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spacedace · 6 months

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Got inspired by the below tiktok and the idea of the Rogues killing the Joker in revenge for Jason instead of Bruce and had to write about it.

Here, have probably way too many words (with more to come most likely, this really won't leave me alone) of the Rogue's feelings about Jason's death at the Joker's hands and everything that followed.

(also I know the timeline is a bit screwy, shhh just go with it, we're going on vibes with this one lol)

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart.

A kid could slit your throat as easy as a man grown in a place like their fine city, maybe easier even for those who still fell for the ideal of children being incapable of anything but innocence and sweetness. Children learned from the world around them though, they learned from the savagery that filled their world, the hard scrabble desperate attempts to survive. They learned what dark corners to avoid, which ones were safer to skitter down.

It didn’t mean there weren’t still some rules of decency to be honored though.

Most folks, even those in the circle of the Rogues, largely left kids out of the equation. Crossfire happened of course, hitting busy city centers always meant some kind of collateral. But there wasn’t much that they got out of purposefully hurting kids outside a black mark on their name in most levels of the grungy underbelly of the city and one hell of a big target on their back. Both from the Bat and those criminals in the dark with them that took offense to those kinds of things. They were crooks, but with few exceptions they weren’t complete monsters.

Robin had always held an interesting place in their grungy little ecosystem. Anything to do with the Bat was generally ruled as gloves-off, do what you do without hesitation. And Robin - both of ‘em - had no problem hitting hard and being ruthless. The first one in particular had a feral sort of rage to him that was a terrifying thing to be on the business end of.

But they were still kids.

Defending yourself from any kid swinging on you was fair game, a person had the right to defend themselves. Grabbing up Robin to hold hostage or bait Gotham’s local cryptid, that was all fine and dandy. You could even get away with roughing the kid up a little here and there, so long as you made sure not to go too far and always kept hits to where the kid’s armor was the thickest. No hard and fast written rules, mind, but general rules of thumbs. Lines indistinct due to the shaky ground a child dancing through the night as a vigilante left all of them on, but ones clear enough that you knew when you were at risk of going too far.

Besides, the Robins were good kids. Fucking feral little shits, of course, able to leave you bleeding just as easy from a kick as they were a sharp word. But good kids. Even most the Rogues in the Gallery liked em. It was hard not to be at least a little fond of a gutsy little punk like that.

Though they were all maybe a tad less nervous around Robin II than they were the original.

Robin I had a lot of anger burning in him, a lot of anger in him, but he was still a cheerful boy with a bright attitude that was refreshing in a world so bleak and dark as the one they all lived in. It was up in the air which was scarier about the kid: The smiled he gave when he was about to give a hands on demonstration about how much force a tiny ten year old could put into a kick when they had half a dozen spins shoved into a flip to wind up to 80 miles an hour, or the flash of his teeth when he was demonstrating the knife sharp brilliance of his belief that Batman was only as frightening as Robin was hopeful.

They weren’t sure if he realized that sometimes they felt a helluva lot more hope at the sight of the Bat when the little bird was putting the hurt on them, or if he’d simply folded that fact neatly into his core philosophy without issue.

Robin II on the other hand had this kind of quiet shyness to him - even as he was shouting the most inventive swears ever heard by human ear at someone while he kicked them in the balls hard enough to make ‘em see not just the face of their own god but a few dozen besides. He was just as unhinged as the Robin before him - seemed to be a requirement for the job really - but there was a distinct different in how the two birds flitted about the darkened skyline of the city. Where the first Robin’s smile was as much danger as it was dazzle, a fanged declaration of victory against the dark, Robin II’s was a sunny, stubborn declaration of perseverance. Kid was sassy and smart, and never - ever - flinched away from extending a hand to those he thought in need of it.

Even if the folks he offered that hand to were in the middle of an attack on some fancy Gala or Wayne Enterprises or whatever target of the week it was. Even knowing the offered hand was likely to be slapped away and followed by a right hook. Kid still always tried.

They all knew why.

The Bat was big on offering chances, on rehabilitation rather than damnation. Some of Robin II being the way he was came from the broody cryptid he followed around. But Batman couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for Robin II being the way he was, couldn’t even pretend to be the cause of most of it. Nah, they knew why the little bird was the way he was.

That unmistakable thick accent. That frame that was always a little too thin even as he got older and stronger. That unshakable, headstrong spirit.

Robin II was an Alley Kid.

A true child of Gotham.

Her polluted waters in his veins. Her smoggy air in his lungs. Her shadows clinging to his edges less like a beast looking to swallow a small bird up and more like a protective mother hiding her hatchling. He understood the world most of them came from. The one they all lived in. Knew it in a way anyone who hadn’t been swallowed up by the dark never really could.

Everyone had their favorite, but even those that claimed the first Robin as theirs couldn’t deny that Robin II was someone to be respected. Nor could they deny a fondness for the chain smoking, classic lit referencing, perpetually baby-faced little shit. They’d all had knock out drag out fights with the kid and knew how fucking unhinged the puny motherfucker could be in a fight, but he always tempered it with offers of resources, of a listening ear, of understanding.

He visited them after they’d been arrested sometimes. In Arkham, or Blackgate or wherever else they’d been locked up in after being stopped by the Dynamic Duo. The little bird would make the rounds whenever he had a broken wing or was stuck waiting as the Bat interrogated someone else or for any other reason he wasn’t out flitting about the city skyline at night. He’d bring cookies or snacks and even cigarettes from his own secret stash on the rare occasion, mask unable to hide the furtive glances around to check for the living shadow that was the disapproving Bat.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

But childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

Bad things happened to good kids all the time.

And some of the monsters that lurked in the city’s darkest shadows took the black mark of a kid killer as a point of pride.

Robin II disappeared one day. Just after that piece of shit Garzonas took the fast way down from the top of a tall building. There were a lot of Rogues with doctoral degrees to their names but even those Goons that dropped out of school before they learned to spell their own names could do that math.

