i hope that holds you over for now ^^ i have two looonggg fics in the works for both hsr and bllk! but it is almost 4 am so im gonna try and catch some sleep before i have to get up.. au revoir ♡
. . . the sun sets another day, but your love prevails through the night.
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、established relationship 、(it’s their wedding night) 、phainon whimpers & whines 、literally nothing else i wrote this off vibes 、MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE ── finals are taking me out and i just. Phainon i wish u were real to fuck my brains out. i’m so tired of thinking. (nonsense drabble just to feed the dash - might delete/private later)
WORD COUNT ── 948
BACK ARCHED INTO THE curve of a sinking sun, limbs taut like soaring stars, mouth hooting a broken chorus of pleased oh’s: the fruits of a steep, uphill battle laboring sweetly around your peak, promising the kiss of release so divinely, you weep beneath its embrace. At the behest of a scarred challenger, your pleasure is pieced like a puzzle, with analytical precision pushing you to the sweet, sunny peak — he’s been climbing, and climbing, and climbing, his hands now finally finding purchase on pebbled bosoms, exalting him to his divine right at the summit of chronicled games.
And it is he, only he, who can enjoy those fruits to their fullest potential. Pulling the skin from the flesh with a guttural groan, head sinking back on his shoulders, eyes rolling shakily. The taste of Heaven lingers over his tongue as he spits it unto you: tangy with sweat, sweet with ardor, heavy with passion. A mix of flavors only Phainon, the master climber, can achieve.
The moon pulls to cast over you, a lunar chill running over you in place of his solar warmth. Your bed, carved in pure, Kremnoan gold, roped in tendrils of leafy vines, creaks and rocks under you. Its squeals mirror yours, fleeting yet persistent, music to wake the night.
Phainon, the divine ruler of the heavens and hells, and all the mountains in between, trembles above you. He needs not say a word to tell you the truth, that crystalline glare has the words written in it. You push at the back of his neck, urging him closer, just to hug him, to feel the quakes in his muscles and the beat of his heart. Feeling it just to know that it’s because of you, and giving him the confirmation that it’s settled deep within you, too.
Those knitted brows and agape mouth are the only things you can make out through teary, starry eyes. It tells you why he’s stopped thrusting and just grinds on top of you, rutting deeply, roughly against you. Why it feels like your stomach is full of fireworks and their fuses are slowly kindling, and the smoke is slowly snuffing out your breath. You can't breathe, only gasp, clutching so tightly that your nails are rehoming in his shoulders.
You're speechless. Your eyes are blank; you can only see on the blacks of your heavy eyes. Fleeting glimpses of your day, of the last few years of your life, of what waits to come flicker in your head. You're grinning, so sickly and sloppily. There's nowhere else you'd rather be.
The two of you hold each other so closely, so tightly. There must be bits of your skin that are fusing by your sweat. Everything sticky, warm, wet, like a rebirth clogging your lungs and slithering through and out of you. You press your foreheads together, exhale and inhale each other so close.
Phainon’s voice cracks the second he tries to speak. “I'm so in love with you—” he squeaks, “I want to love you forever..”
You hold him tighter. Your legs are jelly around his waist but they keep him flush to you. Friction rubs at your clit, just the slightest tingling that births lightning bolts under your skin.
Your throat is so dry and tight but you huff anyway, “Don’t stop, Phai,” all groggily and hoarse.
He holds you down as his hips just grind against you. The movements are stuttery and slow, in tandem with the long drawn groan that surfs out. It decrescendoes into a feeble whine, and he buries his head into the crook of your neck, murmuring and whimpering against your damp skin. His messy head of hair rubs against your chin, like a dog nuzzling into you.
His sounds dance around in your stomach; your walls contract to the beat. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, muffled, “I'm gonna cum—my love, fuck—”
He seizes in your arms, his cock twitching inside of you. He breathes so gruffly and heavily against you as his arms jelly and he just lies on top of you, sandwiching you between him and the mattress. He's so heavy—you can feel the air pressing out of you.
Your eyes roll and your mouth hangs open. Your hips jump and your limbs vibrate. It feels like death is taking you; this must be Heaven.
You orgasm seconds after Phainon, a wisp of bated breath separating you. He hisses and winces and whimpers all at once, all directly to your core, all a show of vulnerability and transparency. A man so precious—sculpted like a god yet pliable like putty—is all yours, until death do you part, and then some.
Even as your brains slither out of your head and you're too far on cloud nine to think, he whispers to you. The vows you heard only a few hours ago; the promises to split the sky and pull the stars down for you, to carry your troubles for you and shoulder the weight of the world, just to keep you smiling forever. And if there ever came a time where you couldn't stand him, he'd do what he must, because your pain hurts him more than your absence.
How lucky he is to have a wife, who only looks better and better as the seconds pass, who cares for him at his rawest. You died and came back to life in your pleasure; he would kill and resurrect you again and again if you kept looking at him like that.
If he could be the center of your universe, and you his, you’d birth a new world together, where love is the only language spoken. He's fluent in you.
nooo omgsh but i really want to 😞😞 unfortunately $60 for it is not in my budget but im gonna get it soon!!! i played the demo and added rin and isagi and almost passed out i was having so much fun.
i'll definitely be shooting for it after i finish my amphoreus themed island on animal crossing so i can cancel my nintendo online 😭
little brother alexis ness who’s so anxious and unnerved all the time. he can’t even sleep at night, not unless it’s in his big sister’s bed, in her arms, where the world seems to stop for a moment and he can breathe. you have a spell cast on him and he’s enamored with you—you are the only thing that gives him reprieve.
it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve woken in the middle of the night to him whimpering and panting, but it’s the first time that his body sits on top of you, and his hips rut against you. you stir and immediately catch his face gnarled in pleasure and you try to push him back, stumbling over questions and protests. but he’s athletic, he’s strong, much more than you, surprisingly so. he just hugs around you, trapping you beneath him, whimpering. “i’m sorry,” he sniffles “m’sorry…i’m so, so sorry. please forgive me, i’m sorry.”
11:01 in madrid. terribly loud, crude music dances in his bones. he can feel every part of him so intimately— the steps he takes, the nasty sweaty bodies and cheap fabrics rubbing against him, the eyes zeroing on him. in the midst, disappearing when the overstimulating colorful strobe flashes black, you exist. left hand wrapped around a sweaty cup, right hand drawing a spell in the air. face glowing in glittery makeup and sweat: lips strawberry glossed, eyes hypnotic with a hot pink blending into deep purple, cheeks lifted and ripened with pink highlighter. he’s unable to look away; he feels so magnetized, so intrigued by the picturesque, artistic vision just that far away from him. the sea of bodies runs far but he wades through awkwardly, stiffly, a slight inclination to jive to the beat meeting an aversion toward touching another sweaty loser. but you come toward him, too, slowly, like you’re beckoning him. is he high? he feels like he must’ve drunken too much, or accidentally ate something laced—this is out of body but inner soul, an attraction so weirdly magnetic. like he just has to get near you, just to say he saw heaven once.
11:07 in madrid. you’re real. you touch him first: you hinge your arms around his neck, swinging your hips towards him. you part the thick sea and sweep him ashore, and give him the kiss of life. you’re feeling daring tonight, you want to be bold, and do something so new, so exciting. he wears the smears of your kiss when you pull back. when his face is pursed up in a jumbled furrow of emotions— “who the hell are you?” he asks, stepping back from you.
11:09 in madrid. bunny draws near. he’s infuriating, you want to turn him inside out, and leave him high and dry. make him watch as you shed your inhibitions and fuck the brains out of his competition, his obsession. the annoyingly independent, yet so naïve fresh meat. the prodigy; the golden boy. you get to sink into his flesh first, desecrate him and greet the rawest parts of him. you get to find his limit, to show him things he’s never seen before, mold him into your little incubator of excellence and human nature. turn him out. you’re two snakes slivering toward the same fresh fruit, but you got there first. it makes it better that you got there first. he gets to watch your nurtured perversion take form over the most interesting erection he’s ever gotten. he stills, and watches from a distance.
11:11 in madrid. sae itoshi surprisingly leaves a shoddy club with a glamorous woman, a shiny diamond in the rough. bunny iglesias follows behind them shortly. they all get into the same car—bunny driving while the pair scoot into the back, sae being kissed reassuringly before he can even process. bunny meets his gaze in the rearview. the night only just begins.
. . . in the ashes of what once was, a lost dove will reincarnate. luminous, grand wings will flex and freedom will be grasped — she will fly away from her prison, and into the arms of new.
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、age gap, reader is late thirties, kaiser is early twenties 、reader is married to noel noa 、pastor!noa 、lost soul michael kaiser 、sacrilege 、infidelity 、fingering 、lots of kissing、masturbation、fingers in mouth、hand job、scent kink kinda、(1) one scene with mommy kink、nipple play、dirty talk、gagging with panties、uh ohh reader catches feelings、MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE i need to be stopped im sorry idk what is going on with me lately 😓😓😓 im being compelled to write these novelette length fics completely losing my shit i just can’t help myself. there’s so much fun to be had writing and developing these. i hope you all enjoy as much as i do. this is an experience, lock in, and share it with your friends like a bad drug. xoxo (pleaseee reblog i lost so much sleep bc i couldn’t get this out of my head 🥹)
WORD COUNT 17.5k (i warned u sorry)
YOU ARE A DECOR piece; an object to gawk, a portrait of submission. A vision of the sun, drawn up in a flowy, silky yellow dress, your hair pinned out of your face with floral hairpins. The golden trumpets of cherubs play as the flower stems.
Beside him, you are ornamental, an accessory. Your yellow kissing his soft purple, popping in the star speckles in his tie. His pale blond dancing with the pastels in your pins. Your hands clapping when he delivers with conviction, and holding his delicately when he turns to you. You exist beside him to make him look better. A trophy. The man who has it all: the perfect life, the perfect leadership, the perfect wife.
When those lights turn off, and the congregation clears, and you can finally breathe, who are you? He is no longer your husband; he is Noel Noa, he is your partner. Who are you?
You are a prisoner of devotion. A casualty of undeterred loyalty. A good pet, a dependable follower, a necessary cog in the wheel. You keep your husband afloat and the world he lives in stable. He can’t live without you; you are the air he breathes. You are also slipping away—loneliness gnaws at you. He has marred you a pariah; he has tarnished you. He has tainted his lifeline and let you be, and now you fill a role too small for you, too torturous. The lights go out, and now you can breathe. You are freed from perception.
The lights are on again. You’re not on stage; they’re not as bright, as damning, but they are on, and people can see you. They see you smiling, keeping your arm looped in Noel’s. They see you happy, doing better, all things considered. You’ve healed, they think, Christ has repaired what the Devil has trampled.
It’s the first day back. People are hesitant to leave—it’s been three months without you! They want to know if all is well, if it’s permanent, if you practice what you preach.
Noel cheated on you. It was a mistake, he said. They all say the same. He didn’t mean to. Things just weren’t the same; he was vulnerable, she was available. It didn’t mean anything; she was just a warm body—nothing compared to your warm heart. God will punish him for betraying you. Do you have it in you to forgive him?
Of course you do. There’s a rock on your finger, vows settled into stone that sanctify your union. ‘Til death do you part, no matter how many tears you cried, how many mirrors you avoided.
They look at you with pity and with humor. With contempt. You’re a laughingstock, even if they have the decency to do it behind your back. They see you and they can only think of him: what he has done for you, and now what he has done to you. Who are you?
You’re transfixed on a boy. He caught your eye during the service. Front left, five seats shy of the middle of the pews. He was shaggy, disgruntled, rough-looking. Messy blond hair, accented with the purest jewel-tone blue, sits on his head and upright in the air, unkemptly. Your first thought was that you dragged in a homeless boy. You kept looking at him, unlistening to Noel’s sermon about rebirth and forgiveness. The boy was unlike the people who usually stumble in. He looked wholly uninterested. But he was there, in the pews, and he was watching you.
Suddenly, you feel naked. Too observed. He can still see you when the service ends, when you walk away across the shadowed stage. It feels like his eyes are on you still in the hallway. You feel them periodically through the lingering fellowship. You mix and mingle, parading around like a grand float, and sometimes you’ll see him: loitering with a bottle of water, waiting.
Sister Irma and her husband, Stephan, come over, all chipper and annoying. You can’t stand their fake, cartoonish asses, but Noel lives to humor them. You pat his chest, slowly unweaving from him, “I’m going to go grab some refreshments, I’m a bit thirsty. Want anything?”
He leans closer to you, “Wait. Say hello to Stephan and Irma.”
“I’m alright,” you confirm, giving a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll surely see them around. Give them my best.”
You’re gone before anything else can be said. You can hear Irma’s obnoxious cackle and the acknowledging, brotherly grunts of Stephan and Noel. It makes you cringe.
The boy is idling by the refreshments table: a charcuterie spread, paired with pitchers of crisp grape juice. He nurses a plastic cup of juice, with a mini-slider half-eaten in the other hand. You initiate.
“Is this your first time here?”
He nods, biting the slider. His words chew the bite, “Came with a friend.”
“Well, welcome to Divine Eyes and Trees Catholic Church,” you greet, cheery and robotic. “Where is your friend now? Or is it just you?”
He takes another bite and looks you up and down. Catholic Church. He looks past you to Noel. Catholic Church. What a joke.
“He left with his family. I’m just eating before I have to go.”
“Do you have a ride?”
“I’m walking.”
“Where to?”
He sips from the cup. His eyes are boring into you, crystalline and sharp. Even this kid probably knows about you, how stupid and funny you are. He sees you—he sees something, and he purses his lips. “What’s it matter to you?”
You hold your hands to your chest, as if the gesture makes you more sincere. “I care about all of our congregants. You are our community—our family. It is my duty to do with my position and give back, so I’ll ask you again: where to?”
He laughs. “You’re full of shit.”
And then he’s gone. You’re frozen with that unassuming grin on your face, and he’s swallowing the rest of the slider, downing the rest of the cup, tossing it to the trash can on his way out.
That’s day one.
Day four, you find out his name is Michael. At night, when Noel snores blissfully, you whisper his name to yourself. He shows up on the blacks of your eyelids. Still annoyed, still uninterested, still enigmatic. Who is he?
You busy yourself with discovering him.
On day six, after subtle poking and prodding, results yield. Sasha whispers to you and Irma that Michael is an orphan of sorts. His mom abandoned him and his dad at a young age, and his dad never recovered. He ran away a few years ago. Nothing has really changed for him since, but he’s just out of that situation. He’s had a few instances of legal trouble, a few stints of loneliness. Word around is that he found a friend, a well-off, somewhat stable friend, and this friend is lending a couch, maybe a spare mattress. A sad story, poor boy. Irma tears up, so theatrical.
You get caught up in the idea of helping. It has some semblance of control, something to busy your jitters because Noel insists on letting you relax—he’ll handle all the big stuff, it’s his mess to clean.
The ninth day comes, and you approach Michael about joining a Bible study session. You used to run them, and you insist that you still will. This is your thing, this is your time to be a leader, to be heard and revered. You’ve lost some people during the scandal, and he could use the productivity.
He declines.
You don’t stop trying.
It takes another six days of convincing. You talked to him a lot during this time. You got to know him a little more.
He’s athletic. You mentioned your community golf team, and he eyed you like an idiot. “Golf is the most insulting thing you could have presented me,” he chided. “ Where’s the excitement? The vigor? Nothing about it is seductive; it is unsexy.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that here!”
“You should be more realistic.” He shrugs. “You thought I’d join your Bible study, then your golf club. You’re terrible at finding a reason to talk to me.”
You laugh, a little too nervously. “I’m just presenting opportunities to get involved in our community,” you lie, very unconvincingly. “I’ll have you know, our golf club is quite fun, and our Bible studies are quite fruitful.”
“Sure,” he quipped, scoffing at you.
“We have better food, too. I cook, we all cook—it’s a potluck of sorts.”
That gets him to agree.
Michael isn’t hungry, he just likes to stand by the food. He told you once, “You can tell a lot about a person by their plate. All types of sociopaths walk among us.”
It made you laugh. “And what determines that?”
He stared deeply into you, right at the pendant that swung over your chest. A crystalline bough of grapes. “You pick off the fruits: the grapes, the berries, the apples. You’re compliant, perfect. Just peachy, even.”
And then he laughed at himself, “Peachy,” he repeated. “Peach. You’re Peach.”
“Where’d that come from? What’s it mean?” You asked. Your smile was humored but confused—something swirled in your chest, and you wanted to know if you were going crazy.
Michael just said flatly, “Means you’re sweet, to a fault. Temptation, to some; immortality, indifference, to others.”
You knew then that he could see you. Beneath all of the contrived garb, the labor of hair and makeup, the perfectionism. When the cast of holiness absolved and all that was left was a woman, or a husk of one.
Something inside had shifted, and it was long before Noel’s affair. It’s why you couldn’t touch him, why your kisses tasted stale. You pushed him to it, you figure, you had nothing to give, and he was lonely too.
Michael can see past that, too. What’s the point in throwing away a perfectly good person for something shiny, new, and unattainable? How can abandonment be reasoned—how can it be reconciled? How good of a husband is Noel Noa to make you stick around?
He wants to know, for whatever reason. You both have found an odd solace in studying the other.
You catch glances all throughout the study. Nobody else notices; they’re too busy reading and chatting. They’re small, fleeting, only worth a dime of a moment. But they feel innate, like something you have to do.
As soon as you all wrap up, you make your way to him. He’s back by the food, picking at cheese crackers. You don’t greet him, you immediately start with a quip: “Do those mean I’m a prude?”
He laughs, dryly, “Among other things.”
“Did you enjoy yourself?” You ask, helping yourself to a grape. It’s mindless; you don’t notice until you bite it in half, and an embarrassed smile pulls at your lips. Michael gives a small, humored smile, too. “I try to make these more casual. My home is a place of worship, as well, but it’s also a temple.”
Michael shrugs, “I was a bit distracted, couldn’t focus. Next time, loosen up more. Give them something to look forward to.”
You shift your weight onto your right foot, “Next time? You’re coming again?”
“Should I not?”
“No—you definitely should,” you grin, “It’s nice having you around.”
A moment ebbs and flows between the two of you. It's a little heavy, a little leading, like there's something understood but unsaid. Michael just blinks at you and his smile shortly grows. “Why are you so obsessed with me?” He asks.
“Huh? What?” You laugh nervously. You're not obsessed with him, you're just drawn to him. He…entices you—it’s not a conscious decision you make. The Lord works in mysterious ways, he presents things to you oddly. He is an opportunity for something great, you feel the Lord will show you that. “No, no, it’s just… you're new, you have…lived a life, I’m sure…maybe. I just want you to find peace in our sanctuary, that’s all.”
Another beat passes. Michael looks you up and down, “Do you have peace in your own sanctuary?”
You laugh choppily, confusedly, “W-what do you mean?”
“Your husband.” He says, his voice lowering slightly. “You’re not in love with him anymore. You’re killing yourself pretending to have been saved by the Lord and worshipping him.”
“It’s…not at all like that—”
“You think the pain in your eyes is invisible? Or the dejection when he touches you, or proclaims his love and devotion to you for everyone to hear? Do you think we can't see?” The questions make you almost shrivel. You thought…you’ve been trying! More than anyone else will ever give you credit for, you have been trying. Normalcy, holiness, perfection: three pillars that have come crashing down on your head but you're trying. Just to do something right, so you're at rest in death.
“No, we…we’ve had our issues. But they're gone now, everything is alright,” you try to assure. It sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than anyone. “You shouldn't say things like that. They aren't kind. Or true.”
Michael kind of laughs at you, in disbelief, almost pity. Do you not hear yourself? Does nobody hear how that man has ruined you?
“Then why are you obsessed with me? What are you looking for in me?”
Everyone is gone. They left for the evening, thanked you for your time, checked to make sure the same time, next Thursday—you confirmed, and bid them goodbye. For some reason, Michael was still around. For some reason, you didn’t question him.
He pushed the door behind the last person, and with a few quiet exchanged words, he’d made his way to you, and like something compelled him, he kissed you. His hands cupped either side of your face, and his lips were surprisingly gentle against yours, like they were waiting. As if you were compelled, you kissed him back.
In a matter of moments, you’re stumbling backward until you finally collide with something: the wall. You’re pressed right beside where you’d led the group, left of the archway leading to the dining room. Michael holds your hands at bay and wedges between your legs. The kiss is wanton, baggaged. It feels like something so distant, now foreign, like the first time you’ve ever experienced it. It makes you gasp and whimper; it leaves him to take the lead, to guide you, with his tongue pressing and slipping against yours.
Heat rises to your face. You’re slightly ashamed, you feel as though you should be, and like this should feel wrong, but it feels amazing. It feels like salvation, or the first gleam of such divinity.
Michael parts for a second, and you both slump and catch your breath. His mouth opens to speak, but you answer before he even asks: “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t waste any time; he doesn’t know when Noel will be home, and this seems like the only time he will satiate this looming appetite—this fascination. It’s so weird, so sensual but unpreverse. Like magnetism, you’re drawn in. Michael gorges on the suppleness of your skin, licking and kissing, but careful to keep carnality at bay.
His right hand, though, it barges past the waistband of your skirt and panties, but hesitates to move closer. His hand sits in your warmth, an unintended tease, as he asks, “Can I touch you here?” very lowly, very warmly. Almost all breath, like a desperate exhale.
You can’t answer; you can only whimper and nod, fervently.
The middle and index fingers slot between your folds, and you jolt. It’s like the first time someone other than yourself has ventured down there in ages, and his touch is foreign. His hands are much more slender than Noel’s, slightly less rough and calloused. And there’s a tentativeness, perhaps a shyness that gets him going gently, slowly painting tight circles around your clit.
“Please,” you urge, you beg, “don’t hesitate.”
Your hands hold onto his shoulders as he takes your instruction, applying pressure as he attacks your neglected clit. The sounds that escape you are soft moans, weepy whines, even. He feels the vibration they rumble through you as he kisses your neck. He tastes the sheen of sweat building on you, sweet like sin.
His fingers push forward, finding your entrance and immediately folding. You clench in a sharp inhale and relax with a deep exhale, every action a response to his fingers slowly, slowly, pushing in. Both at the same time, a slight stretch for the untouched, but so familiar, so desirable.
Your nails press through his shirt, clawing at his skin. He sighs against your skin when he’s knuckle deep, and starts a trail of kisses across your collarbone.
The movement is like water: slow, weighted ebbs of his fingers, swimming about in your depths. It feels like nothing you’ve ever felt before, like he knows exactly how to touch you, how to get you pushing his name out like you’re a deflating balloon. You throw your head back against the wall, lifting a heavy leg, trying to hump against his hand.
He fucks his digits in you masterfully—stupidly well. He makes you yelp when he randomly picks up speed, and laughs against your chest when he slows back down. His fingertips rub and push against your found G-spot, teasing you, almost. It feels like he’s lighting your body up from the inside out. Like you’re a bomb, and your fuse has burned away.
Your walls beat in tandem with your heart. He pulls his fingers back, letting his index join as they press against your sopping folds, rubbing again. They capture your clit, with a little more fury this time, and gives it a good bullying. You scream out. Your hands scratch at the wall.
“Holy s—smmm, I…” Your words die in your throat. You croak.
Michael assaults your clit intentionally, deliciously. It pounds and pounds away, drumming a cacophony of electricity and pleasure through your veins—it’s intense, it feels like it's sitting right in your stomach, overtaking your autonomy. Only now, you can buckle and seize, heaving short breaths.
And then his fingers are back inside of you, his index joining the squeeze. His thumb finds an angle to flick and press at your clit.
You twitch. You whine. “It feels so good…” You mumble. Your voice is low and weak. Your eyebrows are knitted tightly, and your eyes are heavy and fluttering. “Feels so, so good.”
It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to teeter around. It’s almost embarrassing how fast it comes, but Michael congratulates you for it. “I want you to cum,” he mumbles, scissoring his fingers steadily, “You’re almost there…good. Let it go.”
You lock up. He keeps pace. Your heart throbs, your clit in tandem. You gasp loudly, “Oh my f—hmmm, yes!”
It’s cute how you still keep yourself from swearing and vainly using the Lord’s name. As if that matters. He’s breaching your marriage, in your marital home, mere moments after you ended BIble study. In the living room where you and your husband sit, across from the dining room, where you dine, beneath your bedroom, where you sleep.
This moment has stamped itself aggressively in your home. Everywhere you go, you’ll remember how a boy at least six years your junior fingered you senseless—every thrust a scoop away of your brain—pushing you to your orgasm faster and better than your husband ever has.
You thrash slightly, mewling his name saccharinely as he fucks you through. Just as tender, as tentative as before. Almost sweet—no, cherishingly sweet as he kisses you one last time. It feels final, like no questions and no conversation.
His hand pulls out of your skirt and his wet fingers graze your face, tiptoeing to your lips. He doesn’t push them all the way in, but just enough to intrude over the fat of your swollen bottom lip. Just enough to gloss it, and kiss the taste right off you.
It’s like there’s something sacred in your mouth, something he needs to revere impersonally. He’s not forceful but impassioned—a scavenger with a goal.
And then finally, he pulls away. Your lips are still pursed, eyes still closed; you hesitate to let it go. Your bottom lip is between his teeth until he lets you go, and kisses your warm cheek.
“Same time next week?” He asks.
You don’t answer—not really. A slow, hazy nod happens before you can even truly process what has happened.
He just lets himself out.
When he’s gone, the house returns to its usual silence. It’s almost darker. You slide down the wall, crouching into a squat, and cry into your palms.
—-----
You cleaned yourself and the house up and started preparing dinner. It’d been decided that you were going to make spinach-stuffed chicken breasts since the morning—you usually save it for special occasions, but Noel requested it. Something about a craving, about homeliness, he said.
It took you longer than it should have to prepare the chicken. It was just…the action of stuffing the chicken, using your fingers because they’re much more effective, and feeling the wetness, the folds of the slices brushing against you… You couldn’t do it, not without thinking about Michael, about what you had done.
How were you going to face Noel knowing that, hardly an hour ago, a random young man fingered you knuckle-deep in your living room? Under the portrait of God that hangs above the mantle, under the wedding memorabilia. How did he look at you after his first time with Elsa?
He didn’t look guilty, or at least you don’t remember him appearing that way. He looked pensive, but he always does. Noel is an observer, a silent watcher. Nobody could keep a thing from him. You tried, during your second year of dating, to try and surprise him for his birthday, but he saw right through it. He still played along to humor your kind efforts. He doesn’t really do that kind of thing anymore.
And he can’t observe you anymore. Or he just doesn’t—he chooses not to. It would beg him introspection, real growth, the kind of thing unbecoming of a 42-year-old leader.
So you wear that same pensive look, and plate his food. A large heap of mashed potatoes, the bed for the steaming, fat chicken breast. An island of string beans ropes around the potatoes. And you set it before him at the table, negligent to kiss his temple, the way you always do. You fill his glass with water. Then you do for yourself, and join him.
Noel feels that you’re in a mood. He says grace; you commence dining. But your movements, the look on your face— “Is something the matter?”
“Hm?” You hum. You don’t look up from your plate. You’re just cutting away at the breast, sawing it apart. The knife scratches and digs into the china. Noel cringes, but you don’t. You don’t do anything but pretend.
“Hon,” he says, his utensils clattering to the plate. He wipes his mouth with the napkin. “You’re cutting up the plate. It’ll be scarred.”
You smile and stop cutting. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything is peachy.”
Peachy. You want to laugh at yourself.
Noel isn’t humored, and he doesn’t find your answer sufficient. “Are you sure? How was the Bible study?”
You begin cutting again and sever a chunk. You fork it into your mouth demurely, nodding and covering your mouth as you speak, “It was fine, same as usual,” you laugh. “We have a few new people. Wendell brought his children; they’re older now. A few fresh faces, young adults. I spoke to one…Michael. He’s..quite an interesting case.”
“Michael…” Noel repeats. “I feel like I’ve heard that name before.”
“It is a common name, dear,” you laugh at him. He joins in, but it’s quite apparent to both of you that nothing is quite funny. It just makes things a little less quiet. “You might have, though. He’s the blond boy with the dyed ends.”
“And the tattoos. The homeless one.”
You blink a few times. You fork another cube of chicken into your mouth, “He’s not homeless.” You chew.
Noel takes a sip of water. “Oh. I heard that he was.”
“He’s not,” you say, all too quickly. “He’s found a place to stay for now. But who knows how long that’ll last. He’s in need of guidance, I feel—I think we could help him.”
“I think you can too.”
You shoot him a glare. He doesn’t see the way you’re looking at him. He never does; nothing you do is of note. You stab the collection of string beans. Three pick up on the prongs. One falls on the way to your mouth. That makes you want to laugh, too.
“He says he’s athletic. Maybe you could start up the football club again.”
Noel shrugs, “Perhaps,” he says. “That’d be taking me away from you even more. Would you be okay with that?”
He says that as though he’s present when he’s around. If anything, you’d prefer the distance. It’ll make it easier for when you finally gain the courage to leave in the middle of the night.
You shrug, trying to appear tentative, like it matters. “I’d be okay with it. You’d be servicing the community, enacting God’s will. The youth could use it. Michael, definitely.”
He clears his throat. “How old is Michael?”
“I’m not sure, I never asked. Twenty, maybe?”
“He’s not that young.”
“We married at twenty-one. We were kids.”
“I was twenty-five. I knew my rights and wrongs, then,” he says, swallowing a mound of potatoes. “I knew I loved you and wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
You smile. He flatters, but there’s no real charm anymore, no spark. They’re just words without meaning. “I did too, but we were still immature.”
He lets you win. You aren’t receptive to him anymore; you’re pulling away.
