──── Romantic Moments ┆-`♡´- / CRAZY ASS HUSBANDS GANG
﹙‧₊˚♡ pairings: homelander x reader, shane walsh x reader, pelle x reader, hellboy x reader
﹙‧₊˚♡ content: gender!neutral reader, race!neutral reader, toxic/yandere behavior — YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!! | wc: 4.3k
SHANE WALSH:
"Baby, you gonna pop a disc outta place one of these days trying to haul around that damn library of yours."
You tuned out Shane's words (and any variation of the words) the same way you tuned out everything else unpleasant about the world you lived in now: mosquitoes biting at you through the thinning layer of your grimy sleeping bag; the constant ache of your heels growing blisters and callouses from miles and miles of destination-less walking; the inability to get your skin truly clean with the little watered down bodywash you had left; and Shane bitching about a behavior he doesn't have a hope in hell of changing.
The end of the world had stolen everything. You didn't dare try and take an exact stock of all the losses. As sentimental as Shane liked to say you were, pragmatism had nestled deep roots into your soul the moment you realized the normal world you'd lived in had gone and died a terrible, screaming death and left shambling corpses in its wake to wander in search of more blood to spill. There was no safety in the past. No warmth there. It was a wormhole with an inescapable gravity. Beckoning you always to dwell a little more on the days when food came easy and the people you loved were always near or within reach. Nostalgia and the vault of your memories were a siren duo you kept locked up tight so they couldn't drag you into the murky depths of despair.
But survival was a marathon, not a sprint, and there was only so much focusing on the necessities your spirit could take. Shane's focus on the details of your continued existence was unflinching, no matter how grim they got. He settled his mind onto issues until they were solved and then plopped all his brain-power onto the next until the old problem would come rearing its head again. "Gonna have to keep moving until we find a camping spot next to a water source. We're almost out." or "That's the last few can of beans we got. We'll have to lay some traps tonight. Catch us some fresh meat." An endless slog of absolutely essential tedium.
People were not meant to live and focus only upon food, shelter, defense, food, shelter, defense. From the beginning of time, they told stories to soothe the ache of reality. You were simply continuing on in the age-old traditions of humanity sprung up from simplistic tales spun around the welcoming heat of a fire and ending here with you shifting around the content of your bag because you'd found a few books in the house you were using for shelter and you refused to let them go.
They were perfect books. Spines uncracked despite the covers being worn in some places. No mold or tiny bugs gnawing at the corners. It was becoming rarer to find books in adequate condition since most places had broken windows and busted in doors that let the elements creep in. You stuck your nose into the pages so you could smell something familiar and lovely: the pleasant dusty smell of paper and ink. It had been so long since you read something new. Good couldn't even be a factor. You took what you could find. Didn't have the option of being picky. It felt like a miracle to look at the synopsis of a book and feel excited and not just sated.
Shane watched you grimace down a can of tuna while fidgeting with your backpack and the balancing of the new weight with a huff of amusement. You were stubborn as a mule. Rather get bone tired from lugging around a bag stuffed to the brim just to keep a couple of books available for reading whenever you get a free second than be a little bored. If he didn't keep giving you nasty looks that screamed, watch those surroundings! he was positive you would walk (and die upon) the broken asphalt with your nose happily buried in the pages of the latest novel you'd scavenged.
But for all his warnings when it comes to the way you indulge yourself in this singular luxury, he's the one who's taking a downright stupid risk — not you.
A walker ambles too close to the shelf Shane is hiding behind, so he drives his hunting knife into the thing's skull and catches it before it can drop to the ground noisily and bring the hoard down on him in a swarm of limbs and teeth. The library is eerily silent besides the intermittent groans of the undead. It smells awful. The air is so thick with the smell of rotten flesh that the smell might as well be a second atmosphere. Oxygen and Decomposition. Luckily, it's the main entrance that must've gotten mobbed and overwhelmed, allowing this surplus of walkers to funnel inside. The windows in the adult section are still intact, keeping the books as protected as anything can be these days.
