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One time, when they’re playing doubles at sixteen, Patrick elbows Art in the eye.
It’s a complete accident – they’d both gone for the ball before realizing Patrick was closer, and Art is just a hair too slow to duck away. Patrick hears Art’s pained cry before he feels the impact. Both of them drop their rackets at the same time, and Art’s hands fly to his face.
“Shit, Art, let me see,” Patrick says. “I’m sorry, man, come here.”
“I’m fine,” Art says, voice tight.
“Let me see it.”
Art lets Patrick pull his hands away, and his eye is already red and a little swollen. Holding his face, Patrick pulls him closer to get a good look and whistles. “Jeez, I got you good, huh?”
“Fuck off,” Art says.
“You okay, man?” one of their opponents calls out from over by the net.
“He’s fine,” Patrick calls back. “We’re gonna go get some ice.”
He goes with Art to the nurse, flirts with her half-heartedly while she checks Art for a concussion, and skips the rest of his classes even though Art’s the only one with a note from the nurse. They spend the day on Art’s bed, Art on his back with the ice pack draped over his eye.
“Does it still hurt?” Patrick asks eventually.
Art shrugs. “It’s just cold. Why, are you worried about me?”
“Maybe I feel bad for wrecking your pretty face,” Patrick teases, reaching over to ruffle Art’s hair. Art bats him away, smiling.
When Patrick wakes up the next morning, still in Art’s bed, the bruise has darkened to a deep purple and Art’s eye is almost swollen shut. Patrick is flooded with guilt for a second, knowing it’s his fault, before his dick suddenly goes rock hard.
What the fuck?
The thing is, Art had been a kind of ugly kid, really skinny and awkward with squinty eyes and too-big teeth. And then at some point around thirteen or fourteen, he was just – not ugly at all anymore, and everyone noticed, including Patrick. Looking at him right now, Patrick is very, very aware of how pretty Art looks, black eye and all.
He lies there and stares for a little longer before getting up and going to the bathroom. The second he locks the door behind him, he’s got his hand on his dick. He thinks of Art clutching his face, of the pretty sound he made, of how he let Patrick touch his face even though Patrick was the one who hurt him. He imagines putting that bruise there a different way, holding Art by the hair and slapping him until he cries. He wonders if Art would let him, because he protests all the time but he never really stops Patrick from doing whatever he wants; that’s the thought that sends him over the edge, coming all over his hand and stifling a moan.
… So that’s how that starts.
—
There some less-than-ideal years. More accurately, most years are less than ideal, but Patrick figures it out eventually. At twenty-two, he’s not quite there yet.
He’s so wasted one night he’s circled back around to not thinking about Art Donaldson, rising tennis star, graduating from Standard with honors and finally going pro. The anger is distant now, or maybe the club music is loud enough to drown it out. It doesn’t matter.
He leaves with a pretty girl with hair like Tashi’s and eyes like Art’s, and when he presses her in her bed, kissing her, she tells him she wants him to hurt her. He thinks of being sixteen and jerking off to his best friend’s black eye and says, “Yeah, you like that?”
“Fuck yes,” she breathes against his mouth. He pulls back and slaps her across the face, the way he still remembers fantasizing about, and she moans. “More,” she says.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“Hit me again,” she says. “Choke me. I like it rough, you can do whatever you want.”
He hits her and chokes her and fucks her hard, and right before he comes, he thinks, Art would’ve said “please”.
—
Patrick’s twenty-nine and four drinks in at a bar when Art injures his shoulder on live TV. He spits beer everywhere; it’s not his proudest moment.
Later, sitting in his car, he calls Tashi – or tries to, but she’s either blocked him or changed her number. He calls Art, too, and doesn’t get a response from him either.
He thinks about Art crumpled on the court, clutching his shoulder with his head down. Patrick could see how hard he was breathing through the TV before trainers were rushing over to him, all firm words and careful touches.
Patrick’s still hooking up pretty consistently, and more often than not, his partners like when he’s a little rough with them. Right now, though, he thinks he could swear off sadism forever, because for the first time the thought of Art hurting makes him sick.
—
Patrick’s living out of his car at thirty-one and moved in with Donaldsons at thirty-two. It turns out Tashi had changed her number after Atlanta, which means nothing and everything at the same time. Very quickly, he discovers that the thought of Art hurting is in no way a problem for him anymore.
