Jun 4
insane
seen from Singapore
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from Tajikistan
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Netherlands
seen from Armenia
seen from United States
seen from China
insane
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
SUMMARY: To everyone around you, you and Adonis Creed are already married, but he had to lock it down, officially.
TW/Warnings/Tags: Radio interview, established relationship, marriage, fluff
Authors note: I think I need to apologize, this fic was based on a Carmelo Anthony imagine I was doing. So it’s overly specific to me… (from Philly, a writer, hates the snow) so just… take it easy if u think the reader’s really annoying😘
And it’s soooo dialogue heavy 😩 I’m sorry
^^^^^^^^^
“Alright everybody, welcome to the freshest mornin’ show in Philadelphia and the whole tri-state area. I am your host Aniyah Kelay, say what up to my cohost Dee Biggz. And let’s get a very special welcome to our guests, World famous boxer, this year’s sexiest man alive, the champ Adonis Creed! AND a true philly native, his gorgeous Fiance!!”
Dee Biggz clicks a little button and a round of applause starts in the studio. You laugh a little, maybe from nerves, or the fact that a little button can cause so much commotion.
“Hey yall, thanks for having me.” Donny’s hand slips under the table and onto your thigh, urging you, just a little.
“Hi everyone.”
“Dont be acting all shy!” Dee Biggz demands, “You must not know we know you!”
“What you know about me, Biggz?”
“Listen! This girl is the most Philly nigga I know! She used to sell water ice on 22nd street! She beat my lil’ cousin in a tanging competition and you grew up on diamond street!”
“Wait-How do you know that?” He grabs a water bottle and chugs it halfway before half-screaming, “listen, I got my ways!”
Aniyah chuckles and rolls her eyes at her cohost. “Adonis, you know we love you in Philly, you're very important to us, but it honestly seems like the majority of us like your girl a little more. I'm tellin’ you all the fan inserted questions were about your beautiful Fiancee.”
He looks over at you, a smile playing all over his lips and eyes.
“Oh, really?” he asks without looking away from you. “I mean… I get it, who wouldn't like her? Love her, even.” you bring your hand up to cover the expression on your face, you’ve known each other for years and he still makes you nervous like the first day.
Dee Biggz cuts in. “Ard we gon’ get into all the nosey stuff but first we gon talk about What I Want to know! Adonis, Are you prepared to fight Monty Aturro, He’s big! His arms are long and his attitude is NASTY!”
The interview goes on for 15 more minutes until you’re addressed. Donny never stops rubbing your thigh.
“Okay so Adonis, there's been a rumor that you and your girl have been secretly married since you got your first belt. But you only just proposed this year.”
“I loved that rumor,” he admits.
“So when did it happen, how long have you guys been talking about marriage. I want to know everything.”
His hand comes up to stroke his beard like he’s trying to figure out which detail should come first. Then he looks at you, “Baby, you’d tell it better than me.”
“Oh.”
“Go ‘head.”
You take a small swig from his already opened water bottle and grab his hand.
“We've been talking ‘bout marriage since the day we met. Donny’s all confidence and honesty. I was on broad street, at the lil donut shop, i’m walking out, he coming in. He stopped me talking bout ‘ma’am are you married?” i said ‘no’ he was quick with it like, ‘you want to be?" It was wraps from there. We exchanged numbers.”
“And her contact name was ‘WIFE ' the whole time.”
“Awww Adonis, that's so cute!”
“That’s romantic as hell, man.”
“So boom, he was working out all the time and when I would come to the gym with no membership, I would say ‘that's my husband over there’. All the boxers and coaches just called me ‘Mrs.’ Then I guess it really got serious after his first pro fight.”
“Leo ‘the lion’, right?”
“Yes, exactly. So he won. I was in the hotel bed laid up with the belt and he was getting in the shower. Before he got in he asked me to order dinner, but I didn't really get to it until he was about to get out because I was taking pictures–with the belt of course.”
“So once i get to it, I'm getting to it. Yeah, can i have a double smash burger, an order of cheese fries. A small pepperoni pizza, buffalo wings, parmesan chicken tenders, let me get a sprite, and a coke, 2 bottles of water, a slice of velvet cake with cream cheese frosting, and a slice of strawberry cheese cake. OH! And a hot chocolate chip cookie, and a glass of milk.” you stop and look at the amused faces across the studio.
“Adonis eats good on his cheat days.” His mouth drops open.
“Just telling my business, huh? Well I didn't eat any of that cookie.”
“Oh you ate some cookie, Donny!” The whole studio explodes into laughter without being told. Donny smiles with his tongue between his teeth and lowers his gaze on you.
“Anyway, the lady asks ‘what's the name for the order?’ Of course the moment I tell her, ‘Mr. and Mrs Creed’ I realize Donny's standing at the doorway listening!”
“He didn't say anything, so we didn't talk about it. We just ate dinner, and talked about the fight. Then it's the middle of the night, I'm writing, his eyes are closed. I thought he was asleep and all of a sudden he just started talking. ‘Baby, I want to marry you. More than anything in this world. But I don't want to rush it. I wanna be great first, I want to become somebody worthy of you.’”
Aniyah cringes a little and looks at you sharply. “How’d you take that?”
“It was cool, I wasn't in a rush. When I know what I want, I'm willing to wait for it.” Adonis nods. “So, we didn't talk about it for months. Then we were in LA visiting his mom. They would leave me home most of the time, cause I was working on my book. One day there's just this knock at the door, I round down stairs in my robe, looking insane, cause i think it’s Donny, or mom. There's a strange man, in a suit like “Hello, were you not expecting me?” In my head I'm like ‘hell no.’ but I ask who he is, lo and behold he’s the Jeweler for the creeds. I tell him, I'm not a creed and the family should be home in a few hours. He's like ‘no, ma’am Adonis directed me to show you a few of my recent pieces, I hear you have a birthday coming up.’ I'm geeked. I let him in, he showed me bracelets, earrings, anklets, gold, silver, rubies. The whole time he was taking notes. I didn't realise why I was just going with it, I never got to dress up like that. He measures everything, neck, wrist, every finger, ankles. He leaves me with a pair of earrings and tells me everything else needs sizing. Cool! 2 months later we were in the poconos. I’m teed,I don't like the cold. We’re supposed to be on vacation, the whole time I'm being mean like, ‘Adonis, you know I hate the snow! I’ve been telling you this since we met. I’m cold. Take me home.’ He likes ‘put your boots on.’ i wanna argue, ‘no, im not going out there! Go by yourself!’ This man grabs my wrist and tugs me outside. It’s fairy lights all through the woods. And he’s in the snow down on one knee. Looking up at me like ‘aint this what you wanted?’
And it was–it was exactly what I wanted. I forgot I told him ‘I want our engagement pictures in the snow and our wedding on the beach.’ The ring’s perfect, I'd never seen it before but every detail was tailored to me.’
“Shout out to our jeweler, Mr. Keaton," Donny mutters.
“Yeah real rap, cause that ring is beautiful.”
You smile and nod, curtly, slightly warn out from telling all your business. “Thank you.”
Dee Biggz hops back in with more questions about Donny's career, but doesn't let the interview end without asking. “So when’s the wedding and are we invited?”
𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - A quiet visit to a legendary gym turns into something much louder than expected.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Violence, Strong Language, Adult Themes, Mentions of Grief/Loss
𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I said I wanted to write one so I did…sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!!!
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 9,134+
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 🏸˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚
No matter where she looked, it was all consuming her. On her phone, there was countless of headlines.
“Tennis Diva or Just Competitive? Chantal “Fury” Figueroa Blows Up Again on Court!”
“Foul Mouth, Fast Hands: Fury’s Fiery Win Over Davenport Sparks Controversy”
“Fury’s Blaze of Glory or Blaze of Shame?—Tennis’s Most Explosive Star Under Fire Once More!”
“Amy Davenport Says She Felt ‘Unsafe’ On the Court with Chantal Figueroa”
“Chantal Figueroa Accused of Cheating, Trash-Talking, and ‘Unsportsmanlike Behavior’”
She clicked on her television, and there were pictures of her face on the news as they painted her out to be some monster.
On ESPN. “She’s electric, no doubt. But there’s a difference between passion and outright aggression, and Fury? She crossed it.”
On The View. “Look, I love Chantal, but she’s gotta rein it in. You can’t scream at the ump, curse out a ball girl, and still expect sympathy!”
Even Amy Davenport post match interview. She sat so demurely, dressed in a baby blue get up, gleaming under studio lights in the conference room. “She’s talented, I’ll give her that. But talent isn’t everything. You have to have grace. You have to have sportsmanship. I didn’t feel safe out there. I mean—she called me a ‘prissy bitch with no footwork’ in the middle of a serve!” Then there was a muted clip of Chantal on the court, mouth clearly forming ‘Are you new to fucking walking?’ Amy then let out a soft laugh. “I’m worried for her. That kind of temper? It’ll end her career.”
And then before she could even think about it, the remote control was out of her hand and a picture frame had been broken on the other side of the room. The sound of the television was faint, but it felt like it was blaring in her mind. She sat back against leather couch, chest heaving up and down in anger as she sat in the deafening silence after the shattering glass.
════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════
Next thing she knew after her angered waned, were studio lights that were too bright, too white, and too artificial to feel anything like a fair conversation rather an interrogation, gleaned down on her.
Chantal sat center stage, perched on a sterile white couch in ESPN’s New York studio, the makeup crew long gone, her glossy lips lined, her signature slicked-back ponytail broadcast-ready and her heels dug into the floor like stakes in the ground. She wore a light blue top that, a traditional Asian pattering on it, with black slacks.
Tashi stood just off-camera, arms folded, watching like a hawk with her mouth in a thin, unreadable, line. Her manager, Quentin, flitted between texts and pacing, whispering too-late reassurances.
“This is good press.” He’d said on the car ride over. “A reset. A rebrand. Let people see the real you.” Be explained, sort of rambling off to himself as he stressed over the woman’s image. “You go in there, keep your cool, answer with grace. Make them regret ever doubting you.”
Chantal had looked out the window the whole ride, jaw clenched. “They’ll see what they want to see and damn way.” And that was pretty much all she said back then, just gave a sharp nod and was silent the rest of the way.
Now, she regretted even showing up.
It wasn’t long before the hosts flanked her like opponents on either side. Marcus Dean on her right—a former football player now turned talking head who liked to stir the pot for likes. Loud, smug, always the first to turn heat into headlines. And on her left, Dana Mallory—sharp, polished, and known for her thinly-veiled contempt toward athletes who didn’t play by rules set in place by anyone but themselves. She was cold, pristine. Known for interviews that tore reputations limb from limb behind soft tones and weaponized words, and loved controversial male athletes.
The show went live. Theme music. Camera pans. Intro banter.
Then the two hosts turned to her—smiling like snakes.
Dana tossed her blonde bob over her shoulder as she crossed her legs and smiled without warmth. “Chantal, thank you for being here. After everything that’s happened this past week, the world has a lot of questions.” The pale woman began.
“Yeah, it’s been a week.” The woman answered back in a sort of dull tone with a polite smile on her lips.
Dana gave a brittle laugh. “Yes, and I think the world is eager to hear from you directly—especially after your behavior during and after the Davenport match.”
Chantal raised a brow. “You mean my win?”
Dana’s smile widened, fake as gold foil. “I mean, let’s call it what it is. Some say you’re the most talented player the game’s seen in years. Others… say your temper might end your career before you reach your prime. That you’re heated. Hostile. Many people said that your supposed win looked more like a meltdown than a victory.”
