𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚜

𝟓. [𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫] 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥'𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭 - 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 (𝐟𝐭. 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐡𝐢) ˚˖𓍢ִ໋'🔆:✧˚.🍉⋆𖧧🐚

✮ cw: very pathetic descriptions of tennis because i know fuckall about it. men kissing (happy pride month), semi awful flirting i guess but it's not too bad this time, threesome, cumplay, joint fingering??? blowjobs, masturbation, no actual p in v sex though

sweat. that's the first thing you remember. sweat dripping on the hot tennis court on a blistering day in june, running down their faces in rivulets and flying off in droplets whenever they jump and run and swing and breathe.

sweat, soaking their t-shirts, making it cling to their sculpted bodies. their sun-tanned arms move beautifully. they're visually appealing, at least, even if their tennis skills are a bit pathetic. too much twisting of the wrist, too much swish, a shot that's too wide, a shot that's not wide enough.

at least they're good entertainment if not good players. the joy of watching country club brats fall flat on their asses is like no other.

you pop the gum in your mouth, and watch them from the shade. matty and george. george and matty.

they're regulars, and they might not know you or your name, but you know them. in the same way you know the creak in a stair—not because you've tried to look for it and made an effort, but because it's a force of habit.

you've watched them so many times too, right here on this court, taking out their aggressions on their rackets and tennis balls. their t-shirts ride up each time they jump, exposing their tattoo-covered torsos, the bands of their underwear. the muscles in their thighs are pulled taut too—they're nice to look at, you think. certainly easy on the eyes.

"we have audience," george says, his eyes trained on matty, his mouth curved upwards into a smirk. not once does he look at you.

matty looks at you from the corner of his eyes. his gorgeous, dark curls are plastered on his forehead, the bridge of his straight nose glistens with sweat. you bite your lip in anticipation.

you should have gone straight inside after making sure all the balls on the empty courts were collected. you should've been making sure you're not needed somewhere else. and yet here you are... indulging.

"what do you do? just watch?" george asks loudly. suddenly, his dark gaze is trained on you. the sun might be on them directly but it's you who feels dizzy.

you push off the wall, walk a little further and out of the shade. "i work here."

for a bit he doesn't say anything, he just looks at matty who seems to be barely stifling a smile. you can't quite decipher what happens between them then, a nod and a coy smile, like it's their little secret code. it's about you, that much you're sure of.

and your point is proven a second later when george sets his racket down and walks up to you.

up close he's huge, tall enough to tower over you and leave you craning your neck. the hollow of his throat is pink with a hint of sunburn, glistening just like the rest of his forehead. his white uniform is stained with grass a little, but you doubt that bothers someone like him, someone rich enough to afford a year long membership at one of the top country clubs.