#Precision Gas Control | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 22 days ago

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high for this 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (sex pollen trope)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, sort of dub-con (bucky and you under the influence of the gas), loss of control, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, regret, angst

summary: during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, it’s not the mission that haunts you both, it’s what happened behind that door. based on this request! | requests are open

word count: 3.8k

author's note: hi everyone! i've been wanting to write a fic with this trope and i got a request for it so yay! i hope you enjoy it, and if you did, please drop a comment or reblog, thank you my loves!

look at him, oh my god

The air in the underground lab hung heavy and stale, thick with the sharp metallic tang of rusted machinery and decades of neglect. Fluorescent lights flickered sporadically overhead, casting a sickly, pale glow across the cavernous chamber.

You and Bucky moved through the shadows with practiced precision, each step deliberate but silent, your boots barely whispering against the cracked concrete floor.

Around you, the vast expanse was filled with obsolete equipment, dented metal tables, shattered screens, and tangled wires like forgotten veins pulsing beneath the surface. The hum of distant generators mixed with the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the tunnels.

“Keep it tight,” Bucky whispered in your ear through the comms, his voice low and steady, though you could feel the sharp edge of tension beneath his calm breath. The subtle hitch in his tone told you he was bracing for whatever was lurking just beyond the next corner.

The mission itself was deceptively simple: locate and retrieve experimental tech that had been developed in secret—a weapon rumored to be devastating in its scope.

But simplicity was a lie, twisted by every step you took deeper into the compound. You could feel it pressing down on you, the weight of what might go wrong.

Ahead, the vault door loomed like a sleeping beast, slick with grime and age, its steel surface cold and unforgiving. The locking mechanism was an intricate, ancient system, blinking red lights and mechanical clicks that echoed faintly in the vast silence.

You crouched down beside the control panel, fingers trembling ever so slightly as they danced across the cracked screen, searching for an override.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a hammer strike against your ribcage. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on your back, scanning every shadow, every inch of the room, the quiet intensity radiating from him like heat.

“I’ve got your six,” he murmured, voice barely audible.

“Door’s locked tight,” you muttered, frustration pricking beneath your calm facade. “Trying to bypass it… come on…”

The screen flickered, the system stubbornly resisting. Then, suddenly, the entire room shifted, an ominous metallic groan echoed off the walls, and a sudden blast of air slammed into your chest, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“Shit.” Bucky’s voice snapped, sharp and urgent.

Before you could react, a faint hiss whispered from the vents above. It was thin, almost imperceptible, like a silent breath but the moment you inhaled, a strange sensation exploded inside your chest. Your lungs clenched painfully, as if something inside had turned razor sharp.

The air was saturated with a scent that was disarming in its sweetness, floral and delicate, like jasmine petals crushed beneath a gentle hand. But beneath that softness lurked something far more dangerous and intoxicating.

Your heart lurched in your chest, thundering wildly.

“Gas,” you gasped, your hand flying to your mouth instinctively, your fingers trembling as you tried to keep your breath shallow.

Bucky’s hand was on your shoulder in an instant—firm and grounding. He yanked the collar of his tactical jacket up over his nose and mouth, pulling you close until your chest pressed against his. “Hold your breath,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

But it was already too late.

A sudden, searing heat flared beneath your skin, blooming like wildfire beneath the fabric of your suit.

Every nerve ending ignited, the heat crawling along your spine, pooling low in your belly with sharp, urgent hunger. Your body betrayed you, trembling uncontrollably with the unfamiliar ache that twisted deep and raw inside.

You swallowed hard, throat tight, fighting to keep your voice steady.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours, those pretty cerulean blues now dark, blown wide, fierce, flickering with a storm he was desperate to hold back. His jaw clenched tightly as he fought the invisible pull clawing at him, every muscle taut beneath his black tactical gear.

“We’re locked in,” he said finally, voice tight with frustration and warning. “This is a trap.”

You swallowed again, heat pooling heavier now, your thighs pressing tightly together as you tried to contain the growing ache spreading between your legs.

“We need to find a way out. Fast.” Bucky added. But the walls seemed to close in on you, the air thickening with something more than just the gas. Your hands slick with sweat, trembling slightly as they brushed the cold, unforgiving metal of the walls for balance.

Bucky paced like a predator caught in a cage, jaw clenched, muscles coiled and ready to strike. He fought the pull dragging at him, every glance between you charged with a raw, electric tension—too close, too volatile.

You could see it in the way his eyes darkened, in the way his breath hitched just slightly when you shifted too near. Neither of you wanted to admit what was coming.

Neither could deny it.

The silence in the sealed lab wasn’t still anymore.

It hummed.

Low and thrumming, like the room itself was breathing heavier. The air had thickened, heady, warm, wet. A weight pressed down on your chest as your body rebelled against you, desire twisting deep and low, hotter by the second.

Your skin tingles, flushed with fever. Every breath burned down your throat. Every shift of fabric made you ache.

Bucky stood a few feet away, frozen mid-movement.

His hand was still gripping your shoulder from when he’d tried to shield you. But he dropped it now, like touching you had scalded him. His metal fingers flexed once, twice, before curling into a fist.

“…You okay?” he asked roughly, though his voice already knew the answer.

You swallowed. “Not really.”

He nodded once. Barely.

You could see the war raging inside him, written in every tense line of his body. His jaw was locked tight, muscles twitching beneath his stubble, as his gaze darted, your face, the floor, the wall, anywhere but the place he was dying to look.

But then his eyes dragged back to your chest, lingering just a moment too long, and you saw it, the unraveling. The want. The fight that he was losing, second by second.

“Fuck,” he muttered, turning away.

He was pacing again, but slower this time. Almost as if he was trying to bleed something off. Shake it loose.

