Real Person Fic - Football: Go for Three
Title: Go for Three
Fandom: Real Person Fic - Football
Characters/Pairings: Tim Tebow/Riley Cooper/John Brantley (oh, yeah, I went there)
Genre: Humor? Threesome Happy Goodtimes? Healing, in weird ways that only my twisted brain would ever think of? Okay, you caught me. It’s mostly porn.
Rating: NC-17 for Explicit Sexual Content and Language (I am so, so sorry Tim.)
Word Count: 4,862
Author’s Note: Written for my beloved wutendeskind both as a birthday present and for her sweet donation to my AIDS walk fundraiser. She hinted that she wanted something with Tebow, and I can read her mind, so I knew this meant: “Pllleeeaasseeee write me the threesome, plleeeaassseee.” And here it is! Oh, my Livia, I hope this is at least mildly what you wanted. I’m sorry we couldn’t be together for your big birthday, but I hope it was amazing, anyway. I would say I’m sorry this is a little late, but I’m not :D I do, however, apologize for the filthy lies I write in this about the Philadelphia Eagles. I had to. It just felt in character. And fuck yeah, I brought back the stupid sparkly Gator dividers. IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT, YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T EVEN GO HERE. :D I beta’d this myself, please still respect me in the morning ♥. And, uh, yes, I got kinky with penalties. DON’T JUDGE.
Summary: Two NFL stars and one wayward Gator go fishing. This is their story.
It was Tim’s bad idea. Had it been anyone else’s bad idea (Riley’s, for example, as most bad ideas are), John would have called him out on it. But John kind of really wants a chance to say he made poor life decisions because of Tim Tebow. Even if the guy is a year late on acting like a dumbass college jock, John thinks it should still count for something.
So he says, yeah, alright when he really should say, I’ll pass, but you guys have fun.
Tim bitches about it over the phone for a month. It’s unexpected when you consider that Tim’s a big guy with a pretty good outlook on life, but he’s remarkably good at bitching, and he never forgets any.damn.thing. He can recite every mistake he made from any of his games at Florida off the top of his head, he knows what days which players had to miss every practice for four years, and, apparently, he does not let go of it when he gets left out of things.
They weren’t trying to exclude him. Tim just never seemed like the fishing type. Riley’s the fishing type. Or, well, Riley’s the fishin’ type, John thinks. He likes teasing him about his Cooperisms, about the fact that the letter g either never existed for him, or he puked out the part of his brain that knew how to pronounce it freshman year and never looked back.
That’s exactly the reason Riley is the obvious guy to go to when looking for a fishing buddy. He’s rough, not afraid to get down and dirty and, well, kind of an asshole, but in a way that only genuinely frustrates John when he’s not enjoying it. It’s about 50-50. Still-he’s the friend you take out to kill random shit and get drunk with.
Tim, though…John laughs picturing it: all the time he spent whining that they didn’t invite him on their fishing trip, then one of them catches something and he realizes they killed one of God’s creatures. John just hopes there won’t be cameras around to catch it when he starts crying.
Except for the one he’s packing.
Note to self, John thinks. Never do anything competitive with Tim Tebow. Just don’t do it. It never goes the way it’s supposed to.
Tim has never been fishing before. John’s been fishing all his life. John is a good fisherman, okay? His grandpa always said so, and that man did not hand out praise.
Riley used to say so, too, and Riley isn’t so bad at fishing himself. But now Riley’s too distracted to praise John.
Tim was supposed to suck at this, like any beginner would. Maybe fall in a few times, or snap his lines, or drop bait into the water, wasting the money they spent on it and filling up the fish he should potentially be catching.
“That’s that biggest damn fish I’ve ever seen from this pond,” Riley says, head tilted to one side. “How’d you hook that sucker?”
It’s the biggest one John’s seen, too, but he’s damn well not going to say so. John’s pretty sure fish this big don’t exist around here. He thinks maybe Tim cheated-went out and bought mini-whales and dropped them into the pond just so he could catch them. Or maybe he stayed up all night praying. John is pretty sure the Powers That Be pull all kinds of shady strings for the guy.
“I dunno,” Tim replies with a shrug. “Just kinda dropped my hook in like JB told me to, and I felt the tug right away.”
Or maybe even the goddamn fish flock to a chance to be beaten by the great Tim Tebow.
“Hell, Timmy, you’re a natural,” Riley drawls.
Of course he is.
“I feel kinda bad for the little guy,” Tim says, frowning slightly.
Of course he does.
“You’ll feel less sorry when I’ve cooked him.” Riley grins, taking a pull from his beer.
“Didn’t that ranger say ‘no alcohol on the lake’?” Tim asks.
“I’m excepted from the rule. Honest.” Riley kicks John’s leg, rocking the boat, but not seeming to care that it sets both of the men sitting opposite him on edge. “Right, Brantley?”
John smirks and gives Tim a sidelong glance. “At least he’s started leaving the pot behind.”
Tim laughs. “That sounds about right,” he says.
John leans back in his folding chair, smiling contentedly. He kicks his legs out, feet resting by the fire-his fire, which he built on his own and which is doing a fantastic job of warming everyone, thank you very much-and does his best not to glare at the tent. John hates building tents. He sucks at building tents and will happily admit as much. He lets Riley worry about it most of the time, but today it got done half as quickly, because Tim was helping.
Tim’s never put together a tent before. It just comes easily to him. Tim pretty much exists to be better than John, even when it comes to things he was once good at.
John used to be good at football.
“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout, Brantley?”
He shakes his head and looks at Riley. “Huh?”
“You looked distracted.”
John shrugs, eyes darting down to his drink.
“This how you plan to spend the off-season, JB? Kicking back in the middle of nowhere?”
John looks at Tim and laughs a little. He’s about a third into his first beer in the time it’s taken John to drink two-Riley’s got an empty case next to him, and a look on his face like he has no idea where the hell his alcohol went. If anyone should be asking stupid questions, it’s Riley.
“I don’t have an off-season,” John reminds him.
“Right, me neither,” Tim says, nodding along. “Always on your toes, that’s the Gator in you talking.”
“No, I mean, I still have classes next semester.”
Riley snorts, giving John an indulgent pat on the thigh, like going to class is the best joke he’s heard in a long time. John doesn’t like to think about what it means that Riley got through college as a solid-B student.
