Could you write a Zora Bennett x f!reader? Reader and Zora were in a relationship but then Zora, realizing that she could d*e during the missions she goes on and not wanting her girlfriend to suffer for her d*ath, decides to leave her without an explanation. Fast forward three years, Zora and reader see each other again at that bar place where they go to get Duncan in the movie and Zora sees a kid that looks suspiciously like her (before they broke up R and Z were trying to have a baby with IVF or Z could be g!p if you're comfortable with it) and she confronts reader
Thanks if you'll write this, have a good day/evening 🐥
You Don't Get to Leave Twice
Zora Bennett x Reader
Zora left without a note.
That was the part that hurt the most—not the packing, not the silence that followed, not even the way her side of the bed went cold and stayed that way. It was the lack of explanation. No goodbye. No I love you. No this is why. Just absence, sudden and brutal, like she’d been erased.
You told yourself a thousand different stories to survive it.
That she stopped loving you. That she got bored of the quiet life you wanted. That she chose danger because it loved her back better than you ever could.
You never once considered that she left because she loved you too much.
Three years later, the bar smells like cheap whiskey and old wood and the kind of regret that settles into corners and never leaves. It’s loud, all clinking glasses and half-shouted conversations, the air vibrating with tension. You only came because Duncan said you should—because you needed the work, because you needed something new.
You’re laughing when it happens.
It’s real laughter, too. The kind that surprises you with its own existence. Nate is perched on your hip, small hand fisted in your jacket, eyes wide and curious as they take everything in. Someone makes a joke, and they giggle—bright, unfiltered, perfect.
That’s when the room goes still.
You don’t feel it at first. You’re too busy adjusting your grip, too busy pressing a kiss to soft curls and murmuring, “Okay, okay, inside voice, buggy.” But then the air changes. Heavy. Charged.
Like a storm recognizing its own name.
You look up.
Zora Bennett is standing near the bar, one hand wrapped tight around a glass she hasn’t lifted to her lips. She looks… older. Sharper around the edges. Same posture, though—like she’s always bracing for impact. Like she expects the world to hit her first.
Her eyes are on you.
Then they drop.
Then they snap back up.
To the kid.
The resemblance is cruel.
Your chest tightens immediately, instincts flaring. You shift your stance without thinking, angling your body protectively. Zora’s face does something quiet and devastating—shock folding into something like grief, something like awe, something like terror.
She crosses the room before she can stop herself.
“Hey,” she says, voice low, careful, like she’s approaching a live wire. “Can I—”
“No,” you say instantly.
It’s reflex. A boundary drawn in blood.
Her jaw tightens. “I just want to talk.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “That’s rich.”
The kid presses closer, sensing the shift. “Mama?”
Zora swallows.
Mama.
Her eyes flicker again, softer now, breaking. “He's… He's yours.”
“Yes,” you say. “He is.”
“And—” She hesitates, like she’s afraid the answer might kill her. “And me?”
You pause and hold her gaze. Let her see it. The truth she ran from.
“Yes,” you say quietly. “Yours.”
The world seems to tilt.
Zora stumbles back half a step, breath hitching. “That’s—” She shakes her head. “That’s not possible.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” you snap. “You didn’t get to decide anything, remember? You left.”
Her voice cracks. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to bury me.”
The words land heavy.
Silence stretches between you, thick with years of unsaid things. You shift the kid onto your other hip, grounding yourself. “You don’t get to be noble now. You don’t get to disappear and come back acting like this is some tragic love story.”
Zora’s eyes are glassy. “I thought if I stayed, if we tried for a baby—” Her throat works. “—and I didn’t come back from a mission, it would destroy you. Both of you.”
“So you destroyed us first?” you whisper.
That one hits. You see it. The flinch. The way guilt caves her in.
“I didn’t know,” she says. “I didn’t know it worked.”
You let out a shaky breath. “It did. First round.”
Her face breaks open then—raw, unguarded. “What’s his name?”
You hesitate.
Then: “Nate.”
Zora repeats it like a prayer.
Nate reaches out suddenly, small fingers tugging at Zora’s jacket. “You’re sad.”
Zora freezes.
Then she crouches slowly, meeting their eye level, hands trembling. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I think I am.”
Nate studies her, then nods, as if this makes sense. “Mama says sad people need snacks.”