The big bad Bat had benched the boy after the fierce little bird had done what any decent member of the criminal underbelly would have. There were those that thought maybe it’d been an accident, that the kid was pulled off duty because of being too upset at unintentionally crossing the heavy line the Bat drew in the sand. Those voices were drowned out pretty quick though.

Sure, Robin II was all about second chances, of doing better, of redemption. But Garzonas had chances to spare and only ever spat in the face of those offering them. Doubled down on being a monster in a way very, very few of the Rogues Gallery would. The kid was a sweetheart, but he wasn’t no push over and there were some things so heinous that there was only one way of handling them. Crime Alley had its own kind of justice system, and when faced with a monster that was beyond even Batman’s jurisdiction, Robin II did what he always did: fell back on his roots.

Or so the rumors said, at least.

That was the thing about Gotham’s seedy underbelly. It was a grimy, wretched nest of vipers and cut-throats, but it was also worse than any beauty parlor when it came to gossip. No one actually knew anything other than that piece of shit motherfucker took a dive while Robin was chasing him and that he’d not been seen on the streets since. But most had a fondness for the kid, and a distaste for the kind of cruelty Garzonas reveled in and there was no proof that Robin hadn’t gone and done the world a favor by drop kicking that barbaric sack of shit off a roof. So as far as most in the Gallery were concerned, the little bird had stepped up and been a hero.

Time passed. Not a lot. But enough. The Bat disappeared too, popping up on an entire other continent in a way that was awfully tempting. Even with other Masks playing baby sitter while the local cryptid was away. Rogues were scrambling to set plans in motion, Goons getting hired en masse, weapons and weird chemicals getting delivered to shady places across Gotham by the truck-full. The criminal underbelly was abuzz with the same excited energy of children the day before a big birthday party.

And then the news came in.

There were people in the dark who made their living finding things out. Knowing things that no one else did or could. Some even specialized, keeping tabs on Batman and Robin better than anyone else in the business were able. And when the information they found wasn’t anything handy to have tucked into a back pocket or a secret they were paid extremely well to keep? They held on to with the same tenacity a sieve clung to water.

Robin II had run off across the globe and ended up in Ethiopia. Something to do with a doctor doing aid work, the same something that had the Bat end up there was the assumption. Kid ran off to handle things himself or was sent on a separate path on purpose for some plan or other the Bat had cooked up on his hunt.

Whatever the reason, the kid crossed paths with the Clown.

Alone.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham. The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart. But Robin II was hers, the child of her heart, an exception to the rule. And besides, most folks - even those in the Rogues Gallery - largely left the purposeful harm of kids out of the equation.

The Joker wasn’t most folks.

And the little bird was a long way away from the protective shadows of his mother city.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

When the news broke, it broke most of them right along with it.

Plans stalled. Schemes ended. Gotham, for an unnervingly quiet stretch of time that neither its civilians or the world at large understood, went still. Crime continued, of course, but the big names weren’t seen. It was only right, by the standards of those that lived their lives in the dark, that they hold off and give the man that fought them all so relentlessly over the past years the time he needed to focus on hunting down the monster that killed his son. He didn’t need the distraction, and they all owed it to Robin II not to interfere while the Bat at last put a final end to the Clown.

And the hellish cryptid would need his full focus on this one. The Joker wasn’t one to take lightly at the best of times, but he’d set himself up neatly in the middle of a nasty bear trap. Ugly and complicated in the way everything with the Clown was. Interference from the CIA, from the UN, from Superman.

Shit went down. People heard about the Bat and the Clown throwing down in a helicopter plummeting from the sky in one hell of a water landing. Big Blue fished Batman out of the drink before he could drown but there’d been no sign of the Joker.

But the Bat would find him.

They all knew the relentless bastard would find him. It was just a matter of time. With the hellish drive of a demon straight from Gotham’s darkest shadows, the Bat would track the grinning, child killing ghoul down and make right the terrible wrong the evil motherfucker had done. Batman would hunt him to the ends of the earth and enact the justice he held up so fiercely. Robin II would have the vengeance the kid so rightly deserved.

It was just a matter of time. So they waited. And waited.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

The Clown still lived.

The world, impossibly, began to move on. The Bat returned to his lurking in the night, picking off gangs and petty crooks and no-name gangsters as if nothing had happened at all. More vicious, more savage, but failing to turn that rise in brutality into the killing blow against the one figure that so rightly deserved it.

No one knew what was happening. There were rumors and theories, as there always were in the underground. Some thought that it wasn’t the Bat at all back in Gotham but someone else pretending for awhile, looking after his neglected city while he continued his pursuit of the Joker. Other held that it was the Bat but the whole thing was a ploy to draw the Clown out into the open. A pretense at not caring meant to get under the Clown’s skin, make the asshole mad enough to get stupid and sloppy and reveal himself.

That the man simply had given up was beyond comprehension. Beyond what any upstanding Rogue could accept. So it simply couldn’t be true. There was a trick being played. Some brilliant game of 4D chess that none of them had been able to parse out. It’d be revealed in time, and they see the brilliant trap that had been set. The Clown would be lured out, the Bat would put him down for good, and then they’d all at last raise a glass to the little bird that had been shot down far too soon and smoke shitty cigarettes and quote literary masters and mourn the loss one of Gotham’s own true children.

They just had to play along. Stumbling forward back into their usual habits, pretending that it was a choice and not the world just forcibly dragging them along. It’d make sense, eventually. The Bat had a plan. Robin II wasn’t forgotten, his killer not left free to roam and ravage unpunished for what he’d done.

And then one day there was a new bird flitting across the rooftops.

Chasing the Bat’s looming frame like a reverse shadow. Bright flashes of color in contrast to the bleak darkness of Gotham’s grimy nights. Small and thin and young.

Not the first Robin. With his showman bright grin and bloody rage and unwavering belief in the terrifying power of hope. Not the brilliant, vicious little boy that they’d seen grow over the years into the fierce and fearless Nightwing.

Not Robin II either.

