Archive of Our Own

Wilbur is not drunk.

He feels a little bit like it, but maybe he’s just leaning too far into the two shitty beers he’s had from Phil and Kristin’s not-shitty fridge. He had told Phil, he had said you’re rich, Phil, you can afford better than this swill and Phil had thrown back his head and laughed like a hyena even though the joke wasn’t that funny in the first place, and then he had pressed the cold bottle into Wilbur’s hand and hovered a hand over the small of his back to guide him back into the living room.

Which, under other circumstances, may have been a revelation all on its own. In the universe where Wilbur hasn’t been slowly tuned like a guitar string to perfect resonance with Phil over three years, the touch of their hands and the whisper of Phil’s palm against the fabric of his sweater might have sent him down the rabbit hole. Sadly, he’s been down here for awhile.

And they had walked into Phil’s living room with their shitty beers, and Kristin had turned and smiled at Wilbur and passed him the remote, and that wasn’t a revelation either. Another inch in the pit Wilbur’s been digging himself, sure, but not a new one. Because Phil is Phil, who passes him bottles of shitty beer and wraps him in bear hugs whenever they meet up and throws his arms wide to accept Wilbur as his son in every universe they play—which leaves a strange tickle in his throat right now. And Kristin is Kristin, who Wilbur had nearly swallowed his tongue upon meeting and who engages with Wilbur’s bullshit like no one else till Phil is crying laughing between them. And together—together they’re them. Phil and Kristin. KristinandPhil, and decidedly not Wilbur.

Because how do you tell your best friend, your married best friend, your happily married best friend who’s been lucky enough to find the love of his life that you want him to close the two inches between you on the expensive sofa to press his thigh warm against yours, and wrap your hand in his, and shove his cock down your throat to make your eyes prick with tears?

Or, worse, that you want his wife to watch? To wrap her hand in your hair while you hold her husband’s cock in your mouth and tell you you’re doing so well, Wilbur, so pretty, so good for us—

So no, Wilbur’s not drunk. He can’t be. It’s too much of a risk. It would make it too easy to let the confessions he’s holding tight between his teeth to spill out all at once. At the same time, he wishes—

He’s a good actor, even when the phantom touch of Phil’s hand at the base of his spine is still burning him, so he relaxes against the arm of the couch and gesticulates with his bottle while he talks and keeps two careful inches between himself and Phil as the stupid artsy movie he had bullied Kristin and Phil into putting on drones in the background.

Kristin comes back from the kitchen, carefully holding three frosty glasses of water, and Wilbur takes his with his free hand and a smile (not too much, now, don’t let it show through) and waits for Kristin to settle back into the armchair (her chair, Phil had said with a fond eye-roll that had made Wilbur’s heart turn somersaults in his chest while his stomach tied itself up in knots).

Instead, she moves back over to Phil’s other side and prods at his shoulder.

“Scoot over?”

“I thought your chair was over there,” Wilbur blurts out before Phil can move. It’s rude, it’s hopelessly rude, and for just a second he’s sure Phil is going to pull Wilbur off the couch and shove him out the door into the snow and god damn it, he’s ruined it and he’s not even drunk.

But Phil is laughing, and Kristin is too, and he forces himself to unclench his jaw and breathe in deep to slow his racing heart and laugh along with them.

“You gotta learn to share sometime, Will,” Kristin says, and fuck Phil’s moving. The couch is barely a couch at all, closer to a loveseat, and when Phil shifts over to make room for Kristin the entire side of his body is pressed up against Wilbur’s legs, crossed defensively in front of him.

“Here, mate, c’mon. Make room,” Phil says, and that’s the only warning Wilbur gets before Phil is grabbing Wilbur’s legs and tugging. Taken aback he doesn’t think to resist, and before he can blink Kristin is tucked under Phil’s left arm and Wilbur’s legs are tossed across both of their laps, Phil’s right hand resting appropriately far down on Wilbur’s thigh. The contact makes him swoon a bit anyway.

Wilbur at least has the presence of mind to bend his knees so his manky old socks aren’t sitting on Kristin’s jeans, but evidently does not have enough brain capacity to realize what position that’ll put him in.

