Chapter 3
Tristan was instantly debauched, swearing and begging and inching away from the overbearing and debilitating sensation before realizing how fiercely he needed it and pushing back once more into Nikolai's mouth.
He tucked his face into his elbow.
"Perfect," he choked.
"So good, feels—oh,
God
Fuck."
Nikolai hummed, spurred on by the wanton praise.
His cock was solid, thrumming with each beat of his heart as it rubbed uncomfortably against the wet spot in his own briefs, and he thought he was probably a shameless hypocrite.
It took everything he had not to palm himself to relieve the aching pressure because this was exactly what he'd wanted.
Tristan beneath him, pleading and hungry, both of them hysterical with want.
Tristan tried arching up so he could wrap a hand around himself, but Nikolai pressed his palm into the small of Tristan's back, shoving him back down into the mattress.
"No," he said into Tristan's skin.
"Just my mouth."
"I can't," Tristan gasped.
His thighs were vibrating around Nikolai's head.
He inhaled a stuttered breath that might have been the tail end of a sob.
Please touch me.
Let me—"
"You can do it," Nikolai purred, running a soothing hand up and down Tristan's spine.
"You are always so good for me.
My sweet wife.
My slutty wife." Nikolai collected his saliva on his tongue, then opened his mouth, letting it drip filthNiko down onto Tristan's hole.
He pushed back inside him, then out again, fucking into him ardently with his tongue.
And then Tristan was spasming around Nikolai's tongue, clenching and unclenching as his climax overtook him.
Nikolai watched the show in front of him, entranced.
His fingers dug roughly into the meat of Tristan's ass, and he wanted to close his eyes so his release didn't find him too early, but he couldn't miss a second of it.
Of Tristan keening, mouth open against the duvet on a silent scream, writhing beneath Nikolai and heaving out heavy, strangled breaths.
," Nikolai panted, pressing wet, messy kisses to his thighs.
His own chin was dripping with saliva, and he smeared it across Tristan's skin with each loving, devoted kiss.
"C'mere," Tristan slurred eventually, when he'd finally regained his bearings.
Well, enough of them that he could form marginally coherent sentences.
"I'll blow you.
Please."
"No," Nikolai said, pushing up onto his knees.
He yanked his briefs down just enough to free his throbbing cock.
This would not take long.
"I will come like this.
Mark you so they know you're mine."
Tristan hooked his chin over his shoulder to look at him.
His face was wet with tears.
"What do you—oh,
Nikolai slid his cock between Tristan's ass cheeks, using his own pre-come and saliva to glide back and forth easNiko.
His thrusts were slow and liquid, and he used his thumb to keep himself in place as he rocked against him.
He imagined straddling Tristan's hips, kneeling over him, pushing his pectorals together and fucking his chest just like this.
"One day, I will do this with your tits.
So big, everyone says.
How are your wife's tits so big
This is what they ask me."
Tristan "I take—
, Nikolai." He shuddered, and met Nikolai's thrust, backing into him to help bring Nikolai to the brink.
"I take chest day seriously."
"Is good for me," Nikolai said, tipping his head back and basking in the burning electricity that hummed inside him.
"I am ass
tits guy, and my wife has ass and tits.
How—
blyat
—how lucky I am." His hips were stuttering now, thick heat crawling up his esophagus from his stomach and choking him.
His husband looked so beautiful like this, splayed out for Nikolai to use, willing and pliant and
encouraging
, his ass bouncing with each collision of Nikolai's hips against it.
"Come on me," Tristan begged.
"Wanna feel it, Nikolai."
"Fuck,
." Nikolai fell forward as he came, only just managing to catch himself with a single hand on the mattress to avoid crushing his husband.
Come splashed across Tristan's back, a pearly white brand that marked ownership, Nikolai's vulgar claim over him that he wished he never had to wash away.
He choked back a moan, unable to help himself from leaning forward and finding the soft muscle over Tristan's shoulder blade with his mouth.
He kissed and sucked and licked, then sank his teeth into the skin, still rutting against Tristan's ass through the last waves of his orgasm.