Not Gotham’s soft hearted little bruiser with his unshakable belief that people could be better if given the chance, shinning so bright in the dark as he held out a hand that even the Rogues had no choice but to believe right along with him sometimes. Not the tough little songbird they’d never get to see grow up. Unavenged and unhonored. Put in a box and buried in the ground with a name none of them would ever know carved into a stone they’d never be able to visit.

No.

It was a new Robin.

A new child with the R emblazoned upon his chest.

Sharp and quick and young in the way the birds always were when they started flying at the Bat’s side. Every inch of the boy’s tiny frame a tragedy and an insult. One very, very few of Gotham’s vicious underbelly were willing to tolerate.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham, but there was a damn big difference between holding something sacred and not giving a damn about it at all. There were rules unspoken but understood, a way things were done. Nothing so solid or concrete as a code of conduct, more a collection of time honored traditions. Blood for blood was among the oldest and truest, and the more precious the person taken the more vital and vicious payment was to be made in kind.

The Clown had killed Robin II.

Beaten the kid half to death and then finished the job with a bomb.

Everyone knew he’d done it laughing all the way.

The Bat should have done the same in kind. Done worse. It was justice, it was what was right. You kill a kid you’re marked forever. You kill one so well liked and kill ‘em like that and you’re destined for a cruel and cold death. The Bat had first dibs. It was his kid. It was his right to put an end to that awful laughter and let his son have peace at last.

But he never did.

Nightwing had. For a bit. For a moment.

Robin I, who half the time had scared them all more than the Bat ever could. Dazzling and dizzying and dangerous. Gave back the pain and hurt the Clown had forced upon him with clenched fists and bone shattering hits. They were glad for him, that he was able to beat the monster who had taken his little brother from him to death, that he was able to have such justice.

And then the Bat stepped in.

Revived the fucking Clown.

A slap in the face. The snapping crack of a spine beneath one straw too many. The final, unforgivable insult the man had dared visit upon not just the child taken from him but the entirety of Gotham.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. Respected their ferocity, admired their moxie, marveled at their ability to keep shining in the dark like they did. Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of the city’s dirty criminal underbelly from time to time.

He was a good kid.

He deserved better.

Better than the silence and peace he should be granted in death to be marred by the mad cackles of his killer still running around alive and unpunished. Better than his father giving up, returning to the same old routine as if nothing had happened at all. Better than the Bat snatching up a new bird less than a year later.

Gotham and her Rogues had given the Bat time enough to do what needed to be done.

It was their turn.

#batman #batman au #batman rogues #batman rouges gallery #dc penguin #dick grayson #jason todd #jason todd robin #dick grayson robin #bruce wayne #the joker #tim drake #dc robin #gotham city #open season au #i don't go in for Jason being the 'angry' robin or the 'violent' robin #he was the lil chainsmoking ball of sunshin robin that made sure to do his homework first before going out to fight crime #dick was the scariest robin because he was BOTH incredibly violent & full of rage AND a ball of sunshine & unrelenting hope #Jason was a Gotham kid (an Alley Kid) and I think a lot of the rogues would have respected that #dick got his respect by teaching them how many of their bones a tiny 9 year old could break in a single kick #feel like there's a scene in the extended au in which Tim gets kidnapped but instead of being held for ransom or threatened #it's just the Rogues aggressively mother-henning him and trying to make sure he's alright #Dick gets a call from Harley later that the newest Robin is fine he and Riddler are coming up with deadly traps together #No she doesn't see anything wrong with that - it's just some enrichment activities for them - why do you ask?

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zepskies · 1 year

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Break Me Down - Part 9

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

Word Count: 6,800

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, peril, blood, and angst.

Part 9: Breach

Loco’s eyes widened as he watched the surveillance feed.

“Coño carajo,” he cursed in Spanish. “Hey, boss.”

Frank was just about to step out of their “office” (a dusty back room behind the library). He stopped at his subordinate’s voice and turned back, frowning when he caught sight of the large triple screens.

A helicopter had just landed on the roof of the mansion. It had a red banner painted with “Fiesta Tours” on the side. The door slid open, and out tumbled a skinny kid who fell onto his knees and threw up on the ground.

His blonde girlfriend came out and patiently rubbed his back. Though she rolled her eyes at something the pilot said.

It was Billy Butcher, which meant the other three assholes jumping out of the helicopter were the rest of his team that had eluded Antonio’s men in Medellin.

“Damn it,” Frank muttered. “How’d they get through our airspace without tripping any alarms?”

“They stole a fucking tourist trap, bro,” said Loco.

By the time he glanced up, Frank had already moved back to his desk to unlock a large safe with both a code and a fingerprint. Out of the safe came a briefcase. Loco stood from his chair and grabbed his gun.

Frank popped open the case and grabbed one of several vials. He gave one to Loco and pocketed two more before he locked the briefcase again.

“Keep them busy,” Frank said. He pressed a finger to the communicator in his ear. “Saul, we have company. Meet me upstairs, then prepare the getaway as a contingency.”

“Got it,” Saul responded. He was currently on patrol on the east side. Frank knew it would take him roughly two and a half minutes to get back.

“Y el Capitán?” Loco asked. And the Captain?

Meaning Soldier Boy. Instead of answering him, Frank pulled out his cell on his way out of the room. Loco was on his heels.

“What?” said Ben. As usual, he sounded annoyed at being bothered.

“Sir, we have a breach,” Frank said. “It’s Butcher.”

Fuck. Ben grimaced, though he didn’t voice his displeasure. His hand tightened on the cell phone at his ear.

“Where is she?” he asked. He heard Frank give a command to check the feed. It was Loco’s voice that gave the reply.

“In the garden,” Frank answered.

Typical, Ben thought. The garden was your favorite place. You hadn’t told him that, but he’d caught you there often enough.

“All right, get her to the helicopter,” Ben said. “Take her to the next house. I’ll deal with Butcher and his cocksucking crew.”

