Chapter Text
Even if people haven’t heard of Pete Wentz, they’ve heard of Pete Wentz.
Pete, the pretty party boy. A good alliteration, only ruined by the fact that Pete shed his name like a too-tight shell, traded it for an alias made up on a whim that stuck to him like thorns under fingernails. The stamp of his father’s name, the legacy that Peter the Third was never able to uphold, hidden beneath something new and shiny. Something better. Something that’s just Pete’s legacy.
Even if people haven’t heard of Pete Wentz, they’ve certainly heard of Jason Kingston.
Jason, the young, hip, up-and-coming author of novels that take the world by storm. Jason, the author whose astonishing looks match the twisted beauty of his prose. Jason, the one who pours his ugly heart into pretty words, sharp sentences, a printed dagger ready to make the world bleed out slowly.
A book signing with the successful, smiling author, Jason’s whiskey eyes, slightly narrowed as flash, flash, flash, the lights of cameras all around him turn the world bright white. Bright white. Bright white.
Bright white, and Jason’s eyes widen, pupils dilated, blood pumped up with glittering powder and pills. The hottest club, he’s there, always in the middle of something, be it a wild party, an ecstatic consumption of drugs, the pages of his notebook, someone else’s legs. Jason takes from life with both hands, the good and the bad. Mostly, the bad. Misery sells, and Jason is the car accident no one can look away from.
Flash, flash, Jason’s eyes widen comically as the paps take yet another incriminating picture of him with drugs, him in suspicious company, passed out, drunk, out of his mind. Word vomit on pages turns into actual vomit in high-class bathrooms, and into the newest scandal story about the scandalous author. Insanity refuses to be banned on paper, his doctor refuses to write more prescriptions, his agent Joe refuses a new contract unless Jason agrees to go away.
Thirty days in the clinic, and a lifetime of rehab, meetings, prayers to a higher deity and twelve steps need to be repeated like a worn-out cassette. Pete just loves to build his own prisons, lock himself away in yet another inescapable cell forever.
Pete has cleared his act since those days; not his alias’ image, that’s still covered in the mud thrown at him over the years, but Pete is doing better. No more parties, no more drugs, no more scandals. Instead he has rehab, counseling, plenty of meetings, and his one-year sobriety coin under his belt. He’s growing old and boring, he has to. Sometimes Pete theorizes that a person only has a finite amount of partying in them, and a limit on how much they can harm their body with various substances. And, well, Jason Kingston has used up all of Pete’s party time and consumed enough drugs for a lifetime. Nothing left for Pete. It simply isn’t fair.
Maybe that’s why his latest book isn’t going well. Pete changes the reasoning for his slow work process every few weeks, but right now, his theory is his lack of allowed fun. It’s better than wondering if maybe, he also had a finite amount of good ideas and useful words, all used up now, leaving him as an empty shell that isn’t even allowed a little line of coke now and again.
Pete sits at his desk, stares at an empty screen. A familiar scene, for weeks now. The only things that have changed around him are the pile of dishes and the date. Spring is on its last breath, about to blow up and explode into a cascade of summer sunlight. As if it wasn’t hot enough already.
Since Pete’s only remaining drug is self-pity, he allows himself a heavy sigh. If he can’t party hard, can’t have some simple fun, and has to face that his 29th birthday, just lurking at the start of June, marking the slow death of his raving twenties, it had better be amazing in every other category.
He is not motivated to celebrate his dooming decline, but then again, it’s not like people will let him forget about it. With another sigh, Pete leans back in his seat, all too willing to forget about his lack of work progress to focus on this other, way more convenient problem.
A birthday. The last one was spent in rehab, among the other addicts, pretty much forgotten among despair and withdrawal symptoms. This year, Pete is out and sober, has nowhere to hide. If he can’t sweep it under the rug, well… What else is there to do? Spite takes over, replaces the lead of self-pity in Pete’s veins with burning anger. Pete feels like stomping his feet, crying out like a little boy. He wants all his friends to come and he wants all the presents. He wants glitter and balloons and all the sweets and fried chicken his mom never allowed him to have and the biggest cake his mom never bought him. He’s an adult with money to spend on anything but frivolous drugs now, so…
An idea sparks in his brain. Yes, Pete wants a real big cake. A cake his mom certainly never would’ve bought him in a million years.
Pete wants a big, fancy cake.
With a stripper inside.
