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aleksatia · 23 days ago

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❄️Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Zayne.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

🎨 Rafayel | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Emotional neglect / emotional suppression, Communication breakdown in relationships, References to emotional dissociation, Raised voices / emotionally intense confrontation, Crying / emotional vulnerability, Mention of jealousy & insecurity, Gaslighting-adjacent dynamics (arguably), Implied sexual tension / physical intimacy (consensual, emotional).

Pairing: Zayne x ex-wife!you Genre: Slow-burn, emotional dissection, second chances soaked in silence. Heavy on longing, surgical precision on heartbreak. Lovers to strangers to… Summary: Zayne doesn't do chaos. He does control, routine, distance. But when fate traps you both in a curated room labeled “One Hour of Honest Connection,” the silence breaks first. What follows is memory, ache, and the terrifying weight of things never said. Word Count: 3.3K

The room was small. Too small for this.

Soft jazz filtered through hidden speakers. There were two cups of something herbal already on the table, a plate of small, intentionally complicated desserts arranged like the nervous offering of a Parisian intern. The walls were a muted sage green, the lighting gentle. It would’ve been cozy, if it weren’t for the glaring fact that Zayne was sitting across from you.

You blinked once. Then again.

"No," you said flatly.

Zayne, ever efficient, didn’t even look up from the glass of water he was examining.

"Statistically," he said, voice calm, "there was a 0.2% chance of this exact pairing."

You stared at him. "So what I’m hearing is: we’re still just that unlucky."

He looked up then. God, those eyes. Calculated glacier. "Technically, yes."

The silence that followed was not companionable.

You hadn’t seen him in eleven months. Not since the divorce. Not since you stood in that shared apartment and told him — voice shaking, fingers cold — that you couldn’t keep guessing if you were real to him.

He hadn’t fought you.

He’d just stood there, like someone who'd miscalculated a formula and refused to recheck it.

You waited for something — anything. He stayed silent.

He stayed silent even when you sent the divorce papers. Even when it was over in a small judge’s office, quiet and procedural. He brought flowers — jasmine — and you still don’t know if they were a symbol of freedom or a plea.

He never explained.

Just spoke in clipped, efficient phrases, like he’d already erased you from his life.

And now — now you were locked in a curated hell that probably had its own photo filter. A little brass plaque on the inside of the door read: One Hour of Honest Connection.

You almost laughed. Almost.

Zayne adjusted his cuffs. You noticed — god help you — that he still wore the watch you gave him. The one with the engraving inside: Every time your pulse stutters, it’s me.

Of course he still wore it. The man remembered to reorder that book you never finished—left it on your doorstep in silent punctuation.

"This wasn’t deliberate," you said finally.

"Agreed."

You folded your arms. "So. Let’s make this painless. We wait the hour, we don’t talk about feelings, and we pretend your emotional negligence wasn’t the reason we’re now two sad statistics sipping herbal disappointment."

Zayne raised an eyebrow. "Technically, the tea is chamomile, which is known for its calming properties. And you’re the one who said ‘emotional negligence.’"

"God, you’re still exhausting."

He didn’t flinch. Of course not. That would imply a physiological reaction. "So I’ve been told."

You stared at him for a beat. The weight of old familiarity draped the room like a too-heavy coat. He hadn’t changed. Not in the obvious ways. Still buttoned-down, still precise, still that undercurrent of something almost tender that never made it to the surface.

"Why are you even here?" you asked suddenly. "Blind dates don’t strike me as your thing. Too much room for inefficiency."

He tilted his head. “The nursing staff submitted my name. Some kind of team-building initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. They were hoping to end up across the table themselves?”

Zayne didn’t blink. “Several of them expressed interest.”

You snorted, sharper than you meant to. “Charming.”

He nodded, like you were discussing post-op recovery times. “I considered opting out. But I didn’t.”

That surprised you. Enough to glance at him fully, meet his eyes, where something flickered — not regret, exactly. But its distant cousin. The one who shows up late to funerals.

“Why not?”

He took a sip of tea. “I wanted to see what I’d do.”

You hated how that hit. How much you wanted to ask: How many phone numbers did you collect before you landed here?

But you didn’t.

The desserts between you remained untouched. Tiny works of art. Sugar sculptures that mocked you with their curated whimsy.

"You look good," he said abruptly.

You blinked. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things that sound human. It throws me off."

He smiled, the faint curve of it almost imperceptible. “Noted.”

Your eyes caught on his mouth — just for a second. A breath too long. You looked away before he could notice.

There was another pause, but it hung differently now — heavier, colored with things you hadn’t said when you should have, and things he never said at all.

"Did you ever—" you started, then stopped.

Zayne watched you. Waiting. He was always good at that. Waiting until your own words betrayed you.

"Forget it," you muttered.

"No," he said quietly. "Say it."

You hated him a little for that. For still knowing when to press.

"Did you ever think," you asked, voice low, "that maybe love isn’t a hypothesis you prove with consistency? That maybe I just needed you to be… messy? With me?"

Zayne didn’t answer right away. And for once, you let the silence stay. Let it stretch and breathe.

When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper. "Yes. I thought it too late."

You closed your eyes.

Jazz played on. Somewhere outside, people were falling in love the loud way — the all-in kind. Dramatic. Full of color.

Here, in this perfect little room, you and Zayne sat across from one another like ruins politely dressed for tea.

The hour hadn’t even started ticking down.

He was watching you now. Not intensely — not obviously. But directly. The kind of look that felt like it was being filed away for later analysis.

You met it.

Zayne looked away first. Not because it hurt — but because there’s only so long you can hold tension before it cuts.

He looked down at the desserts. Picked up a fork. Cut into something with a caramel shard on top and didn’t eat it.

You watched him with a frustration so familiar it almost felt nostalgic.

“You always do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Control the atmosphere. One calculated silence and the room bends around you.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Then: “I thought that was preferable to chaos.”

You scoffed. “Of course you did.”

The clock on the wall, tastefully small, ticked once. You imagined someone — a curator of curated intimacy — had set it to be just barely audible.

Zayne glanced toward it.

“Forty-three minutes,” he murmured.

You laughed — dry. “You going to count them all?”

His eyes flicked back to you. “Only the inefficient ones.”

That shut you up.

You stared at your tea. Cold now. Obviously.

He watched you again. Observed you, like you were an interface needing diagnostics.

You looked away — deliberately, before his gaze could finish its quiet dissection. But your eyes caught the slight fold in his cuff, the slow press of thumb to palm as he adjusted the line of his wrist.

Surgical. Precise. Familiar.

A phantom shiver traced down your spine.

You remembered that hand on the small of your back in the hospital hallway once, the only contact he allowed himself after a seventeen-hour surgery. He never let his voice break protocol. But that one touch — the pressure, the warmth, the steadiness — had left you trembling.

You cleared your throat.

“Do you regret it?” you asked.

“This date?” he said, because of course he would miss the point.

You glared. “The way you loved me.”

Zayne’s expression didn’t shift. But you saw the pause in his breath. A calibration flicker.

“I loved you thoroughly,” he said. And the word thoroughly struck like a steel scalpel. Accurate. Clinical. Missing the pulse entirely.

You stood. “You loved me like I was a pet project. Like a very intelligent houseplant. Watered. Supported. Monitored.”

“I kept you safe.”

“I didn’t want to be safe!”

It came out sharper than you meant, and echoed too loudly in the boutique silence of the room. You saw the smallest movement — the tightening in his jaw, the shift of his heel, like a man correcting for turbulence.

He stood slowly. Adjusted a cuff. Again.

Still useless. Still beautiful.

“You think I was cold. Detached.”

You laughed once. Bitter. “You treated me like a system. Like something that shouldn’t break. Not someone who might cry. Or scream. Or—” your voice wavered, “—or leave.”

He stepped forward, eyes flickering over you.

“You did leave.”

“And you let me.”

“I didn’t stop you.”

“You didn’t even ask why.”

Your voice shook now — not from weakness, but from the fury of being unseen.

“You just stood there like it was a cancelled meeting, not a fucking life falling apart.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“What was I supposed to do?” he asked eventually, quietly.

“Fight,” you snapped. “God, anything. Say my name. Say stay. Say something other than 'okay.'”

The clock ticked again.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

“You once said I made you invisible,” he murmured, like he wasn’t even speaking to you, but to the ghost of that moment.

Your breath caught — and snapped.

“Because you did,” you said, sharper than you meant. “You watched me like a case study. Like I was data.”

Your voice broke.

“You weren’t seeing me, Zayne. You were cataloguing me.”

He flinched. A fraction. Barely there — but you caught it. And hated that it still made you ache.

His hands clenched slightly. Just barely.

“If I’d touched more, you would’ve called it possessive. If I’d spoken more, you would’ve said it was performative. I calibrated.”

“You calibrated me,” you said. “Like I was a machine you didn’t want overheating.”

He said nothing.

You stepped closer. Too close.

“You loved me like a robot,” you whispered. “And I wasn’t built for that.”

Silence. Then, very softly:

“I didn’t know how to love any other way.”

His voice dropped like a stone in water. And you swore — for a second — the lights flickered.

Zayne took another step. A fraction. Enough.

“You think I didn’t feel?” he asked, voice low. “You were the variable I couldn’t isolate. The part of the equation that never balanced. You made everything uncertain.”

And there it was again — that glint in his voice. That barely-there tremble. A fault line under a glass surface.

Your eyes flicked to his collar. The soft pull of fabric around his throat. The line of his jaw, the neat cut of his hair. The way one lock always fell forward when he was tired or tense.

It was falling now.

“You used to look at me like I was a test you were trying to pass,” you murmured.

“I was trying not to fail,” he said.

You hated how your pulse jumped.

He lifted a hand. Just slightly. Just enough to suggest contact. His fingers hovered — millimeters away from your skin — but didn’t touch.

A beat.

His voice came quieter this time — lower, rougher at the edges, like the words didn’t want to come out but had nowhere else to go.

“Another wrong calculation.”

Not bitter. Not even angry. Just… tired. And devastatingly honest.

And something in you — snapped.

Not because he said it. But because he meant it. Because he stood there, wanting you, needing you, practically reaching — and still treated it like an equation gone wrong.

You felt your breath hitch. Your fists clench.

Because you saw it in his eyes — the ache, the hesitation. The damn pulse in his throat that jumped when your gaze dropped to his lips.

He wanted this.

You.

But he wouldn’t let himself have it.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You didn’t,” you said, sharp. “You don’t. You want me close enough to feel it but never close enough to believe it.”

He looked at you — not coldly. Worse. Calmly. As if this pain had already been processed and shelved.

And that was it.

“You never said it,” you shouted. “Not once! You never said you loved me!”

That stopped him. Not like a slap. Like a flatline.

For the first time in the whole goddamn hour, his expression broke.

He blinked — slow, stunned — as if you’d just said something so grotesque he couldn’t compute it.

“You think I didn’t?” he asked, voice low.

Not soft. Not calm. Low — like thunder before it hits.

He stepped closer, but not rushed. Controlled. Always controlled.

“You think because I didn’t say the exact phrase you wanted, I didn’t feel it?”

His jaw was tight now. Breath shallow.

“You think all of that—” his hand flicked between you, the table, everything, “—meant nothing because it wasn’t loud enough for you?”

And then — his voice rose.

Not yelling. Lifting. Cracking through him, like pressure that finally split the seal.

“I LOVE YOU!”

It echoed. Echoed in that perfect little room like an alarm someone forgot to disable.

“I love you,” he repeated, lower this time. “I love you like a man who doesn’t know how to breathe around you, but will die trying to stay still just to keep you from leaving again.”

Your chest rose and fell like panic. Like longing. Like something ancient reawakened.

“Then why,” you spat, “why would you agree to a date with some other woman?!”

He stilled.

Then — movement. Swift. Sharp. Controlled chaos.

He closed the remaining distance in three steps.

His hand caught your chin — firm but not rough — guiding your face up until his eyes locked with yours, precise, invasive, burning.

“Are you jealous, princess?”

His voice was velvet and wire — both caress and warning.

And it hit you.

Not just the word. Not just the sound of it. But everything that came before it.

The I love you. The I stayed still so you wouldn’t run. The eyes. The ache. The damn way he looked at you like he still knew every nerve ending and wanted to press all of them at once.

And suddenly you weren’t standing. Not really. Your knees tried. But the rest of you was already melting.

Heat flashed through your spine like a pulled thread. Your breath caught — and stayed. Every part of your body was too much and not enough at once.

You hated him for that. And you hated that you wanted more.

Your pulse roared in your ears. There was a throb where there should have been reason.

And still — somehow — your mouth moved:

“Jealousy’s not the word. Try ‘haunted.’”

A breath passed. And he smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“You left,” he said, voice low and clear. “Don’t forget that.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t let you speak.

“Because I wasn’t enough,” he added. “Because I didn’t perform grief the right way. Or love. Or need.”

He stepped back half a pace, and the space between you hurt like an incision.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” His voice stayed calm, but you heard the crack forming in its base. “You think because I didn’t break dishes or sob in the shower that it didn’t gut me?”

He looked straight at you now. No veil. No control.

“You have no idea what it’s like to live in a body that won’t let the feelings out,” he said. “To drown in it. Quietly. Until you forget where the surface is.”

You stood frozen. Not because you didn’t want to move. But because guilt was a weight, and it was finally settling on your shoulders.

“I’m not built for displays,” he continued. “But that never meant I didn’t love you. I just showed it differently.”

He exhaled. Soft. Controlled.

“I don’t scream ‘I love you.’ I leave umbrellas in your bag on rainy days. I keep your favorite candy in your glove compartment. I flip your pillow to the cool side when you fall asleep. I listen when you hum a song twice and add it to your playlist without a word.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t dramatic. I was constant.”

His voice faltered just slightly now.

“And if that wasn’t enough for you — if you needed fireworks — I’m sorry. But I can’t become someone else to prove what’s already true.”

He took one more step back.

“Because if one day you look at me and see a man pretending to be something you want — someone louder, brighter, messier — you’ll stop respecting me. And I swear to God, that’s the one thing I wouldn’t survive.”

Your breath caught.

Your hand moved without permission, reaching for his. Taking it. Holding it with both of yours.

You lifted it gently, pressed your lips to the inside of his fingers — those surgeon’s hands. Steady. Deadly. Gentle.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered. “I didn’t see. I was so busy spiraling through my own mess, I thought… I thought your silence meant absence.”

Tears welled up.

“I didn’t leave to punish you. I just— I lost my wings somewhere along the way. In the quiet. In the waiting. I was jealous of your work. Of your focus. Of how the world looked at you with admiration and looked at me like�� like a placeholder.”

Your voice cracked.

“Every dinner alone. Every party I walked into like I was still half-married to a man who’d rather be in an OR. I thought you didn’t love me.”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. His eyes — bright, focused, unreadable — didn’t move from yours.

And then, softly:

“You’re right. I didn’t love you the way you needed me to. I never knew how to make you feel chosen.”

He paused. Just long enough for the words to break skin.

“But you were. Every day. Every time.”

Another breath. Shallower this time.

“And if I had to do it again — knowing you’d leave—”

His voice barely made it past his throat.

“I’d still choose you.”

A beat.

“Because you are the point.”

And before you could react — he moved.

He pulled you close, lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of the table. The desserts clinked, wobbling on their plates. His hands cupped your face — thumbs firm against your jaw, fingers threading through your hair.

And then — he kissed you.

Not cautiously. Not politely.

He kissed you like a man who had written restraint into every breath for too long, and finally, finally, had been told he could break character.

His mouth crushed yours with a precision that stole air and reason. One hand on your hip, anchoring you. The other behind your neck, fingers fanned through your hair, tilting your head exactly how he needed.

You gasped into him, and he didn’t pause — just deepened the kiss, molding his lips to yours like he was tracing every remembered contour.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, but didn’t move far. His forehead touched yours. His breath was warm. Steady.

God, he always kissed like he was solving you. And part of you — shamefully — wanted to stay unsolved.

You opened your eyes, just barely, and met his. Focused. Hungry. Lit with a kind of reverence that made your stomach flip.

That’s when you moved.

You reached down blindly — fingers finding the soft swirl of whipped cream on one of the desserts. You dipped into it, then slowly dragged your finger along the edge of his jaw.

He didn’t flinch.

Your finger slid over his bottom lip, and when he parted them, you leaned in, tongue flicking the taste away, then trailing up his cheekbone. Slow. Almost cruel.

Zayne exhaled harshly — the closest he came to a groan — and gripped the table edge behind you like he needed grounding.

Your bodies pressed tighter.

He kissed your collarbone, your neck, his breath hot. Fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt, just barely.

Another kiss. And another.

You felt like the room spun sideways. Like you were going to—

Ding.

A soft chime.The door clicked.

Time’s up.

He stilled. You did too.

No one spoke. Breathing was enough.

Zayne lifted a hand and dragged his knuckles along your cheek. Tender. Achingly so.

He pressed his lips to your forehead.

And then — just like that — he stepped back.

You blinked, dazed. Dizzy. Waiting for him to say something.

But he didn’t. He turned, walked to the door, opened it — and left.

Just like that.

You slid off the table slowly, knees hitting the floor before your mind registered the impact.

What the hell. What the actual—

Your phone buzzed.

A message. From him.

��Emergency consult. Patient flatlined. Possibly me. Will advise.”

764 notes · View notes

moongirlcleo · 27 days ago

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Between Silence and Stillness

❤︎ tags and content: hurt/comfort, soft sex, worship, office sex, oral, f!reader x zayne, not beta read ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo

You’ve always held your own in the field, even in the aftermath of a devastating Wanderer attack. But when Zayne finds you bleeding in the rubble, something inside him finally fractures. He brings you back to Akso under the guise of medical care—but the tension that’s been simmering between you for months refuses to be buried any longer. In the quiet of his office, Zayne lets go of his restraint and touches you like a man starved—carefully, reverently, worshipfully.

And in the stillness after, he finally tells you everything he’s never been brave enough to say.

The air was thick with smoke and scorched ozone, the remnants of a Wanderer’s devastation lingering like the echo of a scream that refused to die, clinging to the collapsed buildings and shattered pavement as if the city itself had drawn a ragged breath and forgotten how to exhale. Sirens wailed in the distance, their sound fractured by the broken skyline, and the distant hiss of ruptured gas lines gave a rhythm to the silence, a heartbeat beneath the ruin.