“I’m sorry.” He says.
You drink from your glass, “For what?”
“For Elsa, for everything,” oh dear God. “I never meant to take seventeen years of your life and throw them away—”
“Noel, please, let’s not get into it tonig—”
“I’ll say it until I can’t speak anymore. I owe you that,” he sits back, scooting the chair. He can’t stand when you keep him at bay now; it feels like a punishment. You wish he could move on, you wish he would let you move on, but he just keeps reminding you. Elsa, Elsa, Elsa, the bitch won’t release your marriage.
He gets up and walks over to you. He takes your hands. You stifle your reluctance. “I’ll see about the club. And this Michael kid…I’ll check in on him myself. I’ll do my best to help you, my love.”
“Thank you, Noel,” you say.
He just hums and kisses you on your temple. And then he leaves you alone at the dinner table. You barely ate; he ravaged the plate. He can be gluttonous in that way, slothful in how he leaves you the clean-up.
Your husband is a sinner, but he likes to play Prophet. Who are you?
—-------
It’s been two weeks.
You’ve talked to Michael here and there, learned a few new things about him. One: he’s a bastard. He has a sharp tongue and is not afraid to be callous. That smile can and will be a farce—he’s like an anglerfish: bright and enticing, hiding a bite.
Two: he doesn’t have a job, doesn’t go to school, and he never really did. You asked him why, and he tensed up. “My father just didn’t care,” he said. You didn’t press further.
He can be sensitive; he won’t talk to you if you’ve offended him. You’re trying to help him regulate through the word of the Lord. He gets special time with you—you don’t have much going on these days. Not many are seeking life-support from the woman who couldn’t satisfy her husband.
You’d taken him to one of the Sunday School classrooms. There are lots of materials in there. You didn't use them; you just talked. He told you his friend, Ness’s family, is insufferable. He hates staying there with them; he’d rather be homeless again.
You asked him why he stays, then? “This could be the opportunity to find a job and save up. Who knows if, or when, they may change their mind.”
He laughed at you. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. Noel gives you everything you need.”
“Not everything,” you said. It got a little heavy, then. “My needs and his perception of them are completely different. I want a lot more than you could imagine.”
“Me too,” he said. It was said like checkmate. He leaned back in the small chair. “I want a lot of things I can’t have.”
“Why not?”
He cocked his head to the right. His shaggy bangs fell over his eyes. You could still tell he’s staring right at you. “I’m not the protagonist. I don’t get blessed with fortune and good karma.”
“You could,” you argued, “you can control your narrative, you just have to take charge.”
“And then what?”
“And don’t let it go. Never let the universe get the element of surprise. Be the idealized you, be in control.” You told him. You were almost talking to yourself. Saying the quiet parts of your prayers out loud. “What is one thing that you want?”
“More than anything?”
“Or in general.”
Michael paused. And then he shrugged. “What about you?”
You figured you would answer; it might make him more comfortable. One thing you want… “A new life.” You said. “A life where solitude is foreign. I want love, vigor, freedom. A life with real meaning, not just to prove to everyone that I deserve to live. If people could stop looking at me like I was stupid and pitiful all in one, I would be happy.”
“Why don’t you just leave him then? It can’t be that hard.”
You laughed, almost in disbelief. He could be naive. “It’s so much harder than you would think. I owe him my life—I love him. He’s my husband.”
“You deserve better than that,” Michael said it so matter-of-factly, so coolly, it didn’t dawn on you as being loaded. He said it as an affirmation, a reminder; you took it with a smile.
“Thanks. You do too, Michael,” you grinned. “What is it that you want in life?”
His smile teetered on cheshire. “Freedom’s a hot commodity.”
Three: He likes you.
He likes to talk to you, to pick your brain. He lingers, knowing you’ll always find your way to him, and that you’ll always humor him. Something philosophical, something immature, something taboo—he likes to wade around in that pretty little head of yours, find what makes you tick. —Or, what about you makes him tick.
And he likes to touch you. He told you you have soft skin, and you smell nice. It was a mumble, it just kind of came out mindlessly. You appreciated it nonetheless.
You hugged him that night. He lingered in your presence. He got almost shy, endearingly boyish as he leaned forward. “Can you kiss me?” He asked you, quietly.
You didn’t answer; you just obliged him. The kiss was tender, tamed, chaste. You didn’t give too much of yourself in it, but he wouldn’t let you go. His hands pushed your back; he held you caged in his arms until you really kissed him, the way lovers do.
He left after that. Neither of you got an answer as to why he asked. Maybe he just needed it, something soft and real and comforting. Who knows.
It left your stomach in an uproar, though. You couldn’t sleep that night. You tossed and turned, and then you gave up. You rocked Noel awake; he woke with a deep grumble. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I need you,” you whispered. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
Noel immediately dispelled your apology. He glanced at the clock to his right. It was 1:43 in the morning. “It’s late.” He said.
You nodded, “I just…I’m feeling a little restless. Touch-starved. …It’s been a while.”
“We have service this morning. We’re doing baptisms,” that was his way of denying you. He rolls over, pulling the covers up over him, “You should get some sleep.”
You got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He was already fast back asleep by the time your feet hit the floor. The next ten minutes were spent working your orgasm out of yourself quietly. It went faster when you imagined Michael and his tattoos and his melodrama. How weirdly charming he was. How he was oddly infatuated with you, and you him.
Now, he sits at your dinner table.
Apparently, sometime last week, between your conversations and moments, Noel had found him. They talked a little—about what, you do not know. Noel refused to divulge details—and he had extended a dinner invitation. You don’t know why he did that, either. And for some reason, Michael agreed.
You made Mongolian beef and rice for dinner. It was next up on Noel’s meal plan. He wasted no time in digging in.
“This is delicious, Mrs. Noa,” he compliments. You cringe at him calling you that. He’s never said that to you before.
You gracefully accept the compliment. “Thank you, Michael.” Your eyes lock. He’s enjoying this. Does he see your discomfort? Your husband doesn’t.
Noel clears his throat. “Michael,” he starts, “did you get a chance to look at that program list I gave you? Anything catch your eye?”
“No,” the blond says, “I’m not interested in working in the church.”
“Oh. You didn’t mention that when we spoke.”
“I figured I’d let you pass along some options. Something might’ve clicked, could have been something to bide my time,” He says, and his eyes are on you. Noel follows his line of sight, and you look down at your plate, pushing chili peppers around.
“What are you interested in?” Noel asks, his words like an exasperated sigh.
You reach out to him, “Remember, hon, I mentioned the football club. Any word about that?”
Noel nods slowly, shoveling rice in his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t hear back. Remind me to check tomorrow morning.”
That’s code for he didn’t check in the first place. You know your husband well—he can be a fool. He must figure you one.
“I don’t have many interests. I’m just getting by,” Michael answers, diffusing the beats of tension.
Noel flares his nostrils, “That’s no way to live, is it?”
“It isn’t by choice.”
“It is, isn’t it, though?” Noel asks. He’s keeping an even tone, a noncombative expression. It doesn’t work to diffuse Michael. “You left your home, you neglected to ask God for clarity—”
“Noel—” you say, trying to stop him. He can get so impassioned sometimes, and all he says are the wrong things. He’s brought you to tears countless times that way.
He doesn’t listen to you, though; he never does.
“What is it you think Divine Eyes can do for you, that you cannot do for yourself? What do you think my wife can do?” Now he’s reaching out to hold your hands, now he claims you.
“I never asked for anybody’s help.”
You pull away from him. “I took it upon myself. I needed something to do, having been relieved of most of my duties.”
Noel straightens up. He clears his throat again. “I still feel there’s room for introspection.”
“That’s okay,” you nod, “everyone is entitled to their opinions.”
Michael takes control of the mood again. His lips smack apart, “What kind of things did you use to do, Mrs. Noa?”
“A few community outreach things. We have a shelter for the unhoused and vulnerable youth, I did marriage and womanly counseling, and things like a community garden, the choir, Bible studies, of course, and I was in charge of the Sunday School system,” you say. You didn’t realize how much you did, how important your work was, until you finally said it out loud. The smile on your face falters, and you shrink. “But, when Noel and I took a step back, my duties were split among the sisters. I only get Bible study and Sunday School, now.”
Noel tries to lighten you up, pinching your cheek. “It’s only temporary, dear. It’s just the optics right now, we have to ease back into these things.”
“You got right back to work though, didn’t you, Pastor Noa?” Michael asks, drinking from his cup. “Right back like you never left.”
“It is my church. I have a duty to fulfill, a divine right from the Lord.”
“You don’t think the Lord values Mrs. Noa’s work? Shouldn’t she fulfill her duty?”
“She is—”
“Michael—” you try to interject.
Noel speaks over you, a bit aggressively. “She keeps this house together. She keeps me sanctified. She is the crux of my priesthood; I would have nothing without her. Right now is simply not her time. Patience is a virtue, and my wife is nothing but virtuous.”
“Wow. What an inspiring relationship.”
—------
“Please lead me in the right direction, steer me clear of hindrances and sin,” You mumble. It’s late. About ten PM. Noel trekked off to sleep, but not before asking you to show Michael to the guest room.
You paused. “What?” You asked.
“I offered him to spend the night before dinner.” He said, flatly. “Is that alright with you?”
It’s a little too late to ask, you thought. Michael is already here, and Noel’s already on his way to the shower. You would have to drive him, and you're no good at nighttime.
“It’s fine.” You said. He kissed you on your temple, and took his leave.
Michael was perched in your living room, nursing a glass of fruit punch, watching TV. He notices you instantly.
Not much is said during your trek to the guest bedroom. Michael takes the time to be a silent observer: your home is a chapel to worship the past. The hallway starts with a collage of photos, capturing your wedding in time. You looked so happy, so young. You were gorgeous in that dress.
A line of photos stretches down the hallway. The two of you as children, the two of you at ceremonies, receiving rewards, being a partnership. There was a point where all these images were more than distant memories. A lot of the doors are closed. The ones that are ajar lead into dark, cold rooms. It makes him realize that, besides your feet shuffling down the hall, there is no sound. You would never think someone else lives here. It’s so lonely.
“Here you are,” you said, gesturing into the room. It’s model, almost like an editorial style. “Noel and I are the door right at the end of the hall, if you need anything. The bathroom is across the hall.”
He didn’t say much. He just thanked you quietly. You didn’t linger; you left the room and escaped to your studio. You dropped to your knees and grabbed a pillow and groaned deeply, frustratedly into it.
And then you sat down, clutching your pillow in silence.
What are you doing? What is happening?
You needed guidance, so you started praying on it. An hour later, you’re still on your knees, fervently begging brevity.
“Whisper Your wisdom into my spirit; remind me that I am in Your image, and grant me the discernment to follow where You lead,” you clutch your hands tighter, leaning weakly against your altar. “Heavenly Father, I come to you in a time of need. Help me trust in your plans—”
“Can’t sleep either?”
You nearly jump out of your skin. You whip around and find Michael leaned in your doorway, laughing at your reaction. You sigh in relief, holding your chest. “Please knock next time,” you say softly. There’s a tiredness in your tone, an exhaustion etched over you. “And no, I cannot. My head is quite busy. Same for you?”
He steps into the room without invitation. You don’t question nor correct. He takes a gander around. “I have a hard time sleeping in unfamiliar places.”
“Oh,” you react. “I’m sorry. Would you like some melatonin or…”
“No.” He walks over to you and perches in the bay window. It’s not that comfortable, but your pillows make it better. “Just wanna talk to you. D’you mind?”
You don’t. You really don’t.
You roll out of your kneeled position, turning to rest your back against your altar, bringing your knees to your chest. You adjust your gown over your legs. A silence passes along. “Sorry for dinner, by the way. It’s been eating away at me.”
“Why?” he asks.
“There was a lot of tension. I don’t know why Noel was acting like that.” You tap your toes against the ground in an unheard rhythm. You’re shrinking. Your eyes are so far away. “...He gets like that sometimes, it’s never made any sense. I think he’s bad at his emotions.”
“He talks like that often?”
“He apologizes after. He’s not a perfect man.”
Another beat of silence dwarfs the room. It’s getting thicker, it’s getting harder to swallow. You have to clear your throat, something tries to wedge its way in.
Michael adjusts his position in the window. The soles of his feet sit on the velvet cushions. He feels a type of luxury disgustingly enviable card between his toes. You have so much, but it means nothing to you without love. What is that about?
He would kill to live in a house like this, with photos to cement milestones, with the essence of love, no matter how distant it grows. At least it exists. At least he’s willing to fake it. But you aren't happy; you would kill to get out of here.
“Can I ask you an intrusive question?”
A smile breaks across your face, “Sure. Why not?”
“What was your relationship like at first? What about it justifies this?”
You’ve asked yourself that same question. You met Noel at 17; he was 22. He was the teacher’s aide of your Homiletics class. You were friends for a while. He asked you out on Christmas Eve, two years later, under the mistletoe. He was nice, he was so sweet. It was no brainer that you fell in love with him.
A year later, he proposed on New Years day. He had just started at a new church, a fresh start in his seminary work. New people saw him, and perceived him—you were the only constant in his life, the only thing he could count on. He knew then, when nothing urged to keep you around, and he couldn’t see the world without you, that you were meant to be his wife. God sent you to him for a reason. You cried and said yes. He showed you a world of trust and sanctity, love within limits. He took his time with you; he never made you into someone else.
It was perfect. Your wedding was extravagant; he made sure the day was perfect for you. And he took your virginity that night, and you his. It was so romantic. It was clumsy and awkward at times, but it couldn’t have been any different. He made love to you like that always. Your body, your existence was his vice.
You had your problems, like all couples. You fussed and argued. He’s so methodical, so particular, and angular. He lets loose on his terms. He seemed to always prioritize the wrong things. He was focusing on ascending the pastoral ladder, then opening his own church, then dominating the greater city area. He became a king, and your relationship became a symbol. Your needs, your wants, your dreams, were shelved. They could wait; it was his time.
He neglected you. You got lonely. You felt undesirable. He had no urgency to rebut your insecurities. He found comfort in Sister Elsa—she ran the community garden with you. She was in your home, she ate your food, she had your companionship and trust, and she still stepped into your marriage. He let her in.
Never in your bed, he said. Sometimes in the car, most times at her house. It wasn’t completely sexual; sometimes he went to just talk. She listened. He didn’t love her, but he depended on her deeply. He was going to stop soon, but they got caught before he could. Ms Lenoire, the gardener, caught them in the parking lot. She was bent over in the backseat of the car, he was choking her from behind—
“Have you ever been in love, Michael?” You ask him.
“No.” He says.
“Me neither,” you admit. It feels like a weight lifts off you. You slump to the left. He pulls his feet back, giving your head the space to loll over. “I was so young, I wasn’t thinking. Everyone just kept telling me that God blessed me, that my life had finally found meaning. It felt like it was the right thing to do. Everyone said it was love. I didn’t know otherwise—I don’t know otherwise.”
“Is that what matters most to you—love?”
You scoff, “Don’t judge. When your entire existence is said to be a vessel of love, you yearn for your meaning.”
“You mean a lot…” It comes out fast, but he stops himself. His voice dies, and he hesitates to keep speaking. His eyes look out of the window, instead. “You sell yourself short. You’re the only person in this world that’s okay.”
His words make you laugh. You nudge his calf, “I’m just okay? And what about your friend..um—”
“Shitty Ness,” he grumbles. “He doesn’t count.”
Your eyes pull up his legs. Oddly muscular given his lean frame. They fill out Noel’s old sweats well. You swallow.
It’s loneliness, it’s ostracization. He’s a warm body, and you’re cold. You subconsciously lean forward. “I was praying for guidance. There’s so much confliction inside of me.”
He cocks his head, “What about?”
You just look at him. He is a part of the problem; surely he knows this. His touch, his eyes, your connection—you dance in the shadows where only he can see you, and you feel alive. You feel excited; the thought of him renders you girlish. Replays of your conversations lull you to sleep.
What does any of it mean? Why is it happening?
“I don’t know what your touch means, and why I yearn for it. Am I drawn to you because I’m restless, or because you are beginning to mean something to me? Do I want to leave my husband because I hate him, or because I like you?”
Michael just sneers. He can be rude in that way. “Sorry,” he says. It sounds sincere, almost unlike him. “I got in that pretty little head and fucked it all up.”
And his hand is reaching forward, patting and rubbing the crown of your head. You roll your eyes and swat him away. “Shut up.”
“You didn’t…mess anything up. You just showed me things differently…” You turn to look up at him. He looks so normal perched up there. Unholy. You wonder what it’s like to be him. It’s like you want to crawl into his brain, maybe even under his skin, and feel freedom. “Can I ask you something?”
His nails scrape against each other. He nods.
“That night, when you…When you touched me, why did you? What made you do it?”
The question has been eating away at you ever since it happened. You didn’t even do anything for him. He just kissed you and brought you to your orgasm, and left. Why?
He laughs again, this time a little lighter, not directed at you. Like he’s in disbelief, or maybe embarrassed. You don’t know. You don’t know how to read him.
But he just wipes his face, leaning on the hand perched on his thigh. His shoulders roll. “Because you wanted me to.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You did, didn’t you?” He shifts again; he’s sitting upright, now, scooting down the window. Your head is beside his thighs. You can smell him—he smells like sin, like fantasy. Your eyes flutter. “You didn’t push or pull away, you didn’t fight. You didn’t tell me to stop or wait. You gave yourself up the minute I touched you.”
You wipe your face, shaking your head with your palms on your eyes. It’s embarrassing. It’s true. You see it clear as day: you didn’t fight him, you pulled him closer, you begged him, you praised him. Something inside of you had woken that day, and it clawed for something, someone, and he just happened to be there.
Now, you just happen to want him there always.
You sigh. Deeply, defeatedly.
Michael slinks his arm around your shoulder. It pets at your shoulder, awkwardly, but akin to soothing. His touch is favorable; you don’t mind it. You lean in.
A long moment passes like this. And it’s quiet—so quiet, almost inky. His fingers tap on your shoulder, then along your collarbone, then up your cheek. It’s soft. They tiptoe across. Then they reach your lips. Your eyes look up, you try to catch his visage in your peripheral. It’s a wordless question.
He answers: “You really need me, don’t you?” It’s a whisper, it’s a truth hesitant to be spoken aloud. His words feel tingly. They make you shiver. You go to reply, but you don’t know what to say. Your lips smack and hover apart, and those tiptoeing fingers tread right in. Your brows furrow, but you let them intrude. You let them press on your tongue and poke around your cheeks. You let him feel you from the inside out, dancing in the heat of words left unsaid.
It feels weird. It’s not something you’ve ever done before. Noel never experimented with you. It was always missionary, always praise, always kissing. He didn’t even like it when you sucked his tongue once—you didn’t get to orgasm that night, the mood had died.
He did with Elsa, though. They were caught in the backseat of his car—your marital car—with him mounting her, locking her head between his bicep and forearm. His fingers were in her mouth, that’s what Lenoire said. She was a drooling mess. She looked like a cheap slut. He liked that, though; that’s why it happened the way it did.
You like it too. You like how Michael is moving your head around, how he’s pushing them as deep as he can with this angle, how he’s stretching the corner of your lip out. It lights a fire in your gut when he hits your gag reflex. You tear up a little. It’s good.
And then he stops. He pulls his hand out of your mouth and scoots away some. You track his movements, and your eyes meet. You wonder how your eyes look right now, if they’re as pitiful and wanton as you feel they are. He narrows his at you, smiling snakily. “You gonna come up here?”
You stand up and sit beside him. He’s left you a little space to squeeze between your pillows and his leg. He makes it worse, scooting impossibly closer, hostaging you against the wall. His damp fingers hold your jawline, and he kisses you in the way he always does.
He breathes you in deeply and then exhales, breaking into your mouth with his tongue. His lips feel like they match yours perfectly, like the way they slot and smooch was predestined. It makes you loosen up, the way you always do, and he presses into you harder.
His left hand finds yours on the side of his face and takes it, guiding it down his body. Your fingers chastely make out the lines of his body through Noel’s old tee. He brings your hand to his lap, where a low tent perches. Your breath hitches. Your fingers shake.
“Do you need me?” He asks lowly.
You chase his touch; you lean into him. “...Yes.”
He kisses you fleetingly. An acknowledgement, maybe even a praise. “Good,” he mumbles. His hips buck into your hand, and you instinctively roll your palm against him. His voice rumbles in his chest; he traps it there. “I need you too.”
Your lips connect again. His hands shoot to your waist and pull you on top of him. Your knees dig into the velvet cushions, your feet tap at his knees. You still kiss him, fervently, like you’re dying of thirst and he’s the last drop of water on earth.
And your hips move all on their own—through your clothes, your clit kisses his bulge, and a spark of pleasure waves under your skin. You moan quietly into his mouth, and you work on chasing that feeling.
Desperation slowly starts to build. The room starts to get warm. His touch migrates up your nightdress, over the cotton of your panties, and up your back. He presses you forward—he hugs you, pulling away from your kiss to nuzzle against your skin and breathe you in.
“You smell so good,” he mumbles against your skin. He kisses your neck, and his hands hold you at your ribcage. Your heart beats excitedly. Could you feel his if you touched him there? “Undo my pants,” he instructs, “take my cock out.”
A grin pulls at your lips, “No need to be crass.”
But you oblige him anyway. You untie the sweatpants and loosen the waistband. Your hand surfs into his underwear. He sighs, “We are crass; this is crass.”
“I think I like it,” you mumble. Your hand wraps around his hard-on, and he hisses at your cool touch. You hesitate for a second, but he nods, and you hold the waistbands at bay as you pull him out. He’s bigger than Noel. Noel’s cock is stumpy and fat—it stuffed you full, and it was always a fight to get there. Michael’s is slender and tall. It stands proudly at attention. The light from outside the window catches on the bulbous head; pearly precum bubbles over. Crass.
“I know you do,” he says. Your eyes stay glued in his lap, so you miss his teasing smile. His grip pinches at the skin beneath your breasts, then kneads it, like you’re putty. “You’re a crass woman. Cheating with me while your husband sleeps upstairs.”
You shake your head. Heat swarms in your face. You can’t keep your expression straight; there’s no denying it.
“Give me your hand,” he says, and you oblige. He takes it, curves your fingers like a cup, and brings it to his mouth, dribbling a small pat of spit into your palm. “Touch me,” he says. He leans forward, kissing your jawline, “Betray him.”
Your eyes flutter as he kisses under your chin. Your left hand sits at the base and your right slowly traces its path back down. The tip knocks at your pinky knuckle, and you turn your hand to palm it. He sharply inhales, then shakily exhales as your hand slides down, then around, then back up. Your wrist flicks naturally—it’s like second nature to you.
Michael’s dick feels bigger when you stroke it. It feels eager and warm. It feels heavy. The veins thump when you trace the head, his balls clench when both your hands wrap around him. You’ve given Noel plenty of handjobs. This is the first time that it feels rewarding: you sit above Michael, you watch his face curl up and his mouth ghost over quiet sounds, you are in control.
Be it betraying your husband, or servicing yourself, you find an exhilaration in this moment. You wish to clench your thighs, to temper that ache between your legs. You lightly rock on his glutes.
His hands go back down your back, right under your panties. The middle and ring fingers of his left waste no time in prodding at your weepy hole, taking the plunge, and making you whimper.
And suddenly, synergy is found. The room is quiet. The wet schlicking sounds are the loudest, and they increase, but your dry, heavy pants are a close competitor. You feel like you’re ready to cum. Your clit drums away, and your stomach is doing sommersaults.
Dexterous fingers flick and flex inside of you—they hit your g-spot, and an uncontrollable, whiney moan slips out. He shushes you. “The door is cracked; he could hear you, catch you like this for me.”
That doesn’t move you. Your brows are so tightly knitted. “I don’t care…I wanna..I wanna c-cum,”
Michael laughs, “Then let me fuck you.” He smooches your lips. His ministrations come to a slow stop; you follow his lead.
It takes a second of maneuvering. You sit up on your knees, he pushes your panties to the side. You hold his shoulders, and he holds his dick; he angles to find your entrance. Suddenly, you’re nervous, like it’s your first time. It feels so stupid, but you tap his shoulder, “Michael,” you whisper, “Go slow.”
He coos. “Aw, been a while?”
“Shut up,” you quip, feeling embarrassed. Because it has been a while, it’s been far too long. Two years, almost halfway to three. You were lost, and he found Elsa. She put out, kept him busy and satisfied, and when you were ready for him, there was nothing to give.
You’ve practically dreamt of the next time you’d be taken. It feels like it’s coming to fruition, almost better than you could imagine. The intrusion, almost foreign, almost taxing, melts into familiarity, into wantonness, within seconds. That held breath tumbles out like a whimper. Michael keeps you steady as he lowers you down, but that doesn’t keep your nails from clawing into his shoulders. Your core feels warm. Your stomach feels tight. Weirdly enough, you feel like you want to cry.
“Fuck…you’re so..fuck,” Michael exhales. He groans, throwing his head back against the window.
“Michael,” you whine, your voice cracking. “I c-can’t— it’s too much.”
He rolls his hips; they lift ever so slightly, and you mewl. Your voice is like a viscous liquor. He wants to swallow it. He could get drunk off you.
“You can,” he says. He swallows thickly, “Oh, fuck, you can. Go slow.”
You close your eyes. When you do, it feels like you’re falling into him, like your bodies are melting into one. Everything feels warm and soft. Memories can’t replicate the feeling that comes with another human being touching you, guiding you up and down, up and down, until confidence dawns over you, and you take the reins. How it feels when his hands push up your nightgown over your chest, and your hardened nipples are pecked, then licked, then enveloped. That heat in your chest, those stars in your gut, that bliss in your lungs is unique—it’s primal, it’s what you need.
Michael laps at your nipple, sucks and blows on it like it’s his lifeline. Your hands on his shoulders soon find purchase in his long, messy mop of hair, gripping and tugging and clawing at his scalp. Every passing second, every beat you slide along, feels better and better. You chew hungrily at your own lip, fighting to keep your moans quiet.
But it’s hard. It’s so hard—you just want to scream his name. His feet firm their stance and he’s bucking up into you. You meet the hilt for the first time and yelp so loud that the two of you still for a moment, finding each other’s eyes. You giggle, and then he does it again, and you moan; and then again, again, and again, until his hands are holding your hips again, and yours are slapped on the window behind him.
Your tits swing against him. If he’s lucky, the sensitive, pebbled nipples will catch on his tongue, and he’ll get to feel you clench and shiver.
Your eyes are watering. Your body chases the high autonomously: you’re fucking down on him like a wild animal, your back curving and flexing at the behest of your feverish hips. And he lets you, he meets your energy. You’ve never felt anything like this before.
Noel would have controlled you. Your hips would have been pinned down, your pleasure would be in his hands. To be, or not to be, depended on him. His endurance, his desire, his pleasure. When he said your name, it was a warning. Quiet down, relax, I’m going to cum. It wasn’t like how Michael says it: almost begging, saying it because the taste lingers on his tongue, because he wants you to hear what you’re doing to him. And he swears. He grunts against your skin. He shows himself to you.
God, he sees you. He takes you and he wants it to never end. You don’t want it to end. “Don’t stop, Micha,” you breathe, “My God, don’t f-fucking stop. I need to cum, please let me cum,”
“You swore,” he notes. His hands knead your ass, pulling your cheeks apart. There’s a sticky, gluey sound that resounds, but the sound your bodies make as they drum against each other is worse. It’s lewd, like a puddle being stomped through. He just chuckles, grinding your hips atop him. “You’re all gone, Mrs. Noa. You’re all mine,”
“Right there—please!” Your fists ball against the glass of the window. The late-night dew is scribbled away in your handprints.
He grinds your hips down again, this time rougher. His fingers dig into your skin, and your clit drags against his pelvis. “Like that?”
“Like that…God, yes.”
And he obliges you. His body is an instrument for your pleasure, and he plays it masterfully. Your sloppiness, your exhaustion, is confirmation—it’s praise. The expression on your face: hot, sweaty, exasperated, but so blissful, an amalgamation of desires newborn, longing refound, and intensity, sensuality.
Everything that has lain dormant inside of you resurrects—you feel like a woman reborn. Your arms fly to the air, and your entire body faces shivers. Your orgasm bubbles over and with a shaking, long-drawn mewl, it releases. It’s like wings sprout out of your back. It’s like you’ve touched Heaven.
Michael thrusts you through it, biting your skin to keep himself quiet. Your orgasm feels like a warm, divine cascade; you lock around him and bask his throbbing cock beneath it; you urge him to cum inside of you. Noel always pulled out, even when you didn’t want him to. His cum found home on your thighs and your abdomen. He never wanted kids; his selfishness kept you lonely and unfulfilled.
But Michael follows suit. He groans lowly, crescendoing into a broken, vulnerable moan. You moan with him. It’s so sexy, it’s so raw. He cums inside of you; you feel the throb of his cock, the thumps of his balls, the ropes splashing inside of you.
You slow, and then you stop. He holds you, he hugs you again. You hug him back, arms cradling his head in your sweaty chest. You kiss his temple, and he sighs against you. It feels like relief. You just sit there; neither of you say a thing. You just exist in each other’s arms, lost for words.
It feels like a comfort long lost, now found.
—-----
You’re glowing. You’re glowing in a way that you haven’t in a very, very long time. It surprises people around you—their eyes are always on you, always scrutinizing, and they see it clear as day.
Days pass with a blissful monotony. The only thing that seems to stick is Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael, he’s like a bad plague. You’re sick. You’re losing your mind. But you’ve never felt more alive, more sane.
A week after that night in your studio, the football club started back up. You stick around sometimes. People think it’s sweet that you’re supporting your husband, still, and they think something must have changed.