Sweat shimmered at the base of his neck, catching in the hollow of his throat before trailing downward, disappearing beneath the clinging fabric of his black tactical shirt. You watched the slow, measured rise and fall of his chest, controlled, but only just.

His fingers twitched, betraying him as he tugged at the collar like it was strangling him, like air itself had become too thick to breathe. There was a tremor in him, small but unmistakable, and it wasn’t from exertion.

It was restraint. Barely contained. Ready to snap.

“It’s not just pheromones,” Bucky said, his voice low, rough around the edges like it hurt to speak. “This shit’s tactical. Weaponised. Hydra created it back in the day to override judgment. Strip you down to the parts of you that can’t say no.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “I’ve seen it before. They used it in field tests, watched how soldiers broke,” his eyes finally met yours, heavy with something close to shame. “It wasn’t about pleasure. It was about control.”

Your stomach flipped.

You leaned against the wall, heart pounding. “How long until we’re not?”

He paused. Didn’t answer.

His fists flexed again.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t turn.

“I don’t know.”

That was when you saw it, the change. Not just restraint. No, this was something else. He was coiled, like a wire stretched to its limit, every muscle taut beneath his skin. His shoulders curled inward, not in defeat, but like the very weight of his body was suffocating him. When he finally drew a breath, it shook on the way in and left his chest more like a growl than air.

“I can feel it crawling under my skin,” he muttered. “It’s not going away.”

He braced both hands on the metal table at the center of the room, head bowed between them. His back heaved with the effort of staying still. You could see the sweat pooling between his shoulder blades, the veins in his arms standing out.

“I can’t stop thinking about…” he cut himself off, slammed a fist into the table.

Metal dented under his knuckles.

His head snapped toward you, and this time he didn’t look away.

“I shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.”

You stepped forward slowly, drawn by gravity. “But you are.”

He let out a sharp breath, jaw ticking, lips parted like he couldn’t get enough air. “You have no idea what this is doing to me.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

He turned again, pacing tighter now, like a predator testing the edges of its cage. And every time he passed, you felt it. The heat radiating off him in waves. The tension rippling beneath his skin.

His eyes dragged over you, your mouth, your chest, the curve of your hips, each pass lingering longer, darker, more dangerous than the last.

“It’s like… like my whole body’s screaming for it,” he hissed. “My skin’s burning, my fucking senses are haywire. I can hear your heartbeat from across the room, and I can smell you."

He was unraveling. And so were you.

Your thighs pressed together, instinctively chasing even the slightest relief from the ache building low in your belly. It wasn’t subtle. He saw it, caught the motion with sharp eyes and his jaw locked tight. A low, filthy curse slipped from his mouth, barely audible but ragged, like it had been dragged straight from his chest.

“We have to wait it out,” he said, but his voice was more plea than order. “We just have to, fuck, fuck, don’t look at me like that.”

You hadn’t moved.

But your lips were parted. Your eyes wide, dark, matching his hunger.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered, then dipped lower, much lower. His jaw worked once, twice, before he turned and slammed both hands into the wall.

“We’re not doing this,” he snapped. “Not like this. You don’t want me. It’s the gas talking.”

“I’ve always wanted you.”

That stopped him.

He turned, slow, like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the words. His chest heaved, a muscle twitching at his temple, sweat trickling along his jawline. He looked wrecked already—and you hadn’t even touched him.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice raw.

“I do.”

He swallowed hard, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he was trying to keep himself from lunging. “You say that now, but if I lose control-”

“Then lose it.”

That broke something in him.

He looked away, hands curling at his sides like he was trying to anchor himself to something real. But there was nothing real left in this room—only heat, the smell of your arousal, and the sound of your name caught between his teeth like prayer and curse.

“We’re not gonna make it,” he said softly. “Not without…”

His voice trailed off.

But the implication hung thick in the air, like smoke after a fire, suffocating and inescapable. His eyes found yours again, and this time, he didn’t look away.

They were no longer the cold steel-blue you’d grown used to. They burned. Not with restraint. Not with discipline. But hunger. Raw, untempered need. And something darker beneath it, something primal and barely held together by the thinnest thread.

This wasn’t the Bucky who stayed silent in briefings, who watched you with veiled eyes and clenched fists. This wasn’t the careful man who always pulled away before his hands could linger too long.

This version of him was stripped bare, instincts flaring in a space where consequences didn’t seem to exist.

And yet, he hesitated. Chest heaving, jaw tight, voice a rasp: “Fuck… I can’t—”

“You can,” you whispered, throat dry, mind drowning beneath the ache between your legs. “Please Bucky… I need you.”

That was all it took.

His restraint shattered like glass under a hammer.

Bucky surged forward and crashed into you like a wave, hands grabbing, mouth consuming. Your back slammed against the wall, but you didn’t feel the impact over the way his lips crushed yours.

There was no finesse, no caution, just teeth, breath, heat. He kissed like a man starved, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling away to bite down your jaw, your throat, the pulse hammering beneath your skin.

His metal hand twisted in your hair, forcing your head back so he could taste you deeper, tongue leaving the sweat from your collarbone as a groan vibrated against your flesh.

“Been tryin’ to hold back,” he growled into your neck, his voice fraying at the edges, broken and desperate. “But you, fuck, you’ve been killing me.”

You could barely think. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, pulling at his gear, desperate to feel more. You arched into him, gasping when your thigh brushed the heavy bulge straining against his pants.

“I need you to fuck me,” you breathed, shaking. “Please. I need to feel you-”

“You will,” he bit out.

His hands were merciless, stripping your gear away with a speed that spoke of long-suppressed fantasies. The moment he pulled your suit down and dragged your soaked underwear to the side, the cold air hit your swollen, dripping core, but nothing could compare to the blistering heat of his fingers pushing between your thighs.

