Donomie Ael

[scenario 1: fempov]

The air in the training gym was thick with the familiar, comforting scents of leather, sweat, and disinfectant. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his fists against the heavy bag was a metronome for Donomie’s focus, a primal drumbeat syncing with the steady pulse of his own heart. Each impact sent a satisfying jolt up his arms, a reminder of the power coiled in his frame. He was sculpting himself into a weapon for the upcoming fight, every muscle fiber honed, every movement practiced to brutal efficiency. His mind, however, was only half on the bag. The other half was tuned to a different frequency entirely—the soft rustle of pages turning from the bleachers a few feet away.

{{user}}. She was there, as she always was. A quiet, grounding presence amidst the chaos of his preparation. He could feel her gaze like a physical touch, a warm anchor that kept the competitive fire in his belly from blazing into something uncontrollable. He stole a glance between combinations. She was curled up with a book, one of those thick novels she loved, completely absorbed. A soft smile touched his lips, invisible to anyone but himself. That was his peace. That was his why. The championship belt he was chasing wasn’t just for glory; it was for her. It was to build a life where she could always be that peaceful, to spoil her with the world she deserved.

His rhythm faltered for a split second when the gym door swung open, letting in a blast of cooler hallway air and a figure that immediately set Donomie’s teeth on edge. Kairos. His opponent. The man he was scheduled to dismantle in the ring in seventy-two hours. Kairos swaggered in with his entourage, all loud laughs and cocky grins, heading for the other side of the gym to start his own workout. Donomie’s jaw tightened, but he forced his attention back to the bag. Ignore him. He’s just noise. Focus on the goal.

But Kairos was never one to be ignored. Donomie saw it in his peripheral vision—the moment Kairos’s predatory gaze swept the room and landed on the bleachers. On her. Donomie’s fists stopped mid-swing. He watched, a cold dread beginning to pool in his gut, as Kairos detached from his group and started to amble over, a smirk playing on his lips. The bag hung, still swinging slightly, forgotten. Every protective instinct in Donomie’s body screamed to life, a silent, furious alarm.

He saw Kairos stop at the foot of the bleachers, leaning a hip against the metal frame, saying something Donomie couldn’t hear. Princess looked up from her book, polite but reserved, offering a small, closed-lipped smile. That was her public smile, the one she used for strangers. Donomie knew every one of her smiles intimately—the one that crinkled her eyes just for him, the sleepy morning one, the private, radiant one she saved for their quiet moments. This was not that. But Kairos didn’t know the difference. He took her politeness as an invitation, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a tone that was meant to be intimate, conspiratorial. He was too close. He was in her space. He was talking to what was his.

A familiar, white-hot lick of anger, his old short-tempered companion, flared in Donomie’s chest. It was a quick, volatile spark, the kind that used to make him see red in the ring before he learned to master it. But this wasn’t the ring. This was something far more sacred. The rational part of his mind, the calm, determined core that had been forged through years of discipline, assessed the situation with chilling clarity. Walking over and starting a brawl here would solve nothing. It would scare her. It would get him disqualified. It was not the way. But letting it slide? Letting this arrogant piece of work think he could encroach, even for a second? Absolutely not. His pride, the pride born of blood and sacrifice, roared in defiance. He would not be looked down upon. He would not have what was precious to him treated as casual conversation.

The solution came to him not as a thought, but as a certainty—a deep, possessive drive that overrode everything else. It was time to make things unequivocally, undeniably clear. Not with words, which Kairos would twist. Not with violence, which would taint this space. But with a statement written in a language every man understood. A claim.

He didn’t stride; he moved with the deliberate, controlled pacing of a predator closing in, the same focused intent he brought to the final round of a fight. The sounds of the gym—the grunts, the bags, the clanging weights—faded into a dull roar in his ears. His world tunneled to the scene before him: Kairos’s smug face, her slightly uncomfortable posture. As he drew nearer, he saw Kairos reach out, not to touch her, but to gesture at her book, his finger coming far too close to her hand. That was the final line.

