bitch,jerk,assbutt,balls

The argument started over something stupid. At least, that’s what you told yourself later.

It started with a careless comment, then a misunderstanding. But it was never just about this one thing. The memory of last month's argument at the grocery store still stung, a fight that started over forgetting the shopping list but ended with Eddie storming off and you leaving the cart behind, both of you too proud to call first. That argument wasn't really about groceries, either. Both of you had let old frustrations pile up, and neither one was really listening by then. It was about feeling unheard, letting resentment build, and spending a whole silent week avoiding each other in your own apartment. Small fights kept piling up: the missed calls, the dishes left in the sink, the tone of voice that cut too sharply. Every little annoyance added weight, turning into something heavier, until you and Eddie were finally in the living room, voices rising more than you meant them to.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Eddie snapped, running a hand through his hair. His words stung. You felt your chest tighten. I can’t keep doing this. Not this fight. Not this conversation. Us. You swallowed hard, tears already threatening. “Fine,” you whispered.

Eddie looked frustrated and tired, but neither of you really listened. “Fine?” he repeated.

“You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

His eyes widened slightly. “That’s not what I-”

But you were already grabbing your jacket. “Whatever, Eddie.” The door slammed behind you.

As soon as the apartment went quiet, Eddie wished he could take it all back. He stared at the closed door. His anger faded right away. “Damn it.”

He knew you. Knew how hard you were on yourself. Knew how every fight made you think people were one step away from leaving. You had once told him, on a quiet night long ago, about the day your father walked out after an argument. You were only twelve. You remembered the sound of angry voices echoing down the hallway, the front door slamming shut, and the weight of silence afterwards. For years, you kept waiting for that door to open again, but it never did. Since then, every raised voice, every tense silence, felt like a warning. He realised he had just given your worst fears more power.

He grabbed his keys.

Meanwhile, you sat at the end of a crowded bar, tears in your eyes and a drink in your hand. Then another. And another. You weren’t normally a drinker. Tonight was different. The bar buzzed with noise, glasses clinking, laughter and voices rolling together, the air heavy with the sharp scent of spilt beer and perfume. Your skin felt sticky under the yellowed lights. Tonight felt like heartbreak.

By the time Eddie found you, nearly two hours later, your vision was blurry and your thoughts were even messier. He spotted you immediately. Sitting alone. You looked small, even with the noisy crowd around you. His heart dropped. He approached slowly. “Sweetheart.”

You looked up. Your face lit up for a moment. Then sadness returned. “Oh, Eddie, you found me.”

He pulled out the stool beside you. “Of course, I found you.”

You laughed bitterly. “Why?”

The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean ‘why’?”

You stared into your glass. “Because you’re breaking up with me.”

His stomach dropped. “What?”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay.”

“It is.” Your voice cracked. “I get it.”

Eddie reached for your hand. You pulled away. That hurt more than he expected.  “You deserve someone better anyway.”

“Stop.”

You sniffled. “No.” Your eyes filled with tears. “I love you so much, Eddie.” Your words came out slurred and shaky. “And that’s the problem.”

You loved him so much it felt impossible, like there was only ever more to lose. Wanting him, needing him, made every argument feel like the end of something precious. You were terrified that your love was too intense, too desperate, the kind that would only push him away. It felt like being too much and never enough at the same time. But opening up about these fears, even through your tears, took a kind of courage you rarely admitted to yourself. Letting yourself be seen like this was terrifying and brave all at once.

His chest tightened. “What problem?”

You laughed sadly. “Because I don’t deserve you.”

Silence. Eddie felt his heart break. Years together. Years of loving you. And somehow you still thought that. “You think that?”

You nodded. “You’re brave. Eddie Diaz, firefighter, war veteran, amazing dad…” Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. “And I’m just me.”

His jaw clenched. “Hey.” You finally looked at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like you’re less than anyone.”

Your lip trembled. “But it’s true.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “So stop saying it.”

You looked away again. “I was waiting for the day you’d realise you could do better.” Eddie felt physically sick. He had spent years trying to show you how much he loved you, but you were still carrying this fear on your own. He moved closer. “Look at me.”

You hesitated. Then did. “I love you.” Fresh tears spilt down your face. “Eddie-”

“No.” He gently cupped your cheek. “I love you.” His forehead rested against yours. “And I’m not leaving.” You let out a painful sob.

The next morning, you woke up with a headache. And a lot of embarrassment. You groaned and buried your face in the pillow. A glass of water appeared beside you. You peeked out. Eddie sat on the edge of the bed. Watching you. He watched you quietly. You remembered everything. The fight. The bar. The crying. The drunken confession. “Oh, my God.”

Eddie smiled slightly. “Morning.”

“I embarrassed myself.”

“You really did.”

You groaned again. He laughed quietly. Then his face softened. “Can we talk?” You nodded. He took your hand. “Yesterday was awful.”

You stared down at your fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Your eyes lifted. Eddie squeezed your hand.

“But listen to me carefully.” His voice grew serious. “Just because we fight doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

You blinked. “Eddie-”

“No.” He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Couples fight. Relationships get messy. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean.” He swallowed. “But none of that changes how much I love you.”

