pzweigs

[pzweigs]

patrick loses a bet w art and ends up wearing a cute lil tennis skirt for a practice match, but it backfires horribly bc patrick is feeling his oats and art cant fucking focus for shit. like hes WHITE KNUCKLING the racket

"patrick. please stop"

"what? this is so breathable i should wear this every time 😋"

[the most deliriously horny hes ever been in his life] "please for the love of god STOP"

tashi walks by appreciatively and is like hey zweig. good form [nice ass]. maybe it gives her ideas and she goes online lingerie shopping. idk i just think his thighs would look good in garters. smudge some eyeliner on him while youre there idk. im just spitballin here boss

Woah. Clearly this got to me bc i received this five days ago and now I've written a 12k word fic that is only a part one. Like this doesn't even get into the eyeliner and garters of it all yet. I took some liberties but hopefully got the essentials :D hope it's okay!!

thank you for this ask <3 the part 2 will be started soon

cw: nsfw, mdni, i think you can tell from the ask what might come up, just general filth, light feminisation, 12k word count

im sure I'll have more to say tomorrow but for now here it is:

“She won’t be back until this evening,” Art calls out to Patrick after hanging up the phone.

“Why not?” Patrick’s laid flat on his back along the length of the couch, taking up a very unnecessary amount of space.

“Lily wanted to sleep over so Tashi’s going to stay for dinner before she comes back,” he explains, joining Patrick in the sitting room.

Tashi had taken Lily to her cousin’s, she had two children, one Lily’s age and one a little older. Usually Art would go too, and he’d sometimes have to play with Lily because she got too shy. They’d send her off with the other kids but she’d come back ten minutes later, pulling at Art’s sleeve and he couldn’t say no. That’s probably why Tashi had even agreed to this last minute sleepover, it’s a pretty big deal that Lily actually wanted to stay over. It’s also why she’s staying for dinner, just in case Lily changes her mind.

Art hadn’t gone because Uniqlo was sending over some outfits for their brand deal, and he had to sign for the delivery. That was the reasoning they gave Patrick at least. Really it was because it felt strange leaving him in their house alone, not because they didn’t trust him there.

They couldn’t exactly drag Patrick along with them to every event, they knew that, and he must know that too, but every time he’s left alone for a while he gets weird. He gets sad. Art and Tashi don’t explicitly talk about it, but there’s a shared understanding between them.

“So, we’ve got like four hours of an empty house?” Patrick muses, clearly trying very hard to keep his face neutral. 

“We’re not fucking,” Art smiles down at him.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Patrick tries but Art raises an eyebrow at him, “alright, why not?”

“Tashi said so,” and she’d been very clear on the phone to Art about it.

“Okay, no fucking,” Patrick nods, a smirk growing on his face, “but she didn’t say anything a-”

“No blowjobs, no hand stuff, and no touching under clothes,” Art cuts him off, moving to sit on the armchair since Patrick is taking up all the space on the couch.

“Well, we don’t have to take our clothes off to have a good time,” Patrick sits up, looking at Art with a hopeful grin.

“No dry humping either,” Art can’t help but snort at the disappointment on his face.

“Jesus, she really thought this through,” he flops back down, sighing, a look of both frustration and admiration on his face. 

“I think she just knows that you’ll be trying to find any possible loophole,” Art snorts, and he can tell Patrick is still brainstorming solutions, “c’mon, she just wants us to wait until she gets back.”

“Fine,” Patrick relents, “but if I do come up with an ingenious loophole, we’re taking it.”

If Art’s being honest he had also hoped Patrick would find a way around it, then he could probably get off now and just blame it on Patrick later. That way Tashi would probably punish Patrick and he’d get to fuck her while Patrick watches.

Instead he decides to exercise some restraint, because he wants to be good for Tashi. It’s not like she was being mean, she just didn't want them to use up all their energy before she got home. Plus, he’s not that manipulative, not all the time. 

Although, really, if he knew for a fact that Tashi would believe that it wasn’t his fault, he’d start riling Patrick up now, get him to think he was the one seducing Art into breaking rules. 

Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure both Tashi and Patrick would see right through him. 

“Sure, but how about we just watch a movie for now?” Art suggests.

“Yeah, alright, movie mashup?” Patrick asks.

It’s this thing they used to do when they were young, a tradition that had come back now they lived together again. If they wanted to watch a movie they’d both just name the first one that came to mind then try to find a middle ground between the two. It was their way of assuring they didn’t have a fight because technically they’d both equally chosen the movie. Some days it worked better than others, and occasionally they named the same film anyway. 

Although, once when they were fourteen, Art had picked A Bug’s Life while Patrick had wanted Weird Science; they decided The Fly sounded like a mashup of the two (insects + eighties science? They never said the method was flawless), which ended up being a little traumatising. Art still has a slight fear of fingernails.  

“Okay, I’ll count down,” Art waits for Patrick’s nod, “3…2…1…”

Art says, “E.T.” at the same time Patrick yells, “Sharknado.”

“Sharknado?” Art questions through a laugh.

“It’s fun,” Patrick defends.

“What’s the mashup, then?” Art asks.

It only takes a few seconds, because they had so much practice, and because this one is easy. Spielberg and sharks, duh.

They smile at each other, both getting it at the same time, “Jaws.”

“That might be the most satisfying mashup yet,” Patrick grins, “but are you sure it’s not too scary?”

“We’ve both seen it before,” Art rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, maybe we should sit as close as possible, just in case,” Patrick is so obvious.

“Patrick, we’re not fucking,” he warns, again half-wanting Patrick to keep pushing. 

“Fine,” he groans, “just innocent cuddling then, for old time’s sake?”

He guesses that is what they used to do on movie mashup nights, pressed up against each other in one of their single beds. Sometimes one of them would have an arm around the other, because it was comfier that way, and neither of them ever really thought twice about it. It was hardly the height of their physical affection with each other, they’d done more on tennis courts in front of everyone.

Art hasn’t answered so Patrick adds, “seriously, I don’t have a sexual ulterior motive.”

“I know, but now I have a feeling you’re trying to lure me out of the comfy armchair so you can take it for yourself,” Art’s lying, he just wants to see what Patrick will do.

“You’re so cynical,” he gets up walking over, “guess we’ll just have to share.”

“You won’t fit,” Art shakes his head, letting him try anyway.

Patrick attempts to sit in Art's lap but he’s so tall, and the armchair is pretty small. He sits on one of Art’s thighs, his legs curled up the best they can.

“There we go,” Patrick reaches an arm around the back of the chair to keep himself steady. 

“You do realise your entire body weight is on my left leg,” Art complains.

“You want a more even weight distribution? I can do that,” he shuffles, bringing himself to sit directly on his lap, his back against Art’s chest.

Art’s hands immediately wrap around Patrick's torso without even thinking, “I’m not watching this entire movie with your ass directly on my dick.”

“It’s not my fault if you can’t control yourself,” Patrick shrugs, not so subtly pressing himself further against Art.

“I’m not worried about myself,” he bites lightly at Patrick’s shoulder, “but also, I won’t be able to see the screen with you sitting like this.”

“Okay, final offer,” Patrick moves again, attempting to find a position that is less compromising and also doesn’t involve crushing Art with his body weight.

Patrick's legs now hang uncomfortably over the edge of the chair, and when he tries to adjust by resting his feet on the arm, he practically knees Art in the face. 

"Maybe if I try the other side," Patrick shuffles again, on his way to switch sides, he swings one leg over Art's thighs, facing him as he straddles him.

"This isn't working," Art grabs Patrick's waist to hold him there, "your legs are too fucking long." 

Patrick can't hide his grin at the position they're in but he tilts his head towards the couch, "yeah, we're gonna need a bigger boat."

Art laughs, "you know that's one of those misquotes, like it's actually 'you're gonna need a bigger boat' not we're."

"Who fucking cares," Patrick teases, "and if you're going to correct me, you should at least be right."

"It's true," Art says with a little more passion than necessary.

"No, you're thinking of the Star Wars quote," Patrick's also getting genuinely into it, "where Darth Vader doesn't actually say Luke, I am your father or whatever."

"Yeah, that's another famous misquote, doesn't mean I'm wrong about the Jaws one," Art's hands squeeze tighter.

"Alright, let's bet on it," Patrick suggests.

"I'm not betting about a stupid movie quote," Art snorts. 

"Because you know you're wrong," Patrick's got this smug look on his face that always works on Art.

"Fine, I bet you $100 that it's you're not we're," he shrugs.

"I'm not betting $100 dollars."

"Exactly, because you know that you're wrong," Art grins, satisfied. 

"No, I'm not betting that because it's got no stakes for you," Patrick explains, then leans in a little closer "and it's boring." 

It successfully pisses Art off enough that he needs to prove a point. He can be creative and interesting.

Suddenly it hits him. 

"Give me a second," Art's reaching his hands around Patrick at his thighs, one hand below his ass and the other at the small of his back, standing up bringing Patrick up with him. 

He briefly lifts him up, turning around and then depositing Patrick back onto the armchair where he lands with a bounce.

Art watches the way his legs slightly spread as Patrick looks up at him, his eyes a little darker.

"What are you looking at?" Art asks, acting like he has no idea.

"Nothing," Patrick regains composure, smiling, "stop stalling. What's the bet?"

“I have the perfect thing,” Art walks to the corner of the room, where an opened package rests, “you know that delivery I signed for?”

“Yeah?” Patrick confirms, curious.

It was the Uniqlo delivery he had signed for earlier, and whether it was because they had just sent the whole new line, or if it had been intended for Tashi he wasn’t sure, but part of the order had been a tennis skirt. It was too big for Tashi, and not her style either way so he wasn’t sure what to do with it - until now.

“This came in it,” he holds up the skirt, it’s white and pleated so it flares out slightly, a tasteful logo embroidered at the hem.

“A skirt,” Patrick sits up, clearly Art’s got his attention, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that the loser has to wear this skirt while we play some tennis,” Art watches Patrick grin in response, he examines the skirt, “looks about your size.”

“Really, I think it’s more your size,” Patrick seems thoroughly amused, walking over to Art with a hand outstretched, “so, loser has to wear this the whole time, one set?”

Art shakes his hand, “deal.”

“Honestly, Art, I wouldn’t worry, your legs will look great in that,” Patrick points to the skirt.

“I don’t have to worry, because I am 100% certain that I’m right,” Art is actually probably 90% sure at this point, but no way is he backing down from a chance to get one over on Patrick.