"Fuckin' dewey decimal system…" he mutters, squinting at the sides of the shelves as he works his way through genre sections, searching for one last particular book. He already has three others weighing down the pack he brings with him when he goes on supply runs alone. Something light so he can move fast. Squeeze into tight spaces.
He's preparing mentally for keeping his bag full of your precious books. It would be a waste of space and burnt calories except the moment he spotted the decently sized library in a town that bordered on becoming a full-blown city he remembered the nights of you laying against him, telling him about some of your favorite books in the world. You lit up as you explained all the plots and characters to him with such reverence that he had to wonder if literature didn't mean the same thing to you as God did to other people.
"Jackpot!" Shane could crow with relief as he finally finds it, your absolute favorite book in the world. He's even found it in a hardcover that will make it easier to protect, even as it makes it more annoying to keep around.
The sacrifices you make for love.
Shane is pushing it into the bag, down on one knee when he hears a chorus of groans from behind him. When he looks up, he sees no less than five drooling, gaping maws snapping at him. Eager to tear the flesh from his bones and make another monster out of him. But these creatures are mindless hunger. Shane isn't sure how human he acts nowadays; survival makes beasts of men, but he knows he's yours, and you need him — so he'll make it back to you. He stands up slow but unloads his gun fast, headshots that splatter brain matter across the titles of books on either aisle. The bang bang bang of his gun going off is like a dinner bell being rung, and within seconds the library is teeming with violence.
When Shane drops the books in your lap, he has to suppress a wince of pain from the way you throwing your arms around him in gratitude smarts the bruised rib or two he got while escaping the death trap he'd willingly sauntered into. He tugs you close and kisses your forehead, happy he can provide not just survival but living, too.
"Where did you even fucking get these, Shane?"
"I just went and supported the local library, honey."
HELLBOY:
"You know I don't want him to change who he is for me… but I guess I just want a little more romance. Do I sound like an asshole?" You lay on the floor of the BPRD library, using telekinesis to flip the pages of the books Abe is reading while he gracefully tolerates the role of relationship therapist.
Abe shakes his head, "You sound perfectly reasonable to me."
Hellboy can't get any closer than listening outside the library doors, which hadn't been closed all the way. Luckily for him, the damn room is so full of space it has an echo. He wishes he were some run-of-the-mill looking guy who could risk peering into the room so he can get a glimpse of your face. But the two of you would spot his bright red face and golden eyes in less than half a breath. Anybody would.
"I just don't know how to bring it up to him. I don't want to hurt his feelings and... Well, maybe it's just an adjustment period. It's not like we can go out to dinner and have a candlelit meal."
The words hurt. Tear at that tender part of him inside that's always worrying about what kind of life you can build together. Your love is a healing thing for Hellboy. It washes away what makes him alien until he is something clean and normal. The gaping wound of loneliness that has been screaming for attention since he was a boy goes quiet in your arms. Your love is good; it's freedom and peace. His love is a chain at the ankles and wrists, shackling you to a life in the shadows. Keeping you at his side — trapped with him by an anchor of affection — was selfish. One of the worst things he's ever done, but he'd do it over again. Wouldn't be able to help himself. You were as easy to love as he was to hate.
But much as he forgets it, you were making a choice to be with him. He wasn't a monster from a fairytale spiriting away the precious, pure-hearted noble that he'd spotted shimmering with beauty in an open field. You chose this life with him. The only thing he can do is make your choice feel like the right one.
Nearly everyone at the BPRD owes Hellboy a favor. Usually, that favor is him saving their life. He calls in quite a few of them to pull off this feat — the library transformed into a romantic getaway. Candles are everywhere to give the room ambiance (Abe had placed three new fire extinguishers in the room as he helped to arrange them…just in case). There's a table in the middle of the room, rose petals scattered along its stark-white tablecloth, and a bottle of champagne just waiting to be popped. No one dared busting his balls as they helped with the set-up; half the agents too afraid to be put through a wall and the other half simply taking pity on him. Someone had been brave enough to pat him on the arm, 'This will get you out of the doghouse for sure. It looks great, big guy!' He didn't refute being in trouble with you because wasn't he, in a way? You had been so sure you would just have to close the door on this type of romance in order to choose him. You hadn't even bothered bringing it up to him. Something is getting lost in the space between you.
