#full weight caption

[selenasgirltiffany21]

[giantandgiantessai]

Lily, usually the healthiest of the group, was the first to admit, “I’m full already, but I can’t stop.” She reached for another slice of the meat lovers' pizza, her stomach already tight from the previous three slices.

Ava laughed. “I thought we were all trying to cut back, but I guess this is a cheat day for all of us,” she said, finishing off her fourth slice and eyeing the deep-dish pizza.

Emma, who had always loved pizza the most, was already halfway through her second pizza. “Yeah, I mean, we’ve earned it. This week’s been tough. A little indulgence won’t hurt.”

The night passed in a haze of cheesy crusts, soda refills, and more pizza than any of them could have imagined eating. By the time the final slice was gone, they leaned back, groaning in satisfaction. Their stomachs were swollen, and their jeans felt a little tighter.

“I think I might need to unbutton these,” Lily said, her fingers awkwardly pressing on the waistband of her pants.

“Same,” Emma admitted, her own belly poking out slightly over her waistband.

Ava, rubbing her own stomach, said, “I can’t even look at pizza for a week. But it was worth it.”

All of them shared a laugh, knowing that they had indulged, maybe a little too much, but it was a night of pure fun. They sprawled out on the couch, content, as the credits of their movie rolled by.

The next day, the evidence was clear—tight pants, full stomachs, and the lingering memory of the great pizza feast. But they didn't regret a thing. After all, it was the best kind of indulgence—a pizza party with friends, and the promise of a new pizza night again someday.

[aquasoftware]

★ VANILLA WITH A CHERRY ON TOP 🜼

Desc | Kento Nanami meets you at the library, recommends you filthy books, wears his fancy business suits, and kisses your hand like a gentleman. He’s patient, polite, and sweet. But when you finally give him your body, you realize there’s absolutely nothing vanilla about the way he makes love to you.

Cw | MDNI 18+ Cherry popping, soft/service dóm! Kento, súb! Reader, body worsh!p, óraI f!xat!on (f rece!v!ng,) f**t play, chóklng, brèèd!ng/cr3amp!e, overst!m, pra!sè, tùmmý buIgè, nanami has a Prince AIbert piercing, f!nger!ng, cúm pIay, d!rty tàIk, & aftercàre + ML | Drabble

“Vanilla”! Nanami is a man who you meet at a library, his gentle smile is so warm your heart completely melts everytime you glance at him and he flashes one, but you ignore the fact that he’s standing in the erotica section, glasses perched on his nose, quietly flipping through each page like it’s classic literature.

“Vanilla”! Nanami is observant to a pulp. He notices how you always ask for help reaching a book on the top shelf, even though he’s certain you’ve worn heels taller than that. He picks up on how you linger after conversations end, eyes dancing between his lips and his shirt that’s slightly unbuttoned allowing his pecs to happily greet you. How your gaze is anything but innocent, yet he never calls you out on it.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who never flirts explicitly—he just speaks in a tone so sultry and calm it makes your stomach twist.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who always has book recommendations for you, and every time they’re a little more suggestive than the last. “This one had beautiful prose,” he claims, handing you something with chapters full of longing, pinning, or toe-curling tension.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who underlines details in his books that remind him of you, then gets shy when you find them. He’ll mumble "It's just good writing,” but won’t meet your eyes when you see what he underlined is the filthiest smut possible.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who gives you his number after realizing you often come to the library just to constantly see him, he slides you his phone like he’s making a business deal with the contacts screen open uttering “let’s keep in touch.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami is the type that easily falls in love with you, your conversations over the phone nearly lure him in over the screen, your voice is so saccharine he’s desperate for a glass of wine to calm him down, he’s almost embarrassed at how weak in the knees he is for how intelligent you are, your shared hobbies and how your personality is just as attractive as your face.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who sends you photos of his open books along the cozy spots he reads in with captions like “Wish you were here.” (You wonder if he means the reading with him or his lap.)

“Vanilla”! Nanami officially takes you on a plethora of dates after a long while of talking and he’s this huge gentleman, he takes you on real dates. The kind with linen napkins, dim lighting, and soft jazz in the background. He pulls out your chair without thinking twice, gently wipes sauce from your cheek with his thumb, and feeds you bites of dessert with his fork, as his eyes never leave yours.

“Vanilla”! Nanami chuckles when he eventually meets your best friend and she mutters into your ear “I didn’t know you were into squares Y/n.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who goes quiet for a moment when you tell him you’re a virgin—not because he minds, but because he suddenly feels the weight of your trust.

“Vanilla”! Nanami becomes careful with his words when he finally speaks “I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” he says nervously, placing a loving kiss on the back of your hand. “You deserve someone who’s patient with you… who makes it feel right.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to become too emotional when you tell him that someone is him, his ears are tainted a rose pink. His eyes gloss over you as if you’re only someone he’d be able to find in his dreams.

“Vanilla”! Nanami tries to make things perfect for your first time, wanting things to be so memorable that he (unknowingly) ruins you for any other man. He lights coconut scented candles, decorates the entire room with rose petals and there’s a tray of two wine glasses waiting for the both of you afterwards.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who isn’t so vanilla after all, especially when you makeout with him, you’ll understand exactly why he was in the erotica section. Your cherry flavored lip gloss is only an excuse why his lips keep chasing yours for more, he holds your jaw with his fingertips like he’s unworthy of being able to touch you.

“Vanilla”! Nanami takes a deep breath when you tell him you’re finally ready, asking “Are you sure about this?” He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead once you eagerly nod.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who bites his lip trying not to laugh when you apologize for not wearing anything sexy underneath your clothes and he undresses you to reveal a matching SpongeBob set. He reassures you by saying “You’re sexy in whatever you feel comfortable wearing.” And he gently rubs your back.

“Vanilla”! Nanami unclasps your bra, carefully planting kisses on your bare chest as if it's a delicate flower waiting to be picked. At first he acted as if he had all the time in the world, twirling your bud between his fingers, but then he instantly gave in when you pleaded for more—latching onto your nipple, while suckling as if it could produce sweet nectar.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you for hours eating you out, and if you’re insecure about how you look down there? It’s just an excuse for him to eat you out like his life is on the line, sucking your clit until your thighs are shaking, until his head is practically being crushed to death by your thighs, or until you’re desperately humping his face like a needy slut.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you with another hour of fingering, going painfully slow, refusing to rush things at all. His fingers are thick, so when he curls up and hits that g-spot each stroke? You nearly drool, throwing your head back into the flood of pillows, swearing it’s better than the smut you read.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who shocks you when you learn he has a prince albert piercing and you quickly learn what those hours of prepping was for. When you tell him “I would’ve never guessed you’d have a piercing there!?” He responds, shaking his head “I got it in my youth, but couldn’t bring myself to remove it.” If he notices any concern on your face he tenderly kisses your jawline and lets you hold his hand.

“Vanilla”! Nanami eases in but he goes feral when you cry “Kento, fuck! N-need you faster baby, please.” He throws your legs over your shoulders and can’t help but to suck your pretty white manicured toes, causing you to gasp out of shock, yet pure pleasure.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who thrives off the erotic books he reads, knowing it ingrained the words in his head on what to say, he feels like he won a medal each time he evokes deafening moans when he praises you murmuring “You’re doing so well for me sweetheart,” or “take all of me, mmmh, just like that.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami purposefully presses a big hand on your tummy bulge as he slows down his pace just so you can feel his piercing nudge deliciously against your weak spots.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to cross any boundaries with you but when you guide his hand to your throat it’s practically testing him, he remembers from a guide that teaches you should start off with small pressure. When you squeeze his cock at the light pressure? He considers putting a baby in you on the spot.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who makes you orgasm for the ninth time that night, when he reaches down to rub your clit while you're spasming around him. As soon as you finish, he doesn’t last long asking “Where do you want me princess?” His eyes nearly roll back when you say “I want your cum inside me baby.” He cums so deep, you’ll feel it in your womb the next day.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who watches as his cum oozes out your swollen cunt, and eats you out one last time, “for good measure.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who has insane aftercare he cuddles with you, constantly asks if you’re okay, feeds you grapes like he worships the ground you walk on, and holds up your wine for you to drink.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who is anything but vanilla.

Divider/Boarders produced by uzmacchiato & dollywons

‹3 Masterlist!! | more nanami smut?

Song written by Koi’lani/@aquasoftware.

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, AND LIKES ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU <3

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Other parts: Housewardens ; Vice-Housewardens ; First-Years

Cater Diamond

The argument had been unexpected. Cater was easygoing, always quick with a joke or a teasing remark to smooth things over, but tonight had been different. The tension had built and built until, for once, neither of you had been willing to back down.

So, with a huff, you grabbed a blanket and marched to the couch, making a big show of snuggling in and getting comfortable. It wasn’t comfortable—not even a little—but your pride refused to let you move.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—ping.

You ignored it.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

With a groan, you reached for your phone, only to find your Magicam notifications lighting up your screen. You blinked. Cater had tagged you in a post. And then another. And another.

The first picture was of your shared bed, completely empty. The caption? lonely boy hours :’(

The second? Cater lying dramatically on his side, clutching a pillow like a heartbroken lover in a tragic romance. send thoughts & prayers, my partner has abandoned me

The third was even worse. A close-up of his face, his lower lip jutted in a ridiculous pout, captioned simply: is this what heartbreak feels like???

You stared at your phone, torn between laughing and crying because what the hell, Cater???

You tried to ignore it, but then another notification popped up. The newest post? A dramatic black-and-white shot of his hand reaching for the empty side of the bed. missing you rn. come home.

You buried your face in the pillow, groaning. He was so annoying.

And yet—your feet were already moving.

When you pushed open the bedroom door, Cater was sitting up, phone in hand, eyes flicking up to meet yours the second you walked in. His pout deepened, exaggerated and just barely pathetic enough to make your resolve crumble.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“But you love me,” he singsonged, setting his phone aside and opening his arms wide, waiting.

You tried to fight it, but the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself. That was all the encouragement he needed. With a soft, satisfied hah, Cater wrapped his arms around you the second you got close, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, warm against your skin.

You sighed, resting against him. “I’m sorry too.”

He squeezed you a little tighter before pulling back just enough to reach for his phone.

You rolled your eyes. “Cater.”

He grinned, not even pretending to feel guilty.

A second later, your phone buzzed. When you glanced at the screen, there it was—a final post. A simple picture of your hands together, warm and steady beneath the sheets.

reunited <3

Floyd Leech

The argument had been bad. Not the usual push-and-pull of Floyd’s unpredictable moods, not the teasing jabs that sometimes went too far—this had been real, raw, and biting in a way that made your chest ache.

You knew better than to expect an apology right away. Floyd wasn’t wired for that. So, with your pride stinging and your patience worn thin, you grabbed a blanket, made your way to the couch, and flopped down with your back stubbornly turned toward the bedroom.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Because if you’d been facing the bedroom, maybe—maybe—you would have had some warning before the Floyd-shaped projectile came flying toward you at full speed.

A thud, a weight collapsing onto you, and suddenly your whole world was Floyd—arms, legs, and far too much Floyd as he sprawled across your body like a particularly annoying weighted blanket.

You let out a strangled noise. “Floyd—”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to move. Just settled more comfortably on top of you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

With a grunt, you attempted to shove him off, but he was all lean muscle and deadweight. He wouldn’t budge. Worse, he refused to look at you, his face half-buried against your shoulder, arms loosely draped around you like a net that would tighten if you tried to escape.

“…Seriously?” you huffed, exasperated.

A long silence. Then, barely above a mumble—

“Sorry.”

You blinked. “What?”

Floyd finally shifted, but only to grumble into your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “You’re my shrimpy. I thought you’d get it.” A pause, then a quiet, almost begrudging, “…But I guess I was a little mean.”

You sighed, the last remnants of your anger melting into something softer. Floyd wasn’t the type to say sorry outright. For him, this was already pushing it.

With another sigh, you gave up and wrapped your arms around him.

Immediately, Floyd perked up, and before you could prepare yourself, he bit you—just a little nip against your shoulder, affectionate in that ridiculous way of his. When you startled, he looked up at you, grinning now, sharp teeth on full display.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me~”

Unfortunately, he was right.

With a tired chuckle, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling the way his grin softened just a little. He snuggled closer, his grip tightening around you, and just like that, the argument was behind you.

Floyd let out a pleased hum, already half-asleep. “M’keeping you here forever.”

You weren’t even going to try fighting him on that.

Silver Vanrouge

You still weren’t entirely sure how you had managed to get into an argument with Silver of all people. Silver, who was usually so calm, so patient, so utterly unbothered by most things. And yet, somehow, words had been exchanged, tempers had flared, and now you were lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the pang of guilt gnawing at you.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside your window. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to sleep—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You frowned, cracking an eye open.

The sound came again, a soft pecking against the glass. Dragging yourself up with a sigh, you turned toward the window—only to be met with the sight of the cutest little bird, perched delicately on the sill.

You blinked. The bird tilted its head.

It had a tiny note tied to its leg.

Cautiously, you opened the window and untied the parchment, unfolding it with careful fingers.

"Sorry."

Your lips parted. You stared at the single-word apology, written in Silver’s neat, earnest handwriting.

Before you could fully process the sheer adorableness of the gesture, a rustling noise caught your attention. You turned your head just in time to see a squirrel scurrying up onto the windowsill, a small piece of paper clutched in its tiny paws.

It held it out to you.

You took it.

"Sorry."

You pressed a hand over your mouth, overwhelmed by a mix of affection and disbelief.

Was he seriously sending an entire woodland brigade to apologize for him?

And, perhaps more importantly—if you didn’t go talk to him right now, would he escalate this? Would an entire procession of deer, rabbits, and possibly a very regretful-looking bear show up next?

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. There was no way you were sleeping now.

Before you left, you rummaged through your cabinets and grabbed a handful of nuts, scattering them gently on the windowsill. “I don’t accept free labor,” you muttered, watching as the squirrel eagerly took a hazelnut before scampering off. The bird gave a happy chirp before fluttering away.

With that taken care of, you made your way to the bedroom.

The moment you stepped inside, he was already sitting up, eyes immediately locking onto yours. He looked a little sheepish, his usual composed demeanor softened with quiet guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, without hesitation. “I shouldn’t have let it turn into an argument.”

You exhaled, the last remnants of your irritation slipping away entirely. He was so sweet, so sincere, and you couldn’t even be mad anymore.

Stepping forward, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “Now, let's go to bed."

Silver didn’t argue. He simply nodded, slipping under the blankets, his expression peaceful now.

