#artpatrick

“No, man, it’s not like that. I promised I’d meet my dealer over there. It’ll only take a second, I’ll find my own way back.” Patrick’s ‘dealer’ was a country club kid burn-out who had bought too much weed at a ridiculous price this summer, and was now forced to siphon it off to his younger buddies. Whenever Art didn’t feel like smoking with him, Patrick would go off with his dealer instead, coming back hours later having done God knows what. Art didn’t like him. “C’mon. You lovebirds won’t even notice I’m there.” Patrick puts on the puppy eyes—and when that doesn’t work— lays down his trump card. “Plus, it is my car.”

Art groans, more frustrated with himself because he should have figured—and because he knows he’ll say yes. He doesn’t even know why, does know on all levels it’s a terrible idea— but he's just never been able to send Patrick away. It just seems, despite all evidence to the contrary, easier to have him around than not. Art sighs. It’s not in his blood, maybe. He swings the door open and lets Patrick trail after him, catching his blooming grin before turning away, tampering down the satisfaction in his chest that always arises whenever he makes Patrick happy.

Needless to say, Melissa is not pleased. When she approaches the car, her smile falls and quickly turns into a look of both confusion and contempt at the sight of his best friend in the middle seat where Art had delegated him.

“What the hell is he doing here?” She says as she gets into the passenger seat, decidedly not looking at Patrick.

“Sorry,” Art replies sheepishly. “I’m just dropping him off. He’s not staying.” Art says this pointedly to Patrick.

“Scouts honour.” He smiles. “How’s Becca?”

Melissa rolls her eyes and doesn’t dignify that with a response, and with that they’re on their way.

Skip to about 20 minutes later—they’re at Make Out Point, no supposed dealer to be seen, and Art and Patrick are animatedly retreading their Nadal versus Federer debate for the thousandth time before the sound of a door clicking open catches Art’s attention.

“You can’t just discount wins on hard-court, you don’t even like playing on clay—Hey, where are you going?”

Melissa is already out of the car, looking back at the two boys like she’s not sure what to make of them. “This is weird, Art. I’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes third wheeling you two. One of my friends is here, I’m just going to go back with them.” She throws a look to Patrick, then back at Art. “Enjoy your date.”

“Wait, Melissa—“ Slam.

Barely a minute passes before Patrick gets out of the car and takes her place without a care in the world.

“Thanks a lot.” Art complains, spitting out the words. It’s a lot easier focusing on his anger towards Patrick than his embarrassment at literally forgetting his date next to him. “You weren’t supposed to hang around, asshole.”

“Hey, man, you could have kicked me out at any time. It’s not my fault Melissa is as boring as a doornail.” Patrick picks at his nails like he’s already bored of this conversation. “And her forehand sucks.”

“Shut up, man, she’s nice. She’s a good fucking person.” Patrick rolls his eyes, incentivizing him further. “Is your dealer even meeting you here? Or were you just deliberately trying to sabotage me?”

At this scathing accusation Patrick just scoffs. “You don’t need any of my help in that department, Donaldson.” Before Art can ask what that’s supposed to mean, Patrick is all in his face, with an expression he can’t decipher. “You think I don’t know what you look like when you’re trying to seal the deal? When you want me to fuck off? You literally forgot she was here.”

Because you were having more fun with me he doesn’t need to say, it’s loud and clear in the ringing silence of the car. It’s patronizing, and embarrassing, and only the slightest bit true. He doesn’t even remember when his attention had shifted from Melissa to Patrick, because Art is always paying attention to Patrick. It’s his default state. Melissa didn’t stand a chance in that regard. Art swallows down his wince and continues riding his wave of indignation.

“Because—because you were distracting me! You aren’t even supposed to be here!”

“Then tell me to go!”

“I am!”

“It’s my fucking car!”

The two of them slump back in their seats in synchronized huffs. He doesn’t know how much time passes in silence, only the wisps of winds through trees and other giggling teens to fill in the gap. Patrick keeps rustling around, fiddling with the unbuckled seat belt, messing around with the radio, before he finally turns back to Art. He’d never been that good at stewing silently.

“Alright, I’m sorry for being a dick.”