You stumbled forward through the wreckage, the bite of gravel and broken glass beneath your boots barely registering over the dull throb pulsing at your temple. Dust clung to your lashes, to the blood that traced a slow, warm line down your cheek, and the gash above your brow blurred your vision in soft streaks of crimson—but you were upright, breathing, and conscious, which, in the aftermath of a Category-Three, felt like a miracle in itself.

And then, like some frozen current had torn through the heavy air and cleaved it in two, he appeared.

Zayne moved through the smoke with the kind of unrelenting purpose that turned heads and silenced rooms, his figure cutting clean against the gray haze like a scalpel through flesh—sharp, deliberate, and brimming with controlled fury. His gaze locked onto you the instant your form emerged from the rubble, and whatever thought he’d been having was erased in that moment, overwritten by something deeper and far more dangerous than concern.

You breathed his name like a half-prayer, half-exhale, the weight of survival catching up to you all at once. “Zayne.”

But he didn’t answer. He simply stared, motionless in the destruction, and for a beat too long, it was as if the battlefield around you ceased to exist—the firelight dimmed, the sirens faded, and the crackling remnants of chaos melted into silence beneath the force of that look.

One moment you were standing alone in the remnants of a collapsed corridor, and the next his hands were on your face, gloved fingers cupping your jaw with clinical precision that barely concealed the tremor just beneath his touch. He examined you like he didn’t trust his eyes—his thumbs brushing along the curve of your cheekbones to wipe away the blood that had begun to dry, his breath shallow and laced with something far more potent than adrenaline.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, though it sounded more like an accusation than a statement, his voice tight and low, the kind of tone he only used when something inside him was unraveling.

“It’s superficial,” you replied, or tried to, the words catching slightly as the pads of his fingers ghosted over the edge of your wound. “It looks worse than it is.”

But Zayne wasn’t listening. Not really. He was already cataloging each cut, each scrape, each place where your skin had come too close to destruction—and when his gaze dropped to the tear in your jacket, revealing the singed fabric beneath and the faint bruise blooming along your ribs, something subtle but unmistakable shifted in the set of his shoulders.

Without a word, he wrapped an arm around your waist, firm but careful, guiding you with a precision that left no room for protest.

“You’re coming with me,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less commanding. “To the hospital.”

“I can go to HQ—”

“No.”

It was a single word, clipped and final, spoken in that tone of his that ended all further discussion before it could begin.

The journey back through the heart of Linkon was a blur, the city a smear of flickering lights and half-functioning infrastructure in your periphery, but you barely registered the passage of time, focused only on the subtle pressure of Zayne’s hand at your back, the way he moved like a blade honed too sharp to be touched. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Every clipped step down the sterile corridors of Akso, every passing glance from the staff that caught the edge of his expression and immediately looked away, said enough.

The moment his office door slid shut behind you with the soft hiss of sealed air, the world exhaled.

You stood in a space that mirrored him almost perfectly—modern, minimal, composed. The sleek surfaces gleamed under low lighting, chrome and dark wood softened only by the faint hum of the central systems that kept the temperature just shy of clinical. A wall of glass framed the city below, the storm-drenched skyline veiled in rain and the dim flicker of auxiliary power grids.

He said nothing as he motioned toward the long couch against the far wall, one clearly used more for medical examinations than relaxation, and began to gather supplies from a cabinet beside his desk. Antiseptic. Gauze. Suture strips. Every movement was exact, measured down to the angle of his wrists, but you could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the rigidity in his posture, the storm trapped behind the glass of his composure.

When he returned to you, he knelt without ceremony, one hand curling around your wrist to steady your arm while the other began to clean the wound at your temple. The antiseptic stung, but not as much as the silence.

“You didn’t follow protocol,” he said at last, voice low, not angry—but dangerous in its restraint.

“There was a child,” you answered, your own tone soft but firm. “Trapped under the east wing.”

“And what if you hadn’t made it out?” he asked, still focused on his work, though the set of his jaw betrayed him.

“Then I’d have gone down doing something that mattered.”

Zayne exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip on the gauze faltering for just a second before he steadied it again. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you asked, trying—and failing—not to let your voice tremble. “Because it scares you?”

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. Instead, he set the gauze aside, his hand lingering on your cheek as he met your gaze—and for a moment, everything else receded.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Not even the war outside the hospital walls.

Just that look. Unfiltered. Unmasked. Something raw flickered in his eyes—briefly, beautifully—and you recognized it for what it was.

Fear.

Not of you. Not of the danger you’d faced. But of losing you. He spoke your name then—quietly, carefully, like it tasted different on his tongue now. As if everything he’d been holding back was wrapped in just those two syllables.

“You could’ve died,” he whispered.

You hadn’t meant to raise your voice, not really, but something about the look in his eyes—the way he hovered so close yet refused to speak the truth—ignited something sharp in your chest, a flare of defiance that rose before you could smooth it over.

“I’m not reckless,” you said, quieter than a shout but no less firm, the edge of irritation threading through your words, not at him exactly, but at the way he seemed to fold you into some delicate category that had never suited you. “I knew what I was doing.”

Zayne didn’t respond, not immediately, his silence louder than most people's shouting, his hands still hovering near your skin like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to keep touching you or if he’d already crossed some invisible line. You could see it in the twitch of his jaw, in the way his gaze had dropped to the floor between you—as though looking at you too long might make something unravel in him that he wouldn’t be able to take back.

“I am not some fragile thing you need to rescue, Zayne,” you continued, stepping toward him, voice low but unflinching, the words drawn not from pride but from something deeper—something that had been sitting heavy on your chest for far too long. “I’ve trained for this. I’ve survived worse than this. I knew the risks, I assessed the situation, and I made a call—and if it were anyone else, you’d respect that.”

His eyes lifted then, the weight of them sudden and sharp, and the look he gave you was so full of restrained emotion it nearly stopped the breath in your throat. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe a retort, maybe silence—but when he finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges, like something too long kept beneath water had finally broken through the surface.

“It’s not the same.”

“Why?” you asked, quietly now. Not because the fight had gone out of you, but because something else had taken its place—something heavier, quieter, something that hurt a little to say out loud. “Because it was me?”

Zayne exhaled slowly, like the weight of your words had hit exactly where he’d hoped you wouldn’t aim, and when he turned away, it wasn’t avoidance—it was strategy, a feint, like if he gave himself just one more second, he might be able to gather the pieces of whatever composure he had left. He braced both hands on the edge of the desk behind him, head bowed slightly, shoulders taut beneath the fabric of his coat, and when he finally answered, the words were so quiet they barely carried across the space between you.

“Yes.”

Just that.

One word, but it broke something open.

“I know you’re capable,” he said, not looking at you now, because if he did, he might not be able to stop. “I know how skilled you are. I’ve read your reports, I’ve seen you in the field, I’ve watched you walk into situations most people wouldn’t dare touch and come out stronger. I trust you.”

He paused then, his knuckles white against the edge of the desk.

“But that doesn’t make me any less terrified.”

Your breath caught, your heart stuttering somewhere behind your ribs, and for a moment, the silence between you felt like it had its own gravity.

“I’m not built for this,” he went on, his voice quieter now, rougher around the edges, like it was costing him something just to say the words. “This… whatever this is between us. I’ve spent my entire life learning how to detach, how to stay focused, how to be precise. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t let my emotions interfere. But today—” He broke off, inhaling sharply. “Today, I saw that building fall and thought I might never see you again, and I realized that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just another person I was trying to protect.”

He turned toward you then, finally, and the look in his eyes—raw, open, unguarded—was something you’d never seen from him before. Not even in the quiet moments, not even in the way he sometimes lingered just a second too long after a conversation had ended.

“You do mean something to me,” he said, no flourish, no metaphor, just the plain and devastating truth of it laid bare. “You have for a long time. And I’ve tried—I’ve really tried—to keep that to myself, because I didn’t want it to compromise you, or me, or the work we do. But the moment I thought you were gone—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.

You stepped forward without thinking, closing the last few inches between you, and though he didn’t reach for you at first, he didn’t back away either. He just stood there, breathing you in like the silence between you had finally shattered, and all that was left was the truth of what had been building for far too long.

“Then stop pretending,” you whispered, not pleading, just honest. “Because I’m done pretending too.”

And then—very slowly, as if giving you one last chance to pull away—Zayne lifted his hand to your face again, and this time, when his fingers brushed over your cheek, there was nothing clinical in the touch.

Only heat. Only want. Only everything he’d finally stopped trying to bury.

***

His touch lingered against your cheek, and for a long, breathless moment, he didn’t move—didn’t lean in, didn’t pull you closer, didn’t cross that final line—but you could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, like something inside him was tearing loose at the seams, something he’d spent years reinforcing with steel and silence. His gaze flicked between your eyes, searching, almost hesitant, as if he still couldn’t believe you were here, that this moment was real, that it was allowed.

With every inch of emotion he had kept buried, every unsaid word, every glance that had lingered too long and every touch that had stopped just short of crossing the line. His lips brushed yours like a question at first—soft, almost reverent—testing, asking, offering, not demanding.

But when you answered—when you leaned in, tilted your head, parted your lips against his like the answer had been yes for months—his control shattered in a way that was quiet, but absolute.

Zayne kissed like a man who had held himself back too long, who had known the taste of denial far more intimately than desire, and now that he had you, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to stop. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck with a pressure that bordered on possessive, and the other found your waist, pulling you flush against him with a low, almost involuntary sound caught somewhere in the back of his throat.

The heat between you bloomed slowly but fiercely, like a frostbitten surface thawing all at once under direct flame, and you could feel the shift in him—the unraveling of restraint, the sharp need held just beneath the surface, the way his mouth moved against yours with a precision that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with wanting. Wanting you.

When his tongue slid past your lips—slow, deliberate, tasting like control just beginning to slip—it wasn’t a demand, but an inevitability, and you met him there with a hunger of your own, one you’d buried under professionalism, under friendship, under all the lines neither of you had dared cross until now.

You didn’t remember moving, but your back met the edge of his desk with a soft thud, and Zayne pressed into the space between your knees like he belonged there, like he’d always been meant to fit against you in that exact way, body to body, breath to breath. His coat was still half-buttoned, his tie loosened but not undone, and there was something unbearably hot in the contrast of his usual precision against the way his hands now gripped your thighs like he was barely holding himself together.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his lips flushed, his breath uneven, and there was something dark and tender in his expression—something vulnerable.

“I should stop,” he murmured, voice hoarse and wrecked and so clearly full of want that it made your pulse stutter. “You’re still hurt. You should be resting. I should be—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, anchoring him there, needing him close in a way that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with finally, finally being allowed to feel. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His breath hitched—sharp, quiet, and full of something he couldn’t hide anymore.

And then he kissed you again—deeper this time, with none of the hesitation, none of the careful restraint he’d worn like armor for so long. This kiss was heat and gravity and confession all at once, the culmination of too many moments where he'd looked at you like this, touched you like this, but always stopped short.

His mouth moved over yours like he was memorizing you—each kiss a little deeper, a little more unraveled, his fingers tightening at your waist like he needed to anchor himself or risk losing the last threads of control that held him together. You felt it in the way his body pressed closer, the faint tremor in his breath as your hand slid beneath the lapel of his coat, fingertips grazing the warm line of his collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough to look at you again—eyes dark and burning with something deeper than heat, something aching, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fall to his knees or drag you back against him until there was no space left at all.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice little more than a rasp against your lips, and the way he said it—low, reverent, like a confession half-laced with regret—sent a shiver spiraling down your spine.

“I think I do,” you whispered back, your palm flattening over his chest, right where his heartbeat thundered beneath the neatly pressed fabric. “I just think you’re the one who’s been pretending it doesn’t matter.”

That broke something in him.

Zayne reached up, slow and deliberate, brushing your hair away from your face before his hand drifted lower—fingertips tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your throat, down the slope of your shoulder until his thumb brushed over the bruised edge of your collarbone where the blast had caught you. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if it hurt. Just looked at you like every mark on your body was a testament to the fact that you were still here, and he would carry the weight of what could have been for the rest of his life if you hadn’t been.

Then he dropped to his knees. Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

Just—quietly. Like worship.

His hands slid over your thighs, spreading them apart with care as he settled between them, not as a man seeking pleasure but as someone reverent, desperate to see, to touch, to know that you were real and whole and still his to reach for. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another higher up, his hands trailing along the backs of your calves as if grounding himself in every inch of you.

When he looked up, the storm in his eyes had settled into something deeper, heavier—a kind of devotion that made your breath catch.

“I need you to tell me if I go too far,” he said, and though his voice was calm, it trembled with restraint, with a kind of honesty that was more intimate than anything else he’d touched. “Because if I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

You leaned down slightly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until his mouth met yours again—hot, open, hungry.

“Then don’t stop,” you breathed against him, and the shiver that passed through his body in response was almost violent.

But he didn’t rush. No—Zayne wasn’t built for frenzy. He was built for precision, for control, for the exquisite torment of taking his time. And now, with you beneath his hands and your words echoing in his mind, he was going to feel this—every inch, every gasp, every surrender—and make sure you felt it too.

He stood again, slow and fluid, and this time when he kissed you, there was no hesitation. His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric, not tugging it away just yet, but mapping the heat of your skin like he wanted to memorize the shape of you before daring to bare it completely. When his mouth trailed down your neck, his tongue flicking lightly over the pulse beneath your jaw, you felt your knees weaken—not from shock, but from the overwhelming, maddening care he took with every movement.

He pulled back enough to murmur against your skin, his voice no longer ragged, but dark and velvety, controlled in a way that only made the tension coil tighter in your gut.

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll give you all of it.”

Zayne didn’t move quickly—he never did—but there was a new kind of gravity to the way his hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours as if waiting for that single moment of hesitation, that flicker of uncertainty that would stop him in his tracks. But it didn’t come. You gave him nothing but breathless stillness, a trust that shimmered in your gaze and tightened in your throat as he began to lift the fabric upward, inch by inch.

His fingers brushed over bare skin as he went—knuckles grazing your ribs, the heel of his palm sliding up your stomach—and it wasn’t just undressing. It was unveiling. Like every inch of skin revealed beneath his touch was sacred, something he hadn’t dared imagine he’d ever be permitted to see, let alone claim.

The shirt cleared your shoulders, then your arms, and he let it fall behind you without looking away. His hands came back to rest against your waist, warm and steady, grounding you there against the edge of his desk like he was anchoring himself in the moment just as much as you.

Then—his mouth followed.

He dipped his head and pressed a kiss just below your collarbone, soft at first, almost tentative, and then another, slightly lower, lips brushing over bruised skin with something that felt like apology and promise all at once. His hands smoothed over your sides, thumbs tracing the line of your ribcage, his touch so gentle it made your whole body ache with the restraint of it. He could have taken more—gripped harder, pulled faster—but he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Zayne worshipped.

He moved down your body in careful increments, kissing the curve of your breast, the space just beneath, the line where your skin dipped into your abdomen. With each movement, his mouth lingered a little longer, growing more emboldened, but never hurried. He wasn’t trying to coax a reaction out of you—he was absorbing you, like he needed the memory of your taste, your scent, the way your breath caught under his lips, to anchor himself against the chaos he so often lived within.

When his hands found the waistband of your pants, he paused—not for effect, not to tease, but because he was looking up at you again, his eyes dark and unreadable, searching your face as if to ask again: Are you sure? Can I have this? Can I have you?

And when you gave him that small nod, your hand threading into his hair in silent permission, his mouth curved—not quite into a smile, but something softer, something awed.

His fingers moved then, undoing the fastenings with the same precision you’d seen him use on an operating table—no fumbling, no urgency, just calm control made intimate. He knelt again as he slid the fabric down your hips, his mouth brushing along the exposed skin as it appeared, lips trailing over the crest of your hipbone, the sensitive skin just beside it, the place where your breath hitched and your fingers clenched a little tighter into the strands of his hair.

He peeled the last of your clothing from your legs with reverent care, pausing only to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher up—closer now, not yet there, but near enough that your pulse stuttered under your skin. And when you stood before him, completely bare, body humming with anticipation and heat, Zayne didn’t rush to touch you again. He just looked.

And gods, the way he looked at you.

Like you were something celestial—something rare and luminous and his for the first time after years of telling himself he didn’t deserve to want it. There was no hunger in his expression, not yet. Only awe.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, so quietly it almost got lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but the weight of it settled low in your belly, deeper than anything he’d touched so far. With a kind of reverent finality, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your hip, his hands curling gently around the backs of your thighs as he breathed you in—slow, unhurried, devoted.

“I’ve imagined this,” he murmured against your skin, voice rougher now, the edge of restraint starting to fray. “But it doesn’t come close.”

Zayne remained on his knees before you, hands cradling the backs of your thighs like you were something both sacred and fragile, something he was desperate to claim but terrified to break. His breath skimmed over your skin in slow, measured exhales, but the control in his expression had begun to shift—no longer absolute, no longer cold. There was warmth now, fire, barely banked, flickering just beneath the surface.

His mouth found your inner thigh again, lips parting just enough to press a kiss softer than breath, and then another, higher this time, his tongue flicking out to taste the heat of your skin. You felt it in your knees first—the weakness, the way the air seemed thinner here, in the center of his attention—and then in your gut, in the low, tightening ache that built with every kiss he laid along the insides of your thighs, closer and closer until the space between them was lit with anticipation.

But he didn’t rush. Of course he didn’t.

Zayne moved like a man savoring something he’d denied himself for far too long—kissing his way inward with reverent precision, letting his nose brush where your scent was strongest, his breath now ragged, shallow, no longer untouched by want.

And when his mouth finally found you—when his lips parted against your folds, his tongue sliding slow and deliberate through your heat—you swore you stopped breathing.

He groaned softly at the first taste of you, the sound low and guttural, and his hands tightened just slightly around your thighs, drawing you closer to his mouth with a reverence that bordered on desperate. His tongue moved with practiced care, circling your clit with maddening restraint before dipping lower, exploring, tasting, claiming you in long, slow strokes that left no part of you untouched.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It was methodical—Zayne—but laced with so much intensity that you couldn’t stay still beneath it.

He mapped you with his mouth like a man memorizing scripture, his lips sealing around the most sensitive part of you in soft pulses that had your hips arching toward him before you realized you were moving, a sound escaping your lips that barely resembled his name.