As you settled beside him, he hesitated for only a moment before murmuring, “Did the bird get to you first or the squirrel?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Bird.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I was going to send a rabbit next.”

You buried your face into his shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. “Go to sleep, Silver.”

And finally, you both did.

Rollo Flamme

The argument had left you drained, annoyance simmering just beneath your skin as you curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket over yourself with a sharp tug. You didn’t want to be this upset—Rollo could be infuriating, stubborn in ways that tested your patience, but you knew he didn’t argue without reason. Still, the weight of his words, the heat of the exchange, had made retreating seem like the best option.

At some point, exhaustion overtook frustration, and you drifted into uneasy sleep.

But then—dry throat, groggy mind—you stirred awake, an undeniable thirst pulling you from your rest. With a sigh, you pushed the blanket aside and padded toward the kitchen, the dim light of the apartment casting long shadows against the walls.

That’s when you noticed it—the faint glow beneath the bedroom door.

You hesitated, frowning. He was still awake?

Curiosity, or maybe guilt, urged you forward. Carefully, you peeked inside.

Rollo was pacing. Back and forth, hands buried in his hair, tension lining his shoulders. He looked wrecked—a man on the verge of either an epiphany or a breakdown.

Your heart squeezed.

You hadn't expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be just as shaken, just as restless.

Stepping inside, you barely made a sound, but he noticed instantly. His head snapped up, eyes widening.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then he took a step toward you, hands twitching at his sides, reaching out just barely before curling into hesitant fists. He stopped himself, as if afraid you’d pull away, as if unsure whether he had the right.

Your breath hitched. The sight of him—always so composed, now uncertain—made the last of your irritation fade.

Wordlessly, you closed the distance and took his hand.

The moment your fingers intertwined, you felt the tension in him unravel. His shoulders slumped, his grip tightening around yours, a quiet exhale escaping his lips. He held on like he needed the touch to ground him.

“I took it too far,” he murmured, voice raw with sincerity. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “And…I shouldn’t have either.”

His gaze met yours, searching, still unsure. You squeezed his hand, and that was all it took.

Rollo relaxed, expression melting into something exhausted, something relieved. He nodded, as if accepting an unspoken truce.

Neither of you needed to say anything else.

When you led him to bed, he followed without question. And when you pulled him into your arms, his body molded against yours with an ease that made it clear just how much he had needed this.

Within minutes, the tension that had kept him awake finally loosened its grip. His breathing evened out, his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and for the first time since the argument, Rollo fell asleep— warm and finally at peace.

Masterlist

[s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s]

"Sufjan Stevens Announces Carrie & Lowell - 10th Anniversary Edition – Out May 30 

This May, Asthmatic Kitty Records celebrates the ten-year anniversary of Carrie & Lowell with an expanded double-LP album that includes seven previously unreleased bonus tracks, a 40-page art book, and a new essay by Sufjan Stevens. The deluxe edition also offers an alternative cover: a full-framed version of the original Polaroid zoomed out to reveal the photo’s caption written in a child’s handwriting—“Carrie & Lowell”—disclosing the source of the album title (it was written by Sufjan's sister Djamilah). The new edition was designed by Sufjan himself: the 40-page booklet contains various collages of vintage family photos spanning four generations interfused with artwork and drawings (on themes of death, dying, grief and the state of Oregon) as well as landscape photos Sufjan took while traveling across the western U.S. over a decade ago.

The original album is preserved on disc one, while disc two contains 40 minutes of extras, including demo versions of "Death With Dignity," "Should Have Known Better," "The Only Thing," and "Eugene". Expansive outtakes of "Fourth of July" and "Wallowa Lake Monster" are also included, both featuring a more cinematic mood. The final gem is the original demo of "Mystery of Love”, which was recorded around the same time as Carrie & Lowell. This song was scrapped for the album but later re-worked and re-recorded for Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name.

Carrie & Lowell was the result of an immensely difficult process in which Sufjan’s songwriting – usually a salve – failed him in the wake of his mother’s death. He was eventually led out of a cycle of creative doubt with a rare handover of production duties to Thomas Bartlett. In wrestling with darkness and devastation, life and death, Sufjan was eventually able to begin making sense of the beauty and ugliness of love.

Sufjan toured the album and personally connected his findings with his listeners, a beautiful hand-over of sorts happened - making these songs those of the listeners and their lives and losses and complexities.Since the album’s release the live tour was turned into a live album, so surprisingly celebratory and cathartic as to become something else entirely. Outtakes, remixes, and iPhone notes have been shared via Sufjan’s The Greatest Gift mixtape as well as a collection of “Fourth of July” versions that took one moment from the album and explored its every crevice.

Ten years on, this anniversary edition does things differently to those other treasures. Rather than deconstructing the album or building on it and continuing its legacy, this edition takes the listener back to the moments leading up to and including its release. Carrie & Lowell is presented in its full form once again, alongside a glimpse of the different roads it could have taken. There are new corners to explore, photographic realising of moments previously only lyrically painted, direct reflection from the album’s creator, subtly different weight on certain syllables that speak to Sufjan’s mind right before he shared it with the world.

Carrie & Lowell -10th Anniversary Edition Tracklist

Disc 1:

1. Death with Dignity 2. Should Have Known Better 3. All of Me Wants All of You 4. Drawn To the Blood 5. Eugene 6. Fourth of July 7. The Only Thing 8. Carrie & Lowell 9. John My Beloved 10. No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross 11. Blue Bucket of Gold

Disc 2:

Death with Dignity (Demo)

Should Have Known Better (Demo)

Eugene (Demo)

The Only Thing (Demo)

Mystery Of Love (Demo)

Wallowa Lake Monster (Version 2)

Fourth of July (Version 4)

Carrie & Lowell - 10th Anniversary Edition is now available to pre-order / pre-save here. All pre-orders will include a lyric postcard featuring artwork designed by Sufjan. 

“Mystery of Love” may be widely known from the film Call Me By Your Name, but it began as an early demo during the Carrie & Lowell era. Now released as the first single from Carrie & Lowell – 10th Anniversary Edition, this version presents the song in its original, intimate form.

Video directed and produced by Rena Johnson. Original artwork and select photos by Sufjan Stevens. Archival photos and 8mm film provided by Sufjan Stevens and additional assets provided by Rena Johnson.

Ten years of 'Carrie & Lowell'. Explore the full story in our new comprehensive archive, featuring 'Carrie & Lowell 'and its six companion releases. Photos, video, essays and other materials, gathered in one place for the first time.

WWW.CL.SUFJAN.COM" - Originally posted by Asthmatic Kitty Records

[fullscoreshenanigans]

#Patron saint of people pleasers #and reckless perfectionism (via @emmaspolaroid)

sweet child, devil child 🥀

[sweetstrawberryys]

"Heavy Lifting"

Summary: Domestic life with Simon "Ghost" Riley is full of soft moments disguised as rough touches and teasing jokes that hold more truth than you'd expect. From new throw pillows to gym thirst traps, love shows up in surprising ways when you're sharing a home with a man built like a fortress—and just as soft for you.

Rating: Domestic fluff, suggestive themes, light humor, gym thirst, thigh obsession, established relationship.

Masterlist

---

Your apartment’s lighting has this warm golden glow around 4 p.m., the kind that makes everything feel like a memory you’ll miss before it’s even over. The couch is freshly vacuumed, the air smells like your pink grapefruit cleaning spray, and you’ve just come back from a small shopping spree. It’s stupid how happy you feel about the two new throw pillows in your tote bag. They’re fluffy. They’re pastel. They’re soft. They’re so you.

Simon’s boots are by the door, which means he beat you home. You feel your heart do that little lurch it always does before seeing him, even after all this time. Like it never learned he’s yours now.

You walk in, holding the tote like it’s a treasure chest.

“Si!” you call, kicking your shoes off and padding into the living room, where he’s lounged back on the couch in sweats and a black tank. Mask up, of course. He barely lifts his head from the TV when you toss the bag on the cushion next to him.

“Bought throw pillows.” You reach in and pull one out—soft pink with ruffles—and toss it dramatically into his lap. “Feel how squishy these are.”

He looks at the pillow, unimpressed. Then slowly shifts his hand off of it… and drags both palms straight to your thighs as you stand in front of him.

“Mmm.” His voice drops low, fingers sinking into your skin through your skirt. “Perfect.”

“Simon!” you squeal, laughing, shoving his shoulder. “I’m trying to decorate, not get groped.”

He pulls you down into his lap like you weigh nothing, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist. “You brought the thighs into this,” he says simply. “Not my fault the pillows didn’t make the cut.”

You roll your eyes, snuggling closer anyway, letting your fingers toy with the hem of his tank top. “Pervert.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” you whisper, soft like a secret.

---

Later that night, he’s gone to the gym and you’re curled up with a blanket and your newest romantic thriller. Your phone buzzes. You expect a grocery list or a meme from Johnny. Instead:

📹 Video Message from Simon 💀

You hit play.

The camera’s angled slightly upward—Simon’s massive body glistening with sweat, wearing nothing but gym shorts. He’s bench pressing something heavy enough to crush a civilian. His arms flex with every rep, but that’s not what hits you. It’s the eye contact. He’s staring into the camera the whole time. Like he’s looking right at you.

The caption reads: you.

And in the background, Johnny’s voice cuts in like an overly enthusiastic hype man.

“C’mon, mate! You said she sits on your lap heavier than this!”

Simon’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

Johnny again: “Get that wife-weight PR, yeah?”

Simon slams the barbell up with a final grunt, then turns the camera slightly to the side and mutters, “That one’s for you, sweetheart.”

You clutch your phone to your chest like a blushing teen. Your thighs aren’t heavy. You’ve said that to him before in insecure moments. He disagrees loudly every time.

You text him:

You: you’re disgusting. i’m obsessed with you.

also tell johnny i’m stealing his hype man energy

Simon replies instantly.

Simon 💀: he says “anytime, darling.”

Simon 💀: want me to lift you like that when i get home?

You: i expect it. i’ll be waiting on the couch. with the thighs. and the pillows.

Simon 💀: my two favorite squishy things 🖤

---

He comes home smelling like soap and steel. Scoops you up like you’re nothing. You don’t even pretend to fight it, just wrap your legs around him and let yourself be carried like a princess.

“See?” he murmurs, nosing into your neck. “Nothing heavy about you. You fit just right.”

And somehow, in his arms, on your squishy pastel couch with your dumb little throw pillows, you feel lighter than air.

---

This was heavily inspired from this post. Sorry couldn't help myself the prompt was so good.

[ccupcakqs]

— more than the win ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: public kiss, championship win, heart-melting softness pairing: max verstappen x reader a/n: inspired by "where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me"

he doesn’t hear the cheers at first.

doesn’t feel the sparks or the smoke or the flood of noise erupting from the grandstands. he hears his name over the radio, hears his engineer say the words he’s worked his whole life for — “you’re world champion, max. that’s it. you did it.” — and still, it doesn’t sink in.

not until he sees you.

because that’s the thing. not the crowd, not the flash of the fireworks, not the stats blinking across his dash. it’s your face in the crowd, right where he knew you’d be, eyes wide, hands pressed to your mouth like you forgot how to breathe.

he breathes again only when your eyes meet.

you are still there when he pulls into parc fermé. still there when the world runs to him. still the only thing that cuts through the chaos. he doesn’t stop to look at the cameras. doesn’t shout. doesn’t throw his helmet in the air like he’s done a hundred times before.

he steps out of the car and walks straight to you.

you barely have time to speak before he’s got both arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing at all.

“i was looking for you,” he says into your shoulder.

you laugh through tears. “i was right here.”

he doesn’t kiss you yet. he just holds you for a moment longer, like the weight of the whole year is finally gone and he can exhale into you. his fingers are still in his gloves, still curled with adrenaline, but they grip you like a promise.

when he finally sets you down, you don’t let go of each other.

the cameras don’t stop clicking.

“you really did it,” you whisper, brushing sweaty hair off his forehead.

he grins. a real one. boyish and golden and free. “i had to. promised you, didn’t i?”

you smile, breath catching.

his lips find yours then. slow, sweet, a little dizzying. the crowd explodes again, louder than the fireworks. someone throws a hat into the air. the confetti sticks to your cheeks and to his jawline. he kisses you again anyway.

they give him the trophy on the podium, and the whole world is watching.

his hands don’t shake when they place it in his grip. he’s never looked steadier. like this was always coming. like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

but when the anthem ends and the fireworks crack like thunder overhead, his gaze drops to the barrier.

you’re there again. hands on the railing. waiting for him.

max steps down without a second thought.

he doesn’t head straight to the media or the cameras. he walks to you. through the puddles of champagne and over the slick floor, ignoring the dozens of microphones reaching for a soundbite. ignoring the glitter, the clapping, the chaos.

his smile is softer now. not adrenaline-fueled or wild. just full.

he taps the trophy with one finger. “it’s heavier than it looks.”

you smirk. “that’s what happens when you carry a whole team on your back.”

he leans over the barrier and kisses you again. this time slow, unhurried, like the night isn’t moving.

you think that’s the moment.

but then he hands someone the trophy. and without a single word, he lifts you over the barrier and onto his shoulders.

you gasp, laughing, hands bracing on his head.

“max—”

“hold on.”

he turns toward the crowd, toward the flashing cameras, toward the thousands of people screaming his name. and he doesn’t care about any of them. he cares about you. up there, steady on his shoulders. your laughter in his ears. your arms holding tight.

he raises both fists in the air.

and that photo goes everywhere.

they caption it in every language. they call it victory, devotion, love. some say it’s a fairytale moment. others say it’s too much.

max just calls it right.

and when someone posts a side-by-side — a screenshot from months ago, mid-interview, where he said with a grin, “if i win, i’m putting her on my shoulders, no question” — it’s the most shared image of the night.

all those years. all those races. and this is what it comes down to — your hands in his hair, his name in the sky, a promise kept.

—

later, much later, after the podium and the press and the endless photos, you’re both tucked away in a quiet part of the paddock. max is sitting on a crate, champagne-splashed and starry-eyed, hair still wet from the bottle lando dumped on him earlier.

you’re in his lap. your hands are curled into his suit. your cheek is against his collarbone.

he’s holding the trophy again. but only because you insisted he keep it nearby. he was more than ready to leave it in the car.

“can i say something stupid?” you ask, voice muffled into his neck.

“you always can.”

“this feels like the first time we met.”

he huffs a tired laugh. “we were arguing in a motorhome.”

“and now you’re world champion.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his fingers trace slow patterns across your back.

then, quietly: “i don’t care about that.”

you lift your head. “you do.”

