PAIRING: Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson x Reader  WORD COUNT: 5737 CONTENT TAGS: Smut with a lot of plot, MMF, catholic church, purity ring, religious imagery, competition, corruption, coercion, cigarettes, blasphemy, bisexuality, college/coming-of-age, Catholic!Art, fwb!Patrick, inspired by Fleabag + my own religious trauma SUMMARY: Patrick Zweig, of all people, goes to church every Sunday. You find out why.

You’ve always thought it was odd for Patrick, of all people, to diligently attend the town’s church every Sunday morning. 

As far as you’re aware, he’s the furthest thing from holy— partly because he’s got an asshole personality that could make anyone want punch him in the face, and partly because he’s fucked you more times than either of you bothered to count. If there’s anyone who’s ever seemed allergic to anything remotely pure, it’s Patrick fucking Zweig. 

You just can’t picture the scene of the curly dark haired boy, sitting in a pew amidst the soft, colourful glow of the stained glass windows, finding solace in prayer— it’s utterly ridiculous. 

So naturally, you find yourself walking down the aisle of the church in your Sunday best, eyes scanning the space for the familiar face. The air is heavy with incense and the people are scattered across the neatly organized benches. Everything is a little too serene, but it’s kind of a vibe with the huge stained windows in blues and reds. casting faint, vibrant patterns across the floor. 

Your gaze drifts as you walk, where oil paintings hang all over the walls. Some have faded and some are confusing to understand— but there’s a clear image of Jesus in the centre of it all, hanging on the infamous cross, wearing nothing but a loin cloth. He is surrounded by fully-clothed men and women who stare at his suffering body in what seems to be awe. You squint at Jesus’ carved chest and muscles gleaming in the light, the bright halo behind his thorny crown, and the blood trickling down his chiselled face. You swallow. 

You look back down at the people, sweeping the back of their heads until you spot the one that you want— sitting in the middle of a pew, his back straight, eyes focused forward, looking completely in peace. Not a hint of the usual loose-limbed arrogance, but just a young man looking to confess his sins and fly straight up into Heaven. Uncanny. 

You slide right onto his side, pressing against Patrick like you came here together. He shoves you away with his body in a subtle way— but the sharp side-eye he shoots at you is definite. He arches a brow and you mimic him, returning the same look with a grin. 

Before he can say anything, the priest lifts his hands. 

“Let us pray.” 

You stare at the man with a blank expression until you turn to the side to see Patrick with his eyes closed, hands clasped together, and head tilted slightly downward. Oh, fuck off. 

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

You copy his pose but lean into him, close enough to breathe on his skin. He sighs, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. He looks at you up and down, taking in your attempt at Catholic modesty.  

“You clean up nice,” Patrick whispers. “Didn’t think you owned a dress that covers this much.” 

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. 

You roll your eyes. “Didn’t think you owned a bible.” 

His lips curl at the edges. “You’d be surprised what I own.” 

Give us this day our daily bread,

Your gaze flicks up to the front of the church, watching the congregation murmur the words along with the priest, who has his arms wide open like he’s absorbing the prayer through his chest. 

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

You turn back to Patrick. “You come here to confess?” 

His lip twitches. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”  

You snort, then quickly slam your hand across your mouth. Patrick’s shoulders shake. 

And lead us not into temptation, 

You give Patrick a slow, expectant stare, lips pressed together. Come on. Tell the truth. 

Patrick peers back into your eyes for a moment, the familiar lazy smile forming on his face, before he shifts his gaze, flickering past you. You turn your head, following his line of sight. 

But deliver us from evil.

Across the church, to your left, in one row ahead of you— is a boy. 

A boy with the kindest, purest face you have ever seen, half-lit by the dramatic golden lights. He sits with his head bowed, his tousled blonde hair falling just over his forehead. He mouths the words with certainty like he has all the words memorized, and there’s just something so pure about his stance, hands tightly holding each other, devoted. He’s all soft edged and open warmth, the kind of pretty that feels delicate— almost sacred. Like he was meant to kneel at the altar, not sit among sinners. 

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. 

Around his neck, a silver chain with a simple cross resting against the crisp white fabric of his shirt, just above his heart. A matching ring is on his left hand, glinting faintly as he breathes. 