“How’re you gonna spend it?” he asks Tim in return.
“Doin’ drugs and getting’ drunk,” Riley answers, before Tim gets a chance. “You know how Timmy is. Me, on the other hand, I’mma spend it on some serious football. I don’t laze around like you QB princesses.”
Tim punches his arm, and Riley punches right back.
“I’m excited for the Superbowl,” John says, because it feels like the right thing to say. Riley’s got a better chance of getting there right now than he ever will-the guy deserves a few ego strokes.
“Aaron and his New England boys are gonna take it this time, you know,” Tim says, smiling around his beer as he brings it to his lips. “Proud of him.”
“Hey, fuck you, asshole! My team is still in the running.”
Tim cracks a huge smile, obviously having succeeded in pissing his friend off, and John decides to go with it, “Yeah, but, I mean, really. Everyone knows your team is bust.”
Tim laughs, then shakes his head when Riley’s still scowling at the end of it. “Naw, Johnny, the Eagles are the second-best team in the NFL.” He winks at John conspiratorially and then continues, “Just don’t get used to it, Coop. Next year, the Broncos’ll be there. Can’t win then.”
Riley doesn’t say anything to encourage Tim, but he doesn’t look very contrary, either. Which is pretty unusual in and of itself, even before you consider that Riley Cooper just let a blow to his dignity roll off him like water.
They’re weird guys, Riley and Tim. Not so much separately, but they always made so much sense on the field that John never took the time to sit back and wonder at it. It’s like watching the playground bully skipping hand-in-hand with the hall monitor.
“Well, if anyone can save that sorry excuse for a team, it’s you,” Riley finally admits. It could be a nice moment, but he lets out a hearty burp immediately after, then smiles. “Oh, there’s where my beer went!”
Tim shakes his head. “What are we going to do with number eleven, JB?”
“It’s fourteen, now,” Riley reminds him.
Tim actually looks annoyed when he replies. “It’ll always be eleven to me.”
Riley laughs. “Yeah, and you’ll always be fifteen to-everyone.”
Tim smiles like it’s a joke, but there’s almost something else; John’s not drunk at all and really doesn’t like that he can’t follow the conversation despite that. Tim tries to put a big hand in Riley’s hair to ruffle it, and Riley swats him away.
“Fuck off, dude.”
“When the hell are you going to get a haircut, anyway, Cooper? You look like a girl.”
“When the hell are you going to get a girlfriend, Brantley? You look like a virgin.”
Tim coughs uncomfortably, which only makes Riley laugh hysterically.
“I got lots of good reasons for not cuttin’ it,” Riley assures them.
He says it all the time, but the only reason he’s ever been able to list when people ask is, “Reasons.” John’s pretty much given up on understanding him entirely.
They sit in companionable silence, nothing but the crackling of the fire and the sound of someone taking a sip to interrupt the steady soundlessness of nature. Until, about twenty minutes pass.
Tim interrupts the calm. “Guys, I’m bored. Let’s throw a ball around or something.”
Riley turns his head towards Tim, opening one eye grudgingly. “Maybe in a bit, man. Don’t you know how to relax?”
“Sure,” Tim answers. “Of course I do.”
Another ten minutes pass. The easy silence is broken, constantly interrupted by the man sitting between John and Riley trying to rock in his folding chair. John isn’t looking, but he can picture Tim’s thumbs twiddling, hears the light popping of his mouth as he tries to amuse himself.
“It’s too wet out here.”
“You’ve played in the rain, gotten drenched in mud, and loved it,” Riley points out.
“Yeah, but there was a point. It’s not the mud that bothers me, it’s the sitting in the mud doing nothing.”
“Just close your eyes,” John says. “And enjoy the outdoors.”
“I don’t think I like the outdoors.”
“You liked it just fine earlier.”
“We were fishing. We were doing something. Riley, I’m bored.”
Riley groans, eyes closed, head resting too far back on his chair. “I told you ya wouldn’t like this.” He sits up slightly and glares. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Well, I thought good company might make it better.”
“There’s a compliment if I’ve ever heard one,” John says through a laugh.
“Can we play ball now? I’ll let you QB, Johnny.”
“Yeah, Johnny. Go play some catch.”
John snorts. “He’s your dog, man.”
“Hey! I am a very busy and important, well-respected, professional Quarterback for the-”
Tim is interrupted by loud, fake snores from where Riley’s sitting. He smiles so wide it has to hurt, picks the ball up, and throws it at his friend while he’s still not looking.
Riley topples backwards on his chair-which’ll teach him to lean back on something that was built for beach days and picnics-and goes tumbling head over feet.
“Dick!” he says, brushing dirt and leaves off.
“Your hair fell in slow motion, I swear to god,” John manages through his laughter.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Tim replies, more out of habit than because he actually expects it to help.
“Swear to the Budweiser, lightweight,” Riley responds, sticking his tongue out. Then he turns to Tim. “I think you broke my chair!”
“I’ll buy you a new one the next time we’re somewhere civilized.” Tim frowns. “Are we all really going to sleep in that little tent?”
“Yup,” Riley and John answer in unison.
“What if there are bears?”
“We’ve camped here a million times,” John responds at the same time Riley throws out, “There are no bears, you moron.”
“There could be.”
“Then we’ll fight them! Like men. On a camping trip.”
Tim’s quiet for a few seconds, then makes a whiny noise. “But look how small that thing is. Really, all three of us?”
“Yes, your highness, unless you feel like dropping several hundred bucks on a room at the nearest hotel.”
“This was your idea,” Riley says sourly, lugging his bag out of the trunk of his over-packed Jeep.
“I didn’t think he’d take me seriously,” John answers.
“Rookie mistake, Brantley. That’s exactly why he did.”
“Yeah, well,” he replies brilliantly.
“Stop whining, you two. I’m treating you to a luxurious night, you can at least look a little grateful.”
“This isn’t fishing.”
“Naw, twelve. But as you’ve told me several times tonight, we can’t fish this late.”
“But the experience,” John tries. “This was your idea, anyway.”
Tim tsks and shakes his head. “I didn’t ask to go camping-just fishing.”
