#(it's an interview rather than an interrogation) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jazziejax · 2 months ago

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𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

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

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

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

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 9,134+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 🏸˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

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

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

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

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

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

Now, she regretted even showing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My name’s Chantal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Amy said she felt unsafe.”

“And I felt undermined.”

“Because someone finally called out your behavior?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There it was. The bait. That villain word.

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

It was dead air.

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

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

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

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

Then it cut to commercial.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

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

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

“IS ESPN GOING TO BAN YOU?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

She pushed.

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

A dozen shutters clicked.

The moment was captured. Frozen. Ruined.

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

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

“Now it’s gonna get worse.”

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

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

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

“I don’t need your bridges.”

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

Hashtags trend. Memes explode. People choose sides.

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

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

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You called her a lousy bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Tashi asked. “Really?”

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

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now Chantal hated all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But trust, this calm didn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

No snooze button. No groan. No delay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was out the door before 7:15.

And that’s when it hit her.

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

No gym in sight

And also no car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chantal just stared at it, blinking once.

Then twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, here she was.

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

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

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

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

She twisted the cap and was about to drink—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But someone was.

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

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

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

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

Sandra smirked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Sandra wasn’t finished.

“Wanna spar?”

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

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

“Nah. I’m not a boxer.”

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

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

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

But she hadn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adonis frowned. “Duke.”

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

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

She had a ring to climb into.

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

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

The gym watched in hushed anticipation.

“Aye!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the bell rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that all you got?” Chantal barked.

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

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

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

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

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

Sandra’s steps began to falter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adonis followed. “Yo, hold up—”

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

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

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

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

#adonis creed x black!reader #adonis creed x reader #adonis creed #adonis #michael b jordan x black reader #michealbjordan x reader #michealbjordan fanfic #michael b jordan x reader #micheal b jordan #michaelbjordan #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan #creed 3 #creed #jazziejaxwriting

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insidekatmind · 7 months ago

Text

That Girl Is Mine ~ Kylian Mbappé × Reader × Vinícius Jr. (Feat. Jude Bellingham)

Madrid was the city of lights, football, and dreams. The Spanish capital buzzed with fans, paparazzi, and tourists wandering through its charming streets. You were there, an ordinary girl thrust into an extraordinary world. You worked as a sports journalist, but what no one knew—and what you carefully kept hidden—was your secret relationship with Jude Bellingham, the young talent of Real Madrid.

But your life was far from simple. Aside from the secrecy, there was a rather... awkward issue: two of your most famous colleagues, Kylian Mbappé and Vinícius Júnior, seemed to be in a constant battle for your attention.

It was a crisp December evening, and the Santiago Bernabéu was still glowing under the post-match lights. Real Madrid had just won an important match, and as usual, you were busy navigating the post-game interviews. Jude had thrown you a quick, meaningful glance as he passed by. That subtle smile of his was all you needed to feel reassured, even though you had to pretend it was just a casual gesture.

You were packing up your things when Kylian approached you. Still wearing his Real Madrid jersey, his forehead glistening with sweat, his confident and charming smile remained intact.

"Are you sure you don’t want to stick around for a drink with us? I’ve noticed you work too much," he said, his tone low but loaded with a suggestion you couldn’t ignore.

You smiled, keeping your tone professional. "Thanks, Kylian, but I have a lot of work to do."

"Ah, work, work..." he replied, shaking his head. "Sometimes, you need to live a little. You know, there’s so much of Madrid you haven’t seen yet. I could show you the city."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted the conversation. "Show her the city? Kylian, I don’t think she needs a guide. I’ve lived here longer than you, remember?"

Vinícius had appeared beside you both, a provocative smile on his lips. It was clear he had been eavesdropping on every word. His eyes gleamed with challenge as he looked at his teammate. You, caught in the middle, felt like a pawn in a game you hadn’t chosen to play.

"Vinícius, same old," Kylian replied with a smile, though his eyes betrayed a certain tension. "I wasn’t talking to you, anyway."

Vinícius turned to you. "So, what do you say? The city of Madrid is much more interesting than Kylian can make it seem. We could explore the real neighborhoods, away from the tourists."

It was as if the world had stopped around you. You needed an excuse, fast. "Thanks to both of you, but honestly, I’m tired tonight. Maybe another time."

They didn’t look convinced, but there wasn’t much else they could do but let you go.

Later that evening, you were finally home. Your phone buzzed, and you smiled at Jude’s message.

Jude: "Everything okay? I saw Kylian and Vini hanging around you… I’m jealous. See you tomorrow after training, okay?"

You quickly replied. "Everything’s fine, I promise. See you tomorrow."

Your conversations were simple, sweet, and reassuring. Jude was your anchor amidst the chaos. But the next day, things became even more complicated.

During training at Valdebebas, you were there for a series of interviews. It was impossible to ignore the looks Kylian and Vinícius kept throwing your way as they ran on the field. Even Jude seemed to notice, though he remained focused on his drills.

After the session, Kylian was the first to approach. "You know, yesterday I couldn’t help but notice you always seem distant. Is something wrong? Can I help?"

You were trying to form a reply when Vinícius interrupted, wiping his face with a shirt. "Hey, Kylian, are you interrogating her? Maybe she just wants a bit of peace."

"Maybe you should mind your own business, Vini," Kylian shot back, his tone irritated.

"Guys, please," you intervened, trying to stay calm. "I’m just doing my job."

But inside, your heart was pounding. Their interest was flattering, but also a problem. You couldn’t afford for anyone to find out about your relationship with Jude. And yet, every glance and every word exchanged only heightened the tension.

That evening, as you sat with Jude at your secret spot—a small café hidden in the heart of Madrid—you told him everything. He listened attentively, his face serious.

"I don’t like the way they’re acting," he said, squeezing your hand under the table. "But I understand we can’t do anything for now. I promise we’ll find a way to live all of this out in the open one day."

You smiled at him, feeling safe in his presence. Jude wasn’t just your boyfriend; he was your refuge amidst the chaos of a life that felt like a novel. But you knew the story between you, Kylian, and Vinícius was far from over. And Madrid, with its lights and secrets, was the perfect stage for the next act.

The tension was palpable, like a taut rope about to snap. Over the following days, Kylian and Vinícius’s gestures and attitudes became more explicit. Seemingly innocent comments turned into subtly suggestive remarks, lunch invitations, and lingering glances. Jude, despite his calm and rational nature, had begun to show signs of irritation.

One evening, after a crucial match at the Bernabéu, things came to a head.

After the game, while you were gathering material for an article, Vinícius approached you in the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. He was still sweaty, but his mischievous smile was flawless.

"So, have you thought about my invitation? I’ll take you somewhere no one knows, guaranteed. Just you and me, no distractions," he said, his tone a bit too familiar for your liking.

Before you could respond, Kylian appeared behind you both, interrupting the conversation. "Ah, Vini, aren’t you tired of playing the romantic? Sorry for you, but I think her time is already booked for the evening."

You sighed, trying to stay calm. "Guys, enough with these games. I’ve already told you I’m not interested."

Vinícius laughed, leaning slightly forward as if he found it all incredibly amusing. "Really? You don’t seem that uninterested."

It was then that Jude appeared, striding out of the locker room with a determined walk. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, his face was tense, his gaze a mix of anger and resolve.

"Vini, Kylian, stop," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. Both turned to him, surprised.

Kylian crossed his arms, frowning. "And what does this have to do with you, Jude?"

"It has everything to do with me," Jude replied, stepping closer. He glanced at you briefly before addressing them directly. "She’s my girlfriend. And she has been for a long time. So, with all due respect, you need to stop."

The silence that followed was deafening. Vinícius and Kylian stood frozen, unable to hide their shock. Your heart was racing, but you also felt a sense of relief. Finally, the truth was out.

"Are you serious?" Kylian asked, incredulous. "She’s...?"

"Yes," Jude said firmly, locking eyes with them. "And now that you know, I’m asking you to respect us."

Vinícius looked almost offended. "And you thought to tell us like this, after all this time? Maybe you should have made it clear earlier."

"It wasn’t your business," Jude shot back, his tone hard. "But now you know. Enough with the games."

Kylian ran a hand through his hair, trying to process it all. Then he looked at you, a hint of disappointment in his gaze. "And you? Why didn’t you ever tell us?"

"I couldn’t," you said, your voice firm but calm. "We wanted to keep it private. That doesn’t mean I was playing with you."

Kylian nodded slowly, as if trying to come to terms with the situation. Vinícius, on the other hand, looked less convinced but said nothing. After a few moments of tension, they both walked away, leaving you alone with Jude.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Jude turned to you, his face softening. "I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stand seeing them act like that anymore. They needed to know."

You stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm. "You did the right thing. I couldn’t take it anymore either."

Jude sighed, pulling you into a hug. "From now on, no more secrets. I don’t care what people say. What matters is that it’s us."

You melted into his embrace, finally feeling free. Even though you knew the gossip would start soon, you didn’t care anymore. Madrid was full of secrets, but yours was no longer one of them.