Your eyes stung. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He leaned forward. “There is no argument big enough to make me stop loving you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. Eddie wiped it away immediately. “You don’t have to earn my love.” Your breath caught. “You don’t have to deserve it.” Another tear fell. “You already have it.” The room went quiet. And for the first time since yesterday, the fear in your chest eased. Eddie pulled you into his arms. You buried your face against his neck.  “I love you,” you whispered. He kissed your forehead. “I know.” His arms tightened around you. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

It was always you. Every mission gone wrong somehow ended with you zip-tied to a chair, trapped in a cell, or being used as bait. It had become such a recurring problem that the Avengers joked about it. "Y/N's kidnapped again" was practically a team holiday. Tony hated every second of it. The second he heard you were in danger, he'd tear across continents in the Iron Man suit without a second thought. You'd lost count of how many times he'd rescued you.

Which was exactly why the phone call didn't make sense. Tony was always the rescuer, never the one who needed rescuing. You knew how much he needed to be strong for everyone, how he built himself into the man who came running when things fell apart, and how the idea of showing weakness, of needing help, was something he avoided at all costs. In your mind, the very idea of him being in danger felt impossible, a contradiction to everything you’d come to believe. Hearing that something had happened to him felt like the whole world had flipped upside down.

"Mrs Stark."

FRIDAY's voice echoed through the penthouse. You barely looked up from your book. "Yeah?"

"There has been an incident involving Mr Stark."

Immediately, your stomach dropped. "What kind of incident?"

There was a pause. It was the kind of pause you never expected from FRIDAY. "Mr Stark's convoy was attacked approximately six minutes ago."

Your blood ran cold. "What?"

"His biometric signal has vanished."

The book slipped from your hands. For a moment, you couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Because Tony wasn't the one who got kidnapped. The words made no sense, not really. You sat frozen, unable to piece together how the universe could allow someone like him, invincible, irrepressible Tony, to simply vanish. Your mind pushed back against it, certain it was a mistake, a joke, some glitch in the world itself. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. Memories flashed through your mind in sharp, stinging bursts: Tony’s crooked grin as he tinkered late at night, the steady warmth of his hands folded around yours, the teasing lift of his eyebrow when he knew you were worried but pretended you weren’t. The sound of his voice echoing through the halls, the way he lit up every room, the safety you’d always taken for granted just because he was in it. Was it possible for any of that to just... stop? Was it really possible for the person who had always been your rescuer to need you now, to be beyond your reach? You felt your heart clawing at your ribs, your thoughts chasing back to every morning Tony had pulled you into his side, every text he’d sent when you were apart—just to remind you he was out there, unstoppable. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. Fear crept up, cold and paralysing, as you struggled to accept the impossible: if Tony Stark could disappear, then nothing was safe. Not you. Not the team. Not the world. Tony was the one who came back. Always.

The conference room was in chaos. Steve was organising teams. Natasha was gathering intel. Bruce was scanning satellite feeds. Everyone was talking. Everyone was moving. But all you could hear was the frantic beating of your own heart. Missing. The word kept echoing through your head. Missing. Missing. Missing. Tony was missing. And nobody knew where he was.

You stared at the screen displaying the last known footage. The convoy. The explosion. The signal loss. Then nothing. Just static. You swallowed hard. "He could be anywhere." Steve's voice softened. "We'll find him." You nodded. But your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

The next forty-eight hours were hell. The team hardly left the conference room. Steve's anger simmered just beneath the surface, driving him to bark orders and push for every new scrap of intel, but at night, when he thought no one was watching, he paused over Tony's empty chair and lingered there, jaw clenched and eyes distant. Natasha prowled between computers and whiteboards, exchanging sharp words with Bruce when tension spilt over, yet when alone, she spun Tony's arc reactor keychain between her fingers, gaze hard and lost. Bruce muttered formulas under his breath and pored over schematics, sometimes staring blankly at the screens as one trembling hand rubbed at his temple. Clint tried to lighten the mood with dry humour, but even he couldn't cut through the anxious silence, and in rare moments when he was alone, he quietly left a cup of tea on Tony's workbench, untouched and cooling. Sam brought you coffee and a steady hand on your shoulder when your nerves threatened to fray, his quiet confidence frayed around the edges as he stared into space, clutching his own cup a little too tightly. Sometimes, Thor would rest a reassuring palm on your back, promising that they would not fail Tony, but in the quiet before dawn, he stood on the balcony, looking up at the sky, murmuring silent prayers to gods old and new. The team kept moving, but grief and worry haunted them, each one searching for something only Tony could provide.

On the second night, you found Bruce slumped over a table, head in his hands, muttering formulas to himself just to hold back the worry. Natasha quietly draped her jacket over his shoulders and sat beside him in silence, her presence a comfort she could not voice aloud. Steve paused his frantic pacing for a moment and squeezed your arm, his jaw set but his eyes red-rimmed. Even Clint, usually the one to crack a joke, admitted in a rare moment of honesty, "It's not the same without him, you know? He's our glue."

