#but again that will be a whole other post

[thewolfofthestars]

Y'know, I wrote this post 6 years ago now. Y'all remember 6 years ago? I know it's hard to think back, but together we can try.

6 years ago was right at the cusp of when Jowling Kowling was revealing just how much of an awful person she was. 6 years ago she was mostly known for making cringe HP lore tweets about wizards shitting their pants, and this was right when she went really mask-off with the TERFery. I wrote this post as a way of processing that, that this series I'd so beloved as a child was written by such a cruddy person--and not only that, a cruddy person who hated me specifically and in particular for being trans. It was mourning, really, grief over the loss of this part of my childhood. But a mourning I saw was necessary; I saw a lot of people refusing to engage with the problem, making the whole "Hatsune Miku made this" joke to elide any issue with it, and it frustrated me enough to point it out.

A lot has happened since then. JKR only got more rabid about her transphobia over time; instead of passively being a stinking asshole, she's decided to spew her rancid shit all over the UK government and pushed her transphobic influence worldwide. And unfortunately, she has a significant amount of influence.

And I've grown as a person. I've had more time to process all of this. I've borne witness to all of this happening. And I still see this post getting notes, every now and again, and it kind of makes me cringe now every time I see it. I could leave it to languish as a relic of the past, sure--I have, for a couple years--but never let it be said the internet lets anything truly die. I think an update is necessary.

I still stand by the first part; you cannot erase or ignore the problematic elements of Harry Potter. They've been there since the beginning, they are embedded into its foundation.

And I also think that, if you didn't see that at the time, that doesn't necessarily make you a bad person. Most of us were, y'know, 9 years old when we were originally reading this series. I don't think you're to blame for not being perfectly #Woke about it. And even if you were old enough to know better then, at least you know better now.

But I do think that it has long, long since become time to leave Harry Potter in the past. This series was an important part of my childhood, yes, and that's where it belongs. We can leave it there, appreciate it for what it was to us at the time, and put it away in the attic alongside the box of sidewalk chalk and the favorite stuffed animal.

Rowling is not just a case of "the author is a dickhead" anymore. She is actively throwing the money and influence she has, as the author of this series, behind transphobic movements, legislation, etc. Engaging with Harry Potter in the present day means you are giving more money and influence to the person doing this. It's not just a case of "oh, the author said some shitty stuff a few times, but that doesn't have anything to do with the books." She has MADE it have to do with the books, she has forcibly intertwined her bigotry and her IP. You cannot offer your support for one without supporting the other.

Your nostalgia is not more important than the lives and well-being of trans people in the present day. It's time to leave Harry Potter behind. It's BEEN time, for a long, long while. It's time to stop buying books and merch etc., but it's also time to stop talking about it, stop writing fanfic about it, stop letting it be relevant, both in public culture and in the privacy of your own mind. Because the more relevant it is, the more influence JKR has to throw behind the next bit of legislation trying to define trans people out of existence. Let her turn into a washed-up, has-been asshole in the public eye, instead of an author of a beloved children's series. Let people hear her name and think not "oh, I loved Harry Potter as a kid!" but "jeez, that lady needs to cool it with the conspiracy theories." You don't need Harry Potter anymore.

I have to wonder, what it is that drives people to stay so attached to Harry Potter specifically as an aspect of their childhoods, as opposed to anything else. When was the last time you drew with sidewalk chalk? Decades ago? Maybe you could start doing that again, instead of feeding the TERF.

You know what? No. No, Hatsune Miku did not write Harry Potter.

J. K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. And we need to accept that.

Harry Potter isn’t some pure unproblematic beacon of perfection that we can just choose to erase the scummy author from and enjoy without guilt. Harry Potter is very much rooted in Rowling’s view of the world. The blatant antisemitism in the portrayal of the goblins, the entire race of slave creatures that actually really like being slaves and Hermione’s attempts to free them are largely played off as a joke, the almost complete dearth of canon characters of color (and then when she does put canonical characters of color in, they’re… Nagini…), the complete lack of respect for other cultures (the Japanese wizarding school literally translates to “Magic Place” in Japanese, Cho Chang is not even remotely a proper Chinese name, don’t get me started on her usage of Native American folklore), the almost complete lack of LGBTQ+ characters, the “Dumbledore is gay!” baiting, the lycanthropy-as-HIV metaphor that involves one of the werewolves intentionally infecting as many people as he can, with a preference for targeting children, no less…

These are all very much present in Harry Potter. They’re not things you can just ignore. And they’re there because Rowling wrote them in.

I know you read Harry Potter as a kid and loved it. I know when you read Harry Potter as a kid you probably didn’t even notice how shitty all this stuff was. I certainly didn’t. But you can’t go back to that time. You can’t go back to when you were 10, when you were consuming this media and loving it uncritically without notice or regard for its more problematic elements. You can’t go back to being a kid again.

And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re required to wholeheartedly condemn this important part of your childhood. You can still enjoy these books while acknowledging that they’ve got some really shitty things in them. You can enjoy Harry Potter as a mature adult. You don’t have to be a kid again to like it. And you’re perfectly allowed to hate on Rowling for her shittiness, past and present, while still loving Harry Potter.

So don’t say Harry Potter was written by Hatsune Miku. It wasn’t. It was written by J. K. Rowling, warts and all.

[inkandoliveoil]

Why don’t we stay just like this?

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem! reader

word count: 1.72k

Genre: lots of fluff & lots of casual dominance from stevie ❥

Summary: you’re always somewhere up in the clouds and Steve is always there to help you back down

Set post-Hawkins, somewhere calm and safe.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The kettle whistles softly in the background, and you barely notice until Steve’s voice cuts through the fog in your head.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he says, gently but with a smirk you know too well. “You gonna space out until the water boils off, or…?”

You blink, turning from the window, sheepish. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

He crosses the kitchen with the kind of confident ease that still makes your heart tilt. One hand goes to the knob, switching off the stove, while the other finds its way to your lower back. His palm rests there like it belongs.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, voice lower now, more private. It’s just you and him in the quiet of your shared apartment, Sunday light slanting across the hardwood floors. The world feels still, like it pauses just for the two of you.

You shrug, smiling up at him. “Nothing. Everything. The way the light looks. You.”

Steve chuckles, and it’s low and warm. “God, you’re such a softie.”

“Says the man making me tea,” you tease, tilting your head at him.

“That’s different,” he replies. “I’m caring. You’re floaty.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” His thumb strokes your back absentmindedly. “You always get that dazed look in the morning. Like you’re walking through a dream.”

You huff, half-pouting. “Maybe I am. You ever think of that?”

He smiles then, really smiles, all eyes and softness and something protective underneath. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep you grounded.”

You lean into him automatically, head resting against his chest, and Steve wraps his arms around you with practiced ease. He’s always steady like this—always a little bossy in the sweetest way, guiding you with his hands, his voice, like it’s second nature.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon. Let’s sit down. You look like you’ll float away if I let go.”

You let him lead you to the couch, his hand never leaving yours. He pulls you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and you melt there, curling up against him.

“You know,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back behind your ear, “I don’t mind when you drift off. As long as you come back to me.”

You close your eyes, breath catching just a little. “I always do.”

“I know,” he says. “Still gonna hold you tight, just in case.”

And he does.

⸻

It’s been five whole minutes and you haven’t moved.

Not because you’re uncomfortable—quite the opposite. You’re tucked into Steve’s lap, your legs draped lazily over his, your cheek against his shoulder. He’s warm and solid beneath you, smelling faintly like that stupid cologne he swears he doesn’t wear for you (he does). His thumb is tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh where the hem of your sleep shorts has ridden up.

��You’re doing it again,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “Floating.”

You hum, eyes half-closed. “I like it here.”

“I know,” he says. “But you haven’t had a sip of your tea, and your toes are cold.”

You pout without opening your eyes. “You’re warm.”

“And you’re clingy.”

You feel his hand leave your thigh, only for it to slide up your back, under your shirt, fingertips tracing your spine lightly, possessively.

“Sit up,” he says gently, but there’s no room for argument in his tone.

You blink up at him, slow and blinking like a dazed little cat, and he raises one brow.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says. “I asked nicely.”

You shift, reluctantly, and he helps you sit upright with one hand firm on your waist. The moment you’re up, he reaches past you and grabs the still-steaming mug from the table, wrapping your hands around it like it’s his job to make sure you don’t let it slip.

“Drink.”

You obey, mostly because he said it like that.

The tea is sweet and a little floral, something you picked out at the store and he teased you for—called it “rosy little garden brew” or something like that—but he still made it for you. He always does.

“Good girl,” he says, so casually it nearly slips past you—but it doesn’t.

Your eyes flick up to his, a flush creeping up your neck. He smirks, just a little, but his thumb is already back on your thigh, stroking slow again like it’s your grounding tether.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That got your brain back online, huh?”

“I wasn’t that gone.”

“You were lookin’ through me like I was a tree.”

You giggle softly, resting your head back on his shoulder. “You’re bossy today.”

He tilts his head to kiss your temple. “You like me bossy.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to.

The tea warms your hands. His hands warm everything else.

[redpulsive]

SYLUS ⋆｡✩ eating you out

18+ MINORS DNI

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧

Heyyyy everyone, I noticed my yappathon about Sylus grinding/dryhumping is getting quite a lot of notes! If you somehow haven’t seen it before reading this one, here it is! Anyways, I’m super happy about the attention that post got, so I decided that I’m going to do another one about my personal favorite aspects about Sylus, which is the fact that THIS MAN EATS!!! Practically confirmed atp thanks to his Affinity Level 145 Secret Times: Midnight Feast.

I’m just going to babble in bullet points again regarding my ideas/opinions about the matter

Let me say this right off the bat, no wild bushes or periods will EVER deter this man from eating it. He does not care about your pubic hair or your period blood getting in his business. As long as you’re comfortable with being hairy or being bloody while he’s eating it, that’s all he cares about, your comfort means everything to him.

He can cum just from eating you out. Just the sole act of servicing you in that type of way gets him UNDONNEEE.

He WILL encourage you to use him if you want to, it’s insanely sexy to him. Just the idea of you bucking your cunt against his tongue and getting your slick all over his lips makes him HARD.

Because of this ^ he especially loves it when you sit on his face. he’d have your ass in his hands like putty while you’re using his beautiful, scrumptious nose as your personal seat. And believe me, no matter how much you weigh this man is STRONG and he WILL let you sit on his face.

He has to be in a position where he can see your face. Eating it from behind isn’t as rewarding to him imo! What’s he supposed to look at if your pretty face isn’t in his view? He wants to see just how good he’s making you feel. His one exception to this is if the two of you are in a 69 position, which he’d never make you do unless if you were willing.

He uses his tongue all over you, swiping it inbetween your folds, dipping it into your entrance, licking your clit, the whole thing is a delicacy and he’s RAVENOUS. That is his main course.

He can be pretty intense about it. He’d take his time at first, but at some point he’d get so into it that you’ll be SQUIRMING trying to kick him off of you. He does NOT PLAY about this shit!

He will be moaning and groaning into it, the taste and smell of your slick arousal is just SO intoxicating to him. He cannot help himself.

Eating you out is his man’s stress relief. You’ll never see another man drop to his knees in front of you faster than Sylus after a tiring and annoyingly long day of work. Once he goes to work on your cunt he’s in a trance, 10/10 distraction method for him AND it’s a win-win for the both of you.

If you’re in a position where your legs can be on his shoulders or wrapped around your head, they’re going to be on his shoulders or wrapped around his head. He likes to be LOCKED IN!

He’s always gripping your thighs or your ass during the deed. He’ll constantly run his hands up and down your legs, especially you’re standing while he’s on his knees.

He loves, loves, LOVES when you hold his head in place and run your fingers through his hair! Please god, play with it while his tongue is working on you, it’s like a personal reward to him.

90% of the time his eyes are locked onto you with a soft and attentive gaze, but during that other 10% his eyes are closed and his eyebrows are slightly furrowed. How cute.

Depending on his mood he’s either down bad and worshipping you OR he’s being very playful and naughty with you. When he’s worshiping you he’s giving you all sorts of kisses, bites and hickeys all down your body while murmuring sweet nothings to you, starting from your head all the way down to your thighs before getting right to action. When he’s being naughty he’s being such a tease, he likes to rile you up physically and verbally to encourage you to take some sort of initiative.

Once you orgasm he is cleaning the mess with his tongue. He will not let you shower or wipe yourself down with a towel until he’s had his fill.

Do not underestimate Mr. Coochiesucker9000 over here.

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧

[foolsdiamond]

One thing that really helps me get out of bed is a reminder that I can always go back. I get up, use the bathroom, and most mornings, I crawl back into bed, snuggle up with my wife or my pets, and go back to sleep--or I don't, I crawl back into bed and lay awake on my phone. Some days I'll get up, I'll get halfway thru my morning routine, and then I'll go back into bed again.

Or I'll get dressed, eat breakfast, and--go back into bed. I feel better, because I've moved, I've lived, I've cleaned up, I've fed myself or taken the steps to.

But I get to enjoy more time in my bed.

Just today, I woke up at 6:45, stayed awake in bed until 8am when I fell back asleep, woke up at 11:30, got partially dressed, got back into bed, and didn't actually get up to finish getting dressed until 12:30. I was sitting there screaming at myself the whole time, but I did eventually get up, get ready, eat a snack, take my dogs for a walk, and made it in time to meet my friend for lunch. It's okay. Some days are harder than others. Sometimes, trying to force it will only make you do less. Absolutely follow the advice above; sitting up is more Out of Bed than laying down. I'm also several years into my recovery post depression. But remember to be gentle with yourself when you fail. You'll get there eventually.

Take it easy... but take it!

ALL OF THESE REQUIRE GETTING OUT OF BED

[jazziejax]

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - A quiet visit to a legendary gym turns into something much louder than expected.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Violence, Strong Language, Adult Themes, Mentions of Grief/Loss

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I said I wanted to write one so I did…sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!!!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 9,134+

No matter where she looked, it was all consuming her. On her phone, there was countless of headlines.

“Tennis Diva or Just Competitive? Chantal “Fury” Figueroa Blows Up Again on Court!”

“Foul Mouth, Fast Hands: Fury’s Fiery Win Over Davenport Sparks Controversy”

“Fury’s Blaze of Glory or Blaze of Shame?—Tennis’s Most Explosive Star Under Fire Once More!”

“Amy Davenport Says She Felt ‘Unsafe’ On the Court with Chantal Figueroa”

“Chantal Figueroa Accused of Cheating, Trash-Talking, and ‘Unsportsmanlike Behavior’”

She clicked on her television, and there were pictures of her face on the news as they painted her out to be some monster.

On ESPN. “She’s electric, no doubt. But there’s a difference between passion and outright aggression, and Fury? She crossed it.”

On The View. “Look, I love Chantal, but she’s gotta rein it in. You can’t scream at the ump, curse out a ball girl, and still expect sympathy!”

Even Amy Davenport post match interview. She sat so demurely, dressed in a baby blue get up, gleaming under studio lights in the conference room. “She’s talented, I’ll give her that. But talent isn’t everything. You have to have grace. You have to have sportsmanship. I didn’t feel safe out there. I mean—she called me a ‘prissy bitch with no footwork’ in the middle of a serve!” Then there was a muted clip of Chantal on the court, mouth clearly forming ‘Are you new to fucking walking?’ Amy then let out a soft laugh. “I’m worried for her. That kind of temper? It’ll end her career.”

And then before she could even think about it, the remote control was out of her hand and a picture frame had been broken on the other side of the room. The sound of the television was faint, but it felt like it was blaring in her mind. She sat back against leather couch, chest heaving up and down in anger as she sat in the deafening silence after the shattering glass.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Next thing she knew after her angered waned, were studio lights that were too bright, too white, and too artificial to feel anything like a fair conversation rather an interrogation, gleaned down on her.

Chantal sat center stage, perched on a sterile white couch in ESPN’s New York studio, the makeup crew long gone, her glossy lips lined, her signature slicked-back ponytail broadcast-ready and her heels dug into the floor like stakes in the ground. She wore a light blue top that, a traditional Asian pattering on it, with black slacks.

Tashi stood just off-camera, arms folded, watching like a hawk with her mouth in a thin, unreadable, line. Her manager, Quentin, flitted between texts and pacing, whispering too-late reassurances.

“This is good press.” He’d said on the car ride over. “A reset. A rebrand. Let people see the real you.” Be explained, sort of rambling off to himself as he stressed over the woman’s image. “You go in there, keep your cool, answer with grace. Make them regret ever doubting you.”

Chantal had looked out the window the whole ride, jaw clenched. “They’ll see what they want to see and damn way.” And that was pretty much all she said back then, just gave a sharp nod and was silent the rest of the way.

Now, she regretted even showing up.

It wasn’t long before the hosts flanked her like opponents on either side. Marcus Dean on her right—a former football player now turned talking head who liked to stir the pot for likes. Loud, smug, always the first to turn heat into headlines. And on her left, Dana Mallory—sharp, polished, and known for her thinly-veiled contempt toward athletes who didn’t play by rules set in place by anyone but themselves. She was cold, pristine. Known for interviews that tore reputations limb from limb behind soft tones and weaponized words, and loved controversial male athletes.

The show went live. Theme music. Camera pans. Intro banter.

Then the two hosts turned to her—smiling like snakes.

Dana tossed her blonde bob over her shoulder as she crossed her legs and smiled without warmth. “Chantal, thank you for being here. After everything that’s happened this past week, the world has a lot of questions.” The pale woman began.

“Yeah, it’s been a week.” The woman answered back in a sort of dull tone with a polite smile on her lips.

Dana gave a brittle laugh. “Yes, and I think the world is eager to hear from you directly—especially after your behavior during and after the Davenport match.”

Chantal raised a brow. “You mean my win?”

Dana’s smile widened, fake as gold foil. “I mean, let’s call it what it is. Some say you’re the most talented player the game’s seen in years. Others… say your temper might end your career before you reach your prime. That you’re heated. Hostile. Many people said that your supposed win looked more like a meltdown than a victory.”

Chantal’s fingers twitched. “Funny. When McEnroe did it, it was called passion by many.”

“Oh, so we’re playing the double standard card already?” Marcus chuckled, leaned back in his chair as he adjusted his gold watch, the silver contrasting against his brown skin. “Come on, Fury.”

“My name’s Chantal.”

“You shouted at the ump, smashed a racquet, refused to shake Amy’s hand. That’s not exactly sportsmanship.”

“I shook her hand. It just wasn’t fake.” Chantal said finely, brows beginning to furrow as lies began to spew from the man’s mouth, though the racquet smashing was true.

“Some would call it aggressive,” Dana said smoothly. “Especially when Amy came forward saying she felt… intimidated by you. Unsafe, even.”

Chantal sat back, looking over at the woman as if she just said something stupid. “Because I told her to stop making excuses? I’m not the one to put up with the dramatics, that’s for other people to deal with if it’s such an issue and then it comes to me.”

Dana’s smile widened, razor-thin. “You’ve been fined three times this season for on-court outbursts, suspended once, and now you’re being investigated by the WTA. Doesn’t that suggest a pattern?”

Chantal’s fingers twitched as a smirk graced her lips, one out of catching the woman in her lie. “First of all, I have never been suspended. Not once in my entire career. And this “investigation”, if you can even call it that. It was more so a meeting, it only opened up due to this entire debacle started by Davenport. So, no, I don’t think it suggests a pattern, I think it suggests the rules bend differently when you don’t come in a dainty form and a losing streak.” She shrugged, and she could feel the hard stares from her couch and manager as she answered the questions. But Chantal was never the one to lie when it came to questions, and she wasn’t going to start now that people felt reheated by it.

Marcus chuckled. “So now the system’s the villain?”

“You tell me.” She demanded the man. “When Novak screams at line judges, he’s ‘fired up.’ When I do it, I’m a ‘danger to the sport.’ Some may find that amusing.” It was silent for a moment, the two hosts either moving the reactions they were getting from her or simply stunned, but Chantal used that time to continue.

“I won the Davenport match.” She interrupted sharply. “I didn’t cheat. I didn’t hurt anybody. I talked trash—just like Amy did. You can see it when we shake hands before the match. Difference is, I didn’t go cry to a microphone afterwards, I talked back.” She spat.

Dana’s eyes glittered. She’d gotten blood in the water.

“But Amy said she felt unsafe.”

“And I felt undermined.”

“Because someone finally called out your behavior?”

Quentin shifted uncomfortably while Tashi’s jaw tightened. She bit on her lips, her stare hard as she watched from behind the cameras.

Chantal tilted her head, slow and deliberate. “What behavior are we talking about?” She questioned, turning her face up. “Me speaking up? Me refusing to smile pretty and take the hits? Or me winning when I’m not “supposed to”?” She questioned.

Dana blinked, licking her lips as she whistled herself in her seat, causing Marcus leaned forward to add onto the questions. “You don’t think your attitude’s part of the problem?”

“My attitude is why I’m still here. My attitude is why I win, and why I won that match. And I’m not apologizing for being intense in a sport that demands it. Y’all like the fire and the fury until a Black woman’s holding the match.”

A few producers backstage froze and there were soft gasps throughout the studio. Dana’s brow arched as if she was offended at such a claim while Marcus smirked. “Whew. You hear that, Twitter?” He grinned, looking at the cameras. Chantal looked over at him with a hard stature before simply scoffing and lightly shaking her head.

Dana’s voice dropped lower as it turned honeyed and sharp. “You know, I spoke to a few former coaches of yours. They described you as ‘difficult,’ ‘combative,’ and ‘emotionally volatile.’ Would you say that’s fair?”

The camera zoomed in on Chantal’s face as she blinked, aiding as she took in the question. “I’d say most of my former coaches couldn’t keep up with me. And the rest wanted to coach a puppet, not a player. It’s why I now have someone more my speed, the Tashi Duncan.” She explained.

Dana tilted her head. “Or maybe they just wanted someone coachable. Someone who didn’t see every correction as an attack.” She rebutted. “And Tashi Duncan has had her fair share of issues in her own career. Do you really think she’s the best for you right now?”

Marcus whistled low before Chantal could even answer, amusement clear on his face. “Whew. See, that’s the issue right there. People are rooting for you, Chantal—but you make it hard.” He said, faking a sympathetic tone.

Chantal laughed, sharp and humorless as she just became tried of even being there. “No, you’re rooting for a version of me that doesn’t exist. The quiet, grateful, humble little phenom. But I’m not here to bow down or beg. I’m here to win and I’ve been doing it since I was sixteen.”

Dana arched a brow. “Even if you burn every bridge on the way there?”

“I don’t need your bridges. I’ve got a racquet and a forehand. That’s all I need for this game, that’s all there ever was.”

There was a small moment of silence, as if evening in the tense air was trying to digest what she truly said. “Sounds lonely.” Dana murmured.

And something snapped in Chantal’s throat. “You think I care what sounds lonely? You think I want to sit here and play PR puppet because Amy Davenport cried on a mic? I’m not here to fix your image of me. I’m not here to make people comfortable.”

“Do you ever worry that this—this fuse, this refusal to own your part—is going to keep making you the villain in everyone else’s highlight reel?”

There it was. The bait. That villain word.

And for one long, boiling second, Chantal didn’t breathe.

It was dead air.

Producers flinched behind the camera. Tashi tensed as she pursed her lips and braced for the worse as Quentin let out a low groan.

Then she spoke. “I’d rather be the villain than the victim.”

Dana smiled like she’d just landed the final blow, the studio still enclosed in slice as she straightened her cards against the glass table top. “Thanks for your time, Chantal.”

Chantal didn’t respond. She stood up, ripped the mic off her shirt, and walked off without another word.

Then it cut to commercial.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

The studio doors hadn’t even finished swinging shut behind her when the first flash went off. Paparazzi crowded the sidewalk like a pack of hungry dogs. Some wore press badges. Most didn’t. All of them shouted.

“CHANTAL, IS IT TRUE YOU THREATENED AMY DAVENPORT?”

“IS ESPN GOING TO BAN YOU?”

“IS IT TRUE THAT YOU’RE BEING INVESTIGATED BY THE WTA?”

Then a man with a Canon camera lunged toward her as she was about to enter the black SUV. “ARE YOU ON STEROIDS?!”