Art is a submissive, angelic dream between them, happy to do whatever they say. Tashi’s always in charge, which is no surprise, and within the first month, Patrick gets to see her hit Art a few times, when he’s really begging for it. There’s one day where Art’s being a bit of a brat, which is very out of character for him, and Tashi turns to Patrick. “Are you gonna help or not?”
That’s how Patrick finds himself spanking his boyfriend over his lap until he’s crying into Tashi’s lap while she strokes his hair. Art’s weird like that; he needs to be hurt, but loves the reminder that comfort is right there, that they’re keeping him safe. Patrick thinks it’s one of the sweetest things about him.
When he’s fucking him after that, hard and fast and face to face because Tashi says Art’s earned it, something comes over him and he just – slaps him across the face. Not hard enough to leave any sort of lasting mark, but hard enough to make him cum all over himself, sobbing, and the sight of it brings Patrick over the edge too with embarrassing ease.
Later, when Art’s fully functional and talking again, he says, “I didn’t know you liked it that rough.”
“I kind of always have. You just weren’t there for it.”
“Oh.” Art sounds a little sad about it, which is very cute. “How long have you wanted to do that?”
“What?”
“Hit me.”
“Do you remember when I gave you a black eye?”
“You did that on purpose?”
Tashi’s eyeing them and, ridiculously, feigning disinterest. Patrick grins. “I wish I did.”
—
It’s not always like that. For all that Art likes to be treated like shit, slapped around while they call him names and tell him what to do, he likes it romantic most of the time. Patrick discovers with no small amount of satisfaction that he gets more tears out of this than Tashi does.
The two of them are freaks at heart, though, and they won’t let Patrick forget it. Over dinner one day, with Lily at her grandmother’s house, Tashi says, “Have you ever thought about fucking Art in his sleep, Patrick?”
Patrick chokes on his food. “What?”
“What, you two never talked about that?”
“Obviously not,” Patrick says. Then, a little hysterically: “Have you?”
“Of course I have.” Tashi leans closer. “Don’t you want to know what he feels like when he’s all pathetic and helpless?”
For all intents and purposes, pathetic and helpless are pretty good descriptors of Art most of the time. This, though – this feels different, for whatever reason, and Patrick looks at Art. “You let her use you like that, baby?”
Art is bright red, but he says, “I’d let you do it too, asshole,” almost like a challenge.
“Glad that’s settled,” Tashi says.
They don’t do it that night. In fact, they don’t do it all week, and after a while Patrick starts to wonder if it was just a passing joke to rile him up. Then Tashi takes him out to dinner one night after they’re done training, just the two of them.
“I know you’re wondering about it,” she says.
Patrick raises his eyebrows. “About what?”
“Patrick.”
“You’re being awfully vague.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He gives in. “Alright, sure. Were you just fucking with me?”
“Why do you think we’re here and he’s not?” Tashi takes a sip of her sparkling water, which Patrick still likes to make fun of her for. “He’s gonna be asleep by the time we get home, dumbass. It’s no fun if we talk about it beforehand.”
Patrick’s dick likes that. “So we’re going to surprise him,” he says. “He likes that?”
“It’s a trust thing.”
Patrick thinks, again, about Art letting him touch the wound he’d inflicted before it’d even stopped hurting. “What do you usually do? Just ride him until he wakes up?”
“Not necessarily. He’s looser when he’s relaxed.”
“Jesus, Tash.” The thought of her fucking him and not even feeling it – fucking him just because she wants to and she can – it’s almost unbearably hot. “I call dibs on fucking him,” Patrick says.
Tashi rolls her eyes. “Sure, whatever. I’ll sit on his dick.”
Art loves when he gets to be in the middle, which makes it kind of hot that he won’t be awake to see it. “Yeah, fuck. Do that.” A thought occurs to him. “Does he ever wake up?”
“Sometimes.”
“So, what, it just becomes regular sex after that?”
“Do you want me to spoil all of it for you?” Tashi rolls her eyes. “It depends. Sometimes I let him enjoy it. Sometimes I put him back to sleep.”
“Put him back to sleep?” Patrick repeats.
She doesn’t answer, just goes back to her food. Patrick reaches over and taps his fork against her plate impatiently. “Helloooo?”
