie x GenNeutral!Reader (no pronouns used)
Warning: Drinking, making out, swearing
Word Count: 965
A/n: Thanks for the request @cactuwus!!! First time writing for my man Frenchie!!!
Requests are still open!
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“It’s the end of the world, we might die tomorrow, mon ami, so I mean… Pourquoi pas?”
In the darkest corner of the room, where basically no light could reach, you were sitting next to each other. Further in the place, you could hear voices, people talking about their next move, talking about drug dealing, or talking about a doll house they were building for their kid.
Even if you two weren’t alone in this place, that underground basement from a random shop… In this particular corner, you felt alone. Completely alone, apart from the other body of flesh stuck against yours.
“You’re right,” you said, now able to understand what he was saying when he would switch some words to French. It was basic, mon ami, my friend. Pourquoi pas, why not. It was easy to learn, just like it’s been easy for him to learn sign language to better understand Kimiko. Learning was part of your life now. “We’ll be fucking dead tomorrow,” you turned your head towards him. In the darkness, you could barely see his features, but you didn’t need to. Your eyes memorized them all. The way his eyes lit up when he was proud. When he was happy. And the way the softest of smiles was drawn on his lips when he looked your way. 
His eyes were the prettiest part of him. And you loved to gaze into them for hours. Right now, you couldn’t see them, but it was okay. You knew what expression he had on his face anyway.
“So for you, mon ami,” you heard him shift against the wall you were sitting against, his warmth leaving you momentarily as he looked for something. Then, the only light coming your way reflected on the glassy material. “Une bouteille de Chardonnay,” he ended up bursting into laughter at your lack of answer. You felt something lay on your hand as he guided it to the thing he was holding. “Let’s get fucking drunk.”
-
Half the bottle had to be gone by now. The alcohol felt good in your throat, it was burning, strong, but also delicious. And the more the gulps made their way down, the more the heat seemed to intensify, and the more all the reasons why you never acted on your feelings for him seemed…. Stupid. It was the end. Tomorrow you would face the supes. There was no way you would make it back. So why stopping?
“Frenchie… I wanna… try something,” you licked your lips, part of it to moist them, part of it cause you were nervous as hell, even with all the Chardonnay you drank, and part of it cause fuck, that alcool tasted so fucking delightful. He couldn’t see your gesture though, so he had no idea what you had in mind.
“What is it?” Frenchie asked, and you could feel his hot breath softly flying against your face, a sign he just got closer. Taking the cue, you fumbled in the dark until your hand met his oh so devastating scruff you dreamed of touching since the moment you first saw him. Your thumb brushed his cheek slowly and you used your touch to guide you impossibly closer.
“I just want to make out,” you bluntly stated. “Like we say, a big, wet, long french kiss…. French,” you started laughing as your numb brain made the connection between his name and the name of the tongue kiss. “I want to french you Frenchie-”
Your giggles were suddenly interrupted when burning lips pressed against yours.
Your breath got stolen then. Even the simplest task of breathing through your nose got hard, impossible, even, like he just left with all the oxygen in the room. But suddenly, your body remembered how to kiss back, your lips parted for your tongue to lick on his lips, asking for access, and you understood.
He was the oxygen.
The moment your tongue met his, you were done for. Wet and messy, just like you wanted, you made out with Frenchie in that darkest corner of the place. It felt good, like you were finally living, letting your feelings take hold of the wheel of your body. And quickly, you had to break the kiss and laid your forehead on his, both trying to find your breath.
“Fuck,” you half moaned as you felt yourself get impossibly turned on by that simple French kiss. Your lips were burning, bruised, probably, and you only wanted to keep going until lack of air stopped you.
“Putain de merde,” Frenchie added. “That was so good…”
You swallowed loudly, your words already leaving your mouth before your head could make it stop. Kissing Frenchie was something, but asking him to-
“Wanna continue that in a more private place, mon beau?” You asked. You knew there wasn’t really any quiet place in here. Frenchie had a makeshift bed, but it wasn’t really the best spot, and he shared that corner with Kimiko. Your numb brain was searching for words to express that issue when lips interrupted you again, stealing your thoughts with your breath this time.
“For you, mon amour, I would rent a whole building just to have a minute alone with you. Come on,” he stood up, dragging you with him. You grabbed the bottle of Chardonnay as you got up, and on trembling legs, he guided you to the exit. It was hard to focus on walking straight and you started to giggle when you noticed your hand was in his. “We’re leaving for the night,” he announced to M.M, the man barely acknowledging the two of you. “Come on, mon amour, let’s get somewhere expensive to fuck all night.”
To that, you could only say one thing.
“Oui, mon beau.”
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Forever taglist: @nitnat6245 @b3autyfuldisast3r @eevvvaa @fictional-affairs @wickedinspirations @awkward-and-indecisive
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So Tomer just posted this, and I can't. The amount of hints around this ship is just driving me nuts. (HE EVEN USED THE SHIP NAME!)
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Please, send help. I don't know how to live until friday and the new season (Also, I am scared)
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oopsyblue · 2 years
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I can’t express how much serotonin I get every time Frenchie says “petit Hughie”
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