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Don't Bet if You Can't Win

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Neo recognizes it egg-shaped object only after it starts vibrating.

 


 

“How the fuck did you get that through security,” he grits out as the crowd outside cheers. The the third set for the first game of the women's finals has officially started, the first point made, but Salle is turning him around in the cramped space of the restroom stall they're in, insistently pushing him forward with a heavy hand between his shoulders, and Neo goes with it. He’s being bent at the waist, hands braced on the ceramic cover of the toilet’s water tank,  legs kicked apart as far his pants will let him where they’re bunched around his calves.

“I’m still on the men’s volleyball team, Neo.” Salle answers him matter-of-factly, like he’s not rubbing warmed fingers at the cleft of Neo’s ass, the digits sliding slick with lube. The first finger goes in easy, right down to the third knuckle in a single go, and Neo ignores the awed chuckle that chases after the soft burn of penetration. “Tell me you weren’t bouncing off someone else’s dick since last time.”

Neo doesn’t answer, doesn't bring up that Salle's team didn't even make through the semi-finals. He refuses to answer the taunt aimed at him, sees through it for what it is. He doesn’t expect the sudden addition of two more fingers, however; Salle is rough, but he’s never been careless. Neo’s breath hitches high in his throat as three fingers curl down, digging too close to his prostate. Visual static edges in at the corners of his eyes, forcing Neo to close them - then Salle hits home on the downstroke and Neo gets up on the balls of his feet, a soundless gasp pushed out of him in a rush.

“You gonna tell me who it is?” Salle’s thumb dimples on one of Neo’s ass cheeks hard enough to hurt. “Do you want me to guess?”

“I thought you d-- Ah , slow down--AH!” There’s no mistaking Salle’s aim this time. “Since when did you care?” There’s a heavy hand on Neo’s hip now too, and Salle’s jeans are scratchy on the back of Neo’s thighs. Between the ceramic seat in front of him and the solid weight behind him, Neo props his weight on an arm resting on the tile wall.

Something cool and smooth presses against him. It’s too hard to be anything else, but Neo was expecting for Salle to pull his fingers out first before doing anything.

Salle doesn’t.

“What…” Neo pants against his arm, his sweat soaking through his sleeve. In spite of himself, he laughs a little. “What did I do to piss you off this time?”

The crowd outside is going wild. Neo can feel his phone vibrating nonstop against his knee.

“You always piss me off, man.”

The bullet vibe goes in wide end first. Salle tugs on the handy plastic lanyard to adjust, and it’s almost comforting when Salle arranges it neatly in Neo’s boxerbriefs when he tucks him back into his clothes. Neo’s calves ache, and his toes hurt from shifting his weight around in shoes better used indoors. When the first swat hits him - low on the back of his thighs, open-handed - Neo feels more than hears himself shout out.

Salle’s hands pull Neo away from the wall - a small blessing, when Neo’s knees lose coordination for a second and he stumbles back against Salle’s front. “Remind me - what were the rules again?”

“No money involved.” Neo's hands are shaking minutely.

“Nothing that risks school and grades.” Salle is kissing his nape, his breath heavy on his damp skin.

“Nothing that gets us arrested.” 

“Nothing that involves other people.”

“Winner’s claim lasts just five hours when cashed in.”

“It’s only… hah,” Salle hums. “5:43 PM.” Thick arms wrap around Neo’s waist, and a sweaty kiss makes its way to the rise of Neo’s shoulder, climbing up to the slope of his jawline. “Hang in there.”

And then Neo’s set adrift in nothing, left alone in the men’s room with the stall door swinging wide open. His phone is still ringing.

 


 

“Jesus Christ, kuya Neo, where did you go-- oh, are you okay? You’re so sweaty.” Iya’s bought them water off an usherette, and Neo gladly accepts it when she hands it over. “Mahaba yung pila?”

“Yeah,” Neo groans as he shifts in his seat, pulling his shirt as low as it would go down the front of his trousers. “Yeah, medyo maraming tao.

Nakita ko yata si kuya Salle?” Addie asks without looking away from the court. Neo  leans back as the couple two seats over walk by - a mistake, because it moves the vibe a little further in, and he feels precome spurt out without warning. Every nerve ending feels like it's on fire.


“Really, Addie?" His voice is steadier than he's willing to account for, if a little winded. "I didn’t see him."