Frank resisted the urge to raise a brow, even if his boss couldn’t see it. Extracting you from the house was not the original plan. But he agreed and parted ways from Loco with a nod.

When Saul caught up with Frank in the hall on the top of the stairs, second floor, Frank handed him a vial of V24. Both men shot up together, each taking sharp breaths at the intensity of unnatural green-hued chemicals running through their veins.

Frank recovered first, rolling his shoulders as new awareness made his senses sharp, his blood already pounding with adrenaline.

“The most expensive damn high I’ve ever had,” Saul remarked, smirking.

Frank didn’t take the same pleasure in it, but he conceded that with a nod. Being able to see through walls was an advantage, at least. It just took a moment for his vision to even out and normalize.

“Get it done,” was all he said.

While Saul continued on to the roof with super speed, Frank made his way down the stairs, and through the French doors to the backyard. He found you there, sitting on the grass with a book in the garden.

Good, he thought in approval of your jeans and V-neck top. You would be easier to transport this way.

He called your name, and you greeted him with a smile, until you noticed his sternness.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

Frank pulled you up by your arm, firm but not painful.

“We have to go,” he said. Despite your protests, he led you back inside, then up the narrow staircase that you realized would have to lead to the roof. There was nowhere else to go on the roof but up, and away. Frank was taking you away from the house. Why?

“It’s my team, isn’t it,” you said.

You stared up at Frank’s profile. His mustache often obscured his expression, but you caught the way his brows tightened, as did his hold on your arm. It felt tighter, stronger than usual, and not just because he hadn’t manhandled you in a long time.

It raised your suspicions, but your heart was also thumping faster as you realized that your friends were here somewhere.

“Where’s Ben,” you demanded to know. A tendril of worry laced up your spine. “Where the hell are we going?”

“To a secure location,” Frank replied. But he didn’t give you more than that. You dug your heels in on the stairs and tried to work your arm out of his grip, but he was unrelenting.

“Let me go!” you snapped. “I have to talk to them.”

“Boss’s orders,” Frank said, his jaw tightening. You could tell he didn’t want to hurt you, but he would drag your ass up the rest of these steps.

You were reduced to pleading. “Frank, please! He’s in danger.”

His eyes sharpened at that.

“You may not believe it, but they can take him down,” you said. Desperation shone in your eyes, and you fought the conflicted nature of your emotions in what you were about to say.

“If I’m there, maybe I can talk down both sides,” you argued. “I know you’re just following orders, but if you care about your next paycheck, you’ll fucking listen to me.”

Frank seemed to consider your words for all of three seconds.

Then he continued to haul you up all the way to the roof. You were struggling and shouting, but you were made to go all the same.

When the door opened to the roof, however, Frank caught a slender fist in his face, knocking him right out. You gasped as the man careened back and nearly bowled you over, but that same hand caught him by the collar and kept him from crushing you.

You looked up and brightened with an incredulous smile.

“Kimiko!”

The smaller woman gave you a smile and a small wave with her free hand. But before she could finish Frank off, you raised your hands against her raised fist.

“Wait! Don’t kill him,” you asked. “Just leave him here.”

Kimiko looked confused for a second, but she did as you asked and helped you let him down gently to the ground. You noticed the blood hastily wiped from her hand and face—onto her black leather jacket.

“Where is everyone?” you asked.

Kimiko signaled ahead, but you opened the door to the roof real quick, just to see the littered bodies of dead men on the ground. You blanched at the sight.

You turned away from the scene and followed Kimiko, who lowered her head as she continued down the stairs.

Despite yourself, you hoped Loco and Saul had gotten away, at least. They were your captors, but they’d never treated you badly. You’d even cooked for them, hung out with them, listened to them bicker and bitch, and watched them cheat one another at cards. They were criminals, but they weren’t monsters.

And not wanting to see them die only scratched the surface of your conflict when you thought about Ben.

As you and Kimiko jogged through the mansion, heading toward the sounds of fighting and yelling and destruction downstairs, your guilt began to grow.

You knew very well what Ben had done. But the truth was, you no longer had the heart to condemn him.

To play jury and judge and executioner—interning him into an ice box until he could be neutralized, or until the end of his unnaturally long life.

To continue making him pay beyond his forty years of imprisonment.

You’d seen the worst of him: his salaciousness, his temper, his trauma, his destructive coping mechanisms, and painfully outdated ideals.

Yet, Ben was more than all of that. He’d allowed you to see more.

But the moment you said any of that, you knew how he would react. Just as you knew how M.M. would look at you. And it made your chest ache and your mind spin faster than it already was.

What the fuck am I going to do?

You got your opportunity to answer that question when a star bolt shot right in front of you and Kimiko—through the open door of a large room.

It was big enough to be a ballroom for parties, but right now it was a battlefield between your friends, a support team of CIA officers, Loco and his team of men, and of course, Ben at the center. He was in his full Soldier Boy gear, complete with the stupid-ass helmet.

While Hughie had clearly been made to hang out at the fringe of it all. He stood there, looking worried with a gun in his hand that he didn’t look all that comfortable with.

He noticed you and Kimiko first and called your name. You smiled and accepted the joyful hug he gave you (after he carefully tucked his gun in his pants).

“You’re actually okay! I can’t fucking believe it,” he said. But then he quickly amended, “I mean, we all hoped you were still alive, I just mean—”

You just laughed and teasingly slapped his cheeks between your hands to stop his fumbling. “Thanks for coming to find me.”

Ben ears must’ve been perked up, because he sharply glanced over. You getting free wasn’t part of his plan, you knew, and he did not look pleased. Your amusement fading, you let go of Hughie and met Ben’s gaze across the room.

You were worried. About him. About everyone.

“We don’t have to do this,” you told Hughie. Kimiko had already joined the fray to stop a gunman from clipping Frenchie from behind.

Your earnest gaze met Hughie’s confused one. “He’s not what you think he is…well, not exactly, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “He fucking kidnapped you!”