Chantal’s fingers twitched. “Funny. When McEnroe did it, it was called passion by many.”
“Oh, so we’re playing the double standard card already?” Marcus chuckled, leaned back in his chair as he adjusted his gold watch, the silver contrasting against his brown skin. “Come on, Fury.”
“My name’s Chantal.”
“You shouted at the ump, smashed a racquet, refused to shake Amy’s hand. That’s not exactly sportsmanship.”
“I shook her hand. It just wasn’t fake.” Chantal said finely, brows beginning to furrow as lies began to spew from the man’s mouth, though the racquet smashing was true.
“Some would call it aggressive,” Dana said smoothly. “Especially when Amy came forward saying she felt… intimidated by you. Unsafe, even.”
Chantal sat back, looking over at the woman as if she just said something stupid. “Because I told her to stop making excuses? I’m not the one to put up with the dramatics, that’s for other people to deal with if it’s such an issue and then it comes to me.”
Dana’s smile widened, razor-thin. “You’ve been fined three times this season for on-court outbursts, suspended once, and now you’re being investigated by the WTA. Doesn’t that suggest a pattern?”
Chantal’s fingers twitched as a smirk graced her lips, one out of catching the woman in her lie. “First of all, I have never been suspended. Not once in my entire career. And this “investigation”, if you can even call it that. It was more so a meeting, it only opened up due to this entire debacle started by Davenport. So, no, I don’t think it suggests a pattern, I think it suggests the rules bend differently when you don’t come in a dainty form and a losing streak.” She shrugged, and she could feel the hard stares from her couch and manager as she answered the questions. But Chantal was never the one to lie when it came to questions, and she wasn’t going to start now that people felt reheated by it.
Marcus chuckled. “So now the system’s the villain?”
“You tell me.” She demanded the man. “When Novak screams at line judges, he’s ‘fired up.’ When I do it, I’m a ‘danger to the sport.’ Some may find that amusing.” It was silent for a moment, the two hosts either moving the reactions they were getting from her or simply stunned, but Chantal used that time to continue.
“I won the Davenport match.” She interrupted sharply. “I didn’t cheat. I didn’t hurt anybody. I talked trash—just like Amy did. You can see it when we shake hands before the match. Difference is, I didn’t go cry to a microphone afterwards, I talked back.” She spat.
Dana’s eyes glittered. She’d gotten blood in the water.
“But Amy said she felt unsafe.”
“And I felt undermined.”
“Because someone finally called out your behavior?”
Quentin shifted uncomfortably while Tashi’s jaw tightened. She bit on her lips, her stare hard as she watched from behind the cameras.
Chantal tilted her head, slow and deliberate. “What behavior are we talking about?” She questioned, turning her face up. “Me speaking up? Me refusing to smile pretty and take the hits? Or me winning when I’m not “supposed to”?” She questioned.
Dana blinked, licking her lips as she whistled herself in her seat, causing Marcus leaned forward to add onto the questions. “You don’t think your attitude’s part of the problem?”
“My attitude is why I’m still here. My attitude is why I win, and why I won that match. And I’m not apologizing for being intense in a sport that demands it. Y’all like the fire and the fury until a Black woman’s holding the match.”
A few producers backstage froze and there were soft gasps throughout the studio. Dana’s brow arched as if she was offended at such a claim while Marcus smirked. “Whew. You hear that, Twitter?” He grinned, looking at the cameras. Chantal looked over at him with a hard stature before simply scoffing and lightly shaking her head.
Dana’s voice dropped lower as it turned honeyed and sharp. “You know, I spoke to a few former coaches of yours. They described you as ‘difficult,’ ‘combative,’ and ‘emotionally volatile.’ Would you say that’s fair?”
The camera zoomed in on Chantal’s face as she blinked, aiding as she took in the question. “I’d say most of my former coaches couldn’t keep up with me. And the rest wanted to coach a puppet, not a player. It’s why I now have someone more my speed, the Tashi Duncan.” She explained.
Dana tilted her head. “Or maybe they just wanted someone coachable. Someone who didn’t see every correction as an attack.” She rebutted. “And Tashi Duncan has had her fair share of issues in her own career. Do you really think she’s the best for you right now?”
Marcus whistled low before Chantal could even answer, amusement clear on his face. “Whew. See, that’s the issue right there. People are rooting for you, Chantal—but you make it hard.” He said, faking a sympathetic tone.
Chantal laughed, sharp and humorless as she just became tried of even being there. “No, you’re rooting for a version of me that doesn’t exist. The quiet, grateful, humble little phenom. But I’m not here to bow down or beg. I’m here to win and I’ve been doing it since I was sixteen.”
Dana arched a brow. “Even if you burn every bridge on the way there?”
“I don’t need your bridges. I’ve got a racquet and a forehand. That’s all I need for this game, that’s all there ever was.”
There was a small moment of silence, as if evening in the tense air was trying to digest what she truly said. “Sounds lonely.” Dana murmured.
And something snapped in Chantal’s throat. “You think I care what sounds lonely? You think I want to sit here and play PR puppet because Amy Davenport cried on a mic? I’m not here to fix your image of me. I’m not here to make people comfortable.”
“Do you ever worry that this—this fuse, this refusal to own your part—is going to keep making you the villain in everyone else’s highlight reel?”
There it was. The bait. That villain word.
And for one long, boiling second, Chantal didn’t breathe.
It was dead air.
Producers flinched behind the camera. Tashi tensed as she pursed her lips and braced for the worse as Quentin let out a low groan.
Then she spoke. “I’d rather be the villain than the victim.”
Dana smiled like she’d just landed the final blow, the studio still enclosed in slice as she straightened her cards against the glass table top. “Thanks for your time, Chantal.”
Chantal didn’t respond. She stood up, ripped the mic off her shirt, and walked off without another word.
Then it cut to commercial.
════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════
The studio doors hadn’t even finished swinging shut behind her when the first flash went off. Paparazzi crowded the sidewalk like a pack of hungry dogs. Some wore press badges. Most didn’t. All of them shouted.
“CHANTAL, IS IT TRUE YOU THREATENED AMY DAVENPORT?”
“IS ESPN GOING TO BAN YOU?”
“IS IT TRUE THAT YOU’RE BEING INVESTIGATED BY THE WTA?”
Then a man with a Canon camera lunged toward her as she was about to enter the black SUV. “ARE YOU ON STEROIDS?!”
She pushed past them, her stride clipped and narrow. The way she furrowed her brow at that behind her sunglasses was visible to the cameras, her face counting into one of disgust and anger at the claim. Tashi and Quentin tried to flank her, but it was no use—there were too many. Too loud. Too vicious.
Another voice screamed, “SHE’S GOT ANGER ISSUES! IT HAS TO BE ON STEROIDS.“
Then came the flash. A blinding one. Inches from her face.
She stopped. “Back up.” She hissed, poring a finger that the man. But he didn’t move. She could feel the heat behind her eyes, the pounding in her throat. Her pulse buzzed like a live wire as the sounds behind her became mudded and overwhelming but the flashes kept hitting her and the camera moved closer—far too close.
And then—
She pushed.
A firm, instinctive shove to the chest as she pushed the camera from her face with her other hand, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to make him stumble back two feet.
A dozen shutters clicked.
The moment was captured. Frozen. Ruined.
She turned and disappeared into the black SUV waiting at the curb, slamming the door behind her.
Inside, Quentin swore under his breath. Tashi didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, her voice low.
“Now it’s gonna get worse.”
All while Chantal sat, leaned back into the seat with slightly irregular breathing, her head beginning to hurt as her eyes trained outside at the passing city of New York.
The moment floods every social platform. Clips circulate not just from the shove—but from the ESPN interview.
“I’m not here to make people comfortable.”
“I don’t need your bridges.”
“I’m not here to fix your image of me.”
Hashtags trend. Memes explode. People choose sides.
Amy Davenport posts an Instagram story the next morning, nothing but a black screen with white words.
“I just want the game to feel safe again.” And the media eats it up.
════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════
Chantal sits alone in her hotel room. No lights. No sound. Just a quiet rage, eating her from the inside.
She only blinks before she’s on the court, breathing heavy as the sun beamed down on her. The only sound she could hear before her breathing was the soothing sound of bird chirping. She absolutely loved that. It was rare in the big city of New York, but it was a gem to hear in New Rochelle. She whiffed before moving to the locker room, that reeked of sweat, disinfectant, and tension. Chantal sat still, her fist pressed against the cold metal bench, her racquet still clenched in the other hand like a weapon.
Her long-sleeved black Nike top clung to her, streaked with red clay and rage. Her curls were pulled back into a tightly-wound ponytail, strands falling out like they, too, were sick of containment.
Tashi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, chewing gum with a tense jaw.“You’re not gonna break your racket, are you?” Tashi asked, voice casual, one brow raised.
Chantal cut her eyes to the woman, a sharp and deadly look in her eyes as she steadied her breathing. “Funny.” She deadpanned.
And Tashi smirked. “Davenport’s been playin’ the media like a fiddle since she was twelve.” She begun, knowing what the woman was pissed and overthinking this situation everyone she got quiet. She’s been pissed about it for days now. “Let her. You won. That’s all that should matter.”
Chantal let out a sigh as she dropped the racquet. It clanged against the tiled floor. “But it doesn’t.” She said. “All anyone’s talking about is how I yelled. How I stomped. How I said something mean. Who gives a fuck?!”
“You called her a lousy bitch.”
“She is!” Chantal yelled, standing up from her seat, fire in her eyes as she looked at the woman. “She’s a lousy bitch who’s been getting away with micro aggression for far too fucking long. Every time we shake hands, it’s always some stupid and sick ass comment. The bitch is lousy and that’s why when we make it the championships. Dumb broad can’t even make it to Wimbledon.” She grumbled
And Tashi laughed once, sharp and short, slightly amused by her comments.
“Look, you want to be great, right?” Tashi moved closer, her coach’s eyes scanning Chantal. “Then we need to work on your mental game. The power’s there. But the fuse is short. You gotta figure out why.”
Chantal looked up. “You offering therapy or something? Cause I’m not doing it.”
“No.” Tashi said, grabbing her bag. “But I know something that might help. A place out in Las Angeles. I know something about pressure, and I know some people who can relate as well. Especially to you. And I think you need a vacation retreat before Wimbledon.”
Chantal paused briefly, blinking as she looked down at her hands in thought. Her mind flashed between everything that’s been going on, from her matches to the Amy drama, to the ESPN clips, to the new steroids accusations to simply not having a single soul in her fucking corner. Maybe she needed a break, maybe she needed sometime to…do nothing. Anything to take her mind off what’s been going on…or something besides tennis.
I’ll never do something besides tennis. She quickly thought.
She then let out a sharp sigh before stiffly nodding her head. “Yeah.”
“What?” Tashi asked. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Chantal said, picking up her racquet before rising. “I’ll go to L.A.”
════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════
𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬
The sun in L.A. was a different. Almost artificial and arrogant. To Chantal at least.
It shined with no blocking buildings as it just dared you to look at it head on. Even the breeze had a bite. Everything about the city felt too loud, too glossy, too teeth-whitened and crystal-infused. And fake. And this is coming from a woman from now gentrified Harlem.
But she couldn’t deny how beautiful the city was. And he shared admitting that.