“Alright, pull up the clip and prepare to eat your words,” Patrick grins, eager. 

They use Art’s phone, eyes glued to the little screen, skipping to the crucial moment. They watch him, terrified look, cigarette in mouth, turn to captain Quint and then: ‘You’re gonna need a bigger boat.’

“Fuck off,” Patrick knocks Art’s phone out of his hand, but Art doesn’t even care. Victory feels so sweet. 

Art musters up all the condescension he can, smiling at Patrick, “honestly, Patrick, I wouldn’t worry, your legs will look great in that.”

Patrick just flops down onto the couch groaning.

Art laughs again, “what do you think you’re doing? We’ve got tennis to play.”

Patrick looks up at him, eyebrows raised, “what? Right now?”

“When else are we going to have a free house?” Art shrugs.

"Fine," he gets up again, "bet I'll still beat you anyway."

"Not sure you're in a position to be making any more bets," Art grins

They both get changed, Art lets Patrick get dressed in the bathroom, joking about ‘giving him some privacy’. Patrick goes reluctantly, but he doesn’t complain, one thing about Patrick is he’s very loyal to the rules of a bet. Art is having too much fun, it’s maybe a little childish but it’s leftover from when Patrick would always win these type of things, so he thinks he’s allowed to gloat just a little. Patrick would be doing the same in his position. 

Art waits for him by the back door, both of their rackets in hand, eager to get going. When Patrick emerges, Art doesn’t even look, not properly, all he can concentrate on is teasing Patrick. 

“It’s actually pretty comfortable,” Patrick comments.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll get a nice breeze,” Art just jokes back, “c’mon.”

He holds an arm out, gesturing for Patrick to go out first.

Patrick slips past him out the door, snorting and grabbing the racket from Art’s hand on the way, “chivalry isn’t dead.”

“I pride myself on being a gentleman,” Art watches Patrick give an uneven curtsy.

“Or maybe you want to walk behind so you can look at my ass,” Patrick calls over his shoulder, walking towards the courts.

Art chuckles again but once Patrick has fully turned around and he’s not focusing on being as smug as possible about winning the bet, he finally actually looks. At first he just notices how mismatched the outfit is, the black sleeveless top not going at all with the white of the skirt.

Once his eyes reach the skirt though, he can’t stop looking. It’s something about the way the hem brushes against the back of his thighs, just barely long enough to keep everything covered. If there was a gust of wind or if Patrick bent over, even a little, he would probably be exposed. Something swirls in Art’s stomach.

Nope. This is not going to be a thing. It’s just because he knows they’re not supposed to fuck, and anything forbidden becomes instantly hotter. Or maybe it’s a power thing. Yeah. He’s just getting horny over Patrick losing a bet and being forced to do what Art said. Still, to be careful he avoids looking the rest of the walk down.

He’s concentrating so much on not thinking about it that once they get to the courts he obviously doesn’t hear Patrick asking him a question.

“Hello, Earth to Art,” Patrick’s waving his racket, then smirking, “anything in particular making you so distracted?” 

“Nothing, I was just wondering if I should take pity on you,” Art keeps his eyes firmly at Patrick’s face, “how about we just do one game instead?”

Patrick looks at him suspiciously, “oh no, a deal’s a deal, I’ll play the whole set.”

“It’s your funeral,” Art shrugs, mustering up the best performance he can but Patrick is still eyeing him. He forgot how good Patrick is at reading him. It’s really fucking annoying.

Art serves first which should be good because he plays better that way and his serve is a strong point. His first serve is strong, and Patrick has to move quick to hit it back, lunging sideways to reach it. The movement makes the muscles in his thighs tense, fully on show for Art to see.

“0:15,” Patrick calls out. 

Art has entirely missed his return. It’s so stupid and it doesn’t even make sense. He’s seen Patrick’s thighs before. He’s literally seen him naked. He’s always worn shorts whilst playing, often incredibly tiny shorts that showed just as much skin as this, and sure the sight of it sometimes turned Art on but never like this. 

It’s just new, that’s why, he hasn’t seen Patrick in this before so it’s a little distracting that’s all. It’s fine. This is meant to be Patrick’s punishment for losing.

Art ignores Patrick, just focusing on the ball in his hand and the service box. It works, he hits the ball hard and fast into the top left of the box and Patrick tries and fails to hit back. 

“Shit,” Patrick grumbles, swinging his racket in annoyance. He does a quick turn to head back to baseline and the speed makes the fabric of the skirt float up a little. What the fuck is that?

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he can’t help but yell.

“Um, do you have amnesia or something?” Patrick calls back.

“I don’t mean the skirt, I mean,” he gestures with his racket, “what’s underneath it?”

“Oh, yeah, well my boxers were longer than the skirt so I thought I’d just borrow some of your panties instead,” Patrick sways his hips, “much more fitting, don’t you think?”

“They’re not panties, they’re briefs,” he defends, “and you can’t just steal my underwear.”

He doesn’t care about that, he’s just mad about how much it’s getting to him and it’s not like he can yell at Patrick for being too fucking hot right now. No, that would give Patrick too much satisfaction. But really, it’s unfair. The skirt and now the underwear, Art’s underwear that look even tinier when Patrick’s wearing them.

“It’s not stealing, it’s sharing. We already share a toothbrush so I figured it wouldn’t matter,” Patrick shrugs.

“We don’t share a toothbrush,” he snaps but then Patrick’s got this amused look on his face, he’s messing with him, “fuck off.”

“Hey, if it bothers you this much I can always just take the underwear off,” Patrick suggests.

“No,” Art replies quickly, because he wants him to keep wearing the underwear or because he’s scared about what would happen to him if Patrick was fully naked under the skirt, “let’s just keep playing.”

They do keep playing, and Art loses the first game, badly. 15:40. He just can’t focus. His eyes drawn to Patrick, the way the skirt fits, the hem at his legs. This delicate floaty material, and the thick expanse of his thighs, the dark hair against the white of the skirt. He keeps looking, making sure that he’s still covered whilst also desperately hoping to get another glimpse underneath. The game is both slow torture and incredibly quick, he’s not sure he’s ever lost one so fast. 

It’s Patrick’s turn to serve now, which is even worse. He throws the ball too high so he has to jump to hit it, which is definitely on purpose. It makes the skirt float up, revealing the tight black underwear again, the bulge definitely bigger now, the fabric straining more. Or maybe Art’s just projecting. Either way he can’t react in time. 15:0.

“Art, you do know you’re supposed to hit the ball back, right?” Patrick mocks, “have you forgotten how to play or is there something on your mind?”

“I’m just tired,” Art gets back into ready position, “probably getting bored because you’re taking so long to serve.”

Patrick grins especially wide and Art gets the sense that he’s messed up, only encouraging Patrick further. 

Patrick throws the ball up to serve, but ‘accidentally’ throws it backwards so it lands behind him, rolling to the back of the court, “oops, I better go pick that up.”

For his own sanity Art should look away but he’s not thinking clearly anymore, just watching Patrick reach for the ball. As he bends over the hem rises, first just brushing lightly, exposing a few more inches of skin. Then a brief moment when he fully bends over that Art can see his entire ass, his own underwear against Patrick’s skin.

This is the problem, it’s the perfect in between. Showing enough skin that Art can’t help but be turned on, but also covered enough that Art has to use his imagination. Imagining standing behind him right now, Patrick trying to pull the material back over himself but Art would push it back up, ripping down the underwear and just fucking into him. 

“I hope I didn’t show too much, I’d be so embarrassed if you saw my ass just now,” Patrick’s laughing, and Art hadn’t even realised he was stood up again.

“I wasn’t looking,” Art insists and it just makes Patrick chuckle harder.

“Nice grip,” Patrick comments, looking at Art’s hands.

Art looks down himself, both hands on his racket, gripping so tight his knuckles have gone white. He loosens the grip, has to actually shake his hands with how stiff they are from holding that tight.

“Just serve,” Art orders, and Patrick does.

Art loses this game even worse. 40:0. Not a single point. 

Patrick tries to serve again, “it’s my fucking serve,” Art snaps, not wanting anything to prolong this stupid bet any longer than necessary. Maybe he should just give up, lose on purpose so it can just be over. 

“Oh, my bad, that game was so quick I didn’t realise I’d already won,” Patrick knows exactly what to say to keep Art playing, there’s no way he’s throwing a game against Patrick. 

Art tells himself that he’s going to play better this game, and he actually manages another point before he loses his concentration again. 

Patrick’s prancing around, enjoying himself too much, talking about how he has “so much more movement in this skirt,” or how it’s just “so breathable.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. This was supposed to be humiliating for Patrick. It should be him embarrassed, and distracted while Art won the set with ease. Patrick unable to hit back, spending the game self-consciously pulling the skirt down and begging Art to take mercy. 

Instead, Art’s the one stood all flushed and embarrassingly hard, unable to get more than a couple points. It’s 15:40, and Art’s just hit his first serve into the net. If he misses his second, Patrick will win yet another game.

Patrick is swaying his hips, twisting side to side so the skirt flies up a little, “honestly, I don’t know how people who wear skirts don’t spend the whole time twirling around.”

“I need to serve,” Art tries to say but Patrick either doesn’t hear or just ignores him.

“This is so great, only downside is I can’t tie my shoelaces without giving everyone a show,” he starts to bend down, as if testing out how much he can without the entire skirt riding up.

The side profile is just as bad as being behind, the skirt slowly slipping up, showing more and more of the meat of Patrick’s thigh. Before it can get any higher, Art cuts in.

“Patrick,” he’s aiming for stern but it comes out all pleading, a borderline whine as if begging him to stop. 

“Problem?” Patrick is so pleased with himself, but he stops bending over.

“Just get into position,” he just about manages to not add a please to it.

“Which position would you like?” Patrick asks, dripping his words in suggestiveness. 

It’s so stupid and so completely the opposite of subtle, even for Patrick’s standards, but it’s like opening Pandora’s box. Like giving permission for his imagination to run wild. 

Art can’t take it, all these thoughts rushing to flood his brain. He wants Patrick on his knees, skirt fanning out all pretty across his thighs, eyes all glassy as Art fucks into his mouth. He’d stroke at Patrick’s curls, he’d swipe a thumb under his eye collecting the tears that form when Art pushes down his throat and he starts gagging. Art smiling down at him repeating, ‘it’s okay, I know you can take it’.