“i care that you’re here.”

he kisses you before you can speak again. softer than the podium. deeper than parc fermé. one hand on your cheek, the other still cradling the trophy like it’s just another part of the story.

you break the kiss first, forehead resting against his.

“what happens now?”

he smiles. “now?”

“yeah.”

“now we go home. you steal half my hoodies. i make you pancakes. and we forget how loud today was.”

you close your eyes.

“i’ll remember all of it.”

he tilts your chin up, kisses you one more time.

“good,” he whispers. “so will i.”

[amirawrah]

⭐︎we're not current

with JOBE BELLINGHAM⭐︎REQUESTED BY ANON!

synopsis: based on the trend on tiktok 'I'm here with my current boyfriend'

You’d been waiting for Jobe to finish showering for what felt like forever, lying sideways on his bed in your shorts and one of his sweatshirts, scrolling through your TikTok fyp with that slow satisfaction that only came after a full meal and a long cuddle. The apartment was warm, quiet except for the soft hum of a playlist he’d left playing through the speaker. You were visiting him in Sunderland for a long weekend, and the peace you felt being back in his space, in his arms, made the idea of returning back home almost unbearable.

You’d seen the trend earlier that day — the one where girls film their boyfriends with the caption “I’m here with my current boyfriend” and the guy’s reaction is either hilarious confusion, offence, or instant clinginess. You couldn’t help yourself.

So when you heard the bathroom door click open and soft footsteps pad down the hallway, you calmly walked to the dressing table and set it down to get a full frame of the both of you and waited.

Jobe walked in, hair damp, wearing only grey sweats, towel slung over his shoulder. He was still drying off the back of his neck when he looked up and spotted you filming.

He froze. His eyes squinted just slightly, playful suspicion already creeping into his features as he noticed you were filming.

He followed you with his eyes, then with his body, silently padding across the room to stand beside you. His warmth hovered close as he leaned in to look at the screen.

You kept your expression neutral, lips twitching. Then, casually, softly, almost sweetly, you said,

“Hey guys i’m here with my current boyfriend.”

A full beat of silence.

Jobe slowly turned his head toward you, eyes squinting like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

“Current?”

You bit your bottom lip, trying to suppress a grin.

He blinked. “Nah. You’re mad disrespectful for that.”

You laughed, but he didn’t look away. His mouth parted like he wanted to say more, but he just shook his head.

You were fully laughing now, collapsing into the seat in front of the dressing table as he stepped behind you and leaned down, wrapping both arms around your shoulders and resting his chin on your head.

“Don’t play with me like that,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your hair. “I’m not some temp. I’m the forever boyfriend. Fiancé if you slip up.”

You grinned, tilting your head back to look up at him. “So I’m just supposed to live in fear of a surprise proposal?”

“Not fear,” he said, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “Excitement.”

You hummed, skeptical. “You? With your clumsy self?”

He pulled back, offended. “Wow. no gratitude.”

You laughed. “I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful. I’m just saying, if you’re going to propose, maybe let me be the one holding the ring.”

“Some fiancé you'll be,” he said while laughing.

You grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. “Jobe!”

He caught it easily and tossed it aside, stepping between your legs again and letting his hands settle gently on your hips. His voice dropped.

“All jokes aside,” he said, gaze locked on yours, “I love you. I don’t care if the world sees it, laughs at it, reposts it, whatever. I’m not going anywhere.”

The air went still for a moment, your heartbeat syncing with the weight of his words. “I love you too,” you said, softer this time. “Even when you say reckless things like Jobe Junior.”

He chuckled, forehead resting against yours. “He’s gonna be so loved though.”

You smiled. “He better be. He’s gonna have your ears.”

“And your attitude,” he said, pulling back with a smirk. “Pray for me.”

You both burst into laughter again, the warmth of it filling the room like a familiar melody.

You and Jobe had your own world. One full of inside jokes, soft kisses, and future plans filled with love and no matter what people said, you already knew—he wasn’t your current boyfriend.

He was your only one.

[selenasgirltiffany21]

[postgamevibes]

Sleepy Boyfriend

Couch Cuddles

The evening had been long, but at least it ended with something sweet: a movie night with Luke, tucked in on your couch with a blanket thrown over you both. He’d been absolutely wiped after a tough practice, and as the opening credits rolled on your favorite rom-com, you could feel his exhaustion in the weight of his body next to you.

Luke’s head tilted slightly to the side, and you could hear his soft breathing as you snuggled into the warmth of his chest. The movie started off slow, but the sound of his gentle breaths began to lull you, too, despite your best intentions to stay awake.

A few moments passed, and you glanced over to see Luke’s eyes fluttering. “Luke,” you whispered, nudging him. “Stay awake for the movie.”

But he just muttered a soft, almost unintelligible response, and before you knew it, he was out cold. His head slid down your shoulder, and a gentle snore escaped his lips. You couldn’t help but laugh quietly, feeling his body completely relax against you.

With a smirk, you reached for your phone. This was one of those moments you had to document. You took a quick selfie of the two of you Luke, dead asleep, his hair a mess, his lips parted in that cute way he had when he dozed off. You sent the photo to Jack with the caption: “Guess what time it is.”

It only took a few seconds before Jack replied: “Lol, I knew it. He’s like a teddy bear, isn’t he?”

You couldn’t argue with that.

Sighing contentedly, you let him sleep, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be the last time tonight. The movie played on, but you barely paid attention, wrapped up in the warmth of your boyfriend and the comfortable rhythm of his breathing.

***

Locker Room Snooze

The post-game rush had settled, and you found yourself making your way to the locker room to meet Luke. The Devils had pulled off a tight win that night, and you’d been there cheering him on from the stands. Your heart still raced a little from the adrenaline of the game, but you were eager to see him.

When you opened the locker room door, you were greeted with the usual chaos: teammates laughing, shouting, and throwing towels at each other. But among all of them, there was Luke, sitting by his locker with his gear half off and his head propped against the wall.

You couldn’t help but laugh as you approached him. “Luke, you okay?” you asked gently, your voice amused.

He blinked, then gave you a sleepy smile, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Yeah,” he mumbled, but then his head tipped forward, and he was out again.

His body slumped forward slightly, and you caught him before he could fall face-first onto the floor. The boys around him snickered.

“Classic Hughes,” one of the guys said with a grin. “You know, you should get him a pillow for after every game.”

You shot them all a look. “I’ve been telling him that for weeks.”

One of the guys, who had a mischievous glint in his eye, took a towel and draped it over Luke like a blanket. “There, perfect. He’s good now.”

“Thanks,” you said dryly, sitting down beside Luke as you brushed his messy hair back. “I don’t know how you do this every game. You’d think after being a pro, you’d at least stay awake long enough to shower.”

But he didn’t stir. Instead, he let out a tiny snore, and you chuckled. His hand instinctively reached for yours, giving it a light squeeze even in his sleep.

“I’ll let you get away with it this time,” you whispered. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

***

Family Dinner Snooze

You’d been dreading this moment all week. Dinner with your family was always a bit chaotic, but tonight, with Luke tagging along, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit nervous. Your parents were excited to meet him of course, they were but you knew that they’d also be keeping an eye on him, checking for how well he meshed with your family dynamic.

Luke, ever the trooper, agreed to join you without complaint. Yet, by the time the main course was being served, he was already starting to show signs of fading.

At first, you didn’t notice. Your aunt was telling an exaggerated story about her gardening mishap, and you were laughing along with the rest of your family when you glanced over at Luke. To your surprise, he was sitting up straight but barely awake, his eyes blinking in slow motion, then closing entirely.

“Luke?” you whispered, nudging him under the table. “Hey, you good?”

His eyes fluttered open briefly. “I’m good…” he mumbled, but before you could stop him, his head tipped to the side and came to rest on your shoulder.

The table fell silent for a moment, all eyes on Luke. Your little cousin giggled and poked Luke’s arm. “He’s sleeping!”

Your mom, ever the understanding one, gave you a knowing smile. “I see why you like him,” she teased, then returned to her conversation as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Well, I guess that answers the question of whether he fits in with the family,” you muttered under your breath.

Luke didn’t even stir, and your aunt, ever the sweet one, placed a napkin over his lap like a blanket. “Aw, poor guy,” she cooed, “he’s just tired from the game, let him rest.”

By the time dessert was served, Luke was practically curled up next to you, the picture of serenity. You just shook your head, smiling.

***

Bedtime Rest

Later that night, after your family had all said their goodbyes and you were finally back in your apartment, you sat together in your room. Luke had somehow stayed awake through most of the car ride home, but now that you were both in bed, he was starting to fade again.

He tossed and turned for a few moments, his body slowly relaxing against you. You laughed softly as his head came to rest on your pillow, and he mumbled in his sleep.

“Don’t let me fall asleep on you,” he whispered hoarsely.

You smiled and leaned in to kiss his forehead gently. “No promises, Sleepy.”

He hummed contentedly in response, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion of the day. You lay there beside him, listening to his steady breathing, your heart full.

It was just another night with your sleepy boyfriend, and honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[giantandgiantessai]

It started small—a craving here, an extra meal there. But soon, no amount of food was enough. She devoured loaves of bread in one bite, finished barrels of stew in minutes, and still, her belly grew.

At first, she tried to resist. “This isn’t normal,” she told herself, pressing a hand to her stomach as it stretched rounder each day. But the hunger was stronger than her will.

She hunted more, gathered more, feasted longer. Villagers began leaving food at the edge of the forest, hoping to keep her satisfied. But Emma knew—this was not a hunger that could be tamed.

[kxsagi]

blue lock boys with an idol s/o and how would they feel with their girlfriend being shipped with another male idol when they're dating secretly

(back from my hellish exams 🤩)

- 🪻

“𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞”

a/n: welcome back!!! here's a little reward for completing those hellish exams 😍

ft. isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, reo mikage, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, chigiri hyoma, kaiser michael (i’m sorry if i’m missing any characters!)

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐲𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 - “𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞”

while you’re showing him a new music video featuring you and your male idol co-star, your boyfriend’s arms are crossed, wearing the most unimpressed expression known to mankind.

➝ “his voice is kinda pitchy,” he randomly comments, despite having no musical knowledge whatsoever.

➝ you squint at him, unimpressed. “babe, that’s literally a pre-recorded track.”

but he’s already moved on, subtly muttering, “his outfit’s kinda mid too,” just to cope. 

𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 - “𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦”

you nervously introduce your boyfriend to your co-star at an exclusive event. your boyfriend, calm and composed, offers the briefest nod possible before he proceeds to talk over the guy every time he tries to say something. if the male idol comments on your vocals, your boyfriend suddenly remembers a “crazy goal” he scored last season and loudly retells the story, making sure you’re paying attention.

➝ “huh? what was that? sorry, i didn’t catch what you said,” he says with a fake polite smile, despite hearing the guy perfectly fine.

𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐨 - “𝐛𝐮𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭”

your boyfriend is scrolling through his feed when he comes across a high-quality, cinematic edit of you and your male idol co-star looking way too good together. the caption reads: “power couple energy 💫” and it has millions of likes.

he doesn’t say a word about it, but two days later, you randomly receive a diamond bracelet with a tiny soccer ball charm. when you confront him, he shrugs nonchalantly.

➝ “what? can’t spoil my girl?”

but you know the ship edit is still living rent-free in his head.

𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐞 - “𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨-𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲”

after your male idol co-star posts a behind-the-scenes photo of you two laughing together, your boyfriend suddenly becomes a lot more… active on social media.

he casually drops a photo dump with you in it. not too obvious, just little things like your hand in the corner of a pic or your reflection in his sunglasses. but his die-hard fans know.

➝ “wait… is that a girl in his pic? 👀”

➝ “the same nail color as [your name]’s recent live…?”

he smirks at the comments, satisfied.

𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐫𝐢𝐧 - “𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭”

your boyfriend doesn’t say anything when he stumbles across a viral ship edit of you and your male idol co-star looking all lovey-dovey. he just calmly puts his phone down and heads straight to his gym.

suddenly, he’s doing way too many reps, shirtless, with his jaw clenched and veins popping like he’s training for the world cup. his music is blasting obnoxiously loud and he’s muttering curses under his breath every time he slams the weights down.

when you come to check on him, he’s drenched in sweat, chest heaving. you raise a brow.

➝ “everything okay?”

he wipes his face with his shirt, exposing his abs. “yeah. just… thinking.”

about what? definitely not the ship edit he saw. 

BONUS: 

after seeing another viral ship edit of you and your male idol co-star, your boyfriend casually posts a gym selfie with his shirt off. his toned abs and veiny arms are on full display, the sweat glistening perfectly under the light. the caption? “feeling good 🤍” with absolutely no context. it immediately gains traction, his comment section flooded with fans thirsting over him. you instantly know why he posted it.

➝ “oh, you’re sooo subtle,” you tease, and he just shrugs with a smug smirk, checking his like count.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐢 𝐡𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐚 - “𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬”

during a post-match interview, your boyfriend is being his usual composed self until the reporter mentions a popular couple collab between you and your male idol co-star. the reporter grins.

➝ “their chemistry is crazy, huh?”

your boyfriend’s jaw ticks almost imperceptibly. but then, with the most neutral tone ever, he shrugs and says:

➝ “yeah, i guess. it’s called acting.”

the internet goes feral dissecting that clip. 

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 - “𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞”

you’re casually chatting with your fans on a livestream when your boyfriend, who knows he shouldn’t, suddenly strolls into the room in his sweats, shirtless, with his hair still damp from a shower.

you glare at him off-camera, but he conveniently “forgets” you’re live, walking right into the frame with a lazy yawn and stretching his arms, showing off his toned abs.

the chat goes insane.

➝ “wait… WHO IS THAT?!”

➝ “omg her boyfriend?!!!”

➝ “ISN’T THAT MICHAEL KAISER THE SOCCER PLAYER”

you quickly end the live, shooting him a glare.

➝ “seriously?”

he shrugs with a sly smirk.

➝ “what? i just couldn’t take it anymore. the world needs to know you’re mine.”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[thedilfdiaries]

Tastes like strawberries

Dbf!Joel miller x f!reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 6,367 (ma bad)

Summary: after accidentally sending your dads best friend a provocative photo meant for someone else you go to "apologize" in person.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (make it your own), handcuffs, scissors, power imbalance, alcohol consumption, f&m oral receiving, joel wrecks your clothes, unprotected p in v, reader has hair and wears a dress, just two consenting adults

Notes: this wasn't meant to be so long. But here we are. Thank you for reading hope you like it <3 Thank you @syd-djarin @joelslegalwhre and @mountainsandmayhem for beta'ing sending you all smooches! and @saradika-graphics for the divider <3 <3 <3

The soft glow of your phone screen illuminates your face in the dimly lit room. Your heart races with a mix of excitement and nerves as you craft the perfect message to the guy you've been chatting with on Tinder. His name is Joel, and he seems different from the others—charming, mature, and undeniably intriguing.