She stepped out of the car, aviators pulled low on her nose, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. A week ago she was elbowing cameras in midtown traffic. Now she was standing outside a modern California home nestled somewhere between Bel Air and some other city. She actually wasn’t even quite sure if she was in Bel-Air honestly, that’s just the only place she knows.
The home was nice, tall with nice architecture and beautiful greenery. A bit bougie in a way, but one that Chantal like. It looked very homey. The birds chirped, just like in New Rochelle, but these ones sounded like they’d ate healthier with how loud they were, and how many she saw pass across the sky.
“Kill me now.” She muttered, slamming the car door behind her.
Tashi was already waiting inside the foyer of the home, dressed in leggings and an athletic shirt, sipping something green through a bamboo straw. “Welcome to The Resting Ground.” She grinned, all fake serenity as she held her arms out to gesture to the home. “Your chakras are gonna love it here or whatever.”
“I don’t know what that is.”Chantal told her in a deadpan, standing stiff as her eyes drifted over the cozy looking home that looked quite lived in. But she knew this couldn’t be Tashi’s home, so whose was it.
Tashi just let out an awkward laugh before clapping her hands. “Right.” She mumbled. “Well come on. You’ll like it once you stop being allergic to peace.” She said, gesturing the woman between the set of stairs that split into two grand stair cases on the opposite sides of the foyer.
Chantal followed her through the place though hone, it still had that pseudo retreat feeling—zen garden table, koi pond in a fountain outside. The house seemed empty save the two women. And as Chantal followed the woman through the home, passing the kitchen, she was confused on what she was even doing here anymore.
“So, whose house is this.” She said, cutting right to it.
“One of mine.” Tashi said, only sparing her a single glance over her shoulder as she responded. Chantal just raised a brow at that but nodded. She then faced outside, seeing nothing but a nice green yard with a pond in the back.
“No court?” She asked, tearing her eyes away from the patio doors just when they cut off and the women entered a hall.
“Nope.” Tashi sighed. “Cause that’s not what this home is for. Trust me, I learned relaxation the hard way.” She mumbled.
And now Chantal hated all of it.
They got to the room in the hall, to her right but not far from the kitchen. It was a sun-drenched room with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the perfect view of the back yard. There was a large bed in the center of the room, with nice dark wood detailing as the base and bead board, with matching nightstands. Which there was a tray of fresh fruit sitting on, like an apology of sorts.
Chantal threw her bag on the floor and stood stiffly in the middle of the room, like the floor was lava. “Let me guess, there’s no gym either?” She asked, moving over and picking up a piece of pineapple, tossing it back.
“No, there isn’t. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”
She whipped her head around. “So what the hell am I supposed to do here?”
“Not punch someone.” Tashi replied, peeling a slice of mango from the tray and popping it into her mouth. “You’ll be here alone, but I’ll come by and take you out to experience some calming things. Maybe meet some more people like you. Athletes. High performers. Folks who’ve been through the wringer. But for now? Just… rest. Try to. Find a hobby, sit with your woke thoughts and not cloud your mind by working out.” She explained.
Chantal stared out the window. Trees swayed in the wind. A butterfly floated by. She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“What if I don’t know how to relax?” She asked, and Tashi glanced at her when she caught how soft her tone was, it was gentle. Like she was…scared, almost.
“Then you’ll learn.” Tashi said gently. “You’re not here to win anything, Chantal. You’re here to learn how to stay in the game without letting it eat you alive.”
Chantal didn’t respond. She just nodded once, slowly, like she’d just been handed something she wasn’t sure she could hold.
Tashi left with a light pat on her shoulder, telling her ahead had to get back home and coach Art. And then she was alone.
Alone with quiet. With herself. With too many thoughts. With nothing to fight.
She sat on the edge of the bed for ten minutes before standing up again. Paced. Looked through the closet. Turned on the shower. Turned it off.
She finally settled on the balcony, knees pulled to her chest, watching the sun melt behind the hills. It was stupid how perfect the sky looked.
Still, for the first time in days, she let herself breathe. Not the kind she used for control. But a kind of…relief?
A hummingbird darted past her head. And surprisingly, she didn’t flinch. Not even once.
But trust, this calm didn’t last long.
The quiet, against all odds, had started to settle around her like a weighted blanket. Chantal remained on the balcony well after the sky blushed itself into twilight, until the soft hues dimmed into a navy blue curtain speckled with stars she rarely saw back home. A plane blinked across the sky. The wind cooled. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t pulling her hoodie over her head or checking her phone for the next match, meeting, or press circuit.
Eventually, the fatigue she’d been ignoring for weeks—months even—caught up to her. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She simply peeled herself off the balcony chair, brushed her teeth in the cozy bathroom, and climbed into bed like someone giving in rather than surrendering.
To her surprise, she slept, and she slept well.
So when her alarm pierced the morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp, she was already stirring.
No snooze button. No groan. No delay.
She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, swung her legs over the bed, and stood with the same silent command she brought to the court. Her hands moved automatically, reaching for the stretch band tucked inside her duffle, tying her braids tighter as she padded to the bathroom. Her joints popped. Her face looked less tired.
Though she was in a different home, she fell into routine like any other time.
She started with stretches, slow but intentional, letting each vertebra crackle back to life. Then bodyweight circuits. Squats, planks, push-ups, all in the middle of the room while the sunlight poured in from the linen curtains she pulled back earlier. The sports bra she slept in stuck to her skin by the end of it, her breath even but measured. She flowed through the movements like choreography. It kept her mind quiet.
Next came breakfast, and she used the things available within the home. Oats with flaxseed and almond milk, topped with banana slices and chia seeds. She found everything she needed in the kitchen, her brow slightly raised at how well-stocked it was for a place supposedly about “rest.” Coffee with three creamers and four sugar cubes and a protein shake on standby. She ate standing up, scrolling through her phone, and the first thing she did was check her emails.
There were a few from her manager, some promo requests, one PR notice reminding her of an event she’d since skipped out on. She fired back quick responses between spoonfuls, paused only to rotate her shoulder.
Then she showered, and came out of the bathroom dressed in black leggings, cropped white tank, and a black hoodie covering her form. Her blue duffel bag was back over her shoulder. Her braids braided into one at the back of her head, edges laid. Phone charged. Water bottle filled.
She was out the door before 7:15.
And that’s when it hit her.
She stood on the porch, blinking at the serene, unfamiliar neighborhood. No honking horns, no bustling sidewalks, no traffic noise. No corner bodega. No subway station. Just sunshine, kids laughing and sprinklers running.
No gym in sight
And also no car.
Her brows pulled together in disbelief as she turned in place, then back toward the house with an annoyed sigh escaping her lips.
“This is ridiculous.” She grumbled, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. When she stepped back inside, ready to text Tashi something foul, she caught a glint of silver in the entryway. A keyring, hanging on a hook near the door.
Attached to it, a folded note in Tashi’s slanted script:
“Figured I couldn’t leave you stranded. Though I was going to. - T”
Chantal snorted in amusement. “Yeah, whatever.” She grumbled, balling the paper up and tossing it.
She grabbed the keys without hesitation and followed the logical next step, which was the garage. The motion sensor lights flickered on as the door rose slowly, revealing what had to be some kind of sick joke.
A pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle sat parked squarely in the middle.
Chantal just stared at it, blinking once.
Then twice.
Then she muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” In a small hiss. This was far change from her sleek black Porsche.
It looked like something a sorority girl in Malibu would drive. Round edges on it’s vintage body. Like it belonged in some feel-good teen movie about summer and surfboards and an endless supply of ice cream.
Her lips parted in a dry, unimpressed scoff. But still, she hit the unlock button, and the lights blinked in reply, customized with hearts on them. This caused her to furrow her brows more, wondering whose car this really belonged to, because no way was it Tashi Donaldsons.
Chantal opened the door, ducked into the Beetle, tossed her bag in the passenger seat, and sat there for a second.
Then she pulled her phone out and typed “nearest gym” into her GPS. A handful of results populated. She picked furthest one and hit Go.
With a low grumble, the car sputtered to life. “Don’t stall on me.” She warned it like it was an opponent.
Then Chantal Figeruoa—New York-born, Bronx-trained, nationally ranked tennis star—backed the pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle out of the garage like she’d done it every day of her life, pulled out onto the unfamiliar California road, and followed the calm voice of her GPS toward somewhere she could finally sweat again.
She drove to a Planet Fitness, parking in the lot. But as she stepped out, her eyes caught a mural across the street—a painting of the infamous Apollo Creed on the side of a building. And she immediately knew what it was, and it hit her like a punch to the chest. It was the Delphi Boxing Academy. The sight stirred something in her. Even though she was parked at the Planet Fitness, she didn’t even think before she walked across the street to the boxing gym. It called to her in a way she couldn’t explain.
The gym door creaked open, letting in a sliver of midday sun—and her.
She stepped inside, looking around in slight shock as her eyes moved across the gym. The sound of grunts and hits echoed throughout the place, people making hit after heat over the sound of rap music coming from the speakers. The familiar scent of sweat, leather, and chalk hit her all at once, oddly comforting, like stepping into a memory. She moved toward the front desk, where a young man—couldn’t have been more than nineteen—looked up from his phone. His face froze.
“Hi,” She said, a small smile and a polite tone. “I was wondering if I could get a day pass? I’ll, uh, I’ll pay whatever you need.” She shrugged, feeling a bit awkward being in a place like this again. The kid blinked hard, his jaw tightening as he registered who she was. He tried—truly tried—to play it cool, but the awe leaked through the cracks in his expression. “Uh… nah. You’re good. On the house.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, unsure. “You sure?”
He nodded, grinning a little too wide now. “Yeah. It’s cool. Really.” He nodded.
She murmured a soft thank you with a sort of bashful smile and stepped past the counter, feeling his eyes trail her as she walked deeper into the gym. That always happened—people staring, recognizing her, whispers. She never got used to it.
She was awkward. That’s what she truly was, and it’s what people used to call her when they saw her in public. The people from her neighborhood. Even Mando used to say it to her. Now she was standoffish. Aggressive. But the truth was far more simple. She was just a girl once—thrust into a spotlight she never asked for, alone and scared, and she wore that cold demeanor as armor. It was survival for a world that she knew was gonna chew her up and spit her out.
She made her way towards of the corners of the gym, where the lighting was a bit brighter since she was next to the large floor to ceiling windows. The position gave her a clean view of the ring, where two women were sparring with quick hands and tighter footwork. She watched them for a moment, appreciating the rhythm, the discipline, and the grit it took to show up and give everything.
She dropped her duffel bag onto the floor and sat beside it, stretching her legs and cracking her knuckles. Her eyes drifted toward the heavy bag hanging nearby. For a moment, she just stared. It had been nearly fifteen years. Fifteen years since Armando passed. Since she had last thrown a punch with purpose.
And now, here she was.
In a place they had talked about visiting together. A place where Apollo Creed himself once trained.
She stood and moved toward the bag, shaking out her arms. Her hoodie came off slowly, revealing toned arms and a tank that clung to her frame. No gloves. No wraps. Just her bare fists. She stood in front of the sandbag, drew in a breath, and let loose.
The first few punches were rusty—more force than form. But then came rhythm. Sharp jab. Another. Left hook. Right cross. The sound of her fists slamming against the bag echoed through the space like gunshots. Her breath grew heavier. Her body moved faster. Every hit carried something—anger, grief, longing, the ache of time lost.