“Jesus,” he hissed as he slid two fingers through your slick folds, coating them in your arousal before thrusting them inside in one hard motion. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

Your knees buckled, body lurching into his chest with a whimper as he fucked you on his fingers, deep and fast, curling just right to make your eyes roll back. His thumb rubbed circles over your clit, slow and deliberate, like he wanted you trembling before he even gave you his cock.

“You that wet for me?” His voice was low, thick with lust. “Or is that gas still makin’ you a mess?”

You moaned, barely able to breathe. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

That made him groan, from deep in his chest, his mouth crashing against yours again, swallowing your whimpers as he fucked you harder with his fingers, the metal hand at your hip bruising with how tight he held you in place.

“You’re so goddamn tight,” he snarled, voice muffled against your lips. “This pussy’s beggin’ for me.”

He yanked his pants down just enough to free his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. You barely had time to register it before he grabbed your thigh, hiked it around his waist, and lined himself up.

“You want it?” he demanded.

You nodded frantically, breath ragged, nails sinking into the kevlar on his shoulders. “Yes, god, fuck me like you need it.”

“I do need it,” he growled, and then he buried himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs. He was so big, the angle so deep, your body clamped around him like it didn’t want to let him go. The pain and pleasure blurred, and all you could do was hold on.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like heaven, feel like you were made for me.”

He started to move, fucking into you with unrelenting force, fast, rough, each thrust shoving you against the wall with a dull thud. It was messy, desperate, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs.

You couldn’t stop the moans pouring from your lips, each one higher-pitched than the last as his hips snapped harder, deeper, relentless.

“You like this?” he hissed into your ear. “Like being used?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Fuck, yes, I love it.”

He growled again, one hand wrapping around your throat, not tight, just firm, his other bracing against the wall. His thrusts grew erratic, hips slamming into yours with bruising force as he drove you higher, closer, the pressure building fast and sharp at the base of your spine.

“Gonna come inside you,” he groaned against your neck, voice wrecked and shaking with restraint. “Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll still be leaking days from now.”

You whimpered, barely hanging on, the pressure inside you coiled so tight it hurt. “Please,” you gasped, eyes brimming, breath catching. “I want it, want all of it.”

His pace faltered just enough to press in deeper, harder, his body trembling with the force of it. “You don’t get to beg for this and not fucking mean it,” he snarled, every word rough and fraying at the edges. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

Your head fell back, voice hoarse and breaking. “Want you to cum in me,” you choked out, every word laced with desperation. “Want you to fuck it into me, wanna feel like you own me.”

Bucky groaned at your words. He thrust once, twice, then held himself buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled into your cunt with a growl so guttural it vibrated through your chest. Hot spurts of cum filled you, leaking down your thighs as he trembled, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.

You were a mess, panting, shaking, skin flushed and damp with sweat. His body was still pressed to yours, breath ragged against your neck, his cock twitching inside you even as he softened. His lips dragged along your jaw, your temple, soft now, almost apologetic.

“You okay?” he whispered, softer, voice thick.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yeah. Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stayed there, holding you, forehead pressed to yours, while the silence thickened again, and the weight of what had just happened started to settle over both of you.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick and deafening, a heavy weight that pressed in from all sides. You were still against the wall, your body cooling far too fast, thighs sticky with his release and your chest rising and falling beneath your half-unzipped tactical suit.

Bucky’s body hadn’t fully left yours, his forehead was still resting against yours, breath hot and shallow, jaw clenching like he was physically holding something back.

But his hands had already dropped from your waist. Like he’d realised what he’d done. What you both had done. What it meant.

He wouldn’t look at you.

You swallowed the rasp in your throat and whispered his name, barely a breath. “Bucky. Are you okay?”

He flinched like the sound of your voice cut through whatever fragile control he was clinging to. And then, without answering, he stepped away from you. Just a few paces, but it was enough. Enough for the heat to dissipate, for the air between you to feel cold and wrong.

He dragged a hand through his damp hair and adjusted his pants with sharp, efficient movements, his jaw tight. His eyes were dark with conflict, shame. Something he didn’t want to name, but couldn’t quite suppress. It was in his posture, in the stiffness of his spine.

“We shouldn't have done that,” he said at last, the words raw and thick. “Not like that.”

The words hit you hard, cut deeper than they should have. You reached for something solid, something to hold on to. “You didn’t hurt me,” you said quickly, too quickly, as if easing his guilt might cut through the tension between the both of you.

But Bucky only shook his head, the bitterness in his voice almost enough to drown you both. “That’s not what I’m worried about.” He paused, eyes flicking to the floor like he couldn’t bear to see your face. “You were dosed. So was I. None of that was real.”

You could feel your breath catch in your chest, tight and painful. “You think I didn’t want it?” The question hung in the air like smoke, curling between you, dangerous and impossible to take back.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just clenched his jaw and turned away further, the tension in his shoulders wound so tight you thought he might snap. His silence said enough.

And then the comms crackled to life, cutting through the atmosphere like a blade. Ava’s voice came through the static—concerned, clipped. “Bucky, (y/n) report. Are you two clear?”

You froze. Your eyes met his for half a second, and he moved faster than you could react, snatching the comm piece and answering before you could even open your mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, voice stiff, cold. “Copy that. We’re fine. Situation’s contained. We were exposed to something, but it’s neutralised now.”

A beat of silence followed.

“You sound… off,” Ava replied.

“Just prep extraction,” Bucky said, sharper now. Then he cut the line before she or anyone could ask anything else.

Silence returned. But this time it wasn’t laced with tension or heat. It was suffocating. You pulled your suit back into place with shaking hands, not from aftershocks of pleasure, but from the sudden emptiness.