Maybe he’ll order Patrick to bend over, hands on the net, and Patrick will be so smug about getting him to finally crack until Art spanks him with his racket, wiping that smirk off his face. The black of Art’s underwear on him, the white of the skirt pushed up, then the pink of his ass. The visual makes him a little dizzy.

Fuck, he could sit in the chair on the sidelines, have Patrick in his lap like earlier. Art would pull himself out of his shorts, push Patrick’s underwear to the side and split Patrick open on his dick. Art would keep a tight arm around him, Patrick’s back pressed tight to Art’s front, holding him up straight as Patrick’s body goes weak with pleasure. 

He wouldn’t even fuck him, not properly, he’d just keep him held there, tight and warm around him. The skirt would drape over them both, covering it all, so they could pretend like Patrick was just innocently sitting on his lap. Only they would know that Art’s cock was actually inside him, pressing up against that bundle of nerves. It wouldn’t fool Tashi, not for a second, but maybe she’d get so horny she’d forgive them for breaking her rules.

Or, most humiliating is the way Art kind of just wants to push him down on his back and kiss him all over. Especially his legs. He wants to lick all the way up them, he wants to bite at his thighs, he wants to savor it all. Because Patrick always pisses him off, and Art often gets the urge to shove him down and teach him a lesson. He’s still pissed off now, but this time he’s got this need to make him feel good. Make him moan all pretty as Art shows off his skills, and Patrick’s thighs would be right on either side of his head. 

It’s the least filthy idea he’s had this whole time and yet it feels the most embarrassing. This thought swirling in his head where he’s not even thinking about getting himself off. Not right away at least. Just focusing on having Patrick, skirt and all, underneath him, pink all over from pleasure and Art’s the one making him feel that good. 

Art’s at his breaking point, he doesn’t care if Patrick is actually ready, physically can’t look at him to check, instead he just serves. The energy thrumming throughout him makes him hit too hard, the ball soars past the service box and Art loses the third game.

“Double fault,” Patrick calls out, overjoyed, “I guess you are tired? Maybe we should take a break?”

“Perfect,” Art mumbles out, making a beeline for one of the chairs at the sidelines.

He slumps down, taking a sip of water and staring straight ahead. He’s aware of Patrick moving next to him but he doesn’t turn, not until he feels Patrick get to the floor out of the corner of his eyes. He’s too curious, and when he looks he sees that Patrick is on all fours. Of course he is.

Instead of sitting on his chair like he’s supposed to, Patrick’s on his hands and knees reaching underneath it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Art has to ask.

“Can’t find my water bottle,” Patrick reaches further under the chair, his back arching making his ass stick out further, skirt riding up. Art’s jaw clenches.

He’s pretty sure Patrick hadn’t even brought a water bottle, and either way, they can both clearly see that there is absolutely nothing under that chair. He can’t even bring himself to yell all this at Patrick.

“Just, take mine,” he snaps, holding it out, “and stop fucking doing that.”

“Thanks, I’m really thirsty,” he gets off all fours, leaning back to rest on his knees instead as he takes the bottle from Art. 

Art doesn’t know if this position is better or worse than the last. Patrick tilts his head back, holding the water bottle above himself and squirting it into his mouth. Art watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, and the way some of the water misses his open mouth, dripping past his lips and down his neck. Worse. Definitely worse.

“Can you just sit normally,” Art watches Patrick put down the bottle and start to change position, but Art dreads what would be next so he changes his order, “or actually, how about you don’t sit on the floor at all?”

Art had meant for Patrick to go sit on his own chair, so that Art can just stare ahead and not think about him, and then maybe he can actually calm down. That’s what Art had intended, so of course that’s not what Patrick does.

"Fine, I should stretch anyway," he gets up, walking over to Art and putting a foot up on his chair.

"Patrick," he warns, his hands clenched tight at his sides, trying to ignore how close Patrick’s thigh is to his face.

"I need to put my foot somewhere sturdy," he shrugs, "my hamstrings get tight if I don't stretch." 

"Nobody has ever stretched like that," Art's words are lost on Patrick, who ignores them, lunging deeper.

The expanse of his thigh is right next to him, Art’s practically drooling, he wants to get a mouth on him so badly, to just bite at his flesh. He can’t be the one to actually give in, he doesn’t want to give Patrick the satisfaction and he needs to be able to shift the blame for breaking Tashi’s rules.

From this angle it would be so easy to slip a hand up the skirt, feel at Patrick’s crotch, see if he’s as hard as Art is. 

Speaking of that, Patrick looks down, “Jesus, no wonder you were playing so bad, that thing looks painful,” he eyes the way Art’s dick strains in his shorts, “I could help with that.”

“You need to stop,” Art’s hanging onto his last threads of restraint.

“That’s another thing about this skirt, it’s great for hiding a boner,” Patrick removes his leg and Art, foolishly, thinks he might actually be relenting.

Instead he returns, this time a knee on either side of Art’s thighs, straddling him. He sits up, hovering above Art's crotch, nothing actually touching Art’s dick yet.

“No grinding, remember,” Art reminds Patrick, so that he can tell Tashi, ‘I told him the rules, he just didn’t care’.

“I’m not,” Patrick says, but he lowers himself so that their crotches are now definitely pressed together.

Art’s hands snap up to grab his waist, holding him still, “don’t.”

“I’m just helping you cover up, look,” he tilts his head down, his skirt draped across both their laps, “perfectly innocent now. Nobody would know any different unless…”

Patrick trails off, his hand reaching for the hem, slowly dragging the fabric of the skirt upwards. It reveals that underneath Patrick definitely is just as hard as Art is, both of them pressed up together.

“Considering breaking any rules yet?” Patrick teases and Art is officially finished.

He moves one hand to the back of Patrick’s upper thigh, just below his ass, and the other to his lower back. Standing up, he once again lifts Patrick with him, and his legs instinctively wrap around Art’s waist. 

“Where are we going?” he asks into Art’s ear.

The answer is: not very far. Art is beyond desperate, he makes it a few steps before lowering Patrick down onto the court on his back. Art drapes himself on top, hips fitting between Patrick’s open legs. He finally, finally, brings their mouths together, kissing sloppier than usual.

Patrick just follows, happily licking into Art’s mouth, pulling back briefly to ask, “are we allowed to kiss?”

“Yeah, kissing’s fine,” he says into his mouth.

“You could’ve told me that before,” Patrick bites at his lip.

“I knew you’d take advantage,” Art bites back, a hand slipping up the side of Patrick’s thigh, up under the skirt. Fuck. 

“Thought we weren't allowed to touch under clothes?” Patrick asks.

“It’s not like I’m trying to undress you, it’s not my fault if my hand accidentally slips underneath a little,” Art can’t help himself, his hips pressing forwards against Patrick.

“Fair enough,” Patrick chuckles, then adds, “but you definitely said no dry humping.”

“It’s fine as long as we don’t finish,” Art’s making it up as he goes and Patrick nods in agreement, happy to go with however Art wants to bend the rules, as long as he’s the one bending them. Patrick’s pretty much off the hook now and Art can’t even bring himself to care.

He only pulls back when he realises he’s already getting close, and he just said they couldn’t get off like that. It’s fine though, he has other plans. He moves down Patrick’s body, everything speeding up and his mouth is at his knee, licking up and up his leg, stopping before his crotch. He does the same at the other side, then goes for the inner thighs, biting at the flesh. Patrick takes in a sharp inhale.

“Surely that’s not part of the rules,” he comments, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at Art.

“You’re still dressed aren’t you?” Art just raises an eyebrow at him like it’s an obvious point.

“Yeah, I guess it’s fine,” Patrick breathes out.

Art goes further up the thigh, his head now underneath Patrick’s skirt, those thighs either side of his ears. Exactly where he wanted to be. The fabric covers him so that Patrick can’t see when Art suddenly licks a stripe up his dick, over his underwear. 

Patrick gasps, “fuck,” then, “what about the no blowjobs rule?”

“It’s not a blowjob. As long as it’s through the underwear, technically my mouth isn’t actually touching you,” Art reasons, and it isn’t a particularly sound argument but neither of them care.

“Makes sense to me,” Patrick agrees.

Art licks again and he feels Patrick relax, laying flat against the court again. God, this is fucking ridiculous. His head up Patrick’s skirt, licking him over his (Art’s) briefs, on the fucking tennis court. 

He moves more vigorously, tonguing all over, from his balls up the shaft to the head. He lets himself drool, getting the underwear all wet so it slips against Patrick’s dick even smoother. Patrick’s moaning quietly, shifting his hips, trying to push himself more against Art’s face. He lets Patrick essentially hump his face, keeping up his tonguing movements, occasionally sucking instead.

Then Art sucks at his tip through the material and Patrick gasps again, “shit,” he props himself up, pulling the skirt back to look at Art all desperate, “can’t you just blow me for real?”

 “We’ve been following the rules so well, no point stopping now,” Art smiles.

“I know, but I need something more,” Patrick bargains, “c’mon, what about a little fingering? Just slip in one finger, she’ll never know.”

“She’ll be able to tell if we lie,” Art argues, “so if we behave now, then when she asks if we followed her rules we can say yes, and it will be true.”

Well, truer than if Art actually did suck Patrick off properly. 

“I know, I just-” Patrick cuts himself off with a moan as Art licks at him again.

“We’ve been so good,” Art keeps licking between speaking, “as long as you keep the underwear on it’s fine. You can finish like this, can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick breathes out.

“Shouldn’t even be doing this, I just couldn’t help myself, you looked so good,” Art rambles, “the skirt was driving me fucking crazy.”

“Art, please,” not asking for anything in particular, just wanting more. 

Art starts sucking through the fabric again, close to the head but not quite. Patrick whines, his hips bucking up.

“You need to be good,” Art reminds him, “you can cum like this.”

This time it isn’t a question, it’s an order, and Patrick manages out an “okay.”

Art presses harder with his tongue, swirling it around the most sensitive part. Patrick’s groaning, breathing quickly.

“I’m close,” he gets out, strained.

Art’s about to praise him but he can feel Patrick bringing a hand down, trying to get into his own underwear and touch himself. Art intercepts it, grabbing it and holding it down against the court.

“What happened to being good?” Art asks.

“I’m almost there, I don’t know if I can,” he’s squirming, trying to get friction. 

“You can,” Art assures, sucking again, “tell me you can.”

“I can.” 

Art focuses on licking at the tip again, it has Patrick thrusting up against him uncontrollably, and moaning louder. He switches to sucking, hard, directly at the head and now Patrick whines.