When he could finally breathe again, he flopped over onto the mattress next to Tristan, propped up on his side so he could admire his handiwork.
A dark purple bruise had bloomed across Tristan's right scapula, just to the side of his spine, rippling with every movement of his back.
The team would tease them for this, he knew, but he couldn't help the bolt of excitement that shot through him at the idea of others seeing a physical manifestation of his rabid obsession with his husband.
"Holy shit." Tristan rolled over onto his back, completely forgetting how Nikolai had soiled him.
"Even more of a mess you've made." Nikolai gestured to the several drying spots of come that dirtied the bed.
"The duvet did not stand a chance, ah?"
"I hate you," Tristan murmured, closing his eyes and scrunching his face up in embarrassment.
Nikolai stared pointedly at the come stains.
"You do not."
Tristan's cheeks were red as cherries.
Just as sweet, too.
"You're still fixing the sheets.
And folding the laundry."
Nikolai would have done it anyway.
"Anything for my beautiful wife."
When they were no longer breathless and boneless, they cleaned themselves up and got ready for bed.
Nikolai stuffed the sheets and the duvet into the washing machine, and grabbed a new set from the linen closet to remake the bed.
And because Nikolai was a good husband, because he loved his wife very much, he folded the corners of the top sheet neatly before tucking it beneath the mattress.
It was a boring evening in the Blake-Volkov household, and Nikolai was folding laundry.
Unfortunately,
boring
was Nikolai's new favorite thing to be.
There were not many places he would rather find himself these days than standing inside the closet as he hung up their shirts while his husband sprawled across their bed with a book propped up against his chest and his glasses low on his nose.
Especially when he had many, many evil plans unfolding at that very moment.
He bopped his head to the music in his headphones, and slipped a black coathanger into a blue tank top that belonged to Tristan.
Humming to himself in an effort to catch Tristan's attention without being too obvious about it, he flicked through the shirts already hung up, and stuck this blue one between two red shirts.
He continued this, very strategically placing each shirt in the most egregiously upsetting spot he could manage.
It was an art of sorts, he thought.
Distantly, through the notes of the rock song blaring in his ears, he heard Tristan calling his name.
Nikolai ignored him as if the music were too loud for him to hear.
He felt the wood floor shift slightly beneath his feet as he was approached by furious stomping.
And then his headphones were being torn from his head with startling force, and his poor ears were instantly met with the sound of his dear husband's incensed voice.
"Stop!" Tristan said, pushing at him until he dropped the shirt back into the laundry basket.
"Stop, stop, stop!"
"What the fuck, Blake?" Nikolai asked, knowing
what the fuck.
"What do you mean '
what the fuck
?'" Tristan's eyes were wide and disbelieving, as if he absolutely could not fathom what had come over Nikolai for him to do this.
"I should be asking you that!"
"I am just doing laundry.
Being good, boring husband.
And you yell at me for this." Nikolai clutched his chest like he'd been struck.
"I am wounded."
"You're making a mess of them!
Look at this!
Nothing is even remotely where it belongs!"
"Is just shirts." Nikolai shook his head.
He wanted Tristan so badly that his blood was boiling.
"They can go wherever."
"They absolutely cannot fucking go wherever.
Do you hear yourself?
You have to arrange them by color."
"Is arranged by color, yes?" Nikolai pointed to several different shirts already hung on the rack.
"One white shirt, then one blue, one green, one black.
See?"
Tristan huffed out a breath through his nose.
He looked too cozy for anger, dressed in his pajama pants and glasses, with tousled hair and wide, shining eyes like a baby deer.
"It's Roy G. Biv, Nikolai.
That's how it's supposed to be."
Nikolai picked up another shirt and hanger.
His text tone chimed from his pocket and he ignored it.
"Who the fuck is Roy?"
"And the
hangers
," Tristan continued as if Nikolai hadn't spoken at all.
"The white hangers go with the white shirts.
The black hangers go with the black shirts.
The grey hangers go with the cool colors.
And the red hangers go with the warm colors." He plucked both the shirt and hanger from Nikolai's hands, gesturing wildly with them for emphasis.
"A white shirt on a grey hanger?
This is all wrong."