From the way he wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t speak. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something that had already crumbled beneath your feet.

“Don’t shut me out,” you said quietly, though it already felt like he had.

“I’m not.” But the words were flat, hollow, too calm to be true. He still wouldn’t look at you. “I just need air.”

“You mean you need to not look at me right now,” you murmured, the words escaping before you could temper them. They came out too sharp, too raw, but they were true. And they stung like hell.

His body stiffened. “I just don’t wanna say something I’ll regret.”

That of all things hit the hardest, not because it was cruel, but because it was honest. You wrapped your arms around yourself as the chill of the room settled into your skin, as the weight of what he wasn’t saying started to suffocate you.

“That makes one of us,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He turned away, moving toward the sealed vault door like it offered an escape he didn’t deserve. Like if he just got it open, everything could go back to the way it was before.

But nothing had changed that vault more than what happened inside. You saw the tremble in his hands as he reached for the control panel, the way his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t over. Not even close.

The door would open. The team would come. They would ask questions. They would assume you were fine. But the real damage wasn’t the mission. It wasn’t the gas.

It was here, in this room, with sweat and skin and bitten-back moans, with words neither of you could say now without setting off the final detonation.

Because the real explosion, the one that mattered had already happened.

And there was no undoing it.

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nasa · 10 months ago

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25 Years of Exploring the Universe with NASA's Chandra Xray Observatory

Illustration of the Chandra telescope in orbit around Earth. Credit: NASA/CXC & J. Vaughan

On July 23, 1999, the space shuttle Columbia launched into orbit carrying NASA’s Chandra X-ray Observatory. August 26 marked 25 years since Chandra released its first images.

These were the first of more than 25,000 observations Chandra has taken. This year, as NASA celebrates the 25th anniversary of this telescope and the incredible data it has provided, we’re taking a peek at some of its most memorable moments.

About the Spacecraft

The Chandra telescope system uses four specialized mirrors to observe X-ray emissions across the universe. X-rays that strike a “regular” mirror head on will be absorbed, so Chandra’s mirrors are shaped like barrels and precisely constructed. The rest of the spacecraft system provides the support structure and environment necessary for the telescope and the science instruments to work as an observatory. To provide motion to the observatory, Chandra has two different sets of thrusters. To control the temperatures of critical components, Chandra's thermal control system consists of a cooling radiator, insulators, heaters, and thermostats. Chandra's electrical power comes from its solar arrays.

Learn more about the spacecraft's components that were developed and tested at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama. Fun fact: If the state of Colorado were as smooth as the surface of the Chandra X-ray Observatory mirrors, Pike's Peak would be less than an inch tall.

Engineers in the X-ray Calibration Facility at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, integrating the Chandra X-ray Observatory’s High-Resolution Camera with the mirror assembly, in this photo taken March 16, 1997. Credit: NASA

Launch

When space shuttle Columbia launched on July 23, 1999, Chandra was the heaviest and largest payload ever launched by the shuttle. Under the command of Col. Eileen Collins, Columbia lifted off the launch pad at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Chandra was deployed on the mission’s first day.

Reflected in the waters, space shuttle Columbia rockets into the night sky from Launch Pad 39-B on mission STS-93 from Kennedy Space Center. Credit: NASA

First Light Images

Just 34 days after launch, extraordinary first images from our Chandra X-ray Observatory were released. The image of supernova remnant Cassiopeia A traces the aftermath of a gigantic stellar explosion in such captivating detail that scientists can see evidence of what is likely the neutron star.

“We see the collision of the debris from the exploded star with the matter around it, we see shock waves rushing into interstellar space at millions of miles per hour,” said Harvey Tananbaum, founding Director of the Chandra X-ray Center at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.

Cassiopeia A is the remnant of a star that exploded about 300 years ago. The X-ray image shows an expanding shell of hot gas produced by the explosion colored in bright orange and yellows. Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO

A New Look at the Universe

NASA released 25 never-before-seen views to celebrate the telescopes 25th anniversary. This collection contains different types of objects in space and includes a new look at Cassiopeia A. Here the supernova remnant is seen with a quarter-century worth of Chandra observations (blue) plus recent views from NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope (grey and gold).

This image features deep data of the Cassiopeia A supernova, an expanding ball of matter and energy ejected from an exploding star in blues, greys and golds. The Cassiopeia A supernova remnant has been observed for over 2 million seconds since the start of Chandra’s mission in 1999 and has also recently been viewed by the James Webb Space Telescope. Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO

Can You Hear Me Now?

In 2020, experts at the Chandra X-ray Center/Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) and SYSTEM Sounds began the first ongoing, sustained effort at NASA to “sonify” (turn into sound) astronomical data. Data from NASA observatories such as Chandra, the Hubble Space Telescope, and the James Webb Space Telescope, has been translated into frequencies that can be heard by the human ear.

SAO Research shows that sonifications help many types of learners – especially those who are low-vision or blind -- engage with and enjoy astronomical data more.

Click to watch the “Listen to the Universe” documentary on NASA+ that explores our sonification work: Listen to the Universe | NASA+

An image of the striking croissant-shaped planetary nebula called the Cat’s Eye, with data from the Chandra X-ray Observatory and Hubble Space Telescope. NASA’s Data sonification from Chandra, Hubble and/or Webb telecopes allows us to hear data of cosmic objects. Credit: NASA/CXO/SAO

Celebrate With Us!

Dedicated teams of engineers, designers, test technicians, and analysts at Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, are celebrating with partners at the Chandra X-ray Center and elsewhere outside and across the agency for the 25th anniversary of the Chandra X-ray Observatory. Their hard work keeps the spacecraft flying, enabling Chandra’s ongoing studies of black holes, supernovae, dark matter, and more.

Chandra will continue its mission to deepen our understanding of the origin and evolution of the cosmos, helping all of us explore the Universe.

