#patrick zweig

TOURING WITH the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy fucking sucks.

Especially when Art is forced to share a room with Patrick Zweig and you. He’s restless, strung tight with arousal and forced to succumb to a weekend of keeping his hands above the belt. If it was Patrick it’d be one thing—the pair of them have been shameless enough to get off in the same room for years: bunk beds, hotel rooms wedged together, even at the Zweig estate with him sleeping on the floor right next to Pat’s four-poster bed. Too gay if they’re physically in the same one, they’d reasoned back then.

What a joke.

He’s supposed to be sleeping. You all are. Warmup for morning matches starts early, and your coach had warned you sternly about late nights. But laying down and actually sleeping is impossible with Patrick sprawled on the other side of the bed. With you tucked between them in this awkward, temporary arrangement of sharing space to cut costs. And especially with the knowledge that you’re right there, less than an arm’s length away, already drooling onto your pillow in a rumpled MRTA shirt and a very flattering pair of sleep shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.

He’s tried to doze off. He really has. Closed his eyes, counted his breaths, forced his body into stillness with the cartoon image of sheep soaring over the bed to lull him into slumber. But his brain just won’t shut off. Every inhale has the smell of your body wash and Patrick’s obnoxious cologne flooding his senses. Every exhale syncs with the rhythm of your breathing, soft and steady and completely fucking oblivious to the torment he’s facing right next you.

And his body, well… that’s an entirely different ballpark. He’s half-hard under the thin sheets, embarrassingly sensitive and pulsing with the thought of you. 

He isn’t sure whether he should scream or laugh. Or maybe go knock on someone else’s door and beg to sleep on their floor. 

Patrick is, apparently, faring no better on the opposite side of you. He keeps tossing and turning, muttering incoherently into his own pillow. It’d be a believable display if Art didn’t know him inside out by now. Patrick isn’t asleep. Not with the way his hand keeps drifting under the covers, hips grinding upwards subtly like he’s incapable of helping himself.

It’s disgusting. Perverted. And it’s a mirror of Art’s own problem.

The truth is they’re both completely fucked. Too many days of strict schedules, too much energy bottled up after long days of travel with too little relief. And then there’s you: always in the middle of them. Between them on benches, laughing in their faces during practice when a ball goes awry, leaning far too close when you ask for water from a shared bottle to quench your thirst. Too oblivious and yet too tempting.

Art’s certain you don’t even know what you do to them. How the sight of you pulling off your tank after practice makes his throat go dry and his shorts uncomfortably tight. How the sound of you cackling at one of Patrick’s crude jokes makes him want to just fuck the smugness out of both of you. How even now, with your lips parted innocently in sleep and your bare foot barely grazing his ankle under the sheets, you’ve got him wound tighter than he’s ever been in his entire life.

He rolls onto his side, blonde curls spilling over the pillow with his face half-buried into the fabric. He glares at the shadowed outline of your body in this dim hotel room. At Patrick’s profile just beyond your sleeping form. 

He swears he’s getting a stomach ache just from holding back. His cock is stiff, pressing against the waistband of his shorts, and every time he moves the brush of fabric has him stifling a hiss quietly into the dark. He’s going to lose it. Really fucking lose it.

And then he realises Patrick’s given up on pretending to be discreet. Laying flat, head turned, eyes fixed in the same direction as Art’s. Towards you.

Their gazes catch across the narrow strip of space, and the heat crawling up his face is humiliating. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand already down his pants, even though the brunette is the guilty party. It doesn’t help that Patrick just smirks at him. Annoyingly sharp and taunting even when he’s only illuminated by the sky outside the window. Art can tell just by looking at him that he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

His chest feels too tight. He wants to deny it, to sneer and roll over and shut it all out. Leave Patrick to his perverted thoughts alone. But oh, is he a weak man. He can’t. Not when he sees the other’s hand slide under the covers and his chest tightens painfully. Your body shifts between them, one arm flung over your eyes, and your shirt rides up immoderately to reveal your abdomen.