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ckret2 · 7 months ago

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Kinda weird ask incoming: Are Bill's substance abuse issues in your characterization based on anything canon or an Alex Hirsch interview or something or is it just "he obviously would abuse substances (more) if this wasn't a disney show so I'm just filling in the blanks"

1/3 actual canon & context clues, 1/3 reading five feet deep into one foot deep canon material, 1/3 "he totally would if this wasn't Disney."

To my knowledge there's no interviews confirming that he's heavy on the substance ABUSE (rather than just substance use), but to my recollection I'm pretty sure he's got the most allusions to consuming something alcohol/drug-adjacent of all the characters in the show. Outside of Bill we've got:

Stan ordering "expired apple juice"

since we're including "they probably would have done this if not for Disney," you could make the argument that Stan drinking Pitt cola was probably supposed to be beer cans.

the apple cider at the Northwest party

I'm gonna throw in Grenda drinking spoiled milk

Mabel consuming Smile Dip

farmer Sprott drinking hippie tea and pouring it out when he sees the love god fly by

Ford & the Oracle drinking Cosmic Sand, something strong enough he wakes up the next morning in a different dimension

that one alcoholic priest in TBOB

on TINAWDC, Ford tells Stan where to find his stash of beer.

And I think that's it?? Remind me if there's more.

WITH Bill, we've got:

In the Bill Reddit AMA he mentions salting his margarita glass with Time Baby's molecules. (and for the longest time I'm pretty sure this was the only explicit reference to an alcoholic beverage in a Gravity Falls-adjacent media; but Reddit is a godless land where S&P cannot tread, so I'm not gonna put too much weight on that. Still worth mentioning tho.)

he's got Time Punch at his Fearamid Party. Considering the "time" in the name, it could be related to Cosmic Sand (maybe you mix sand to make the punch?) which would mean they're drinking HARD.

(if Cosmic Sand IS related to Time Punch, now that we know Jheselbraum was in Bill's gang, there's a high chance she picked up drinking it while in the Henchmaniacs, so that's another thing we can now tie back to Bill's influence.)

He's drinking something while trying to interrogate Ford, an activity you'd probably want to be clear headed for, meaning either he drinks so hard so regularly that he DOES still have a clear head or else he's so accustomed to going "this is stressful, I need a drink to unwind" that he just does it even though it puts him at a disadvantage.

with the addition of TBOB, we now have: the silly straw page, where he's drinking a cocktail while also sitting in an enormous cocktail. Bill gushes about silly straws as one of his favorite things; and we know that stems from childhood, but NOW he paints an association between silly straws, drinks, and an overall margaritaville vibe

Bill mentions that the shaman introduced him to a local strain of hallucinogenic moss

Bill brings boxed wine to the Puritan girls' night.

Bill gets Ford wasted at karaoke night (and I have no doubt Bill was just as sloshed)—and if he knows how to make a drink that'll get you drunk in your sleep, he's got some serious mixology chops

the O'Sadley's incident.

That's so big it gets two bullet points. Nowhere else in all of Gravity Falls is there such an extensive, explicit, or extreme example of unhealthy substance abuse—barring the Smile Dip incident, but like, Mabel didn't know that was gonna happen and immediately swore off Smile Dip.

Three bullet points. He noclipped a guy into the ceiling. he got so drunk he forgot he killed his mom. He was arrested for "indecent exposure." Bill you good???

So most of the examples of drinking/hallucinogenics we get from the rest of the show are like, casual drinking or else children doing stupid shit. ONE incident of depressed drinking and one alcoholic side character.

But Bill drinks when he's partying, drinks when he's depressed, drinks when he's relaxing, drinks when he's stressed, drinks socially, drinks alone, drinks when he's helping a friend have fun, and thinks about drinking when he contemplates his worst enemies.

Okay.

Now half of these are from TBOB, so obviously they didn't factor into my decision to portray him as inclined to substance abuse over a year ago; but like... I'd say I interpreted the info we had on hand correctly, yeah?

Beyond that, it's a headcanon built up on the fact that he's got a lot of traits that lend themselves toward substance abuse.

An EXTREME "maximum fun NOW, consequences later NEVER" attitude. There seems to be no limits to how far he'll go in the name of chaos, fun, & hedonism, no matter who he hurts, no matter if he hurts himself. He's got that combination of reckless + irresponsible + shortsighted + passively self-destructive.

BIG on partying, which generally means drinks are involved and definitely seems to be the case here based on the time punch. "A party that never ends with a host that never dies"??

"says he's happy, he's a liar." When an emotionally stunted depressed person is in denial about being depressed and trying to convince everyone they're fine, what's a common coping mechanism? Self-medication!

he likes hurting himself. consuming substances in ways that are harmful to him is recreation to him. Yes I am talking about the soda in the eyes, even if it was a loaner body that can't have felt pleasant. The way he seeks out extreme+strange sensations makes me think he'd jump at the chance to try some weird new substance that does some crazy new thing to your head.

loves to socialize, but like... doesn't seem to have close friends. It would make sense for him to be inclined to use drinks/drugs as a social lubricant, both for himself and for his "friends," to help them all overlook the fact that maybe they don't actually really enjoy each other.

he's got a very strained relationship with reality, by which I mean he's actively attempting to murder reality and replace it with fantasy. What's a common method people use to try to escape/avoid reality? Self-medication!! What's one variety of self-medication particularly good at letting you slide into a fantasy world? Hallucinogenics! Which thanks to TBOB we now know he takes!!!

if Bill's reaction to an emotionally close relationship catastrophically falling apart is going on a massive bender, and if Bill's got a long string of exes that fell apart so catastrophically that they're straight up blocking his number, he's denying he ever dated them or ever felt love, and he's claiming that love is merely a pupa for hate... I think there's probably been a lot of benders.

overall he's just... a stressed, cranky, high-strung control freak who wants to give off the image of being so chill and cool and popular and enviable and suuuper happy. I think it'd make sense for him to turn to chemical assistance to bridge the gap between who he really is and who he pretends to be.

#anonymous #ask #bill cipher #meta #the book of bill

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ddejavvu · 2 years ago

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Can i request a hot interrogator but w spencer😭😭and he recognizes her symptoms of attraction and theyre both just so awkward and derek or someone else has to come in and save him

i deviated from your plotline just a teensy tiny bit and it's not as focused on how they both can read her but it is mentioned! i hope that's alright <3 also i did tag this with morgan's name because towards the end he's teasing her just as much and i'd fall to my knees for him in an instant so i think that's fair

You give yourself away immediately with your reaction to seeing Spencer walk in. You don't know it, but the doctor has been watching your demeanor for five minutes on the other side of the glass, and only when your eyes met his own did you become tense.

Before you'd been almost bored, but not in the overconfident way that criminals often are. You were more restlessly bored, drumming your fingers on the table and peering intently at the graffiti etched into the metal surface.

When he steps inside you straighten to greet him, but words fail you as your throat runs dry. The most handsome man you've ever seen, something straight out of a romance novel steps into the room, and something thuds to the pit of your stomach.

You're not guilty but you feel it, you feel like a criminal under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Hello, Y/N," He offers, smiling measuredly at you, "I'm Doctor Spencer Reid, I'm here to question you on what you might have witnessed earlier."

You'd been in a gas station during an armed robbery. The robber hadn't shot you, but that was only for time's sake, as putting a bullet through your chest would have taken away valuable seconds that he chose instead to use rushing out the back door and away from the sirens out front.

You'd been at the business end of a gun, but still you're more panicked now, hands lowering themselves into your lap when they show signs of trembling.

"Can you remember what the shooter looked like?" He asks.

Brown hair.

"He had brown hair," You speak for the first time since the agent's entry.

No he didn't.

He had blonde hair. The man in front of you has brown hair, tucked behind his ears endearingly.

"Or- uh, blonde. He was blonde."

"Blonde hair," He nods encouragingly, his lips a warm pinkish shade as he sits down across from you, "That's good. Do you remember how tall he was?"

Spencer is tall. He's tall even when seated, like he is now, his stature surely intimidating when compared to your own, and you blink the thought away, trying to recall where on the shelf beside him the man's shoulder had come up to.

"He was a little taller than the shelves," You recall, keeping your eyes on a rather crude word etched into the metal tabletop to keep yourself from ogling Dr. Reid, "Maybe 6'1."

"Alright, good." Spencer praises, and you feel your limbs actually melting, surely mush by now. He hesitates, placing his hands atop the cool desktop, "Y/N, I'd like to do a cognitive interview with you."

You wait for further explanation, but when it comes, you guiltily wish you had been killed earlier. Because if you were dead Doctor Spencer Reid wouldn't take your hands in his own, and tell you to close your eyes in a smooth, low voice.

"I want you to put yourself back there," He prompts, squeezing your hands gently, "But I'm right here. I know you must have been scared in the moment, but I need you to help us with this, and try to remember what his face looked like. Can you do that?"

You can't muster words, but you nod, and evidently Spencer's eyes are open to catch it. He squeezes your hands again, "Alright. You're standing in the gas station. You're getting breakfast before work. You hear shouting, then a gunshot. Where do you look?"

You look at the backs of your eyelids, desperately willing away the mental image of Spencer Reid's face.