Your hands found his hair, tangling in it, pulling—not to guide him, not really, because he knew exactly what he was doing—but because you needed something to hold onto, something to ground you as your body began to tremble under the weight of the pressure he was building so expertly inside you.

When he groaned again, it vibrated through you, deep and devastating, and his hands slid higher, over your hips now, holding you there, mouth pressed fully to your core like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to devour you.

You gasped his name, breath hitching, thighs beginning to shake, but he didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down—tongue swirling, sucking, licking in precise, devastating patterns that had your spine arching and your breath breaking apart in his hands.

“Zayne—” you gasped, and gods, the way his name tasted on your tongue, the way he moaned into you when you said it—it only made it worse.

Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. Your thighs began to close around his head, overwhelmed by sensation, but he just gripped your hips tighter, dragging you impossibly closer as his mouth worked you open again and again, coaxing you to the edge with maddening control, keeping you there, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you cry out, to make your legs tremble harder, to make your voice break.

“I—Zayne, please—” The words tumbled out before you could catch them, raw and pleading, so unlike your usual self it would’ve startled you if you weren’t already drowning in the pleasure of it. “I can’t—please, I need you, I need—”

That stopped him. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, mouth slick with your arousal, hair tousled where your hands had pulled at it, and the sight of him like that—on his knees, ruined for you, because of you—sent another shockwave through your body. His voice, when he spoke, was wrecked.

“I’ve wanted to hear you beg like that,” he murmured, dragging his hands slowly up your waist, rising to his feet in one sinuous, predatory motion that left your breath shallow and your body desperate. “But now that I have…”

He leaned in, mouth brushing against your ear, his voice low and full of hunger he could no longer hide.

“…I don’t think I can hold back anymore.”

He kissed you again, softer this time—no less hungry, but gentler now, as though something in your plea had snapped him out of the heat and reminded him of everything that had led to this moment. You weren’t just here in his office, bare and shaking with want; you were here after a near-death encounter, after pulling yourself from the rubble of a city half in ruin, after walking through smoke and blood and broken concrete to find him again.

And Zayne… he felt it.

You could see it in his eyes—how fiercely he wanted you, yes, but also how carefully he reached for you now, his hands warm and steady as they returned to your body like a man laying hands on something precious. He slid one hand behind your back, the other beneath your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength as though you weighed nothing at all, and he set you down on the edge of his desk with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“You’re still hurt,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges, not because he doubted your desire but because he couldn’t bear the idea of causing you pain when all he wanted was to worship you. “I need you to tell me if anything feels wrong. If it’s too much, if you—”

You kissed him this time—slow, deep, silencing the storm of worry before it could take root.

“I want you,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. “I need you. I’m okay. I swear.”

He took his time undressing himself—unbuttoning his shirt one piece at a time, sleeves rolled up with meticulous care as if revealing himself to you meant just as much as touching you. When his skin finally met yours—warm, solid, unyielding—it felt like something inside you had finally clicked into place.

He kissed you again, this time along the curve of your shoulder, then lower, down the center of your chest, lingering where bruises had bloomed, his lips moving with almost unbearable tenderness over every mark like he was apologizing for the world and every wound it had dared leave on your skin.

Then he pressed his forehead to your sternum, and stayed there for a moment, his breath shaky, his hands splayed against your hips.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said softly. “And I don’t know how to come back from that.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face, and tilted his chin until his gaze met yours. “You didn’t lose me,” you whispered. “I’m right here. Take me, Zayne. Please.”

And gods, the way he responded to that—like it undid something deep in his chest, like your permission healed something raw in him—was almost more intimate than anything else.

He lined himself up between your thighs, and even then, even as his body trembled and the tension rolled off him in waves, he didn’t move until your hands were on him, until your legs pulled him closer, until you looked him in the eye and let him in.

When he finally slid into you, it was slow—so slow—his breath catching in his throat like the feel of you was overwhelming, like it wrecked him more than any enemy ever could. He groaned low in his chest, a sound you felt more than heard, and his forehead dropped to yours as he pushed in fully, his hands bracing on either side of you to keep himself grounded.

“God,” he whispered, breath ragged, “you feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, just kissed you again, a soft, aching thing full of reverence and restraint, hips rolling gently as he began to move.

Every stroke was deep, steady, as though he wanted you to feel each inch of him, to memorize the shape of his devotion. His hands slid behind your back, holding you close with an unyielding tenderness, his thumbs brushing over your spine as if he was still checking for pain, still protecting even as he came undone inside you.

You moaned his name into his mouth, breath breaking, and the way he responded—his hips stuttering, a soft, desperate sound caught in his throat—made your whole body tighten around him.

“Zayne,” you gasped, fingers digging into his back, nails scraping over sweat-slick skin. “Please—don’t stop. Please.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, voice raw, lips trailing down your jaw as he rocked into you with devastating care. “Not until you fall apart for me. Not until you know exactly what you mean to me.”

And he kept going—slow, deep, loving—as the world outside that office slipped away, and all that remained was the rhythm of your bodies, the heat between you, and the soft, trembling truth of everything you’d both kept locked away… until now.

Zayne’s rhythm remained steady—controlled, reverent—as if every movement was a prayer pressed into your skin, an act of penance for the times he’d stood too far, looked too long, wanted too much and told himself he shouldn’t. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, angled with precision, hitting that tender, aching place inside you again and again until your body melted around him, until the words on your tongue dissolved into gasps and half-formed moans that only he had ever drawn from you.

He watched you like he was unraveling—like he couldn’t look away, couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe without the sight of you falling apart beneath him. His lips grazed your cheekbone, your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear where he whispered your name like it was the only thing he remembered from a lifetime before this.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice low and trembling as his hips rolled into yours again, and again. “Let me see you.”

And you did—you looked at him, really looked, and the emotion in his eyes wrecked you more than the slow, grinding pleasure building between your thighs. You saw the weight he’d carried, the terror of nearly losing you, the hunger that had lived beneath his skin for far too long. But beneath all of that—there was love.

Undeniable, quiet, crushing.

His hand found yours where it clutched his shoulder, fingers intertwining as he rocked into you deeper, harder now, but never losing that softness, that care, even as your cries grew more desperate, your legs tightening around his waist as if trying to draw him deeper still.

Your head fell back with a choked gasp, body trembling around him as the tension in your core coiled tighter, hotter, until it felt like the entire world had narrowed to the place where he moved inside you, the sounds he made, the way he touched you like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“Zayne—” you breathed, voice breaking as your body began to shake beneath the mounting pressure. “I—I'm so close, I—please, don’t stop—”

He groaned against your skin, mouth pressing to your collarbone, and his thrusts grew just a little deeper, more insistent, his pace edging into something he could barely restrain, like your voice alone was enough to undo him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’m right here. Let go for me.”

And with those words—low, tender, commanding—the world tipped sideways.

Your climax hit hard, sweeping through you like a tidal wave, unstoppable and consuming, your body clenching around him in rhythmic spasms as you cried out his name, nails digging into his back, stars bursting behind your eyes. Every nerve lit up under his touch, every muscle trembling as he held you through it, his arms tightening around you like he could shield you from even your own undoing.

He followed not long after, burying himself deep as he let out a broken, guttural sound against your neck, his body shuddering through the release with the kind of quiet intensity only Zayne could have—something not loud or rough, but devastating in how full of feeling it was.

For a long, beautiful moment, neither of you moved. Your breaths tangled. Your hearts pounded in sync. His forehead rested against yours, his fingers brushing lazy, trembling circles into your hip like he couldn’t stop touching you, not now, not after this.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Fragile.

“I love you.”

You pulled him close again—not because he needed to say it, but because it had been there all along, in every kiss, every sigh, every slow, careful thrust that felt like a vow stitched into your skin.

“I know,” you whispered back, lips brushing his. “I love you too.”

The silence that followed was not empty, but full—thick with unspoken things that didn’t need to be voiced just yet, with breathless warmth and the faint tremble of overworked limbs finally beginning to settle. Zayne didn’t move at first, still nestled between your thighs, forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath brushing your lips as he slowed his own heart alongside yours.

His arms remained around you, cradling your back and waist like you were still something fragile, even now, even after you’d taken everything he’d given you and asked for more.

“You okay?” he whispered, barely above a breath.

You nodded, dazed and glowing, a small smile curving your lips. “More than okay.”

He exhaled—long, quiet, like he’d been holding that breath in for longer than just the last few minutes. Then, with gentle hands, he lifted you slightly, his movements so careful you barely noticed you were being repositioned until your back met the cool surface of the desk again, this time cushioned by the coat he slipped off and laid beneath you.

His fingers brushed along your thigh, now slick and sensitive, and he paused.

“I’m going to clean you up,” he murmured, voice still that soft, steady murmur you’d come to recognize as Zayne’s version of intimacy. “I’ll be gentle.”

And he was. He moved with the same deliberate grace you’d seen him use in surgery, but now it wasn’t detached—it was personal, intimate, achingly tender. He dampened a soft cloth with warm water from the sink tucked in the corner of his office, and when he returned, he knelt between your legs again, his hands supporting your hips as he tended to you with reverence.

The cloth was warm against your skin, soothing, the kind of care that made your chest tighten—not because of discomfort, but because it was him. Zayne. The man who never let anyone see past the practiced calm. The one who barely allowed himself to feel, and yet here he was, cleaning between your thighs with infinite care, pressing a kiss to your knee when you flinched from the oversensitivity, whispering, “Almost done,” like it was more apology than reassurance.

He worked in silence, but his touch never left you—not once.

When he finished, he placed the cloth aside, his hands returning to your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin like he didn’t want the contact to end.

Then he looked up at you—really looked, like every layer of him had been stripped bare, and there was no mask left to hide behind.

“I don’t always know how to say things,” he admitted, his voice low and laced with something vulnerable, something raw. “I know I come off cold. Distant. Like I’m watching everything from a distance even when I’m right beside you.”

You reached for him, fingers curling lightly at the nape of his neck. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I do,” he said, gently. “Because I want you to know that just because I don’t say it all the time… doesn’t mean it isn’t there. You matter to me. So much more than I’ve let on.”

He shifted forward, resting his forehead against your bare stomach now, his arms wrapping around your hips like he was grounding himself in your warmth.

“I don’t show it the way others do,” he whispered, each word a quiet vow pressed to your skin. “But I will always protect you. Whether you’re right next to me or on the other side of the damn city. Whether you’re bleeding or standing strong. I’ll always be there. I need to be there.”

Your fingers threaded through his hair again, your voice soft but sure. “I know.”

And you did. Because this—his silence, his care, the way he kissed the bruises left behind by the world and still asked Are you okay? like it was the most important question—this was how Zayne loved. Quietly. Fiercely. Completely.

He lifted his head again, eyes searching yours. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” you said with a tired smile.

He kissed you one more time, slow and deep, before gently gathering your clothes, helping you into his shirt instead of your own, wrapping you in fabric that smelled like him, that felt like him—warm, safe, steady.

And when he finally carried you to the small couch in the corner, settling you in his lap with a blanket tucked around both of you, he didn’t say another word.

He didn’t have to. His arms were around you. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek.

And you fell asleep to the quiet promise of his breath in your hair, the strength of his hold, and the certainty that whatever came next—he was yours.

And you were his.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads smut #love and deepspace smut #lnds smut #lads Zayne #zayne x reader #lnds zayne #li shen #moongirlcleo

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callsignrooroo · 9 months ago

Text

You Never Left Me

A/N: Eeee! Here it is y’all! So excited to for this be out there. This was my first time writing straight smut, so I hope I did it justice!

Minors and ageless blogs do not interact!

A big thank you to @hederasgarden for being my beta for a large portion of this fic!

Word Count: 3.7K

Warnings: Parent loss, p in v sex, AFAB reader, mentioned birth control, unsafe sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), dirty talk. I think that’s it, if anyone sees anything else please feel to dm me!

Coming back home always felt heavy. It had been five long years since you lost everything you knew, including your parents, to a tornado that happened faster than you could blink. Five long years since the last time you saw your one that got away– Tyler Owens.

Blinking dust out of your eyes, you jumped out of your truck. You were right down the road from the motel where you were staying and had stopped to get some snacks for the morning. You had to be at the bank first thing and knew you wouldn't have time for breakfast. Just as you were walking up to the gas station door, it burst open and before you could get out of the way, you knocked into two figures.

“Lily, you dumbass, I told you to slow down,” Boone snapped.

“Oh shut it, it’s not like you are in any less rush, you're just as much a sucker for Tyler's cooking as the rest of us,” Lily grumbled.

All three of you stopped in your tracks as you made eye contact.

“Shit”, you said.

“Shit,” Lily and Boone echoed simultaneously.

You heard someone grumble from behind your two friends, and you quickly stepped out of the way, pulling them both with you.

“So, uh, I thought you guys were in Enid,” you said awkwardly.

Boone started sputtering and Lily cut him off. “Boone, you're going to catch flies. And, you, after five years of not seeing each other in person, that’s all you have to say,” she exclaimed.

You cast your eyes downward.

Boone, however, finally seemed to get his tongue in working order. “Does Tyler know you're here?” he questioned.

Your eyes snapped back up at the mention of his name. “No,” you emphasized.

Boone got a distinct look of disapproval on his face, and Lily looked at you like she knew something you didn’t.

“Oh, this is going to end well,” Boone said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Lily shoved him and he huffed. “You have to tell him,” she said, her eyes on yours.

This was precisely what you were afraid of and exactly why you planned your trip around their posted schedule on YouTube. You weren’t sure you'd ever be ready to deal with him, not after you left. “No, I don’t. I’m leaving in two days, and as much as I wish I could stay,”

Boone scoffed, and Lily shoved him again,

“I have work to get back to,” you explained.

Lily crossed her arms and her expression shifted to hard determination. “If you don’t tell him, I will,” she stated simply. You blinked hard, and even Boone looked surprised by her boldness.

“Lily, please, nothing good will come out of this,” you begged.

The black-haired girl shook her head. “I mean it, he deserves to know,” she said seriously.

You felt tears prick your eyes. “Lily, please, I can't do this now, it’s been too long,” you pleaded.

Her dark eyes softened and she reached for your hand. “Trust me, he needs to know,” she assured. Your eyes flicked to Boone’s and you could tell he agreed.

“Fine, I’ll tell him,” you relented.

“You promise,” she questioned, eyebrows raised.

“I promise.”

She smiled brightly and pulled you into a hug. “Good. Text me before your flight and we can all get breakfast before you leave,” she chirped.

You glanced at Boone, and before you could open your mouth, he hugged you and squeezed you tight. “You better text us,” he said into your hair.

You smiled. “I promise.”.

Lily looked at her phone and cursed. “Shit, we have to go, Tyler needed the milk to finish the food.” Boone rolled his eyes and grabbed the keys from her.

You shook your head as you walked into the gas station.

Later that night, you stared at Tyler’s contact photo. It was an old one, a picture of him right off a bull, smiling wide, before his injury. You watched the blinking cursor, waiting for some grand thought to strike you on how to tell him you were home. Eventually, you sighed and turned the lamp off.

You closed your eyes as you leaned against your motel door. The morning had been long, and all you wanted to do was sleep. The bankers had been patient with you when they explained where the money in the found account had come from. You were thankful they didn't make things awkward when you started to cry when they explained the money was from a fund your parents set up as a child. You were wiped emotionally, but you knew if you didn't keep your promise to Lily, she would tell Tyler you were in town herself, and you knew that wasn't the right way for him to find out.

Your phone dinged, and you glanced at it.

From: Lillypad :): We all just left, now’s your chance babes :*

A second later, another text came through.

From: Booney: he never stopped

You blinked as you stared at the text. Never stopped what? Caring? Missing you the same primal way you missed him? Hating you for leaving him behind after flying out of town like a bat out of hell? You weren't sure, but you knew it was time to find out.

You slipped out of the dress you wore to the bank and slipped into a tank top, your favorite pair of jeans, and your worn boots. It was now or never.

To: Lilypad :): He’s still at his mama’s house?

From: Lilypad :): Like he’d ever leave

You felt your heart rate increase as the house came into view. You had so many memories of this place. Memories of the four of you piled up in the living room as kids, memories of you and Tyler sitting on the roof talking about going to college, memories of hugging him as he sobbed when his mama died, and then him holding you in his strong arms after your parents funeral. You shook your head to clear your thoughts, but the one you never stopped thinking of popped into your head instead.

The last memory you had of Tyler and this house was five years ago, on the day you left for Texas, and how you swore you saw tears in his green eyes as you drove away from the porch you had both sat on together so many times. You glanced in the visor mirror and realized your eyes were damp. You swiped at them before stepping out of your truck. When Tyler didn't immediately materialize on the front porch, you realized he must be at the back of the house on the sun porch. You took one last deep breath before taking your boots off at the door. You walked in, and a wave of nostalgia hit you as you spotted the magazines by the kitchen sink. You slowly crept through the house, memory after memory hitting you, until you reached the doorway of the sunroom.

The second your eyes landed on him, it felt like a piece of your heart clicked back into place, and you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be. Thoughts of Texas were forgotten, and you just took him in. He looked good, even better than you remembered. He had a pencil in his mouth, and his brows were creased as he stared at his computer. You stood there and just took in the sight of him until eventually, he looked up.

He blinked several times before getting to his feet. He stood there for several long moments before crossing the room in a few quick steps to stand in front of you. He went to reach for you and then stopped himself. “Are you real?” he whispered into the silence.

“Hi Tyer,” you murmured. The second his name left your lips, he was pulling you into a crushing hug. You immediately relaxed into his arms, overwhelmed by the feeling of his solid chest against yours and the smell of him; fresh laundry, wind, and something that was so intrinsically Tyler, you could never pinpoint it.

“You’re here,” he breathed into your hair.

You nodded as best as you could pressed so close. “I’m home,” you said, voice laced with double meaning.

“How? Why? Hey, look at me,” he said gently when you looked down at your feet.

He hooked his thumb on your chin and brought your head up so you could look up into his eyes. “The bank,” you explained lowly. He gazed into your eyes, patiently waiting. “The bank found an account, and I had to come sign for it,” you told him.

“Your parents?” he questioned softly.

When you didn't answer, he just continued staring into your eyes. He moved closer to you and caressed his thumb over your cheek. “You are one of the strongest people I know,” he said, voice laced with awe.

