Jingle Balls (Deeper) – Part 12 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

I push the apartment door open and the first thing that hits me is Carter’s voice going full sales-pitch mode in the kitchen.

“These are vintage Celine socks, guys. One year old. Worn maybe three times tops. Look at that stitching—authentic as hell. I’m only asking two-fifty because rent’s due and I’m feeling generous, but these things are basically collector’s items now.”

He’s got the ring light blasting, phone propped on a stack of textbooks, holding up a single black sock like it’s a fucking diamond. Braden’s on the couch behind him, face buried in a pillow so he doesn’t laugh out loud. Tate’s leaning against the counter in one of my old hoodies, sleeves swallowing his hands, that little half-smirk on his face while he watches Carter spin the sock under the light.

I drop my backpack by the door harder than I mean to. “Dude. They’re socks. You bought them at Nordstrom last spring.”

Carter shoots me a death glare without breaking character. “Shhh. The Depop girlies don’t need the origin story.” He turns back to the camera, all smooth. “Serious offers only. Shipping included. Vintage Celine. Link in bio. Peace.”

“Bro, I think that vid is the best one yet,” Carter says, still buzzing. “These socks are gonna sell so fast now. I’ll just edit out Brad’s bullshit, no big deal.”

I roll my eyes hard and kick my shoes off by the door. The apartment already smells like Tate’s vanilla lotion mixed with whatever pizza they ordered for lunch. That combo is becoming way too fucking normal lately.

It’s only been a few days since we moved in, but it’s starting to feel… settled. Like this is just how shit is now. Carter still going to class and hustling socks. Me dragging my ass to lectures and coming home to this.

Tate catches my eye across the room. That small head-tilt he does when Carter’s being extra. My stomach does this stupid little flip I’m still pretending isn’t happening. The hoodie’s slipping off one of his shoulders, showing a strip of smooth skin, and I have to look away before my dick gets ideas.

I jerk my chin toward the bedroom. “Hey. Come help me with something real quick?”

He doesn’t ask questions. Just follows me in and I shut the door behind us, cutting off Carter’s muffled voice about “authentic Celine history.”

The bedroom’s a mess—our clothes tangled on the chair, his red lace briefs still drying on the windowsill next to my gym shorts. I sit on the edge of the bed and Tate drops down right beside me, thigh pressing warm against mine. His hand lands light on my knee like it belongs there. He doesn’t say anything, just waits, thumb brushing slow little circles that make my skin feel too hot.

I rub the back of my neck, staring at the floor. “So… this is actually working. The four of us. Rent’s split even. Nobody’s murdered anybody yet.”

“Yeah,” he says soft, thumb still moving. “It’s not bad.”

My chest feels tight. Not the horny kind—something quieter. I keep noticing stupid shit lately. How he made sure I got the side of the bed I like. How he left a protein shake on the counter for me yesterday without saying a word. How when Carter was spiraling about Chloe again last night, Tate just quietly passed me the remote so I could change the subject. Little things. Things that shouldn’t make my throat feel thick, but they do.

I clear my throat. “But… I’ve been thinking. Maybe we look at something smaller. Just us two. Carter and Braden seem cool sharing the big room. We could find a one-bed close to campus. Cheaper. Less chaos.”

Tate turns his head. Those blue eyes study my face, soft in a way that makes my stomach do that flip again.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low. “You were pretty set on keeping your own space when this whole thing started.”

I shrug, but my hand moves without me telling it to—landing on his thigh, squeezing once. The skin’s warm, smooth from whatever lotion he put on this morning. “Yeah, well. Things change.” My thumb brushes the edge of his shorts, tracing the crease where his leg meets his hip. I feel him shift closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Could be… nice. Having a spot that’s just ours. No Carter selling socks in the kitchen. No tripping over Braden’s toys in the living room.”

He laughs quiet, low and warm, and leans his shoulder against mine. I don’t pull away. Instead I let my fingers drift higher, just resting there, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric. My chest is doing that tight thing again, but it doesn’t feel bad. It feels like something I don’t want to name yet.

Tate doesn’t push. He just sits there with me, shoulder pressed against mine, breathing the same quiet air while Carter’s voice keeps yapping about those stupid socks in the other room.

After a minute I squeeze his thigh once and stand up. “C’mon. Let’s see what’s got Carter so worked up now.”

We walk back out into the living room just as his phone pings again. Carter glances down at the screen, eyes going wide.