With a deep breath, you attach the sexy photo you'd taken earlier, one that you hope he'll find irresistible. You type out a flirty caption, double-check the name at the top of the chat, and hit send before you can second-guess yourself.

The next morning, you wake up to a message notification. Your heart leaps, thinking it's Tinder Joel, but as you reach for your phone, a sense of dread washes over you. The message is from your father's best friend, Joel Miller, a man you've known since childhood and who has seen you grow up. The preview of the message from last night is enough to make your blood run cold.

11:58PM: I think you might have sent this to the wrong person, sweetheart.

Panic sets in as you read the full message and your face flames with embarrassment. You type out a flurry of apologies, each one more frantic than the last. Joel's response is swift and unexpected.

8:05AM: It's all good, baby girl. You don't need those Tinder boys when I'm right here for ya.

The message is accompanied by a winking emoji, and despite your mortification, you can't help but feel a thrill at the familiarity and warmth in his words. 

—

Determined to apologize in person and clear the air, you find yourself outside the sleek glass building that houses Joel's wine company Vita Vino: where every sip is a celebration of life. You certainly don't feel very celebratory at this moment as the receptionist leads you up to the top floor, where Joel's office overlooks the city with floor-to-ceiling windows.

You step into the office, where you see the cityscape sprawling behind Joel. He rises from his desk, a smile playing on his lips, his presence commanding the room. "Come in, sweetheart, was hopin’ to see ya," he says and winks.

You manage to find your voice, despite the fluttering in your chest. "Mr. Miller, I can't tell you how sorry I am. I was mortified when I realized - I don't know what I was thinking, it was meant for someone—"

He cuts you off with a gentle raise of his hand to still your frantic words. "Please call me Joel, you know better than callin me that. It's okay darlin. Really. These things happen."

You look up at him, searching his face for any sign of judgement, but find only a calm, reassuring smile. "I just—I never meant for you to see that. I feel so stupid.”

Joel's smile broadens, and he takes a step closer. "You have nothing to feel stupid about. You're a beautiful, confident woman. Ain't no shame in that. Listen, what you sent—it was for my eyes only from the moment it reached my phone. I want you to know that you can trust me. I would never disrespect you by sharing that with anyone.”

His words resonate with you, and you feel the weight of your embarrassment start to lift. "I appreciate that, Joel. I really do."

He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you two. His hand lifts, and you feel the warmth of his fingers as they gently tilt your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. "You've got nothing to thank me for darlin. I'm just being honest with you."

The intensity of his stare sends a jolt of electricity through you. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and the scent of his cologne fills your senses, making your head spin. But before you can respond, he releases your chin and moves to the side, gesturing toward a large, framed map of the world's wine regions that hangs on the wall. As you both turn to look at it, your bodies are almost touching, and you can feel the subtle brush of his arm against yours.

"I want to show you something," he says, pointing to a very tiny out of the way region highlighted in gold. "It's where we get the grapes for our signature blend. You know, just like those grapes, sometimes the best things in life are unexpected surprises." 

As he explains the intricacies of the wine-making process, his hand drifts to the small of your back, a possessive gesture that sends a shiver down your spine. His touch is light, but the message is clear—he's staking a claim. 

As Joel's hand lingers on the small of your back, his thumb traces small, intimate circles that make it hard to focus on his words about wine. The room seems to shrink, the city outside the windows fading into insignificance as your awareness narrows to the man beside you.

 You swallow hard, your breath hitching as Joel's thumb continues its maddeningly delightful exploration. The heat from his hand seems to seep through the fabric of your clothes, branding your skin with his touch. "Joel," you whisper, your voice barely above a murmur. His name feels foreign and familiar on your lips.

He turns to look at you. "Yes, darlin'?" he replies, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself against the intoxicating effect he has on you. "I -I should go," you say, though the words feel hollow even as they leave your mouth. The last thing you want is to leave this room and the spell Joel has cast over you.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he shakes his head slightly. "Do you really want to leave?" he asks, his hand pressing ever so slightly into your back, urging you closer.

The question hangs in the air between you, charged with anticipation and the promise of something deliciously forbidden. You know that saying yes will irrevocably change things between you and Joel Miller—the man who is friends with your father—but in this moment, none of that seems to matter. 

The air between you crackles with tension, the weight of your decision pressing down on you. You're acutely aware of the way your heart is pounding in your chest, the way your breath has become shallow and rapid. Joel's eyes are locked onto yours, a silent challenge that dares you to take a leap into the unknown.

"No," you admit, the word tasting like a confession. "I don't want to leave."

The smile that lights up Joel's face is predatory, triumphant. "Good girl," he murmurs, the approval in his voice sends a thrill through you. He steps back, giving you both a moment to breathe, to let the gravity of your decision settle in the space between you. "I've got something special I've been saving for an occasion like this," Joel says. He moves toward a polished wooden cabinet on the far side of the room. The cabinet is locked, but he produces a key from his pocket with a flourish that makes you smile despite the tension coiling in your belly.

Inside the cabinet is an array of exquisite bottles, each one surely holding a story as rich and complex as its contents. Joel's hand lingers over them before finally selecting one with a label that looks older than you are. "This," he says, holding it up to the light so you can see the liquid within, "is a 1947 Cheval Blanc. One of the finest vintages ever produced."

Your eyes widen at the sight of it. "Joel, I can't... that must be worth a fortune," you protest weakly, even as part of you yearns to experience such rare luxury.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he retrieves two crystal glasses from the cabinet. "Money isn't everything, darlin'." His gaze meets yours again, filled with an intensity that takes your breath away. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather share this with than you."

You watch in silence as he expertly uncorks the bottle and pours a small amount into each glass, the wine swirling like liquid rubies. He hands one to you and then raises his own in a toast. "To unexpected surprises," he says with a knowing smile.

The wine is velvet on your tongue, rich and complex with layers of flavor that seem to unfold endlessly as you sip it. You close your eyes for a moment, savoring the experience—and when you open them again Joel is watching you with an intensity that makes your knees weak. The atmosphere in the room has shifted, becoming charged with a desire that's as intoxicating as the wine you're sharing.

"You look so beautiful when you enjoy something.” 

As the last drops of the exquisite wine coat your throat, you lower your glass, your senses heightened by the rich flavors and the man standing before you. Joel's gaze is fixed on you, his eyes dark with desire that mirrors the pulsing need growing within you. He takes a step closer, the heat of his body enveloping you as he reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

"I want to show you more than just wine," he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. "There's a whole world of pleasures I can introduce you to.”

“Joel, I dont know what to say.” 

“Nothin’, you dont have to say anything pretty girl.” 

As the last drops of the Cheval Blanc dance on your tongue, Joel takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. He reaches out to take your glass, setting it aside on a nearby table. His fingers graze yours in the process, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You're acutely aware of the warmth of his body, the way his shirt stretches across his broad chest, the subtle hint of stubble along his jawline.

Joel turns back to the wine cabinet to return the precious bottle to its place of honor. As he opens the cabinet door, there's a soft clinking sound, and something metallic tumbles out from one of the shelves, landing with a thud on the plush carpet at your feet.

You both glance down simultaneously. There, gleaming under the soft glow of the office lights, is a pair of handcuffs. They're not just any handcuffs—they're high-quality, with a polished finish that suggests they've been well cared for. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you can feel a heat creeping up your cheeks as you look back at Joel.

"Well, that's not something I expected to show you today," he says with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare display of awkwardness.

You stare at the handcuffs and then back at Joel, your heart pounding in your chest. "Are those...?" You trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

Joel chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he nods. "Yes, they are.”

You're not sure what to think, you can only imagine how many women he's used those on, right here in his office. The thought sends a thrill through you, a mix of jealousy and excitement at the idea of being one of those women, of sharing in this secret, kinky side of Joel that he's kept hidden from the world. "I didn't peg you for the type," you say.

Joel's eyes lock onto yours, the playful glint in them replaced by a serious intensity. "There's a lot you don't know about me, darlin'," he admits. "And there's a lot I'd like to show you, if you're willing.”

You know that picking up those handcuffs would be crossing a line, stepping into a world of pleasure and exploration that you've never experienced before. But the thought of surrendering control to Joel, of letting him guide you through uncharted territory, is exhilarating.

Slowly, you reach down and pick up the handcuffs, the cold metal warming in your grasp. You hold them out to Joel, your heart racing as you give him a silent nod of consent. A slow, approving smile spreads across his face as he takes the handcuffs from you. 

His fingers brush against your wrists, sending sparks of electricity through your veins. You hear the soft click of the handcuffs as they close around your wrists. The sensation of being bound, of being at Joel's mercy, is both thrilling and terrifying.

"There," he says, his breath hot against your ear as he steps in front of you, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Now you're mine."

The words send a jolt of desire through you, pooling low in your belly. You're aware of the way your body responds to his words, to the dominance radiating off him in waves. "What are you going to do with me?" you ask.

Joel's smile is wicked as he reaches out to trace the line of your jaw with his finger. "Whatever I want," he says, the promise in his voice making your knees weak. "But don't worry, darlin'. I'm going to make sure you enjoy every single second of it.”

He guides you toward the large, mahogany desk that dominates his office. The surface is clear, save for a sleek laptop and a few neatly stacked papers. With a gentle hand on your shoulder, he urges you to sit on the edge of the desk, the cool wood against your skin a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his touch.

Joel steps back, his gaze raking over you as he begins to undress and it's as if time slows down, allowing you to take in every inch of his mature, ruggedly handsome form. Joel's suit is tailored to perfection, emphasizing his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Each movement he makes stretches the fabric across his toned body. With practiced ease, he removes it and then unbuttons his crisp, white dress shirt. His chest is a canvas of sun-kissed skin pulled taut over defined pectoral muscles. A smattering of gray hair dusts his chest, trailing down his toned abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. Joel's hands move to his belt, and with a flick of his wrist, he unbuckles it, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet room. He slides the leather out of the loops with a slow, deliberate motion. His trousers follow, pooling at his feet to reveal a pair of black boxer briefs that hug his powerful thighs and leave little to the imagination.

His arousal is evident, straining against the soft fabric, and you can't help but feel a thrill at the sight. As he pushes his boxer briefs down, his cock springs free, thick and heavy with desire. His cock is a thing of beauty, perfectly proportioned to his large frame, with a defined shaft and a bulbous head that glistens with a drop of arousal. It's clear that Joel is a man confident in his sexuality and the effect he has on you.

"Eyes up here, darlin'," he teases, but the heat in his gaze tells you he enjoys your appraisal. Joel's eyes twinkle with mischief as he reaches into the top drawer of his desk, the sound of metal against wood sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. He produces a pair of scissors. The sight of them in his large, capable hands is intimidating. "These," he says, holding up the scissors for you to see, "are going to help me unwrap my present." His voice is filled with a promise that sends a thrill straight to your core.

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as he steps toward you. "Joel, wait—" you start to protest, but the words die on your lips as he places a finger gently against them.

"Shh... trust me," he murmurs, and there's something in his eyes that makes it impossible for you to do anything but nod in silent acquiescence. With a tenderness that belies his strength, Joel takes hold of one of the straps of your dress. The cold steel of the scissors brushes against your skin as he carefully slides the blades beneath the fabric. You feel a momentary resistance and then—snip—the strap gives way, falling limply to your side as Joel cuts through it with practiced ease. The front of your dress sags slightly, revealing more of your cleavage than intended. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks as Joel's gaze darkens with desire. "You are exquisite," he says reverently, his fingers tracing the newly exposed skin along the neckline of your dress.

Before you can respond, he's moving again, this time cutting away the other strip of fabric that hold up the rest of your dress. The material falls away from your body like petals from a blooming flower, pooling at your waist and leaving you feeling deliciously exposed under his hungry gaze. 

"Joel!" you gasp, both startled and exhilarated by his boldness. "My dress—" 

He silences you with a kiss—a deep, searing kiss that leaves no room for doubt about how much he wants you right now. "Don't worry about it," he says when he finally pulls away, “I'll buy you ten more just like it.”

With your heart pounding in your chest, you watch as Joel's attention shifts to your bra. The scissors glint in the soft light of his office, and you can't help but hold your breath as he positions the blades against the delicate fabric of your bra strap.

"I've been wanting to see these since the moment ya walked in baby," he confesses, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine. With a swift, precise movement, he snips through the strap on one side, then the other. The bra loosens around you, but it's still held in place by the underwire and your modesty is preserved—for now.

Joel sets the scissors aside and hooks his fingers under the remaining fabric of your dress and bra. He tugs gently, peeling away the layers of clothing that separate you from his touch. You lift your hips to assist him, and with a final tug, he frees you from both garments. You're sitting before him now in nothing but your underwear, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than ever before.

Joel's eyes roam over every inch of exposed skin with an intensity that makes it clear just how much he appreciates what he sees laid out before him on his desk like some kind of erotic feast prepared just for him. "You are absolutely breathtaking," he murmurs appreciatively as his hands follow where his eyes have just been caressing every curve along its way. Joel's hands continue their exploration, his fingers skimming over the soft fabric of your underwear. You can feel the heat of his touch through the thin material, and you can't help but arch into his touch, seeking more.

"Eager, aren't we?" he teases, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear before dipping beneath the fabric. His fingertips graze your sensitive flesh, and a gasp escapes your lips as pleasure courses through you. "I like that," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.

Your body responds to his touch with an eagerness that surprises you. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "Lift up for me, darlin'," he instructs. You do as he says, lifting your hips so he can slide the underwear down your legs. Once they're off, he tosses them aside carelessly, as if they're nothing more than a bothersome impediment to what he truly wants—you. Now you're completely exposed to him, sitting on the edge of his desk with your hands cuffed and your legs spread slightly. You feel vulnerable like this, but there's also a sense of empowerment in knowing that you've driven him to such lengths of desire.

Joel steps back to appreciate the view, his eyes darkening with lust as they roam over your naked body. "You are a masterpiece," he says reverently, his gaze lingering on the apex of your thighs before traveling up to meet your eyes. "And I am going to worship every inch of you."