In quiet moments, you caught glimpses of their own fears, shared looks and silent nods, reminders that you weren't alone in this waiting. The Avengers moved together, bound by urgency and a loyalty that felt almost like family, every heartbeat focused on bringing Tony home.

No sleep. No appetite. No updates. Every second felt endless. You spent most of your time staring at Tony's workshop. At the half-finished projects scattered around his desk. His coffee mug. His tools. His glasses. Little reminders that he should be here. That he belonged here. Not wherever he was now. The worst part was the silence. Tony was never silent. The man talked constantly. He filled rooms. Filled spaces. He filled your life. Without him, everything felt wrong. Empty.

Natasha found the lead. An abandoned HYDRA facility hidden deep within the mountains. The moment the location appeared on the screen, you were already standing. "I'm going."

Steve sighed. "We're all going."

"No." You grabbed your gear. "I'm going in."

Natasha smirked. "Good answer."

The facility was enormous. Dark concrete corridors stretched endlessly. The air smelled like rust and old machinery. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Every step felt heavier than the last. Because now there was a chance. A real chance. You might find him. And that terrified you almost as much as not finding him at all. Because what if you were too late?

Gunfire echoed through the halls. The Avengers fought their way deeper underground. HYDRA agents dropped one after another. You barely noticed. Your focus remained fixed ahead. Just keep moving. Keep searching. Keep going. Then you saw it. A reinforced steel door. Locked. Guarded. Important. Your heart nearly stopped. "He's in there."

Bruce ripped the door off its hinges. The metal crashed against the floor. And suddenly the room was visible. For a moment, everything went silent. You couldn't hear the fighting anymore. Couldn't hear your teammates. Couldn't hear your own breathing. Because all you saw was Tony.

He was chained to a metal chair. For a moment, Tony floated at the edge of consciousness, pain settling into every corner of his body. His wrists ached where the cuffs bit in, every muscle burning from the strain of trying to sit upright. Shadows flickered on the walls, making reality blur at the edges. Thoughts chased each other through his head: calculations for sabotage, the number of guards, the pattern of footsteps outside. He ran endless escape scenarios through his mind, desperate for any weakness in the walls, the locks, the captors. But this time he had nothing. Panic threatened to take root, and he silenced it through sheer willpower. They had stripped away his armour, ripped away every defence until all that was left was Tony Stark: vulnerable, hurting, alone.

Memories pressed against the pain, raw and sharp. His father's voice echoing in empty hallways, nights tinkering alone, voices that had left him long before he was ever Iron Man. He remembered every mistake he had made, every time he had failed someone and tried to drown it in bravado or distraction. Now, without metal or quips to hide behind, he felt every regret like a bruise. Faces flashed behind his eyelids: Pepper, Rhodey, the team. You. He clung to your memory most of all: the sound of your laughter, the steadiness of your hands, the warmth you always brought into his chaos. What if this was the last thing he ever knew?

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to draw every ragged breath in silence. What if they did not come? What if this was the time no one found him? Worse, what if his disappearance hurt you the way your past absences had tormented him? Shame mingled with fear, heavier than any chain. He hated how quickly the doubt crept in, gnawing away at the conviction he had always worn like a shield.

Images flickered behind his eyes: your face, laughter in the lab, warm hands on his, voices at the kitchen table, the bright, everyday proofs he belonged. He wondered if you were safe, if the team was safe, if you were blaming yourself the way he would have if the roles were reversed. He tried to believe you would find him, that you would not give up, but every passing minute pressed in like the weight of the finality he’d always outrun. He forced himself not to hope, not to show fear. Not to let the enemy see how badly he needed to see you again.

But then, he heard footsteps and voices he recognised, yours above all, and the sharp ache of relief was almost as overwhelming as the pain. Fear cracked, hope breaking through. Even Iron Man could be afraid, but now, just maybe, he could let himself believe rescue was possible.

Bruises covered his face. Blood stained his shirt. His arc reactor glowed faintly through torn fabric. His head hung low. Motionless. Your heart shattered. "Tony." The word left your lips as a whisper. His head lifted slowly. Painfully. Then his eyes found yours. And despite everything. Despite the injuries. Despite the blood. Despite the exhaustion. He smiled. A small, tired smile. "Hey, sweetheart." Your vision blurred instantly.

You were moving before you realised it. Crossing the room. Dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands cupped his face. He was warm. Alive. The realisation nearly made you break.

"Oh, my God." Your voice cracked. "Tony."

His smile faltered. Because now he could see the tears. The fear. The panic you'd been carrying for days. And suddenly his expression softened. "Hey." His voice was rough. Gentle. You couldn't stop staring. At the bruises. The cuts. The split lip. The exhaustion in his eyes. Every injury hurts. As if it had happened to you instead. "I thought-" Your voice failed. Tony immediately understood. Because he knew you. Better than anyone. His eyes closed briefly. Then he leaned into your touch. "I'm here."