He’s…nestled into Phil now, knees almost touching Phil’s stomach and torso tilted towards the back of the couch where his head is propped. Phil’s hand shifts to hold onto the back of one of his knees (keep him in place). He doesn’t know where to put his hands—any more of his body touching Phil’s is right out, and even his own knees are too close for comfort—so he settles on crossing them in front of his body, hands awkwardly tucked into his armpits.

This is how he dies, he thinks, draped across Phil (and Kristin, a little bit), Phil holding him like…like their lover. Like he belongs here with them.

Wilbur reminds himself that he is not nearly drunk enough to let himself follow that line of thinking, and tries to focus back on the movie. He jumps again when Kristin’s hand joins Phil’s on his leg, trailing down from his knee to rest at his ankle.

She keeps it there, not pressing, just resting on his ankle and making small circles with her thumb just above where his sock meets skin. Wilbur shuts his eyes—he can’t, he can’t look at them, there’s no way he can hide what’s in his eyes when both of their hands are on him like this. Thank fuck he’s curled up like he is, they won’t be able to see, if. Well. Yeah. Because—

“Ooh, I can feel your pulse.”

Kristin’s fingers move, pinching his Achilles’ tendon gently between forefinger and thumb. He can feel it, now that she’s pointing it out, the thump thump thump of his heart rattling erratically around his chest and propagating down to where Kristin’s warm hand holds him firmly. It’s too fast. His heart’s beating too fast. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed—

“Where?” No, god, Phil, don’t.

“Down here. Yeah, press right…there.” Phil’s hands are cool, and Kristin’s are warm, and Wilbur wrenches his eyes back open to find Phil looking intently at where his thumb and forefinger are pressed against Wilbur’s ankle, and Kristin staring directly at Wilbur.

Wilbur’s breath catches in his chest. Kristin’s brown eyes are huge and deep in the lamplight, blue light from the TV playing across the left side of her face. She’s smiling—kind of—but there’s something else in her expression too, something Wilbur can’t quite place.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, mate.” Who told Phil he was allowed to sound like that? A completely innocuous comment, just barely under his breath, that makes Wilbur’s heart, a traitor till the end, beat even faster. He’s starting to get a little concerned about his blood pressure.

“Yeah,” he squeaks, and quickly clears his throat. “It does that. Sometimes.”

“You’re pretty red, too,” Kristin remarks, like she’s just noticed and hasn’t been staring straight through Wilbur’s soul. Phil looks up at that, and yeah, Wilbur feels like he could just about spontaneously combust under the heat their combined gaze brings to his cheeks. Red, indeed.

“Bit warm in here, isn’t it?” he tries. Phil hums absentmindedly, still gently stroking Wilbur’s ankle and setting his stomach aflutter. Kristin’s smile grows.

“You can take off your sweater?” she suggests, and Wilbur’s cheeks flare hotter.

“R-right, yeah,” very eloquent, Wilbur, well done, and he lets his hands drift to the hem of his sweater, incredibly thankful he decided to wear a t-shirt underneath. Phil seems to realize he’s staring, and turns towards Kristin right before fabric covers Wilbur’s eyes. It doesn’t cover the sound of a soft sigh—whose, he doesn’t know—as their lips meet, but they’ve only just parted by the time Wilbur’s struggled free from his sweater: Phil’s hand is still on Kristin’s cheek, their faces a breath apart.

“You’re gonna make me jealous,” he quips—tries to quip—but it comes out much softer, much more transparent than he had wanted. Fuck. Wilbur closes his eyes—he can’t face them right now, not after putting his foot so totally in his mouth.

And because his eyes are closed, and his heart is still racing in his chest, he barely notices the shift of the couch underneath him till a soft kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth and his eyes fly back open.

Phil is blushing almost as badly as Wilbur. Kristin looks like the cat that ate the canary. Their expressions are the only things convincing Wilbur that he didn’t imagine the sensation of lips barely brushing against his own. It’s Phil who finally breaks the deafening silence.

“I guess we probably should have asked who you were jealous of, huh,” he says ruefully.

“Well, here,” Kristin says, “I’ll just do this,”and then she’s moving, pressing a hand onto Phil’s thigh to lean across the couch, and Wilbur’s eyes are open, he can see it coming, but it still shocks him to his very core when her lips press against his, the corner opposite where Phil, where her husband had pressed his. Had kissed him. Phil kissed him. They both kissed him. What is even happening right now. He’s not drunk. Is he drunk?