She pushed past them, her stride clipped and narrow. The way she furrowed her brow at that behind her sunglasses was visible to the cameras, her face counting into one of disgust and anger at the claim. Tashi and Quentin tried to flank her, but it was no use—there were too many. Too loud. Too vicious.

Another voice screamed, “SHE’S GOT ANGER ISSUES! IT HAS TO BE ON STEROIDS.“

Then came the flash. A blinding one. Inches from her face.

She stopped. “Back up.” She hissed, poring a finger that the man. But he didn’t move. She could feel the heat behind her eyes, the pounding in her throat. Her pulse buzzed like a live wire as the sounds behind her became mudded and overwhelming but the flashes kept hitting her and the camera moved closer—far too close.

And then—

She pushed.

A firm, instinctive shove to the chest as she pushed the camera from her face with her other hand, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to make him stumble back two feet.

A dozen shutters clicked.

The moment was captured. Frozen. Ruined.

She turned and disappeared into the black SUV waiting at the curb, slamming the door behind her.

Inside, Quentin swore under his breath. Tashi didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, her voice low.

“Now it’s gonna get worse.”

All while Chantal sat, leaned back into the seat with slightly irregular breathing, her head beginning to hurt as her eyes trained outside at the passing city of New York.

The moment floods every social platform. Clips circulate not just from the shove—but from the ESPN interview.

“I’m not here to make people comfortable.”

“I don’t need your bridges.”

“I’m not here to fix your image of me.”

Hashtags trend. Memes explode. People choose sides.

Amy Davenport posts an Instagram story the next morning, nothing but a black screen with white words.

“I just want the game to feel safe again.” And the media eats it up.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Chantal sits alone in her hotel room. No lights. No sound. Just a quiet rage, eating her from the inside.

She only blinks before she’s on the court, breathing heavy as the sun beamed down on her. The only sound she could hear before her breathing was the soothing sound of bird chirping. She absolutely loved that. It was rare in the big city of New York, but it was a gem to hear in New Rochelle. She whiffed before moving to the locker room, that reeked of sweat, disinfectant, and tension. Chantal sat still, her fist pressed against the cold metal bench, her racquet still clenched in the other hand like a weapon.

Her long-sleeved black Nike top clung to her, streaked with red clay and rage. Her curls were pulled back into a tightly-wound ponytail, strands falling out like they, too, were sick of containment.

Tashi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, chewing gum with a tense jaw.“You’re not gonna break your racket, are you?” Tashi asked, voice casual, one brow raised.

Chantal cut her eyes to the woman, a sharp and deadly look in her eyes as she steadied her breathing. “Funny.” She deadpanned.

And Tashi smirked. “Davenport’s been playin’ the media like a fiddle since she was twelve.” She begun, knowing what the woman was pissed and overthinking this situation everyone she got quiet. She’s been pissed about it for days now. “Let her. You won. That’s all that should matter.”

Chantal let out a sigh as she dropped the racquet. It clanged against the tiled floor. “But it doesn’t.” She said. “All anyone’s talking about is how I yelled. How I stomped. How I said something mean. Who gives a fuck?!”

“You called her a lousy bitch.”

“She is!” Chantal yelled, standing up from her seat, fire in her eyes as she looked at the woman. “She’s a lousy bitch who’s been getting away with micro aggression for far too fucking long. Every time we shake hands, it’s always some stupid and sick ass comment. The bitch is lousy and that’s why when we make it the championships. Dumb broad can’t even make it to Wimbledon.” She grumbled

And Tashi laughed once, sharp and short, slightly amused by her comments.

“Look, you want to be great, right?” Tashi moved closer, her coach’s eyes scanning Chantal. “Then we need to work on your mental game. The power’s there. But the fuse is short. You gotta figure out why.”

Chantal looked up. “You offering therapy or something? Cause I’m not doing it.”

“No.” Tashi said, grabbing her bag. “But I know something that might help. A place out in Las Angeles. I know something about pressure, and I know some people who can relate as well. Especially to you. And I think you need a vacation retreat before Wimbledon.”

Chantal paused briefly, blinking as she looked down at her hands in thought. Her mind flashed between everything that’s been going on, from her matches to the Amy drama, to the ESPN clips, to the new steroids accusations to simply not having a single soul in her fucking corner. Maybe she needed a break, maybe she needed sometime to…do nothing. Anything to take her mind off what’s been going on…or something besides tennis.

I’ll never do something besides tennis. She quickly thought.

She then let out a sharp sigh before stiffly nodding her head. “Yeah.”

“What?” Tashi asked. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Chantal said, picking up her racquet before rising. “I’ll go to L.A.”

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬

The sun in L.A. was a different. Almost artificial and arrogant. To Chantal at least.

It shined with no blocking buildings as it just dared you to look at it head on. Even the breeze had a bite. Everything about the city felt too loud, too glossy, too teeth-whitened and crystal-infused. And fake. And this is coming from a woman from now gentrified Harlem.

But she couldn’t deny how beautiful the city was. And he shared admitting that.

She stepped out of the car, aviators pulled low on her nose, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. A week ago she was elbowing cameras in midtown traffic. Now she was standing outside a modern California home nestled somewhere between Bel Air and some other city. She actually wasn’t even quite sure if she was in Bel-Air honestly, that’s just the only place she knows.

The home was nice, tall with nice architecture and beautiful greenery. A bit bougie in a way, but one that Chantal like. It looked very homey. The birds chirped, just like in New Rochelle, but these ones sounded like they’d ate healthier with how loud they were, and how many she saw pass across the sky.

“Kill me now.” She muttered, slamming the car door behind her.

Tashi was already waiting inside the foyer of the home, dressed in leggings and an athletic shirt, sipping something green through a bamboo straw. “Welcome to The Resting Ground.” She grinned, all fake serenity as she held her arms out to gesture to the home. “Your chakras are gonna love it here or whatever.”

“I don’t know what that is.”Chantal told her in a deadpan, standing stiff as her eyes drifted over the cozy looking home that looked quite lived in. But she knew this couldn’t be Tashi’s home, so whose was it.

Tashi just let out an awkward laugh before clapping her hands. “Right.” She mumbled. “Well come on. You’ll like it once you stop being allergic to peace.” She said, gesturing the woman between the set of stairs that split into two grand stair cases on the opposite sides of the foyer.

Chantal followed her through the place though hone, it still had that pseudo retreat feeling—zen garden table, koi pond in a fountain outside. The house seemed empty save the two women. And as Chantal followed the woman through the home, passing the kitchen, she was confused on what she was even doing here anymore.

“So, whose house is this.” She said, cutting right to it.

“One of mine.” Tashi said, only sparing her a single glance over her shoulder as she responded. Chantal just raised a brow at that but nodded. She then faced outside, seeing nothing but a nice green yard with a pond in the back.

“No court?” She asked, tearing her eyes away from the patio doors just when they cut off and the women entered a hall.

“Nope.” Tashi sighed. “Cause that’s not what this home is for. Trust me, I learned relaxation the hard way.” She mumbled.

And now Chantal hated all of it.

They got to the room in the hall, to her right but not far from the kitchen. It was a sun-drenched room with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the perfect view of the back yard. There was a large bed in the center of the room, with nice dark wood detailing as the base and bead board, with matching nightstands. Which there was a tray of fresh fruit sitting on, like an apology of sorts.

Chantal threw her bag on the floor and stood stiffly in the middle of the room, like the floor was lava. “Let me guess, there’s no gym either?” She asked, moving over and picking up a piece of pineapple, tossing it back.

“No, there isn’t. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

She whipped her head around. “So what the hell am I supposed to do here?”

“Not punch someone.” Tashi replied, peeling a slice of mango from the tray and popping it into her mouth. “You’ll be here alone, but I’ll come by and take you out to experience some calming things. Maybe meet some more people like you. Athletes. High performers. Folks who’ve been through the wringer. But for now? Just… rest. Try to. Find a hobby, sit with your woke thoughts and not cloud your mind by working out.” She explained.

Chantal stared out the window. Trees swayed in the wind. A butterfly floated by. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“What if I don’t know how to relax?” She asked, and Tashi glanced at her when she caught how soft her tone was, it was gentle. Like she was…scared, almost.

“Then you’ll learn.” Tashi said gently. “You’re not here to win anything, Chantal. You’re here to learn how to stay in the game without letting it eat you alive.”

Chantal didn’t respond. She just nodded once, slowly, like she’d just been handed something she wasn’t sure she could hold.

Tashi left with a light pat on her shoulder, telling her ahead had to get back home and coach Art. And then she was alone.

Alone with quiet. With herself. With too many thoughts. With nothing to fight.

She sat on the edge of the bed for ten minutes before standing up again. Paced. Looked through the closet. Turned on the shower. Turned it off.

She finally settled on the balcony, knees pulled to her chest, watching the sun melt behind the hills. It was stupid how perfect the sky looked.

Still, for the first time in days, she let herself breathe. Not the kind she used for control. But a kind of…relief?

A hummingbird darted past her head. And surprisingly, she didn’t flinch. Not even once.

But trust, this calm didn’t last long.

The quiet, against all odds, had started to settle around her like a weighted blanket. Chantal remained on the balcony well after the sky blushed itself into twilight, until the soft hues dimmed into a navy blue curtain speckled with stars she rarely saw back home. A plane blinked across the sky. The wind cooled. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t pulling her hoodie over her head or checking her phone for the next match, meeting, or press circuit.

Eventually, the fatigue she’d been ignoring for weeks—months even—caught up to her. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She simply peeled herself off the balcony chair, brushed her teeth in the cozy bathroom, and climbed into bed like someone giving in rather than surrendering.

To her surprise, she slept, and she slept well.

So when her alarm pierced the morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp, she was already stirring.

No snooze button. No groan. No delay.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, swung her legs over the bed, and stood with the same silent command she brought to the court. Her hands moved automatically, reaching for the stretch band tucked inside her duffle, tying her braids tighter as she padded to the bathroom. Her joints popped. Her face looked less tired.

Though she was in a different home, she fell into routine like any other time.

She started with stretches, slow but intentional, letting each vertebra crackle back to life. Then bodyweight circuits. Squats, planks, push-ups, all in the middle of the room while the sunlight poured in from the linen curtains she pulled back earlier. The sports bra she slept in stuck to her skin by the end of it, her breath even but measured. She flowed through the movements like choreography. It kept her mind quiet.

Next came breakfast, and she used the things available within the home. Oats with flaxseed and almond milk, topped with banana slices and chia seeds. She found everything she needed in the kitchen, her brow slightly raised at how well-stocked it was for a place supposedly about “rest.” Coffee with three creamers and four sugar cubes and a protein shake on standby. She ate standing up, scrolling through her phone, and the first thing she did was check her emails.

There were a few from her manager, some promo requests, one PR notice reminding her of an event she’d since skipped out on. She fired back quick responses between spoonfuls, paused only to rotate her shoulder.

Then she showered, and came out of the bathroom dressed in black leggings, cropped white tank, and a black hoodie covering her form. Her blue duffel bag was back over her shoulder. Her braids braided into one at the back of her head, edges laid. Phone charged. Water bottle filled.

She was out the door before 7:15.

And that’s when it hit her.

She stood on the porch, blinking at the serene, unfamiliar neighborhood. No honking horns, no bustling sidewalks, no traffic noise. No corner bodega. No subway station. Just sunshine, kids laughing and sprinklers running.

No gym in sight

And also no car.

Her brows pulled together in disbelief as she turned in place, then back toward the house with an annoyed sigh escaping her lips.

“This is ridiculous.” She grumbled, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. When she stepped back inside, ready to text Tashi something foul, she caught a glint of silver in the entryway. A keyring, hanging on a hook near the door.

Attached to it, a folded note in Tashi’s slanted script:

“Figured I couldn’t leave you stranded. Though I was going to. - T”

Chantal snorted in amusement. “Yeah, whatever.” She grumbled, balling the paper up and tossing it.

She grabbed the keys without hesitation and followed the logical next step, which was the garage. The motion sensor lights flickered on as the door rose slowly, revealing what had to be some kind of sick joke.

A pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle sat parked squarely in the middle.

Chantal just stared at it, blinking once.

Then twice.

Then she muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” In a small hiss. This was far change from her sleek black Porsche.

It looked like something a sorority girl in Malibu would drive. Round edges on it’s vintage body. Like it belonged in some feel-good teen movie about summer and surfboards and an endless supply of ice cream.

Her lips parted in a dry, unimpressed scoff. But still, she hit the unlock button, and the lights blinked in reply, customized with hearts on them. This caused her to furrow her brows more, wondering whose car this really belonged to, because no way was it Tashi Donaldsons.

Chantal opened the door, ducked into the Beetle, tossed her bag in the passenger seat, and sat there for a second.

Then she pulled her phone out and typed “nearest gym” into her GPS. A handful of results populated. She picked furthest one and hit Go.

With a low grumble, the car sputtered to life. “Don’t stall on me.” She warned it like it was an opponent.

Then Chantal Figeruoa—New York-born, Bronx-trained, nationally ranked tennis star—backed the pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle out of the garage like she’d done it every day of her life, pulled out onto the unfamiliar California road, and followed the calm voice of her GPS toward somewhere she could finally sweat again.

She drove to a Planet Fitness, parking in the lot. But as she stepped out, her eyes caught a mural across the street—a painting of the infamous Apollo Creed on the side of a building. And she immediately knew what it was, and it hit her like a punch to the chest. It was the Delphi Boxing Academy. The sight stirred something in her. Even though she was parked at the Planet Fitness, she didn’t even think before she walked across the street to the boxing gym. It called to her in a way she couldn’t explain.

The gym door creaked open, letting in a sliver of midday sun—and her.

She stepped inside, looking around in slight shock as her eyes moved across the gym. The sound of grunts and hits echoed throughout the place, people making hit after heat over the sound of rap music coming from the speakers. The familiar scent of sweat, leather, and chalk hit her all at once, oddly comforting, like stepping into a memory. She moved toward the front desk, where a young man—couldn’t have been more than nineteen—looked up from his phone. His face froze.

“Hi,” She said, a small smile and a polite tone. “I was wondering if I could get a day pass? I’ll, uh, I’ll pay whatever you need.” She shrugged, feeling a bit awkward being in a place like this again. The kid blinked hard, his jaw tightening as he registered who she was. He tried—truly tried—to play it cool, but the awe leaked through the cracks in his expression. “Uh… nah. You’re good. On the house.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, unsure. “You sure?”

He nodded, grinning a little too wide now. “Yeah. It’s cool. Really.” He nodded.

She murmured a soft thank you with a sort of bashful smile and stepped past the counter, feeling his eyes trail her as she walked deeper into the gym. That always happened—people staring, recognizing her, whispers. She never got used to it.

She was awkward. That’s what she truly was, and it’s what people used to call her when they saw her in public. The people from her neighborhood. Even Mando used to say it to her. Now she was standoffish. Aggressive. But the truth was far more simple. She was just a girl once—thrust into a spotlight she never asked for, alone and scared, and she wore that cold demeanor as armor. It was survival for a world that she knew was gonna chew her up and spit her out.

She made her way towards of the corners of the gym, where the lighting was a bit brighter since she was next to the large floor to ceiling windows. The position gave her a clean view of the ring, where two women were sparring with quick hands and tighter footwork. She watched them for a moment, appreciating the rhythm, the discipline, and the grit it took to show up and give everything.

She dropped her duffel bag onto the floor and sat beside it, stretching her legs and cracking her knuckles. Her eyes drifted toward the heavy bag hanging nearby. For a moment, she just stared. It had been nearly fifteen years. Fifteen years since Armando passed. Since she had last thrown a punch with purpose.

And now, here she was.

In a place they had talked about visiting together. A place where Apollo Creed himself once trained.

She stood and moved toward the bag, shaking out her arms. Her hoodie came off slowly, revealing toned arms and a tank that clung to her frame. No gloves. No wraps. Just her bare fists. She stood in front of the sandbag, drew in a breath, and let loose.

The first few punches were rusty—more force than form. But then came rhythm. Sharp jab. Another. Left hook. Right cross. The sound of her fists slamming against the bag echoed through the space like gunshots. Her breath grew heavier. Her body moved faster. Every hit carried something—anger, grief, longing, the ache of time lost.

She didn’t notice the people watching, not at first. She didn’t hear the slow hush of the gym as others paused to look. She didn’t feel the weight of the eyes until her chest heaved too hard, and her focus slipped for half a second. She stepped back, letting her hands fall. Sweat beaded along her brow as she reached for her duffel, pulling out a bottle of water.

She twisted the cap and was about to drink—

And then she saw half the gym was looking. Watching her.

They looked away quickly when she stared back—heads turned, eyes dropped, everyone pretending they weren’t caught. So, she took a long sip of her water, unbothered on the outside, but her pulse still quick, from the hitting and the unwanted eyes.

That’s when he approached. A tall man in his about his fifties, thin build with a beard peppered with gray. His walk had a natural authority to it—like someone who’d spent years on the floor, reading fighters the way others read books. “Name’s Duke.” He said, holding out a hand. “I run things around here.” Chantal let out a huff before she reached and shook his hand. Firm grip. No smile.

“You hit like someone who’s been doing this in for a while.” He said. “Got good form, too. You want some gloves?”

She hesitated. A flicker of something in her eyes—nostalgia, maybe. Or pain.

“Nah,…Nah, I think I’m good.” She said. Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to want to say more the way her mouth opened, but she just shook her head again and looked down.

He nodded at that. “Alright. How about just some wraps then? Least you won’t tear your knuckles up.” He suggested.

She didn’t answer right away, looking down at her raw, reddened hands. She clenched her hands, her knuckles on the verge of tearing as her skin thinned and her blood rushed to the surface. Then, finally, she reasoned with a small nod. “Wraps are fine.” She said, looking up at him.

Duke nodded before he walked off to grab them, and she exhaled, flexing her fingers slowly. It had started as a visit. Just a place to remember the man she lost long ago. Duke then returned with a roll of fresh wraps in hand, nodding for her to sit on the bench nearby. She dropped down, stretching her arms out as he knelt in front of her, unrolling the fabric with a casual ease that came from years of practice. “You’re heavy with the hands.” He said as he started wrapping her right hand, careful not to pull too tight across the knuckles. “Gotta say, you hit like someone who used to do this for real.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just watched his hands move. Efficient. Steady. “I was good once, I guess.” She finally muttered with a lazy shrug. At least, that’s what he used to say. She thought.

Duke chuckled under his breath, glancing up at her. “Yeah. But I know boxings not your thing.” He stated. “I’ve seen you before.” He added. Chantal’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop him. “Thought you might.” She mumbled. He nodded, focusing back on her wrist, though he caught sign of how tense she’d became. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. Just—lotta folks come in here trying to prove something. You walk in and nearly knock the bag off the chain, no gloves, no warm-up. Impressive. Got the heart of someone remembering a lot.”

She gave a quiet snort, but it wasn’t unkind. “Something like that.”

He moved to her left hand, checking the spacing between her fingers before looping the wrap again. “So what brings you in today? Felt like hitting somethin’ or someone call you in?” He asked.

Her eyes flicked toward the massive mural of Apollo Creed painted on the gym’s window. “The mural, actually. I was parked at a Planet Fitness across the street. Saw that painting and… couldn’t ignore it.” She said softly, causing Duke to nod thoughtfully. “That’s how we get most people.” He said with a small smile. “Apollo’s still pulling them in, even years after. Gym’s been here a minute. You ever train here before?”

“No. Always..wanted to.” She hesitated. “Someone I knew—he wanted to bring me here. Mentor, long time ago.”

Duke glanced up at her again, something softer in his expression now. “Sounds like he was important.”

Chantal nodded, her eyes distant. “He taught me how to fight. How to survive.” Silence settled between them for a moment as Duke finished the last loop and secured the wrap.

“Well,” He said, giving her hand a light pat as he rose to his feet, “You’re wrapped and ready. Should hold up fine if you go at that bag the way you were earlier.” He said, giving the air some lady jab, causing Chantal to let out a small chuckle. She then flexed her fingers experimentally, nodding once in approval.

“Thanks.” She said quietly as she stood up from the bench.

“Anytime. And hey—if you feel like sparring, or if you want a trainer while you’re here, let me know. No pressure.”

She gave him a faint smile, small but real. “I might.” And her response let him know that she was just like that, short and simple answers to pretty much anything he had to say. She was naturally guarded. Duke smiled back at her. “No rush. This place’ll be here when you’re ready to decide.”

And with that, he left her alone with her thoughts, nothing but her and the bag.

Chantal let out a long sigh as she slipped her headphones back over her ears, the booming hum of bass surging into her bloodstream like a familiar drug before 50 cents voice came through. She returned to the bag without another word, rolling her shoulders loose before stepping into her stance. With her hands freshly wrapped, she moved with more purpose now—her jabs crisp, her footwork light and coiled, like a spring constantly threatening to snap. She danced around the bag like a pro, ducking and weaving, throwing uppercuts at shadows only she could see, landing clean three-piece combos like muscle memory had never left her.

She was in the zone. Locked in. Each hit a purge. Each hiss of breath through her clenched teeth a release. Every strike whispered of the lessons Armando Fuentes has taught her. Of The Bronx, of long nights with nothing but a jump rope and cold gym lights. She didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t even notice she was being watched.

But someone was.

In the ring, Sandra Alvarez—five-time world champion, undefeated, and cocky as ever—was barking at her sparring partner, who’d just taken a knee.

“Get up!” Sandra snapped, frustration boiling off her. “You’re weak! I don’t need this! I need a challenge, not a fucking warm-up!”

Her coach tried to say something, but she waved him off and turned at the sharp sound of fists and hisses echoing from the back of the gym. That’s when she saw her.

Chantal, in black leggings and a fitted tee, moving like the bag had personally offended her. Her technique was tight. Controlled. Angry. Powerful.

Sandra smirked.

“Aye!” She shouted, her voice slicing through the heavy air and silencing the gym in one instant.

Chantal halted, panting slightly as she pulled her headphones down to her neck, slightly frightened by the loud noise that cut through the gym. Her brows furrowed when she saw the woman pointing at her from the ring. She didn’t like being yelled at, especially not mid-round.

“Yeah?” She replied, wary, her voice clipped and a little awkward. All eyes were suddenly on her, and her fingers tightened on the wraps at her sides.

Sandra tilted her head, cocky smile widening. “What’s your name?”

The woman blinked, her eyes moving to the other that lingered in the building, now eyeing the twos “Chantal.” She said, lowering her fists.

“Yeah, I know,” Sandra replied with a nod , eyes still glued to her. There was something smug behind the statement, like she was waiting for a reaction. Chantal didn’t give her one. She simply rolled her eyes and went to put her headphones back on, uninterested in whatever performance Sandra was looking to start.

But Sandra wasn’t finished.

“Wanna spar?”

A hush rippled through the gym. Some people went back to training, but others stayed watching—Duke among them, leaning slightly forward now with interest. Even an older man from Sandra’s team, someone recognizable from TV, was squinting toward the back.

Chantal blinked, taken aback. She shook her head, quick and dismissive.

“Nah. I’m not a boxer.”

Sandra didn’t skip a beat. “I didn’t ask you that,” She shot back. “I asked if you wanted to spar.”

“And I said no.” Chantal snapped, her temper flickering at the edges. She was tired of the attention, the sudden challenge, the performance of it all.

Sandra scoffed and turned toward her corner, laughing with her coach and sparring partner. Then, just loud enough to carry, she muttered, “La perra tiene miedo.” They chuckled, assuming Chantal had tuned them out.

But she hadn’t.

The moment the words left Sandra’s mouth, Chantal froze. Her headphones never made it to her ears. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed as rage began to simmer up her spine. “What the fuck did you just say?” She asked, loud and sharp, ripping the headphones fully off and tossing them onto her bag.

The gym quieted again, the one that went back to their training pausing to look back at the commotion.

Sandra turned slowly, eyebrow raised, but didn’t respond fast enough for Chantal. She didn’t wait for her to respond before she marched toward the ring, venom in her voice, switching fluently into Spanish now. “¿Qué carajo dijiste de mí? ¿Ah? Repítelo, perra.”