You turn your head back to Patrick. He’s smiling. 

You feel your own grin tug at the corner of your lips. 

“Amen.”

Mass is long. You try to focus. But your eyes keep betraying you, drifting back to where he sits— perfect posture, attentive eyes, and hands absentmindedly fidgeting with his necklace. Every time you look, you expect to find something imperfect about him. A twitch, a yawn, a cough— but there’s nothing. He’s pristine, listening to the priest like he really, truly understands what it’s about. And it makes you want to ruin him, just a little. Just to see what he’d look like when he falls apart. 

Patrick kicks your ankle. 

“Dibs.”

You kick him back. 

“You can’t call dibs on a person.” 

It’s a childish back and forth of shoes to legs until the mass drags to an end. The priest delivers the final blessing, the congregation murmuring a chorus of amen, and then— movement. People get up from their seats, gathering their coats and purses and bibles, shaking hands and nodding heads toward each other. 

Peace be with you. And also with you. 

Patrick is already ahead, shaking hands and sharing peace with some old lady, while you attempt to follow him— only to be intercepted by a well-dressed man who gives you a firm, approving handshake and some peace to be with you. You return a tight expression before catching up to Patrick. 

He catches your sleeve, pulling you slightly and tips his chin— towards the blonde haired boy. He’s standing just a few feet away, shaking hands and exchanging polite smiles with everyone around him. There’s a whole lot of sincerity in his form, like he’s actually able to distribute peace just by touching skin. You can’t help but notice how his fingers curl gently around each handshake, how his eyes soften when he listens to the replies. 

“His name’s Art.” 

You whip your head around. “You’ve talked to him?” 

“Everybody’s talked to him.” Patrick shrugs. “He’s the deacon's son.” 

“Oh, shit.” 

“Yeah. Poor guy.” He sighs, staring at Art with great concern. “Imagine being raised that close to God.” 

The two of you gawk at him without hiding it, standing in the middle of the aisle, letting the flood of the leaving congregation split around you like a tide. He’s just a few feet away now, talking to someone who looks like his father, his fingers idly twisting the silver band on his ring finger.

“And what’s up with the ring?” You ask. “He can’t be married.” 

“Purity ring.” Patrick answers, like it’s obvious. 

You blink. “What’s a purity ring?” 

Patrick stays silent. He catches Art’s attention with a small wave, changing his face to a far more honest one. Art’s face lights up, genuine— says something to his father before starting towards the two of you, weaving through the last bit of the crowd.

“Peace be with you.”

You hesitate. “Thank you?” 

He laughs— his sweet, brown eyes crinkling along with it— and it completely disarms you for a moment. 

Fuck. He’s exactly your type. But he’s not Patrick’s usual type at all. Patrick likes people who bite back— someone sharp, who can keep him amused, at the very least— but this boy looks like he’s never seen that side of Patrick Zweig. Like Patrick hasn’t had the chance to pounce on him yet. 

You sort of laugh with him, ignoring Patrick’s amusement. 

Art calms. “First time?” 

“Yes.” Patrick puts his hands on your shoulder. “This is (Y/N). She’s been having a tough time in her life, so I brought her here. Thought she could use some guidance in her life.” 

Unbelievable. 

“That’s really kind of you, Patrick.” Art’s face softens. He turns to you, eyes warm with ingenuous concern. “I hope you found some comfort here.” 

You nod. “Oh, yeah. I can see why Patrick comes here.” 

You earn a smile from him. He offers you a hand. 

“I’m Art.” 

You take it. He’s warm. Gentle. Like he’s trying to be reassuring, welcoming, but there’s a slight hesitation in the way his fingers wrap around yours, like he’s not entirely sure of the line between politeness and something else. You feel the cool surface of his ring against your skin.

“I like your ring." You glance down at the jewelry.

There’s a snort from Patrick as Art flushes, a subtle pink spreads across his cheeks. He pulls back from your grasp, his smile flickering into something a little less certain. He swipes his thumb over his ring, as if to hide it. 

“Thank you,” he says with a nervous laugh.

You tilt your head, confused. Patrick fills the silence. 