“Now nobody’s jealous,” Kristin says blithely, settling back in on the couch. Wilbur thinks he may not be breathing. Or he’s breathing too much. Definitely breathing too much. Why is he so light-headed?

“Hey. Hey,” Phil says, and Wilbur drags his eyes up to meet Phil’s, still breathing too quickly. Phil’s voice is soft. “Have we read this wrong?”

“How have you read it?” Wilbur asks, barely above a whisper. Phil takes a breath like he’s going to speak, but Kristin beats him to it.

“We…we want to kiss you some more—a lot more, actually—and if you’d like it, we want to have sex. With you. Tonight.” Even she’s blushing now—the three of them, sitting on this two-small couch with a movie in French in the background, blushing like idiots—and it almost makes Wilbur laugh before the meaning of what she just said hits him like a freight train.

“I—you—with me? But—“ he’s not making sense, he knows he’s not, but it’s just not computing. This isn’t how this works: he pines for them from afar like a tragic romance, they’re not supposed to want him back. But—

“Only if you want,” Phil says. He can’t quite meet Wilbur’s eyes: they keep darting between him, Kristin, the TV, and the floor. Kristin runs a soothing hand over the back of his neck, and something hard to name bubbles up in the pit of Wilbur’s stomach. He wants to touch Phil like that. He wants Kristin to touch him like that.

And it seems like, just maybe, they want to too.

It’s incredibly awkward to rearrange on the couch so he can push himself into Phil’s lap and kiss him senseless, but it’s worth it when he does. He’s way too tall for this—bent nearly in half, and Phil’s head is probably tilted at an uncomfortable angle—but the bad angle and the awkward rearranging and the minor panic are all worth it for this kiss. He can’t stop moving: first to kiss Phil, then to twist and lean over and kiss Kristin, back and forth and back and forth.

Phil’s hands are steady on his hips, sliding up his spine to push his shirt up his back, slide over his pecs, wrap around the back of his neck to pull Wilbur down further into their kiss, while Kristin’s are playful: pinching at his hips, hooking in his belt loops to nearly pull him off-balance, groping his ass to make him gasp into her mouth. Kristin’s kisses are wet, messy, a show for Phil next to them, while Phil’s are steady, slow, stoking the fire in Wilbur’s stomach bit by bit till he’s squirming in Phil’s lap, mind racing with desires and impossibilities that—as he’s recently learned—may not be so impossible after all.

“Can I suck you off?” he blurts out one of the times he and Phil break apart to catch their breath. Phil’s eyes widen in shock, and it’s Kristin who answers for him.

“Yes, fuck, I want to see that. Wanna get on your knees for us?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur sighs, already sliding to the floor in a mess of limbs to situate himself between Phil’s legs. He pulls his shirt off while he’s at it, tosses it next to him. Kristin follows suit, and for a long few moments Wilbur’s eyes bounce rapidly back and forth between Phil unbuckling his belt and shoving down his jeans, and Kristin’s tits. Wilbur plants his hand on Phil’s knee to lean up for one more kiss from Kristin, licks into her mouth and brings up his other hand to palm at her breast.

Kristin’s the one who breaks the kiss this time, gently shoving Wilbur back to the floor to bring his attention to Phil. Phil’s managed to kick off his jeans, but he’s left his boxers on: excellent.

Phil and Kristin have brought him into their home, presumably will be bringing him into their bed soon: time to show them he’s worth it.

Wilbur leans in to start pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses to Phil’s cock through the fabric of his boxers. He works up saliva in his mouth, gets everything nice and wet till the fabric thins and he could swear he can taste the musk of Phil’s cock through the fabric.

“Will,” Phil groans, breathy and low, and Wilbur pulls back to smirk up at him with his tongue lolling out and pressed to the head of Phil’s cock.

He hooks his fingers in Phil’s boxers next, waits for Phil to lift his hips so he can pull them down and see Phil’s cock: hard, pink and red, a little precum beading at the slit that Wilbur can’t help but lean in and lap up before taking Phil into his mouth properly.

