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greenglowinspooks · 1 year ago

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(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Prologue)

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Tw: Danny is having a Certified Bad Time™️, dissociation, vivisection mention, suicidal thoughts (kinda?), basically just heavy angst for now

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

Note: you don’t need to read this chapter to understand the rest of the story, it’s mostly just to explore Danny’s headspace when he first escapes the GiW

(Pt. 1)

(Subscription post/masterlist)

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Danny rocked back and forth, trying to soothe himself as the truck he was in continued to speed along.

It had been an eternity since he was captured by the GiW. He didn’t know why they were moving him to a new base after all this time, but he knew it wasn’t a good thing.

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel afraid.

He couldn’t feel much of anything these days. The GiW had a routine and they stuck to it religiously, and that routine had sucked every bit of Danny’s soul out of him.

Something churned in his chest regardless. Anticipation? Excitement, maybe?

Perhaps they were finally going to let Danny fade. Was that a bad thing? Danny couldn’t decide if it was or not.

He wasn’t scared of fading. It seemed inevitable, especially with how he was treated on the daily. He would stop hurting if he faded.

Still, he’d like to see Jazz and Tucker and Sam at least one more time before he does. That would be nice.

The truck continues forward, unmoved by Danny’s thoughts.

The sound is nice, Danny thinks.

The hum of the engine, the crackling of pebbles being crushed under the tires, the electrical buzz of the anti-ghost handcuffs and shield keeping him trapped.

The only sound Danny’s heard the last few years has been the clatter of metal tools, the crunching of bone, the sawing and thunking and squishing of surgery, the murmur of voices.

It’s nice to hear something new, Danny thinks.

Strange, but nice.

The truck stops again. Another red light, probably. Danny continues rocking back and forth, back and forth, like the ticking of a clock.

Seconds pass. Second after second after second.

Danny hears shouting now.

Gunshots crack outside, and Danny sees holes appear in the side of the truck.

That’s definitely new.

Chaos is erupting outside. There’s a lot of screaming, and frantic footsteps, and cars zooming away.

The driver door slams open and shut. The truck speeds off, tires screaming as the driver swerves erratically.

Danny is thrown back and forth in the back of the truck, bumping up against the many weapons and other miscellaneous inventions stored alongside him. Pain blooms in his head and chest, an agonizing heat lining his surgical wounds. Danny licks his lips underneath his muzzle. It would be nice if the driver was a bit better at their job, he thinks.

The truck continues careening wildly.

Danny counts the seconds.

Second after second after second.

After around two thousand, three hundred and seventy four seconds, the truck comes to a stop. Danny didn’t lose count this time. He’s proud of himself.

The driver door opens and closes yet again. There’s chatter outside, excitement clear in the voices that Danny hears. There’s lots of talk of “congratulations,” and “lucky that the Bat didn’t follow you here.”

Then, the back of the truck is opened. Danny hears noises of confusion and shock. He turns his head, looking to see what’s happened.

There’s several men at the door of the truck. They’re wearing black tuxedo suits—Sam was right, black really is such a pretty color—and they’re staring at him.

They begin talking among themselves. Something about them not knowing about a kid, and not knowing what to tell the boss. It’s confusing to him. It’s not what he usually hears spoken.

Then, one of them climbs up into the truck. He approaches Danny slowly, speaking in a calm voice. He’s asking Danny if he can stand, he realizes, asking him if he knows why he’s in the truck.

Danny just stares at the silver glint of the gun at the man’s side.

It’s a nice one, he thinks. Semi-automatic, with a few modifications to make the reloads smoother and the gunshots quieter. His fingers twitch. He’d like to poke at it a little, see if he could improve it any.

The man notices where he’s staring and curses. He takes the gun and lowers it to the floor. Danny just continues to stare.

Silver is an ugly color, he thinks. He much prefers black.

Silver is the color of stainless steel, the color of lab and surgical equipment.

He doesn’t like it much.

The man reaches out a hand and grabs Danny’s shoulder, shaking him gently.

After a moment, he sighs, and hoists Danny up, carrying him effortlessly. He hands him to one of the men outside of the truck, hopping down himself a moment later.

They’re warm, Danny realizes.

He curls further into the new man’s arms, closing his eyes. It’s nice, he thinks, being held like this. He hasn’t been held with such care in a long, long time.

The man sets him down on a crate.

After a moment Danny opens his eyes again, watching as the many black-suited people take things out of the truck. He counts the inventions in his head as they do so, beginning to rock again.

Then, a new man enters the room, and everyone freezes.

He’s congratulating them, asking them about their escape, and then he spots Danny.

Danny would very much like to be invisible right about now.

“Where did you get him?” He asks, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

“He was in the truck,” the man who carried him says, “we don’t know why.”

The stout man looks at him closely.

“How did you get into a government weapon shipment? Did someone put you in there?”

Danny nods his head. He tries to speak, but his voice cracks painfully underneath his muzzle.

“You- someone get that thing off his face,” he says. Several of the other men scurry off, probably looking for something that can break the muzzle, “can you speak?”

Danny shrugs. He tries to talk again, but it seems that his voice doesn’t want to cooperate with him. The only sound he can make is a painful, broken wheeze.

“Hey,” the man says, resting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, “if it hurts to talk, stop trying, alright? We’re gonna get that muzzle and those cuffs off, and then we’ll figure out why you were in there. You know how to write?”

Danny nods.

“Good,” the man responds.

“You two, get something to write with,” he barks to a few of the other suited men. They, too, run off.

A few people come up, carrying a bolt cutter and a few other tools with them. They make quick work of the muzzle and handcuffs, the restraints falling to the floor with a clattering sound.

Danny looks down at his hands. They’re shaking. Slowly, slowly, he brings them up to his face. Thin fingers brush up against cracked, dry lips. He’s fascinated by the sensation.

Someone brought him a mirror, he realizes.

That can’t be right, though. The person looking back at him…isn’t him. That isn’t Danny.

That face is not his face.

Their cheeks are far too thin and sunken, their eyes dull and haunting. They’re far too old as well, they look like a young adult.

Still, they move when he moves. They stare at him with a look of fascinated horror that’s far too familiar.

He brings his hand up to his head, and they follow his movements. He trails his fingers over the stitches in his head, and they do the same.

Danny tries to speak, but is cut off by a painful cough.

One of the men brings up a pencil and notepad. Slowly, shakily, Danny writes down a question.

“What year is it?”

The man who had spoken to him earlier quirked his eyebrow up. He answers, and Danny freezes in place.

