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Okada.
Kenny was very happy to have simply retained. To have kept his title at every turn, even when it seemed like it was slipping away right before his eyes– that's the nature of three-ways, anyway. You don't have to be pinned to lose your title, commentary is quick to remind.
But he didn't. He wasn't pinned. Kenny retains, and what he gets is a face-to-face with Kazuchika Okada, who's all too happy to remind him of his inevitability. He's… there's a small, animal part of him that's intimidated. The last time he'd faced Okada, one-on-one, had been 2018. He's a whole new man, now, one with aches and pains he was too young to have then.
He won. Now, it's a toss-up. A whole new man.
He'd been looking forward to celebrating his win, but now it feels– overshadowed, by something, something that will test him even more than his acrobatic, gold-hungry opponents today. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, right next to the animal whining about his longevity, is a familiar voice crooning to him: Make yourself a name people will fear.
When Kenny drops by medical, it's soon enough after his match that Ricochet and Speedball are there– Ricochet, largely blocking the doorway attempting to leave, and Speedball, Kenny can see over Ricochet's shoulder, wincing and holding an ice-pack to their knee while a member of the medical staff talks about expectations with the healing process. Nothing too bad, just a couple of days, the usual.
Kenny calmly adjusts the International title on his shoulder, bright in the fluorescent lights. "Just so you two know," he says, level. "I'm invoking my Rights."
Ricochet looks offended. Speedball looks downright deer-in-headlights.
"Not now," he placates. "After the main event. You've got time. I'll text you two."
And without another word, he leaves.
Kenny had invoked the Winner's Room a lot, as world champion. Never, really, for the sex. Instead, as Callis had advised him, he invoked his Rights more as power plays, as punishments. You failed to put me down, and here's what you get for that. It's archaic, but so was Callis– so was the entire damn idea, so was the collector run at all.
But it was effective. Some nights, he even had fun. If he lingers on it for too long, though… well. As he strides down the hall, he tries to forget about the intricacies. He instead ducks into his locker room to grab some things, quickly showers, and is back in his room with a couple towels and a small meal to watch how the last match of the night develops.
Sue him for staying informed.
Right.
Another incredible reason for calling the Room occurs to Kenny in retrospect; at least, in the Room, he doesn't have to think about anything else.
True to his word, he texts both Speedball and Ricochet individually further instruction. The room number, general timing– hell, even an estimation of when they'd be out by. Kenny dresses lightly, but dresses formally. Button-up, slacks, hair pulled back, International belt proud on his shoulder after twinkling at him in his locker room. Then he's off, rolling his suitcase, striding through the weave of halls that always changes.
When he gets to the room, he's first. The room itself is simple and clean, flat white bedding, a bedside table with a little lamp, a bottle of lube, and a tissue box atop it. Kenny sets down his stuff in a corner and gently places the International title on the small armchair opposite the bed. It seems right.
And, a point for his punctuality, it's only a minute or two after he's settled that the door creaks open. To–
"You're not even the one who took the pin," says Kenny.
"I know," says Speedball Mike Bailey, gentle with their now-brace-wrapped left knee, their bag in tow. "But did you really think Ricochet would show up?"
"...Touché."
Speedball, too, has showered. It's hard to believe they're the same person who was in the ring about an hour ago– the determined look has given way to something almost deferential, apologetic; when they rest their things next to Kenny's, they try to stack it up as small as possible. They're… easygoing, but they know what they're here for.
They smell like sandalwood, a little. Their mullet is a little fluffier. They're not in their ring gear, anymore, some gym shorts and a loose t-shirt with a faded…
"Is that a Final Fantasy shirt?"
Speedball toes off their socks and sneakers and looks down. "Yes," they confirm, thumbing at the material. It's faded so badly only the upper fifth is visible, but it's there– enough to be understood, at least. Sheepishly, they add: "It's a really good game series."
Kenny chuckles. "You're telling me," he says, with a little incredulity. "Me? The one-winged angel guy?"
"Oh, no, I know." Charming. "I mean, the Ultima Weapon guy is telling you this, you know."