Sandra and her crew stiffened, but said nothing. Sandra’s face flickered with surprise before she pulled on her smirk again. “You better watch who the fuck you’re talking to.” She shot down from the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes.

“No, you better watch your fucking mouth. I don’t fucking know you.” Chantal spat.

The heat between them intensified, voices rising with every second. They spoke over each other now, Spanish and English blending into a furious mess. Chantal’s fists were balled, her shoulders squared like she was ready to climb through the ropes, and Sandra leaned forward as if daring her to do it.

Before Sandra could even step down from the ring, Duke stepped in, moving away from the conversation he was having with the other Creed boxer.

“Alright—Alright!” He barked, stepping between them with his hands raised. “That’s enough!”

He turned to Chantal first. “Look, I know she talks slick, but this ain’t the place for it, alright?”

“She called me a bitch.” Chantal growled, her hard stare moving to the man now. “You better get her.”

“And you looked ready to fight about it—which I get.” He said quickly, cutting a look toward Sandra. “But no fights outside the ring. Y’all wanna settle this? Then do it with gloves. Otherwise, cut the noise.”

Sandra threw up her hands mockingly. “I said spar. She said no. Guess she is scared.”

Chantal’s nostrils flared as Duke gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t give into unless you plan on handling it.” He said low enough for only her to hear.

Chantal frowned as she huffed out of anger. She then glanced around and he was right. Pairs of eyes lingered on her, some amused, some stunned, others just curious. Even the bag she’d been working on seemed to pulse with the tension still radiating off her.

Chantal let out a sharp exhale through her nose, jaw tight.

“What’s it gonna be?” Duke asked, voice low but firm. Chantal didn’t answer right away—not with words, anyway. Her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth could’ve cracked. Her nostrils flared with every breath, each inhale hotter than the last. And her glare was almost loud. Loud enough to shake something loose in the gym’s atmosphere.

“Run it.” She hissed, her gaze locked on Sandra, who was now grinning down at her from inside the ring like a lion already tasting blood.

Duke gave her a long look. Not quite disapproval, but close—more like the reluctant resignation of a man who’d just agreed to light a match near gasoline. Still, he nodded, turning on his heel to get her corner ready.

Sandra was already peeling off her hoodie, bouncing in place as her coach tightened her gloves and handed her a mouthguard. She looked excited. Eager. Like she hadn’t had real competition in months.

While Duke moved to grab gear for Chantal, a voice came from behind him.

“Yo, D,” Adonis called out, making his way over with furrowed brows. “Are you sure about this?”

Duke didn’t look up. “Yeah, I’m sure. Sandra needs a fight.”

Adonis glanced toward the ring, then to Chantal, who was tightening her own gloves without a hint of hesitation before moving to get them paid up. “And you think this is it?” He asked, subtly gesturing at her, his tone low and unsure. Chantal didn’t react outwardly to the slight jab. Maybe because she didn’t blame him. She was a stranger—one who just stormed into their gym and challenged their top fighter out of pure spite. But it didn’t matter to her. She was angry. And nothing else existed outside of that.

“I mean—this is reckless, man.” He continued.

Duke didn’t even look up, didn’t pause in his movements as he taped her other hand. “Yeah, you would know, wouldn’t you?” He said dryly, voice hard-edged.

Adonis frowned. “Duke.”

“Adonis,” Duke fired back without missing a beat, finally standing to face him. They stared at each other for a long second. Not aggressive, but there was something tense and unspoken between them, a kind of mutual challenge layered beneath years of trust and respect. Neither one of them moved, as if deciding whether to press it or let it die.

Chantal, fed up with the testosterone-fueled standoff, scoffed loudly and shoved past both of them without a word. Her shoulder clipped Adonis’s arm as she walked by, but she didn’t apologize.

She had a ring to climb into.

With a practiced hop, Chantal pulled herself through the ropes and into the ring. The moment her feet hit the mat, something inside her shifted. The gear, the weight of the gloves, the feeling of the canvas beneath her soles—it all came rushing back like muscle memory waking from a long nap.

She started bouncing on her toes, loosening up her shoulders as her body fell into rhythm. She slapped her gloves together and hissed short breaths between her teeth as she threw jabs at the air, working up momentum like she was stoking a fire. Her eyes stayed on Sandra across the ring, but her focus was inward. That familiar flood of adrenaline was back, and it was delicious.

The gym watched in hushed anticipation.

“Aye!”

The shout snapped her head down toward the ropes. Adonis was standing just below, holding a padded vest in one hand.

“At least put this on.” He said, not unkindly. His eyes were serious, but there was no trace of the earlier doubt in his voice. Chantal’s jaw ticked. For a second, she didn’t move. Just stared at him, letting the weight of her glare settle.

Then, with a sharp exhale, she slid back out of the ring.

Adonis met her halfway, pulling the vest over her head and strapping it tight across her back. His hands moved with focus, quick and efficient. And though he was clearly trying to stay professional, Chantal’s eyes never left his face—sharp, unreadable, almost daring him to look up. When he finally did, their eyes locked for a second. Just a second. But it was enough for something to pass between them—respect, maybe, or understanding. It didn’t linger long.

Chantal pulled away and slid back into the ring without another word. Though she couldn’t help but to think about how good he looked,

The crowd in the gym seemed to lean in as she rolled her shoulders, fists clenched and ready. She smacked her gloves together again before.

Then the bell rang.

Not an official one—just the sharp clang of Duke’s whistle echoing across the gym like the start of a war. The entire room tensed. All eyes locked on the ring as Chantal and Sandra stepped forward from opposite corners, gloves raised, shoulders tight, heads low. There was no friendly touch of gloves, no nod of respect. This wasn’t sport. It was a grudge match.

From the jump, Sandra made her experience known. Her guard was solid, elbows tight, and her footwork steady and grounded. Her movements were calculated—compact hooks, efficient slips, sharp uppercuts that came with professional precision. But Chantal was lightning. Unpredictable. Her fists moved like flickers of flame, and her body flowed with a rhythm not taught but earned. Something one can only be born with, or started young,

The first official hit came from Sandra—a tight left hook that caught Chantal’s temple. It sent her stumbling half a step, and the gym gasped.

“¡Vamos, Sandra!” Her coach shouted from the corner. “¡Enséñale quién manda!” Come on, Sandra! Show her who’s boss!

But Chantal only grinned, blood rising like heat beneath her skin. Her rebuttal came fast—a one-two combo that rocked Sandra’s jaw and gut, forcing her backward.

“She fast.” Adonis muttered under his breath, arm folded tightly as he watched from ringside.

“Yeah.” Duke replied, eyes never leaving the ring. “And mad.”

Sandra threw a looping overhand right, but Chantal ducked, slid inside, and landed a jab clean to the ribs.

“Is that all you got?” Chantal barked.

Sandra answered with a grunt that spit some blood through her mouth guard and a punch to the mouth that snapped Chantal’s head back.

“¡Te voy a tumbar, perra!” Sandra snarled. I’m gonna knock you down, bitch!

“You can try.” Chantal spat through her mouthguard, tasting the metallic liquid her mouth. “But you better swing harder than that, mama.” She taunted. The gym roared with each exchange. The air was electric, thick with sweat, adrenaline, and mounting tension. Sandra’s corner yelled commands, rapid-fire in Spanish, while Duke’s voice boomed over everyone else’s. “Guard up, Chantal! Don’t admire your work!” He yelled.

Adonis leaned closer to the ropes, eyes wide. “Watch the left! She’s loading it!”

But Chantal didn’t need to be told anything. She was already shifting her weight, bobbing just out of reach, her eyes sharp and predatory. Her counters came quicker now—three jabs in a row, each one tagging Sandra’s face with vicious precision. Left cheek. Chin. Nose. The sound of leather hitting flesh echoed like gunfire in the gym.

Sandra’s steps began to falter.

Chantal’s feet never stopped moving. Light but rooted, springy but deadly. She ducked a wild haymaker and punished the woman with another barrage—jab, jab, hook, jab—all to the face.

“¡Cúbrete, Sandra! ¡La cara!” Her coach screamed. Cover your face!

But it was too late. Chantal was relentless now, her gloves dancing like knives across Sandra. “You tired already?” She taunted, voice rising over the noise. “I thought you was bad, huh? ¡Pensé que no podía pelear!” I thought I couldn’t fight!

Sandra staggered back, clutching at her busted lip, face red and wet. Blood smeared along her glove.

“Get up!” Chantal screamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, circling like a lion. Her eyes blazed, fists twitching. “Get up!” The gym fell into stunned silence as Sandra slowly rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove. She squared her stance again, fists up, breathing heavy.

“Alright, come on then, bitch—” Sandra started, but she never fully finished.

Chantal snapped forward and delivered a straight shot to the face—clean, fast, and full of fury. Sandra’s head whipped back as her body flung into the ropes, collapsing like a ragdoll. The impact sent a shock through the gym.

“And stay down.” Chantal hissed through her teeth, chest heaving.

Sandra groaned on the mat, face twisted in pain. Her coach vaulted onto the apron, shouting, “¡Mierda! ¡Esto es una locura!” Shit! This is insane! Others in her corner erupted in fury.

“You let that animal in the ring?!” One shouted at Duke, voice shrill.

“Y’all crazy for letting this happen!” Another yelled, pointing fingers. “She ain’t even licensed, Duke!”

But Chantal didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She spat her mouthguard into her glove and dropped her arms, walking to the ropes with a searing glare. Her teeth clamped down on the tape at her wrists as she tore it free with furious yanks, ripping her gloves off as she eased out of the ring. The vest hit the matted floor with a thud as she tossed it aside, chest still rising and falling like she’d run through fire.

Duke took a step toward her as she moved to leave. “Chantal—”

Adonis followed. “Yo, hold up—”

But she was already gone. She brushed past both men without a glance, her fists clenched tight by her sides. No one in the gym tried to stop her. No one dared. Most were too focused on the beating she’d just delivered. She made it to her side of the gym, grabbed her bag with one hand, and slung it over her shoulder with the other. Her body moved like a storm—tight, unyielding, vibrating with leftover heat. Duke called after her. Adonis too. But Chantal didn’t even slow down.

The front door of the gym closed shut behind her as she marched out into the street, her car parked across from the building. Still breathless. Still burning.

But for the first time all day—Chantal felt alive.

@j0joworld @vile-harlot @inkdrippeddreams @imsohappyilovekbop @bbymuthaaa @healthenature @susanhill

[kxsagi]

*Pokes my head through your window* Good morning, may I request: Blue Lock boys with a Reader who insists they drink the homemade herbal tea she made first thing in the morning.

Characters: Chigiri, Yukimiya, any other characters you want

Because seriously, why did Chigiri or Yukimiya never consider TCM as an option?

“𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫”

a/n: i think yuki, reo, rin, and sae would def be into tea

ft. chigiri hyoma, yukimiya kenyu, mikage reo, karasu tabito, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, itoshi sae

chigiri hyoma

he blinks at the mug like it insulted his entire bloodline. 

“what did you say this was made of again?” 

you cheerfully answer, “dandelions, ginger, licorice root, and love!” 

he only heard “dandelions” and “root.” the love part did not save it. 

drinks it like it’s poison and glares at you over the rim the whole time. 

“you know i already have good hair, right? i don’t need... lawn clippings in a cup.” 

he’s so dramatic. clutches his stomach every time like he’s waiting to collapse. 

but refuses to skip a day because you always beam at him like he just cured a disease after finishing the cup. 

he actually does feel a little more energized. but he will never admit that. 

yukimiya kenyu

totally on board at first. skincare king. tea enthusiast. 

“ah, herbal. nice. did you steep it at 80 degrees?” 

you: “i microwaved it.” 

the betrayal in his eyes. 

drinks it anyway and nods politely with the stoicism of a man pretending he likes your cat’s cooking. 

goes full monk about it – sits cross-legged on the couch, sipping in silence, whispering affirmations like “my gut microbiome thanks me.” 

you find out later he’s been sneaking in a drop of honey every morning to make it bearable. 

“you can’t get mad if it still has the benefits.” 

if you try to make a new blend, he gets suspicious. “... what’s in this one?” 

you: “vibes.” 

mikage reo

very chill about it. the first morning you offer it, he drinks it and goes “interesting.” 

you ask what he means and he just says “tastes like nature with a grudge.” 

he drinks it every day but adds a bougie little mint leaf or lemon slice like he’s in a spa. 

insists you sell it as a “detox elixir” and slaps a mikage corp sticker on your tea jars. 

drinks it with his pinky up. 

convinces nagi to try it once and nagi just immediately lies down on the floor and doesn’t move for thirty minutes. 

reo just shrugs and says “it’s an acquired taste. like kale or emotional vulnerability.” 

karasu tabito

makes fun of you. every single time. 

“you’re trying to assassinate me with twigs in hot water. just say you hate me.” 

gags dramatically. slides down walls. wipes imaginary tears. 

but still drinks it. because deep down he’s a little whipped. 

sneaks in a spoonful of sugar when you’re not looking. sometimes three. 

once asked if he could add protein powder to it and you almost kicked him out. 

starts calling it “witch potion” and “swamp smoothie.” 

“ah yes, nothing like drinking a cauldron shot first thing in the morning. love you, babe.” 

kaiser michael

sips it once. pauses. looks at the mug like it personally betrayed him. 

“this is what you give to your enemies, not your boyfriend.” 

you tell him it helps inflammation. he raises an eyebrow and goes, “it’s inflaming my taste buds.” 

complains every single day but shows up like clockwork for his morning mug. 

mutters under his breath in german. probably insulting the tea. probably insulting you too but in a sexy way. 

insists on a dramatic health report each morning: “vital signs stable. vision slightly blurry. taste buds... gone. but still hot.” 

tries to bribe ness to drink it for him one day. you catch him and double the dosage. 

after a week, he starts posting selfies with #herbalhealing like he’s a lifestyle influencer. 

says he hates it but starts sending you pinterest boards titled “tea aesthetic.” 

itoshi rin

stares at the mug like it personally offended his ancestors. 

you: “it’s good for your immune system.” 

rin: “i’m not drinking grass clippings.” 

refuses for three days straight. you finally wear him down by saying it’ll reduce cortisol/stress. 

he drinks it. expression doesn’t change. not one twitch. you ask him how it is. 

“… it’s wet.” 

dramatic sigh. takes another sip like he’s at war. 

“did you brew this in a pond?” 

glares at the mug the whole time he drinks it. like he thinks it'll grow legs and fight him. 

starts researching each ingredient. one day comes home with a list like, “you know licorice root can raise blood pressure, right?” 

he still drinks it daily. never tells you why. 

you catch him once making it himself when you’re not home. you say nothing. he pretends nothing happened. 

itoshi sae

you hand him the mug with a cheerful “good morning!” and he just stares. 

“why is it the color of swamp water.” 

drinks it anyway. immediately gags like you slipped him poison. 

“is this payback for something i did in a past life?” 

says he’s gonna die every time he drinks it. clutches his throat like a victorian ghost. 

“this is why i don’t eat vegetables. it always leads to this.” 

puts it down dramatically and whispers, “bury me with my cleats.” 

complains for 10 straight minutes, then asks, “… wait, what’s this good for again?” 

next morning: already seated at the table with an empty mug. 

“not saying i believe in your dirt tea, but i didn’t need a nap during my training break today. that’s progress.” 

texts you “bring the juice” every morning like you’re his shady herbal dealer. 

still makes fun of it. calls it “potion of pain.” but you catch him once calling his teammate "weak" for not drinking his girlfriend's tea. 

he’s a silent believer. with attitude. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which the curtain falls but another one rises

Azzi Fudd tugged on the sleeves of her sweater as she stood outside the Shubert Theatre, blinking up at the flashing neon lights spelling out Hell’s Kitchen. It was the night after Paige got drafted to the WNBA — a celebration kind of night — and even though Azzi still had another year at UConn, she didn’t mind riding shotgun in Paige’s joy.

“This feels unreal,” Paige said, bumping Azzi’s shoulder with hers. “Broadway. New York City. What are we, grownups now?”

Azzi grinned. “You are. I’m still a college kid. You’re the adult paying taxes and everything.”

Paige laughed, and together they made their way inside the theatre, the plush red carpet and golden banisters making Azzi feel like she had stepped into a dream.

They slid into their seats near the front. Azzi glanced around, taking everything in — the ornate ceiling, the buzz of chatter, the way the stage seemed almost alive already even before the lights dimmed.

And then it began.

It only took about five minutes into the show for Azzi to stop breathing properly.

Because you walked on stage.

Playing Ali — the fiery, resilient lead — with so much raw, natural presence that Azzi forgot there were other people in the room. She sat forward in her seat without realizing it, heart thudding harder every time you sang, every time you danced across the stage with that spark in your eyes like you owned the world and dared anyone to say otherwise.

“She’s good,” Paige whispered beside her.

Azzi barely nodded. "Yeah... good."

Good wasn’t the word. You were mesmerizing. Electric. It felt like the gravity of the whole theater had shifted just slightly — and somehow, only Azzi noticed.

When the curtain finally fell and the cast bowed to a standing ovation, Azzi clapped until her palms stung. Her heart was beating faster than it should have been. It felt like she had just finished running suicides at practice.

"You good?" Paige asked, raising an eyebrow.

Azzi nodded quickly, tugging her jacket closed again. "Yeah. Just... that was incredible."

"Uh huh," Paige said, her voice teasing. "Come on," Paige grinned, tugging her arm. "We get to meet the cast backstage."

"Wait, for real?" Azzi blinked.

"Perks of being a future WNBA superstar," Paige joked, winking.

Backstage was chaotic in the best way — actors still half in costume, crew members buzzing around. Azzi felt out of place at first, awkward in her sneakers and jeans, until the cast started filtering in, still glowing with post-show adrenaline. Azzi tried to play it cool, but the second she saw you without the bright lights and stage makeup, somehow even more real and beautiful up close, her stomach flipped.

You smiled warmly when you spotted them. “Hey! You guys came to the show?”

Paige nudged Azzi forward. “We did. You were... amazing.”

Azzi managed a nod, feeling awkwardly big in her own skin all of a sudden. "Yeah, really amazing. You killed it."

You laughed — a light, musical sound that made Azzi’s heart skip — and stuck out your hand. "I’m Y/N."

"Azzi," she said, taking your hand. Your grip was firm, warm. It lingered longer than it probably should have, but neither of you seemed eager to pull away.

"Azzi," you repeated, testing the name like you were trying it on for yourself. "That’s a beautiful name."

Azzi flushed, feeling stupidly pleased. "Thanks. You... uh, you made me cry. Not like, ugly cry, but you know. Emotional."

You grinned. "Best compliment ever. Sorry for the tears, though."

"I think it’s a good thing," Azzi said quickly, and you laughed again.

Paige drifted off to talk to some of the other cast members, leaving Azzi standing there with you. Somehow, the two of you naturally wandered toward the corner of the room, away from the main cluster of people.

“So what do you do?" you asked, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. You had this easy confidence about you that made Azzi feel both nervous and weirdly safe.

"I play basketball," Azzi said, scratching the back of her neck. "At UConn. Still got one year left."

Your eyes lit up. "Wait, UConn? Like UConn UConn?"

She chuckled. "Yeah. That UConn."

"Damn," you said, grinning wide. "I should be asking for your autograph."

Azzi laughed, feeling herself relax a little. "Only if you sign a Playbill for me first."

"Deal," you said, and Azzi liked the way you smiled at her like you already shared some inside joke.

The conversation flowed easier than she expected. You asked about her season, about her teammates, about what it was like to balance school and basketball. In turn, Azzi asked about your journey to Broadway — the auditions, the rejection, the grind.

You were in the middle of telling a hilarious story about your first audition — where you completely blanked on your lines and ended up improvising an entire monologue about ordering coffee — when Paige wandered back over.

"We should head out soon," Paige said, glancing at her phone. "Traffic’s gonna be brutal."

Azzi felt a strange pang of disappointment, not ready for the night to end.

You seemed to sense it, smiling softly. "Hey, it was really cool meeting you guys."

"You too," Paige said, giving you a quick, friendly hug.

Azzi stepped forward, and when she hugged you, it was instinct — her arms wrapped a little tighter, held you a little longer. You didn’t seem to mind at all. Your hand gently brushed her back before you pulled away.

“Maybe I'll see you again sometime?" you said, voice light but hopeful.

Azzi’s mouth felt dry. "Yeah. I’d really like that."

You squeezed her hand once before letting go.

The second they were in the backseat of the car, Paige turned to her with a look that was all eyebrows and smirking lips.

Azzi frowned. "What?"

Paige didn’t say anything for a second, just kept grinning like she was about to burst.

"WHAT?" Azzi demanded, laughing now, shoving Paige’s arm.

"You liiiike her," Paige sang out in a teasing voice.

Azzi felt her ears burn instantly. "What? No, I don't. I just— she was— the show was really good."

Paige burst out laughing. "Yeah, sure. You were practically floating out of there."

Azzi turned to look out the window, cheeks hot, heart pounding too hard.

Maybe Paige was right.

Maybe liking you didn’t even cover half of it.

Because for the first time in a long time, she was pretty sure she believed in love at first sight.

Azzi lay sprawled on the hotel bed, staring at her phone like it might catch fire if she touched it.

The Broadway Playbill sat beside her on the comforter, your name printed in bold letters right under "Ali." She kept glancing at it like it might give her the courage she needed.

Across the room, Paige was already half asleep, her arm flung over her face, soft snores escaping.

Azzi’s heart hammered as she opened Instagram, her thumb hovering over the search bar.

Just do it, she told herself. You’re not proposing marriage. It’s just a DM. Normal people do this every day.

With a deep breath, she typed in your name.

There you were — your profile picture a candid shot of you laughing, your bio short and sweet. Broadway actor. Lover of coffee.

Azzi hesitated, thumb trembling over the "Message" button.

What if you thought she was weird? What if you didn’t even remember her? What if Paige was wrong and Azzi had completely imagined the connection between you two?

She threw her phone onto the bed dramatically and groaned into the pillow.

A second later, she snatched it back up. "Okay," she whispered to herself. "You're Azzi Fudd. You’ve hit game-winners in front of packed arenas. You can send one DM."

She clicked "Message" before she could lose her nerve.

Azzi: hey :) it was really cool meeting you tonight. you were amazing.

Immediately, she hated it. Too simple. Too boring. Too fan-girly.

She stared at it for a second, debating whether to delete it and start over — but before she could, the little "Seen" popped up at the bottom of the screen.

Azzi sat bolt upright.

Seconds later, the three dots appeared.

She stopped breathing.

Then your reply came through:

You: azzzziii!! i’m so glad you messaged!! you were literally the sweetest. and thank you <3 it meant a lot that you came to the show

Azzi smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.

She typed back, fingers flying faster now:

Azzi: i honestly still can't get over how good you were. like. not even exaggerating. you had me tearing up.

You: stop you’re gonna make me cry for real this time

Azzi: lmk if you need a hypewoman anytime lol. i’ll be there front row

You replied almost instantly:

You: deal. but only if i get court side tickets when you’re dropping 30 on someone’s head

Azzi laughed under her breath, trying not to wake Paige.

Azzi: say less.

There was a pause, and then another message popped up:

You: also... i meant what i said earlier. i hope we see each other again :)

Azzi read that line about five times, her heart thudding so loud she was sure Paige could hear it.

She bit her lip, smiling into the dark.

Azzi: i'd really like that too.

There was a second of silence. Then:

You: good. maybe next time you’re not allowed to leave without letting me steal you for coffee or something.

Azzi laughed softly, kicking her feet under the covers like a middle schooler.

Azzi: you’re on.

Across the room, Paige stirred and grumbled sleepily, “Texting your future wife over there?”

Azzi almost dropped her phone. “Shut up and go back to sleep,” she whisper-hissed.

Paige just chuckled drowsily, flipping over.

Azzi looked down at her phone again, heart racing. Your chat stayed open on her screen, a little beacon in the dark.

Maybe this was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

But for now, it was enough.

She tucked the phone against her chest and let herself dream of you.

A week later, Azzi found herself nervously adjusting the sleeves of her sweatshirt as she stood outside a little coffee shop tucked between two bookstores downtown.

She checked her phone for the hundredth time.