“What’s wrong?”

Danny looks down at his hands again. He looks into the mirror. The stranger staring back looks horrified. They look sad. They look…like him.

Danny lets out a mournful keening sound. He curls up into himself, covering his face with his arms. Distantly, he’s aware of someone rubbing circles into his back. He cries harder, his entire body shaking.

Three years.

It’s been three years since he was captured, three years of being cut open and sewn back together. Three years of burns and cuts and chemical damage and electrical shocks.

Three years of torture.

Danny sobs, hands gripping the thin fabric of his medical gown like a lifeline. Three years.

Danny’s being lifted up again. He wraps his arms around the person holding him and wails into their shoulder. Everything is quiet.

“I’ll deal with the kid,” the man holding him says, “the rest of you, finish unpacking the truck and dump it somewhere that the Bat won’t connect to me.”

The man brings Danny through the building, still rubbing his back comfortingly. He’s humming some song that Danny doesn’t recognize, occasionally pausing to bark orders at people.

Danny’s beginning to calm down now. He’s still shaking, but his breathing is beginning to even out.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt alive enough to cry.

He feels exhausted.

Danny tries to hold onto consciousness for as long as possible, but he’s so tired, and so sad, and he’s being held, and he’s warm, and…

Danny’s eyes flutter shut.

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#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fic #vengeful danny #villain danny #girl help I fucking love angst HDJFNSKFJDJFJF #literally pouring milk on Danny and throwing him against the wall to hear the thunk #he is going THROUGH it #truly rip bozo #don’t worry he becomes less scared and more neurotic and terrifying soon

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mockerycrow · 1 year ago

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You’re Alive (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist - gazfest 2023 @glitterypirateduck

PROMPTS: “One-shot” + “Safe House” + “Let Me See You”

SUMMARY: After receiving a facial scar, you have been jumpy—Kyle is here to show you that’s it’s all okay.

A/N: Honestly, I’m not the happiest with this but I decided to stop being picky with it!! So I hope my contribution to gazfest is satisfactory <3

[WARNINGS: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, moderate descriptions of gore, allusion to PTSD.]

Your leg kept bouncing like whatever gnawing feeling in your gut wasn’t going to stop unless your leg was going a million miles per minute. The clock on the wall ticked every second oh so quietly, and it was overall silent aside from the ticking and your body squeaking. You felt like a live wire attached to a brick of dynamite, ready to explode at any given time—ready to kill whoever holds the brick. Despite it being an hour or two since you and Kyle arrived at the safehouse, you remain at the only window in the entire building. In your arms rests your rifle with your safety switched to “semi” for semi-automatic, like you’re expecting someone to come barreling in through the door, or come through the tree line.

Kyle doesn’t blame you for the way you have been acting, honestly. He knows you’ve been different since you got your facial scar a few months back—you were required to go through a psychological evaluation to be deemed fit for duty, and it’s moments like this where Kyle—guiltily—wonders how you passed “with flying colors”, so the doctor said. He doesn’t understand how the Captain hasn’t see your behavior either, or if he has, he hasn’t done anything about it. Kyle means well about all of this, too. He’s worried about you. He’s seen the way your eyes scan every room, the way you’re too ready to raise your weapon to kill, the way you snarl at anyone who is casually holding a knife outside of combat.. There’s so many signs pointing to something, a deeper problem, that he is wondering how the psychologist still has a job.

You’ve begun to wear a mask that obscures your face from your nose down.

You offered to take first watch—he notes that you’re like Ghost in that regard, you can’t calm down after a highly intense situation, so you gotta do what you gotta do, right? But the way you’re so.. jumpy, you keep jolting and looking at Kyle every time he shifts, making a slight noise?—that’s concerning. He’s used to Ghost’s incredible alertness, the way he doesn’t like his back faced to the door of the rooms he enters, Kyle is used to when Ghost sits in the far corner so he can see every inch of the room—but he was terrified when you began to do it, too. You’ve always been vigilant, sure, but you’re.. Something is very wrong.

Kyle watches from his spot on the ragged, torn couch that had to be taken from the curb in a nearby neighborhood. His own rifle is propped up against the couch, his pistol resting on the coffee table in front of himself. He watches the way your eyes flicker across the skyline, the puffy eyebags you have almost seem like they’re worsening by the moment. Kyle is also exhausted—you two have been traveling from safehouse to safehouse for about a week, trying to meet up with the rest of the task force.. With no support, of course.

He calls your name, and he makes a mental note of how your finger twitches closer to the trigger than before. “You need to rest.” He grunts out, pushing himself off of the couch. Kyle turns and grabs his rifle, holding the hefty weapon to his chest as he naturally copies your perfectly practiced pose. He looks up and looks at you—and you haven’t moved a muscle. “Hey, y’hear me?” Kyle voice is laced with concern as he takes his steps towards you, and he makes the mistake of tapping your shoulder—because suddenly he’s facing the silencer of your semi-automatic rifle. Cold panic shoots through his veins and his gut, his muscles going rigid as if he’s a deer in headlights. His eyes search for yours, locking eyes; and you’re out of it. He knew something was wrong.

“Oi,” Kyle speaks with the softest tone he can manage with a gun nearly pressing into the bridge of his nose. “Oi, it’s me. Gaz, mate. It’s Kyle.” Your eyes search his face desperately, and he’s silently begging for you to speak. The tension in his stomach is twisting and turning, threatening to snap—you show no signs of any recognization of him, someone who you have trusted for years by this point, someone who was the one to get your guts inside of your abdomen after an ambush, the one who held your face together after the attack—

Kyle does things before he thinks about it sometimes, and it seems to happen a lot more often with you than anyone else, so he’s silently cursing himself out when he slowly raises a hand to your cheek—his heart pounding against his rib cage, like it’s screeching to escape and run away. He has a rifle pressing against his nose, nearly right between his eyes, and what does he do? Kyle holds your covered cheek, his gloved hand cradling it just like how he did when he found you. Your eyebrow muscles punch inwards for a moment, your eyelids fluttering from the touch.

He watches the way your eyes scan his face, the way you’re trying to decipher whether he’s friend or foe—and he sees it when you know it’s him. Your eyes widen every so slightly and your rifle trembles in your grasp, lowering it and you flip the safety back on. “Gaz, I..” You croak for a moment, taking a small step back. Kyle let’s out a breath he didn’t he was holding, along with all of that tension holding up in body. He reaches for you again as you pinch the bridge of your nose, one of his hands swiftly taking the rifle from you, the other gently cradling your cheek again. “Shh, it’s alright,” He murmurs, his stomach tightening with anxiety. Your eyes fall closed for a moment as Kyle lets your rifle drop to the ground next to where both of you stand.