A tear slipped down your cheek. "I thought you were dead." The words came out broken. Raw. Honest. And for the first time since you'd found him, Tony looked devastated. Not because of what HYDRA had done. Because of what you'd been through.

Once the restraints were removed, Tony's arms wrapped around you instantly. As if it were instinct. As if he couldn't help it. You buried your face against his shoulder. His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear. Strong. Steady. Real. And suddenly all the fear you'd been holding back crashed into you. You started crying. Actually crying. The kind you usually hide. The kind you never wanted anyone to see. Tony held you tighter. One hand cradling the back of your head.

"It's okay." His lips brushed your hair. "I'm here."

You shook your head. "I was so scared."

His arms tightened. Pain flashed across his face. Because Tony Stark would rather endure torture himself than know you'd spent days suffering. "Sweetheart..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I know." You could feel his heart racing. His own fear. His own relief. Because he had been terrified, too. Not for himself. For you. Wondering if you were safe.Wondering if you'd blame yourself. Wondering if he'd ever get the chance to see you again.

The ride home was quiet. For once, Tony wasn't talking. He sat beside you in the Quinjet with one arm around your shoulders. The entire flight. He never let go. Not once. And honestly? Neither did you. Every few minutes, you'd glance over just to make sure he was still there. Still breathing. Still real. Each time he'd catch you looking. Each time he'd squeeze your hand. A silent reassurance. I'm here.

Later that night, after the medics finally cleared him, you found yourselves alone. Tony moved slowly, gingerly, favouring his side each time he shifted on the couch. A cluster of bruises mottled his arms and jaw, and a fresh row of stitches ran just above his eyebrow. He was quieter than usual, his answers softer, and sometimes you caught him wincing before smoothing his expression. The wounds were ugly, but the toll ran deeper, exhaustion lingering in his eyes, his usual bravado worn down to something raw and vulnerable. You tried to hold yourself together, but now, in the hush of the aftermath, your own hands wouldn’t stop trembling. The last few days replayed through your mind in flashes: panic, helplessness, the cold ache of uncertainty. Every time Tony winced, you flinched too, as if your own body could actually share in his pain. You kept rubbing your arms, pulling your knees up close, searching for something to anchor you. Still, he was here. He was safe. And bit by bit, you could almost see the relief settling in both your shoulders as the minutes ticked by in peace.

You didn’t speak about what came next, not yet, but as you sat together, you felt hope threading quietly between you. Maybe the nights would be restless for a while, maybe healing would come slowly, but you both knew this was not the end. There would be small steps: leaning on each other, holding hands through the nightmares, learning how to smile again. Whatever wounds lingered, you would carry them together. For the first time since it all began, it felt possible to believe that you could both move forward, one day at a time.

The penthouse was dark. The city lights glowed beyond the windows. For the first time in days, there was peace. Tony lay beside you. One arm wrapped around your waist. His face was buried against your neck. As though he needed proof that you were still there. You ran your fingers through his hair. Slowly. Carefully. Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't painful anymore. It was comforting. Then Tony finally broke it. "You came for me."

You smiled softly. "Of course I did."

His grip tightened. "You didn't hesitate." The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. Tony rarely sounded uncertain. Rarely sounded small. But tonight he did. Because underneath the armour, the genius, and the confidence, He was just a man who loved you. And who had been terrified he'd never see you again.

You turned toward him. Pressed a gentle kiss against his forehead. His eyes closed immediately. "You always come for me," you whispered.

A small smile appeared on his lips. "Yeah."

"So why wouldn't I come for you?"

For a moment, Tony simply looked at you. His eyes were shining in the darkness. Filled with love. With relief. With gratitude. Then he pulled you closer, holding on as if trying to convince himself you were really there. Until there wasn't an inch of space left between you. As he pressed his forehead against yours, his voice came out soft and emotional. "So this is what it feels like."

You both stayed there, close and quiet, letting the weight of the last few days sink in. You realised, together, how easily things could have been different, how quickly you could have lost each other. Tony's hand found yours, fingers entwining tightly. "I never understood how scared you must have been, all those times I flew in to save you," he whispered. "It changes something, being the one left behind."

You brushed your thumb across his cheek, steady and reassuring. "I think... maybe now we understand each other better. It's not about who rescues whom. It's about not giving up. About coming home, every time."

Tony exhaled, a tremble hidden in the sound. "I don't want to take us for granted again. I've always been so afraid of showing I need you. But I do. I need you, more than anything."

The energy at the Netflix kickoff show was electric, but the tension between the talent was even higher. You were standing backstage, dressed in a skirt that was perhaps a bit too short for a professional setting, though you knew exactly how it looked when you moved.

CM Punk was leaning against a production crate, his smirk knowing and arrogant. You had been chatting with him for a few minutes, the conversation playful and bordering on flirtatious. As Punk pointed something out on a monitor, you leaned over, bending deep at the waist. The fabric of your skirt rode up completely, leaving your sheer, lace panties on full display, and your bare cheeks peeking out from the edges.

Punk’s eyes dropped, his gaze lingering on your exposed heat. He didn't look away; instead, he let out a low whistle.