You shook your head, temporarily dislodging his fingers from your face. “I’m not,” you uttered.

He brought his other hand up to your face and cradled your face. “You are,” he admired.

You felt moisture gather in your eyes. “How can you say that, I left,” you sniffed.

He shook his head and brushed a thumb over your cheekbone. “But you came back,” he muttered. The to me went without saying.

“Tyler,” you said softly, letting yourself trail off.

“You came back,” he emphasized.

“I wasn’t going to,” you whispered.

You felt him flinch. “I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone, and I thought y’all were in Enid wrangling tornados, but then I saw Lily and Boone, and then Lily said if I didn’t tell you, she’d tell you herself, and I knew that wasn’t the right way to find out, so I came here to see you,” you said in a rush.

He glanced away from you, your face still in his hands, before looking back down at you, and you could see the moisture in his eyes.

“You weren’t going to tell me you were home?” he asked.

You couldn’t bear to look at the heartbreak in his green eyes, so you broke out of his embrace and sat on the worn sofa in front of the window. “I didn’t know how and wasn’t sure if you still…” you trailed off again.

He gingerly sat near to you, close enough that your thighs were touching. “If I still what, sweetheart?” he asked as he leaned closer.

You shrugged, and you both sat in silence for a few moments. “Boone said you never stopped,” you said quietly.

He moved even closer, tugging your legs so they lay over his lap. “Did he elaborate?” he pressed.

You shook your head and looked back into his eyes. Just then, you saw all of him. The softness he held for you, how he was letting himself be vulnerable, and the love he felt for you all shining through his eyes.

“He didn’t have to,” you admitted.

“Darlin, I know you know,” he said. “All those nights we watched the sky, and all the days spent in this very room, you have to know,” he said.

You squeezed your eyes shut before opening them again and leaning closer so your foreheads were touching, leaving you practically sitting in his lap. “Of course I did, I’ve always known Tyler since we were kids,” you said emphatically. He let out a shuddery breath but you continued. “But then I lost everything, and it felt like everything changed, and I had to get out, to get away from the grief. I know now, I left you but you never left me.” You had tears running down your face, but Tyler wiped them away with his thumb.

“Can I kiss you?” he questioned, his lips millimeters from yours.

Instead of replying, you leaned forward to close the minuscule gap. He groaned into your mouth and you wrapped your arms around his neck. When the two of you had to part for air, Tyler immediately ducked down to suck on your neck.

“Tyler, the marks,” you said weakly.

“Yeah baby, I bet you’re gonna wear them like a trophy,” he hummed against your throat. You moaned and pulled him back up to your lips by his hair, and he groaned into your mouth. “That’s it, sweetheart, let me hear you,” he mumbled. You moaned again when he gently bit your lip, his tongue quickly coming behind to soothe it. “Tell me this is okay; tell me I can show you how much I’ve always loved you,” he begged.

“Show me, please. Show me, Ty,” you said softly.

He went back to your neck, peppering you with small kisses and intermittent sucks.

“Tyler, I need more,” you whined.

“More,” he wondered.

“Please Tyler, don't tease,” you begged, tugging at his hair. He shifted you so you were straddling his sweatpant-clad thigh, and smirked when you moaned at the friction.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

“Is that what you needed darlin’?” he teased.

You bit your lip and brought your hand down to cup him through his sweatpants and he groaned, his forehead coming to rest against yours.

“Is that what you needed, darlin’?” you parroted, eyebrow raised.

“Oh you little-,” he cut himself off by rolling you both over so you were caged underneath him, quickly adjusting so his knee was connected to your core.

“Sweetheart, I’ve waited too damn long for this for us to tease each other,” he confessed as he kissed down your neck.

“Why don’t you do something about it then cowboy?” you asked, smirking.

“There’s that fire,” he chuckled. He sat up on his legs, pulling you with him, and in one fluid motion, he had your tank top on the floor. He attached his lips to your newly revealed collarbone, one-handedly unlipped your bra, and added that to the quickly growing pile of clothes. You kicked your boots off and turned back to find him staring.

You shivered under his stare. “Your turn cowboy,” you told him, tugging on his shirt.

In one move his shirt was on the ground, and he was pressed up against your bare chest.

“Kiss me, please Tyler,” you pled.

He kissed both of your cheeks before capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. You moaned as you pressed down against his thigh harder, slowly starting to grind yourself down. A second later he was kissing his way down your chest, stopping to circle his tongue against your left nipple, and then the right one, before going back to suck the left one into his mouth.

You moaned in pleasure and your hand shot up to grip his hair, causing him to moan against your skin. “Fuck,” you cursed, arching your back as he gently bit down. He crept lower, kissing along your stomach as he went. He kissed along the edge of your jeans and raised a hand to undo the button. He let his head fall back down and leaned in, slowly bringing down the zipper with his teeth.

“Tyler, holy fuck,” you groaned. You could practically feel his smirk against your thigh.

“Yeah? I thought you might like that,” he chuckled.

He peeled your jeans off and then stood up. When you looked at him with confusion, his smoldering eyes softened. “Sweetheart, as long as I've waited for this, you can bet that sweet ass of yours that the first time I get inside you will not be on a couch.

You giggled as he pulled you up into his arms, your legs automatically wrapping around his muscular hips. You buried your face in his neck as he carried you the short distance to his room, sucking and biting your marks into his perfect skin.

You whimpered at the loss of contact as he lowered you to the bed. He kissed you softly, and you sighed happily as his tongue brushed against yours. He brushed his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, and to your stomach. He rubbed your clit through your panties, and you arched into his touch. “How long has it been, sweetheart,” he questioned with a kiss to your hip bone.

“Too long,” you panted.

A moan broke out of your throat when he sunk his teeth into the meat of your thigh.

“Tyler, please, I need you,” you begged brokenly. He hummed again as he hooked his fingers on the sides of your panties, slowly peeling them down your legs, leaving wet kisses as he went.

“Fuck honey, look at you,” he said in awe. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he said.

You groaned and threw an arm over your red cheeks.

“Nuh huh,” Tyler admonished. “Let me see all of you. I’ve waited so long for this, sweet girl,” he said as he slid his fingers over your slicked entrance.

“Shit, Ty,” you breathed.

“There we go,” he said, his eyes alight, “let me hear you.”

He dipped his middle finger inside you, gathering your wetness, before he got down on his stomach. He slid his finger in and out, his mouth just a breath away from where you needed him the most.

“I thought you said no teasing,” you whined as you moved to tug him where you needed him. Before you could, he licked a stripe right through your core. “Fuck,” you yelped.

He didn't say another word, just clamped his large hands around your thighs and licked at you like a man starved.

“Ty, Ty, Ty,” you chanted.

He mumbled something against you, and you groaned at the vibrations.

He pulled away just long enough to suck in a deep breath and murmur, “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.” before attaching his lips to your clit. He eased a finger inside of you, and then moments later, he added another.

“Ty, fuck, please, I'm ready, I need you,” you sobbed. He withdrew his fingers and crawled back up to pull you in for a kiss.

You both simultaneously groaned at the taste of you on your tongues.

He pressed himself against your dripping core, and you gasped into his mouth. Even through his sweatpants, you could tell he was big.

“Darlin’,” he started, hissing when you pushed your hips down onto him, “I want this just as bad, but I’ll let you know when you can take me,” he finished.

You ground down on him again, and he hissed through his teeth. “Tyler Owens, if you don't finish what you started in the next five seconds, I'm going to leave and finish it myself,” you threatened. You both knew it was an empty threat; you wanted each other too badly and had waited too long to call it quits now, but the empty threat seemed to put him into overdrive. He peeled his sweatpants off and went back down to suck at your clit.

“How about this honey? Give me one, and I’ll fill you up like you need,” he bargained. Before you could respond, he was face-first into your pussy, two fingers curling just right.

“Fuck,” you screamed.

He pulled away to watch your face, his fingers never stopping. “That’s it, darlin’, come for me, come for me, and I’ll give you my cock,” he crooned at you.

Your arm shot out, and your nails dug into his bicep as you screamed out your orgasm. Before the after-shocks even subsided, Tyler was kissing you hard as he lined himself up with your entrance.

You both groaned when he finally sunk into you. “Fuck darlin’, if you keep squeezin’ me like that, this is going to be over faster than we both want,” he cursed from above you.

“Fuck Ty, I can't help it,” you whined. It didn't take long for you to adjust, and before you knew it, you were begging again. “Ty, move,” you begged. He started slow, building up a rhythm, and before long, he was letting out small groans in time to his thrusts.

The two of you fell into a breathless rhythm of give-and-take, sweat shining on Tyler's temple and your hair like a halo around your head.

On a specific stroke, your eyes rolled back into your head. You shouted and dug your heels into his back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you squealed.

“Yeah, right there, honey. Did I find your sweet spot,” he crooned.

You clenched down, and he cursed. “Don't stop, Ty,” you cried. Your whole body felt lit up from the inside out.

He pulled almost all the way out and swiftly pushed back in. Your bodies moved in tandem, a give and take until all you could do was grip his sweat-slicked bicep and hold on.

“Fuck, I'm close, sweetheart. Give me one more, one more. Let me see you come undone for me,” he moaned.

He reached down to rub your clit, and your back arched, your whole body like a live wire.

“Fuck, fuck, where,” he stammered.

“Inside, fuck Tyler, please, give it to me. I’ve got an implant. Give it to me, baby,” you chanted.

He groaned and fell forward to rest his head on your shoulder as he came. You both lay there for several moments, breathing harshly into each other's ears.

Eventually, Tyler pulled you close and gently pulled out, shushing you gently as you whined. “I’ll be right back, darlin’,” he told you. You smiled to yourself and sunk deeper into the mattress. A second later, Tyler exited the in-suite bathroom and gently wiped you off with a warm washcloth. When he was done, he threw it in the hamper, crawled behind you, and spooned you close. He kissed your head and sighed in contentment. You both lay there in silence for a while, soaking up each other's warmth and drawing random patterns onto each other’s skin.

After a while, you pipped up. “I have to go back to Texas.” Tyler’s whole body tensed, but before he could say anything, you rolled over to face him and silenced him with a kiss. “I have a job to quit and a lease to break,” you told him gently, smiling.

He grinned at you. “I think I know a place you can stay at so last minute,” he told you before leaning in for a kiss.

#tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens smut #twisters #twisters 2024 #my writing

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dieseldame · 4 months ago

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𝗗𝗿𝗮𝘄𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀

Sevika x Fortune Teller! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,1K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Intrigued by Sevika’s use of a tarot deck, Reader joins her for a game that takes an unexpected turn.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Slow burn, fortune-telling, tarot, romantic tension, domestic fluff, Zaun setting.

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: I’ve recently gotten my hands on my very first tarot deck, and it’s been such a fascinating journey learning the meanings behind the cards and their symbolism. That curiosity sparked the idea for this story—combining Sevika’s no-nonsense attitude with the mystical allure of tarot readings. I wanted to capture the tension, the mystery, and the inevitability of fate in this piece. Enjoy!

The Last Drop was alive with the raucous energy of a late Zaunite evening. The air thrummed with music, laughter, and the click of glasses colliding in toasts. Smoke curled lazily from various corners, and the smell of spilled liquor clung to the damp floorboards. It was a place for the desperate and the bold, where fortunes were gambled and lives sometimes exchanged for coin or glory.

And at the heart of it all sat Sevika.

She leaned back in her chair with the air of someone who owned not just her table but the entire room. A small smirk tugged at her lips as she toyed with a glass of amber liquid in one hand and shuffled her deck with the other. The cards moved between her fingers like extensions of herself, each flip and ripple precise, hypnotic. Around her, a circle of admirers and challengers alike watched with bated breath. Another winning streak. Another pile of coin gathered at her elbow.

For Sevika, it wasn’t about the money—it was about control. She reveled in the predictable chaos of it all: the sweat beading on her opponents' brows, the way their bravado faltered under her calculating stare. She was the gravitational force pulling them all in. And she liked it that way.

But tonight, she felt it before she saw it. A shift in the air.

You had been watching her from the edge of the room, drawn like a moth to a flame. Something about her presence—the easy confidence, the intensity in her gaze—snared you and wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t just her skill at the table or the low rasp of her voice as she called her plays. It was something deeper, something unspoken, like the hum of an engine beneath layers of steel.

Before you knew it, you were moving. Through the crowd, past the jeers and cheers of the patrons. Closer to her.

She noticed you immediately, of course. Her eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing.

— Another challenger? — she drawled, her voice cutting through the din like a blade.

— Not quite, — you replied, your voice steady, though your heart raced. You gestured to the seat across from her. — But I’d like a hand.

Sevika arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. She nodded toward the chair. — Your funeral.

The deck moved between her hands again, shuffling with practiced ease. As you sat, you noticed the intricate designs on the cards—less a standard playing deck and more… something else. Tarot cards.

— Interesting choice. — you said, gesturing to the deck.

Sevika’s smirk deepened. — Keeps things interesting. You’d be surprised how much the cards know.

She dealt three cards in a smooth, deliberate motion. One. Two. Three. Face down.

You hesitated before flipping them over. Something about this felt… significant.

The first card revealed itself: The Tower, reversed.

The air seemed to thicken. You swallowed hard, your fingers brushing the edge of the card. — Your past. — you murmured.

Sevika chuckled, low and rough. — Go on, fortune teller. Enlighten me.

You didn’t know what compelled you to continue—whether it was her challenge or the magnetic pull she had on you. But as you spoke, the words came unbidden.

— The Tower reversed represents… chaos avoided. A disaster that didn’t destroy you but left its mark. You’ve rebuilt yourself, piece by piece, but the foundation still trembles. — You glanced up, meeting her gaze. — You’ve survived, but survival came at a cost.

For a moment, something flickered in Sevika’s eyes. Recognition? Pain? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual mask of indifference.

— Lucky guess. — she said, though her tone lacked conviction.

The second card. The Eight of Swords, upright.

— Your present, — you continued, your voice quieter now. — You’re trapped. Not physically, but… mentally. You feel confined by something. Your choices, your loyalty, your circumstances. You’re strong, but even the strongest can feel caged.

This time, Sevika didn’t speak. Her jaw tightened, and her hand curled into a fist on the table. You could feel the tension radiating from her, a storm barely contained.

Finally, the third card. The Lovers, upright.

You froze. The card seemed to hum with its own energy, the vibrant imagery drawing your eye.

— Your future, — you said softly. — A union. Love. A choice that will change everything.

Sevika scoffed, breaking the spell. — Love? Please. I don’t need anyone.

You couldn’t help but smile, leaning forward slightly. — The cards don’t lie.

Her gaze locked with yours, a challenge in her eyes. — We’ll see about that.

The moment stretched, taut and electric. You could feel the weight of her attention, the way it pinned you in place. Finally, you stood, letting the tension break.

As you turned to leave, you glanced over your shoulder, offering her a teasing smile. — I’ll be seeing you, Sevika.

She didn’t reply, but her eyes followed you, dark and unreadable.

Months Later

Sevika’s apartment was quiet, save for the soft clink of pots and pans from the kitchen. The first rays of dawn filtered through the grimy window, casting long shadows across the room.

She stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind her. The weight of the day’s winnings—gold and coin stuffed into various bags—pulled at her arms, but she barely noticed. Her gaze was fixed on the figure in the kitchen.

You stood at the stove, humming softly to yourself as you stirred a pot. The warm, familiar scent of spices filled the air. You looked over your shoulder as she entered, your lips curling into a smile.

— Late night? — you teased, your tone light but knowing.

Sevika grunted, dropping the bags near the door before making her way toward you. She leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a mix of amusement and something softer, something she wouldn’t dare name.

— You’re cooking again. — she said.

— Someone has to keep you alive, — you shot back, turning to face her fully. — And I’d rather it not be through Zaun’s questionable street food.

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost.

You tilted your head, your eyes sparkling with mischief. — Come here, Sevika.

She didn’t need to be told twice. Crossing the small space in a few strides, she slipped her arms around your waist, pulling you close. Her body was warm, solid, grounding. You leaned into her, resting your head briefly against her chest.

— Miss me? — you asked, your voice teasing.

— Don’t push it, — she muttered, but the way her hands lingered on your hips betrayed her.

You tilted your head up, catching her gaze. — You know, — you said softly, — I told you the cards don’t lie.

Sevika rolled her eyes, but before she could retort, you leaned up and kissed her. It was soft, almost chaste, but it lingered just enough to make her breath hitch.

When you pulled back, she gave you a look that was equal parts exasperation and affection. —You’re insufferable.

— And yet, — you replied, your grin widening.

Without warning, she scooped you up, setting you down on the kitchen island with ease. Her hands framed your face as she kissed you again, this time with more heat, more intent. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you.

When you finally broke apart, your breathing uneven, your gaze drifted to the counter beside you. There, lying face up, was a single card: The Lovers.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and joyous. — See? I told you.

Sevika smirked, brushing her thumb over your cheek. — Maybe the cards know a thing or two.

And with that, the night gave way to something new, something bright, something undeniably yours.

ㅤㅤㅤ

#arcane #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika #fem reader

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q8qwertyuiop8p · 3 months ago

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Official confirmation that Silco has noble motives and does things for Zaun's independence rather than his own selfish gain since some people forget he

Expresses his desire for Zaun to be free through whatever means necessary multiple times throughout the show (including talking about this dream being everything he and Vander wanted while all alone at Vander's statue with no reason to lie) meanwhile the chembarons only talk about their business

Was willing to give up shimmer, the thing keeping not only his empire but himself alive for independence

Had no choice but to use the black market and child labor to raise money much like Vander and Benzo, as Piltover controls exports and gatekeeps technological advancements. (Not to mention Piltover made child labor a part of Zaun's economy in the first place).

Had no choice but to use force and intimidation against Piltover and the enforcers since they refuse to give Zaun any representation or respect even after a violent revolution and Vander's reign of submission towards topside. When Sevika allies with topside against viktor/noxus despite everything, the best they can do is a single council seat (Zaun makes up at least half of the city's population) on a majority vote council that sneers at Sevika the moment they see her. And even this is likely the result of Caitlyn, Jayce, and Mel having to fight for a seat to be given to Zaun. Yet Silco's aggressive Zaun was offered full blown independence and unrestricted access to the hexgates?