“Fuck, Art, shit,” his hips trying to move away from the intense feeling at the same time they try to press further into it, “I’m so close, I’m there, I’m going to-”

“You gonna cum?” he asks, a little smug, “you gonna be good, and finish in your panties for me?”

“Yes, yeah,” Patrick nods furiously, “for you.”

“Good girl,” spills out of Art, and then he’s bringing the tip back in his mouth. He sucks and swirls his tongue around it, and Patrick is moaning, his hips stuttering as they thrust up in sudden shock and pleasure.

Art feels a wet warmth spread across the fabric as Patrick orgasms. 

He pulls back, observing his work. Patrick's chest rising up and down, quickly. He's flushed all pink, hair sticking to his forehead. He can see the way Patrick's underwear are damp with his own cum and Art's spit. 

The sight is almost enough to make him forget what he just said. Almost. He feels himself turn pink, hot all over. 

"What the fuck," Patrick flings an arm over his face, still breathing heavy, and Art's slightly worried he's crossed some sort of line. 

Then Art watches a smile spread across his face, Patrick peaks out from behind his arm, grinning, "so you admit they're panties?"

Art laughs in relief, "fuck off," then looks Patrick up and down, "they are when you wear them."

He lifts himself up to sit properly, staring at Art's lap, "want me to help you get off?"

Art considers for a second, but if he rambled that embarrassingly just from getting Patrick off, he's scared of what he'd say if he was about to come himself.

"I shouldn't," he decides, "and you should probably shower, get rid of the evidence."

"Why do I need to hide anything, I thought you said this was all above board?" Patrick smirks. 

"It was," Art defends, standing up and reaching a hand out to help Patrick, "but it's not going to look very innocent, that's all."

Patrick takes it, letting Art drag him into a standing position, laughing, "didn't feel very innocent either."

Art shrugs, feeling a little more relaxed now he's at least partially got it out of his system. He's still hard but once he has a cold shower he'll calm down.

They decide to use the shower in the clubhouse next to the court. It's a small building, basically an oversized shed, with a few lockers, a bench, and a smattering of spare tennis equipment. It only has one shower, and they usually just head back to the house to clean up. 

It feels more convenient to use it this time, to get Patrick cleaned up and Art calmed down before they grab all their stuff to head back to the house. 

Patrick tries to lure Art into the shower with him, "it's so much more efficient to do it together, and better for the environment. Do you even care about the polar bears at all?" but Art knows it's a test of temptation that he would definitely fail.

Maybe if he can go without an orgasm he'll be able to twist the blame on Patrick still. If the need arises. Hopefully they can head back to the house and be waiting innocently on the couch when Tashi returns, so neither of them will have to take the blame for anything. 

Patrick hasn't mentioned what Art said, maybe he didn't hear it and Art's certainly not going to ask him about it. 

He sits on the bench, facing away from Patrick showering because he's meant to be calming down. Except now he's thinking about it. Good girl. And Patrick coming right after. Where the fuck did that even come from?

Art had almost finished himself, his hips pressing against the rough of the court. It was kind of humiliating, that he got off on it so much. He hadn't even intended to say it. A familiar combination of shame and arousal swirl together in his stomach.

That fucking skirt. 

He never should've made that bet. 

It's just he didn't anticipate getting so worked up. He can't let Patrick wear that again. He also can't go without it. He got one thing out of his system but his head is still brimming with ideas. 

He's supposed to be calming down but his dick strains as hard as ever against his shorts. Jerking off should be fine right? If he has no contact with Patrick whilst he's doing it? It might be bad for his health to hold it in, Tashi can't be mad at him for caring about his health, right?

Yeah, it makes enough sense in his head that he's already bringing a hand over his crotch, sighing in relief. 

Patrick turns the water off, and Art hears him step out. 

Patrick could always help out as visual aid, as long as he doesn't touch Art. The skirt is still here, and really it's only fair Art gets to cum too. 

"Maybe I should get off," he voices, "it might be suspicious if I'm hornier than you are."

Patrick snorts like he knows it's bullshit, but he indulges nonetheless, "I wish you'd said this before I showered but sure, that sounds right to me. What can I do for you?"

"You can't touch me but maybe I can just look at you?" Art suggests, uncertain, still pressing himself over his shorts. 

"You want me to just stand here while you stare at me and jerk off?" Patrick laughs in amusement, "oh, Art, I'm flattered."

"Not just stand there, I thought maybe you could put it back on?" He asks, hopeful and trying to hide his shame. 

"Put what back on?" Patrick plays dumb.

Art groans, "the fucking skirt, and you know that's what I meant."

Patrick grins, reaching for the skirt where he'd chucked it on the floor unceremoniously.

"Well, I'm not putting those panties back on, so it will have to be commando this time," Patrick tells him, stepping into the skirt and pulling it up, zipping once it's around his waist.

"That's fine, that's, yeah, fine," Art struggles out, rubbing harder at himself and he needs more, "it's fine to touch ourselves, don't you think?"

"You know the rules, you do what feels right," Patrick just shrugs, not giving Art the easy way out. 

He tries to just keep touching himself over the fabric but Patrick is there, only in the skirt and it's setting him alight again. For some reason the skirt feels more scandalous than just staring at him fully naked.

Art finally pulls himself out of his shorts, precum dripping from his neglected dick. Patrick eyes it appreciatively. 

"Should I be posing for you?" Patrick asks, half joking. 

"Stand with your hands against the wall," Art says too quick, knowing exactly what he wants. 

Patrick looks delightfully surprised at how fast he answers, and about how specific he is. He follows the order with a grin, turning to the wall of lockers, resting his hands against them, slightly bent as he sticks his ass out. 

Fuck. That was a bad idea. 

Before his brain catches up, Art finds himself behind Patrick. 

"I'm still not touching," Art reassures, even though Patrick hadn't asked.

He stands an inch behind him, dick in hand, staring at the way the skirt falls over his ass. He strokes himself slowly, trying to keep his distance. God, he wants to push the skirt up and jerk off until he comes all over Patrick's skin and the skirt at the same time. 

He slides his hand up and down his shaft a little faster, “want to cum all over your ass like this.”

Patrick hums, “and that’s allowed?”

“It’s not like we’re doing anything to each other. You’re standing and I’m jerking off, two separate things,” Art explains, “if when I cum, it accidentally lands on you, we can’t blame ourselves. You want it don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out, “still wish you hadn’t made me shower first.”

“Hmm, you are really clean right now,” Art looks him over, skin still damp from the spray of water.

“And you want to dirty me up again, right?” Patrick teases.

Art does. Badly. He wants to get him all filthy. He also wants something else. Art's mouth is watering again. And Patrick had just showered. He's so clean right now. 

He moves a little closer.

"You just said no touching," he smirks at Art over his shoulder.

"I won't," Art promises, "not with my hands."

He lowers himself to his knees, slowly. 

"What are you doing?" Patrick's breath hitches.

"It's fine, I'm only using my mouth, and you already came so you're not getting off," Art justifies, reaching a hand to push the skirt up.

"Right," Patrick nods, "except you are literally using your hands right now."

"It's fine as long as I'm not touching your dick or fingering you, and you've got the skirt on so you're basically dressed," Art's definitely waffling at this point. 

"I'm starting to think you might not actually understand these rules," Patrick teases, "the excuses are getting real flimsy, dude."

"Who fucking cares?" Art finally gives in, bringing one hand to his own dick as his other goes to Patrick's ass, spreading him open so he can get his tongue at Patrick's rim.

Patrick moans in shock, swearing under his breath. Art swirls his tongue around his hole, jerking himself off at the same time. He doesn't know what it is about the skirt, but it makes him have this crazy urge to get his mouth on Patrick any way he can. Suddenly becoming the hottest thing he can imagine, just pushing the skirt away as he rims Patrick underneath it. 

“Fuck, you never do this,” Patrick sighs.

“Yes, I do,” Art pulls back to reply, a little indignantly. 

“Not like this,” and Patrick’s sort of right.

Art has done this a few times, got his mouth on Patrick’s hole, but usually as a way to tease him. To get Patrick worked up before he fucks him, if he’s feeling like he wants to drag it out. If Tashi wants to make Patrick squirm, she’ll direct Art into it as she touches Patrick everywhere except where he really wants.

This is different. He doesn’t even have a goal in mind. It’s not like Patrick's going to get that desperate since he already finished recently. It’s just Art couldn’t fucking help himself. Without thought he just wanted to sink to his knees and taste him, make Patrick feel good just because. 

“You don’t have to,” Patrick tells him, “might be a while before I finish.”

“I know,” he does, and he doesn’t care, “I just want to, need to.”

He licks fervently, a circle around then presses in with the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck,” Patrick gasps out, not quite hard yet but Art’s sure he’s on his way. 

Art keeps going, tonguing in and out, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. 

“Art,” Patrick is shaky, “I don’t think we can justify this one to Tashi.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Art repeats, giving him a bite to the ass, “she won’t know.”

“I think that’s the wrong answer,” a voice calls out and Art falls backwards trying to move away from Patrick, tucking his dick back in his shorts even though it’s too late.

“Shit,” Patrick removes his hands from the wall, turning to the doorway, “Tashi.”

She’s standing there, hands on hips, looking fucking gorgeous, obviously. She’s got a navy dress on, it’s one of the more casual ones in her collection, it buttons down the front and the hem sits just below the knee. 

“Who’s responsible for all this then?” she glares between them both.

Patrick doesn’t say anything but Art immediately defends, “it was Patrick.”

He turns to look down at Art, “you fucking snake.”

He can’t feel too guilty, it’s not like Patrick had been silent out of loyalty to Art, it’s just that he was never as bothered about defending himself, never really trying that hard to get out of trouble. Often wanting to do the opposite, in fact. 

“Snake, yes,” Tashi speaks slow, looking at Art, “and a fucking liar too.”

“I’m not,” Art tries and it makes Tashi laugh.

“Really, because from where I was standing it seemed like Patrick was the one who had enough sense to think about the rules, even with your tongue in his ass,” Art can see Patrick grin a little at Tashi’s words, “meanwhile, you were the one saying ‘who fucking cares?’”

Shit. Had she been standing there that long?

Art can’t even say anything, just sitting there, boner tenting his shorts still.

“Although, I’m sure he’s not entirely innocent either,” Tashi walks over to Patrick, feeling at the skirt, “why are you wearing this?”

“I lost a bet,” Patrick shrugs at her, amused now that the surprise has worn off.

“Why do I get the feeling that you made a bet that you would purposely lose, because you knew he’d cave seeing you in a skirt?” Tashi says to Patrick.