“She’s completely new to this whole thing." He sighs, shaking his head like you’re a real burden. “I’ve been helping her a lot, but, as you know, faith comes from opening yourself to the lord.” 

You give him a look. “Are you saying you've opened yourself to the lord?” 

“Oh, I’m wide open.”

“Well, I— um—” Art stops, like he’s trying to regain his composure, searching for the right words. It’s cute. “I’m really glad you’re here. I know it might feel overwhelming at first, but the church is always open. If you ever need anything, I’d be happy to help.”

Yeah, you definitely need something from him. You give a quick glance to Patrick— who cannot hide his excitement at Art’s offer. 

“I’d love some help, actually.” You plaster on your sweetest, most hopeful expression on your face. “I’m so lost with this whole thing, and I could use some personal guidance.” 

Art beams. This is what he’s good at. “Of course. Are you interested in participating in Bible study?” 

You blink. “Is that like a one-on-one thing?”

“I— well, Bible study is usually a group thing.” He explains. “But I could help you out with some of the passages if you’re having trouble.” 

Patrick cuts in, like the attention whore that he is. 

“You know,” He taps his finger on his brand new Bible. “I think I could use some guidance too. My faith needs some deepening.”

You tilt your head. “Oh, I thought you already opened yourself to the lord.” 

“I can always go deeper.” He grins. “So, Art. Your place? Sometime this week?”

Art, sweet, oblivious Art, looks between you both, overwhelmed at the sudden pressure. His hand fidgets with his necklace as he looks at the Bible in Patrick’s arms, then the expectant expression from your face. 

He nods. Earnest. 

God bless his soul. 

The three of you eventually figure out a time. You ask for Art's number— only so that he can text you his address, of course— and he gives it to you, easily. You and Patrick keep up your good behaviour, but just as Art leaves, you snap towards Patrick.

“Tell me what the ring means.”

Patrick licks his lips, before leaning in. You catch the hint of a smile in his voice as he whispers the answer into your ear. 

Oh. Oh. 

So that’s why Patrick hasn’t…

You let out a breathy giggle, a rush of heat crawling up your neck. The pieces start to fit together. That soft, pure little lamb you’d just been around. Art. Untouched by anything except the passion of his faith. You never knew such purity could exist in your life, but here he is.

“That’s insane." You sigh, a rather delighted smile on your face. “Why would anyone do that to themselves?” 

“Well, not everyone is a slut like you,” Patrick hums. “Some of us are trying to focus on our spiritual journey.” 

You roll your eyes, heading towards the entrance. “You’re so fucking fake.” 

Patrick swings his arms around you, lowering himself to be face level with you. “I’m not the one who spent half of mass eye-fucking the deacon's son.” 

You jab him in the ribs and run out of the church. 

Art lives alone in a small apartment on campus. It’s small, but neat, curated with annotated religious books on shelves and a wooden cross hanging on the wall. He’s studying theology in university, because apparently, he wants to be a deacon like his father.

“So do deacons need a calling?” Patrick asks. “Or is that for priests?” 

“No, deacons can have a calling too.” Art smiles, a bit sheepish, eyes flicking downward. 

You’re sitting on the ground, across from Art with your back against the base of a couch. Patrick sits beside you, touching your knees, fidgeting a pen between his fingers. He nods to Art’s words, lips pursed, hungry. On the coffee table ahead are three Bibles spread open on top. 

You nod too. “And you’ve had a calling?” 

“I think I always have.” Art looks into your eyes with a soft confidence. “It’s always been a part of me.” 

He is so quiet in his certainty, which makes you wonder if it's even certainty at all. You peer into him and he turns his attention back to the Bible, like you’d catch something in his eyes that you’re not supposed to see. 

Art isn’t the slutty, easy romance you’re used to, rather, he holds an innocent kind of beauty that only alludes to his chastity. The men in your life, including the asshole next to you, have been wolves, but Art— he is but a gentle lamb. Always so bashful, so honest around you. 

Such purity begs to be tainted. 

The three of you have been studying Genesis since 8PM. The basics. The origins of the world, of human life, of sin. It’s not particularly radical to your knowledge but it’s been fun, being able to picture the nakedness of Adam and Eve in that perfect garden, untouched by shame. You wish the Bible was a picture book instead— you’re a visual learner. 