"Careful, sweetheart," Punk murmured, his voice a gravelly drawl. "Someone might see exactly what you're hiding."

You giggled, about to make a witty retort, when a heavy hand clamped firmly onto your shoulder. The grip was like iron, and the voice that spoke in your ear was devoid of its usual flamboyant cheer.

"I see everything," Seth Rollins hissed.

You jumped, nearly tripping over your own feet as you straightened up. Seth was towering over you, his eyes dark and flashing with a possessive rage. He didn't look at Punk; his focus was entirely on you, his gaze scanning your face before dropping to the hem of your skirt. He knew exactly what had just happened.

"Get to the car. Now," Seth commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The ride back to the hotel was silent and suffocating. Seth didn't say a word, but the way he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, told you everything. You tried to apologise, to tell him it was nothing, but he silenced you with a single, sharp look.

The moment the hotel room door slammed shut, the atmosphere shifted from tense to predatory. Seth didn't even take off his jacket before he pointed toward the bed.

"Strip. Everything off. Now," he ordered.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Seth, I-"

"Did I stutter? Get your clothes off and get on your stomach, or I'll rip them off you myself."

Trembling, you obeyed. You peeled away your clothes, leaving you completely naked and shivering in the cool air of the room. You crawled onto the bed, pressing your chest into the duvet and pushing your ass high into the air, just as he liked.

You heard the distinct, metallic clink of his belt being unbuckled. The sound sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your clit.

"You thought it was funny, didn't you?" Seth’s voice was right behind you now. "Bending over for Punk? Letting him look at your pussy while I'm standing right there?"

"No, Daddy, I didn't-"

CRACK!

The leather belt slammed across your right cheek with a violent force that made you scream, your body arching off the bed. The sting was immediate and searing, a white-hot line of pain that bloomed across your skin.

"Don't lie to me!" CRACK!

Another strike landed on the left cheek, perfectly mirroring the first. You sobbed, your fingers gripping the sheets.

"You're my girl," Seth growled, his voice thick with lust and anger. "Every inch of this ass belongs to me. If you want to show it off, you do it for me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy! Please!" you wailed, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

He didn't stop. He rained down a steady rhythm of blows, the belt whistling through the air before connecting with a loud, fleshy thud. He worked your cheeks until they were a deep, angry crimson, the pain turning into a throbbing, heavy heat that made your pussy leak fluid onto the sheets. You were shaking, your mind hazy with the endorphins and the sheer dominance of his presence.

Finally, the belt stopped. You were sobbing, your ass burning and pulsing. Suddenly, you felt his large, warm hand grip your hair, pulling your head back so he could whisper in your ear.

"Look at you. All red and swollen for Daddy," he murmured, his voice now dripping with hunger.

He dropped the belt and reached down, his fingers sliding roughly into your soaking wet pussy. You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand. He didn't go slow; he shoved two fingers deep inside you, stretching you out while his thumb ground harshly against your clit.

"You're so fucking wet," Seth groaned. "You loved being caught, didn't you? You loved knowing I was watching you be a little slut for Punk."

"I did... I'm sorry, Daddy, please fuck me," you begged, your voice broken.

Seth didn't make you wait. He stripped out of his pants in one fluid motion, his thick, heavy cock springing free, already fully erect and leaking pre-cum. He grabbed your hips, hauling you back against him.

He didn't use any lubricant other than your own desperate cream. He lined himself up and shoved his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust. You shrieked, the sensation of him filling you combined with the sting of your spanked ass creating an overwhelming sensory overload.

Seth began to hammer into you, his movements primal and relentless. Every time he slammed his pelvis against your bruised cheeks, it sent a fresh wave of stinging pleasure through your nerves. He was fucking you with a possessive intensity, his breath hot on your neck, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his pace increasing, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

"You! I belong to you, Daddy!" you screamed, your walls clamping tight around him.

"That's right. I'm the only one who gets to see this. I'm the only one who gets to fuck you."

He reached around, his hand finding your clit and rubbing it frantically as he drove himself deeper. The friction was too much; you felt the orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat crashing through your core. You tightened around him, your internal muscles pulsing rhythmically.

"Cum for me, baby. Cum for Daddy!"

With a final, guttural roar, Seth delivered one last, deepest thrust, pinning you to the bed as he erupted inside you. You felt the hot gush of his cum filling your womb, the sensation triggering your own explosive climax. You collapsed into the pillows, sobbing and twitching, completely spent.

Seth didn't pull out immediately. He stayed buried deep inside you, his chest heaving against your back. He kissed the nape of your neck, his voice now soft, almost tender, though the possessiveness remained.

The Research Division was six floors underground. In your view, that was six floors too many.

"You know," Soldier Boy said as the elevator descended, "every evil lab I've ever seen was underground."

You glanced sideways. "How many evil labs have you seen?"

"A lot."

"That's concerning."

"You asked.”

"I absolutely did not."

The elevator doors opened. The Research Division opened up in front of you, all glass walls, locked doors, and spotless white hallways. Scientists rushed by with tablets and folders, while security guards stood at checkpoints every few meters.