“It’s alright.” Kyle repeats, his other hand coming up to cradle your other cheek. You ever so slightly flinch in his touch, but you don’t pull away. Your hands come up to cover his own, a choked noise leaving your throat. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.” His lips are next to your ear now, voice dripping like honey into your eardrums, trickling down your spine with a warmth only he’s been able to provide for you. You can borderline feel his heat from beneath his gloves, seeping into your skin from on top of your mask, too. It grounds you enough for you to take a wonderfully oxygen filled breath.

“There y’go, yeah..” Kyle praises you softly, the air from between his lips brushing against your ear and causing you get goosebumps. You inhale once again, slower and deeper—and you get the comforting scent of Kyle, mixed in with the sweat and dirt. Nonetheless, it’s something you find extreme comfort in. As Kyle brings you down from your panicked feelings, he’s swaying you ever so slightly. After you let out a soft shuddering breath, he pulls away from your ear. “Let me see you,” He whispers, causing your eyes to shoot open, scanning his face with panic. You begin to shake your head but his hands remain in place. Kyle’s hands don’t move to remove your mask, as he’s always been good with your boundaries—but his eyes are pleading you.

“Please.” You lock eye contact with him as you debate this; you haven’t showed your face willingly since you were in the hospital, right? You began to cover your face as soon as you could without medical repercussions. You keep scanning his eyes, his muscles in his face, and then it hits you—Kyle doesn’t beg you of anything—the last time he saw your face, was when it was split in two, when he was holding your face in place. You know the attack fucked with him, too. Your barracks were next to his, and after the attack, you were hyper-vigilant. You woke up from every noise, and every night—you heard him stumble out of his room, always at night. Panicked.

You take a slow, deep breath—and you nod. You close your eyes, trying to give yourself some comfort. You feel his fingers hook into the soft material of your mask, and he pulls it down to under your chin. You don’t open your eyes just yet, but you can’t help the small flinch when you feel his gloved thumb trace part of your pink scar that’s deep in your lip. Your heart is hammering in your throat as his finger continues to slowly follow the scar’s path, from your bottom lip trailing to your nose, rearing a gory right, a deeper part of the scar scaling through your right cheek, and taking a harsh upwards turn, just narrowly missing your eye, but cutting deep into your eyebrow.

“There you are.” He whispers, his voice barely steady. Your eyes flutter open and you look at Kyle, and your eyebrows raise ever so slightly at the sight of tears brimming in his own eyes, pure relief all over his expression. “Thought I lost you forever, huh?” Kyle tries to laugh, but his voice cracks, causing a rare laugh to be pulled out of your chest. You reach up and your breath hitches as you wipe away a tear that had begun to slide down his cheek. “I’m.. I’m okay, Kyle.” You respond and he shakes his head, sniffling for a moment, his eyes tracing every part of your face, like you’ll disappear again. “You aren’t,” He confirms. “And that’s alright. You’re alive, and here with me, that’s enough for now.”

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cerastes · 8 months ago

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Jessica the Liberated's loadout consists of a strong, versatile, reliable handgun, a semi-auto weapon that can land deathblows when properly aimed...

...A customized assault rifle, a fully automatic weapon that she can easily use with both hands, or with one hand while holding her shield...

...And a Raythean anti-ship cannon that she steadies with her mobile shield before firing...

...And, during her S3, Saturation Burst, she fires all of her weapons simultaneously...

...No wonder Jessica's new loadout reminded me of something, they really made her a Ground Type Gundam gijinka with a dash of EZ-8 (itself a Ground Type Gundam jury-rigged with spare parts).

#arknights #jessica #gundam

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anim-ttrpgs · 1 year ago

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🌤️ Share your favorite mechanic from a game you’re working on.

I have a lot of mechanics in Eureka that I really really really love and have hardly seen anything similar to them anywhere else, but for the purposes of this ask I’m going to be answering with one of the unique ones that we haven’t talked about on here yet: The Woo Roll.

The Woo Roll is a special roll named in honor of director John Woo, well-known for his bombastic and extravagant use of practical effects in shootout scenes. Eureka boasts exciting and realistically dangerous firearms combat, and what better way to make deadly firearms combat more exciting in a theater-of-the-mind or grid-based shootout than by adding flavor and flare that emulates Hardboiled?

Firstly, it should be noted that it’s actually relatively hard to hit a target in Eureka firearm combat, doing so requires a fairly high roll. That means that participants are going to be doing a lot of missing. Besides just having a higher Firearms skill, the best way to increase one’s chance to hit is by firing more bullets in a single turn in the hopes that at least one of those shots will roll high enough to hit, which is why automatic weapons are more powerful than others: It usually only takes one single bullet hitting to disable a human target, so even with a low Firearms skill, firing more bullets at once greatly increases the chance that at least one will hit.

However, realistically, most shootouts in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy will be done using semi-automatic pistols, which are only capable of firing a maximum of 2 shots per turn. We don’t want to make our combat be just and endless boring montra of “shoot, miss, shoot, miss, shoot, miss”.

So, how do we make missed shots fun?

The answer is the Woo Roll.

The Woo Roll is one of the few rolls in Eureka that doesn’t use 2D6, it only uses 1 D6.

(Quick note for those unaware: While Eureka is NOT a PbtA game, it does use a similar system of “Failure, Partial Success, and Full Success”, three possible outcomes of a dice roll instead of just Success and Failure.)

When firing a gun, all bullets fired that turn are rolled separately (we have a special speed-rolling system for when you’re firing more than 3 bullets in one turn but that’s a different post). A Full Success(10+ on a 2D6 roll) is required to hit the intended target with any given bullet, a Partial Success(7-9) and a Failure(2-6) both miss. But this is where the Woo Roll comes in.

I’ll let the actual Eureka rulebook take it from here.

As you can see here, missed shots in Eureka still have some effect on the environment and situation, even if they do not kill their intended target. This ensures that a roll in firearm combat will always do something even if it is a miss, and reminds the players of one of the fundamental rules of gun safety: Don't just be sure of your target, be sure of what's behind your target! High-velocity lead doesn't stop being destructive just because it flew a little too far to the left!