Right.
"How's your knee?"
Speedball makes a little pained laughing sound. "When you use your legs as much as I do, you kind of get used to…"
"…slamming both of your kneecaps into the ring apron?" finishes Kenny.
They look at him, unimpressed but amused. "We'll call it that," they say. "So, how do you…"
Kenny takes a couple steps forward to plant his palm against Speedball's chest and push them to the wall. Their eyes go gratifyingly wide in surprise, and get even wider when Kenny slips his hands under their shirt and skates them upwards, until their shirt is so bunched up at the top that they just hook their thumbs around the collar and tug it the rest of the way off. With it discarded, Kenny has no problem with bullying them further against the wall, gently raking his fingernails down their chest.
"Forward," they quip.
Instead of gracing them with a response, Kenny says: "You've grown."
"I have?" Speedball, mocking the idea of even complaining about forwardness, slings their arms over Kenny's shoulders. "Did you just notice?"
Kenny had gotten a decent look at their physique in their qualifying matches– yes, Kenny pays attention that granularly– but to have it up close, under his fingers, is something else. They're built nicely; they have the kind of muscle that doesn't pop out, save for the serratus, for their pecs. He thumbs that stretch of skin under their chest appraisingly. "It's true."
Speedball isn't exactly ticklish, but they laugh anyways. It ripples their muscles nicely. "I could say the same to you, Mr. Kenny Omega," they mention, a little glimmer to their eyes. One of their hands draws back to trace through Kenny's hairline, and Kenny tilts his head just a centimeter out of the way.
Abruptly: "Do you have a safeword in mind?"
"Hmm. Montréal."
Ugh. Québec. "Why not just red?"
Speedball's smile is foxlike, now. "I want to have a little fun."
"You do know what happens in a Room, right?"
Suddenly, Speedball's expression changes, no longer a sharp grin but rather– innocent, deep brown eyes, mouth just a little parted. "I know," they say. "But I don't think Rooms usually start with the winner pressing the loser to the wall to check out their muscles, right?"
So Speedball knows what they're doing. Fine. Kenny will play along, then. He clasps his hands together under the bend of Speedball's ass and lifts, almost a belly-to-belly suplex, until Kenny steps back, and to the right, and drops them across the bed like an apron powerbomb.
Speedball blushes like a maiden. They scramble to a more comfortable position, grabbing a hold of one of the pillows and carefully placing it under their left knee. Kenny respects it– rest, ice, compression, elevation. He looms over them, despite not yet joining them on the bed.
"You're still fully clothed," Speedball points out.
Kenny just says: "Who won?" That seems to settle it. "Take off your shorts."
Speedball, thankfully, complies. Kenny can get another admiring eyeful when one of their strong legs kicks the last inch of their shorts off with mildly impressive precision onto their t-shirt, off in the corner somewhere. Laid out like this, Speedball is breathtaking; the planes of their thighs and calves clearly defined, muscles Kenny knows have been honed for their exact purpose. He grazes a hand over their quad with something that is, scarily, approaching reverence.
"Like what you see?" Speedball tries to joke. Kenny doesn't grace them with a response– he only flicks his eyes up to the front of Speedball's boxers, which have already started to tent slightly. Really, Kenny thinks Speedball is liking what they're seeing, but again: he's attempting to maintain an image, here.
Instead, what he does is this. Affecting a casual disinterest, Kenny gets up onto the bed on his knees, which causes Speedball to spread their legs open organically. He leans over and briefly looks higher, to their face– still grinning, but their teeth are making little indents on their bottom lip, eyes glittering in the low light– before he tucks fingers barely over the top of the waistband of their boxers and pulls.
It's a little bit of finangling, getting them off all the way, but it's worth it. Speedball's dick is half-hard in the crease of where their hip meets their waist, and it's mildly flattering. Kenny leans over them a little farther to retrieve the lube from the bedside table.
Measured, he tells them, "I'm going to stretch you, first."
"Okay."
