Page 54 of Puck You Both

"Fuck you," he manages, wobbly.

"Not yet."

Not yet. The two of them, casually scheduling, while I hold my own cock through cotton in the dark like contraband. The certainty in it, that there's a later, that this is one night in a series, that the series now includes me, pulls a sound up my throat that I barely trap.

Patrick's voice comes closer, directly over the phone now, low, aimed into my bedroom.

"You asked to be here."

My heart hits once, hard, off schedule.

"So be here."

Whatever was still holding me to protocol lets go. I shove the briefs down my thighs, my cock landing hot against my stomach, and the first bare stroke drags pre-cum from the head down the shaft, and a breath out of me that's too loud. Way too loud.

I don't take it back.

For one second, everything north of the state line pauses.

Then Patrick inhales, close to his phone. "Good."

The praise goes through me like current. My next stroke is rougher for it, my hips lifting into my fist, and from farther away Theo makes a sound that starts as a laugh and dies as a moan.

"He's— Patrick, he's—" His voice climbs. "Hi. Hi. Salut. Don't stop, why would you— fuck—"

Whatever Patrick does next takes the rest of the sentence, and their end finds a rhythm, liquid and steady. Slick fingers working, mattress springs keeping time. Theo's mouth produces sounds that used to be words. And underneath all of it, Patrick's breathing, composure with a strain running through it now.

My fist matches their pace. I’ve not consciously decided on that. The darkness is total and it makes everything closer. Theo's sounds arrive against my ear like he's on the next pillow, the wet rhythm sitting low in my stomach. When their bed knocks the wall once, I feel it in my teeth.

"He's dripping on the sheets," Patrick says, conversational with fraying edges. "He keeps reaching for himself."

"Because somebody has a policy—"

"Hands."

There’s a short scuffle, then a wounded noise of compliance. In my head, Theo's fists close around the headboard, knuckles pale, cock heavy and ignored between his thighs, and he does it because Patrick asked. The obedience does something strange to me. Someday I'll ask someone why.

But not today.

"Please." Theo's voice has changed now. Lower. Stripped of performance. "Please, I've been so— tell him how good I'm— Tell him."

"You tell him." Patrick's voice drops another floor. "Tell him what you're taking."

"Three of his fingers, and he's being so slow about it, I'm going to die on this bed and my ghost is going to sue—"

The cap clicks again. A drawer moves. Theo's breath goes shallow and fast, and the change reads clearly from miles away. Fingers gone now. Something else coming.

My grip tightens at the base of my cock and I force myself slower, because the edge has already entered the room and we are nowhere near done.

And I want all of it. Every second, at full attention.

"Say it," Theo whispers, urgent, barely catching the mic. "Say what you're—"

"I think he knows." A pause stretches. When Patrick speaks again it's rougher, aimed at me, the closest to a crack I've heard from him tonight. Or ever. "Slow. So he can hear all of it."

The push, when it comes, is one long sound. Sheets pulling tight. Patrick's breath breaking off mid-inhale. And Theo… Theo opens around a note I've never heard from him, low, cracked and grateful, lasting the whole length of the slide, and my hand forgets its speed limit. Pre-cum slicks my fist. The darkness in my bedroom has a temperature now.

"Thank you— Fuck— Merci—"