The fact that a Woo Roll is much more likely to have a negative result if the shoot was a Failure vs a Partial Success means that handing someone a gun who has no idea how to use it can be more of a hazard than a benefit, but it's not impossible for them to get that one lucky shot that makes the difference. Likewise, a Woo Roll made from a Partial Success still has a small chance to cause disaster, so even very skilled shooters have to consider whether it's worth the risk to start firing bullets all over the place at all.

We also have tables the Narrator(Game Master) can roll on just in case the shootout runs out of Woo Roll Elements or it happens in place where no Woo Roll Elements would realistically be. Here's a sneak peak at the table for Negative Woo Rolls.

Note also that this is a 2D6 table, meaning that the results closest to 7 are much more likely than the results farthest from 7.

#eureka: investigative urban fantasy #eureka #ttrpg #ttrpgs #rpg #indie rpg #coc #tabletop #roleplaying #dnd

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zepskies · 1 year ago

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Break Me Down - Part 13

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: 6,500

Tags/Warnings: Peril, hurt/comfort, angst, and a deal…

Part 13: A Generous Deal

Frank, Ben’s former henchman, gave you a quirking smile.

Beside him was Loco, who tossed you a wink. He carried a semi-automatic weapon in his hands.

“You look good, corazón,” Loco said, reaching for your sister. “Let’s get you guys out of here, no?”

“Who the hell is trying to kill us?” Louisa said, accepting his hand after you guided her up from the ground. Frank covered you all while firing back at the shooters.

Loco snorted in amusement. “Vought. Who else?”

“Jesus, fuck,” you muttered. “What do they want with me? It’s Ben they were after.”

“Who’s Ben?” Louisa asked. Meanwhile, Loco guided you both out of the apartment and down the stairs. Frank covered you guys from the back as he followed.

“El capitán, Soldier Boy,” Loco supplied as he pointed to himself and Frank with his gun, “Our boss.”

“Soldier Boy?!” Louisa shot you an incredulous look. You gave her a wan smile before you glared at Loco, pointing his gun away.

“Watch where you aim that thing,” you reminded him. Loco just scoffed. He covered you when you stepped out of the apartment building, leading you to a black SUV parked illegally on the side of the road.

Right now, you were grateful for that as bullets seemed to rain down from everywhere. But with Frank and Loco’s expertise, the four of you made it into the car. Frank was your chauffer, and he sped off down the street.

“How the hell are you alive?” you asked Frank. “You were shot point blank in the chest.”

“Was wearing Kevlar,” he said. “And I was on V24.”

“So he fucked those mall cops in the ass with hot lead and broke me out of prison,” Loco supplied, shooting you a grin.

You smiled back at him, but when you looked over at your sister, gripping the inside of the car door for dear life with petrified eyes, you grabbed her hand to steady her.

You turned back to Frank. “We need to pick up my mom. If they’re after me too, then she’s not safe.”

“Where?” he asked. You gave him the address of the hospital where your mother worked. Frank turned a corner sharply in order to change course, making you grip the car handle yourself.

“Jesus, Frank. Go a little smoother on the wheels, yeah?” Loco quipped.

“You want a nice kiddy ride, or you want to get there alive?” Frank retorted. “We’ve got a narrow window, even less now that we’ve got a second stop.”

“It’s not that far. Lower West Side,” you said. And you continued to instruct him through the New York traffic. He was an adept driver, but he wasn’t a New Yorker. You pointed out the best roads to take to get there within half an hour.

Loco stayed with Louisa in the car (albeit, first with a lot of reassuring that she would be safe with this perfect stranger that she could only suspect was a criminal).

Frank escorted you inside, where you found your mom at the reception desk (thankfully) on the first floor. Her eyes lit up when she saw you.

“Oh my God, you’re back! How are you, sweetheart? Oh, come here,” your mother said, getting up from her desk to pull you into a hug. You accepted it with a smile, but you grabbed her shoulders firmly and made her see the sense of urgency in your eyes.

“Mom, I need you to come with me,” you said in hushed tones. She looked around, from you to her confused coworker at the desk beside her.

“What? Honey, I can’t. I’m at work—”

“Now, Mom. I’ll explain later.”

“Marie, you going on lunch break?” asked her coworker.

“Yep, I’m taking her out,” you supplied, looping your mother’s arm with yours. “Come on! I found this cute little French bistro a few blocks away.”

“Honey,” your mom tried to whisper. She didn’t like the look of Frank hovering beside you. He was a tall man, broad and wearing a long black trench coat—and a gun concealed within.

“Just trust me,” you told her, gripping her hand tight.

Somehow you made it to the car without incident. But once the five of you were on the road, with all three women squished in the backseat, Louisa turned to you.

“So you’re actually helping Soldier Boy now?” she asked, and with a sly raise of her brow, “Or should I say Ben?”

Your face began to heat up, but you clung to your stoicism.

“Soldier Boy,” Marie gasped. “Didn’t he kill Homelander?”

“May that prick get fucked in the ass for all eternity in hell,” you muttered. Once again, your mother gasped.

“Young lady. I don’t like that,” she said, with all due side eye.

“You don’t like anything, Mother,” you quipped.

“Wait, wait. You’re not getting out of this.” Louisa leaned over and grabbed your hand. “What’s the deal with you and Soldier Boy? I thought the whole point of your mission was to arrest him.”

You let out an exasperated sigh.

“I was on the job, things went sideways, I got captured, and things got…complicated.”

Frank huffed. “I think the kids are calling it Frenemies with Benefits.”

Louisa uttered an incredulous laugh while simultaneously freaking the fuck out, especially at the word captured.

“Excuse me?” said Marie. You gave the man a withering look.

“Don’t help me, Frank.”

An amused smile tugged at his lips. But then it was wiped away.

“Incoming. Three tails,” he said. Loco looked in the side mirror, and his muttered curse was a confirmation: they were being followed.

“Where are we headed?” you asked.

“Supe Affairs,” Frank said. He took evasive measures, banking on corners and doing his best to beat the cars tailing them through traffic.

Until the mid-size SUV was side swiped by an even larger black one. It slammed into your side of the car, making it spin out. You all screamed as the car flipped over once and managed to land.

You had to blink drops of blood out of your double vision, but when it cleared, you saw Black Noir had landed on the hood of the car. Your eyes widened.

Noir raised his gun and shot through the windshield, but while Loco shot right back at him, Frank put the car into reverse—into the path of a coming bus.

He actually sped towards it. And at the last moment, he sharply turned the car to try and fling the supe off the hood.

