bitch,jerk,assbutt,balls

The air in Small Heath is a thick, suffocating blanket of soot and the metallic tang of industrial runoff, but inside the warehouse, the atmosphere is heavy with a different kind of tension. Tommy Shelby stands like a statue, his silhouette sharp and imposing against the flickering lamplight. He doesn't move, doesn't fidget; he simply exists as the centre of gravity in the room, facing your father: a man whose ambition has always been a loud, clumsy thing that far outweighed his actual intelligence.

Your father has been skimming from the Peaky Blinders' associates, a gamble that was less of a strategy and more of a suicide note. In any other circumstance, the punishment would have been swift and silent. But Tommy Shelby doesn't just want the money back; he wants the satisfaction of a psychological victory.

"You're in deep, Edward," Tommy says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seems to vibrate in the damp air. "The men you stole from don't care for apologies. They don't care for the 'circumstances' of your debt. They care for payment. In full."

Your father sneers, his face flushing a mottled red as he tries to maintain a facade of strength. He shifts his weight, his expensive suit looking out of place amidst the crates and dust. "I can get the money. I just need a few more days to move some assets. Just give me time, Shelby."

Tommy tilts his head, a cold, predatory glint in his eyes. He reaches into his pocket and produces a heavy gold coin, rolling it across his knuckles with a rhythmic, hypnotic ease. Clink. Clink. Clink. "I don't think you have it. I think you've spent it on horses and harlots, and now you're staring at a hole you can't climb out of. But I think you're desperate. And desperate men are the easiest to read."

Tommy pauses, the coin stopping dead on the top of his index finger. "Let's make a wager. A gamble to settle the debt. If you win, I will forget the skimming and give you a month's grace. If I win... You give me everything you have left, and you vanish from Birmingham."

"What's the bet?" your father spits, leaning in, lured by the prospect of a shortcut.

Tommy’s gaze shifts slowly to you, standing a few paces behind him. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. You and Tommy have been entwined in a secret, feverish affair for months—stolen hours in the dead of night, breathless, desperate kisses in the shadows of the Garrison, and the constant, electric thrill of being caught. Every touch has been a risk, every moan a gamble.

"I bet that you're a coward," Tommy says, his voice dropping an octave. "I'll offer you a way out of your debt. In exchange for the missing funds and your absolute loyalty to the Company, I'll give you your son. He’s been... spending a lot of time with me. I've found him to be quite useful. I'll hand him over to you, to do with as you please, to ensure he 'learns' the family business through the discipline you so clearly value."

You freeze. The words are a cold splash of water, but beneath the shock, a different sensation ignites. You know Tommy is bluffing, you know the possessive streak that runs through Tommy Shelby like a vein of iron, but the sheer audacity of it, the boldness of Tommy claiming you as a bargaining chip in front of your own father, sends a jolt of illicit heat straight to your groin.

You try to keep your face a mask of indifference, but as you look at Tommy’s profile, the sharp jaw, the calculating eyes, a small, giddy smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You feel seen, owned, and desired all at once. The idea of being "offered up" by Tommy, of being a prize in a game of power, makes your breath hitch.

Your father notices. He sees the look of adoration, the spark of submission in your eyes. The realisation that you are not only compromised but infatuated with the man he was supposed to hate sparks a blind, narcissistic rage. He doesn't see a son; he sees a traitor who has been corrupted by the very man he was trying to outmanoeuvre.

Three hours later, you don't go home. You can't.

You stumble toward Tommy’s house in the dead of night, the rain beginning to fall in a cold, miserable drizzle. Your clothes are torn, your shirt ripped open at the shoulder, and your face is a map of violence. Your father waited until you were alone in the study to vent his fury, the blows landing heavy and cruel. You were beaten for the "betrayal," for the look on your face in the warehouse, for the crime of loving a Shelby.

When Tommy opens the door, his expression doesn't shift into shock; it shifts into a cold, murderous intensity that is more terrifying than any scream. He doesn't say a word at first. He reaches out, his fingers gripping your chin with a firm, bruising pressure, forcing you to look up. He inspects the split lip, the swelling bruise on the cheek, and the blood matting your hair.

"He touched you," Tommy whispers. It isn't a question. It is a death warrant.

Tommy pulls you inside, slamming the door shut with a finality that echoes through the house. He doesn't offer platitudes or soft words. He strips your ruined clothes off with urgent, trembling hands, his touch alternating between a tender, clinical care and a possessive, crushing grip. He cleans the wounds with a damp cloth, the silence between you humming with the violence of the night.

You lean into him, sobbing softly, your hands clutching at Tommy’s waistcoat, pulling him closer. "I don't care... I don't care about him. Just take me. Please, Tommy, just take me."

Tommy doesn't need to be told twice. The protective instinct has morphed into a raw, animalistic hunger. He shoves you back against the heavy oak table in the dining room, the wood groaning under the impact. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that tastes of copper and desperation, your tongues fighting for dominance.