He doesn’t tease Phil any more: takes him in till his gag reflex threatens to mutiny, pulls back to wrap a hand around the base and do it again. He’s got his other hand braced on Phil’s thigh, and he can feel Phil’s restraint: clenching and unclenching, resisting the urge to buck up into the heat of Wilbur’s mouth.

Well, that won’t do at all.

He pulls off with a filthy noise that makes Phil gasp. “Fuck my mouth,” he says, lowly, looking up at Phil through his eyelashes with tears beading in his eyes, lips swollen, face flushed. He knows how he looks, and he can only hope Phil will respond. “Phil, please.”

“You sure?” Phil asks, but he’s already adjusting, sitting further up on the couch to plant his feet on the floor, slipping one hand into Wilbur’s hair and tugging. Wilbur lets himself moan at the pull in his scalp, and hears Kristin hum.

“Go on, babe, he wants it.” Kristin’s running the fingers of one of her hands through Phil’s hair, circling one of her nipples with the other. Her pupils are blown, red high on her cheeks, and Wilbur relishes in the warm sensation that runs through him knowing that she’s getting off on him, on them, on Wilbur with her husband’s cock in his mouth.

“Yes, come on.” He opens his mouth again, lets his jaw hang loose and relaxed. Open. Ready.

Phil breathes in deeply through his nose and pulls Wilbur’s head to his cock. Wilbur goes willingly, letting Phil’s pretty cock slip between his lips again, further and further back and there.

Phil’s gentle at first, only barely prodding at his gag reflex before pulling Wilbur back again. Wilbur pulls out all the stops he can muster with the little control he has: swirls his tongue around Phil’s head when it’s just behind his lips, rubs firmly against the underside, lets his mouth go wet and loose till saliva is sliding down Phil’s cock to pool messily on his balls. If he strains his eyes, he can see Phil and Kristin kissing deeply above him, one of Kristin’s hands in Phil’s hair so she can tilt his head back and bite down his throat. Phil doesn’t get much rougher, but he does go faster till Wilbur’s nerves are singing from the dull pain in his scalp and he’s always on the verge of gagging, barely able to keep up with the motion of his tongue. A thumb—warm, Kristin’s not Phil’s—materializes just below the corner of his lip, thumbs at the wetness there.

“Wilbur, you gotta—Will, I’m gonna come if we don’t stop.”

And then warm hands are guiding him off Phil’s cock, and Phil lets go of his hair, and Wilbur blinks tears out of his eyes and whines just to hear Kristin and Phil laugh.

“He can’t fuck you if you make him come now, Will,” Kristin points out, and okay, consider his attention piqued. He turns to Phil, flushed and breathing hard, collapsed against the back of the couch.

“Will you?” he asks.

Phil’s smile is thrilling. “Think I can make that happen, mate.”

-

In the bedroom, Phil’s hands—such good hands—turn Wilbur gently by the hips till he’s facing Phil, push him backwards till the edge of the mattress presses into Wilbur’s thighs, and pull him in for a filthy kiss.

There’s so much more skin to explore now that Phil’s taken off his shirt, so much for Wilbur to run his hands across and press into with his fingers and pinch and pull away from Phil’s lips to press his mouth against, licking and sucking and biting frantically till Phil laughs at him and pulls him back to kiss some more.

Wilbur presses further into the kiss, and further, and takes more, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s bending Phil backwards till Phil makes a surprised noise into his mouth and takes half a step to catch himself.

“Too fuckin’ tall,” Phil grumbles when they break apart, but there’s a smile in his eyes and on his lips. Wilbur leans in again, but Phil plants one hand in the center of his chest to keep him back, trailing the other down to the button of his jeans.

Kristin’s made her way to the bed, sitting beside and slightly behind Wilbur, and he cranes his neck to kiss her while Phil opens Wilbur’s fly and yanks his trousers down his thighs. Kristin kisses Wilbur with a hand around the back of his neck to keep him in place. Her nails press half-moons into his skin, and the back of Phil’s hand brushes against the front of Wilbur’s briefs as he works Wilbur’s trousers off, and the dual sensations, ghosts of pleasure and pain, have him gasping into Kristin’s mouth and reaching out to touch more.

Kristin makes a little surprised noise when Wilbur skirts one of his hands up her side and slides it around to her breasts, and he chases it, stroking gently at her nipple through the fabric of her bra before reaching around to undo it.

