roommates
summary: In which Patrick teaches Art how to jerk off… a lot later down the road.
word count: 1.7k
warnings: 18+, mutual masturbation
a/n: happy valentine's day you freaks
masterlist — on ao3
It started, as always, with Tashi Duncan.
“What’s so great about this girl, anyway?” Art asked the ceiling, laying where the two beds met. The sheets were twisted, an assortment of belongings spread out between them both: hollow beer cans, takeout crumbs, playing cards. Clearly they’d given up pretending to be separate.
Patrick sat up from where he was leaning against the headboard, one knee bent. “Are you serious? You saw the picture I showed you, didn’t you?”
“Well yeah, but—“
“But what? She’s fucking hot, dude, like, smoking hot,” Patrick grinned as he shook his head.
Art scoffed, shifting to his side . “You say that about every chick you want to fuck.”
“Yeah, well, I really mean it this time. I mean, look at her.”
The can of beer lying between them nudged free as Art moved, sliding off the edge of the bed and clattering to the floor with a hollow clunk. Neither of them went to get it.
Art exhaled. “Why do you keep that picture, anyway? You jerk off to it?”
Patrick shrugged, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. “Nah, it’s not jerk-off material,” he glanced over at Art. “Why, you want it?”
“What? No,” Art snorted. “I don’t— I mean, no.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Not that, you fucking idiot. You don’t what?”
Art was silent.
“Art.”
“Fuck off.”
“Are you serious?”
“I said fuck off.”
Patrick let out a laugh. A big, breathless laugh. “Holy shit,” he said. “You don’t jerk off. I don’t fucking believe it. Art Donaldson doesn’t jerk off.”
“Does it really matter that much?”
“Dude, all guys jerk off! Is there something wrong with you? Can’t get it up or something?”
Art felt his face burn. “That is not why.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I just—“ Art huffed. “I’ve never done it before.”
“Say that again?”
“I said I—“ Art fell back against the bed, turning his back to Patrick. “Can we stop fucking talking about this?”
The room fell silent. For a moment, Art was actually convinced that Patrick had listened to him.
“Why?”
Art sighed. Great. “Why what?”
“Why haven’t you jerked off before?”
It was silent again. The ceiling fan felt awfully loud all of a sudden. Had it always been that loud?
Patrick nudged him with his foot. “I can show you how, you know.”
Art laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna do that.”
“I’m just trying to help you out. I mean… What do you even do when you’re horny? Just say a little prayer and wait for it to pass?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ve seen what I do. I try to wait until you’re asleep, but sometimes I just can’t wait. I’ve done it in the shower, in the bed, on your bed, sometimes, actually—“
A pillow went soaring at Patrick’s head. “You are fucking disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’re just a saint. I mean, seriously. Not even once?”
At the lack of response, Patrick peeled the pillow off of himself and tossed it back in Art’s direction. “I was being serious, you know. I’ll show you how. It’s not exactly rocket science,” he said.
Still nothing. Art always got quiet when he was being stubborn. “Alright, come on. What if Tashi Duncan wanted to fuck you—“
“That would never happen.”
“It probably wouldn’t, but let’s just pretend. What if she did, and then she tells you she wants to watch you jerk off. Then what?”
Art looked at him skeptically. “Why the hell would she want to see that?”
Patrick shrugged, adjusting his waistband. “I dunno. That girl I hooked up with in August was into that.”
“You mean Ava?”
“Yeah. The one with the fat ass, not the other one.”
“Gross.”
“Anyway, we both know you’d sit there stroking your shit looking like a fucking moron, and there’s no way in hell she’d be turned on,” Patrick said. “So don’t you want to get some practice now?”
Art fiddled with his fingers. “…Practice.”
“Yeah. Just like tennis.”
“This is not just like tennis,” Art laughed.
“Art, come on.”
Art let out a long, heavy sigh. He knew he wouldn’t win this. He never did, at least not when it came to Patrick. “You better not try anything funny,” he murmured.
“Just relax. It’s supposed to be fun, you know. It feels good. I promise,” Patrick assured him, tossing his cigarette aside. “Go sit over there. I’ll take this side.”
“Why?” Art asked, even though he was already moving.
“Because I know you’ll get all shy and stupid if we do it right here. Just sit on the edge, I don’t care where you look.”
Art sat with his back facing Patrick, suddenly feeling uncomfortably aware of everything. He crossed his ankles, then uncrossed them. Was he sitting too far? Was Patrick watching him?
“You still there?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m,” Art’s voice cracked. He swallowed thickly. “I’m here.”
Patrick snorted. “Jesus Christ, relax. We haven’t even taken your pants off yet.”