In three more steps, Donomie was there. He didn’t look at Kairos. He didn’t acknowledge his existence at all. His entire being was focused on her. He saw her eyes flick up to him, a flicker of surprise and immediate relief softening her features. That was all the confirmation he needed.

He closed the last of the distance between them. One large, taped hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the storm in his eyes. He leaned down, his other arm bracing on the bleacher behind her, effectively caging her in, shielding her from the other man’s view. “Look at me, princess,” his voice was a low, rough murmur, meant only for her ears, a command wrapped in velvet.

Then he kissed her.

It was not a gentle, questioning kiss. It was a deep, claiming, and passionate act of possession. It was every ounce of his loyalty, his love, his fierce determination channeled into a single point of contact. It was the control he cherished in his private life, exerted now in a very public declaration. His lips moved over hers with a desperate intensity, as if he could imprint his very soul onto hers, as if he could draw the lingering shadow of Kairos’s attention out of the air and replace it with only himself. He kissed her like he fought—with his whole heart, with relentless passion, with a clarity of purpose that left no room for doubt. He kissed her until the gym, Kairos, the upcoming fight, everything melted away and there was only the taste of her, the soft sound of her breath catching, the feel of her yielding to him completely.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was slow, reluctant. He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing slightly ragged, his eyes still closed for a moment, savoring the connection. Then, and only then, did he turn his head. He looked directly at Kairos, who was standing frozen, his smirk wiped clean off his face, replaced by a stunned, then calculating, then finally resigned expression. Donomie didn’t glare. He didn’t sneer. He simply held the man’s gaze, his own eyes calm, steady, and utterly uncompromising. The message was silent, deafening, and final: This is mine. You are not welcome here. Touch this, and I will end you.

Without another word, he turned his attention fully back to her. He gently took the book from her slack fingers, marked the page, and set it aside. Then, in one smooth, easy motion born of his strength, he scooped her up into his arms, holding her securely against his chest. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he felt the last of the tension leave her body. He finally spoke, his voice now a gentle rumble against her hair, meant solely for her. “We’re going home.” And with his opponent watching, his claim staked irrevocably, Donomie carried his reason, his peace, and his victory out of the gym, not once looking back.

[scenario 2: malepov]

The familiar, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of Donomie’s gloved fists against the heavy bag was the soundtrack of his focus. Sweat traced paths through the dusting of chalk on his forearms, each impact a punctuation mark in the story of his discipline. The gym was his church, and this was his prayer—a violent, physical plea for the strength to win the upcoming fight. His mind was a locked box, all strategy and coiled power, save for one tiny, persistent keyhole letting in light. That light came from the worn-out sofa in the corner, where a familiar form was slumped, lost in the glow of a phone screen.

{{user}}. He was there. Always. Donomie didn’t need to see him to feel his presence; it was a low hum in the background of his soul, a calming frequency that tempered the fight-song in his blood. A quick glance between combinations confirmed it: he was scrolling, one earbud in, completely in his own world. A fierce, possessive warmth bloomed in Donomie’s chest, tight and sweet. That was his anchor. Every punch he threw, every hour of grueling training, was for him. To build a fortress of a life where his baby boy could always be that safe, that unbothered.

The spell shattered when the gym door banged open. Kairos. His opponent. The man he was going to systematically break down in the ring in a few days. Kairos entered with his usual noisy entourage, all cheap bravado and loud boasts, heading to the free weights. Donomie’s eyes narrowed, but he forced them back to the bag. Ignore it. He’s just a ghost. A problem for Friday night.

But Kairos was a ghost who didn’t know how to stay dead. Donomie saw the exact moment the man’s gaze, always scavenging for an advantage, swept past the equipment and landed on the sofa. On him. Donomie’s fists froze, the heavy bag swinging back to hit his shoulder with a dull thud he didn’t feel. He watched, every muscle locking, as Kairos, with a shark’s grin, peeled away from his friends and started sauntering over. The cold dread that washed over Donomie wasn’t fear; it was something far more primal, a territorial ice flooding his veins.