There is no one else in the house, no siblings, no servants, just the two of you and the oppressive silence of the Birmingham night. Tommy rips your trousers down, his cock hard and throbbing, pulsing with a need to reclaim what had been damaged. He grabs your thighs, hoisting them up around his waist, the friction of your skin sending sparks through his nerves.

Without a word of warning, Tommy slams into you, a deep, guttural groan escaping his throat as he buries his length deep inside. You scream, the sound echoing through the empty halls, but you don't want it to stop. You wrap your arms around Tommy’s neck, pulling him down, wanting to be consumed by the man.

Tommy fucks you with a raw, violent passion, his hips slamming against your ass with rhythmic, wet thuds that sound like a heartbeat. He isn't being gentle; he is marking you.

"You're mine," Tommy growls into your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe, nearly drawing blood. "Do you understand? You belong to me. Not him. Not your father. Me."

"Yes!" you gasp, your head tossing back, eyes rolling as Tommy hits your prostate with every punishing thrust. "Yours... always yours! Fuck me, Tommy, please!"

You fuck loudly, without restraint, the sounds of skin slapping against skin and breathless, guttural moans filling the room. Tommy grips your hips so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow—marks that will serve as a reminder of who you truly belong to. You collide again and again until you both collapse in a heap of sweat and spent seed, falling asleep in each other's arms on the rug, the fire in the hearth dying down to embers.

The morning light is grey and filtered through the smog, casting a ghostly pallor over the room. The sharp thwack of the morning paper hitting the porch wakes you.

Still naked, your body aching in a way that feels like a victory, you wander to the front door and pick up the news. You scan the headlines, your eyes landing on a small, grim article. It details a "brutal assault" on a local businessman, your father. The man has been beaten nearly to death, his business burned to the ground, left as a broken, sobbing shell in the gutter of a back alley.

As you stare at the grainy photo of the charred remains of your father's office, something catches your eye. In the corner of the frame, lying on the pavement next to your father's unconscious, bloodied body, is a gold coin.

The same coin Tommy had used for the bet.

Tommy appears behind you, dressed in his dressing gown, smelling of tobacco and expensive soap. He leans against the doorframe, watching you with a calm, detached expression, his blue eyes devoid of remorse.

"Did you know?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly, though not with fear.

Tommy steps closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you back against his chest in a grip that is less of a hug and more of a claim. "I ordered the boys to go after him the moment you left the warehouse. I don't like people touching my things. And I certainly don't like people who think they can steal from me."

You look at the paper, then up at Tommy. You should be horrified. You should be terrified of the man who has systematically destroyed your family. Instead, you feel a surge of profound, dark admiration. The efficiency of it, the cruelty of the poetry—it is intoxicating.

"You played him," you whisper, a small, dark smile forming on your lips. "You got everything in the bet. The money, the loyalty... and me."

Tommy lets out a low, genuine chuckle, the sound vibrating through your spine. He nips at your shoulder, his hand sliding down to grip your ass firmly, squeezing the flesh.

"I always win my bets," Tommy murmurs, his voice thick with possessiveness.

He spins you around and pushes you back toward the bedroom, his eyes dark with renewed hunger. "Now, come back to bed. I'm not finished with my prize yet."

The knock on the apartment door echoes through the hallway just before midnight. You would think midnight in Los Angeles would feel more glamorous, but right now, it just feels heavy and unfamiliar.

On the other side of the door, you're exhausted. Your backpack presses into your shoulder, your eyes sting from crying, and all you want to do is turn around and leave before the door opens. But it's too late. The lock clicks. The door swings open. And there he is. Buck, your older brother. He looks just as startled to see you as you are to see him, but there's a familiar safety in the way he stands in the doorway. For a second, neither of you moves. He frowns in confusion, then his face turns pale.

"Y/N?" The moment you hear his voice, the lump in your throat becomes impossible to ignore.

"Hi."

Buck stares. He looks from your backpack to your tear-streaked face. Then back again. "What are you doing here?"

You swallow hard. "I ran away."

You don't mean to let the words spill out, but they do. The confession lands heavy on your tongue, a mix of shame and relief twisting in your stomach. You can't stop remembering the way your father's voice cut through the kitchen earlier. He was standing by the fridge, furiously waving a report card in the air, his face red with disappointment. It was like every expectation he ever had for you was condensed in his glare, pressing down until you felt like you couldn't breathe. He kept repeating the same old lines about how you never try hard enough, how you're throwing away your future, each word louder than the last. Each shout left you flinching, guilt crawling under your skin. It was always something: the D on your science project in eighth grade, the time you lost your phone after the school trip, that one soccer game you missed because you forgot your cleats. There was the night he found your unfinished college essays crumpled under your bed and ripped them to shreds, telling you it was proof you never finished anything you started. Each time, you wondered if maybe he was right, maybe you really were a failure. It wasn't the first time.