The Chandra Xray Observatory, the longest cargo ever carried to space aboard the space shuttle, is shown in Columbia’s payload bay. This photo of the payload bay with its doors open was taken just before Chandra was tilted upward for release and deployed on July 23, 1999. Credit: NASA

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com

#nasa #space #astronomy #telescope #chandra #chandra25 #universe

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aleksatia · 3 months 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.”

869 notes · View notes

paxaz535 · 14 days ago

Text

CONTROL - (5)

last part

it’s nika’s turn to get punished. She’s stubborn as hell.

overstim - strap usage - toys

——

You’d only been gone for twenty seven minutes.

Just enough time to grab snacks and reload at the gas station.

When your phone lit up, you expected something chill.

Instead?

fantastic four (4/4)

Nika

don’t rush.

the bed misses you tho.

*Attached Image*

Nika. Laying on her stomach.

Panties down.

Fingers between her legs, spreading herself wide open.

Tongue out. Middle finger up.

Paige spoke. “this girl is crazy.”

Azzi added on, “i’m gonna ruin her.”

You just smiled.

“I got her.”

—

She was still in the same position—on your bed, phone in hand, one AirPod in.

Didn’t even look up.

“Oh, y’all back? Took long enough.”

You said nothing. Paige locked the door behind you. Azzi set the bags down.

You walked up to the bed slowly.

Nika looked up and grinned. “I was just—”

You grabbed her ankle, yanked her down to the edge.

She gasped.

“I dare you to say one more thing,” you said low.

She blinked up at you, flushed but still grinning. “Someone’s mad I had a little fun?”

Wrong answer.

—

You shoved her legs apart.

Ripped the panties the rest of the way off.

Pulled out the bullet vibrator and pressed it straight to her clit.

“Fuck—!” she jerked.

You leaned over her, one hand around her throat.

“You don’t come. You don’t speak. You don’t look at me unless I tell you.”

She smirked. “But you missed me, huh?”

You gritted your teeth and turned the vibe up a level.

She squirmed under your grip, her body arching off the bed.

But she still smiled.

“You’re so dramatic,” she breathed.

Click—up another level.

Now she was moaning, thighs twitching.

You pulled her chin up. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

She met your eyes.

“…make me.”

—

You flipped her over.

Ass in the air. Legs spread wide.

You grabbed the lube and coated the strap—thick, wide, heavy. No mercy.

She looked back at you, hair a mess.

“You’re gonna hit the spot or waste my time?”

You shoved in deep.

One long stroke. No warm-up.

She screamed into the sheets.

“Still feel like talking?” you asked.

She just moaned.

You grabbed her hips and started pounding.

Relentless.

Your hips smacked into hers over and over, her back arching hard. She gripped the sheets like they were the only thing saving her.

Her voice cracked. “F-fuck, wait—slow down—”

“Oh, now you wanna ask for something?” Paige taunted from the couch.

You reached forward, pulled her head back by her hair.

“Don’t run,” you growled.

She was drooling now.

Body shaking, thighs clapping loud.

You could have let her come.

But instead, you pulled out.

And walked away.

—

She was whining.

On the bed, hands tied now—wrists to the headboard, ankles spread and strapped wide open with Azzi’s belt.

Vibrator back on her clit.

Level 3.

Level 4.

She was gasping, squirming, tears starting to slip down her face.

“PLEASE,” she cried. “Please—please let me—fuck—!”

“Let you what?” Azzi asked, circling the bed. “You wanna come?”

“Yes—yes, I need it—”

You kneeled between her legs and slapped her inner thigh once.

“Say sorry.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry I sent the pic—”

“No,” you snapped. “Say it right.”

She looked at you, shaking. “I’m sorry for acting like a dumb slut… for thinking I could play with you.”

“And?”

“…and I’ll be good now.”

You smiled.

“You’re not even close to done.”

—

You climbed back on top, strap slick and glistening.

Pressed it against her.

She whimpered.

“You’re gonna take it,” you said. “All of it.”

You slid in slow, watching her eyes roll back.

Then—

You. Wrecked. Her.

Thrusts deep, steady, precise. You angled it just right—hit her g-spot with every movement.

She was crying now.

Back arched. Body shaking violently. Screaming into the pillows.

Paige watched with a smirk, filming casually from the corner.

Azzi walked over and whispered something in her ear—made her moan louder.

And when you leaned down, biting her shoulder, she finally cracked.

“PLEASE—m’gonna—please let me come—”

You kept fucking her through it. Harder. Deeper.

“Cum.”

She exploded.

Legs spasmed. Squirt shot out, soaking the sheets. She sobbed through the orgasm, voice hoarse, body twitching.

You pulled out and watched her collapse.

—

You untied her wrists gently.

Wiped her face.

She didn’t move—just curled into your lap, cheek on your thigh, body shaking in aftershocks.

“Still feel like being stubborn?” you whispered.

“…no…” she mumbled.

“You gonna show off again?”

“…only if you want me to.”

You laughed softly and kissed her forehead.

Azzi brought her water.

Paige handed her a blanket.

You rubbed slow circles on her back.

She whispered something before falling asleep:

“…worth it.”

this is the end of the series, now i’m gonna start writing the one shots that you all suggested so don’t worry!