“Look at that, suddenly there’s something clever in that peanut jar he calls a brain,” Riley says, fondly grabbing hold of his friend’s head and shaking it.
They drop their things by the door and whistle appreciatively when they get to the room.
“Maybe this isn’t so bad,” Riley says, plopping down on one bed and grabbing the television remote.
“Dibbs on the unshared bed,” John tries.
He expects them both to challenge him on it and will probably go ahead and give it to Tim since he’s paying, but no one argues. It’s odd, but John shrugs it off, figuring Tim and Riley roomed together and traveled on so many away games that they’re probably not strangers to sharing a bed.
The three of them sit at the ends of their beds watching some dumbass late night TV, John laughs as Riley keeps up a crude commentary, perverting even the most innocent of programs, and poor Tim strains to hear what the people are actually saying.
After a while, John turns during a commercial break and can’t help asking, “Are you guys disappointed in me?”
Riley snorts, but Tim snatches the remote and powers off the set. “What was that, JB?”
“Just, look, I know we’re all buddies and that matters more than winning games or whatever. I know you still like me, or I wouldn’t be here right now. But…it’s not like I won’t understand. I know what this season looked like. Urban left and you guys were always so damn supportive and told me I was gonna be great and, I’m sorry. I sunk your team.”
Riley throws something at his head-John can’t decide if it’s a mercy because it’s soft or a punishment because it smells like feet. Probably picked his dirty socks up off the floor and tossed them. Class act, that Riley Cooper.
“That’s the problem with you QBs,” he says. “Ya’ll get it in your heads that you’re the whole damn team.”
“Alright, so maybe I did not single-handedly sink the team, but I was a big part of-”
“You just haven’t found your place yet, Johnny Brantley,” Tim says warmly. “You’ll get there, the whole team will. Maybe not immediately, maybe you’ll have to go somewhere else to fit what the coaches’re looking for, but you’ll be great, and the Gators are always great.”
There’s the problem with Tim Tebow, John thinks. He cursed the QB position at UF-no one in John’s place would be able to live up to him, no one trying to deal with that pressure would be better than mediocre.
John’s a washout at 21, and it’s Tim’s fault, and everything would be so much easier if Tim would make himself a little easier to hate. John wants someone, other than himself, to blame. Tim would be an easy target. But John can’t convince himself he doesn’t like him, admires the guy as much as anyone.
“Hold that thought, let me get some tissues. You know how your losing-at-halftime speeches get me,” Riley snarks, jolting John out of his admittedly pathetic thought-process.
Tim growls and before John has any idea what he’s doing, he’s pressing Riley into the bed, kissing him hard. Riley shoves him away hard, his eyes dart to John for a quick second before he licks his lips. “Not in front of the kid, man.”
John opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, knowing it’ll be helpless. He’s wasted his breath reminding Riley that he’s only a year younger enough times to know Riley’s just trying to get a rise out of him. Riley’s lips curl up into a cocky expression despite his silence, as if he heard John’s thought process and knows he still won. Damn them both, he decides.
“Come here, Brantley,” Tim says, sitting up and jerking his head.
John stands and approaches the bed out of pure confusion, which only gets worse when Tim draws him closer for a kiss. John returns it, feeling like there’s a chance he’ll get something great out of it.
Tim smiles when he pulls away, looking suspiciously wicked. It’s not a Tim John’s ever seen or thought could exist, and something tells him he’s in trouble. This was a worse life decision than he thought, because here he is, in some expensive hotel in the middle of nowhere, being corrupted by a guy who is the poster child for good, religious boys everywhere. And maybe it wasn’t bears that made Tim want to pack them all into the car at two in the morning and get a king suite, after all.
“The kid doesn’t mind,” he says, voice a little deeper. “Do ya?”
John’s fingers are pressed to his lips as he shakes his head.
“Didn’t think so.” His smile widens then and he turns back to Riley, who draws him in for another kiss.
For a second, John thinks it looks-but he blinks and it’s gone. He must have imagined it. Riley Cooper doesn’t look at anyone like that, doesn’t love anything but winning games, partying, running his mouth until it gets him in trouble. The way he’s holding on-that’s just how he’s built. Wide Receiver-the guy has nice hands. They’re naturally shaped like they’re cradling, long fingers made to seem soft and-no, that look on his face when Tim breaks the contact. That means something John didn’t think Riley could ever understand.
Everything he knew about his friends is sitting on its head, calmly glaring at him from the middle of the room in a way that seems to say, “What are you staring at? Is this really such a surprise?”
It is but it isn’t. Maybe John knew all along, maybe John was drawn to it. But not right now. Right now, he wants to run. Right now, he wants to wake up. It’s scary and it’s wrong and it’s everything he ever wanted, all the things he buried down, because football was more important-and you can’t have both. No matter what, you can’t have both.
But Tim and Riley, they have everything John is aiming for, and here they are, sharing the things he was ready to give up on as if it’s easy to have both.
Tim rolls off Riley then, gets to his feet, and takes John by the shoulders, turning him towards-his friend? His ex-teammate? His boyfriend? John is seriously confused right now. He gives John a light push forward, encouraging him to take his place in bed. John wants to want to say no, but he doesn’t, and he can’t.
He leans in and kisses Riley tentatively, pulling away quickly, about to ask if it’s okay with him. Tim pushes him back down and brings his lips to the shell of John’s ear. “I’m gonna teach you about being a Quarterback, JB. All right?”
There’s no trace left of the big goofball he’s been hanging out with for the last few hours, all good humor, good manners, and infinite patience-putting up with his blasphemy and Riley’s everything, and not judging, but certainly not corrupting himself by partaking.
This is the Tim the Team Captain, someone John used to be familiar with, the Tim who only exists during games-and apparently sex-who doesn’t take shit from anyone, who’s nothing but pure energy and determination. He’s exactly what John wants to be on the field and isn’t, so he takes a shaky breath and nods, face still caught between Riley’s hands.
Tim grabs him places his hand on Riley’s hip, repeating the action with the other. “There’s nothing wrong with your arm, you know that. You can throw the damn ball just fine. Your problem is attitude, man. You’re not playing like a leader. You’ll never be a decent QB if you can’t do that.”
Riley laughs at him, but John feel the other man’s dick getting hard against his thigh when Tim gives him a challenging look.