Before you can respond, he drops to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your thighs as he buries his face between your legs. His tongue swipes across your sensitive flesh, and a moan escapes your lips as pleasure shoots through you.  Joel's tongue delves deeper, lapping at your folds and teasing your clit with gentle flicks. You gasp, arching into his touch as he explores you with a skill that leaves you panting for more. His hands squeeze your thighs, holding you in place as he devours you. You feel the world around you melt away as his attention focuses solely on bringing you pleasure.

As he works his magic between your legs, Joel's other hand travels up to cup one of your breasts, tweaking a nipple gently before rolling it between his fingers. The sensation sends shockwaves of desire coursing through you, heightening the pleasure he's already coaxing from below. Your hips buck against him in response to the exquisite torment and ecstasy that overwhelms you.

You can feel yourself growing wetter by the moment under his ministrations, and when Joel finally takes your clit into his mouth with a soft suckling sound that echoes in the quiet room, it's almost too much to bear. He sucks gently at first before increasing the pressure until your whole body tenses and shudders with release.  As the waves of pleasure crash over you, Joel's mouth never leaves your sensitive flesh. He laps at you with long, languid strokes, drawing out your orgasm until you're left trembling and gasping for air. Your body is still pulsing with the aftershocks when he finally pulls back, his lips glistening with your arousal.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with lust. "You taste as sweet as I imagined," he growls, his voice rough with desire. He brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. The sight of him tasting you is incredibly erotic, and you feel a fresh surge of arousal at the thought of him enjoying your pleasure so thoroughly. "Come on now, be a good girl and follow me,”  he says, rising to his feet. He reaches for the chain between the handcuffs, using it to guide you off the desk and toward the plush leather couch that sits against the far wall of his office. 

You stumble slightly, still dizzy from your orgasm, but Joel's strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you steady. He positions you on the couch, your back against the soft leather and your hands still cuffed, placing them above your head. He kneels beside you, his body looming over yours as he captures your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue and it makes you dizzy. "Spread those pretty legs for me, darlin'," he murmurs against your lips, and you comply without hesitation, eager for whatever he has planned next. He reaches down to stroke your inner thighs. "You're so wet for me, so ready," he says, his voice filled with approval.

He positions himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against your slick entrance. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his in a silent plea for more. He responds with a slow, deliberate thrust that fills you completely. The sensation of him inside you is overwhelming, and you can't help but cry out in pleasure.

"That's it, such a goodgirl, aren’tcha?" he groans, beginning to move inside you with a rhythm that quickly has you panting and writhing beneath him. "I know baby, s'big but you can take it darlin. C’mon take me inside that pretty pussy.”

His thrusts grow more urgent, more demanding, and you meet each one with a desperation that matches his own. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by your cries of pleasure and his low, guttural moans.

Joel's hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation is almost too much to bear, and you feel another orgasm building within you, stronger and more intense than the first. "Come for me, darlin'," he commands. "Wanna feel you make a sweet mess on my cock."

His words push you over the edge, and you explode around him, your body convulsing with the force of your release. He continues to thrust through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're left limp and boneless beneath him. 

Just as the waves of your orgasm subsides, Joel slowly withdraws from you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed. He stands before you, his cock glistening with your arousal, and there's a predatory glint in his eyes that sends a thrill of anticipation through you.

"On your knees, darlin'," he commands, his voice a low growl that brooks no argument. You scramble to obey, the handcuffs clinking together as you shift your position on the couch. He steps closer, his cock at eye level, and you can't help but lick your lips in anticipation.

Joel's cock is a sight to behold—a testament to his virility and raw masculinity. It's thick and long, with a prominent vein running along the underside that pulses. The shaft is smooth and warm to the touch, the skin soft yet taut over the steel-hard erection beneath. His girth is substantial. The head of his cock is a deep shade of pink, almost purple with engorgement, and it glistens with a bead of precum that entices you like the sweet promise of a popsicle on a sweltering summer day. You can't help but lean forward, extending your tongue to taste him. The salty-sweet flavor of his essence dances on your taste buds as you lap at him, eliciting a deep groan of pleasure from Joel that vibrates through his body and into yours.

"Open wide," he instructs, his hand fisting his shaft as he guides himself toward your waiting mouth. You part your lips obediently, and he slides inside, filling your mouth with his impressive girth. He tastes musky and salty, a heady combination that makes your head spin.

"That's it, baby girl," he groans, his fingers threading through your hair as he begins to thrust gently into your mouth. "Take it nice and deep."

You relax your throat, trying to accommodate his size as he sets a steady rhythm, fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. You can feel the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you fight the urge to gag, wanting to please him, to show him that you can handle everything he gives you.

"Such a good girl," he praises, his words spurring you on. "You look so fucking beautiful with my cock in your mouth."

His praise washes over you, filling you with a sense of pride and arousal. You moan around him, the vibrations making him hiss with pleasure. His grip on your hair tightens, and he pulls you closer, pushing deeper into your throat.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, his hips jerking as he hits the perfect spot. "Just like that. Don't stop."

You can feel the tension building in his body, the way his thighs tremble slightly with each thrust. You know he's close, and the knowledge that you're the one bringing him to the edge fills you with a sense of power.

Suddenly, he pulls out, his cock leaving your mouth with a wet pop. "Not yet," he says, his voice strained. "Wanna come inside ya baby, make a mess in that tasty cunt."

He helps you to your feet and guides you back to the desk, bending you over it so that your ass is in the air and gives you a light smack to one cheek. He reaches between your legs, his fingers easily sliding into your soaked pussy. "Goddamn baby, you're still so wet," he marvels, his fingers pumping in and out of you with a rhythm that quickly has you panting for more.

Without warning, he pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock, slamming into you with a force that makes you cry out in surprise and pleasure. He sets a brutal pace, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful thrust.

"You feel that, darlin'?" he growls, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "That's me claiming what's mine."

His words send a jolt of desire through you, and you push back against him, meeting each thrust with one of your own. You can feel another orgasm building, the pressure coiling low in your belly.

"Come for me one more time," he commands, his hand reaching around to strum your clit with quick, expert strokes. "Wanna feel you milk my cock."

His words push you over the edge, and you come around him, your entire core pulsing around his girth and with a final, powerful thrust, Joel buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he finds his own release. You can feel him filling you up, the warmth of his seed spreading through you as he groans out his pleasure.

Spent, he collapses on top of you, his body heavy and sated. After a moment, he pulls out and helps you to stand, his hands gentle as he uncuffs you and massages your wrists.

"You are somethin’ else that's for sure babygirl," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. 

You smile up at him, "I'm glad I could make you feel good," you reply with a soft voice.

Joel chuckles and gives you a quick, playful swat on the ass. "Make me feel good? Baby girl, you blew my mind."

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a sleek, black whip. "Next time," he says, holding it up for you to see, "we can play with this. But for now, I think we've both had enough excitement for one day."

You stand there for a moment, still reeling from the intensity of your encounter, and then you remember—your dress is in tatters on the floor. You gather the remnants of your clothing, holding them up in front of you like a shield. "What do I do about this?" you ask.

Joel looks at you with a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "What size are you, darlin'?" he asks, reaching for his phone on the desk.

You tell him your size, still feeling a bit flustered as he dials a number and speaks into the receiver. "Hey, Lexi? Yeah, I need you to pick up a dress for our guest here.” He looks at you questioningly, and you repeat your size for his benefit. "Got it. And make it something nice—surprise me.” There's a brief pause as he listens to his assistant's response before hanging up the phone with a satisfied nod. "Lexi will take care of everything," he assures you with a wink that sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach once again despite yourself.

True to his word, less than twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the office door. Lexi, Joel's assistant, enters the room with a professional smile and several shopping bags from high-end boutiques. "Here you go, Mr. Miller," she says, setting them down next to where you're standing, like this is completely normal. "I hope these will suffice."

"Thank you, Lexi," Joel responds with a nod of appreciation. "I'm sure they'll be perfect." Lexi exits the room as quickly as she came in, leaving you once again alone with Joel. He gestures toward the bags with a playful smile. "Go on, darlin'. Pick your favorite."

You rummage through the bags and find an elegant black dress that looks like it would fit you perfectly. It's sophisticated yet sexy—just like the man who bought it for you. With a shy smile, you hold it up for Joel to see.

"Perfect choice," he says approvingly. "Why don't you try it on?"

You slip into the dress, feeling its soft fabric hug your curves in all the right places. When you turn around to show Joel, his eyes light up with appreciation. "You look stunning," he murmurs sincerely while walking over towards where you were standing before wrapping an arm around your waist then pulling you closer so he could whisper into your ear "But then again I knew you would." His words send shivers down your spine causing goosebumps to form all over your skin despite how warm it was inside his office at this moment.

 As Joel takes a moment to drink in the sight of you in the new dress, you can't help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. The way his eyes darken with desire, even after everything you've shared, is intoxicating. It's clear that his interest in you isn't just a fleeting attraction—it's something much deeper and more intense.

You smile at him, your heart fluttering in your chest. "Thank you, Joel," you reply softly. "For everything."

He chuckles and shakes his head slightly. "Don't thank me yet, darlin'. The day's still young. Now what do you say I get ya home safe."

With that tantalizing promise hanging in the air between you, Joel helps you into your coat—a thoughtful gesture that makes you feel cared for. He escorts you out of his office and down to the parking garage where his sleek black sports car is waiting. The ride back to your place is filled with easy conversation and shared laughter, the chemistry between you two undeniable and electric.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he turns off the engine and turns to face you. "I had a great time with you today," he says sincerely, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I hope this isn't the last time I get to see that beautiful smile of yours."

You look up at him through your lashes, feeling bold despite the vulnerability coursing through you. "I don't think that will be a problem," you say with a playful smirk. 

Joel grins back at, “that's my good girl.” 

As you step out of the car, the cool  air wraps around you. You turn to say goodbye, but he's already getting out of the driver's seat, coming around to your side of the car.

"Let me walk you to your door," he says, offering his arm with a gentlemanly charm that belies the fiery passion you've shared. You accept with a nod, and together, you walk toward the entrance of your building.

The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the unspoken knowledge of what transpired between you two. As you reach your door, you turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "Thank you again, Joel, for today," you say softly, "for everything."

Joel smiles at you. "The pleasure was all mine," he replies with a wink and leans in close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips when he speaks again. "But I have a feeling we're just getting started."

With those words hanging in the air between you like a promise of more incredible days to come, Joel takes a step back and heads back toward his car parked by curbside leaving only echoes behind him.

As the door to your building clicks shut behind you, you lean against it. The memory of his touch, his kiss, his words—they all send shivers of delight coursing through your veins. You can't help but smile to yourself as you replay the events of the day in your mind, each moment more thrilling than the last.

You're startled out of your reverie by the buzzing of your phone in your purse. Fishing it out, you see a notification on the screen - a new message from Joel. Your heart skips a beat as you open it, curiosity and excitement mingling within you.

1:07PM: Can't wait to unwrap that pretty little package again." 

The words alone are enough to send a jolt of desire through you, but then you notice an attachment—a picture. With trembling hands, you open it and find exactly what you were hoping for - a photo of Joel's large burly hand wrapping around his even thicker, larger cock, hard and ready for you once more. You realize he must have taken that in his car.

Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the sight of Joel's arousal, so potent and vivid on your screen. The knowledge that he's thinking about you, that he's hard and ready again so soon after your encounter, sends a thrill of power through you. You type out a quick response, your fingers flying over the keys with a boldness that matches the newfound confidence he's awakened in you.

1:10PM I hope you're not driving and texting that picture. Keep your eyes on the road, Mr. Miller.  you tease, adding a winking emoji for good measure.

His response is almost immediate, a testament to his eagerness. 

1:10PM Don't worry, darlin'. I'm parked outside your building. Couldn't resist sending you a little something to dream about tonight.

You can't help but smile at his words, your body already aching for his touch once more. But before you can respond, another message comes through with an address.

1:11PM Tomorrow, 8 PM. My place. Wear something comfortable and easy to take off.

1:12PM Yes sir.

1:13PM Oh baby you're walking Into whole new territory calling me sir. I'm going to put that pretty mouth to good use tomorrow.

Just as you're about to put your phone down a last message comes through 

1:13PM And leave the underwear at home.

[vitalverstappen]

Fresh Out The Slammer - L. Stroll

summary: now, pretty baby, i'm running back home to you

pairing: Lance Stroll x childhood friend!reader

warnings: swearing, smoking, drinks, use of y/n

word count: 2.9k

masterlist

the tortured drivers' department masterlist

It finally happened. 

After months of the relationship slowly dying, the plug was finally pulled. You would be lying if you said you were mad about it, as you had been mourning the relationship while you were still in it. But you were definitely disappointed at how much you had lost yourself while with him.

Everyday, your friends found you hiding away from them, spending time in your ex-boyfriend's apartment, hoping you’d get a better day with him than the one before. And each day would end with you disappointed that you couldn’t catch the high you once had with him.

But as you spent those years cooped up in that dingy apartment, your mind wandered. To your friends, the old life you had, and there was one person in particular that flooded your thoughts. 

Lance.

The two of you sort of grew up together, as your family moved next door to him in Montreal when you were in grade school. You’d always been close with him, though life had pulled you in different directions over the years. He was the kind of friend who knew your quirks, the way you laughed too loud at dumb jokes, and the way you’d always order the same meal at your local diner. 

Before you got into your relationship with your now ex-boyfriend, Lance was your partner in crime. The two of you were inseparable, balancing on a delicate tightrope between best friends and something more, though neither of you dared to actually make a move on each other (except for the one time after a high school party that you woke up in his bed… but neither of you dared to ever bring that up). 

Once you got into that relationship, you lost touch with a lot of your friends, including Lance. You’d still get glimpses of his life through his Instagram posts, though most of those were with some vague caption about the most recent grand prix. 

You couldn’t help but to feel a pang of regret every time you scrolled through his posts, the shots of him at races or exploring new cities, living a life that seemed so full and so free. It made you feel small, like you’d let years slip by without ever truly reaching for something of your own. The relationship had consumed you, and somewhere along the way, you’d lost the spark you’d once had. 

But now, after everything had fallen apart, that spark was starting to flicker again. You felt an emptiness - yes - but also a sort of restlessness, like your soul had been asleep for too long. 

With every passing day, you slowly began to piece yourself back together, reaching out to old friends and going to places you loved. That’s how you found yourself out at one of your favorite bars in the city, surrounded by your favorite girls. 

You were still in the process of rediscovering who you were outside of the relationship, but tonight, the weight felt a little lighter. The bar was buzzing with laughter and live music, a mix of old regulars and new faces. Your friends were their usual selves - lighthearted, lively, and full of energy. They pulled you into the night, encouraging you to laugh and drink, to forget the heaviness that had weighed on you for so long. 