"What do you do?"

You pray that he's not a mind-reader, that he can't hear the words 'adorable' and 'terrifying' and 'perfect' all at once.

"Y/N," He prompts, after a moment of your silence, "What do you do?"

"I can't-" Your eyes snap open, and you wrench your hands out of his grasp, "I'm- I'm sorry, I can't do this."

Spencer's hands come out to hover in front of him, a placating gesture but one that doesn't work.

"Okay, that's alright. But please- sit down," He watches warily as you stand, heading for the door like you're exiting a cafe and not a secure government facility, "Y/N, I need to ask you a few more questions-"

"Woah there," The door opens before you can reach it, but the man that shoulders his way through shows no sign of letting you out. He's tall, darker-skinned than Spencer, and broad chested, something you really don't need to think about after the hand-holding fiasco.

"We can't let you leave just yet," The man smiles sympathetically, and his hand comes to rest oh-so-naturally on your bicep as he turns you back towards the table, "I know you're freaking out; anyone would after looking into the barrel of a gun. But you're safe now, okay? And we need your help to keep other people safe. So let's sit down," The man guides you back into your chair, and you think you might have dropped straight to your knees if he'd asked you to. He keeps his large hands firmly, warmly on your shoulders, and as Spencer takes your hands in his again he squeezes them.

"Alright Pretty Boy," The man behind you speaks, and you swear you can hear a glimmer of amusement in his voice despite not being able to see his face, "On with the interview. Don't worry Y/N, we'll do this together."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one-shot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid headcanons #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid hc #spencer reid hcs #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid dialogue #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fanfiction #derek morgan x reader

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radiant-reid · 2 years ago

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spencer x bau!reader where they're on a case (and they just found out she's pregnant so they haven't announced it yet) and they're out on the field or in the precinct or something and the unsub comes rather close to r so she moves her hand over her stomach to protect the lil baby without even realizing she did and that's how the team realizes shes expecting

love !!

You, Emily, and JJ are sharing the same look about the unsub. The dude is a serious creep, looking at all of you like you could possibly be interested in him. It makes you sick when unsubs are like that. You'd much prefer they're trying to play mind games or prove they're smarter than the team.

He's icky.

But you've got a job you need to do... and a gun... and you don't want any more girls hurt. And that means going into the interview room.

Thankfully, Hotch is by your side and everyone's watching.

As you expect, the unsub can't resist spewing some misogynistic garbage, and his yelling only gets louder until Hotch pulls you both out of the room as soon as he's put his foot in his mouth and admitted to numerous other crimes... on the record.

"Always so dumb." Emily scoffs once you're on the safe side of the interrogation room.

"Right?" You joke, laughing.

It draws everyone's attention to you and they immediately notice it.

Usually, your defensive instinct- which is very easy to profile- means you cross your arms in front of your chest, protecting yourself. But this time, your hand travels to your lower stomach.

And they all follow the telling motion. Your eyes widen with the realization that you've just revealed the secret you and Spencer had been keeping.

"No way!" JJ exclaims, a complete 180 from her disgusted reaction previously.

"Way," Spencer confirms, shrugging as he looks at you and silently confirms that it's coming out now.

The whole room shifts in energy, everyone overcome by joy as they offer congratulations, expressing their excitement and hugging both you and Spencer.

It's not exactly how you planned an announcement, but it's taken away from the downbeat mood and the unsub is forgotten about.

Spencer stands next to you, kissing your forehead in a rare public display of affection. His hand drifts next to where yours rests, a barely-there baby bump.

"She'll be safe." He promises you. "I'll make sure of it."

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid blurb

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camiene · 5 days ago

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affection behind a curtain - w. magical staff x reader

fluff, tension, strictly cutesy and weirdly awkward gift for @pearlescentparade + his followers

w. magical staff is thrown off guard by your constant persistence; thus his interest in piqued. determined to find out what you really want, he comes close to figuring you out. ...but not in a way that he expects. wk :: 3.4k a/n :: at the end

god, his eyebrow twitching, and out was a murmur.

he pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated by a dilemma. an obvious dilemma, but a catastrophe nonetheless. who knew a person could be the cause of his stress?

with the lengthy name of winged magical staff, or alternatively—wing, is a man full of deceit. phighters never knew it, nor did he do it with ill intent, but he was an incredible liar. take it as his icebreaker. he's witty, quick with words, and it was his life's work. and as his life's work, why would he ever shy away from it?

each vowel that came from his mouth was wrinkled with perfection. saying the exact string of syllables that people like to hear, minimal yet calculated body language, fake laughter and smiles... it was all flawlessly orchestrated.

so orchestrated, in fact, to the point where it became a subconscious for wing. it was complimentary to his life, and he finds himself lying in everyday conversations.

conversations that didn't pertain to his career, conversations that didn't need a fib. he's in awe, and realizes the drawback of the faulty lifestyle. lying became second nature.

'course, he found it unnecessary, but his mouth is faster than his brain. all he could do now is laugh it off and continue with his life, because what can you do? tell the truth and expose yourself as a pathological liar? he wouldn't get a job anywhere!

so there he stands, on the streets of crossroads, dangling between the liar's tongue and a hero's sincerity.

that is... until you came along.

the two of you met on a mere thursday, a day where wing was on "duty". something along the lines of collecting information from suspects through interrogations. but, nobody really knew that. to many, it looked like small talk and get-togethers rather than investigation. and that's how he likes it. or well, any "detective" would like it that way. the anonymity, the greatest cover-ups, it wasn't foreign to him. he was used to perfection, his motif of excellence.

but when interviewing you, it was honestly the most suspicious conversation he's ever had.

you kept dismissing questions, answering them as quickly as possible, and instead asked him some of your own.

questions such as where he got his clothes from, or what trends he was into, such mindless nonsense! he couldn't understand any of it.

'course if it was actually everyday conversation, he'd be more than willing to cooperate with your silly quirks, but it was all too convenient. suddenly asking about normal, or what can be perceived as normal, things right after being interviewed?

wing knew his methods of interviewing were slick, under the radar, but they could still guarantee a good response. responses that said a lot about an inphernals and be translated into data. but with responses like, "yeah... blue... anyway, what's your favorite this, do you like the cafe at that spot, did you like it when this thing was on air?" it was torture!

yet all he could do was smile and give answers he thought you'd like. despite his shock and irritation, the predetermined words already came out of his mouth. agreeing and giving half truths to everything you asked. if you were as suspicious as you came out to be, he couldn't bare anything to get found out. his precious work of keeping crossroads together would fall apart and he'd be, oh, so sad.

...or something along those lines.

nonetheless, he couldn't let you get too close. anyone who suspected him is someone he should stray away from, no matter their intention. even if you simply were interested in small topics related to him, what would you get out of it? it's a question he couldn't wrap his head around.

and it's also a question he'd have to dismiss until later. he's a busy man, and he has to focus on other knicks and knacks about his life. hopefully when he's all busy with work and miscellaneous jobs, he'd forget all about you for the greater good. **

he did not forget all about you.

wing shuffles through the loose notes in his bag and eventually finds what he's looking for. ah-hah! a note directly addressed for banhammer—signed cleanly with wing's signature. or well, his alias.

on the low, as young inphernals call it nowadays, wing is a promising man who always carries information with him. information that can help with solving crimes, mysteries, you name it. matter of fact, he helped a months-long case on a criminal by giving a vague tip to the station once and scurried away in triumph. justice well delivered, he thought that day.

so ever since then, he's been dropping tips here and there to banhammer. happily writing with passion and coming up with different alias to hide his true identity. winged magical staff, or also known as pearl, parade, escent in his notes, would never be figured out. a perfect plan!

in the midst of his extraordinary plan and scheming, he bumps into someone with a harsh shove.

"oh, gosh, i'm so sorry. i wasn't paying attention and--... ah."

maybe the inpherno is a small place after all.

"ughhff... uuaahh..." you rub your shoulder where the collision was hit. for a soft looking guy, he hits hard. wonder how he is on the battlefield. "ow. no, really. it's fine... just a typical frid..... dd.... oh, oh!"

wing could only twitch a smile. he couldn't believe the person he'd been trying to ignore is now in front of him. what do you want? are you after him for realsies now?

"wow, wing! hi!!" your voice is excited as ever, reminiscent of the first time you two met. "sorry i haven't been seeing you as much-- or actually, i should say sorry for bumping into you. i was totally zoned out, just came from a party haha."

a party, hm?

this might be the first time you gave valuable intel on yourself. no quick one liners, no dodging questions... it was perfect. if all he had to do was catch you off guard by accidental touch, he would throw you into a wall by now. kidding! (mostly).

"it's okay, i should've been looking at the road." his grin turns into a warmer one, a smile that welcomes guests at the door with complimentaries. how kind. "you said a party? it's kind of early to be leaving." he says, taking in the sunny warmth on his face. it's not so cold either. "don't they usually end at dawn?"

his eyes were closed, but he could guess the frantic look from your face. your awkward ah's and uhm's alongside the shuffling of your clothes.