And Art knows, with bone-deep certainty, that he’s about to break tonight. Impossible not to when his own desire is being mirrored and magnified just by the fact his best friend wants the same thing: you.

Patrick’s fingers drift gently along that exposed sliver of skin. You hardly stir despite the daring touch, body tensing momentarily before you sigh into the crook of your arm. He smirks over you at Art again, the kind that says see? She doesn’t mind.

Art hates him. Hates him for being bold, hates him for touching you first, hates him for making his cock twitch at the thought of following suit. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend he’s back home but he can’t tear his eyes away. Patrick’s hand lingers, gliding slowly down to your leg and stroking gently. 

That mischievous flicker in his eyes makes Art want to scream. He can hear the silent taunt in his movements. Are you going to keep pretending? Or are you going to admit you want her just as badly as I do?

He does. Of course he does. The last five years of going through puberty together have been absolutely agonising. A raging body of hormones watching one of his close friends go from awkward, dorky tennis player to total smokeshow with pretty tits and a perky ass that makes him falter on the court.

He hardly realises he’s moving until Patrick lets out the faintest laugh of triumph, as if it was just inevitable that they’d end up like this. Art wants to shut him up, but one wrong move and you’d be awake asking why you had two of your teammates ogling you in your sleep. 

He swallows back his protests as his fingertips dance tentatively over the smooth skin of your stomach. He can feel it expanding beneath him with each breath you draw in, completely unaware and lost in a dream.

Patrick is bolder (no surprise there). He slips his hand higher up your thigh, fingers dipping beneath the leg of your shorts until he finds heat. Art swears his vision blurs at the sheer audacity when his friend inhales sharply at the wetness waiting there, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Christ,” he whispers, barely sound at all. “She’s soaked, man.”

Art shoots him a glare, but it’s wasted—Patrick’s already sliding two fingers against your slit, eyes locked on your face in search of a reaction. You shift again, just slightly, a small sound escaping the back of your throat. But you don’t wake.

He’s mesmerised by the sight of Patrick’s hand between your thighs, your body yielding to him even in sleep. In a newfound burst of confidence (or recklessness, if he’s being honest with himself) his own hand moves to slip beneath your waistband. His knuckles brush against Patrick’s as he finds you.

The shared contact makes his friend grin, devilish, but Art ignores it. He’s too awed by the way your cunt is already wet for them, heat clinging to his fingertips. Patrick’s hand moves to shift you just slightly onto your side, directing your sleepy breaths in Art’s direction so he can press against you from behind. His cock grinds against the curve of your ass through his shorts.

“God,” he sighs. “Don’t even need to fuck her. I’m so horny I could—” His hips jerk hard, and he bites down on his lip to stifle a groan. “I could cum just like this.”

For a moment, he just watches Patrick rut against you. He’s half-tempted to shove him off and tell him to go jerk off in the bathroom like a normal person, but he’s a hypocrite. He craves that same friction… but the fact you’re still so oblivious gnaws at him.

Instead, he slides his hand out of your shorts to palm his own erection. The fabric is soaked already, breath stuttering at the physical reminder of just how worked up he is. “Pat,” he tries, voice raw. “This is weird, dude. She’d never let us.”

“She’s already letting us. Look at her.”

He knows it doesn’t count. Not really. But the way you’re responding subconsciously in your sleep, just a subtle shift of your hips and the occasional soft little sigh pouring out of those lips he’s wanted to kiss for so long…

“Fuck. Move,” he says, sharper than he means. Patrick just rolls onto his back, hand diving into his shorts to stroke himself lazily as he watches Art fumble his own cock out. The fabric of your shorts is pulled aside, and when his cock slides against your bare cunt he feels like his entire world tilts on its axis.

You’re soaked, making every slow drag against your slick painfully good. 

“... Bet you cum first,” Patrick says childishly, like they aren’t currently lusting over their sleeping friend, jerking himself faster.

For a moment, Art’s too busy rutting against you. His cock pulses with every pass over your clit, heart hammering against his ribcage with every sleepy sound of contentment you make. 