“Technically, he didn’t. It was one of his overzealous groupies,” you replied, your expression firming at the thought of Antonio. “That guy’s dead. But there are more reasons. I’ve gotta stop this somehow—”

“That’s…not a good idea,” Hughie was saying, and even tried to stop you when you took the gun from his pants. But you ignored his protests and headed right into the jungle of bullets and star bolts, and the crunch of bone and blood.

You didn’t shoot to kill, evading and defending yourself more than fighting back. Annie noticed you with a happy smile, as did Frenchie and M.M. Butcher was busy shooting at Ben with a fucking launcher.

But Ben avoided the massive projectile with a simple knock of his shield. It sailed through the back windows, eventually exploding into the sky.

For a moment, there was enough of a lull in the room that you took the opportunity to open your mouth, prepared to call out to both men.

However, something else broke through the windows—from the opposite side.

It was a dart that landed between Ben’s feet, black and flashing a small red light. He rose a brow. But before he could just kick the thing away, it detonated.

The explosion was bigger than even Ben anticipated. It blew up a huge crater in the ground, knocking him and everyone else surrounding several feet away.

Even you were tossed back. Your gun clattered away from you as you landed painfully on the ground, most likely onto a dead body. You blinked the haziness out of your vision as you struggled to recover, to pull yourself up.

“What the fuck?” you heard Ben utter.

When you turned your head, you couldn’t help echoing his statement.

Black Noir was standing just before the large crater, the one he’d apparently created.

He’s dead, you thought dizzily. Or at least, he was supposed to be. Homelander killed him six months ago.

Seriously, what the fuck. Ben was bewildered, to say the least. He’d been told that his unfortunate spawn had offed Noir, but yet here he was, the little shit.

“Fucking Noir,” Ben said with a laugh, after he’d stood and made a show of rolling his neck. “What frosted hole did you crawl out of?”

The supe didn’t respond. Didn’t even move a muscle from where he stood in the center of the room. And the rest had gone quiet by now, waiting and watching as two predators approached one another.

“I heard you became a fucking mute,” said Ben. He smirked at the crater in his floor. “You’ve figured out how to make an entrance, I’ll give you that. But we both know you’re not up to this. You could never even shine my fucking shoes.”

Ben tossed the first punch. He expected the way Noir deflected, but not the force behind his blow, which pounded below Ben’s ribs and forced a grunt out of him. He actually felt it.

Along with subsequent punches Noir got in before Ben finally remembered to raise his shield and get back on the offensive. But now he was annoyed. Noir was never this strong, not even on his best day. What kind of bullshit does Vought got him hopped up on? More V?

And then, a solid punch to his face had Ben stumbling back. He caught his smarting jaw with no small amount of irritation, and he wiped at his nose.

It came away bloody. Ben stared at it in disbelief, and then, in anger. Back from the dead or not, he was going to put Noir back in the fucking ground today.

His blood burned hot. So much that he realized, belatedly, that his chest was starting to get that nuclear glow.

Good, he thought. He’d blow a third hole through this cocksucker, and whoever else got in his way.

“Ben!”

Your voice cut through the whirring in his ears as he grappled with Black Noir, just loud enough for Ben to notice you. You weren’t far from your friends, but he realized then how close to danger you were.

He was impossibly hot now, and still fighting hand-to-hand with Noir. His jaw locked as he tried to focus on the fight and figure out what to do. It was getting harder and harder to focus—on Noir, on the power growing inside him, on your worried face.

Shit, wait—

And he lost control.

It was all of seconds.

Annie was just ahead of you, closer to the blast zone. So in those last precious moments, you made a decision: you pushed Annie out of the way.

Then your feet were once again swept from under you, and you flew back even harder than the first time. You blacked out before you had the chance to feel any pain.

That came later, the next time you opened your eyes.

When your vision was able to clear of the mess of colors and shapes, sharpening into focus, you saw Frank as he pulled you out of the rubble. But it was at your expense, as a sharp flare of pain erupted in your side.

You didn’t recognize the sound of your own voice, a strangled groan. In the distance, maybe you heard Annie’s voice. Or even M.M.’s, you couldn’t be sure. You flashed in and out of consciousness after that.

The next scene you truly remembered was being laid down on the floor of a helicopter. A backpack was tucked under your head. The engine was loud, rearing to go. Frank was shouting to someone, whoever the pilot was (you hoped it wasn’t Loco).

“She needs more than a medic,” you heard Frank say. For a man who was usually so stoic, you thought you heard grave worry in his voice.

You managed to look down, and you frowned at the long piece of wood protruding from your side. It wept blood beneath your ribs.

Your light green shirt was slowly getting stained, but your mind was so fuzzy, it was hard for you to understand what was happening.

“Let’s go!” Loco shouted.

Oh, no, you thought. He was going to fly this thing.

“We can’t take off yet,” said Saul. “Where’s—”

A soot-stained hand grabbed onto the frame of the helicopter’s open door. You recognized that hand, followed shortly by the rest of Ben. His helmet was off, shield tucked onto his back. He looked pissed.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he snapped. His frown deepened the moment he saw you, which you didn’t quite understand.

“Ben,” you said, even though it was an effort to do so.

Every breath was like a hot knife cutting deeper into your side. Your eyes closed at the pain, and at tears that burned down your cheeks. It also cut through the brain fog enough for you to realize this was bad.

It was very bad.

A splintered chair leg had impaled your body.

“Get a vial,” you heard him say.

What? You struggled to open your eyes again. Ben was there, looking down on you with a different kind of frown, and something deeper in his green eyes. His sweaty hair fell over his brows, and you had a sudden itch to brush the strands aside.

You were pacified a little when his half-gloved hand came to rest on your head, over your hair. His thumb traced over your brow.

“Hurry the fuck up, Frank,” he said, briefly glaring over your head. Frank soon appeared at your side. He held a green vial in his hands, tinged with blue. Your eyes widened.

“What…”

“That needs to come out first.” Frank nodded at something you couldn’t see. You didn’t have the strength to look down anymore. You knew this was it, though.