She didn’t notice the people watching, not at first. She didn’t hear the slow hush of the gym as others paused to look. She didn’t feel the weight of the eyes until her chest heaved too hard, and her focus slipped for half a second. She stepped back, letting her hands fall. Sweat beaded along her brow as she reached for her duffel, pulling out a bottle of water.
She twisted the cap and was about to drink—
And then she saw half the gym was looking. Watching her.
They looked away quickly when she stared back—heads turned, eyes dropped, everyone pretending they weren’t caught. So, she took a long sip of her water, unbothered on the outside, but her pulse still quick, from the hitting and the unwanted eyes.
That’s when he approached. A tall man in his about his fifties, thin build with a beard peppered with gray. His walk had a natural authority to it—like someone who’d spent years on the floor, reading fighters the way others read books. “Name’s Duke.” He said, holding out a hand. “I run things around here.” Chantal let out a huff before she reached and shook his hand. Firm grip. No smile.
“You hit like someone who’s been doing this in for a while.” He said. “Got good form, too. You want some gloves?”
She hesitated. A flicker of something in her eyes—nostalgia, maybe. Or pain.
“Nah,…Nah, I think I’m good.” She said. Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to want to say more the way her mouth opened, but she just shook her head again and looked down.
He nodded at that. “Alright. How about just some wraps then? Least you won’t tear your knuckles up.” He suggested.
She didn’t answer right away, looking down at her raw, reddened hands. She clenched her hands, her knuckles on the verge of tearing as her skin thinned and her blood rushed to the surface. Then, finally, she reasoned with a small nod. “Wraps are fine.” She said, looking up at him.
Duke nodded before he walked off to grab them, and she exhaled, flexing her fingers slowly. It had started as a visit. Just a place to remember the man she lost long ago. Duke then returned with a roll of fresh wraps in hand, nodding for her to sit on the bench nearby. She dropped down, stretching her arms out as he knelt in front of her, unrolling the fabric with a casual ease that came from years of practice. “You’re heavy with the hands.” He said as he started wrapping her right hand, careful not to pull too tight across the knuckles. “Gotta say, you hit like someone who used to do this for real.”
She didn’t say anything at first, just watched his hands move. Efficient. Steady. “I was good once, I guess.” She finally muttered with a lazy shrug. At least, that’s what he used to say. She thought.
Duke chuckled under his breath, glancing up at her. “Yeah. But I know boxings not your thing.” He stated. “I’ve seen you before.” He added. Chantal’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop him. “Thought you might.” She mumbled. He nodded, focusing back on her wrist, though he caught sign of how tense she’d became. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. Just—lotta folks come in here trying to prove something. You walk in and nearly knock the bag off the chain, no gloves, no warm-up. Impressive. Got the heart of someone remembering a lot.”
She gave a quiet snort, but it wasn’t unkind. “Something like that.”
He moved to her left hand, checking the spacing between her fingers before looping the wrap again. “So what brings you in today? Felt like hitting somethin’ or someone call you in?” He asked.
Her eyes flicked toward the massive mural of Apollo Creed painted on the gym’s window. “The mural, actually. I was parked at a Planet Fitness across the street. Saw that painting and… couldn’t ignore it.” She said softly, causing Duke to nod thoughtfully. “That’s how we get most people.” He said with a small smile. “Apollo’s still pulling them in, even years after. Gym’s been here a minute. You ever train here before?”
“No. Always..wanted to.” She hesitated. “Someone I knew—he wanted to bring me here. Mentor, long time ago.”
Duke glanced up at her again, something softer in his expression now. “Sounds like he was important.”
Chantal nodded, her eyes distant. “He taught me how to fight. How to survive.” Silence settled between them for a moment as Duke finished the last loop and secured the wrap.
“Well,” He said, giving her hand a light pat as he rose to his feet, “You’re wrapped and ready. Should hold up fine if you go at that bag the way you were earlier.” He said, giving the air some lady jab, causing Chantal to let out a small chuckle. She then flexed her fingers experimentally, nodding once in approval.
“Thanks.” She said quietly as she stood up from the bench.
“Anytime. And hey—if you feel like sparring, or if you want a trainer while you’re here, let me know. No pressure.”
She gave him a faint smile, small but real. “I might.” And her response let him know that she was just like that, short and simple answers to pretty much anything he had to say. She was naturally guarded. Duke smiled back at her. “No rush. This place’ll be here when you’re ready to decide.”
And with that, he left her alone with her thoughts, nothing but her and the bag.
Chantal let out a long sigh as she slipped her headphones back over her ears, the booming hum of bass surging into her bloodstream like a familiar drug before 50 cents voice came through. She returned to the bag without another word, rolling her shoulders loose before stepping into her stance. With her hands freshly wrapped, she moved with more purpose now—her jabs crisp, her footwork light and coiled, like a spring constantly threatening to snap. She danced around the bag like a pro, ducking and weaving, throwing uppercuts at shadows only she could see, landing clean three-piece combos like muscle memory had never left her.
She was in the zone. Locked in. Each hit a purge. Each hiss of breath through her clenched teeth a release. Every strike whispered of the lessons Armando Fuentes has taught her. Of The Bronx, of long nights with nothing but a jump rope and cold gym lights. She didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t even notice she was being watched.
But someone was.
In the ring, Sandra Alvarez—five-time world champion, undefeated, and cocky as ever—was barking at her sparring partner, who’d just taken a knee.
“Get up!” Sandra snapped, frustration boiling off her. “You’re weak! I don’t need this! I need a challenge, not a fucking warm-up!”
Her coach tried to say something, but she waved him off and turned at the sharp sound of fists and hisses echoing from the back of the gym. That’s when she saw her.
Chantal, in black leggings and a fitted tee, moving like the bag had personally offended her. Her technique was tight. Controlled. Angry. Powerful.
Sandra smirked.
“Aye!” She shouted, her voice slicing through the heavy air and silencing the gym in one instant.
Chantal halted, panting slightly as she pulled her headphones down to her neck, slightly frightened by the loud noise that cut through the gym. Her brows furrowed when she saw the woman pointing at her from the ring. She didn’t like being yelled at, especially not mid-round.
“Yeah?” She replied, wary, her voice clipped and a little awkward. All eyes were suddenly on her, and her fingers tightened on the wraps at her sides.
Sandra tilted her head, cocky smile widening. “What’s your name?”
The woman blinked, her eyes moving to the other that lingered in the building, now eyeing the twos “Chantal.” She said, lowering her fists.
“Yeah, I know,” Sandra replied with a nod , eyes still glued to her. There was something smug behind the statement, like she was waiting for a reaction. Chantal didn’t give her one. She simply rolled her eyes and went to put her headphones back on, uninterested in whatever performance Sandra was looking to start.
But Sandra wasn’t finished.
“Wanna spar?”
A hush rippled through the gym. Some people went back to training, but others stayed watching—Duke among them, leaning slightly forward now with interest. Even an older man from Sandra’s team, someone recognizable from TV, was squinting toward the back.
Chantal blinked, taken aback. She shook her head, quick and dismissive.
“Nah. I’m not a boxer.”
Sandra didn’t skip a beat. “I didn’t ask you that,” She shot back. “I asked if you wanted to spar.”
“And I said no.” Chantal snapped, her temper flickering at the edges. She was tired of the attention, the sudden challenge, the performance of it all.
Sandra scoffed and turned toward her corner, laughing with her coach and sparring partner. Then, just loud enough to carry, she muttered, “La perra tiene miedo.” They chuckled, assuming Chantal had tuned them out.
But she hadn’t.
The moment the words left Sandra’s mouth, Chantal froze. Her headphones never made it to her ears. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed as rage began to simmer up her spine. “What the fuck did you just say?” She asked, loud and sharp, ripping the headphones fully off and tossing them onto her bag.
The gym quieted again, the one that went back to their training pausing to look back at the commotion.
Sandra turned slowly, eyebrow raised, but didn’t respond fast enough for Chantal. She didn’t wait for her to respond before she marched toward the ring, venom in her voice, switching fluently into Spanish now. “¿Qué carajo dijiste de mí? ¿Ah? Repítelo, perra.”
Sandra and her crew stiffened, but said nothing. Sandra’s face flickered with surprise before she pulled on her smirk again. “You better watch who the fuck you’re talking to.” She shot down from the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes.
“No, you better watch your fucking mouth. I don’t fucking know you.” Chantal spat.
The heat between them intensified, voices rising with every second. They spoke over each other now, Spanish and English blending into a furious mess. Chantal’s fists were balled, her shoulders squared like she was ready to climb through the ropes, and Sandra leaned forward as if daring her to do it.
Before Sandra could even step down from the ring, Duke stepped in, moving away from the conversation he was having with the other Creed boxer.
“Alright—Alright!” He barked, stepping between them with his hands raised. “That’s enough!”
He turned to Chantal first. “Look, I know she talks slick, but this ain’t the place for it, alright?”
“She called me a bitch.” Chantal growled, her hard stare moving to the man now. “You better get her.”
“And you looked ready to fight about it—which I get.” He said quickly, cutting a look toward Sandra. “But no fights outside the ring. Y’all wanna settle this? Then do it with gloves. Otherwise, cut the noise.”
Sandra threw up her hands mockingly. “I said spar. She said no. Guess she is scared.”
Chantal’s nostrils flared as Duke gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t give into unless you plan on handling it.” He said low enough for only her to hear.
Chantal frowned as she huffed out of anger. She then glanced around and he was right. Pairs of eyes lingered on her, some amused, some stunned, others just curious. Even the bag she’d been working on seemed to pulse with the tension still radiating off her.
Chantal let out a sharp exhale through her nose, jaw tight.
“What’s it gonna be?” Duke asked, voice low but firm. Chantal didn’t answer right away—not with words, anyway. Her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth could’ve cracked. Her nostrils flared with every breath, each inhale hotter than the last. And her glare was almost loud. Loud enough to shake something loose in the gym’s atmosphere.
“Run it.” She hissed, her gaze locked on Sandra, who was now grinning down at her from inside the ring like a lion already tasting blood.
Duke gave her a long look. Not quite disapproval, but close—more like the reluctant resignation of a man who’d just agreed to light a match near gasoline. Still, he nodded, turning on his heel to get her corner ready.
Sandra was already peeling off her hoodie, bouncing in place as her coach tightened her gloves and handed her a mouthguard. She looked excited. Eager. Like she hadn’t had real competition in months.
While Duke moved to grab gear for Chantal, a voice came from behind him.
“Yo, D,” Adonis called out, making his way over with furrowed brows. “Are you sure about this?”
Duke didn’t look up. “Yeah, I’m sure. Sandra needs a fight.”
Adonis glanced toward the ring, then to Chantal, who was tightening her own gloves without a hint of hesitation before moving to get them paid up. “And you think this is it?” He asked, subtly gesturing at her, his tone low and unsure. Chantal didn’t react outwardly to the slight jab. Maybe because she didn’t blame him. She was a stranger—one who just stormed into their gym and challenged their top fighter out of pure spite. But it didn’t matter to her. She was angry. And nothing else existed outside of that.
“I mean—this is reckless, man.” He continued.
Duke didn’t even look up, didn’t pause in his movements as he taped her other hand. “Yeah, you would know, wouldn’t you?” He said dryly, voice hard-edged.
Adonis frowned. “Duke.”
“Adonis,” Duke fired back without missing a beat, finally standing to face him. They stared at each other for a long second. Not aggressive, but there was something tense and unspoken between them, a kind of mutual challenge layered beneath years of trust and respect. Neither one of them moved, as if deciding whether to press it or let it die.
