Blake Hart
patreon
Jingle Balls – Part 3
🕑 Added 2025-12-12 21:00:07 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
Tate just tilted his head, eyes glittering, tongue touching the corner of his mouth where I swear a tiny streak of Braden still glistened.
He padded across the room like he owned gravity itself and flopped cross-legged onto his own bed, sitting opposite of my own shitty bed, maybe six feet away. The silk robe fell open completely. Red lace panties (if you could even call that scrap of nothing panties) barely contained him. One wrong shift and the whole show was spilling out. I swear the head of his dick was half a second from saying hello.
“You look good, Brad. As always.” His gaze dragged over my jaw. “Even got some scruff going now. Suits you. Last time I saw you, you were sixteen with that tragic soul-patch thing. This is a major upgrade.”
Five years. Holy shit, he was right. Five whole years. He’d been this chubby little thirteen-year-old with a bowl cut and braces, and now he was eighteen and…
“Hot,” I said out loud.
Tate’s brow lifted. “What?”
“I mean… thanks. Maddie likes the scruff. Says it looks hot.” I swallowed hard, brain screaming abort. No way was I admitting this little shit had gone from Stranger Things cast to full-on CW prince in half a decade.
Tate just smirked like he’d heard the thought anyway.
The boner I’d been wrestling finally calmed down, thank God. I nodded toward the closet, desperate for literally any other topic. “Aunt Lisa said you made space for my stuff?”
“Yeah, sure.” He unfolded himself, robe slipping off one shoulder as he pointed. “Bottom drawer’s empty, and those hangers on the left are yours. Make yourself at home. I really need a shower. Back in a few.”
He grabbed a towel and walked out, red lace disappearing under silk.
The second the door clicked I yanked open the bottom drawer to start unpacking and…
Panties. A bottle of lube. A red freaking jeweled buttplug just sitting there like a Christmas ornament. Handcuffs. Condoms. Tissues arranged in a neat little pile.
Oh hell no.
My dick apparently took that as a personal challenge and went rock-hard again.
I swept the entire porn starter-kit into the drawer above, slammed it shut, and unpacked like my life depended on it. Shirts folded with military precision. Anything to kill time and blood flow.
The Door opened again and Tate strolled back in, blonde hair damp and curling, robe hanging completely open, wearing the smallest black briefs known to man. The kind that made you question physics. Water still beaded on his chest, sliding down a set of lean abs that weren’t huge, but perfectly cut, every line sharp. Happy trail shaved into a thin stripe that pointed straight into that bulge. Dude was leaner than me but stupidly defined, like he lived on cardio and sheer spite.
He knew I was looking. Didn’t call it out, just let me suffer.
He dropped the robe, grabbed grey sweats that clung like they were painted on, and a white tank that rode high enough to flash the V disappearing into the waistband. The outline of his dick shifted every time he moved. Fucking impossible to ignore.
I pretended to be very interested in sock placement.
Tate ran a hand through his wet hair, smirked at my obvious struggle, and said, “Ready? Let’s go downstairs. I missed Aunt Di.”
“Sure,” my voice still half-cracked. “Whatever.”
I followed him out, trying to keep my eyes on the back of his head and not on the way those sweats hugged his ass with every step.
We stepped into the hallway and I couldn’t keep it in anymore as we walked the stairs.
“I found something in the drawer,” I muttered. “Something… personal.”
Tate didn’t even slow down. “What?”
“Something very personal.”
He stopped, turned, and slapped a hand over his heart like a soap-opera star. “Oh no, the toys? I’m mortified.” But his face read zero embarrassment whatsoever. “I swear I moved them. My bad. But, hey, we’re both guys, though, right? No biggie.” He flashed a grin. “Borrow the lube if you need. You’re cut, yeah? I remember when we used to shower together as kids…”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out.
Before I could reboot, Tate had already bolted down the stairs and flung himself at Mom. “Aunt Di! I missed you!”
Mom lit up, hugging him tight. “Tate, sweetheart, look at you! Lisa showed me pictures at Thanksgiving. You look incredible. Feeling better now?”