“One-handed, wow,” Kristin laughs as she slips out of the bra and tosses it to the side. Wilbur kicks his jeans and underwear off of his ankles, and grins at Kristin before shuffling down to get eye-level with her chest.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, and throws in a wink to make Kristin laugh again before he takes one of her tits into his mouth and sucks.

She sighs, moans quietly when he nibbles gently at her nipple and brings up the hand he’s not using to hold himself up to massage her other breast, and Wilbur drinks in every sound she makes.

“Fucking—ahh, Wilbur, that’s good,” she pants, scratching her fingernails through his hair. “Babe, could you get the—“ and she must gesture towards…something, because Wilbur hears an on it from Phil and a drawer opening.

By the time Phil gets back to the bed and runs a hand down Wilbur’s flank, Kristin’s pulled Wilbur down to the mattress on top of her and brought him back up to her mouth. He keeps getting distracted: breaking their kisses to nip down her neck, suck a mark into her shoulder, shift to the side and ghost fingers and lips down her abdomen before coming back to her mouth. Wilbur realizes maybe a little too late that they’re both naked, but when he tries to shift over to move his cock away from her center, she pulls him back with a whispered don’t worry, we’re good and presses her hands into his hips, encourages him to grind into the crease of her hip and moan into her mouth. She smells amazing, something citrusy that’s probably shampoo or deodorant with real, musky, Kristin scent underneath.

With the hand not stroking Will’s side, Phil brandishes lube and a condom: he tosses the bottle to Wilbur’s side and holds out the foil packet with a question on his face.

Wilbur considers: most of him wants to be filled up properly, is thrilled by the idea of being marked with Phil’s come, having it leak out of him after. It’s much louder than the voice gently reminding him how much of a pain it’ll be to clean himself afterward.

Fuck it.

He shakes his head. “Rather not, if it’s safe? I want to feel you.”

Phil flushes and sucks a breath in through his teeth at that, tightening his grip on Wilbur’s side. “Can’t say shit like that, mate.”

“Does he call you ‘mate’ during sex?” Wilbur asks Kristin, and she laughs before pulling him in for another kiss.

Phil opens him up carefully but quickly, with plenty of lube and practiced motions: part of Wilbur makes a note to ask him some probing questions about his sex life later. He seems to purposefully be avoiding Wilbur’s prostate, and just laughs at him when Wilbur tries to shift his hips to get the right angle. Eventually, Kristin is directed to keep Wilbur’s hips pinned between her knees while they kiss, and it’s all a bit of a blur from there until Kristin has slid out from under him and Wilbur’s been pulled up to his knees with the tip of Phil’s cock grazing his hole and one of Kristin’s warm hands stroking him slowly.

“Okay, mate?” Phil asks, barely above a whisper and strung tight as a bow.

“Please,” Wilbur begs, and Phil grabs one of Wilbur’s hips in a vice grip, holds his other hand steady where his cockhead presses against Wilbur’s hole, and pushes.

Wilbur groans as Phil presses in, a low and guttural and entirely un-sexy noise, burying his face in the bedsheets to try to muffle it. It’s been awhile, and pain flickers at the edges of his consciousness, but it’s just a counterpoint to the warm, expanding pleasure emanating from Kristin’s hand on him and Phil’s cock inside him. The slide in feels like it lasts a lifetime, and Phil swears quietly but fervently as his hips touch Wilbur’s ass.

It feels like Phil’s been balls-deep for barely a second—hell, he hasn’t even started moving yet, holding tight to Wilbur’s hips and breathing deeply through his nose, which is very flattering even though Wilbur’s not much better off—but Kristin’s letting go of Wilbur’s cock and moving around on the bed while Wilbur’s still shivering, mouth agape with the much-ness of Phil’s cock, Phil’s cock, what the fuck is happening, inside him. She slides herself in between Wilbur and the headboard, leans back against the pillows, spreads her legs, and oh. Oh. Wilbur glances up at her, lets his jaw fall open and tongue poke out a little, and when Kristin nods he leans in to press a kiss to her cunt.