The familiar comfort of being around them was a balm to your weary heart. They knew about the breakup, of course. They’d been there for you in the quiet moments, the ones where you questioned everything. But tonight, it felt like a chance to just be. No more reflecting on the past. No more wondering where it went wrong. Just living in the presence for once. 

You found yourself laughing more than you had in months, a little buzzed but feeling freer with each passing minute. As your friends chatted about their own lives - work, travel - you felt a shift within you. The old you, the one who would jump into these nights without hesitation, was starting to come back to the surface. 

While a few of your friends chatted away, you pulled your phone out and began to tap through social media. Lance had recently posted a story, and without hesitation, you tapped on it. The view of the Montreal skyline from the top of some skyscraper caught you off guard. He was in town. 

“Ooooo what’s Stroll up to?” one of your friends asked, peering over your shoulder, causing you to jump out of your skin.

You quickly turned off your phone, thrown off by the question. “Uh, I don’t know. In some city, I guess.” 

“Bullshit, he’s in Montreal,” another of your friends said, “we all saw his story.” 

One of your other friend’s eyes lit up, “Why don’t you invite him? I’m sure he’d love to see you.” 

“I don’t know,” you said quietly, running a few fingers through your hair. “I haven’t seen him in years.” 

“That sounds like even more of a reason he’d want to see you,” your friend said. “Invite him over. He can’t be more than a few blocks away.”

Your shoulders slumped, clearly not getting out of this. You sighed, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement bubble up. Your friends were relentless when they got an idea in their heads, and it seemed like tonight was no different. As much as you had tried to keep the idea of Lance at an arm’s length… at least for the moment… now the seed was planted, and there was no way to avoid it. 

“Fine,” you muttered, your fingers already hovering over your phone screen. 

With a deep breath, you pulled up Lance’s contact and started typing, your heart racing as the words appeared on the screen. 

Just saw your story. You back in town for the Grand Prix?

Your thumb hovered over the send button, and for the moment, it felt like the whole world was waiting on you. What was the right thing to say? Should you keep it casual, or should you let a bit of that old familiarity slip in?

I’m out with some friends tonight. Would be great to catch up if you’re free? 

You pressed send before you could overthink it. And you stood there, staring at your screen, waiting for a reply that you weren’t sure you even wanted. 

The minutes dragged by, and your friends were practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of you reconnecting with Lance. They were giddy, tossing suggestions about places you could meet up or how you should play it cool when he responded. You couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm, but it only made the waiting feel worse. 

Finally, just as you were about to set your phone down and stop thinking about it, the familiar ping of a notification broke the silence. 

Lance’s name lit up your screen. 

I’m in town for the race, but I’m free tonight. You still in the city? 

Your heart skipped a beat. That was quick.

You replied almost instantly, the words flowing before you could stop them. Yeah, I am. We’re at the bar we always used to go to. You should stop by. 

You hit send, and then quickly tucked your phone back into your bag, trying to pretend you weren’t about to throw up from nerves. Your friends were watching you like hawks, waiting for any sign of his response. You forced a smile, and tried to focus on the conversation, but your mind kept drifting back to Lance. 

Minutes passed. Then the door swung open, and a burst of cool night air rushed into the bar. For a split second, you thought it was him, but it was just a group of guys laughing as they entered. 

Then, another few minutes later, the message came. 

I’m on my way. Be there soon. 

Your stomach flipped. 

“He’s coming,” you blurted out, your voice sounding slightly too high pitched. You could feel the eyes of your friends on you, and the sudden surge of nervous energy only made it worse. 

“Oh my god, this is happening,” one of your friends whispered dramatically. “I can’t believe you’re about to see him again.”

You grinned, feeling both excited and terrified. It had been so long since you’d seen Lance, and now there he was, about to walk through that door. You hadn’t even begun to process what any of it could actually mean, and yet the anticipation hung thick in the air. 

A few minutes later, you heard the door open again. This time, you knew exactly who had walked in. 

You turned around and saw him standing there - Lance, looking just as you remembered, yet somehow different. His hair was a little longer than it used to be, and his eyes, though still the familiar shade of brown, seemed to carry a weight you hadn’t noticed before. 

His eyes scanned the room, and you watched as he waved to the group of guys who had come in loudly earlier. It quickly clicked that they were some of the other drivers. It wasn’t long before his gaze landed on you. The smile that spread onto his face was almost shy, like he was still unsure of how to greet you after so long. 

Your heart skipped a beat as Lance made his way toward you, the rest of the bar noise fading into the background. For a moment, everything felt suspended in time, just the two of you, standing there, surrounded by the laughter and chatter from your friends, but only seeing each other. 

When he reached you, he stopped for a second, as if gathering his bearings. Then, with a soft chuckle, he said, “It’s been too long. You look… well you look like you’ve finally been living life.” 

You smiled, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. “I’m getting there,” you replied, trying to keep things light despite the butterflies doing flips in your stomach. “It’s been a weird couple of years.”

He nodded, his gaze softening. “Yeah, I get that. It’s hard to stay in touch with both of us having different lives. I’ve been… all over the place.”

The awkwardness that had lingered in the air slowly started to dissolve, and you realized how much you had missed his presence. That familiar comfort was still there, almost like no time had passed. 

Your friends had already taken to teasing you, grinning at the two of you like they were watching an episode of their favorite show. “So, are we going to do this whole catching up thing or what?”  one of them piped up, giving you a mischievous grin. 

Lance laughed and turned to them. “I mean, if it’s okay with you all, I’d love to steal her for a minute.”

You saw a flash of something in his eyes as he said it - something that was both familiar and new. The playful tone in his voice had you laughing, the knot in your chest loosening with every passing second.

“Sure,” you said, gesturing to the doors that led out to the balcony. “Let’s grab a drink and do that whole catching up thing.”

As the cool summer air hit both of you, your nerves settled even more. You placed your drink down on a table and took out a pack of Marlboro’s from your purse, along with a lighter. 

“You smoke now?” he asked, watching you as you lit the cigarette

You shrugged, “Picked it up as a coping mechanism. I wanna quit, but old habits die hard,” you answered, showing him the pack as if to offer him one, which he politely declined. You took a long drag, letting the ashes fall off the ledge of the railing. “So tell me, what’s it like being a superstar driver these days?” 

Lance smirked, glancing back inside to the bar where his gridmates were downing god knows how many drinks, though there was a hint of humility in his expression. “I wouldn’t say superstar… It’s a lot of long hours and a lot of travel. You know, typical Formula 1 stuff. But it’s been… interesting. Lots of highs, lots of lows, but I’m grateful. Not everyone gets to live that dream.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. “It’s honestly wild to think about. You’ve always had that drive, you know?” 

Lance’s eyes lit up, the smile on his face widening. “Yeah, I guess it’s in the blood. But what about you? Last time we talked, you were… well in a different place.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, and you couldn’t help but feel a little vulnerable. You hadn’t fully realized how much of yourself you’d lost until he had pointed it out. 

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer now. “I got a little lost in it all, but the relationship ending kinda felt like breaking out of the slammer. I’ve been starting to focus more on things I forgot about for too long. Like reconnecting with people who actually know me, not just the version of me that fits into someone else’s world.”

The cigarette in your hand had burned down to a nub, and as you walked over to the ashtray, you could feel Lance’s gaze on you with every step you took. It didn’t feel threatening in any way, it was more as if he was trying to read the things you hadn’t said out loud.

When you returned next to him, your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something more, but instead, you just nodded. “I get that.” Lance spoke, filling in the silence. “It’s easy to lose yourself when you’re giving so much of yourself to someone else. But it’s good to see you finding your way back.” 

That last line from him hung in the air between you two like something sacred - soft, heavy, and full of quiet truth. You looked over at him, really looked at him this time. The Lance you used to know was still there: the boy with a quick wit and stubborn heart. But he’d grown, and you had too. Maybe that’s what this whole night was about - two people, bruised by life in different ways, standing face-to-face again and wondering if there was still something worth salvaging beneath the dust of time.

You gave a soft laugh, a little disbelieving. “You always have a way of saying the right thing without sounding cheesy.” 

He smiled - god, that same crooked smile - and leaned against the railing next to you. “Well,” he said, “maybe I’m just saying what I should’ve said years ago.”

That stopped you. It wasn’t a bold declaration, not quite. But it was honest. More honest than either of you had dared to be back then. And somehow, in the thick silence that followed, your heart didn’t race the way it used to in panic - it thudded solidly, rhythmically, like it finally had something steady to beat for. 

You looked out at the city, the lights glittering like little moments waiting to happen. You could hear the murmur of the bar behind you, the distant clink of glasses, your friends’ laughter filtering through the glass. But all of that felt far away now. 

“What do you think would’ve happened,” you asked, “if we hadn’t lost touch?” 

Lance looked thoughtful, not brushing it off like a hypothetical meant to be laughed away. “I think we probably would’ve screwed it up,” he said eventually, smiling gently. “We were kids. Timing was shit. But… I also think we would’ve found our way back here eventually. To this. Us.”

That word us felt heavy in your chest, but not in a bad way. It didn’t ache. It resonated. 

You flicked away the last of your cigarette and turned fully toward him. “Well,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected, “we’re not kids anymore.”

“No,” he agreed. “We’re not.” 

There was something electric in the air then. Not the volatile kind you’d been used to in your past relationship. It was something calmer, fuller. The kind that felt like maybe, finally, you weren’t chasing a high. You were returning home. 

You reached for your drink, more out of habit than thirst, and took a slow sip. “So what now?” you asked, keeping your tone casual, though your heart was suddenly lighter. 

Lance tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Now,” he said, “we figure out if the versions of us that exist today still fit the way they used to.”

You raised a brow. “And if they don’t?”

“Then we figure out if they can fit in a new way,” he said. “No pressure. No pretending. Just… truth this time.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “That sounds dangerously healthy.”

Lance laughed, and for a moment, the years melted away. “Don’t worry,” he said, nudging your shoulder gently. “I’m sure we’ll still mess it up a little. Old habits die hard, right?”

You laughed, really laughed this time, and something inside you clicked back into place. The girl who used to find joy in messy nights and quiet conversations. The one who danced without a care, who didn’t shrink herself to make room for someone else. She was here. And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to let herself fall—gently this time.

You looked over at him, your voice soft but sure. “Let’s not let this slip away again.”

Lance held your gaze, and there was no hesitation in his eyes. “We won’t.”

[jazziejax]

𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - What was supposed to be an apology turned into an unexpected spark. One bouquet, a shared look, and now the media has questions neither of them are ready to answer. But behind the headlines, something real might be blooming—if they let it.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Slow burn tension, paparazzi/media intrusion, mutual pining, strong language, mild angst, sexual tension

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I didn’t think yall were gonna like this very much, but here you go. I’m spewing out so many ideas, I might even go back and touch my Aaron and Kelvin fics.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 6,640+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 🏸˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚

The video spread like wildfire.

A grainy clip—filmed on someone’s phone and clearly zoomed in from across the gym—captured two women sparring, one of them a powerhouse wrapped in black with quick hands and sharper feet. The footage showed brutal jabs, unrelenting movement, a burst of speed that overwhelmed the reigning champ of Delphi’s female fighters. A takedown. A scream. Small gasps from the gym.

No name was attached. Just the caption—“WHO the hell is she???”

Speculation swarmed online.

Some thought it was a pro fighter from another camp trying to embarrass Sandra. Others guessed a random with nice hands. But no one knew for sure. Chantal had been too fast, too focused, her face barely visible behind headgear and gloves. The comments were a flood of awe, disbelief, and messy guesses.

Chantal didn’t know about any of it that morning.

After leaving Delphi the day before, her fury had fizzled into silence. She wasn’t even sure if she’d locked the door behind her—just collapsed onto the couch, flipping through the same three channels without watching any of them. Her body hummed with leftover adrenaline, but her chest was heavy.

She hadn’t eaten since breakfast—barely touched the oats she made early that morning, but she hadn’t noticed. Her mind was far too full.

She thought of the moment she pushed past Duke and Adonis. The way her gloves hit the floor. The eyes that followed her out. And most of all… she thought about Armando.

This gym was supposed to be theirs. A dream they never quite got to live out. He would’ve walked in beaming. Respected the space. She’d stomped in angry and left worse.

By the time night came, Chantal was curled up beneath her weighted blanket, eyes trained on the ceiling. The guilt didn’t just sit in her—it clawed. And by the time she fell asleep, it was with a clenched jaw and a heart swollen with shame.

The next morning came just as the last.

She rose quietly, repeating the same routine. Brushed her teeth. Did push-ups, abs, squats. Showered. Pulled on a plain black T-shirt and black and yellow, Kobe basketball shorts with Nike Jordan’s the same color. She made the same oats again, this time actually eating them. They were warm but tasted a bit different, but she blamed it on her overwhelmed psyche.

She headed out just after ten.

There were a few things she needed—dish soap, protein bars, tampons. Her headphones stayed on as she moved through the aisles of the neighborhood store, trying to keep her mind off yesterday, but the pressure hadn’t lifted. Not even a little.

She thought time would wear it down. That she’d laugh at how riled up she got. That maybe Duke or Adonis would’ve forgotten by now. But it stuck. The weight. The tightness in her chest. The memory of the room going still, of people yelling, of her own voice ringing out in a place built for discipline.

She didn’t just feel embarrassed. She felt wrong.

She paused at the end of an aisle, eyes catching on the bright display of the floral shop tucked into the corner of the store. Pink, white, and orange petals swayed under the soft buzz of the overhead lights.

Almost on impulse, she walked over.

A middle-aged man with gentle eyes and a button-down shirt looked up from behind the counter.

Chantal gave a soft breath of a laugh, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “Can you make me a bouquet that says… I’m sorry for embarrassing myself—and you?”

The man blinked once. Then slowly pursed his lips and gave a single, understanding nod. “Sí. I’ve got just the thing.” He said kindly.

And for the first time in two days, Chantal let herself breathe.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

The car idled for a long moment in front of the Delphi Boxing Academy, engine humming low beneath the spring sun. Chantal sat behind the wheel, hands resting on her thighs, thumbs tapping anxiously. She looked different today—though not on purpose. No hood. No scowl. No fight in her shoulders. Her long braids were pulled into two pigtails, and her oversized glasses sat low on the bridge of her nose. A small attempt at appearing… softer. Less threatening.

More apologetic.

She took a breath and finally climbed out, bouquet in hand—bright, fresh flowers wrapped neatly in brown paper. They felt heavier than they should’ve.