It worked, somewhat. Noir was forced to stop the bus from hitting him directly, causing the front of the bus to fold up like an accordion against his hands. And while he was distracted, Loco threw a projectile at the supe’s face.

Noir caught it with ease, but he didn’t expect the way it erupted with nerve gas in his face. Before it could affect the normal humans in the car, Frank reversed again and finally managed to dislodge the supe.

He turned the car around and was able to get the car back into Drive, but the entire windshield was gone, and breathing felt like agony once again. If you had to guess, it was your broken ribs flaring up after the initial impact.

Your shoulder also ached like a bitch. You didn’t think it was dislocated, but at the very least, severely bruised.

Not broken, at least, you thought bitterly.

“Oh my God. You okay?” Louisa asked, gasping once she looked over and saw you clutching your arm.

You could also feel blood dripping over your brow and down the side of your face. Your mom also had a knock to the side of her head, but she and Louisa looked more or less fine, if scared out of their minds.

“I’m okay,” you said, giving them a reassuring smile. You directed it at Frank next, when he glanced back at you with concern.

You fished into your pocket and found your cell phone unscathed. Letting out a relieved breath, you found Grace Mallory’s personal cell in your contacts and started the call.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Who is this?”

“Grace, it’s me. I—”

“How did you get this number?” she asked.

“Stole it from M.M.’s phone,” you replied impatiently. “Listen, I have a situation—”

“You’re already on thin ice,” she said. “This better be fucking good.”

At that, the narrow thread of your temper snapped.

“I’m playing bumper cars with Black Noir in the Lower West Side. How’s that for fucking good?” you said, raising your voice. “He’s trying to kill me and my entire family. I need your help, right now!”

A beat of silence, and Grace replied.

“Understood. What are the cross streets?”

“We’re in a black SUV,” you replied, and you gave her the closest streets as they passed by. “We’re heading toward the S.A.”

“Backup will arrive shortly,” she said. Then she hung up on you.

It was a good thing too, because you lost your grip on your cell when another car bumped into the SUV, this time from the driver’s side. Your eyes widened as you saw Black Noir again, this time with a grenade launcher.

“Heads down!” you screamed, reaching for your sister.

Just as he would’ve shot at the car, a helicopter flew overhead and shot directly at the supe. CIA units swarmed in in various cars, and it allowed Frank the distraction he needed to slip away from the supe.

Frank and Loco escorted your family to the double doors of the Supe Affairs building. You hung back real quick once they were inside, knowing the men couldn’t go in. They would likely be apprehended.

“Thank you,” you told them. Emotion made your eyes glassy. Loco gave you a smile and rubbed your non-injured shoulder.

“Just get yourself checked out,” Frank said. He gave you a scrap of paper with two cell phone numbers on it.

“Reach us here if anything changes,” he said. With Soldier Boy, his tone implied. You nodded and took the numbers from him. Loco left to start up the car, but you grabbed Frank’s arm, holding him back a minute.

“Why’d you come find me?” you asked. “You guys…didn’t owe me anything. You don’t even owe Ben.”

“He does technically owe us,” Frank said.

You nodded at that. “Well, you could just cut your losses…is it that good a payout?”

His dry smile told you yes, it would be that good.

“But that doesn’t explain me,” you pointed out.

Frank considered you, as if contemplating the reason himself.

“We knew if Soldier Boy was going to break out, it would be because of you,” he said. “We happened to be watching you when we saw Black Noir casing your building.”

“Doesn’t totally explain why you’d risk your lives for me,” you said.

Frank seemed uncomfortable with the question. So you let him off the hook with a smile.

“Thank you. Again,” you said. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

His lips curved at that. “Me too, kid.”

You ushered your mom and sister through the S.A. building, ignoring the odd and concerned looks from people going about their workday.

You knew the three of you made quite a sight, especially when your face was literally dripping blood, and your arm was pinned to your side.

You noticed Butcher striding down the hall with M.M., and you called out to him loudly.

“Still think Black Noir isn’t a fucking priority?” you shouted.

Both men noticed you in surprise, but while Butcher was mostly curious, M.M. was concerned. You then ignored them and started guiding your family up to Grace’s office.

As it turned out, you didn’t have to. She stepped off the elevator and led the three of you into a private office. She had already requested an on-call doctor for you, and he was there waiting with his supplies.

Marie helped you into a chair, where you let out a shaky breath. The doctor came over to check your shoulder, during which Marie stroked your good arm and Luisa brushed your sweaty hair from your face.

“Not broken or dislocated,” he confirmed. “Just bruised. You’ll need to ice it for a few days.”

“What happened?” Grace asked at last. You met her blue-eyed gaze.

“I told you. Black Noir tried to kill us. I assume I was the target, because he found me at my apartment,” you said with a wince, rubbing at your aching ribs while the doctor wrapped your arm in a temporary sling. He next worked on blotting and stitching up your head wound, which he remarked was shallower than it seemed.

What you needed were some painkillers.

“I want my mom and my sister placed in protective custody,” you told Grace.

Both women protested at first.

“What are you going to do?” Luisa asked incredulously. “You can’t do this by yourself.”

“We’ll take care of this,” you tried to reassure her.

“And what about school? I can’t just drop out for God-knows how long.”

“I’ll talk to NYU, get them to let you complete your classes online.”

“What about me? My job isn’t so flexible,” Marie pointed out. You frowned, at a loss for what to say. Your guilt was growing by the moment; not only had your family been put in danger because of you, but their lives were about to be completely uprooted.

“We’ll work it out with your employer as well,” Grace said.

You gave her an appreciative look. Grace could be a bitch, but it seemed she wasn’t a complete asshole.

When you turned back to your family, hot tears welled up in your eyes and slid down your cheeks unbidden.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked on a sob. “This is on me.”

Luisa tearfully shook her head, holding your hand. Your mom was in a similar state as she wiped your tears away.

“I just want you to be safe,” Marie said. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

You nodded, but you couldn’t force yourself to lie to her this time.

In a few hours, you saw your mother and sister off as Grace directed them into protective custody. They would be taken to a safe house tonight, and would remain there until the matter of Black Noir was settled.

You were exhausted, in pain, and emotionally spent, and you were going to need a safe house of your own. But you agreed to spend the night here at the S.A. building, where there were cots available upstairs for when supes where occasionally held overnight.

You debated the idea growing your mind, whether it would be good for you in this moment…

But you couldn’t help yourself.

You had to see him.

Your steps were slow, but you eventually made it to the “cellar.”

The guards raised their brows at the state of you, still with dried blood, bruises, and your arm in a temporary sling. Your hard gaze warned them to mind their fucking business.