“You gotta find your players, Johnny, and you gotta make damn sure they’ll play the way you expect them to. Don’t let them get the upper-hand. Ever.”
John swallows hard, looks down at the man under him. Riley is looking at him defiantly, a little like he’s a joke, a little like he’s a threat, and a little like something John doesn’t have a word for.
“You can practice on mine,” Tim says hotly, stepping back to get a better view of him and Riley.
John has no idea what to do. Riley’s eyes dart to Tim-still taking instructions from Tim. If this is a test, John’s definitely failing it.
“False start,” Tim says, imitating a referee’s rolling motions with his hands.
Riley smirks and flips John onto his back. John struggles to regain control, but Riley keeps him pinned down, grinding and making it impossible to think of a way out.
“Play dirty,” Tim says. “Aren’t gonna win anything if you’re scared to start a fight.”
John grabs on to the first thing he sees, which are the long strands of hair dangling in his face. He gets a handful and tugs, and to his surprised, Riley moans loudly, collapsing exactly the way John’s leading him.
Oh, he thinks. That’s why he doesn’t cut it.
John pushes Riley onto his back and looks over to Tim for approval. Tim looks amused, eyes dark as he shakes his head. John turns his attention back to Riley in time to catch his attempt to flip him again and turns Riley over on his back. Riley makes an incoherent noise of approval, even as he continues to try and fight it.
“You know what to do now?” Tim asks, tossing a bottle of lube and a condom from his bag on to the bed. John feels like he should be asking Tim-Tim waiting-‘til-marriage Tebow-the same question.
Tim just laughs like he knows what he’s thinking and doesn’t have any reservations about what he’s doing or done.
John nods and picks the condom up, reaching around and forcing his hand between Riley and the mattress to get his jeans open. As soon as he downs the zipper, he pushes Riley’s pants away and shoves his hips back down, hands pressing into the other man’s ass. Riley is like silly putty under him, a complete transformation from the loud-mouthed douche who usually goes against everything people tell him just to see how long he can go without getting punched.
John wets his fingers and pushes one into Riley slowly, taking his time, loving the tortured sounds he makes. His finger prods without really knowing what it’s doing, exploring and trying to get his bearings, it doesn’t matter. Riley isn’t going to stop him now, especially not when John finds something, presses against it, makes Riley fuck into the bed, perfect hands clinging to the sheets like he might fall off the planet.
“More?”
“Don’t ask him, tell him.”
John takes his finger out, skips the middle man and pushes three inside instead of two. Riley’s caught off guard, his body freezing.
“Now you’re learning,” Tim says. John can hear the dirty smile on his face, gets a little hotter just thinking about it, even though he’s too busy concentrating to look at it.
“Don’t spend too long in one place if you can move down the field, JB.”
A part of John wants to tell Tim that the football talk in bed is kind of cheesy, but most of him doesn’t really feel that way, not when he can hear the tone Tim’s using. There’s no place for disagreeing, and John’s had coaches less demanding-and less deserving-of respect.
John takes the condom and gets the package open, putting it on while Tim watches, and stroking himself a few times as he lubes up. He considers warning Riley, then decides against it, sinking into him with a loud exhale. He can’t really help it-he hasn’t fucked a guy before, and it feels like winning the Superbowl must feel.
He’s fast and hard and rough from the start, not giving Riley a chance to relax or reclaim his thought process. He holds the other man down, with one hand pulling him up by the hair and a greedy mouth on Riley’s neck. He doesn’t touch Riley-even though he really wants to-because he can tell that’s not how he’s supposed to play this.
Riley is getting off on the fact that John is doing nothing for him, and John is pretty sure there’s a greater lesson in there somewhere. Probably something about football. Right now, his brain is centered in his dick; he knows how to make the plays, but there’s no way he’s going to take the time to think them through.
That, John thinks, is also supposed to be the point here. He resolves to puzzle it out in the morning, when he’s more than just the uncontrollable need to thrust, pullback, and make Tim and Riley see that there’s more to him than one shitty season.
He comes, keeps his fist in Riley’s hair as he rolls his hips into the other man a few more times. When he pulls out and stands up, Tim is smiling, hand shoved into his pants. Riley’s breathing hard against the mattress. It takes a full half-minute for him to turn over and try to reach for himself, but Tim stops him with a glare.
“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Riley asks.
“Shut up, Coop,” Tim says coolly. It actually works.
Tim bends to grab another condom from his bag, and John thinks, Jesus Christ, no way he can handle more. But Riley’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open, like he’s hungry for what he knows is about to happen.
John’s all fucked out, but he sits on the other bed and watches them out of guilty fascination, and neither of the other men seems to mind. Tim slides in where John was, Riley winces slightly and then begins to move with him. It’s not aggressive anymore, Tim’s already earned Riley’s respect, and the two move together almost tenderly, certainly in the kind of rhythm that must take years of practice.
Riley’s toes curl, but Tim doesn’t touch him either, and when they kiss, John sees that look on their faces again and knows his eyes haven’t been playing tricks on him. That’s genuine emotion there. They’re really in love.
Tim comes quietly, mouth pressed to Riley’s, and Riley strokes down his shoulder, caressing him through it. Then Tim moves down and makes quick work of Riley, shows that he knows how to use that big mouth of his for more than calling out plays.
They end up falling asleep on the same bed somehow. Not holding each other, not in each other’s space at all, just feet overlapping where one of them spreads out too far. It’s not uncomfortable, so John doesn’t really see the point in trying to shift away, or getting up to sleep in the bed he’d so greedily claimed.
John wakes up with empty space between him and Tim’s back. He realizes Tim curled around Riley at some point in the night. It’s weird to think-they’ve probably been doing this for years and no one ever stopped to notice it.
He tries to get out of bed discretely, in case one or both of them ends up less fond of what they did last night after a few hours to reflect on it, but Tim stirs and blinks at him though tired eyes.
“You remember what I taught you, Johnny?”
John nods.
“You gonna make sure I don’t have to watch my Gators lose anymore next season?”
“Yeah,” John says, feeling oddly confident about it. “Yeah, I’ll be good.”
“Damn right you will,” he says, smacking his lips and pulling Riley-still dead to the world-closer to his chest. “Now get in bed and sleep. And quit worrying, it’s bad for you.”