Chantal, fed up with the testosterone-fueled standoff, scoffed loudly and shoved past both of them without a word. Her shoulder clipped Adonis’s arm as she walked by, but she didn’t apologize.
She had a ring to climb into.
With a practiced hop, Chantal pulled herself through the ropes and into the ring. The moment her feet hit the mat, something inside her shifted. The gear, the weight of the gloves, the feeling of the canvas beneath her soles—it all came rushing back like muscle memory waking from a long nap.
She started bouncing on her toes, loosening up her shoulders as her body fell into rhythm. She slapped her gloves together and hissed short breaths between her teeth as she threw jabs at the air, working up momentum like she was stoking a fire. Her eyes stayed on Sandra across the ring, but her focus was inward. That familiar flood of adrenaline was back, and it was delicious.
The gym watched in hushed anticipation.
“Aye!”
The shout snapped her head down toward the ropes. Adonis was standing just below, holding a padded vest in one hand.
“At least put this on.” He said, not unkindly. His eyes were serious, but there was no trace of the earlier doubt in his voice. Chantal’s jaw ticked. For a second, she didn’t move. Just stared at him, letting the weight of her glare settle.
Then, with a sharp exhale, she slid back out of the ring.
Adonis met her halfway, pulling the vest over her head and strapping it tight across her back. His hands moved with focus, quick and efficient. And though he was clearly trying to stay professional, Chantal’s eyes never left his face—sharp, unreadable, almost daring him to look up. When he finally did, their eyes locked for a second. Just a second. But it was enough for something to pass between them—respect, maybe, or understanding. It didn’t linger long.
Chantal pulled away and slid back into the ring without another word. Though she couldn’t help but to think about how good he looked,
The crowd in the gym seemed to lean in as she rolled her shoulders, fists clenched and ready. She smacked her gloves together again before.
Then the bell rang.
Not an official one—just the sharp clang of Duke’s whistle echoing across the gym like the start of a war. The entire room tensed. All eyes locked on the ring as Chantal and Sandra stepped forward from opposite corners, gloves raised, shoulders tight, heads low. There was no friendly touch of gloves, no nod of respect. This wasn’t sport. It was a grudge match.
From the jump, Sandra made her experience known. Her guard was solid, elbows tight, and her footwork steady and grounded. Her movements were calculated—compact hooks, efficient slips, sharp uppercuts that came with professional precision. But Chantal was lightning. Unpredictable. Her fists moved like flickers of flame, and her body flowed with a rhythm not taught but earned. Something one can only be born with, or started young,
The first official hit came from Sandra—a tight left hook that caught Chantal’s temple. It sent her stumbling half a step, and the gym gasped.
“¡Vamos, Sandra!” Her coach shouted from the corner. “¡Enséñale quién manda!” Come on, Sandra! Show her who’s boss!
But Chantal only grinned, blood rising like heat beneath her skin. Her rebuttal came fast—a one-two combo that rocked Sandra’s jaw and gut, forcing her backward.
“She fast.” Adonis muttered under his breath, arm folded tightly as he watched from ringside.
“Yeah.” Duke replied, eyes never leaving the ring. “And mad.”
Sandra threw a looping overhand right, but Chantal ducked, slid inside, and landed a jab clean to the ribs.
“Is that all you got?” Chantal barked.
Sandra answered with a grunt that spit some blood through her mouth guard and a punch to the mouth that snapped Chantal’s head back.
“¡Te voy a tumbar, perra!” Sandra snarled. I’m gonna knock you down, bitch!
“You can try.” Chantal spat through her mouthguard, tasting the metallic liquid her mouth. “But you better swing harder than that, mama.” She taunted. The gym roared with each exchange. The air was electric, thick with sweat, adrenaline, and mounting tension. Sandra’s corner yelled commands, rapid-fire in Spanish, while Duke’s voice boomed over everyone else’s. “Guard up, Chantal! Don’t admire your work!” He yelled.
Adonis leaned closer to the ropes, eyes wide. “Watch the left! She’s loading it!”
But Chantal didn’t need to be told anything. She was already shifting her weight, bobbing just out of reach, her eyes sharp and predatory. Her counters came quicker now—three jabs in a row, each one tagging Sandra’s face with vicious precision. Left cheek. Chin. Nose. The sound of leather hitting flesh echoed like gunfire in the gym.
Sandra’s steps began to falter.
Chantal’s feet never stopped moving. Light but rooted, springy but deadly. She ducked a wild haymaker and punished the woman with another barrage—jab, jab, hook, jab—all to the face.
“¡Cúbrete, Sandra! ¡La cara!” Her coach screamed. Cover your face!
But it was too late. Chantal was relentless now, her gloves dancing like knives across Sandra. “You tired already?” She taunted, voice rising over the noise. “I thought you was bad, huh? ¡Pensé que no podía pelear!” I thought I couldn’t fight!
Sandra staggered back, clutching at her busted lip, face red and wet. Blood smeared along her glove.
“Get up!” Chantal screamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, circling like a lion. Her eyes blazed, fists twitching. “Get up!” The gym fell into stunned silence as Sandra slowly rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove. She squared her stance again, fists up, breathing heavy.
“Alright, come on then, bitch—” Sandra started, but she never fully finished.
Chantal snapped forward and delivered a straight shot to the face—clean, fast, and full of fury. Sandra’s head whipped back as her body flung into the ropes, collapsing like a ragdoll. The impact sent a shock through the gym.
“And stay down.” Chantal hissed through her teeth, chest heaving.
Sandra groaned on the mat, face twisted in pain. Her coach vaulted onto the apron, shouting, “¡Mierda! ¡Esto es una locura!” Shit! This is insane! Others in her corner erupted in fury.
“You let that animal in the ring?!” One shouted at Duke, voice shrill.
“Y’all crazy for letting this happen!” Another yelled, pointing fingers. “She ain’t even licensed, Duke!”
But Chantal didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She spat her mouthguard into her glove and dropped her arms, walking to the ropes with a searing glare. Her teeth clamped down on the tape at her wrists as she tore it free with furious yanks, ripping her gloves off as she eased out of the ring. The vest hit the matted floor with a thud as she tossed it aside, chest still rising and falling like she’d run through fire.
Duke took a step toward her as she moved to leave. “Chantal—”
Adonis followed. “Yo, hold up—”
But she was already gone. She brushed past both men without a glance, her fists clenched tight by her sides. No one in the gym tried to stop her. No one dared. Most were too focused on the beating she’d just delivered. She made it to her side of the gym, grabbed her bag with one hand, and slung it over her shoulder with the other. Her body moved like a storm—tight, unyielding, vibrating with leftover heat. Duke called after her. Adonis too. But Chantal didn’t even slow down.
The front door of the gym closed shut behind her as she marched out into the street, her car parked across from the building. Still breathless. Still burning.
But for the first time all day—Chantal felt alive.
@j0joworld @vile-harlot @inkdrippeddreams @imsohappyilovekbop @bbymuthaaa @healthenature @susanhill @lucidaquarian
tiktok credits: @umikoaep
funny story real quick when i went to go see this movie with my ex boyfriend (my boyfriend at the time) we went to go see creed 3 with my best friend, and me and my friend were damn near DROOLINGG looking at MBJ and i was making comments and after we left he got mad at me for looking 😭🧍🏾♀️
Creed III BTS - Tessa x Mike
𝕽𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊 | 𝖕𝖙. 1
𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 ➛ Michael B Jordan as Adonis Creed x Black!Plus-sized Reader
𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 ➛ Smut
𝔣𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔪 ➛ Creed
𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 ➛3.4k
𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ➛A chance encounter between you and Adonis at a label party turns into a passionate and intense romantic night.
𝔞/𝔫 ➛Guys, guys, GUYSSSSSS!!! Y'all are gonna love this one, I'M TELLING YOU! You won't be disappointed.
Next Part
My heels click loudly as I make my way into a large bustling event. I had been invited by my best friend, Bianca to attend the label party she set up for one of her artists. As I walk in, my heart races with excitement as the buzz of the crowd fills my ears. I had been to a few of these exclusive events before and I knew how to dress the part. I'm dressed to impress, my black dress hugging my curvy frame and accentuating my hips. My hair, curled to perfection, falls gently onto my shoulders, and my red purse adds a touch of sophistication to my look.
I feel a buzz from my phone and smile, seeing a text pop up.
"Someone's looking sexy," It reads and I see that it's from Bianca. I scan around the room, looking for her as she's already spotted me. When we make eye contact, I smile and make my way over. She smiles at me and gives me a big hug, which I return.
"I'm so glad you made it!" She tells me as we part.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, B. Besides I'm always down to support my bestie." I reply with a wink, causing Bianca to chuckle.
"You sure you not just tryna steal the show?" She questions playfully as she raises an eyebrow. I giggle and shake my head.
"No way, girl. I just threw something on that I thought would match the theme." I assure her but she purses her lips.
"Really? Cus from what I'm seeing all that ass is getting more attention than my artist." She says, gesturing to my outfit and the way it complements my body. I nudge her shoulder.
"Girl, whatever! That is not true." We share a laugh and I shake my head.
"Anyways, make yourself at home. There's an open bar and, you know, just enjoy yourself. I gotta go talk to these producers real quick." Bianca takes my hand and gives it a squeeze before letting go and walking over to do some networking. I sigh a bit, rubbing my glossy lips together as I look around for anyone familiar.
I'd always been a bit shy, but there's something about being in a room full of celebrities that makes me feel like I'm living a dream. I smooth out my skirt as I weave between people, smiling politely at acquaintances. That's when I see him - Adonis Creed, a famous boxer. I've been a fan of his for a while and, I must say, he's even more breathtaking in person. His brown skin gleams under the warm lights, his goatee and large stud earrings giving him a rugged yet sophisticated edge. And those dimples? Those lips? They can make anyone weak at the knees.
I realize I've been staring when our eyes meet and he holds my gaze for a moment. A smile tugs at his lips and I have to look away quickly to hide the blush that is forming.
As the evening progresses, I find myself crossing paths with him a few times. He'd always give me a charming smile and I'd smile politely back, before going back to what I was doing. Each encounter only serves to leave me feeling more intrigued and attracted to him.
I decide to get a drink from the bar and as I order from the bartender, someone appears next to me.
"I'll have what she's having." He says and I look up to see Adonis. I clear my throat nervously and I smile politely at him as I shift in my seat. He smiles back, taking in the way I cross my legs, my movements effortless and sexy. The heat starts to rise in my cheeks as I feel his eyes on me. "I gotta say," He starts, leaning against the bar. "You killing with that outfit." I meet his eyes once more and smile at the flattery.
"Thank you, glad to know my efforts haven't gone unnoticed," I reply as the bartender hands me my drink. I thank him and then look back at Adonis.
"Yeah, you caught my eye from across the room. But I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you before. What's your name?" He inquires, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel a blush creeping onto my face as I take a sip from my drink for courage.
"Y/N. It's nice to meet you." I introduce myself, holding my hand out. He takes my hand in his, giving it a gentle shake before lifting it to his lips and landing a soft kiss on my knuckles.
"The pleasure's all mine, Y/N. I'm Donnie." He replies, his grip on my hand lingering for a bit before letting go. The action sends butterflies through my body. "You a friend of Bianca's?" He asks.
