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Palm to Palm (to Palm) is Holy Palmer's Kiss

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Three bodies in a bed is a lot of heat to give off, and somehow along the way from the second World Series, Buster got convinced he just shouldn’t wear anything to bed at all. He really doesn’t know how the boys talk him into things like that. In fact, he very clearly remembers saying things like ‘common decency’ and ‘what if the house burns down and we have to run outside’ but with Tim asking him to spell ‘decency’ and Hunter telling him he could grab the dogs and his pants, by the time they got done talking Buster was already naked and thankful for it.

But it is a lot of body heat, and somehow, despite being a grown ass man with two husbands and a couple of pit bulls on the way, Buster always wakes up in the middle. He lifts his head, smacking his dried lips together and swallows down his morning breath, grimacing a little. He opens one eye and then the other, glancing over their ceiling towards the balcony. It’s too early to get up; barely enough light to see in the darkness of their bedroom. He wriggles onto his back, nudging Tim with his butt until he’s got a little breathing room in their indecently large bed. Tim sighs and turns from his side to his stomach, bare toes curling beneath the blankets. Buster shivers as Hunter’s arm shifts down his shoulder to his chest, and listens to their deep sleepy breaths.

Hunter’s hand opens and tightens over his left pec, and Buster huffs at the ceiling. Hunter’s head drops down their pillow, lips to Buster’s shoulder. His riot of curls brush against the side of Buster’s head. Buster pulls the blankets up to his ankles with his toes, wriggling them in the sudden cool air. He sighs, arching his neck back against the pillow, and suddenly Tim’s long, blunt fingers are drumming against his side. Buster rolls his head towards him, and Tim’s peeking out through his hair.

“Need out?” he whispers, half-slurry with sleep. The bed creaks a little. Tim lurches up onto his hands, leaning back so that the blankets fall down his naked back and pool at the rise of his ass. Tim grins at him, and Buster pushes at him with his off hand. He shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says, leaning closer. “Just a little hot.”

Even through the hair, Buster can see Tim’s eyebrows trying to waggle. He rolls his eyes, shifting when Hunter’s fingers splay over his pec and squeeze a little. Tim’s grin turns sloppy, lips parting for a glimpse of the tip of his tongue as it swipes out. Buster shifts against the bed, kicking the blankets up a little higher on his legs.

He hears the creak, and sees the bend of Tim’s closest elbow, but he still freezes, surprised, when Tim kisses him right on the center of his forehead, and then lower down to the bridge of his nose, the tip, and then the bow of his mouth before catching Buster’s lips between his own and settling there. Buster feels his spine arch, chest filling with air as he opens for Tim, allowed one surprised gasp before he settles underneath the dry tug of Tim’s lips and the soft pull of his teeth in Buster’s lower lip.

He hasn’t really gotten used to being the smaller half of a kiss, much less to not being the one to start everything off. The girls he kissed in high school and college were always a little shyer, and even if Buster found that frustrating sometimes, it still made sense to him. He liked being the one to kiss first, bending down to wait, nerves shaking in his gut, for the girl to decide if she wanted to kiss him. It made sense.

Tim never kisses him on the mouth, or at least not at first. It’s always the side of Buster’s face, or the space behind his ear, or the nape of his neck, a trail that sometimes reaches his mouth and sometimes leaves him gasping, riddled with kisses everywhere but the stupid part of him that won’t stop begging. Even now, Buster can himself tensing when Tim moves away from the kiss, because who knows if he’ll bring it back. He licks the inside curve of Tim’s mouth, flicks his tongue against Tim’s upper teeth, and lifts his head up from the pillow just to make sure. Tim presses him back down again, shushing, but Buster can feel Hunter’s hand opening and closing on his pectoral, rubbing his nipple trapped in the vee of two of Hunter’s fingers.

Hunter’s breath changes against Buster’s shoulder, and suddenly Tim chuckles deep in his throat. A soft bite makes Buster jump, and his right hand smacks out underneath the covers, knuckles grazing Hunter’s stomach.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Hunter mutters. “Forgot.”

Hunter licks over the bite and kisses it softly, and Buster lets himself relax. He doesn’t like being bitten if he can’t see it. Hunter nuzzles him, mouth half open and already sucking, and Buster sighs. Hunter, on the other hand, seems to think all the minutes in the day and hours at night are specifically made for kissing. No body part is safe with him around, and Buster has the hickeys on his fucking hips as proof. Hunter is the reason Buster buys polo shirts in bulk and pants with smooth waistbands, because damn it, wearing elastic sweatpants is not supposed to be an aphrodisiac.

Tim giggles into his mouth, and Buster wrinkles his nose.

“I can hear you complaining about that hickey already,” he whispers, pulling back to look Buster in the eyes.

“And yet you keep giving them to me,” Buster whispers back, rolling his eyes.

“I love the,” Hunter detaches from his shoulder and plants a kiss on the side of Tim’s head. “The noise you make when you see them.”

“And the thing you do with your face while you get ‘em,” Tim adds.

Buster wriggles his hand free of the covers and runs his palm up Hunter’s neck. He pulls Hunter down to his face and tilts his chin upwards. Hunter grins at him, and nips the tip of his chin. He leans closer and rubs his lower lip slowly across Buster’s, wiry beard just short of ticklish.

“That little bit, Buster,” he says quietly. “How much do you want it?”

Buster lets his mouth fall open, breath panting out. Hunter licks his own lips, a hair’s breadth from a real kiss, and from the corner of Buster’s eyes he sees Tim’s dark head trailing kisses down Hunter’s side. His dick is growing hot and firm between his legs, trapped against their blankets. He raises his head off the pillow again, and Hunter matches him, keeping just out of reach. The blankets are pooling at their waists, and then off them all completely. Buster feels Tim’s hand on his dick, patting it against his thigh, and moans. He mouths over Buster’s hipbone and up to his belly.

Hunter touches their noses together, rubs back and forth, as he breathes over Buster’s mouth.

“Please,” Buster says, air spilling from his throat like a cracked valve. “Kiss me.”