no wonder her shoulders carry that earthquake tension. a recent divorce and a residency... he lets the silence breathe for a beat, long enough for the hum of the old amp in the corner to slip into the room’s quiet, then he slides a little closer, one hip propped against the lowest bookshelf so he’s not towering. “hey, busy isn’t a dirty word in here.” his fingers skim across the rim of a tiny paint splattered tambourine, setting off a muted jingle. “i’ve got students whose parents pull double shifts, graveyard rotations. we make it work. sometimes that means filming her practice, emailing you clips at 2 a.m." a shrug that loosens the tension in his own shoulders. “point is, your daughter won’t get lost in the shuffle.” a flash of curiosity bright enough to banish his usual stage ready nonchalance. he wants details — a part of him, the reckless drummer part, just wants to keep her talking so her voice keeps threading through the paper planet galaxy above their heads. “…so — i’m guessing new in town also means you don’t have many friends yet, or a place to really decompress?” the words leave before he can throttle them, so he rides the momentum. i’m only asking because i know a bar not too far. nothing fancy, but they book solid live music.” smooth move — parent/teacher boundary, anyone? she could report him, or worse, politely decline and ghost every conference after this. he schools his face into casual, leaves the decision purely hers ...

Zendaya wearing MATIERES – New York premiere of The Odyssey

why is it hard to believe? because she is the sort of beautiful that doesn’t usually wander into a place like this, beau thought, but he couldn’t just say that. beauty cheapens the moment you label it, especially the raw, unguarded kind she carries, the kind that seems surprised by its own effect. most nights his clientele are road worn truckers, biker lifers, locals nursing heartbreak in silence. faces cracked by sun and liquor; nail bitten hands trembling over pool cues. johanna isn’t that. even under the sickly bar neon her skin keeps its own, softer light, as though refusing to be dirtied by cheap bulbs and stale air. a woman carved for concert halls, summer verandas, somewhere people sip champagne instead of bottom shelf rye. and yet here she sits, elbows on scarred wood, glass sweating between her fingers—like a lost heirloom nobody realizes is priceless. “dusty biker bars at three in the morning usually draw a different crowd,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “let’s just say you don’t exactly fit the demographic.” a beat, long enough for her to read the subtext if she wants, short enough to pretend there isn’t any. the half smile returns, shy around the edges. “but i’m glad the statistics are off tonight.” he’d spent years pretending the late night quiet didn’t claw at him, but with her sitting here, eyes rimmed raw, posture coiled like something cornered, silence felt predatory. a thing with teeth. “nah silent company’s overrated ... and i like your voice." a truth, simply aired. beau reached beneath the bar, fished out a long neck lone star, popped the cap against the rail with a practiced flick. the hiss of released carbonation felt like permission to breathe. he planted one boot on the low cross beam of the stool opposite her. "i'll even give you control of the music. any song ... or turn it off if you want." he slid the phone across the lacquered wood until it came to rest beneath her fingers.

"impatient, are we?" she giggled innocently, looking up with a look of pure, smug pride before she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pulled the fabric down, letting him spring completely free. leyla held his gaze, her big eyes silently demanding undivided eye contact as she tilted her chin up. deliberately slowing down, she parted her lips and opened her mouth wide, watching his expression shatter as she leaned forward and took him halfway down her slick, wet throat.

“did you really think i’d stay away?” luca asked with a slow smirk, stepping over the threshold with the casual, cocky ease of a man who owned the night. he caught the heavy door before it could shut, his palm flattening against the wood to trap her in his space while the expensive scent of vanilla and tobacco clung to his jacket. “and yet you still answered the door,” he murmured, his fingers brushing along her jawline to tilt her face up so she couldn’t hide the frantic pulse in her throat from his amused stare, letting her know he knew she recognized those two hard, rapid knocks. “lemme inside.”

of course he's here again because she allows him to stay in spaces her husband never bothered to enter. “luca — ” slices the hush, sharper than she intended. “you can’t just appear whenever you want. what if the neighbors noticed?” palm lands on his chest, more a tremor than a shove. she can feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat under the cotton, steady and infuriatingly certain. if she truly meant to bar him, she’d press harder, but her fingers only rest there, half convinced, and clinging. why lie? she didn’t want the door to close. she craved the disruption, his particular gravity pulling the dull orbit of her evenings off course. “i answered because i don’t need you staging some grand drama on the porch,” she adds, softer now, the reprimand dissolving as quickly as it formed. the truth is simpler: she answered because she always will. she steps back, granting him the width of the threshold. muted lamplight spills across herringbone floors, catching on framed photos that feel like artifacts from a life soraya once meant to live. “why are you here?”

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 2.02 | "Some Assembly Required"

finds delight ( even pleasure ) in making him suffer for her. cyrus says 'i know you want this to work' and charisse can't help but laugh, bubbly and melodious, as if it were the funniest thing she's ever heard. but it's all an act - - and she fears he can see it in her eyes. "or maybe i'm just toying with you until i find someone worthy of me," charisse suggests, ( not so innocently ) letting her fingers dance up under the hem of her dress for a brief moment, "a woman's got to have options, right? someone to satisfy her needs until she meets her prince charming." breath hitches when she feels his hands on her calves, strong and calloused - - just the way she likes them. her facade breaks ( just slightly ) and she curses herself for loving him. eyelids flutter closed as his lips ghost hers, and charisse can't help but sink her teeth into his lower lip. a reminder of who's in control. "don't let me down again, cyrus." a mischievous smirk dances on lips as she nears the passenger door, fingers tracing his lower abdomen. "you have a long night ahead of you," hums as she hops into the seat - - pointer finger resting beneath cyrus' chin as her eyes lock with his, "one of beautiful torture, all in the name of love."