Inside, the gym hummed with life. Gloves hitting bags, sneakers squeaking across canvas, the low bass of rap music bleeding from someone’s phone. But no one really looked her way. Maybe that was worse than being stared at.

The guy behind the front desk wasn’t the same fanboy from the day before. He was older, stockier, wearing a fitted T-shirt with the Delphi logo across the chest and a Bluetooth headset in one ear.

He looked up as she stepped forward, awkward in her approach, her fingers tightening slightly around the paper-wrapped bouquet.

“How can I help you?” He asked, polite but not overly warm.

“Uh…” Chantal cleared her throat softly. “Can I speak to Duke, please?”

Their eyes met only briefly, and hers dropped fast. The man gave a nod and turned to disappear down a hallway in search of the head coach. She was left standing there, bouquet still in hand, fidgeting on the balls of her feet. Her eyes flicked around the gym, trying not to linger too long on anyone or anything. The memory of yesterday echoed in every corner. The way Sandra screamed. The sound of her own voice. The sting of adrenaline in her knuckles.

And then—

“Hello.”

The voice wasn’t Duke’s.

Her head snapped toward it. Adonis stopped a few feet away, arms crossed gently, his expression unreadable. A beat passed before she answered. Seeing her look, he explained. “Duke’s not in right now.” He stated, casing Chantal to nod before she blinked.

“Hi.” She said quietly.

They met somewhere in the middle of the lobby, just near the counter, the air between them thick with everything that hadn’t been said yesterday. Chantal shifted her weight, eyes flickering up to meet his before falling again. Her fingers flexed once, then twice, around the bouquet.

“These are for you.” She said, her voice unsure. “Or… Duke.”

Adonis arched a brow as he reached for the flowers. “Oh.”

He accepted them carefully, gaze dropping to the vibrant petals. A small daisy stuck out between the folds of the paper—charming and a little offbeat, just like her. He held them like something sacred.

“I got them because I didn’t really know how to do this.” She admitted, gaze still lowered. “And I wanted to come and apologize for… my behavior. For how everything went down yesterday. I’m sorry I brought that into your gym and messed up whatever rhythm you all had.”

Her voice was laced with awkward vulnerability, but she forced herself to meet his eyes again. He was watching her closely, unreadable, the weight of his stare like heat under her skin.

Adonis blinked once, glancing back down at the bouquet in his hands. “Flowers?” He couldn’t help but vocalize, not with sarcasm, but genuine curiosity.

Chantal raised her brows, lips pressing into a sheepish line. “Everyone likes flowers. And I didn’t wanna show up empty-handed.”

A quiet breath of amusement passed through his nose. He nodded slowly, that unreadable expression softening by a fraction.

“Well.” He said. “Thank you. They’re… pretty.”

Chantal gave a small nod of agreement. “Yeah.” And he found the way her face seemed to stay straight as she did so a bit adorable.

Silence hovered for a beat before Adonis shifted his grip on the bouquet and looked her dead in the eye.

“And I accept your apology. My fighter got out of line yesterday, and I should’ve stepped in before anything popped off.”

She gave another nod, this one slower, more grounded. But then her lips parted, and she said, clear as day—

“Yes. You should have.”

The response caught Adonis off guard. His eyes widened a little, mouth opening just barely like he was going to say something, but nothing came out at first. Instead, a quiet breath left his lips, a wry smile twitching at the corners.

“Fair.” He finally said.

Another silence followed, but this one felt different—less tense. She looked up at him again, a flicker of something behind her glasses. A vulnerability, maybe. Or just a deeper version of her usual fire, hidden beneath the flowers and soft tone.

Adonis tilted his head slightly. “You got a mean jab.” He stated. “Fast footwork, too.”

Chantal’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Thank you.” She said, though she wasn’t really sure on how she should feel about the compliment he just gave her. Her hands then slowly fell to her sides now that the bouquet was no longer her shield. “I don’t wanna cause trouble.” She suddenly spoke up again, as if the words were eating at her and she just needed them out. “I just… came here to train a bit. Honor the place I sort of used to dream about visiting.”

Adonis looked at her for a long moment before giving a single, affirming nod. “Then train. The past is in the past. Whatever happens after that… we’ll figure it out.”

And for the first time since walking in, Chantal allowed herself to smile.

The air still hung a little tense between them after the apology, but something had shifted—tilted just enough to allow for a new direction. Chantal shifted again, her fingers fidgeting at the hem of her shorts as Adonis looked down at the bouquet once more, then back up at her.

“You got time to stick around?” He asked, voice casual, but his eyes steady on hers.

Chantal blinked. “For what?”

Adonis gave her a small, knowing smile. “To box.” He said, as if it was obvious.

She looked down at herself. Tight black t-shirt, basketball shorts that hit her knees, fresh pair of kicks. “I’m not exactly dressed for it.”

He chuckled lightly. “You think half the people who show up here come looking ready the first time?” He nodded toward the back. “We got extra gear. I’m sure there’s a pair of shoes your size lying around. And Duke always keeps fresh wraps in the back.”

Chantal hesitated, eyes flicking toward the ring, then back at him. Her voice was softer now. “You’re serious?”

Adonis took a step back, nodding. “Dead serious. If you’re trying to train for real, I’m not gonna let a pair nice shoes be the reason you don’t.”

Something in her chest gave a small thump. She hadn’t planned on staying. She hadn’t even planned on speaking to him, let alone being offered a spot in his gym like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t walking chaos. Like he wasn’t the Adonis Creed.

She studied him for a long second, lips twitching slightly. “Okay.” She said, and her smile was contagious. She hadn’t expected to be able to be here again, and now that he granted her permission, she couldn’t hide her joy at not being a total disappointment. And that grin was one that pulled Adonis in, copying gesture, making his dimples pop.

Fifteen minutes later, Chantal was seated on the bench near the lockers, watching as Adonis emerged from the back holding a box of shoes and a pair of wraps slung over his shoulder. She was already in her socks now.

He dropped the box next to her with a nod. “Try these.”

She pulled the lid off, eyebrows raising slightly. They were ASICS, used but clean, white with black soles and creased just enough to show they’d been broken in, but not beaten up.

“What size are they?” She asked.

“Seven. You look like a seven.”

Chantal gave him a skeptical look. “You know a woman’s shoe size by sight?”

Adonis shrugged with a grin. “It’s a talent.”

She let out a small breath of a laugh before she slid them on—and they were a perfect fit. “Okay… maybe it is a talent.” She mumbled to herself.

He crouched in front of her, holding the wraps out. “Give me your hands.”

She froze. Just for a second. Something about the way he said it. Quiet, and a bit demanding, but steady. She offered them slowly, palms up. He took one in his calloused hands and began the process—tugging the wrap snugly around her wrists, then knuckles. His fingers were firm but careful, and the intimacy of it wasn’t lost on her.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“You know who I am, right?” He asked suddenly, not looking up, his fingers moving across her hand like he’d done this a thousand times. At the silence he got, he looked up to see Chantal cutting her eyes at him, very judgmental. “Not like that.” He said, letting out a small laugh. “I just wanted to know before I spoke further.”

She then simply let out a small hum. “Adonis Creed. Heavyweight champion of the world. Son of Apollo. Fine. Yeah, I’ve heard.” She said, her eye focused on the wrapping his was putting around her hand.

That made him glance up, grin teasing the corner of his mouth. “Fine?”

She shrugged innocently. “That’s just what I heard.”

He snorted softly, moving to the other hand. “I know who you are too.” He said, his tone dipping more serious. “Chantal Figueroa. Wimbledon finalist. Nike darling. Media nightmare.” He said with a small wince. And those finals words alone seemed to flip a switch within Chantal. And she was back to reality, one she knew she could never escape. How naive of her to assume that life could offer her a semblance of grace this one time.

She looked away, cheeks tightening. “That last part’s their favorite.” She mumbled.

“I don’t always believe what they say.”

“You should.” She said quietly, a bitter twist to her smile. “I’ve given them enough footage.”

He finished wrapping and sat back on his heels, looking up at her. “Everyone gets angry. The difference is how you work through it.”

Chantal eyes drifted to his, and she couldn’t help but study him—his face, his tone, the strange calm he wore, even as he sat in a storm of loud gym sounds, from yelling to excessive sweat and fists. He didn’t seem to be patronizing her, so she took his words the best way she knew how.

Deflecting.

“So, what are you now, like, a sensei?” She asked.

Adonis looked up at her with a small grin before he looked off in mock thought. “Mmm, in a way.” He shrugged. Chantal exhaled a quiet laugh, then stood, tightening the gloves he handed her. She looked down at her fists. “Does that mean you’re gonna train me or something?” She questioned, her humor dry as she quirked a brow at him. “You know, since that’s what sensei’s do.”

Adonis cocked his head. “You want me to?” He asked, and the lilt of his tone was humorous, but there was an underlying edge to his voice that gave her a different vibe, especially with the way he tilted his head.

Her eyes met his, something sharp and stubborn rising in them, even beneath the softness. She wasn’t sure if he was flirting, or challenging her. Or both, but Chantal didn’t mind, she liked a challenge. And a bit of flirting “Yeah.” She said. “Show me your best.”

Adonis grinned slow, like it was something he’d been waiting for her to say.

“Oh, I’ll show you.” He said, a subtle smile gracing his lips, casing Chantal to quirk a subtle brow before moving around him and over to one of the bags.

The gym was a bit quieter now. Most of the morning and early evening crowd had thinned out, leaving only a few scattered boxers working drills in the far corners. Chantal stood in front of one of the heavy bags, her fists loosely clenched at her sides, a thin sheen of sweat across her brow. Adonis moved to stand behind the bag, hands pressed against the leather to keep it steady. He watched her carefully, as if he could see the battle in her head before a punch was even thrown.

“Let’s start light. Footwork. Movement. No punches yet.”

She nodded, jaw tight, and moved into position.

At first, her movements were sharp but stiff. Measured. Her body knew rhythm—she’d been an athlete nearly her whole life—but boxing was one of a different kind. One she respected more than she’d ever admitted out loud. She didn’t speak as she moved, keeping her eyes locked on the back while Adonis’s were locked on hers. Focused. Unreadable.

He moved with her, circling the bag, mirroring. He was calm and patient. Occasionally offering a tip in a low voice. “Keep your lead foot outside mine.”

“Relax your shoulders, you’re carrying tension.”

“You ever dance?”

That one made her pause for half a beat, her brow furrowing. “What?”

He grinned. “You move sort of like a dancer.” He said. “That…doesn’t quite know the choreography.” He added. Chantal rolled her eyes, the faintest smirk tugging her lips before she could stop it. “Guess that means I’m doing it wrong.” She mumbled.

“Nah.” He said. “It just means you’re just in you head. That you got something to fight. Which is good. But if you want to last, you gotta stop fighting yourself first.”

That settled between them, something personal, hitting somewhere deeper than her fist against the bag. She didn’t respond, just let out a sharp sigh before she just kept moving.

They ran drills for a while longer. He showed her a few basic combos—jab, cross, slip. She picked them up quickly, but kept her distance. Physically and emotionally. Even when she missed a punch and muttered under her breath, she didn’t look to him for comfort or correction. She just adjusted and went again.

After a few more rounds, Adonis called for a break. He tossed her a towel and a bottle of water from the corner which she both caught easily.

“You got hands.” He said, watching her from where he leaned near the wall. “You box before?”

“Not really.” He said, twisting the bottle open. “Messed around a little back home.”

“Where’s home?”

She hesitated, cutting her eyes to him as she raised the bottle to her lips. “New York.” She said before taking a sip.

“Which part?”

Chantal gave a slow shrug, sipping her water. “Does it matter?” She questioned, avoiding his eyes, twisting the cap on her bottle.

Adonis smiled, not taking offense. “Just trying to get to know you.”

She wiped her brow with the towel. “Why?”

“Cause I’m training you.”

She stared at him, hard. “Do you do this with everyone?” She asked, crossing her arms. Her weight was placed on one leg, and her brows were narrowed his way. “Wrap their hands, offer them shoes, ask about their childhood?” She listed. “Cause this is starting to feel a lot like a therapy session.”

He didn’t blink, but there was s shift in his eyes every time she seemed to question him. “No. Just you.” He answered lightly.

The silence that followed that hung a little heavier and Chantal was the first to look away. “Well, I didn’t come here for all that.” She said quietly. “I came to punch something. Not… unpack myself to someone I barely know.”

“I know.” He said. “But you’re still here.”

That made her glance back, brows furrowed, her voice a bit softer. “So?”

“So.” He said, stepping away from the wall and moving over to the bench closer to her. “Maybe you don’t want to be as closed off as you think.” He added.

At that, Chantal’s eyes landed on him, and this time she didn’t answer. He didn’t have anything to say. And she hated how accurate his words felt.

They sat like that for a moment, the gym noise around them muted. Eventually, Chantal set her water down, twisting the cap back on with slow fingers. “I used to go to boxing gyms with someone I knew.” She said finally, almost without meaning to. “A long time ago.” She waved her hand.

Adonis didn’t respond, he just observed her with a subtle nod.

“He said it’d calm my nerves. Make me think clear. Said boxing forces you to face yourself.” She exhaled a short breath. “I hated that part. Still do.” She shrugged, not meeting his gaze as her eyes made their way to her wrapped hands.

He studied her for a second, looking at the way she flipped her hands front to back and picked at the loose pieces of gauze. “But you’re back.” He said, looking at the side of her face.

“Yeah. Guess I’ve got more facing to do.” She replied with a humorless smile.

Adonis looked at her for a few more seconds, his eye trimming her figure before he stood again, nodding toward the bag. “Then let’s get back to it.”

Chantal looked up at him, the smallest flicker of something soft passing over her guarded features. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t say thank you, didn’t offer anything sentimental.

But she stood, tightening her gloves around her wrist with her teeth before moving back to the bag.

And that, for her, was something. It was progress.

And Adonis simply followed what she did, holding the bag. “Jab.” He demanded evenly.

She struck—quick, solid, but restrained.

“Again.”

She did.

“Harder.”

She hesitated for a split second before hitting it again.

“You’re holding back.” He said, voice low but certain.

Chantal narrowed her eyes at him, briefly taking her eyes of the bag. “I’m not.” She huffed.

“Yes, you are.”

Chantal threw another jab—tighter this time, sharper. But Adonis barely moved behind the bag. “You’re angry, I get it. But that ain’t gonna help you if you don’t control it.” He commented. Chantal paused, sucking in a breath as her fingers flexed, blinking harshly.