There was the argument last winter about college applications, the shouting matches about missed curfews, and the silent dinners where no one spoke unless it was to criticise. The shouting bounced off the walls, filling every inch of space, until it seemed like you couldn't escape it, even in your own head. Your mother just stood by the sink, her back turned to both of you, scrubbing a plate that was already clean, refusing to look at you. But you noticed the way her hands trembled, her knuckles white around the plate, and for a moment, you almost believed she wanted to say something but couldn't. Sometimes, you caught her eyes flickering in your direction, quick and uncertain, as if she was weighing words she never let out. That hurt almost as much as the shouting. For a second, you almost begged her to turn around, to say something, to save you from the spiral of anger and blame, but she wouldn't. You sensed something restless beneath her silence, a wish to reach out that never quite surfaced, and you wondered if maybe she was afraid, too, or trapped in her own worry. Then he said something about how maybe you should just leave if you weren't going to listen. The words cut through you, sharp and final. In that moment, a cold fear took hold, fear of what would happen if you stayed, and fear of what it would mean to go. But somewhere inside, a tiny hope flickered that maybe, somewhere else, you could be enough. One sharp, ugly moment, and you knew you couldn't stay any longer.

Silence. Complete silence.

"You... what?"

"I ran away."

This time, your words are even shakier. Buck looks like he forgot how to breathe. Then he grabs your arm and pulls you inside. The door slams shut behind you.

"Are you hurt?"

"What? No."

"Did somebody follow you?"

"No."

"Did you come here alone?"

You hesitate. Buck's eyes widen. "You came here alone?" You nod. He quickly puts his hands on his head. "Oh, my God."

"Buck-"

"No." He points at you. "No. Absolutely not." Even though he sounds upset, he’s already checking to see if you’re hurt. His face softens when he sees how tired you are. "When did you last eat?" You glance away.  Buck immediately groans.

"Y/N." "What?"

"When."

You sigh. "Breakfast."

His jaw drops. "Breakfast?"

Ten minutes later, you’re at his kitchen counter with a grilled cheese sandwich and some soup. Buck sits across from you. He watches you. But not in an annoying way. He’s just worried. It’s like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away. You focus on eating. Eventually, he breaks the silence.

"What happened?"

You freeze. You feel like the answer is too complicated. Too painful.

"The same stuff." You struggle to find the words. The constant pressure to do better, to be someone you aren't. The way every mistake turns into an argument and every dinner turns into a list of everything you could be doing differently. Some nights, you wonder if it's actually you, if maybe you really are the problem, if you're too sensitive or not enough, if you'll ever get it right. Doubt settles in your chest, curling tighter with every criticism. Tonight was just another round: raised voices, sharp words, and the look on your mother's face when you finally said you'd had enough. For a moment, you almost believed you'd imagined how bad it was, until the pain felt too real to ignore.

Buck sighs, a soft sound that says he gets it. "Yeah. I know what that's like," he says, voice quiet but certain. "Trust me, I've had my share of those arguments too. It's like nothing's ever good enough for them." He looks away for a moment, lost in the memory. "I still remember that time Dad tore up my soccer trophy because he said second place wasn't worth celebrating. For weeks, I kept trying to prove I was good enough, but nothing ever seemed to change." Hearing him say it out loud, you feel a small jolt of comfort; you're not the only one who feels this way. The expectations. The criticism. The impossible standards. The feeling that nothing you ever do is enough. His expression hardens. "What did they say?" You shake your head. "I don't want to talk about it."

For a moment, you’re afraid he’ll push you for answers. Demand answers. Tell you that you're overreacting. Instead, he simply nods.

"Okay."

That's it. Just okay. Somehow, that makes your eyes sting. You don't mean to cry. But you've spent weeks holding everything inside. The plane ride. The arguments. The fear. The loneliness. All of it hits you at once. One second you're fine. The next moment, you’re sobbing. Buck is beside you immediately. He wraps his arms around you before you can even think to stop him.

"It's okay."

You shake your head. "No, it's not." He holds you a little tighter. "I know." Hearing that makes you cry even harder. Out of everyone in the world, Buck understands exactly what it feels like.

"Hey."

You look up. His eyes are soft. "Look at me." You do. "You didn't have to do this alone."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. Buck gently wipes them away. "Do you hear me?"

You nod. "No." His voice grows firmer. "You don't ever have to do this alone."

That night, Buck insists you take his bed. You immediately refuse.

"What? No."

"Yes."

"It's your apartment." "And you're my little sister."

You cross your arms. "So?"

"So you're taking the bed."

"No." "Y/N."

"Buck." He stares at you. You stare right back. Eventually, he throws his hands up. "Fine." Five minutes later, you’re both squeezed awkwardly into his bed. Buck groans. "You're impossible." You grin. "You love me." He rolls his eyes. But you’re right, whether he likes it or not.

The next morning is worse. Because your parents have realised you're gone. Buck's phone won't stop ringing. Your stomach twists each time the phone lights up. Mom. Dad. When their names appear, you can almost imagine what's waiting on the other end: your father's clipped, sharp tone, raw with disbelief and anger, and your mother's shaky voice, tight and panicked beneath every rushed word. You start to worry what else they might do: call the police and say you're missing, show up at Buck's door any minute, or involve someone from work to track you down. The thought leaves you shaky, every ping from Buck's phone sounding like a warning. In your head, you replay how Dad always tries to stay in control, but when he is scared, he just gets louder, while Mom's words tumble over each other as if she is desperate to fix things before they shatter completely. Buck notices your expression. "Do I need to answer?" You don't say anything. You don't have to. He can see everything he needs to know in your face. Buck picks up.