Soldier Boy looked around. "Hate this place already."

"You hate most places."

"That's because most places suck." You had to admit, he had a point.

The two of you walked deeper into the facility. The sabotage rumours had started months ago. Missing files. Corrupted research. Entire shipments are disappearing. Nobody could identify the culprit. That was exactly why Homelander had picked you: someone who could slip, unseen, through walls and barriers that stopped everyone else. You were hard to stop, nearly impossible to track, and known for moving through solid steel as if it were air. It was the right mix for finding whoever was responsible. Despite that, doubt crept in as you went further; being chosen for this wasn't exactly an honour. Part of you appreciated the trust, but another part kept wondering if you were here because nobody else wanted the job. You pushed those thoughts aside and kept moving.

You were difficult to stop. And almost impossible to track. A useful combination. As you approached the central laboratory, something caught your eye. A small black object sat on the floor near the wall. You stopped. Soldier Boy nearly walked into you. "What?"

You crouched. The object was a chess piece. A knight. Polished black stone. Identical to the one Soldier Boy had found earlier, except for the engraving. Your expression immediately changed. Soldier Boy noticed, "You know what that is?"

You picked it up carefully. "Maybe."

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. It only told him part of the story. "Maybe?"

You stared at the piece. On its underside, tiny letters had been engraved: MOVE THREE. Soldier Boy frowned. "Move three?"

Before you could answer, all the lights in the hallway went out. At the same moment, the first sealed door behind you slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the facility. Scientists shouted. Alarms instantly erupted overhead. Red emergency lights flickered to life. For one second, nobody moved. Then chaos exploded.

"What happened?"

"Security breach!"

"Lock the sector down!"

Metal blast doors began slamming shut throughout the division. You immediately looked upward. "That's not good." Soldier Boy crossed his arms. "Why?"

You pointed. The blast door at the far end of the corridor had closed. The one behind it had closed too. Then another. And another. The pattern spread through the facility. Like dominoes. Someone wasn’t trying to get out. Someone was locking everyone inside. That was the trap. The realisation hit both of you at once. "This isn't sabotage," Soldier Boy said.

"No."

You stared at the flashing emergency lights. "It's a trap."

Elsewhere in the building, twenty-three floors above, Homelander stood in his office watching security footage. His smile had disappeared. A technician nervously pointed toward a monitor. "Sir..."

The screen displayed every security camera in the Research Division. One by one, they were shutting off. Black. Black. Black. Black. Until only a single camera remained. The image flickered. Static danced across the screen. Then words appeared. White letters against black. CHECKMATE.

The feed died. The technician swallowed. Nobody spoke. Homelander slowly leaned forward. His eyes began glowing red. Not because he was angry. Because for the first time in a very long time, Someone had managed to surprise him.

Back underground, you and Soldier Boy were moving fast. Scientists rushed in every direction. Security teams attempted to establish order. Nobody knew what was happening. Which meant nobody was helping. You reached a sealed laboratory door. A crowd of researchers stood outside. Panicking.

"The lock won't disengage!"

"Our people are trapped inside!"

"We can't override it!"

You stepped forward. "Move."

The crowd immediately parted. One scientist pointed. "The controls aren't responding."

You placed a hand against the steel door. Soldier Boy immediately knew what you were about to do. "You sure?"

"No."

"Comforting."

You rolled your eyes. Then stepped forward. You stepped right through the solid steel, leaving the scientists horrified. The scientists around you completely freaked out. Several had clearly never seen your abilities in person. One woman actually screamed. Five seconds later, the door unlocked. You emerged from the other side. Completely unharmed. Soldier Boy looked impressed despite himself.

"That's still weird."

"You've watched Homelander shoot lasers out of his eyes."

"Yeah, but that's normal."

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you spoke. Finally, one scientist whispered, "How is that normal?"

The deeper you went, the stranger things became. Every locked door contained another chess piece, each one waiting with a message. Every chess piece contained another message, pushing you deeper.

MOVE FOUR.

MOVE FIVE.

MOVE SIX.

Someone was leading you somewhere on purpose. Deliberately. Carefully. Patiently. Like pieces being moved across a board. Eventually, you reached an abandoned storage wing. The alarms had stopped. The lights had stabilised. Silence filled the corridor. You didn't like silence. Neither did Soldier Boy. At the very end of the hall sat a final chess piece. White this time. A queen. You picked it up. Another message. Only this one was different. Your face instantly grew serious. Soldier Boy noticed.

"What?"

You didn't answer.

"What does it say?"

Slowly, you handed him the piece. The engraving read: ASK HER ABOUT MINSK.

For half a second, you weren't standing in the hallway anymore. The memory flickered; shouts echoing in a frozen city, the sting of icy wind, the sharp scent of smoke and blood. The face of someone you couldn't save flashed before you, gone again as quickly as it came. The word 'Minsk' still made your hands ache with cold and regret. Somewhere deep under your ribs lingered the guilt of a choice you could never explain, not even to yourself. The hallway suddenly felt colder. For the first time all day, your confidence slipped. Only for a moment. But Soldier Boy saw it. And that worried him far more than the message itself. Because until now, he had assumed you were fearless.