He smirks, “no, I wish I'd thought of it but this was also all him.”

Tashi for a moment seems impressed, looking at him vaguely proudly before her face shifts back to stern.

“That’s two strikes, Art. You’re not doing very well today, are you?” she tilts her head at him, “what did you think you were going to achieve by intentionally sabotaging yourself?” 

“I didn’t mean to, I thought it would be funny, I didn’t realise it would make me so…” he trails off, “I just wanted to embarrass him.”

“Right, because Patrick is famously easy to embarrass,” she snorts, and she’s absolutely right, he doesn’t know what was going through his head to think that Patrick would actually feel any type of shame from wearing a skirt, “and you seriously thought you wouldn’t get turned on by it? Are you stupid or just lying again?”

Art just ducks his head, face flushed.

Patrick laughs, “I think he was genuinely surprised about how horny he got.”

She looks down at the skirt again, thumbing the fabric, “so, what exactly were the rules for this punishment?”

“Loser has to wear it for one full set,” Patrick informs, letting her play with the material.

“And how far did you get?” Tashi asks, knowing that there was no way they actually managed it.

“Three games before Art was shoving me down on the tennis court and having his way with me,” Patrick grins, and Tashi’s eyes light up too.

She eyes Art again, “so you can’t even follow your own rules, huh?”

Art still doesn’t know what to say other than, “I tried.”

Tashi ignores it, “and you’re telling me that you’d already disobeyed me by fucking before that little scene I walked in on.”

“We didn’t technically fuck,” Patrick starts.

“We were good, we followed the rules,” Art interjects.

Tashi looks to Patrick for confirmation, he nods, “yeah, we were fully clothed, no touching, just his mouth.”

“I’m pretty sure I banned blowjobs,” she raises an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t a blowjob, I had underwear on the whole time,” Patrick smiles wide, “and Art didn’t even cum.”

“Jesus Christ,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks over at Art, “and you still haven’t cum yet?”

He shakes his head and she nods in approval.

“That’s good,” Tashi thinks for a moment, “I think you should both finish the bet.”

“What?” Art asks from the floor.

“A chance for you to redeem yourself, prove that you can stick to your word,” she watches his blank face, “c’mon get up.”

He scrambles up quickly, still uncertain, “are you sure?”

“Yep,” she says, curtly, turning to Patrick, “you get dressed, and then both of you get out there and finish playing the full set.”

Patrick grabs the shirt he’d been wearing earlier, putting it on immediately, “alright.”

Tashi eyes his skirt, “when I say ‘get dressed’, that includes underwear.”

“Well, mine are kind of ruined from earlier,” he looks way too pleased with himself, “I’m happy to go without.”

She shakes her head, biting her lip, “no, you really should wear underwear with a skirt like that.”

Then Tashi does something which makes Art’s entire brain short circuit. She reaches under her dress, pulling down her panties, stepping out of them gracefully as she takes them off. She holds them out to Patrick, “here, you can borrow mine.”

What the fuck.

Art gets at least some satisfaction from the way Patrick seems just as affected as he is, Patrick stumbling on his words, “I, how, what?”

“Go on, you put them on the same as any other pair of underwear,” she’s smiling big, extremely pleased with their reactions, slightly condescending in her tone.

“Are they going to fit?” Art asks, and it feels like his ears are ringing with how dizzy it’s making him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she faces Patrick, “you’ll make it work, yeah?”

He nods at her, still in a slight daze. Taking the pair and stepping into them, he’s not as graceful as Tashi, needing to put an arm against the wall for balance. He manages to get them on but the skirt covers them before Art can get a proper look. 

“Show us,” Art can’t stop himself saying.

“Not yet,” Tashi orders, and Art sighs.

He tries to imagine it. The pair isn’t Tashi’s tiniest or the most lacy in her collection, they’re what she would consider casual, but Art would still call sexy. They’re navy, matching her dress, the front is made of cotton which is a good thing, much more forgiving to stretch over Patrick’s cock. God, he must be straining against it still. The material covering his ass is lace, just about see through. Art can’t fucking do this.

Tashi is walking to the doorway, Patrick following, but Art just stays planted still. 

“Tashi,” he pleads, “I can’t.”

She looks back at him, not giving him any pity, just smiling at him, “you can, and you will.”

In other words: you made your bed, now lie in it.

Standing on the other side of the net from Patrick feels even worse than before. He was already horny beyond belief before even stepping foot on the court and now he’s got Tashi sat on the sidelines watching them both. Patrick seems to have recovered from the shock and is now back to moving around the court like he fucking owns it. Like he’s never felt hotter.

Art feels like he blacks out the entire first game, Patrick is serving and he’s trying to hit back but honestly he’s not sure he’s even on the planet anymore. He keeps getting glimpses of the blue lace under the skirt. It had felt impossible when it was Patrick wearing his briefs, but it being Tashi’s panties is infinitely worse. 

Again he needs to bend Patrick over, push the panties to the side and fuck him. He needs to get under Tashi’s dress and eat her out. He can’t work out the logistics of it, how he can fuck Patrick whilst also having Tashi in his mouth. Maybe if he lays down on his back, Patrick could ride him and Tashi could sit on his face? But then he wouldn’t be able to see Patrick in a skirt falling apart on his dick. He wants and needs and can’t have. 

Patrick in panties. Patrick in Tashi’s clothes. Patrick in lace. Tashi sat with nothing on under her dress. 

He can’t breathe. He needs to be put down.

The score is 40:0, and Patrick’s throwing the ball up to serve.  

Art tries, he really does, he actually manages to hit the ball but it sails right into the net. Patrick wins another game.

“Nice form,” Tashi is calling out at him.

“Thought you hated my serve,” Patrick raises an eyebrow at her.

“I do,” she very obviously rakes her eyes up and down Patrick’s body, biting her lip as part of her performance. It’s a stupid innuendo. Art’s dick twitches.

They both grin at each other. How can they be so playful about this while Art feels like he’s going to bite a hole through his cheek.

“You’re a real pervert, you know that?” Patrick points his racket at her in a joking accusation.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she shrugs, slouching back in the chair, spreading her legs wider, keeping her eyes on Patrick.

“See how she objectifies me,” Patrick’s addressing him, but Art can’t possibly respond, he just stands there looking between them like a deer in the headlights. It makes them both laugh.

“Woah, it really is that bad,” Tashi tilts her head at him in amusement, “it’s your serve, Art.”

He nods, taking a ball from his pocket. He can do this. He clings onto the guise of playing a tennis match like a lifeline. Just think about tennis. Nothing else.

He plays minutely better, but still loses, 30:40 this time. He probably only gets those points because now Patrick’s distracted too, trying to catch a glimpse up Tashi’s dress.

Patrick’s up to serve again, and if he wins this game it will all be over. Art will be put out of his misery. He’ll also lose to Patrick, six games to his zero.

Again he tries to pull it together, and Tashi’s been calling out to him too, encouraging him. Except it doesn’t work because everytime he looks over at her he just starts thinking about how she doesn’t have any panties on. Then when he looks away he’s got Patrick in front of him, making him think about how Patrick does have panties on. It’s honestly torturous. 

He manages to get it together for one second, remembering Patrick’s backhand is a little weaker than his forehand. He hits a ball to Patrick’s left, and it works because his backhand isn’t precise enough, and the ball flies out as he hits it too hard. 40:15.

Tashi must notice what he’s done, she gives him a little nod of approval. 

“Patrick, I want you to win on a backhand,” she calls out to him, “you’ll get a treat if you do.”

Fuck, okay. If Patrick wins the next point, he’s won the set. If he wins it with a backhand, he’ll also get a reward. Art has to at least try to stop it.

Patrick serves, and Art puts all the will he has left into hitting it back. It’s a powerful shot, it flies towards the back corner on Patrick’s right. He’d have to run pretty fast to get it anyway, and he’ll definitely have to be fast if he wants to make it a backhand.

Inexplicably, Patrick manages it, darting sideways quick enough to get on the other side of the ball, hitting a backhand. The speed of his movement and the force of him skidding to a stop makes the skirt fly up. Art is fucked. The ball soars towards him, just about making it over the net, landing in before bouncing right past Art. It’s over.

He watches Patrick drop his racket, turning to face Tashi, bowing to her. She grins, beckoning him with her finger. Art just watches.

Patrick stands in front of Tashi, she smiles at him, “give me a twirl.”

He snorts, but does it, spinning around so the skirt fans out, “cute,” Tashi comments.

Cute is one word for it. Art has the urge to start gnawing at Patrick’s leg.

“So what’s my treat?” Patrick asks, and Tashi spreads her legs wider, pulling up the material of her dress a little further. 

He gets the idea, lowering himself to his knees. Art watches Patrick kiss up Tashi’s legs, pressing his lips at the soft brown of her inner thigh. He doesn’t know who he wants to be more. To have his lips against Tashi or to have Patrick’s against his own thighs. Or maybe he wants a secret third thing (to plow into Patrick from behind and watch as he eats Tashi out).

Art grinds his teeth, making himself ask, “can I?”

He doesn’t ask for anything specific. Doesn’t know what he’s allowed. Just wants something.

“You can watch, for now,” Tashi gestures for him to come closer.

For now. He can work with that.

Art doesn’t know where to stand, next to Tashi so he can look down at the sight of Patrick on his knees? No. He moves behind, getting to look at Patrick’s ass, and to see Tashi’s face.

Patrick adjusts his position, leaning forward into Tashi so he’s more on all fours than just his knees, except his hands grab at her outer thighs pulling her cunt closer to his mouth. When he finally gets a tongue on her, her eyes flutter shut for a second, before opening to look at Art. Again he’s paralysed with making a decision. He can’t pick where to look.

He eyes Tashi’s face, relaxing with pleasure. Then trails down to Patrick’s head buried between her thighs, and then down again. The whole reason he’s in this predicament in the first place.

The skirt does nothing to cover him up now, and Art stares at the lace clothing his ass, also not doing much to keep Patrick’s skin hidden. From this angle he can see the way Patrick’s dick spills out of the fabric. 

Art’s fists clench at either side, not allowed to do anything but stare. He enjoys watching a bit, it’s an infuriatingly arousing view, but that’s the problem. His patience has already been worn down to knife’s edge, he’s spent all afternoon inundated with arousing views. 

Tashi must see the desperate look on his face but she doesn’t say anything, she just puts a leg over Patrick’s shoulder, and a hand on the back of his head. She sighs at the new angle.

