Author: Minervacat
Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Pairing: Tyra Colette/Tim Riggins/Jason Street
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Pre-series
Summary: don't tell them you're bigger than jesus, don't give it away. 4000 words.

Street's t-shirt is in the kitchen sink, soaked and trapped under an empty ice cube tray, laying exactly where it fell while Tyra was licking salt off the crooked curve of his collarbone ten hours ago, while the sky was turning pink outside and Tim was laughing loud and pulling on the bottle of tequila like the answer to everything was at the bottom of it. Tim's still asleep on the love seat, legs kicked over the end of it, and Jason's asleep on the floor, one hand flung out so his fingers fit in the spaces between Tim's ribs.

Somebody turned the air-conditioner off last night, opened all the windows, so it's about a million degrees in the kitchen, even if Tyra's wearing about as little as she can, panties and Tim's shirt, and she can't quite decide if she's hungover or she's just fucked up in general.

Garrity had gone home early, but Tyra didn't have anywhere better to go or anything better than a hair-of-the-dog Red Stripe to get up for in the morning, so she stuck around after Street and Tim got through all the beer and the fifth of Jack and started on the tequila. Tim found an honest-to-mother-fucking-God lime in the back of the fridge and Tyra was half exhausted and half drunk, pressed up against his back with her mouth on his neck and her hands down his pants while he sliced it open. One minute Street had been in the living room, singing Texas Fight off-key, while Tyra had stroked her fingers down the front of Tim's jeans, pressing the zipper against his dick just to feel him jump against her, and the next minute Street had been framed frozen in the kitchen doorway, awkward like he hadn't been since they were 14 and he walked in on Tyra blowing Tim in the men's bathroom at the 40 yard line in the stadium.

Sometimes Tyra forgot that just because Jason Street was Tim Riggins' best friend, it didn't mean Street's not kind of weird about shit like that.

Tyra was drunk on life, though, and when Tim reached back and pressed his fingers against her mouth they tasted like lime and tequila and the baking heat of summer in Dillon, so she turned her head and laughed in Street's direction. She said, "What the fuck you waiting for, Six, a written invitation?"

She didn't mean a written invitation to walk into the kitchen and run his hand down her side, rough fingers and a broader palm than Tim's under her halter, and she didn't mean a written invitation to wrap his other hand around the back of Tim's neck, tugging on Tim's hair until Tim buried his face in Street's chest, still laughing, sticky lime-scented fingerprints on Tyra's waist, on Street's ribs. All three of them happy and drunk and sticky-sweaty, smelling like beer and charcoal from the grill.

She wasn't very clear, the whole evening wasn't very clear, and the sky was starting to go orange and burning at the beginning of dawn, so everything seemed a little off-center, the kitchen looked like something bigger, brighter than just a tiny rundown kitchen in a tiny rundown house in a tiny rundown town in Texas.

She clamped a lime between her teeth and let Tim lick salt from the curve of her breast, warm flat familiar stroke of his tongue on the edge of her tan line. Tyra must have been the one who talked Street out of his shirt, because Tim wouldn't have bothered, would have made Jason lick salt from his own hand because Tim says that loyalty to a quarterback only goes so far and doesn't mean letting him drink you under the table just to be fuckin' nice. She almost remembers doing it, sliding one hand under the edge of Jason's shirt so her nails caught across the planes of his stomach, the slope of his ribs, and it must have seemed like a good idea at the time, the inside of her mouth tasting tequila-slick and Tim's sticky fingers still dug deep on her hips.

It's like a slideshow of polaroids in her head when she closes her eyes to keep the world from spinning, and the memory sinks in her stomach like something heavy, not unpleasant -- of Jason's tan shoulders shaking with laughter, tight with nerves and fear, when Tyra licked the spot where Jason got his collarbone busted back when they were in elementary school and Tyra still wore pigtails and jeans that weren't tight.

Tim's fingers on her hips keeping her steady while she hooked one hand in the waistband of Street's jeans and ran her tongue against his shoulder, Jason's fingers laid over Tim's while he gulped and laughed under her mouth. So Street's t-shirt is in the sink, dropped like some other team's lineman on the football field, and it was Tyra's mouth and Jason's fingers on her hips that started everything.