You’re not watching him. Sunglasses keep your gaze at bay; nobody sees how you gawk at Michael.
His calves and his thighs…the sun on his skin, the sweat running rampant…you used to feel that way watching Noel. He used to make you so giddy. You wanted to kiss him right off the field, but he wanted to clean up. And you can’t kiss Michael, but he lets you pat him on the shoulder. Your fingers linger, and you always lick over your lips.
You covered for Elise after she got hit with a bad fit of pneumonia. She and Helene run a fuel station for the players, and take donations from audience members. Just five euros, and they’re playing for the long game! You stood under the booth, clapping when everyone else did, grinning when eyes were on you. When the game broke, and the players stopped by for water, you greeted, complimented, and blessed them. When Michael came by, he lingered.
He let his fingers slot with yours when passing off the bottle. He took sips in your face, sighing and gasping like he really needed it.
“Refreshing?” Helene asked him.
“Yeah,” he replied, but his eyes were still on you. “I could drink your entire supply.”
Helene laughed. You laughed along with her. He wasn’t laughing; he was just staring, scraping his teeth against the tip. She noticed, of course she would, and her laughing slowed.
“You’re playing hard out there, Michael,” she complimented.
“Yeah,” he repeated, more monotone, less focused. “Mrs. Noa said she’d treat me to dinner if I got at least four goals, so I’m working for my reward.”
“I did?”
Helene grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Well, you should hurry and get back out there! One more left, right?”
He just winked and went on his way.
Michael had gotten more playful, more teasing. More reckless. The subtle flirting, the mindless conversation—it’s fun. It makes you feel so alive, so young.
After that match, you’d told Noel you promised Michael dinner, an incentive to get him invigorated. He didn’t ask to tag along; he just told you you’re doing a good job with him. You thanked him, and he kissed your temple, letting you go.
You did go to dinner. The meal was okay. It was time to go home, and on your drive to drop Michael off, he made you pull into an empty, grotesque alleyway. It wasn’t romantic, nor ideal, but it was fun. He made you cum in the backseat, splayed across the center console, reaching for the steering wheel or seat necks for stability. And then you dropped him off at Ness’ house, but not before he kissed you goodnight.
A week after that, he was brought up over dinner with Noel. You were having some dry, ugly kale salad with walnuts and feta. Your fork was twirling through, and then let go when your husband called your attention.
“I’ve been thinking about something.”
“What is it?”
“Things are going so well, don’t you agree?” He asked. You nodded. That made him smile. “And you’re doing such a good job. I’m so proud of you. Michael is making real progress—he seems different.”
You got excited. You thought he was preambling into a grand reveal that you were getting your other duties back. It’d been a month, perhaps longer, since you came back to the church. People aren’t talking as much anymore; they’ve found a new taboo to gossip over.
But you kept it demure: you gave a small smile, interlocking your fingers. “Thank you. I’ve been putting my all into it…I feel like this is the pick-me-up I needed.”
“I think he should come stay with us.”
You were floored. He’d just said it plainly, like he had given up beating around the bush. It was deathly silent—clearly not the reaction he had anticipated.
“What?” You asked. “I thought… You just said I was doing a great job with him…”
“You are doing a good job,” he replied. You noticed how he subtly corrected you. It made your eye twitch. “But why give just 100% when you can give 110—150%? We have the means, why shouldn’t we?”
“Let him live here? Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”
Noel took a bite of salad. He minded his manners as he spoke, “I thought you, of all people, would be on board.”
You furrowed your brows, cocking your head at him, “And that means…?”
“You care about him, don’t you? Like you said, you’re putting in your all in helping him. Let’s put our all in,” he forked another heap of kale into his mouth. A part of you felt like this was a trap, like he knew about your sordid relationship with Michael and was trying to get you to admit it. You narrowed your gaze at him, and he sighed, releasing the utensils from his hands and leaning forward. “I want you to think about it. He could be the first in a very long line of Divine Eyes’ reformation work. If he keeps progressing, all everyone will see is how you’re an Angel among man—carrying out God’s will. You could get your hands back in with the shelter, you could revamp everything, give everyone a chance. Don’t you want that?”
He was supplementing you. As though you are a child, with a need for stimulation, while he can do all the important stuff. Michael is your new shiny toy, and Noel planned to shove him in your face to keep you in a good mood. He’d do it again and again, with whoever you set your eyes on, to tell himself that he’s taking care of you, he has your best interest in mind.
It didn’t really matter to you, anyway. You and Noel lived on completely different planets. At least the house wouldn’t be lonely anymore.
Four days later, Michael had moved in. Noel brought him over with just a single bag on his shoulder. He left you to welcome him in; he had to run. A finance meeting, something boring and too monotonous for his pretty wife.
You’d made up the guest room for him, adding a few more trinkets and decor to make it more personal. “I want you to feel at home,” you’d told him. And then you looked at the bag he set on the floor. “Is that all you have?”
“All that’s mine, yeah. Ness let me borrow some clothes while I was there.”
“Oh,” you said. You tapped your foot, pursing your lips. “Do you want to go to the mall? It’ll be a while before Noel is back, and a little more before dinner…and we could look for jobs? There’s always someone hiring in the mall…”
He walked up to you, a smile on his face, a laugh in tow. “It’s cute how you still get nervous talking to me.” He grabbed your hand in his as he walked by you, pulling you along.
You rode to the mall, windows down, music blasting. The music was secular, the station on the radio Noel never clicked on. The button was stale from neglect. Michael had laughed at you. You pushed his shoulder.
The ride was quiet, it was ambient, with the birds chatting and cars humming. There was a new brightness to the world, a color to it that you hadn’t seen in a while. It felt like a dream, or like a movie: something so distant, so unbelievable to be real. A type of relief and liveliness that came at a hard bargain.
But it was real, and it was yours. It was your hands brushing against his at the gearshift, his hands on your thigh, your heart skipping beats. Like you're a teenager again.
You had to keep your distance at the mall; people recognize you, and they gossip more than anything. You tried to warn Michael of that, “I’ve had my name tarnished enough for one lifetime,” you said.
He didn’t care. “You told me I could control my narrative…why can’t you do yours?” He asked you. “They’re all going to rot in Hell, anyway. Who cares what they think?”
You laughed, shaking your head, “That’s not right to say.”
Those blue eyes clouded when they looked at you—a premonition of the storm brewing. He licked his lips over, “Want me to get on my knees and repent?”
Blasphemous—he is a blasphemous fiend and yet, you are so enamored with him. That goofy, wide grin couldn’t be pried off your face, and your heart couldn’t stop pounding for mercy. It told you to stop holding him at bay. You’d already let him in. There is no turning back. So, you obliged him: hand in hand into the mall, careful to keep your fingers from latching. That makes all the difference; it’s the subtext in the motions.
You tried to stay a half-pace ahead of him, to make sure that if anyone saw and noted you two, it’d look innocuous; like it truly is an innocent outing, and not a makeshift, secret date. Most people did eye you. Looks of curiosity were infectious, it plagued a greater part of the mall. —Or, maybe, you were self-conscious, feeding yourself the idea that people saw you and him, and they saw a story. You felt like they saw something to laugh at.
Groups of younger, flouncier girls passed you by and their looks were born of snark. And then they’d look at him, and their gazes would soften. They might’ve begun whispering, if they were ever so bold, laughing aloud, staring. You pulled Michael all around to avoid the girls who made you feel wrinkly and sad.
At one moment, in an oversaturated Hugo Boss, you’d left Michael to try on a bundle of outfits. You were finding replacements to trousers that he handed back to you with a grimace, “Only a puritanical shithead like Noel would wear something like this. I’d rather die.” And his expression hardened. He was not amused, and dead serious. “Don’t think of it as something acceptable in your society. Go secular.”
You walked away, laughing. He could be so theatrical, so playful with his words. He has an understanding of life and language far beyond your years, let alone his own. You were back shuffling through the racks, trying to find something casual. A few pairs of straight-cut, dark wash jeans caught your eyes, and you picked them up bringing them to him.
He insisted on making you wait and marvel at his try-on haul, praising you each time the curtain pulled back. “This is much better,” he remarked, staring himself down in the mirror. There was an arrogance on his face, a pleasure. And he looked at you, “You did a good job. I’m proud.”
Your cheeks were burning hot. You had to draw the curtain, you couldn’t look at him and he found too much amusement in your flusteredness. “Hurry and get changed. I’ll go take the clothes to the register.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he sung, and your tongue swiped over your teeth. It took him a few moments to gather up everything, and he passed it off to you, uncaring that was only in his boxers behind the curtain. His tight, fit figure flexed. He caught you staring. You excused yourself instantly.
When the heap of clothes finally sat on the counter, you sighed. The cashier grinned, “You and your son find everything alright, ma’am?” She asked, scanning the tags.
You were fishing Noel’s card out of your wallet and froze. You looked back at her, your expression knitted tightly. “...My son? He’s not—I don’t have any kids.”
She laughed lightly. “My apologies,” she said, scanning away. Her bagging work was sloppy; you cringed each time the bag crinkled and wrinkled with her ministrations. “I’d just assumed. It’s not every day a couple as unique as you wander in.”
“We’re not a couple, either,” and you held your hand up, flashing the hideous emerald-cut wedding ring to her, “I’m married.”
“...My apologies, again, ma’am.”
The rest of the interaction was awfully awkward. She couldn’t stop staring at you, and at your ring. When you paid, a whopping 1785 euros on Noel’s card, you heard her immediately whisper to a coworker beside her. Something about how she would have never guessed, you must have a sugar-arrangement of sorts. It fluffed your irritation. Michael caught it as you walked out of the store, and he asked, but you wouldn’t elaborate. “She was rude,” was all you said.
And then it happened again. An older couple marvelled at the amount of bags hanging from his arms, saying “Such a kind young man, helping his mother,” the old man said. His wife tapped his chest, “Conrad hated shopping with me. Never liked to help out his dear old lady, did he?”
You narrowed your eyes. You shouldn’t have said anything, but it was bothering you. Do you look like his mother? You don’t even look alike, where could this idea even be dredged up from? “He’s not my son.” You said, rather harshly, and stomped off.
Michael couldn’t help but laugh, following after your steam trail. You weren’t amused to answer any of his questions.
Your final straw was in the food court. You tried to leave, trying to reason with Michael that you could pick something up on the way, but he begged like a petulant child—and like a weak, spineless mother, you acquiesed. How could you not? He told you he’d never been to the mall before, not unless he was stealing camping gear to sleep in inky shadows. He just wanted to try a real corndog.
He was left at a table with the bags, occupying himself with a book you picked up. He likes to read. You figured you’d nurture that healthy trait, at least. You were walking back, tray in hand, when someone had bumped into you. You both started muttering apologies, and then you looked and— “Elsa?”
“Mrs. Noa…hi,” it was her, in the flesh. She changed. She’d dyed her hair, turning her icy blonde into an ugly ginger. She’d cut it, too. The hair that used to swing down her back, that Noel no doubt tangled his hands through, was chopped bluntly at her shoulders. She looked even younger, with those big brown eyes wide as they looked at you. You saw your reflection in them. You saw disappointment. “I didn’t think I would run into you, let alone here.”
“Feeling’s mutual.” You adjusted on your feet. Discomfort wracked its way through you fast. “What are you doing back here? I thought you moved away.”
She rolled her lips against each other, “I did. …I’m just back for this weekend, visiting some friends.”
“Any reason they couldn’t come to you?”
You didn’t mean to be snarky. You were still angry; you probably always will be, but their affair wasn’t malicious. She’s young. Twenty-four, now, younger when it began. He had the power, he was in control—he would die if he wasn’t. She made a conscious decision to lie to your face for two years, but so did he. And he owed you more honesty and respect than she did, or ever would.
Despite knowing that, seeing her made you violently upset. And on that day, of all days—it was like a slap to the face.
She might’ve been able to see that on you. Her expression softened. “Mrs. Noa, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble by coming here—”
“You never mean to cause any trouble. It just follows you around,” you said, your nostrils flaring, your heart rate quickening. You tightened your grip on the tray subconsciously. “Have you seen Noel? Have you spoken to him?”
“Of course not. I meant what I said the last time we spoke. I have done enough damage to your family…I want no parts of Noel Noa, with all due respect, ma’am.”
That word. Ma’am. An age marker. You’re mature, you’re jaded, no longer a miss or even missus. Ma’am. Hearing it, again and again and again, bothered you. And it never did before, not until Elsa. Until Michael. Until there are constant reminders that your life has passed you by, and all for what?
“Please leave, Elsa.” Your voice was so quiet, she barely heard you. But you looked like you were on the brink of crumbling apart, and she knew that she was the last person you would want to help you.
She didn’t say anything else.
You stood there frozen with the tray. You would’ve stayed there all day if Michael hadn’t shown up and thrown the damned corndogs away. “That’s a waste of food,” you said. “I’m sorry I took that away from you.”
He didn’t say anything. You just went home.
Everything was normal. You didn’t even mention to Noel that you’d seen Elsa. You told Michael later that night, spinning wine around a wide glass while he raided your refrigerator. He asked you about the affair, and it dawned on you then that he was probably one of the only people around you who didn’t know. He might have heard things, most of them untrue, and he might have speculated, but he didn’t know. He never asked you until then.
You stopped wanting to talk about it after it happened. You shut down when people asked, when Noel wanted to work through it. The marriage counseling was a dud. It hurt too much to think about.
But you told him. All the raw, all the ugly, all the things that still keep you up at night. And he just listened. He didn’t ask you any questions, he didn’t give you any solutions. He just sat down and shut up, and thumbed your tears away when they started to fall. He couldn’t think of anything to say, anything that would sound right coming from his lips. He was better off saying nothing at all, and that was okay. At least he was there.
You just wanted him around. Every day, you found a new reason to drag him along. He was like your pet, or your assistant, as Irma joked, and he didn’t mind. He wanted to be around you, too.
Whether it was monotonous, like grocery shopping or meal prep or sitting in a quiet room, opposite each other, silently reading, it was you two. Or you at the football matches, even after Elise had recovered. Cheering for him, and for Noel, but mainly him. Walks around the neighborhood. Late-nights in your studio.
The weather had begun to clear, and Noel had called the pool cleaners to freshen up the ugly thing. The two of you had the first dip, and you taught him how to swim that day. He was red and flustered, so embarrassed that you were guiding him through the water, holding him up. He cursed up a storm as he kept sinking, almost drowning at a point, and you had to save him. You held him, and kissed his temple, “It’s okay,” you laughed. “I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He finally was able to float after an hour. You called it quits, ready to shower and get dinner ready before Noel came home, and he followed after you. You showered together. You’d only done it once before, sneaking in behind Noel one time, trying to liven things up. It was awful; he didn’t want to fool around, and you had a very awkward conversation about boundaries after.
But when Michael slipped in behind you, it was all giggles. All awkward bumping around and a lot of water all over the place. He washed your back, and you his. You traced soapy lines up the vine of thorns, and just hugged him from behind. You stayed like that, under the water, for a moment. It wasn’t long before he was turned around, and you were pressed up against the wall, with his lips on yours and his dick inside of you. The towel bar snapped out of its hinges from you trying to hold onto it. You laughed.
Noel asked you about your limp when you sat down for dinner. You and Michael exchanged a quick glance. “I slipped in the shower, earlier,” you said, evenly. You faked a wince when you adjusted your seating position. “Can you fix the bar, hon? I was holding onto it when I fell and it came down with me.”
He said yes and didn’t ask any further questions.
The following week, you started delegating time to helping Michael study. He wasn’t interested; he said that “A boring, monotonous life isn’t for me.”
And you asked him, “What type of life do you want, then?”
He paused, leaning back in the chair. His hands rifled through his hair, “A fabulous life,” he breathed, “I will want for nothing. I’ll have more than I can do with.”
“And after that?” You asked, turning to him, “Is that all? Is that what life means to you?”
He shrugged, “It doesn’t mean suffering, and waiting to be saved. I’ll be the savior.”
“Who are you gonna save, Michael?” You propped your arm on the desk, resting your head against your hand. He was so serious, so truthful, you couldn’t help but laugh.
He was still serious when he turned to you. His eyes were so bright. “You,” he said.
It made you warm, knowing he cared enough about you. He wasn’t using you; you aren’t temporary to him. You matter.
He didn’t want to study, so you didn’t make him. Your time together was spent talking, majorly, saying all of the deepest fantasies aloud. Or you were reading. Or you were making him help you cook, but he wasn’t a great sport about it. He would always find his way behind you, his hands on your hips, lips on your ear so he could ask you quietly, “Is this how Noel does it?” Just so you could hit him, just so he could make you laugh.
Or he was playing football in the yard while you perched on a lounge chair, sunbathing. Sometimes he asked you to help, “Just kick the ball back to me,” he said. You weren’t very good at it, but you did it for him.
You did his hair. The length was becoming egregious, and he’d asked you to cut it. You started to sweat a little, “Me?” You said, “Are you sure you trust me with scissors?”
“Who else?” He simply said.
And an hour later, with a computer to your right and a comb and scissors in your hands, you made an attempt. It was fun, playing in his messy lop of hair, playing barber. Noel came home while you were cutting away, stopping to peer through the door. You looked happy in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Perhaps in a way he couldn’t do for you.
You didn’t see him anymore. All you saw was Michael. Your hands were lost in his hair, massaging his scalp; your lips were kissing his temple. The touch, the attention that used to be all his had been robbed right beneath his nose, and he was the one who’d let him in.
He wondered if that’s how Elsa made you feel. Betrayed. Overlooked. Abandoned.
Dinner that night was a little more tense. Your feet twiddled under the table with Michael’s as you all ate in a droning quiet. There was a question hanging in the air. No one seemed to beg it. Noel just observed and ate.
“You did a nice job on Michael’s hair, hon.”
You swallowed your food, shaking your head, “I messed up the back. It’s…okay, though, I think.”
“It’s better than okay. Those motherly instincts came out—like how my mother used to give me haircuts as a boy,” He paused, to sip from his glass, and shoot a look Michael’s way. Almost like a warning. “He’s like the son we never had, eh? A nice addition around, wouldn’t you say?”
Your face instantly frowned up. You went to speak, but Michael beat you to it: “Imagine if I’d had a mom like you,” he said. And then he laughed.
Noel didn’t get the subtext, he wasn’t privy to your heart, your secrets, anymore. He just smiled softly, “Well, you do now.”
You were so upset. As soon as he drifted off to sleep, you found yourself pacing around the guest room—now, Michael’s room—humoring him with a fiery whisper-rant.
“Do I really come off as motherly—as your mother?” You asked him. It was partly rhetoric; yes, and no. You have an innate softness, an openness that’s half attributed to your faith, half attributed to your heart. It’s pure, in a way that he’s never seen before. It was hard to believe it existed, until he met you.
He shook his head, sitting up in the bed. “I’d have been blessed, though,” he said, reaching out to you. Your hand slid into his. “Everyone would’ve been jealous of me. I’d have the best mommy around.”
You rolled your eyes, feeling heat bloom under your skin. He put this cooing, teasing tone on as he spoke, tickling his fingers up your arm. You wanted to pull away, but you didn’t. “Stop that,” you said, “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” He drew, pulling you onto the bed. “Am I too old for that now? Should I call you mama, instead? Have I done something wrong, Mama? Have I been bad?”
“You’re being annoying. Quit it,”
And then he was fully slinking around you. Stood on his knees, hands wandering down your front, under your shirt. He started fondling your boobs, flicking and pinching your nipples that tightened instantly under his touch. You breathed a shaky breath, and he grinned, “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Like when I touch you there?” And then his lips were kissing the side of your head, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. You were shivering. Your hands shot to his forearms.
“Micha…” you whispered. It sounded like a warning, but also a plea.
It never takes much for you. You’re easy to rile, in every way, and he loves to push your buttons. Testing the waters, seeing how far you’ll let him take you. To what extent will you go for love…
He kept kneading your breasts—soft and pliant, like the rest of you, just where to touch you to get you slumping against him, needing for his touch. He kept cooing, kept mocking you
“I’ll be a good boy for you,” he grinned. You could hear the honey dripping out of his mouth. “I’ll make you feel so good. Let me use you; let me have you.”
You nodded. It was a futile feat to fight the fire churning in your stomach, the wantonness zipping its way through you. Your body had become addicted to it, to him; it longed and begged for pleasure like it was starving. It was almost insatiable. Nothing could be done. You’d gotten a taste, and you were aptly addicted.
He pulled away from you, scooting back and pulling you flat on the bed. He climbed over you, hands quickly returning up your shirt, lips on yours. His shaggy head of hair draped over your head, encasing you in darkness. All that existed was his touch. Your hips chased him, as did your back: arching, like you were goading his palms to sink into you.
“Can you…?” You didn’t want to say it. You still weren’t used to swearing and being crass. You shifted your eyes down to your humping crotches.
His lips pecked yours. “Gotta use your words,” he whispered. And then he leaned impossibly closer, his body practically flat on top of you. He only wore boxers to sleep, and you could feel his bulge throb against you. Eager; needing you just as much as you needed him. “You’re in control, mommy—you have to tell me what you want me to do to you.”
And he used that word, just to make you squirm. He chuckled when you did so, slopping wet kisses on your face, “Don’t be shy. You can’t be shy with me.”
“You’re mocking me—stop mocking me,” you said, hands threading through his choppy haircut.
“‘M not…”
“You are…” your breath clogged in your throat; he teased your earlobe again, then down your neck. The scent of your perfume still lingered: roses and vanilla. He breathed it in, deeply, exhaling just as heavily against you. You felt his entire body deflate, sandwiching you between the mattress.
“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled. His voice wracked through your flesh. Shivers and goosebumps were born all at once. “Use me for your pleasure. Tell me how to be good to you.”
And his words are so quiet, you almost couldn’t hear him. Like he couldn’t bear to say it out loud—you figured, feeling the heat of his cheeks against you.
But he liked it when you took control, when you told him what to do. He was your pet, your assistant, as Irma joked; he’d do anything you needed him to, so long as you didn’t stop being good to him.
He likes to tease you, but you like to make him soft. Melting Michael is easy; he becomes someone else. In your arms might be the only time he becomes himself.
So, you hugged him, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Make me proud, liebling,” you muttered. You felt him tense. “Don’t stop ‘til you’re finished.”
And he took you seriously.
The duvet had met the floor at some point, accompanied by your clothes, as he fucked into you. He’d first taken you just like that: wrapped in your arms, soon burying into your chest, sucking on your nipples fervently, his left set of fingers lodged in your mouth. It didn’t take long for either of you to cum that way. You were twitching against each other, holding back your moans until a strain sat on your throat. It took him a few moments to pull away, and when he did, he pulled you on top of him, his head half off the side of the bed.
You rode him furiously, and you had to stop, reaching over the bed to grab your underwear and stuff them in his mouth. His eyes were wide, and his face was red, but he was in Heaven. He could taste and lap at the smeared pool of arousal as you fucked yourself crazily, almost biting through your lip to silence yourself. His hands took to your neck and squeezed either side, and you wheezed out, eyes rolling, orgasm dribbling out of you. It was so ferocious, intense in a way you’d yet to have seen—pure carnality.
That was lust. The richest sin of them all had peeled from the shadows and overtaken you in that moment.
You had to sit back after that, catching your breath. Michael just laid there, chasing his orgasm: one hand pumping his cock, the other keeping your panties in his mouth. He looked so erotic, like something you had to pull your eyes away from, but you couldn’t stop staring, goading him on with matching moans, silky praises.
He came all over his hand, a little on his thighs. It was something you started to do with him, something that made you feel so dirty, but you couldn’t stop. You drug your tongue up his fat, muscular thigh, taking his hand and feeding his fingers to yourself. He shuddered, taking your soiled underwear out of his mouth, “Oh, fuck,”
And that was the precursor to him flipping you over, pulling your hips back, and thrusting into you, uncaring for how sensitive you both were. The plap sound was infectious—music to his ears. And he liked how you moaned and whined against the pillow, pulling it under your chest for support. You sounded so gone, so saccharine, he couldn’t stop.
He ripped you up and held you to him by your chest, pinching and hitting your sensitive nipples. You fought tooth and nail to be quiet but it was like he wanted you to scream to wake the whole neighborhood. His hips were so violent against your ass, just snapping and snapping until tiredness looped its way through, and he just held you there, rolling up into you. You could see stars on the wall and could feel them in your veins. “Ngah– shit—!” You cursed. “I c-c—”
One hand reached to your clit, teasing and pressing at the nub; he hissed when you clenched and seized against him. “G-gonna cum?” He asked, his voice shaking.
You nodded weakly. “Fffuck yes—” you cut yourself off with a moan, your hips bucking wildly. You were so tight, so ready to combust. There was a pressure deep in your gut, one that made you heave and wriggle, and Michael fought to keep you afloat.
But you wanted to sink. You whined and cried, feeling your skin be set on fire and your vices be relieved; all that existed and mattered was how good he felt inside you. His dick going in and out and jabbing at your sweet spot, throbbing and dribbling all inside of you.
He could feel it too. And it was different. There was something so different about that moment. He just felt…primal, ignited by something lurking and dark inside of him. He felt the need to claim you, to finally take you away from all of this.
He thrusted up into you curtly. One sharply after the other. He could feel it too: the tightness in his balls, the fuzziness in his head. He licked the sweat off your shoulder. “‘M gonna cum, too, shit,” he breathed. There was a frustration, a breathlessness in him. “Gonna fill you up…‘ts not too late to make you a mommy—”
You cut him off with another moan. You were hardly listening. Your head was heavy on your neck; you lolled it over your shoulder, shadowing his hand on your clit with your own.
“‘Ll be the prettiest mommy ever…all mine—all my mommy,” He was slurring, his voice was cracking. He sounded so little, so needy, so vulnerable.
That was your final straw. It was your most powerful orgasm to date, and you’re sure you were louder than the boundaries of that room. But if Noel did wake, heard his wife being fucked to oblivion by someone half his age, you didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was your hips autonomously rolling against him, your pussy weeping around him as he filled you completely. He moaned so squeakily, so tiredly.
And then you were done.
He released you and you fell forward, your arms catching you but soon buckling. You laid in an unceremonious hump, heaving breaths against the mattress. Michael plopped back onto his ass, falling against the mattress.
You slept in his room that night.
You woke early in the morning, and showered, and laid in bed beside Noel, as if nothing had ever happened. He rolled over and kissed you on your temple when he woke. Your little secret was safe in Michael’s room. You wanted to be safe in there, for longer than just one night.
It was beginning to feel like you wanted that forever.
—-------
Noel is gone. The annual Pastor Conference has come by, and he will be gone for the next four days. You’re not joining him this time. You declined, telling him you’d hold down the fort while he was gone.
He looked kind of sad. Maybe he wanted that time away to reconnect, in a way he has been unable to for a while now. You kissed his cheek and assured him it’d be okay. He just nodded and then kissed you deeply. He hadn’t kissed you like that in a while. It felt like a thousand words unsaid.
And then he left.
The first day, you prioritized getting everything in order. You’d been busy sneaking around with Michael so much that you let the housework get beyond you. You mandated that he leave you alone for at least four hours, and he obliged, taking to the footballs in the backyard to pass the time.
Productivity was your goal at first, and you had begun to feel bad for your affair. It was getting too wild, too much—you couldn’t rest at night without thinking of running off with Michael. And since Noel was gone, there was nothing stopping you from sleeping in his bed with him.
You cuddled at night and kissed in the morning. Things felt so much better in his arms.
You don’t know if it’s a cope or a truth from your heart that your mind is hesitant to accept. There is something in Michael so ravaging. It has taken your life by storm; your mind, your body, and somehow, your heart.
Noel is gone, but he returns tomorrow night. The house has never felt more comforting, more alive, than it does now, without him; with Michael.
You lie in bed together. It’s silent. A calming, okay silence. You’re lying facing each other; your hand busies itself tracing up his tattoo. You asked him about it a week ago, the origins and meaning gnawing at you for a while. He said it represented the impossible.
The impossible.
He notices your pensiveness. “What’s going on in there?” He asks.
You weakly smile, shaking your head against the pillow. “I don’t even know anymore,” you sigh, I think I’m going crazy.”
He laughs. “For me?”
“Yes, actually,” you say. Your eyes are zeroed on his face. You gaze at his beauty. He’s like a diamond you hand-dug out of the dirt; you behold him with soft reverence, like too harsh of a gaze could temper his sensitive, vulnerable exterior. “You’ve done something to me.”
“What’d I do?”
You swallow. Your stomach wraps in knots. You inhale, and then exhale, “You made me fall in love with you.”
If it wasn’t silent before, it is now. He hesitates to respond. You watch the blues of his eyes wash over, you can’t tell in what.
“I think I’m in love with you, Michael,” you say again, this time, a little more confused, like you aren’t sure of what you feel. And you aren’t. Your mind feels foreign, like you can’t understand anything going on in there. You just know that his presence is enough to make you giddy, that he’s weaseled his way deep into your heart and you fear letting him go. It’s been a few months with him, and they feel like the best months of your life. They feel like Heaven. He feels like God; he has saved you. “It scares me—it confuses me. I don’t want to throw myself into..something that I’m not sure of, just ‘cause I’m sick of my husband. I told you I’ve never felt love before—”
“But I make you feel something like it?”
You nod. “How can I do this to him? Aren’t I a terrible person?”
“He wasn’t there when you needed him.” He answered fast. His fingers start to trace up your thigh. “You aren’t a terrible person for going after what you need.”
“Aren’t I, though? And I dragged you into all of our mess—”
“We needed each other,” he says. He says it sternly, with finality. “We saved each other.”