“Oh my God, Patrick, chill out.”
“I’m just wondering if you use horse tranquilizers on your husband to knock him out when you’re fucking him.”
“You are so dramatic.”
“What else am I supposed to think? You not saying no is very suggestive, by the way.”
“You really want me to suck the excitement out of the whole thing?” Tashi says, exasperated. “Maybe I do use tranquilizers on him, what then?”
Patrick doesn’t want to admit it, but the thought of it kind of does it for him. Tashi must see it, because she throws her napkin at him. “What?” Patrick demands. “You started it.”
“You are incredibly annoying,” Tashi says, and then she refuses to give him any more clues.
Tashi’s right; by the time they get home, Art is fast asleep. He’s curled on his side in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but his underwear. He’s got a little frown on his face, and before Patrick can stop himself he walks over and runs his fingers through Art’s hair until his face relaxes. When Patrick steps back, Tashi’s giving him a look like she’s sick of his shit.
“You two are embarrassing,” she says, softly enough that the snark is more or less lost. Patrick grins at her.
Within two minutes, they’re both standing naked beside the bed, making out. Patrick runs a hand over the swell of her ass and toys with her nipple with the other, biting back the noises he’s used to letting himself make. After all this time, Tashi’s still the hottest woman he’s ever seen in his life, and it’s not close. Her eyes are hungry; he knows she’s feeling the excitement of having to be quiet, too, as Art continues to sleep.
Tashi’s the first to pull back, running her hand up his chest to push him away. They stand there breathing each other’s air for a minute, looking at each other, before Tashi steps away and retrieves the lube from the nightstand. She sits lightly on the bed as she eases Art onto his back and pulls his underwear off. Patrick steps up behind her, kissing the side of her neck.
“He’s easier when he’s like this,” Tashi whispers. Patrick watches as she pushes two fingers right into Art, down to the knuckles, and stretches them apart. Art’s next exhale comes out a little heavier. When Tashi sets her other hand on his thigh, the way it immediately relaxes him is almost hotter than the fingers in his hole.
“Fuck,” Patrick says.
Tashi adds another finger, slick sounds cutting through the quiet. Marks are starting to form on Tashi’s neck under Patrick’s teeth as he sucks, and he knows Art will pout about not getting to watch him leave them, but Patrick’s saved the other side of her neck for him. Art’s body is so pretty in the dim light, smooth and pale, firm planes softened slightly in retirement. Patrick has half a mind to lean over and sink his teeth right into him, plans be damned. He feels like he’s lost his mind by the time Tashi deems Art ready, properly stretched with four of her dainty, masterful fingers. The sound of her pulling out of him almost sends Patrick to his knees.
“You ready?” she says, smirking.
Patrick takes her place on the bed, lining himself up, and she takes his spot and hooks her chin over his shoulder. “Born ready.”
“Show me then.”
Pushing into Art’s still body is all but euphoric. “God,” Patrick breathes, pushing down the urge to shove his cock in all at once. He feels Art’s breathing hitch. “Shhh, baby, that’s it,” he soothes uselessly. Slow and steady, he pushes in until their hips are flush together. “Holy shit, Art.”
He thinks he knows what Tashi meant now; this gives a whole new meaning to pathetic and helpless. Art feels so delicate right now even though Patrick knows he’s not, and he’s made himself so intimidatingly vulnerable just for them.
“Fuck him,” Tashi whispers.
Patrick pulls out and shoves back in, grunting, and Art full-on moans beneath him. Satisfaction fills Patrick’s gut – months into the best sex of his life, he knows exactly what makes Art feel good, where exactly he likes to be touched – and he fucks him harder, faster. Something about the tension in the air makes every sensation more intense, from the warmth of Art’s body to the bones of his hips under Patrick’s hands. It should be weird, because he’s looser like this, and yet it feels fucking unreal. Tashi’s touching herself behind him, moaning in his ear; he can tell this is different for her, too, because she sounds uncharacteristically affected already. Art’s lips are parted now, breaths coming unevenly, and Patrick sees the moment his lashes flutter.
“Patrick,” he moans, voice thick with sleep.
“Don’t stop,” Tashi says. She climbs onto the bed next to Art, and Patrick doesn’t stop, watches as she wraps her fingers around Art’s pale neck. “Hi, baby.”