You: running like 2 mins late omg i’m sorry!!

Azzi: no worries. i'll be here :)

She pocketed her phone and took a deep breath, trying to calm the ridiculous butterflies going crazy in her stomach. It was just coffee. With a Broadway star who made her forget her own name with one smile. No big deal.

Azzi tugged her hood up to hide her face a little. Being back in New York even for a couple days meant random fans sometimes recognized her, and the last thing she wanted was for someone to interrupt this.

She heard your voice before she saw you — slightly out of breath, but still laughing.

"Azzi!" you called.

Azzi turned — and there you were, hair a little messy from rushing, wearing an oversized jacket and jeans, carrying way too many things at once: your phone, your bag, a giant water bottle, and a scarf that kept slipping off your shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry," you huffed, catching your breath as you finally stopped in front of her. "Subway was slower than usual."

Azzi grinned. "You’re fine. You look..." she trailed off, realizing anything she said would probably sound way too much. She cleared her throat. "You look good."

You smiled, cheeks pink from the cold. "Thanks. You too."

For a second, you just stood there smiling at each other, awkward but soft, the city noise fading around you.

Azzi shoved her hands in her pockets. "Wanna go in?"

"God, yes. I need caffeine to survive," you said, holding the door open for her.

Inside, the shop was warm and cozy, all mismatched chairs and twinkle lights and the smell of fresh espresso. It wasn’t packed, just a few people tucked away in corners.

Azzi ordered a hot chocolate and you got a latte with oat milk and cinnamon on top.

"You’re judging my order, aren’t you?" Azzi teased as you both found a little table near the window.

You laughed, setting down your drink. "No judgment. Hot chocolate is elite. You’re just missing out on the lifeblood of adulthood."

Azzi smiled. "I’m holding onto my youth while I can."

"Smart," you said, taking a sip of your latte and sighing dramatically. "Oh my God. Worth the subway chaos."

Azzi found herself watching the way you cradled the mug, the way your sleeves swallowed your hands, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

"You're staring," you teased after a second, raising an eyebrow.

Azzi flushed, caught. "Sorry."

"Don’t be," you said, grinning. "I stared at you enough after the show. It’s only fair."

Azzi laughed, feeling herself relax.

Conversation flowed easily again, just like backstage. You talked about your schedule — double show days, endless rehearsals — and Azzi talked about prepping for the next basketball season, training camps, staying in shape.

"You must be exhausted," Azzi said at one point, genuinely concerned. "I can’t imagine doing all that and still like... being alive."

You laughed. "Honestly, same. Some days I just run on stubbornness and iced coffee."

Azzi grinned. "Sounds like me during March Madness."

You leaned in a little, resting your chin in your hand. "You’re so chill. I don’t get it. I’d be freaking out all the time if I were you."

Azzi shrugged, a little shy. "I mean... it's easier when you love it, right?"

You smiled softly at her, and Azzi felt her heart skip.

"Yeah," you said, voice quieter now. "It is."

There was a beat of silence — not awkward, but heavy with something else. Something warm and crackling.

Without really thinking about it, Azzi reached across the tiny table, brushing her fingers lightly against your wrist where your sleeve had slipped back.

You looked down at the touch, then back up at her with a smile so genuine, so open, it made Azzi's throat feel tight.

"You’re even sweeter than I thought you’d be," you said, voice a little teasing but mostly sincere.

Azzi ducked her head, smiling into her drink. "I’m not that sweet."

"You are," you said, bumping your foot gently against hers under the table. "And I like it."

Azzi lifted her gaze to yours, feeling a boldness she didn’t normally have.

"Good," she said softly. "Because I really like you too."

Your eyes widened just slightly — not in surprise exactly, but in something warmer, something that made Azzi’s palms sweat.

You leaned in, voice barely a whisper now. "Then maybe you should ask me out properly sometime."

Azzi grinned, nerves buzzing in her chest like a second heartbeat.

"Okay," she said, steady now. "Go out with me."

You smiled so brightly it felt like the room lit up.

"Thought you’d never ask."

You clinked your mugs together like a toast, both grinning stupidly, hearts pounding.

And somewhere between the laughter and the soft touches and the shy smiles, Azzi realized, this wasn’t just a crush.

It was something more.

It was the start of something that could wreck her — or save her.

And for once, Azzi wasn’t scared of falling.

[counting-crows-at-the-graveyard]

Hi! The reason it was worded the way it was to emulate the beliefs of the people who came up with this stuff. I meant no harm, genuinely.

Historically, trans healthcare has in fact been centralized around transfems- namely, making sure they don’t transition. Trans healthcare as a whole was quite literally designed to “make them normal or, at worst, gay men”. (Paraphrased quote; I can find the actual quote again if asked).

My use of “AMAB” here wasn’t meant in any way to harm transfems; in the post, the comment “transness, to these people, was limited to AMABs” was simply a way to explain the thought process they have- only “boys” can be trans, ans even then, god forbid they grow up to be anything other than gay “men”. “Girls” were simply called tomboys, and that was the end of the conversation. (Which is, frankly, bullshit.)

I am in no way attempting to use harmful language in a negative way; rather emulate a thought process.

I do apologize heavily if the way I worded things was wrong, however, either in the initial post or this response.

Not to get into community discourse, but I’d like to share a point.

Mind you, I have seen multiple sides to this “debate” as I like to have rounded knowledge before I say my piece, about ANYTHING political or discourse-y.

The statement I’ve seen again and again, in multiple places, is the sentiment that there aren’t bills directly targeting transmascs, or hatred directed specifically at transmascs, or anything else under that umbrella directed at transmascs.

Obviously there have been a lot of good counters to these statements, and I’m not going to repeat something that’s been said better or more eloquently by others.

However, I have yet to see anyone talking about something that, in my opinion, really should be referenced more.

The concept of “Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria” (ROGD).

ROGD as a concept was legitimately created to theorize why, all of a sudden, transmascs were coming out and attempting to transition.

Rather than acknowledging the blatant truth- tranness, to these people, was limited to AMABs, and even then, for the longest time “trans healthcare” for ANY trans person was just discouraging transition altogether- they decided to make up a narrative that suited their needs.

That their precious “daughters” were falling victim to a new disorder. Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria.

Rather than help their sons feel comfortable in their own bodies, masses of parents flocked to this idea. Politicians flocked to this idea, and used it as a BASIS for many anti-trans bills.

Need I cite the hopefully infamous book? “Irreversible Damage: The Transgender Craze Seducing Our Daughters”? The INFAMOUS book written elaborating this idea? The book used as evidence for countless transphobic bills?

That one concept (which, by the way, ROGD has been discredited by NUMEROUS health organizations worldwide, just in case I needed to clarify that) led to COUNTLESS transmascs facing abuses at home, in school, and elsewhere.

IDK, just food for thought. I think it’s odd that, in all my searching and read throughs of this discourse, NOBODY has mentioned this, even though it’s a pretty good example of transmasc specific oppression.

[lynbels]

Niki no. 34?

#34. You sneak out in his shirt after a hookup, and he punishes you later by making you wear a remote-controlled toy during dinner with his friends.

💌: y’all ive been really busy these days so sorry if this isn’t as aesthetically pleasing as my other posts 🙈 also 80 request is crazy - prompt request list

‼️tw: remote-controlled vibrator, public teasing, squirting (reader), overstimulation, wall sex, rough sex, manhandling, semi-public setting, praise, breeding kink undertones, lots of moaning and screaming, filthy dirty talk, aftercare (carrying + forehead kisses)

mdni

You thought you had gotten away with it.

Sneaking out of Ni-ki’s apartment that morning — hair a mess, legs still a little shaky from the night before — wearing his oversized black t-shirt because you couldn’t find your dress and were too embarrassed to search while he slept. You barely remembered to grab your shoes. You figured he’d tease you if he saw, the way he always did, and you weren’t in the mood for the smug grin you knew he’d wear.

But you underestimated him.

Badly.

Later that day, when you met up at Sunghoon’s place for a casual group dinner, Ni-ki was already there — sitting back on the couch, legs spread lazily, spinning his phone between his fingers.

When you walked in, his eyes locked onto yours immediately.

He smiled.

Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You felt your stomach drop.

“Come here,” he murmured under his breath when you passed him, low enough that no one else heard.

You barely made it to him before he grabbed your wrist — pulling you gently but firmly onto his lap, his breath brushing your ear as he leaned in.

“You thought you could just steal my shirt and run?” he whispered, voice dark and amused. “You’re not getting away that easy, baby.”

You opened your mouth to stammer some excuse, but he was already slipping something small and cold into your hand — a tiny remote. You blinked down at it, confused.

Then you felt it.

Something nestled deep inside you — vibrating, soft but persistent — and your whole body jerked against him.

Your cheeks flamed instantly. “Ni-ki—”

“Shh,” he said sweetly, slipping the remote out of your hands and into his own pocket. “Be good for me. Dinner’s just starting.”

And then he was gone — standing up and stretching like nothing had happened, leaving you sitting there stunned, clenching around the toy helplessly as you tried to catch your breath.

Dinner was a nightmare.

Ni-ki barely looked at you at first, just chatting casually with Sunghoon, Jungwon, and the others like he wasn’t driving you insane under the table.

Then — when your guard was down — he hit the button.

The toy buzzed to life inside you at full strength.

You almost dropped your fork.

You clamped your thighs together, hands gripping the edge of the table, trying to breathe normally as conversation buzzed around you. Ni-ki caught your eye across the table and smiled, all teeth and mischief.

You shook your head desperately — mouthing a silent please — but he only cranked it up higher.

You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, hips twitching slightly under the tablecloth. Ni-ki’s eyes darkened, watching you squirm, and he let it go just long enough for you to start to relax—then pulsed it again.

Over and over.

Until your legs were trembling, tears prickling at your eyes, and you couldn’t focus on a single thing anyone was saying.

“Are you okay?” Jungwon asked suddenly, concerned.

You nodded too fast. “Fine!” you squeaked.

Ni-ki snickered under his breath, finally letting the vibration slow to a dull thrum.

When dinner finally ended, you could barely walk straight.

Your legs were weak, your underwear embarrassingly soaked, and Ni-ki was watching you like he already owned you — all smug, lazy dominance behind half-lidded eyes. But he didn’t grab you immediately. No. He waited. Let you squirm through another ten minutes of painful small talk with the guys, smiling all innocent, while you sat there with the toy still humming inside you, your body betraying you more and more with every second.

Finally, when you thought you were going to either cry or climb into his lap in front of everyone, you broke.

You grabbed his wrist under the table, nails digging into his skin as you hissed under your breath, “Please.”

He leaned in lazily, cocking an eyebrow. “Please what?”

You were burning with humiliation, but it didn’t matter anymore. You needed him. Needed him to touch you, to fuck you, to do anything.

“Turn it off,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Touch me, Ni-ki. Please.”

For a second, he just looked at you — gaze dark, unreadable — and you felt your stomach twist in panic.

But then he smiled. Real slow.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

He slipped the remote out of his pocket and clicked it once — the toy finally dying inside you. Relief hit you so hard you almost sagged into him.

And then he stood up, stretching, cracking his neck casually like he wasn’t about to wreck you six ways from Sunday.

“You’re coming with me,” he said simply, grabbing your hand and towing you behind him without a backward glance at the others.

No one even questioned it. Maybe they figured you were getting air. Maybe they didn’t notice the way your thighs were still shaking.

But Ni-ki knew.

And he wasn’t planning to let you off easy.

He barely got the door closed before he was on you — shoving you back against the wall, kissing you like he was starving. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your thighs, yanking your hips against his like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned against your mouth, his fingers slipping easily over your ruined panties. “You’ve been holding it this whole time, huh? So desperate for me you couldn’t even sit still.”

You whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, overwhelmed.

“I—I couldn’t,” you stammered. “I was trying—Ni-ki, please, please—”

“Shh,” he cooed, almost mockingly, sliding your panties aside. “I got you, baby. You’re gonna let go for me now, yeah?”

He dropped to his knees before you could answer, hooking your legs over his shoulders like you weighed nothing. His tongue licked a slow stripe up your soaked pussy, groaning deep in his chest like he was tasting heaven itself.

You cried out, back arching against the wall. It was too much. Too good. All the teasing, all the frustration from the whole night — it was crashing into you all at once, uncontrollable.

“Come on,” Ni-ki muttered against you, voice thick with want. “Squirt for me. I know you need to.”

The words broke something inside you.

With a choked sob, you shattered — your whole body jerking, hips grinding against his face as you gushed uncontrollably. It felt like everything inside you poured out all at once, messy and soaking and absolutely filthy.

Ni-ki groaned like he was the one coming, gripping your thighs to keep you still as he lapped at everything you gave him, not caring how soaked his shirt was getting. His tongue didn’t let up, dragging slow and deep through your folds even as your thighs trembled violently.

When you finally tried to squirm away, too sensitive, he just chuckled darkly.

“Uh-uh, baby,” he teased, standing up with you still weak against the wall. His mouth and chin were shiny, eyes dark with hunger. “You don’t get to run now.”

He kissed you hard, messy and deep, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled against your lips, grinding his hard cock against your sore, dripping pussy. “And I’m not stopping until you’re crying for real.”

Ni-ki didn’t even give you a second to catch your breath.

He spun you around, pushing you chest-first against the wall, yanking your panties the rest of the way off. You barely had time to gasp before you felt him dragging the fat head of his cock through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and take it,” he rasped against your ear, his voice low and wrecked. “Gonna let me fuck you until you can’t even think.”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, legs already trembling from how wrecked you were.

He pushed inside in one smooth, brutal thrust, splitting you open so fast you screamed — loud, desperate, no control left in your body. Ni-ki groaned brokenly, sinking all the way to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips so hard you knew there’d be bruises later.

“You’re so loud, baby,” he panted, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, forcing another sharp cry from your throat. “You want everyone to know you’re getting fucked stupid, huh?”

You couldn’t answer. All you could do was moan, mind blank, the filthy wet sounds of him pounding into you filling the room.

It built fast — the heat, the pressure, the unbearable pleasure. He fucked you so deep every thrust hit that perfect spot, and with your body already so sensitive, it wasn’t long before you were clawing at the wall, sobbing his name.

“Ni-ki—Ni-ki, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he snarled. “Wanna feel you soak my cock, pretty girl. Come all over me.”

That was it. That was all it took.

You screamed — loud, raw, no shame — as your body seized up, squirting so hard it splashed down your thighs, soaking the floor between you. You gushed around him, the feeling of it so intense you thought you might black out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ni-ki cursed, slamming in deep and grinding against your overstimulated pussy. “You’re unreal, baby. Look at you, making a fucking mess.”

You sobbed, half from pleasure, half from how overwhelming it all was.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, deep and slow now, murmuring filthy praises in your ear as your body shuddered against the wall.

“My perfect girl,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “So good for me. So pretty when you break.”

You were trembling so badly Ni-ki finally pulled out, catching you before your knees gave out completely.

“Shh, I got you,” he murmured, voice still thick with arousal but so gentle it made your heart ache. He scooped you up easily, carrying you across the room like you weighed nothing, and laid you down carefully on the bed.

You barely had time to breathe before he crawled over you again, staring down at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Still with me, baby?” he whispered, brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead.

You nodded weakly, blinking up at him with hazy, teary eyes.

His mouth quirked into a cocky smile — but his touch was so careful as he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, lining himself up again. He slid two fingers down to your entrance, feeling how absolutely soaked and sensitive you were.

“You’re still dripping for me,” he said lowly, voice full of awe. “God, you’re perfect.”

You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, overwhelmed but desperate for more.

“One more, baby,” Ni-ki murmured, kissing your ankle. “Just one more for me, yeah?”

You nodded helplessly.

And then he pushed back inside — slow, deep, filling you up so good it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were wrecked, body twitching with every stroke, clinging to him like you might fall apart again. Ni-ki kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw — whispering soft praises even as he drove into you hard enough to shake the bed.

“So good for me,” he breathed. “So sweet. Taking it so well.”

You sobbed his name, feeling the tight coil snap again — another orgasm ripping through you, even stronger than the last, leaving you shaking and gasping in his arms.

Ni-ki groaned against your neck, his rhythm breaking as he spilled inside you, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He stayed there for a long moment, panting against your skin, both of you completely ruined.

prompt request list

[velaenam]

𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you said you were happy with your boyfriend ,then caleb came home, and now his mouth is on your neck. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 –  NSFW (18+!!) dirty...nasty!!! RAW!! smut!!!, smut w/ alcohol (dubcon), reader cheating on bf w/ LI, caleb is the other man, swearing, mature languages, sexual themes, riding, creampie,raw doggy blah blah, p to v, internal conflict from reader 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 – not proofread. i got this idea from a very wonderful post i saw from the amazing @strwberri-milk. link to the post. i kinda went crazy, i loved the concept sm. its so fun and i hope i did the og justice. also im sorry but i made ur bf so loveable im sorry for the internal conflict ur about to go thru. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 1 of idk ! next chapter — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

m.c. stirs her drink with a lazy swirl, the clink of ice against glass filling the lull between topics. it’s warm. light spills in through the kitchen window, catching the sheen of your lip gloss and the undone button of her blouse. her voice is casual, as always—too casual.

“oh, by the way,” she says, not even looking at you. “caleb’s coming back next week. shore leave. only for a bit.”

you freeze mid-sip.

not enough for most to notice, but she’s known you too long.

you set your cup down too carefully, as if grounding yourself with the porcelain. “he is?”

“mmhm.” she picks up a grape from the bowl between you and pops it into her mouth. chews. doesn’t meet your eyes. “fleet grounded his unit. some political thing. he’s visiting family. probably crashing at my place the first night—he said he wanted to see everyone.”

your stomach does a quiet, traitorous lurch.

“oh.”

you don’t mean to say it like that. like someone’s name you’ve tried not to whisper in years.

m.c. finally glances at you. there’s something unreadable in her gaze—maybe curiosity. maybe knowing. maybe something harder. “you two still talk, don’t you?”

you nod, too slow. “here and there.”

she hums. leans back, legs crossing at the ankle like she’s weighing something in her head. “he asked about you. said he saw that photo you posted—the one with your boyfriend and the birthday cake.”

your breath catches.

“what’d he say?”

m.c. smirks, but it’s faint. tired. “he said you looked good. then he changed the subject.”

your hands fold in your lap. you keep your voice neutral. “has it really been two years?”

“two and a half, i think. since you last saw him.”

you want to ask what else did he say? you don’t.

m.c. leans back, eyes flicking to your face as she wipes her hands on a napkin. “what about you and lover boy? how’s that going?”

you smile before you even think about it. automatic. polished. like second nature. “we’re very happy.”

“mm.” she raises a brow. not suspicious. just amused. “that’s what people say when they’re very engaged. or very lying.”

you let out a soft scoff. “he’s good to me.”

“you always say that first.”

“because it’s true.”

she nods slowly, resting her chin on her palm. “and?”

you pause. the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

he’s everything you were told to want. considerate. rich. driven. makes reservations for you, opens car doors, tells you how lucky he is when people are watching. he buys you jewelry you never wear and posts anniversary photos you never take. he’s safe. he fits.

and yet you find yourself measuring him against someone who’s never even tried.

“he’s stable,” you finally say. “he makes sense. my parents love him. his place has a whole wing just for books.”

“sounds like a dream.”

you smile again, quieter now. “it is.”

but m.c. watches you a second longer than comfort allows. not pressing. not cruel. just… seeing. like she’s trying to figure out what’s missing from your voice.

“i’m glad you’re happy,” she says. and for a moment, you wonder if she believes you.

you nod. drink the last of your coffee. and try not to think about a man who hasn’t even walked into the room yet, but still manages to pull the air out of your lungs.

.

the landing deck rattles beneath him as the hatch opens, hydraulic hiss like an exhale. after weeks in deepspace, everything smells like static and heat and too many days without sleep. but the gravity that wasn’t his feels good. real. like something pulling him back to where he doesn’t belong anymore.

he’s still stripping off his gloves when his comm buzzes in his jacket pocket.

incoming call: m.c.

he accepts it without thinking. holds it to his ear as he walks down the ramp, duffel slung across one shoulder, black fleet coat whipping in the wind.

“you survived,” she greets, bright as ever.

“barely.” his voice is rough. low. “tell your government contacts thanks for the political nightmare. nearly got my squad killed before they figured out how to spell diplomacy.”

“you sound dramatic.”

“you sound cozy.”

she laughs. “because i am. and you will be, too. i washed the guest sheets.”

“right. thanks.” he pauses, steps off the tarmac into the waiting shadows of the city port. “won’t be in your way too long, pipsqueak.”

“caleb,” she says. “you’re never in the way.”

he doesn’t answer that. he’s too tired to lie.

“you’ll be here in time for dinner?”

“depends on traffic. fleet’s got me filing three reports before i’m even cleared to breathe.”

she hums. “she’s gonna be surprised to see you.” he stops walking. breath catching like static in his chest. “she?”

m.c. is smug. too smug. “you know who.” he shifts his grip on the strap of his bag, jaw tightening. “you told her i was coming?”

“nope,” she says cheerfully lying. “wanted to see her face when you walked in.”

he exhales through his nose. “you’re a menace.”

“you’re welcome.” and then, gentler, “i think you should talk to her.”

he doesn’t reply right away. doesn’t know how to

finally, he says, “i don’t think it would change anything.”

and m.c.—goddess bless her—just says, “then don’t say anything. just let her look at you and remember.”

the line clicks dead before he can say another word.

.

you’re in the kitchen when you hear the lock turn.

he calls your name before he even steps in fully, voice muffled by the door swinging shut behind him. there’s the soft shuffle of his coat hitting the hook, the familiar jangle of keys tossed into the bowl by the counter.

“hey, baby,” he says, stepping into your space with that easy grin. he leans in, kisses your cheek, your temple, then your mouth. he smells like leather and his cologne—the one you bought him last fall.

you smile. because you should. because it’s safe here.

“how was work?” you ask, pouring water into the pot on the stove. your voice is steady. your hands aren’t.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into your neck. “long. boring. wanted to come home to you all day.”

your pulse stutters—not because of him. but because you haven’t stopped thinking about caleb since m.c. said his name.

since she said he’s coming back.

your skin’s been prickling ever since, like the air’s heavier. like the past is sitting just outside your window, waiting for a chance to knock.

but you don’t say that. you let your boyfriend’s hands slide up under your shirt, warm palms against your ribs. his lips trace your shoulder.

“missed you,” he murmurs. “need you.” you turn to face him, let him kiss you like nothing’s wrong. like your heart isn’t sprinting. like it isn’t someone else’s eyes you keep seeing behind your lids.

his mouth is on yours, his touch gentle and familiar, and still— you flinch when he whispers, “your heart’s racing.”

you pause. then smile, small and secret. “that’s your effect on me,” you lie, threading your fingers through his hair.

and he believes it— kisses you harder. but deep down, you know better.

you know whose name is making your pulse go wild.

he picks you up, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back like he’s done a hundred times before. you let him carry you to the bedroom. let him lay you down like something precious, like he doesn’t notice the far-off look in your eyes every time he says your name.

his hands are reverent. his kisses slow, familiar, patient. he undresses you like a lover, not a stranger—but tonight, it feels far away. muted. like your body’s here, but something else is miles above it.

“you’re beautiful,” he breathes, kissing down your sternum. his fingers trace your ribs, the dip of your waist. “you always are. but tonight… it’s different.”

you smile at him, soft and practiced. “i missed you too.”

and you mean it, but not like that.

his mouth finds your collarbone and lingers there. he likes the way your breath hitches, doesn’t know it’s because you’re imagining someone else’s hands. someone else’s voice. you don’t even realize you’re clutching the sheet until he laces his fingers through yours.