You pause, swallowing his words. You did, in a way. You got Michael’s life together, for the most part. He’s found his place on the football field. Some of the church committee members mentioned national team tryouts, and he’ll be on his way in a few weeks. He pulled you out of your love drought, your attention drought. He gave you hope and confidence and freedom—you reached deep into a layer of lust you have no business in as a Pastor’s wife.
But could you be Michael’s girlfriend?
“I don’t know if I’m ready to live like this…without Noel,” you say quietly, chewing on your lip. “I don’t know what it feels like.”
Michael shakes his head. “You’ve already been living without him. There’s nothing left with him. Is it really so hard to leave?”
“He’s all I’ve ever really known.”
“And what have I shown you?”
Freedom. Relief. Boundlessness. Debauchery. Love…
Your eyes lock onto his, “You’ve shown me how to be human again.”
That makes Michael laugh a little; you join in. You could be like this with him, you could be silly and raw.
His fingers come to your lips, brushing against them, poking at your bottom lip. His eyes flicker down and up. “You must really love me to trust me with that power.” And he says it with a laugh, but there’s a depth to it. A weight that you must shoulder. An actualization that dawns like the high summer sun: blazing, and unforgiving.
realized i should use this blog more just to chat . Hiiii :) currently writing off an edible...i have a problem i keep writing novelette-length oneshots with dead parents!!! reader is always fuckkedd up 😭😭😭😭
. . . now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep; watch and guard me through the night, and wake me with the morning light.
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、church girl reader 、succubus dan heng (imbibitor lunae) 、sacrilege 、biblical imagery 、corruption 、virgin reader 、 aphrodisiac 、improper use of tail 、dubcon - noncon (whatever makes you feel better) 、soft dom dan heng 、 biting 、 blood 、 ooc dan heng 、scenting 、 stalking 、monster cock dan heng、 fingering 、 finger sucking 、 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE ── hiii happy new year（＾ν＾）i started writing this about a week out of the new year so im allowed to say that! i don't even know what to say for this one. i really got into my #goonette bag for this. like + reblog for a visit from a succubus tonight 👅
WORD COUNT ── 7.5k
SUNDAY CREEPS OVER DAWN with pale yellow lines. Beams stretch across the sky; the night crawls into obscurity. The Devil’s henchmen lay rest, but God’s servants rise to duty.
Service begins promptly at seven. The bake sale begins at nine. You rise at four-thirty, wash up at four-thirty-two, and head to the kitchen at four-forty-five. The kitchen lights buzz on. They flicker with a start. The refrigerator hums, sighs when you open it. A bundle of yesterday’s fresh-picked, promptly bought apples, two slabs of flaky, chilled pie crust, a carton of eggs, of which you will only need two, and a whole stick of butter. You fix small bowls of cinnamon, sugar, and flour.
Core, peel, and slice. You core, peel, and slice six apples: three honeycrisp, three golden delicious. Quarter-inch slices tossed into a ceramic bowl, cinnamon sprinkles blanketing them. The stove fire embers on, the skillet warms; you toss the cinnamon apples, you stir the butter, the flour, the water, and sugar for a perfect three minutes. At five-ten, the apples are baptized.
You roll the dough thinly. Roughly twelve inches in diameter, fits like a sleeve in your nine-inch ceramic dish. The second slab is rolled out even thinner, stripped into ten exact lines. You spoon the apple filling into the dish. You lay the strips down, one then the other. Sealing the edges, you crimp the crust. You paint it with eggwash. You deliver it unto its cocoon at 425°F.
Fifteen minutes later, a million dishes washed and countertops wiped in the meantime, you set the oven to 350°F. You shower. Remnants of flour spill down the drain. You spray your face with rose water, pat it with dry cotton, and seal it with cream. You dress your eyes with thin coats of brown mascara, your cheeks with faint red, similar to the skin of honeycrisps, your lips with a shimmering sheen.
You dress in your Sunday’s best: a fitted, gingham blouse, lace truffles lining the short sleeves and long hem, kissing the line of a long, A-line white skirt. Sheer, white tights dress your legs. Waxed, Mary-Jane flats lift you slightly off the ground.
The house smells like sweet apples and the bite of cinnamon. Old, sweaty wood pinches past. It smells like your childhood, like solace. You’d lived in this same, little house all your life. Cracks and faint etchings lined the walls. You traced them on the way to the kitchen. They swirled in the way the pie scent did.
“Bless!” You chimed as you pulled the pie out. It was perfect. All it was missing was a sprinkling of brown sugar and nutmeg. It’ll tender on the hot crust. It will be wonderfully sweet and warm. “The congregation will love it,” you mutter to yourself.
The ready dome welcomes the pie, and you seal it with the glass top.
Your packed satchel is slung over your shoulder, and you pick up the dish. It’s an awkward maneuver out of the door, but you finally muster it and creep onto the porch. Morning and night have just begun to melt into one another. The trees at the edge of the property line are shadowed onto the ground at your feet, the sun at attention behind it. The wind is cool as it blows, it spills a chill down your back. You smack your lips, looking back at the house. You would go back and grab a cardigan or shawl, but that setback may cost you your seat on the bus. You can’t afford to be late; you refuse to be late. Monsignor hates interruptions, sometimes, more than he seems to hate the Devil.
The dirt road takes ten minutes to walk, another five to the main road, and another three to the bus stop. Trees and jade shrubbery line the road. When you were younger, you and your mother used to weed the lines on dull weekends. Better to occupy yourself with something meaningful and productive, Tidy and protect the Lord’s green earth, she would say, earn your place in His kingdom.
You could have spent five years pruning the greenery, and it would still be ugly. Some things are just meant to be ugly. Your mother hated that. Ugly. She detested it.
You’ve fought tooth and nail to be the antithesis of ugly. A tidy, prideless young woman, delightful by nature and visage. Your shoes leave footprints in the dirt; they click with each step. Your skirt swings with each step. From behind, you look like a soft vision in red, a docile figure of desire. Like an apple hanging off these large trees.
The hunger of the woods has a suffocating permanence to it.
You turn your back to it, you’re unbeknownst to it. It’s a blissful ignorance, but it still simmers in your gut, telling you everything isn’t all right. You pay no mind to it, you stifle it. Your mother has always told you the Lord is the eyes at the back of your head, He protects you when the Devil lurks. Trust in Him.
Trust in Him, serve Him, oblige Him. All will be well by His good word.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ⋆ ☄︎
“Thank you so much for coming!” Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You shovel off a slice, packing it onto the small plate, wrapping it tenderly with apple-dotted paper. “Please enjoy; may the Lord bless you eternally.”
The woman slides you the roll of credits, a measly eight, but you sit on your mum. Stay grateful, and many blessings may come your way.
It is pitiful, though. The church has been dwindling in patronage and funds—not many people find themselves congregating in hick-county, let alone expending a single dime. Within the last ten months or so, the numbers have whittled down into just you, the young lady across the creek and her elderly parents, Monsignor and his wife and children, a local teacher, a legless veteran, and a drunkard widower. You only continue to go for your parents. They were—are—devotees. The world could be shattering toward a close, and you would find them in that church, on their knees in the pews, praising the Most High.
They’re dead now. A nasty plague swept around locally; crops, animals, people alike were marred into ghastly figures of themselves. Their skin hardened and rippled like bark, their bodies practically hollowed. Breaths sounded like shallowed whistles of the wind, and their voices crinkled like they were rapidly aging. Within days, their lungs shut down, their blood soured, their hearts stopped. They would die, eyes wide open, mouths open, like they were muttering their last words forever.
Everyone said it was the work of the Devil. The Lord had forsaken you all and let the Devil ravage, free-reign carnage. Neighbors dropped like flies. Faith dwindled. No amount of prayer could make it stop. You prayed and prayed and prayed at your parents’ bedside until Monsignor peeled you away, quarantining you until your parents took their final, shallow breaths. You made it out. They couldn’t stop staring at you in death. Envying your life.
You honor them. The one who lived.
Your life is now behind a table, smiling at passersby, muttering out greetings as they pretend not to see you. Swatting away flies from buzzing around a pie that’s grown cold.
It’s boring; it’s unfulfilling. But they’d be proud of you. Supporting your community, doing what no one else will. You will make it to Heaven, they will all reap what they’ve sown come Judgment Day. If you keep telling yourself that, the smile on your face won’t hurt.
For the next half hour, that smile fails to falter. It’s practically graphed on your face.
Your cheeks weaken; they feel warm and sore. Your jaw is tight, teeth grinding against each other. Your head is throbbing. Not a single slice of pie has been sold since, nothing to justify this torment. People walk right by you on the curb, they care not for what you're selling — you don't even care.
Sister Yen taps you on the shoulder. “Monsignor’s called it. It's time.”
“Oh,” you breathe, partly of relief. “Would you like a slice of pie? I wouldn't feel right about it going to waste.”
Sister just laughs softly, shaking her head, “I’m minding my figure. Gluttony plagues me.”
You laugh along with her. Not much is funny, though; you're quite upset. Other girls your age are having fun, making names for themselves, doing something with their passing days. You are giving yourself to a cause your heart is half in, that people don't even blink at.
It's depressing.
But your parents are looking down at you, and they're proud of your selflessness. They've raised such a fine girl. A girl who closes the dish tightly, gathering up utensils in the tray, “Shame,” you utter, “I’ll have to find a good use for some pie.”
“I can take it off your hands.”
You look up.
A young man stands at the other side of the table, tall and lean. And cute. Shaggy, dark curls fluff around his face, and his gaze cuts through thick, feathered bangs. It feels like the first breath of autumn: clear, cool, rejuvenating. He carries a small smile on his lips, a hand pressed on the table. “How much?”
“Huh?” You stumble. You weren't listening, even slightly.
A short, quiet laugh jumps from his throat. That feels like a blip of spring: breezy, sweet, comforting. “The pie. …How much are you selling it for?”
You've talked to boys before. Many. Neighborhood boys, schoolyard boys, church boys, all types of boys. They've made you nervous at times, welcomed at others, but it's never felt like this—like you've never spoken a word before, language and life far beyond foreign.
Your hands pat the glass top, your lips rolling in and out into an awkward smile, “Eight credits a slice. How many do you want, sir?”
“Like I said, I’ll take it off your hands.” It's not mean. It’s barely even stern. He just tells you, softly; he reminds you. “The entire pie.”
“Wow!” You gleam. You practically shove the standing dish into his hands. “Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it—may the Lord eternally bless you.”
He bows back at you, smiling. The stack of credits definitely equates to more than thirty-six, but you don't question it. It may not be even a fraction of Monsignor’s two-thousand-credit goal, but it’s double, almost triple what you've made the entire morning. It makes your labor worth it. The pain in your feet, the sweat on your skin, the ache in your maw, all of it finds meaning in that fat stack.
“To you, as well.”
Sister Yen packs up her table and you awkwardly follow suit. The young man doesn't leave; he lingers. You don't know what to say or do.
A beat of silence passes like a freight train. Long and moored, like a taunt. You give in. Your will is not all that strong.
He’s not looking at you, but past you. Almost longingly at the rustic, vine-lined chapel. It’s weathered a thousand storms and bears the scars to prove it.
Cherubs with cracks on their frames, chips out of their heads, stand on podiums at either side of the entrance. Dirty stained glass windows keep onlookers at bay. Who knows what he’s trying to see? Perhaps Sister Yen dragging her suitcase into the chapel is entertainment.
“Looking for something?” You ask, giggling to ease the tension.
His eyes hesitate to pull back to you. “Is there another service today?”
You hum, unsure. “At times, Monsignor will deliver afternoon sermons. Usually, for special occasions. I can check, if you're especially curious.”
“I would appreciate that.”
You hesitantly leave him be. Your jar of money shines as the sun hits it. He doesn’t seem to be a thief, but you can’t help but to keep looking back at him. He waves smally each time you do. You wave back, it’s complimentary.
Entering the chapel wraps you in goosebumps. It’s cold, it’s always cold in there. Dust settles from the ceiling. The shades have been drawn, and the candles have been blown out. Shadows crawl across the church, ignorant of the midday sun. It’s eerily quiet, but you still call. “Monsignor?”
Your voice echoes. He and Sister Yen must have used the back exit. You still take another step forward. You call out again, “Monsignor, have you gone?”
Echo. Silence. You purse your lips and turn on your heels.
Right as you step, a back door creaks. The entire chapel is old, it often sings with every movement. You would never miss a thing. You know something is back there. Someone. Hopefully, Monsignor.
“Hello?”
You call out stupidly. You cringe at your doing so.
Nobody answers—save for the wind, that spins in the distance, and the door, that cries in response. You immediately go to imagining the worst. Something could have transpired as he was on his way out!
It’s stupid. You can’t help it. You tiptoe past the confessional, around the bend. The hallway is even darker. The relics and statues loom over you like they can see straight through you—your back is ramrod straight as you trek down the inky, quiet hall. You want to call out for Monsignor again, but your throat is dry. You rasp out a breath.
The door to Monsignor Jing’s office was ajar. A breeze drafted past.
“Sister Yen…?” You whisper. “Monsignor…? Are you—?”
Slam!
You’re not sure what the sound is. A closing of a book, a door, a nasty fall—whatever it is, it echoes from the front of the chapel. The breeze blows back: it recedes behind you, pushing the hairs on your skin up and backward. You linger for not a second longer.
You don’t run, but you scurry along, like you’ve a tail tucked between your legs. You spare looks over your shoulder, albeit stupidly, hoping to catch the source of your terror. Perhaps a cruel joke by Monsignor Jing’s mischievous children? Or, an ill-twist of fate– the Devil has infiltrated?
Air catches in your lungs, only to be knocked out of you when you collide with the man from earlier. He stands just at the entrance of the chapel, and his arms are ready to catch you.
Could it have been him?...
You shake the thought. He meets your face with concern, and his touch is featherlight, almost hesitant. His hands cup your elbows, steadying you. “Are you alright?”
You’re…frazzled, to say the least. You look back over your shoulder once more, pushing your way out of the chapel with a deep sigh. “I’m…” you adjust your blouse, swipe your forehead, “fine. Thank you. I didn’t worry you, did I?”
“I only heard a noise, and you were taking a while.” He laughs almost boyishly. It clears the thunder drumming away in your chest. “I don’t know why I assumed the worst.”
“No worries,” you clear, “Monsignor Jing isn’t available. The chapel has been cleared out for the day. I hope that doesn’t dampen you too much.”
He shakes his head. “I was but only wondering. Just looking for someplace to bide my time.”
“Oh?” You perk up. You’ve never heard of a church being a place for someone to waste time in, but then again, that is what you do. You often fail to admit it to yourself, let alone another person. “Are you visiting, then?”
He shrugs, hesitance squiggles across his face. “I have business in the area.”
He doesn’t elaborate further. The conversation stagnates. You find yourselves right on the edge of the street, right at your pitiful table. Your money—the church’s money—hasn’t gone anywhere, at the very least. For that, you can be grateful, you can smile.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure your work is calling for your attendance,” his small grin makes you smile wider. “On behalf of the church, you are welcomed to the next service. A new face would be wonderful to have around.”
“I just might.” He picks the long-forgotten pie dish off the table. He holds it to his chest.
Just as he begins to walk off, you stop him—your hand on his arm keeps him from going. It was an instinctual movement, one that blooms heat in your cheeks as soon as you realize. You avert your gaze. You rock on your feet. But you keep smiling. A smile mends all.
“May I get your name?”
“My name is Dan Heng.”
His words carry off into the wind. His frame withers down into dark, unshakable lines, curvature significantly human, the atmosphere much greater than. Something potentially unheard of—unearthly.
You take it as a good thing. There is nothing horrid about the prospect of new, of the future.
—------
He hasn't left your mind. Lord forgive you, but he’s almost like that damned plague: he’s latched onto your brain after one simple, mindless interaction, and is eating it alive.
In the quiet stillness of your home, your mind cannot stop running.
People don't usually visit your town. It has been the same, ugly, dry little town forever. It’s stagnant. You’ve spent forever dreaming of something else—the prospect of freedom. Of fun. The future has stood on your doorstep and you’re scared to let it go. If you do, you just might never see it again.
Three days pass and you think the future has up and run off. Service is quiet, same as always. The Jing children doze off, then wake up and whisper-bicker over their father’s sermon. The legless veteran randomly bursts into tears, Sister Yen moves to console him. You all pray for his wellbeing, you praise the Lord for carrying him this far. The drunkard guzzles his bottle of bourbon indiscreetly. No one ever cares. It’s just the way things are.
You sit there, Bible perched on your lap, your hands atop it. You watch Monsignor Jing, you listen to him, you try to find comfort in his words. Maybe even reality. Something to hold on to, something to mend the unease that has wracked through you forever.
Monsignor ends the service early at eight-thirty. His wife is ill. The congregation goes quiet. The room goes still. Nobody will utter it, but your minds all circle in unison. The plague.
“The Devil may lurk, but he will not sink his claws into us,” Monsignor says, “our Father is protecting us.”
You are dismissed. Everyone starts to peel out. The children skip to their father. You linger. “Yanqing, Yunli— may I have a moment?”
They stop. You can tell they’re not interested. You don’t know why you bother to say anything. “I just wanted to say, your mother…all will be well. I wish her a speedy, amazing recovery. And you both, as well. Please, let your father hear my wishes as well.”
“Yeah, sure,” Yunli quips. She rolls the peppermint in her mouth from cheek to cheek. “Prayers didn’t work for you—”
“Yunli!” Yanqing punches her arm.
She grimaces at him. “Just saying. Thanks for your prayer. I’ll keep it in mind when we have to bury my mother in the same plot as everyone—”
“Yunli, come on!” Yanqing looks apologetically at you. But he doesn’t refute anything she says. He just pushes his sister away, up to their father’s beckoning arms.
You watch, almost longingly. Your heart swells, but with pain. Your life sucks. You’re lonely and sad and miserable. Everything should change for you, but it won’t. You’re stunted by the ghosts of your parents.
The day is young. Perhaps you’ll indulge in soap opera’s and fatty snacks. Maybe occupy yourself with your kitchen, a pie, a cake, cookies, something. Something to keep you busy, to make everything feel normal.
But it’s not normal. It’s new.
Out of the door, you find him. Lined in that same buzzy frame of shadows. Hazy and mysterious. New. Enticing.
“Dan Heng?” You call out.
He stops, the door held open by his arm. The sun beams down and you miss the expression on his face when he turns to you. However, something in your chest is telling you that he’s smiling. He has a nice smile; you remember that fact.
“Hi there,”
You catch up to him. He lets you out of the door first. “Hi. You came.”
“I did,” he nods, “It took a few days though, my apologies.”
“No, no, it’s alright. Doesn’t matter to me. Did you enjoy it?”
He nods again, slower this time, a little more hesitant. “Definitely a new experience. Monsignor Jing is like none I’ve seen before.”
You give a dry, humorless laugh. “I won’t lie, he may be part of the reason newcomers don’t stick around.”
Dan Heng grins widely. “Never say never.”
The breeze ruffles through his hair. He stills to look at you. Like his eyes confirm to you that implication resting in your chest. It feels weird. Your smile turns nervous—you’ve never…met a boy in this way.
“Um,” your voice lingers. It’s hard to find the thing to say. Friends are sparse, casualness is forbidden. Better to be proper and prim than homely and uncouth, your mother would say.
“Do you have plans?”
“Oh—”
“Sorry—”
“No, it’s fine,” you say, firmly. “I don’t…have much to do. Anything to do, really. I could use the company.”
“That’s great.”
—
Your house is always deathly quiet. Nature croaks around as the day matures. But there’s no life, not for miles.
The world is sick with an innate loneliness. Darkness, quiet, it runs deep. Most people are lucky to never be acquainted with it—you are not one of those people. You’ve always known it. You’ve always seen what stands in the dark.
For the first time ever, you don’t want to coexist with it. You hesitate to let Dan Heng leave. He should. But you don’t want him to. You like his company—you like any company, period—and you fear the comedown from this high.
“My ma always told me a little fib can go a long way,” you say, giggling, “but I was forbidden. My mouth had to stay pure.”
“Pure?”
You nod. “The pure live forever…” you’re twiddling your fingers now, you’re talking too much. You can’t help yourself. You’ve never had someone to talk to. “Maybe that’s why they’re dead.”
“They raised you. They couldn’t have been all bad.”
“They weren’t. But the older I get…”
“I get it,” his voice is full of sincerity. His eyes are, too. “Finding your identity when the past has already decided your future…I get it. You just..how much faith do you have?”
“In myself?”
“In your religion.”
You don’t know. You’ve never known. The parables that have lined your life are just stories. Ideas. Guidelines and restrictions to an entirely different world. You’re not allowed indulgences. You’re not allowed personality. You’re not allowed humanity.
Every day is spent trying to be an angel.
Dan Heng just looks at you. He doesn’t need you to respond. You can’t see it, you think you hide it well, but pain is all over your face. You’re suffering. He just smiles at you.
“You’re a good girl. Everything will be okay for you.”
It flusters you. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s true,” he holds your hand tenderly, hesitantly. You let him. You move even closer. “So long as you do what’s true to you…and keep making those delicious pies.”
You laugh, palming your face shyly, “Ah, please! It’s just my nana’s recipe.”
“Mind if I borrow it? I’ve never had something quite like it.”
“Of course!” You grin.
You’d give him everything if he asked.
—----
“Oh—Dan Heng, you really didn’t have to!”
“I know, I know,” he grins, nodding, “It is your recipe, so I wanted to hear if I’d done it justice.”
“I’m sure you did.”
He just looks at you. That sweet, silly little knowing look. You giggle, but you say nothing else; your mother has taught you not to judge a book by its cover, or a man by his word. Actions say all.
You wave, “Alright, come on in. Let me judge this pie.”
“Ah, do spare me!” He winces. Then he chuckles. Over the past few days, you’ve really gotten used to that sound. Light and fair and simple. Cute.
Dan Heng makes that familiar, quick trek to your kitchen, and you follow closely behind, lagging just to turn your locks and slot the chain. “Dunno if I can promise you that…”
Your kitchen is icy by the hand of a furious breeze. The wind rages outside. There’s been chatter of an onslaught of rain and turbulent winds. Some of your neighbors have taken that as another sign: doom is impending, the Devil is afoot, death returns to claim the survivors. A bunch of hysterical nonsense, you shut it out with a slam!
The breeze is stifled. You seal its rage with a click, locking the window. You repeat twice, sighing. “I wasn’t expecting the storm so soon.”
Dan Heng nods, pulling a knife out of your block. It glints under the hanging light. A beat of thunder claps, the lights flicker. You both share spooked looks, laughing.
He runs the knife under hot water, looking over his shoulder at you, “Good thing we have a sweet treat.”
“True,” you chime, pulling two porcelain plates from the cabinet. Dragons line the edges, their snouts meeting on either sides of a red heart. You trace the decoration with your thumb. Your father brought these presents back from a trip as an anniversary gift. Your mom only used them on special occasions. “And warm blankets…and The Jaded and the Wild. …Think we also have wine.”
“Wine? Wow,” Dan Heng chimes, wiping the knife dry. “Special occasion?”
You narrow your gaze, “It’s a rainstorm. A modest glass of wine is mandatory.”
Dan Heng slices precise, sharp triangles of pie. The crust crumbles and folds perfectly; the filling stands firm, but leaks honeyed tendrils as it's pulled. Fine sugar crystals glisten on the lattice. It’s almost pornographic—Lord, forgive you. It’s sin: lust and gluttony…
It’s laughable: you bounce with greedy, excited chuckles, racing to Dan Heng’s side. He masterfully delivers it to a plate with the knife solely, aided by near inhuman balance.
“Wow,” you’re practically salivating, “I underestimated you. That looks..divine.”
“Thanks,” he flushes a soft, sheepish pink. He rolls his shoulders, preparing for the second delivery.
You clap your hands excitedly when he lands it perfectly. You immediately rush to the drawer, pulling out two slender forks. Dan Heng catches the sight. He moves swiftly: taking both plates in his hands and meeting you just as you try to pass off the utensils.
You quirk your head, softly, confusedly giggling.
He mirrors you, just softly smiling. He holds your eye contact for what feels like a long second, then looks down at the forks. Then back up at you. “Real silver forks, too?”
“Gosh, no,” you laugh. That weird, almost uneasy moment pops like a bubble, and your cheeryness was a sharp needle. “Handles are ceramic, made by my mama. The actual prongs are fake silver, nickel, I think. The upkeep is mad, to keep them from tarnishing.”
Now, he softly chuckles, mirroring your casualness. “I’ll bet.”
The plates catch the forks in a seamless manner of movements, leaving you toward the back wall, where the shelf of wine glasses stands adjacent to the rack of cured, untouched bottles. “Pass me the corkscrew, please?” You ask, pulling the gold foil off the bottle.
He switches the plates for the coiled screw, handing it off to you. Your fingers brush. You share soft, fluttery gazes.
You clear your throat, jamming the screw into the thick stalk. “These wines are older than me, y’know?”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you hum, jumping at the pop. “My parents received them as wedding gifts, housewarming gifts, but they never indulged. It was never forbidden, but it made them feel better.”
“And you?” Dan Heng asks. You turn back briefly to look at him. He’s leaned against your counter, his sleeves having ridden up. Your breath catches for a moment. “How does it make you feel?”
You immediately turn away. You pour into the wide glasses, tracking the flow of thick, deep red. It’s sacred. The drink of sacrifice and victory.
“It makes me feel good, too. I know I’m getting into Heaven, I’m a good woman, I don’t need to try so hard, y’know?” You set the bottle down. You pick up the glasses, raising one to your lips and the other to Dan Heng. “There’s nothing wrong with a little indulgence.”
Dan Heng raises his glass to that; you follow suit. He takes a sip, nodding, “This…this is a good choice.”
You laugh, coming to sweep your plate of pie. “A great substitute for ice cream. Has that, like, nutty-vanilla thing kind of going on.”
“Wait, let me try.” Dan Heng halts you, forking a bite of the pie. He bites it, chews it down, swallows, and immediately swigs from the glass. He takes a moment to ponder, almost cartoonishly, with his finger on his chin and his eyes to the ceiling. “Delicious,” he declares, softly, “A pale comparison to ice cream, though. But a worthy substitute, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Connoisseur Dan Heng, sir,” you chide, carrying off to the living room.
The two of you curled up in the living room, and for the next forty-five minutes, ceased to move—save, for a few runs to refill on wine. But that soon stopped, for you began nursing the glasses, instead, fostering conversation over the long-forgotten television.
Dan Heng sits facing the television, relaxed and composed. You sit to his right, completely folded and curled to face him, spinning your wine glass over the back of the couch. The liquid pools from left to right, quietly sloshing. It is no match for your laughter and anecdotes.
You’re no drunk; you’re not accustomed to the fire alcohol births. But you’re familiar with it. This, what is engulfing your body, does not feel like that.
The lights have dimmed. The storm is slowly withering your power away. The wind rages fervently, crashing against the windows and the roof and the sides of the house; the gusts are too aggressive to be held at bay and creep through the crevices. A draft whistles through, but it pales to combat the heat sweltering under your skin.
And it moves fast, aggressively. Within moments, you’re dripping in sweat. The wine glass slips from your hands and your head is starting to fuzz over.
Dan Heng calls your name, sitting up immediately and discarding his glass on the coffee table. Just beside your plates of pie: yours, completely ravaged, his, only half-eaten.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his hands wrapping around your biceps. He slightly shakes you, and a sickly smile pulls across your lips.
His touch feels like a run of cold, divine water in your scorching drought. Tingles surge where his fingertips press into your skin, and zip all through your body. The weight of his voice sits on your stomach, and it feels like a rabble of enraged butterflies awake.
You have to keep yourself from moaning when you part your lips. Your mouth is dry. You gasp out, “You should go.”
“What?” Dan Heng asks, “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t…I don’ feel too good…” You slur. You want to lean into his touch, but your sense fights your instinct: you weakly push him away, struggling to your feet. “Go… ‘m..gonna lay down.”
Dan Heng ignores you. You barely get away, but he’s still stalks after you. His presence seems to loom over you. The lights flicker. His hand presses against the small of your back, and you instinctively curl into his touch, halting your escape. “Don’t…” you breathe out, but your body defies you.
He practically pushes you to the ground, and your wobbly knees don’t object. The lights flicker. Dan Heng squats behind you, running that hand up your spine and around your neck, pulling you up. Your eyes meet amid the darkness; your eyes are practically pitch black, dwarfed by hungry, blown pupils. His seem to glow. A sanctity in his safe, pale blue eyes.
Your lips quiver. Your eyes water. You’re short of breath, practically panting. He can feel your heartbeat racing through your pulse. He thumbs the spot over, and you whimper. “Please,” your voice is broken, barely above a whisper, “help me.”
Your plea goes unanswered. He only leans closer, and you’re like a moth to a flame, innately drawn forward. His lips ghost against yours, and you press forward; you yearn to feel it.
The lights flicker. The wind outside seems to take a deep breath.
“Don’t fight it,” he says, pressing his fingers harsher into your neck. You gasp against his lips, your eyes fluttering shut. “Just let it happen.”
He kisses you.
His lips feel as soft as they’ve looked. You moan instantly. You’ve never kissed anyone, especially like this. Drool is basically pouring out of your mouth, all over his lips, down your chins. Your tongues find each other instantly, and his seems to be long, dexterous, forked. It wraps around yours, and you moan, feeling the taste being pulled out of your mouth. He guides you, smacking your lips together with obnoxious, wet sounds.
And then he stops.
He pulls back from you. His lips are drenched with your spit. His eyes fight to open.
An image of sin. Lust.
You want to devour him.