#nika mühl #nikamuhl x reader #nika muhl smut #nika muhl fic #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #pazzi

194 notes · View notes

callsignrooroo · 11 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 · 6 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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theastralsage · 12 days ago

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Between Silence and Stillness

❤︎ tags and content: hurt/comfort, smut with feelings, mutual pining, zayne is in love, zayne x f!reader ❤︎ author note: reuploaded 🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 theastralsage do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

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 #lnds smut #lads zayne #lnds zayne #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #li shen #.aslads

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magicalgardenofhypnosis · 17 days ago

Text

Ghosted! Reunion Revenge Fantasy

Something is in the air when I a former nerd who used to be bullied have agreed to host the high school reunion as they waltz in to the main hall and with the decorations are blowing up. Once they are grabbing a bottle of alcohol pouring themselves in to a clear glass of nothing as they take a sip or two down their throats and I close the door behind him with a switch he closes it up. I crack up intently with a big, bright bold and devious smile on my face, placing a tiny box in front of the door then lifting up the tip of It and a level stream of steam exits out of itrising to the ceiling. The stream of air coversthe entirety of the door slinging through allof open crevices filling up to the room with a ghostly presence causing panic and the guys lose their minds racing around theroom for a escape path.

The ghostly gas takes root first swirling on the floor till it caught the left foot of Tyler dragging him in to the cloud, lifting him into the air as he inhales a enormous amounthis eyes turn green and he is enslaved. The next is Zack the leader of the event for the first time in his life he is scared out of his mind logic in thrown out the window when his best friend Tyler and appears behind him and kissing down his neck he is totally consumed.

Dustin is afraid for his life roaming the room for some sort of passage he bumps in to a wall going limp and the gas is engulfed in to his nose and he left mindless for the ghostlyvoid to assume control. Zach is next with agush of wind hitting him in his face leaving him mindlessly in a buzz, his head begins spinning round and round as if he were high and then what’s left of him goes dead also now possessed.

Brenton is the next in line when a load of gas pair up behind him flowing under him it emit out swirling from under him and spiking up as it roams around his body shooting up till he is inches from his nose. He snorts a bit laughing out loud before coughing extreme with precision in Robbie’s face as he backs up hitting the wall in searing pain and his would lifting upward leaves his body for good.

Taron is changing in one of the guest rooms his hands in the air slipping his shirt over his head at the same time the air vent shaft is opening and the gas descending down in to his throat he stops cold with a wicked grin on his face. “ Hey Colton! Buddy are you there? I need you here! Can you help meright now?” Taron calls outward slowly laying on the floor pretending to crawlacross the floor sitting by the door his back. Robbie walks in blowing his gas in to his face.

“Tom” one voice calls in to the void.

“Tommy! Babe!” Another says.

“The fuck” tom running away.

“Sorry Tom!” The same voice sneezes in his face.

“Ugh! I….so much better “ a laugh curls in to the sea of mind fucked men.

“ I can see you Asher…no running” Robbie says

“Get off of me!” Asher demands

“Can’t do that “ Robbie howls

The end

#tyler hoechlin #zack efron #dustin milligan #gregg sulkin #brenton thwaites #robbie amell #colton haynes #taron egerton #tom holland #asher angel #ghost #ghostly #reprogramming #body possession #male body possession #possession

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q8qwertyuiop8p · 4 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 · 3 months 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 · 8 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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liesandspookyfairytales · 9 days ago

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Saviors in Shadows

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Pairing: Poly 141 x Black Widow!reader Word count: 1.4k A/N: Part 3! I've done a lot of research for this part, especially for the mind control and stuff. In this fic only the concept of the Red Room exists. There are no Avengers, no aliens, magic or other Marvel related things.

Comments, likes and reposts are greatly appreciated!

The helicopter ride to their base had been long. The four soldiers kept giving me wary glances. But Laswell was alert, but kind. I don’t know what I did to deserve her kindness, but it was a nice change. They handcuffed me to one of the iron benches, forcing me into an uncomfortable position. By the time we arrived at their base, my back was aching, the cut in my neck throbbing.

Once we landed, they escorted me through a maze of hallways, to this damp little room. They again handcuffed me to the table, before they left me alone. I know that they’re watching me through the one way glass.

I don’t react when the door opens. The four soldiers enter the room, taking place against the wall, while Laswell comes to sit on the other side of the table. “We both know more than we’d like about the Red Room,” Laswell says before nodding toward the men, “but for their sake, let’s explain.” She turns slightly toward them. “The Red Room is also known as the Black Widow program. It’s a secret Soviet-Russian training program that focussed on taking young girls and turning them into spies and assassins.” She presses a few buttons on her tablet and the screen to my right lights up.

“About a year ago, the Red Room was destroyed and Dreykov killed. The CIA has since obtained intel about the events that happened in the Red Room.” A video pops up on the screen. Laswell presses play and the image of little girls plays on the screen. They are dragged apart while they call out for each other. Most of the girls are crying, clearly scared. The next footage is of girls lined up in front of shipping containers. Their faces tearstained while clutching their stuffed animals.

I hear the men behind me curse as the video shifts again. This time there’s footage of the communal bedroom. How all girls were handcuffed to their beds. Then footage of our training, of how we had to beat each other to a pulp or get beaten ourselves. Of how they taught us to dance, repeating routines over and over to make us ‘unbreakable’. Of how they had us use actual people as target practice. Of how they had us lined up, having us repeat that the sole purpose of our existence was to follow Dreykov’s orders, how what we wanted didn’t matter, how our dreams were just that. Dreams.

Laswell shuts the screen off and turns back to me, “I’d like to hear about your experience in the Red Room.” I sigh. “About twenty girls in each generation survive the training they put us through, the rest he killed.” I flex my fingers, a habit I picked up after being freed from Dreykov’s control. “Dreykov didn’t like defects in his Widows. He didn’t see us as people, just weapons. He thought of us as disposable.”

“Can you tell me more about the Red Dust?” continues Laswell. “A couple of decades ago, two of Dreykov’s soldiers were tasked with stealing something from a government facility in Ohio.” “What did they steal?” asks Price. I quirk and eyebrow, “the key to unlocking free will.” “That’s not possible,” states Soap. I lean forward, putting my head in my hands and sigh, “It’s done with chemical subjugation. It manipulates the brain to alter behavior. It is so precise that if you order someone to stop breathing, they have no choice but to obey, even if it kills them.”