It’s Patrick who takes pity on him, without even seeing his face. 

He pulls back from Tashi to ask, “can Art join?” and when she hums uncertainly he adds, “he did come up with the skirt idea.”

Tashi looks at Art, then down at the skirt, then up again, “yeah, alright, he can join.”

Art moves quick, getting to his knees behind Patrick. He’s about to pull his shorts down when Tashi stops him

“What are you doing?” she asks and he just stares at her blankly. He doesn’t really know, other than that he needs his dick to touch something right fucking now, “did you think you were going to fuck him? We don’t even have any lube. And did you think you’ve earned that?”

“I don’t know,” he sounds desperate but he’s given up caring.

“Keep it in your pants,” she orders, “you’re allowed to dry hump and that’s it.”

He furrows his eyebrows at her, and she gets stern, “don’t give me that look. You’re lucky I’m allowing anything.”

Fine. It’s something at least. And he can grab Patrick’s ass as much as he likes. He does just that, rubbing his hand over it, feeling the lace, and the warmth of his skin. He brings his hands to Patrick’s hips and presses his crotch against him. Sighing in relief at the pressure against his dick, imagining that he was actually sinking inside him right now. 

He can hear the sounds of Patrick’s tongue lapping at Tashi’s pussy, it makes him thrust his hips forward. The movement pushing Patrick forward too, and Art can’t stop thrusting against him.

“Art,” Tashi scolds, “stop that.”

“I can’t,” he scowls and she glares at him, he slows down, “fine.”

He grips Patrick’s hips tight, probably leaving fingerprints, keeping Patrick still as he rubs against him. Still thrusting but now Patrick doesn’t move with him.

He could probably cum like this, could do it very easily. It just doesn’t feel fair. Yes he broke some rules but he never even got to finish from any of it, so really, doesn’t he deserve a bit more than to pathetically hump at Patrick’s ass.

Tashi’s letting out more and more sighs, and he can hear Patrick moaning against her, trying to push back against Art, fighting against his strong grip.

“C’mon Tashi, he clearly wants me to fuck him,” Art pleads.

“And whose fault is it that you can't?” she asks with an arched brow, “if you had prepared then maybe you would’ve brought lube down here.”

“I’ll go and get some now,” he bargains, although he’s not sure he could pry himself away.

“No, you don’t deserve it, you broke the rules,” she smiles, mean, “if you had behaved then maybe you would be inside him right now.”

“If I had behaved, we wouldn’t even be in this position in the first place,” he snaps.

Tashi doesn’t say anything back because it’s sort of true. If Art had been good there would be no skirt. No tennis court sex at all tonight.

Patrick pulls back, “just one finger, I need something.”

“Fine,” Tashi relents, bringing his head back against her.

She gives Art the go ahead with her eyes, and he’s sucking at his own finger, wetting it. He stops humping to pull the blue panties to the side, circling the damp finger before pushing in. 

Patrick groans, and the vibration of it makes Tashi moan quietly too. Art keeps pumping the finger in and out, still humping at Patrick, but just more at his thigh now rather than his ass. It’s better than how he pictured it, Patrick dressed like this, clenching around his finger and moaning into Tashi’s cunt.

Patrick doubles his efforts, licking at her faster, and Art can tell she’s getting close. He’s just so good like this, taking Art and pleasing Tashi. He can tell that Patrick wants more from the way he’s pushing back on Art’s finger. Tashi’s eyes flutter shut from pleasure, and Art takes the opportunity to slip another finger into Patrick. He would've gotten away with it if Patrick didn't let out this loud, surprised, moan.

Tashi’s eyes open, first looking down at Patrick, then at Art. He smiles at her innocently, but she notices the two fingers now pumping inside Patrick.

“Did I say you were allowed to do that?” she asks, rhetorically.

“He just looks so good, he deserved it, I could tell he needed it,” Art defends, not stopping his fingering.

Art’s a little shocked when Tashi laughs. 

“God, what is it about this skirt? It’s got you misbehaving, and it’s got Patrick being good,” she strokes a hand through his curls. 

Art raises an eyebrow, because Patrick hasn’t exactly been good. Just better than Art.

Tashi smiles, correcting herself, “alright, well it makes you want to treat him like he’s good anyway.”

Yeah. Yeah that’s exactly it. 

Patrick must start sucking at her clit because she’s making these telltale signs that she’s close, her hand gripped tight in his hair. 

She grinds her hips up against his face, “fuck, makes you want to call him a good girl,” then she’s shoving Patrick’s face against her, trembling as she comes.

Oh fuck. It takes everything in him not to come too. Tashi breathes out, slumping against the chair, almost boneless.

Tashi pulls Patrick away from her before she gets overstimulated, resting his head against her thigh. Patrick grins, “you guys really are similar.”

“What?” Tashi looks between them both, this alert searching look she gets when she’s missing information, Art stays silent so she looks down at Patrick again, “I don’t get it.”

Art fucks his fingers into Patrick faster, hoping to stop him talking, he moans but carries on.

“Art called me that too,” he says all smug, “turned bright red after.”

Art flushes. 

“Yeah, he looks pretty red right now too,” Tashi gives him this delighted look, “this skirt thing really has you fucked, huh?” which is unfair considering she’d also said the same thing.

“Patrick’s the one who came immediately when I said it,” Art argues.

“That’s not a shock, I’m only human,” Patrick chuckles, “what’s interesting is how much the two of you apparently want me to be your good girl.”

He wonders if Tashi feels as embarrassed as he does. Probably not.

“Art you can take your dick out,” Tashi’s telling him, and he wastes no time removing his fingers from Patrick and pulling his shorts and underwear down at once.

“Look, I can take a lot, but there’s no way I can take Art’s dick right now without some lube or a hell of a lot more stretching,” Patrick jokes.

“He’s not going to fuck you, I  just want him to come on you,” both boys moan a little, “knew you’d like that.”

Art doesn’t know what to do with himself now he can actually touch his dick against Patrick, he just grabs his hips rubbing his length on him. Already so close.

“You can touch yourself too, Patrick,” Tashi strokes at his hair, and Art watches Patrick reach into his underwear, pulling himself out.

He starts stroking himself quickly, “I’m almost there, already.”

“That’s okay, you’ve been so good already,” Tashi says sweetly and it makes Art shiver when she says good, on edge and full of shame, “I think Art’s close too.”

She just keeps talking, “look how pretty Patrick is for you, how he presents himself for you,” she says to Art, “what else can he do to get you to come?”

“I don’t know,” Art can barely think, reaching a hand around himself now.

“Arch your back a little more, Patrick,” she orders, and Patrick does, sticking his ass out even more, “and do you want him to come at the same time as you?”

Art nods frantically, not really understanding why Tashi's giving him what he wants all of a sudden.

“C’mon Patrick, you’ve got to hurry up if you want to come at the same time,” she leans down to whisper, but Art can still hear, “I know Art’s the one losing his mind but don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you get off on it too.”

"I get off on the fact that me wearing a skirt and panties gets you both off so much," he insists.

"Right, you get nothing out of this," She smirks down at him, "doesn't affect you at all to think about Art coming on you while you're in my lacy underwear, and a fucking mini skirt." 

Patrick moans pressing his face into Tashi's thigh.

"I should buy you your own set, I think you'd like that, maybe get Art to pick it out" she then looks up at Art, "Patrick would wear it for you, he'd be so good." 

And Art gets what Tashi's doing. She's trying to get him to say it. Art's not going to, he has a different idea instead. 

"You guys are fucking obsessed with getting me in girls underwear," Patrick manages to say, "think Art would die if I had a whole outfit on."

"No, I'd be ready next time," Art keeps jerking himself, now determined, "I'd fuck you properly, and Tashi would get her strap and she'd fuck you too."

Patrick groans again and Tashi's eyes snap up to meet Art's, an understanding passing between them. 

"I think you're the one that's obsessed, Patrick," Tashi looks down at him, "we could do it just like this, except I'd shove my dick down your throat while Art takes you from behind."

Patrick bites at Tashi's thigh.

Art lets go of himself, reaching around to replace Patrick's hand with his own, jerking him off. He can't bite at her anymore, his mouth falling open. 

"We'd ruin you, ruin all your outfits and keep buying more," he leans himself over Patrick, jerking him off and grinding at his ass again, "and you'd let us, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Patrick moans into Tashi's lap, "gonna come."

"Art are you close too?" Tashi checks.

"Yeah, just want him to finish first, won't come on him until he does," Art keeps stroking.

"Patrick, you want to come?" She asks him.

"Already fucking said I did," Patrick grumbles out.

"Come on, don't be rude, I know you want to be good," she strokes his hair, "say it to me."

Patrick keeps his mouth shut.

"Patrick I'm going to stop touching you if you don't say it," Art warns, slowing down his movements. 

"Want to be good," he mumbles into Tashi's thigh, it's a start but not quite what they want.

Art speeds up again, looking at Tashi, she whispers to Patrick, "a good what?" 

He groans, shaking his head as much as he can in this position. 

"C'mon Patrick, I know you want to finish, I can get you over the edge if you just tell us what you are," he squeezes Patrick's dick not moving his hand.

Patrick still doesn't speak, so Art swipes a thumb over his tip, it's too sensitive and Patrick moans but he won't come from it, not without Art jerking him at the same time. 

Tashi watches with a grin, as Art swipes again making him whine. It's too much.

"What are you?" Tashi asks, and Art thumbs the head once more.

Patrick whimpers, then "I'm a good girl," he gasps out, and Art immediately resumes jerking.

Patrick thrusts forwards, spurting all over Art's hands, drooling in Tashi's lap as he trembles with it.

Art brings the hand, covered in Patrick's fluid to his own dick. He pushes up the skirt a little, then it only takes a few swipes and he's coming. White ropes shooting over the skirt, the lace underwear, and Patrick's ass. 

"Fuck," Art gasps out, the sight of it all sending another wave of pleasure through him, a little more dripping out of him onto the blue panties.

Art falls back catching his breath, and Patrick just stays with his head against Tashi. Probably hiding his face. There are some things which still embarrass him. 

Him and Patrick both breathe deeply for a while, Tashi looking pleased with her work.

She eventually breaks the silence, "what was the bet even about?"

Patrick mumbles out, "I don't remember anymore."

Art laughs, "it was about Jaws."

"Movie mashup?" Tashi asks.

"Yeah," Art smiles, "honest to God, we were just going to watch a movie while we waited for you."