He stops you, keeping your reaching hands at bay. He doesn’t say anything, but you obey. Obediently, properly, you hold yourself on all fours as he moves behind you. The sound of his knees knocking onto the ground sounds like a beat of thunder.
From behind, you look like an angel. A beheld vision in white, a docile figure of desire. Like a holy maiden, born for desecration.
The hunger of his eyes, his touch, has a suffocating permanence to it.
It never falters. Even as his nails, which seem to be sharper, drag up the backs of your thighs, pushing the skirt of your dress up your body. Even more so, as they force your legs apart, catching lines of thick, silky arousal. Soft pink panties, completely soaked through, ruined. You whine in embarrassment, trying to claw away, but his nails dig into your skin. They tell you to stop, without him ever having to utter a word.
His eyes revere you in the ways his hands won’t. His fingers hook under the seat of your panties, pulling the soiled fabric down, just under the curve of your butt. Palms press against your skin, fondling your as. You whimper again, but it catches in your throat when he suddenly rips them in half.
Desecration. The pieces fall to the ground.
They do not matter, not when he can freely pull your cheeks apart, glaring, carnal eyes finally feasting on your wet, untouched pussy. It shines like the north star. His carnality has found its direction; he dives in, true north.
The lights flicker. His hot breath fans over your heat.
You squirm. “Please,” you draw. Your mind wants to say stop, but your body wants to say take me. Your heart races; it feels like it’s aligned with your body. Dan Heng can hear the true nature of your being, the desires left dormant.
You need to be taken. To be released. To be tasted.
Fingers pull your labia apart with a soft, wet clicking. Webs of arousal stretch across your cunt. He breaks them with his tongue: slotting between your warm, wet, soft folds, running a long, uncharted course against you.
You breathe out an airless gasp—nothing, no one has ever touched you there. Not even yourself. Pleasure is indulgence, indulgence is sin. Your knuckles still bear remembrance of the beating they received for wrapping around a book that wasn’t the Lord’s word. Now, they scrape against the floor as you try to use your fists to keep yourself upright, but ultimately, end up slumping into a slope.
Thunder rings out again. Lightning zips through your body as that forked, inhumanly long tongue finds your clit, beating and pearly, begging for attention. The sensation is so foreign but so good, your entire body can’t help but jolt forward and shiver.
Forked ends of his tongue move independently: one side goes up your bud, the other down, an extraordinary stroking pattern. It feels like every nerve in your body is being pressed. Your thighs shake, your hips lock and jump, shoving your butt into his face. His nose presses against your holes, and that is the first time he makes a sound: a deep, contented groan, like the Earth has just woken up.
The lights flicker. Wind pushes against your house harder.
He spins his tongue back through your folds, just to pull back and circle your entrance. It feels slimy and inky as he pushes the tip of his tongue experimentally through your walls. You’re tight, untouched.
It was just an experimental push, a lick of you at your core. He needs to feel you at your core, but you’re not ready. So, his tongue is replaced with a finger, careful to keep his nails from ripping you apart.
That feels foreign. It feels like nothing, initially, just an unusual intrusion that soon settles down. Your cunt needs to be stretched. That slight burn, tingling sensation comes with the second finger, that fucks its way inside of you. His wrist rotates 180° back and forth, his arm pulling in and out as he fucks your pussy open. His fingers feel much thicker inside of you; the intrusion of the third pulls you wider. You moan, you cry, you hiccup over drool and cries losing themselves down your throat.
His other hand takes to your clit, and your orgasm follows in quick succession. It doesn’t take much for it to be egged out of you—lust has taken refuge in your body, and you are sanctified. Your girlhood is spilling down his fingers as he fucks your womanhood deep, finding the spot that makes you plead.
Finger tips that feel like wood, languid knuckles that flex and rub like water. Your high is ridden out on his hand.
You collapse to the ground when he’s done. His fingers part from you and your body instinctively rolls onto your back, your legs folded on top of each other.
You’re muttering to yourself. It gets louder as the silence persists.
“Father, forgive my transgressions. I have polluted your vessel, my mind has released itself of you, but my soul calls for forgiveness,” you ramble. Tears stream down your hot face. Your hands are clasped against your chest. “Please, amend my sinful actions and guide me down your path of glory. Allow my wretched spirit to repair itself in your just arms.”
Dan Heng sits forward. His hands pull your knees apart, pushing your dress back up your hips. Your body is compliant for him. But you still lay there, fervently praying to the blank sky.
“Please, God,” you meekly whimper, falling into a sob. Tears run down your face rapidly, aggressively.
Your mouth is stuffed with Dan Heng’s fingers. Your cries are stifled around his digits. They press down on your tongue, they gag you into a full, snotty stop.
The lights flicker. The wind howls.
He has horns. Gilded curves sprouting from his scalp like a twisted, demented halo. A tail seems to have sprouted from his back end, ripping through the fabric of his pants and whisking around in the air.
Your breath picks up around his fingers, but he shoves them further down your throat. Your hands wrap around his arm and his tail, much longer and dexterous than you’d anticipated, lock around your wrists. It’s so tight, you let go of him, and he, you.
“God can’t help you now.”
You whimper, your face scrunching up as more tears stream down your face. The fat, branch-like end of his tail replaces his fingers in your mouth. The taste from your cunt still lingers on your tongue.
All of his clothes come off in one fell, ripping swoop. The destroyed fabric is shredded beneath you.
He is pale, but full of life. Abdomen lined with soft, yet defined muscles, his sides carved out with teal scales that glow golden. All the way down his thighs, the scales go, just to where the bulbous, round tip of his cock sits. It fattens up as the fear in your gaze grows.
The tail pulls from your mouth. The lights flicker.
You sputter, spit coughed up onto your face. The lights turn off.
“Y-you’re the devil!” You accuse. “Oh, dear God…”
“No.” He stops your murmuring. He presses in between your legs, slotting his dick against your sex. “I’m your savior.”
Dan Heng, or whoever, whatever he is, pushes your legs back, his tail taking up the mantle of holding them at bay. His hands guide his cock right into your spoiled pussy, unforgiving of your cries.
The stretch is vicious, much greater than his three fingers. And his cock is heavy, you feel it as it inches deeper and deeper, buffing your pelvis up in his shape. Extremities rest on your tongue and you fight your damndest not to say them. You just call out for God, initially asking for his aid, but soon, as a formality—any other word is too hard for you to say.
Your tongue feels like a foreign, useless entity in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You’re slurring the name of your Lord as Dan Heng fucks into you brutally, breaking you in like a battering ram. In and out, in and out, slap, slap, slap, at a moderate pace where he can find your depths and let you breathe all the same.
Fog populates your head; sweltering heat splashes you over like a baptism and you no longer have any humanity, any righteousness. Only pleasure. Only ecstasy. Only sin pumping in your veins, turning your cries of shame and damnation into those of pleasure.
It feels better than good, better than great, better than amazing. It feels like he’s reaching your soul, fucking it into the shape of debauched perfection. Your eyes squint and cross and roll; your mouth moves over the ghosts of words, only hung open over pornographic, blissful moans.
There’s nothing in your head, nothing telling you wrong or right, sin or holy. You’re stupefied by the feeling of fat cock stretching you wide, kissing your G-spot again and again and again. That bubble in your gut is prodded again and again and again, rougher, more fervent each time. Your pussy latches onto him, and he finally lets out a long, guttural moan.
Virgin, warm pussy is the true Heaven. His presence inside of you is all wrong, but it feels so very right, and all he aims to do is to take his claim on your untouched body and save you from the bonds of righteous evil. You like it. You cry out like a weeping banshee because you like it.
His tail lets your legs fall against his shoulders as he pushes forward, leaning against you. His hips move like undisturbed water: languid and long and smooth, driving his cock to nuzzle against your cervix. Your eyes blow wide and you scream, your voice ripping against your throat.
His nose butts against your neck, his teeth dragging over your skin. He bites you as he thrusts in, that scream of yours crafted out of pure pain and pleasure. The bite is so deep, blood splashes against his teeth and spills out of your shoulder.
It hurts like fuck but the mind-numbing feeling of your orgasm rushing out of you amends all of that. He bites you on the other side as you cum, groaning into your wound. Your cunt constricts around him like it's milking him, urging those heavy balls that beat against your ass to empty deep inside of you.
Oh, fuck, that look in your eyes, all teary and heavy and lost. Not a thought in your head except for your true, base nature to be fucked and pleasured and bred full.
Fuck it.
You cum, he cums in succession, gutturally growling. He’s almost like a beast. You’re like an animal. You grab at him and he sweeps you up, holding you at your hips like you’re nothing, fucking further into you.
“Please, Dan Heng,” you slur. It’s terribly spoken, completely meek, downright delectable. He licks the sweat rivulets off your cheek, and you wince. “Please, I beg of you,”
“Pray,” he grunts, “Pray to your savior.”
“I give to thee my mind, body, and spirit!” You say, mindlessly. Like it’s second nature to you. Submission, faith, praise, the things you were born to do. Not for your false, irresponsible God, but for him, “My savior—keep..going.”
You’re being pulled up and down his length. He’s ripping you apart, storming toward your guts and moving them aside for him. Your clit buzzes with pleasure, your body singes in heat. “Claim me, savior, ruin me! Fuckme, fuck–ing, shit, fuck—!”
You swear petulantly, unfamiliarly, scatteredly, as a second, much faster, much more intense orgasm.
“Oh, you’re perfect,” he whispers in your ear, rocking you as you lock up tight. “I’m going to keep you.”
. . . alls fair in lust and tennis— how dirty are you willing to play to conquer the challenge?
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、based on the movie ‘challengers’, iykyk 、making out 、 homoerotic best friendship™️ 、Michael Kaiser. 、slight d/s dynamics 、oral [f.] 、hair pulling 、boy tears™️ 、timeline shifts 、infidelity 、voyeurism 、hate fucking 、 choking 、degradation 、body worship 、praise 、spit 、probably ooc icl 、MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE ── fun fact: i used to play tennis when i was like 10 years old and quit cuz i hit my coach in the head during precision drills nd i was so embarrassed i refused to go back lol. Anyway this is probably an idea done a million times before but idc ive been ruminating over this for THREE MONTHS nd some change w extensive rewatches and script reads and brainstorming and i put my whole heart and pussy into this so pleasseeeeee enjoy this behemoth of toxic yaoi x evil fujo realness. this is the longest oneshot ive ever written pls dont let it be in vain alsoalso im so rusty writing smut pls if this is bad dont hold it against me okay i can do better Okay Bai - sola, signing out ★
WORD COUNT ── 22.9k
HEADS ON A SWIVEL, left to right, right to left; eyes blind to the rally of the ball, focused solely on the center of the universe. Where the sun reaches its apex, furious and beautiful, just like the object of its sparkling rays: shuffling across the service line with pinpoint precision, inhuman perfection, fiery grace—you.
Skin warmed by a lifetime under the sun. Muscles defined to divine perfection, pulled taut and flexed with every poised, articulate motion, glazed with sweat. Face stern under concentration, steamed and unblemished, beautiful. If the grievances of the sun and the avatar of grace had a child. You—her to them, the Queen of the court, the game changer, the object of unabashed ogling.
Heads on a fucking swivel, cocking in tandem with the hollow collisions of the ball to rackets, outpaced by the heartbeats pounding in their ears. A man can't help but watch, to engage, to arouse—Alexis adjusts and crosses his legs, praying internally that other spectators assume his blush is a symptom of the weather and not the heat in his chest.
It's hot. It’s tight: in his pants, in the stands, on the court. But you break out of that confinement with a devastating ease, compressing your poor opponent to mush. You pace confidently across the line. Undisturbed, unburdened by your name on the tongue of the fans and the officials and the petulant outburst of your competition. And suddenly, it's not hot anymore; it's cold. Icy. You look up to the stands—not directly at him but damn close enough—and your gaze is the first breeze breaking through a heatwave: rejuvenating. He shifts again, gripping the armrest, “Jesus.”
You send a backhand. Sharp. Strong. Slicing through the air like a guillotine and your opponent's career is locked upon the lunette.
He winces, face devoid of composure. It's not a wince of surprise or pity, but of thirst. “Jesus…” he mumbles again, mouth bewilderedly agape. “She’s…”
“A beast.” Alexis is reminded of his pair by his side. The piece of his puzzle he seldom parts with. All the same, the sole other existence that exists in your space, stupefied into an awestruck groupie, biting on the scraps of your majesty.
They hold that same astonishment into the wee hours of the night. Embraced by the stars, the crashing of the ocean over the hedge. Orbiting your being conspicuously, shamelessly - through the dancing bodies and nursed drinks, they remained undisturbed under your control.
A beast, Michael called you. You must be. Or something akin: a magical priestess, a sorceress of the soul—something beyond this plane, something to explain this innate feeling to watch you. He can't stop.
No one can stop watching you. You're magnetic. You command energy. You are the fire and they are the moths, drawn to your luminescence. Watching you as you stand out among the rest - dressed in a noble, stunning blue, while everyone is dressed dull and mutedly, glowing as you twirl and dance freely. Again, unbound and unbothered, flowing where the wind takes you.
It takes you in circles around your peers. Dancing around them with your teeth bared through a wide grin. Your hands on their shoulders, then down the length of their arms, then in their hands, then on your thighs, up the length of your body, until they break into the air and twirl aimlessly in the sky. Alexis swears the stars contort under your ministrations.
They might have been obliged to glow stronger and fall down on you. You shine, leagues among the rest. They have to squint just to keep watching you.
“Wow…” he says, voice low in awe.
“Exactly,” Michael breaks through again. He leans closer to the right, pushing his natural musk and rich creams right up into Alexis’s nose. He breathes slower, swallows thicker. “She’s the monarch of the tennis of tomorrow.”
Alexis chuckles unhumorously. “Don’t poke fun. She really is.”
“Oh, I know. She’s going to trailblaze her way to superstardom, far beyond whatever domesticity you’re dreaming of, Ness.” His finger snaps against the side of Alexis’s head; the latter winces, pulling his eyes away from you for the first time since seeing you. Michael is just as noble: painted perfectly by the glow of your sponsorship’s decor, as dashing as ever. It's intimidating, really—Ness wishes to cower away; but just like you, his presence is impossible to deny. “But she can’t do it alone, not forever. Every queen needs a king.”
He nudges Alexis to look back at you. You’re parting from your friends with a promise to come back, sauntering away with purpose.
You don't know they're there, watching you, but you walk away as though you do. Leaving a stardust trail in your wake, enticing them to follow.
“I think it's about time she meets him.” Michael places his beer down, adjusting his polo. Then his wristwatch. Then his wild hair. Then he’s off.
It takes a few moments for it to register; but when it does, Alexis is skittering off in suit, much less composed and confident than his friend. He has no time to gather himself—they find you toward the back of the party, seating yourself at a table with a card that reads FAMILY ONLY in a gold inscription. You pick up your glass, sipping poisedly out of the straw. They approach you awkwardly—Ness more so—but they don't disturb you. You notice them before they know you do, finding you meeting them with an expectant, daring glint in your eyes.
Michael approaches with his chest out and his chin up - dashing and collected, the prime example of a suitor. Alexis comes up meekly behind him, having retreated into his popped collar - almost missable, the role of a lowly commoner. It intrigues you. You set your glass down, tapping your fingers in your lap.
The former stretches his hand out first, “Michael Kaiser,” he says, smooth and melodical.
The latter follows suit, his unassuming face contorting into an awkward smile, “A-Alexis Ne—”
“I know who you are,” you say. Your eyes linger on Kaiser, but they soon sharply shift to Ness. Your lips twitch ever so slightly. “Both of you.”
“The Emperor and his trusty knight…ruling the court with one.. what do you call it?”
Michael’s grin shortens into a smirk, “Kaiser Impact.”
You snicker. “Yeah. With one Kaiser Impact at a time.” There’s a challenge found in your tone. Almost chastising, teasing, something underhanded. Ness narrows his eyes at you slightly, catching the shade, ready to pounce—
But to his surprise, “More than ruling the court. I’m changing the game.”
“That’s my title.”
“There’s enough to go around.”
And then there’s a short, but tense stillness, one that Alexis is excluded from. He stands there, almost off to the side as you and Kaiser speak without ever saying a word—it’s your eyes, the ones that shone majestically under the sun, now burning with a nightly fire, born of intrigue and…he’s not sure what else because it’s not for him to read. It’s for Michael, hungry, audacious Michael, who looks at you with a challenge. A wordless proposition that you seem to accept, smiling minutely.
“What about your partner?” You nod your head to Ness, seeming to remember his presence. Michael only half glances in his direction. “You don't do it all alone.”
“Like you said: Emperor,” he drags his hands from his head to waist through the air, “and trusty knight.”
“Knights typically do most of the work. Emperors freeload off the safety and sit pretty on their thrones.”
Offense starts to etch over Michael’s face. The curl of his lips turns irritated, his eyes narrowed at you like he was reading you, peering right through you to pick at your deepest insides.
Alexis quickly shifts his eyes to you—you’re unbothered. Sitting as pretty as ever, waiting. It's like you read Michael, dug under his skin purposefully, and now you're waiting. Maybe you're waiting for the real him to show his face. Maybe you're just a tease. Maybe you meant nothing by it.
Regardless, he takes the bait.
“You seem quite comfortable on your own throne, Queen of the Court.”
You sneer. “Difference is, I earned that title alone.”
“You’re saying I don't deserve it?”
“I'm saying you don't do it alone,” and then your eyes find Alexis again; much softer than what you afforded to Michael, “He deserves just as much credit as you do.”
“I never imagined you would root for the underdog.” It comes out as a dry laugh; pure disbelief. Whisked around with offense.
You sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your legs, “Why wouldn't I? I used to be one.”
Michael opens his mouth to quip—Alexis beats him to the punch. “You played grea—amazingly. You played amazingly today…I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Both of your heads cut to him; yours in fondness, Michael’s in confusion.
You smile at him softly, cocking your head his way slightly. “Thank you.”
“You must hear stuff like this all day..but, really, it was something…unreal,” he pauses, unsure if he should let something so juvenile continue to roll off his tongue, especially with the holes Kaiser was burning through his skull. He’s out of line, far beyond his place as the trusty, silent knight. He's broached upon waters he’s unallowed to indulge—but it feels good. The way you look at him feels good. “It was magical.”
And you laugh. It's not mean—not directed at him in the way Kaiser often does—it’s bubbly and real. It's nice. It's you. He blushes.
“Thank you,” you reiterate. “Maybe we can play together sometime..make some of your own magic.”
He goes wide-eyed. As does Michael. “H-hu—?”
“Stanford. They happened to mention you when I accepted their offer.”
“You’re going to Stanford??” Michael butts in, voice dripping in confusion, almost disgust. “You’re not going pro?”
“Not yet,” you shake your head.
He’s in utter disbelief, it's shown all over his face. His hands slide into his pockets, “What's the point? Why would you waste your time playing college tennis?”
He misses the way Ness's head shoots toward him—now he’s the one who’s offended, rightfully so. He didn't say it, but it's like he said You don't need that, but Ness does—like he’s light years away.
You notice the way Alexis’s face drops. Your face almost pulls into a scowl at the blond, “Exactly. I earned my throne. I’ll continue to work for it.”
Before anyone can say anything else, your father stalks out of the shadows. “Gotta steal you for a sec, baby. Cameras are ready,”
You look back at the pair, lingering on Alexis. “It was nice meeting you guys.”
And you just leave. Led away by your father, back through the line of hedges to the party, just off to the side. They can see you over the leaves—they watch you unabashedly as you smile, you pose, you shine.
The tension dissipates with your absence. Almost like you were the nucleus, but neither of them would blame you. You just have that compelling energy about you: impossible to hate, to deny, to feel anything but attraction toward.
It's fucking psychotic.
There was no reason for them to stay other than the fact that they got to see you. More and more, from perfect angles as you looped around the party, surfing through the dwindling crowd. And they knew they should have gone as soon as your conversation ceased, but they couldn't—
They were compelled to stay.
Just waiting until the time comes for whatever it is that you seem to have to show its face. It feels different to both of them; they know it's there, it lingers even with your distance, and they want it all over them, devouring them.
Michael’s feels primal and angry, hefty with a lifetime of questions and ill-placed answers. His feels like fire, like passion. Like something that hurts more than it's worth, but it's too good to give up.
Alexis’s feels creeping and secret, the box of Pandora with everything beneath the light tucked inside. His is natured with whispers, with intimacy. As though it were something sacred, something worthy of revering.
Those feelings heighten when you pass through their way, completely unaware of their presence, holding yourself in your natural state. Your shoulders are drooped, back hunched, like you’ve finally crossed a finish line. Now, you can relax, rest on the expensive fruits of your labor.
But they, all-too-excitedly, perk up at your visage. Like they’ve only just spotted the prize. Alexis is unable to control his excitement: his mouth moves before he can think, “Hey!”
You stop dead in your tracks. Looking over at them like a deer caught idiotically in headlights. A smile breaks awkwardly over your face, “…Hey.. You’re..still here.”
Alexis scratches the back of his neck, “Ha, yeah… Great party!”
You nod along slowly. “Shouldn’t you guys get going? Don't you have to prepare for your match tomorrow?”
“Nothing worth stressing over,” Michael buts in, all smug and assured, “We both know how it’ll end.”
It's said as though it were common knowledge—a light quip to both humor and tease, but it's apparent that, to Alexis, it hurts more than anything. He looks almost shocked. Like he can't believe what was said. And he doesn't fight it.
You hate that he doesn't fight it.
Michael takes advantage of the tension and slides his hand into his front pocket, pulling out a smashed pack of Newports. “You smoke?”
“You do?” You ask, voice full of surprise.
“Yeah. Smoke with me, down at the beach.”
It's not a request nor a suggestion. It's not including Alexis either, who looks at the former with a bout of annoyance no one has ever seen. He’s never had nothing but pure adoration for his emperor—until you; the deciding factor between them and the throne.
The proposition, with all of its loose strings, intrigues you. You give in to the temptation, ready to play with your new dolls. All sweetly, you look between both of them, tilting your head, “Sure.”
The tension only grows. It sits heavy on your back as you stare longingly out at the waves, catching the beach’s beauty under the full moon. And they watch you as you do so, filling the air with silent drags of disgustingly fragrant cigarettes.
Life is distant, ambient around you: quiet chitterings of insects, soft collisions of the water kissing the foot of the beach, long whistles in the wind, party music slurred in translation. It’d be nice if it weren't for that lingering dread, birthed by tension and quips that were laced with ill intent. You roll your shoulders at the feeling, turning your head to catch their stares, “Okay, what?”
Michael takes a languid drag, “Explain the whole college thing.”
You pull your body fully around the rock, facing the two of them. You tilt your head confusedly, shaking your single shoulder, urging him to continue. “What am I explaining…”
“Why you’re wasting time to go bully a bunch of girls who’ve never known real competition, who think being the best comes from junior league tournaments?” The question is chastising. It’s rude in all of the worst ways—neither you nor Ness can hide the confused annoyance on your faces. “What are you trying to get at?”
“An education… the rest of my life isn't going to be defined by hitting a ball with a racket. I don't want that.”
He chuckles dryly. “Working for your throne, is that it?”
You nod, unreacting. He knocks the ash off the cigarette, pulling again, “How amiable of you.”
“And you're going to sit on yours?”
“As soon as possible,” his smile is cheshire, “what do I have to gain from wasting my talent on people so disgustingly below me?”
You can't take him seriously. You look him up and down, in all of his pompous, irritating glory, fingers still subconsciously wrapped around the ashing cigarette, and you snicker. “You’ll crash and burn like that. You’ll continue playing for yourself, never growing out of that serve, never being anything else but the Emperor.”
He shrugs. “It's not wrong.”
“It's not tennis. You don't play tennis—you don't know what it is.”
Ness rips the words from his tongue: “What is it?”
And the words come off your tongue like rose water, “It's a relationship.”
Michael scoffs. “A relationship..?”
You nod, undisturbed by his mocking tone. Alexis is the one who pulls your attention, holding the stars in his wide, plum irises, and you smile ever so softly, “A relationship. It's like being in love, going somewhere magical with your opponent. If you’re doing it right, engaging yourself right in that moment, you’ll hardly play at all—you’ll make love.”
“Love,” Alexis says the word, more to himself than out loud, but it catches in your ears anyway. Both you and Michael look at him with surprise. “Is that your secret…how you play so well? …You play like..nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
This time, your smile is coy, all-knowing. You don't say anything; you just nod, shrugging halfheartedly.
It falls quiet between the three of you. You gaze off behind them, into the long distance where the remnants of the party still stand. “I should get going.”
You start to move—but before you even get a half step ahead, Alexis calls out mindlessly. “Wait!”
And you stop in your tracks, discreetly smiling to yourself before turning back to them. He meets your look, as timid and beet-red as ever, “D-Do— A-Are—”
“What?”
“He’s trying to get your number…very poorly,” Michael buts in again, chest puffed out and expression smug. “I’ll also ask, since it's on the table.”
You shake your head, unable to keep yourself from laughing. “Both of you want my number?”
Ness nods; Kaiser leans forward, “One deserves it more than the other.”
He isn't lying about that. It's just not who he’s thinking— you look at him cheekily, then to Alexis, and straighten up. You clear your throat as you shake your head, “Nuh-uh. I don't get in the middle…not a home wrecker.”
“There’s no home to wreck.”
“You wouldn't be getting in the middle!”
Their responses are eager in their own ways—it’s hilarious. Your face is pulled taut in pure humor. Just watching them watch you, attempt to read you, waiting for you. They hang off your every action, every word like expectant pups; at this point, you have no qualms about throwing them a bone.
You shift your weight on your feet, angling to the right—toward Ness, and Kaiser notices. His expression tightens, and he finally tosses that long-forgotten cigarette to the grass. He tries to close the distance with a step; but you lengthen it, taking a half step back.
He simply smirks. You're trying to play hard-to-get.
“Come hang out with us.”
Again— not a request, not a suggestion, but a matter-of-fact statement. You look at him with surprise, as does Ness. His smugness remains undeterred. “Same hotel: up at the Marriott, down the street, right? We’re in room 108. Stop by.”
“And do what?”
“Talk. We can just keep talking…”
You hum. Not a response— just an acknowledging hum, where your face quirks in a puzzle. You know your choice, it sits on the back of your tongue like fire, but you don't dare let it slip. You just begin your stride, walking past the both of them in a non-answer, “Goodnight.”
“Are you coming?!” Ness calls after you, desperately.
You laugh into the wind, unbothered to turn around.
They watch you saunter away, just as entranced as always. The image is impossible to forget—it hangs in the air as they lie in the cheap, musty hotel room, stifled under thick, tense silence.
Ness sits on his bed, upright and thinking, trailing soft lines down his bare legs—Kaiser, on the other hand, has buried himself into another one of his thick, pretentious books. Wrapped in a cheap hotel robe, glasses sat atop his face, fresh, fuming cig stood between his lips, looking as though he were bigger and better than what he is.
He doesn't have to do anything to know that Ness is antsy, wide awake with anticipation. It's annoying him. “She’s not coming.”
“She might.”
His reply is meek; it’s pathetic. Kaiser scoffs, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, only briefly pulling his eyes to give Ness a mean once over, “If she does, we both know what it’d be for.”
“You're trying to fuck her…?” It comes out as more of a question than Ness intended. His face is warped in surprise, more disbelief at the extent of Kaiser’s audacity, than anything, as he just stares.
“Don’t act like you don't want to either, shitty Ness,” he chides, feigning attention at the words on the page. “The difference is, I’ll succeed. You…you’ll go jerk off in the bathroom to the sounds and imagine you were me…or maybe you were her.”
Despite flushing a hot red, Ness ignores the connotation and shakes his head. If you could hear how he spoke about you, what would you think of him? Surely, you’d have enough sense and confidence to leave well enough alone and find someone who’s actually interested in you…and he won't allow himself to say it, not even in his mind, but he quietly hopes that that person is him.
He wouldn't gloat or rub it in Kaiser’s face. He would cherish your time. He would appreciate it. He would worship it. If he ever had the chance.
And he doubts he would — anybody in their right mind would choose Kaiser. He would choose Kaiser if he were you.
So he doesn't say anything. Just sits on his mum, drawing white lines down his calf.
“What do you have to say, Ness? Spit it out.”
Kaiser doesn't even have to look at him to know he's wallowing and having a whole fucking pity party for himself in his head— the air says it alone. It’s all doom and gloom on Ness’s half of the room, all disordered and ugly. It's annoying him.
It takes him a moment to gather the courage to say something…to say it: “I just…I think it's beneath her.”
The laugh Kaiser gives is chastising and dry, “Would it still be beneath her if it were you over me? How opposed would you be to fucking her right here while I’m—”
“It doesn't matter,” Ness doesn't mean to cut him off. He begins to fumble and stumble, hardly able to even look up at Kaiser. “I-I mean…you said it yourself, she’s not coming…right? So..what’s it matter anyway?”
Knock knock knock.
What a cruel joke. What a cruel, cosmic joke.
They pause, eyes finding each other in the silence. Like they were trying to confirm if they both heard it, that it was real. A beat of thick, unsure silence passes.
And then again.
Knock knock knock.
Kaiser slams the book shut like a definite answer—it echoes through the room as if to say She’s here.
They immediately jump up—one more frantic than the other. Kaiser whisper-instructs Ness to get all the shit off the ground, you slob!, and Ness concedes, flustering over himself as he fights a shirt over his head. The former takes to the mirror, butting the cigarette into the tray and spraying himself with expensive, whiskey-smelling cologne.
He turns around, Ness still pathetically scooping and moving, and he groans, whispering again, fucking useless, move! as he kicks the miscellaneous bullshit under the armchair and dresser, deep enough that the shadows hide it well.