Art continues down the page. “That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.” 

“One flesh." Patrick repeats, slow, savouring. Like he’s rolling something sweet on his tongue. “This is about sex, yeah?” 

You bite your lips, a breath away from a laugh, but you hold it in. Patrick’s been so good for the whole evening— so good. Didn’t even twitch when you skimmed his thigh under the table, didn’t even blink when you adjusted your shirt, just enough to expose your skin a bit more. You’d started to think he was actually behaving. 

But his comment is like a switch— it breathes permission into the room.

Art flicks the thin page of the Bible. “It’s about unity.”

Patrick persists. “A physical unity.” 

Art looks at you, like he’s asking you for help— but you shrug, pressing into the couch behind you, settling in for a show. He’s a bit thrown off by your silence, like he’s been betrayed— but turns to Patrick anyway. Courageous. 

“Yes, the physical act is part of it. But it’s not just—” He swallows. “Sex for the sake of it. It’s about two people coming one in marriage. It’s part of God’s design.” 

“To have sex?” 

“To be fruitful, and to multiply, and to replenish the Earth.” Art quotes. 

Dear God. It’s your turn to strike. “You can do that without being married.”

“But it’d become an indulgence.” His voice is steady, firm in that self-assured way— but his burning face gives away how he really feels, that only makes it more fun to push him. “It prioritizes pleasure without the sanctity of commitment.” 

Patrick bites the inside of his cheek at Art’s answer, eyes taking over his form to measure just how deep that conviction really runs. He eventually grins, pulling back. 

“Okay, no sex before marriage, got it.” He nods. “What about self-unity?”

“What?”

“You know.” Patrick mimes an exaggerated jerking motion.

You see Art’s finger graze his ring— like he’s reminding himself why he’s here, doing this with the two of you. “It’s not about the act itself but the lustful thoughts and fantasies that lead to it.”

“So if I just jerk off with no thoughts, head empty, then I’m good?” 

“You can’t not think about anything while—” 

Art stops. 

You see it happen— the exact second he realizes what he’s said. The way his lips press shut so fast like he’s trying to shove the words back in. It’s a tiny sliver of vice— that allows the two of you to corner Art like a pack of wolves. 

“Oh?” Patrick’s grin sharpens. His voice drips with delighted mockery, knowing he finally has the upper hand. “How would you know?”

It's quiet until you start to laugh— you really can’t help it. It’s barely contained as your facade slithers away. The sound eases the tension a bit, coiling through Art’s sides— and he shakes his head with a tight smile, like he’s made a mistake. But he can’t take it back. None of it. 

“It’s okay if you’ve jerked off before, Art. We’ve all done it,” You say between giggles. 

Art stares at you like he’s never considered that before. That you, sitting across from him, knees touching Patrick’s, have done it. And is willing to talk about it. 

“So, when was the last time?” Patrick sings. 

Art closes his eyes. “I’m not answering that.” 

“So recent, then.” 

"No, we're not doing this." 

"Do what? We’re just talking.” You tease, sweet. “What do you think about?”

“No,” He groans, pressing his hands to his face, though it does not hide anything. Not the raging colour of his skin, not the rigidness of his structure, and not the silver ring holding the promise of his chastity. “This is wrong, okay? It’s sinful.”

You let the word curl around your chest. Sinful. He says it like it’s meant to scare you, to twist some guilt into your insides. It’s a word he’s clinging to like a shield, the word he thinks is going to save him from the overwhelming heat that's seething in the room. Like he’s afraid to admit anything else that could be available to him without the thought. Suspense. Pleasure. Relief. 

Patrick turns to you with a face of amusement and sympathy— as if to say, Pitiful, pitiful Art. He just doesn’t get it. Patrick knows he’s responsible for Art’s conflict. He should be the one to fix it. 

“(Y/N.)” Patrick tilts his head. “Come here.”

You glance back at Art, who lowers his hand, slowly. He’s a stifled, frantic thing, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nothing. You slink closer to Patrick, legs ending up in a kneeling position beside him. 

You smile at Art. It’s okay. 

“Does this look sinful to you?” Patrick asks, before pressing a short kiss to your lips. As if it’s nothing. Just a little taste. 