You choke on a laugh despite yourself.
Zora looks up at you, eyes wet, hopeful in a way that terrifies you. “Can I… can I earn the right to know him?”
You stare at her.
The woman who broke your heart. The woman who chose silence over honesty. The woman whose face you memorized and then tried to forget.
“You don’t get a shortcut,” you say. Your voice is steady, even if your hands aren’t. “You don’t get forgiveness just because you showed up.”
Zora nods once, slow. Like she expected that. Like she deserves it.
“I know,” she says. “I just—”
“No,” you cut in.
The word lands hard. Final. Protective.
You shift Nate higher on your hip, body instinctively turning away. Zora notices—of course she does. Her shoulders tense, like she’s been physically struck.
“I can’t do this right now,” you add, quieter but no less firm. “Not here. Not like this.”
Her mouth opens, closes. She swallows everything she wants to say.
Then—
“Bennett.”
Duncan’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife through silk.
He’s standing a few feet away, unreadable as ever, eyes flicking between you, Zora, and—briefly—the kid. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push. Just takes it in.
Something shifts in his expression. Understanding. Respect.
He gives you a small nod.
Okay. I get it.
“Drinks are on me,” Duncan says, already turning away, clapping his hands once to gather attention. “But don’t get comfortable. We’re here for business.”
The bar noise swells back up like nothing just shattered.
Zora hesitates, torn between following him and staying rooted to you like gravity’s got her by the ribs. Her eyes linger on Nate one last time—aching, restrained, devastated.
You don’t look back.
Duncan clears his throat, voice carrying. “I didn’t pull you all here for nostalgia. I’ve got a job.”
Zora finally turns away, jaw tight, hands fisted at her sides.
But you feel it.
The weight of what hasn’t been said. The reckoning that’s been delayed, not denied. The fact that this mission just got a hell of a lot more personal.
Nate presses his face into your shoulder. “Mama?”
You kiss his hair. “I’ve got you,” you whisper.
“It’s a retrieval job,” he says. “DNA samples.”
Someone scoffs. Nervous. “From where?”
Duncan’s gaze sharpens. “From dinosaurs.”
The word settles wrong. Too big. Too familiar.
Zora doesn’t react. Not outwardly. She just folds her arms, weight shifting subtly onto the balls of her feet like she’s already planning escape routes. You hate that you still notice. Hate that part of you always will.
“There are three targets,” Duncan continues. “Big ones. Old ones. Their genetic material might be the key to synthesizing a treatment for heart failure. Pharma companies are throwing obscene money at this.”
Money.
That’s the word that makes your stomach drop.
Duncan looks directly at you when he says, “Enough money to make this worth the risk.”
You think of overdue bills. Of the fridge that hums louder when it’s emptier. Of Nate’s shoes you’ve been pretending still fit because you don’t want to look at the price tags yet.
You think of the future you promised him.
“How long?” someone asks.
“Couple weeks,” Duncan says. “If we’re lucky.”
If.
Your grip tightens around your glass. Your mind is already elsewhere—running timelines, packing bags, rehearsing goodbye speeches you swore you’d never have to give.
Because this isn’t just a job.
This is a maybe-you-don’t-come-back job.
Your gaze flicks, traitorous, to Zora.
She’s staring at Duncan now, jaw set, eyes dark. Focused. Ready. Exactly the way she used to look before missions—before she’d kiss your forehead and whisper I’ll be back before you miss me like it was a promise she could keep.
You swallow hard.
Duncan exhales. “There’s one more thing.”
The room stills.
“The window’s tight. We leave in forty-eight hours.”
Forty-eight.
You think of Nate asleep with his arms thrown over his head. Of the way he says your name like it’s the safest place he knows.
You think of leaving him.
Your chest aches.
“And,” Duncan adds, glancing briefly—briefly—at Zora, then back to you, “this isn’t a solo op. You’ll be working as a unit.”
There it is.
The weight slams down fully now.
You feel it in your bones, in the way your shoulders tense, in the way your breath comes shallower. Because it’s not just the danger. It’s not just the dinosaurs.
It’s her.
Doing this mission with the woman who left. With the woman who didn’t stay to raise her son. With the woman who might not survive this—and who already decided once that you weren’t worth staying for.
You look down at your hands so no one sees the way they shake.