"hahaha, nahh... i'm the weird one who needed some fresh air. the party's still going though." your hands mess with the collar of your shirt, thumbs grazing the fabric. think it's polyester... or maybe cotton. you never pay attention to the tags. "too much booze, you know what i mean? felt like i was going to throw up."

can't handle liquor, presumably low energy person at gatherings... you've made yourself all too easy for him.

"ohh." he coos, tilting his head as his curiosity perks up. what could make a seemingly normal inphernal question someone like him? he wasn't obvious, every lie was perfectly crafted—it didn't make any sense. come to think of it, could he be overreacting? maybe he misremembered your interaction, read it too closely.

"your friends okay too? i mean, i've heard of a lot of parties where inphernals get in trouble. had to make a ton of calls one night." he laughs, but that is the truth. it was a tough night and he never wanted to hit the bed more than that day.

you almost sound surprised. "wow... you sound older when you talk like that. n-not saying that caring about others is only for old people— i mean, uh, how do i say this. you sound mature!"

".....mat...ure..?" wing could almost cringe at the awkward exchange, but he only chuckles. one that was made genuinely or not, it didn't matter when the sound overtook his body. "what-- haha, hahaha—" it's like a hiccup in his throat, and he feels the crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes.

you turn to him with a dumbfounded look, mouth slightly parted as you take in the sight. the embarrassment you previously had is now gone, nowhere to be seen. and instead, it's replaced with a continuation of his laughter. you're laughing with him!

"ah, haha, i'm so sorry. i don't— i don't know what came over me." he wipes a droopy eye, coughing as he regains his posture. "i just didn't expect you to say that. you said i sounded old??"

he hears your frantic excuses, words scrambling to find the right diction, and hands flailing around. given any other scenario, he'd find it obnoxious. it's just a mishap with some teasing, why make a big deal out of it?

however, instead of feeling bothered, he almost feels charmed.

"no, no! that's not what i- oh, wing! you're pulling my leg here." you softly punch him in the shoulder, getting a weak wince of pain. nothing serious of course, mere child's play. "i was trying to compliment you-- but it came out super duper wrong- and i... ugh. sorry. it sounds lame, i know."

wing rubs the area that you "injured" him, just to add to the flair. "it's okay, really. don't beat yourself over it."

"you're right..” you hum. "it's just been a long day- oh! right! my friends are doing alright, it's not like a rave in there. last time i checked, some inphernals were sober to look after the house."

"and if they're not?"

"well.... i'll be there." you rub the back of your head, awkwardly defending yourself. wing didn't want to pry, but parties are no joke. the crossroads is a busy hub, and even busier at night. especially if boombox was invited, oh no.

"b-but after i sit down. that reminds me- i came out here to rest but i ran into you, haha!"

he hums, your reaction gets more and more sensitive as time goes on. you didn't seem like such a nervous wreck prior, could it really be the fatigue? he couldn't have you passing out on the ground. wing may be a dashing liar, but he has empathy.

"then forgive me for making you stand for..." he pauses, and then thinks for a moment. the warmth on his face is dimmer now, and that's his cue for how long it's been. "nearly twenty minutes. here, i'll sit with you."

"—wwhhhatt!! nono, it's okay! you don't need to--"

but before another anxious-ridden reply, wing drags you to a bench nearby. so convenient.

the breeze feels welcoming to the both of you. the afternoon drifting into evening, and the sun sleeping away.

it feels perfect. hanging out late with a familiar, with another warm body. some may say it brings comfort, reliability, and safety. and it's true, wing admits. while crossroads isn't a dangerous central hub, it still gets scary at night. or well, maybe that's just everywhere, he thinks.

however, instead of being comfortable, wing felt rather—uncomfortable.

sitting next to you had this unnerving tension, more than before. at first, the tension was one sided from wing and even then...it was mostly just uncertainty. but now, the anticipation made his mouth dry with questions.

why were you suddenly averting gazes and sitting further than expected? why did it seem like you were avoiding him? was it really that embarrassing for him to stay with you? it's getting dark! staying with a stranger who's alone at night isn't weird!

swallowing his pride and what he thinks (no, knows) is the just thing to do, he turns to you and pats your shoulder. you twitch as he opens his mouth to speak.

"...are you okay? i mean, to go back to your party. you look out of it." nice save.

he felt your nervous laughter rise in your throat, only to be cut short by a brief pause. a caesura.

"i'm okay, no really. it's just," you bite your lip, unsure of how to clarify. "how do i say this..."

"well, let's backtrack. what are you trying to sa--"

"—i've lied to you, wing."

his heart nearly stops, and his head perks up to see you. no, to see you.

he didn't expect you to give up and reveal your intentions so quickly. could it be guilt? for lying to a person you barely knew? it's a possibility, maybe you have really high morale. some inphernals break with little to no pressure, and maybe the kind gesture from him made a crack. something like, 'wow! this guy is actually nice and kind. i feel bad for lying to him because i know everything about him!'

though... that's a bit far fetched. so instead, he gulps and steadies his breathing.

"...uh. what do you mean?" is all he says.

you turn to face him, your gaze finally meeting his lashes. and you feel bothered, so bothered. the anxiety growing in your chest is giving out, and the vowels out of your mouth come undone.

huffing a breath, "i... i didn't come out here for fresh air. or well, i did-- but that's not the only reason."

wing nods slowly, not out of agreement, but more so confusion. he can't ever get a good impression on you, and this is making it worse. "okay.. then why?"

"i came-- i came out here to try and find you. i just got lucky and saw you as soon as i walked out the door."

try and find him? why?

so many questions, and not enough mouth movement to say them all. if he tried to, it'd look like he vomited sounds and that's embarrassing.

but why him? he's not a horrible liar. not even a bad liar. could it be the tips for banhammer? did he send in someone to find out who was giving the intel? oh, that'd be bad. he doesn't want too much attention on him.

"you needed to find me? for what?" he asks briefly. he says it quicker than expected, but his body is urging for your confession. he wants to know. his curiosity of the past few weeks-- the nagging ring in his ear, he wants it to stop. and this conversation could make it happen.

"because i wanted to..." here it is, the money shot! the showstopper, the great value of information, it's—

"i wanted to apologize to you."

what?

"huh?"

your smile is apparent, and you fidget with the ends of your shirt. "yeah, i wanted to say sorry for being really obnoxious when we first met. i shouldn't have been in your face like that... not cool of me."

"oh... no, i..." his lips are slightly parted, and he doesn't know what to say. for once, his head is empty and he's speechless.

"i was trying to... haha, get to know you. i wanted to try and be friends with you since, y'know. i thought you were kinda pretty. b-but not in a weird way, you looked... ah... approachable!"

pre...

pretty!!?

"what--" his hand flies to his mouth, covering it. your abrupt compliment wasn't something he could predict, and his words are faster than his mind. wing could understand the apology. you were invasive, that's no joke. and it's not like he hasn't been described as inviting before either. in fact, he aims to be called that. practically expects it at this point.

but you thinking he's simply pretty after all the (one sided) drama is-- is absurd!

wing isn't a complete loser when it comes to friendship, but he still finds it surprising. 'course, he'd never befriend a stranger on the spot. he's had his fair share of hangouts for "work", and a few laughs here and there... but could any of that be classified as true familiarity?

he thinks an outgoing person would disagree, saying it's not genuine and heartfelt. but when did wing and the word genuine go together? he knows that his natural talent (or more like a talent that wouldn't go away) could drive away any possible friends. who wants someone who could lie to you and speak it as truth? or, what wing thinks is worse, who wants to see him bare? vulnerable, nothing to hide behind. a raw image of his true self.

"yeah, i was trying to ask about what you liked and all-- but i thought about it, and i realized how rude i was. i had to say sorry or else you'd hate me forever." you giggle, eyes darting to the floor. out of shame, discomfort? wing couldn't tell right now.

but yes, it was rude. it was so, so rude. so incredibly rude, that it had him thinking about you for weeks! days, hours of him ignoring the thought of you. through countless interviews, a flashback to your head-strong attitude would appear. would you answer like this, would you push past him and pry, would you be okay with his face— stripped of its protective fiction?

...why was he so fixated on what could happen with you?

come to think of it, in the back of his mind, it was always you. he hates to utter it, but you're like a leech in his brain. unmoving, incapable of being moved. as if he enjoyed the thought of you, and never wanted the memory of you to end.

"i get it if you don't wanna hangout after this. i'm not hurt or anything, and i'm not mad at y--"

"—no, no, that- that's okay."

you blink, your words frozen with nerves.

"it's fine. i..."

he knows he should pull away. agree with you and walk off into the distance. to interview, collect intel, lie, pry, and do it all again.

there's no way someone out there would want to get to know the real winged magical staff. sure, he can say that he's a lesser evil and keeping criminals out of sight, but those lies pile up. sooner or later, he'll step on his own toes and see nobody alongside him. joking, passing drinks, going out to eat, all of that would be gone.

yet he can't help but rekindle the faith he had long ago. the hope that company would invite him, not scare him. wing wants to hide away, run away from it all, but with you...

he wants to try, just this time.