“hey,” he says gently. “you okay?” your eyes meet his. he’s so kind. too kind. you could tell him the truth and it would break him.

you nod. “just overwhelmed.” he leans down, presses his forehead to yours. “i’ll be gentle.”

he thinks it’s his touch. that you’re nervous because of how much you want him. and you let him believe it.

you close your eyes. open your mouth. let the intimacy wrap around you like a warm tide, even as your thoughts drift—treacherous, unforgiving—to caleb.

to caleb………and the way he used to say your name like a secret only he got to keep.

you arch into your boyfriend’s hands.

but your mind is somewhere else entirely. imagining caleb on top of you kissing you, moaning your name like your boyfriend is doing right now. 

imagining its his dark brown hair you’re curling your fingers on, his purple gaze is the one piercing you as he fucked you so —

.

he’s asleep beside you, one arm heavy across your waist.

you stare at the ceiling.

your skin is still warm, flushed from his touch. the room smells like him. like routine and comfort and things you’ve tried to convince yourself are enough.

but your heart won’t slow down. not entirely. you shift gently, just enough to slide your arm out from under the covers, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dark.

no messages.

you check anyway.

his name sits there—caleb xia. no photo. just the initials.  he never had a photo. never needed one.

you scroll. past the old messages. the ones that never meant much until now.

"congrats on the new job. i always knew you'd do something big." "heard the city's cold this week. you still forget your jacket like an idiot?" "hope you’re doing good. i like the photo"

you reread that one.

you remember the post. your boyfriend had taken the picture. some gallery opening. new dress. new earrings. and you had smiled like your heart wasn’t breaking from something you couldn’t name.

you hesitate. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. just a simple message. nothing dangerous.

you: heard you’re back.

you send it.

then, you lock your phone. place it back on the nightstand like it’s burning your hand.

his arm tightens slightly in his sleep. your boyfriend. the man who holds you like a promise.

and yet. you roll onto your side, facing the wall, eyes wide open, because caleb is somewhere in this city.

and for the first time in years, you’re starting to wonder if fate didn’t just miss its shot.

if maybe—it’s circling back.

.

the city stretches out below him, all glitter and silence.

caleb stands by the window of m.c.’s high-rise apartment, arms crossed, jacket draped on the back of the nearby chair. the lights cast gold against the glass, but he’s not looking at the view. not really.

he’s thinking about you.

how you might be sleeping right now. if you still leave the window cracked even when it’s cold. if the man lying beside you knows how you sound when you laugh until you cry. if he gets your references. if he even deserves you.

behind him, m.c. pads in barefoot, two mugs in hand. she offers him one. he takes it without a word.

“you always get like this when you’re back,” she says, settling onto the couch. “broody. contemplative. tragically poetic.”

“comes with the rank, pips” he mutters. but his mouth twitches. just barely. she watches him. “you saw her post, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

m.c. sips her drink. “they met at some space tech convention. she told me about it after the second date. said he made her laugh during a seminar about aerospace ethics and that was it.”

caleb’s jaw ticks. “sounds charming.” — “he’s fine,” m.c. shrugs. “rich. clean. knows how to dress himself. his parents are political investors, i think. very... curated.”

he glances over. “what’s his name?” — “adrien…. toulouse? i can’t remember at the top of my head.”

the name tastes sour in his mouth. he looks back out the window.

“he good to her?”

“yeah,” she says. then quieter, “but that’s not the same as being right for her.” he says nothing. the silence between them settles like dust. “you missed your window,” she says gently, not unkind. he breathes in. lets it burn. “i didn’t know it was open.”

m.c. stands, finishes her drink, and sets the mug in the sink. “that’s the problem with you, caleb. you only notice things once they’re already slipping through your fingers.”

he watches her go. but his mind stays on you. on the version of you that might’ve waited, if he’d just asked. he rolls his eyes as he shifts to the couch to watch a movie.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table.

he’s sitting on m.c.’s couch, long legs stretched out, jacket shed and collar undone. the room is dim, lit only by the city outside and the soft flicker of some old-drama playing in the background. neither of them’s paying attention to it.

he glances at the screen.

just one message.

you:  heard you’re back. 

his thumb hovers over the screen.

he doesn’t open it— doesn’t delete it either.

he just sets the phone down again, face down, like he can’t stand to see it glowing anymore.

m.c. watches him from the kitchen counter. she doesn’t say anything at first—just keeps peeling the label off a bottle of water like it’s a puzzle she means to solve.

“you’re not going to answer her?” she finally asks.

he shrugs. leans his head back against the couch. stares at the ceiling like it’s got the answers he’s too coward to ask for.

“what am i supposed to say?” he murmurs. “hey, it’s me. sorry for leaving when it mattered. wanna catch up while you belong to someone else?”

“that’d be a start,” she says dryly. he exhales. rubs a hand over his face. “i saw that post. he took her to that lakeside place. she always wanted to go.”

m.c. nods. “she mentioned that.” he’s quiet. a beat. another. then: “you think he knows?”

“knows what?”

“that she still carries me in her bones.” m.c. sighs, soft but sharp. “i think she tried to bury you.”

he flinches. “but,” she adds, folding her arms, “adrien’s gonna propose. soon.”

his head snaps toward her. “what?”

“she doesn’t know,” m.c. says, voice low. “but he’s been talking to jewelers. he asked me about her ring size a month ago.”

caleb’s throat tightens.

of course he is. of course someone who didn’t waste their chance would hold onto her with both hands.

“it’s not official yet,” m.c. says, like she’s offering him a thread to cling to.

he doesn’t take it. instead, he closes his eyes and sees you. not with a ring. not in a white dress.

but in that space hoodie you used to steal from him. curled up on the floor of his dorm with your head in his lap, laughing at his annotated star maps. warm. alive. his in a way no one else ever was.

he opens his eyes again. reaches for his phone.

but he doesn’t unlock it. he just lets it sit in his palm, heavy as regret.

m.c. walks over and drops onto the couch beside him, her knees bumping his. she hands him a new drink, one he didn’t ask for, and he takes it anyway.

the silence stretches.

“xavier says hi, or the best way he could, anyways” she says after a minute.

caleb glances over. “he of on mission again?”

“yeah. some wanderer dispute ” she shrugs, swirling her glass. “he loves it though.”

“you two still good?”

“we’re solid,” she says simply. and she means it. there’s a quiet steadiness in her voice that wasn’t there when she dated anyone else. “i love him. i don’t have to guess what he’s feeling”

caleb hums. “you always hated guessing.”

“i still do.”

he sips. it’s not strong, but it burns anyway. “and you?” she asks, eyeing him sideways. “you seeing anyone?” he laughs under his breath. “you know better, pipsqueak.”

“i also know that you never stayed anywhere long enough to try.”

“fleet doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating.”

“you don’t even try while you’re here.” he shrugs. “not interested.”

“because of her.” he doesn’t deny it. just stares down into his drink like it holds a confession he’s not ready to say out loud.

m.c. lets him sit in it.

then, softly, “she deserves to be happy, caleb. you know that.”

his voice is quieter when he says, “i never said she didn’t.”

“so what’re you going to do?”

he doesn’t answer. just runs a hand down his face, jaw tight, like he’s holding in the answer with his teeth.

m.c. leans back, sighs. “i wish things had gone differently for you two.”

he glances over. “yeah,” he murmurs. “me too.”

.

the grocery store smells like citrus and warm bread. the lights are too bright for this hour. everything is a little too quiet, too still, the kind of stillness that makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

you’re pushing a cart, hair tied up, sweater too big, list half-finished. you told m.c. you’d grab a few things for her dinner party—she texted last night, “you’re my favorite guest, but i need lemons and wine.”

“best produce comes in at 8 am,” she added. you’d rolled your eyes at the time. now you wonder if you should’ve known.

you’re halfway through the produce section when it happens. you reach for a lemon at the same time as someone else. your fingers brush theirs.

you freeze.

and then you look up.

his hand is still half-extended. callused. familiar.

caleb.

fleet jacket half-zipped. hair damp like he only just showered. he looks tired, but good. leaner. older. sharp in all the same places, softer in a few new ones. his eyes meet yours and—god, he still has that look. handsome, sweet..

your name leaves his mouth like a breath he’s been holding.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out. your fingers curl around the lemon instead. like it’ll keep you grounded.

he blinks once. then lifts the corner of his mouth. “figured she’d pull something like this.” you manage a laugh—dry, breathless. “she said the best produce comes in at 8.”

he nods. “yeah. she told me the same.” you both glance at each other. then the lemon. then back.

“guess we’ve been set up,” you murmur.

“looks like.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s just thick.  with years. with almosts. with the weight of his message still unanswered and your heart still racing.

“you look good,” he says finally.

you smile. not quite at him. “so do you.”

you shift the lemons to your cart, fingers trembling just enough to notice. he sees it—you can feel him seeing it—but he doesn’t say anything.

instead, he grabs one for himself, examining it like it’s the most important thing in the universe.

“so,” you say, trying for casual, pushing your cart a little forward, “fleet let you off the leash for a bit?”

he follows, a step behind. “briefly. they’ll reel me back in soon.”

“what’d you do this time?” — “nothing,” he says, grinning slightly. “just politically inconvenient.” you huff a laugh. it slips out easier than you thought it would.

you glance from the side,. “you didn’t message me back.”

he stops walking.

the air shifts. subtle. like the quiet pulls tighter around the both of you.

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admit.

“you could’ve said anything.”

he looks at you. “would it have changed anything?”

you don’t say, so you keep walking. slowly. toward the wine aisle. he falls into step beside you like no time has passed at all.

“m.c. said you’re coming to dinner tonight,” you say, voice thinner now.

“she said i owed her. didn’t mention you’d be there.”

“you think she didn’t do that on purpose?”

“i think she’s a menace.”

you both smile at the same time.

you reach for a bottle—he does too. your hands meet again. this time, neither of you pulls away right away.

he glances down at your fingers, then back up at your eyes. “how is he?” he asks.

you hesitate.

then: “he’s good to me.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

you swallow hard. pull your hand back.

“he’s... safe.”

caleb nods, slow. quiet.

you can’t breathe for a second. just stand there, wine bottle forgotten in your hand, heart screaming under your sweater.

someone walks past with a squeaky cart and breaks the spell. you blink. step back. clear your throat.

“we should finish up,” you murmur.

“yeah,” he says, just as soft. “see you tonight.”

you nod.

but your fingers are still tingling from where he touched you.

.

you arrive on time, wine bottle clutched in your hand like a shield. adrien’s hand is on the small of your back, warm, grounding, his laugh low in your ear as you ring the bell.

you’re dressed too nicely. you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. you just wanted to look good for dinner. but as m.c. opens the door with a grin and a flourish of perfume, and you step inside, your heart starts to climb straight out of your chest.

because he’s there.

you see caleb the moment you cross the threshold. black button-up rolled to the elbows, sleeves creased like he’d ironed them just to ruin them again. he’s leaning casually against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, profile sharper than you remember, the soft gold light casting shadows over his jawline.

his eyes meet yours instantly.

and everything slows.

he doesn’t smile. just looks. long and quiet, like the rest of the room fell away and you’re the only thing that ever mattered.

adrien doesn’t notice at first. he leans forward to kiss m.c. on the cheek, laughing at something she says about the wine, and hands it off to her with his usual charm.

“you must be caleb,” adrien says, turning to him with that open, polished grin. “m.c. told me all about you. hell of a record in the fleet. colonel, right?”

caleb straightens. takes a slow sip before offering his hand. “that’s me. and you’re the boyfriend.”

“guilty.”

they shake hands.

it’s firm…too firm. neither one lets go first.

“adrien toulouse,” he adds. “i run a few companies. data logistics, spaceport infrastructure—boring stuff.”

“not boring if it pays well,” caleb says, voice smooth.

adrien chuckles. “doesn’t hurt. my board loves it.”

“we don’t really have boards in the fleet. just casualties and black boxes.”

you laugh a little too quickly. “he’s joking.”

caleb’s eyes flick to you. unreadable. “am i?”

adrien grins, undeterred. “i respect it. not many people can make a career out of combat anymore. takes guts.”

“takes loss,” caleb replies, quiet but even. “but the perks are decent. hazard bonuses. pension. a lot of medals.”

adrien raises a brow. “better than dividends?”

“depends who you’re trying to impress.”

you open your mouth to say something, anything to shift the mood, but m.c. saves you—breezing in with a tray of olives and cured meats, laughing too loudly and ushering everyone toward the table.

“save it for the dinner table, you two. god, it’s like testosterone in a wine glass over here.”

you slip away toward the dining room. your hand is still warm where caleb looked at you. adrien slides in beside you, fingers brushing your arm, oblivious.

but caleb watches you.

and you feel it like a match pressed to skin. you’ve screamt fuck in your head about 20 times now.

the dining room glows with soft overhead lighting, and the table is full—platters of roasted vegetables, grilled fish, wine glasses catching the gold reflections like tiny stars. laughter hums under the music playing low from m.c.’s sleek speaker tucked into the corner.

xavier’s seat is empty, just a folded napkin and a half-drunk glass of sparkling water. m.c. had said he’d be late, caught in something coming back from headquarters .

you sit beside adrien, his knee brushing yours occasionally, hand warm at your back when he refills your glass. across from you—caleb. calm, unreadable. fork moving with methodical grace as he picks at his plate.

“so, colonel,” nero says, raising his glass like it’s a toast and a challenge, “what have you been up to in the galaxy’s darker corners?”

jenna smirks beside him. “he probably can’t even tell us.”

“i can tell you some of it,” caleb replies, resting his elbow on the table, glass twirling lightly between his fingers. “spent most of last month in the outer rim, negotiating a ceasefire. fleet needed someone intimidating and tired. i qualified.”

tara laughs. “you always did look mean when you haven’t slept.”

“wasn’t about sleep,” he says, shrugging. “just tired of watching people die for decisions made lightyears away.”

the table quiets for a second.

adrien cuts in with a smile, smooth and practiced. “that’s why i stayed in civilian sectors. less blood. more spreadsheets.”

jenna snorts. “what a life.”

“it has its rewards,” adrien says, eyes flicking briefly to you. his hand finds your thigh under the table. “especially when you work hard.”

you feel caleb looking at you.

just a glance. a flick of his eyes.

but it lands like a crash.

you don’t turn your head. you just reach for your wine.

m.c. speaks up, trying to shift the tone. “i think caleb’s still the only person i know who voluntarily flew into a crossfire zone just to drag out two wounded rookies.”

“they weren’t going to make it,” caleb says, flat. “and i wasn’t going to leave them behind.”

xavier walks in then, saving you from your own pulse. “sorry i’m late,” he says, sliding into his seat beside m.c. with a soft kiss to her temple.

the room lifts again—conversation swirling back to lighter things. food. travel. politics. someone makes a joke about nero’s cooking attempts. laughter picks up. wine flows freely.

but every now and then, you look up.

and caleb is watching you like he never left.

like he’s still remembering the sound of your voice when you said his name.

and you don’t look away… not right away.

.

the clatter of forks dies down. glasses half-full. conversation slow and lazy like the lull after good food and too much wine.

someone’s moved to the couch. someone else is arguing softly over music selection. xavier and nero are in a quiet debate about defense policy. m.c. watches the room like a conductor, eyes flicking, measuring, waiting.

then, casually, too casually, she sets her glass down and turns toward adrien.

“hey,” she says, bright and charming, “could you help me with that thing? the new table setting i told you about? i need a second opinion. might order it tonight.”

adrien blinks. “now?”

“yeah, i’ll be quick.” her smile is sugar-sweet. “promise.”

he leans over and kisses your cheek. “you okay here?”

you nod. “go ahead.”

and then he’s gone. down the hall. the door swings shut behind them. voices muffled.

you stay seated… you should get up.

but caleb’s still across from you.

and he hasn’t moved either.

the quiet settles in. low hum of distant voices. glass ticking against wood as someone laughs from the other room.

caleb leans back in his chair. one arm draped over the side. the collar of his shirt slightly rumpled. his gaze, fixed.

“she’s always been a terrible liar,” he murmurs, eyes still on you.

you smile without looking at him. “she tries.”

“you look different,” he says, voice low.

“older?”

“no,” he says. “quieter. like you learned how to hide things.” you finally look at him. his eyes haven’t changed. sharp, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous.

“you think you know what i’m hiding?”

“i know you,” he says. “or i did.”

“you left,” you reply, trying not to sound like it hurts.

“i had to.” you nod, once. “and i had to move on.”

he doesn’t argue. just watches you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are still his. “he loves you,” he says after a beat. “i can see that.”

“he does.”

and then, more softly: “but you don’t look at him the way you used to look at me.”

the words land in your chest like a bruise.

you should tell him to stop…. you should get up.

but instead, you whisper, “you don’t get to say that.”

“i know,” he breathes. “but i still wanted to.”

the hallway creaks. voices coming back. the moment’s slipping, fraying at the edges.

you stand, finally, smoothing your dress. not looking at him.

“you shouldn’t wait around for something that isn’t yours.”

“i’m not,” he says. “i’m just remembering what was.”

and when you walk away, you feel it—that heat in your spine.

he’s still watching you.

.

it’s late when the message comes in.

adrien’s beside you, asleep. one arm draped across your waist, steady breaths against your shoulder. you should be sleeping too. the apartment is quiet. the kind of stillness that makes you feel like a ghost in your own life.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

caleb: you still up?

you stare at it for a while.

you shouldn’t answer. you really really shouldn’t answer.

but your thumb moves on instinct, like a silly idiot in love .

you: yeah.

a moment passes.

caleb: couldn’t sleep.

you wait.

caleb: been thinking about dinner. you.

your heart stutters.

you: don’t. caleb: why not? you: because it’s not fair.

there’s a long pause.

you think maybe that’s it. maybe he’ll stop.

but then—

caleb: i don’t want fair. i want true.

you close your eyes. your chest aches.

your fingers hover. shake. then:

you: i love him. caleb: i know. you: i’ve built a life. one with walls and calendars and routines and its domestic. he fits in it. caleb: but do you?

you don’t respond.

not for a long time.

you stare at the ceiling, heart beating like it’s trying to outrun your ribs.

then your phone lights up again.

caleb: do you remember the night before i left for the fleet?

you do…of course you do.

how you sat in the gazebo, knees drawn to your chest, his jacket around your shoulders. how he looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

you never talked about that night, not really, nor did you really have a chance to.

you: yes. caleb: i should’ve kissed you.

your chest collapses inward. you turn your face into the pillow so you don’t make a sound.

you: i wanted you to. caleb: i still do.

adrien shifts beside you, murmurs something in his sleep. your phone nearly slips from your hand.

you lock the screen. press it to your chest.

but you don’t delete the conversation.

you don’t reply either.

fuck. 

.

the morning light spills through the apartment windows, golden and soft. adrien is already dressed—pressed linen shirt, slacks, and that easy, handsome grin that makes him magnetic at every event. you’re still in your robe, coffee warm in your hands, the weight of caleb’s texts buried deep beneath your ribs.

“i’ve got an idea,” adrien says, turning from the mirror as he fastens his watch. “hear me out.”

you raise a brow. “those are dangerous words.”

he laughs, leans over to kiss your cheek. “my company’s hosting a celebration this weekend. nothing formal. just something small for the board and a few close friends. we booked out a beach hotel on the coast. really secluded. great food, even better cocktails.”

“sounds like a nice break,” you murmur.

“yeah—and i thought,” he says, pouring himself coffee, “why not invite the gang? the more the merrier, right?”

your stomach drops.

you look up slowly. “what gang?”

“m.c. tara, nero, obviously. xavier if he’s back. even caleb, if he’s still in town. i feel like he could use a weekend off from… whatever world-saving things he’s been doing.”

your throat dries.

adrien’s still talking. “it’ll be good for everyone to unwind. ocean breeze, bonfires, no boardroom stress. and besides—i think it’d be good for you, too. you’ve seemed… tense lately.”

you try to smile. “just tired.”

“then it’s perfect. you, me, the beach. what could go wrong?”

your phone buzzes from the counter.

m.c.: he’s in. caleb’s coming. xavier too. hope you packed something scandalous.

you stare at the message, he’d already ask them before he asked you.

your suitcase lies open on the bed, half full. a few folded dresses. sandals. sunscreen. a silk scarf you haven’t worn in years. you pause, fingers brushing the fabric, chest tight.

the apartment is quiet. adrien left earlier for a board meeting. you said you’d finish packing, take your time.

your phone buzzes on the dresser.

you already know who it is.

caleb: pack something nice. or don’t come with clothes at all.

you stop breathing for a moment. thumb hovering over the screen.

you: don’t be an ass. caleb: can’t help it.

i’m picturing you sunburnt and annoyed, drinking something fruity, trying not to stare at me.

you press your palm to your face, the blush crawling high.

you: you’re not that charming. caleb: but you are packing that black swimsuit, right? the one that fits your body so perfectly?

your heart slams in your chest. you never posted that photo. you only sent it to m.c. once, in a private message. you hadn’t even known he saw it.

you: you shouldn’t know about that. caleb: i shouldn’t want you either. and yet.

you sit on the edge of the bed. the heat of his words curling slow, making you feel something that you should only feel for your partner.

your phone buzzes again.

caleb: you really going to let him have you for the whole weekend?

you don’t answer.

you reach for the swimsuit. fold it carefully. quietly. and lay it on top of the other things in your bag. you’re already in trouble. but you zip it shut anyway.

.

the car hums down the coastal highway, sunlight flashing through the windows in golden streaks. adrien’s driving, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. the wind is warm, the sky impossibly blue. everything should feel like peace.

but your phone buzzes again in your lap.

you glance down.

caleb: what are you wearing right now? please tell me it’s something i’ll regret seeing you in.

you shift in your seat. cross your legs.

adrien doesn’t notice. he’s talking about the hotel—how the chefs are all imported from a five-star kitchen, how the fire pits are custom built into the sand, how he’s planning a surprise dinner the first night.

your phone lights up again.

caleb: let me guess. sundress. soft. stupidly pretty. easy to pull up.

you grip the phone a little tighter.

you: stop. caleb: say it like you mean it.

adrien squeezes your thigh affectionately. “you okay, baby?”

“mhmm.” you smile, tight. “just checking something.”

you angle the phone a little farther away from him. open your messages again.

you: i’m in a car with my boyfriend. caleb: and still thinking about me.

your throat goes dry. you type back quickly:

you: caleb.

he waits.

you don’t know why you do it, but your thumbs move anyway.

you: it’s a white dress. cotton. nothing special.

the reply comes almost instantly.

caleb: you in white’s always been a problem. easy to make a mess in.

you bite the inside of your cheek. stare out the window.

adrien shifts, turning the music up a little, his voice easy and soft as he asks you something about checking in. you nod. pretend to listen.

but your phone buzzes again.

caleb: can’t wait to see you. in that dress. orrr— out of it.

you don’t answer. but you don’t block him either and you don’t stop the way your stomach flips, either, because fuck, it’s intense. what the fuck are you thinking? you are in this non stop tumultuous fight against morality and dignity. 

.

the hotel sits like a dream against the coastline—white stone and glass, balconies dripping with flowers contrasting the environment, ocean waves crashing just beyond the edge of the private beach. the valet takes your bags. adrien thanks him with a generous tip and slides his sunglasses up into his hair, flashing that confident, easy grin that always draws attention.

you’re still catching your breath from the ride—heat pooling at the back of your neck, caleb’s messages burning a little too fresh in your mind—when you spot her.

m.c. is already waiting by the entrance, perched on a curved stone bench in a straw sunhat and linen dress, oversized sunglasses pushing her hair back. she grins when she sees you, stands, and practically floats toward you.

“you made it!” she says, pulling you into a hug, smelling like coconut and orange blossom. “you look like summer incarnate.”

adrien chuckles behind you. “i planned the whole thing.”

“of course you did,” m.c. smirks, kissing him on the cheek. “we should all be so lucky to have a boyfriend with a corporate card and taste.”

and then you hear it—footsteps. low voices. the weight in your chest returns before you even turn.

“hell of a place,” caleb says, sauntering up with xavier beside him, both in crisp short-sleeves and aviators, fresh off the elevator.

he’s tan. looser than you’ve seen him in years. like the salt in the air is good for him.

adrien smiles wide and steps forward, reaching to clasp caleb’s hand in that quick, firm, shoulder-slap bro-hug men have perfected.

“glad you made it,” adrien says.

“wouldn’t miss it,” caleb replies, easy.

xavier grins, giving adrien a similar greeting. “this place is insane. whose idea was it to put a full bar in the infinity pool?”

adrien laughs. “mine.”

