Joseph/robert/mary

"Cheating on me again, Mary?" Joseph starts, and although Robert is mostly-lost in the feeling of lipstick kisses on his neck, he's lucid enough to register the goodnatured smirk in the pastor's voice. "And while I was at /church/, no less."

Mary scrapes her teeth over Robert's collarbone, a parting gift, and turns to address her husband, removing silver cufflinks in the doorway. "You weren't using him," she whines. /Affected, petulant Mary,/ he thinks, /always the spider with the fly in her web/, "can't have our boy-toy getting bored of us, dear."

They do this, sometimes. Talk about him like he's not here. Like Mary's not straddling his lap, skirt bunched so high he can see the dampness of her panties against his groin. It's not something he ever thought he'd enjoy; the objectification, the /toying/. But they only ever say good things, /fun/ things, and Mary's hands are always tethered affectionately in his hair, and it's nice, Robert thinks, to help and be helped in kind. To use, be used.

Joseph looks good in his Sunday best, but he looks even better with his shirt off - (a /tiny/ slouch of belly when he wriggles it over his head, Robert and Mary's eyes alike stay trained on it) - and he looks /incredible/ above Robert; a soft smile, a soft hand cupping his chin. Soft skin under his navel when Robert presses his lips there, reverent.

When they part, there's a smudge of mud-brick red lipstick where his mouth has been. More of it surely stains Robert's lips and neck, for how faded the colour looks on Mary's lips now. And that feels right, he thinks, delirious and manic as Joseph guides his mouth to the outline of his cock in his pants. That feels right.