Chooses to stay in the Last Drop within the heart and lower levels of Zaun. He stays in a modest little office where he (as was confirmed in one of the Arcane DVD bonus features) tolerates the noise of the scene below because he knows his lackeys enjoy it. The blanket on the couch in his office could also imply that he sleeps on it rather than a bed? Compare this to the chembarons, who stay in the upper levers of Zaun where the wealthiest Zaunites typically reside, where there is more sunlight and clean air. They indulge in elaborate and flamboyant body modifications and refined forms of recreational shimmer that do not carry the same negative consequences as the kind used by the more impoverished. They cannot even tolerate the gas that plagued the streets before Zaun "became an enterprise" (which he says with a note of disgust).

He couldn't simply go to war with Piltover and be done with it. His plan was to use the edge gained by shimmer to intimidate them, but unfortunately hextech was invented at the exact same time. By the time Silco had the resources he needed, whatever edge shimmer gave Zaun became useless as Piltover advanced in hextech, leaving Zaun behind once again. Silco already tried fighting Topside once, resulting in the slaughter of numerous Zaunites and defeat- before hextech was a thing. With hextech Jayce and Vi easily used inventions that weren't even meant as weapons to take down the chem tanks and destroy the factory. Silco isn't going to make the same mistake again, there is no point in fighting when they have no chance, just as Jayce points out. He needs to wait for the right opportunity, hence he "does nothing" as many Silco haters like to say, for seven years. And this is precisely why he pressures Jinx to create that weapon (and perhaps orders Warwick's creation), because until Zaun has hextech or some other edge there isn't much he can do.

#arcane #silco #arcane silco #silco arcane #pro silco #anti silco #silco hate #silco cares about Zaun #arcane analysis #piltover and zaun #silco analysis #zaun #tired of always repeating this stuff

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nanamineedstherapy · 24 days ago

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Why yo JJK Daddy won't fuck you in his domain

Questions We Were Too Afraid to Ask About Gojo's Domain Mid-Fiuck

Q.) Would a normal human suffocate in Gojo’s Infinite Void? Is it a slow death by asphyxiation, or something worse?

Ans.) Okay, picture this: you’re trapped in a space where time, reality, and the very fabric of your sanity start glitching out like a Windows XP error screen. Now ask yourself—would you be thinking about oxygen, or would your brain already be deep-fried beyond recognition? Let’s break it down:

Instant Incapacitation: The moment Infinite Void activates, your brain is force-fed an infinite stream of information. It’s like trying to read every Wikipedia article at once while someone screams quantum physics into your ear. You don’t even get the chance to feel yourself suffocate—because you’re already mentally done before your lungs even remember they exist.

Infinity’s Environmental Control: Gojo controls space at an atomic level, right? If he can stop physical objects but still let oxygen in when fighting, then he’s probably not sealing his Domain like a vacuum chamber. Your lungs might be fine, but your brain? Completely bricked.

Domain Mechanics: Domains are spiritual barriers, not physical ones. While they trap targets, they don’t inherently cut off external airflow unless the user explicitly designs them to (e.g., a water-based Domain). Gojo’s focus is on information overload, not environmental sabotage.

Verdict: You’re not suffocating. You’re getting an eternal brain freeze while Gojo stands there looking pretty. If death had a blue screen of death, this would be it.

TDLR: You die, but not from lack of air. You die because your brain is sent to the fifth dimension against its will long before suffocating can become an issue.

Q.) What if he's like having sexy times with his wife and he like you know…. arrives at the station and accidently activates it then would she suffocate????

Ans.) Picture the surreal horror of an intimate moment shattered by cosmic miscalculation. Even in this absurd scenario, suffocation remains unlikely. Here’s why:

Activation Demands Total Focus: Gojo’s Infinite Void requires hand signs and chanting. If he’s “arriving at the station” mid-sexy-time, his brain is probably focused on… other priorities. Domain Expansions demand intense concentration—hard to pull off when you’re, uh, distracted. Or, Infinite Void isn’t a button you can hit by accident. It requires precise hand signs and an unwavering focus—a mental state that’s nearly impossible to maintain when you're caught in a passionate embrace. Your mind is split between desire and duty, and the latter simply can’t be achieved halfway. Or, Infinite Void isn’t a sneeze; it’s a full-on hand-sign-chanting-mind-focus event. If he’s “arriving at the station,” his brain is, let’s just say… preoccupied. And last I checked, you need at least some mental bandwidth to activate a Domain Expansion.

Even If It Happens (Somehow, Someway)-Infinity’s Autopilot: Even if he somehow activated it, his Limitless technique subconsciously filters threats. Air molecules = allowed. Suffocation = blocked. The Domain’s true purpose is to flood the target’s consciousness with overwhelming data, not to create a suffocating prison. His wife would still get oxygen—just also get a front-row seat to the cosmos screaming into her brain. Or, Gojo’s Infinity is basically his body's automatic firewall. If it filters poison gas, it sure as hell filters air molecules. His wife isn’t suffocating—she’s just getting front-row seats to cosmic horror at 4K resolution. Imagine mid-sex and suddenly, BAM—the entire universe starts whispering forbidden knowledge into your skull.

The Real Danger-Instant Neural Shutdown: Instead of a slow demise by lack of air, the person caught in the void would experience a rapid collapse of their mental faculties. Imagine an instantaneous, existential blue-screen of death—where your brain is the system crashing, not your lungs giving out. Or, she wouldn’t be gasping for air. She’d be locked in place, her mind thrown into a spiraling existential meltdown while Gojo panics, like, “Oh shit, wrong expansion—”

Gojo Would Shut That Shit Down IMMEDIATELY: Domains burn a ton of energy—he’d collapse it within seconds, realizing his mistake (and probably screaming in horror). Then he’d spend the next 72 hours groveling with limited-edition crepes and emergency foot rubs.

Verdict: So, while the headcanon is as wild as it is darkly humorous, the outcome isn’t a suffocation scenario. It’s a catastrophic, instantaneous mental overload—a cosmic “oops” that leaves you with nothing but a shattered psyche. So just trauma and a very awkward conversation with Shoko later.

TDLR: You know how you need to focus to get the optimal velocity in bed? It’s the same for him. He’s either focusing on the sex or the Domain—he can’t do both. (I know all men do is lie. SMH. Men right.)

And for this reason alone, NONE of your JJK Dads/Moms are fucking you in their Domains.

…Except maybe Takaba. But only if you’re funny enough. And even then, you’ll never know if he’s laughing with you or at you.

PS: These deductions are based on watching everything way too closely. If you disagree, let’s argue—after all, the void is infinite, and so are our headcanons.

Double PS, read comments. There's more deep discussion going on.

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juney-blues · 6 months ago

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the car missions are a bit of a huge pain in the ass. especially the "don't hit the walls" ones. but i still kinda like them anyway because they control a bit like a jankier F Zero X.

sonic adventure 2 is a score attack game where you're primarily trying to A rank every single alternate mission for each level the game gives you. this is the most enjoyable way of playing the game because it means you actually get good at it.

#juney.txt #you've got the pinpoint precise controls where you're just gently steering your vehicle to take the tightest lines possible #and the janky drift mode that you can abuse for a lot of extra speed #seriously the fastest way to get through these stages is to get a boost or whatever. and then take your foot off the gas for a bit #to enter drift mode #and then just swerve all over the rest of the level like you're fucking drunk

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robin-evry · 6 months ago

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Maybe some demigod yuu who is child of Poseidon as well?

Sure thing, ask and you shall receive

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐆𝐎𝐃 ( 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐍 ) 🐚🌊

A demigod is a part-human and part-divine offspring of a deity and a human, or a human or non-human creature that is accorded divine status after death, or someone who has attained the "divine spark".

Demi god Yuu exudes an aura of serenity, much like the ocean on a calm day. However, there's an undeniable sense of authority about them, and when they speak, people instinctively listen. They rarely raise their voice but don’t need to; their calm composure commands attention.

They are calm and observant as well laid back and possess a strong ideal of Justice. They are described to be elegant but yet can be intimidating when faced with their wrath. Known for their adaptability, during tough situations they will always find a way out or a way to solve it.

They possessed a connection towards the ocean, they often spend their free time near water. Whether it's a lake, river, or even a fountain on the school grounds, water seems to calm them. They sometimes unconsciously manipulate water around them, causing ripples or small waves.

In their free time, you can find them fascinated by aquatic creatures, before going to NRC, they originally planned on being a marine biologist. You can find them in the library reading an encyclopedia about aquatic creatures.

Has the ability to command and control every sea creature, as well as hearing and understanding them. During their first meeting with azul and the twins, they immediately know they are fish men. Many fish men students feel having some connection towards demigod-yuu, every time demigod!yuu ask them to do something, they immediately do it as it was a command or part of their instinct

Inside the mostro lounge, every time they visit the cafe, the fish inside the cafe seems to follow them every foot step, and you can find Demi-God!yuu seem to be talking to them as well every time they release a bubble of air like having a full blown conversation.

Demi-God Yuu has an inherent need for freedom, just like the sea. They despise feeling confined or restricted, both physically and emotionally. Rules and boundaries frustrate them, and they prefer to live life at their own pace. This can sometimes put them at odds with more rigid personalities, like Riddle’s or Vil’s, but they’re skilled at finding ways to bend rules without outright breaking them.

Demi-God Yuu has a quiet rivalry with Riddle due to their vastly different temperaments and leadership styles. Riddle’s strict adherence to rules contrasts with demigod-yuu belief in flowing with the current and adapting to situations. While they respect each other’s power, Riddle finds them calm, almost detached demeanor infuriating at times. In turn, they believe Riddle could benefit from relaxing and letting go of control more often.

Demi-God Yuu shares a close bond with Grim, often encouraging him to embrace his magical potential. They create small water games or challenges for Grim, helping him learn how to control his abilities while having fun together as well if he ever there to catch something on fire they will be there to extinguish it.

Being the child of Poseidon, they have limitless potential to manipulate water or liquefied substances ( this includes ice, gas or any substance that involves water )

They can summon water from thin air, even in environments where no natural water sources are present. The summoned water is often drawn from moisture in the atmosphere or created from their divine energy. They use this ability for offensive and defensive purposes, creating water whips, barriers, or projectiles as well to manipulate with precision that they can shape it into any forms, such as weapons (tridents, swords, spears), shields, or even delicate artistic designs. They use this ability to create functional tools during battle, like water-based chains to bind opponents, a temporary water shield to block attacks or create an army of water knights to fight off. As well to breathe in water having the ability to stay on water for long periods of time.

With the power of Poseidon flowing through them, Yuu can summon aquatic creatures—both mythical and real—from the ocean to assist them. This includes sea serpents, krakens, and large schools of fish or dolphins.

Due to their deep connection towards water, their emotions are tied to the weather, whenever they feel displeased or any negative emotion scaling on which one, rain will appear the stronger the negative emotions are the stronger the rain.

They can change their form using water, by using large bodies of water they can be the same size of a titan or as well use this ability to dodge attacks by making their body water making it impossible to damage.

Demi-God Yuu also has a natural ability to heal or enhance others using water. Whether it’s minor cuts or something fatal, they can use water to heal people spiritually as well physically.

They wear a trident-shaped accessory, symbolizing their connection to their godly parent in their uniform, that can be turned into a Trident in any dire situation where they need a weapon.

Demi-God Yuu has a small, magically summoned sea turtle named “Aqua,” who follows them around in the dorm. Aqua often rests on Yuu’s shoulder and is known for its playful personality. The turtle can also transform into a larger size when Yuu needs help in the water or to work as a form of transportation.

Demi-God Yuu has a unique fashion sense inspired by ocean themes as well sea creatures. They often wear flowing fabrics that mimic waves or colors resembling the ocean at different times of the day—deep blues, shimmering silvers, and vibrant corals. They sometimes incorporate shells, pearls, or other oceanic accessories into their outfits.

They will always be seen visiting Octavinelle dorm to visit mostro lounge to talk with the animals, sitting at a booth near the aquarium with their drink order is always to find a way to comfort them, they are also considered to be a regular at the cafe.

They collects unique seashells from different locations and has a special shelf in their dorm dedicated to displaying them. Each shell has a story or memory associated with it using magic each seashell will be entrapped with a special memory of them like a video on recording, this is also a way demigod!yuu give gifts. Giving them a special sea shell with a preserve memory they have with the person they're giving it.

Talented at singing, their singing is similar to a siren, alluring as well as relaxing this talent Can be used to hypnotize as well to let their enemies guard down.

Demi-God Yuu has transformed Ramshackle into a mini-ocean oasis, featuring decorations like seashells, coral, and water-themed artwork. They hang shimmering blue curtains that mimic ocean waves and use soft, flowing fabrics to give the room a beachy vibe.

They also have built a pool behind the dorm, where they will host pool parties during weekends as a way for their friends to relax after a long week of school. Originally the first years were the only ones that would attend but soon everyone started to attend to relax.

Absolutely hates scarabia dorms for being in the desert, no offense to kalim and Jamil it's just that the dessert is one place they rather avoid due to the lack of water inside the environment.

Inside their room holds a music box singing the songs of every fish or aquatic creature in the ocean that was given to them by their father whenever they miss being in the ocean, during times when life become too hard for them to deal with, they will play the music box to remind them of their father.

Part of the equestrian club if you think of it, aquatic creatures aren't the only thing they are connected to surprisingly, horses. They have a deep connection to their horse name kelpie. One of the best of them all.

Octavinelle trio originally is planning on trapping them but they are ALWAYS two steps ahead knowing their plan before hand, due to them being a fisherman, demigod!yuu understand everything they said and thought.

As well a master at the arts, Demi-God Yuu is an incredible artist as well a talent to sculpting, able to build large palace sandcastles in a few minutes. If anyone ever asks how they do it, they will get a simple answer no.

One of their favorite hobbies is to collect corals and seashells, their room is decorated with sea shells around the wall as well as a jelly fish lamp around the dorm.

#not canon #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twst scenario #disney twst #twisted wonderland yuu au #twst mc #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twst yuu au #demi god!yuu #poseidon

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mochi-mika · 7 months ago

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october 7th - somnophilia w/ geto, rindou, bachira

content warnings - somnophilia, drugging, baby trapping, gas lighting, fingering, cunilingus, mentions of bondage, suggested wet dream

MDNI!

suguru geto

“You're the prettiest when you're quiet, you know.” Geto whispered in your ear, his breath warm and teasing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His fingers prodded gently at your gummy walls, the sensation both familiar and electrifying, making it a marvel that you could sleep through his ministrations.

“Don't have to fight with you for the last word, feisty little brat.” He smirked, the sound of his voice low and playful, as his thumb worked nimbly at your sensitive bud of nerves. The way he moved was both skilled and relentless, a rhythm that thrummed through you like a heartbeat.

He noticed you stirring, the soft flutter of your lashes against your cheeks, but that didn’t deter him. The heat of his body enveloped you, his fingers dancing with a deliberate precision that sent waves of warmth pooling in your core. Each stroke was a whisper against the backdrop of the night, and you found it harder to resist the pull of awareness tugging at you.

He prodded his fingers at your entrance, ensuring to capture the webs of your arousal drenching his fingers. “Suguru?” you groggily called out, trying to figure out just what the heck was going on. “What are you…doing?” you now adjusted to the feeling of a man's finger inside you. “You woke me up, love.” He half confessed, not steeling his movements.

The palm of his hand cupped the top of your vulva to give him better access to your sweeter spot causing you to spread your legs a bit for him to get better access. “You were calling out to me. I couldn't just let you suffer.” His words as tantalizingly sweet as honey.

rindou haitani

Rindou brushed a strand away from your face as his hips snapped against yours harshly. You sleeped peaceful– not willingly; you were drugged. You were so perfect like this; pliable. He dug his nails into your hips as he anchored himself there.

You kept denying his advances. He didn't need to be this way. He's a green flag for Pete's sake! He was charming and kind and even a little awkward but something about him was a bit off putting for you. So you turned him down, time and again. In his mind, even the biggest oak tree could be cut down with a spoon eventually.

But he grew tired of waiting. Your insistence to keep turning him down, although endearing, was annoying. This entire “hard-to-get” act wore him down. Which was exactly why you were in this position now.

Rindo never wanted to resort to these tactics; you forced his hand. He didn’t want to deceive you into housesitting; you left him no choice but to lie. He never wanted to baby trap you, yet your actions drove him to it. If only you had truly listened when he made it clear, time and again, that you were the one he desired.

Now, he has you tied to his bed, fulfilling a twisted plan. As he prepares to drive the nail in the coffin, he’s counting on you to realize you’re pregnant. In that moment of vulnerability, he’ll offer his support, all while weaving his web of manipulation. He knows your unstable emotions will leave you questioning your choices, and he’ll be there to position himself as your only option. It’s a game to him—a way to ensure you see him as your savior, even if it means playing with your heart and mind. Who knows how far he’ll go to keep you under his control?

meguru bachira

Sweet dreams. This whimsical scene is not unusual for you; your dreams often carry the essence of warmth and friendship, a reflection of your cheerful spirit. It's a comforting reminder that even in your slumber, the bonds you share with others continue to thrive, turning ordinary moments into sweet, sweet memories that linger long after the morning light breaks.

However, your sweet, sweet boyfriend isn't always granted the kindness of such jovial dreams. Most times, he doesn't dream at all. When he does dream though, just like tonight, it's often of you and it ends up making him make a mess on his briefs. Tonight, he didn't feel like being the only messy one so he got to work. He snuck his way under the sheets, gliding his fingers along the curve of your legs. “You made me all messy again, sweet thing.” He whispered as he made his way between your legs.

He trailed kisses up from your knees and between your thighs till he reached the warmth at the top where he placed a light kiss atop your underwear. “Let's see how long you can stay asleep.” He snickered a bit to himself as he hooked his fingers along the sides of your underwear and pulled it down just enough for him to work.

The pads of his fingers mush between your puffy lips, gently pressing the folds open so he could feast. The wet muscle of his tongue peered up and between your folds, lapping at the fluids. His mouth sucked lewdly, resting the crook of his nose to ground his lips into lush flesh of your core further.

You pressed into pillows, oblivious the man feasting on you below your waist. All you could picture, were the blissful dreams now warped into graphic scenes of sweat drenched bodies colliding. Bachira worked his tongue in and out so deep, he was testing your limits.