“You are a dick.” Is all Art offers. Still, his tone is softer than it was before. Just because he’s better at staying angry doesn’t mean he likes it.

“More of a dick than the guy who forgot his date was in the car?” Patrick says, smiling at him like it’s funny. Art can’t help but laugh despite himself while his face falls into his hands, letting the embarrassment hit him. It’s a little funny. It’ll probably be a lot funnier to Melissa’s friends.

“I am never gonna live this down.” He whines.

“Sure you will.”

“How?”

“Well—You could just convince everyone you got some, anyway.”

Art raises his head with a huff of a laugh. “With who? Should we just start knocking on windows?”

“I could help you out.”

A pause, a sudden shift in mood. “Help me out?”

“Mhm.” Patrick is scooting closer again, body hitting the arm of the passenger seat. His expression is mischievous and sweet, like it always is. “I could offer my hickey services.” Art chokes on his own spit—he most definitely does not recall the time he and Patrick gave each other hickies up their arms just to see if they could. “Plus, it’s your first time at Make Out Point. It would suck if you left it unkissed.”

Art’s eyes go a little hazy, the shape Patrick’s lips had made around the word unkissed burned into his retinas, the sound of it ringing in his ears. He’s teasing, but there’s a subtle sincerity in his tone. He knows how Art had been looking forward to it, how he’s mythologized this very scenario in his head.

Still. Art’s eyes flicker down to pink lips. Unkissed. He fiddles with the collar of his pressed dress shirt, feels a wave of heat down his back—had it always been so hot in the car? “That’s, um, a good point.” Art murmurs. Thinks about Patrick saying You think I don’t know what you look like when you’re trying to seal the deal? He flushes, can’t look him in the eye when he suggests: “It might be like, bad luck or something.”

“Exactly!” Patrick’s smile is blinding. “Wouldn’t want to ruin our chances at the championship this year.”

“Right. For the championship.” They both laugh sheepishly, their reasoning threadbare, yet bringing them ever closer in spite of it.

Patrick adjusts the armrest that’d been digging into his side, then the one by Art’s, allowing space for him to gracefully make his way onto Art’s lap. Art doesn’t react except for a single, sharp intake of breath, afraid if he makes any sudden moves Patrick will laugh in his face and write it all off as a joke. He’s warm where he sits—Patrick had always radiated heat—and his weight is a comfortable one Art’s long gotten used to.

“This okay?” He asks anyway, the tiny twitch of his smile the only sign of nerves. It settles Art a bit too, that Patrick is eager, wants to fool around in a car at Make Out Point of all places with him, but he’s a little nervous too. Even in the darkness he can see the beginning of a blush on his cheeks tight to the tips of his ears. It’s reassuring, that this is a big deal for the both of them.

“Yeah,” Art responds, hands coming up to rest at Patrick’s hips. His hands slip up his shirt, thumb rubbing at the top of his hip, feeling the slightest shiver in response to his touch.

Patrick nods, biting at his lip, and it draws Art in like a moth to a flame—they lean in, and then they’re kissing. This isn’t one of his late night fantasies where he gets wrapped up in the idea of what Patrick’s lips might feel like against his own, if it would feel as good as he imagined. It’s not even close. Art’s got his best friend in his lap, kissing him senseless, and the blood is rushing to his groin so fast he thinks he might pass out.

He wraps his arms around his waist to pull him closer, big hands coming to frame Art’s face that pull him into another fierce kiss. Patrick hums and sighs into his mouth, like every time they have to part for air it pains him physically. He’d always known Patrick was a noisy kisser, noisy in general, having endured plenty of girls in their dorm after-hours. But hearing it now—his little noises of pleasure, tiny breathless pants muffled by Art’s mouth—just makes him want to pull him closer, push his tongue in deeper, consume him whole. It’s driving Art completely wild.

The kiss is immediately sloppy, it feels indecent, it kind of feels like they’re already fucking, that’s how good it is. Art’s hands dig into Patrick’s back, moaning into his mouth as Patrick’s twist into his hair. His hands grip the blonde locks like they’re controls, angling his head where he wants it and kissing him deeper, sucking his tongue like he can’t live without the taste. It’s making him hard in his jeans, getting the full brunt of Patrick’s want, finally, instead of just watching from afar. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, hips twitching, hands fisted tight into Patrick’s shirt.