He would let the world burn for you. He'd burn it down himself if you only asked. Anything that's his to give is yours; and whatever he doesn't have he'll find a way to get because that's the kind of love you deserve.
When you gasp walking into the library, turning slowly to take in the new look of the room — soft and dreamy — the knot of anxiety that lived in his chest all week finally loosens.
"It's not a candlelit dinner at some fancy joint, but uh... this ain't too shabby, right?" Hellboy asks, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling like a living, breathing exposed nerve. His eyes are glued to you, taking in your awed reaction and storing it away for the rainy days in his head when it's hard to believe he's good enough for you.
"Oh, Red—" and you're standing in front of him, hands on his broad shoulders to tug him down until he's at kissing height. He obliges, relishing in the warmth of your kiss and how you never seem to mind touching a monster. "Wait, did Abe snitch on me?" You pull away from the kiss to squint up at your boyfriend.
He shakes his head, "Nah. I was eavesdropping." This gasp you let out is less awe, more outrage, but you should know better than to get any sort of riled up while you're in Hellboy's arms; he thinks you look gorgeous when you're angry.
You only have the willpower to fight off the next kiss for a few seconds. His tongue slipping coaxingly into your mouth is a wonderful distraction. You'll remember to be mad at him later — after you've enjoyed your romantic dinner. And maybe a little dessert, too.
HOMELANDER:
"Wait — the 4th isn't your actual birthday?" One second you're curled into Homelander's side trying to fight off a pout because all his birthday plans seemed to involve a copious amount of PR, interviews, and very little time spent with you, and the next thing you know a curveball has hit you in the back of the head at top speeds.
"No," he scoffs like you've said something ridiculous when the more obviously ridiculous thing is claiming your birthday is the 4th of July to really nail home the all-American-hero schtick that he can't let go of. You do not say this out loud.
"When is the actual date? Why are we even talking about the fake one then?" You crawl into his lap to soften the blow of having the nerve to question him about anything (for a man who does so many interviews, you'd think he'd be able to tolerate the back and forth of normal conversation a little better).
He's silent in a way you don't like before his hands settle on your waist, pulling you in a little further until your head is laying on his shoulder and you can't look at his face. His gloved hand presses into the back of your neck and keeps you there. He does that sometimes; makes it so you can't look him in the eye when you hit a real sore spot of his checkered past. You lean into the touch because there's nothing else you can do. When he gets upset you become more an object of comfort than a person. The velveteen rabbit before all his pretty fur got snuggled off.
"I don't know the actual date. The scientists celebrated it randomly when they remembered a kid should have a birthday at all. It only became a big thing once I went public. Then Vought picked the 4th. Works with my brand." He says it all so matter-of-factly that you would think he didn't care at all. But his hands squeeze with the barest hint of too much pressure before they loosen all at once, like someone pried open a bear-trap so you could swing a trapped leg free from the steel teeth.
You want to say: I'm sorry, but that could make him snap that he doesn't need your pity when what you're trying to offer up is your love. The compassion he was never afforded that every child needs. You hadn't considered these things human necessities until Homelander. The scars his psyche had gained by growing up in the absence of these gentle fundamentals were not just tragic, but disturbing. Like watching a victim of a horrible house fire come stumbling onto their front lawn in flammable clothing, screaming in agony as the fibers melted to their skin and their skin melted to their bone. You tried not to flinch away from the sight of him.
Finding out Homelander's actual date of birth would be impossible. The truth of Homelander's upbringing is buried behind mountains of lies and bureaucratic paperwork meant to protect those lies. Even trying to dig for those records might get you in trouble with Vought. The only avenue available to you is the same one the marketing team took: close your eyes and throw a dart at a calender date. Mazel tov! Happy new birthday. Except the date you pick will be just for Homelander. Just for the two of you. A day to privately celebrate something real, even if it isn't perfect.