“Tashi,” Art gasps, and Tashi’s grip tightens, knuckles going white. Art chokes, hands flying up to grasp her wrist, but he doesn’t pull it away even as his gasping gets more frantic, desperate.
“This,” Patrick groans, “this is what you meant? Fuck, Tash, you’re insane, you’re a fucking psycho.”
“He loves it,” Tashi pants, squeezing somehow even tighter as she grinds against his thigh. Art makes a strangled, hurt little noise and tenses all through his body, and Patrick hears himself moan. “Look at him. Better than horse tranq, huh?”
“Next time,” Patrick grunts. Tashi curses under her breath. He slams into Art, mindless, and sees as if from underwater the moment Art loses consciousness, eyes rolling into the back of his head and hands going lax around Tashi’s wrist.
“There you go, baby,” she’s saying as Patrick’s brain scrambles to process the fucking unbelievably, impossibly hot scene he just witnessed. “Isn’t he cute? He’s all yours, Patrick, use him, he’s not gonna wake up. Fuck him like you mean it.”
Patrick doesn’t think he’s in control of his own hips anymore; he couldn’t stop if he tried. Tashi’s hand stays tight around Art’s neck as she gets up onto her knees and straddles Art’s hips and sits on his dick, dear God, Patrick’s not going to last. She’s bouncing, leaning forward to kiss Art’s slack mouth, fingers finally loosening around his neck. Patrick feels it when Art manages a full breath; his body just opens for Patrick all of a sudden, and that and the knowledge that Tashi’s got his life in one dangerous hand while she rubs her clit with the other sends his orgasm ripping through him.
Patrick spills hard and hot into Art’s limp body, groaning, while Tashi rides him within what would be an inch of his life if she hadn’t dangled just that off the edge already. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispers, grinding down on him and tilting his face up to kiss him again until she cries out, body seizing. Patrick kisses along her shoulders, dazed. When she leans back against him, panting, he sees that there’s blood where she’d bitten down on Art’s lip.
“Jesus Christ,” he says.
Tashi laughs, satisfied, and runs her fingers along the side of Art’s neck. He bruises like a peach; he’s going to be black and blue in the morning. “Don’t baby him tomorrow,” she says. “We spoil him enough as it is.”
“I think he might deserve it,” Patrick says.
Tashi looks up and kisses him, smiling. “He likes when it hurts. That’s why he’s so hard to get rid of.”
Patrick thinks of Stanford, of Atlanta, of New Rochelle. Then he thinks of the thrill he got out of hurting Art, even back at the Academy, and his dick is giving an interested little twitch again. Tashi laughs again. “You like it that much, huh?”
“Shut up,” Patrick says, shoving her sideways. She’s still laughing as she gets under the covers, pulling Art to her chest.
“Don’t think I forgot about the horse tranquilizers, Patrick,” she says, something like delight coloring her voice. “Now get in bed.”
He does as she says, curling up close on Art’s other side. “Never thought I’d see the day you didn’t insist on cleaning up first.”
“Leave it. He likes waking up full of cum.”
“You’re fucking evil.”
Tashi slides her hand over Art’s waist and flicks Patrick’s nipple, clearly satisfied with herself. “I know.”
They fall asleep like that, tangled together and covered in lube and sweat. Art is clingy and adorable the next morning, bruises dark around his neck, and he shoves his face against Patrick’s shoulder when he realizes he’s still full of Patrick’s cum.
“Morning,” Patrick says, petting his hair.
“You are the worst,” Art complains.
“What, you don’t want me to knock you up?”
Art whines; Patrick grins. Tashi rakes her nails down Art’s side, making him shiver.
“So,” Patrick says. “Choking. Didn’t realize that was that much of a thing.”
“Which one of us was talking about horse tranquilizers again?”
“Jesus, woman, I was joking.”
Art seems destined to only ever make pathetic sounds again for the rest of his life. Patrick and Tashi immediately look at each other, smirking. “That’s interesting,” Tashi says.
“You’re a fucking freak, Art,” Patrick says. “If I knew you were like this, I really would’ve given you a black eye on purpose.”
“You still can,” Art says weakly.
Tashi’s nails dig into Art’s skin right as Patrick’s fingers curl around his locks and pull tight, on the same page for once. Art wears concealer around the house for the next two weeks.