"Hello?"

You can hear yelling from across the room. Buck pulls the phone away from his ear. His face grows serious."No." More yelling. "No, you're not listening." Another pause. You curl your hands into fists. Buck glances over at you. Seeing the fear on your face makes something in him snap. "She's safe." A pause. Then, "And until she's ready, she's staying with me."

When the call finally ends, your heart is pounding. You look up nervously. "What did they say?" Buck shrugs. "A lot."

"And?"

"And I don't care."

You blink. "What?"

He walks over and ruffles your hair. "They're mad." You wince.  “They're furious."

"Buck-"

"And that's their problem."

You stare at him. "What if they make me go back?" Your question comes out in a small voice. You sound scared. You hate how scared you sound. Buck's heart clenches at the look on your face. For a split second, fear flickers in his eyes too, the same wild panic he felt when he saw you at his door, smaller and more lost than he'd ever seen you. He doesn't know if he's ready for this, but he knows one thing for certain: he won't let anyone hurt you, not ever again. He wants to promise you that he wants to shield you from everything that left scars on both of you, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, Buck immediately crouches in front of you. "Hey." You meet his eyes. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know one thing."

"What?" He takes your hand. His grip is warm. Steady. Certain. "You have me."

You feel your chest tighten. The words settle between you, heavy and real. Growing up, neither of you ever felt like the favourite. Neither of you felt chosen back then. You remember one summer night, both of you sitting on the back steps during a family barbecue, watching the adults laugh together inside. Your father was showing off your cousin's trophies, your mother fussing over someone else's scraped knee, as if you and Buck were invisible. That was the night you and Buck traded firefly jars and promises to always notice each other, no matter what. You never forgot it.

Earlier memories flicker through your mind: sneaking Pop-Tarts after midnight when everyone else was asleep; Buck covering for you when you broke Mom’s vase and taking the blame without hesitation; building a pillow fort together during a thunderstorm and pretending the world outside couldn’t touch you. There were science fair disasters, shared glances across the dinner table when Dad started one of his speeches, laughter stifled beneath blankets after lights out, and pinky-swears made in the back seat on long car rides home. These and a hundred others knit the two of you together, a private collection of moments that belonged only to you and Buck.

Neither of you felt chosen back then. But right now, Buck is choosing you. Without hesitation. Without conditions. Without question. Tears fill your eyes once more. Buck immediately groans. "Oh no." You laugh despite yourself. "What?"

"You're crying again."

"You made me cry."

"I absolutely did not."

"You did."

He points at you. "You're emotional. That's different."

You shove his shoulder. Buck laughs and pulls you into another hug. The kind of hug that feels safe. The kind that feels warm and comforting. The kind that feels like home. For the first time since you left Hershey,  you believe things might actually be okay. Because whatever happens next, you won’t have to face it alone.

The first time you walked into Hellfire Club, you thought maybe you'd finally found somewhere you belonged. It wasn't because you loved Dungeons & Dragons, even though you learned to enjoy it pretty quickly. It also wasn't because the club was full of Hawkins High's outcasts and misfits.  

It was because of Eddie Munson. Not in the way everyone assumed. It wasn't because he was loud or rebellious, or because half the school thought he was scary. It was because he looked at you like you mattered. Like you existed. Like you weren't invisible.

At home, that feeling was rare. Your mother spent most evenings locked in her room with a bottle of vodka. Your father often reminded you that you were a burden. Some nights, you lay awake listening to them yell at each other through the thin walls. Other nights, they screamed at you.

Hellfire became your escape. Every Tuesday and Thursday, you'd sit at the table surrounded by dice, character sheets, and Eddie's dramatic storytelling. For a few hours, you weren't Y/N. You were a warrior. A mage. A hero. Someone worth saving. For a while, things felt okay. But then they didn't.

It started small. A few jokes. Comments disguised as teasing. Nothing serious enough to call out. Nothing clear enough for Eddie to notice.

"Wow, Y/N actually rolled something useful."

"Careful, she might cry if her character dies."

"Do you even know how to play?"

Everyone laughed. You laughed too. Because that's what everyone expected you to do.

Then the jokes became routine. Every session. Every mistake. Every word you spoke. Someone had something to say. Soon, you stopped speaking altogether. The quieter you got, the easier it became for them. They interrupted you. Ignored your ideas. Talked over you. You told yourself it wasn't a big deal. You told yourself you could handle it. You had dealt with worse before. Much worse.

But people can only take so much. Even when they're used to pain.

"Eddie?" You barely looked up from your character sheet.

"Hm?"

"What does my spell do again?"

Before Eddie could answer, one of the boys snorted. "Maybe read the sheet for once."