She tripped on her own feet, laughing when she tried to twist backwards and reach up and take the lime from between Tim's teeth, and his fingers tightened on her hips and Jason's fingers tightened on Tim's. She thought handoff when she felt it, but Tim licked at the corner of her mouth and she dropped the lime on the floor, trying to turn and kiss him back, the inside of his mouth tasting more like lime than the lime under her feet.

There's clothes all over the floor in the living room, Tim's jeans tangled around the legs of one of the chairs in the kitchen. At five a.m. with a bottle of tequila, it was all sweat-slick skin and needy hands. Tim lost his t-shirt a long time before they got to the tequila and the sour-sweet limes, and Tyra pressed up against his chest just to feel the heat spilling off him when she kissed him, the way the muscles in his stomach jumped under a rake of her fingernails. Street was behind her, one hand under the edge of her halter, the other stretched out to touch Tim. Jason buried his face against her neck and she didn't notice until he opened his mouth against the spot that her heart beat, the secret spot at the edge of her jaw that made her drop her head back, open her throat to Tim's mouth.

It was July in Texas so it was hot, even after dark, even with the windows open and no chance of a breeze out there in the dust. Garrity had always been able to keep herself from getting sweaty, never wrinkled or flushed or sitting on Tim's loveseat fanning away the damp patches in her cutoffs, because also Garrity didn't wear cutoffs, but Tyra's never managed that and so she just wore as little clothing as possible. If Garrity ever finds out what they did last night, stupid on tequila and beer and weather so hot you can't breathe but for feeling like you're going to drown, she'll string Tyra up in front of the whole town like it wasn't just as much Jason Street with his hand on Tyra's stomach. Tyra's gone with Tim since she was a freshman, but she's never played by the rules somebody stupid set for football girlfriends, like Tyra didn't have her own identity. Since she's never played by their rules, she gets marked a slut and a whore and an easy lay, but she's only ever fucked Tim Riggins and that's that.

Tim Riggins and Jason Street, who are so much the same person sometimes, the way the town looks at them like they're gods or saviors or the answer to prayers that don't mean shit, that standing in Tim's kitchen, wearing Tim's t-shirt and looking at Jason's in the sink, Tyra doesn't think it really makes much of a difference.

It's not the kind of thing that Tyra expected to happen, because Tim's not a faggot and neither is Street. They don't have practice today, and the sun is already starting to sink down in the sky, everything already edging pink like it was when she fell asleep with Tim's chest under her cheek and Jason's hands curled one around Tyra's hip and the other reaching out for Tim.

Street kissed her different than Tim did, scared and gentle like maybe she was going to turn into Lyla Garrity middle of the kiss and yell at him for what he was doing, so Tyra turned in Tim's arms and hooked two fingers into Street's belt, pulling him up against her and pressing one hand along his dick. Tim laughed, kept laughing, with his hands all over Tyra, sliding up under her halter and running a thumb across her nipple until she shuddered against both of them, wanting to press up against Street and back against Tim, totally undone on booze and the joint Tim'd filched from Billy's room an hour ago and the feel of these two guys. Because Tim loved her, best he could, and he loved Street, best friends and Texas forever, and Street loved everybody, even Tyra because maybe sometimes she made his best friend happy.

Wasn't any other place in the state of Texas that Tyra wanted to be at five a.m. on a Sunday, than standing in Tim's kitchen listening to him laugh at Street and having him kiss her neck.

She sank down to the ground because the heat of the two of them got to be too much for her. It always was, sort of, since she started up this thing with Tim. Tim and Street exist in this whole other world, this world that's just the two of them and Tyra's not stupid, she's lived in Dillon long enough to know that you don't get between a QB and his fullback. Sometimes it just gets to be too much, though, and Tyra doesn't know how Garrity puts up with it, except that Garrity's a different kind of girl than Tyra is and maybe she gets more of Street's attention than Tyra gets of Tim's, maybe she gets a different kind of attention that doesn't feel like she's about to be smothered between the two of them.