With no regard for Ness still unready for your majesty, he goes to the door, pulling it open.
He meets you, as smug as ever. “Hey.”
And then he’s paired with Ness, who appears like a persistent blemish out of the corner, flushed and exasperated. “Hi,” he says, feigning casualness.
You just smile.
Michael pulls the door open wider, and you step across the threshold.
As soon as you step in, you're immediately hit with the stench of cured whiskey and burning cigarettes, deepened by the hot summer air, gone unchallenged by a faulty AC. You don't grimace, you're surprisingly unreactive—of which, Kaiser is almost irked by.
He still lingers by the door, leaning against the wall beside the closet, “Want a drink?”
Half an hour, maybe even a full one passes as you drink and talk the night away.
They're much more natural here, unlike their eager dispositions earlier. Much to Michael’s initial dismay, the three of you have found yourselves lounging on the floor, sharing a chilled Smirnoff from the minibar. It's passed back to you, right off Michael’s mouth, and you sip with no hesitation, “So, what's the story,” you wiggle your fingers between the two of them, “how’d you guys get so close?”
You pass the bottle to Alexis. “Oh, well…we met at tryouts for the Davis Cup Juniors…”
“Ohhh,” you chime, “how prestigious.”
Michael takes the bottle from Alexis, “I saved him from elimination that day. He’s been indebted to me since.”
And you take it from him, “How sweet.” You chide.
Alexis looks to you, trying to ignore the rising tension. “You never tried out for your team?”
“Locally, sure,” you shrug, passing the bottle without taking a sip. “Never the national team…the things needed to get there..We didn't have access to. People didn't believe in me then, anyway. Besides, even on some lucky shot that I was able to, my parents wouldn't have wanted me in that environment.”
The room falls quiet with question. Michael takes the bottle from Alexis’s inattentive hand, taking himself a generous swig. “Why not?”
You don't have to say anything—he hands the bottle off to you and that says a million answers without saying anything. You chuckle, he sneers, Alexis awkwardly laughs along.
“So,” your tone pitches, quickly shifting the subject. “Any girls I should worry about, coming to put my head on pitchforks for you?”
Michael sneers again, “You’re saying you're interested?”
“No. I’m saying, you probably have a bunch of girls waiting for you back home. I'm not a home wrecker.”
“Right. You said that before,” he nods slowly, taking a slow, final swig. “Ness is unoccupied. Even if he was, I’m sure you’d have nothing to worry about.”
“And you?”
Alexis answers before he can, “Kaiser’s in-between…no labels.”
He didn't mean it to sound compromising but… he won’t lie and say that the way you quirked your brow and quickly turned back to Kaiser wasn't something he enjoyed. “Oh really?”
“Thanks, Ness—you’ve made it sound like I'm some sort of—”
“—Slut?” You finish.
Alexis is unable to control the snicker that puffs out of him. He slaps his hand over his mouth and turns to avoid Michael’s glare - of which, shifts to you when you find yourself laughing.
“I'm not a slut. I'm just not…tied down.” He answers, almost annoyed.
“No labels.” You reiterate, dragging your eyes up and down his frame. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth for a slight moment, releasing as you look back to Alexis.
You lean back on your hands, bringing that challenge back up in your eyes as you glance between them. “How often does this happen? —Going after the same girl?”
“Not at all…” Alexis answers.
Michael’s grin grows, “You’re the first.”
“I’m special,” you grin, almost childishly, like the idea is something to truly cherish, “should I be flattered?”
“It can't be surprising to you…I mean…do you know who you are?”
Your smile covers up the ache in your head - birthed from the tug of unsavory memories to the surface. You know who people think you are: the girl in the ad campaigns, on the court, in the mouth of every sports caster worth their salt— she’s a dreamboat, a fantasy. But the you that you know is much less polished, much less perfect, bridled with humanity that turns people off.
They don't want a human, they want an idea.
Is that what they want from you?
You look at them, gaze bordering on intense. You take them in, scanning them for threads of their innards, anything you can grab onto and spool into a leash—
“What about…the two of you?”
Alexis stiffens, eyes shifting nervously between himself and Michael. “What do you mean?”
The expression you wear says it all. He swallows thickly. “Oh. Oh.” He pulls himself together, legs especially tight over his crotch, “…No.”
Michael’s face curls, “Well…”
“Kaiser! What do you mean?!” Alexis nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks mortified—you eat it up. Leaning closer, “Yeah—what do you mean?”
Alexis’ face is fiery red, he’s almost steaming. He looks ashamed. Michael doesn't even spare him a look. He rests on the palms of his hands, looking right at you. “I taught Ness how to jerk off.”
You smile. Alexis looks like he’s about to die. It makes you giggle. “Don't leave me hanging! Explain!”
There's a beat of silence. They share a wordless conversation through side eyes—you watch them closely, scrutinizingly. An idea suddenly jumps into your head; you smile wickedly, “Or you can show me?”
The next beat of silence is thick. You break through it by standing up, abruptly, walking over to the nearest bed. You sit on the edge, running your hands over the cheap duvet, “You coming?”
Alexis barely gets to breathe before Michael bolts up to his feet, rushing to your right. He scrambles as he follows, sitting to your left.
You smile contentedly. You fill the silence with a giggle, looking back and forth between them—right, to Michael, who still looks smug, even with the bewildered excitement glowing in his eyes; left, to Alexis, who is so confused, still frowning with the remnants of mortification lingering, but even beneath that, there's that warmth of excitement. You stop at him; you lean closer.
He freezes under your gaze, your touch, just looks at you confused. Your hand laces through his hair, tucking frizzy curls behind his ear, and his eyes flutter. He fights the urge to lean into your touch. You close the distance further, breathing directly against his face, “did he prepare you for this, too?” you whisper.
Alexis doesn't get to reply—you kiss him. Tenderly. Like you’re scared to break him. He hesitates to kiss you back for a second, only a second, and he meets your kiss with an excited sweetness, pressing into you with a fervor that makes you smile against his lips.
Michael watches intently, jealously. He lurches behind your body, fingers ghosting over your hips sneakily, all to get a better angle—and he does.
He gets the perfect view of Ness pressing into you, pulling your left hand from your lap to the other side of his head, to cradle him, holding him tenderly. He watches your mouths slot together, your lips sheening in each other's spit, the soft clicks of your lips pursing.
Then you pull away. Your back slides right into Michael’s arms. Ness is unable to watch you, he watches his friend who turns you around, not forcefully but eagerly, proudly initiating your kiss. And under his behest, the kiss is much more passionate, much more tense, like he’s got something to prove.
He does. He has to prove that he’s the one to choose. He’s the partner to your reign, and he kisses you just like that: your betrothed, your King.
Ness watches with glossy eyes—not insulted, but defeated. He watches like he figures you’ve made your choice, like your kiss with Kaiser is final.
You break this kiss sooner. Michael almost grimaces, fighting the urge to pull you back. You look between them again, right, to Michael, whose face is urging you to come back, to finish what you started; left, to Alexis, who still looks nervous, defeated, ready to recede into the bathroom. You smile.
Michael takes the initiative again: a finger under your chin, pulling your face back to his direction. He leans forward cheekily, looking at Ness around your head. His eyes shoot toward the bathroom as he leans in, pecking teasingly against your lips. His finger traces up your jaw to your ear, looping around the side of your face, fingers lacing through the hairs at your hairline. The kiss deepens; he leans you back and leverages over you, taking the lead.
Ness finds this to be his final signal to go—Kaiser is going to fuck you right there and he’s going to retreat to the bathroom. He adjusts to move, but you stop him.
Your hand shoots back, wrapping around his forearm. Without even missing a beat, you pull him toward you, and he obliges, both sides of your body crowded with their attention.
Michael recognizes it, groans slightly into your mouth, trying to press you lower into the mattress to monopolize your body. But you persist. Your right hand pushes against his shoulder, forcing him off, and you turn to Alexis, kissing him on his cheek, then his lips, then his jaw. The former grits his teeth, leaning forward, creeping into the crook of your neck.
They’re sharp, biting kisses, stinging for your attention. But you remain unmoved: you push the back of Alexis’s head forward, craning your head back to the left, forcing Michael out. Your left arm finds its way around him, pulling him forward. The three of you meet in the center—where Michael tries to go first but you urge Alexis to join, greeting them in a sloppy three-way.
Tongues slop and slide against each other disjointedly, undirected, just following your lead. It’s hungry, it's impassioned. Hands run wild: Michael’s swimming up the front of your body, pulling the zipper of your jacket down just enough to slip through, cupping around your tits; Alexis’s slide down your thighs, back and forth, timid to slip between, and yours find refuge on their laps, pressing and rolling over the tight tents pushing through their shorts.
Slowly, subtly, you pull back. Their hands fall down from you, subconsciously finding their way to each other. You’re watching them kiss each other like they’re kissing you: Ness, timid and tender, Kaiser, aggressive and prideful.
You lean back on your elbows, your eyes filled with stars, your lips quirked dangerously—you lick them hungrily; a predator watching her prey in their trap. And they fall for it, deliciously slow: slowly devouring one another with a fervor that warms the whole room.
You let them go on for a few moments and then— “Okay.”
Michael breaks from Alexis like he’s been shot. He stands up, standing over the edge of the bed with irritation creasing his expression, “What the fuck?!”
You giggle. You sit up, dust your hands off, and stand. He stands over you, but you don’t cower—you stand tall, smile still wrapped widely. “I asked you to explain,” you turn to Alexis, who does cower, “and you did. I’m done now.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Michael scoffs. He steps back from you, arms folded. “What was the point in coming here?”
You’re pulling your zipper back up, “Not to fuck you, I’ll tell you that.” And then you’re adjusting your hair, “I learned something. I helped you learn, too.”
“Learn what?” Alexis asks, quietly.
You smile. “What it takes to win.”
There’s a beat of quiet as you walk to the door. You stop, looking back to them—more so to Alexis, “You have a match tomorrow..I’ll be there. Whoever wins…we can work something out.”
Michael grins proudly, cheekily. He knows he’ll win. Alexis knows he’ll win too; he deflates, sighs into his hands.
“You know you can beat him, right? You should.”
“You want him to win?” Michael asks, laughing. “Over me?”
“They’re words of encouragement.”
“…But— who are you rooting for?” Alexis asks.
You don't answer. You don't say anything. You pull the door open and leave abruptly, slamming the door, a dramatic finale to the night.
They sit in silence. Everything, everything from the last four hours hangs in the air and it’s tense. It’s uncomfortable. It’s pushing Ness to his feet, stretching his hand out to Kaiser.
“Are we still playing fairly?”
Kaiser scoffs. He swats Ness’s hand away, hard, catching his furious boner in the crossfire. Ness hisses, folding over. “Fuck off,” Kaiser spits. “It’s a match to the death.”
TWO WEEKS LATER.
Soft jazz music rumbles in the background. It melts with the warmth of dim candlelight, the warmth of posh Italian cuisine to pair. It melts into ambiance: the final dressing to what’s supposed to be a casual outing.
You’ve come to find that Michael Kaiser doesn't do casual.
“So…” you drawl, setting your sweaty water glass on its napkin square, “Do you treat all of your girls to nice restaurants?”
He looks up at you from the menu, almost annoyed that that's where you decided to land. He clicks his tongue, “Only the special ones.”
“I’m flattered,” you chide.
“You should be.”
Ew.
He doesn't even look up from the menu, so he misses the way your face rounds up, displeased. You link your fingers together, leaning forward. “You’re really bad at this. Did you know that?”
“I’ve never gotten any complaints.”
“Maybe because they’re lying to you, trying to preserve your ego,” you quip, “Maybe because they’re just trying to get in your pants. They don't want to date.”
“You want to date me?” He finally sets the menu down. His face is pulled in smug intrigue.
You roll your eyes. “Is that not what I’m sitting here doing right now?”
He doesn't answer. He just glances you over, a grin plastering across his face. He goes back to scanning the menu, acting as though he hasn't eaten at this very restaurant a dozen times, with a dozen different girls, in the amount of visits he’s made. He knows what he’ll get: the house special charbroiled, honey-glazed salmon, paired with garlic asparagus, and a warm mound of rice. He’ll eat it demurely, pausing every so often with faux engagement in your boring spiel—then he’ll ask if you’ve had enough, you’ll say yes; he’ll pay, tip the waitress 18%, and fuck you stupid in his hotel room. He’s done it a dozen times.
But you don't want that. —Or, as Ness had so pointedly observed, you're better than that. You’re sitting here, trying to date him. He doesn't do casual and he doesn't do labels. He just…does.
He’s not very good at it.
You scoff and roll your eyes. “I should have picked Alexis regardless…” You mumble.
The way the table jolts under a reflexive kick, the cookery dancing wildly, you'd have thought he was on his way to a stroke. He goes rigid. He goes pale. He grips the edge of the table roughly. Then he lets it go, and is suddenly laughing. He cocks his head, “You serious?”
People are looking. Older couples with pure snootiness in their irked gazes, waitstaff with concern in theirs—they watch your date chuckle like a maniac as he leans forward, asking you again, “Are you serious?”
“He might make better company,” you double down, “might be nice and willing to listen.”
“He wouldn't know what to do with you.”
“And you do?” There goes that challenging tone to your voice; a question heavy with teasing.
He goes to answer but you breach his turn, “I'm not impressed by all this. I'm sure even Alexis could see that.”
“That dingbat can't even see his own two feet without me,” Michael scoffs, leaning back. “Tell me, then; tell me what would be a great date for you. …Or, you can show me.”
“Nice try.” You chide. “I don't know what you think is happening here, but it's not going to end with us having sex.”
He slumps back into his seat, arms lying atop the armrests. You're good. You're fun. He likes you.
“Can I ask you something?” He raises. You quirk a brow at him, humming as an answer. He clicks his tongue, “What’s all this about? The guardedness.”
“I’m guarded?” You point at yourself. “You're one to talk.”
“I know my reasons.”
“What are they?”
“I asked you first.”
You pause. He thinks he's won; you dispel that, crossing your arms. “I could just walk out of that door, call Alexis, and forget this ever happened.”
He laughs at you. You scrunch your face up. What’s he got to be laughing at? “You…” he begins, “you don't care about Ness as much as you say you do. Not about him as a tennis player, especially not as a prospective lover.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” There's no room for arguing back against the strength of his tone. It's hard, domineering—it makes you swallow down your words and hide defeatedness behind your wine glass. “It's just so you can make yourself seem better than me. You hate to be inferior. Being with Ness, a whopping loser on all counts, would only demean you more, prove everyone right about you. But me…you hate that we’d work. I’d push you to one-up me..to be better. You hate that I’d change your life.”
It takes you a moment to find your words. They get lost at the back of your throat. Your irritation finds itself battling against Michael’s pride: your eyes lock in an intense silence—
“Have you both had a chance to look over the menu?”
Michael is quick to jump into pleasantries, flustering the young waitress. Just as he always gets, “the house special charbroiled, honey-glazed salmon, paired with the garlic asparagus, and a side of rice.”
“And for you, ma’am?”
“Just the maple chicken breast, please.”
“White rice as your side as w—”
“Yes, please.” You don't mean to cut her off. You're just ready for her to leave so you can drop your smile and wipe that smug look off of Michael Kaiser’s face.
He has that look that he wears when the fate of his matches becomes apparent. The way he looked at you when he was mercilessly demolishing Alexis, up 40-love with no room for his opponents' pitiful comeuppance: lips quirked in an infuriating smize, eyes locked onto yours and big, gleaming with confidence, a reminder of his worth. And it only sharpened when he hit Alexis’ serve with ease, sending his friend to an unceremonious fall as he tried to catch the rally. The whistles blew, the game was called, and he looked right back at you: expression sharper, because he had won.
You’ll be damned if he gets to revel in that glory twice in a row.
“You’re wrong.”
That's all you can manage to say. He cracks a humored smile. “About what?”
“All of it. You think you can psychoanalyze me and figure me out just to make yourself feel better. ‘We would work’? Bullshit. You couldn't push me to do anything but leave.”
“Then leave.” You can't stand him. “Call him. Go on, then. Prove me wrong and end your misery.” You can't stand him and all of his fucking arrogance.
You don't move an inch. Your phone is in your clutch, sitting comfortably in your jacket pocket. You could just reach slightly to the right and retrieve it…but you don't. You just sit there, glaring at him, as if your stare could explode his head.
A moment passes like a freight train. The longest breath you've ever held clouds in your chest for relief—your body begs you to concede. But you keep holding it, letting your self-esteem rearmor.
Pushing yourself. You're pushing yourself. The revelation makes you release in a deep, defeated breath.
And then— “That's what I thought.”
“You're such an asshole.”
“I’ve heard worse,” he chimes, sipping his wine. “You’re just lovely.”
You narrow your eyes at him. You’ll never let him get the satisfaction of being right. You’ll just tolerate his attitude, attend his challenge, and, when the night ends, let his hands hold your hips as he ghosts your lips against yours as a bid of goodnight. Not a surrender nor win for him, just a mutual understanding. A lighting for an insatiable flame.
TWO DAYS LATER.
“Kaiser!”
The courts are filled with prodigies, their balls soaring through the air with perfection. They hit the ground with hollow thwacks, cleared by dedicated coaches. The blond is among them, practicing by his lonesome, the opposite side of the court decorated in lime green.
He shakes off the calls of the pest, serving perfectly and spiking the ball over the net with the sharpest angle. He grabs another ball out of the cart, beginning to reset— “Kaiser!”
He serves. The ball dives back down, and in a soft underhand, it shoots over the net. In tandem with Ness’s closing footsteps. “Kaiser!!! How was it?!”
Ness drops his bags at the edge, wrestling his racket out and rushing over. The ball bounces under Kaiser’s racket, his laser-focus unbroken by Ness’s weaselish tone.
“How was what?” The blond says, catching the ball mid-drop. He positions the racket, his grip intentional to hoist the ball at the perfect position.
Ness nudges him. Kaiser grimaces. “Y’know… the date! You haven't said anything since you went out on Sund—”
“For a reason, shitty Ness,” he grumbles. “It's not your business.”
“But you always—”
Kaiser sighs, lowering his arms. “Wasn’t it you who gave me a whole lecture about what’s beneath her? Her business, our business is none of yours.”
“Oh—” Ness gasps, “you…did it.”
“What?”
“I see…that’s why you won't say. You guys did it.”
“We..’did it’..? What are you, 12, Ness?”
“You’re deflecting!”
“None of your business.”
“Would you tell me if you didn't?”
“Would you get to the other side of the court so we can fix your shitty backhand?”
Ness concedes, jogging eagerly to the other side. Racket still in hand, he begins rolling his shoulders, pulling his legs, ruminating in his mind over what could be such a secret. Maybe the date went awfully and Kaiser’s too embarrassed to admit he got dumped. Or maybe it did go great and now you're keeping it on the down low.
But…you know they're best buds! Kaiser eventually would talk to Ness so, you’d have expected him to spill. Right?
Right. Right—that’s why he asks, “Can you at least say if the dinner went well?” Not because he's jealous. He's not jealous.
“She hated it,” is all Kaiser says as he adjusts his grip on his racket. “Are you done yet?”
“Can you please just tell me if you…”
“I’m not telling you shit. Are you ready yet?”
“You don't have to tell me! You can…show me.”
“What the fuck, Ness?!”
“Not like that!” The brunette stands before the net, his expression shiny in mischief, “just…gimme a sign.”
“A sign?” Ness nods eagerly. Kaiser comes to the net, pushing the former’s forehead with a rough index finger, “If I say yes will you get your ass into position?”
Ness doesn't reply—he rushes eagerly to the left, legs bent, back sharp, hips swiveling as the racket stands at attention before him. Kaiser smirks to himself, dribbling the tennis ball as he walks back to the service line.
A sign…
Ness watches intensely. He starts by watching Kaiser’s footwork: maybe the sign will manifest in the positioning of his feet, a tic, or a tap—something small, easy to miss, but worth a thousand words. His gaze pulls up his bare legs, over healed flesh wounds and scrapes, taut and muscular—past his knees to his waist, forward sight blocked by his serving hand at attention. His other hand sweeps up the ball again, holding it firm in his hand as he thinks. A sign…
Michael Kaiser has a unique service motion. He always approaches the line with suave, unshakable confidence. His arms always make perfect, sharp angles as he anticipates the drop of the ball, always right where the sun creeps over the horizon, bright, proud, golden. It's godly. It's refined. It's perfect. It's not what he's doing right now.
He crouches over, meeting Ness in the mirrored reflection of his position; the latter rises slowly in disbelief. The ball meets the neck of the racket: slow, deliberate precision has the ball almost slipping through, almost saying the words Michael refuses.
You…he…
The ball flies over the net, just barely missing Ness’s head as it whizzes by. He doesn't even move. He’s thinking of the words unsaid, the reality settling in.
He knew he had lost when the time had sung and the scores were pitifully apart. Something about the fact that Kaiser had won and got to revel in your presence, under your skin…
He’d do anything to challenge Kaiser again.
ONE YEAR LATER.
“This is usually the part when you say you missed me,” he sneers, lips kissing sloppily off your lips, down your jaw.
“It’s only been a month,”
“And a few weeks,”
“It's only been a month,” you reiterate. “I can manage.”
Your hands pull at the hem of his shirt, and you slowly push the fabric up his torso, dragging your palms over his defined abdomen. As soon as it's off, it's soaring through the air, landing unimportantly to you as you dive into his neck. Your fingers play with his belt, unfastening the buckle sloppily.
He laughs dryly, “That's all I get from you?”
His fingers thread up your back teasingly, rolling up your worn-out shirt in the process. He flattens his hands to press you closer to him, right up on his lap with the perfect pressure to groan out in your ear, lowly. “You gotta give me more than that…”
“‘T’s all you get..” you mumble, “for how sloppy you've been playing.”
“I've been winning.” He rebuts, left hand finding its way to your scalp, pulling your hair taut against your scalp. Your neck cranes back, not without a small wince, and he leans forth, licking over the skin.
Your hands brace on his shoulders, “Y’haven’t been playing like you deserve it.”
And he suddenly stops, an unhumored laugh puffs across your collarbone. “Are you serious? Right now?”
“What?” You huff, smiling.
You meet eyes. There's an unseriousness, a playfulness that glints in your eyes—Michael takes it with weariness. His hands run down your back, over the curve of your ass, fondling your weight perfectly on his lap; he groans softly, leaning forward to kiss you again.
He’s addicted to you: kissing you, holding you, tasting you, having you. He can't get enough. He always initiates hungrily, carnally, full of want. At the moment, though, he aims to silence you—nothing from you but moans and pleas and broken whimpers of his name.
His lips take full monopoly over yours; his hands travel up and down your hips, guiding you to grind on him; he controls you. He loves every minute of it. How soft and malleable you feel, how good you taste, sweet you smell— he tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, pulling away to nuzzle in your neck, restarting his descent down your body. He pulls your shirt up, right over your bra, his fingers finding the back clasp and unhooking it masterfully. “Take it off,” he breathes, “take it all off.”
You oblige; your undressing is done with perfection, even against the fire in your blood. Michael groans, “God,” his hands wrapping around your waist as he kisses and licks over your chest.
Your head falls back, your arms cradling his head against you. His mouth leaves an open-mouthed trail to your right tit; his tongue loops around your areola, catching your nipple with a flattened stripe.
When you moan, Michael chuckles, pulling away with a hollow pop, “Yeah? Like that?” All smug and all cocky, so unbearably him.
You roll your eyes, urge him forward with a push of his head, but he resists, looking up at you with a dare. “I missed you,” he reiterates, slipping his fingers under the band of your panties, “I don’t say that often,”
“You must mean it,” you breathe heavily, carding your fingers through a mess of blond, “is that why you've been playing so messily?”
Immediately, the mood dies. He breaks from you, a grimace forming in irritation, “Shut the fuck up about tennis, will you?”
Your body moves on instinct: your hand is cracking down across his face, painting it bright red in your wake. It's a hollow, echoing sharpness that bellows through the quiet room. It's the type of slap that tingles against your palm, the fire yet to be put out. You grit your teeth at him, “Have you lost your mind? Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.”
His tongue runs over his teeth before he grabs your wrists, holding them against your chest. “Don’t you ever hit me like that again.”
You push back against his hold. “Or what?” You grit, “Someone needs to put you in your place.”
“Yeah? That's you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” You push against him again, leveraging your weight to shift, jailing him beneath you. You pin his arms against the old headrest, leaning forth to nip at his bottom lip, tugging it with a challenge, “Or maybe it’ll be Ness…”
“Ness?” Michael scoffs.
You work your way down his body, right over the hem of his boxers. His arms are freed as you drag your hands down, kissing tenderly over his bulge. Fingers tiptoeing into his underwear traps a gulp in his throat; fingers slinking around his erection and wrapping it in soft warmth kills that gulp in his throat—it comes out as a deep breath, shaky and uncomposed. You smile, nodding against your spot on his thigh, pumping slowly, “Yeah, Ness…he’s doing really well. And at the rate you're going in, he might surpass you..”
When Michael laughs you tighten your grip—squeezing at the base with enough pressure to make him wince, his hand finding purchase at the back of your head. “Quit it,” he says.
“I’m serious,” you say, “he’s gotten a lot better.”
Your words trail off into kisses down his shaft, down to the base where your hands wrap around. You lick featherlightly back up, finally gracing his blushing tip with a warm, wet stripe across—he shudders, muscles flexing and relaxing. You look up, smiling.
He breathes out a quiet, shaky mumble of German swears as you wrap your lips around the tip, slowly inching downwards as your hands climb up, tightly. You allow spit to dribble past your lips. Your hands catch the shiny tendrils, running up and down in languid, purposeful motions.
“You’re such a tease,” he breathes, hips bucking into his hands. You just grin, as though you're wearing that revelation like a badge. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”
Licking around the tip, you pull a hiss out from the depths of his chest—sweet and dark at the same time. It's empowering. You like watching him break apart for you—winning. You like winning.
You release him, running your hands up his toned legs as you lean forward. You kiss him again, much hungrier, much more forceful. His hands find their places at the side of your face and waist, respectively, pulling you closer, wanting so desperately to feel you finally wrap around him.
His hand on your waist pulls your panties to the side, bunching the wet fabric beside your plush thigh. Simply feeling the warmth of your skin has him groaning into your mouth, pressing up and against your pussy.
The contact has you gasping into his mouth, shooting your eyes open. Just as he angles your bodies perfectly, dragging his cock through your folds, always finding a loop around your entrance, you break away from his kiss, pulling his bottom lip taut between you. It makes him moan softly, eyes fluttering, unable to wait and push right up into you.
Your foreheads knock together as you both moan softly. You hold his head tightly, slowly rocking your hips in a circle as you sink down on him. “Always so eager, Micha,”
His nails dig crescents in the fat of your ass. He spreads you open, kneading your flesh as he guides your hips, grinding you flush against him with deep, intentional pressure. Just right so he can nestle comfortably in your stomach, feeling every muscle of your body contract and weep around him. Walking right into a type of pleasure that couldn't be replicated by late-night sexts and his hands, nor by his wildest imagination. He holds you tight, memorizing every ridge in your skin to the touch, so he can visualize this very moment when he's hundreds of miles away.
This is romance. This is him missing you. This is him loving you, being a boyfriend to you: kissing your shoulder, thrusting slowly, attentively, perfectly, breathing into your ear. Just the way you like.
“I missed you,” he reiterates, voice deeper in ardor. He breathes in your scent, rolling his hips in tandem with his exhale. You softly whimper, dragging your nails lightly over his arms. “I know,” you say.
“Can you say it back?” It's almost a beg. A vulnerability unique to you. “Don’t..play coy now. Not when it’s just us. Not when it’s me making you feel good.”
You moan into his neck, pulling him closer. And you can just hear the smile he breaks over your shoulder, vindication driving his pride. Always so eager, “It's only just begun…you’re..always so ready to call the match.”
His grip tightens on you, “You feel me inside you?” he asks, grinding your hips against his lap. It’s like he’s targeted your G-spot, knocking against it with a mind-numbing friction. Your head lolls back over your shoulders, a shuddery moan pulling from your core. “That's me having won.”
You shake your head. “Micha…” you draw, “…work harder..God, you haven't earned your win,”
He slows to a near stop. “What?”
You don't reply. You move your hips on your own accord, ignoring the tension stiffening your boyfriend. His hands loosen on you and he sits back, “What do you mean by that?”
That stops you—the sharpness, the slice of pain in his tone. You sit back, reading his expression: knitted brows, lost eyes, tense jaw, hinged mouth, the makings of pure offense. He’s actually upset.
You shrug, you try to play it off; you peck his cheek, then down his jaw and along his neck, and he pushes you back. Your eyes meet. He looks for answers.
“Are we talking about—”
“Tennis,” you answer. “We’re always talking about tennis.”
There's an excruciatingly long pause. “Let’s not,” Michael says.
You don't miss a beat to oblige your boyfriend. In a swift succession of movements, you're rolling to the edge of the bed, adjusting your underwear, and finding your bra. “Got it,” you say, feigning a sense of coolness.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re done talking. So, I’m,” you pause, clasping your bra successfully, adjusting the straps. You reach across your dorm room and grab your towel, patting yourself dry, “going to do my routine. I have a match to get ready for.”
He sits there in disbelief, watching you toss the towel at him and replace it with your yoga mat. “Are you serious?”
You just nod.
“Come on. You know that’s n—”
“You don't want to talk about tennis, you don't want me to help you, fine. I'm going to help myself. So, if you will…” You say, signalling for him to leave. Without a drop of hesitation, you begin stretching, acting as though this is a normal interaction. It's strange. What is wrong with you?
“Is this about Ness?”
“Why would this be about Ness? It's about tennis.”