The two of you turn to Art, who is clutching the bible with his hands, fingers digging into the worn leather cover. “No, but—” 

“Okay, what about this?”  

Patrick pulls you closer, taking your face, pushing your hair behind your ear before his mouth brushes against yours. It’s slow, purposeful, measuring every bit of his actions to be as tempting as possible. He checks Art, gauging his reaction— ears flushed red, legs pressed together, and eyes completely focused on the two of you. Patrick grins, and it’s you who lean into the kiss, the impatient feeling growing between your legs. 

Patrick’s hands find the back of your neck, gripping you a little too tightly. You open your lips to let him in, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with practiced ease. His lips move against yours like he's starved, dragging each sound, each movement out with an almost theatrical precision. You let his hand roam down your sides, barely grazing the places that feel good. It’s not about satiating your pleasure, not yet— he’s just showing you off. 

“Does this look sinful to you?” Patrick murmurs between kisses. 

Art does not answer. His eyes, wide, dark— flicker from your mouths to your body, watching your thighs press tightly together, rubbing against each other like you need something more. His lips part slightly, a shaky breath escaping as  if he’s forgotten how to properly breathe. The Bible, now closed, rests against his lap, blatantly hiding his bulge straining beneath his pants.

You pull back, gasping for air as your lips sting from the rough pressure. Patrick laughs at the swollen state of your lips, wiping the side of it with a playful kindness. It’s sweet, and it’s not an action easily forgotten by Art. His gaze locks on the action, as though he’s memorizing the way Patrick touches you, the way you both exist together in this moment. It’s intimate. Easy. 

“Art.”

He flinches at Patrick’s voice, like he’s been under a spell until he spoke his name— and Patrick reaches out, turning your face gently toward Art by your chin. There’s a deliberate edge to it, like he’s claiming you in front of Art. 

“Does she look sinful?” He asks, still holding you, framing you. 

Art’s eyes flicker, darting between you and Patrick— his mouth, still wet from the kiss. His hands on your face, holding you— you, with your chest rising and falling too quickly, still shaken from the intensity. Legs bent at the knee, leaned against Patrick— letting the residue of the kiss hang between the three of you. 

And there’s nothing about you that looks shameful. Nothing desperate or untamed. The way you breathe, the way you look at him— there’s nothing that makes you feel wrong. No fear, nor indignity. It’s just… you. It’s funny, because, you’re the one he’s been warned about. The kind of promiscuous, corrupt girl that haunts the message of every sermon, the kind that makes men stumble and question their every thought. 

And yet. You’re beautiful. 

He shakes his head. No. No, you’re not sinful. 

He feels a knot tightening in his chest. He looks at your eyes— calm, innocent. There’s no sin there. No, it’s not about you— it’s him. He’s not looking at you the way he’s supposed to. The heat pooling in his body, the way his pulse races— it isn’t about you. No, it’s his body that’s betraying him, reacting to the most innocent thing in the most unholy way. 

His throat tightens as he shakes his head harder. He looks down at the Bible pressed against his erection and he’s ashamed— how wicked is he to react like this? And he knows— he knows the two of you are staring at his erection, and it feels like the whole room is closing in on him. 

“I’m sorry,” He stammers, barely able to make out the words. 

Holy fuck. Patrick practically revels in his apology, dropping his hands from you like he got what he wanted. You’re unsure if Art’s saying it to you, to Patrick, or to God— it doesn’t matter. You’ve come so far, so close. 

“Art, it’s okay.” You crawl towards him. “I’m flattered.” 

You slowly pull the Bible away from his crotch, and he watches your eyes stare at his bulge with desire. It’s wrong. He should move away. But he finds himself letting you gently grab his face, body stiffening under your touch. You can feel the tension of his muscles beneath his skin, as if he’s bracing for something sharp, something brutal— but it never comes. 

You worry he might pull away, but then, so quiet you almost miss it, he exhales. It’s small, broken in half, but it’s enough to know— he has fallen.

You smile, before leaning into him, planting your lips against his. 

Art kisses like he’s scared. Like one wrong move and he’ll be electrocuted. He waits for you to make the moves, completely immobile at first. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, his legs, his erection— and lets you guide him through the whole experience, making Patrick snicker as he slides towards Art. 