“I… should I do that?”
“Sure. Go ahead, why not.”
Art obeyed. As his shorts hit the floor and he set them aside, he heard the same soft thump mirrored on the other side of the bed. “Wait, you’re doing it too?”
“Well, yeah. Would be pretty fucking weird if I just sat here and listened to you beat your meat,” Patrick kicked his shorts away. “Think of it as a hands-on approach.”
“Oh, god.”
“Is your dick out yet?”
Art swallowed. “…yes.”
“Great, that’s the first step. Congratulations. You hard yet?”
“Uh,” Art looked down. He felt his face grow hot with something akin to shame but not quite. Something heated and guilty all at once. “…not… really?”
“Okay, then just touch yourself. You don’t have to do anything crazy yet, just… see what feels good,” Patrick told him, his own hand snaking down his body to wrap around his shaft.
Judging from the silence alone, Patrick could practically hear how focused Art was. “How’s little Art doing down there?” He asked.
“He’s— I—“ Art spluttered. “Don’t fucking call it that.”
“Just wrap your hand around it,” Patrick said, stroking slowly. “You don’t have to go fast. Just keep going. Maybe touch the tip a little, with your thumb or something, whatever feels good.”
"Fuck," Art breathed out, his hips giving an involuntary twitch at the feeling of his own touch. It was almost humiliating how he almost immediately went fully hard, a bead of precum leaking out that he could feel cooling on his skin.
Following Patrick’s instructions, he started stroking slowly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each movement. His cock twitched and throbbed in his grip, growing harder and harder until he was rock solid.
It’s just practice, Art reminded himself. Like tennis.
Art never really looked at his cock very closely. It wasn’t like he spent all of his free time sitting around with his pants down, staring at it. But now, it was all he could really look at. He could see the blood rushing south, the vein along the top pulsing.
It gave a hard twitch, and something in Art suddenly wanted to see what Patrick’s cock looked like, too.
Fuck it, this was nothing like tennis at all.
He figured it must have been the arousal starting to mess with his brain, or the sounds of Patrick’s own stroking, his groans, drowning out any logical sense that Art had. Because the thought of watching Patrick jerk off didn’t seem disgusting at all, all of a sudden. Just imagining it was only making Art feel even hotter, each stroke growing faster, tighter.
He’d seen it before. Stole a glance in the showers, the locker rooms, the bathroom. He knew it was big. Bigger than his, probably. But he’d never seen it hard before, never seen it in Patrick’s fist, throbbing and ready and—
“Shit,” Art gasped, his breath coming in short pants. His free hand gripped the edge of the bed. A thick spurt of precum leaked from his tip. “Patrick, I— I think I’m—“
“Already?” Patrick laughed, a breathless noise.
“It’s—“ Art was cut off by an embarrassingly high-pitched moan, his hips bucking up into his hand. “What do I do?”
“Just keep going, man. You’re close, aren’t you?” Judging from the way Patrick sounded, he probably wasn’t too far off either.
Art nodded, even though Patrick wasn’t facing him. “Yeah, fuck,” he breathed. “So close.”
Without thinking, Art turned. Patrick was sitting a lot closer than he’d thought, and oh fuck there was his cock. And he was stroking it, lips parted, head tilted back. Holy shit, he could see everything.
Art gaze zeroed in to where Patrick’s hand was moving in a rapid, wet blur, and that was all it took. His entire body went rigid before a wave of pleasure crashed over him, and cum hit his chest in long, hot ropes.
“Oh— fuck!” Art choked out. It lasted longer than expected. For a moment, he almost thought it would never end, and he would sit there staring at Patrick cumming himself silly for eternity. His hand stilled, just the pressure of its weight sitting on his cock alone for the pleasure to continue riding out in waves.
He glanced down at himself, sticky and spent. A deep flush colored his cheeks pink.
“Fuck,” Art whispered, his voice breaking. When he finally looked up, Patrick was staring straight at him with a stupid fucking smirk on his face.
“You look like a kid who spilled milk all over himself.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Art reached for the abandoned pillow, tossing it half-heartedly in Patrick’s direction. His aim was lousy and it went soaring towards the wall with a soft thump.
He reached over to grab some of the tissues from the nightstand, starting to clean up the mess coating his stomach and chest. “For the record, I don’t usually get all… flustered like that,” Art muttered. “That was just… it was just because it was my first time actually, like, really jerking off with the intent to cum. And your detailed commentary didn't help."
“Sure,” Patrick stuck the cigarette from earlier back in his mouth, lighting it. “You’ll just have to show me how you really do it next time.”