Laughter erupted around the table. Heat flooded your face. You stared at the paper.

"Right."

You didn't ask again. Eddie frowned.

In the next few weeks, he noticed more. You sat farther away. You rarely smiled. You left immediately after the meetings. You never lingered to talk anymore. The spark that used to light up your eyes at the start of a campaign was gone. Eddie remembered the girl who had shown up months ago, looking both scared and hopeful at once. Now she just looked tired.

One afternoon, he caught up to you in the parking lot.

"Hey!"

You froze. "Oh. Hi, Eddie."

"You got somewhere to be?"

"Home."

The way your voice fell made him wince. "Want a ride?"

"No." You answered too quickly. You sounded too defensive.

His concern deepened. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

You forced a smile. "I'm fine."

You weren't. And Eddie knew it.

A week later, everything finally broke. Hellfire was in the middle of a campaign. Your character had discovered an alternate route through a dungeon. You spent twenty minutes piecing it together. You felt proud of what you had done. You were even excited. So when Eddie asked if anyone had ideas, you spoke up.

"I think we should use the eastern tunnel."

The table fell silent. Then someone laughed. "Why?"

Another rolled his eyes. "Because she's trying to get us killed."

"Wouldn't be the first stupid thing she's done." The others chuckled. Not everyone.

But enough. Enough to hurt. Shame burned in your chest. You wanted to shrink out of sight, to disappear before anyone could see how much it stung. Part of you tried to convince yourself it didn't matter, that you could just laugh it off and no one would know. But another voice, quieter and sharper, whispered that maybe they were right. Maybe you really did not belong here. For a moment, you wondered if you would ever be anything besides a joke.

It was enough to remind you of every cruel word you had ever heard at home. Every insult. Every dismissal. Every moment, you'd been told you weren't worth listening to. Something cracked. You swallowed hard. Staring down at the table. Nobody noticed the tears gathering in your eyes. Except Eddie.

The room went quiet. His expression darkened. "What did you just say?"

Nobody answered. The boys suddenly looked nervous. Eddie slowly stood.

"I asked a question."

"It's just a joke, man."

"No." His voice was sharp. Cold. "It isn't."

The room fell completely silent. You stood up so suddenly that your chair scraped against the floor. "I should go."

"Y/N-"

"I'm fine." You rushed out before anyone could stop you. You weren't fine.  By the time you reached home, your father was already angry. You could hear him yelling before you even opened the door. Wonderful. Exactly what you needed.

The next morning, there was a knock at your bedroom window. You nearly screamed. Then you saw wild curls and a denim vest. "Eddie?"

He grinned awkwardly. "Can I come in?"

Twenty minutes later, he sat cross-legged on your floor. Your room was small. Cold. Nearly empty. His eyes took in everything. The cracked walls. The broken lamp. The bruises peeking from beneath your sleeve. His stomach dropped.

"Y/N."

You looked away. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that."

His voice softened. "Like what?"

"Like you pity me."

Something shattered in his expression. "I don't pity you."

You laughed bitterly. "Then why are you here?"

"Because you're hurting."

Silence. You stared at the floor.

"You know what's funny?" Eddie didn't answer. "I joined Hellfire because I wanted somewhere safe." Your voice trembled. "A place where I didn't have to feel miserable all the time." His chest tightened. "And then they started acting just like everyone else."

A tear slipped down your cheek. You quickly wiped it away. But another followed. Then another. And suddenly you couldn't stop. Years of pain poured out all at once. "My parents hate me." The words came out broken. Raw. "I can't remember the last time someone said they were proud of me." Eddie's eyes burned. You continued. "I thought Hellfire was different." Your voice cracked. "I thought maybe I mattered there."

Deep down, you knew you couldn't handle all of this alone forever. Part of you wondered if you should talk to someone about what was going on, maybe a teacher, a counsellor, or just any adult who might listen. But it was hard not to feel like reaching out would mean you were weak, even though you kept hoping someone, somewhere, could help.

Without thinking, Eddie moved closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Just enough. "Y/N."

You looked up. His brown eyes were shining. "You do matter."

"No."

"Yeah."

"No, I don't." You shook your head again, your voice almost a whisper. "I never have. Even when people are kind, I just... I don't believe it. Feels like I'm always one mistake away from being unwanted. Like if I'm not useful or perfect, I'll disappear. At home, I'm always told I mess everything up. It's hard not to carry that everywhere."

"Then why am I here?" Silence.

Eddie took your hands. Gentle. Careful. Like you might break. "Because you're important to me." Your breath caught. "You're smart." A squeeze. "You're funny." Another. "You're brave." Tears streamed down your face. "And you're one of the strongest people I've ever met."

Nobody had ever said things like that to you before and meant them. You broke down completely. And Eddie let you. Quietly, he reached out and squeezed your hand, his touch warm and steady. When you finally broke, he gently brushed a tear from your cheek and kept holding on, anchoring you through every trembling breath. He didn't tell you to stop crying. Didn't tell you to calm down. Didn't try to fix everything. He just sat beside you. Holding your hand. Letting you fall apart. For the first time in years, you weren't alone.