Pete originally met him when Gabe’s clothing line bought the rights to make merchandise to one of his book series, and ever since, Gabe’s been staying at his side.
Saporta has his hands in everything. Besides the clothing line – which has everything from movie merchandise to neon sweaters to outdated scene-look shirts, a living Hot Topic dream – Gabe owns multiple bars, rents out a recording studio, works as the occasional DJ, and is always involved in a million other projects that Pete doesn’t even know of.
Currently, Gabe is sitting in Pete’s living room, drinking expensive bottled water and enjoying the air conditioning. Yet another welcome distraction from the bright white of Pete’s screen. He hasn’t got much further in his writing. Best not to think about it. Best to focus on something else. Drop the thought, recovery calls it; denial suits it better here, and Pete is a master of that.
Pete gets up, throws himself on the couch. “I want a cake for my birthday,” he announces.
“How very unusual,” Gabe retorts while he scrolls through his phone, unbothered by Pete’s legs on his lap. “What’s the catch?”
Pete pouts, and pokes Gabe’s ribcage with his toes. “You don’t get it, Saporta. I want a cake with a stripper inside.”
That gets Gabe to put his phone down for a moment as he contemplates the thought. There isn’t even any surprise, and Pete doesn’t know if Gabe expects this crazy shit from him, or because it’s not actually an unusual request for Gabe.
“Want me to give you some names?” Gabe just says, as if Pete had asked for a restaurant recommendation. “I know some good places. Expensive, but discreet. All as legit as it gets, treat their girls well, everyone’s healthy and hot. High class, amigos.”
Pete shakes his head, pokes Gabe again only to get his feet pushed off Gabe’s lap. “It has to be a guy. A girl is too normal. It’s my birthday, and I want a hot guy and the shocked faces of everyone as he gets out of that cake.”
Pete still craves the drugs, but since he can’t have those anymore, at least he should be allowed a little intoxicating infamy.
“Your birthday, your decision,” is all Gabe comments, “I’m sure I can find you a good agency for that, too. Give me a few days to make some calls.”
“Knew I could count on you,” Pete says with a grin.
“Always,” Gabe says, and Pete knows he means it.
Gabe stays true to his words. A few days later, Pete finds an email from him in his inbox, boasting links to several websites. Pete randomly clicks on one, and scrolls through the gallery.
He doesn’t want one of those muscly guys on steroids. He doesn’t want any of the bears, he’s not into hairy guys either. Just someone normal. Someone cute. Someone as sweet-looking as the cake Pete wants him to jump out of. He imagines a soft, saccharine little guy as pale as the cake’s cream topping; yes, yes, that sounds good. The clothes – or rather, what little a stripper would wear – oh, Pete knows already, his fantasies fueled by the forbidden pictures of boyhood, glossy photographs in magazines hidden away from his parent’s eyes, with beautiful girls in bunny suits matching the magazine’s logo. Tight, sexy, with a cocky nod to innocence with the bunny ears perched upon carefully styled hair. Yes, Pete wants clichés, wants to be reminded of summers spent carefree, the dawn of sexual awakening in his teens, an all-American experience wrapping tightly around a cute boy’s body.
It’s overwhelming, and Pete feels slightly wrong staring at the pictures on screen, as if he were to order expensive takeout or new clothes. Scouting out people in a bar is one thing, but this… Feels off. Too many choices to make, too many faces and so much text and anxiety threatens to ruin this before it has even started.
In the end, Pete just calls the agency and describes what he wants in painstaking and horribly embarrassing detail. The woman on the phone keeps asking polite but firm questions, and Pete stutters his way through, his clumsy words painting a vulgar picture of his equally vulgar-feeling wishes. It’s not like him, Pete usually isn’t shy or short of words, but he also usually isn’t sitting in his living room, all alone, phone pressed to his cheek as he orders a high-class stripper to come pop out of a fake cake for his birthday. Regret befalls him, but the woman on the line has a gentle, reassuring voice, and it’s too late to back out now. Pete uses words like “soft” and “cute” and "first summer love" and lists his sexual preferences as if he was dictating groceries.
Eventually, Pete ends the call with a deep sigh, and one last request.
“Make sure the guy can at least sing me a decent Happy Birthday.”
A few days later, Pete is having yet another uncomfortable phone call.
“How’s the book coming along?” Joe, his agent, asks, a little weary because deep down, he knows the answer.
