Discover Top Posts Tagged with #kainess x reader

𐔌 CHALLENGERS ོ𑁬

. . . 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.

#kainess x reader

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#kainess x reader