The following Hellfire meeting was... different. Very different. Eddie stood at the head of the table with his arms crossed. Looking terrifying. "We're gonna discuss something." Nobody spoke. "You all owe Y/N an apology." The room immediately became uncomfortable.

"Eddie-"

"No." His voice cut through the room. "We don't treat our own like garbage." Nobody argued. Not after seeing the look on his face. One by one, they apologised. Some awkwardly. Some sincerely. Some with obvious guilt. And for the first time, they understood that their jokes hadn't been harmless.

The room was thick with discomfort. One boy glanced down at his hands, face turning red. Another couldn’t meet your eyes. "I’m really sorry, Y/N," one offered quietly, voice tight with shame. A few others nodded or murmured their apologies, their words awkward, but real. In that small moment, guilt settled over the group, heavier than before. They'd hurt someone. Someone who already carried more pain than any of them realised.

After that day, things began to shift. The jokes stopped, replaced by careful silences and, slowly, new attempts at kindness. No one interrupted you during sessions, and when you offered an idea, the others listened. A few meetings later, when you hesitated before picking up the dice, Jeff nudged the tray closer so you would not have to reach as far, shooting you a small, encouraging smile. Another night, Dustin invited you to co-plan part of the next campaign, insisting your ideas would make the adventure more interesting. Even Gareth, usually the first to poke fun, offered you a soda and asked what spells your character might try, listening for the answer. It was not perfect right away. There were awkward pauses and stilted conversations, but week by week, the group’s attitude changed. Laughter returned to the table, not at your expense, but together. Little by little, Hellfire truly started to feel safer for you.

Healing wasn't immediate. It never is. Some days were still hard. Some nights at home were still unbearable. Things at home did not magically get better, and most mornings you still woke up to the same old weight pressing on your chest. But little by little, you started changing the way you faced the day. Once, when your father yelled, you quietly closed your door and turned up your music, letting the noise fade rather than sink into it.

One evening, you wrote out everything you wanted to say to the people who had hurt you, even if you never planned to share it. On your hardest mornings, you made a small promise to yourself just to eat breakfast or open the window. They were small victories, barely visible to anyone else, but they belonged to you. And now, even when the shouting didn't stop, and the loneliness tried to creep back in, you knew you did not have to face any of it completely alone. Maybe one day, you would find the strength to talk to someone about what was happening at home, to ask for real help. For now, it was enough just to hope that things could be different, and to believe that better days might be possible.

But now there was Eddie. The boy who waited outside school to walk you to his van. The boy who saved your favourite seat at Hellfire. The boy who slipped handwritten notes into your textbooks. The boy who reminded you every single day that you were worth loving.

One afternoon, as you stood by your locker staring at a failed math quiz, Eddie appeared beside you. He didn’t flinch at your silence or the way your eyes stung. "Rough day?" he asked gently. You just nodded, unable to answer. Eddie leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, like he had all the time in the world. "You know," he said quietly, "no grade or stupid joke makes you less of a legend. Especially not to me." A small, grateful smile crept onto your face. "Thanks," you managed. Eddie bumped your shoulder with his. "Anytime. And hey, I heard your spell saved us last session. Honestly, the campaign would be a disaster without you." For the first time that day, you felt a little lighter. Maybe even seen.

Another evening after a campaign, you found another note. Folded carefully. Your name is written across the front. You opened it. Inside, in Eddie's messy handwriting, were six simple words:

"You'll always have a place here."

For the first time in a very long time, you believed it. And when you looked up, finding Eddie smiling at you from across the room, you realised something else. Home wasn’t always a place. Sometimes it was a person.

The adrenaline of the 118 was nothing compared to the electric tension that had been building between you and Eddie Diaz for the last six months. Being Buck’s twin sister meant you were always around, but it also meant that dating your brother’s best friend felt like playing with fire. You both had agreed to keep it a secret, not because you were ashamed, but because you wanted something that belonged only to the two of you before the chaos of the "Buck-effect" intervened. That secrecy made every stolen touch in the locker room, and every whispered promise in the dark, feel like a drug.

Today, the drug was hitting hard. You had convinced Buck that you were heading to the store, but instead, you had slipped into Eddie’s bedroom the moment you knew he was home. The door hadn't even fully clicked shut before Eddie had you pinned against it, his hands gripping your hips with a desperation that left you breathless.

"I've been thinking about this since the shift started," Eddie groaned against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.

"You're so impatient," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer.

Eddie didn't respond with words. He stripped you both with frantic efficiency, his eyes dark with hunger. He lifted you, your back hitting the mattress with a soft thud, and he dove between your thighs. The friction was instant and overwhelming. Eddie entered you in one deep, heavy thrust that made you arch your back and scream his name into the quiet of the house.

He didn't hold back. He fucked you with a raw, rhythmic intensity, his cock filling you completely. Every slam of his hips against your ass sounded like a heartbeat in the silent room. You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he drove deeper and deeper, chasing that peak that always felt like a landslide.