“Just a little bug,” Tate said, all dimples. “I’m perfect now.”
I stood there like a spare dick, trying to look anywhere except at the way Tate’s tank hugged his waist every time he moved.
Aunt Lisa appeared with a tray of mulled wine that smelled like Christmas exploded. We all grabbed a glass, made small talk, and then my phone buzzed loud as hell.
Aunt Lisa perked up. “What’s that, handsome, your reminder to take the pill?”
I snorted. “Good one. Nah, bowl game starts in five.”
“Brad!” Mom scolded.
“Nonsense!” Lisa waved her off. “You’re here for ten days. Make yourself at home. TV room’s right there. Blankets on the couch, beers in the fridge. Go be a man.”
Mom sighed. “You don’t have to coddle him.”
“Oh, but I do. I barely see my favorite nephew.” Lisa kissed my cheek, then grabbed Mom’s arm. “Did I show you the wine fridge?”
“Yeah, you already did, “Mom responded, half bewildered.
“No, that’s the little one, this new one is bigger. Come on.”
“Of course there’s a second one,” Mom muttered, following her off.
I stood there like an idiot, one foot literally in my mouth. Turned to Tate. “So… you watch sports?”
He fake-gagged. “I’d rather strangle myself with those sad-ass Christmas lights outside. I’m hitting the mall. Later, cous.”
He bounced off. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or… something else. Relieved. Definitely relieved.
I crashed into the TV room, flicked the game on, cracked a beer, and tried to zone out. But my brain was still looping red lace, that jeweled plug winking at me from the drawer, and the way Tate’s abs flexed when he laughed at something. Every play on the screen blurred into the memory of those tiny black briefs and that smug little tongue swipe across his lip.
I fished my phone out of my pocket, set it face-down on the coffee table, and stared at it like it owed me money. Then I grabbed the beer can, empty…
I wandered toward the kitchen to fetch another beer and ended up hovering outside the doorway when I heard Mom and Aunt Lisa talking.
Mom: “Tate is so sweet. He’s… I mean… he is?”
Lisa: “Gay? One hundred percent. Still hasn’t said the words, though. I’m waiting till he’s ready. Kid’s really blossomed.”
Mom: “God, yes. So confident now. Handsome young man. Sometimes I swear I wish Brad was gay. Anything emotional and he just grunts, rolls his eyes, and all of the sports? So boring…”
I scoffed. Then rolled my eyes. Okay, maybe they had a point. But still.
Back on the couch I chugged half the beer in one go. Fucking Tate. Annoying little shit. Minor glow-up. Whatever. Nothing to write home about. I hate arrogant people; humbleness is way more my brand.
I looked at the phone again. No snaps from Maddie. Opened the camera, checked myself: cheekbones sharp, scruff perfect, brown eyes popping. Filters? Nah, natural was better. Took a shirtless one for Maddie, captioned “miss you babe ❤️”.
Then I closed the app.
Then, I re-opened it again.
Scrolled to pending invites.
Tate-The-Great 👑💎
Accepted.
Just for Christmas. We were stuck together for over a week. He’d probably get all dramatic and sad if I ignored him. Not that I cared. Just being polite. Family and all that.
I tried to watch the game again, but for some weird reason I found it hard to focus.
The, Snap notification, from: Tate-The-Great 👑💎
I looked at it, my jaw fell to the floor: Tate in a dressing-room mirror, pleated candy-cane skirt, no panties, sheer white thigh-highs with red bows, crop top riding high enough to flash that dipped skin above his hipbones.
Caption: “Ready for round two tomorrow, daddy?”
All blood immediately went to my stupid tool, straining against my sweats so hard it hurt.
Then, immediate follow-up snap: “FUCK. IGNORE. WRONG BRAD.”
I stared at my bulge like it had personally betrayed me.
“Fucking traitor dick” I hissed.
This Christmas was going to be the worst ever.
Comments
Blake
I laughed a lot writing Brad's little deluded monologues :)
Jules
Humility is Brad’s brand?! THAT made me laugh 😂 and Tate is PURE trouble
R.E.
Love this so much!!