John shrugs and climbs back in.
Fandom: Real Person Fic - Football
Characters/Pairings: Tim Tebow/Riley Cooper/John Brantley (oh, yeah, I went there)
Genre: Humor? Threesome Happy Goodtimes? Healing, in weird ways that only my twisted brain would ever think of? Okay, you caught me. It’s mostly porn.
Rating: NC-17 for Explicit Sexual Content and Language (I am so, so sorry Tim.)
Word Count: 4,862
Author’s Note: Written for my beloved wutendeskind both as a birthday present and for her sweet donation to my AIDS walk fundraiser. She hinted that she wanted something with Tebow, and I can read her mind, so I knew this meant: “Pllleeeaasseeee write me the threesome, plleeeaassseee.” And here it is! Oh, my Livia, I hope this is at least mildly what you wanted. I’m sorry we couldn’t be together for your big birthday, but I hope it was amazing, anyway. I would say I’m sorry this is a little late, but I’m not :D I do, however, apologize for the filthy lies I write in this about the Philadelphia Eagles. I had to. It just felt in character. And fuck yeah, I brought back the stupid sparkly Gator dividers. IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT, YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T EVEN GO HERE. :D I beta’d this myself, please still respect me in the morning ♥. And, uh, yes, I got kinky with penalties. DON’T JUDGE.
Summary: Two NFL stars and one wayward Gator go fishing. This is their story.
It was Tim’s bad idea. Had it been anyone else’s bad idea (Riley’s, for example, as most bad ideas are), John would have called him out on it. But John kind of really wants a chance to say he made poor life decisions because of Tim Tebow. Even if the guy is a year late on acting like a dumbass college jock, John thinks it should still count for something.
So he says, yeah, alright when he really should say, I’ll pass, but you guys have fun.
Tim bitches about it over the phone for a month. It’s unexpected when you consider that Tim’s a big guy with a pretty good outlook on life, but he’s remarkably good at bitching, and he never forgets any.damn.thing. He can recite every mistake he made from any of his games at Florida off the top of his head, he knows what days which players had to miss every practice for four years, and, apparently, he does not let go of it when he gets left out of things.
They weren’t trying to exclude him. Tim just never seemed like the fishing type. Riley’s the fishing type. Or, well, Riley’s the fishin’ type, John thinks. He likes teasing him about his Cooperisms, about the fact that the letter g either never existed for him, or he puked out the part of his brain that knew how to pronounce it freshman year and never looked back.
That’s exactly the reason Riley is the obvious guy to go to when looking for a fishing buddy. He’s rough, not afraid to get down and dirty and, well, kind of an asshole, but in a way that only genuinely frustrates John when he’s not enjoying it. It’s about 50-50. Still-he’s the friend you take out to kill random shit and get drunk with.
Tim, though…John laughs picturing it: all the time he spent whining that they didn’t invite him on their fishing trip, then one of them catches something and he realizes they killed one of God’s creatures. John just hopes there won’t be cameras around to catch it when he starts crying.
Except for the one he’s packing.
Note to self, John thinks. Never do anything competitive with Tim Tebow. Just don’t do it. It never goes the way it’s supposed to.
Tim has never been fishing before. John’s been fishing all his life. John is a good fisherman, okay? His grandpa always said so, and that man did not hand out praise.
Riley used to say so, too, and Riley isn’t so bad at fishing himself. But now Riley’s too distracted to praise John.
Tim was supposed to suck at this, like any beginner would. Maybe fall in a few times, or snap his lines, or drop bait into the water, wasting the money they spent on it and filling up the fish he should potentially be catching.
“That’s that biggest damn fish I’ve ever seen from this pond,” Riley says, head tilted to one side. “How’d you hook that sucker?”
It’s the biggest one John’s seen, too, but he’s damn well not going to say so. John’s pretty sure fish this big don’t exist around here. He thinks maybe Tim cheated-went out and bought mini-whales and dropped them into the pond just so he could catch them. Or maybe he stayed up all night praying. John is pretty sure the Powers That Be pull all kinds of shady strings for the guy.
“I dunno,” Tim replies with a shrug. “Just kinda dropped my hook in like JB told me to, and I felt the tug right away.”
Or maybe even the goddamn fish flock to a chance to be beaten by the great Tim Tebow.
“Hell, Timmy, you’re a natural,” Riley drawls.
Of course he is.
“I feel kinda bad for the little guy,” Tim says, frowning slightly.
Of course he does.
“You’ll feel less sorry when I’ve cooked him.” Riley grins, taking a pull from his beer.
“Didn’t that ranger say ‘no alcohol on the lake’?” Tim asks.
“I’m excepted from the rule. Honest.” Riley kicks John’s leg, rocking the boat, but not seeming to care that it sets both of the men sitting opposite him on edge. “Right, Brantley?”
John smirks and gives Tim a sidelong glance. “At least he’s started leaving the pot behind.”
Tim laughs. “That sounds about right,” he says.
John leans back in his folding chair, smiling contentedly. He kicks his legs out, feet resting by the fire-his fire, which he built on his own and which is doing a fantastic job of warming everyone, thank you very much-and does his best not to glare at the tent. John hates building tents. He sucks at building tents and will happily admit as much. He lets Riley worry about it most of the time, but today it got done half as quickly, because Tim was helping.
Tim’s never put together a tent before. It just comes easily to him. Tim pretty much exists to be better than John, even when it comes to things he was once good at.
John used to be good at football.
“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout, Brantley?”
He shakes his head and looks at Riley. “Huh?”
“You looked distracted.”
John shrugs, eyes darting down to his drink.
“This how you plan to spend the off-season, JB? Kicking back in the middle of nowhere?”
John looks at Tim and laughs a little. He’s about a third into his first beer in the time it’s taken John to drink two-Riley’s got an empty case next to him, and a look on his face like he has no idea where the hell his alcohol went. If anyone should be asking stupid questions, it’s Riley.
“I don’t have an off-season,” John reminds him.
“Right, me neither,” Tim says, nodding along. “Always on your toes, that’s the Gator in you talking.”
“No, I mean, I still have classes next semester.”
Riley snorts, giving John an indulgent pat on the thigh, like going to class is the best joke he’s heard in a long time. John doesn’t like to think about what it means that Riley got through college as a solid-B student.