She tastes amazing, sharp and musky, the same scent Wilbur had caught with his head between her breasts but stronger, and his breath leaves him in a shuddery moan that washes across Kristin’s pussy and makes her squirm. He starts out gentle, hesitant: broad but light swipes with his tongue from her cunt to the tip of her clit, a dip down to press his tongue inside her, a careful latch of his lips to her clit so he can gently suck, cataloguing everything that makes her sigh, or moan, or clench her hand the slightest bit in Wilbur’s hair.

Phil’s grinding inside him, barely even thrusting, just keeping Wilbur stretched and full and open around his cock. It’s just enough, and Wilbur may be predisposed to thinking that Phil has the perfect amount of any given quality, but it’s—god, his cock is perfect. He lets his eyes slip shut, pinned between them.

“Fuck, Wilbur, that’s good, that’s amazing. God, can we keep him?” The last bit, breathed sotto voce to Phil like they’re pretending Wilbur can’t hear, makes his heart thrill. God, would they?

“Dunno if he’s earned it yet,” says Phil, light and teasing as his wife. He lets go of Wilbur’s left hip, drags two fingers from the nape of his neck down his spine to where they’re joined before sliding over to grope Wilbur’s ass. “Wanna show us how good you can be?”

“Yes.” Wilbur has to tear himself away from Kristin to respond. It was probably rhetorical, he probably should have just kept going, but he needs them to know, needs to show them how much he wants to please them.

He’s looking at Kristin, can’t see Phil behind him, but it’s Phil who grabs him by the back of the neck and shoves his face back down towards Kristin, who tells him well, get to it then with just enough condescension in his voice to make something sharp and beautiful twist in Wilbur’s gut. Wilbur nearly headbutts Kristin’s pelvis, but recovers quickly: catches his weight on his elbows and shoves his tongue back inside her.

“Sorry,” Phil laughs ruefully on the edge of his awareness.

“Don’t be,” Kristin says, running fingers through Wilbur’s hair. “He liked it.”

Time turns sticky and syrupy as he licks Kristin out, learns that she likes hard circles on the sides of her clit and quick thrusts of his tongue inside. Phil’s still moving maddeningly slowly inside him—enjoying the show, Wilbur hopes—and Wilbur’s not soft, not totally, but nobody’s been paying attention to his cock for a while and Phil’s gentle thrusts haven’t managed to do more than graze his prostate yet, so an apology half-forms on his lips when Phil’s right hand leaves Wilbur’s hip and slides around. He’s about to pull away from Kristin, turn around and reassure Phil that it’s okay, don’t worry, he’s fine, but his lips and the barest hint of his teeth graze against the hood of Kristin’s clit when he shifts and he hears her honest-to-god squeak. Her hand tightens in his hair and her warm, soft thighs clap down on either side of his head at the same moment that Phil’s fumbling hand wraps around his dick, and he can’t hear anything and he can’t move, just for a second, and. Well. Apology somewhat moot, now.

“Sorry,” Kristin says sheepishly after she’s spread her legs again, slightly offset by the way her hand tightens in his hair and pulls him not-so-gently back towards her.

“Don’t be,” he manages. Phil’s hand is a little too dry, but Phil probably knows that, that’s why he’s being so careful, moving slow, just twisting his hand a little bit whenever he gets to the tip. It occurs to him that this is probably how Phil touches himself, lying in bed or braced against the shower wall, and he has to make a concerted effort not to choke on his tongue “I li—um.”

Is he even allowed to say that? They’re giving him so much already, pulled him into their home and their bed and put him between them, can he really justify asking for more?

“Wanna finish that thought?” Kristin’s voice startles him into looking up, into meeting her eyes again. “You…”

He tries to deflect, tears his eyes away and leans back in and swipes his tongue up her slit to try and get her hand to tighten in his hair again, and it works, but instead of pulling him deeper into her she’s tugging him away, bringing her other hand under his chin and forcing him to look at her.

“Phil, stop.”

“What?” Phil sounds alarmed.

“Wilbur’s got something he’s trying to say, and you’re distracting him. Right, baby?”

“Oh, that’s not fair at all,” he complains, shoving away the way that that baby sent an electric shock down his spine, and Kristin laughs.

“You wanna tell me what you were gonna say before you got—“ and he sees her flick her eyes up towards Phil, and wishes he could see Phil’s face too “—distracted?”