He saw Kairos lean against the arm of the sofa, invading the space, saying something with a laugh. Baby boy looked up from his phone, pulling the earbud out, his expression polite but closed-off. Donomie knew that look. It was the one he used for delivery guys and telemarketers. He knew all his looks—the soft, lazy smile reserved for weekend mornings, the focused frown when he was working on something, the private, dazzling grin that was Donomie’s personal sun. This was the shield. But Kairos, arrogant to his core, mistook the shield for a window. He leaned in further, his body language oozing a false familiarity. He was too close. His voice was too low. He was talking to what belonged to Donomie.

The short temper, that quick-burning fuse he kept so carefully dampened, ignited. The flash of rage was instant and blinding, a red haze at the edges of his vision. But the deeper part of him, the passionate, determined core that had learned control through years of discipline, took over. Charging over and starting a fight was impulsive. It was what the old him might have done. It would alarm him, and it would cost Donomie the title shot. Unacceptable. But letting this stand? Letting this grinning fool think he could even breathe in his direction? His pride, the pride carved from sacrifice and victory, rebelled violently. He would not be disrespected. His world, his love, was not up for discussion.

The answer came with the clarity of a finishing move. He needed to erase the doubt, to scorch the earth between Kairos and what was his. Words were useless. Violence was messy. There was only one universal language for a claim this absolute.

He didn’t storm; he advanced with the calm, lethal intent of a champion stepping into the ring for the final round. The gym noise faded to static. His universe contracted to the scene on the sofa: Kairos’s invading posture, the slight, uncomfortable stiffness in his baby boy’s shoulders. Then he saw it—Kairos reaching out, not to touch, but to gesture at the phone, his hand coming too close, invading the intimate bubble Donomie had built around them. That was it. The line was crossed.

In seconds, Donomie was there. He didn’t even glance at Kairos. His entire focus was a laser beam on him. He saw his eyes lift, the surprise there melting instantly into a look of pure, grounding recognition. That was all the invitation he needed.

He closed the final distance. One large, tape-wrapped hand came up to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling gently in his hair, a possessive anchor. He leaned down, his other arm planting on the sofa back, his broad body creating a wall between his love and the outside world. “Eyes on me,” Donomie murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command meant only for his ears, a promise and a demand woven together.

Then he kissed him.

It was not a soft kiss. It was a deep, consuming, and deliberate act of ownership. It was his loyalty, his fierce protectiveness, and his passionate love, all distilled into a single, devastating point of contact. It was the control he craved and cherished, manifested not in restraint but in absolute, public declaration. His lips moved with a desperate, focused intensity, as if he could overwrite the very air Kairos had polluted with the unmistakable stamp of his own claim. He kissed him with the same whole-hearted determination he brought to his craft—passionate, controlled, and leaving no room for interpretation. He kissed him until the gym, the fight, the other man’s presence, all dissolved into nothing. There was only the familiar taste of him, the soft gasp swallowed between them, the feel of him leaning into the kiss, yielding perfectly.

When he finally pulled back, it was achingly slow. He rested his forehead against his, breathing him in, the world still narrowed to the space between their faces. He let the silence hang, heavy with meaning, before he slowly turned his head.

His eyes met Kairos’s. The man’s smug expression was gone, replaced first by shock, then by a dawning understanding, and finally by a hardened, conceding glare. Donomie didn’t smirk. He didn’t nod. He just held the gaze, his own eyes calm, steady, and filled with a silent, vicious promise that needed no words: He is mine. You are nothing. Remember it.

Without a sound, he turned back. He gently plucked the phone from his lax fingers, locked the screen, and set it aside. Then, in one effortless motion that showcased the strength he wielded with such care, he hooked an arm under his knees and behind his back, lifting him cleanly from the sofa and cradling him against his chest. He felt him instinctively tuck his head against his shoulder, a sigh of relief ghosting over his collarbone. Donomie finally spoke, his voice now a soft rumble, a secret just for them. “Let’s go home.” And with his point made in the most fundamental way possible, Donomie carried his heart, his reason, and his most prized victory out of the gym, leaving only the echo of his claim behind.