Tashi laughs too, "we should watch one now."

"Mashup on three?" Patrick lifts his head up finally, then counts down, "1...2...3..."

Patrick picks Rocky, Art goes for Little Shop of Horrors, and Tashi lands on Bride of Frankenstein. 

It's a weird selection, with a somewhat perfect mashup.

"Rocky Horror Picture Show?" Tashi suggests.

"It is on theme," Art snorts. 

"Yeah, maybe we can get some inspiration for Patrick's next outfit," Tashi teases and Patrick groans.

"This is unfair, does nobody remember how embarrassing it was that Art got so horny he forgot how to play tennis?" Patrick complains.

"No, all I remember is you calling yourself a good girl and drooling in my lap over a handjob," Tashi jokes.

Art enjoys the fact that the teasing is off him for now, even though he knows he's probably never going to be able to live down the worst set of tennis he's ever played in his life.

All because he thought it would be funny to force Patrick to wear a skirt. 

They put on the movie, but end up falling asleep on the couch before it's over. Patrick goes first and before Art drifts off himself he can practically see the cogs turning in Tashi's head, plotting something. 

He can't help but feel they've both given her a secret weapon, a cheat code to get them under her thumb. He smiles to himself as he's pulled into deep sleep.

----

an: um. idk what the hell just happened guys. sorry about this one, hope you enjoyed :) part 2 with tashi buying patrick some proper lingerie.... I will start working on that

[pzweigs]

artpatrick making out in a car? like when teens go to makeout creek to fool around? and obviously they arent going there for that... but one thing leads to another and then...

another one!! again, sorry for the wait! but artpatrick? making out in a car? one thing leads to another? now you’re speaking my language…

artpatrick, mrta, 2.8k, m/e

Art’s getting ready for his date with Melissa: a date that is feeling only slightly monumentous because it happens to be his first time going to Make Out Point. He doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal to him, it’s not like he’s never made out with anyone before, he’s not even a virgin, but he’s heard so many stories—mostly from Patrick—that it seems more real to be doing it there than anywhere else, like all the times before hadn’t count.

(A small but loud part of him thinks it might bring him closer to Patrick that way, to live out the tales he’s heard so many times, as if by stepping into his shoes, reenacting his moves, it’ll almost be like they’re doing it together. Or something.)

He does, also, genuinely like Melissa. She’s easily one of the prettiest girls in their year, with a great handle on her forehand. He and Patrick used to play mixed doubles with her and her best friend Becca before her and Patrick’s tempestuous breakup (He was caught making out with another girl, as is often the case). Melissa and Art had continued their casual flirtation, until she surprised him by asking him out the previous week.

Patrick had loaned him his car for the occasion, a gesture he both appreciated and was suspicious of. Suspicions that are almost immediately affirmed when he asks, just as Art is about to walk out the door: “Hey, is it cool if I tag a long?”

He pauses, looking back with his hand still on the doorknob, incredulous and amused. Not an untypical state to find oneself in where Patrick Zweig is concerned. “On my date? What, you want to spy on us in the backseat? No, dude.”

“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.

“Patrick?” Calls out a voice, peering into the slightly steamed window. “I got your drugs, dude.” 

[pzweigs]

sorry for being feral just realized I commented on both your wip for you to tag me😭😭😭 artrick writers are just so much rarer and i love your writing style

but as for a request, I was thinking maybe stanford!art getting jealous of tashi (since patrick spends all his time with her) but once patrick realizes he’s like “awe baby if you wanted me to fuck you too all you had to do was ask”

omg, first of all, thank you so much! i really appreciate the interest! also, i am SO sorry for how long this took, truly no excuse, i just take forever and am very easily distracted… this really got away from me ehtiwjrjsjfjs i lowkey don’t know how to keep things short so this is kind of a mini fic… i feel like it might be a bit different from your original rec, it ended up being a lot cuter than i had originally thought!

anyway! artpatrick, stanford, 2.5k, m/e

When Patrick walks into Art’s dorm, he immediately knows he’s in trouble.

Art is lying supine on his bed—doing that thing where he pretends to be asleep but is really just quietly furious—arms crossed and hat covering what is sure to be a very dower expression.

Patrick double checks his watch, only now registering it’s three hours past when they’d originally agreed to meet up. He winces—he’d been in a haze after leaving Tashi’s dorm, high off the sight and sound that is Tashi Duncan in the morning. She’d rolled on top of him and his brain leaked out his ears. He’s only human.

He’d been late arriving to the Stanford campus the day before and was too tired after hours of driving, so he’d crashed in her dorm. He hasn’t even had the chance to see much of Art yet. Patrick feels a twinge of guilt—it’d been some time since his last visit—but can’t help the smile that quirks up at the familiar picture Art makes: pouting and waiting for him. Always with the dramatics, Patrick thinks fondly.

“Hey.” He tries, opting to ignore the tense atmosphere he’d just stepped into.

Art doesn’t respond, continues lying there like he’s not in the room. Patrick, never one to be ignored by Art, lands on the bed brashly, hard enough to jostle Art in his place with the loud creak of the springs. His dumb, red Stanford hat tumbles off his face, revealing his annoyed expression as he sits up to glare at Patrick directly. “You’re three hours late.” He finally says.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He is, is the thing. “Tashi and I—“

Art cuts him off sharply. “I don’t need to hear about you and Tashi.” His tone is increasingly harsh—Art seems to be getting angrier the longer he looks at Patrick. “Do you even know what you look like right now?” Patrick blinks. He really, really doesn’t—can only imagine it’s something along the lines of very-freshly-fucked. “It couldn’t be more obvious that you two—”

“Had sex?” Patrick finishes with a grin. “Why, is that a problem?” He asks, faux-innocently with a tilt of his head.

Art on the other hand only gets more tense, brows furrowing further as he looks away from him. “It’s kind of fucking gross, yeah.”

“Gross?” He scoffs. “Me, having sex with my girlfriend? Are we twelve?” Art twitches at the mention of girlfriend, staring hard at the door as if he’s trying to will Patrick into leaving with just his mind. Like hell he’s going anywhere now.

He shifts even closer, on his knees knocking into Art’s legs. “Figured you’d like it. Smelling her on me. Like a contact high.”

The blonde whips his head back towards him, seething: “Can you just,” He grits through his teeth, “for one second, not fucking push me?”

Patrick takes a second to think about it. He answers easily and honestly. “No.”

Something snaps in Art’s eyes, his body language, and it freezes him in his tracks. Art is seriously pissed, Patrick can tell, but he can’t help his heart skipping at the sight of him anyway— hurt, furious, blazing with it.

“I am so sick of your shit,” He says, face burning but voice cold, embittered. “All I do is just—wait for you like an idiot, or watch you fucking leave.”

The sudden nconfession makes Patrick crumple a little. “Art—“

“No.” Art only gets more and more worked up as he goes on, fists clenched at his sides. “I just sit around, waiting, and then you’re here, for like, a second, before you’re fucking gone again. Like I don’t exist whenever you’re in drooling distance of Tashi. Do you know how shitty that is for me?”

If he’s being honest, guilt isn't something Patrick experiences a lot. It’s just not how he moves through life. He’s thoroughly and proudly self involved, with very few exceptions to the rule. But the fact that he could make Art—Art Donaldson, of all people, feel unimportant to him—it breaks his heart a little. A lot. He figured Art would be pretty upset at him spending all this time with Tashi, hell, he kind of liked the idea. Even more so Tashi spending all this time with him, but—

Something of a light bulb moment occurs just then—an unexamined, unacknowledged truth suddenly staring him in the face, loud and clear. A puzzle finally coming together. Which is all to say that, “Oh,” Patrick grins, “You’re jealous.”

Art’s anger burns to a fever pitch, flushing his skin. “That’s all you have to—“

“You’re not just jealous of me,” Patrick continues as if Art hadn’t interrupted, voice a little awed, smile growing on his face. “But Tashi too.” He swings a leg over Art and straddles him to deliver his simple, tender finishing blow. He cups one hand gently to Art’s cheek, watches him twitch away before eventually leaning into it. “You could’ve just said you missed me, you know.”

He can feel the tension finally break as Art sputters, face contorting from confused, to embarrassed, then back to furious. “I—“

“And I really am sorry.” Patrick looks him straight in the eye, wanting to get this part right. “I’m bad at this shit, and we—we never really had to make plans, before.” Up until last summer, Art and Patrick had practically lived the same life. There was no need to establish dates or times to meet. He’d simply look over, and Art would be there. He’d figured it as a fact of life—Art would always be there for him, waiting.

He doesn’t want to make Art wait anymore. He watches Art absorb this, his shoulders softening for the first time since he’d gotten here.

“And for the record,” He continues, because he always does have to push, “You always exist, even when I am drooling over Tashi. I miss you even when I’m with her. You’re all we talk about, anyway.”

Art tenses again, this time out of clear surprise. Patrick lets his hand drop from the side of Art’s cheek, down, slowly, to his neck; thumb rubbing at the intersection of his throat and collarbone.

“Really?” He asks, softly, all the air out of his sails.

Patrick shrugs, but he’s smiling, and it gets Art smiling too. “What else would we talk about?”

They sit there with a pair of goofy smiles on their faces, chuckling at how quickly their anger had dissipated, before Art shoves him playfully in the chest. He leaves his hand there, warm next to Patrick’s kicking heartbeat. He bites his lip, waiting for something. “Aren’t you going to tell me you miss me too?”

Art’s soft smile turns into a smirk, eyes crinkling with humor. It gives Patrick butterflies to look at so closely. “Nah.” He says, boyish and adorable.

“No?” Patrick pouts. “Not even if I do—” He takes a quick, measuring breath, praying he’s not somehow off the mark; “This?” His voice barely above a whisper as he presses his lips to Art’s.

His entire body tingles at the touch, the subtle press of his lips to Art’s—is this what they mean when they talk about sparks? He feels Art’s breath hitch, a tiny gasp of air when their lips part, then Art’s mouth chasing his. Their kisses are soft and short, tentative in this new balance they’ve struck. When he pulls away, Art’s still smiling, eyes closed. Even so, he shakes his head.

Not saying it, his bouncing curls telegraph. They both giggle, giddy with happiness.

Patrick could sit here kissing Art forever, but right now, he has other plans to put into action. A myriad of ways he could make it up to Art flash in his mind, and he's beyond eager to get to work. He rises further onto his knees, kissing down his throat. “Still no?” He rasps.