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice a gravelly wreck. "God, you're so fucking mine."

Just as you were both spiralling toward the edge, the front door slammed open.

"Eddie! You will not believe what Chim just-"

The voice stopped abruptly. You and Eddie froze, locked together, your bodies slick with sweat and glistening in the afternoon light. Buck was standing in the doorway, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide as he stared at his twin sister, currently impaled by his best friend.

For five seconds, the only sound was your heavy breathing.

"Oh my god," Buck whispered. "Oh, my god."

Eddie scrambled to pull the sheets over you both, his face flushing a deep crimson. "Buck! I-we-"

"You're fucking my sister!" Buck yelled, though he sounded more shocked than angry. "My twin! My actual twin! Since when?!"

The aftermath was a blur of awkward silence and a very tense conversation in the living room. You sat on the sofa, wrapped in a robe, while Eddie paced the floor, looking like he was preparing for a deposition. Buck sat opposite you, crossing his arms, his expression shifting from betrayal to confusion.

"Why the secret?" Buck asked, his voice softer now. "I thought you guys were... I don't know, just friends. Or maybe flirting. But this? This is a whole thing."

Eddie stopped pacing. He looked at you, and the look in his eyes wasn't one of guilt; it was pure, unadulterated devotion. He stepped toward you, taking your hand in his and squeezing it tightly.

"Because I didn't want to mess this up, Buck," Eddie admitted, his voice steady. "I've never felt this way about anyone. I love her. I'm completely in love with her, and I was terrified that if I told you, or if we went public too fast, the pressure would ruin it. She's the best thing that's happened to me in years."

The room went silent again. You felt a tear prick your eye as you looked up at Eddie. He hadn't said those words out loud yet.

Buck looked at Eddie, then at you, and then back to Eddie. Slowly, a massive, goofy grin began to spread across his face. He jumped up from the couch, nearly knocking over the coffee table.

"I KNEW IT!" Buck shouted, throwing his arms up. "I knew there was a vibe! I mean, I didn't want to say anything because, you know, sister-code and all that, but I totally called it!"

You blinked. "Wait, you're not mad?"

"Mad?" Buck practically vibrated with excitement. He lunged forward, pulling both of you into a suffocatingly tight hug. "Are you kidding? Eddie is the most reliable, honourable, amazing guy I know. I've basically considered him a brother for years, but now it's official! I'm getting a brother-in-law! This is awesome!"

Eddie laughed, the tension finally breaking as he hugged Buck back. "I guess I don't have to hide the good stuff anymore."

Buck pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Though, for the record, I really didn't need to see the 'good stuff' in such high definition. Please, for the love of everything, lock the door next time."

The conference room at Vought Tower was unusually crowded. Everyone on the team was there, plus a few executives who clearly wished they were somewhere else. The mood was tense, mostly because Homelander stood at the front, looking far too pleased with himself. That was never a good sign.

Soldier Boy sat at the end of the table, boots up on the polished surface. He looked bored, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Can we get this over with?" he asked. "I've sat through hostage situations that were more entertaining than Vought meetings."

Homelander ignored him. Instead, he lifted a thick leather-bound book into the air with a flourish. The cover gleamed under the conference room lights. Gold letters stood out on the front, and the pages had gold edges. Several people blinked. Nobody spoke.

Finally, one executive cleared his throat. "Wow."

Another nodded uncertainly. "It's... shiny."

"Very shiny."

Soldier Boy stared at the book. Then he burst out laughing. "No way."

Homelander's smile widened. "This," he announced proudly, "is the Homelander Bible."

You couldn't tell if he meant it as a joke or a threat. Deep down, you knew Homelander never did anything without a reason. This book was meant to do more than stroke his ego; it was here to remind everyone who was in charge. The room fell silent. Again.

Soldier Boy laughed even harder. "A Bible?"

"It's a collection of my teachings."

"Jesus Christ."

"Exactly."

The Deep covered his face. Someone at the far end of the table looked seconds away from quitting. Homelander held the book up for another moment, then stopped in the middle of his gesture.

Suddenly, his hand was empty.  The room froze. The Bible was floating. Several inches above Homelander's hand. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The book drifted higher. The pages started turning on their own. Security immediately reached for weapons.

"What the hell-"

"Who's doing that?"

Then you appeared beside the floating book, as if you had always been there. You hovered in the air, looking completely at ease. Rumour had it you had been recruited straight out of some top-secret government program, and even Vought's senior teams only spoke your name in low voices. Some whispered you were the only person who had ever survived that infamous blackout in Minsk, but nobody quite agreed how. You crossed your legs as if sitting in an invisible chair. One hand held the book while the other flipped through its pages. You looked completely unimpressed.

"Page twenty-three has a typo."

The room erupted. Several people jumped. One executive nearly fell out of his chair.

Homelander sighed dramatically. "Oh, for God's sake."

You turned another page. "This chapter is literally just pictures of you."

"They're inspirational."

"There are twelve pages." "They're very inspirational."