"Yeah, her best friend, actually," I say with a chuckle, taking another sip of my drink and feeling the warmth rise through my chest. Adonis raises an eyebrow in pleasant surprise.
"I thought your name sounded familiar," He says with a smile, his eyes studying my face. "She mentioned you a few times. Said you were important to her." His gaze roams over me, enjoying how the alcohol visibly loosens me up.
"Really? That's sweet. I never knew she talked about me to other people." I hide a bashful smile, appreciating my friendship with the producer.
"Although, I've gotta admit, her descriptions of you don't do you justice at all." The compliment rolls off of his tongue easily, but it's clear he means every word. I find myself blushing again and laughing softly as I look away. There's an undeniable spark between us and, as we speak, my shy nature seems to dissipate. We find ourselves engaging in witty banter, my lips curling into a smile as I match his flirty tone.
"So, you a fan of boxing, gorgeous?" Donnie asks, leaning a little closer, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes seem to see right through me and I get the sense that he's just as interested in me as I am in him.
"Maybe," I reply with a playful grin, enjoying the game of cat and mouse. "It depends on the boxer," I say with a shrug.
"Ah," Donnie shoots back with a wry smile, leaning in even closer. "You've got a type, I see. Let me guess, you're probably into those pretty-boy fighters, the ones who don't get their hands dirty. Guys like Ryan Garcia, maybe?" I tilt my head as if I'm thinking.
"Hmm, no not really. I'm more into the dangerous ones." I say, my eyes locking on his. A wolfish grin spreads across Donnie's lips as I share my preference.
"Ah, so you're after someone who can bring the heat, huh? Someone who gives you that flutter in your chest just by being near them." A pause as Donnie lifts his drink to his lips. "You're not afraid to mix it up and get your hands dirty?" I raise an eyebrow, biting my lip slightly.
"I think getting dirty is part of the fun," I tell him with a knowing smirk.
"Oh, I can promise you, it always is," Donnie replies, his voice low and husky. Our eyes lock, the air between us feeling charged with a heat that wasn't there before. "But be careful, gorgeous," he adds. "Some games can end in a brutal knockout."
"Really? Well, good thing I'm always up for a challenge." A mischievous glint appears in Donnie's eyes as he leans even closer.
"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Donnie muses, his gaze flickering with a predatory flash. We talk for a bit longer, flirting back and forth until the party eventually draws to a close. I find myself unable to resist the pull between us. With a boldness that surprises even me, I approach him, my heart pounding in my chest.
"So, Donnie," I begin, my voice having a suggestive edge, "are you going to ask for my number, or do I have to make the first move?" A flash of desire crosses his face, and he steps closer, his body radiating heat.
"I think we can skip the whole dating game charade," he murmurs, his lips inches from my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Why don't you come back to my place? I'll show you why they call me Big D." My breath quickens as I slowly nod, unable to speak past the lump of desire in my throat. Taking his hand, I let him lead me out of the event and into the night, a delicious anticipation building inside me.
The ride to his place is a blur of streetlights and adrenaline, my body tingling with eagerness. As soon as the door to his home shuts behind me, Donnie presses me up against it, his lips claiming mine in a passionate kiss. I melt into him, my hands roaming over his muscular back, feeling the definition of his powerful body.
His hands find my curves effortlessly, his touch a perfect balance of firmness and gentleness. My body presses against his as my hands caress his jaw and neck, the stubble on his face tickling my skin.
"Damn," Donnie curses under his breath as he pulls away briefly, his lips moving to explore the expanse of my neck. Each kiss leaves fire in its wake and I let out a soft moan, my eyes fluttering shut in bliss.
Breaking the kiss, he looks deeply into my eyes, running his thumb along my bottom lip. Our lips crash together sloppily as I tug at his shirt impatiently.
"Eager, are we now?" Donnie teases, his breath warm against my neck. He gently pushes my hands away and lifts his shirt, revealing chiseled abs and a defined chest. I trace the ridges of his muscles with my fingertips, feeling every contour, every line. I feel like I'm dreaming, but the heat of his body and the taste of his lust on my tongue are all too real.
He lifts me into his arms and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist. I feel small in his embrace, but also protected. The way he easily carries my weight and holds me, all while showering my neck with kisses, sends tingles through me. I moan softly, tilting my head to give him better access as my hand rests on the back of his head, my acrylics grazing his scalp. Donnie brings my lips to his once more, sucking on my bottom lip slightly. He carries me into the bedroom, never once breaking the kiss, and lays me down on the edge of the bed.
Donnie's hands slide down my body, tracing the curves of my thighs and legs as he gently slips my heels off. His hands travel up my back his fingers finding the zipper of my dress, slowly pulling it down.
I lift my hips to help him undress me, a playful thrill coursing through me as I expose myself to his hungry gaze. He strips away my clothing until the only thing left are my lacy panties. His eyes rake over my body, taking in every curve, roll, and stretch mark, before returning to my face, the fire in his eyes searing me to my core. He leans down, cupping my breasts and taking my sensitive nipple in his mouth, teasing it with his teeth as I whimper from the pleasure. He kisses the soft skin tenderly, before trailing his finger along my jaw, ghosting over my lower lip as I look up at him.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispers, kneeling before me and guiding my legs over his shoulders. His fingers run along my outer thighs as he presses a kiss to the damp fabric between my legs, his touch leaving goosebumps in their path. I bite my lip, watching him gaze upon me in a mix of awe and lust. "I've been dying to taste you all night."
A ripple of excitement runs through me as his eyes burn with desire. He pulls my panties off, discarding them somewhere in the room. Without another word, he lowers his head, his tongue lapping at my core, flicking my clit and driving me wild.
A strangled moan escapes my lips as his mouth sends shockwaves of pleasure through my body. His talented tongue works me over relentlessly, every lick and suck driving me wild with want. My hips buck against his face as I lose myself in the sensations, my hands on the back of his head, pressing him closer.
"Donnie~" I pant breathlessly, aching for more. A low growl rumbles in Adonis's throat as he hears his name fall from my lips.
"That's right, mama," He breaths against my slick folds, sending tingles through my core. His grip on my thighs tightens as he resumes his devouring assault, his tongue lapping and swirling with unyielding hunger. I can feel the vibrations of his moans against my sensitive skin, causing my back to arch off the bed slightly.
A wicked grin spreads across Donnie's face as he feels my body react to his stimulation. He sucks and swirls his tongue around my clit, intent on driving me wild with pleasure. My hands grip the sheets, fueling his desire as he moans against my core. Donnie's strong hands firmly hold me in place as I squirm beneath his grasp.
"Oh god, I'm so close~" I moan as I throw my head back, rolling my hips. Sensing my impending release, Adonis doubles down, his tongue working my swollen bundle of nerves with ruthless precision as he pushes me closer and closer to the edge. My thighs tremble against his grip as I feel my climax rising to the surface. With one final flick of his tongue, he sends me hurtling over the peak into a crashing wave of ecstasy.
My body tenses as my thighs grip his head, holding him in place as I come undone. Adonis laps up every last drop of my sweet nectar, groaning with unbridled satisfaction. When my tremors finally subside, he slowly pulls back, his lips glistening as he lightly kisses my inner thigh.
"You taste so good, babygirl," he purrs, his voice dripping with lust. I pant heavily as I start to calm down, my racing heart beginning to slow. I whimper softly as he moves up my body, pressing his hardness against my thigh.
Adonis's eyes darken with desire as he hears my whimpers and he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over my lips.
"Don't worry, gorgeous. I'm just getting started." His fingers trail up my outer thigh, his touch feather-light but electrifying. "I'm gonna make you feel so good," he whispers before capturing my mouth in a searing, passionate kiss.
My arms wrap around Donnie's neck as I whine into the kiss, tasting myself on his tongue and aching to feel him inside me. He teases me, grinding his clothed cock against my entrance, soaking the fabric. A groan emits from his throat as the delicious friction drives him wild with need. He pulls back just enough to swiftly rid himself of his remaining clothes.
Donnie's cock springs free, thick and throbbing as he positions himself at my entrance. "You feel that, baby?" He rasps, rubbing the tip teasingly against my slick folds.
"Yes-" I gasp as he prods my hole, just barely pushing in before pulling back again. I roll my hips to try and press you deeper, but you don't budge.
"Someone's impatient." He taunts, eliciting a whine from me.
"Please~" I beg, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment at how desperate I sound. A chuckle escapes him as he continues to tease me with his cock.
"Say it again," he demands, drawing his lower plump lip between his teeth while pressing into my heat, only allowing the tip to enter. I grunt with frustration.
"Please, Donnie," I whisper, my voice thick with desire. "I need you. Now." Without warning, he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a moan of ecstasy. I let out a yelp as I stretch around him, feeling his dick pressing against my cervix. Adonis's eyes widen as he feels me tighten around his hard length.
"Fuck, you're so goddamn tight," he growls, his fingers digging into my hips. Slowly, he begins to rock his hips, establishing a deep and steady rhythm as he fills me over and over.
"Oh my god- So big~" I manage to say between moans. I meet his thrusts, my legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. My long nails dig into his back, threatening to break, but I don't care. I groan as he fills me up completely, stretching me just barely past my limit.
Adonis's eyes flash with lust as I cry out, relishing the feel of every inch of him buried inside me. He groans throatily, driven wild by the sensations of my silky walls clenching around his throbbing length.
"That's right, take it all," he rasps, his hips rolling in a steady, punishing rhythm. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me flush against him as his lips claim mine again. My tongue swirls around his as I pull him impossibly closer, my body melting against his. The kiss becomes more possessive Donni's large hands roam my body.
He tears his mouth from mine only to latch onto my neck as he starts rolling his hips against mine, nipping and sucking at the delicate skin. He uses one hand to turn my neck, exposing more of my skin, and the other to capture my nipple in his fingers, rolling the sensitive peak between his digits. His hips increase to a relentless pace, driving his thick shaft in and out repeatedly. The obscene sounds of our joined bodies fill the air, only rivaled by my mewls of pleasure.
"Fuck, I'm gonna wreck you." He whispers against my skin, his voice hoarse as the force of his thrust urges another moan out of me.
"Mhm, yes please f-" My breath hitches, unable to finish my sentence as he picks up speed. He shifts his weight to his knees, leaning his head back as his cock slams deliciously into my core. Donnie's powerful hips snap forward with relentless abandon, the bed creaking under our combined weight.
I press my hands to the headboard behind me for support as the force of his thrusts move me further up the bed. I look up at Adonis, but his eyes are screwed shut, his brows knitted together and jaw clenched as every muscle in his sculpted body strains with the effort. My whimpers and moans mutate into screams of pleasure as he chases his own release, his thrusts growing more erratic.
"Don- nie-" My words are stuttered as my brain turns to mush from his movements, his hands grip my hips bruisingly tight as he pounds into me, desperate to find his edge.
"Yeah, that's it, baby. Let me feel that sweet pussy milk my dick." He urges, his voice hoarse. His words send me over the edge, my body clenching around him as I climax, my back arching off the bed as a flood rushes from between my legs. I let out a whine as he continues to thrust, splashing my fluids back onto me as the feeling of me tightening around him sends him over the edge as well.
A strangled cry of pleasure tears from his throat as his hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he is enveloped in the throes of his own climax. He collapses forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body shudders with the intensity of his release. Waves of blissful ecstasy washes over us, every nerve ending alight with sensation. When the tremors finally cease, he rolls to the side, pulling me flush against his sweat-slicked body.