“How’re you gonna spend it?” he asks Tim in return.
“Doin’ drugs and getting’ drunk,” Riley answers, before Tim gets a chance. “You know how Timmy is. Me, on the other hand, I’mma spend it on some serious football. I don’t laze around like you QB princesses.”
Tim punches his arm, and Riley punches right back.
“I’m excited for the Superbowl,” John says, because it feels like the right thing to say. Riley’s got a better chance of getting there right now than he ever will-the guy deserves a few ego strokes.
“Aaron and his New England boys are gonna take it this time, you know,” Tim says, smiling around his beer as he brings it to his lips. “Proud of him.”
“Hey, fuck you, asshole! My team is still in the running.”
Tim cracks a huge smile, obviously having succeeded in pissing his friend off, and John decides to go with it, “Yeah, but, I mean, really. Everyone knows your team is bust.”
Tim laughs, then shakes his head when Riley’s still scowling at the end of it. “Naw, Johnny, the Eagles are the second-best team in the NFL.” He winks at John conspiratorially and then continues, “Just don’t get used to it, Coop. Next year, the Broncos’ll be there. Can’t win then.”
Riley doesn’t say anything to encourage Tim, but he doesn’t look very contrary, either. Which is pretty unusual in and of itself, even before you consider that Riley Cooper just let a blow to his dignity roll off him like water.
They’re weird guys, Riley and Tim. Not so much separately, but they always made so much sense on the field that John never took the time to sit back and wonder at it. It’s like watching the playground bully skipping hand-in-hand with the hall monitor.
“Well, if anyone can save that sorry excuse for a team, it’s you,” Riley finally admits. It could be a nice moment, but he lets out a hearty burp immediately after, then smiles. “Oh, there’s where my beer went!”
Tim shakes his head. “What are we going to do with number eleven, JB?”
“It’s fourteen, now,” Riley reminds him.
Tim actually looks annoyed when he replies. “It’ll always be eleven to me.”
Riley laughs. “Yeah, and you’ll always be fifteen to-everyone.”
Tim smiles like it’s a joke, but there’s almost something else; John’s not drunk at all and really doesn’t like that he can’t follow the conversation despite that. Tim tries to put a big hand in Riley’s hair to ruffle it, and Riley swats him away.
“Fuck off, dude.”
“When the hell are you going to get a haircut, anyway, Cooper? You look like a girl.”
“When the hell are you going to get a girlfriend, Brantley? You look like a virgin.”
Tim coughs uncomfortably, which only makes Riley laugh hysterically.
“I got lots of good reasons for not cuttin’ it,” Riley assures them.
He says it all the time, but the only reason he’s ever been able to list when people ask is, “Reasons.” John’s pretty much given up on understanding him entirely.
They sit in companionable silence, nothing but the crackling of the fire and the sound of someone taking a sip to interrupt the steady soundlessness of nature. Until, about twenty minutes pass.
Tim interrupts the calm. “Guys, I’m bored. Let’s throw a ball around or something.”
Riley turns his head towards Tim, opening one eye grudgingly. “Maybe in a bit, man. Don’t you know how to relax?”
“Sure,” Tim answers. “Of course I do.”
Another ten minutes pass. The easy silence is broken, constantly interrupted by the man sitting between John and Riley trying to rock in his folding chair. John isn’t looking, but he can picture Tim’s thumbs twiddling, hears the light popping of his mouth as he tries to amuse himself.
“It’s too wet out here.”
“You’ve played in the rain, gotten drenched in mud, and loved it,” Riley points out.
“Yeah, but there was a point. It’s not the mud that bothers me, it’s the sitting in the mud doing nothing.”
“Just close your eyes,” John says. “And enjoy the outdoors.”
“I don’t think I like the outdoors.”
“You liked it just fine earlier.”
“We were fishing. We were doing something. Riley, I’m bored.”
Riley groans, eyes closed, head resting too far back on his chair. “I told you ya wouldn’t like this.” He sits up slightly and glares. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Well, I thought good company might make it better.”
“There’s a compliment if I’ve ever heard one,” John says through a laugh.
“Can we play ball now? I’ll let you QB, Johnny.”
“Yeah, Johnny. Go play some catch.”
John snorts. “He’s your dog, man.”
“Hey! I am a very busy and important, well-respected, professional Quarterback for the-”
Tim is interrupted by loud, fake snores from where Riley’s sitting. He smiles so wide it has to hurt, picks the ball up, and throws it at his friend while he’s still not looking.
Riley topples backwards on his chair-which’ll teach him to lean back on something that was built for beach days and picnics-and goes tumbling head over feet.
“Dick!” he says, brushing dirt and leaves off.
“Your hair fell in slow motion, I swear to god,” John manages through his laughter.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Tim replies, more out of habit than because he actually expects it to help.
“Swear to the Budweiser, lightweight,” Riley responds, sticking his tongue out. Then he turns to Tim. “I think you broke my chair!”
“I’ll buy you a new one the next time we’re somewhere civilized.” Tim frowns. “Are we all really going to sleep in that little tent?”
“Yup,” Riley and John answer in unison.
“What if there are bears?”
“We’ve camped here a million times,” John responds at the same time Riley throws out, “There are no bears, you moron.”
“There could be.”
“Then we’ll fight them! Like men. On a camping trip.”
Tim’s quiet for a few seconds, then makes a whiny noise. “But look how small that thing is. Really, all three of us?”
“Yes, your highness, unless you feel like dropping several hundred bucks on a room at the nearest hotel.”
“This was your idea,” Riley says sourly, lugging his bag out of the trunk of his over-packed Jeep.
“I didn’t think he’d take me seriously,” John answers.
“Rookie mistake, Brantley. That’s exactly why he did.”
“Yeah, well,” he replies brilliantly.
“Stop whining, you two. I’m treating you to a luxurious night, you can at least look a little grateful.”
“This isn’t fishing.”
“Naw, twelve. But as you’ve told me several times tonight, we can’t fish this late.”
“But the experience,” John tries. “This was your idea, anyway.”
Tim tsks and shakes his head. “I didn’t ask to go camping-just fishing.”
“Look at that, suddenly there’s something clever in that peanut jar he calls a brain,” Riley says, fondly grabbing hold of his friend’s head and shaking it.