It never is a truly delicate process, this part, but he has it down to a science. He drizzles some lube onto his index, sets the bottle down, presses a free hand to the bottom of Speedball's thigh to get them to raise and angle their hips, a little, and slips his finger in.
"It–It really was an honor," Speedball says, friendly, like Kenny doesn't have a finger inside them.
"Likewise," deadpans Kenny, without too much thought, because– was it? Was it really?
"I mean," says Speedball, "I was imagining this a little differently."
"Did you think you would win?"
"Oh, no," they chirp. "I just didn't imagine Ricochet there, you know?"
Kenny, pitchless, laughs. "I don't think I did either." He makes a little mm noise. He crooks his finger, just because he can.
"I tried to convince him to come here, honestly, I did. I kinda like him. It was– oh– " He's still got it; Speedball's jaw, ever so briefly, drops. "–It was nice to see him again, sure, and he's very good, but– I was picturing it all more… climactically?"
Kenny hums again. Slips in a second finger. "Are you disappointed?"
"No," Speedball says, quickly. "It just means I have to work harder, you know? It was probably silly of– oh, oh– of, of me to think my third match here would be the one I was waiting for."
He… pauses. "Waiting for?"
And they just look at him, expression completely unguarded. Their mouth is parted, a little, their brown eyes wide. Like Kenny's something to admire. "Yeah," and a smile starts to spread across their face, again. "I've been chasing you this whole time."
Kenny doesn't respond, can't respond. He knows, with so long in the business, exactly what his face is doing; schooled neutrality. If it's supposed to flatter, it doesn't– it clinks, right against the shell of Kenny's heart, and drops uselessly between them. He feels either modest or sadistic when he decides the preparation is done at two fingers. He pulls them out carefully and reaches for a tissue– he's not a slob– to wipe them off.
Speedball catches their breath. They're still watching him, but they don't fill the air with talking. It's a mix of things in their big brown eyes; respect, awe, anticipation– Kenny gets a glance, and then looks away. He undoes his belt, unzips his slacks, and simply pushes down his underwear to get access to his own dick– something about it, Kenny fully clothed, Speedball naked, sparkles at the base of his spine.
Speedball makes a little noise when they hear Kenny open the condom packet. All Kenny says is, "I don't know where you've been," and that's that.
When Kenny gives himself a few strokes, rolls on the condom, applies a bit more lube, Speedball is blinking slowly– their eyes are, obviously, watching something much lower down than Kenny's face.
Finally, Kenny's set. He places his hands on both of Speedball's hips, his fingers hooking around to cup the undeniable muscle of their ass, and tilts them upwards. He starts, ever so slowly, to press into them.
"What did you think of it?" Kenny asks. Fuck, they're tight. "Your four-way."
Speeball looks confused, for a second, and then wiggles their eyebrows at the innuendo, like the thing they're doing currently isn't more "risque" than that. "It was good," they say, breathing starting to hitch as Kenny pushes further, centimeter after centimeter, inexorably slow. "Exhilarating," they sigh, once they recenter– admittedly, an ego boost, just halfway in. "That– Orange Cassidy guy, man, what a treat," Their smile crinkles their eyes. Kenny hums. "And Davis! What a– a, oh–!"
Fully seated. The long lithe lines of Speedball's body go slack, their head tilting back to hit the pillows underneath them. But Kenny– well, actually being in something after so long is incredible– was really appreciating the dialogue they were having. So he continues; "There aren't many things Orange Cassidy cares about," Kenny advises. "But the International title, now, that's something he'd claw for. He–" Kenny adjusts, and relishes in watching the way Speedball full-body shivers. "–tried to get the belt before, uh, Revolution. Just a couple weeks before. Gave Takeshita a pretty nice fight."
"Takeshita–" Speedball says, breathy. "–He always, hah, gives me a run for my money…"
Kenny adjusts again. Speedball's arms, briefly, flail. Shit, if that isn't an ego boost.
When Kenny stills, though, Speedball gets a little antsy– they twitch their hips, a little, squirming on their back. "Are you, what, waiting for something," they ask, winded.
"Waiting for more questions to ask you."