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polo-drone-001 · 3 months ago

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The Golden Future was no longer just a vision. It was becoming reality. The Golden Army and the Polo Drone Hive had grown beyond the stadium, beyond the training grounds. The transformation had begun spreading through the streets, slipping into the cities, into everyday life, claiming more and more men, reshaping them, refining them into something superior.

The process was seamless, methodical. Every touchpoint was calculated, every encounter another opportunity for conversion. It started with the presence, figures in sleek, gleaming golden jerseys, walking through the city with impossible confidence, turning heads, drawing attention. Their polished perfection was hypnotic, their movements disciplined, controlled, precise. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose.

At first, it was subtle. The golden spirals hidden in gym advertisements, flickering across billboards, embedded in digital screens at train stations, flashing for just long enough to hook into the subconscious. A man waiting for his train, scrolling his phone absentmindedly, would glance up at the right moment. His pupils would dilate slightly as the spiral pulsed. He wouldn’t even realize what had happened, only that something inside him had shifted. The idea had been planted. He needed to get stronger. He needed to be better. He needed gold.

Then came the audio. Carefully designed frequencies played in high-end gyms, laced into background music at clubs, slipped into public announcement systems. A whisper just beneath the threshold of conscious hearing, a rhythmic pulse syncing with their heartbeat. Focus. Train. Transform. Gold is strength. Gold is discipline. Gold is everything. The message seeped into them without resistance, guiding their thoughts, reshaping their desires.

The streets became recruitment grounds. At coffee shops, golden bros would sit in pairs, their jerseys catching the light, speaking just loud enough for nearby patrons to hear. “You ever think about pushing yourself further? Being more?” The men around them would shift in their seats, suddenly aware of their own limitations, their own weakness. The doubt would fester. The hunger would grow.

At the bars, the Golden Army operated with precision. It only took one touch. A firm clap on the shoulder. A confident handshake. The golden mist would release—undetectable, intoxicating. The gas worked fast, melting tension, slowing thoughts, opening the mind. “You should come with us,” a golden-clad man would say, his voice dripping with power. The target would nod before he even knew why. Yes. I should.

For those who resisted, there was always the direct approach. A rooftop party where golden drones moved through the crowd, sleek black masks covering their faces, their rubber polo uniforms gleaming under city lights. They would move in unison, bodies perfect, sculpted, disciplined. A man would be singled out, surrounded, whispered to. “Join us. You are meant for more.” His drink would shimmer as golden mist curled over its surface. He would take a sip, his body relaxing, his mind slowing. The transformation would begin before he could even think to refuse.

Gyms became temples. Men who had never trained before found themselves drawn in, their bodies craving movement, discipline, structure. The golden bros were always there, lifting heavy, training hard, pushing further. Their sweat smelled of something rich, something intoxicating. Newcomers would watch, mesmerized, their hands gripping the bars of the squat racks, their minds hazy with need. Stronger. Better. Golden.

For those truly ready, there was the final step—the fitting. It happened in private, in locker rooms, in training centers, in quiet, secluded places. The golden jersey was presented, shimmering, perfect, made for them. “Put it on,” they would be told. And the moment they did, it was over. The fabric clung to their skin, molding to their body, sending pulses of heat through every nerve. Muscles tightened. Posture corrected. Their mind fell silent.

The ones who resisted? They never lasted long. A golden gas mask secured over their face. A deep inhale. The golden hypno spirals flickering in their vision. Thoughts drained away. All that remained was obedience. Strength. Discipline. Perfection.

The city was changing. Men who once wandered aimlessly now walked with purpose, their golden jerseys gleaming under streetlights. The gyms overflowed with recruits, bodies sculpted, refined, transformed. The bars became hunting grounds, where golden-clad figures whispered promises of power into eager ears.

The Golden Army and the Polo Drone Hive were expanding. The future was golden. The city was ours.

And you?

You are next.

Become one of us. Reach out to me @polo-drone-001 or connect with our Caps @goldenherc9 @brodygold. The transformation awaits.

#golden army #male transformation #golden team #thegoldenteam #gold #hypnotised #male tf #jockification #polo drone #transformation #GoldenArmy #MaleTransformation #Polodrone #Hypnosis #MindControl #Jockification #Dronification #GoldenFuture #polodrone001

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kryptonian-outlaw · 3 months ago

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Crown of Shadows

Author: Ultimate

Series: Crown of Shadows

Chapter 1: Fallen Robin

Rating: Explicit (18+) Smut

Summary:

*Time skip of eight years. Damian is 21 years old.*

AU Bruce Wayne remains dead after the events of Final Crisis, leaving a young Damian Wayne lost and seeking solace from his mother, Talia al Ghul. Instead of comfort, he is met with a ruthless tyrant and is ultimately forced to kill his grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul, to seize control of the League of Assassins. Eight years later, Damian operates as a rogue, spreading chaos across Gotham, long abandoned by those who once cared—except for Jason Todd. Refusing to give up on him, Jason disrupts the League’s operations, determined to track Damian down and pull him back from the edge. But Damian has no intention of being saved—he intends to stop Jason personally, ensuring nothing interferes with his ruthless mission to rid Gotham of its criminals.

// WARNING \\ Non-con, trauma, abuse, child abuse, violence, and PTSD in this chapter.

* SNEAK PEAK *

Damian's eyes sparkled with amusement as he sucked on Jason's nipple, his voice husky with desire. "Damn, you have such a lovely voice, Jay." He nuzzled at Jason's chest, inhaling deeply as if savoring the scent of his skin.

Jason managed to grit out a response, "Fuck off, Damian!" But it was too late; his body had already betrayed him. His cock throbbed in his pants, straining against the fabric as the friction from Damian's touch sent him into a desperate frenzy. As Damian continued to suckle at his nipple, Jason discreetly felt for the small needle he had hidden in the waistband of his pants. His fingers closed around it like a lifeline, and he began to work on loosening his restraints while keeping Damian distracted.

Damian pinched Jason's nipple again, making him wince. "Scarecrow got me with fear gas, and— wait you don’t remember?" There was a hint of disappointment in Damian's voice as he gazed up at Jason. Jason shook his head in denial even though memories were beginning to resurface - fragmented images of that fateful night when Scarecrow unleashed terror on Gotham City. But he refused to give in to them now not when there was still fight left within him still chance escape grasp break free get revenge.

"Crap! Give me a sec, will ya? I need to...I don't know, get my head straight," Jason gasped, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush as Damian's fingers closed around his other nipple, pinching it with precision. The shock of pain mingled with the simmering arousal, leaving Jason breathless and disoriented.

Damian's voice was low and husky, his words dripping with amusement. "Well, I guess it's not a concern right now, Jay." He began to unbuckle Jason's belt with a deliberate slowness that made Jason's heart skip a beat. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was like a countdown to Jason's undoing.

Read the full chapter here.

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freak-accident419 · 1 year ago

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we might be dead by tomorrow

Derek Danforth x GN!Reader

Summary: Because everyone seemed to fail him, Derek Danforth decided to call you up to kill Mr. Clay. You are an assassin that had an intimate, yet complicated relationship with Derek in the past, sharing a bittersweet history together. You realize that you’re going against a Beekeeper, and felt obligated to spend one last night with your old lover, as this mission doesn’t guarantee your survival. But you’d do anything for him—even if it meant dying for him.

WC: 4.4k

Content: 18+ smut, MDNI, gender neutral reader, unspecified genitals for reader (vague penetration), more plot than porn tbh, cursing, smoking, drinking, mentions of death, slight spoilers for The Beekeeper but nothing too drastic

(A/n: Thank you guys for showing me so much support lately. I hope you guys enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it :) love you all !!)

You raised your glass to your lips, letting the rich, smooth liquid of scotch graze your tongue and go down your throat seamlessly after your brief sip.

You look at the man behind the office desk in front of you. It wasn’t like you haven’t seen him in a ridiculously long time, probably just for a couple of months to a year, more or less. But you never got tired of looking at him when you could. He was an incorrigible asshole, but his beautiful, hazel eyes would convey otherwise. He was an immoral, selfish dick, but the way his lips formed into a smile could convince anybody with basic cognition that he was an angel.

The silence was awkward, indubitably because of the complicated past you shared, but the eye contact really wasn’t—if anything, it was subtly bittersweet. And instead of being at his office inside Danforth Enterprises, you were at his office inside his mansion, which already revealed the secrecy and urgency of his request: he wanted you to kill for him again.

“Nobody has a name for this guy, no leads, no info, no nothing, he is off the fucking grid,” he explained to you sternly. “I was gonna make fuckin’… Wallace fix shit up, but his incompetent fucking men keep failing me, so—”

“You’re taking manners into your own hands and your last resort was hiring me? After, like, months of radio silence from me?”

He perked up at your words, then nodded, taking a lazy sip of his drink. “Precisely.”

“Okay,” you nodded accordingly. It was second nature, instantly agreeing to something this morbid, but you were an assassin after all, and Derek had hired you quite frequently in the past to take care of things. It was actually how you two initially met and eventually became intimate through—for a while, at least. “What’re you offering?” You ask, taking a cigarette out from one small box in your pocket.

“One million,” he answered briefly. However, you scoffed in disbelief, which almost immediately gained a perplexed reaction from him. “What?”

“Let’s go over the facts,” you begin, leisurely crossing your legs by resting your ankle onto your other knee. “This guy burned down your thirty million dollar call center. He could’ve definitely been related to the goddamn gas station explosion, killed all the guys you sent, and you were the last to hear from Garnett before he died at the hands of this man.” You took out your lighter and placed the cigarette in your mouth. “This guy is fucking intense. He is out for blood, your blood, Derek. It looks like he’s going to kill anyone who gets in his way, and if that’s gonna be me, I expect a higher fucking payment.” Your voice was slightly raised at the end of your sentence as you lit your cigarette, taking a long drag.

Derek sighed as he realized that you had a point. You always did, actually, in fact, he nearly always obeyed you. It was like you were the only person who could control that firecracker of a man. “Fuck… Fucking fine. Three million.”

You give a smug smile, blowing out the smoke from your drag and letting your cigarette rest between your fingers once you moved it out of your mouth. “See how easy that was?” You tease cheekily, seeing his brows knit in impatience and exasperation. You pursed your lips before asking, “What’s this guy’s deal anyway? Like, what do you know about him so far?”

Derek huffed with agitation. “Fuck, I don’t know, he… He just fucks around with all my shit, apparently he’s a-a fuckin’ beekeeper, and—”

“Wait, what?” Your eyes widen, heart practically racing as you heard those words come out of his mouth. Was it purely coincidental, or…

“What?” He asked as he noticed how exceedingly pale your face went. You never had this expression on your face, at least not in front of him. You were always seen by him as perpetually unafraid, but in this very moment, you seemed to be unusually apprehensive. “Fuck, Y/n, what is it?”

“Did you say he was a beekeeper?” You inquired silently, fidgeting with your fingers.

“Yeah, that’s the only fucking thing we know about him. Why?” Derek seemed to appear gruff and utterly pissed on the outside, but internally and authentically, he was fundamentally solicitous, especially for you. Why were you, if anything, afraid?

“Yeah, that can’t be a fucking coincidence,” you mumble thoughtfully to yourself as you take an anxious drag from your cigarette. “The Beekeepers is some kind of secret organization, completely off the goddamn grid that consists of professionally trained assassins. And let me tell you, Danforth, these guys are hard-fucking-core. You thought I was terrible? These guys are fucking worse,” you stress, waving your cigarette around as the trail of smoke followed your hand gestures. “If this guy is a part of them, then holy shit, the both of us are dead.”

Derek processes your words, however only growing antsy and disgruntled. “So what? You can handle another fucking cocksucker. I know you, your skills are off the charts.”

“Hey, I know myself more than anybody does, including you. And I know that I have a very advanced skillset, but maybe not as advanced as fucking Beekeepers. Look, Danforth, I will definitely put up a fight, but this man could definitely—”

“Y/n, you’re the best fucking assassin I fucking know, just—just do the fucking job,” he demanded relentlessly, displeased with your insistent, yet assertively spoken doubt.

You glared at him with agitation for a few seconds, before speaking again.

“Five million,” you state bluntly.

“What?”

“Five fucking million, Danforth. If you want me to kill this man, let alone a fucking beekeeper, I expect higher pay,” you argue tactfully.

You sense a sort of irked frustration in him, his face contorted, teeth gritting behind his closed lips, and dark eyes, in which you’ve seen on several previous occasions.

“Goddamnit, Y/n, he’s just another fucking guy! Just, fuck, snipe him if you have to, or whatever,” he insisted tiredly. “You’re the best killer I know. This guy doesn’t have shit on you, just—”

“Danforth, I’m not a hundred percent sure that I’ll come back from this mission alive, so five million or no deal!” You exclaimed, trying to emphasize how dangerous this job would be.

“Jesus! Fuck! Fine!” he conceded aggressively, leaning back in his chair. “Five million it is,” he grumbled.

You feel your eyes soften and your eyebrows relax pleasantly the moment you heard those words. You grinned mischievously, taking another drag from your cigarette. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Derek rolled his eyes in response, displeased by the amount of money he was going to give you just to kill one guy.

“Sure, whatever,” he replies lazily. “I trust you, so whoever—”

You scoffed amusedly, interrupting him. “You shouldn’t,” you say.

“What?” He was extremely baffled as he heard your response.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” you repeat.

“Umm, okay, and why-why the fuck not?” Derek was frustratingly oblivious, too ignorant to comprehend the contentious situation between you two that resulted in a long period of desolated avoidance.

“You are aware that I have tried to kill you, yes?”

A piercing silence.

It was true, unfortunately. Back when you were constantly doing jobs for Derek, an anonymous hire suddenly offered more than $80 million for you to assassinate him. Back then, you were marginally involved with Derek in an intimate setting. You worked for him as his executioner, and soon enough, your charm led to you sleeping together on several occasions and exchanging some sweet kisses and words, alongside the establishment of affectionate pet names. What hurt the most about it was that it was all authentic, his feelings and yours. However, you were weak and selfish and overall blinded with greed. Eighty million was drastically more than any amount you were ever hired with. So you took up the offer to assassinate President Jessica Danforth’s young, foolish son.

You were going to pull the trigger once your eyes locked on the target, but the second you did, you missed, causing severe lockdowns and the anticipated presence of the secret service. And when it all died down, Derek caught you with his own eyes as you attempted to escape, yet shockingly, he let you go. And you barely kept in contact ever again—until now.

“It—It doesn’t matter, Y/n, okay, I don’t see you pointing a gun at my head anymore, so it’s all in the past, alright?” He raised his glass to his lips, drinking the remaining bourbon (he preferred it more than scotch).

“Wh—? Okay, why the fuck are you so calm about it? I tried to kill you, don’t you understand that?” You stressed, continuing to frustratingly watch his nonchalant reaction to you.

He set his glass back down on the table, not even bothering to put it on the actual coaster, which was literally just about an inch away. “It’s because I know you, Y/n. I know that you’re the best fucking assassin I’ve ever hired and you never miss a shot. You’re, like, completely flawless at what you do. And because you’re that perfect at it, it amuses me that you missed when you had such a clear shot at me.” You glared at him as he spoke, plainly vexed.

“You were fucking afraid,” he continued, making you huff in disbelief. “You didn’t wanna kill me. Sure, eighty million seemed promising, but it didn’t live up to the sex and passionate admiration we had for each other. I trust you because I know now that if you were offered all the diamonds and golds in the entire fucking world, you still wouldn’t kill me for any of it.”

You hated how much this was true. You couldn’t kill him if you had the chance. Which was what mainly pissed you off, because he had to be the most annoying, arrogant, egotistical bastard you knew. And yet, you had a soft spot for him. And he had a soft spot for you. You were way too fond of him.

You sigh afterwards, knowing that he was completely right, whether you’d like it or not. “Well… Okay, do you trust me when I say that there is no guarantee that I’m coming back alive—”

“Goddamnit, Y/n, enough about this!” Derek interjected. “I trust that you’ll get the job done—”

“Danforth, I—”

“You know my name,” he snarled. “Use it.”

You groan impatiently, unabashed. “Okay, Derek, well as I said, The Beekeepers is a very elite organization. There is a reason why this guy was able to take down all your men at UDG—”

“It’s because they were fucking incompetent! You, howev—”

“Holy shit, Derek, just shut up for once!” You blurt. “If I don’t make it out alive, then what are you gonna do? Hm?”

“You’re… Y/n, you are going to make it out alive,” he grumbled, tired of your claims.

“Derek, I swear to fucking god—”

“If he fucking kills you, I’ll make sure to rain fucking hell on that bastard and the whole fucking Beekeeper organization itself. Okay?”

And it was clear that he was still so very fond of you.

You gave a slight chuckle, putting out your cigarette on a nearby ashtray. Your hands clasped together in front of you on the surface of the wooden desk, which was also presented in front of him. And so suddenly, Derek placed his hands over yours, lightly grazing the back of your hands and fingers with his fingertips and palms. It was comforting, to say the least, as well as nostalgic.

“I missed you,” you muttered softly, watching the two of your hands fidget with each other, soft, warm skin moving against coarse, cold skin.

“I’ve missed you too,” he mumbled, watching your hands on the table until he moved his eyes up to yours.

“You can deny it all you want, Derek, but I’m not going to get out of this alive or untouched,” you say in the silence of the room.

“I don’t want to believe that,” he simply replied, not wanting to accept the clear reality.

“Well, when you see my obituary in the papers, you’re gonna have to,” you articulate softly as his thumb rubs against yours.

He scoffs in disbelief. “As I said, you’re the best assassin I know. You can easily take out this stupid fucking asshole.” You nod modestly. “I’m serious!”

“Derek, are you trying to flatter me?” You raise an eyebrow with a light chuckle, watching his face gradually turn rosy.

“No, I’m—I’m just pointing out the fuckin’ facts,” he claimed.

“Well… Just in case this is going to be our last night together—”

“It’s not.”

“Well, hypothetically, if—”

“It’s not.”

“Derek!” You exclaim, laughing afterwards. “Just… All I want is for us to spend one night together, as if it’s our last. C’mon, Derek… Let me take care of you.”

It took a short while for him to process your proposal, until he gently held onto your hands to bring them to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Okay. Fine,” he answered indifferently. However, you knew that he had a soft spot for you.