"i think hanging out with you is fun. you were... pushy at first, but i got a hunch that it wasn't intentional. you seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me."

your arms feel heavy, and you couldn't believe what you were hearing. after days of bracing yourself for clear rejection, you feel shocked. a relief of sorts, yes, but shock nonetheless.

"wait.. really? you don't have to lie to me--"

"—i'm not lying." he feels his tongue click. a sentence that was said too fast, too quick, and one that could give him away. all his hard work, all the cover-ups for any suspicion, and he's risking it all for you. a stupid, stupid inphernal like you. "i mean it."

"...oh. oh. okay. okay.. okay.....okay! well, if you really do," you practically spring back to life, like a fish back in water. your eyes light up, brighter than the slow sunset behind you, and it's radiant with energy. "i-i think you're fun to hang around with too! we can hangout whenever, i don't want you to feel pressured or anythin—"

he sighs, "it's alright, really. you don't need to worry." how many times has he said that now? wing should be a therapist by now.

"for real? oh. i mean-- yeah, pshh, of course. i, uh, are you free this..."

just before you could finish that sentence, your phone rings.

apologizing profusely, you pick up and out came a ruckus of sounds. an angry voice that's almost incomprehensible due to loud music. it sounds like the typical soundtrack on a radio.

you whine, and your eyes kept switching to the other line and to him. wing could only grin, and leaned away from your warmth. he didn't know when the two of you got so close.

"gotta go?" he says, almost like a whisper. but a giddy whisper.

"yeah, i'll be right there. i'm sorry for leaving, i thought you guys got my text-- i do have to go.. sorry wing-- okay, hold on!" you get up from your seat, brushing off your pants and looking off into the distance. the direction to where the party is, he assumes.

"don't apologize. i've been keeping you away from your party."

"wish you could've kept me away longer." you wink at him, only to get berated in your ear about drunk nonsense. something about... an inphernal stealing a house painting?

"...huh?"

"okay, ireallygottagonow, i'll see you next weekend, yeah??!" you give him one last look, a longing gaze, and then run off. almost tripping on the way, but off you went. scurrying off like you were late to a courthouse.

wing blanks out, and he's left unattended on a park bench. stranded, stripped away from a friend.

his new friend, to be exact.

a/n : can you tell the banner was made before i had wing's colors lmfao. thats hwo long it took to wrote this bruh ^^ i made that banner btw!! i got started on this fic in march and. barely finished it now. prob means i wont make a part 2 bc thats How Long it Took me but i'll see how things go also ive never wrote for phighting nor am i a mega fanatic for phighting ... i played it like five times ... so forgive me if some stuff is inaccurate

#roblox oc #phighting oc #phighting oc x reader #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #my writing #that feels so weird to say #haha #im usually an art blog #gift for friend #gift #fic gift #my fic #oc #ocs #not my oc #original work

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lonely-cowboy · 1 year ago

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breaking point

pairing: connor (rk800) x gn!reader

summary: to prove which of you is the better detective, you and connor like to play a little game. this time around, connor is more determined than ever to reach your breaking point.

word count: 1.6k

warnings: nothing but wildly ooc connor, it’s just them yapping away and being arrogant lil assholes

author's note: do i like this? not at all. am i gonna blame it on the fact it's 1am? sure. i just wanted to write smth ok, leave me alone

masterlist ⟡ requests

The best days at the precinct were the ones with no work. No crime scenes to investigate, no files to sort, no nothing. But they weren’t your favorite because you hated your job and the workload (quite the opposite, actually). No, they were your favorite because you could have some alone time with Connor, playing the little game you always did.

As head forensic psychologist, you were primarily tasked with interviewing suspects and analyzing their reactions. Your job got a lot harder when Connor joined the department, making your job look so much easier than it actually was.

Rather than view him as your rival, you viewed Connor as a challenge. You wanted to prove (to yourself more than anyone else) that you were just as good at your job as any android. Besides, you respected Connor’s interrogation process far too much to hate him. Or rather, you liked watching him during his interrogation process. Really, you just liked watching him in general.

When there was no work and the precinct was nearly empty, you and Connor were allowed to take over the interrogation room. You would sit across from each other, doing everything you could to make the other break in a mock interrogation.

It was there that you found yourself, hands neatly clasped atop the table and brow raised in arrogant curiosity. Connor stood opposite you with his palms pressed against the table, scrutinizing you with narrowed eyes. His eyes scanned over you as he tilted his head in that annoyingly endearing way before pulling back and rubbing his hands together in thought.

“Do you believe Lieutenant Anderson is a good mentor?” Connor asked.

The two of you always asked each other meaningless questions, doing your best to refrain from answering or to successfully lie to the other. At this question, you remained silent for a moment longer than you should have.

“Yes,” you replied simply, offering a nonchalant shrug in an attempt to throw Connor off.

“You’re lying,” he accused immediately.

“I would never,” you retorted. “I’m offended you would think so.”

Connor ceased his questioning to eye you suspiciously. His eyes trailed over your body for any indication of discomfort or nervousness. You hoped he wouldn’t find any.

“The brevity of your response and lack of natural movement suggest you’re lying,” Connor said as he studied you again. “You believe you’d be a better mentor than Lieutenant Anderson, don’t you?”

“In some aspects, yes,” you answered truthfully. After all, to lie properly was to occasionally tell the truth.

Connor nodded along with your response, noting the way you remained unaffected despite being caught in a lie. He would need to do something more to break you, something that would make you sweat.

Your gaze followed Connor as he started to pace the length of the room. Your attention was drawn to his LED as it flashed quickly between colors. Blue. Yellow. Red. Red? Yellow.

The occasional bright red made your brows furrow. Was he really that stumped? He couldn’t think of a single way to break you? You doubted it. Something else must have been on his mind, your thoughts racing at what could have him so conflicted.

“Connor,” you whispered hesitantly.

The sound of his name seemed to snap him back to attention. Connor immediately stopped pacing and fixed you with a steady gaze as if he had come to a decision. With careful steps, Connor rounded the table to stand beside you. He leaned against the table and looked down at you with his arms crossed confidently.

“You’re hard to break, aren’t you?” he murmured.

The crease between your brows deepened as your confusion grew. You were puzzled by Connor’s sudden proximity and the low tone of his voice.

“Well, I… I guess it’s part of the job,” you said softly.

Connor nodded and agreed simply, “Truth.”

Another beat of silence passed as Connor did nothing but watch you. His eyes flitted about your figure, though it seemed as though he wasn’t analyzing you this time around. It was like he was looking at you just to look at you.

“Do you find enjoyment in our little game? In successfully lying to me?” Connor inquired.

You were hesitant to answer, your confusion outweighing any thought. When you did speak, your voice cracked slightly when you answered, “Yes.”

“Do you find enjoyment in other ways from our game?” he continued.

“No.”

“Lie.”

You couldn’t help but stare at Connor. You wanted to tear your gaze away from his desperately, but there was something so appealing about the hardness of his typically gentle eyes.

When you didn’t answer, Connor raised his brows and leaned forward expectantly. The intensity of his gaze made you suddenly nervous, your heart racing as you moved to fidget with your hands.

“I need a truthful answer, Detective,” Connor stated firmly.

He knew the answer. He knew you were lying. He just wanted you to say it. There was no point in denying anything now.

“Yes.”

Connor hummed and finally pulled his gaze away from you, allowing you to sigh in relief. There was something in his eyes that made you… inexplicably anxious.

“Can you elaborate?” Connor prodded after a moment.

“I can,” you replied quietly. “But I don’t want to.”

At your refusal, Connor’s attention snapped back to you, the crinkle in his brow suggesting his mild surprise.

“Why is that, Detective?” he urged. When he got no response, only your steady gaze locked with his, he continued. “Are you worried it may incriminate you?”

“No,” you replied calmly.

Admittedly, you were very proud of yourself for keeping such an unperturbed composure. Your face remained tranquil and your voice confident. But your external composure meant nothing, not when it was Connor interrogating you. He could detect your pounding heart and uneven breaths with ease. You bet he could even sense the claminess of your palms.

“Lie.”

You weren’t entirely sure why you even attempted to lie anymore. Connor was a walking polygraph, he could see through any of your lies no matter how believable they were.

But being as stubborn as you were, you refused to admit that Connor was right. Instead, you sucked in a slow breath and pressed your lips in a thin line, eyes locked on Connor the entire time. Your stubbornness made him frown, though you knew it was a quality he had always admired.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me yourself then I’ll just have to guess,” Connor shrugged with mock defeat. He pretended to think for a moment, lips pursed in a way that made your eyes dart to his mouth. “Is it because you find superiority in besting me?”

Connor started tame. Anyone would feel superior after besting an android, he was well aware of that. And you knew he was aware. What was he trying to get at?

“Yes, partially,” you said, cursing yourself for admitting that it was only part of the reason you found your mock interrogations so enjoyable.

Connor seemed unphased by your answer as if he already knew there was more to your enjoyment. He sat in quiet deliberation again, though he had already settled on his next question.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?” Connor questioned innocently.

Connor was smart, you knew this. You knew this and still thought that maybe– just maybe— he wouldn’t be able to guess correctly.