Patrick pulls back with a wet gasp, lips shiny and eyes sparkling. Without taking his eyes off Art he grabs the lever next to the driver’s seat and reclines them back a bit, making it easier for him to arch into Art a little more. He feels Patrick’s dick poke at his stomach as he grinds back and forth with a bit more purpose, gasping at the feeling of sudden pleasure. Patrick looks down at him, pleased and panting, curls falling into his face.

“Like that, hm?” He says, continuing his slow grinds, voice low and ridiculously sexy. Art does like that, he likes it a lot, so much so that his brows are scrunched up in focus as he bites a hole through his lip trying not to come in his pants. The friction of his ass grinding back against Art’s dick even through two pairs of jeans is electric. Patrick laughs at his concentrated expression, breathing hard. “Feels like you do.”

Patrick’s overflowing confidence turns him on as much as it pisses him off. Art wants to throw him off kilter, take back the reins, if he ever had them. He strengthens his hold on Patrick’s hips and grinds upwards, pulling him onto him harder, and manages to get the sweetest burst of sound out of his mouth. Art smiles, triumphant, and angels for another kiss, needing to swallow those moans from the source. The soft sucks of their mouths mingle with the sounds of their movement on the leather seat, neither of them able to get enough.

Patrick comes up for air, dodging Art’s attempts to reconnect their lips with a smile as his kisses shift from his face down to his neck, working on those hickies he promised him. His teeth tease at the skin before sucking lightly, Art angling his head away to give him better access. He lets one hand shift from Patrick’s hips to his ass, the other coming around to tug at his belt tentatively. Patrick detaches from his neck to eagerly nod his approval, sitting up to work on undoing Art’s pants as the blonde manages his.

It takes a little shifting, but once their dicks meet neither of them can help the twin groans that erupt from deep within their chests. Patrick is so fucking wet from just a little kissing and grinding that he’s leaking onto Art’s stomach, just barely missing his shirt where he’s rucked it up. Art’s not much better off, he’d been soaking in his briefs the second Patrick had ground his ass back on him. But the sensation of their freed cocks rubbing up against each other is nothing like he’s ever felt, sparks going off behind his eyes as he grips Patrick’s ass tighter, humping up against him harder to matching whimpers and moans.

“W-wait, fuck, Art, lemme—” He stammers through the blinding pleasure, and grabs them both in his huge hand, stroking them together. Art’s head knocks back into the headrest, arching off the seat and into Patrick’s hand. He makes a grab for the back of Patrick’s head and smashes their mouths together in an attempt to muffle his sounds. Patrick makes a twist with his hand and Art bites down hard onto his lip, can feel Patrick’s dick throb against his in response. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Patrick.” He spits out, spinning out of control with how good it all feels, out of his mind with it. “So fucking close.” Patrick’s leaning back, hand resting on Art’s thigh as he jacks them both faster and faster, and now that he’s not sucking his face off Art can finally get a better look at him. His brows are furrowed, his mouth hanging lewdly as his entire face scrunches up with his impending orgasm, hips thrusting into his own hand like he can hardly control his own movements. It’s quite possibly the sexiest thing Art’s seen in his life.

“Oh, oh, nn, f-fuck.” Patrick stutters, every breath practically a gasp. “M’gonna—Art, m’gonna cum, are you—“

“Yeah, yeah, Pat.” He reaches his hand and grips them both along with Patrick, fingers lacing with Patrick’s as they work their way closer and closer. “Together, c’mon, Patrick, please, want to—” And he doesn’t need to say anymore, can’t really, because he and his best friend are coming in record speed simultaneously, painting their (Mostly Art’s) stomach with cum. For a moment, they just sit there, sweaty and chests heaving with the exertion.

Patrick leans over from where he’s still seated atop of Art into the glove compartment, finding some leftover tissues to clean themselves up with. “Melissa missed out, man.” He giggles at the face Art makes at the mention of Melissa now, like he’d forgotten she’d existed for the second time this evening. “You sure treated me to a good time tonight.” He says it like a joke, but the expression on his face is so happy and satisfied that Art can’t help hauling him back for another kiss.