“U-Uh-huh,” Art breathes shakily as Patrick uses one hand to push him back on the mattress as he makes his way down further. He pulls Art’s shirt up to reveal the expanse of pale, smooth skin, lips tingling and head dizzy at the contact.

Patrick’s kissing his way down his heaving stomach, fingers resting at the waistband of Art’s shorts. He holds onto Art’s hips, slinking further enough down the bed that he can see the effects of his mouth so close to the tent in the blonde’s short’s, hearing him panting as he appraises it up close.

Art’s a twitching mess under his hands, trying not to get ahead of himself but clearly wanting for more—the desperation makes Patrick smile. Without warning, he’s kissing his crotch, mouthing at the fabric to a loud gasp and lingering groan. “Oh, fuck, Patrick.”

“Miss me yet?” He mutters, dizzy with his nose digging into Art’s groin, soaking the fabric with brief sucks of his mouth.

Art’s hands lift from their place on the sheets, tentatively gripping at Patrick’s hair, as his groan bubbles into a disbelieving laugh. “Patrick, c’mon.”

Patrick’s smiling so hard it hurts his cheeks, dick throbbing in his own pants. He feels so fucking dirty, lapping at him through his shorts. This might be the sexiest thing he’s ever experienced, his head buried in Art’s crotch. “Not till you admit it, baby.” One particularly harsh tug of his hair has him groaning into Art’s clothed dick.

“I fucking missed you, ok?” He looks up to catch the expression on Art’s face; a wobbly grin to mirror his own, cheeks flushed with arousal instead of anger, eyes filled with bemused adoration. “Couldn’t stand it. Everything’s—” He breaths, “Everything’s so fucking boring without you.” The confession makes Patrick moan and his heart clench. He gestures quickly for Art to lift his hips so he can remove his shorts and toss them aside, mouthing at his thin briefs instead.

“Fuuuuck,” Art moans, shivering. Now that he’s started babbling he can hardly stop, and it’s driving him crazy. “Patrick, please, I missed you so fucking much, I miss you all the time, miss you—“ Patrick sucks at the tip through the tiny fabric, prompting a string of curses from Art, hips jumping from the bed in pleasure.

As fun as teasing him is, if Patrick doesn’t get his mouth on Art’s dick immediately he might actually die. With a quick tug of Art’s underwear it pops out, pink and straining and perfect. Patrick’s mouth waters as he quickly licks a stripe to the top of Art’s cock, tongue swirling at the head.

“Jesus Christ,” Art mutters, looking straight at him, both hands deep in Patrick’s curls as he encourages him to take him in his mouth. Patrick acquiesces happily, taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing as he meets his eyes.

He hears Art’s head hit the pillow, sighing like nothing has ever felt better. So it catches him off guard when he says: “Is this what you talk about with Tashi? Hm?” He tugs at his hair again, taking control of the pace to Patrick’s surprised pleasure. “How badly you want to suck my dick?”

Patrick feels shivers run down his entire body, grinding down into the mattress, moaning on Art’s cock. He pulls off to catch his breath, letting his hand take over as he huffs. He’s so turned on he can barely think, can only offer a breathy “Yeah,” before he’s going back down for more.

He gets an answering “Fuck,” in return, Art’s dick throbbing in his mouth as he bobs his head faster. Patrick and Tashi had never really said as much, not in so many words. But everytime she put her fingers past his lips, making him choke on them, the way he’d suck and bite without question, he could see in her eyes that’s what she was thinking—and vice versa.

Art’s dick is a lot bigger than Tashi’s fingers, and Patrick fears he may be addicted to the weight of it in his mouth. What a waste to have not been doing this the entire time, he thinks, head fuzzy with how good it feels to finally have Art where he wants him. He sucks harder to compensate, tries to remember all the tricks girls had used on him in the past while his brain is still functioning.

Not that Art would notice any of his attempts to impress—he can feel how close he is, the way he’s dripping into his mouth, the way his hips buck under his hands, the way his moans ring loud in his tiny dorm, probably through the hall. Moans that sound so sweet, that’ll haunt his dreams, his waking days, for the foreseeable future—until he gets to hear them all over again.

“Shit, Patrick,” Art’s voice and body trembles, his thighs quivering underneath his palms. “So close—Oh shit—Please please please,” He starts blabbering, drunk and desperate with his approaching orgasm, and Patrick could probably get off just like this, hips rutting into the mattress and Art begging to come in his mouth.

He takes him in a little deeper, almost in his throat now, humming in encouragement; he wants to show him how bad he wants it, too—and Art’s off like a rocket in no time, entire body arched, overcome with his release. Patrick watches him fall back into the mattress like a puppet with his strings cut, filled with a sense of pride and, also, a mouth full of come.

He’s not going to make it to the bathroom, figures what the hell, and just swallows. Art gets up on his elbows and watches him do this, watches him lick his lips to get the rest of it and groans weakly, dragging him back up. “Christ,” is all he can manage, pulling Patrick’s lips back on his, tasting himself, while his hand shoves it’s way down his pants. Patrick jolts into him immediately, whimpering into his mouth after being on the edge for so long. Art’s hand starts to move, firm and fast—a little rough from practice—it has Patrick groaning into Art’s neck, thrusting into his fist.

“Missed you,” Art whispers into his ear, leaving soft kisses to the side of his cheek. Patrick turns, chasing his mouth. Art’s somehow even sweeter after he’s come, voice velvety and earnest as he mutters sweet nothings between kisses, working Patrick up even further. Art’s twisting his hand the way he knows he likes, thumbing his head hard the way Patrick told him to all those years ago, and all that combined with the soft way he says; “Missed this face—” makes Patrick melt, cut him off with a breathless groan, and come into his fist. Boneless, he collapses into Art, who graciously lets Patrick lie on top of him as he catches his breath, other hand rubbing soothing circles into his back.

They bask in the afterglow for sometime before Patrick pipes up, rolling off him to press up against his side, ankles crossing and legs tangling together. “Happy now?” He mumbles into his neck, and smiles as feels the vibration of Art’s laugh.

“Very.” Art replies, fucked out and satisfied. He turns to his side, hand coming up to play with Patrick’s curls. 

“Good.” Patrick says around a yawn, sleep closing in faster with every soothing scratch at his hair. He thinks about how Tashi might feel when he inevitably tells her about this development between him and Art— that she’ll probably be very happy too, so long as they can both make up for excluding her this time. He dozes off to fantasies of all the things he and Art can do for her, content in his best friend's arms. 

[pzweigs]

*dropping hints that i want to procrastinate and respond to fic prompts* i kind of want to procrastinate and respond to fic prompts…

[pzweigs]

wip wednesday

artpatrick, pre-canon, away on an international tennis tournament, art finds patrick with another guy

“Don’t you think your first time with a guy should be with someone you’ve known longer than one second outside a club?”

Patrick scoffs. “Like who, Art? Like you?” He swears under his breath, about to turn away, go back inside and try his luck again, and the sight of it makes his blood run cold. Art can’t watch that happen. He’s angry, and he’s jealous, and so confused—but he just can’t. It feels as if he could lose everything in a moment if he doesn’t just speak up and say—“Yes.”

He blurts out, quickly and a little too loud, but it works— stopping Patrick in his tracks entirely. He turns back to Art, rigid, eyes shrinking from shock to suspicion.

“Yes? Yes, what?”

“Yes, someone like me.”

Neither of them speak for a minute. Art’s heartbeat rattles in his throat, his entire body. They’re sliding into unknown territory now.

“What do you—Art, what do you mean?” Patrick says very carefully, enunciating his words, looking as scared as Art feels.

“I mean…” What does he mean? He’s been scrambling for sense the moment he saw Patrick walking off with some guy. “I mean, why not me?” Art asks back pathetically, a cop out but a sincere question, one not without bitterness. Amidst all the panic and confusion, Art is still inexplicably mad at Patrick, wounded that he’d seek his desires anywhere else in spite of his own reticence.

“Why not—Art, are you kidding me?” Patrick looks at him in disbelief, like he’s speaking a strange, alien language. He tugs at his own curls in his frustration, pacing, and then stopping, and then starting again. He’s never seen him so stressed: Art wants to take his hands and hold him tight. “For one thing, you don’t like guys.”

“I like you.” Art admits, like it’s a simple, easy fact, like that isn’t the tip of the iceberg of his feelings for Patrick Zweig.

Patrick’s bewilderment turns to anger. He steps closer to Art, back in his face, eyes fierce and smile bitter.

“Yeah? You like me?” His laugh is brittle. Disbelieving. “Enough to have sex with me? To fuck me?” He gets even closer. “To let me fuck you?” Art’s body heats up, from Patrick’s words, his proximity, this entire conversation. He can’t help his skin turning red at Patrick’s quite successful attempts to fluster him. He watches Art flounder for a moment before stepping back, eyes clenched in pain and his hand back to clawing at his scalp.

“I mean, fuck, Art, why are you even doing this? Just so I won’t go off with some guy? You won, ok? I won’t. I’ll be a good little heterosexual boy like you and go home. Just—“ And then, Art watches the strangest thing happen. Patrick deflates. Art watches his body shrink, small and limp, and it’s so unlike him that he suddenly appears almost unrecognizable. Patrick doesn’t even look at him, eyes shiny as they lock on his own feet. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

[pzweigs]

strawberries & cream (wip)

“You’re an impatient, indulgent brat, is what I’m saying.” Art finishes, schooling his expression, ultimately satisfied with his closing statement and certainly not embarrassed at all.

“Huh.” Patrick says. He’s right, of course, that much is obvious. The question now is how Patrick plans on proving it.

And he’s just come up with a delicious idea.

“Well,” He says, “In that case.” And he grabs the cup of cream up from the table where Art is still scraping remnants off his strawberry. Art’s about to open his mouth to complain, but it just hangs open as he watches Patrick scoop one finger into the white, fluffy cream, and suck it into his mouth.

“No point in wasting it, right?” He says innocently, as innocent as he can possibly make it whilst finger sucking, that is. Art’s mouth is still gaping, and it takes a real effort on Patrick’s part not to laugh. He loves watching Art lose all faculties whenever he’s flustered like this—Patrick had delighted in watching him drool over Tashi in the stands a few hours earlier—and is practically preening on the other end of that look now.

“Mm,” He hums, this time sweeping two fingers into the substance, “tastes good.” He makes sure to really milk it as he does it: opens his mouth a little more than necessary, drags the cream onto his tongue, sucks then pulls his fingers out slowly when he’s finished, before repeating the process all over again.