“You kiss like a middle schooler,” Patrick jokes, turning Art’s face away from you. His fingers grab at his neck, just how he did with yours. Art fuses with it, slowly kissing Patrick, trying to copy how you did it before. And Patrick doesn’t ease him in— he’s been waiting for this, longer than you— he devours him. It’s sloppy, a little more tongue than you think you were putting out, but adorable nonetheless. A whimper breaks from Art’s throat, and you reach for his chest— you want to know what other sounds he can make. 

The thin shirt does nothing to protect him from your touches, prodding and feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. You start from his chest, down the centre, where his heartbeat pounds under your touch. You drag it lightly over his ribs, his stomach, then all the way down— and he shudders in response. You palm him through the fabric of his pants, and he jerks away from Patrick’s mouth with a startled gasp. 

“Wait—” 

Patrick pulls him back, crashing his lips against Art’s. He makes a muffled, helpless noise, protesting— but it’s all tongue and teeth. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss— rough, relentless. For a moment, you think it might be too much. But Art doesn’t push either of you away. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides, not knowing whether to grab onto Patrick or you. 

You press your palm against his boner, firmer this time, fingers curling slightly. His hips buck up before he can stop himself, like he’s working purely on instinct now— and he makes a noise broken in half— soft, wrecked. He’s bigger than you assumed— this guy should not be allowed to be a virgin. You work him up, rubbing him through his pants, watching the way he tenses and shakes. 

It happens faster than any of you expect. Art gets loud, the sounds choked up in his throat— and you barely register what’s happening until he pushes Patrick away, hips stuttering, legs squeezing together like he’s trying to stop it. 

“Wait— no, I’m gonna—” He grabs at your wrists, weak. “I think I’m gonna—”

You stop.

Art makes a confused sort of sound, eyes fluttering open as his whole body shakes, struggling to process the sudden absence. You can see it— how it takes him a second to register that you really, truly stopped. 

“We should probably go back to studying, huh?” You tilt your head, picking up the Bible discarded on the floor. “Got a little sidetracked.” 

Art’s stomach twists— he feels dizzy, overheated, aching in a way that makes him go insane. He tries to keep his mouth shut, swallowing the moan in his throat, trying so hard to keep himself controlled— he knows what you’re doing. He knows what Patrick is doing. 

But fuck— he’s still shaking. Chest heaving, staring at you like he’s been betrayed. 

Art breathes as you flip the book open. He turns to Patrick, like his stunned silence will somehow mean something— but Patrick shrugs, moving to pick up his Bible from the table. 

Art’s finger reaches out, grabbing onto Patrick’s sleeves. “Wait.” 

His eyes are wide, tear-stricken, vulnerable— but the sense of fear has disappeared from his form— like he has forgotten all about the ring on his finger. Like his desires are finally biting him in the neck, puncturing his skin and replacing his voice with pure impulse. 

That’s all you need to see before kissing him again. 

For Art, It has always been quick. Under the blankets. Lights off. No moaning, just furious shame-jacking until he finished, quietly cleaning himself up before falling asleep with his heart pounding in his chest. 

But Patrick’s slow. He’s got one hand around Art’s cock, stroking it slow, patient. His thumb occasionally teases the tip, stopping Art from coming too soon. His boxers are down to his knees, legs splayed and twitching. His shirt is rolled up to his collarbone, exposing his chest— pink and damp, heaving. 

You’ve been playing with him, feeling the insides of his thighs, tracing his hips, brushing over the curbs of his stomach with your nails to watch it contract. He’s a mess, mouth slack, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to let his words out properly. 

“Don’t be mean,” You scold. “It’s his first time.” 

“I’m not being mean,” Patrick murmurs, kissing the side of Art’s cheek. “He’s enjoying it. Right?” 

Art makes a strangled sound in response, his hand gripping your wrists, grounding himself— but not stopping anything. 

You give Patrick a look and he sighs. Fine. He picks up his pace, working Art faster now, no more teasing, slow strokes. Just clean, focused jerks that have his hips lift erratically, like he doesn’t know whether to thrust into Patrick’s hand or run away to your embrace. 