Apparently, whoever was behind this knew things about you that almost nobody did. There were only a handful of places those secrets could have come from: classified files, old teammates, buried reports that were supposed to stay buried. You suddenly wondered just how long they had been watching, and how close they might have been all along. Things connected to the rumours. The blackout. The classified files. The story nobody could ever verify.

You looked away. Soldier Boy's voice was quieter than usual. "What happened in Minsk?"

The question hung between you. For several seconds, neither of you moved. You felt your chest tighten, breath caught half in your throat. Soldier Boy's jaw set, his eyes narrowing as tension flooded his stance. Then a distorted voice echoed from somewhere overhead. Not from speakers. Not from radios. From every direction at once. A voice disguised by technology. Cold. Patient. Amused. "Good evening." Both of you immediately looked up, adrenaline spiking in your veins. The voice continued. "I've been waiting a very long time to meet the survivors."

The smile vanished from your face. Soldier Boy's hand clenched into a fist. And somewhere deep inside the facility, something heavy began to move. The vibration rippled up through the floor, a low shuddering tremor that rattled glass in distant labs and made the hairs on your arms stand up. From far away came the grinding scrape of metal against stone, slow and deliberate, followed by a deep, echoing thump that you felt in your chest. Air in the corridor seemed to chill as the unseen threat shifted in its confines, each mechanical groan promising something massive was waking up.

The drive home was painfully quiet. You sat in the passenger seat of Eddie's truck, staring out the window as city lights blurred past. The knot in your chest hadn't loosened since dinner ended. Eddie's hands tightened around the steering wheel. He'd barely spoken since leaving your parents' house. That scared you. You hated that they saw it.

Usually, Buck stepped in before things got too ugly, or Maddie redirected the conversation. There was the birthday dinner last year, when your mother spent an hour questioning your choices and your father made pointed remarks about how late you arrived, only to stop when Buck cracked a joke and changed the subject. Or the time the topic of your job came up, and Maddie had to quickly change the conversation before another argument started. You remembered another night, years ago, when you got a promotion at work. You brought home cake, proud and hoping they'd be happy for you. Instead, your mother asked how long it would last, and your father asked if you were sure someone else didn't deserve it more. The taste of that celebration still lingered, awkward and sour. It was always the same pattern: deflect, distract, survive. But tonight, Eddie saw every cutting comment, every impossible expectation, every dismissive remark thrown your way.

"You okay?" you finally asked.

Eddie let out a disbelieving laugh. "Am I okay?"

You winced. "Yeah. Stupid question."

His jaw flexed. "Baby..."

The tenderness in his voice almost hurt more. "You deal with that every time?" You shrugged. Wrong answer. Eddie immediately glanced over. "You do."

"It wasn't that bad."

His grip tightened again. "It wasn't that bad?" he repeated. "Your mother criticised your job, your father interrupted you every time you spoke, and somehow they blamed you for things that happened ten years ago."

Each word landed like a blow, dredging up that old ache you always tried to hide. The shame burned bright in your chest, heavier with every memory he recited. You hated how much it still hurt. You hated even more that he could see it.

You stared at your hands. "That's just how they are."

"No." His voice was firm.

"That's how they treat you." The silence that followed felt heavy.

He was right. You knew he was right. But hearing it out loud made your chest ache. The words echoed inside you, tightening the knot that was already there. You caught yourself gripping your hands so hard your knuckles ached, fingernails digging lines against your palms. How many times had you tried to convince yourself this was normal, that you were just being sensitive? The thought of anyone else hearing what you swallowed for years sent a fresh wave of shame rushing through you. At the same time, there was a strange, dangerous relief in having it named. You were tired, tired of carrying this secret hurt alone. Shame and relief flooded in at once, a tide of hurt that left your throat raw and your stomach hollow. You wanted to shrink into the seat, disappear, hide every broken feeling he could now plainly see. The urge to apologise for your feelings pressed at you, even though you knew you shouldn't have to.

Eddie reached over, taking your hand. "You deserved better than that."

Your eyes burned. "Can we not talk about it?"

Immediately, his expression softened. "Okay." He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. "We don't have to." And that almost made you cry.

Dinner had started fine. Awkward, sure. But fine. Eddie had brought dessert. Buck had made enough jokes to fill the silence. Then your father started asking questions. Questions that weren't really questions.

"So how's work?" he'd asked.

You'd answered. Then you were immediately told how you could be doing better. Your mother jumped in. Then your father. Then another criticism. And another. And another. Until eventually you stopped talking altogether. Eddie noticed. Buck noticed too. The warning look he sent across the table was obvious. But your parents ignored it. Like always. Then came the final straw.

"Honestly," your mother sighed, "sometimes I don't know where we went wrong with her."

The entire table froze. Buck's fork hit his plate. Maddie looked horrified. And Eddie paused. Eddie calmly set down his glass. "What exactly do you mean by that?" The room went silent. Your mother blinked. "What?"