"Damn, baby..." he breaths, placing a tender kiss on my forehead.
"That was... fuck, I don't even have the words." I reply softly as my cheek rests against his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat slowing. Adonis chuckles breathlessly, his strong arms wrapped securely around me.
"Tell me about it. That was..." He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief. I smile to myself as we lie there in bed, basking in the bliss of our pleasure. At this moment, nothing else matters. It's just me and Adonis. Just two strangers, yet it feels like he knows every part of me. I sigh contently, feeling the lull of sleep falling over me.
Princess’s Punishment (MBJ x Reader)
A/N: I didn’t have the energy to go back and find the two asks lol but this is a request from two folks for a kinky punishment story with. So enjoyyyy!
Warnings: degradation, name calling, NSFW, lots of kinks (spanking, cockwarming, etc)
***
“What do you think?” You gave her fiancee a model-like twirl so he could examine your outfit from all angles.
Michael glanced up from his phone and the email he was typing, letting out a low whistle as his eyes swept over your perfect frame.
“That dress gon’ get you into trouble, Princess.”
You threw him a coy smile before turning back to the giant mirror in the middle of the store. You were the only customer there, Michael preferring to reserve stores for an hour or two so you could have a private and serene shopping experience. It ensured everyone in the store was solely dedicated to getting you exactly what you needed and wanted. Most stores happily obliged, knowing that anytime Michael brought his princess in, the limit on his card was nonexistent. Today was no different.
“That looks great on you,” a man offered as he emerged from the back of the store. His dreads were neatly pulled back out of his face. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, the exact type of man who would have once turned your head before you met Michael, the love of your life. But no one compared to the literal sexiest man alive in your eyes and that was a fact.
You had never seen him in the store before but when the woman you typically worked with didn’t return, you realized he would be assisting you.
“Hope you don’t mind. Jenn had a family emergency. I’m Marcus,” he reached out to shake your hm which you accepted with a bright smile.
“Nice to meet you. Y/N,” you introduced yourself before turning back to the mirror, your hands running over the luxuriously soft material that hugged your curves. “Not sure this is the most flattering though.”
“I have another dress in the back, we just got it in. Similar to this one but it’s perfect for you. Will be far more flattering. A body like that… you should show it off.”
You did not pick up on the obvious flirting in his tone, particularly as that was the farthest thing from your mind. You merely nodded with a smile. “Thank you. That would be great. Can’t wait to see it.”
“I’ll bring that and a couple other pieces. We technically aren’t supposed to show them yet but for a friend,” he winked at you. “I can bend a few rules.”
“Really??” You were merely excited about getting an advanced look at your favorite store’s new pieces.
“Of course. Be right back.”
“Thank you!” You watched him for a few moments as he walked away before turning to Michael whose face was set in a scowl. “Everyone here’s so nice all the time.”
“That nigga’s nice cause he wants to fuck you,” Michael grumbled, his tone signaling that he was not as pleased with the service as you.”
Your jaw fell open before you laughed at the absurdity of the idea. Men rarely flirted with you, if ever. “Come on, baby. Don’t be silly. He wants us to spend money, likely to make his commission better so he’s just being extra complimentary.”
“Nahhh, I watched him basically undress you with his fuckin’ eyes, Princess. Besides, I’m the one payin’ and nigga didn’t say shit to me. Acted like I’m not even here. I don’t like him.”
You merely laughed, clearly not realizing that Michael was genuinely upset with the salesman. “Aww my grumpy baby. You don’t like anyone,” you teased before disappearing into your dressing room to try on more outfits.
Outfit after outfit, you pranced around for your boyfriend and gave him a fashion show. He was thoroughly unhelpful as he loved 95% of the items you tried on and refused to help you narrow down the massive stack of clothes. Anytime you went shopping, he thought you should buy everything you remotely liked, even if you had one exactly like it in the closet at home.
“What do you think? Don’t need both black dresses,” you muttered more to yourself than either man in the room.
“You look perfect in both. Just get both.”
“Not helpful, babe!”
“I think you should get the one you have on. Shows off your body better.”
“You commentin’ on her body a lil too much, my nigga,” Michael called out, clearly frustrated by Marcus’ innocent compliments toward you as you finished trying on clothes.
“Michael!” You whipped your head around in shock at his rudeness. “Sorry, he gets very grumpy when we’ve been shopping too long.”
“No apologies needed,” he raised his hands in surrender before making an excuse to go to the back of the store to get her something else.
You scoffed once he was gone, you and Michael having a silent standoff.
“That was hella rude,” you chastised him.
Michael merely shrugged “Hella rude for him to openly flirt with my girl in front of me. He bold enough for that shit, he’s bold enough to take the heat.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Nah and what were you doin’? Flirting back with that nigga.”
You let out a laugh at the absurdity of that statement. “Flirting back?? It’s called being nice. I only got eyes for one, very jealous man.”
And with that, you disappeared back into the changing room to put back on your real clothes. You could not understand what was up with Michael as of late. He seemed to be so much more jealous than he used to be lately, snapping or glaring at any man who got too close or talked to you for too long. He had done the same thing at a premiere just last week. You had chalked the first couple times up to him having a bad day but now you wondered if something else was wrong.
“You ok?” You asked as you both patiently waited for Marcus to package your mountain of clothes and accessories.
His eyebrow was furrowed with an angry expression on his face. Still packing most of the weight of Erik Killmonger, he looked intimidating to say the least. But you did not understand what he could be that upset about, nothing had even happened.
He did not answer you, merely handing Marcus his card to finish paying.
“Need help getting these to your car?” Marcus asked, his hands already preparing to grab the heavy garment bags and smaller shopping bags
“That would be g-” you started to say when Michael immediately cut you off.
“Nah we got it.” His short tone made you cringe slightly, Marcus’s face blanching at the rudeness of it.
He gestured for his security to pick up the bags and grabbed the rest himself before gesturing for you to exit the store. You merely offered a polite thank you before following him out of the store.
***
As soon as you walked into the house, you started up the stairs to put your new items in their proper spots when he stopped you.
“Princess!”
“What’s up, babe?”
His tone and face looked almost bored as he scrolled on his phone. “When you’re done, assume the position by the counter.”
Your eyes grew wide with surprise. Assume the position was a clear directive in the Jordan household, one that let you know the relaxing evening you had planned was not going to happen. A sign that you had upset your master, and thus, must be punished.
“What did I do??” The logical part of your brain was well aware he was not going to tell you. If your infraction was not obvious, he rarely told you what it was until the punishment had started. But as you racked your brain, you could not understand what on Earth you did to upset him. You had a really nice day together and aside from the weird interaction with the sales associate, he seemed fine. Then it clicked in your brain.
His jealous streak seemed to not have ended earlier, after all.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. 10 minutes.”
He did not spare you another glance before he disappeared toward the living room, leaving you gawking after him on the stairwell.
“Fuck my life,” you muttered as you raced up the stairs. You completely disregarded your original mission of putting your clothes away, you did not have time for that.
Instead, you stripped down to nothing and pulled your braids out of their high ponytail. You went to your drawer and pulled out the various things you knew were required: your collar and leash, nipple clamps, flogger, blindfold, and ball gag. He did not always use them all and sometimes he used none of them. But that was another thing for him to know and you to find out.
You descended down the stairs, your entire body almost floating with anticipation. You knew whatever he had planned would be the most delicious form of torture and that he would fuck you senseless once you begged for his forgiveness enough.
Michael was leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone as he waited. Ingredients for dinner laid out on the counter.
“Thinkin’ short ribs for dinner. Cool?” He asked, his voice completely calm and normal despite what you knew was about to happen. The sweet, doting finace who cared what you wanted for dinner would disappear and a new persona would take over.
“Sounds good. Thanks, babe.”
“You ready, Princess?” he asked, checking in as he always did before an intense punishment or scene, which you always appreciated. They were punishments but they were supposed to be pleasurable, in a way, for you too.
“Yes, daddy,” you answered immediately, handing him all the toys you brought with you before sinking down to your knees before him. You spread your legs just enough for your flower to be on display for him, already wet and aching for his rough touch in the mere minutes he left you. The chill of the house caused the hair on your arms to stick up but you ignored it, things would heat up in a few minutes.
You wanted to smirk as you watched his eyes cloud with lust but you kept your face neutral. Michael was gone and your master stood in front of you. And his perfect, submissive fuck toy replaced you, designed and ready for whatever pain or pleasure he was generous enough to offer. And the growing ache between your thighs revealed a simple truth: you loved every single second of being his slut.
Your eyes remained trained on the wood panels of the kitchen floor as he silently studied you. The minutes stretched on and on at an agonizing pace but you did not lift your head or move an inch. However, you could not stop the little sigh of relief that passed your lips when you finally saw his feet come into your line of vision.
His hand wrapped around your throat, your mouth falling open with a small moan as he squeezed. It was not hard, just enough to let you know he was there. More, you wanted to beg. That was the problem, it did not matter what he did. You just wanted more of it and more of him. You were so addicted to the drug that was Michael, it felt like a lifetime supply would not even be enough.
His hand forced your head upward so you were looking directly into his expressive brown eyes, your favorite part of him. This position could have had you cumming right then.
All you could think about was how good it felt to have his hand squeezing your throat while you rode his dick. The mere memory made your pussy clench. But that was not in the cards for you… not yet anyway.
“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” He knew everything about his little fuck toy, exactly what his Princess wanted and needed. And there was not a man alive who knew it better. “Such an eager fuck toy for me. That’s why you were tryin’ on all those slutty clothes today? Think you’d get my attention and I’d come back here and fuck you like the attention-seeking whore you are?” He asked as he let go of your throat, much to your sadness, and started circling you. A predator sizing up his prey, indeed.
You were not foolish enough to answer a single question he levied, they were rhetorical.
“But I wasn’t the only man whose attention you got. Bet you loved that shit too… his hands on you fixing your outfits, complimenting you. Flirting with him, accepting his help right in front of your master. I should’ve fucked you right there in front of him to remind you that there’s only one man whose attention you should want.”
The thought of that made your head spin. Him forcing you to your knees in the dressing room, fucking you from behind, claiming you and your body loudly for every person to hear.
He gently put your collar around your neck, the fur lining made it more comfortable than it would have been otherwise. It was custom, Princess Y/N, embroidered on it.
“Too tight?” he asked as he attached the leash to it.
“No master,” you muttered.
“Good.”
He tugged on it, forcing you in step behind him. You bit back the moans this caused, him walking you around your living room and kitchen for a few minutes. He knew how much you loved to crawl behind him. It was clear he was trying to ramp you up as much as possible before the punishment truly started. And it was working perfectly.
By the time you returned to the spot you started at in the kitchen, your knees in pain from the hardwood floor, your body was screaming for his touch. Your core felt painfully empty, you were desperate to feel him on you, inside you. He slid the blindfold over your eyes.
You whimpered for a moment at the sudden loss of sight, sensory deprivation was a new game for you both and you were still getting used to it.
“Say the word and the blindfold can come off, Princess,” he whispered. At your nods, he continued. “Face down, ass up. Legs spread. Don’t move a muscle.”
You adjusted yourself to assume his favorite position. You hissed as your upper body laid against the cool kitchen floor but you made sure the arch in your back was perfect, your ass perched high in the air. Your legs were spread enough for him to see the glistening mess coating your inner thighs.
“You disgustin’ cum slut. Crawlin’ like a whore made you that wet?” He degraded you, making your entire body shudder as his hands caressed your ass.