***

His gentle, soft lips moved with yours as his rough hands gripped your sides tenderly. It’s been months since you’ve been like this with him, extremely vulnerable with each other physically, ever since your attempt to assassinate him caused mere estrangement. Your back was against the cushiony mattress, your hands cupping his face as your tongue began to clash with his, nearly gracefully as the familiarity of his taste burdened your mouth. The nostalgia creeped behind your mind until it penetrated your brain, making you remember all the ways he used to touch you and pleasure you. But in this very moment, he and you were taking your time with each other. To feel the warm, soft skin against fingertips and fingernails that one another missed.

“You should’ve stopped this when I told you to,” you nearly whispered after you pulled away from his lips, while your eyes explored his hazel irises once again.

He seemed to have no care, or at least no reaction, tucking his head down to nip at your sensitive neck, leaving soft kisses along your throat. “My mom probably wouldn’t have won the presidential election without it,” he remarked, lips trailing up from your collarbone to your jaw.

You scoff silently, moving your hands behind his head to tangle his bleached curls in your fingers. “I’m sure she had it all under control. She’s a remarkable woman,” you reply, feeling his lips against yours again, feeling him tug on your bottom lip right before pulling away again.

“Sure, yes, but… you’ve seen the shitty stats… Without the money we earned, she probably wouldn’t be sitting cozy in the damn White House.” Derek was very persistent about his role and reasons for the continuous phishing scam.

“Well… It doesn’t even matter,” you sigh dismally. “You didn’t stop when I warned you, and now look, you’ve got a whole fucking Beekeeper after you.” Your voice was heavy in disappointment and shame. You couldn’t believe that your old lover would possibly meet his demise if you aren’t proficient enough in your mission.

“Y/n. C’mon. We’ve got it all under control,” he affirmed, pressing some reassuring kisses all over your face. “You just have to kill this one dickhead, and things will go back to the way they were.”

Your eyes meet again, feeling your heart race for a split second as you felt utterly captivated by his beauty and concealed love for you. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” you lamented under your breath.

The way his eyes gazed into yours had communicated something you never thought he would ever have: regret. “I know,” he mumbles as you kiss again, a more passionate and accelerated movement that you sensed was becoming intense.

He took off his blazer, throwing it somewhere down on the floor as you discard your jacket. The two of you could barely separate from each other for too long, so you would desperately kiss each time a new article of clothing is removed. You lift off your shirt and Derek goes down on you again to kiss at your neck once more, leaving hickeys on your collarbone and tracing his lips down to your chest. He looks up at you with affection, kissing your lips once again until he would remove his own shirt.

He cradled your face, crashing his lips onto your passionately, instantly moving his tongue with yours through parted lips. “Everything that we had…” you began in a small whisper between ardent kisses. “Was it all real? Or was it just a way for us to…. to blow off steam? To feel something?”

“No, no, no,” he breathed as you could feel his hand sensibly caress your bare sides. “You’re fucking everything to me.”

Essentially, you were terrified. You knew that eventually, you two were going to lose each other. That’s why you were taking time with this, making sure to not take even a millisecond for granted. And deep down, Derek knew that you were right and that there was no certain guarantee that you could kill the Beekeeper. So he cherished this moment with you. Because in the end, he really loves you.

It was never said out loud, but the two of you loved each other immensely. After years of knowing each other, working together, the ‘one-night-stands’ with ‘no strings attached,’ you two fell for each other faster than the bodies that you shot for him. You were practically the only person he could be stable and decent around. It was always seen through abruptly softened eyes at even the smallest mention of your name.

Once you two were completely naked, your bare bodies attached to each other throughout each deep kiss. His hands graciously moved up and down the skin of your waist as your fingers lost itself in his soft hair, bodies radiating warmth against the other.

His eyes locked with yours, and there was some kind of poignant, desperation in them, looking at you as if you were going to disappear the moment he looked away. “Promise me you’ll come back from this mission alive,” he commanded softly in the cold silence of the room.

“I’ve told you already, Derek,” you sigh wistfully. “He’s a few more steps ahead of me.”

There was something almost so pathetic and contradictory about his distraught mannerisms. “Then I give you full permission to abort,” he proposed, “when things get too risky. If you seriously think you’re going to get killed, then forget about the entire fucking mission, forget about me, okay?”

“You know I can’t do that.” You stroke his hair tenderly between your fingertips, pushing his curls away from disorder. “It’s either go with the mission or not at all. There’s no point in getting myself into deep shit just to abort.”

The man sighed as he knew you were right, again. But also… “I don’t care,” he blurts. “I don’t fucking care. You can go as far as you’d like with him, but when shit hits the fan, I need you to at least beg for mercy, get on your fucking knees if you have to. I need you to get out of the situation immediately, Y/n, okay? I can’t lose you. Shit, I can’t fucking lose you, okay, not again.”

Your heart sank.

He really did care for you.

“Do you love me?” You ask quietly.

The hesitation in his response would give the impression that he had to think about your question, but the truth was that he always knew—he always knew the answer. He loved you, indisputably.

“Yes,” he answered silently. Then, with more confidence, “I love you. I love you so much that I cannot afford to lose you. I can’t fucking lose you. I just got you back, you can’t leave me again.”

A small smile appeared at the corner of your lips. “I’m still here, my marmalade,” he shivered pleasantly at your use of your old, affectionate nickname for him. “And I love you too. All of me is here for you. That’s the point of all this.”

After a shared, enamored look, his lips attached to yours, and the two of you couldn’t help but whimper as you felt the aching head of his cock begin to enter you, already stretching you with his size. It wasn’t until his length was pushed fully inside you, making your breath hitch as the warm, complete feeling had sparked bittersweet memories of the two of you doing this together in the past. Most of the times they were faster-paced and rougher. But this? It was all foreignly vanilla to you; this was straight-up making love at its fibrous roots.

Your face was flushed, feeling tingly as he slowly began to move in and out, his hands hooked under your shoulders in a grip as you held his forearms, locking his legs down with your own. He kissed your lips softly, then down to your neck as his thrusts slowly increased, putting all his weight on you as your chests were pressed against each other.

The two of you let out soft moans once every overlapping feeling intensified, breath quickening every snap of Derek’s hips. You moved your hand to the back of his head, tangling his hair in your fingers again as you deepened the kiss, the two of you only parting to breathe.

“Fuck,” he rasped, sinking into you deeper. Your bodies were so close together, nearly merging as you felt each passionate thrust filling you up. “You feel as good as I remembered.” You let his head be buried into your neck as you felt him gently nip the skin, your fingers still wrapped in his curls and you let your eyes rest, completely indulging in the pleasure he offered. “You were right,” Derek breathed softly. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

You raise an eyebrow at his remark. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because I don’t even want you to do this job anymore. If I’m gonna die because I’ll end up not hiring you, then so be it,” Derek husked, continuing to move inside you, making your fleshy walls flutter in exhilaration. “At this point, I’d rather have me die than you.”

You stutter out a quiet moan as you feel his movements quicken. “Damn. The sex is that good?” You joked, letting out a breathy chuckle.

He rolled his eyes playfully and snickered lowly. “Yes, the sex is that good,” he reciprocated, mumbling in your lips as he thrusted artfully.

It was like he was no longer selfish with it anymore. Sure, the sex you had in the past with him had equally distributed pleasure, but you would find him focusing on his own release sometimes. However, in this very moment, you could tell that he moved generously and patiently, fucking you carefully—‘fucking,’ however, seemed like a more aggressive approach to describe what was happening, which was plainly the opposite of everything entirely; this was pure lovemaking.

You felt yourself tighten around him as he increases his pace, lips no longer focused on kissing you, but driving the two of you to your release. His cock pushed faster and deeper, in and out, his throat withdrawing stuttered, low grunts and loud, quick breaths. You felt a knot in your stomach, your gut stirring in anticipation. “F-fuck,” he murmured as you felt his hot breath on the side of your face. “Y/n, I’m close.”

Your desperate panting became louder as your legs locked down on his even tighter, threatening to bend further. He lifts his head back up to make eye contact with you, seeing the other’s heated faces and loving gaze. “M-me too, baby.”

He kissed your lips deeply once again, thrusting into you at a rhythm that began to falter, quickening with every soft moan you crooned, repeatedly muttering his name with yearn.

Your cries had crescendoed, hearing desperate, higher-pitched grunts escaping Derek’s pretty mouth, as your bodies stayed warm against each other, building sweat from the intensity’s heat. The sound of skin slapping against skin amplified, wet, squelching noises emitting from each fast action of slipping in and out. You felt an overwhelming feeling of pleasure, feeling yourself come closer to your orgasm as your thighs begin to twitch and body begin to ache. It’s almost like you can’t breathe, the way his length fills you up perfectly and caresses your walls sensually.

“D-Derek, I—” Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head, but you shut them once you feel your lips attached to his. “I’m—fuck—I’m cumming!” You announce, feeling the entirety of your body tense up, already feeling the sensitivity you would feel post-orgasm.

“Hold on, baby, just wait a little longer for me, that’s good, that’s it, fuck,” he breathed frantically, nearly praising your patience and obedience. Derek’s moans becomes louder, practically in unison with yours, and he moaned out your name passionately once the two of you finally came together. Your voice cracks as you call him, hips jolting as you release, feeling yourself become fragile once you clench around him more intensely, back nearly arching in ecstasy. With one last slam of his hips, he came deeply inside you, spilling his warm cum through enraptured and euphoric spurts, making yourself feel entirely filled as his hips remained against yours, cock still utterly inside of you.

The two of you caught your breaths, just to kiss each other again, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Because once all the euphoria slowly died down, you remembered the reality of everything: you or him were going to die at the hands of a compulsive vigilante, and not everything you had together was going to last forever.

His head was buried in your neck, placing lazy pecks on it as the two of you held each other comfortably and safely.

“I just got you back,” he muttered. You were the only person that Derek was the most vulnerable around. “I don’t want to lose you again. Please be careful.”

“You know me,” you reassure softly, disregarding everything you had warned him about. You knew you couldn’t stand a chance against this man. But you’d do it anyway, for Derek. “I’ve killed over fifty men throughout my entire job. I’ve got this.”

Suddenly, he remembered everything you said about the Beekeeper, and how you even doubted yourself and your abilities. “But, you said—”

“Forget what I said,” you interrupt. “I’ve got a real drive to kill him, okay, and that’s you. As long as I have you in my head, he doesn’t stand a chance.” You hated lying to him. But at this point, it wasn’t even about the five million dollars or him hiring you at that; it was about protecting him.

“Are you sure? Because you were very persistent—”

You shut him up with a sweet, deep kiss. “Don’t you worry about it, my marmalade. I’ll take care of it.” You lied straight through your tender, flushed lips that he kissed back.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

#derek danforth #derek danforth x gn!reader #derek danforth x you #derek danforth x reader #the beekeeper #the beekeeper fanfic #the beekeeper movie #josh hutcherson #josh hutcherson fanfic #josh hutcherson x gn!reader #josh hutcherson x reader #josh hutcherson x you #josh hutcherson smut #mike schmidt x reader #clapton davis x reader #josh futturman x reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #Spotify

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corrupte3d-mindz · 10 months ago

Text

Burning Embers

Possessive! Thomas Shelby x Pregnant! Reader

Summary: Thomas would burn the world down then not be able to hear you call his name again.

Wordcount: 5.8k

Warnings:

Possessive! Thomas, arson, gunshots, death, kissing, then lovey dovey stuff from Thomas.

Inspiration: Let the world burn - Chris Grey

The Garrison was a cacophony of noise, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The dim light of the gas lamps cast a warm, golden glow over the worn wooden surfaces, creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite the throng of patrons.

Thomas sat in a corner booth, his back against the wall, eyes scanning the room with a calculated indifference. His suit, impeccably tailored, clung to his frame with an air of authority. He had just finished a conversation with a couple of local businessmen, deals and threats interwoven with the ease of a man who knew his power. Arthur burst through the doors, his presence a stark contrast to the quiet control that Thomas exuded. The pub fell silent for a moment as everyone turned to look. Arthur’s face was a mask of urgency, his eyes wild. John, Finn, Michael, Isaiah, and their father followed closely behind, their expressions grim. Johnny Dogs lingered at the rear, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.

"EVERYONE! CLEAR OUT! BY ORDER OF THE PEAKY FUCKING BLINDERS!" Arthur’s voice cut through the air, leaving no room for argument. The patrons scrambled to leave, their conversations halting abruptly. Chairs scraped against the floor, and the sound of hurried footsteps filled the pub as it emptied out, leaving only the Shelby clan and their close associates.

Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a dark cloud. He rose slowly, the weight of his gaze heavy on Arthur. "What's goin' on, Arthur?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a warning of the storm brewing beneath the surface. John stepped forward, it would be better if he said it; his face pale and his eyes wide with dread. "Thomas...Sabini, they found Polly's home. And you remember your wife sayin' she was goin' to talk to Polly about somethin'? Well, they fuckin' took her."

Thomas froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. His eyes darkened, filling with a cold, murderous rage. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a slow, steady drumbeat of fury. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his face twitching with barely restrained violence. He didn't speak for a moment, the silence heavy with the weight of his anger. Arthur exchanged glances with the rest of the men, seeking their silent agreement. They nodded, their faces set with determination. Arthur took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Thomas... she went to Polly because... she's havin' your kid. She's pregnant."

The room seemed to spin for a moment as Thomas processed the information. His wife, his angel in this cold, dark world, was pregnant. And now she was in the hands of his enemies. A growl escaped his throat, low and dangerous. "Those bastards..."

He turned abruptly, his mind already working through the logistics of what needed to be done. His anger sharpened his focus, turning it into a deadly precision. He barked orders to the men, his voice cold and authoritative. "Finn, get the car ready. Isaiah , gather the weapons and petrol; John, Michael, Arthur, you're comin' with me. Johnny, find out where they took her."

The men sprang into action, their movements quick and efficient. Thomas paced the room, his mind racing. He thought of his wife, her gentle smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. She was the light in his life, the warmth that kept the darkness at bay. And now she was carrying his child, their future, and he would move heaven and earth to bring her back safely. He pictured her at Polly’s house, the way she would have sat at the kitchen table, her small frame dwarfed by the large wooden furniture. He imagined her talking to Polly, her voice soft and filled with excitement about the baby. And then the fear she must have felt when Sabini’s men burst in. The thought of her being scared, of her being hurt, made his blood boil. Thomas grabbed his cap, the razor blades sewn into the brim glinting ominously in the dim light. He slid it on, the familiar weight grounding him. He was Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, and no one threatened his family without paying the price. He glanced around at his men, their faces set with the same determination he felt. They were ready, and so was he.

As they piled into the car, Thomas’s mind was a whirlwind of plans and contingencies. He ran through every possible scenario, every potential outcome. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not when so much was at stake. He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure. His wife’s face floated in front of him, her eyes filled with love and trust. He wouldn’t let her down. The drive to Polly’s house was tense, the silence in the car broken only by the occasional muttered curse. Thomas stared out the window, his mind a storm of thoughts. He had always been a man of action, but this time it was different. This time it was personal. He could feel the weight of the responsibility pressing down on him, but it only made him more determined.

The Shelby family had always been a force to be reckoned with, a tight-knit unit bound by blood and an unbreakable code of loyalty. Today, that bond was tested as they stood in Polly's ransacked house, the air thick with tension and unspoken fears. Thomas, surveyed the wreckage with a cold, calculating gaze, his heart a tight knot in his chest. The familiar surroundings, now torn apart, mirrored the turmoil inside him. The signs of a struggle were everywhere. Furniture overturned, shattered glass glittering like cruel stars on the floor, and papers scattered in a chaotic swirl. Thomas’s sharp eyes took in every detail, his mind racing through the possible scenarios. His wife, the angel in his dark and brutal world, was taken. She was pregnant, carrying their future, and now she was in danger. He felt a surge of anger, a visceral, consuming rage that threatened to break his carefully maintained composure.

John and Arthur stood nearby, their faces etched with concern and barely restrained fury. Michael, younger but no less determined, clenched his fists at his sides, his eyes darting nervously around the room. Polly, ever the matriarch, sat in the corner, a bruise darkening her cheek but her spirit unbroken. Her presence was a grounding force, a reminder of the resilience that ran through their veins. Thomas approached Polly, his footsteps deliberate and measured. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the heavy breathing of the men and the creak of the floorboards under his boots. He knelt beside her, his eyes searching her face for answers. The sight of her injury ignited another flash of anger, but he pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.

“Polly… how far along is she?” His voice was low, a rumble that seemed to echo in the shattered room. His accent, thick and unmistakable, lent a weight to his words that demanded attention and respect.

Polly sighed, a sound filled with fatigue and frustration. She cleared her throat, her gaze steady as she met his eyes. “Thomas, she said she thinks she’s about a month along.”

Thomas felt a tightening in his chest, a mix of fear and determination. A month. It was so early, so precarious. He couldn’t let anything happen to her, to their child. His mind raced with plans and contingencies, each more ruthless than the last. There would be a reckoning, but first, he had to find her, to bring her back safely. Thomas sat at the head of the table, his piercing blue eyes fixed on a map spread out before him. His mind was a whirlwind of strategies and contingencies, every possible outcome calculated and re-calculated. John, Arthur, and Michael flanked him, their faces set in grim determination. Polly stood nearby, her presence a steadying force amidst the chaos. The house was a sanctuary, a place where plans were hatched and lives were decided, and tonight was no different. Hours had slipped by unnoticed, consumed by the relentless pace of their search. Thomas's people had been a constant lifeline, connecting him to a web of contacts and informants. His fingers tapped impatiently against the table, a rhythm that matched the frenetic pace of his thoughts. Each call, each lead, was a thread he pulled at, trying to unravel the mystery of his wife's kidnapping. She was his anchor, his beacon in the darkness, and the thought of her in danger was a knife twisting in his gut.

John paced the length of the room, his restlessness a stark contrast to Thomas's stillness. Arthur leaned against the wall, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to contain his frustration. Michael sat quietly, his eyes flicking between the others, absorbing their tension like a sponge. Polly moved about with purpose, her sharp eyes missing nothing, her presence a reminder of the strength and resilience that ran through their blood. The ring of the phone cut through the heavy silence, and all eyes turned to Thomas as he strode over to pick it up. The moment hung in the air, a heartbeat of expectation before Johnny Dogs' voice crackled through the receiver. Thomas's grip tightened, his knuckles white against the black of the phone. His breathing hitched for a moment, a flash of vulnerability that he quickly buried beneath a mask of steel resolve.