You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing away from Connor, knowing that it only made you look more suspicious. You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes focused on the wall in front of you.

“Detective?” Connor pressed as he waited patiently for an answer.

You startled at the light touch of his hand on your chin as he slowly turned you back to him. He kept a gentle but firm grip on your chin, looking down at you questioningly. The feeling of his skin against yours didn’t help at all. It only worked to accelerate your heartbeat, which Connor immediately took note of.

“Your heart rate has increased by 32%, Detective,” Connor observed. “An increased and irregular heart rate is typically a sign of nervousness. Are you nervous?”

“You know the answer,” you mumbled.

“You’re right, I do,” he confessed easily. “But I want to hear it from you; are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Because I was correct in assuming you’re attracted to me?”

You inhaled slowly, working up the nerve to answer. But there was no point, you both knew your answer. He knew. You knew. It felt like everyone in the precinct– everyone in the world– knew.

“Yes…”

The corner of Connor’s lips quirked into a satisfied smirk having successfully broken his most stubborn participant. He slowly pulled his hand away from your chin, resting it flat against the tabletop. His arrogance sparked something inside you, compelling you to act unnaturally bold.

“Fine, you win,” you grunted, rising from your seat. “Congratulations.”

Without much thought, you reached for Connor’s tie and yanked him into you, smashing your lips against his. Your hand was tight around his tie, your nerves seeping into your grip. You pulled away sharply, only allowing him a quick kiss before your nerves could fully return. You released his tie and gently pushed his chest to put some distance between the two of you.

“There’s your prize,” you hissed, though you both knew there was nothing menacing behind your tone.

It was Connor’s turn to feel flustered, finally. His cheeks were coated with a faint blush, his eyes wide and utterly perplexed. His lips were still parted slightly like he was savoring the feeling of your lips against his. Unease boiled in your chest the longer Connor did nothing.

But the look in his eyes settled any feelings of insecurity. He looked entirely infatuated with you. And when he spoke again, that infatuation only made itself clearer.

“If that’s my prize, I’ll have to win more often.”

#detroit become human #connor x reader #dbh connor x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh connor #connor rk800

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jam3sacaster · 7 months ago

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“I pray you, do not fall in love with me.”

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / A popular theatre actress residing in Rutshire, your world is turned upside down upon meeting RCB…

18+ FANFIC / Slight smut! Short ish? Reader character aged at 21 🩷

“Excellent work today, darling. Theatre bores the arse off me, but it helps tremendously when Rosalind is played by such an effortlessly sexy woman.” Basil Baddingham winked as you glide through the door of Bar Sinister, placing an immensely large glass of white wine at your usual table. Mounds of espresso-coloured curls were tied in a lazy knot at the top of your head, and your cheeks retained a flustered, rouge tint. Basil never failed to flirt with you, even if you felt particularly frumpy, adorned in an oversized plum woollen jumper, a pleated, emerald green skirt and a tattered black pair of Dr. Martens. “Thanks, Bas. Seeing you in the audience spurred me on.” You chime in response, and take a large gulp of wine. Your usual table was the best spot in the bar — looking out at Cotchester High Street. In the distance, you can observe the twisting spire of Cotchester Cathedral, the bewitching beauty of peony petals littering their flower beds and tan leaves effortlessly dancing from the oak tree onto the sodden pavement.

Once you appeared sufficiently settled, a chattering swarm of people crowded your table, hounding you with questions — Will you be doing more Shakespeare? Oh darling, please tell me you’ll open my charity gala next week? Will you let me take you to dinner? Shooting Bas a look that simply begged for another wine, the olive-skinned man parted the crowd and asked them to give you a moment to yourself. “Another goblet of wine, m’lady.” He quipped, and found himself gravitating to a rather gorgeous woman at table six. “Hello darling, take a seat, I’ll be over in a minute with a ginormous whiskey.” Bas yelled as the door welcomed another customer to the already heaving bar.

The seat afore you scraped against the hardwood floor, coaxing you to look up from your stemmed glass and instantaneously prepare your questions for the next gruelling interview. “Oh, hello.” You peep, straightening your plum jumper. “Hello, sweetheart. You don’t mind if I sit here, do you? Bas usually saves me a seat but he appears to be preoccupied.” The breathtaking man spoke, gesturing towards Basil, who was currently stabbing his tongue into somebody’s mouth. “N-no, that’s fine.” You respond, watching as a barmaid supplied the man with a glass, and his own bottle of whiskey, nervously mumbling ‘On the house.’

“On the house, hmm? You must be important.” You question, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow towards him. “Not particularly. It just means Bas is planning to take some tart home so he can’t be arsed to talk to me,” He chuckled to himself, “Rupert.” He informed you, pouring himself a glass of amber whiskey and lighting a cigar. You told Rupert your name with a timid smile, and lit a cigarette of your own. “So, darling, how do you waste your days?” Rupert interrogated, giving you the pleasure of his intoxicating cerulean eyes. “I’m an actress. Theatre mainly. Today, I was Rosalind in As You Like It.” You blab, hoping you were making a good first impression of yourself to the ravishing man.

“Ahh, Rosalind. I pray you, do not fall in love with me. For I am falser than vows made in wine.” Rupert recites. His statement sent a preternatural shiver across the length of your spine — perhaps an awful sense of foreboding from the mystifying man. “Very impressive. I like a man that knows his stuff.” You acknowledge, taking a sultry puff of your cigarette and keeping your gaze locked onto his. Rupert ran his tongue across his teeth, nodding his head slightly and taking a gulp of whiskey. Hook, line and sinker, he thought to himself.

The night escaped you both — a darkened autumn gloom overcasting Cotchester High Street but the overcrowded bustle of Bar Sinister and the innumerable bottles of alcohol kept you merry. “If you could be any Shakespeare character, Mr Campbell-Black, who would you be?” You slur drunkenly, reaching over the table and rubbing your hand across Rupert’s muscle-bound arm. “I will be any character that plays the love interest of yours. Or any character that you like enough to get you into bed.” The charming man purred, advancing towards you with a darkened, lustful gleam in his eye. “Trying to get me into bed? I don’t think you’ll have to try hard.” You reply, relocating your hand to his thigh, allowing it to glide dangerously close to his cock. The fuzzy, thick feeling of too much Chardonnay in your head made you devilishly aroused, and Rupert was more than happy to be the recipient of your advances. “I don’t think I’ll have to try hard either. Talking of hard…” He rasped, taking a hold of your hand and placing it over his growing bulge. “Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower where pleasant fountains lie.” You whisper, squeezing your hand around the girth of his cock.

“Bas, we’re off. See you tomorrow.” Rupert shouts towards his otherwise preoccupied friend, before taking your hand and leading you out of the door.

#rivals #rivals disney #rivals disney+#rivals fanfic #rivals fanfiction #rupert campbell black fanfic #rupert campbell black fanfiction #rupert campbell black x reader #rupert campbell black #rupert campbell-black #alex hassell

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future-bog-body · 4 months ago

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i just wanna yap about the Walkers and the idea of favoritism with them and why i personally dont subscribe to the idea that Logan is "the favorite" and also just. yap abt Logan and relationships in general.

Logan is a character defined by his relationships. ALL characters are, but Logan is to an extreme degree. lets keep in mind that video games, like tv shows, film, books, and stories are a form of literature, theyre story telling. we must assume that all choices are intentional, especially with regards to the way character's dialogue is phrased. so lets take a look at what Elias says about his boys in that little "one minute interview" and how he phrases it.

obviously that clip is where we get the story about the beach, but Elias also "introduces" his boys in it. heres what he says about Hesh; "There's David, my oldest. He's 28, likes to go by the name "Hesh". He- well, he, he joined up the day he turned 18. He's one of the best soldiers we have in the field today. Then again, maybe I'm biased."

so to start with this, Hesh is defined by HIMSELF. we learn his name first, David, and then his relationship to Elias. we then learn more about Hesh, we learn his age, we learn that he has a nickname that he likes to go by (that he might have given himself, a nickname which can have multiple meanings depending on how u want to read it), we learn that he joined up as soon as he could. its notable that he joined up at 18 because thats the youngest u can join without parental consent. Elias it seems did not give parental consent to join up at 17. this introduction shows us that Elias is proud of his son and likes to brag abt him, but we also learn abt Hesh himself.

in contrast, heres how Logan is introduced; "My youngest, that's Logan. He, uhm. [Chuckle] Well, he reminds me a lot of his mom."

Logan is introduced to us first by his relationship to Elias. we learn that he is Elias' youngest child before we learn his name. then we don't even learn more about him, we learn only that he reminds Elias of his mother. following that, we get the story on the beach. Logan is defined by Elias entirely on how he relates to Elias or Hesh or their mother. Logan's age we only get from different supplementary material, its never stated directly by Elias the way Hesh's is.

throughout the game, Logan is also introduced by his family via his relationship to them. its not "This is Sergeant Walker" its "This is my brother Logan", "this is my youngest". in fact, Logan's name is rarely used in the game. primarily its used by Hesh and Elias and, notably, Rorke. most characters dont actually speak to Logan directly that often, rather they speak to him THRU Hesh. in the amazon after the crash, Elias asks Logan a question, but its Hesh that answers, without even waiting for Logan to do so himself (obviously this is bc Logan is a mute protagonist, and i actually have a theory that hes meant to be mute in the story too, not just as a result of gameplay). Elias gives orders to Hesh for both of them. Merrick speaks to Logan maybe twice in the whole game, primarily speaking to Hesh and assuming Logan is also included. while Keegan does speak directly to Logan more often than others, he almost never uses his name, sticking instead to "kid". Kick never speaks to Logan directly, neither do most other NPCs.