“Not well,” Pete answers truthfully because Joe can see through his bullshit anyway. He hears his agent sigh, and feels guilty. The ever-present bad conscience is a really bad side effect of sobriety that no one bothered to tell Pete about. Joe’s a good guy, has helped settle the deals that got Pete tons of fame and money, got his books to shoot up on the New York Times bestseller list three times now, he’s stood with Pete through rehab and any other shit he’s pulled.
“Lighten up, Trohman. Can’t force inspiration, can you?” Pete fakes a laugh, then decides to change the topic. “I’m gonna throw a big party for my birthday.”
“Is that a good idea for someone sober?” Joe inquires, always the sensible one.
Pete scoffs. “I can handle myself,” he says with a pout, “besides, I’ll be too busy with the stripper from the cake to get tempted by drugs.”
“You what?” Joe screams, but Pete just hangs up on him.
Pete manages to almost forget about the whole awkwardness over the organization of everything else for the big day that is approaching faster than he likes. Twenty-nine, which means 365 more days of his twenties left, and Pete can’t deal. He really can’t. He hadn’t even planned to stay alive for this long, but now he’s here, looking at sober-friendly party drinks and hitting up Gabe for some help.
Just as Pete expected, the party is depressing. No more ravaging alcoholic feasts, no more popping pills in the bathroom and snorting coke from the naked body of a hot girl, not even a little joint. The same faces marked with the same mistakes, people around Pete dared to get older too; drugs traded for the newest low-carb diet, the model boy- and girlfriends turned into spouses and parents, dick pics and condoms in their wallets replaced with wholesome family portraits. Pete smiles and nods, cracks his knuckles and hates the life he doesn’t recognize, and the party that he’s missing out on.
He’s even wearing a shirt, smart, sensible, casual chic. Not voluntarily. No more mesh tops and naked torsos, no more fashion mistakes, Joe insisted he looks “like a respectable author, Pete, think about your image, I didn’t put in all that effort into rebuilding it just for you to ruin it”. As he tugs at the collar, Pete feels even older.
Things only start to look up once the ridiculously giant cake is rolled into the living room.
Pete feels like a pervert for about three seconds, then forgets his worries when Joe emerges from amongst the surprised crowd.
“Pete,” Joe says in an alarmed voice, “what the hell is this? I thought you were joking!”
“That’s my birthday cake,” Pete replies as casually as possible. He downs his diet Coke as if it was a sophisticated drink rather than a shitty soda, and grins at his agent. “And it’s got a little surprise for me inside, too. Don’t worry, no boobies or nipples,” Joe almost sighs, “it’s actually a guy.”
With that, Pete flees the scene as Joe almost chokes on his drink. A large hand on his back announces the presence of Gabe, who shoves Pete towards the cake. Pete lets himself get pushed onto a chair, feeling like a six-year old kid about to get his presents. Except this pretty present will be better.
The crowd goes silent as from somewhere, the melody of Happy Birthday is played. Pete feels ridiculous, he feels his nerves buzzing with the perverse thrill of humiliation, infamy, and pleasure. It’s the closest to a high he has felt ever since he got sober.
And then, the stupid giant cake pops open.
The agency got it right - the boy can sing. Oh, can he sing. Pete would applaud him for that alone, if only he wasn’t so focused on everything else about him.
A pair of bunny ears ar eperched on copper-colored hair, its strands framing a pale, boyish face. Eyes rimmed black, lips a delicious shade of pink, forming words that barely reach Pete’s consciousness. A white faux fur stole is draped over him, soon discarded under the laughs and whistles of the audience.
The tight, tight suit that the stripper is wearing leaves nothing to the imagination. It reveals naked arms and the fragile curve of his shoulders, the shadows of his clavicle, follows the smoothness of a soft tummy, matching the nice curve of bunny boy’s ass and thighs. More importantly, it clings to the bulge between bunny boy’s legs. Of course, it’s covered modestly by the suit, but the tightness of the white fabric only further reveals the promise of what’s underneath. The kid is packing, and Pete’s mouth is starting to water. Hung like a bunny never sounded so appealing.