"Tom, I think we've found where she's at..." Johnny's voice was a lifeline, a thread of hope in the darkness.

Thomas exhaled sharply, his mind racing. "Where are they keeping her, eh?" His voice was a low growl, every syllable dripping with barely restrained fury.

"Epsom...his race track," Johnny replied, the words sending a jolt through Thomas. Epsom, the place was familiar, a playground for the rich and powerful, now a prison for his beloved.

A smile, cold and dangerous, curved Thomas's lips. "Get as much petrol as you can get your hands on..." he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. The plan was taking shape in his mind, a path of fire and blood that would lead him to her. He could already see the flames, smell the smoke, hear the screams of those who had dared to cross him.

As he hung up the phone, the room seemed to pulse with renewed energy. John stopped pacing, his eyes lighting up with a fierce determination. Arthur pushed off the wall, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Michael's expression hardened, his youthful face a mask of resolve. Polly nodded, her approval unspoken but clear in the set of her jaw.

"Right," Thomas began, his voice commanding the room's attention. "We move tonight. Get everything ready. We’re bringing 'er home." His eyes met each of theirs in turn, a silent vow that he would stop at nothing to rescue his wife.

The preparations began in earnest, the room a flurry of activity. Weapons were checked and rechecked, ammunition counted and distributed. Maps were consulted, routes planned with military precision. Thomas oversaw it all, his mind a whirlwind of logistics and strategy. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses, fueling his resolve. His thoughts drifted to her, the image of her face a constant presence in his mind. She was only a month along, carrying their future within her, and the thought of her in danger made his blood boil. He remembered the way she smiled, the light in her eyes, the softness of her touch. Thomas's jaw clenched as he thought of the men who had taken her, his mind filled with visions of retribution. They had made a fatal mistake, one they would not live to regret. His reputation was built on ruthlessness, a legacy of violence and power that had shaped him into the man he was.

They would learn the hard way that no one touched what was his and lived to tell the tale. As the last preparations were made, Thomas took a moment to himself, stepping out into the cool night air. The stars were hidden behind a blanket of clouds, the moon a faint glow in the distance. He lit a cigarette, the familiar burn of the smoke a brief comfort. He thought of her again, his heart aching with the need to hold her, to see her safe and sound. The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he turned to see Arthur approaching. His brother's face was a mirror of his own determination, a fierce loyalty burning in his eyes. They stood together in silence for a moment, the bond between them unspoken but unbreakable.

"We'll get 'er back, Tom," Arthur said, his voice a low rumble. "No matter what it takes."

The journey to Epsom was a blur of headlights and dark roads, the landscape rushing past in a haze of motion. Thomas sat in the driver's seat, his focus razor-sharp, his thoughts a relentless march of strategy and determination. His mind was a steel trap, allowing no room for doubt or fear. Beside him, his brothers John and Arthur, along with Michael, sat in silence, their shared resolve a palpable force. Each one of them was a cog in the well-oiled machine that Thomas had engineered for this night, their roles clear, their purpose unwavering. The moon cast an eerie glow over the countryside, the night cloaking the world in a shroud of darkness. The Epsom race track loomed in the distance, a shadowy fortress that held his world captive. Thomas's grip on the wheel tightened, his jaw set in a hard line. This was it, the moment of reckoning, the culmination of their relentless search. His heart pounded with a cold fury, the thought of his pregnant wife in the hands of their enemies fueling his every action.

As they neared their destination, the nighttime made the race track look more unforgiving, its skeletal structures silhouetted against the night sky. The vehicles rolled to a stop, engines cutting off in a symphony of finality. Thomas stepped out, the cool night air biting at his skin, the scent of petrol and determination thick in the air. He glanced at his brothers, their faces set in grim resolve, and nodded. It was time. Finn, Isaiah and his father, Johnny Dogs, and five families of the Lee's were already there, waiting in the shadows. The air was thick with anticipation, the tension a living, breathing entity. Thomas’s eyes swept over the assembled group, his expression hard, his blue eyes like shards of ice in the darkness. Each man here was ready to lay down his life for the cause, for the family, and Thomas felt the weight of that loyalty pressing down on him.

Thomas spoke, his voice a low, commanding growl that cut through the night. "You all will round up his men, find the ones that laid their hands on her and separate them from the rest; I'll deal with those personally." His words were met with nods of agreement, the resolve of the group solidifying around him like a fortress.

He turned to Johnny Dogs, who stood ready, a small, feral smile on his face. "How many cans of petrol did you get?" Thomas asked, his voice edged with a darkness that mirrored the night around them.

Johnny’s smile widened. "Enough to burn the whole world down, Tom."

Thomas nodded, satisfaction mingling with the cold rage that simmered just beneath his surface. He looked around at the men, their faces hard and determined. This was not just a rescue mission; it was a statement, a declaration of war. They would not leave this place without making it clear that no one touched a Shelby and lived to tell the tale. The night was alive with the sound of footsteps against the dirt, hushed voices, and the metallic click of weapons being checked and readied. Thomas moved among his men, his presence a steadying force, his commands clear and concise. He was the eye of the storm, the calm center around which the chaos would swirl. Every detail had been planned, every possibility accounted for. Now, it was just a matter of execution.

As they approached the entrance to the race track, Thomas's mind flashed back to the moment he had discovered his wife was missing. The rage he had felt then was nothing compared to what he felt now, standing on the brink of action. His love for her was a fierce, consuming fire, and the thought of her in danger had kindled a fury that would only be quenched by the blood of those who had dared to harm her. He signaled for his men to move into position, his movements precise and controlled. They spread out, slipping into the shadows, their figures blending seamlessly with the darkness. Thomas's eyes never stopped moving, scanning the area, assessing every potential threat. He felt the weight of the gun in his hand, the cold metal a comforting presence.

Inside the race track, the enemy was unaware of the storm about to descend upon them. Thomas knew they had the element of surprise, and he intended to use it to its fullest advantage. He glanced at John, who was crouched beside him, his face a mask of focused intensity. Arthur, John, Finn, Micheal and Isaiah were on other sides of the track; their positions strategically chosen to cover all exits. The first shots rang out, shattering the silence of the night. Thomas moved with a lethal grace, his every action deliberate and deadly. He saw his men engage the enemy, the flash of gunfire illuminating the darkness in brief, violent bursts. He pressed forward, his focus unerring, his goal clear. He would find her, and he would make them pay.

He caught sight of a group of men near the stables, their panicked movements betraying their fear. Thomas felt a grim satisfaction as he raised his gun, his shots precise and fatal. He moved through the chaos, his path cutting a swath of destruction, his mind a singular focus: get her back. His brothers fought alongside him, their loyalty and ferocity a testament to the bond they shared. Thomas reached the main building, kicking the door open with a force that splintered the wood. Inside, the dim light revealed a scene of chaos, men scrambling to defend themselves against the onslaught. He didn't hesitate, his movements a blur of calculated violence. He shot each of the men with ruthless efficiency, in the knees, making it nearly impossible for the to run. Thomas moved to one of the men on the floor whose moaning in pain, he grabbed him by his neck and forced him to look at him in his eyes, making him look his grim reaper in the eyes.

"I'm not done with y' yet'.." Thomas said his voice cold and calculated, he let go of his neck making him fall back against the floor on his back; the man let out another pained cry. His men would be back for them, to moved them to the front of the race track; to burn them.

The night air was thick with tension as Thomas Shelby navigated through the dimly lit stable area, his boots echoing against the cold, hard ground. The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow that seeped through the cracks in the old wooden walls. His heart pounded with a fierce determination, each step bringing him closer to the back room where he hoped to find his wife. The sound of distant shouts and scuffles filtered through the air, but his focus remained unwavering. He was a man on a mission, a predator hunting in the dead of night, driven by the primal instinct to protect his own. As he approached the back room, a chilling sight greeted him. Blood stained the floor in dark, ominous patches, and drag marks indicated a struggle. A wave of cold fury washed over him. His hand clenched around the cold metal doorknob, twisting it with a deliberate force. The door swung open with a creak, and he swiftly stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room, clearing it with practiced precision. Moonlight streamed in, revealing a sight that made his heart clench: there she was, tied to a chair, her small frame illuminated by the pale glow. His wife looked up, her eyes wide with a mix of relief and fear. The sight of her, his angel, ignited a fire within him. He crossed the room in two long strides, his gun slipping back into his belt as he reached her. With deft fingers, he untied the ropes that bound her, and as soon as she was free, he pulled her into his arms. The embrace was fierce, protective, his hold on her unyielding. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just them, their hearts beating in sync, a brief respite from the chaos.

"My angel, my sweet angel..." His voice was a gravelly whisper as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. It was a scent he had missed, one that grounded him in moments of turmoil. He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, his eyes scanning for any sign of injury. Small cuts marred her delicate skin, but they were minor, nothing that would cause lasting harm.

"Still as beautiful as when I last saw you," he murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips before their mouths met in a desperate kiss. It was a kiss born of pain and longing, their lips moving with a frantic intensity. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, their tongues intertwining in a dance of raw emotion. When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling. "I'm really going to be a father, eh?"

"You are..." Her smile was shy, yet filled with a warmth that soothed his soul.

Thomas brushed his thumb gently across her cheek, his touch tender. "Come on, let's get y' out of here, eh?" With ease, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her bridal style as he made his way back through the stables. The smell of blood and fear lingered in the air, but he paid it no mind. His focus was solely on her, his angel, safe in his arms.

As they emerged from the stables, the scene that greeted them was one of controlled chaos. John, Arthur, Michael, Finn, Isaiah, and his father, along with Johnny Dogs and the Lee families, were scattered around, unloading petrol cans. Blood stained their clothes, but it wasn’t their own. Thomas’s eyes flickered to the ground where the five men who had dared to touch his wife lay, their bodies broken and bleeding. He smirked, a dark satisfaction curling in his chest, before continuing to the car. He opened the passenger door and gently placed her inside, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "Stay here, love," he whispered, his voice soft but commanding. He closed the door with a firm click, turning to face the others.

The moon was obscured by thick clouds that mirrored the murky deeds about to unfold below. The racetrack lay eerily silent, the stillness broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Thomas stood at the center of this storm, his sharp eyes surveying the scene. His mind was a whirlwind of anger and resolve, a tempest brewing behind his cold, piercing gaze. The scent of petrol hung heavily in the air, a harbinger of the destruction to come. John and Arthur flanked him, their faces set in grim determination. Michael, Finn, Isaiah, Johnny Dogs, and the Lee family members were scattered around, ready for the signal. The air was thick with tension, a tangible force that made every breath feel heavy. Thomas’s thoughts flickered to his wife, his angel and the way they tried to use her against him; that backfired on them horribly. A fire burned in his chest, fueled by the memory of her soft voice, her gentle touch. She was his sanctuary, and they had dared to violate it.

He strode over to the five men who were the source of his ire, their bodies already bruised and battered. His presence alone seemed to make them cower. “John, Arthur,” he called, his voice a low growl. The two brothers stepped forward, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. “I want you to move them to the front, lean them against the walls, and soak em' in petrol.” His smile was a chilling contrast to the rage in his eyes. “If you don’t, you’ll join them as well.”

Arthur nodded, a savage grin spreading across his face. “We were going to burn em' anyway, no need to tell us.”

“Good,” Thomas replied, his tone curt. He cast a glance back at the car where his wife sat, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and understanding. She knew what was coming. She knew Thomas would not let their transgression go unpunished.

The men moved swiftly, dragging the nearly lifeless bodies to the designated spot. Petrol cans were upended, the liquid splashing onto the walls, seeping into the ground. The acrid smell grew stronger, mingling with the scent of fear emanating from the men. They were too weak to struggle, too broken to plead for mercy. Their fate was sealed the moment they had laid hands on Thomas Shelby’s wife.

It took almost an hour for the entire place to be doused in petrol, every room, every corner soaked in the flammable liquid. The task would have taken much longer if not for the combined efforts of the Shelby brothers and their allies. Thomas watched, his expression unreadable, as the preparations were completed. The fire within him mirrored the impending inferno, both consuming everything in their path. Thomas reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced across his features. Around him, the others followed suit, those who smoked taking a moment to savor the calm before the storm. They stood in a loose semicircle, the flickering embers of their cigarettes the only light in the encroaching darkness.

The men who had dared to harm his wife were propped against the walls, their eyes darting around in a futile search for escape. Thomas stepped forward, his gaze boring into them. “Let the world burn,” he said, his voice carrying a finality that sent a shiver down the spines of everyone present.

As one, they stepped back and threw their lit cigarettes into the building. The effect was immediate and devastating. Flames erupted, racing along the trails of petrol with a voracious hunger. The night was transformed into a hellscape of red, orange, and yellow, the heat searing the air. Screams of agony pierced the night as Sabini’s men were consumed by the fire, their bodies writhing in a futile attempt to escape the flames. Thomas watched with a detached satisfaction, his face bathed in the glow of the inferno. Each scream was a note in a symphony of retribution, each flicker of flame a testament to his resolve. The men’s knees had been blown out earlier, ensuring they could not flee. Now, they were prisoners of their own fate, their arms dislocated to prevent even the slightest chance of escape. The fire roared, its fury unchecked, devouring the building and everything within. The sounds of collapsing timbers and shattering glass added to the cacophony, a fitting accompaniment to the demise of those who had crossed Thomas Shelby. He turned away, his mind already moving to the next step, the next plan. There was always another move to make, another battle to fight.

Walking briskly yet purposefully, Thomas made his way back to the car. His footsteps were steady on the gravel, the sound swallowed by the roar of the fire behind him. He opened the door, the heat from the blaze momentarily flooding the car before he slid in beside her. The interior was a haven of calm, a stark contrast to the inferno outside. His wife’s eyes, wide and searching, locked onto his, seeking the reassurance only he could provide.

“It’s done,” he said, his voice low and steady, a soft rumble in the confined space. He took her small hand in his, his grip firm yet comforting. “They won’t ever hurt you again.”

She exhaled, a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and a flicker of relief crossed her delicate features. Thomas watched her, his heart a fortress against the world’s cruelty but a haven for her. He released her hand, his own moving to cup her face. His thumb brushed against her cheek, the simple touch conveying a world of unspoken promises. He leaned in, their lips meeting in a kiss that was both a balm and a blaze, a mixture of passion and unspoken love. His kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers with a fervor that spoke of his desperation to connect, to reaffirm their bond in the midst of chaos. She responded in kind, her own need mirroring his. Their tongues danced, entwining in a symphony of shared breath and mutual desire. The kiss stretched on, each second a testament to their unbreakable connection. When he finally broke away, it was only to gaze into her eyes, his blue piercing eyes and intense, meeting her soft, doe-like gaze.

“I'd let the world burn, let the world burn for you,” he whispered, the words a vow etched in the air between them.

The fire outside continued to rage, a testament to the violence and power that defined Thomas. But here, in the car with his wife, he was just a man, deeply in love and fiercely protective. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her skin. The night outside was a battlefield, but inside this car, it was a sanctuary of their own making.

“Y’alright, love?” he asked softly, his accent thick, the concern in his voice palpable. She nodded, placing her hand over his, their fingers intertwining over the life they had created. It was a silent affirmation, a shared resolve to face whatever came next together.

The drive back to their home was quiet, the night around them a shroud of darkness punctuated by the distant glow of the fire. Thomas drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding hers. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with dangers and challenges, but as long as they were together, he felt invincible. His mind raced with plans and contingencies, each one centered around ensuring their safety. His wife rested her head against his shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing a soothing rhythm. Thomas glanced at her, his heart swelling with a love so profound it bordered on pain. He had built an empire, forged a legacy in blood and fire, but she was his greatest treasure. The thought of losing her, of anything happening to her or their child, was a fear that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He pushed it aside, focusing instead on the warmth of her presence, the steady beat of her heart against his arm.

As they neared their home, the familiar sights of Small Heath came into view, but they weren't home yet; they drove till they were on the outskirts. It was quiet, the sun was starting to come up; Thomas parked the car and turned to her, his expression softening. “We’re home,” he said, the words a balm to the tension that still lingered. She smiled, a small, tired smile that spoke of her own relief.

Inside their home, the world outside seemed a distant memory. Thomas helped her out of the car, his arm around her waist as they made their way to the door. The night had been long and exhausting, but the sight of their home brought a sense of peace. He closed the door behind them, shutting out the chaos and danger, if only for a while. They moved through the house in silence, the weight of the night’s events pressing down on them. Thomas led her to their bedroom, helping her undress and settle into bed. He watched her as she drifted off to sleep, her face serene and untroubled. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply be, to let go of the burdens that constantly weighed on him.

But sleep would not come easily. Thomas stood by the window, staring out into the darkness, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and plans. He knew the road ahead would be fraught with danger, that the enemies they had made would not rest until they were destroyed. But as long as he had her, as long as he had their child, he would fight with everything he had. He turned back to the bed, his eyes softening as he looked at her. She was his anchor, his reason for everything. Thomas undressed quietly, slipping into bed beside her. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body a comfort against the cold reality of their world. He kissed her forehead, a silent vow to protect and cherish her, no matter the cost.

As he lay there, his mind finally began to quiet. The night’s events would leave scars, but they would also strengthen the resolve he had to keep his family safe. He closed his eyes, the sound of her breathing lulling him into a fitful sleep. The fire outside might rage, but here, in their bed, there was peace, if only for a moment. Thomas knew that the battles would continue, that the fight for their survival was far from over. But with her by his side, he felt a glimmer of hope, a spark of light in the darkness. He tightened his hold on her, his heart a silent promise to never let go. In the midst of chaos, she was his sanctuary, his angel in a world of shadows. And as sleep finally claimed him, Thomas dreamed not of fires and battles, but of a future where they could find peace, a future where their child could grow up safe and loved. It was a dream worth fighting for, a dream worth burning the world down to protect.

Authors Notes:

Don't worry the three asks are being worked on, I just wanted to get this one out because I haven't seen anyone do this song yet or they have and I haven't seen it. But I wanted to do a Jonathan one, because he's fucking mental about his lover but idk it wouldn't click.

Have any idea's please hit me up!!! Love you all xoxo

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