#adonis

[lionofchaeronea]

The ancient Greek festival of the Adonia. This festival was celebrated in honor of Adonis, Aphrodite's beloved, who was slain by a wild boar sent by a wrathful Artemis. After a dispute between Aphrodite and Persephone, Zeus ruled that Adonis would spend four months of the year by himself, four months with Aphrodite, and four months in Hades.

The Adonia marked Adonis's annual return from Hades. It was celebrated exclusively by women, who would ascend to the flat roofs of their houses carrying vessels with celery seeds, as pictured here. We are told by Aristophanes (Lysistrata) and Plutarch (Nicias and Alcibiades) that in 415 BCE, when the Athenian assembly was voting to send an expedition to attack Sicily, the vote was interrupted by the ritual cries of women beating their breasts for Adonis; after the expedition's dismal failure, this was understood as a bad omen.

Fragment of an Attic red-figure lebes gamikos (wedding vase), attributed to the Painter of Athens 1454; ca. 430-420 BCE (Classical period). 19 cm (7.3 in.) high x 15.5 cm (6 in.) wide. Now in the Louvre.

[mournfulroses]

Adonis, from a poem titled “Unintended Worship,” featured in If Only the Sea Could Sleep

[jazziejax]

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

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

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

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

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 9,134+

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.

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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

[fawnaura]

Adonis, from Selected Poems, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Singular in a Plural Form

[newbuddylove]

[wormwoof]

happy hug a taur twednesday

[metamorphesque]

Adonis, Motion (tr. Khaled Mattawa)

[mournfulroses]

Adonis, from a poem titled “Unintended Worship,” featured in If Only the Sea Could Sleep

[margaretkart]

People will write essays about Hades and Persephone’s myth, but conveniently forget that Persephone and Aphrodite had an all-out custody battle over Adonis.

Like, sure, the underworld queen and the love goddess sound unstoppable—until you remember they were out here fighting over the same guy. Hades wasn’t even involved; Persephone just said, ‘This one’s mine,’ and Aphrodite went, ‘Actually, I found him first.’ Honestly, Adonis being the original ‘shared custody’ case in mythology is peak drama that deserves more attention.

[jazziejax]

𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

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

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

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

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 6,640+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 🏸˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚

The video spread like wildfire.

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

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

Speculation swarmed online.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning came just as the last.

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

She headed out just after ten.

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

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

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

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

Almost on impulse, she walked over.

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

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

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

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

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

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

More apologetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Hello.”

The voice wasn’t Duke’s.

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

“Hi.” She said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. You should have.”

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

“Fair.” He finally said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chantal blinked. “For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What size are they?” She asked.

“Seven. You look like a seven.”

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deflecting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, jaw tight, and moved into position.

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

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

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

“You ever dance?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s home?”

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

“Which part?”

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

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

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

“Cause I’m training you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She struck—quick, solid, but restrained.

“Again.”

She did.

“Harder.”

She hesitated for a split second before hitting it again.

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

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

“Yes, you are.”

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

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

“Again.”

She did.

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

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

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

“Not the way you mean.” She huffed.

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tell me to breathe.”

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chantal, wait—”

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

She froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t ask you to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, she shrugged, nonchalant. “Okay.”

Adonis straightened. “Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

He blinked. “No?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

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

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

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

And then—

Ping.

Adonis’s phone chimed.

So did hers.

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

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

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

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

Photos: [SEE THE IMAGES HERE]

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

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

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

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

Underneath, bold captions followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She scrolled and comments poured in beneath the post.

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

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

“I’m obsessed with this combo???”

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

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

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

“She’s pretty but he can do better.”

“Who the hell is she?”

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

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

“Shit.”

@j0ysyndr0m3 @vile-harlot @inkdrippeddreams @imsohappyilovekbop @bbymuthaaa @healthenature @susanhill @lucidaquarian @sassymemoryelixir @turbulentvoids @xoxshayy @simonethefinest @kneelarmhstrung @kksmush @iheartamora @vaintya1 @yornayyy @thesolenicole @pytssamworld @babygirl-4986 @librexa @favoritten @alyssaficdir @greeneggsanpam @hairhattedhooligan @wildcardmelaninfreak @theunsweetenedtruth @thabiddie23 @michifilmz @lillijay @corvusmorte @inkdrippeddreams @planetk111

[fawnaura]

I knew you with my longing I tied it to you,

Adonis, from Selected Poems, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Singular in a Plural Form

[halfbegrepen]

frank bidart, from end of a friendship // ocean vuong, from prayer for the newly damned // gregory orr, from like any other man // oscar wilde, from the picture of dorian gray // margaret atwood, from power politics: poems // adonis, from celebrating childhood” (tr. khaled mattawa) // nicole homer, from underbelly

[newbuddylove]

I see it ... and I want it

[readyforthegarden]

having thoughts and feelings and more thots about danny 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[kekku]

ADONIS PLS COME HOEM FASTER

[mournfulroses]

Adonis, from a poem titled “Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea,” featured in The Selected Poems of Adonis