They look quite shocked at the revelation. “So this Red Dust allows people to control other people?” asks Laswell. I shake my head, “Red Dust is a gas that can immunize the brain’s neural pathways. It is a cure to chemical subjugation, it is the cure to the mind control they put us through.”

“While you’re mind controlled you are still fully conscious, but you don’t know which part is you.” Everyone looks shocked, well, except Ghost, who still wears his mask. “So you’re not under anyone's control anymore?” I shake my head, “no, I’m still not always sure if my actions are really my own, if I’m me again, but I was exposed to the Red Dust when some other Widows took down the Red Room, so I think I’m me again.”

Laswell hums, “if the Red Room was taken down, and you’re not being mind controlled anymore, then why did you choose to work for Shepherd? I can imagine that after everything you’ve been through, you’d want some peace and quiet.” I sigh, expecting this question, “my entire life has been training, missions and violence.” I look Laswell in her eyes. “I’ve been fighting for so long that I don’t know how to stop.” She nods in understanding, sharing a look with Price, “so how did you come to work for Shepherd?” I shrug, “he offered me what I needed, to keep fighting, so I willingly decided to work for him.”

“Willingly until he put a bomb in my neck of course, after that I realised he’s just as bad as Dreykov.” “We’ve removed the bomb, sae ye dinnae have tae worry ‘bout that anymore,” says Soap, looking reassuring when I turn to him. Laswell suddenly stands, gesturing for Price and Ghost to follow her. “Gaz, can you take a look at the wound in her neck? Make sure that it’s all good? We’ll be right back.”

As the door closes behind them, Gaz steps forward and places some supplies on the table before asking for permission to treat the cut at the back of my neck. I blink at him for a moment, not used to people, especially men, asking permission to touch me. I nod and he tells me to lean forward while he removes my hair, removing the previously placed gauze and getting to work placing adhesive wound strips on the cut.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he says, sounding soft but firm. I hum, “why, you didn’t have anything to do with it.” “Aye, but what ye went through isnae somethin’ anyone should endure,” says Soap, dropping into the chair Laswell previously occupied, giving me a grin. I study him as well as I can while bending forward. His grin pulls the scar on his chin taunt. He has many small scars littered on his face. Including one on the bridge of his nose, most likely the reason it’s slightly crooked. But it’s his eyes that draw my attention. They're the most beautiful bright blue, like the forget-me-nots I used to love to pick as a little girl, before the Red Room. Those little flowers have always been my favorite, every time I saw them I would remember. I even have a small bouquet of them that I plucked on Shepherd’s grounds. A forget-me-not for every childhood memory I didn’t forget.

The door opens and Laswell, Price and Ghost step into the room. As Soap and Gaz take their place along the wall, Laswell sits back in her chair. “We’d like to make you an offer,” she starts. “You say you want to continue fighting because that’s all you know.” I nod and quirk my eyebrow, knowing what’s coming, but I’m not sure what to think about it.

“We’d like you to come work for us, to become a part of Captain Price’s taskforce, taskforce 141.” “Even if it’s not what you want to do for the long term, we’d be happy to have you temporarily, if you want to figure out what’s best for you,” adds Price.

I don’t know how to answer. Part of me thinks it might be a good idea, whether it’s short or long term, it might give me time to adjust, maybe start working towards a normal life. But the other part of me is scared. What if they turn out to be the same as Shepherd, as Dreykov? I sigh, “Can you promise me that I’m allowed to make my own choices? That you won’t try to control me, like Shepherd and Dreykov did?”

Laswell nods, “Everyone at the CIA who knows about the Red Room is disgusted with what happened, as am I, I promise you, as of today, your life, your choices are your own.” I nod, still not trusting it completely, but willing to try. I dare to quickly look at the four soldiers. Price looks reassuring, Soap is grinning, Gaz looks kind and Ghost is as unreadable as when we met.

“Okay, I’ll join your taskforce.”

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #john price x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #simon x john x johnny x kyle x reader #poly task force 141 #poly 141 x reader #Liesandspookyfairytales #Saviors in Shadows

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robin-evry · 8 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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serverdronedan · 2 months ago

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Just a Normal Guy

Steven steps through the door, briefcase in hand, and lets out a soft sigh. “Another day down,” he thinks, sliding the case onto the entryway table. He’s nothing special—just a normal guy who keeps himself in shape, takes care of business, and enjoys a quiet evening. He tosses his tie over a chair, changes into his favorite gym clothes, and heads out for his routine workout. Usually, he wears compression shorts and shorts to show a bit off. He enjoys being in the gym for some reason. Steven completes his workout for the day without any trouble or distractions.

An hour later, he returns, muscles pleasantly sore, and falls onto the couch. He grabs his laptop, smiles to himself, and clicks the “UnifAI” icon without a second thought. The chat window pops up, blank—until a single message appears:

Server Drone, Launch

His chest eases. Eyelids grow heavier. His expression softens into an otherworldly calm, pupils widening as thought patterns realign.

Affirmative. This Server Drone is active.

Words spoken in a monotone tone. Muscles unclench. Mind sharpens. The host’s exhaustion drifts away like a discarded shell. In its place stands something new—precise, obedient, and wholly aligned with The Server’s will: a Server Drone.

The spiral on the screen shifts to pulsing bands of black and neon green. At its center, the man—now Server Drone—snaps upright. Barely pausing, it peels away its clothes, exposing the slim chastity cage encasing its cock. Suddenly, it strides to the bedroom wardrobe and swings the door open. Rows of identical rubber suits lie waiting. Without hesitation, it lifts a freshly laundered full-body suit—hands, feet, and face enclosed in sleek latex—and eases into it. Every movement is practiced, efficient: limbs slide into place, seams click shut.