Rorke is, again, an exception to this. Rorke speaks to Logan directly, and while he uses "kid" similar to Keegan, he also uses Logan's name pretty often, or he forgoes a name and just looks at Logan directly when hes speaking. Hesh is the character that speaks to Logan directly the most, and the second most is Rorke. in contrast, Rorke very rarely addresses Hesh directly. he does on the train, but even then, his gaze is almost always fixed on Logan or tracking the player if u move around. he also does during the interrogation scene, but once again his focus is on Logan, and he responds to Hesh primarily to taunt him and Elias. also, Rorke's Vanguard lines imply a genuine affection for Logan but thats neither here nor there

i think the two biggest reasons that Logan is thought of as the "favorite" are bc of Elias' last words and Elias' mask. but the thing with the mask is that as far as we know, up until then, Logan might not even be wearing a mask like the rest of the Ghosts, however. Hesh has his facepaint that is clearly meant to mimic the Ghosts' mask. Logan getting Elias' mask reaffirms his connection as Elias' son, whereas Hesh's facepaint reaffirms his individuality as a person and character.

as for the last words, i mean. Logan was the one who was just forced to shoot his father. Logan is the one who just got shot - who got stabbed not too many missions before - and who Rorke has shown an uncomfortable amount of interest in. while both boys need comfort and are scared in that moment, Logan is to a greater degree. hes been shot and injured, hes actively bleeding out, hes just shot his father, and hes laying on the floor about to watch his father die not even a foot away from him. hes close enough to Elias in that moment to feel Elias' breath, to watch his eyes dilate. Elias' words are aimed at Logan because its Logan who, in that moment, needs to hear them the most

#elias walker #logan walker #hesh walker #garbiel rorke #cod ghosts #i just have. so many thoughts #so many feelings #i know tumblr is the piss on the poor website but #pls gang pls just fully read this and work on ur reading comprehension #or scroll past

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devotedfem · 1 year ago

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→Manipulator

Synopsis: You were a psychologist forensic, having the task to study the criminal profile of Hoseok. You were intrigued by him, because despise of his atrocious crimes, he was the sweetest man to you. But you should know better than to trust him. Something about his vibe and smile sets you off, and your instincts might not be wrong.

J. Hoseok x f. reader

Genre: criminal au | yander-ish

Tags: manipulator Hoseok, naive psychologist reader, possessive behavior, yander-ish, mental manipulation, hidden intentions, kind of ¨bipolar¨ Hoseok, creepy behavior.

From the series masterlist; The chasing.

You bit your inner cheek reading Hoseok's file, it was honestly disturbing to read all of the crimes he committed.

Your boss called you yesterday, telling you to build a profile of a offender, a criminal with a very complex mind. So now, you have to interview one of the most dangerous man in South Korea to understand his potential motivations behind his felonies.

The guard outside of the interrogation room didn't look at you once, he just opened the door expressionless. You took deep breaths to calm your nerves, it wasn't your first time doing this so you didn't know where the anxiety comes from.

"Hello."

A hoarse voice startled you. You blinked watching a man handcuffed to a table, smiling eagerly and widely towards you. He looked friendly, if you didn't knew better you would return the smile. But you do knew better, or so you think.

"Hello Hoseok, i'm y/n, and i will make you some questions if you don't mind." And if he does mind, you will still interview him.

"Oh, i don't mind at all! I like to talk about myself," he teased with a warm smile, and you just smiled back.

Hint of narcissism. You noted.

You started to ask him questions based on your readings and the protocol, and he answered rather calm and polite, always smiling and listening to you.

Sometimes you catched him looking at you without blinking, with an intimidating gaze lingering on you long enough to be considerate impolite or strange. But he returns to his "nice" and friendly persona immediately.

"Do you think i'm a bad person?"

The question took you by surprise, the interview was going smoothly until he asked that. You cleared your throat to hide the fact that you were taken aback.

"I think you're a very intelligent person, capable of knowing what's good or bad. So you can ask that question to yourself."

You looked at your watch feeling a bit uncomfortable every second you spend with Hoseok, and the worst part it's that he didn't do anything wrong to make you feel that way. It was something about his vibe.

"Okay well, i have a last question for you."

"I'm all ears." He smiled warmly at you, very attentive to what you have to say.

He was so nice and well mannered, but at the same time so creepy.

"Based on what you told me, i can say that you are a person very aware of your actions and those of others. So... why did you kill those people?"

The million dollar question. Why did he kill innocent people that have no relation with each other or with him? There's not a specific pattern.

"Why not?"

Silence.

"Pardon?"

Sadist. You noted.

"I said, why fucking not?"

You blinked genuinely confused and surprised. You touched a nerve, breaking his facade.

"Because innocent people don't deserve to die just because." You answered calmly, studying his every expression, and he was doing the same with you.

He just hummed at you, with his handcuffs clinking.

"I might just kill all of your family and friends just to have you to myself, isn't that enough of a reason?" His eyes glinted with evilness, and your breath hitch at his threat.

"Of course not." You tried so hard to not lose your cool, but it was hard when his piercing eyes bore your face.

"I disagree. In fact if you walk away and never return to me, i'll make some calls to arrange your friends and family deaths."

You blinked, not knowing if you should laugh or run.

"What?"

In the next second he jumped to your side of the table, breaking the handcuffs with a pin you didn't knew dropped from your hair. He grabbed your neck with one hand, and both of your wrists with the other. His grip was bruising, and the guard outside of the room ignored all of your cries and screams for help.

"If you don't come back tomorrow, i might hurt you and everyone you love just because. Your choice." He growled in your ear, making you whimper by his rough grip.

"Okay! i'll come tomorrow, just... just leave them alone," your lips wobble, and he coos wiping tenderly your tears away.

"Aren't you clever, my y/n. I promise we will have so much fun together." He whispered against your neck, and his tongue lapped the skin of your neck like a hungry dog, making your stomach turn with disgust.

You were so fucked up.

#hoseok x reader #hoseok x you #hoseok fic #hoseok fanfic #yandere hoseok #bts x reader #yandere bts #bangtan fanfic #bangtan fic #x reader #yandere x reader #bts imagines #hoseok imagine #jung hoseok

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angelsdean · 9 months ago

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so far, sam's POV:

dean is belligerently drunk, not working the case at all while sam does all the heavy legwork and interviews.

dean is flirting with "some feisty little wildcat" that he's about to "reel in"

said woman is depicted as being "trashy" in sam's eyes, he's giving her Major judgy looks. the camera (Sam's eyes) "PAN up fishnet stockings and a tight miniskirt to reveal a sloppy drunk, heavily made up blonde girl"

starla is draped all over dean and then coughing and gagging as she struggles to hold down her liquor.

Dean then allegedly tells Sam she "has a sister" as if this is some porn fantasy. And this is SAM'S POV.

It's a deeply unflattering image that Sam paints, revealing a lot abt what Sam thinks of Dean and the women that associate with him. And Dean is quick to interrupt at this beat because that's not how it happened.

Now do I think Dean's perspective is wholly accurate and truthful too? No! The whole point is to show how people's limited perspective and biases will remember the same events differently. What happened is probably something closer to the middle of the two stories. Dean flirting with a pretty woman who is equally interested in him. Them having a good conversation. Sam working the case in a more traditional sense while Dean works the case the way he often does, playing up the charm and trying to get information organically through conversation rather than interrogation.

#vics spn rewatch #spn 2x15 #brother conflicts

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outsideratheart · 2 years ago

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Sweet Nothing (Alex Scott x reader)

You were a blue through and through. The whole world knew it, you were captain for heaven’s sake but that didn’t mean you were immune the charm of a red, a gunner and her name was Alex Scott.

You were never one to mix business with pleasure which meant you didn’t pursue a relationship when she was still playing. At that point it was only a crush. Besides your were focused on forging your legacy at your childhood club.

But everything changed the day Alex asked to interview you one on one for her documentary highlighting woman’s football and the role you played in it. That was almost 3 years ago and you could count on one hand the amount of people that knew about your relationship.

First to find out besides your families was Fara. The Euros was one of the best nights of your life and no way was you going to do so without your girlfriend. Alex was up in the studio with the rest of the BBC team and even though she saw your ‘I’m coming to you’ text message she didn’t think you meant now. You locked the door to the dressing room or at least you thought you did. Fara’s face was priceless as she walked in to find Alex on top of the table, dress pulled up to her hips, legs wrapped around your waist kissing you as if the world is about to end and this was the last chance she’ll get to feel yours lips on hers.

The two of you knew you needed to be more careful.