“you’re officially my favorite person,” xavier says, heading off toward the front desk to check in, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

caleb doesn’t move.

his eyes drift to you. slow and unhurried. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to.

because the way he looks at you says enough. you glance down, fingers tightening around the strap of your purse. m.c. watches all of this. doesn’t say a word, just smiles, like she knew this was coming.

“drinks after you unpack?” she asks sweetly, “definitely,” adrien says, brushing a hand down your back. “we’ll meet you all at the pool.”

“can’t wait,” caleb murmurs, gaze never leaving yours.

the resort sprawls across the coast like something pulled from a dream—white stone buildings tiered into the cliffs, kissed by sprays of seafoam and crawling ivy. the main entrance opens into a vast open-air atrium, where sunlight floods through curved glass ceilings and dances across polished marble floors. fragrant bursts of jasmine and citrus drift from planters lining the walkways, and the sound of trickling fountains follows you with every step. 

past the concierge desk, the space widens into a sprawling promenade: a private shopping gallery lined with luxury boutiques, soft jazz playing as high-end fabrics sway behind crystal

windows. the central courtyard glows gold in the sun, with a tiered infinity pool spilling into the horizon, bordered by low cabanas, ivory parasols, and a gleaming bar half-submerged in water—guests wading up with cocktails in hand. above it all, arched balconies overlook the beach, private and serene, while the scent of salt, fruit, and sunscreen clings to the warm air. even the staff moves with a kind of reverent grace, every guest treated like royalty—

the group gathers at the front desk, luggage in tow, sun already warming their shoulders as the glass doors close behind them with a soft hiss. laughter drifts in from the lobby bar, the distant scent of espresso and saltwater mixing with perfume and cologne.

“party name?” the receptionist asks brightly, fingers poised over a sleek touchscreen monitor.

“toulouse,” adrien says, pulling out his sleek black id and card. he smiles, charming as ever. “we’ve got a few rooms under that name.”

“of course.” the receptionist begins scanning them in. one by one, the group passes over their credentials—m.c. tossing hers with a wink, xavier balancing his bag on his hip, tara and nero chatting about whether the beach view is better than the garden side.

then caleb steps forward.

his id hits the desk with a soft click.

fleet-issued. black-accented. unmistakable.

the receptionist’s eyes flicker down, and her posture shifts instantly. there’s a beat of silence.

she looks up—smiling wider now, more formal. “colonel caleb xia,” she says, her voice suddenly edged with something deeper. “welcome.” caleb blinks, casual. “just here with friends.”

“of course, sir,” she replies, fingers moving faster across the screen. “as a decorated officer of the farspace fleet, your stay qualifies for our high level courtesy protocol.”

m.c. glances at caleb. “your what now?”

the receptionist continues without missing a beat. “your group will be upgraded to the resort’s top-tier suites. each room includes a private oceanview terrace, complimentary spa credit, and full access to our elite guest-only lounge and services.”

“i didn’t—” caleb starts.

“it’s policy, sir. we’re honored to host you.”

adrien raises a brow, half-laughing, joking . “i should’ve brought my medals.” xavier whistles low. “fleet perks.” tara leans toward nero and mutters, “i knew he was important.”

caleb just shifts his weight slightly, expression unreadable, one hand resting casually in his pocket. “you all came here to relax. figured i’d make it worth your time.”

m.c. grins. “we should bring you everywhere.”

your heart does something strange. heat rising behind your collar as the front desk slides you your keycard—suite 9: north tower penthouse.

you take it with a thank-you. but your fingers brush caleb’s hand when you do.

the elevator dings softly, and the group spills out into a polished marble hallway—light slanting through tall windows, casting the floor in soft amber stripes. the suites stretch down the length of the corridor, tall doors with brushed gold handles and engraved plaques that gleam in the afternoon sun.

adrien’s at the front, laughing with nero about the time one of his board members confused a zero-gravity treadmill for an espresso machine. his voice echoes lightly off the high ceilings, easy, familiar.

you fall into step beside caleb without meaning to. he’s quiet. but he always was.

his hand brushes yours once— twice. you pretend not to notice—but you don’t pull away either.

the second time, he doesn’t move. his fingers linger just a little longer, pinky grazing yours like a secret in motion. it feels like the hallway narrows around the two of you. the air grows thicker. warmer.

m.c. glances back, says something to tara about the spa hours, but she doesn’t miss it.

you see it in the small smile she hides behind her glass.

“here we are,” adrien calls, stopping in front of the corner suites. “ocean view, floor-to-ceiling windows, personal plunge pools. you’re welcome.”

“he wants a thank you in writing,” xavier adds, nudging him.

“maybe a toast,” adrien jokes. “or a statue.” you laugh, even as your pulse is thudding in your ears.

caleb moves past you to his suite—his hand just barely brushing the small of your back as he does. not enough to be noticed.

“see you in a bit,” he murmurs.

you nod, and then step inside your own room, letting the door close softly behind you.

your bag is missing. but your thoughts are already somewhere else entirely

.

you’re halfway through unpacking when you realize it.

your smaller bag—the one with your swimsuits, the silk wrap, and your favorite perfume—is missing. it’s not in the closet. not in the bathroom. not in the entryway with the other luggage.

you check again. and again. your stomach drops.

adrien’s in the shower, humming something off-key, steam curling under the bathroom door. you step out onto the suite’s balcony, signal low, and flick open the group chat on your comm.

you: hey, anyone see a cream-colored travel bag? soft leather, gold zipper. it’s missing from our stuff. maybe got mixed up?

you wait. stare out at the ocean. the wind is warm on your skin.

a message pings a moment later.

caleb: yeah, it’s in my suite. looks like it got tucked into the side of my luggage. you can come grab it.

you freeze.

your thumbs hover.

you: oh. okay. thanks. caleb: door’s open.

adrien calls your name from inside. you glance back, then text:

you: be there in a sec.

you lock your screen. heart tapping too fast beneath your ribs.

it’s just a bag. it’s just a room. and yet— your hands are already reaching for the keycard as if your body’s moved faster than your thoughts.

his door is slightly ajar, just like he said.

you knock once, soft, “come in,” his voice calls from somewhere inside—lower than usual. unhurried.

you step in. the room smells like cedar and something clean, and there’s music playing, soft and smooth—something old, something with a bassline that rolls slow. the kind of music that gets into your pulse without asking.

and then you see him. he’s standing near the open suitcase on the bed, back to you, half-dressed—black swim trunks low on his hips, bare feet on the marble floor, a white towel slung over his shoulder. he’s rifling through folded clothes, pulling out a thin shirt, but he hasn’t put it on yet. and gods. his back is carved. every muscle cut and coiled, broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist, skin golden from the sun, small scars scattered like whispers from a life you’ll never fully know. his arms flex as he moves. slow. casual. you were a deer in headlights. but the headlights was a sexy 6’2 fleet colonel with the physique of a god. 

you stare longer than you mean to—longer than you should. he hears the door click shut behind you and turns, still towel in hand. and when he sees you—he smiles.

“thought you’d take longer,” he says, voice warm. low.

“you didn’t say you’d be half-naked,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice catches somewhere on the way out.

he tilts his head slightly, smirk deepening. “you want me to put something on?”

your throat goes dry, “you’re impossible.” he walks toward you—lazy, deliberate steps. the shirt still hanging loose in one hand, forgotten. “you’ve seen me worse,” he murmurs.

you try to keep your eyes on his face. fail. your gaze dips—chest, abs, the faint trail that disappears below his waistband. holy fuck.  when you drag your eyes back up, he’s watching you. head to toe.

“if you’re going to keep looking at me like that,” he says softly, “you might want to close the door properly.”

you realize then—it didn’t latch. you reach back, fingers fumbling for the handle. but you don’t stop looking at him. and he doesn’t stop walking toward you.

you close the door. not all the way. just enough that it clicks. when you turn back, caleb’s closer. still shirtless. still smug. he raises an eyebrow, that infuriatingly soft curl at the corner of his mouth growing. “huh,” he says, lazy. “thought you were just here for your bag.”

your stomach flips you open your mouth, trying to find something—anything—casual to say.

“i didn’t want the breeze blowing it open,” you offer, weakly. he laughs. low and warm, the sound licking at your spine. “right. the breeze.”

you clutch the strap of your purse a little tighter. “you said the door was open.” — “it was,” he says, stepping closer.

you don’t move, “but you locked it.” his eyes drag down, slow, deliberate,not crude—intentional. like he’s memorizing the shape of your breath, the curve of your silence.

“caleb,” you whisper, he says your name back—quiet, reverent. “i’ve missed the way that sounds coming from your mouth.”

your back finds the wall before you realize you’ve been retreating. his hand finds the surface beside your head, fingers spreading out like he owns the space around you.

he’s so close now you can smell the salt on his skin. feel the heat radiating off him. “you should go,” he says, but he doesn’t step back. his voice lowers. “but you won’t.”

your breath stutters. “this is a bad idea.” — “it’s the only idea that’s ever made sense.”

your heart hammers in your chest. his fingers lift—slow—ghosting up your arm. not touching. just close.

“is he enough?” he asks, voice quieter now. “or is he just… safe?”

you don’t answer… you don’t answer him.

instead, you inhale—steadying yourself like you’re preparing for gravity to give out. and then you move, shifting just enough to duck under the curve of his arm. his bare chest grazes your shoulder as you slip past him, and the heat that radiates off his skin feels like it clings to you long after you’re out of his reach.

he doesn’t stop you. he just turns, tracking you with that same steady gaze. like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with your escape.

your footsteps echo softly against the marble floor as you reach the bed. your cream-colored bag sits there, neatly perched beside the open mouth of his suitcase, as if it had always belonged there. innocent. untouched. except now your fingers tremble just slightly as you reach for it.

you curl your hand around the handle and force your face into something neutral, something calm, even though your pulse is slamming against your ribs.

“thanks,” you murmur, your voice too soft, too normal for how wrecked you feel inside. you make it three steps toward the door before he says it.

“i took a souvenir.”

you freeze. 

your back stiffens. the room stills with you. you don’t turn. not at first. his voice is casual—low, smooth, velvet draped over something darker. “from your bag.”

you glance back over your shoulder. “what are you talking about?”

he holds something up between two fingers.

a scrap of red silk and lace.

your heart drops like a stone in your chest.

they’re unmistakable—your favorite pair. delicate, barely-there, the ones you packed last-minute without thinking. the ones you almost didn’t bring. crimson and sheer and trimmed in the thinnest whisper of embroidery.

his grin is slow. knowing. just this side of smug, “you really should pack more carefully.”

you stare at him, your mouth parted in silence, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks in a flush you can’t begin to fight. he twirls them once on his finger, then drapes them across his palm, like he’s offering you a dare. his voice drops even lower. “or maybe you left them for me.”

you don’t say anything.

you just turn, bag clutched tight in your hand, and walk.

each step feels like it echoes—too slow, too loud, too obvious. the air outside his suite is cooler, but it does nothing for the heat burning beneath your skin.

when you open the door to your room, adrien’s standing by the balcony, shirt halfway unbuttoned, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. he turns when he hears you come in, eyes flicking to your face.

he smiles, but it falters slightly. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you say too quickly, dropping the bag onto the chair, avoiding his eyes. “it’s just—hot. it’s the beach.”

you grab a hair tie from the nightstand and pull your hair back, trying to pretend your ears aren’t burning.

adrien grins, walking over to brush a kiss against your cheek. “you’re right. i forgot how thick the air gets near the coast.” he pulls a linen shirt over his shoulders, still barefoot. “m.c. says everyone’s heading down to the bar soon. they’re starting the party.”

“okay,” you say, grounding yourself in the word. you focus on that—normalcy. the night. drinks. laughter. anything but what’s still fluttering in your chest.

within the hour, you’re all heading down—the group buzzing with early vacation energy. tara arrives in a gauzy wrap and sunglasses, dragging xavier by the hand. m.c. loops her arm through yours, all smiles and mischief. nero’s already asking about the drink menu before you’ve even reached the elevator.

and then caleb joins at the lobby entrance, freshly showered, crisp linen shirt open at the collar, hair damp and pushed back.

he doesn’t look at you, not directly. but his mouth quirks—just slightly—when he catches you looking at him. and god, he still has your underwear.

adrien slips his hand into yours, you smile up at him.  and pretend that you’re not still trembling on the inside.

the resort’s bar isn’t just a bar—it’s a whole open-air lounge carved into the edge of the cliffside, with glass railings overlooking the sea and sunken seating arranged in half-moons of plush white cushions and low stone tables. lights are strung overhead in warm strands, flickering like captured stars. the sun is just beginning to set, turning the sky a bruised gold and washing everything in that kind of glow that makes even tension look beautiful.

the group claims a corner table near the edge, laughter easy, legs bare and drinks already sweating in their glasses. m.c. and tara are leaned together, sharing a bowl of citrus-soaked olives, xavier and nero comparing cocktails. adrien sits beside you, his hand tracing light patterns over your thigh as he tells caleb something about property shares on the coast, voice smooth, not bragging—but close.

caleb’s across from you, lounging low, one arm draped along the back of the seat like he owns the curve of the air behind him. he’s got a glass of something dark in his hand, condensation trailing slow down his fingers. he’s half-listening to adrien, nodding politely, but his eyes keep drifting. to you.

you look away, sip your drink.

he speaks, voice low and amused. “adrien, you ever try a flamefruit old fashioned? they only serve them off-world, but i’ve got a connection.”

adrien raises a brow. “can’t say i have.”

“i’ll have the bar replicate it. you’ll love it.” caleb turns, gestures to the server without waiting for permission. “round for the table. my treat.”

m.c. smirks behind her glass. “colonel card again?”

caleb winks. “if i’ve got the perks, might as well use them.”

“what’s it taste like?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

caleb’s eyes meet yours.

and he smiles, slow and deliberate. “burns going down. sweet after.”

your breath catches. your thighs press together under the table.

adrien chuckles beside you, nudging your knee with his. “i’ll drink anything if it’s free.”

caleb raises his glass slightly, gaze still locked on you. “oh, it’s not free.”

tara fans herself dramatically. “stars, is it hot out here or is it just all this masculine tension choking the oxygen?”

m.c. laughs. “i think caleb’s trying to intimidate your boyfriend, babe.”

“oh, he’s not intimidated,” caleb says, sipping casually. “yet.”

adrien grins, unfazed. “depends. are you trying to charm me or compete with me?”

“does it matter?” caleb says smoothly. “either way, i win.”

the table erupts into a mixture of laughter and groans, but your cheeks are already burning. you don’t dare say a word. because every time you look at him, all you can think about is the red lace still sitting somewhere in his room.

the drinks arrive in short, crystal-cut glasses, glowing faintly pink-orange like sunset syrup. tiny flames flicker at the rim—real fire, hovering just above the liquid like it’s dared to touch it. a soft gasp rises from the table. they smell like heat and sugar, like something forbidden.

“they’re infused with flamefruit,” caleb explains, lounging a little deeper into his seat. “rare export. the alcohol levels double within five minutes of exposure to oxygen.”

“you mean—” m.c. squints at her glass. “this’ll make me blackout drunk?”

“if you’re lucky,” caleb says, sipping his first.

tara grins. “then i want two.”

cheers erupt across the table, glasses clinking, the laughter rising with the tide. the first round hits fast. the second hits hard.

in less than half an hour, nero’s shirtless and swaying to music that isn’t even playing. m.c. has xavier in a headlock in the pool, both of them crying laughing over something that doesn’t even make sense. tara’s floating belly-up in the water, sunglasses still on, whispering to the stars.

adrien’s sprawled across a deck chair beside you, half-asleep, half-chuckling, hand loosely tangled in yours, his voice slurred.

“you’re—so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles, “you know that?”

you smile at him, soft, but your heart’s somewhere else. because caleb hasn’t moved.

he’s sitting near the pool’s edge, ankles dipped in the water, watching everything with that quiet, unreadable expression. glass empty. gaze fixed.

you pull your hand gently from adrien’s. he doesn’t notice. you rise, your balance steady, even though your skin buzzes faintly from the drink. maybe it’s adrenaline. maybe it’s him.

you walk toward the pool. he watches you approach, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. you sit beside him, legs dangling into the water. the heat from the drink hums beneath your skin. the air smells like salt, citrus, and fire.

“they’re all gone,” you murmur.

he smirks. “lightweights.” you smile, “you didn’t finish yours.” he shrugs. “i wanted to remember tonight.”

you glance at him. his eyes are already on you.

the pool glows beneath your feet. somewhere behind you, adrien calls your name and slurs something about marshmallows, but the sound doesn’t reach you fully. not here. not beside him.

“you planned this,” you whisper. “i didn’t plan you showing up in that dress,” he says back, voice low. “but i’m not complaining.”

your stomach twists. “caleb—”

he leans in, just slightly, voice brushing your skin like velvet. “if i kissed you right now, would you still blame it on the drink?”

you don’t answer

you watch him, the edge of the pool casting shifting ripples of blue light across his chest and jaw. he looks good like this—barefoot, relaxed, but still sharp. always sharp.

“why aren’t you drinking?” you ask softly, trying not to sound like you already know.

he glances at you, half amused. “fleet protocol.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“active duty officers aren’t supposed to drink in public unless it’s sanctioned. even on leave. especially when there’s a crowd.”

you blink at him. “that’s… incredibly responsible of you.”

he snorts. “no, it’s annoying. but i’ve seen what happens when we slip. one colonel blackout-drunk in the wrong company, and it’s a planetary incident.”

you laugh—just a little. soft. “guess that’s why you let us fall apart instead.”

his expression shifts—just for a second. unreadable. raw. you don’t push, but the silence between you isn’t comfortable. it’s full. heavy with all the things you’ve been too afraid to say. a splash breaks the tension—tara, floating sideways, blinking up at the moon like it personally offended her.

“i think the diplomat’s drowning,” caleb mutters.

you both rise at once.

the rest of the night is a slow unraveling. you and caleb move from one friend to the next—xavier slung between your shoulders, nero mumbling something about becoming a beach hermit, m.c. giggling hysterically into caleb’s chest as he carries her in both arms like she weighs nothing. she calls him sir in a fake voice and salutes before passing out.

tara refuses to sleep indoors, insisting the ocean invited her personally. you bribe her with aloe vera lotion.

adrien is the last one—he stumbles into your room, mumbling praise, pressing a kiss to your temple before collapsing sideways on the bed. you help pull his shoes off. he’s already snoring by the time you dim the lights.

you stand at the door for a long moment.

caleb’s across the hall.

you decide to call it quits for the night instead.

you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above you. adrien’s out cold beside you, one arm flung across the pillow, mouth slightly open, the sound of his breathing rhythmic, steady. the room is dim, moonlight casting long silver shadows through the sheer curtains.

you try to close your eyes. you try to sleep, but your heart won’t slow down, and you know exactly why.

you slide out of bed carefully, quietly, padding barefoot across the cool tile. you reach for your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

you don’t text him.

you just open the door. across the hall, his light is still on. your heart thuds once. you knock.

he opens the door almost immediately. like he was waiting.

he’s changed into a dark tee and joggers, barefoot, hair still damp from the night. there’s no smirk this time. no tease. just the quiet question in his eyes.

you whisper, “come walk with me?”

he doesn’t answer. just nods once, grabs his keycard, and follows.

.

the resort is near silent at night. lanterns glow low along the stone paths, lighting the garden walkways and casting soft reflections over the still pool water. the air is warm and salty, the kind of breeze that curls around your ankles and hums beneath your skin.

you walk side by side in silence for a while. until he says, “you always used to sneak out like this.”

you smile faintly. “you always caught me.” —“because you were bad at sneaking.” a pause, “because you were obsessive.”

he glances at you. “you say that like it’s a flaw.” you laugh, soft and tired. “you still are.” he hums. “only about some things.” you walk past the little row of cabanas, their curtains fluttering in the wind.

“remember the old beach station?” you say. “the busted one we thought was haunted?” — “you mean the one i dragged you into during a thunderstorm?”

“and then left me when a bird flew into the window.” he grins, sharp and nostalgic. “you screamed first.”

“i had reason to. i thought it was a ghost.” he glances at you again, eyes softer now. “you always believed in things i couldn’t see.”

you stop walking. just for a second.

the wind picks up, and you wrap your arms around yourself. not from cold—just to keep something in.

“why now, caleb?” you ask. “why all of this?” he looks at you. eyes serious. voice low. “because for years, i told myself you’d be there when i was ready.” you inhale. feel it sting.

“and now that you’re not mine,” he adds, softer, “i can’t stop wondering if i waited too long.”

you walk again, wordless, the silence a little heavier now. not cold—just brimming. every step brushing against the edge of something you’ve both kept locked away for far too long.

then the path curves.

a narrow stone turnoff, half-hidden by a curtain of vines and low-hanging lanterns. you slip into it without thinking, your feet moving before your mind catches up. he follows. the alcove is small. private. a carved-out space in the garden wall, ivy crawling over old stone and no cameras, no windows, no footsteps nearby. the moonlight doesn’t quite reach this far. it feels like another world tucked inside the resort—untouched, unseen.

you stop walking. and then he’s there, you turn to face him—barely. his hands find your wrists. slow. deliberate.

and he pins them above your head, pressing them gently into the cool stone wall. your breath catches—more in shock than fear. your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away.

you can’t.

his body is close. too close. heat rolling off him in waves, his mouth just inches from yours, his knee brushing yours, chest rising and falling steady while yours stutters.

his voice is low—dangerous and velvet. “you want to know the worst part?”

you can’t speak— can barely move.

“it’s not just that i want you,” he murmurs, head tilting, his breath hot against your cheek. “it’s how much i know you want me back.”

your fingers twitch in his grip. he leans in closer—lips at your ear now.

“you lock your knees when i touch you. you look away every time i say your name. and when i held your panties in my hand—” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear—“you didn’t tell me to give them back.”

your pulse is roaring. his grip stays firm but gentle—like he’s restraining himself more than you.

“i don’t need to kiss you to know how you’d taste,” he says, voice ragged now. “i remember you. and i’ve dreamed about this for too long.”

your whole body trembles. his forehead leans against yours, and for a second—just one—he softens.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

his breath fans against your lips, heavy with want and the weight of everything unsaid. he has you pinned—not roughly, not cruelly, but like he’s clinging to the one thing in this entire galaxy that still feels real. his fingers are firm around your wrists, pressing them gently into the cool stone behind you, his body a whisper away from yours, heat coiled between you like a storm about to break.

and god, you want him. so bad.

you want him the way your body remembers—hot and hungry, instinctive. the way your heart still does—tangled in the memory of laughter in empty classrooms, late-night talks and half-written letters, the smell of his skin on your pillow long after he left.

but your heart isn’t quiet. not now.

and your mouth, when it moves, doesn’t say yes.

it says—soft, barely audible—“stop.”

he goes still— completely still. like the air’s been sucked out of him.

his fingers twitch where they hold you, then slowly, almost reverently, let go. your wrists drop to your sides, tingling, your arms aching in the absence of his touch. he steps back, just an inch, like it hurts to put distance there, but he respects it anyway.

he’s breathing hard. not from exertion, but from everything he’s holding back.

you don’t look at him right away. your head is down. your chest rises and falls like you’re trying not to cry.

and then you do.

tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them—warm and silent, cutting slow paths down skin that still burns from where he touched you.

you lift your head, finally, and meet his gaze. he looks stricken. like someone who just realized he’s still bleeding from a wound he thought had healed.

“you didn’t pick me,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you had your chance. you left.”

he opens his mouth, but no words come.

“i waited for you,” you continue, stronger now, bitterness threading through the ache. “i waited longer than i should’ve. and you just… disappeared into the fleet. you sent reports. updates. hollow things. and i tried—i tried so fucking hard—to make peace with that.”

he takes a step closer, instinctive. but you back up, just slightly.

“and then i met someone,” you say. “someone who chose me. who stayed. who wanted a life, not just a memory.”

his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

you wipe the tears from your cheek with the back of your hand, breath sharp in your chest. “you don’t get to come back now and do this. you don’t get to touch me like i’m yours. you don’t get to look at me like that when i’ve finally, finally chosen to be happy.”

but i love you. your head buries the thought.

the silence that follows is suffocating. he’s breathing through his nose, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing the pain he caused.

you hold his gaze one last time.

then you turn, footsteps light but unsteady as you walk away from him. past the vines, past the soft lights, past the garden path that still smells faintly of sea salt and firefruit.

he doesn’t follow.

he just stands there, rooted to the stone, with the weight of your words draped over his shoulders like a cloak he’ll never take off.