“Cross.” He asserted, so Chantal followed and threw it.

“Again.”

She did.

He leaned slightly into the bag, pushing it just enough to challenge her balance. “What’s got you tight today?”

“Nothing.” She snapped, short and clipped, throwing a punch before he could even think. He jerked a bit but nodded like he didn’t believe her statement, which only irritated her more.

“Do you ever let yourself lose control?” He asked, casually, almost as if they were having a conversation over coffee.

“Not the way you mean.” She huffed.

“Why not?”

“Because people could get hurt.” She admitted. Her answer was so fast, so raw, it surprised even her. She saw the way his expression shifted—just slightly, just enough to clock it.

“Good.” He said. “Now put that in your punches.”

Chantal sighed, taking a step back from the bag with her jaw clenched. “I don’t need therapy, Creed.” He hissed.

“I’m not giving you therapy. I’m telling you to stop lying to yourself.”

And that’s what did it. She lunged forward, hitting the bag with a clean right hook that made the chains rattle. She did it again and again. She worked her fists fast and hard now, breathing ragged, like each hit was purging something she couldn’t speak.

Behind the bag, Adonis braced himself and kept watching her.

“That’s it.” He said, voice steady. “Keep going.”

But her rhythm was getting messy. Her punches weren’t wild, but they were growing too fueled, too emotional.

“Chantal.” He warned. “Breathe. Keep your form.”

“Don’t tell me to breathe.”

“Then say what’s really eating at you.”

Her hands then paused mid-air, and for a moment, her breath caught. Her chest heaved up and down, her eyes making their way to his with a judgmental glare.

“Don’t do that.” She said quietly, shaking her head

“Do what?”

“Push me like you know me.” She retorted firmly.

Adonis simply tilted his head from behind the bag. “I’m not pretending I know you. I’m reading what you show me.” He responded. Chantals nostrils flared, chest rising and falling. She looked like she wanted to throw something at him, not just the bag anymore.

“I don’t need to be read.” She said, voice lower now, tight and dangerous. “I need to be left alone.”

Adonis studied her, standing straight behind the bag now that she was now longer punching. His tone softened, but he didn’t back down. “Then why’d you come back?” He asked.

And Chantal’s throat worked, but that didn’t seem to help her come up with an answer. He let the silence stretch between them, heavy and loaded.

Finally, he tapped the bag lightly. “You got power. You’ve got something real. But if you keep boxing, and playing tennis, like you’re trying to bury your own damn heart or prove some point, you’re gonna miss what this sport and the other could give you.”

She stared at him, her eyes flicking from the bag to his unwavering gaze as she tried to think clearly through his words—and then something flickered in her eyes.Not agreement, but recognition.

The bag was still swaying, leather creaking softly under the weight of her last blow. Chantal’s breath was jagged, caught somewhere between rage and restraint, the skin at her collarbone gleaming with sweat. Her fists dropped to her sides, wrapped and sore, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.

Adonis watched her from behind the bag, his arms braced on either side, chest rising and falling with his own breath. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t anything. Just… observant.

And for some reason, that made it worse. She didn’t speak again just stormed over to the bench without a word.

“Chantal.” He called after her, a little sharp, a little concerned. But she didn’t stop. Her fingers fumbled at the gloves, trying to pull them free, yanking at the velcro frantically.

“Chantal, slow down.” He said, stepping around the bag, cautious now.

She ripped the gloves off like they were burning her skin and tossed them onto the floor with a sharp thud. “I’m done.” She muttered, more to herself than him. She bent down, hastily untying the boxing shoes he’d given her, fingers clumsy, jerky, like she couldn’t get them off fast enough.

Adonis was beside her now, hands half-lifted like he didn’t know if he should touch her or give her space. “Hey. You don’t have to do all that. Just talk to me—”

“I don’t want to fucking talk.” She snapped, still not raising her voice, but the fire behind it was unmistakable. The first shoe hit the metal bench with a slight echo, the second one tossed beside it, her breath coming fast and hot as she stood up and grabbed her bag.

“Please, Chantal.”Adonis tried again, softer now, guilt flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean to push you that far.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder with a snap of her braids and locked eyes with him. “Well, you did and now leave me the hell alone.” And she looked away from his eyes faster than their gaze was held.

And for some reason, the words hit him clean. The sting of truth. She turned and headed for the door without another word.

Adonis stood there for a beat, running a hand over his mouth. Then his eyes caught the flowers—still sitting on the bench where he’d left them to train her, delicate and out of place among sweat and grit.

He quickly grabbed them and jogged after her. “Chantal!” He called, just as she reached her car. The sun outside hit her face, catching the glow of sweat on her skin, the defiance and anger in her stiff stance.

She didn’t turn, just pulled out her keys with clenched hands.

“Chantal, wait—”

He reached her just before she could open the car door, the flowers now a little crushed in his hands. “I’m sorry.” He yelled.

She froze.

The keys that dangled in her fingers were then clenched, still and uncertain.

“I pushed too hard in there.” He said, voice low, thick with something that wasn’t just guilt, but was understanding. “I saw something in you, something I always saw in myself once, and maybe I didn’t respect how personal that was. That’s on me.” He admitted.

Chantal’s back was still to him, her head slightly lowered, her shoulders rigid.

“I wasn’t trying to dig.” He continued. “Just… hoping I could hold space for whatever was coming up for you.” He ten gulped, a thick and long since passing between them. Chantal hands was clenched around the keys, and if it wasn’t for her still wrapped hand, she possibly would’ve been bleeding from how deep the indentations could’ve gotten. There was nothing but the bustle of Los Angeles between them, the wind blowing the loose tends of Chantal’s braids in the wind.

She then turned her head just slightly, not all the way, still stiff. “That wasn’t your place.” She said, and her tone was still clipped as she started at him.

“I know.” Adonis exhaled, stepping closer with the bouquet. “But I’m still glad you came. And I hope you come back.”

She finally looked over her shoulder at him—eyes fierce but glassy, her lips parted like she was holding back something far more tender than anger.

He held out the flowers again, this time without words. Her eyes looked down at them, the wind pushing the smell of the petals her way. She then looked back up at him, and though he wasn’t sure if she was still angry, her face still held a narrowed frown in her brow. And slowly, hesitantly, she took them, her fingers brushing his.

“I am still mad at you.” She murmured, blinking.

“I…think I can live with that for now.” Adonis nodded.

“And I’m not coming back in today.” She deadpanned, running the flowers in her arms, cradling it like a baby.

“I won’t ask you to.”

“But I might… tomorrow.” She said, her eyes finally meeting his, and when Adonis brows piqued at her words, she was quick to add on. “Or sometime this week. Or…next week.” She said dimly.

And Adonis gave a slow, careful smile. “Then I’ll be here.” He said softly.

“And I want you to know.” Chantal said, pausing just before opening her door. “It’s rude that you gave me back the flowers I gave you.”Her gaze was as sharp as her tone, unwavering, but there was a flicker of mischief in the set of her mouth.

Adonis blinked, surprised by her sudden jab, before a small smile curled at the edge of his lips. “Yeah, I know.” He admitted, lifting his shoulders in a slow shrug. “But I had to get your attention—and maybe a little forgiveness—somehow.”

She squinted at him like he was full of it. “Mm. Lousy attempt.” She mumbled, though just loud enough for him to hear as she gripped the handle of her car door again and opened it, on her way into the seat.

Adonis let out a soft, breathy laugh. He looked at her, really looked, as the sunlight softened against her cheekbones and the sweat still clinging to her neck glistened. “Alright, how about this.”He said, catching her attention before he entered the car. “I’ll take you out to dinner this evening.” He suggested.

She froze, her chin lifted slightly. “Dinner?” She repeated, her brow raising in suspicion.

“You said you were new to the area.”He said, voice casual, body leaning slightly against the car like he wasn’t asking for much. “I’m from here. I know the city. I can show you a few places. Introduce you to some people.”

Her eyes flicked to his, cool and unreadable. “It’s not like I plan on staying long.” She said, quirking a brow at him.

“Then take it as an apology.” He replied easily. “Since apparently, I can’t give you flowers.”

Chantal stared at him. Silent, her gloss lips pressed together, almost like she was chewing on the offer.

The wind swept through the lot again, catching the ends of her pigtail braids and pulling wisps of hair across her face. She brushed them away with one hand, tucking them back behind her ear, her long lashes fluttering as she studied him again.

Finally, she shrugged, nonchalant. “Okay.”

Adonis straightened. “Okay?”

“I’m not gonna say it again.” She said flatly.

And the man couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. “Okay.” He nodded, holding back a laugh. “How about today at eight? I’ll come pick you up.”

“I’m not telling you where I live.” She deadpanned.

Adonis reeled slightly, confused. “What?” He scoffed. “It’s not like I’m not dangerous or anything.”

“You’re the heavyweight champion of the world.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m a tennis player, not risking it.” She shook her head.

He raised his eyebrows. “Wow, okay.” He said, letting out a small laugh. “I mean, you pack a mean punch.” He quipped it like an afterthought, but her face never broke. Still stoic, still unreadable. Adonis let out a low laugh, running a hand over his beard. “Alright, alright. No address. But can I at least get your number?”

“No.”

He blinked. “No?”

She smiled then. Not a wide one. Just the faint curl of lip gloss and challenge, her head tilting to the side. “I’m not repeating myself.” She said, same as earlier as she looked at him.

“Why not?” Adonis asked, and he couldn’t help but smile at her as well, absentmindedly tilting his head with her. “Because I don’t want to.” Chantal grinned.

Adonis mirrored her posture, amused and just slightly exasperated. “Then what do you want, Chantal?”

“To meet here. At seven.”Her voice was steady. Very fine and decided, like the terms were hers and hers alone. Adonis nodded once, sealing it like a deal between competitors. “Alright. Then we’ll meet here at seven.”

She didn’t respond immediately. She looked at him, really looked at him, as if trying to figure out what his angle was. But there was nothing calculated in his gaze—just patience. Warmth. And a kind of gentle steadiness that made something tight in her chest loosen just a little.

With nothing left to say, she climbed into her car, the door shutting with a soft thump. The bouquet she’d taken back from him sat cradled in her lap for a moment before she reached over and gently placed it in the passenger seat. Adonis watched through the windshield, his hands still in his pockets, every line of his body relaxed and buzzing all at once.

And then—and he nearly chuckled aloud—as she buckled the flowers into the seatbelt.

He shook his head, a full smile breaking across his face as she started the engine. She didn’t glance back, didn’t wave. But she didn’t need to.

Because as she pulled out of the lot and drove away, she left him standing there in the quiet heat, heart thudding just a little faster than it had all day. The only thing settling it was a brief breeze that would occur every now and then.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Back in their separate spaces, the evening sun had just begun to bleed into twilight.

Adonis stood shirtless in front of his dresser, slipping on his chain. The gold glinted against his skin, catching the light. He ran a hand over his freshly lined beard, checking the mirror, smoothing the collar of his black shirt he hadn’t buttoned yet. There was a buzz under his skin—not from nerves, not really—but anticipation. She said yes. And even though the Chantal Figueroa was all edge and no-nonsense, there was something about her that pulled him in like gravity. Sharp, mysterious. A little weird.

Meanwhile, in her apartment, Chantal stood under the stream of warm water, letting it run over her shoulders and back, rinsing away the tension of the day. The sound of the gym still echoed in her head—his voice behind the bag, the way he pushed her, the way her anger bubbled to the surface, sharp and cutting. And then… the way he’d followed her. The way his voice had softened. The way she’d noticed the damn flowers buckled in beside her on the passenger seat the whole ride home. She couldn’t quite name what she was feeling. Not yet.

And then—

Ping.

Adonis’s phone chimed.

So did hers.

He froze with his hand still adjusting the chain around his neck, turning toward the sound on his nightstand. The screen lit up with a preview of a message: “YO. You seeing this???” Followed by a link. An image. An all-too-familiar silhouette.

Chantal heard the alert through the steam, her head poking out of the shower curtain just in time to see the screen of her phone light up again on the sink. She squinted at it, then reached out with a wet hand to the counter to unlock it, not bothering to dry off first.

At the exact same moment, they both opened the message. And headline screamed back at them:

“ADONIS CREED’S GIRLFRIEND IDENTIFIED: MEET CHANTAL FIGUEROA! BOXING MEETS TENNIS? CREED CAUGHT HANDING FLOWERS TO STAR TENNIS ATHLETE OUTSIDE L.A. GYM”

Photos: [SEE THE IMAGES HERE]

And there they were—captured in sharp, intrusive frames.

The first shot was candid but clear—Adonis mid-step, one hand holding out a full bouquet, a mixture of yellow and pink garden flowers, the other tucked in his jacket pocket. His expression was earnest. A little amused. Like he was trying not to smile too much.

The second image was even more damning. Chantal stood in front of her car, her hand on the door handle, mid-turn while her other one was reaching out to the bouquet. She was angled toward him, head slightly tilted, her expression unreadable. Her hair, still in those pigtail braids, whipped gently in the wind. She looked composed, unbothered—but the camera caught the flicker in her eye, the way she was listening with a small smile.

And then the third was a zoomed-in moment taken through her windshield. Adonis stood on the sidewalk with his hands buried in his pockets, watching her. His smile, it was small but deeply genuine and trained on her like there was no one else on the street. Inside the car, the flowers now sat in the passenger seat. The seatbelt strapped neatly across the bouquet, just like a passenger.

Underneath, bold captions followed.

“No official confirmation yet—but sources say Figueroa recently relocated to L.A.”

“A match made in sports heaven? Or just a passing moment?”

“Tennis star Chantal Figueroa spotted leaving the same gym Creed owns. Coincidence?”

And critically—no one had yet put together that she was also the woman in the viral video from the day before. No comparisons had been made between the fierce fighter in the ring and the composed woman accepting flowers, though her wrapped hands were on. Not yet. But it was coming.

Adonis’s chain slipped from his fingers as he stared, jaw tight. “Shit.”

Across town, Chantal’s heart dropped straight to her stomach as she stood dripping and naked in the middle of her bathroom, blinking hard at the screen. “Shit.”

She scrolled and comments poured in beneath the post.

“Wait, that’s the tennis girl from Spain right?”

“Why is he looking at her like that omg.”

“I’m obsessed with this combo???”

“Tennis and boxing is an unexpected combo, but I kinda ship it.”

“Who is this nigga and why is he all up on my wife?”

“They look like they just kissed or are about to.”

“She’s pretty but he can do better.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“Tennis? Please. He’s out of her league.”

And all either of them could say was the same thing, again.

“Shit.”

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