So she went down on her knees, just meaning to lean against the sink or press her face and fingers against the joint of Tim's hip, anything to get out of the choking heat of the two of them, except she was still drunk, humming happy with liquor in her blood and she twisted, turning, pressed her mouth against the ridge of Tim's dick in his jeans. Tim had jerked against her, one hand dropping into her hair and the other shooting out to grab at Street's hip, just past Tyra's cheek. Street had just leaned closer to Tim, legs pressing up against Tyra's back, and when she looked up, Street had a hand twisted in Tim's hair, forehead pressed against Tim's shoulder and his eyes wide open, head down, watching Tyra with his pupils blown out and his mouth open just enough for her to know that he was panting. She dragged her teeth against Tim's dick just to see what would happen, fingers already going to the buttons in front of her, and Tim jerked again and Street made a wounded animal noise, both of them breathing loud in the quiet kitchen.

Tyra had undone Tim's jeans, pressed her hand against his dick through the thin cotton of his boxers, and Tim's breathing had sped up just a little. When she tucked her hand inside his boxers, the skin was warm, hot like Street pressing up against her from behind and Tim in front of her, and she slid his dick out of his jeans, like this was all some kind of science experiment. She wanted to know how far this was going to go. Not that she had any problem with people watching -- she's fucked Tim in the back of his truck in the parking lot behind the football stadium, and the thing about Tyra is that she's a fucking football girlfriend, she knows that Dillon gets more of her than she wants to give, but she's only going to give them the parts they don't really want. They can have her, but they don't get to make the call about what parts of her they get.

And it's just Street, here, not like Street's ever really known what to do with her but Tim loves Street and Tyra loves Tim in the fucked way that they've managed to stay together this long. Street's just Street.

Tyra wants to know how this is all going to play out. She can't see the future, but she's pretty sure Street's got one and she and Tim pretty much don't, and Tyra might fuck in public but she doesn't kiss and tell. So however this goes, it stays here, and she knows that there's a lot of stuff that's stayed between Tim and Street all these years, so.

She just wants to know how it's all going to end. She had Tim's dick in her hand and Street's knees pushed up against her neck and she didn't get to know how everything ends so she'd take whatever she could get.

She pulled Tim's dick out of the slit in his boxers, slid her hand up and down it a couple of times and wrapped her mouth around the head. Tim twitched again, groaned, "God, Colette, god, fuck," and then the string of obscenities that goes with fucking Tim Riggins got cut off, and Tyra tilted her gaze up, still sliding her mouth down as far as it would go. One of Tim's hands was still in her hair, the other was still tight on Street's hip, and Street had picked his head up and kissed Riggins. Street had a hand on Tim's shoulder and a hand in Tim's hair and his mouth over Tim's, and Tim's hand in Tyra's hair was opening and closing over and over again, not rough, just insistent. She wasn't sure she wanted to watch this, she wasn't sure she got to, and Tim's hips were jerking under her hands, so she closed her eyes and fisted the base of his dick, tight but not to, and flattened her tongue against the head of his dick, sucking until Tim came with another jerk and a cry that Jason Street, of all fucking people, cut off with his mouth.

She swallowed, bitter and salty against her tongue, and tried to wriggle out from between them. Tim said, "God, Tyra, fuck, Six," and Tyra leaned her head against his hip. She and Tim had problems, they had more than their fair share but Tyra liked him best when he'd just come, fingers gentle against the back of her neck, and Street said something low and quiet against Tim's neck that Tyra couldn't hear. Tim laughed, thumb against the pulse in Tyra's neck rubbing little circles, and Tyra blinked, because Tim's other hand was moving, pressed against the hard outline of Street's dick in his shorts.

Like this was something Tim's done before, which Tyra didn't really have a problem with because it's not like they talk much and it's not like Tim would have told her anyway, but it's a surprise and also kind of not at all. Tim thumbed the button open on Street's shorts and Tyra just leaned against him, listening to them murmur above her, not kissing anymore but their heads still close -- they've spent their whole lives in each other's pockets, Tim and Street with their heads bent together isn't anything new to Tyra. Tim stuck his hand in Street's shorts, and Street bucked the same way Tim did whenever Tyra got her hand on his dick, like he wished he wasn't still so surprised when somebody touched him, when somebody was willing to fuck him. Tim twisted his wrist and Jason groaned. If Tyra had looked up she could have seen their faces but she didn't, she just watched Tim's hand move on Street's dick, slow and sure like they've practiced this the same way they'd practiced all the plays in Street's backyard until they'd know them in their sleep.