“Alex I’m telling you that Leah knows” you said whilst brushing your teeth.

Your girlfriend was at St George’s Park to cover how England are preparing for the Finalissima. Right now you are in her room at the Hilton on the grounds.

“What could possibly give her the idea that we are dating?” Alex asked innocently as she leaned against the doorframe in nothing but a robe.

“I have few ideas and the first one is that. You keep looking at me like that” you point at the knowing look that is plastered on her face “and then there’s the fact that you were ogling me during the photoshoot that you shouldn’t have been at in the first place and after you slapped my arse in the hallways when Leah was right behind you”

Those three things happened in one day and would be the moments that started the suspicions of your relationship. Leah was like a dog on the hunt for a bone and luckily for you she only wanted to interrogate Alex.

Your night to slip up came when Alex had been presenting SoccerAid. The dress she was wearing filled your head with less than innocent thoughts. It’s why you sent her a text demanding that she come to your apartment straight from the game and you made it crystal clear that she was not to get changed.

The problem came when Sam turned up at half time stating that she got bored at home and thought the two of you could watch the second half together. Your night turned into a military operation. You had to get Sam out of your apartment with enough time to tidy up before Alex arrived.

The match ended and Sam was taking her time leaving. She suggested that you play a game of FIFA and after one check of your watch you knew you had time only one game turned into two and before you knew it you heard a knock on your door.

Alex looked beautiful, more so than she did on the TV. She didn’t give you chance to say hello. Alex’s lips crashed into yours with a hunger that was shared. You pressed her against the door as your hands roamed her body. The tightness and thin material of the dress allowed you to feel every inch of her. She was intoxicating, it blurred your surroundings and for a moment you forgot that you weren’t alone in your apartment.

“Well well well what do we have here?” Sam says rather smugly.

You pull away abruptly. As you turn around Alex does her best to hide behind you, her hand covering her mouth due to the shock of being caught.

“Sam” you wanted to explain what exactly your club team mate has just seen.

“I was just leaving. You two have fun but not too much fun. Remember we have training tomorrow. Bye Alex” the smugness doesn’t leave until Sam does.

You went straight back to what Sam had interrupted but Alex pushed you away. Your eyes widen because you didn’t understand what was going on.

“Y/N”

A small chuckle escaped your lips but very quickly stooped as it became clear that Alex did not find it funny, not in slightest.

“It’s Sam. She won’t tell anyone. Look at Fara she has known for months and she hasn’t said a word”

Your words weren’t enough to comfort Alex. She was worried about people finding out even though you both knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

“We need to be more careful. Remember what we said at the beginning lovers in private—“

“Friends is public. Alex take a look around, we are in my apartment which is basically our apartment at this point. This is private, it’s our home and I will kiss my girlfriend if I want to” you steal a quick kiss to prove your point.

After that night you were on your best behaviour as was Alex but it was getting harder and harder to hide your feelings for the older woman. You were reaching your anniversary and you loved her more now than you ever thought possible. Feelings that strong are impossible to hide.

It was during the champions league trip to Barcelona when Alex told you that she didn’t want to hide your relationship but that she also wasn’t ready for the world to know. You were ok with this as it meant no more hiding in bathrooms when unexpected guests turned up at your homes and at events the two of you didn’t sit on opposite sides of the table, you sat side by side. Alex didn’t flinch or panic when she felt your hand on her thigh.

The night before the London Derby Alex laid in bed actively trying to wind you up about the following days game. She was confident that her mighty Arsenal would beat your blues. It wasn’t going to happen and when your girlfriend offered up a bet you knew that you would do everything you could on the pitch to make sure she lost. It’s safe to say when Chelsea won 4-0 you were more than happy to go do pitch side media.

Alex, Fara and Karen stood analysing in the game when you snuck up behind them. You playfully pinch Alex’s waist. After greeting the other two presenters you take your place by your girlfriend’s side.

“And joining us now is Chelsea captain Y/N Y/L/N. I imagine you are happy with today’s result” Fara asks already knowing that you would be in an untouchable mood.

“More than happy. I think we showed today why we are running away with the league. It’s always a good day when we come away with three points. The fact it’s Arsenal who we took those points off make it that much better” you turn and she her shaking her head. “Alex?”

“London is blue” Erin comes in shouting with Millie, Sam and Guro not far behind her.

“I can’t” Alex ignores the new company as her focus remains on you. Her eyes begging you not to make her do this live on TV.

“Are we missing something?” Millie asks.

“Yes you are. You see Alex here was so confident that I would be beaten today that she made a very interesting bet, one which she now has to pay up”

You take the microphone out of her hands and place it on the table in front of you. The women around you watch and wait for the bet to be revealed. A huge hint comes as they see Alex taking off her coat and you taking of the rather sweaty match worn and winning Chelsea shirt.

“I made a bet with Y/N that Arsenal would win today and the bet was whoever lost has to wear the other team’s shirt”

“I wonder when this was made” Sam whispers behind you “Whilst she was in your bed, I think so” Her last comment earns her a elbow to the ribs.

“You can’t welsh on a bet Alex” you hand her your shirt and take her coat for her.

Your girlfriend smells your shirt and to anyone else the sweat might be enough to put them off but all Alex smells is your perfume.

You cannot take your eyes of her as you watch her put on your shirt. She had worn your England shirt numerous times but seeing her in blue did things to you.

Once the shirt is on she makes grabby hands for her coat but you shake your head. She wasn’t allowed to cover the badge. Alex had to wear this shirt until the moment she walked through the door to your apartment where you would take it off her, that was the bet.

“The things I do for the woman I love” It slips out before Alex realises what she has said. Fully aware that she is live on TV she does everything she can not to react to her confession. Luckily she wasn’t holding a microphone so she hoped that her words wasn’t picked up.

The people watching at home may not have heard her but the 4 Chelsea players near you sure did. When the camera cut the two of you were subject to a hoard of questions, all you vowed to answer at training but on the one condition that they remain tight lipped and to your shock they did.

This moment did make Alex realise that this luck wouldn’t always follow her and she asked if you would be happy for your friends to know, to which you said you were.

The rest of the world didn’t find out till a couple of months later when the final whistle was blown at the World Cup final in Australia. Just as she was for the Euros, Alex was in the small studio within the stadium covering the game for the BBC. It was your mistake that lead to the Spain’s one and only goal, the one that would go on the win them the coveted trophy and the all important star on the shirt.

She was live on TV when she was shown you sat on the pitch refusing support from your team mates. She could tell that you were crying and it was confirmed when you pulled you shirt down from over your face. Your eyes were red and she could feel your pain.

The rest of the punditry team was talking about the game but Alex remained quiet as she watched the monitor, mentally begging someone to stay by your side and refuse to leave. Alex realised she is being spoken to when she hears your name get brought up.

“You know this team, you know Y/N. She’s the captain of this team. What do you think is going through her mind right now?” Jonas asks her.

“She will blame herself for this. Y/N comes across as this stoic player but she had the biggest heart and this will be killing her inside” Alex turns to look down at the pitch to see you all alone and even from a distance she can see your body is racking with sobs.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I need to go” Alex takes out her ear piece and hands it to one of the producers.

Nobody asks any questions as the former Lionesses walks out of the studio without saying another word.

You couldn’t believe what you had done. You, the captain whose job it was the lead the team to victory, had cost the team and the country the greatest accomplishment a national team can achieve. They had been playing the goal on the screens so you got to see your mistake over and over again. You deserved it, it was your punishment. You were never an emotional player but this defeat hurt more than any other in your career. Once again you find yourself pulling your shirt up to hide your tears.

“Look at me” you know that voice.

“I can’t. I can’t look at you Alex” your hands cover the shirt that covered your eyes.

“Please” Alex reaches for your hands expecting to be met with a fight but you didn’t have it in you. You had nothing left, no fight, no energy.

When you see her you break again only this time Alex is there to hold you. She pulls your up and into her arms, holding you tightly as your tears soak the shoulder of her pink stripped blazer. She lets you have your moment before trying to talk to you.

“This isn’t on you Y/N. You girls are a team. You win as one and you lose as one”

“But—“

“No buts. You lead this team to a World Cup final and that isn’t something to look over just because the game didn’t end how you wanted. You” Alex gently pokes your chest “will use this moment and come back stronger”

“I will” you voice is quiet but there is a hint of conviction in what you are saying.

Alex leans in to kiss you but you stop her as discreetly as you can.

“Look around, don’t do this here just because we lost” you divert your eyes to cameras that are around you.

“Who cares Y/N. If I’m not here for you now then I don’t deserve to be with you at all”

You nod you head. The game had broken you and there wasn’t anyone else you wanted to put you back together. Alex was it for you, public be damned.

“We were never the best at hiding were we?” You asked.

“No Y/N we weren’t but maybe that was the point. We wanted the world to know, we just didn’t know it at the time. Now let’s go, there’s nothing left for you on this pitch”

Alex drapes her arm around you shoulder pulling you in close. Your head rests on her shoulder as the two of you leave the pitch and into the changing room.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #woso one shot #alex Scott x reader #alex scott imagine #Alex Scott one shot

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