You were going to die.

Ben’s hand braced your shoulder. His eyes met yours.

You didn’t understand the thoughts crossing through them, or his hesitation. But you did feel it when he grabbed the large wood splinter and slowly pulled it from your body. Your scream sounded almost inhuman to your own ears.

At least the pain was enough to knock you out once again.

Ben had no such reprieve as he looked down at the gaping hole in your side. Scarlet blood ran and pooled by his knees, even slipped through his fingers and around his hand when he tried to clamp down on the wound.

“Fucking do it already,” he said through gritted teeth.

With a short nod, Frank injected V24 into your arm.

You healed in minutes.

Breath drew into your lungs—a reflex as chemicals flooded through your blood and knit your organs, muscle, and skin tissue closed, even regenerating the blood you had lost. And it felt like a switch had turned on in your brain, set to “high voltage.”

You sat up as a ragged sound erupted from your throat. A hand closed on your shoulder, and you instinctively fought it off.

“Hey. Easy,” said Ben.

Your breathing was shallow as you met his eyes, focused on his face. You noticed Frank on your other side, poised to support you if you needed it. You looked down and noticed your blood-soaked shirt, the blood on the floor of the aircraft, and the empty syringe in Frank’s hand.

“You shot me up,” you realized. Your voice shook, but anger drew your brows together before you whipped your head back to Ben. “You shot me up with V24!”

He stared back at you, his expression tightening. “I saved you.”

“And you kidnapped me. Again!” you shouted.

“You were hurt, and I saved your fucking life! Again,” Ben countered, gesturing at you with his blood-stained hand. But you glared at him.

“You are the reason I needed saving,” you snapped.

At that, Ben glared right back at you…but he stayed quiet.

Good. You huffed and turned away from him. You folded your knees up to your chest and rested your forehead against your knees.

You had nothing else to say to him.

You ignored Frank’s helping hand when the helicopter finally landed at the next house—this time on the gravel driveway.

This place was at the top of a hill on the outskirts of a thick jungle. Once you were led inside, you could tell this house was smaller, though just as lavish as the last one.

Ben seemed too exasperated with you to follow you, instead going his own way to find his room upstairs. Frank led you to a guest room downstairs, where he informed you that he’d find you some new clothes. You were dismissive with him, and he left you alone soon after.

Part of you felt bad for giving him a hard time. You knew he had saved you after the explosion. He’d likely gone out of his way to find you and pull you out of the rubble, but you couldn’t help it.

You were still salty about his part in your re-capture. Not to mention the fact that he’d given you temporary Compound V against your will.

And speaking of which…

You sat on your new bed and looked down at your arms and hands, clenching and unclenching your fists. What mystery power had V24 given you?

As basic as it was, you felt…strong. Like you could run a marathon without stopping. Like you could punch straight through that wall, and not even feel it. You felt more than just confidence coursing through your veins, like no one and nothing could stand in your way.

Was this how Ben felt all the time? If so, you could almost understand why he could be such an asshole.

But you also thought of how he’d been with you for the past couple of weeks; how much he’d shared with you about his parents, about his life before becoming Soldier Boy. And yes, how he’d saved you more than once.

It just didn’t change the fact that he took you—away from your friends, and your chance at freedom.

True to his word, Frank delivered a bag of clothes to your door about two hours after he’d left you in your new room.

You opened the door just enough to snatch the bag out of his hand, before closing the door in his face. You heard his tired huff on the other side, but soon enough, he walked away from your door.

So you took your time in the shower, scrubbing grime and blood out of your hair, off your skin and from under your nails. Then you dressed in a shirt and some yoga pants from the bag Frank gave you.

And you tried not to miss the house in the mountains while you wandered this one. You opened every door you came across, finding more guest rooms, a laundry room, the kitchen.

But you stopped once you reached the gym, complete with an elliptical, a couple of treadmills, hand weights, a sparring mat, and a large punching bag.

Venturing inside, you found some sports tape to wrap up your hands. Then you wandered over to the punching bag. With a resigned sigh, you aligned your hips correctly, bending your knees with your fists raised up to your chest. And then, steeling yourself, you tested out your strength with a single punch.

It sent the punching bag flying on its chain and hitting the wall. A loud thump echoed through the room, even making you flinch.

Yep. Definitely got super strength, you thought with a frown. Basic, but useful, you supposed.

“Whoa,” Ben said with a chuckle. You turned your head and found the man leaning casually in the doorway. He was out of his uniform, freshly washed, and wearing a plain black shirt and dark wash jeans. It was a more modern look for him. You couldn’t help eyeing him from head to toe.

His sharpening grin told you that he noticed.

“At least you got something good,” he remarked.

“Leave me alone,” you groused. You threw another punch. This one tossed the bag hard and created a massive indent and several hairline cracks in the wall.

Feeling a suspect prickle across the back of your neck, you twisted and aimed your next punch behind you. Ben caught your fist with an amused grin. You found it damn infuriating.

So you tossed out a left hook. He evaded it with a tilt of his head, but when he pushed you back, you actually felt his strength behind it. It only forced you a couple of steps back though.

Ben baited you with a beckoning hand and a cocky smirk. “Take your best shot, sweetheart.”

You narrowed your eyes. If nothing else, you were going to wipe that smirk off his bearded face.

He let you come at him first, blocking your first and second blow before throwing a punch of his own. You grabbed his wrist and put all your strength in cracking your elbow into his face, making his head snap back with a grunt.

Ben’s hand went to his nose, and actually came away bloody. He hummed, and his gaze flicked up at you. It was your turn to smirk. You got back into your ready stance and tilted your head at him in challenge.

Ben chuckled and rolled his neck. “All right, baby doll. I’ll give you that one.”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” you retorted.

You ducked his attempt to grab you and drove a knee into his gut. Then you stepped between his feet, breaking his stance and his balance by flipping him over your shoulder. You just didn’t expect him to drag you down with him.