“Why would this be about Ness—maybe because you're obsessed with trying to fix him,” he snaps, tossing your towel to the side. “And you found out he still wants to fuck you and that disturbs your hero complex. You can't fix him, so you try to fix me. Fuck that.”
“I’m dating you. I don't care about fixing him,” you stop your stretching and turn to him, “It's embarrassing for me if you suck. I'm trying to help, not fix.”
“So, you’re saying I suck?” He asks, pulling his boxers up. You shrug. He scoffs, clicking his tongue, “Some fucking nerve you have. I'm facing real competition out there, challenging myself, doing the things you're too scared to do. It's easy for you to have so much shit to say when you're beating mutts like Princess Peach from fucking Claremont.”
You laugh dryly. “Wow.”
“You have your whole career ahead of you and you're wasting it proving yourself to people who can't compare in the slightest. That's what you want. I don't want that,” in his own way, he's trying to diffuse the anger. “I don't want—nor need—you to be my coach.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I'm serious—”
“You are un-fucking-believable. You want me to uplift you, lie to you, suck your dick and make you feel better about your shitty career?” You keep stretching, flexing your thighs, “What am I supposed to be for you? I won't lessen myself to cradle your feelings. If you want that, go find one of those hundreds of girls that will gladly cheerlead, fuck, and coddle you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?—”
“Yeah, what are you talking about?! Is this you trying to warm up—instigating as a pregame tactic?”
You scoff. “It's more than you do.”
“Talk about un-fucking-believable.”
“No, Michael, talk about lazy. You are lazy, and you hate that not being able to win off of pure talent isn't enough anymore,” you size him up, getting all close to him. You can feel the anger, the jealousy, the insecurity pulsing through his veins like he’s about to burst. “I can only support you through so much of your self-inflicted pain. I have better things to do than to listen to you bitch and moan about deserving this and being snubbed of that. Work harder.”
There goes another long beat.
Usually, Michael Kaiser would snap back almost instantly. He would have had insults and words for centuries, but this time, he says nothing. He can't bring himself to say the hot words sitting on his tongue, knowing that they'd be impossible to take back, and that they'd pierce right through you. He might have let himself go on the court, but he's won you over; he's learned you. At least, some part of the way.
So he doesn't say anything. He just grabs his clothes, dresses himself haphazardly, and pushes past you.
“I'll see you after the match.” You say, dryly, getting back into form.
He stops at the door, turning his head ever so slightly. He laughs, more to himself than anything, “I’m not going to the match. Did you really think that I would go after the shit you just said?”
You don't say anything. You just laugh at him. And it all goes out the window.
Michael approaches you with a heft that's almost frightening—it straightens you up, to say the least, and you're back face-to-face with him. “I'm not going to lie down and roll over and let you punish me for the things you hate about yourself. I'm not a fucking dog; I'm not Ness.”
He sees the face you make—like you've been shot, the end of your life as you know it truly dawning on you, and you hate every moment of it—and it makes him shake his head. You are pitiful. “You should have just done us both a favor and called him that night. Made him into your little bitchboy pet and piss all over his life.”
“You think I want that?”
“You hate me because I won't be that for you.”
“And why won't you?”
“Because I’m not beneath you. I never have been, and I never will.” The two of you are so close. The tension is palpable—you feel it jamming itself down your throat, choking you. “I'm Michael fucking Kaiser. Not your groupie. And definitely not your fucking charity case.”
Another long, intense beat. The both of you just stare at each other, soaking in all the aggression. And it's not hot and competitive; it's cold and guarded. It's an ending.
Feeling the tears well up and lock up your throat, you break through, stepping back and looking away. “Okay.”
That's all you have to say.
He laughs to himself. “Good luck.”
And those are the last words he says before walking out of that dorm. The last words you hear before folding into the floor, wiping angry, hot tears away.
TWO HOURS LATER
The sun has decided to cast its heat onto the world like it's angry. As if it has anything to be mad about. That's what your trainers mutter about you as you take to the court, your attitude still fresh, still sharp, still concerning.
You are mad, pent up about something and you can't sit still for the life of you. You're jittery, unfocused, completely unlike yourself. And here comes the problem of being the best: everyone is scared to tell you not to fuck up. You can't possibly lose during this low-stakes match—if anything, someone as skilled and as talented as you will channel all that's keeping you rigid into your game. It's going to be okay.
But it's so hot outside. The sun is punishing everyone on your behalf. It's not going to be okay—something is wrong. Ness puts it upon himself to get to the bottom of it.
Ness: Where are you?? The match is about to start
He looks over his shoulders, across the court to the other set of bleachers…no Kaiser. Maybe he's running late, stopped to get some refreshments, and got caught up, because surely, your boyfriend who you rightfully chose over him would show up for you. Surely.
Ness stares at his phone like it matters to him whether or not Kaiser shows. In any case, he could use his absence as a means to get close to you: leverage of some sort. So he waits for that explanation; whatever trivial excuse Michael will spew that will boost his image, prove to you that he wasn't lying about his friends’ looseness.
But he got nothing.
A short second of typing bubbles. And a read receipt that said all that needed to be said.
The sun was angry. Clearly, so are you. Ness figures that Kaiser’s absence and subsequent silence are a part of the equation. You don't even look like you want to be there. Abandoning your usual complimentaries, you command the energy through intrigue, transforming excited cheers into inquisitive murmurs.
Nobody has ever seen you look so down. You're not sure you ever have, either. You hate that something so stupid, like a fight with your boyfriend, has soured you entirely, and left you trapped inside your head for the last two hours. You hate that you instinctively look up to the stands, easily finding Ness and that empty spot beside him. You hate that his absence pits deep in your chest, and that it makes you wish you could explode this entire match.
Maybe you should apologize. Find him after the match and take back the true mean words you said. Cuddle up into his arms and finish what you started.
But he said mean things too. Things that aren't true, not really. At least you had the decency to be honest—but him? Please. As if you would ever be obsessed with underdog Alexis Ness…you can't even stand to look at him right now.
Just keep your eyes on the prize. Watch Suzie or Katie or Polly or whatever her name is, hit the ball weakly over the net, track its curvature and meet it at the northwestern edge of the court, rallying it back over with a subtle flick of the wrist. And watch her flail to go chase it, just barely hitting it back before it crossed bounds. All you have to do is shuffle a little bit to the right and take a step back and boom.
“Love - 40.” The umpire announces.
You look at your opponent like you can bite her head off. Your expression taunts her, begs her to make this hard for you.
If only Michael were here to see how much your dedication and hard work pays off. You're back rallying with Suzie Somebody with all your might, sending her chasing down flying balls. They whiz past her and soar toward you—this is the point of romance you meet with her, where your competition has coasted toward partnership.
She's compliant, a good listener: she follows your lead right toward your inevitable victory, but it's not without merit. You're still working for it, still breaking a sweat, still challenging yourself. You're doing what Michael refuses to do.
And maybe if he had just put his pride aside earlier, he could have heard the things you were saying. Nothing to be callous or malicious, but because you care. Can't he see that you care about him?
Thwack.
Does he even care about you? Would anybody that cared about you say the things he did? It's like he had been holding all of that back, like he couldn't stand seeing your success and hated himself for being incomparable to you. But that's not your fault! You tried to help him and he took it as an attack. You were being the best girlfriend that you can be.
Thwack.
But it wasn't enough. It never is, is it? You knew you were better off not getting involved with these boys and, yet, here you are, falling in love with the douchiest douchebag of all time and getting your heart broken in the exact same way you knew it would. Of course he didn't like you when he got to know you, no one really does. Of course, he grew to resent you, people usually do. Of course, he’s leaving you, that's just the way things go.
Thwack.
But, damn—you really thought things could be different.. You like him so much, it sickens you. You called him almost every day just to hear his voice, even if most of it was listening to him bitch and whine about solvable problems. It felt nice to have someone to unwind with, be vulnerable with, be in love with. You got to explore with him, have fun with him, and learn with him. He means so much more to you than you act like.
Thwack.
Why couldn't he have just come to the game? Why does he have to punish you for a mistake? Is this how you've made him feel?
Thwack.
It's almost over. You're going to text him as soon as this shit is over and you're going to try again. You might not apologize, you've never been good about being accountable for your shit, but you'll try and make things right. And if you love him as much as your heart is hurting right now, you might end up apologizing anyway. Just one more.
Thwack.
This is it, Posh Polly, just hit the ball over the net… you close your eyes, feeling the breeze, feeling the win overtake you. And you feel Michael’s hands at your waist, his kisses all over your skin, his hair in your hands…you step toward him, leaning into him—
SNAP.
Before any cry can come out of your mouth, you think of Michael. How you chastised him for celebrating the win before it ever arrived, how he got lost in his own talent and spoiled the end for himself. You were wrong for it—because now, you're right where you said he would be.
Karma is a motherfucking bitch.
You scream in pain, trying to hold your leg together. It feels like your entire knee has split in half and the two ends of your leg are completely separate. It's something so guttural that your entire body flinches under heat spikes, pumping your blood with anxiety. You roll over onto your back, sobbing toward the sky with a light head—it feels like you're going to pass out. Your whole leg throbs and weeps.
Your team crowd around you, trying to shush your cries and dry your tears, trying to assess just what the hell happened. You spot Alexis in their midst, coming to tend you with his big, doe eyes all watery and concerned, like he just watched his whole world implode. Instinctively, you reach out to him as the team medic calls for a stretcher, holding onto his arm. He lets you. He comforts you, wiping the sweat off your forehead, letting your name sound so grounding off his lips, “I-it’s going to be okay…! I’m here, I got you..”
And that was just it. It was him instead of Michael.
Even four hours later, it was Alexis, and not Michael. Alexis who was holding your hand, rubbing the back with his thumb, telling you that “you’re strong—you’ll bounce back like it never happened. Plus, you’ll have a badass scar to wear as a badge of honor.”
Alexis who was talking to your family, telling them that you aren't in the mood for talking, but you're okay. He’ll keep them posted, he’ll take care of you.
Alexis who watched the door, staring at the dark hallway, waiting for the next figure to be the only person that needed to be there. Alexis who turned to you, phone already back in his hands, “I can call him—”
“Don’t.” is all you said.
“..Are you s—”
“Don’t.” You repeat. You sniffle, still staring at that blank wall like it had some answers for you. You wipe your eyes, hoping that with every tear, you can wash him away. “The last person I want to see right now is Michael fucking Kaiser.”
“Okay,” Ness says, folding his hands at your bedside. “Whatever you want. I just…hope you're well, okay? A-and, you can talk to me and let me be your friend, okay?”
You don't laugh. You don't even smile. You just sit there, in the same position you've been in since your examination, dead. All life completely drained from you, everything that ever made you you. Something in you had died. And Alexis doesn't know what, but he knows who did it.
Michael Kaiser had stolen your magic.
THREE YEARS LATER.
Everything is rustic. It smells like cheap food and snot-nosed children and old wood. Everything that would make an average person turn their nose up but you don't seem to mind it too much. It makes you feel a little more human, a little more regular.
So you indulge yourself on the skeeviest Applebee's southwestern Ohio has to offer, racking up a hefty bill of mozzarella sticks and triple chocolate lava cake—things you would have never eaten a few years ago, but you've learned to let loose.
You finish off your water with an obnoxious sip through the straw, making Alexis pull his eyes away from the bill and to you, a grin in tow. You meet eyes and laugh.
“You know, I took some mental notes. During your match earlier today. And, I mean, I've checked in on how you've been doing over the last little bit but, seeing you up close in person, I see you still have some bad habits,” You can't help yourself. It doesn't help that he seems to be responsive, quirking a brow and nodding along. “Mainly, your serve—you’re getting too much height on the ball toss.”
“I am?”
“Unfortunately. But it's not unfixable! You can clock 135 easily with just a little adjustment,” you take a long pause, letting the sentence end itself before jumping back in to smooth it all over, “I mean, Noel’s your coach, listen to him. I’m sure he knows you better than I do.”
Alexis shrugs. “Eh,” he says. “I could use the extra help. Wanna jump ship, be my assistant coach?”
You laugh. A soft, kind laugh, just like how you used to. And true to how it was back then, he feels his heart flutter the tiniest bit. “Don’t feel pressured, though,” he reassures, “I know your magic, I know its special. If you want to spend it on someone more worth it, go on ahead.”
You laugh again, waving him off, “Nonsense,” you say, finding his eyes across the table, “you’re plenty worth it. …It’s just..do you think it’d be a good idea?”
“I don’t see why not.”
You narrow your eyes at him, pursing your lips. He flusters slightly, smiling coyly back at you. “It’s different now…that was a long time ago.”
“It wasn’t that long ago.”
“We’re both different people now. A lot has changed for us…it’s been a real while.”
There’s some wisdom in his words. Some sense, something you’ve thought about for a while: who you were and who you are. If the you of three years ago could see you now, would she be disappointed? She probably would; she was a brat. And you would say you’re not a brat anymore—you’ve straightened up, walking along the path of boring, sideline work that you don’t deserve. It has been a long time. But, still—
“You’re not in love with me anymore?”
Half as a joke, half serious. And you ask him that as if it’d really change anything. You know, better than anyone, that feelings are any sportsman’s best tool. You’ll just have to show him how to use them.
He laughs awkwardly at your question, like he’s scared to answer. True in Alexis Ness fashion, he cowers away from your gaze, keeping those hazy indigoes tucked at his twiddling fingers, “We’re good friends. I’d like to think so, at least.”
“Are you friend-zoning me, Alexis?”
“No!” He laughs, “No, not like that. I’m just…proud of you, is all. I admire you, [y/n].”
And he says your name. Softly, sweetly, with just as much adoration as he did when you were 18. Like he was fraught to part with the syllables, cherishing every piece of you he could get. The Ness you know is still in there, still just as lovely and timid as ever. You admire him, too, in a way that you’ve long been scared to admit.
“I wish I could go back sometimes. Do you?”
You don’t know why you ask—that wasn’t the topic on your mind. But it was on your tongue and it slipped off with all its heft in tow, leaving you feeling somewhat relieved. You were still hanging on to a piece of you that died on that court.
“I…find myself thinking about what might’ve happened if I won that match against Kaiser.”
With this revelation, he finds it in himself to look at you, albeit timidly. You thought a lot about that too. “And what do you see as your answer?”
“I would be a winner.”
You chuckle, crossing the smallest bridge of tension. “You always could have been. You could probably beat him now, don’t you think?”
He shrugs, weighing the options on either of his shoulders. “I dunno…we don’t keep in touch much these days. Never went against each other either.”
You chuckle again, this time, heartier, like you’re truly tickled. “I really was a home wrecker.”
He laughs dryly, too caught up in watching you. Watching you be humored, laugh, be free, be the you no one allowed you to be. You still have that magic: the innate power over him to make everything cease to exist. It’s like it always was. You, just a half-inch away from his grasp, something so tangible, yet so far, and he, the restless dreamer. If he had won against Kaiser that day, would you still be his?
“You didn’t answer my question… But, your face is saying a lot right now.”
Alexis has never been good at playing coy—he just liked to do it a lot. He can’t even lead you on a string for a moment because he cares about you too much; he wants to make you feel desired.
“Of course I’m still in love with you. Who wouldn’t be?”
Who wouldn’t be? That’s a question that hangs in the air like the stars: something so beautiful, yet life-endingly dangerous, something poetic.
And you’ve always known that he’s had a tender soul and a tender heart. He’s served his time well as a trusty knight, bearing his troubles on his sleeve as his front linemen, but he hadn’t ever been indulged. He’s never known anyone beside you and Michael Kaiser to love in their entirety. He had lost his sense of magic.
Maybe it’s you trying to make yourself feel better for breaking up his only real friendship and friend-zoning him. Or maybe it’s because your connection to Ness was greater than you gave it credit for. Or maybe it’s because you miss the way his eyes shone—but you look up at the stars, at that question, and you find an answer to this insatiable listlessness inside of you: Alexis goddamn Ness.
There’s a fondness in your eyes as you look at him, something he’s a bit fearful to unpack. He’s had full dreams and storylines about you finally coming to terms with your heart, but it had never come packed with a look like that, that made it seem as though you could see right through him. If you could, you would see his heart pumping like a maniac and his stomach flipping upside down. He’s been waiting for this longer than you could have ever known.
He grabs your hand as you lean next to his car, audaciously, yet tenderly. It takes him a moment to say something, but, when he does:
“I really want to kiss you right now, but I’m worried that if I try, you’ll think I’m the worst friend in the world.”
It’s a quick, jittery ramble. It’s cute. It makes you soft—incline to the vulnerability of his heart. Screw Michael Kaiser and his friendship. And screw yourself and your friendship. You abandon it all and lean forward, just as you had all those years ago, a hand finding its way gently against his face. You twirl the tips of your fingers through loose curls at his hairline, giving his face a once-over close up.
He’s matured in all the soft, right ways—but he still has those big eyes, those chubby cheeks, and those soft, plump lips that you can’t forget the feeling of. You press forward ever so slightly, ghosting your mouth against his. “Have you gotten to learn for yourself?” You ask in a whisper, continuing that question you asked ages ago. On a night just as pretty as this, as significant as this. And he was in the palm of your hand like so, nodding so readily to show you.
And it’s him who kisses first: leaning against you with all intent of dispelling the wait, packing years of unwavering affection in his lips. It’s still soft, still timid to attack you—but you reciprocate, breathing him in deeply as you wind your lips together in a fitting bond, pursing and parting at an innate, tandem pace. And it feels like the stars, that question, have come down from the galaxy to rake up your skin and ignite you with the love a thousand years unmended.
This is how it was always meant to end.
TWO MONTHS LATER.
Very few things have made you weak in the knees—and considering your knee literally snapped out of place, the number remains small.
You never thought the next thing would be Alexis Ness between your thighs. Body completely nude against his blue duvet, swallowed up by the softness, allowing you to writhe and grind comfortably. He seems more into it than you—and you're feeling your soul wean out into his mouth. He’s found the perfect conjecture that has you literally melting: flat tongue padding against your clit, surfing through your folds, kissing tender, weakened spots to ensure no part of you goes untouched, all the way down to your entrance where he licks and sucks the taste right out of you.
He’s really fucking good at it. Kind of eager, excitedly licking and swirling around, but it's good. You pull tight curls tautly straight when he sucks your clit into his mouth, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue. He moans against you when you do so—you quiver in response, feeling lightning crack down beneath your flesh. He’s mumbling and mush-mouthing against your pussy, wanting so desperately to praise you while eating. It's cute and it's also too much.
Your toes curl when he releases your clit, letting the mix of your arousal and his drool dribble onto the hood, using his fingers to rub you to completion. It's like he knows your body intimately — still bumbling around and finding his way, but intuitive and attentive to what has you gushing, whining his name, and clawing at his scalp. He knows just the amount of pressure to apply on your sensitive little clit to have you seize up, crying out “A-lexis—fuck!” like you have no sense. “‘M gonna cum—”
And he knows how to look up at you from between your thighs, his eyes fogged over and dark—he’s holding love greatly in them, looking like he's found the center of the universe in your cunt. He watches you breathe deeply and weep as he waltzes his tongue toward your orgasm, pulling it out of you as he begs sloppily. “Please cum,” he whimpers, slurred, “please please please please, wanna feel it,”
“Fuck,” you breathe out, slamming your head on the pillows beneath you. You close your eyes and you can still see him—what you feel is projected into your brain like a drug and you're on a deathly high. It's as though you've glimpsed heaven, and all you can say is “Yes, yes, yes!”
Yes to the feeling of his fingers digging into your thighs; yes to the feeling of his tongue retracing the lines of your body; yes to the feeling of your peak tiptoeing toward utmost pleasure. Yes, you cry like a broken record, releasing your chorus with grandeur.
You shiver and grind against his face, working out your orgasm against his nose—he just takes it, whimpering into your pussy like a meek puppy, eyes fluttering and rolling into the back of his head. For a long, intense moment, you two are frozen in space, almost fusing together. It's like you found something in the darkness and lit it on fire and it exploded: now your chests are clogged up with screams and breaths, and your eyes are blind.
In all your life, you hadn't ever had an orgasm like that. You never expected it would come from Alexis goddamn Ness, but you find yourself clawing for more, ready to devour him whole.
But he's ahead of you: he licks a straight stripe all the way down the length of your right leg, holding the limb high. Kisses and soft nibbles trail along the curve of your foot, right to the pads of your toes. He doesn't hesitate to lick them over, pulling a few into his mouth, moaning as he rubs your leg. You sit up on your elbows, watching him with hazy eyes and a gaped mouth, breathing heavily.
Again, you've never experienced something so…intimate. And this, this is intimate—pure ardor that drives him to suck on your manicured toes like sweet lollies, and it is driving you insane.
You take your left foot and press against his hard on. It sobs against his briefs, and he sobs against your foot when you do so. He’s sensitive: he jolts like he’s been shot when you press harder, flexing your toes over his bulge. “Please,” he whispers.
You shush him. “Keep going, ‘lex,” you say, moaning over his name. He shudders again. “Be a good boy for me.”
“Ah,” he whimpers. He’s practically slobbering all over your foot—you feel like you should be disgusted, but he goes at it like it gets him off to make a mess all over you, in the name of your worship. He can't stop whimpering and moaning your name, humping against the foot in his lap pathetically. It gets you off just watching him.
Curls stick to his face. His thick eyebrows are flipped, the usual straight integrity coiled in pleasure. His cheeks are blazing red. His mouth is slicked with your cum and his spit, now parted as he moans against your foot. And before you can even tease him, you feel the wetness pool under your toes as he grunts weakly.
“I'm sorry,” he whines, “I'm sorry I—”
“Come here.”
You say it so softly, yet so powerfully—dense with desire, airy with gentleness. And you look at him like you could eat him whole. And it excites him; it makes him feel wanted, it makes him feel like he’s yours.
In an instant, he’s back crawling between your legs, slotting his head right where your hands wait for him. You kiss him as soon as you grab him, licking your taste right off his mouth. And face to face, you whisper, “Did you cum?”
A whimper and a nod; you laugh softly. “Take your fucking boxers off,” you say, nipping his bottom lip.
He moves eagerly, shimmying his underwear down his legs. He nestles closer between your legs, matching his lips to yours in a sloppy, spit-slavving kiss. Your hands claw at his hips, pulling him closer, guiding him against your core. And he follows your lead, gyrating his cock right between your folds. That’s where the electricity sparks—it sounds off with soft clicks beneath shared gasps.
Alexis grips the sheets beneath you with angry knuckles. He cries into your mouth. You pull your hands up his body, your nails leaving lines in their wake, all to thread your fingers between frizzy curls, and you tug. He pulls back, he winces, and he meets your gaze. You smile softly at him, admiring the docility across his face: the rosiest cheeks, the shiniest eyes, the poutiest lips, the complete and utter decimation of ego.
“Alex…” you whisper. Your hips catch his in a deep grind, locking heavy breaths in your throat.
He pushes forward, kissing your foreheads together. “I’ll do anything you want me to,” he meekly huffs, “please.”
You laugh; a tempered, soft giggle. It blooms a consuming warmth in his chest. He leans into you, “Please.” You slide your dominant hand between your bodies, finding his cock. You line the head up with your entrance, pulling a small gasp, “Give yourself to me.”
He thrusts, experimentally, and it is glorious. Your walls contract around him and seem to pull him deeper, entice him to push his hips as close as they could be to yours, until there is nothing more of him to give. The soft fleshiness of your cunt feels like tangible bliss, something he doesn’t want to pull away from; so he doesn’t. He sits inside of you, letting his lips flutter around ghosts of words, murmurs of sound. All he can find himself to say is your name.
“Alexis,” you mutter, breaking through the sea of breaths. You need not say anything else; he moves at your beckoning.
He fills the room with moans that get louder and louder with each half-thrust. He hesitates to pull out of you, opting to stay as deeply nestled as possible, enveloping himself in your heat completely. The bed doesn’t move, you don’t move, but he does, rapidly, passionately, giving his all to you.
Kisses fall to your face, down and beneath your chin and into the depth of your neck, leading a hot, wet trail across your skin. Each one is punctuated with the breathy syllables of your name, a whine for something neither of you have the answer to.
But he keeps going. He doesn’t stop, not even for a moment, racing straight toward the high that builds prematurely in his gut. It’s tighter than he’s ever felt, hotter, extraordinary—you in every way, a greatness he’s yet to have known since…him.
And Alexis won’t say it, but this is his peak, basking under the sun with you in a sea of wilted, fragrant roses, catching the parade and the cheers of your magic. It’s not crushing Michael Kaiser but it’s being seen over him—being seen at all.
In your arms, Alexis is more than seen; he’s cradled, coveted, and pleasured. He’s making magic, right in the pit of his stomach, where his abs flex and tighten, and his breath hitches.
How long has it been?
He’s close. He doesn’t even teeter over the edge, he just lets himself go—he gives all of himself to you. Buried deep a half inch beside your sweet spot, kissing your depths all the wrong ways, he cums. A warm, viscous pool, filled with his mindless sweet nothings.
“I love you,” he whimpers, “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou—-fuck! ‘M sorry, love you, sorry—!”
Everything was a slur, a mess—a complete and utter disappointment. But you knew that. You knew you were going to lay there and meet defeat while Alexis conquered his challenge; in his mind, he’d bested the odds, beaten Michael. He didn’t know it was only just beginning.
ONE YEAR LATER.
Three o'clock in the morning. It's three o’clock in the morning and you are wide awake.
There's a taste on your tongue: tiredness, boredom, malice, and you attempt to wash it away with neat tequila. It runs down your throat with warm sparks. It’s distracting enough that you blink away the troubles keeping you awake. Your eyes are dry now. You can see him clearly.
Softly, starkly blue against the black of the night. Just as dashing as he always was. You lock eyes through the wide window, letting your stares hang in the air—like you’re meeting each other for the first time, getting to know one another. He finally comes forward, passing through the door with swagger.
You tap your fingers nervously on the side of your glass as you wait for him. He finds himself standing across from you, staring—not at you, but at your hand: the ring.
Almost immediately, you pull it toward you. “It's his grandmother's.” You say, answering the unsaid question.
He nods. “How is she?”
“She died. …Stroke.”
He finally smiles. And he laughs—a sound you haven't heard in god knows how long, but takes you straight back to a simpler time, a sweeter you. You find yourself smiling too.
He slots into the seat beside you, grabbing your glass smoothly. He sips from it, never looking away from you. And he's so close, you can smell the same whiskey notes of his cologne, and the faint whispers of flowers. Roses. The very scent and visage that eases the throbbing in your head.
“I've missed you.”
You stare, feeling your eyes stretch a width you haven't felt them go in so long. Wide like your chest is full of butterflies and your veins pump glitter, wide like you're a teenager again, wide like you're his again. You part your lips, taking the glass back without looking away, “Micha…”
His fingers hold your chin, pulling you into a long-awaited kiss. It takes you a second to reciprocate. But as soon as you feel that thump in your chest, that reminder of faith, you fall right back into his arms and kiss him back.
And at the same time, the elevator dings: out steps Alexis Ness, sleep still sitting in his eyes, concern on his mind. He hates waking up and you're not there—especially on a night as still as this. July heat seeped through your hotel room and it was stifling, awakening. He woke up immediately feeling like something was off.
Passing through the lobby, his eyes naturally rake toward the bar, toward you. Walking away from him, a slinking arm around your back as you leave…with Michael. The person he hasn't seen in so long, whose blue highlights seem to be more vibrant, whose tall stature seems to swallow you. He whisks you away into the night and neither of you seems to notice him watching.
Alexis lags for a minute, questioning whether or not it's worth it to find out the truth. Even if he never saw a thing, he would know. And you would lie to him, and he would have to pretend to have never known. So he should just save himself the trouble and go back upstairs, find some melatonin, and hope to find some respite in his dreams.
He wishes he could trust you. But something is wrong, something has been wrong, seemingly ever since he put that rock on your finger. It's like…like you're pulling away.
Did he scare you—is this cold feet? He’ll admit, he never imagined he’d propose to you so soon but the moment felt right; you felt right. He’s loved you for as long as he’s known you and you him, right? It doesn't look that way.
What he sees is your unfinished business, your vice. He sees you running away, going back to where you felt free and challenged. And even though it’s killing him to watch you walk and talk and laugh in ways he's never been able to make you do, he can't stop watching. Trailing your tail demurely but also quite conspicuously—if either of you had ever bothered to just look back for a moment, you would see him. White pajama set, bed head, and all. You don't. Your eyes never leave Kaiser’s face.
He hates that he has followed you two all the way to some cheap ass Hampton Inn—something you whine out about: “Ew. You couldn't find any better place?”
Kaiser laughs. “There’s one right up the street, y’know,”
“Whatever, smart ass,” you quip.
“We could just go back,” he chimes, leaning closer toward you, “but I don't know if you could be quiet enough to keep your husband asleep.”
You push him away, shaking your head. Michael is wholly amused, that shit-eating grin taking up his whole face. “Fiancé,” you correct, sparing him a half glance.
Fiancé, you correct, as if that makes any difference. And it's the point that you acknowledge him, you remember your promise on your finger, and your place in his heart, and you don't hesitate.
He should turn back and cut his losses. Maybe pack his stuff up and leave while you're still gone. But he's creeping around the corner, watching the two of you disappear into room 6, tucked at the corner, beneath tall, fat trees. He’s crouching and ducking beneath the windowsill, catching your image through the dusty window:
Without a missing beat, you latch onto each other like a day hasn't gone by. It's familiar, it's natural; it’s a surge of unresolved qualms and kept answers finding each other. Michael’s hands feel like fire on your skin. Like his callouses are being seared onto your flesh, commemorating this moment. And your hands are desperate: clawing at his clothes like it pains you for them to be on, like you want nothing more than to be skin to skin, raw and bare. The kiss itself is like an explosion: a fiery flare of unbridled, untouched passion. Every slopping of your tongues together says I miss you in ways your words can't. This is romance; this is magic.