“Holy shit. Some Jules69 just messaged. Three hundred bucks if I nut in both socks. Like… actual load inside each one before I ship them.”

Braden lifts his head from the pillow, already grinning. “You for real?”

Carter is already standing up, cheeks flushed but grinning like an idiot. “Braden, bathroom now. You’re on nut duty.”

Braden laughs, pushing off the couch. “Okay, fine. Doesn’t take more than a minute anyway.”

“Shut up, I lasted two minutes last time,” Carter shoots back, already shoving him toward the hallway. “Come on, clock’s ticking. I want that three hundred.”

They disappear into the bathroom and the door clicks shut. I can hear them both cracking up in there, then the low murmur of Carter’s voice giving directions like it’s the most normal business meeting in the world.

Tate catches my eye and raises an eyebrow, that calm little smirk still in place. “Guess we’re filming something too while they’re busy?”

My dick twitches just from the way he says it. I nod toward our bedroom. “Yeah. I can help you film some solo content. You set up, I’ll hold the phone.”

We slip inside and lock the door. Tate strips slow, peeling off the hoodie and shorts until he’s just in those red lace briefs, the ones that always make my mouth go dry. He climbs onto the bed on his knees, facing the phone I’ve got propped on the nightstand. I hit record, then sit on the edge of the mattress right beside the frame so I’m out of shot but close enough to smell the vanilla on his skin.

“Start whenever you’re ready,” I mutter, voice already rough.

Tate doesn’t rush. He runs his hands down his own chest first, thumbs brushing over his nipples until they tighten. His hips roll lazy, letting the lace stretch tight over his half-hard dick. I can see the wet spot already forming at the tip. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband, tugs the lace down just enough to let his cock spring free, then leaves it there—framing everything like he knows exactly what the subscribers lose their shit over.

He spits in his palm, wraps his fingers around his tool, and starts slow strokes—base to tip, twisting a little at the head every time. His breath hitches. The wet sound of skin on skin fills the quiet room. I shift on the bed, my own dick thickening in my sweats just from watching him.

Tate glances straight at the lens, voice low and breathy. “Been thinking about this all day…” He reaches back with his free hand, two fingers circling his hole before pushing in easy. His mouth drops open, eyes fluttering as he works them deeper, opening up slow while his other hand keeps jerking his cock in the same lazy rhythm.

The sounds get filthier—wet finger-fucking noises mixing with the slick drag of his fist. His thighs start trembling. Pre leaks steady over his knuckles, dripping down onto the lace still bunched around his balls. I’m rock-hard now, gripping the edge of the mattress so I don’t reach out and touch him. He adds a third finger, moaning soft, hips rocking between his hand on his dick and the fingers stretching his ass.

I can’t stop staring at the way his hole grips and flutters around his knuckles, pink and shiny. My own balls feel heavy just watching.

Tate’s strokes speed up, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke. His abs clench, thighs shaking harder. “Fuck—gonna—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. His back arches, cock pulsing in his fist as thick surges blast across his stomach and chest in messy streaks. One shot even hits his chin. He keeps pumping through it, milking himself dry while his hole clenches around his fingers, little whimpers slipping out until he’s spent and breathing hard.

I stop the recording with shaky fingers.

Tate collapses back onto the pillows, chest heaving, cum streaked all over him. He laughs soft, wrecked. “Good one?”

“Yeah,” I manage, throat tight. “Real good.”

He gets up a minute later, wipes the worst of the mess off with a towel, then heads to the bathroom to clean up the lube and the rest of his load. “Be right back,” he says, door clicking shut behind him.

I stay on the bed, still half-hard, brain still buzzing from the video. Apartment listings sound like a good distraction right now. Something normal. I reach for the phone on the nightstand without thinking. He bought matching cases last week—stupid, really, but also kinda cute. I grab the one closest to me.

A message pops up at the top of the screen.

Mark’s obnoxious Snap Bitmoji stares back at me—the one with the backwards hat and the stupid grin I’d recognize anywhere. Maddie’s new boyfriend.

The text is short:

“If youre sure Brad aint gonna be there, ok. we can do it at yours. I’ll be there at 11.”

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

Tate’s phone. Not mine. And that message is definitely not meant for me to see.

Tate steps in in fresh briefs, hair damp from a quick rinse, looking relaxed as ever.

I lock the screen fast and hold the phone out to him, keeping my face completely neutral. “Here. Got the browser open already.”

He takes it with a small smile, none the wiser. “Thanks, Braddie.”

I just nod, like my chest isn’t caving in.