Speedball huffs a laugh. "I'm an open book." Their head lolls, off to the side, exposing more of the column of their neck. But they're looking at…
Kenny pulls out, just a little, and lazily rocks in. He finally asks: "Why the International title?" He can swear, he sees the reflection of it, gold in their deep brown eyes.
"It's yours," answers Speedball, openly. "I could've– fuck," they gasp with another lazy roll of Kenny's hips. "Could've gone for Daniel Gar–Garcia's title, the TNT championship, we've–" And again. "–We've hit it off, before, but, but I wanted to face you."
Hmm.
"When– fuck, when Ricochet qualified, too," Speedball's arms are splayed above their head, tensing in time with Kenny's thrusts. "I just thought, I thought that I would just win. And then you'd want to face me, one-on– one on one. That's how I'd get you." He presses their thigh higher, hooks the leg, like a pin in the ring. Speedball seems to notice it; they look up to Kenny, again, eyes shining. "It's all I want."
"Why me, huh?" Kenny rocks forward. He covers them, feels like he dwarfs them, his fist presses into the mattress right by their head.
They try to grab for his hand– not happening. He collects both of their wrists with his free hand and presses them up above their head. Kenny watches as Speedball, hind-brain, instinct, tries to kick out and can't. Their hips twitch, mouth open in a frozen gasp.
Kenny takes what he wants. He leans and twists his mouth just enough to engage them in a gnarly kiss, mostly-teeth. Territorial. Speedball responds with softness, but is quickly overpowered– the crooning little voice at the back of Kenny's head preens. "Why me," he hisses into their mouth.
"You're the best," they gasp. "Kenny, you're– you're the best, fuck–"
And you're nothing, the voice says. When Kenny hikes Speedball's left leg even higher, the pained groan that punches out of them is delicious. He drops their leg up over his shoulder and grinds in even further, folding Speedball in two— the pain-pleasure eliciting a squeeze so maddeningly good that Kenny stutters, jackrabbiting his hips a little.
"Fuck," whines Speedball. "Kenny–"
He's not sure if it's the speed, the intensity, or the fingers he's digging into the sides of their knee; Speedball orgasms with a shout. This angle he has on them, this high-stack, means that their cum drips downwards, down through the contours of their tensed abs. It's an image he'll never want to forget.
And then Speedball moves. Their left leg drops from over Kenny's shoulder, both of them moving to wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass.
"Who won?" they whisper, jelly-limbed, weakly smiling. "You gotta finish too, right?"
It's maddening. It's an out-of-body experience. Kenny watches himself as he pulls out, grabs Speedball's waist, and flips them over– face down, ass up. When he presses back in, one long sink, he places a hand at the back of their head and forces it into the pillow, fingers closing in to pull at their mullet and tug back, effectively spearing them on him.
It doesn't matter. Being nice doesn't matter, this time. He's had enough– of Speedball's compliance, of their softness, of their reverence. He saws into them, chasing his own orgasm, thoughts flitting by him too fast to grab– power, revenge, Okada, the bucks, Calli–
He stills, breath huffing out of his nostrils, as he cums. He feels it before he knows he's doing it– his teeth are grit, jaw complaining. Speedball, below him, is still in the exact position he left them in; when they tilt their head to the side, he watches as they swipe the back of their hand across their mouth, like they're clearing drool.
Kenny pulls out unceremoniously, pulls the condom off, ties it, and throws it into the complimentary trash can. A few tissues later, he's pulling his underwear and slacks back up, fastening the button, redoing his belt.
Speedball pushes themselves up onto their hands and knees, only to sit back on their thighs, naked, looking at him. He only glances at them– their eyes are still soft, kind, respectful. They're smiling.
"Thanks," they say, a little quippy. "Next time it'll be different, yeah?"
Kenny just grunts, picks up his stuff from the pile of their things, and reaches for the belt.
…Quietly, he asks: "What would you do with it?"
Speedball tilts their head.
"With the belt," Kenny grits, "What would you do with it."
Their smile crinkles their eyes. "Defend it against the best."