Cade

Cade’s blaming you for the loss again. Loud, cruel, like always.

“You let him through, you limp-wristed little faggot—”

You slam your locker door shut so hard the echo silences the room.

“You blaming me for your weak-ass throw?” you spit back. “Take some fucking responsibility for once, you spineless, rage-jacked little bitch.”

The rest of the team clears out without a word. No one wants to be caught in the blast radius when you two go off. It’s not the first time. But this one’s louder. Rawer. Something in it feels like it’s about to split wide open.

You shoulder past him—he shoves you back. You hit him. He hits harder. It’s not a brawl. It’s a reckoning.

You wrestle. Slam. Crash into benches. Drag each other to the mats. His knuckles bloody. Your ribs aching. He pins you down like it’ll shut you up—but you’re not some weak little whimpering thing. You buck. Fight. Grit your teeth and snap right back in his face.

“Still not on top, Cade,” you hiss, even from under him.

His breath stutters.

Maybe it was meant to be dominance. Proof. Some twisted, fucked-up punishment. But he looks down at you—and your lip is split, your cheek bruising, your eyes still burning with that same fire—and something snaps.

He shifts his weight like he’s going to do it. Push it further. All the way. He’s panting, flushed, hard in his shorts, toxic masculinity burning through him like acid—and then you look at him.

Not with fear. Not with desire. Just… resolve. You don’t move. You don’t beg. You just breathe. And Cade—finally—feels it.

The weight of what he was about to do. The line. Right there. Inches away.

He doesn’t cross it.

His fists unclench. His body stills. He stares down at you like he’s never seen you before. Like suddenly, for the first time, he can feel the gravity between your bodies—how heavy it’s always been.

His hand slides down—not cruel now. Just tense. Possessive. Like he’s still fighting, but the war’s shifted fronts.

He doesn’t speak. Just lets his forehead fall forward, resting against yours. Breathing hard. Heat rolling off him.

You’re both wrecked. Shirtless. Bruised. Panting.

And for once… Cade isn’t calling you a slur.

He’s quiet. Still straddling you. Still hard. Still toxic. But cracked open, just for a second, by something he doesn’t understand.

Something that feels like need. Not victory.

Something primal. And terrifying.

And real.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just breathes heavy above you, trembling like he’s barely holding something in—like his whole life he’s been bracing against this truth, and now you’ve got it pinned between your bruised ribs and his chest.

And then—

A shift. Small. Subtle. His hips press forward, but not rough this time. Not fast. Not some humiliating “gotcha” moment.

Slow.

Deliberate.

You tense—every instinct braced—but then...

Nothing hurts.

Not like you thought it would.

You expect to be slammed into, spit on, degraded. But instead, Cade moves like something sacred might break if he doesn’t take his time. His hands grip your waist—not bruising, just firm. His breath brushes your neck. Still panting, still angry, but quiet now. Too quiet.

And when he finally pushes in—slow, deep—you don’t cry out.

You exhale.

There’s no teasing. No filthy jokes. No “gotcha faggot” smirk. Just silence. Just the sound of sweat dripping and two bodies too stubborn to admit what they really are.

His rhythm builds—not fast, not slow. Just... needy. Like he hates how good it feels. Like he’s trying to prove something and forgetting what the fuck it was with every roll of his hips.

You don’t speak.

You don’t need to.

Your fingers curl into the mat. His breath stutters against your skin. And in the space between all the slurs and shoves and fights… something else grows. Something ugly. Something holy.

Whatever it is, Cade never says a word.

But his body—his heat—speaks louder than anything he’s ever screamed.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t sweet. It was quiet. Almost reverent. Like two boys raised on violence trying to pretend this wasn’t them breaking.