Phil scoffs quietly behind him. Wilbur closes his eyes. Maybe he can have this.

“I liked it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “When you—“ and he tightens his grip on her thighs, pushes them gently till they bracket his ears again and the world goes quiet. “You can do it more,” he adds, and he sounds stupid, he knows he sounds stupid, but Kristin just smiles down at him like she didn’t already know what he was going to say.

“And—“ he lifts his head out of Kristin’s hands to turn his head towards Phil, and she lets him go easily “—you can go faster. If you want.” Phil is flushed and sweaty, thumbs rubbing little circles into Wilbur’s hips, and he grins when Wilbur looks at him.

“Not going slow for you, mate,” he laughs, and. Oh. That’s…interesting. Wilbur’s cock, in particular, is more excited about that than it probably should be, so he just laughs lightly and turns back towards Kristin.

“Can I move now?” Phil asks, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“If you think you can handle it.” Kristin’s not even talking to Wilbur, but the sweet dirty sting of humiliation runs down his spine to his cock anyway, and Phil starts rocking in and out of him again at the same time, and Kristin grabs his face and makes him look at her again.

“Okay, how about this? He’ll go faster,“ she quirks her head in Phil’s direction, “after you make me come. Yeah?”

Yeah. Yeah, that’ll work, or something, Jesus fucking Christ.

And when he leans back down to start licking at Kristin again, he shifts, or Phil shifts, or something shifts, and on Phil’s next thrust a little bolt of lightning shocks up Wilbur’s spine.

He muffles his moan into Kristin’s cunt, and she pulls on his hair and traps him in between her thighs again, and Phil holds him in place and nails his prostate again and again and again, so much but not enough, too slow, and he has barely enough presence of mind to gasp out faster when he pulls away from Kristin for a breath.

“You know what you need to do to get it faster, mate.” Phil’s right, he does, he does, he just needs to be good for them and make Kristin feel good and they’ll take care of him. He gets messier with it, pressing the flat of his tongue against Kristin’s clit and letting her grind against it, fuck his face, fill him up at both ends till he melts in between.

She’s loud, though he can’t often hear it with his ears covered: a constant stream of drawn-out moans and high-pitched squeaks and breathy babble he half catches as he sinks deeper into the sensation.

“God, yes, Wilbur, so good, baby, so good with your mouth, so pretty, fuck!—“

“Put your fingers inside her, Will,” Phil gasps from behind him, and he’s being good, he’s being good for D—for Phil and Kristin so they’ll take care of him, so he slides two of his fingers through the mess of slick between Kristin’s legs and slides them inside. He doesn’t bother teasing, just crooks them up inside fast and hard, dragging them inside her till he hears her collapse back against the pillows and her hands, both of them now, drag his face across her.

She must be close. Phil’s stopped touching his cock, which his hindbrain is screaming about but is rapidly becoming an utmost necessity, and Kristin is getting herself off against his face and fingers, and Phil is breathing hard behind him. They’re all on the verge of falling apart: it’s just a matter of who slips first.

Kristin, as it turns out—he pulls back just a little, flicks his tongue as fast as he can against her clit, in sloppy rhythm with his fingers, and she gasps “just like that, baby, just like that, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop” so he doesn’t, and her legs close around his head one last time as she shouts to the ceiling, and Wilbur desperately hopes their neighbors aren’t too close while Kristin rides out her aftershocks on Wilbur’s tongue.

His neck is cramping, so it’s a relief when Kristin pulls him gently away from her and he can burrow his face into the sheets for just a second, go boneless along with her as Phil stops thrusting and leans down, wraps his arms around Wilbur and breathes hot between his shoulder blades, and then one of Phil’s knees slides forward to brace himself as he tightens his arms around Wilbur and yanks him up to his knees. Wilbur has to throw out a hand, catch and brace himself on the wall to keep from falling onto Kristin before he reaches back with the other to spread himself back open and get Phil deeper.

“So fucking good,” Phil pants into Wilbur’s shoulder, thrusting back inside him, his arms still a vice around Wilbur’s chest. “Holding yourself open for me. So hot, Will, baby, so good for us, so pretty when you make her come, fuuuuck. Gonna take care of you, baby, gonna make you feel good. Is that what you want?”