.

the sun creeps through the curtains like it’s apologizing. golden and soft, too kind for the ache sitting behind your eyes.

you dress in silence.

adrien’s already downstairs—he left early to meet with one of his execs flying in for the tail end of the celebration. he kissed your forehead before he left. you barely felt it.

your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal.

except your eyes— your eyes tell on you.

by the time you reach the dining terrace, the rest of the group is already gathered at a large outdoor table. white linen umbrellas shade half-drunk smoothies and strong coffee, sunglasses hiding most of their misery. nero looks like he’s about to melt into his plate. tara’s eating fruit directly from the tray with no shame. m.c. is dressed immaculately, of course, sipping lemon water like she didn’t drag half of xavier’s body weight through the hallway the night before.

“there she is,” m.c. says when she sees you, tone light. “sleep okay?”

you nod, sliding into the seat between her and tara.

“adrien told me you were already up,” xavier says groggily. “you people with morning routines are terrifying.”

you smile, small, polite, careful.

but your heart is already scanning the table.

he’s not here. you wait. maybe he’s just late.

but then m.c. sets her glass down and clears her throat.

“before anyone asks,” she says, tone just a little too smooth, “caleb had to leave early. fleet business. emergency recall. left just before sunrise.”

there’s a collective groan of disappointment. tara swears under her breath. xavier shrugs, “figures.”

nero mutters something like, damn, i owed him twenty credits.

but your stomach sinks… he didn’t say goodbye.

m.c. doesn’t look at you when she continues, cheerful now. “good news, though. the suite arrangements are staying the same—and he left instructions to keep everything on his card. so drinks, spa, room service—go wild.”

cheers rise across the table. xavier lifts his coffee like a toast. nero suddenly looks awake. tara claps her hands like someone just proposed. you force a smile. raise your own glass, but something inside you feels hollow. like a door closed quietly in the night, and you didn’t get to see what was on the other side.

he’s gone. again, and this time, he didn’t even look back

.

the rest of the trip slips through your fingers like sand.

there are bonfires and cocktails with flowers in them. ocean breezes and overpriced massages. poolside games and laughter that never quite reaches your chest. adrien is warm and sweet, always touching your hand, your shoulder, the small of your back. you let him. you kiss him when he leans in. you laugh at his jokes. you say “i love you” when he murmurs it against your temple.

but your heart stays quiet.

and caleb doesn’t message you.

not once.

no apology. no explanation. not even a hollow joke or a sign that he’d been thinking of you at all. it’s like he vanished again—just like before—leaving only the ache of what almost was. no one asks. not even m.c. she watches you sometimes, like she wants to, but she never says a word. she just stays close. brings you tea in the mornings. walks with you at night.

you keep waiting for something to break the silence.

it never does and eventually, the trip ends.

everyone hugs goodbye on the private landing deck. adrien kisses your cheek, promising he’ll take you somewhere even more beautiful next time. nero grumbles about work. tara’s already posting sunlit pictures. xavier pretends he didn’t cry when he saw the bill.

you hop in the car and look out the window as the coastline disappears beneath the clouds.

no messages.

no name lighting up your screen.

just your reflection, staring back at you, quieter now.

.

it’s been two weeks.

you’ve returned to routine—your apartment, your desk, your carefully managed calendar of quiet obligations. adrien is away on business, a two-week summit. he calls when he can. he sends gifts. you thank him with a soft voice and a smile he can’t see is empty.

you haven’t heard from caleb.

you’d convinced yourself that was permanent.

so when the building’s front desk pings you with a call, and the attendant says, “miss, there’s a colonel caleb xia here to see you. he’s requested you come down,” your breath catches like a hook in your lungs.

you almost say no, however, your feet are already moving.

the elevator doors open to the private valet entrance, and you step into the golden light of late afternoon—soft, clean, and far too warm for the cold in your chest.

and there he is.

leaning against the most stunning piece of car you’ve ever seen—gloss-black body, brushed metal trim, glowing fleet detailing along the edge of the door. a top-of-the-line sports car, modified beyond standard specs. of course.

he’s dressed simply—black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark trousers, aviator shades tucked into his collar—but he still looks like he walked out of a novel.

and when he sees you—god, he actually looks nervous.

“hey,” he says, voice low. “thanks for coming down.” you stop a few steps away. arms crossed. walls up. “what are you doing here?”

he straightens. runs a hand through his hair like he’s bracing for something. “i owe you an apology.”

you don’t answer. you just wait.

“that night,” he says, “it was a fleet emergency. a real one. intel flagged a threat linked to one of my old operations—classified level. i had to leave before sunrise. couldn’t even bring my comm back online until i cleared orbit.”

he takes a step closer.

“i wasn’t ghosting you. i wasn’t running. i just—had to go. and i’m sorry you thought i didn’t care.”

your eyes sting, but you hold his gaze.

he exhales. voice softer now. “i should’ve told you as soon as i landed. but the longer i waited, the harder it got. and i… didn’t want to make things worse for you. not if you’d already chosen to forget me.”

silence stretches. and then—he nods toward the passenger door.

“i just want to talk. no pressure. no expectations. just you and me. one hour. that’s all i’m asking.”

your hand tightens around your phone. your heart’s a mess.

you nod, following him out of the apartment entrance.

you get in.

you don’t say anything at first.

just buckle your seatbelt and stare out the window as he pulls out of the lot, the engine humming smooth and low beneath you. he doesn’t play music. doesn’t speak. just drives—steady, like he knows every road but isn’t rushing through any of them.

the city thins. buildings stretch out into tree-lined residential zones, then the pavement turns soft with shadows. he pulls off into a small overlook just past the western ridge—where the city lights look like stardust and the sky hangs low and warm in the early dusk.

he puts the car in park but leaves the engine running.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

just rests his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield like he’s trying to breathe evenly.

then, quietly: “i don’t know what the hell i’m doing anymore.”

you glance at him, unsure of what to say.

his jaw flexes. “i thought i could just see you again. that it’d fade. that i’d remember why i left it all alone in the first place.”

his voice cracks slightly when he says your name. he turns toward you, finally, and there’s nothing calm in his eyes now. none of the smooth teasing or practiced control. just hunger. grief. something that’s been clawing at him for far too long.

“but it hasn’t faded,” he says. “it’s worse.”

you shift, pulse thudding louder in your ears.

“i miss you,” he breathes. “i miss you like it’s a sickness. like it’s in my bones.”

his fingers tighten on the wheel. “i think about you every goddamn day. and it’s not just memories. it’s need. it’s knowing exactly how you sound when you laugh and how you bite your lip when you’re overthinking something. it’s how you used to tuck your feet under mine on the couch just so they’d stay warm.”

you swallow hard.

“and i’ve tried,” he continues, raw now. “i’ve tried so hard to let go. to respect what you’ve built with him. but seeing you with him—smiling, reaching for his hand, looking up at him like he’s your future—i fucking hate it.”

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

“i know what this makes me,” he says. “but if the only way i get to have you is behind closed doors—if that’s all you’re willing to give me—i’ll take it.”

your breath catches.

he leans closer across the center console. “i’ll take anything,” he whispers, “as long as it’s you.”

you sit there, the silence thick as the sky around you. the console hums gently between your bodies, the glow of the city stretching out in front of you like a life that isn’t yours.

your fingers twist in your lap, voice raw when it finally breaks free.

“i don’t want to do that to him,” you whisper.

caleb says nothing.

you stare at your hands. “he’s never lied to me. never hurt me. he’s always been there, always—shown up. and he loves me.” your throat tightens. “he really loves me.”

you turn your face toward the window, breath fogging the glass. “how do i do this to someone like that?”

caleb shifts. not toward you—just slightly. like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

“i’m not asking you to stop loving him,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “i’m asking you to stop pretending that’s all you feel.”

you shut your eyes.

he leans a little closer, his voice a breath against the quiet.

“you ache when i look at you,” he murmurs. “you flinch when i say your name. like you’re terrified of what it does to you.”

your heart slams against your ribs.

he exhales. “you think i didn’t see it? in the alcove? at the pool? even now—you won’t look at me because you’re afraid you’ll want it again.”

you turn, slowly, meeting his eyes—and he’s already there. watching you like he’s memorized the exact shape of your restraint.

“you’ve been wanting to fuck me for years,” he says, low and devastating. “you want to know how i know?”

you don’t breathe.

his gaze drags down—slow, deliberate—then back up, landing squarely on your mouth. “because i’ve been wanting it just as long. and i feel it—every time i’m near you. you’re thinking about it right now, and you hate yourself for it.”

your lip trembles, and he sees it. of course he does.

but his voice softens—just slightly.

“i’m not asking you to be cruel,” he says. “i’m asking you to be honest.”

he leans back then, like he’s giving you room to choose.

like he knows he’s already cracked something wide open.

you don’t answer.

you just sit there, the words still echoing in the low, humming cabin. his voice lingers in your blood, thick and hot, and your throat feels too tight to swallow.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t speak again. he just watches you for a moment longer—like he wants to reach  out, like he won’t.

then he shifts, gently easing the car out of park.

the drive back is quiet.

the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch, like your whole body is trying to scream beneath the weight of what wasn’t said. the city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and reflections in glass. you don’t know what song is playing, if any. your pulse is too loud in your ears to notice.

caleb pulls up in front of your building.

he doesn’t turn off the engine.

doesn’t look at you, at first.

you reach for the door handle with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

he speaks, soft, one last time. “you don’t have to decide tonight.”

you nod, but you don’t look at him.

you open the door, step out onto the curb. the air is cooler now, night brushing your skin like a warning. you don’t say goodbye and he doesn’t ask you to.

he waits until you’re inside the building before he pulls away. you don’t watch him go. but god, you feel it.

you feel every inch of distance stretching between who you are and what you want.

and you’re still thinking about it. thinking about him. even as the elevator closes. even as your door clicks shut.

even as you crawl into bed beside a man who has never made you cry, and still—

he isn’t the one making your heart race

.

morning comes slow, the kind that bleeds in through the curtains too gently to jolt you awake. your body moves on muscle memory—coffee, robe, soft slippers against the floor. adrien is already at the dining counter, sleeves rolled, reading through a holo-brief projected over his tablet. he looks up the second you enter.

“hey,” he says, with that easy smile. “you slept in.”

you nod. pour yourself a cup. you don’t meet his eyes.

“bad dreams?”

you shake your head. “just… tired.” he watches you for a second too long. you feel it.

he sets the tablet aside, his expression softening. “you okay?”

you stir your coffee. it takes longer than it should.

he gets up, walks over, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind—warm and sure, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “you’ve been quiet,” he says. “colder, maybe. just a little.”

your throat tightens.

he presses a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. “if there’s something wrong—if i’ve done something—”

“no,” you interrupt gently, your voice barely above a whisper. “you haven’t.”

you turn slightly in his hold, enough to face him but not enough to really look.

“i get like this sometimes,” you lie. “just… little dips. random depression waves. i don’t always see them coming.”

his brows knit in concern, but he nods. you smile, and it feels brittle.

“i’m sorry if i’ve been distant. it’s not about you. really.”

he leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

“you don’t owe me apologies for how you feel,” he says quietly. “i’m not here for the best parts of you. i’m here for all of it.”

that breaks something in you. you hug him tighter than you mean to. he doesn’t question it. he just holds you. and you close your eyes. not to rest— but to hide from the truth pressing like a bruise beneath your ribs.

.

adrien’s message hits m.c.’s inbox just before noon, voice-attached, full of that effortless charm that makes him impossible to say no to.

“hey, sunshine. thinking of throwing something small this weekend at our place. just food, drinks, the usual. she’s been a little… off lately, and i thought maybe being around friends might help her shake it. you in?”

then, a second message, a little sheepish:

“also, i may have bought an embarrassing amount of alcohol. could use your help curating it so it doesn’t look like a cry for help.”

m.c. doesn’t even hesitate. she sends back a voice note with a laugh and a “count me in, you reckless wine hoarder.”

by the next day, he’s pulling strings.

he orders catering from her favorite fusion spot. hires a soft jazz duo for background music. stocks the bar with rare liquors—imports, aged things with names he can’t pronounce, glittery mixers from a lunar distillery she once offhandedly said reminded her of childhood.

and then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—he messages caleb.

adrien: got a favor. hosting a small get-together for her. thought maybe you could pull a few strings and get that flamefruit cocktail mix again? she loved it. figured it might get her smiling.

the message is casual. friendly. trusting.

caleb reads it twice.

he doesn’t respond immediately.

but two hours later, adrien gets a delivery confirmation for an off-world case of flamefruit extract with a note:

“tell her it burns going down, but it’s sweet after.”

adrien smiles. texts back a simple “you’re a legend.”

he has no idea what he’s set in motion.

[tobesolnelyx]

i just saw ur post that frat boy! jackie is next, but also…. frat boy nat <3 always standing outside the frat house door smoking cigs, checking girls out, telling guys they can’t come in if they look sleazy <33

— a little bit harder now || fratboy and g!p natalie scatorccio headcanons 🕸️

a/n: ahh i have too many headcanons for her. i could make whole ass playlist for her.

summary: people are annoying but turns out you’re the exepction. college modern au. girlfriend!nat.

warnings: NSFW - content - MDNI

★ — the weird part about her is that she knows absolutely everyone around the campus. like, everyone. that’s why frats tell her to stand in front of the house and check who’s coming in. like some stoned bodyguard. not like she’s complaining. she can smoke as much as she can. and there’s pretty girls! coming in and going out, giggling at her, in shorts skirts with messed up make up…she gives them crooked smile, leaning against the cold wall.

★ — it’s her way to choose with who she wants to hook up tonight. if some girl is particularly pretty, she starts flirting and before anyone notice, she drags her to her room for a quickie.

★ — that’s how she met you! she was already a little bit high by that time. she looked at ,you and thought that you’re gorgeous. like, real fucking pretty. and okay, maybe she wasn’t very sober but when she woke up next to you in the morning after heated sex, she was certain it weren’t only drugs. you were still unfairly beautiful.

she didn’t know what to do, obviously. it’s not like nat ever had one meaningful relationship in her entire life. she froze in place when you stirred awake.

“hey” you mumbled. voice thick with sleep, deeper after whole night.

something in her chest fluttered. fucking hell.

“hey” she breathed out, starring at you, ghost of smile played on her lips. a moment of silence passed, and she closed the distance between the two of you again. and you both melted into the kiss.

★ — you learned that she knows everyone cause she’s a campus dealer. it’s not like she’s a druggie. maybe a little bit. but at least she has money, right? and she’s not constantly drugged!

★ — she owns old motorcycle! goes everywhere by it. she even bought you a helmet so you can ride with her without getting hurt. always making sure you’re holding on to her tight. never driving too fast when you’re with her.

★ — and okay, maybe she has idiotic reputation, maybe she’s blunt and doesn’t really likes anyone (maybe besides other frats). she just has trust issues. but for you? oh hell, she’s a softie. not exactly the clingy and sappy type, but always near you. you learned that her small gestures speaks louder than any words.

★ — she ties you shoes, soothes your clothes and gently fixes your make up whenever it gets messed up. always here when you pick up an outfit before going out together.

★ — and once you’re done? she fingers you in front of the mirror. she can watch you squirm in your pretty clothes, riding her long fingers. you have to change your panties after that. they’re completely soaked after all. she discreetly snitch the ones that are dripping with your cum to probably jerk off later. while pressing dirty fabric to her face. freak.

★ — she’s possessive and she’s sure as hell gonna manifest this by grabbing your thighs or ass in public. especially when someone’s trying to hit on you. doesn’t say much about it, but it’s obvious, she will show you later in her bedroom.

★ — natalie is audible. she can get really loud when she’s fucking you really good. not a big fan of smashing cock into your cunt when someone might catch you tho. you’re hers. only she can hear your moans and watch how her dick disappears in your hole.

★ — going back to — she loves to praise you in bed. always telling you how good you are for her. how beautiful you are. and she loves to massage your scalp while you’re sucking her off.

★ — usually so closed off and cold, but once when she’s in the mood and there’s only the two of you, she makes the dumbest jokes on earth. having much more fun with that than you do. i mean, you laugh too, from how stupid she is.

★ — everyone says she’s an asshole. she kinda is. very bold, not scared to tell people what she really thinks about them. she might not getting into fights for you, but sure as hell she’ll be arguing until she win. she makes people feel like idiots for even starting stupid conversations with you. her mouth is really something. really something.

★ — she’s not a cheater but she might be a little too friendly with other girls. she knows many of them. half because of her multiple hook ups, half because of dealing. you get jealous easily because of that. unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to see the problems.

“really? what was that bitch name?” you huff while she’s trying to put on you your motorcycle helmet.

“who?” she asks furrowing her brows. she’s oblivious to that. it’s normal for her to talks with girls on parties like that. besides, she genuinely doesn’t understand. she loves just you, so where’s problem? “oh, c’mon, pretty girl” she says pressing kiss to your nose. “im yours, get over it”

she gently puts helmet on your head. “i love you, stop that.” she murmurs. and god help her, she never loved anyone like that.

★ — when you argue, she’s mad or frustrated, she starts yelling in italian, gesturing so much that her rings are clinking against each other.

★ — right, her hands! always cold, covered in jewellery, fingers tangled with yours. seriously, she always holds your hand. actually she might have a thing for your hands. kissing your knuckles, sucking on your fingers…

★ — tank tops. loose tank tops with band logos and tight jeans. the bulge is extremely visible in them tho. this might be a bad thing, too. her cock is aching inside when she gets hard. (and she gets hard often. girl definitely has massive libido.)

★ — weirdly good at cooking and baking. makes you dinners and breakfasts, saying that going out is too expensive. and she’s better at this anyway. you’re pretty sure it has something to do with her italian roots.

“we could just order food from that—“ you start but she’s already in the kitchen. doing things pretty aggressively. very italian of her.

“no” she says with an accent. and there’s no further discussion. it’s tempting to continue anyway. she likes to shutting your mouth with kisses. or…other things.

★ — shitty at comforting but she always tries to make you laugh! she’s good at that. even if she’s just being silly.

★ — she’s not really good at expressing feelings verbally but sometimes when she’s high she starts making love confessions.

★ — family issues. to this point that when she broke a glass, she was prepared you’re going to tell her how much of a failure she is. poor baby. but she has you, and you’re doing everything to show her how healthy relationship looks like

[sossegato]

I can't believe you're 33 with this degree of arguments. Being in the gringa is doing your intellect no good, amor.

Having a vagina is not how you determine if someone is a woman.

Who said that? Not radfems. It's TIMs who want to get fake "vaginas" to make themselves "more woman". You can go ahead and argue that with them.

Not to mention that if you're walking around with your vagina visible

What are you even on about. Or more reasonably, what are you on. Like, what drug, what substance.

Having boobs is not how you determine if someone is a woman.

Again, not a thing we ever said ever. TIMs is who you wanna be explaining this to.

Women who have had mastectomies are still women. Women with flatter chests are still women. Girls who haven't developed breasts are still women.

Preaching to the choir here ✌️

Checking someone's DNA will not tell you if someone is a woman.

Not exclusively. Bones is another.

Intersex people exist.

Wha wha wha intersex people exist so perisex people can change sex wha wha wha. Burraça da porra.

For the, what number am I on this year, of having to explain to people who have the exact same access to information as me that intersex conditions are not discrete sex categories. That most intersex conditions occur to either men or women or both and if it's in both it rarely results in ambiguous sex expression unless in extremely uncommon cases of mosaicism or chimerism. That this is a single google away. That refusing to learn about this sincerely instead of just accepting and regurgitating whatever bullshit supports your a priori conclusion is being deliberately fucking stupid. It's month 5 of the year and I already lost count.

And even if intersex people had different sexes than the just two that actually exist, again, what would that have to do with perisex people and their zillion genders?

And all those cases you two posted of people being mistaken for the opposite sex and not believed and harassed for it you can thank TRAs directly for 👍

If they hadn't obliterated legal sex definitions and made it legal for people of a different sex to waltz into spaces for the other sex far less people would be fucking terrified of exactly that or presumed to be doing it.

You hypocritical twats are the ones who made it so we couldn't and shouldn't, on liability of legal action, care when a whole ass male was in a female space, no matter how uncomfortable or dangerous this was and how much we warned you it would backfire. Guess, the fuck what, it's backfiring.

You are the ones who keep pushing for "passing" or just someone saying 'trust me bro' being enough to tell who should be where while we've been arguing the entire time that's bullshit 'cause superficial shit means nothing and sex is the singular determinant of whether or not someone belongs in a certain sex-specific space.

Not clothes, not hair, not surgeries, not hormones, not pronouns, not nothing except sex.

You people cry and shit yourselves about that.

So I really don't see the point in linking me a bunch of proof of how your ideology that superficial traits are supposed to be critical to identity is causing a bunch of unnecessary shit. Yeah, we know.

"We ALL need to prove that we are women now!"

I've proven it around week 20 in my mother's womb, but by all means pass the cheek swab :)

[softsuo]

unexpected fists ⊱ sakura haruka

⊱ sakura may condone violence, unless it's you.

⊱ w.c: 1.0k

⊱ genre: fluff, mild angst

⊱ warnings: depictions/mentions of violence

⊱ a/n: wanted to delete this at first, but then i watched this week's episode, broke down, and decided to post it anyway

the roles are so reversed, it’s almost terrifying.

it’s sloppy work — sakura isn’t used to being the one who patches others up, after all — but he tries his best and you let him do so. you don’t have the right to protest anyway, or at least that’s what his scowl tells you as he puts one last band-aid on your face.

“so?” you almost grimace at the tone of his voice. you can make out sakura crossing his arms over his chest from the corner of your eyes, though you know better than to lock them with his surely bitter ones.

more often than not, or actually always, you’re the one scolding sakura whenever he gets hurt. yet, here you are, in the safety of café pothos, slumped in one of the seats as he towers over you with evident fury. to be fair, it’s not directed at you, but you’re guilty in the sense of being its cause.

“i… didn’t mean to get in a fight, i swear,” you mumble, awkwardly curling and uncurling the hands in your lap—bruised from the recent events, sweaty from the current event. will he still be mad after hearing that?

“so why did you get in a fight anyway?” he retorts flatly. yeah, he’s still mad. 

“sakura, i’m sure y/n is telling the truth, please don’t be so harsh o—” you hear nirei stumble a bit further away, but he’s interrupted by kotoha placing a hand on his shoulder. in fact, she’s quick to usher both him and suo, as well as herself, out of the café.

left alone, sakura lets out a deep breath, one almost bordering on a groan. “you’re lucky we just happened to be walking around the area.” while collecting the first aid kit kotoha had offered, he goes on: “you’re not even into violence, how did you single-handedly get involved with a whole group?”

“...”

“hey.”

in complete surrender, you groan. “i tried to ignore them but they approached me first! then they kept insulting me which— okay, maybe pissed me off a little… i swear i didn’t start it though! but then they charged at me and for the love of god i obviously had to at least defend myself but then they kept calling me names like ‘freak’ and ‘loser' and what not and—...”

your rant suddenly trails off into silence, and while still displeased, sakura raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for you to continue. “and? i know stuff like that means jackshit to you.”

he’s got a point, honestly. you know just fine he does, so despite your face growing a bit warmer, you surrender yet again.

“but then again, it kinda fits, doesn’t it?” the mocking words ring in your ears as a hand pulls you up by your hair. it makes you wince, and even more so when — courtesy of pure disgust — the leader closes in to your ear. “only a freak would date another freak after all.”

you’re sure you’ll come to regret it at a later point but at that very moment, your patience runs thin a bit too easily. a crack finds the composed nature you like to otherwise pride yourself in and, without really thinking twice, you’re tossing your head backwards, knocking it into his face.

the shock and impact frees you from his grip, your arm swings into the air and next thing you know…

“i kinda punched him,” you confess, rather embarrassed upon admitting what had caused the switch-up. “and some of the others.”

it becomes quiet, so quiet, and for so long, you can’t help but curiously glance up; much to your surprise, you find sakura to be the one looking away this time, a tint of pink dusting his cheeks.