The two of you tussled across the ground, rolling off the sparring mat and onto the hard wood floor. Ben managed to pin you down for a moment, but apparently, you’d been endowed with superior flexibility as well. You grabbed his neck and kneed him in the ribs with all the force you could muster.

Ben uttered an annoyed grunt. He flinched and unwittingly allowed you the opening you needed to wrap your thighs around his hips and flip you both over—until you were the one pinning him down.

You knew he wasn’t trying his hardest, however. He was trying to subdue you, not fight you for real, or he would’ve thrown you off by now. He was going easy on you, and it made you irrationally angry.

So you slapped him. Ben blinked and looked up at you, incredulous.

“Oh, you better be fucking careful—”

You cut him off with another slap. “Fight me!”

Ben grabbed your wrist before you could slap him again. His green eyes glittered dangerously, but you stared down at him, unafraid.

Both of you were breathing hard. You were straddling his waist, your free hand braced on the floor by his head. A line of sweat rolled down from your cheek to your neck. His eyes followed the path of it down your shirt.

By the time his hot gaze snapped up to yours, you knew you were in trouble. And there would be no escape.

Ben hooked a hand on the back of your neck and crashed your lips against his. You slapped a hand against the floor, but you didn’t pull away. You did demand from him in turn, forcing your tongue into his mouth and grabbing at his hair.

Ben wrenched up your shirt, and you helped him raise it over your head, followed by his shirt and belt. He sat up enough to drag your yoga pants down your thighs, while you broke open the button and zipper of his jeans.

His lips attached themselves to your neck, sucking and biting until you cried out in his ear. You gripped his hair tight when his thick fingers found their way between your folds and slipped inside you.

Your sighs turned into moans of pleasure as his fingers worked you over, gathering your wetness and rolling over your clit roughly.

“Ah, shit,” you uttered. All you heard from him were his sharp breaths as he concentrated.

You instinctively squeezed his hips tight between your thighs. You knew he could get you off just like this, but you were too impatient. You stopped his hand and pushed him down, and with your newfound superhuman strength, you were actually able to do it.

His back hit the ground with a thud, and he smirked up at you, letting you tug his jeans and boxer briefs down.

You didn’t stop until his cock was freed, and once you positioned yourself, you sunk down, burying him into your wet heat. Both of you groaned in relief, and your inner walls tightened around him on reflex.

Ben’s grip on your hips became crushing. Had you been normal, it would’ve broken your bones. “Fuck. Gonna take me for a ride, baby girl?”

“Hell, yeah,” you said, panting for breath. “Buckle the fuck up.”

You were surprised that he was letting you stay on top, but his eyes were alight with desire. You braced your hands on his shoulders and began, rolling your hips at a slow, deep, almost torturous pace. Ben’s head snapped against the floor in frustration, his eyes closing.

“Christ. If you don’t fucking move, I’m gonna do it for you—”

You snapped your hips hard, cutting him off from his words with a guttural sound. Your own release was building. You could taste it, but you could also admit, while pleasant, this pace wasn’t going to cut it. Bracing a hand on his chest, you increased the tempo of your rolling hips.

Ben’s hands reached up to palm your breasts over your bra, then forcibly freed them without taking it off. You gave a pleased sound when he roughly squeezed and rolled his thumbs over pert nipples. Your hands wandered down his chest, over his arms, whatever you could reach.

Then Ben’s jaw clenched, and he sat up with you in his lap. You felt his body tensing beneath you. With little warning, he spilled hot inside you. You gasped at the feeling of him, then at his insistent fingers above your entrance, roughly rubbing at your clit. Soon enough, you came along with him.

Gasping for breath, you clung to his shoulders. Both of you were dewy with sweat. Your bra was tucked up all the way into your shoulders, and neither of you had been able to completely slip out of your pants. His hair was wild, as was yours, you were sure.

Ben’s hands pressed against your lower back, and his cock was still bottomed out inside you. But all you could do was hold onto him.

“See?” Ben said. His voice was deep and full of grit in your ear. “Isn’t it better this way?”

Your brows furrowed, and you pulled away enough to see his face.

“You…you prefer me as a supe, don’t you?” you said. Ben’s mouth closed, but he rose a brow as if to say, why not?

You finally noticed the deep cracks in the wall, the small craters in the floor under your knees, and by Ben’s head. There was still a bit of blood congealed around his nose from when you’d hit him.

“This isn’t me,” you said, though you hated how your voice shook. Emotion burned in your eyes, threatening to create tears.

You let go of his shoulders and slid off of him, pulling on your yoga pants and tugging down your bra. Ben watched you from his seat on the floor, with a tensing of his jaw and knitted brows.

“I don’t know if you just like playing with me, or if you actually care about me,” you said, scooping up your shirt. Your eyes met his with an angry glare.

“But if you ever give me Compound V against my will again, I’ll never forgive you.”

Butcher stared into his fifth of whiskey, already anticipating his second. If nothing else, Soldier Boy kept a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

While the CIA combed through the half-ruined mansion, Butcher sat in the kitchen while Hughie and Annie’s arguing grated on his ears.

“She fucking took my gun, had this crazy look in her eye, like she was gonna talk Soldier Boy down. By herself,” said Hughie. “But her exact words were, he’s not what you think he is.”

“She saved me,” Annie said. “She wouldn’t just go with him.”

“She went willingly,” said Butcher. “Ain’t no other reason why she’s alive.”

“Nah, man,” M.M. said. He shook his head, then rested it on a thoughtful fist. “I saw it. One of his guys pulled her out after the blast. He took her.”

“But for what? Why would they want to keep her?” Annie said incredulously.

“You think, maybe…Soldier Boy likes her?” Hughie asked.

Butcher considered that with a dark chuckle, then a long sip of his whiskey.

“We can work with that,” he said. “O’ course, now we got Black-fucking-Noir to deal with as well. Question is: was he after us, or Soldier Boy?”

Trust M.M. to address the elephant in the room.

“And how the hell is that motherfucker alive?” he added.