“Open it up,” you said, raising an expectant brow. After glancing at one another, one of the guards shrugged. He pressed the button to disengage the outer walls, which parted for your entry.

You stepped inside, this time grateful for the way those walls closed behind you. You knew the guards would be watching regardless, but the semblance of privacy was enough for you.

Ben was sitting up in his cot, back against the wall with his arms crossed. The stance was familiar to you; he was probably awake, but trying not to fall asleep due to the nerve gas making him drowsy.

His eyes opened when he heard you coming. His mouth opened, poised to be snarky, until he actually caught sight of you. Whatever acidic words he’d been about to say died on his tongue as he took in your injuries, from stitched and bandaged head to your arm in a sling.

He got up and approached you, until only the glass separated you two by a few feet.

“What the fuck happened?” he asked. His voice was gruff, but you thought you detected concern behind his green eyes.

“Black Noir,” you rasped.

You explained to him what happened from the very beginning. Your sister showing up at your apartment, followed by Noir shooting at you, then Frank and Loco showing up to extract you from the building.

“Those fuckers are still alive?” Ben noted with surprise. You could see that he was pleased by the news, and you smiled.

“Yeah, they saved me,” you admitted. But then, your lips trembled. “Black Noir tried to take me out. Me and my whole family.”

Ben watched you tear up, his jaw tightening. The fury lighting in his blood gave him new energy as he contemplated just how slowly and painfully he’d take Stan Edgar apart for this. He had no right to sick that damn bootlicker on you.

And probably just to get to him.

Ben began to pace. He had no other way to vent his frustration, other than hurling up his cot against the wall with a guttural sound of rage. (Which he did, not seeing how it made you flinch.)

He was in this cage, and meanwhile, you were out there. Unprotected. Taking bullets that should be his…and his alone.

He wiped a hand over his mouth and looked back at you. You were wide-eyed, vulnerable, not sure what to make of his reaction.

Ben wanted to continue blaming you for his imprisonment…but deep down, he knew you weren’t the one who put him here. He also knew why you wouldn’t break him out either.

You were stubborn about your convictions—something that frustrated him to no end. But ultimately, he admired you for how you always held your ground, even against him.

Especially against him.

But right now, you looked exhausted, in pain. He just couldn’t do anything about it. And that irritated him, he discovered.

“Did your dad order the hit?” he asked. “Stan said he was still alive.”

You tilted your head, like you hadn’t thought of that before. Despite your lingering tears, your expression briefly became cold as stone.

“If my father knew about this, he’s a dead man,” you said.

Ben inclined his head in agreement. It looked like even you had a limit on what was forgivable.

You sighed and stepped closer to the cell. You implored him, first with your eyes, and then with the truth.

“Ben, I need your help,” you said. “As long as Stan Edgar and Vought still stand, it’s a target on your back. Now it’s on mine too. My mom, and my sister. Please.”

Ben seemed to consider it, as his gaze left your face.

Then, he came up closer to the glass window.

“Call your boss. Tell her it’s time for a talk,” he said.

You sighed in relief, covering your eyes with a hand as your tears fell anew. You looked up at Ben, trying and failing to get ahold of yourself.

“Thank you,” you said.

Ben’s anger crumbled that much more. He sighed and pressed a fist up to the glass on his side to lean against it. You laid a hand against the glass, opposite his.

His eyes met yours. As resentment drained out of him, slowly, his fingers uncurled.

His hand laid on the glass in line with your smaller hand. You could almost pretend the window didn’t exist between you, and the cold glass under your palm was really his. A moment later, Ben let his hand fall and returned to his cot.

Soon, you wanted to tell him.

You would make sure of it.

Grace’s heels clacked on the metal ground as the fortified barriers disengaged, allowing her entrance into the observing area of Soldier Boy’s cell.

The man himself looked up at her from where he sat on his cot, his hair falling over his brows. He straightened and stood, and he met her at the forefront of the cell.

She stopped a foot behind the glass and crossed her arms. Ben’s gaze seized her up lazily—the gray pantsuit and white blouse, the coif of blonde hair piled on her head, the light layer of lipstick across her thin lips. She looked even less fun now than she had in the 80s.

“You’ve gotten old as fuck,” he remarked.

“As I hear it, a few wrinkles don’t bother you in the slightest,” she countered.

His lips curved. He’d never fuck this broad on mere principle, but she was still easy on those baby blues.

“So,” she began, “Two options. One: you can sleep in here forever, until you look as old as I am. Or two: you’ll work with my team to bring down Vought, on our terms. Which means executing approved targets only. Collateral damage kept to a narrow minimum.”

Her gaze was unyielding, clinical at best.

“Operate within the confines of the law. And if by some miracle you pull all of that off…you can publicly retire to South America, never to step foot in the U.S. again,” she said.

“We will leave you alone, provided you don’t actively create havoc. And if you deviate from the plan in any way, we will hunt you down and bring you right back here. You will never know peace.”

Ben stared at her, almost amused at her audacity. “That’s your idea of a goddamn deal?”

She ignored him, her expression turning thoughtful.

“Oh, yes,” Grace said, a finger tapping on her arm, as if she just remembered something. She mentioned your name, making Ben’s brows furrow.

“Should you fuck up your end of this generous deal, I will also personally make sure that you never see her again,” she said.

Ben’s jaw tensed, his green eyes narrowing a fraction.

But he figured his best play here was to bluff.

“What makes you think I give a flying fuck about that?” he said snidely.

For the first time, a bit of humor lightened Grace as her mouth tugged at a smile.

“Actually, it seems you do. And a great deal of one,” she said. “That you’re considering this agreement at all is because of her.”

Ben’s lips pressed together.

“The fact of the matter is, Benjamin, I can make her disappear,” she stated, “even more thoroughly than I’ll bury you if you cross me.”

That threat nearly unhinged him. A vein pulsed in his neck as he ground his teeth.

But he managed to keep his cool, smooth as he crossed his arms and stared back at this platinum-haired bitch.

“See, you can talk big behind that glass. But the truth is, you need me,” he said. “All you bitches do. And you’re all afraid of me. So if you want to threaten me, by all means…just don’t forget who the fuck I am.”

M.M. carefully watched the archive footage from yesterday between you and Ben from his laptop. He saw the shift in the supe when you walked in, battered with your arm in a temporary sling. M.M. watched the man’s anger build, but for you instead of at you.