It takes him a moment to realise what’s been said, and he shoots his friend a look. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

That insistence is all it takes for Patrick to be pressed against you again, his own shorts pushed down just enough to free himself. His cock slides against your thigh, leaving streaks of precum against untainted skin. And now it’s both of them behaving like horny dogs humping anything for relief: Art dragging his cock over your wet cunt, pressing in just enough to tease himself but never enough to really wake you. Patrick grinding against your thigh while the bed creaks under the uneven rhythm of their bodies.

“I can’t—” Art stutters out when your hips tilt unconsciously to meet him. He slips against your entrance again, not quite inside, and the wet heat that greets him nearly kills him. His head drops, groaning into the pillow. “She’s begging for it. I swear.”

Patrick’s laugh is breathless. “Then put it in, man. Fucking do it. Stop torturing yourself.”

Art hesitates—half a second, maybe two to really weigh up his options—before his desperation gets the better of him. He presses in, slow but steady, and Patrick groans behind you like he’s the one being enveloped by the tight heat of your pussy.

Somehow, it’s the sound that pulls you out of sleep rather than the intrusion. Not abruptly. You float the edge first, caught in some weird limbo as your body hums pleasantly. You can feel weight pressing down, warmth on either side of you, the stretch of being filled. The world’s best wet dream.

Except then you stir enough to feel it properly. Someone’s fucking you. No—both of them are. One’s penetrating, the other’s cock throbbing against the back of your thigh. Both of them still think you’re somehow asleep.

And that thought—that they wanted you so badly they couldn’t even wait for you to wake—sends a rush of desire through you that makes your cunt flutter around Art’s cock.

“Fuck—did you feel that?” Art gasps, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

“Feel what?”

“She squeezed me. I swear.”

Patrick scoffs. “How am I supposed to feel that when you’re the one inside her?”

“Oh my god, this is so wrong—”

“You said she’s squeezing. She wants it, dude. Awake or not.”

Art wants to believe that, if only because the thought of pulling out now before he gets to finish is killing him. But then you’re stretching, back arching towards him and eyelids fluttering as the full extent of their desperation dawns on you.

He looks wrecked when your eyes set upon him. Blonde curls clinging to his forehead with sweat, shame written all over his pretty flushed face. He starts to pull back, a thousand apologies already spilling out. “Fuck. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. It’s not what it looks like. Well, obviously it— oh my god, it’s disgusting. I’m so sorry—”

“Art. Don’t stop,” you whine drowsily.

Patrick laughs, loud and sharp compared to the quiet they’ve attempted to keep until now, his relief evident in the sound. “Told you she’d like it,” he repeats, grinding against you with renewed vigour. “All that cowardice for nothing, Art.”

“We should’ve—fuck—we still should have asked,” he mutters. Not that he’s stopped grinding into your cunt since your breathy little moan of permission passed the clouded fog of desire in his brain.

“I’m saying yes now,” you breathe.

He falters for just a moment, blue eyes finding your face. Still riddled with the remnants of sleep, but there’s a crease between your brow from pleasure now, lips parted around a sigh as Patrick continues to coat your leg in an obscene amount of precum. Then his restraint finally snaps, and he pulls your leg over his hip to drive into you deeper.

Patrick’s hand finds your jaw, tilting your head back so he can kiss you. His teeth drag against your bottom lip before his tongue invades your mouth. Art fucks you harder now without the need for caution. No fear of waking you, finally able to chase his own release and enjoy your perfect pussy. You’re right there with them in their desperation, clinging to Art’s shoulders while Patrick’s shameless hands roam your body greedily. Palming at your tits, groping your ass, licking into your mouth like he’s parched and swapping spit with you is the only thing that’ll keep him breathing.

And when you cum—because how could you not, sandwiched between them, full and stretched with a cock you’ve craved for years—the sound you make is so loud that their attempts at being silent seem futile now. Anyone awake down the hall is sure to know exactly what’s going on in your shared little bubble of heat.

Art finishes before Patrick. No surprise there, when the latter has been holding out to experience being inside you. No fucking way Art gets to enjoy your cunt and he doesn’t after starting this entire thing.