They make googly eyes at each other as they fix themselves up, shifting clothes and wiping away any evidence of their activities. Just as Patrick is about to climb off of Art, a knock on the window has them both jumping into the air, Patrick knocking his head hard into the car ceiling.

“What’s with the booze, Artie?”

“Wanted to drink. Didn’t want to do it alone.”

“Fair enough.”

You couldn’t find any cups, so you took turns swigging from the bottle. Laying across your bed, the two of you talked about everything, from college classes to childhood summers.

It wasn’t unusual for you to hang out. You’ve been good friends since the very first day at Stanford, meeting each other at orientation and deciding to stick together. You found out that you both played tennis, and decided it was an instant connection. Easy.

“Patrick’s coming this weekend. Did he call you?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, handing the bottle back to him. “He wants to watch you beat Carson.”

“He has a lot of faith in me,” he’d laughed, taking a swig.

He gets this glint in his eye, when he’s a little tipsy. It usually signals mischief and carelessness, two things he doesn’t have while sober. It’s charming.

“We both do.”

Shaking his head, he held the bottle out to you.

“You’re good, still? You and Patrick?”

You nod, ignoring the way the rum burned your throat as you swallowed.

“Yeah, we’re good. Miss him, though. He’s not good at calling.”

“I know. He’s always got that phone in his hand, but he’s shit at using it.”

You’d chuckled, taking in the way the lamplight made Art’s hair glow like some sort of halo.

“Hey, Art?”

“Hmm?”

“It isn’t weird for you, is it? Me dating Patrick?”

“I mean, it’s a bit late for this conversation, isn’t it? You’ve been dating for like, nine months or something.”

“Dude, answer the question.”

“Nah, it’s not weird. Was a bit unexpected at first, sure. But you’re good together. Makes sense.”

You nodded, putting the bottle down on your bedside table. You leaned your head sideways, resting it on Art’s shoulder where he lay.

“If it ever gets weird for you… you know, college friend and childhood friend, your two worlds colliding… just let me know, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.”

You stayed in the comfortable silence, both slightly buzzed and a little warm. Eventually, Art sat up, looking at you seriously.

“If he ever… if, I - I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dick.”

You sat up to face him, urging him to continue.

“Just say it, Art.”

He took a deep breath, chewing on his bottom lip.

“If he ever doesn’t treat you right, or tries to fuck you over… just tell me, okay? He’s not exactly known for being a model boyfriend.”

“He’s been good so far, but… thank you. I’m not stupid, Art. I know that boy has a reputation for being a slut.”

Art had laughed, then, all bouncy and unexpected. The sound of it lit you up.

“Understatement of the fucking century.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t quite wipe the grin off your face. You moved your legs to sit criss cross apple sauce as Art did the same, facing each other.

You’re not sure what possessed you, but you reached out gently to move a stray curl from his eyes. He caught your wrist, pressing a careful kiss into the bone. Your breath hitched, at the action and at the feeling of his rough fingertips against your soft skin.

To this day, you still don’t know who moved first. All of a sudden, he was kissing you, or you were kissing him, lips melding together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle sliding into place. Art tasted like rum and spearmint gum, lips soft from the chapstick you bought him the week before.

His hands cradled your face as yours tangled in his hair, pulling him as close as possible. You’d climbed into his lap, tiny shorts doing nothing to separate the two of you.

You knew it was wrong. Both of you did. But maybe the thrill of it is what turned you on. Shirts thrown onto the floor, bra caught on the lamp, panties shoved into the pocket of Arts athletic shorts. It was a perfect picture of infidelity - and in that moment, you couldn’t have cared less. Neither of you could.

Art had fucked you slow and deep, spurred on by spiced rum and the sugary sweet noises spilling from your mouth. Sweat slicked skin slid together, groans and whines reverberating through the air.

You came three times before Art eventually did, babbling and muttering nonsense into the crook of your neck. All you could make out was the word Patrick.

He’d pulled the duvet over the two of you, falling asleep instantly with limbs intertwined.

Almost as if you hadn’t betrayed someone you both loved.

Almost as if it hadn’t felt inexplicably good to do it.

Almost as if you both knew you’d most likely do it again.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

They didn’t mean for it to happen, that first time. They both swear.