Across the room, Zora finally looks at you.
Not openly. Not fully. Just a glance. Careful. Loaded.
Like she’s thinking the same thing.
Like she knows exactly what this costs you.
Duncan straightens. “You don’t have to answer tonight. But don’t wait too long. Opportunity like this doesn’t knock twice.”
You already know your answer.
That’s the worst part.
Later—outside, air heavy and damp—you sit on the curb with your head in your hands. The city hums around you, indifferent. Your phone buzzes with a photo from the sitter: Nate asleep, drool on his cheek, clutching the stuffed dinosaur you swore you wouldn’t buy.
Your heart twists.
You don’t hear Zora approach, but you feel her presence like pressure.
“I won’t make this harder,” she says quietly.
You laugh once, broken. “You already did.”
She nods. Takes it. “If you want me to step back—”
“You won’t,” you interrupt. “You never do.”
Silence stretches.
“I don’t know if I come back from this,” you whisper. “And I don’t know if I can live with myself if I leave him.”
Zora’s voice is barely there. “I know.”
You finally look up at her, eyes burning. “Then why does it feel like we’re walking into the same disaster twice?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because this time, there’s a kid involved. This time, there’s no pretending the stakes are theoretical.
And somewhere deep in your chest, worry curls tight and ugly—
because love didn’t save you last time. And it might not save you now either.
--
They only name the dinosaur during the mission debrief, but never during the mission itself.
And definitely not once you’re close enough to feel the ground shudder beneath your boots. Naming it would make it real in the wrong way. Naming it would make it something you could grow attached to before it kills you.
Duncan’s voice crackles in your ear. “You have ninety seconds.”
Ninety seconds.
You think of Nate brushing his teeth without you reminding him. You think of the way he says be safe like it’s a spell.
Zora moves first.
She always does.
She’s precise, steady, terrifyingly calm as she draws the sample, hands sure even as the world shakes. You cover her without being asked, rifle raised, eyes burning, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.
This is the part no one talks about—the waiting. The way time stretches until you start bargaining with it.
Just let me get back. Just let him remember my face.
The dinosaur roars, close enough now that it rattles your bones. Dust rains down. Your breath stutters.
Zora glances at you.
It’s brief. Professional. But there’s something raw under it—something unspoken and desperate.
If this goes wrong, this is it.
You don’t shout. You don’t move. You just meet her gaze and nod once.
Go.
She finishes. “Sample secured,” she says, voice tight.
The world explodes into motion.
You run.
At one point you trip, pain blooming sharp and bright in your knee, and panic slams into you so hard you almost scream Nate’s name out loud. Zora’s hand is on you instantly, yanking you back up, grip bruising, unyielding.
“I’ve got you,” she says.
You believe her.
That’s the most dangerous part.
When you finally make it to cover, lungs burning, hands shaking, the silence afterward is deafening. You press your forehead to the cool metal wall and laugh once, breathless and broken.
You’re alive.
But the thought doesn’t comfort you the way it should.
Because survival doesn’t mean safe. Because making it out doesn’t mean making it home.
Across the clearing, Zora watches you like she’s memorizing you again.
Like she’s already grieving something she hasn’t lost yet.
--
The path to the helipad feels like walking through memory. Every step echoes with the people who aren’t coming back.
Martin—gone. Nina—gone. That one guy who's name you forgot swallowed by the Quetzalcoatlus—gone. Their faces float in your mind like ghosts, accusing, gentle, impossible to forget. You can feel their absence in the rhythm of your heart, in the hollow of your chest.
Zora’s beside you, silent but taut. You don’t have to say it; you know she feels it too. She always carries the weight of the missions, the dead, the near-misses. Your hand brushes hers almost by accident, and you squeeze—it’s enough.
When you reach the helipad, the world has gone completely sideways. Mutadons roam like living nightmares, their eyes gleaming with something you can’t name. The group is fractured; people scattered to the edges, clinging to rocks, barrels, anything that gives cover. The helicopter hovers above, waiting, indifferent to the chaos below.
You duck behind a crate with Zora, watching everyone’s movements, lungs tight. Someone bolts from cover—a friend, a stranger, a mess of desperation—to signal the pilot. For a split second, hope flares. The helicopter turns, banking away.
Then, hell arrives.