“Ohmygod, sorry, I can’t— nghhh, can I—” His voice cracks, face screwed with pleasure. “Do you want me to pull out? I should, right—?”

Your body seems to respond for you, squeezing around Art’s cock in protest. “Don’t. It’s fine,” you moan, head tilted back into Patrick as he mouths behind your ear.

“Dirty girl,” he tuts playfully. “Come on, Artie. Give her what she wants.”

The moan Art lets out is embarrassingly whiny, hands clinging to your hips as his climax hits him. His body jerks with each hot spill of release into your fluttering walls. But Patrick doesn’t wait. He never does.

The moment Art stills, he’s there to push him away with a low laugh. “You’re pathetic, man,” he mutters as Art pulls out. Your leg is still hitched over his thigh, keeping you spread open and dripping with his spend as Patrick readies himself behind you. “Couldn’t even last. What happened to no way?”

There’s a weak noise of protest (Art still has some dignity) that’s drowned out by the sound of you moaning when Patrick pushes forward, cock sliding against the mess Art left inside you. He’s bigger—not by much, but enough to have your body tensing. He groans approvingly at the feel of it, the sloppy heat, the way your cunt twitches and walls flutter after already being so full.

“Fuck me,” Patrick hisses, pressing in deep with a single impatient thrust. The slick squelch of his cock pushing through Art’s cum is so obscenely arousing that your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. “Jesus Christ. Loosened her up for me and she’s still gripping me like a fucking whore.”

Art’s too drained to argue and defend your honour like he normally would. Not that anything about the events of tonight have been very honourable.

Patrick fucks you like he’s been waiting for this for just as long. His thrusts are fast, messy, hips snapping against yours with no attempt at rhythm. He’s purely focused on finding his own release now, panting into the back of your neck.

“You hear that?” He grunts. “That’s all of us—me, you, him. God, you’re dripping with it. Taking us both like you were made for it.”

The bed jerks under the force of him. Art manages to kiss you lazily when you reach for him, sighing into your mouth as you arch into the touch. You’re half-dazed from him already fucking you within an inch of your life, but Patrick doesn’t let you get a moment’s rest with the way he’s pounding into you from behind. Kisses turn into breathing each other’s air when all you can do is mewl at the relentless pressure of Patrick’s length stretching you, and Art leans back to lift the sheets. He can see the way Patrick’s cock is being driven into you, the sticky release he isn’t fucking deeper into you already dripping down your thighs.

Patrick laughs brokenly. “Look at him. Can’t even get it up again, but he wants to watch. Fucking obsessed with you. We both are. Wanted this forever. Pretty sure I got carpel tunnel that summer you moved on from— mmmm, fuck— training bras.”

He’s not trying to be flattering. Just brutally honest, and something about it has you gasping into Art’s shoulder as every thrust punches hitched breaths from your throat. A single brush of Art’s fingers over your sensitive clit has you squeezing Patrick so tight he swears his vision blacks out, cock throbbing violently as the tension in his taut body spikes.

“Ohhh, fuck— that’s it, do that again. I’m gonna cum—” He gasps, hips stuttering. His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so he can pant against your mouth. Unlike Art, he doesn’t ask as he groans out: “Take it. Take it all of it. You’re gonna keep it in, yeah?”

Then he buries himself in as he breaks. Hot and heavy as he pumps you full, the three of you shuddering against each other. Patrick stays pressed tight against you, grinding against you through the aftershocks as if he doesn’t want a single drop wasted.

You’re all a sweaty mess by the time he stills. Art lies wrecked in front of you, Patrick still behind you. You’re stuck in the middle, soaked, stretched and overflowing with both of them. Something tells you that your morning match won’t go in your favour with the way your legs tremble after such a thorough fucking.

Art strokes your hip lazily, the tender gesture almost enough to disarm you as the fog of lust clears slowly. And yet, as always, Patrick is there to ruin it with:

“This is why we’re Fire and Ice, dude. You set me up to finish—”

In sync, two very spent tennis players groan: “Shut up, Patrick.”

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