“Good?” Patrick asks, knowing the answer. 

Art nods helplessly, eyes squeezed shut, noticeably reaching closer to the edge. 

“Put your hand on his stomach,” Patrick orders, going faster and faster. “Want you to feel when he comes.” 

You don’t have to be told twice. You press on his stomach, leaning close enough to feel the heat off his skin. You can feel the intense contractions of his muscles, convulsing as Patrick pumps him to the edge. 

“Wait, wait—” Art sobs, fisting your shirt. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming—”

You and Patrick watch in awe as Art comes. He throws his head back, back arching as he sobs through it, hands gripping you as Patrick strokes him through his orgasm. 

“Holy fuck,” Patrick groans, deep and satisfied. He knew Art had it in him.

White liquid splatters over your hand and Art’s stomach as he jerks through the aftershocks. It’s messy, embarrassingly loud, practically obscene— and he folds onto himself like he wants to collapse inwards and hide— but you hold him down by his hips, whispering in his ear that it’s okay, this isn’t sex. He was so good. He’ll be alright. 

When he finally blinks back into himself, looking down— he’s mortified. He presses a shaking hand at his abs, but it only makes it worse. The wet, shameful stickiness stains his palm and he hiccups, jaw clenched tight, like he can’t believe what just happened. 

You can see the way he fights his blissed-out body with his escalating thoughts; I tried to be good. Please forgive me. Please. Please. 

He tries to hold everything in but his tears fall anyway, shoulders shaking as he goes limp in your hold. Patrick brushes his hair away from his face while you pepper kisses and lick the guilt off his cheek.

You’ve half-expected him to taste sweet, mirroring his honeyed hair and mellow eyes.

But he’s all salt, and the taste lingers between your teeth. 

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” 

A giggle slips out, high and breathless, before you can swallow it down. The weight of your words, which are none, loiter in the dim confessional. It’s 1 AM and church doors have no locks, apparently— so you and Patrick have slipped in, a bit tipsy and horny, which seems to be the default setting when the two of you are together. 

“Isn’t this blasphemous?” You whisper, eyes darting to the wooden partition, where the outline of Patrick sits. 

“Probably." He huffs, letting cigarette smoke pass through the patterned holes. “You scared?” 

“No.” You pull your leg up, hugging it with both arms, knees tucked against your chest in the small wooden seat. “It just feels wrong.” 

“Go on, then.” Patrick lowers his voice, something akin to divine. “Confess.” 

You roll your eyes, but smile nonetheless. 

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I had impure thoughts.”

“Shocker.” 

“Shut up.” You swallow. “There’s this boy. He’s…”

Soft, delicate, quiet. With unkissed lips parted open with curiosity and a burdened, guilt-ridden heart. Devout. 

“...Good.” You close your eyes. “And I think we may have ruined that goodness, a little.”

“A little?” Patrick snorts. “He’s going to burn in hell because of us.”

You’re both thinking about him. The way he shook under your touch, the way he gasped when Patrick wrapped a hand around him— the way he twisted himself to deny the pleasure, trying, trying so hard to be righteous and good. All of that, wasted in the span of an hour.

God, you can still taste his tears. 

“Do you feel bad?” 

“Nah.” Patrick shifts, taking another drag of his cigarette. “It was the kind of good that was hanging by a thread anyway.” 

Hm. Your head tilts back against the wood. 

“Maybe next time I can give him a blowjob.” You chew your lip. “That’s not really sex, right?” 

“With that logic, you should just ride him. Technically he won’t be doing anything wrong if he just sits there.” 

It’s meant to be a joke, probably. But the image hangs in the air, and your appetite only heightens. Patrick notices, catching it from your lack of response. He blows the smoke and it slithers through the tight space, hissing into the preceding scent of age and stale prayers. Stifles you as it furnishes your lungs and presses your chest from the inside. 

“We’re such assholes,” you mumble. 

“Yeah.” 

“We should probably leave him alone.” 

“Yeah.” 

A beat of silence is all it takes to know that neither of you believes the other. Then you both dissolve into laughter— outrageous and wicked— foreheads pressed against the wooden panel. Sinful, shameful creatures. And you always will be.