They drop their things by the door and whistle appreciatively when they get to the room.
“Maybe this isn’t so bad,” Riley says, plopping down on one bed and grabbing the television remote.
“Dibbs on the unshared bed,” John tries.
He expects them both to challenge him on it and will probably go ahead and give it to Tim since he’s paying, but no one argues. It’s odd, but John shrugs it off, figuring Tim and Riley roomed together and traveled on so many away games that they’re probably not strangers to sharing a bed.
The three of them sit at the ends of their beds watching some dumbass late night TV, John laughs as Riley keeps up a crude commentary, perverting even the most innocent of programs, and poor Tim strains to hear what the people are actually saying.
After a while, John turns during a commercial break and can’t help asking, “Are you guys disappointed in me?”
Riley snorts, but Tim snatches the remote and powers off the set. “What was that, JB?”
“Just, look, I know we’re all buddies and that matters more than winning games or whatever. I know you still like me, or I wouldn’t be here right now. But…it’s not like I won’t understand. I know what this season looked like. Urban left and you guys were always so damn supportive and told me I was gonna be great and, I’m sorry. I sunk your team.”
Riley throws something at his head-John can’t decide if it’s a mercy because it’s soft or a punishment because it smells like feet. Probably picked his dirty socks up off the floor and tossed them. Class act, that Riley Cooper.
“That’s the problem with you QBs,” he says. “Ya’ll get it in your heads that you’re the whole damn team.”
“Alright, so maybe I did not single-handedly sink the team, but I was a big part of-”
“You just haven’t found your place yet, Johnny Brantley,” Tim says warmly. “You’ll get there, the whole team will. Maybe not immediately, maybe you’ll have to go somewhere else to fit what the coaches’re looking for, but you’ll be great, and the Gators are always great.”
There’s the problem with Tim Tebow, John thinks. He cursed the QB position at UF-no one in John’s place would be able to live up to him, no one trying to deal with that pressure would be better than mediocre.
John’s a washout at 21, and it’s Tim’s fault, and everything would be so much easier if Tim would make himself a little easier to hate. John wants someone, other than himself, to blame. Tim would be an easy target. But John can’t convince himself he doesn’t like him, admires the guy as much as anyone.
“Hold that thought, let me get some tissues. You know how your losing-at-halftime speeches get me,” Riley snarks, jolting John out of his admittedly pathetic thought-process.
Tim growls and before John has any idea what he’s doing, he’s pressing Riley into the bed, kissing him hard. Riley shoves him away hard, his eyes dart to John for a quick second before he licks his lips. “Not in front of the kid, man.”
John opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, knowing it’ll be helpless. He’s wasted his breath reminding Riley that he’s only a year younger enough times to know Riley’s just trying to get a rise out of him. Riley’s lips curl up into a cocky expression despite his silence, as if he heard John’s thought process and knows he still won. Damn them both, he decides.
“Come here, Brantley,” Tim says, sitting up and jerking his head.
John stands and approaches the bed out of pure confusion, which only gets worse when Tim draws him closer for a kiss. John returns it, feeling like there’s a chance he’ll get something great out of it.
Tim smiles when he pulls away, looking suspiciously wicked. It’s not a Tim John’s ever seen or thought could exist, and something tells him he’s in trouble. This was a worse life decision than he thought, because here he is, in some expensive hotel in the middle of nowhere, being corrupted by a guy who is the poster child for good, religious boys everywhere. And maybe it wasn’t bears that made Tim want to pack them all into the car at two in the morning and get a king suite, after all.
“The kid doesn’t mind,” he says, voice a little deeper. “Do ya?”
John’s fingers are pressed to his lips as he shakes his head.
“Didn’t think so.” His smile widens then and he turns back to Riley, who draws him in for another kiss.
For a second, John thinks it looks-but he blinks and it’s gone. He must have imagined it. Riley Cooper doesn’t look at anyone like that, doesn’t love anything but winning games, partying, running his mouth until it gets him in trouble. The way he’s holding on-that’s just how he’s built. Wide Receiver-the guy has nice hands. They’re naturally shaped like they’re cradling, long fingers made to seem soft and-no, that look on his face when Tim breaks the contact. That means something John didn’t think Riley could ever understand.
Everything he knew about his friends is sitting on its head, calmly glaring at him from the middle of the room in a way that seems to say, “What are you staring at? Is this really such a surprise?”
It is but it isn’t. Maybe John knew all along, maybe John was drawn to it. But not right now. Right now, he wants to run. Right now, he wants to wake up. It’s scary and it’s wrong and it’s everything he ever wanted, all the things he buried down, because football was more important-and you can’t have both. No matter what, you can’t have both.
But Tim and Riley, they have everything John is aiming for, and here they are, sharing the things he was ready to give up on as if it’s easy to have both.
Tim rolls off Riley then, gets to his feet, and takes John by the shoulders, turning him towards-his friend? His ex-teammate? His boyfriend? John is seriously confused right now. He gives John a light push forward, encouraging him to take his place in bed. John wants to want to say no, but he doesn’t, and he can’t.
He leans in and kisses Riley tentatively, pulling away quickly, about to ask if it’s okay with him. Tim pushes him back down and brings his lips to the shell of John’s ear. “I’m gonna teach you about being a Quarterback, JB. All right?”
There’s no trace left of the big goofball he’s been hanging out with for the last few hours, all good humor, good manners, and infinite patience-putting up with his blasphemy and Riley’s everything, and not judging, but certainly not corrupting himself by partaking.
This is the Tim the Team Captain, someone John used to be familiar with, the Tim who only exists during games-and apparently sex-who doesn’t take shit from anyone, who’s nothing but pure energy and determination. He’s exactly what John wants to be on the field and isn’t, so he takes a shaky breath and nods, face still caught between Riley’s hands.
Tim grabs him places his hand on Riley’s hip, repeating the action with the other. “There’s nothing wrong with your arm, you know that. You can throw the damn ball just fine. Your problem is attitude, man. You’re not playing like a leader. You’ll never be a decent QB if you can’t do that.”
Riley laughs at him, but John feel the other man’s dick getting hard against his thigh when Tim gives him a challenging look.