The stripper is still singing, but Pete is barely paying attention. He finally looks up again, catching a lascivious wink before bunny boy turns around, arms resting on the fake cake as he looks over his shoulder, wiggles his hips a little to show off his backside. A white tail matching the ears completes the bunny ensemble, although Pete’s attention is much more focused on the round swell of his ass, the firm flesh of his thighs, the black sock garters over his calves an exquisite contrast to the pale skin. He’s just wearing the socks, no shoes, the weirdness of which escapes Pete. It’s lost in a sea of arousal as Pete’s fingers itch to touch, as his tongue yearns to lick, suck, kiss, as his dick hardens with the want to sink into the tight, wet heat of kiss-swollen lips and a pretty, pink hole fingered open just for Pete.
Time stands still for everyone but them as bunny boy makes his way over to Pete, strolling through and seductively. Dark-rimmed eyes are fixed on Pete, two deep blue lakes surrounded by kohl. It brings out the white glow of his skin, the faint pink of his blushed cheeks and tip of his nose, the only parts of him that betray a certain sense of nervousness. His voice remains firm, still singing, and the shape of his mouth, the sultry undertone in his voice, the way he owns himself turns the simple Happy Birthday song into pure sin.
Before Pete knows it, bunny boy is standing right in front of him, before Pete has time to think, he is balancing the pleasant weight of the stripper on his lap. The guy slings his arms around Pete, his face close enough that Pete can spot some stray freckles, golden lashes, plush lips wetted by the tip of a tempting tongue before the last happy birthday to you is sung by them.
The magic moment gets interrupted by the cheering and laughing of the audience, painful reminder that they are in company. Oh, Pete is going to change that immediately.
“Happy birthday,” bunny boy whispers, voice low enough that only Pete can hear them. These words are only meant for him, just like the expectant smile lighting up the boy’s cherubic face. On instinct, he grabs bunny boy’s hips, hands digging into the tight suit and the delicious softness of the body beneath. Mine .
“I’m Patrick, your present, and I have so much more to give to you.” Bunny boy – well, Patrick – bats his painted lashes, the clichés somehow suiting him well. “Why don’t we take it somewhere private, so you can enjoy the rest of your gift properly…?”
Pete is in no position to turn that offer down. He nods, voice lost in anticipation and the anxiety that only nonsense might come over his lips.
“I’ll meet you in the bedroom then.” Patrick slides off his lap, and Pete watches him go, the bouncing tail and bunny ears soon lost among the crowd. The spectacle is over, and everyone is back to the regular life of the party. The giant cake is the only sign of what happened, along with the white faux fur stole, looking sad and deflated without its wearer.
A hand on his shoulder makes Pete jump out of his seat.
“You better take that erection outta here, Wentz.” Gabe shakes his head, then pats Pete’s shoulder again. “Lock the door, I’ll make sure to tell everyone not to look for you. Especially not in your bedroom.”
Pete nods, before he remembers he’s capable of words. “Thanks, Gabe. I owe you one.”
Gabe laughs, then gently pushes Pete in the vague direction of the hallway. Pete is sleep-walking through the crowd, bumping against people, uncaring and not paying any attention. He has a tunnel vision for his white rabbit, the white ears, white tail, unexplored naked skin hidden beneath a thin layer of fabric.
The bedroom is a little further away from the party crowd, voices dulled, music an indistinguishable mush of beats.
The stripper has everything set up. There’s a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms neatly arranged on the otherwise empty nightstand. It’s the one Pete doesn’t use, on the empty side of his too-big bed. Pete doesn’t even know why he owns one nightstand, let alone two; somewhere along the line, someone smarter must’ve come along and decided that a proper adult has to have a nightstand on each side of their bed. Pete pushes that thought aside. Today, there’s someone there to fill the loneliness, today, it’s not just Pete and his never-ending stream of thoughts.
Said someone rolls over on his stomach, all exquisite paleness against the dark red of Pete’s sheets. Somehow, the bunny ears are still sitting atop his golden hair. “Care to join me?” Patrick asks, playfully swinging his legs.
Who would Pete be to object, though he does have a question or two. “How did you know where my bedroom is?”
Patrick smiles sweetly, black-rimmed eyes sparkling with a sense of mischief. “That’s a trade secret.”
Pete sits down, about to unbutton his shirt, stopped by Patrick’s hand. “Want me to do that for you?”
Pete nods, once more devoid of language.
Patrick unbuttons his shirt, slowly, teasingly. Long, deft fingers, they’d look exquisite around Pete’s cock. “What else do you want?” Patrick’s voice is silk against Pete’s neck, the tip of his fingers electric when they brush his naked skin.