Baby, in Phil’s wrecked, husky voice, is a revelation, and Wilbur can only sob into his arm and nod as much as he can manage. Phil’s going faster, he is, just like he said he would, and he’s still nailing Wilbur’s prostate with most of his thrusts and it’s so fucking good, but like this he doesn’t have a hand free to slip down Wilbur’s body and wrap around his aching cock.

Wilbur can’t come like this, he can’t, there’s no way, but it’s feeling more and more like a possibility if he can just…keep going for long enough. But Phil’s breathing hard against his neck, and clutching on to Wilbur like a lifeline, and oh, god, no, he’s going to—

“Phil, I can’t—“

“Shhh.” Kristin’s kneeling in front of him, working one hand back up into his hair and twisting her other wrist awkwardly to wrap slick fingers around his cock, and it’s so strange that it seems familiar, he can’t place it, but then she twists her hand when she reaches the tip and oh, fuck, this is how she touches Phil, this is how he taught her to touch him, and he’s about to shake himself apart at the seams if he can’t—

“There you go, yeah.” Kristin’s voice is so soft, and she presses gentle kisses up his neck as she speaks. “There you go, baby, let it out.” He can’t hide his shudder at the word this time. “You like that? Thought you would.” She’s smiling, he can hear it. “You wanna be our baby? Wanna be so good for us?”

He can’t find the words, they’re off in some faraway place outside this bedroom and Phil’s hands on his hips and Kristin’s lips on his neck, so he just nods, nods as quickly as he dares and Kristin just laughs quietly and jerks him faster.

“Yeah, you’re good. Isn’t he good?”

“So good,” Phil gasps, “feel so good, Wilbur, fuck, you gotta come, I need—“

“D—“ No. “Phil. Phil, Phil, Kristin, please—“

“Yeah, baby, it’s okay, you’re okay. You wanna come for us?”

He does, he does, he wants it so badly, wants it almost as much as he wants it to never end. Kristin tightens her hand around his cock, and her other slides up to cup his throat, and she leans in, lips kissing his ear, and whispers too quiet even for Phil to hear.

“Gonna come for your daddy?”

And Wilbur falls.

It hits him like a freight train, like a supernova, a hot shock of shame and mind-numbing pleasure caught between the two of them with flames licking at every cell of his body. He…screams? Whimpers? Cries his orgasm to the heavens, somehow, spilling warm and white over Kristin’s hand.

Phil pulls him even closer, somehow, once the aftershocks are beginning to shift into discomfort, and stills all at once, the only signs of his climax the warmth spreading inside Wilbur, a long, low, exhale, and the gentle kiss he presses to the nape of Wilbur’s neck once he’s through it. Phil’s breath shakes. So does Wilbur’s.

Wilbur’s too drained to do more than wince when Phil pulls out of him, collapsing down to the mattress with Phil and Kristin on either side of him. He rolls towards Kristin, scoots down the mattress and pulls up his knees so he can nestle his head underneath her chin. His face is like, right in her tits. Whatever.

Phil can’t seem to stop touching him, warm hands sweeping up and down his back, his legs, cupping his ankle again before gingerly, hesitantly moving to his ass. Wilbur can feel Phil’s cum dripping down towards his balls, and waits with bated breath for Phil to gently spread him open with a thumb and finger.

“Fuck,” Phil breathes. His thumb glides up Wilbur’s taint, presses against his hole. Wilbur pushes into it as much as he can, but he feels like a puppet with its strings cut.

“F’you keep doing that, m’gonna get hard again,” he mumbles into Kristin’s chest. Phil chuckles behind him.

“Not really discouraging me, mate.” Kristin must shoot Phil a look over his head, cause Phil laughs with her and then sighs.

“Yeah, okay, right. Bad idea.” Phil lies back down, plasters himself against Wilbur’s back. He tosses one arm over Wilbur’s ribs and fumbles to hold Kristin’s hand where it’s shoved against her chest, shoves a leg between Wilbur’s, presses a kiss to his shoulder. The three of them fit like puzzle pieces. Wilbur tries not to think too hard about how natural it feels to be between them.

“What does this mean?” he can’t help but ask. “What are we going to do?”

Phil just groans from behind him, and Kristin laughs and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Go to sleep, baby,” she says. “We’ll talk in the morning.”