back in the car, she’s beside him, bare legs crossed, ankle swinging, a queen lounging on a burn-out throne. the smirk she wears—that razor sweet thing—makes him feel twelve and wicked all at once. why does she still get to me? because she knows exactly where to press, idiot. because every apology sticks to your tongue like salt and she licks it off for dessert. “beautiful torture,” voice hoarse, laughing, half pleading. “that sounds…fair.” fingers drum the wheel; he can’t quite keep them still. maybe worse is exactly what he deserved. or maybe worse is just another word for worth it. "are you going to tell me what this long night ahead of me will consist of?" he feels it now. an odd buoyancy in his chest, like ribs are balloon strings she might let go of. hands that could strong arm most people hover about her skin, awaiting silent permissions. his usual arsenal, charm, swagger, thin lipped threats, dulls to harmless toys in her presence. one arch of her brow and the algorithms that run his hustle short circuit. he'd do anything for her.

julia doesn't answer right away. she lets the silence breathe between them, eyes never leaving winnie's, because some things deserve more than a rushed reassurance. "maybe that's the part that terrifies you," she offers quietly. "not that the armor's cracking, but that you'll look underneath and find there's nothing there." she squeezes winnie's hand. "but i've known you long enough to know that's not true." she can't help the smile that pulls at the corner of her mouth. "you're not just the doctor that everyone leans on. you're stubborn, brilliant, and way too hard on yourself. you remember everyone's coffee orders, you stay late when you don't need to, and you carry people with you longer after they've left your care," she pauses, voice softening. "and i know being human sounds like a pretty lousy consolation prize right now. but i don't think the people who love you—people who really see you—love you because you're perfect. i think they love you because you're you. and if your armor does crack, winne... i promise you, you won't disappear. you don't have to earn your place in the world by saving everyone."

for a breath too long, winnie only watches julia’s fingers tangled with hers—pale against the smear of dried ink on her own knuckles, small proof of how much of herself she keeps trying to erase. she pictures the morning chart still parked on her locker, the hollow checkbox where a signature should have gone. she pictures the patient’s shoes—tidy loafers placed beneath the gurney, as though he’d planned to walk out. and then she feels julia’s thumb trace the ridge of her knuckle, present, insistent, warm. winnie clears her throat, but the words come out hoarse anyway. “you make it sound so straightforward. just… let people in. what if the moment i loosen up, everything i’m holding back spills into your lap? it isn’t pretty inside my head, jules. and i don’t know how to ask someone else to mop it up.” heat crawls up her neck; she forces herself not to recoil. she hates that vulnerability feels so physical, like skin splitting in open air. yet julia feels like a stubborn miracle.

"mon loup, are you an only child?" she asks dreamily, "you're very bad at not being the centre of attention--" she keeps her eyes on her book, but there's a smile on her face , as she attempts to focus on the page in front of her. she's half naked in his bed, clad in nothing but thin lace panties. the sun feels warm on her bare skin, but there's a steady breeze shifting the summer warmth into something cooler. "ten minutes?" her breath hitches as she feels him drape himself over her, a different kind of warmth and solid muscle. she resists the urge to look at him, to just give in-- (but she does, she always does--eventually). "you've never taken just ten minutes for anything--oh-- in your life." her voice breaks when his teeth skims her ear, turns into something breathier. he's always been so good at affecting her. "i'm almost at the end of the chapter--"

it was the same song and dance every time. lucia kept getting tangled up in the sheets with kyara, and every time she kept slipping out like nothing had happened only to resurface every other week like a bad case of hives. tonight was no different-- lucia wound up in bed with the other woman again, "yeah, thanks for tonight," she mused, that usual low drawl of boredom, with a hint of annoyance and dry sarcasm her voice usually tended to have. the only problem was that her voice made it hard to really decipher how she was feeling at any given point, "see ya soon." she hummed, double checking she had all of her clothes before pushing herself up and starting to head for the door to kyara's bedroom.

kyara watched her silhouette bend to scoop her jeans from the floor. while she was down there she might as well picked up her heart, she would ultimately and inevitably stomp on. she should say nothing, let her go. that was the practiced routine. smooth the mask back on, breathe, pretend she needed the space anyway. but her throat burned with all the things she’d folded away. the mattress sighed as kyara sat up. muscles complained; tonight’s class had run long, and lucia’s hands had found every knot after. “lucia.” soft, but it held. "what the fuck are we doing? you come over here, and we —" her hand gestured in the air, because honestly there weren't words that could comprehend the magic she felt when they were together, skin to skin. "and then you just leave like it's nothing? like im nothing?" she hitched the sheet higher over her bare chest, yet chill seeped straight through the cotton, colder than she’d ever felt.

" what has you in such a mood today? " so maybe talia had a slight suspicion of why the other may be upset. what person enjoyed watching their girlfriend's ex-lover comment on a rather spicy photo of them. though in talia's defence it is part of her career to be taking photos. and sharing them to her socials. she knows that being a model doesn't give her some free pass to enjoy others commenting on her photos. " before you say anything, we both know that i don't even read most of the comments ninety-five percent of the time... "

practice had already bled him dry. coach barking, calves cramping, every drill a reminder that form really fucks you up when you overthink. he’d limped off the field tasting failure. in the locker room, he’d opened his phone hoping to relax and instead found the her exes comment blinking like a red siren under her post. a few fans had already even tagged him in it, to make it worse. “right. ninety five percent. that still leaves five.” an annoyed smirk threatens, doesn’t land. "i trust you. but i don't trust him. why don't you just block him already?" fresh from the shower, towel slung low, he combs wet fingers through his hair and buries himself in the dresser—anything to avoid meeting her eyes.

Melissa Barrera via Instagram