He can be Vought's poster boy on the 4th, and you will play the role of adoring eye-candy. You don't complain when he has to fly off several times that day to put out fires across the country — some of which you're sure Vought has orchestrated just so they can get videos of Homelander saving the day and boost their joint approval ratings — only give him a kiss on the cheek and a 'Go get 'em, Tiger,' because this is just an arbitrary date to smile through now. You cling to his arm at the party the company throws for him. Smile and take a step to the side as shareholders and lesser celebrities approach Homelander like he's a god or a dangerous animal. It doesn't matter. They muster up the courage to ask for autographs and pictures either way.
Ten days later he comes home too early. All the corny decorations are only haphazardly put up. You'd taken a break in order to ice the cake. There's a sign with bright blue lettering hanging limply from the ceiling: happy birthday, John! Each letter after D droops toward the ground like a waterlogged flower heavily abused by rainy season. The exclamation point could be used to sweep the floor.
There's a guilty smear of violent red icing across your cheek. Your fingertips are sticky and eyes sore from squinting at all sides of the cake as you tried to get every detail perfect. You had stumbled narrowly past the finish line of subpar to land firmly among the rankings of middling bakers.
John takes in the scene, including the apron you're wearing which proudly orders: 'KISS THE COOK'. He blinks dazedly like a lion waking from a nap beneath the sweltering afternoon sun that bakes the tall grass of the savanna to a dry golden-brown.
"I was thinking we should have a new birthday for you. One that's just for us to celebrate?" You say, placing the icing bag on the counter and wishing to tuck the cake behind you. Wishing your power was the ability to grow to the height of a giant so you could tuck the whole of the apartment behind you.
You had wanted to present an entire, finished project of love. Not something that could be picked apart for all its unpolished flaws.
He walks closer, cape fluttering out behind him because he's perfected the exact stride he needs to always keep it flowing heroically in motion, and stares down at the cake. There's a picture of the two of you together printed on top, one of the few times you've managed to coerce him into the clothes of a civilian.
"Aren't you sweet as pie." He aims for nonchalance and misses by miles. You shoot him a blinding smile and go back to hurriedly trying to finish your monstrosity of frosting, even as you know his favorite part of dessert will probably be the glass of milk he drinks with his slice of cake.
He follows you around like a puppy, watching with hungry eyes as your hands perform the most mundane act of love he's ever been given. Vought calls him once during this birthday party for two, trying to send him somewhere far away from you in order to accomplish something meaningless. He rips apart the poor bastard who made the call with his bare hands.
He blows out his birthday candles with a splatter of blood in his hair. You kiss him like you don't notice.
PELLE:
It was a hard day, one of those days that dragged from beginning to end, with everything going wrong inbetween. You woke up late, but still needed to shower and so you'd had to accept the reality of making yourself triple late to work. The shower itself had been like taking a plunge into the freezing waters of the North Pole because evidently your water heater had broken in the seven hours you'd been asleep. You didn't have time for breakfast. Your boss had been pissed. The customers had been mean and quick to anger.
The last thing you wanted to do, once you finally got home, was to rush around making yourself presentable for date night.
You'd tried hyping yourself up to go out the entire commute back. 'It always makes your day to see Pelle,' and 'He was really looking forward to this date,' and 'Didn't he literally make a reservation? Stop being an asshole. Some people can't get their boyfriends to plan anything.' But the internal dialogue punishing you for your own exhaustion only added to it.
There was a weight on your chest like someone had poured concrete onto it. The dam broke as you faced the possibility of climbing back into the freezing shower, trying to make one more valiant effort to be a present, thoughtful partner. The sting of the cold water on your palm as you tested the temperature had brought tears to your eyes. And then you couldn't make the tears stop; something petulant and hysterical rearing up from deep inside you, refusing to be ignored.
You were still sniffling when you gave Pelle a ring. The man was allergic to being texted: 'I just like the sound of your voice,' he would always smile whenever you'd tease him about being an old man. "Honey, I'm so sorry to do this last minute, but can I take a raincheck on our plans?"