Patrick was crashing in Arts dorm room, both of them planning on hitting up some Stanford frat party. They’d been on the courts all afternoon, smacking balls at each other as hard as they could, keeping the other person on their toes.

Art never laughed with anyone else like he did with Patrick. All day, they’d been giggling like kids, undoubtedly pissing off everyone around them. But this is how they are. They’re the most themselves, when they’re together.

You were supposed to go to the party with them, but you’d knocked on the door last minute and told them that there was a situation with your friend that needed to be dealt with. She’d been broken up with, suddenly and without reason, as most college breakups happen. According to you, she was devastated, a real mess of emotions. You’d vowed to stay in her room that night so she wasn’t alone. Both Art and Patricks hearts had constricted at your kindness. They’d never met anyone like you.

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning and we can still go out, spend the day together. Okay, babe?”

You’d leant up to press a sweet kiss to Patrick’s lips, laughing when he pulled you in to deepen it.

“Okay,” he’d agreed eagerly. “Text us if you need anything, yeah?”

“Will do. Have fun, boys!”

And then you’d left as quickly as you’d arrived, in a cloud of Victoria’s Secret perfume mist and vanilla scented body butter.

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Art.”

The blonde would be lying if he said he minded. He didn’t. He liked you a lot. But he liked Patrick more.

✵

Hours later, they stumbled back into Art’s dorm, drunk and babbling about the events of the night.

“She’s hot, Art. And she likes you. Clearly. How often does that happen?”

Patrick yelped when his best friend shoved him over, hitting the floor with a thump.

“Asshole. I’m not interested in her, like I told you eight thousand times tonight.”

“I just think Mackenzie-”

“Mallory.”

“-Mallory could be could for you. You’re not getting laid in college, Art. Do you know how lame that is?”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’d tell me.”

They looked at each other carefully, neither one daring to break the tense silence. Eventually, Patrick rose from the floor, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his jeans.

“I’m not sleeping on the ground tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll kill my back. And I have a match coming up.”

Art rolled his eyes, climbing into bed in his little boxer shorts.

“Where else are you gonna sleep then, huh?”

Patrick grinned, all white toothed and gleaming, before jumping right into bed next to the blonde, pulling the duvet up and over them.

“Right here.”

“You’re the fucking worst, Patrick. You know that right?”

“You love me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Art has never been able to argue with that stupid smirk. He rolled over, trying to put distance between them on the tiny university issued bed, acutely aware of how Patrick’s legs were tangled with his. It was all too intimate. The worst part was that he didn’t mind one bit.

“Missed you,” Patrick mumbled into the dark. “Don’t like that you’re not at home with me all the time now.”

Art half thought he was dreaming. All the sudden vulnerability had his head spinning, dizzy with affection.

“Miss you too,” he’d croaked out, quiet and afraid. “Wish you were here. We could have shared a dorm, played tennis together every day.”

“That sounds fun.”

Patrick was still speaking in hushed tones, as if he was scared he’d spook Art, send him running for the hills. They weren’t usually like this - so tender with each other. It had both of them reeling.

Both of them turned to face the other at the same time, trying to make out shapes of features in the dim light.

“I like the two of you together.”

Patrick knew Art was talking about you without him having to say it explicitly. It had always been like this with them. Easy, unspoken communication. Conversations without words.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Genuinely. I like her.”

A deep breath. Some quiet.

“I know you do.”

More quiet.

And then Patrick was propping himself up on his elbow, leaning over his best friend in the darkness. Art didn’t dare move an inch, unsure of what he wanted to happen next.

They say they don’t know who made the first move. All of a sudden, their lips were pressed together, gentle but insistent. Art could taste the liquor on Patrick’s lips. The history too.

It was more tender than either of them thought it’d be, when they’d dreamt it, imagined it, got themselves off thinking about it. They touched each other with almost careful hands, worried they’d spook the other person and send them sprinting down the hallway. Underwear was thrown across the room, duvet kicked to the end of the bed, pillows strewn across the floor.

They were gasping into each others mouths, sweat dripping down toned backs as their hips moved in tandem. Art silently thanked his lucky stars that his roommate was at his girlfriend’s for the weekend when Patrick groaned lowly into his ear, the sound reverberating through both of them.