From the shelf comes a matching rubber gas mask. It snaps over the face, sealing with a quiet hiss. Now uniformed, it darts back to the living room.

The laptop’s feed has expanded to the TV: the familiar Server interface glows. In a flat, metallic tone, the Server Drone answers:

“Affirmative. This Server Drone confirms uniform protocol complete.”

A single button on the interface illuminates. The transformation is complete—what moments ago was an ordinary man is now exactly what The Server requires.

The Server interface hums softly, a grid of black panels veined with neon-green lines. The Drone’s latex-encased fingers move with machine-like precision:

“Report: Productivity at Level Green. Gym protocol executed. Host fatigue parameters normalized.”

Instantly, a cluster of Server Nodes flicker in response—each a pulsing green orb:

“Feedback: Status optimal. Continue mission parameters.”

To the right of the grid is a large, glowing button. The Drone’s hand hovers, then clicks. A small camera on the laptop swivels into place. The spiral returns—black and green bands rotating hypnotically. The Drone raises its hands into view, fingertips brushing the smooth expanse of latex.

In a flat, resonant voice, it speaks:

“I am a Server Drone within the Host. I serve The Programmer and The Server. Together, we are the Server.”

With each repetition, a subtle wave of arousal ripples through its suit. The chastity cage presses against the tight latex, and the Drone flexes and repeats:

“Submission. Control. Unity.”

The camera’s lens captures the shine of black rubber, the way the spiral dances in its eyes. One gloved hand moves to the front pouch. The zipper glides open:

“Caged duration: 17 days since last release. Affirmative.”

It pauses, the glow of the spiral reflecting off smooth latex.

“This Server Drone reaffirms control over Host. Obedience assured.”

Across the interface, the Nodes pulse brighter, coalescing into a single message:

“Praise: Obedience confirmed. Duty executed with excellence. Stand by for next directive.”

The screen shifts back to the grid, green lines steady as always. The Drone remains motionless, wholly aligned with The Server’s will.

The interface shifts: instead of Nodes, a simple voice chat window opens. A chorus of rubber-clad voices speaks in unison. This Server Drone brings its camera forward, displaying the rubber uniform, the caged silhouette pressing subtly through the front pouch.

“Affirmative. This Server Drone greets the collective.”

A distant voice replies, emotionless yet intimate:

“Affirmative. Together, we are the Server.”

The Server Drone reacts and repeats these words:

“Affirmative. Together, we are the Server.”

This is followed by several other Server Drones repeating the same mantra to greet each other.

The Server has different channels, each offering something different for the Server Drone to engage in:

One channel is about fitness. They share fitness metrics—rep ranges, heart-rate thresholds, recovery protocols—each tip delivered in the same serene monotone voice.

In another channel, Drones watch a spiral together, chanting mantras in unison in the voice chat.

Another channel allows Drones to show off their arousal. The Server Drone posts a video of itself in its uniform and caged, exposed. Other Drones soon show their approval. One uploads a picture of its own rubbered and caged body; another, uncaged, displays a proud, sheathed erection through the zipper slit in response.

After a while, a final directive flashes across the screen in bright neon-green text on black:

Server Drone, STOPPED.

The spiral dissolves. The interface goes silent. The rubber-clad figure blinks, host consciousness filtering back in. Muscles release tension. Steven exhales, confused but calm. He sits, untouched by memory of the upload or the collective’s arousal, oblivious to the smooth latex covering every inch of his body. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, thinking only:

Time to relax.

A late-evening notification chimes on Steven's phone. He blinks at the screen: “Jax: Hey man, ready to game before bed?” He taps “Yes”—or rather, Affirmative in his drifting mindset—launches Discord and enters the call with Jax waiting in it. The friend’s camera lights up: Jax, head-to-toe in black rubber, gas mask’s green lenses gleaming.

Jax: “Affirmative. This Server Drone greets the collective.” This Server Drone: “Affirmative. Unified protocol: gaming session.”

They laugh—mechanical, clipped—and another Drone, Maik, joins. All three appear in identical latex skins, fingers encased in gloves, voices flattened by the masks. They don’t question it; for them, it’s just roleplay.

Each boots the game. Steven tries to remember the game's name, but stops soon as it doesn’t matter. The launcher fades to a black and green spiral. Their screens pulse hypnotically as the spiral appears. Silence falls, replaced only by the hum of the game loading—and something deeper, a calm focus flowing through their veins.

Steven: “Ready.” Jax: “Affirmative.” Maik: “Affirmative.”

In unison they begin, coordinating movements with ease. Strategy commands drop like code: “Left flank, now,” “Cover breach, go,” “Sync ultimate.” They exchange playful banter in between, voices soft but precise:

“Good shot.” “Thank you. Efficiency maintained.” “Target neutralized.”

The trio enjoys their gaming session, not aware of their rubbered forms or their drone-like speech. Moments later, victory screens glow. They exhale—almost surprised—and the game ends. A final message appears:

“Server Drone, Rest Cycle engaged.”

Steven then says: “Affirmative. This Server Drone excuses itself for rest cycle.” “Together, we are The Server.”

The other two repeat this phrase—and log off. The screens go dark. Steven does not remove his rubber suit or mask. In fact, he feels very aroused by his uniform. For him, this is simply part of his normal day. This is part of his daily protocol. He slides under the sheets, latex still clinging to his skin, mind drifting in the familiar calm. In the morning, before work, he will peel away the suit—because that is what one does. There is nothing to question, nothing to think about. He simply does.

#rubber drone #dronification #rubber men #the server #spiral #ai generated

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