“y-you don’t have to care about what others think of me,” he sheepishly mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “although it does kinda make me…”

“make you? make you, what?”

a rather stressed expression is quick to find his face, the hand on his neck flying up to ruffle his hair in frustration. “nothing, it doesn’t matter! just… i really don’t care so just ignore it.”

“but—”

“no buts. one of us getting their hands dirty like that is already enough. you don’t have to get into all that fighting too. call next time instead."

sakura sends you a glare as soon as you open your mouth to try and argue back. not the threatening kind he shows others, but the kind that still lets you know he’s being serious. so, chewing on the inside of your cheek, you opt to simply look down at your lap. moments of silence pass, until it’s suddenly broken by a deep, deep sigh.

before you can process it, sakura is already leaning down, resting his forehead on your shoulders. as he speaks, his voice comes out in nothing but a weak, quiet mumble: “i can’t just sit back and watch you get hurt.”

the vulnerability he radiates fills the shop more than any amount of customers ever could; something he’d never as much as think of showing others, not even to the friends patiently waiting outside. his words sound almost like they’d torn themselves from his throat, faintly laced by a sense of concern—one so deep, it makes you fear that maybe, just maybe, he probably wouldn’t be able to live with himself if any of this were to happen once more.

“okay. alright, i won’t do it again,” you eventually declare, as softly as the way you run your fingers through the strands of his hair. “i promise i’ll call you next time it happens.”

you feel him nod, barely, a silent ‘okay’ escaping him. the vulnerability in the room is soon replaced by a comforting silence, and you’re equally hit by the relief that everything is finally okay—save from the bruises that are yet to heal.

“i have to say though, i’m impressed you got that many punches in.”

“make up your mind already, do you want me to fight or not?”

[kerink]

@stemmmm #asking himself how and why he got out of it alive and having to push everything down as hard as he can#because the screaming answer of 'bill loves you' is just unbearable and so impossible#also great for his ego to point to 'im the specialest boy who ever lived and thats the only reason bill ever wanted me'#i love me a post canon ford who is through whatever circumstances forced to contend with the undeniable:#'bill was crazy insane in love with you the whole time have fun dealing with that'

AAA YES YES ugh ford seeing all the wanted posters bill's put up for him, all of them saying wanted alive alive alive alive and he has no other choice but to tell himself it's because bill wants to torture him again, because the pain he gets in his gut thinking about going home to bill, thinking about bill waiting up for him, thinking about bill worried about him is too much. he doesn't have the emotion regulation skills or self-insight to navigate it

because he can't imagine bill would love him for anything other than his mind, and he has nothing to offer bill in this world. he can't build him the portal and bill is at full power, he doesn't need weapons. he can't conceptualize a world where bill loves him for his creativity, his humor, his inventiveness, his passion, his mean streak, his child-like wonder. because ford doesn't see any good qualities in himself, and bill only ever complimented him on his intelligence. ford can't imagine bill did that because he knew it would be the only compliment ford would accept without resistance, would actually believe

i love a portal ford who is still telepathic with bill. bill begging and pleading and screaming and threatening and warning him to not leave, do not leave the asteroid belt, do not leave the nightmare realm, but of course ford does and bill is helpless to stop him. over time bill giving ford more and more space because trying to control stanford pines only serves to drive him further away. bill switching tactics, only chiming in from time to time, giving him tips and advice and little nudges, things ford does not want to ask for but desperately needs. bill keeping eyes on his location to gauge if he has influence or sway in this region, how close are his nearest bounty hunters, any goons on-planet? but more often than not ford is dark, radio silent except the worm in his head. and it's only on the worst nights, when ford is cold and tired and hungry and knows he can't go to sleep or he won't wake up that bill whispers in his ear to come home, he misses him, please fordsy it hurts to see you like this

ford sewing metal into the hood of his coat because it sounds so wonderful, it sounds so perfect, bill sounds truly remorseful and has done so much to help him and protect him and he wants him alive and its hurts. it hurts too bad to think about bill still loving him, thinking about them having a life and a home and a future together.

because bill is evil, bill cannot be trusted, and ford will not be complicit in the conquering of reality.

do u guys ever think about how ford fell in love with bill cipher and not Bill Cipher ™️

like everyone else bill has ever dated has known him as the dream demon and king of nightmares and dimensional authority's most wanted. he can never be given a chance to be more than his reputation, not without putting his reputation in jeopardy and he's not gonna do that

but ford is ignorant to who bill is. yes he believes bill is a powerful being, but he doesn't understand how powerful or what that truly means. he lacks the context to see bill as anything more than as he presents himself

so bill can be whoever he wants. and i think it's so heartbreaking that, given that, bill chose to be himself. set aside the crown set aside the party hat and just sat with this naive wide eyed trusting human and showed him the last atom of his dimension. bore his heart and soul to this child who doesn't realize he's got god wrapped around his finger

[risrambles]

I’ve seen Thunderbolts*! Here’s my full, SPOILER review!

STOP READING THIS IF YOU DONT WANT SPOILERS FOR MARVEL STUDIOS’ THUNDERBOLTS*

LIKE NOW.

OKAY.

Buckle up, i’ve got a lot of thoughts and a lot of word space.

Well, that was a pretty great movie! If you’ve seen my non spoiler review you’ll know I gave it an 8/10, and rightfully so. The first hour, hour and a half of the movie eats the rest of the movie up and if the ending had been as good as the first acts I would give it a 10/10. it kind of felt underwhelming and almost like it was a “power of friendship” moment—though none of these people are really friends, so maybe that’s the point.

First of all—Yelena and Bob. God, they were amazing, I loved the dynamic between them and it was really interesting to see the whole void thing come into play with how they felt about life. It was great.

The first scene when Taskmaster, Yelena, Walker, and Ghost all meet—that was amazing. my jaw DROPPED when Taskmaster got shot in the head, I wasn’t expecting her to get taken out so soon or by one of the Thunderbolts. I mean, we all knew she was a goner but I really wanted to see a little more of her. I liked her suit a lot!

Obviously, I have to talk about Bucky. I have two small complaints—one, I wish we saw a little more of him. Considering he was listed second in the credits I think he was a little underused and slightly nerfed but honestly not by much. to go off that, I WANTED TO SEE HIM IN THE VOID! the only thing we got was a nod to the fact that while he was in his void searching for yelena and bob (“i have a great past, so I’m fine” that whole thing) he obviously saw something to do with the winter soldier. call me crazy but i saw blue lights in the room behind him that he crashed through from and it gave very much cacw winter soldier flashback vibes. and i WANTED TO SEE THAT! i wished we could have seen more than yelena, bob, valentina, and walkers voids.

Oh, valentina. she was so horribly great, i was so ready for the thunderbolts to rock her shit but then she turned it around and called them the new avengers. oh i hate her so much they did so good. her assistant was kinda slay too but eh!

NOW ONTO MY COMPLAINT AS A SAMBUCKY ENTHUSIAST—WHY TF DID WE ONLY GET A MENTION OF SAM? AND IN THE POST CREDITS? Honestly, i find it crazier that sam and bucky talked off screen and they didn’t even show us. and that APPARENTLY the conversation didn’t go over well, and now sam is suing them… guys we might actually be in the sambucky divorce era im gonna crash out. can they just kiss hug it out and get over it. and considering how close they got in tfatws and we saw them talking the cabnw i just really liked their dynamic and how happy they seemed as friends and now that’s just gone (but it is funny that sam is suing bucky and co). although, it will make for an interesting dynamic come doomsday, which makes me nervous considering that bucky’s time in the mcu is coming ever so closer to an end… (someone start recommending me bucky fics NYOW)

honestly, i kind of don’t like the whole new avengers thing. i kind of wanted them to stay as the thunderbolts, as dumb as it might be. I don’t like valentina though and I really wanted them to kick her ass. it was a funny credits sequence tho, with the “new avengers? nope!” love that they’re still universally hated i guess.

BUT OH MY GOD I WAS GONNA GO FERAL FOR BUCKY IN THE POST CREDITS. GOOD LORD HE LOOKED FINE. OH EM GEE, HIS HAIR? OH THE WAVES. SOMEONE TAUGHT OUR BOY ABOUT CONDITIONER AGAIN AND HE LOOKED INCREDIBLE. PLEASE LET HIM HAVE THAT HAIR IN DOOMSDAY AND PLEASE DONT LET HIM DIE.

okay, i’ve gotten past how much i love bucky and must move on to the Other Things that happened.

now, about the INSANE DROP IN THE CREDITS? the second i saw the “fantastic four: first steps theme” in the music credits i was like oh it’s so over. AND THE SHIP? oh dude their world is so cooked, doomsday is gonna be fire AND ARE WE GONNA SEE THE THUNDERBOLTS (new avengers) AT THE END OF FFFS? ARE WE GONNA SEE THE AVENGERS AND THE NEW AVENGERS WITH THE FANTASTIC FOUR? see, that’s why thunderbolts* was a good movie! it’s got me actually planning to see Fantastic Four: First Steps because i NEED TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS!!! i’m hooked!!!

Walkers one liners were great and even though i hate him i kinda feel for him. Yelena and Bob and Red Guardian were stand-outs; I LOVE BOB! and red guardians entrance was incredible as well, along with the car chase scene up to bucky rocking everyone’s shit.

Like i said, the first half of the movie was a 10/10; the last maybe 45 minutes was more of a 7/10. i did love the thunderbolts getting applause in the street which valentina definitely liked once she got the idea to market them as the new avengers. also the fact that they operate out of the old avengers tower? the fact that yelena and bucky are lowkey leading? the outfits that kinda ate down? i kinda vibe with it, but like i said i would hav really liked it if they weren’t considered the new avengers. maybe it would have been better if sam had shown up in the end to rally them for his cause as the avengers or if they just stayed the thunderbolts and did missions more akin to what steve and nat did in the beginning of catws. obviously not with them unknowingly working for hydra, but them as undercover ops would be cool.

idk! i just got out of the movie like an hour ago and i can’t remember it all right now bc it was so much good content.

tldr: the characters were great, the movie was solid/great, the post credits were worth it/insane and the story was good. if i missed anything that anyone wants me to cover (as if im some prime news source lmao, i am not, im just a mcu blogger who has been waiting for years for this movie) then lmk!

I HAVE TAGGED THIS POST AS SPOILERS AND INCLUDED A CUT!!! IF YOU SEE THIS AND DONT WANT TO, I TAGGED IT AND MADE SURE TO PUT A WARNING AND A CUT!!! IF YOU DONT WANT SPOILERS FILTER OUT THE TAG!!!

[wbbobsesserr]

ᯓ sweet spot — chapter three

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

wc: 2.6k

paige laid on her stomach, face half-buried in her pillow, phone in hand. the screenshot of azzi’s private profile stared back at her like it was daring her to do something.

she wasn’t doing anything, though. she had decided that.

until nika texted again.

nika: i bet she’d accept it

paige: i bet i’d implode

nika: stop being so dramatic. it’s not that deep

paige groaned dramatically, flipping onto her back. she tapped her screen off, then on again. back to azzi’s account. still private. still untouched.

she wondered what kind of stuff azzi posted on there. stories? rants? screenshots of text convos with her boyfriend? paige tried her best not to flinch at that last one.

azzi had mentioned him so casually. “my boyfriend.”

like it wasn’t a knife to her goddamn chest.

it naturally got brought up again the following day, when paige was shooting around early, headphones in, trying to look chill. emphasis on trying. she caught herself glancing toward the doors every five seconds like some romcom loser.

then she saw azzi walk in, hoodie on, hair pulled back, yawning like she hadn’t slept. paige’s heartbeat tripled.

azzi waved when she noticed her— just a small one. paige waved back. cool. normal.

totally not weird.

then nika appeared, completely ruining the illusion of calm.

“so,” she whispered, bumping shoulders with paige mid-dribble, “you follow her yet?”

“jesus, nika.”

“she posts the funniest shit. like crying selfies, bad song lyrics,” she laughed. “it’s like a whole different side of her.”

paige blinked once. “you followed her?”

“duh. we’re friends.”

paige hated how jealous that made her.

“she hasn’t posted about noah in a while, though,” nika added, almost too casually. “that’s all i’m saying.”

paige said nothing. just stared at the rim and tried not to read into that.

the blonde laid in bed, lights off, hoodie on, thumb hovering over her screen again. she couldn’t stop thinking about azzi yawning that morning. or the way she’d smiled yesterday. or nika’s dumb snarky comment.

without giving it another thought, she hit the follow button.

instant regret.

she tossed her phone across the bed like it caught on fire. then crawled under her blanket and pulled it over her head.

her phone buzzed twenty seconds later.

follow accepted.

paige peeked out from the blanket. her heartbeat might’ve actually stopped.

azzi had accepted her request.

paige unlocked her phone with trembling fingers and opened the profile.

the first post was a close-up of azzi’s face, clearly crying but also clearly laughing. the caption read: “i swear this was about a group project and not a man. probably.”

paige nearly dropped her phone all over again.

she scrolled, curiosity growing.

more chaos. rants. song lyrics. selfies of her and with some friends. a mirror pic with the caption: “am i cute or do i just have anxiety?”

and then, finally, a pretty sunset over some beach in california. captioned: “miss this sometimes.”

the post was from one week ago.

paige didn’t like anything. didn’t comment. didn’t breathe.

she just stared.

and she knew— knew— that she was so, so royally fucked. because azzi was so impossibly beautiful that there was no other way to be.

paige scrolled back to the sunset post. the caption hit harder than she wanted to admit. she knew what that kind of homesickness felt like— how it crept in during the quiet moments, curling into her ribs like smoke.

she stared at the photo for a long time, thumb tapping the edge of her phone like a metronome. the caption was simple— miss this sometimes— but paige felt it in her chest.

the picture wasn’t even anything dramatic. just a hazy sunset over rooftops and a caption typed too fast. no filters, no nothing. just a soft sort of sadness, and something unspoken.

before she could talk herself out of it, she opened azzi’s dms. clicked her name.

typed. deleted. typed again.

paige: just saw ur post about missing california. i get that. sometimes it hits out of nowhere, and then it’s all u can think about. if u ever wanna chill or smth, i’m here

she sent it. then quickly added:

paige: just thought id say that

immediate regret flooded her. not because she didn’t mean it— god, she meant it— but because it felt personal, a little vulnerable.

she turned off her phone and tossed it to the foot of the bed like it burned her. a few minutes later, she turned it back on. no response.

then suddenly— three dots.

azzi: that’s actually really nice to hear right now. it’s been a weird week. sometimes it feels like i’m walking around in someone else’s life. thank u for saying that

paige exhaled. her heartbeat sped.

paige: no problem. really. i mean it

another pause.

azzi: honestly? i wouldn’t mind hanging out

paige: i got u. wanna come over? paige: i’ve got snacks and a bunch of shitty netflix recs from nika that i’ve been putting off

azzi: deal. i’ll be over soon

around thirty minutes later, azzi— in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie—knocked on paige’s door like they’d done this a hundred times before.

paige flung it open, trying not to look like she’d been pacing for the past ten minutes.

“hey,” azzi said quietly. “thanks for inviting me over.”

paige smiled. “yeah, sure.”

they sat on the floor with a shared blanket between them and a bowl of popcorn that neither of them touched much. the movie played in the background, but neither of them watched it.

instead, they talked.

not about basketball. not about school. just… stuff. small stuff. azzi mentioned a diner she used to go to back home, how they served pancakes all day. paige talked about her favorite childhood memories from when she lived in minnesota.

at some point, azzi leaned her head against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

“i don’t miss california,” she said. “not really. it’s more like i miss who i was there. before everything got so complicated.”

paige didn’t answer right away. she just nodded in understanding, watching the soft flicker of light play across azzi’s face.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “i know what you mean.”

the popcorn went cold. the movie ended. but neither of them moved.

it wasn’t a date. it wasn’t anything like that.

but it mattered.

and paige knew she wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon.

after that night, azzi started hanging out in paige’s room a lot.

it wasn’t like they planned it. it just sort of happened. a post-practice cooldown turned into ice cream. then it became watching film together. then music. then nothing at all. just existing. together. paige definitely wasn’t complaining. except… she was, internally. constantly. because being near azzi and not being able to kiss her was basically slow, romantic torture.

azzi would curl up on paige’s bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, brown curls framing her face in a way paige adored, legs tucked under her. paige would sit at her desk pretending to do homework while her entire brain short-circuited from the proximity.

tonight, azzi had her head on paige’s shoulder while they watched love & basketball on her laptop.

“this movie’s so dramatic,” azzi mumbled, half-asleep, “but i love it.”

“same,” paige whispered, very aware of how azzi’s cheek was resting against her collarbone. “you’re the q to my monica.”

azzi laughed gently. “that makes you the love interest.”

i’d like to be. paige didn’t say it. but the words pressed up against her throat. instead, she said, “you doing okay?”

azzi was quiet for a second.

then: “honestly, i don’t know.”

paige looked down. azzi was staring straight ahead, lashes long, voice soft. “i talked to noah yesterday,” she said. “he got mad i couldn’t facetime right after class. it’s just… hard, lately. the distance. everything.”

paige felt something clench in her chest. she hated that he made azzi feel like this. that he could.

“you don’t deserve that,” she said, firm and direct.

azzi shrugged. “he’s just stressed. i get it.”

paige didn’t. but she kept that to herself.

there was a pause. then azzi nudged paige’s side gently.

then.

“you’re so sweet, you know that?”

paige scoffed, blushing hard. “me? no. you’re literally… like, the kindest person i’ve ever met.”

azzi smiled, eyes soft. “that’s not true. you’re not like how everyone thinks you are.”

paige shook her head, was silent for a moment. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

azzi tilted her head. “what do i do to you?”

paige blinked. shit.

“uh— nothing,” she said too fast. “i mean— like— not nothing, but not—”

azzi was smiling now. “are you nervous?”

paige buried her face in her hands. “you cannot just ask that.”

azzi laughed and bumped her shoulder. “you’re adorable.”

she’s going to kill me, paige thought. this is how i die. at the hands of sweetness.

later that night, paige was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. she hadn’t stopped replaying every word since azzi left.

fuck it. she gave up trying to sleep and texted her.

paige: u make it back to ur dorm okay?

azzi replied instantly.

azzi: yup. thank u again for letting me hang in ur room. i swear its cozier than mine

paige: that’s bc its been blessed by ur presence paige: scientifically proven

azzi: lol ur too much azzi: fr tho ur such a good friend. its been nice having u around lately

paige’s fingers hovered.

fucking friend. paige tried her best not to roll her eyes.

paige: always here for u. friend or otherwise

azzi didn’t reply for a minute.

then—

azzi: goodnight paige azzi: sleep well <3

paige turned off her phone and curled deeper into the covers.

she wasn’t going to sleep. not with that stupid little heart pounding in her head.

it was a rare night off, and coach had ordered team dinner at this little family-owned italian place downtown. long tables, red-checkered tablecloths, warm lighting. the whole team packed in tight, plates of pasta being passed around, laughter echoing off the walls.

paige sat at the end of the table, half-listening to nika’s story about a tinder date gone rogue, when she felt it— azzi sliding into the empty chair beside her. her breath caught. she hoped nobody noticed.

“you look nice,” azzi said quietly, nudging paige’s knee under the table.

paige blinked. “sorry— what?”

azzi grinned. “didn’t think the team dinner dress code included looking like a low-key goddess, but here we are.”

paige laughed a little too loud and immediately looked down at her outfit. she was in jeans and a black zip-up. casual. nothing special.

but azzi was looking at her like she was wearing dior.

“you’re one to talk,” paige mumbled, hoping the restaurant lighting masked how pink her ears had gone. “you could wear a trash bag and still look perfect.”

azzi’s grin widened as she sipped her lemonade. “so dramatic.”

“you started it.”

they smiled at each other for a beat too long.

that’s when kennedy— one of paige’s flings she’d forgotten all about until this moment— walked up out of nowhere, and immediately leaned in.

“so, paige,” she said, twirling her straw in the drink she was holding. “you dating anyone?”

azzi blinked.

paige flinched like she’d been slapped. “uh… no. not really.”

kennedy smirked. “crazy. someone like you? i just assumed.”

across the table, azzi was quiet. still smiling, but not quite the same.

paige tried to steer the conversation away, suddenly hyperaware of azzi’s leg brushing against hers under the table. she didn’t dare to move.

halfway through dinner, paige reached for the bread basket, and so did azzi. their fingers touched.

azzi didn’t pull away. neither did she.

“you’re warm,” she whispered.

paige looked at her, heart in her throat. “so are you.”

they froze like that for a second, hands still barely touching.

azzi opened her mouth to say something, but—

nika’s voice cut in from the other side of the table. “hey azzi, what’s your dog’s name again? the one in your story?”

azzi blinked, pulling her hand back. “oh— stewie. she’s tiny and thinks she owns my parent’s house.”

paige stared at the empty space between them like it had just betrayed her.

only a few hours later, however, paige— comfortably positioned on her bed— typed out a message.

paige: u were gonna say something earlier. what was it?

she stared at the text.

deleted it.

she tried again.

paige: i like when u sit next to me

fuck no. she’d never send that. not in a million years.

she deleted that too.

in the end, she sent nothing. just stared at the ceiling and thought about how good azzi looked tonight— pearl earrings, soft smile, words lingering behind her teeth.

almost.

the gym was nearly empty.

most of the team had left after practice, but paige lingered, shooting free throws in silence. her earbuds were in, but no music played— just a shield, something to make it feel like the world was further away than it was.

she didn't hear the door open.

but she did feel the presence.

“didn’t think anyone else would still be here,” came a voice she knew like the back of her hand.

azzi.

paige turned, saw her in gray joggers and a uconn hoodie, hair pulled back, cheeks still flushed from practice. paige pulled out one earbud and tried to act casual, even though her heart was now sprinting.

“you caught me trying to live out my late-night kobe fantasy,” paige said, grinning.

azzi smiled, walking toward her. “mind if i join?”

paige tossed her the ball. “only if you promise not to show me up.”

azzi smirked and drained a three like she wasn’t casually pulling on the strings of paige’s heart.

they played for a while— just light shooting, taking turns. no talking. just the sound of bouncing rubber and squeaking sneakers. paige was too busy watching the way azzi moved, like everything she did was effortless. beautiful, even when sweaty.

at one point, azzi missed a shot and groaned. “ugh. that one was for pride.”

paige grabbed the rebound and passed it back. “guess your pride’s mine now.”

azzi raised an eyebrow. “is that how it works?”

“yeah,” paige said, stepping closer. “you lose a shot, you owe me something.”

azzi’s lips curled. “what do i owe you, then?”

paige paused. she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“dinner,” she said before she could stop herself. “like, i dunno. team dinner. or— if you want— just us.”

azzi’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “paige…”

paige knew that tone. that soft, sad, hesitant tone. her stomach twisted. “it doesn’t have to be a thing,” she said quickly. “i just like being around you.”

azzi dribbled once, staring down at the ball.

then: “i like being around you too.”

paige took a breath, let it out slowly.

azzi looked up again, something unreadable in her eyes. “noah called me earlier. said he might fly out next month.”

“oh,” paige said. her voice came out flat. she hated that it did.

azzi stepped forward. “i don’t know what i’m doing. with him. with any of it.”

paige didn’t move.

“you don’t have to figure it out right now,” she said, softer this time. “i’m not asking for anything.”

azzi nodded. “i know.”

a beat passed.

then, quietly: “but sometimes i wish i met you first.”

the world felt like it tilted on its axis. her heartbeat was definitely thudding at an abnormal, mildly concerning rate.

paige opened her mouth. closed it, unsure what to say.

azzi looked at her like she regretted saying it, but didn’t take it back. she simply said, “let’s get out of here, yeah?”

paige nodded.

she didn’t say it out loud, but in her head, she screamed:

fuck noah. i’m right here. i’m all you need. you’re all i need. i would never treat you like he does.

those words stayed put in paige’s brain, never leaving once. because god, did she mean them. every single word, every letter.

© wbbobsesserr