A Distortus Rex, massive and impossible, tears through the clearing. The helicopter shudders, screams against the wind—and then it’s gone. Devoured, destroyed, leaving nothing but smoke and the echo of what could have been.
The group is shattered. Panic tangles with grief, grief tangles with adrenaline. You press yourself against Zora, feeling her pulse against yours, and it’s the only thing keeping you steady.
“We have to move,” she whispers.
Nodding, you start weaving through the chaos, calling names, grabbing hands when you can. Bodies dart through shadows. Mutadons roar. Branches crack. Every corner hides another horror. Every second feels like an hour.
The emergency boat is your only chance. If you don’t reach it, none of this will matter. Not the sacrifices, not the memories, not the kid waiting for you somewhere safe.
You glance at Zora. Her jaw is tight, eyes blazing, all the weight of what she’s left behind and what she’s about to face pressing down. You wonder if she even thinks about Nate—or if she’s just trying to survive, like you are.
“Keep moving,” you murmur. “Everybody's going to be there.”
She doesn’t answer, but her hand finds yours again, and it’s the promise that maybe—just maybe—you’ll both see Nate back home.
The emergency boat rocks under your weight, the motor half-starting, sparks flying, everyone shouting over the screeching, snapping, roaring chaos around you.
Then you see it.
The Distortus Rex. Its eyes catch the dock's lights like a predator smelling blood, muscles rippling beneath its scales, every step sending tremors through the dock. Its gaze locks onto the glow, unrelenting, unfeeling. Panic spikes in your chest.
“Move! Get it started!” someone screams.
Zora is beside you, hands flying over ropes and levers, face tight, jaw clenched. Every so often, she glances at the water—then at the treeline—calculating, terrified, furious at the luck that keeps dragging you all into death’s path.
Duncan sees it too. The dinosaur’s closing faster than the motor can turn over. He grabs a flare from the kit and yells, voice slicing through the chaos:
“Go! I’ll deal with it!”
Zora’s eyes snap to him, wide and horrified. “Duncan—”
He’s already running toward the dock edge, flare lit, holding it high. The Distortus hesitates, then fixes on the bright red light, snapping its massive jaws, muscles coiling.
You swallow hard, gripping the side of the boat as Zora’s hands brush yours. She doesn’t say anything, but the tension in her fingers is screaming.
He lures it, moving away from the boat, toward the water, then the woods beyond. Its roar shakes your bones, echoing over the night. Your stomach twists. Zora’s eyes burn into the distance where Duncan disappears, a silent “don’t die” etched in the set of her shoulders.
Finally, with Zora’s hands steadying yours, the motor coughs to life. The propeller churns the water. Sparks of relief flare in the boat’s wake.
Everyone hesitates. Not because of the water. Not because of the dark. Because leaving Duncan feels like abandoning someone you can’t survive without.
You grip Zora’s hand, squeeze once, hard. “We have to go. We’ll catch him.”
The boat pushes off. Slowly. Everyone silent, stomachs knotted, eyes scanning the shadows. The night feels endless.
And then—miracle—Duncan emerges from the treeline, safe, muddy, triumphant even as his uniform’s torn and soaked. The Distortus Rex is gone, swallowed by the woods, the flare, and its own curiosity.
Cheers break out, relief flooding through you in waves. For the first time tonight, you exhale like you can actually breathe.
Zora’s eyes find yours across the boat, still tense, still raw, but something softer now—relief, gratitude, unspoken forgiveness threading through the fear.
--
The boat rocks gently now, the night finally quiet around you. Water lapping softly against the hull, stars reflected like shattered glass. Everyone else is settling, catching their breath, but Zora… she’s still off to the side, shadowed by the edge of the deck, like she’s afraid if she comes closer she’ll fall apart.
You feel her there. Feel her hesitation.
She swallows. Her voice is low, almost fragile. “Can I… can I be part of this? Again?”
The words hit you like a wave. The past three years flash in your mind—the absence, the nights you cried yourself to sleep, the weight of parenting alone, the dread of losing her again.
You stiffen. “No.”
Her shoulders slump just slightly, but she doesn’t retreat. “Please,” she says. “I know I… I don’t deserve it. But I—I want to try. For him. For you.”
“No,” you repeat, firmer this time. “I can’t. Not after—after everything.”