There was a pause as Pelle searched for the words you wouldn't say outright, picking apart your tone like the world's greatest detective, "Are you crying? What has happened, älskling?"
"Nothing really happened. Just had a bad day. And I'm sorry to be bailing on you so late; I just thought I'd still be up to going out and painting the town red, but I'm not. I'll make it up to you."
"There is no need to apologize or make it up to me." Pelle's tone is so gentle you can imagine him waving away your worries and guilt like a spring breeze. Your shoulders lose some of their tension. "You sound exhausted. Have you eaten yet?"
"No, but I'll just grab something out of the fridge soon. The glory of leftovers." You try to joke. You're too tired to make sure it lands. "We'll do something this weekend, yeah? Love you.
"I love you more. Please eat something soon."
You make a noncommittal noise of agreement before hanging up. Whatever small joy talking to Pelle brought disappears the moment he isn't on the line with you. With no plans left, you find yourself at rest for the first time since opening your eyes. But the buildup of sadness and frustration from the day doesn't leave you. There's an ache behind the intermission.
You were still sitting paralyzed on your couch when you hear the sound of your door opening (fuck, you were so out of it that you hadn't even locked your door. Another small fuck up in a long line of small fuck ups until the whole day had spiraled beyond your control—)
Pelle is kneeling in front of you, a kind but thin smile on his lips. The sweetness of his face weighed down by worry. "You did not hear me knocking, so I let myself in."
He looks you over and tuts when he sees you haven't even taken the smallest effort to lift your mood, you're still wearing your work shoes, the ones you say drive you crazy because they pinch your toes but you haven't been able to find better yet. He grabs your calf, rubbing tenderly, and slides your shoes off your feet, wincing in sympathy when you can't hide your grimace of pain.
"Oh, you poor thing." The words should sound condescending. Would sound that way if anyone but Pelle said them to you. But Pelle has a way of speaking that slows down the world and makes everything make sense again.
You almost cry when he begins to massage the thoroughly abused arch of your foot. "You don't have to do that, Pelle. I'm fine."
As you go to pull your foot away, he holds firm, settling himself more comfortably on the floor and pulling both your feet into the warmth of his lap. "You are not fine, and of course I don't have to do this for you; I want to do this for you. If you'll allow me the pleasure."
The phrasing is ridiculous. Allow him the pleasure of sitting at your feet and doting on you. Again, if the words came from anyone else you'd pat them on the head for working so hard to earn those 'good boyfriend' brownie points, but also tell them to be a little less obvious about it. But Pelle is staring up at you like you'll have announced to cancelling all the holidays on the calendar if you say no. Earnest. He's so earnest it hurts to look at him sometimes.
"If you're sure." You say, hesitantly, unused to and still uncomfortable with how easily he heaps care and attention and kindness onto you. He lifts your leg and kisses your ankle like he's grateful. Like you've given him a gift.
He passes you his phone, "Why don't you pick something out for us to eat while you tell me about your day?"
"It was just petty inconveniences. I shouldn't have let it all get to me."
"Nothing is petty if it upsets you so deeply."
"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you—" You close your eyes, lean back into the couch, and let Pelle's attentive love cast its usual spell on you.
A/N: Sighed like a sap writing some of them because these freaks are IN LOOOOOOOVE baby!!! Please enjoy this story — I had fun writing it. I'll do a part 2. with some of the other husbands eventually. I'm thinking Joel, definitely. Who else do you guys wanna see?
if you enjoyed this drabble consider reblogging or leaving a reply. if you really dug it, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo
a big thank you to my current subscribers: audrey, @bisexual-horror-fan, bella, @3d-wifey, em, goat, goth trash, hannah, jazz, kai, kas, kali, kelsey, nukusei, rocky, skwiggy, sy, and @u1tra-vi0lent, viv. without amazing readers like you, i wouldn’t still be up and kicking on this blog!
divider credits: @strangergraphics and @uzmacchiato