“Yes daddy,” you breathed out, your brain already losing the ability to fully form words. The fog of pleasure was already heavy and he had not even started. “I-I’m sorry.”
You tensed up sightly, knowing that when you least expected it, his caresses would turn into sharp blows that would make you cry out. However, just as quickly as he started touching you, he stopped. You could not feel his presence around you at all. You had not been given permission to move and you could not see him. You could not even sense where he was anymore.
Had he left you there? Naked and unable to move like a statue? After a few moments, you heard soft footsteps not far away, causing you to exhale slightly. He was still hovering around.
Minutes passed by, slower than you thought time could move, as he just left you there without a single touch or word. But you followed directions, your legs would literally collapse before you moved a muscle.
Your mind raced to understand why he was not punishing you. And after about 15 minutes of utter silence except for the sounds of him cooking, you longed for it. The sting of his palm, the fire of the flogger against your ass, your thighs, your back, literally anywhere at this point. But there was nothing. This was more of a punishment than the spanking. If you had been given permission to speak, you would have begged for your own torture at this point, would have begged for as many lashings as he felt you deserved for being such a shameless whore. But you could do nothing, nothing but sit with shaking legs in your disorienting haze of pleasure until he decided that you were worth even doling out a punishment on.
It was clear to you why he chose that particular spot, a spot you knew was visible to him regardless of where he stood in the kitchen. You were on display.
At that realization, you deepened the arch in your back to something you didn't even know was possible. You had to force yourself not to wiggle your ass in his face, entice him to light it on fire with his strength.
“Couldn’t even last 15 minutes without daddy’s attention, could you?” You were not sure if you were allowed to answer. “You may speak, Princess.”
“D-daddy pl-please…” you begged.
“Didn’t seem to care about me earlier. Why should I give you attention now?”
“B-Because… I need…” your words failed you. You needed so much in that moment. You needed the pain, you needed the pleasure it brought, you needed to be reminded what you were and whose you were.
“You need what? Need me to make you cum? You’ll be grateful if I let you cum at all tonight. Need me to fuck you like the cumslut you are? Not sure you deserve my dick. Or you need me to remind you what happens to disobedient fuck toys who anger their masters? Need me to remind you who owns you?”
“Y-Yes! P-Please… I d-deserve to be punished. I n-need it.” The words barely left your lips before you felt the first blow of the flogger against your ass. “T-Thank you,” you moan, savoring the sting and ache it left behind.
However, you could not savor it long as he rained them down on every inch of your ass and thighs and a couple well-placed agonizing ones against your pussy that made you scream. You kept count, as was already required.
“Keep your legs open, slut or I’ll add five more,” he demanded as your entire body convulsed as the flogger caught part of your clit. You forced your body to maintain the position, which took all your willpower. And to think, you begged for this.
Tears were streaming down your face when he reached 29. That was the most he had ever done with the flogger as it was more painful than his hand and it was torture. However, you took it, the desire to use your safeword never coming to your mind. You would not be able to sit tomorrow but your entire body was on fire, hot, sweaty and desperate for him to fuck the shit out of you.
When you finally said 30, you were proud of yourself for taking all of it like a champ.
“That’s a good slut. You should see your ass right now,” he muttered. “So beautiful.” You could only imagine your entire body was completely red and you could feel a couple welts from where he punished you in the same spot over and over again. “You may sit up.”
You whimpered as you stretched and moved out of your position, your muscles protesting. As you sat up, his hand cupped your cheek and wiped away the few falling tears.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
“No sir. T-thank you for r-reminding me what I am,” you whisper.
He helped you to your feet, your legs shaking slightly.
“Let’s watch somethin’ on the tv. Short ribs are slow cookin’.”
Despite the pain in your body, you could not help but smile. This was what made the punishments worth it, this moment. You were happy he let you walk to the couch, giving you a chance to stretch your legs. You stood and watched, licking your lips as he stripped off his clothes before sitting down, his head dripping with pre-cum that made you want to sink to your knees and steal a taste. You licked your lips, longing clearly written on your face that made Michael want to chuckle. He knew how much his Princess loved servicing him on your knees.
“Don’t even think about it. Worthless cunts who can’t remember who they belong to don’t get a taste. Why?”
“Because servicing you is a reward and I don’t deserve a reward, daddy,” you mumbled quietly, your voice just as lost and pitiful as you felt. This was the point of punishment though because all you now wanted to do was assure him you were his perfect, obedient princess so you could be rewarded.
“Good girl. Earn my forgiveness and maybe I’ll fuck that sweet mouth before bed tonight. Now for your punishment…”
Your eyes grew wide. The last 30 minutes had not been the punishment??
Fuck my life.
“Climb up here and sit on my dick. Facing the tv.”
You practically catapulted onto his dick without hesitation. Not just because good girls did what they were told without hesitation but because this was your type of punishment. RIding his dick was your favorite pastime.
You slid down on his hard dick, moaning loudly as he filled you to the brim. It was not the orgasm your body desperately needed but it satisfied the overwhelming, blinding carnal need to be filled you felt. You immediately started rocking your hips to increase the friction and pleasure when a powerful and painful swat against your already bruised ass stopped your movements.
“I didn’t tell your dumb ass to move. Seems like you keep forgetting I own you Princess. This pussy… this body… it’s all mine. And no one else gets to touch what’s mine, no one else controls what’s mine. So you’re gonna sit there on my dick and you’re not gonna move until I tell you to. When I tell you to ride my dick, you do it. When I tell you to stop, you fuckin’ stop. Understand?”
“D-Daddy please?” you hoped your pleas for mercy and the soft puppy eyes you had on would be enough to soften his resolve. Of all the things he had forced you to do since walking in the house, this was the worst of them. To feel him inside you and be so close to bringing him the pleasure he deserved and you desperately needed but not be allowed to?
Fuck my life.
“You should be thankin’ me for even letting your worthless cunt warm my dick. Now sit there and watch the show,” he nodded toward the tv where an episode of both of your favorite anime was playing.
You moaned and turned around, trying to keep your attention focused on the show in front of you. However, it was impossible.
This was an utterly new sensation and, while it was torturous, you could not deny that it was pleasurable in its own way.
Michael’s girth and length was something to be reckoned with and he knew how to use it. His dick perfectly curved into your g-spot and could have you cumming with a few strokes. As you sat on him, his hands occasionally wandered to caress your other pleasure zones. His strong hands massaged your inner thighs causing you to moan.
You wondered if you could orgasm from just sitting there. You would not because you did not have permission but you wondered if it was possible. Because between his hands and the feel of him inside you, you could think of nothing else. You could feel every inch of him, his dick throbbing and pulsing like a heartbeat against your walls.
Your body squirmed in his touch, your moans as he played with your body were consistent, particularly when he brushed against your clit. He offered a featherlike touch, it was barely there but you were so worked up, you felt every jolt of pleasure through your body magnified.
Your pussy clenched around him as if silently begging him to move. But you knew he would not allow you to until he was ready.
He worked up a rhythm against your clit, your movements becoming more uncontrolled, your breaths heavier. You weren’t gonna last long like this.
“Whose pussy is this, Princess?”
“Yours, daddy. Only y-yours.”
“Who can bring you pleasure like your master?”
“N-No one. J-just you.”
“Never forget that shit, understand?”
You nodded fervently. Every punishment had a lesson and this one was etched into your brain matter as now was the feeling of every vein and inch of his dick.
“I w-won’t! I promise, daddy.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your bare back, increasing the speed of his fingers. “Cum on my dick, Princess.”
With permission to cum, you stopped holding back and allowed your body to feel everything. Fuck his fingers knew exactly what buttons to push as your body finally got the pleasure it needed for the last hour. The build up was so fast you barely got to enjoy it but you did not care, you needed the crash, the fall to drown in the pleasure only he could provide. And when you reached the peak, you crashed hard.
“You like that, baby? You gon’ cum for daddy?”
“Y-Yes… fuck… t-thank you!” you cried out as you threw your head back as an explosion of pleasure took over every inch of your body. You felt pleasure down to the very cells that made up every part of you.
You gasped as Michael’s hand wrapped around your long hair and gripped it, pulling you backward. He turned you so his mouth could claim yours, drowning out your moans and cries with a kiss so dominating you never wanted it to end.
“That’s my good girl,” he praised, causing your heart to soar. “You’ve earned my forgiveness. Ride.”
You did not need to hear anything else as you started to ride him with abandon, moaning every time his head rammed into your g-spot. You’d cum again before this was over but you made it your personal mission to ensure he did too. You pulled out every trick and play you had in the book until you felt his hands dig into your hips and he started ramming into you.
You let him take control as he fucked you like a rag doll, ignorning the ache of your bruised ass and thighs as he slammed into them with every thrust upward. He kept you flush to his chest with one hand wrapped tight around your neck, the gentleness of his choking earlier long gone.
“Where you want it?” he demanded as you felt the signs of him about to cum.
“Cum inside me, please!” you begged. Michael knew you had a bit of a breeding kink, loving the feeling of him filling you with his cum. That was often another punishment when he would cum on you instead of inside you. Not that him marking his territory was really a punishment.
“Want me to fill this sweet cunt, baby??”
“Yes! Please, please!” you begged as he fucked you so hard you felt as if you would be seeing stars for hours.
You could not stop your body from convulsing as you felt the warmth of his cum surge inside you, you clenched around him.
Your legs burned as you used your arms, braced on his knees to stop your upper body from toppling forward. He rubbed soothing patterns along your spine to calm you. Michael pushed you to your limit every time but he also knew how to take care of you afterward.
He lifted you off of him, a slight whimper escaping your lips at the emptiness you suddenly felt. He only sat you down long enough to stand up himself and you were quickly back in his arms, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he carried you up to your master suite.
He laid you on the bed and got some soothing lotion and started massaging it everywhere the flogger hit you. You shuddered at the cool feeling but it felt heavenly combating the stinging you still felt and soreness you knew you would still feel tomorrow.
“You did so good for me, Princess,” he offered, your sweet Michael clearly having returned to you.
That was all you needed to hear, that you had pleased him.
“Thank you.” Your gratitude was muffled against the comforter of your shared bed. After a few moments of silence, you sat up and glanced back at him. “You know you’re it for me, right? Don’t have eyes for anyone else.”
“Yea I know… sometimes I just worry…” his voice trailed off.
You ignored the ache to shift over to him and straddle his waist, his hands resting on your hips. “You’re always reassuring me, sometimes I forget you need that too. You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me. It’s you and me till the end of the line, babe.” You teasingly peppered his face with kisses until he finally smiled and started laughing.
“You and me, baby.”
“But anytime you wanna get a little jealous and possessive and it leads to that? Feel free,” you joked, the scene still dominating every space in your mind. At your words, you suddenly became hyper aware of his member pressed against your core and instinctively started grinding on top of him.
“Princess,” he growled. “This time ain’t about me,” he reminded her. Aftercare was about you and he was committed to it.
“How much time do we have till dinner?”
“Two hours.”
“Enough time for you to teach me my lesson again and then take care of me. Don’t think it quite stuck,” you shrugged nonchalantly, taking on your bratty persona to rile him up.
You shrieked as he flipped you over onto your back and stood up. Master was back and he was ready to make the most of those two hours.
***
A/N: Thanks for reading!! My requests are open if you have more asks/requests… just know that it takes me a while lol
Drop a comment and let me know what you thought :)
Michael B. Jordan aka Daddy