This is you being swept off your feet and stripped from the waist up, being pushed down onto the cheap mattress and pinned beneath Kaiser. The world around you is curtained by his bright hair, and by the way you kick your feet up around him, it excites you. You're fucking giddy, damn near unable to kiss him back past your grin.
You push Michael’s hoodie up and he pulls it off, throwing it where your shirt has landed: right in front of the window. But neither of you look—it doesn't matter.
What matters is taking your ring off, leaving it haphazardly on the nightstand. What matters is biting and licking on your skin, sliding a hand into your pajamas. What matters is the arch of your back curving right up into his hold.
Alexis can't see your face clearly from his stance, but he sees your mouth wavering around those two grating syllables.
Micha…Micha…Micha… you chant. Like a mantra. In a way you've never said his name.
He’s just in disbelief. Has he not been good to you—what is all of this? What did he do to deserve this? Unabashed betrayal. To commit such unabashed betrayal toward the one person who was there for you when you had nothing left, when everyone had abandoned and forgotten you, with the person who kick-started it all…it’s a type of pain Alexis can't bear. He should burst in there and catch you two with your pants down. He should put his foot down and stand up for himself. He should look Michael Kaiser in the eye, for the first time in forever, and say that you’ll never win without me giving you a leg up. He should look you in the eye and tell you I’m leaving.
But he just cowers and watches—completely, shamefully enthralled by the pure magic bursting from between you two. This is the type of energy that ended your career. This is the type of energy that fueled his.
The clawing at his bare back, the legs around his waist, the moans in his mouth, the heat under your skin. The bed creaks and rocks as you two grind against each other, playing a punishing game of waiting. And there are things said that only the two of you can hear, “I need you”’s spoken with shining, personal reverence.
The eye contact, the first, real thrust inside of you, the whimpering and silencing kisses—the things that have played over and over and over again in your dreams, haunting you for years. The memories, the feelings unseen: the loneliness. He was the first person to ever understand you like this; to strip you bare and hold you close, flaws and all.
And for the first time, you bring yourself to say it: “I missed you,”
The words taste good in your mouth. Like his kisses, his skin—the truth that dwells deep inside of him. You say them again, pulling him impossibly closer to you. “I missed you,” tone breaking between a whisper and a moan, “fuck, Michael…s’much,”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod, dragging your nails up the back of his neck, through the field of messy blond. “More than I should probably say.”
He laughs. You laugh too. Your foreheads knock together, trapping a big breath between you—you breathe it in deeply as he pushes your legs further back, angling himself sharper. It's deep in your depths, where your walls pull against him defiantly, dragging a deep groan from his belly, that he finds the vulnerability—the safety to ask you “Why did you make me wait so long for you?”
You shake your head, biting your lip to hold back a weak whimper. “I don't know,”
“I don't want to wait for you anymore,” his eyes lock onto yours, and they shine. Like the brightest, purest diamonds, where you can see your past, present, and future between the shards, and they look like the stars. There stands the truth as a thin layer of tender sheen, waiting for you to accept it. It's always been him. And he’s lying right on top of you. “I want you to be mine again,” he says, punctuated with the softest, sweetest moan. His hips roll up into you slower, the tip nestling against your sweet spot. And you moan out, tugging at his hair from the root. And he grunts in tandem, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your jaw. All he can bring himself to say again is “I want you.”
“You have me.”
Quakes wrack through Michael’s body. It's as though he completely dismantles in your arms. You let him—you pet the back of his head, you ghost kisses over his skin, and you tumble around with him, leaving him on his back.
Your hands find his instinctively at your waist and you pull them forward, linking fingers as you do. “I have you,” you say, pushing his arms against the bed. He rolls his hips upward and you meet him, gyrating across his pelvis. You both feel how deep he is, how good he feels swirling around your guts. He has you right where he wants you, and you him. It brings a smile to your face as you lean over him, dragging your hips up as you do so, “I never stopped having you, did I, Micha?”
He swallows thickly. “I told you—”
“I wanna hear you say it,” you softly demand, lips ghosting his ear. You kiss against the side of his face, dragging the tip of your tongue around his earlobe as you grind atop his lap. “Tell me you’ve always been mine,”
A series of strained grunts crawls out of his mouth. You don't know what he’s fighting so hard—probably his pride—but you wordlessly beg him to release: Bouncing on his dick, pulling his resolve out of him one pump at a time. It works for the most part: a trail of broken whispers of your name tumble out between swears, but he won't say it. He won't tell you the very thing you want to hear.
Instead, he asks you about “Ness,” he breathes out, “what about him?”
“What about him?” You ask back, uninterested in the conversation. You're so close.
You miss how his eyes pull from behind you up to you. All you see is that same look of a challenge—trouble awaiting you in all its pompous, aggravating ways. You speed up your pace slightly; you're so close. You won't let him ruin this for you.
“He’s going to be your husband,” and everything stops. “Not me.”
“You think I want that from either of you?” You pant.
He breaks his arms out of your hold and pushes himself forward. Like it's where they belong, his arms wrap around your abdomen, pulling you chest-to-chest as he guides your movements. Up and down, up and down, steadily. He takes you right toward your peak. And then—
“You just want to see a really good game,” he laughs as you twitch and lock up, coming all over his lap. And he helps you ride it out, chastising coos stirring the butterflies in your stomach about. “The match isn’t over yet.”
“Are…we t—”
“Talking about tennis? We’re always talking about tennis.”
“Don’t do that,” you huff, pushing his shoulder. He takes the shove and plops against the mattress as you pull yourself off of him, walking immediately toward the bathroom.
“Don’t do what?”
“That!” You exclaim from the bathroom. You stomp out, towel in hand, “Don’t try and change the topic.”
He stands up, looking at you across the bed. A thick beat of silence passes like a freight train. “I’m not changing the topic—”
You throw the towel at him, “Wipe your dick off.”
“We’re still challenging for your love, me and Ness,” he says, catching you mid-step. He chuckles. You’re so… “What’s it gonna take to decide the winner?”
He stalks over to you, pressing tightly behind you. The tension is much denser than it was when you walked in—this is akin to that day. The feeling still throbs in your leg; you can never forget how stifling it is. None of this is fun anymore.
You're not sure if it's guilt or if it’s repulsion, but you suddenly don't feel well. Something is tugging you down, away from Michael and his fiery cold touch. You no longer want it; you want to be back in the bed with Alexis, pretending you don't remember what Michael Kaiser looks, tastes, or feels like.
But he persists. “How long? Hm? How many times do I have to beat that fucking gerbil into the dirt before you say it's over?”
And you…you deflect. You push past him and stomp right to the path of clothes, pulling your pajama shirt over your head. “This was a mistake,” you mutter.
He scoffs. “It wasn't. You know it wasn't. You're just embarrassed.”
“It was,” you stand firm on your statement, hardly turning to look at him. You pull your pajama pants up your legs, “I should've never come here.”
“But you did! And you enjoyed every last minute of it!” He argues back, mimicking the sounds of your moans. It's so childish, it’s so infuriating, it’s so validating toward the doubts lingering inside you.
No, Michael Kaiser hasn't changed; yes, you made the right choice choosing Alexis.
But, still—he knows how to get under your skin and you just— “A moment of weakness. All of this was just a moment of weakness. Don't let it get to your head.”
You don't double back for your ring nor your dignity; you head straight for the door “just like you always do.” And then you stop. You don't turn around but you grip the doorknob tighter, curling your toes in your shoes. But Michael doesn't stop, he continues: “Go on and walk out on me, just like you always do.”
You laugh. You genuinely burst out into laughter, spinning on your heels. “I walk out on you?” You laugh some more. You slam the door behind you. “You left me and never came back!”
“You pushed me out the goddamn door!” He argues back. He's put his pants back on, but he still stands before you, shirtless, reminiscent of the day neither of you will say. That pain lingers, it haunts the room. Almost five years later, and it all still hurts the same. It's written all over his face. “Your dumb ass husband told me you never wanted to see me again. You've never changed, still wanting someone to chase after you—but you locked me out. You punished yourself.”
“Fiancé,” you correct, stepping forward. “Don’t fucking talk about him like that.”
Michael grabs your pointing finger, tightly, leaning forward, “You don't love him.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you here?”
A long, deep silence permeates the room. You grit your teeth, poke your tongue against your cheek—anything to occupy the emptiness in your mouth. You have nothing to say.
To Michael, that in itself is an answer.
EIGHT YEARS LATER.
Some things you never forget. Some things are so deeply engraved in your very being that they begin to haunt you, reawakening memories you subconsciously aimed to stow away—and it’s annoying when these things resurface, when you can’t shake the droning presence of the very thing you left behind.
You will never forget the smell of Newport cigarettes. The icy, sharp menthol winds through the air with deliberance, a goal, the heavy tobacco weaning away with distance. You’ll never forget how it mixes with the soft spice of whiskey, the sanctity of roses. You will never forget how it smells on Michael Kaiser, dripping off of him like sap.
Amid your privacy, your mess scattered on a table in the lobby, that scent comes to you. It lingers in the ghost of a presence. It stands behind you; it finally breaks just to say “He’s not bad; I’ve played him at a few of these things. He’s no Michael Kaiser.”
You immediately stop; you turn around and there he stands in the flesh. Minty fresh as ever, sharper with maturity, jaded. Those eyes look down on you with the sky reflecting against them, a test lying beneath them.
There’s no shock—not visibly, at least—just a furrowing of brows, and thinning of lips, a growl behind your teeth: irritation. “What are you doing here?”
Michael smiles. “Come have a cigarette with me.”
“Are you fucking joking?” He doesn’t answer; your eyes lock intensely. “I don’t smoke, still. And I’m not talking to you.”
He doesn’t move an inch. He’s testing you, baiting you. Michael doesn’t beg—he never has—and he has no plans of concession. But you’re weak; you always fall for it.
The smugness is written all over his face. He can’t even hide it as he drags from the cigarette, blowing out a fat cloud, “I’m going to propose something to you.”
“Blow it away from me.”
He obliges, pointing his lips to the left. “I’m going to propose something to you,” he repeats, slightly softer this time, “it’s going to piss you off…make you mad, even. Just listen,”
You don’t say anything; you just look at him with bored eyes. His grin pulls sharper toward the right of his face, as he holds eye contact, bringing the cigarette to his lips.
“Leave Ness. Be my coach.”
Your reaction is immediate: “What?”
“He’s a loser—even if he wins the Open, completes his career grand slam, Ness is still going to be Ness: someone who was good. Great with your help, but good on his own, nothing more. Imagine what it’ll say about you if you take greatness and turn it to excellence,” he pulls again from the cigarette, leaning forward to you, “Take the chance. Bring it out of me.”
The wind speaks through the silence. It blows, almost eerily, whisking the challenge around. Your eyes scan over his face, around him, almost like you’re trying to figure out where in the world you are, what in the world is happening.
You find yourself standing in reality; but Michael, he stands at the edge of his audacity, in a universe so far away from you.
He needs to wake the fuck up.
You slap him—your hand cracks across his face with anger, knocking the smirk off his face, the cigarette out of his mouth. “What the fu—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You ask him, sharply, “How dare you ask me that?”
Michael rubs his cheek, staring back at you.
“You want some coaching? You wanna hear the best advice I can give you?” The sarcasm drips from your voice with terrorizing viscosity. “Quit. Right now.”
He laughs. “You know I’m good. You know I can be the best in the world—”
“Not even close.”
“I still have a shot.”
Now you’re the one laughing. “You’re 31. You have a better shot with a gun in your mouth.”
He scoffs, standing back from you. You are a character, full of dramatics and quips that simply humor him. He can’t even take you seriously—you’re not fooling anyone with this act. But you keep going.
“Stop acting like the world owes you anything—stop acting like I owe you anything. You want to spend your time and wallow in your own fucking pity and fuck up your life, go right ahead, but nobody but you owes you anything to make that change. You’re no professional; you’re a fucking joke.”
“You—”
“No. No, you’re not 20 anymore; it’s not cute for you to keep pretending that you need someone to save you, that you need a driving force to keep you going just so you can scapegoat your way out when shit gets tough,” you press a finger harshly into his chest, “and it’s fucking insulting that you would come and ask me to give you a second of my fucking time to help you chase after something you lost a long time ago. You don’t deserve that dream anymore. You never really did.”
“And Ness does?”
“Yes.”
He laughs again, “Yet, it doesn’t make you love him any more.”
You scoff, stumbling over your words.
“It’s true. It’s obvious. You know he does anything you tell him, he has no ambitions other than what you give him.”
“He’s a grown ass man. He doesn’t need me for anything.”
You’re lying and you both know it. You can’t convince yourself, let alone him. Michael will humor you anyway. “Sure, but he doesn’t. He’s your puppet, but now he can’t do the dance convincingly.”
Before you can even rebut, he stops you: fingers pressed to silence you. “He wants to be normal, live a boring, normal life—eat hamburgers and drink beer and meander around in boring, trivial work, and be a person. You don’t want that; you hate that he wants that, because who is he to you if not a plaything to complete your failed fantasy?”
“A fantasy?”
“That doesn’t include him.” He answers. “Did you ever tell him about Atlanta?”
A long beat ebbs and flows between you—a scrutinizing quiet. He presses further, “This isn’t about him. This is about you—”
“About us?” You cut him off, questioning. “Is that it? I worked my ass off to get right here, just to throw it all away for you?”
“Sounds enticing, doesn’t it?”
You laugh in his face and turn on your heels. Enough is enough.
But just then, right when you’re a half-step away, he wriggles bait right before you once again: “I’m going to beat him.” You stop. He’s won. “At the final; I’m going to beat him.”
“And then what? It wouldn’t change anything.”
“Him—it would change him. It’d break him.”
You finally spare him a second glance, hiding the truth behind narrowed eyelids. Even as it stands right between you, you can’t allow yourself to acknowledge the truth. It’d be letting him win, it’d be letting yourself lose.
“It wouldn’t make you.”
Those words—the entire conversation lingers in your head. They’re stuck to your brain like they’re attached by syrup, melting in a pool of immovable glue. It’s treacherous, terrorizing, even; they’ve yet to pull away from you, to let you catch a blink of sleep.
You’re sitting in a waking nightmare.
Alexis pulls you out of it by force: “Baby? Please,”
You meet his expectant gaze by the bathroom doorframe, seeming to plead at you. It’s annoying you. “What?”
“I need you…to tell me that it doesn’t matter,” his voice is meek, fraught to step above a whisper, “tell me it doesn’t matter if I win tomorrow.”
“No.” Your voice is harsh, teetering on angry, “I can’t do that.”
“Please,” he begs. “Just..tell me you’ll love me no matter what.”
He’s annoying you. You just blink at him, fighting the words Michael told you. “Why? Am I God?”
His face doesn’t move an inch. “...Yeah.”
And you can tell he means it, that there’s no hesitation in his heart over that answer. You’re not his partner, his wife, or even his friend—you’re his God, his reason for living. Without you, he would have no life and it pains you to admit that to yourself.
Even though you already knew it. You never wanted to say that Michael Kaiser still knew everything about you. He still knew everything about Alexis. He never left your lives, not even for a moment.
“Just stop it. You know that you can beat him.”
You need him to stop. Stop being so pitiful, stop being so annoying, stop proving Michael right.
“But what if I can’t?” He steps forward, fingers picking at each other, “How are you going to look at me if I still can’t beat Michael Kaiser?”
Quiet. You don’t move nor say anything. You just look at him, as tired, as annoyed, as blank as could be. That’s your answer; that’s what he hates to see.
He feels defeated—he damn near falls to his knees on his way to you.
“I’m tired,” he murmurs, slumping onto the bed. “I’m so tired. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to retire at the end of the season, win or lose. I don’t feel it anymore, I don’t want to force it anymore. It’s embarrassing.”
“Okay.”
Silence permeates the room—it’s aggressive like a bad plague. He looks at you without clarity. “Okay?”
You nod, but there’s still contempt in your glare. “Quit, then. You don’t need my permission.”
“Don’t do that,” he pleads, “we’re in this together. Your opinion matters just as much as mine.”
“You’re the player; I’m just the coach. I work for you.”
“Coach me then.”
“What do you want me to say, Alex?” Big puppy eyes look up at you and you don’t know what they want from you. Not approval, not lies, not promises. The truth.
You breathe deeply, swallowing the taste of the words down with a grimace. “I’ll leave you. If you don’t win tomorrow, I’ll leave.”
Pain marres itself across his face deeply—it’s like you see his pain breaking from his heart and spreading across his body. You can’t even look at him. It sinks your own heart to know you’ve broken him.
So you try to fix it: you grab his face, you urge him slightly closer, softening your gaze as you look deep into his eyes. “Is that it? Is that what you need?”
He doesn’t say anything; neither do you. He just crawls his way into your hold, rubbing against your shoulder, searching for something in your warmth. Sanctuary. Comfort. Love.
You just hold him. That’s about all you can give him. He takes it, and then some, because he knows that’s all he’ll get from you. It’s a dreary realization that dawns on the room with an inky quiet. Save for the sounds of your fingers shuffling through his hair, his breaths deepening toward sleep, it’s quiet. Abysmally quiet. Letting your thoughts surface and paint you in disgust.
You hate your job. You hate your marriage. You hate your life.
You hate that Michael Kaiser is right; you hate that you want to escape. You want to feel the July breeze blow through your trenchcoat, through messy tendrils of your hair, the scent of freedom floating by.
Like gasoline and stars—passion and broken promises. Like desperation; everything you lock yourself away from.
But you just need to quiet it. You need to supplement stability, you need to make things right. It’s not for Alexis, it’s for you. The hatred that swells in your chest is starting to eat away at you, and it’s not even because of him. You hate yourself, the life you lead, the decisions that led you into Michael Kaiser’s car, amid a quiet, suburban street, seiged by angry winds—a premonition of sorts. You hate the taste that sits on your tongue: defeat. You hate that he’s always the one who wins over you.
His fingers tap on the center console. “We can go back to my hotel room, if you want.”
You laugh a dry laugh, “I’m not here to fuck you,” you turn to look at him, catching the shock in his eyes, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Of course you do.”
“I need you to lose tomorrow.”
Michael laughs at you, unhumored and quite offended. He shakes his head, looking off through the windshield. “Fuck off.”
“He needs this. He needs to have faith in himself. If he beats you, he’ll have everything he needs to make a run at the Open.”
He turns back to you. There’s a bit of hurt among his blues, a twinge of offense. You always chastise him for his audacity but— “What about what I need?”
Silence; the wind howls. You just stare at him, biting your lip. Michael scoffs.
“You’re a piece of shit,” he declares, “Fucking me would be one thing, but this? This is shameful, this is unforgivable.”
“I’m doing you both a fucking favor.”
Un-fucking-believable. You are unfuckingbelievable. Michael shakes his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Not in a million years. No.”
“Okay then,” you say, feigning calmness. “Drive me back.”
He doesn’t move an inch. You grit your teeth, boiling in your defeat. “Start the fucking car!”
“The most frustrating part about all of this, what ticks me off the most,” he pauses, turning to you across the console. He leans forward—you place distance, sitting against the door. He laughs dryly. “You. You came here to fuck me but you can’t step down from your high horse and fucking admit it. You’re fucking pathetic.”
“Start the car, Michael.” You won’t engage. No.
“You’re a pitiful little thing…I feel for you, truly.”
“I swear to god—”
“What?” He prods at you. You won’t engage. You won’t. “God, what happened to you? What an absolute loser.”
You won’t engage. You won’t— “I’m the loser?”
“Yeah. You are.”
“You’re such a fucking child.”
“Sure I am,” he turns the key, the car rumbles to life. “Let’s get you back home—to your family.”
You glare at him, sharply. Your arms cross over your chest. Your leg shakes under the glove compartment.
He only drives for a total of a minute and fifteen seconds, hardly even making it up the street. You don’t really want to go back; you don’t want the rush to end. So, you press further: “Why am I even here?”
Michael rolls his eyes, cutting you a glance, “Because you asked me to,” he says. “You stupidly asked me to come and lay my life down for you, and I stupidly agreed. I just have the gall to admit it.”
You snort, “Please. You are one of the most egotistical people I have ever met.”
“Sure. I own it, too; I’ve never once been confused about me being a piece of shit. That’s why you like me so much.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You haven’t been able to get rid of me ever since we first met,” he fully turns to look at you, the arrogance flounting all across his expression. “You like that I see you for who you really are. I make you feel human.”
“Who am I, really?”
“My equal. My match.”
Michael says the words with full sincerity, with complete and utter rawness. He’s being dead serious and he’s twisting the knife as he does so, staring deep in your eyes as he rolls the car slowly down the street.
Now, the wind whistles. A song of advancement, enticement; crude ugliness. The one thing you two have been able to share fruitfully: fire. The embers float by and find purchase on your skin, blazing you in ire. “Pull over.”
“Relax. We’re almost at the hotel—”
“Pull over.”
You look at each other. Michael pulls the seriousness right out of your gaze and laughs tiredly, “Whatever.”
He pulls beside a relatively dead boulevard, and you barely give the car the opportunity before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt, jumping out of the car. The wind is just as aggressive as your heartbeat, the breeze a direct juxtaposition to the heat beneath your flesh.
You begin to stomp away, fighting against the current almost futily. Michael finds amusement in your tantrum and steps out of the car himself, calling after you. You turn back, and he points to the east, “Your hotel is that way!”
You twitch, ever slightly. In an instant, your heading back toward him, ready to wipe the amusement right off of his cursed face. You can’t stand the way he looks at you: ready to devour you and never let you forget it. His eyes all narrow and observant, panning you up and down, directing his grin toward deviance. You want to slap him, but he stops you.
“Gonna hit me again?”
No—you spit, and before he even has a chance to react, you’re pressing him against the car, immediately finding his lips.
They’re still soft, they still taste like cigarettes and freedom. His hands brace at your shoulders, sliding down your body, to your waist; you relax into his touch simultaneously, softening the intensity of the kiss until you’re practically winded backward, his arms keeping you steady.
For a brief second, you pull apart, looking at each other in the quiet. He smirks, kissing the corner of your lips, then your cheek, then your ear, “Told you,” he says.
You don’t have anything to say. Speechlessness overtakes you—you just want to bask in the fervor. You pull the backseat door open and away from him. You guide him into the backseat, ditching your coat and shirt as you scoot toward the opposite door. Michael slides beside you, closing the door as you hook a leg over his lap, anchoring yourself to sit with the assistance of the back grab handle. As soon as you’re on his lap and he’s at attention, he’s kissing you. Not aggressively, but passionately, in all the ways I missed you can be unsaid.
Your hands fiddle with the drawstring of his sweats, loosening them around his waist. His lips part from yours and migrate to your neck, right over the echo of your heartbeat—and it races, raging like the fervent wind. He latches onto it, capturing your breath in a choked gasp, forcing your head over your shoulders, and your work in his lap to cease.
His hands ride up your back and around your rips, cupping your tits with warm, calloused palms. Another breath breaks free, and you brace your hands on the driver and passenger’s seat, giving him free roam over your bare chest. Michael takes it without hesitation, licking a flat stripe down your neck to your chest, to the right where he instantly catches your nipple in a loop.
It’s not tentative or tender; he does it purposefully, to catch your bullheadedness by the reigns, to remind you who you are. His equal on the court, his partner in his hands—you play in synergous tandem: your hips spinning sweetly on his bulging erection while his mouth births a pebbled path around your nipple. And his tongue lavves over the bud with a statement. His eyes relay the domination as they catch yours cheaply in the sparse light. You submit without hesitation.
You want him to take you.
He makes you feel soft and cherished—not in the way Alexis does: constantly reminding you and taking it slow with you and undaring to hurt you. He slides his fingers beneath the layers of your bottoms, finding a growing wet patch where your pussy beats eagerly. He’s teasing and controlling: raking his teeth over your right nipple, moving to flick his tongue over the left, all while his left hand gropes the matured fat of your ass, his right sliding between to dance his digits prematurely into your entrance. The sharp hiss you puff out soothes into a whimper.
“Micha…” you draw, your voice cracking over a whisper. You sound just like you did when you were teenagers, just as open and in love with him. You card your fingers through his hair, looping blue balayage around your digits.
He sits back from your chest, pushing his index and middle finger deeper. “Yeah?” He responds, breathlessly, “Like that?”
You roll your eyes, letting a bubble of laughter pop in your throat. “Keep going…”
“I know,” he says. His left hand presses you forward, butting your clothed clit against his dick, “I won’t make you wait any longer.”
He only stops to help you shimmy your pants to the floor of the car, letting you pull his and his boxers down to his knees. It’s an awkward, stuffed succession of movements that pulls laughs out of you—sounds that crowd the air in your chest.
“I missed you,” he says. It’s almost like a ritual. You smile, pressing your foreheads together as you tuck the seat of your panties to the side, hovering over his lap. His hands slot at your hips, while your dominant hand wraps around his cock, angling him.
You move in silent synergy, connecting like a fresh light bulb to a lamp: instant electricity bursting in your guts. He fills you in an irreplicable way—the only person to ever make you whimper so weakly, gripping his biceps for purchase. He’s so warm, so big, so satiating, you can’t help but to let your eyes flutter closed, pulling him closer. “I know,” you say, “I missed you too, Micha.”
Michael grunts, rolling his hips masterfully. “Say it again,” he demands, pecking your lips, “tell me the truth.”
You moan, grappling his skin, trying to pull him impossibly close. “Don’t tease me,” you plead, “don’t make me suffer.”
He pecks your lips again, “That’s all you’ve ever done to me.”
His hips snap against you with finality, punctuation to a myriad of unfinished sentences. It’s almost punishing, almost damining, like he wants you to feel what his heart feels: heft, obscurity, loneliness. Like he wants you to know that he never stopped playing for the win. He’s done all you’ve asked of him.
The thrusts feel like wake-up calls, pleas for attention to a love prematurely laid to rest. He needs you to be honest, to tell the truth, to say that you’re not here because you hate Ness or hate yourself, but that you’re here because you love him.
He fucks you like the answer is going to jump out of your throat, past the moans and the whispers, through the drool. Like you’re going to find his eyes just like you are now, and you’re going to kiss him, just like you are now, and you’re going to sit on his lap again and again just like you are now, and you’re going to find the gumption to say I love you, Michael.
Michael loves you. He fucks you like he loves you: all of his ardor spooling in his lap in pumping right into you, kissing against your g-spot with ease, battering the love right between your walls. You fuck him back like you want to fuse together: grinding and pressing and pooling the very essence of your heart onto his thighs, down his dick, as though it’s the glue that keeps you connected. Your spit glosses his lips with every messy, slopping kiss, your tongues flapping and slotting against one another aimlessly. Only with the goal of catching the sound of the others orgasm—knowing you won.
But for the first time ever, Michael Kaiser doesn’t want to win. He doesn’t want to stand over Ness and parade around a prize they’ve equally basked under. He doesn’t want to face the world with the shambles of a life that passed him by years ago. He doesn’t want to have you. He wants to have your honesty, your closure.
Tell him you love him.
“Right there,” you rasp, “ohfuck, just like that, Mich—fucking right there—!”
Tell him you love him.
He pulls your hips down rougher, clapping your skin together with intensity. Your clit practically bangs against his pelvis, and then it glides across as he winds you in tight circles around his lap. All in a big, expert loop; all coaxing that sweet, rushing orgasm quickly out of you.
Tell him you love him.
Before the night ends, before you go back to your husband, to your ten-hundred dollar hotel room, with your premium silks and fine wine. Before you go back to hating him and loving Ness. Before you go back to being the woman he could never have, unless it was nights like this.
Tell him you love him.
“Ah, shit,” you whimper. Your hands migrate to the ceiling of the car, then to the seats beside him, then one to the window and the other to your breast, fondling around for some type of grounding purchase. Thrown about in the sea of your own pleasure, you flail about, sinking deeper and deeper toward a furious current.
His name falls off of your tongue with ease, like he’s your lifeline and your killer at the same time. Your voice teeters over stability, faltering under the shocks that ripple up your spine. Cracking you rigid as he repeatedly pummels your pussy, which weeps heavily in response.
“I—I can–’t—”
Tell him you love him.
“I know,” he soothes. “Let it all go,”
Tell him you love him.
He’s close too—probably closer than you. It doesn’t take much for you to render him a shell of his arrogance. Buried inside of you, under your glory, at the behest of your majesty, he succumbs to your sheer power. Your walls contract around him like the warmest, freshest pressed velvets, your skin slops against him like the softest, feathery pillows, your voice sings to him like the sultriest, sinking siren melody. He gives himself to you and takes you in turn, to where nobody has ever shown you: where his heart lies.
Tell him you love him. Tell him this venture has not been all in vain, that he managed to do one good thing in this world: make you feel human.
You’re not a queen, you’re not a challenge, you’re a woman. Who belongs to a man who reveres her like a poor farmer reveres spring rain. Who wants to escape from her own personal hell. Who is his equal, the only person who’s greatness makes her feel normal.
Tell him you love him before he faces your husband tomorrow; relieve yourselves of this mind-numbing torture. Let the match proceed with sweat seeping through their clothes, with their breaths battling the wind, with their muscles flexing and churning out show-stopping points, organically—let the best man win, not for you, but for the love of the game.
Tell him you love him.
As you cum, crying his name to the stained ceiling, forgoing all shame and ego.
Tell him you love him.
Give him a game worth playing, a game worth watching. Give Ness a fighting chance. Give them a challenge.
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