By the time he made it to the end, watching Ben’s hand meet yours on his side of the glass, M.M. sat back in his seat and frowned, resting his chin in his hand. What the hell…

Maybe Soldier Boy did give a fuck about someone other than himself.

M.M.’s phone buzzed, breaking him out of his reverie. It was Grace.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Team meeting,” she said, instructing him to head up to a conference room on the third floor in ten minutes. Sighing, M.M. closed his laptop and made his way up.

Annie and Hughie were already there, followed by Frenchie and Kimiko, and finally Butcher, strolling in to make his entrance as always.

You were the only one not in attendance, having gone back to full-time in the Surveillance department. Though considering what happened yesterday with Black Noir, he was surprised you weren’t here…

But once Grace started the meeting, explaining what had become of her meeting with Soldier Boy, M.M.’s already precarious mood darkened even further.

“It’s an insane fucking deal,” Butcher agreed, breaking the steely silence of the room following Grace’s little report. “But it’s one we’ve made before.”

“You’ve made before,” Annie retorted. “This is crazy. We can’t trust Soldier Boy.”

“But we all know who does,” M.M. said. His gaze shifted to the door, where you had just stepped in. It seemed you were invited to the meeting after all.

You were late, quite literally holding Starbucks. It looked like a caramel macchiato, iced, light froth. You sipped it through a green straw and took a seat beside Frenchie, who offered you a smile as he smoked a cigarette. You returned it before you addressed the group.

“Take my personal stake out of the equation,” you said.

“So you admit it’s personal,” M.M. remarked. You shot him a glance, but you didn’t let him deter you from your point.

“Ben is our best play against Black Noir. That’s just a fact,” you said. “He was cloned in part with Homelander’s DNA.”

“Okay, sure,” Hughie said. “Despite all the…potential logistics problems there, what about Stan Edgar? He’s been one step ahead of us this entire time.”

That was a fair point, one you acknowledged with a nod.

“I think we should look into Victoria Neuman. She turned on Stan once to protect herself, who’s to say she won’t again?” you said.

“Or, she’ll pop our heads like water balloons,” Frenchie pointed out, letting out a puff of his cigarette. Hughie frowned and waved his hand across the plume.

“Do you have to do that right in my face?” he asked. Frenchie blew a kiss (and a small ring of smoke) at Hughie with a playful smirk.

Again, you smiled. “Ben can help with that too.”

Most of them didn’t like the idea. Annie and Kimiko frowned, while Hughie looked unsure. Frenchie might’ve been persuaded…

Butcher actually seemed to agree with you, shockingly. He looked over at M.M., whose stance in all this was obvious.

“You wanna make things safe for your daughter, taking out Vought is fucking it,” Butcher said. It wasn’t what you expected him to say…but maybe the men had had this argument before.

M.M. was tense, his hand clenching into a fist on the conference table.

“You don’t have to tell me that shit,” M.M. said tersely. He looked up at Mallory. “I’m assuming as a part of this fuck-ass deal, Soldier Boy walks free after all this is said and done?”

Grace confirmed this with a short nod, though you could see she wasn’t happy about it either.

“After the work is done, he won’t be allowed to step foot in the U.S. again,” she said.

You frowned, upset at that little footnote, but you held in your reaction as you watched M.M. rise out of his seat, his chair roughly sliding against the ground. He dented the table with a heavy fist as he strode out of the conference room.

Ben rolled his eyes as he took the contract. It had been laid on the tray compartment where his meals were usually slotted through.

You, Grace, and Butcher stood on the other side of his cell. You also thought the contract was stupid; you all knew if Ben didn’t comply with this arrangement, a measly piece of paper wasn’t going to do shit. But Mallory was nothing if not thorough.

He signed it with the pen and shoved both back through the slot. Mallory collected it and turned at Butcher, and then you with her sharp eyes.

“On your head be it,” she said. Then she departed the cell, where the additional fortifying walls were left open. With a raised brow, Butcher signaled to the guards to cut the nerve gas.

Once the mist cleared from the inner cell, Ben took his first real breath in a week. He blinked as the heavy fog he’d been resisting for days cleared, and he stood straighter. His green eyes were on you as the cell finally disengaged, sliding open with a hiss.

You bit your lower lip as he stepped through barefooted. He still wore the clinically white clothing the S.A. provided, like he was the inmate of a psych ward or something. He eyed Butcher warily.

“Ello, gov. Back in business again,” said the Brit. Ben rolled his eyes.

“Just stay out of my fucking way,” he replied.

You wanted to pull him into your arms already. But professionalism be damned, you didn’t want to show your vulnerability around Butcher.

Instead, you held up a plastic bag of clothes and shoes for him to change into, meeting him with a smile. The tightness in his face eased a bit when he glanced over at you, then took the bag with a nod.

“Hungry?” you asked.

Ben’s lips curved into a smirk. “I could eat.”

You felt heat flare in your face as your mouth dropped open slightly.

Butcher rose a brow as he glanced between you two. He chose to ignore the supe’s blatant eye-fucking. He just wanted to get this over with.

“First off, let’s get something squared away,” Butcher said.

He then turned his head and released a wet cough that didn’t sound pleasant. The man also looked pale, and if you thought about it, he hadn’t been looking well in the meeting earlier either. You gave him a concerned frown.

“You okay?” you asked. Butcher gave you a side glance.

“Fucking phenomenal. Here.”

He provided Ben with an S.A.-issued cell phone, and you with the address of a safe house.

“His and hers,” Butcher said, handing you the keys. You understood his meaning; since Black Noir was after you as well, it made enough sense to put you and Ben in the same safe house.

“Now, lest you think of pulling another Houdini act, it won’t hurt to remind you that you will be watched,” he said to both of you (but mainly Ben). “I myself, along with other agents, will be checking in from time to time, making sure everything’s on the up and up.”

“Whatever, are we fucking done?” Ben snapped with impatience. He started walking out of the cellar, towards the open door that showed the brighter lit hallway. Once he stepped out though, he wasn’t sure where to go.

You gave Butcher a parting look before you caught up with Ben in the hall. You laid a hand on his arm and led him to the nearest bathroom so he could change while you waited outside. You texted with the agent that would be your driving detail, making sure the car would be ready.

After a few minutes of waiting though, you began to get antsy and impatient yourself. You went to the bathroom door and knocked, opening it a crack.

“Ben, you okay?”

“Yeah. Come in,” he said.

You paused, not sure if that was a good idea. But you also didn’t know why that was your instinctive thought.