You looked unconvinced. Soldier Boy couldn't stop staring. At first, it was because you had appeared out of thin air. Then it turned into something else. You weren't intimidated. You weren't nervous. You weren't desperately trying to impress Homelander like most people in the building. You looked relaxed. Confident. Comfortable. Like you belonged there.

It was clear that none of these people could make you feel small. That alone caught his attention. Then you smiled at another ridiculous page, and Soldier Boy felt something change inside him. Well. Shit. There she was. The woman he’d imagined for decades and never thought he’d actually meet.

Homelander finally gestured toward you. "This is my messenger."

You rolled your eyes. "Your employee.”

"My trusted messenger."

You shut the book. "I'm literally on payroll."

A few people laughed. Even Soldier Boy grinned. You were funny. That wasn’t helping at all.

As the meeting continued, Soldier Boy paid almost no attention to what Homelander was saying. Instead, he watched you. Whenever someone asked a question, you answered without hesitation. Whenever Homelander exaggerated something, you corrected him without fear. You floated beside him, occasionally pacing halfway across the conference table because you seemed bored.

Every time Soldier Boy looked away, he looked back. He wasn't subtle about it either. At one point, your eyes met his. You caught him staring. Instead of looking embarrassed, he simply smirked. You raised an eyebrow. His grin widened.

Eventually, the meeting ended. People hurried toward the exits. Nobody wanted to spend more time around Homelander than necessary. Within minutes, only you and Homelander remained in the conference room. Soldier Boy lingered outside the doorway. Not because he was interested in Homelander. Absolutely not. He was interested in you. There was a difference. From outside, he heard your voice as you delivered your report.

"The V1 shipments have been moved again."

Homelander leaned against the table. "Can you track them?"

You nodded. "I can get inside places nobody else can."

"Good."

You handed him a tablet. "I'll have more information tomorrow."

Homelander smiled. "You're my favourite."

You immediately replied, "Pretty sure you've said that to half the building."

"Only the talented half."

You laughed softly. Soldier Boy found himself smiling. Then he stopped, because smiling felt weird.

A few minutes later, you stepped into an elevator. The doors began closing. A hand suddenly shot between them. The doors slid open again. Soldier Boy stepped inside. You looked up.

"Really?" "What?"

"You were waiting outside the room." "I was passing through."

"You were standing there for ten minutes." "Traffic."

You laughed. Soldier Boy felt pretty pleased with himself. The elevator started descending. For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Then he glanced sideways.

"So."

You folded your arms. "So."

"You're the ghost girl."

You looked offended. "Ghost girl?"

"I couldn't see you." "That's generally how invisibility works."

"You float too." "I phase."

"Still counts."

You shook your head. "No, it doesn't."

"Pretty sure it does." "It absolutely doesn't."

Soldier Boy laughed. You were impossible. He liked that.

"What exactly can you do?" he asked.

You shrugged. "I can phase through solid matter," you said. "Walls, doors, floors. Even steel. I can slip through almost anything if I concentrate. Can't do it forever, though, too tiring. And I can't take anyone with me, just myself. Also, if I pass through anything with a high electric current, my hair stands on end for about an hour. Kind of annoying, honestly." You paused for a second, then added, "Once, I forgot to check before stepping through the security doors downstairs. Ended up with my hair looking like I'd been electrocuted for the rest of the day. Security kept calling me 'Static.' Trust me, you only make that mistake once."

"What about people?"

You looked at him. "Why would I phase through people?"

He shrugged. "Just curious."

"That sounds concerning." "You've met me."

"Fair point."

The elevator reached the next floor, but neither of you left. Neither of you mentioned it.

"You know," Soldier Boy said, "most people around here act terrified."

"Of Homelander?" "Of everyone."

You shrugged. "I'm hard to intimidate."

"I noticed." "And?"

His gaze met yours. "And I like it."

For the first time since he got in the elevator, you seemed a little caught off guard. Only slightly. But it was enough for him to notice. A small smile tugged at your lips.

"That's your pickup line?" "No."

"Good." "I haven't started yet." You laughed. Again. He couldn’t get that laugh out of his head.

When the elevator finally reached the lobby, you stepped out. Soldier Boy followed immediately. You looked over your shoulder. "Why are you following me?"

"I'm not." "You absolutely are."

"I'm providing security."

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you believed that.

"Security?" "Yep."

"I'm a superhuman who can walk through walls." "Dangerous walls."

You rolled your eyes. Soldier Boy grinned.  "I'm heading to the Research Division," you said. "Cool."

"To investigate leads." Cool."

"You don't need to come." "I know."

You stopped walking. "Then why are you coming?"

Soldier Boy looked completely serious. Because for the first time in ages, someone had really caught his attention. Someone smart. Confident. Funny. Someone who wasn't afraid of him. Someone who didn't care about his reputation. Someone who could walk through walls and still leave him wanting more. So he simply shrugged. "Because I want to." For a moment, you stared at him. Then you laughed softly and shook your head. "You're impossible." His grin returned instantly. "Yeah." Together, you continued down the hallway.