She just wanted to know how this would end, and she'd be lying if she'd said this was even on the list of possibilities.

Street mumbled above her, voice rising and breathing uneven, and Tim twisted his wrist again and Street froze in front of her, whole body going rigid. Tyra looked up and his eyes were closed, mouth open against Tim's neck.

Tyra wasn't sure what she was supposed to say, but Tim tugged on her hair, fingers sliding to close on her shoulder and pull her up, pull her against him. She went, and he kissed her hard, one hand inching under the hem of her shirt and his rough fingers sliding across her nipple. He rolled it a little between his fingers and Tyra had always been an equal opportunity kind of girl, one for you and one for me and then another one for me just because she could. She leaned against him, wedging his thigh between hers until she could get a good angle, and Tim laughed against her mouth, Street still leaning on his shoulder but while Tim had a hand on her breast, Street's fingers slipped around her stomach, undoing the button on her cut-offs, sliding down into her shorts. Too fucking hot to bother with underwear in July in Texas, and it was Tyra's turn to jerk, Street's fingers brushing against her clit and then sliding further down, twisting against her cunt. He kept his thumb on her clit when he slid two fingers into her and Tim was kissing her and running his fingers along her right nipple just enough to tease and she couldn't decide which way to lean, into Jason's fingers or back against his broad chest or into Tim's kiss and his touch. She shuddered when Street stroked three fingers into her, thumb still steady pressure on her clit, and Tyra had never been an easy fuck but she was right then. All that focus, the two of them, and the heat of it was still smothering her but she couldn't be bothered to really care at all, desire building up in her gut and Street's fingers careful and more clever than she'd ever given him credit for.

She came in waves, with Tim biting at her jaw and Street in her ear, whispering nonsense while she shook and shuddered against his fingers. It took her minutes to come down, shaking against Tim's chest and his hands fitted against her hips while Street pulled back, pulled away from her. "You're fucking hot," Tim said, and Tyra muttered against his chest, "You are, too," except that she didn't really know who or what she meant, if she meant the curve of Tim's ass under her hand or the swelter of Tim and Jason both pressed against her. She was really tired all of a sudden, and she didn't remember much after that, just the sweet burn of tequila on Tim's lips when she reached up to kiss him. Street was standing next to him, ass against the counter and hip pressed against Tim's, and when Tyra leaned over and kissed him, too, Street just laughed and curved his fingers over Tim's on her hip.

She remembered Tim picking her up when she started sagging against his chest, remembered him setting her on his bed, and she remembered the brush of his fingers against her cheek, pushing hair from her eyes. In a haze of heat and tequila, it was the strangest thing that Tim did all night, stranger than jerking Jason Street off, stranger than kissing Jason Street -- because Tim wasn't the sort of boyfriend who noticed if Tyra shaved her damn hair off, much less if it was in her face, sticky against her cheek with lime juice and beer and sweat.

When she woke up in the morning, it almost all seemed like a dream, except that she could taste come at the back of her mouth and there was a hickey pressed to one side of her neck. She skipped the shower but stripped off her sweaty clothes, pulled one of Tim's Panthers shirts over her head and tried not to think too hard about the way Jason Street looked when he had somebody's hand on his dick. Tyra thought Garrity probably wouldn't like Tyra knowing that all that much.

So Tyra's standing in the kitchen drinking water from a plastic cup that used to have a Panther on one side and the football schedule from six years ago on the other. She's got her back to the door but whoever's stirring in the other room is pretty fucking loud, and Tyra can't believe that her head hurts worse than theirs do but if Tim or Street's making all that noise, they can't possibly be half as hungover as her. "Hey," Street says from the door, and when Tyra shoots him a look over her shoulder, he's got his head down, fingers kneading into the spot by his shoulder blade that Tyra knows always hurts him.