Taking a breath to steady yourself, you hesitantly opened the door to the men’s bathroom and stepped inside. Ben was already dressed, just fixing his belt.

He wore a pair of dark wash jeans, a plain black shirt, and some boots. It wasn’t his normal look, but even this suited him well. He stretched out the shirt in all the right places, particularly the arms.

But you blushed as you noticed the smirk on his face; he’d totally caught you checking him out.

“Well, that answers my question,” he remarked.

Your lips flickered at a smile as you drew closer.

Looks good, you were about to tell him, but nothing came out. Your voice got stuck in your throat as you looked up at him. It seemed this moment was finally hitting you.

There was still so much unknown shit on the horizon, between Black Noir, Victoria Neuman, Stan Edgar, your family in protective custody, and all the rest. But at least you had helped accomplish one thing today.

Your eyes stung as they welled up with tears, and you bit your bottom lip to keep it from wobbling.

The smirk on Ben’s face faded. But then his brose rose in surprise as you surged forward and caught him in a hug. Your arms slipped around his middle, and his arms fell around your frame, mostly on instinct.

When he felt your tears dampening his shirt, heard you crying softly, felt the tremble in your body, he collected you tighter against him, his hands splaying across your back. Something in his chest clenched up…but then it eased. He dropped his lips to your hair.

“What’s this now?” he asked, somewhat teasing. You shook your head against his chest, not willing to answer. His hand fell to your waist and gave you a squeeze.

“Come on, baby doll,” he said. He grinned a little, though you couldn’t see it. “Where’s that steely bitch who didn’t cut me any fucking slack this week?”

You choked on a laugh, despite the tears still slipping down your cheeks.

“She’s a good actor,” you replied. Ben chuckled and soothed a hand over your hair. It gave you hope that he didn’t resent you too much. You were just so damn relieved.

“I’m sorry this couldn’t happen sooner,” you whispered. You weren’t sorry for not breaking ranks to get him out, but he had to know you’d never wanted him to go from one cage to another.

Ben’s grin faded. He stayed quiet, unsure of what to say to you.

After a moment, your cell phone chimed and buzzed in your pocket. Sniffling, you pulled away from him enough to reach into your pocket and read the text.

“The driver’s ready to take us to the safe house,” you said, pocketing your phone. But you still clung to his shirt with your other hand. You were also avoiding his gaze. Embarrassed, maybe.

It made him smile. He tugged a strand of hair behind your ear, prompting you to finally look up at him. He then bucked a gentle fist under your chin.

It got a small smile on your face, because you knew then that he didn’t hate you. The rage and contempt he’d levied at you this week, it hadn’t been the real him. This was the man you’d held out for…the man you’d caught glimmers of over the past two months.

Ben cleared his throat.

“Well. You ready, sweetheart?” he asked, raising a brow. You nodded and let go of him, wiping your face to make sure it was dry before you stepped outside.

Once the two of you left the bathroom, you led him out of the S.A. building. The car was waiting, another mid-sized SUV, and the driver transported you both to the safe house, which looked like it was going to be outside the city.

Makes sense, you thought. You turned to Ben, who sat with you in the back.

“How do you feel?” you asked. Still drowsy?

He didn’t look it. The moment the Novichok cleared the cell, he seemed to regain his faculties. Now, you were more concerned about the potential psychological effects. You were worried about how the past week might’ve set him back.

But Ben only gave you a wry curve of his lips.

“Like a million bucks,” he replied. His gaze roamed over you, noting your healing cuts and bruises from the car chase yesterday.

“You’re not wearing the sling,” he commented. You rubbed your bruised shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” you said, downplaying a little.

Pain meds were doing wonders for you though. Frenchie had slipped you some of the “good stuff” this morning, which had the added benefit of chilling you out for hours. You had come off it a while ago, but you had some normal painkillers in your suitcase.

You’d been escorted home to collect some of your things, and the suitcase now laid in the trunk. You felt bad that Ben didn’t have anything but the clothes on his back…but you were sure the CIA would provide other things for him once you two got to the safe house.

Ben surprised you, however, by thumbing an outline around the butterflied cut on your head as he examined it. “Doesn’t look deep.”

“It’s not,” you agreed, blushing a little. “I’m fine, Ben.”

His gaze found yours then, sharp as always. His mouth twitched.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said. His voice was a rumble, deep and filled with promise. Your cheeks warmed further as you tilted your head at him.

“What does that mean?” you asked. A smile started to tug at your lips.

Ben just smirked and crossed his arms, facing the road ahead. You eyed him, but a trill of anticipation ran down your spine.

It seemed like a small eternity until you reached the safe house, several miles out into Upstate New York. It was a modest, one-story house in the middle of a gated community.

The outside walls were painted beige with a brown trim. The driveway paved with cobblestone, with a little walkway flanked by small bushes with little red flowers. It was the perfect unassuming place to house the most famous supe alive.

The driver left you with your bags, which Ben grabbed before you could barely reach out your good arm. He flashed you a grin and waited for you to unlock the front door.

“Home sweet home,” you breathed as you stepped past the threshold. Your hands fell to your hips while you surveyed your surroundings.

Behind you, the suitcase and the small duffel bag dropped to the floor. You started to turn towards him, but apparently you weren’t fast enough on the uptake—as Ben hooked an arm around your waist and spun you around.

Before you could even blink, your back was pressed against the door. You’d clung to him on instinct as a gasp fell from your lips. But you looked up into Ben’s smirk, his heated eyes filled with desire, and maybe a flash of relief.

You felt it too. The sweet craving fulfilled of finally being alone, as he claimed you with a kiss. You made a sound of pleasure, of acceptance as your hand rose to his cheek.

Your fingers soon slid into his hair as you tilted your head, deepening the kiss.

Ben braced himself against the door hard enough to shake it on its hinges. It was all you could do to hold onto his arms as his knee pressed between your legs, finding friction against your jeans.

Being with him was a relief, you discovered. And having him inside you was starting to feel like home.

AN: 😏 I know, I'm terrible for ending it there, huh? What did you think of their little reunion here?

Don't worry though, next chapter is the real reunion.

Next Time:

“You need a trim,” you said, letting out a breathy laugh. You kissed his cheek again. Slow, and with purpose.

Ben let out a sigh through his nose. His eyes closed again at your gentler kisses, your touch. Maybe he reveled in this—being able to hold you back. It felt right.

If he was honest with himself (and this time, he was), you were somehow able to ease the frayed edges of his mind. Edges that had been starting to unravel in that cell.

Keep Reading: PART 14

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