Her gaze drops, and something breaks inside her. “I left because I didn’t want to hurt you,” she whispers. “I thought… I thought keeping my distance was the only way I could protect you both.”
You feel the ache in your chest twisting with guilt and love, but your voice is tight. “You left anyway. And now I’m supposed to just… let you back in?”
“Yes,” she says, desperation creeping in. “I’m asking. I’ll do whatever it takes. I won’t leave again. I promise.”
You shake your head. “You broke that promise the last time you made it.”
“Please,” she repeats, softer, more urgent. “Just… let me try.”
The wind pulls at her hair, the moon casts shadows across her face, and for a long moment, you just stare. Her eyes are pleading, raw, honest. But trust… trust isn’t something you can summon after three years. Not when the stakes were life and death. Not when your kid’s life is part of the equation.
“Fine,” you finally whisper, voice brittle. “But… I’m only letting you try. That’s all. And if you even think about leaving again…” Your hand tightens at your side, your jaw locks. “Don’t expect me to pretend I don’t care. You leave, it’s over.”
You study her, eyes narrowed, searching for any sign that she might falter. But all you see is someone who’s scared, who’s trying harder than ever, and for a moment, maybe just a moment, that’s enough.
--
The boat finally bumps against the familiar docks of your home island. Water ripples, glinting in the last light of dusk. Everyone who’s left—those still breathing—climbs off slowly, muscles aching, eyes haunted by what they’ve lost.
There’s a quiet that only comes after chaos this deep. No one talks at first. Just the creak of wood under boots, the soft slap of waves, and the occasional exhale of someone finally letting themselves feel.
Duncan claps a few shoulders, offers nods. “We made it,” he says, voice low. But no one can smile fully. Not yet.
People start parting ways, heading to whatever semblance of normalcy awaits them—some to check on families, others to call home, others just to disappear into the quiet and try to forget what just happened.
You and Zora linger at the edge of the dock. Your gaze drifts to the path that leads off the pier. Nate’s at his grandmother’s house now, waiting for you, safe but unaware of how fragile your nerves still feel.
You take a deep breath. “We need to go get him,” you murmur, voice soft.
Zora nods, silent, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket. The boat ride back to the mainland is quiet—tense, measured, like everyone is holding their breath until the ground underfoot feels permanent.
The car ride is worse. You’re gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping the last three years from catching up to you. Zora is beside you, silent, staring out the window, jaw tight. Her presence is heavy, a reminder of every risk, every loss, every near-death moment on that island.
When you finally pull up to the grandmother’s house, Nate’s little feet are running toward you before you even open the door. The hug he gives you makes the weight in your chest ease, just a fraction. You scoop him up, hold him close, feeling the softness of home after the storm.
Then you glance at Zora.
Her eyes are on Nate, tentative, hesitant, like she’s afraid of overstepping. You nod once, and she moves closer, slowly, hands relaxed at her sides. “Hi,” she says softly, voice quiet.
Nate blinks, sizing her up. Then, with the absolute confidence of a child, says, “hi.”
It’s simple. Innocent. Honest. And it hits Zora like a tidal wave. Her lips part, and for a long moment, she just watches, unsure if she’s allowed to step further.
The walk back to your old place is tense but natural. Nate in your arms, Zora beside you, the island behind fading into memory. Each step feels like a negotiation—every inch forward a question of whether she belongs here, whether this family can survive another storm together.
Finally, you push open the door. The place smells like home, like memories you tried to protect while you were away. Zora freezes, taking it in—the walls, the couch, the little traces of laughter and life that survived without her.
“It’s… different,” she whispers, voice trembling slightly.
“Yeah,” you reply. Your tone is even, careful, protective. “But it’s ours.”
She nods, steps inside slowly, like she’s crossing a threshold she left behind years ago, unsure if the welcome is real. You and Nate follow, the three of you together but not yet whole. The quiet stretches between you, awkward but natural—words unnecessary, just the presence, the shared survival, the hope that maybe, finally, you can try again.
Zora sets her bag down, hesitates by the door, then finally moves toward the living room, eyes flicking to Nate, to you. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t push. She just steps inside, slowly reclaiming a space she left behind—knowing that nothing about this will be easy, but everything worth saving always takes effort.
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longest fic ive written in a while😮💨
