Nothing But Thieves Imagines (Mature Content)

Love-All - Part 2

You push your hand through your sweaty fringe, trying to plaster it to the top of your head. Your breath is calm, but only just. The last fifteen minutes have seen you sprinting up and down the court, reaching sideways and plunging forwards, trying, at first desperately, to return Conor's sure tennis strokes.

At first, Conor had easily flattened you, his ruthless, powerful serve whizzing past you more times than you'd ever admit.

But slowly you'd gotten the hang of things, learned how to return his most powerful hits with energy of your own, learning quickly what his bodily cues meant, when he was about to lob you a middle ball or try to land one on the line.

Soon enough, he'd had to start reaching himself, adjusting his swing, stretching with his backhand for balls you placed expertly into corners.

You can tell he hadn't expected you to pick it back up so quickly, but he seems to be invigorated by it, his energy seeming to increase further as the game progresses.

Now you bounce the ball in front of you.

"Advantage (Y/N)," you say.

He nods almost imperceptibly, pressing his lips together in a tight, intense grin. His knees are loose, his hands forward both grasping his racket, acutely focused on you.

You look up and toss the ball to serve.

In the moment between your toss and swing, you register his face, the look in his eyes as he stares intensely at you across the court, eyes shining.

You've seen that look before.

That wild, clear, focused, exhilarated look that makes his eyes glow like lanterns even in the late-day sun. The one you've grown to crave, to dream about whenever he's away. It's a look he only gives you late at night in the privacy of your shared bedroom.

The look he gets right before he pushes you into the mattress and fucks you senseless. 

You manage a serve, a strong one even, but you can't help the heat that surges into your core, the liquid fire running down your spine even as you return his next hit, the ball only a blurry point in the void of space separating you from the magnetism of his eyes.

He focuses on his swing, sure and solid, and though you marvel each time at those strong muscles roping in his forearm, you still manage returns that keep him running.

Suddenly he's moving quickly toward you, his perspiring face taut, and you realize he's coming to the net, trying to end this volley quickly in his favor.

You lob your return high, hoping to land it past him, but he leaps and hits it back, surprising you. You catch another glimpse of that gorgeous face as you reach for the ball -- he's grinning, thinking all you'll manage is a lob he can smash back at you, winning the point.

Your competitive streak rears with force inside you, and you'll be damned if you'll go down that easy.

Instead of hitting the weak return he expects, you turn your body at the last moment, leaping and squaring yourself to the ball in midair.

Conor has only a split second to realize what you're doing, and the way his prematurely satisfied grin drops from his face into one of shock is all the motivation you need to smash the ball past him down the right-side line.

Your momentum sends you careening into the ground, but as you fall you're grinning, and by the time you've skidded to a stop you're laughing aloud, watching him toss his racket to the ground and grasp his blonde spikes in incredulous defeat.

"What in the bloody hell?!" he begins,  but you're laughing too hard to reply, letting your back relax into the painted concrete.

Where in the world you pulled all that from, you've know idea. All you know is your athletic side linked up with your over-extended sense of pride, creating a lethal combination in which annihilating your boyfriend on a tennis court was the only outcome your mind would accept.