“You gotta find your players, Johnny, and you gotta make damn sure they’ll play the way you expect them to. Don’t let them get the upper-hand. Ever.”
John swallows hard, looks down at the man under him. Riley is looking at him defiantly, a little like he’s a joke, a little like he’s a threat, and a little like something John doesn’t have a word for.
“You can practice on mine,” Tim says hotly, stepping back to get a better view of him and Riley.
John has no idea what to do. Riley’s eyes dart to Tim-still taking instructions from Tim. If this is a test, John’s definitely failing it.
“False start,” Tim says, imitating a referee’s rolling motions with his hands.
Riley smirks and flips John onto his back. John struggles to regain control, but Riley keeps him pinned down, grinding and making it impossible to think of a way out.
“Play dirty,” Tim says. “Aren’t gonna win anything if you’re scared to start a fight.”
John grabs on to the first thing he sees, which are the long strands of hair dangling in his face. He gets a handful and tugs, and to his surprised, Riley moans loudly, collapsing exactly the way John’s leading him.
Oh, he thinks. That’s why he doesn’t cut it.
John pushes Riley onto his back and looks over to Tim for approval. Tim looks amused, eyes dark as he shakes his head. John turns his attention back to Riley in time to catch his attempt to flip him again and turns Riley over on his back. Riley makes an incoherent noise of approval, even as he continues to try and fight it.
“You know what to do now?” Tim asks, tossing a bottle of lube and a condom from his bag on to the bed. John feels like he should be asking Tim-Tim waiting-‘til-marriage Tebow-the same question.
Tim just laughs like he knows what he’s thinking and doesn’t have any reservations about what he’s doing or done.
John nods and picks the condom up, reaching around and forcing his hand between Riley and the mattress to get his jeans open. As soon as he downs the zipper, he pushes Riley’s pants away and shoves his hips back down, hands pressing into the other man’s ass. Riley is like silly putty under him, a complete transformation from the loud-mouthed douche who usually goes against everything people tell him just to see how long he can go without getting punched.
John wets his fingers and pushes one into Riley slowly, taking his time, loving the tortured sounds he makes. His finger prods without really knowing what it’s doing, exploring and trying to get his bearings, it doesn’t matter. Riley isn’t going to stop him now, especially not when John finds something, presses against it, makes Riley fuck into the bed, perfect hands clinging to the sheets like he might fall off the planet.
“More?”
“Don’t ask him, tell him.”
John takes his finger out, skips the middle man and pushes three inside instead of two. Riley’s caught off guard, his body freezing.
“Now you’re learning,” Tim says. John can hear the dirty smile on his face, gets a little hotter just thinking about it, even though he’s too busy concentrating to look at it.
“Don’t spend too long in one place if you can move down the field, JB.”
A part of John wants to tell Tim that the football talk in bed is kind of cheesy, but most of him doesn’t really feel that way, not when he can hear the tone Tim’s using. There’s no place for disagreeing, and John’s had coaches less demanding-and less deserving-of respect.
John takes the condom and gets the package open, putting it on while Tim watches, and stroking himself a few times as he lubes up. He considers warning Riley, then decides against it, sinking into him with a loud exhale. He can’t really help it-he hasn’t fucked a guy before, and it feels like winning the Superbowl must feel.
He’s fast and hard and rough from the start, not giving Riley a chance to relax or reclaim his thought process. He holds the other man down, with one hand pulling him up by the hair and a greedy mouth on Riley’s neck. He doesn’t touch Riley-even though he really wants to-because he can tell that’s not how he’s supposed to play this.
Riley is getting off on the fact that John is doing nothing for him, and John is pretty sure there’s a greater lesson in there somewhere. Probably something about football. Right now, his brain is centered in his dick; he knows how to make the plays, but there’s no way he’s going to take the time to think them through.
That, John thinks, is also supposed to be the point here. He resolves to puzzle it out in the morning, when he’s more than just the uncontrollable need to thrust, pullback, and make Tim and Riley see that there’s more to him than one shitty season.
He comes, keeps his fist in Riley’s hair as he rolls his hips into the other man a few more times. When he pulls out and stands up, Tim is smiling, hand shoved into his pants. Riley’s breathing hard against the mattress. It takes a full half-minute for him to turn over and try to reach for himself, but Tim stops him with a glare.
“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Riley asks.
“Shut up, Coop,” Tim says coolly. It actually works.
Tim bends to grab another condom from his bag, and John thinks, Jesus Christ, no way he can handle more. But Riley’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open, like he’s hungry for what he knows is about to happen.
John’s all fucked out, but he sits on the other bed and watches them out of guilty fascination, and neither of the other men seems to mind. Tim slides in where John was, Riley winces slightly and then begins to move with him. It’s not aggressive anymore, Tim’s already earned Riley’s respect, and the two move together almost tenderly, certainly in the kind of rhythm that must take years of practice.
Riley’s toes curl, but Tim doesn’t touch him either, and when they kiss, John sees that look on their faces again and knows his eyes haven’t been playing tricks on him. That’s genuine emotion there. They’re really in love.
Tim comes quietly, mouth pressed to Riley’s, and Riley strokes down his shoulder, caressing him through it. Then Tim moves down and makes quick work of Riley, shows that he knows how to use that big mouth of his for more than calling out plays.
They end up falling asleep on the same bed somehow. Not holding each other, not in each other’s space at all, just feet overlapping where one of them spreads out too far. It’s not uncomfortable, so John doesn’t really see the point in trying to shift away, or getting up to sleep in the bed he’d so greedily claimed.
John wakes up with empty space between him and Tim’s back. He realizes Tim curled around Riley at some point in the night. It’s weird to think-they’ve probably been doing this for years and no one ever stopped to notice it.
He tries to get out of bed discretely, in case one or both of them ends up less fond of what they did last night after a few hours to reflect on it, but Tim stirs and blinks at him though tired eyes.
“You remember what I taught you, Johnny?”
John nods.
“You gonna make sure I don’t have to watch my Gators lose anymore next season?”
“Yeah,” John says, feeling oddly confident about it. “Yeah, I’ll be good.”
“Damn right you will,” he says, smacking his lips and pulling Riley-still dead to the world-closer to his chest. “Now get in bed and sleep. And quit worrying, it’s bad for you.”
John shrugs and climbs back in.