Ben was contemplating that very same question. He sat at an old mahogany table in a stuffy old room, while his men argued in front of him.

“He had regenerative abilities,” Saul reasoned. “Vought probably got him to a hospital after Homelander left him for dead.”

“No way, man. I heard his fucking intestines were hanging out of his stomach like a goddamn fish,” said Loco.

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Frank suggested.

“No,” Ben said. He had his chin propped on his fist. “It wasn’t him. Not the real Noir.”

He didn’t know how he knew, but it was a gut feeling. Whoever that had been behind that black mask, he was strong. As strong as Homelander had been, which made Ben’s gears turn on the possibilities…

“Saul.” Ben looked up at his subordinate. “Assemble a team. You’re going back to the States for some reconnaissance. I want to know exactly what the fuck Vought did, and what else they’ve got in their fucking arsenal. If Stan Edgar’s after me, then he’s gonna get it up the ass.”

He should’ve never let that little weasel get even an inch of a hold back into him. Now Stan thought he was going to double cross him? Again?

Yeah, fucking right. The thought stirred the rage in Ben’s blood…but he forced it down to a low simmer. This time, he would be smarter about this.

Stan had a bad habit of playing God. Ben wanted to know how he did it this time…though that same gut was telling him that he already knew.

No matter how you tossed and turned, the chemicals of V24 still coursing through your blood wouldn’t allow you to sleep.

After another fruitless hour, you turned onto your side. This time, you had a room with an old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. It read close to two in the morning.

You huffed and dragged yourself out of bed, but you didn’t bother changing out of your pajamas before you slipped on your sneakers and left the confines of your room.

You still weren’t being watched, but you knew better than to try and escape either. You noted the newly installed surveillance cameras in every hallway and every room.

You wandered a bit aimlessly, but somehow, your feet took you down to the kitchen. There you found Ben, sitting at the kitchen table with his third beer. To be fair, you were sure it was like water to him.

He looked up at you when you came in, making you stop short. You weren’t sure where you stood with him after today. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to be in his presence.

But when he gestured to the empty seat in front of him, you found yourself grabbing a beer from the fridge and joining him at the table.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked. It wasn’t the first time, and Ben was just as evasive. His eyes roamed your face before they returned to his beer.

Regardless, you suspected what his answer might’ve been if he were honest. Because that moment—calling his name, seeing that nuclear light, pushing Annie out of the way, being pulled back into the world by searing pain in your side—it was keeping you up too.

“What do you feel when your chest lights up?” you asked. Maybe it was too bold of you, but right now, you felt confident enough in your super strength to test him.

Ben’s gaze found yours dryly.

“Hot,” he replied.

“Well, yeah. You’re pretty much radioactive,” you quipped. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t have fucking cancer yet.”

He frowned at you in annoyance while you sipped at your beer.

You hummed, tapping your nails on the glass in contemplation. “Maybe Vought could help you neutralize it. Even I can admit, they have some of the best scientists in the world on their payroll.”

“I wouldn’t let Vought handle a cup of my fucking piss, let alone poking and prodding and studying my fucking blood,” Ben snapped. He wouldn’t be anyone’s fucking lab rat. Not again.

“Like an experimental drug, for example. Given to you against your will,” you wryly supplied. But your voice was edged with agitation.

Ben’s face tightened into a glare. “If you wanna say something, fucking say it.”

You could later admit, you lost your temper then. You shoved away from the table, too angry to even take your beer with you.

“You know, you still haven’t even apologized!” you said. But before you could leave, Ben’s chair scraped across the ground as he stood and grabbed your wrist. He tugged you back to face him, and he stood looming over you with a steely frown.

“You want a fucking apology for saving your miserable life?” he asked.

“If I’m miserable, it’s only because of you,” you spat.

Ben scoffed, though his grip on your wrist tightened. “We both know that’s a lie.”

You just stared up at his face and spewed words you knew you didn’t mean.

“You don’t know anything about me, Ben.”

His body was wound tight, his frown tight and almost sneering. You were furious—at his smugness, at your inability to completely hate him. But you both faltered once your eyes met his.

When his lips once again crashed against yours, you opened your mouth to him, pulling him down to you by his shirt.

Ben dragged you flush against him, first by your hips, then by your hair. He forced your head back so he could deepen the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours.

His fingers then pressed their claiming marks into your side, in the same spot where you were stabbed this morning. Where you had only been healed with the chemicals still coursing through your veins.

That thought alone cut through the intoxication of his kiss, and made you remember yourself.

You pushed hard against his chest. You were still strong enough to force him back a step or two. Ben stared back at you in irritation.

“What’s your fucking problem?” he shouted. “Would you rather I’d let you bleed out on the fucking floor?”

“I know! I know I would be dead,” you said, matching his volume.

No matter how you felt about Compound V, there was no doubt, he’d saved your life.

But what you’d said to him then still stood.

“If you hadn’t tried to waste Black Noir with a power you can’t control, then I wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. That’s the definition of collateral damage,” you said.

Ben crossed his arms defensively.

“You’re the one who jumped in front of the bullet like a goddamn moron,” he said. “Ain’t my fucking fault if you get yourself killed.”

And just like that, your anger faded…into dismay.

He might very well care about you, but in many ways, he was still an asshole. And you were exhausted.

“Fine, Ben.” You blinked past the well of tears burning in your eyes, but your refused to let them fall.

After you turned away from him, you didn’t see how his face fell, with both disappointment and guilt breaking through his anger. Your next words would sear into his mind for days to come.

“Just leave me the hell alone.”

AN: 🤭 Please don't hate me! loll They'll get back on track soon enough...

Next Time:

“Why are you trusting me with this?” you asked.

Ben’s lips quirked wryly, but there was little humor in it. His hand, half-covered by his glove, reached up to brush your chin.

“I’m not,” he replied. “I expect you’ll jump at the chance to get back with Butcher and your asshole friends. But either way, I’m gonna find out if you were worth it.”

Keep Reading: PART 10

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