She knew more about Jason Street before last night than Jason Street probably knows she knows; Jason Street probably doesn't know much about Tyra Colette and probably doesn't want to, but that's just the fucking way Dillon in. Nobody's secrets are their own in Dillon. Street blinks at her in the late afternoon sunshine -- if the clock on the microwave worked, which it doesn't, she'd know exactly, but Tyra thinks it's almost dinnertime by the way the light is cutting across the floor. There's nobody at home who really cares where she is. He says, "Hey," again, arm still twisted behind his back and Tyra says, "Come here, okay?"

Street blinks at her again, startled, and then he walks over to her, and Tyra hops up on the counter and digs her thumb into the muscle he's been trying to reach. Street's whole body relaxes when she hits the knot, and he groans, dropping his head forward onto his chest and clinging to the counter behind him, wrists twisted awkwardly. Tyra knows that Street's shoulder bothers him because Tim told her; Tyra knows everything she knows about Jason Street -- the stuff that's not, like, he's the quarterback and Garrity's boyfriend and he's always had a hell of a lot more money and parenting than either Tim or Tyra -- because Tim's told her.

"God," Street says, rolling his neck and flexing his shoulder when she's done, when the muscle's loosened up under her fingers. "God, fuck, that was great, thanks, Colette."

Tyra kicks her heels against the cabinets below the counter and says, "You could call me Tyra, Street," and Street's eyes go sort of wide and scared at that. "Don't look at me like that," she says. "You think I want the whole school to know what happened, you think I want Garrity to look at me with those big hurt deer eyes? Fuck you, Street. I don't tell secrets."

She doesn't. She knows that Tim's an alcoholic and she knows that Street doesn't know that, and she's kept that secret. Secrets and lies, all over this fucking town. Secrets that aren't secrets and lies that are the truth and she won't tell anybody. Who'd believe her? The Riggins kid is trash enough to run around with the youngest Colette girl, she's heard that all over town, but Jason Street and Tyra Colette don't belong in the same sentence.

"Okay," Street says. "Okay. But I'm gonna call you Colette long as you keep calling me Street."

Tyra looks at him funny. "Everybody calls you Jason," she says, because they do -- Jasonstreet, one word, holy among holies on the football team, blah blah fucking blah.

Street frowns at her, face creased up like Coach Taylor just told him that he didn't get to play football anymore, and says, "Yeah," like he doesn't get it.

"So your friends call you Street," Tyra says.

Street looks at her like she's lost her mind.

"So we're friends," Tyra says.

They're not friends and they'll never be friends, but Tyra loves Tim the best she knows and Tim Riggins loves Jason Street better than just about anything except breathing and drinking and football, so she'll make an effort. She made an effort, last night. Street looks over at her and she knows he's thinking the same thing, they'll never be friends, but it's their senior year and Street and Tim are going to take the Panthers to State and maybe, just maybe, Tyra's going to catch a ride out of this damn town on Tim's back. So she'll try.

The sun gets red before it starts to set, and Tyra sits on the counter and swings her legs and drinks her water. Street sits at the table and reads the paper from the day before. When Tim gets up, he stumbles into the kitchen and leans against Tyra's legs, sliding his fingers under the edge of her t-shirt and mouthing against her neck. "Hey," he says against her skin, low and sweet. "What're we gonna do tonight?"

Tyra hooks her ankles around his hips and watches Street from over Tim's shoulder. Street's frozen at the table, paper wrinkled in his fingers, and Tyra just grins big at him. Street swallows, his throat sharp motion in the middle of his stillness, and Tyra says, "Ask Street."

"Street's still here?" Tim says, turning around, and his face never goes so free of shadows when he looks at her, but that's okay. Tyra's not Street and she doesn't want to be. She takes what she can get. "Man, last night," Tim says, and Tyra doesn't know who he's saying it to. Street laughs and shrugs at him and Tim screws up his face and says, "I got a fucking hangover, man." He and Street aren't going to talk about this, and Tyra's not going to talk about it, and Tim's got his warm strong hands up against Tyra's back.

She takes what she can get. Secrets and lies, Street and Riggins, and someday, somebody's going to get Tyra right out of Dillon. She's just waiting for the right time, the right heat wave, to make her break.

author's notes: title and summary from the drive-by truckers, "outfit". quick did beta duty exceptionally, and she gave me the song to begin with, and she and shep. asked me to write them this story. so this one's for them.