One of them gasped I love you when they both came at the same time. Neither of them knows who it was.

It doesn’t matter either way.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“You’re sure?”

“Very sure, sweetie. He left last night. Been talking all week about how excited he was to see you and Art.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mrs Zweig. Appreciate it.”

“Of course, honey. I want to see you soon, okay? Carve out some time for us in your next break from school. We’d love to have you again.”

“I will. Thanks again. I’ll see you soon, maybe.”

You press the red button on your phone, confused. Going back through your texts, you find the one you’re looking for.

From: Patrick

can’t wait 2 c u on fri. thinking bout u. <3

It’s Thursday. You’re not technically expecting to see your boyfriend until tomorrow. Except, you could have sworn you saw the back of him in the cafeteria earlier, and now he’s not answering his phone. In a panic, you’d called his home landline, where his Mom had picked up and told you he’d left for Stanford last night.

So where the hell is he, and what the hell is he doing?

You decide to go to the one person who should know - Art Donaldson.

Marching down the hallway in your flip flops, you hold Art’s spare dorm key in your hand. You figure that if no one answers, you can just open the door and peek your head in to see if Patrick’s stuff has been dropped off.

Which is exactly what happens when you get there. Your knocking goes unheard, and so you turn the lock and swing the door open, expecting to see two empty beds and the usual mess on the floor.

Instead, you see Art.

And Patrick.

In bed.

Together.

They’re tangled, completely intertwined, momentarily unaware of your presence. When you kick the door shut, they both jump - Art hitting his head on the wall as Patrick almost falls off the mattress.

“Well, well, well.”

They’re both blushing furiously, avoiding your eyes on purpose.

“How long has this little rendezvous been going on, huh?”

You should feel nothing but rage. You should be boiling up inside. You should be outraged. Should, should, should.

Instead, you feel… even. Validated, almost. No one is saying anything, so you continue.

“Art. Fucking. Donaldson,” you laugh. “I did not think you had it in you. Damn.”

Patrick looks completely lost, so you sit yourself down on the edge of the bed where they still lay, toeing off your shoes and making yourself comfortable.

“Patrick, my lovely boyfriend. Let me tell you a story,” you grab his hand in yours, sickly sweet expression painted across your face. “Actually, I can’t be bothered. The bottom line is - Art has been fucking me into the mattress like, once a week. For a while.”

The brunette has the nerve to look shocked, glancing back and forth between you and the blonde next to him as if he’s watching a tennis match.

“You fucking snake,” Patrick jabs, but there’s no malice in it. He sounds… amused. “And you, Miss Goody Two Shoes. You’ve been fucking my best friend while I’m away, and then fucking me when I’m here?”

“Best of both worlds, baby.”

He grins at you, at the absurdity of it all. Art’s too busy blushing so hard he might pass out to process what’s happening.

“And you, you little fruit,” you poke Patrick’s chest, giggling. “You always told me you and blondie were just friends. Bet this has been going on for years, huh?”

“Not years.”

The sound of Arts voice surprises you both, two heads snapping around to face him.

“Months, maybe. Not years.”

“Who was first, Artie? Me or Patrick?”

“Idon’tknowit’salittleblurry.”

“Hmm? What was that?”

“I think he said-”

“Shut the fuck up, Patrick. Let the whore speak.”

They’re both stunned into silence, but they can’t take their eyes off you. They don’t dare.

“I don’t know,” Art chokes out, voice hoarse. “It’s a little blurry.”

You laugh, all maniacal and entertained, and the boys don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Holy shit. Damn. Was this your master plan all along, Art? Get us both into bed? Live out your bisexual fantasies and hope no one finds out?”

“No.”

“No? It’s what it looks like to me.”

“No, it’s - I just…”

“Cat got your tongue, blondie?”

You surge forward and capture Arts lips in a bruising kiss, licking into his mouth all filthy and debauched. Patrick watches on with his jaw unhinged, blush on his cheeks and tent in his boxers. After a minute, you pull back, cool as ever.

“Well, your tongue still works, Art. So, spit it out. Who. Came. First? Me, or Patrick?”

“Why does it matter?”

His voice has gone all small and tinny and afraid, and you’re not proud to admit how much it turns you on. He’s pathetic, in this moment, and you’re living for it.