"You said you don't know where you went wrong." Eddie's voice remained polite. His politeness felt sharp, almost dangerous. "What did she do?"

Your father scoffed. "She's always been difficult."

You stared at your plate. Eddie didn't. "Really?"

"She never lived up to her potential."

That was when Eddie leaned forward. And for the first time all evening, he sounded angry. "That's funny."

Your parents looked confused.

"Because from where I'm sitting, she's one of the most caring people I've ever met."

Your heart stopped. Eddie continued. "She takes care of everyone around her."

Buck nodded immediately. "Damn right."

"She's loyal," Eddie said. "Smart. Funny. Kind."

You felt heat rise to your face. "Eddie-"

"No." He squeezed your hand under the table. "I'm not done."

Your parents looked stunned. That felt right.

"So if you don't see all that, maybe the problem isn't her."

The silence was deafening. Buck looked seconds away from applauding. Maddie was openly smiling. Your father frowned. "I think that's enough."

Eddie met his stare without flinching. "I agree."

That was the end of dinner.

The days that followed felt strange, like you were floating just outside your own life. Conversations with Eddie were gentle, quiet, and careful. You and Buck kept in touch, but no one brought up what had happened. The ache from dinner lingered, a dull throb that never fully faded, even as normal routines resumed.

One night, you and Eddie sat on the couch, half-watching a movie neither of you cared about. Your head rested on his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Eddie’s thumb brushed lazy shapes over the back of your hand. For a long time, neither of you spoke; comfort found in the quiet together. Eventually, Eddie squeezed your hand a little tighter. "I meant what I said at dinner," he murmured. "I’m proud of you."

You tried to joke it off, but your voice caught. He noticed. He only pulled you closer, letting you lean into his warmth. The words you never got from your parents stayed unspoken between you, but with Eddie’s arms around you, healing felt just a little more possible.

A few days later, Eddie was helping Buck clean up after a barbecue at the Diaz house. Christopher was inside with Maddie. You'd gone to pick up dessert. Leaving Buck and Eddie alone. Buck tossed a bottle into the recycling bin.

"You know she cried after that dinner."

Eddie's face immediately fell. "What?"

Buck nodded. "Not because of them."

He leaned against the counter. "Because nobody's ever stood up for her like that."

Eddie looked away. A muscle in his jaw jumped. "She shouldn't have needed someone to."

Buck laughed sadly. "Welcome to being her boyfriend."

For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Buck sighed. "You know... when we were kids, Maddie and I tried." His voice softened, as if remembering. "I remember Maddie distracting Mom with questions when she started to get on your case, or the time I lied and said you needed my help with homework just to get you out of the room. We even teamed up once to cover for you so you could skip a family dinner after a bad week. Eddie listened quietly. "But eventually you get tired. You start picking your battles." He stared out the window. "And somehow she always became the battle nobody fought."

Eddie's expression softened. "Not anymore."

Buck looked at him. Really looked at him. The sincerity was impossible to miss. And suddenly Buck smiled. It was a small smile. A real one. "Good."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Good?"

Buck shrugged. "I spent years worrying about her." The admission came easier than he expected. "She's my little sister."

"I know."

"No." Buck laughed. "You don't."

They both smiled.

"She's stronger than people think," Buck continued. "But she's also the kind of person who takes care of everyone else and forgets herself."

Eddie immediately nodded. "Yeah."

The fact that he'd answered so quickly made Buck grin. "See? You get it."

Eddie looked toward the front door, expecting you to walk in any minute. His entire face softened. And Buck noticed. Of course, he noticed. "You're in love with her."

It wasn't a question. Eddie smiled. It was obvious. "Yeah."

Buck shook his head. "Good."

"What is with you saying that?"

Buck laughed. Then his expression turned sincere. "Because I'm happy somebody takes care of her for once."

Eddie swallowed hard. "Always."

Buck pointed a finger at him. "If you make her cry-"

Eddie snorted. "I know."

"I'll throw you through a wall."

"Pretty sure I could take you."

"Delusional." They both laughed.

Then the front door opened. And there you were. Carrying two dessert boxes. Looking confused. "What are you idiots smiling about?" Buck immediately grabbed one of the boxes. "Nothing." "Liar."

Eddie walked over. Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him. The familiar warmth instantly settled your nerves. "What'd you bring?" he asked. You smiled. "Pie."

"Marry her," Buck said immediately.

You nearly choked. Eddie laughed against your hair. "Way ahead of you." Your face went bright red. "Eddie!"

Buck cackled. Eddie just kissed your temple. Then whispered so only you could hear: "You're my family, okay?"

For a moment, you felt your chest tighten, all the things you never let yourself believe unfurling inside you. The words caught you off guard, warm and overwhelming, flooding through the cracks you always tried to hide. You blinked hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes, and for the first time, let yourself believe it might really be true. Maybe love was not something you had to earn or prove, but something you could simply receive, exactly as you are. Maybe family was not just the people who raised you, but the ones who stood beside you now, choosing you every single day. The words felt different coming from him. Stronger. More certain.