“Call it curiosity.”

“You know what that did to the cat, right?”

Patrick’s voice surprises you, considering he’s been a spectator for the duration of the last conversation.

“What’s your game here? You wanna figure out if I cheated first, or if you did?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter either way. We both did it.”

“Yeah. We did.”

The three of you sit suspended in time, both of them slightly scared to move out of line or speak out of turn.

“So what now?” Patrick asks eventually. “We gonna sit here all night?”

You think for a moment, looking at both of them carefully. You’re all sat within touching distance on the bed, so close but so far.

“Show me.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you two to show me how you touch each other when I’m not here.”

Art’s eyes go wide as Patrick’s lips curl into a lazy smirk.

“Yeah, babe?” your boyfriend asks, clearly unphased by the request.

“Show me what you do when you think you’re being slick behind my back. I want to see.”

When the blonde doesn’t move, his best friend pinches his thigh.

“You heard the lady, Art. She wants a show, so we’ll give her a show.”

You scoot backwards so you’re perched right at the end of the bed, giving them their space. Patrick sinks to his knees on the floor, pulling Art’s hips to the edge of the mattress as he goes. You realise, suddenly, that both boys are completely naked while you’re still fully clothed. That thought gets you hot under the collar, the power dynamic going to your head.

You watch as Patrick kisses up Art’s thighs with practised precision, nipping and biting at the spots that make him squirm. You chuckle, realising that both you and Patrick have learnt the same things about Art’s body and the way he reacts. He seems to have the same realisation, looking up through dark lashes to smirk at you.

Art is none the wiser, lost in the way Patrick’s tongue feels swiping across his toned muscle. He’s rock hard and leaking, begging to be touched in any way he can get. You squirm in your place, determined to stand your ground and make your point but desperate to relieve the ache between your legs.

Patrick takes Art in his hand, squeezing gently as he rubs his thumb over his tip. He writhes into him, whining like a puppy eager for attention. He’s panting, chest heaving as if he’s just finished a tennis match.

“Tease him but don’t kill him, Rick.”

“Fine, fine.”

Your boyfriend takes his best friend in his mouth suddenly, taking both of you by surprise. You watch as he sucks him within an inch of his life, all messy and wet and utterly debauched. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been this turned on.

There’s no handbook as to what you’re supposed to feel, watching your boyfriend suck the dick of his best friend. There’s a thought in the back of your mind that maybe you should feel shame, or embarrassment, or rage. Instead, all you feel is excitement. It’s fun, getting to peek into their dynamic behind closed doors, a show that usually has no audience. You feel… special, almost.

Art is wriggling on the edge of the bed, hips jerking upwards involuntarily, making Patrick gag. The sound of it is so erotic, you worry for a moment that you’ll pass out. You’re lightheaded, dizzy with it all.

“You look so pretty, Art. So pathetic, but so pretty.”

They both groan in unison, Art’s head dropping back in bliss. His stomach contracts as Patrick hollows his cheeks, and you can tell he’s getting closer and closer with every swipe of his best friend’s tongue.

You lean forward, running the back of your knuckle over Patrick’s cheek where it’s stuffed full. He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine, and you laugh cruelly. Art’s hand tightens in the sheets, so you tangle your fingers into your boyfriend’s hair and yank as hard as you can.

“What the fuck, babe?”

“No, please. So close.”

You chuckle, running your thumb over Art’s bottom lip.

“Whores don’t get to come, Art.”

He goes to protest, but you cut him off sharply.

“Keep whinging and you won’t come for a week.”

They both shut up, silence swirling through the air. You take Arts place, moving him over so you can sit on the edge of the bed. Spreading your legs, you look down at your boyfriend where he’s still kneeling all pretty.

“Now’s time for your redemption, Patrick. Get to work.”

He slips your shorts and panties down to your ankles, pulling them off and throwing them onto the floor.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper into Art’s jaw, sucking a bruise there. “You’ll get your shot at redemption, too.”

They’re looking at you like guard dogs, ready to comply to any demand.

“You underestimated me, boys. I mean, what did you think was going to happen?”

Nothing can be heard except for the two of them taking desperate, heaving breaths.

“Two can play that game. Or, three, in our case.”