“Me?” Patrick whispers when he notices Pete’s inability to answer. “Is that what you want, Pete?”
“How did you know my name?” Pete finally says in between two gasps for air.
“You’re the big birthday boy. The reason I’m here.” The other reasons he’s here – a hefty fee paid with Pete’s credit card, the agency, and Pete’s stupid ideas – remains unmentioned. “But I only know your name, and I’d like to know so much more of you…”
Pete can feel the gears in his brain starting to turn again as his rational side comes back to life. As velvet-smooth as bunny boy’s words are, Pete realizes they’re an elegant cover-up for professional questions. No doubt the agency has told Patrick everything on Pete they had, but there’s still boundaries to negotiate and unknown clients to judge, so Pete plays along.
“I want you,” Pete growls, “tell me how much of you I can have.”
Patrick chuckles, but stays true to his role. “You can touch me,” he coos as he takes Pete’s hand, places it on the naked stretch of skin below his clavicle. “Everywhere you want.”
“Sounds good,” Pete mutters, fingers tracing over the small patch of golden hair peeking out just above the tight suit. He can’t quite make out Patrick’s hair color, which seems to be somewhere between copper and dirty-blond; Pete just wonders if the carpet matches the curtains.
“You can kiss me,” Patrick continues, voice low and sultry, sugary-sweet like honey. “Everywhere you want.”
“You sure?” Pete asks back, a hoarse chuckle escaping him as he watches how Patrick undoes the last of his buttons. “Because I wanna kiss you everywhere.”
“I’m sure.” Patrick nods firmly, before he throws Pete’s shirt to the ground. “But don’t bite me. I won’t get tied up. No handcuffs. You’re familiar with the other general rules of the agency?”
It’s Pete’s turn to nod; truth is, he can barely think, barely remember anything that came before Patrick emerged from the cake prop. But he knows he doesn’t have any kinky requests, he hasn’t requested anything fetish-specific, he knows about STDs and condoms. There shouldn’t be any problems. It’s too bad he can’t tie Patrick’s hands to his bed frame, too bad he can’t sink his teeth into the tempting curve of his ass until he’s marked up properly, but that’s a price Pete’s more than willing to pay for this adventure.
There are a dozen other ideas swirling in Pete’s mind, and the first one includes pushing Patrick off his lap, onto his back, a pretty pale against the dark sheets. Somehow, the ears are still on, but Pete has no time to notice that when Patrick readily spreads his legs, sends him a sultry look through golden lashes. Fuck, Pete needs to touch, now.
The suit is tight, clinging to every delicious curve of flesh. Pete’s hands trail down from the exposed collarbones over the fabric of the bunny costume, down over a soft stomach, then he palms the impressive bulge between the bunny boy’s legs. It earns him a soft sigh as Patrick shifts his hips in search for more, lips parted, blue eyes full of challenge. Pete isn’t sure if Patrick is just feisty, or if it’s all part of the well-calculated act. It doesn’t matter, because whatever it is, it’s fucking working.
Patrick spreads his legs a little wider, knees up and feet planted next to Pete’s thighs. He’s arching up into the touch of Pete’s hands, rubbing against it like a horny teen touched for the first time, his desire now underlined by small moans. It’s melodic like his singing, which is both amusing and strangely hot. Pete’s other hand digs into Patrick’s thighs, feel firm flesh and muscles. The shift of position has revealed the white tail that completes the bunny outfit, making Pete grin as he reaches for it.
The tail actually fucking twitches beneath Pete’s hand, and that’s when Pete finally gets it.
“That’s a…” Pete doesn’t finish the sentence, just strokes over Patrick’s hardening cock, fast and rough, watches the white tail twitch in response again while Patrick moans loudly.
“Plug. Exactly,” Patrick finishes for him, slightly panting by now, cheeks painted pink by arousal. “If you let me take off the suit, you can see for yourself…”
Fuck. This is unexpected, but not unwelcomed at all. Pete leans back and Patrick sits up, fumbling with a hidden zipper on the right side of his costume. Pete watches, slightly amused and a bit irritated; Patrick seems more interested in getting the suit (which he doesn’t seem to like at all) off his body as fast as possible instead of giving his client the show he’s probably instructed to give. How did this guy get to join a hooker agency?
Such thoughts are discarded as soon as Patrick’s costume is thrown aside, and Pete catches sight of the now naked body in front of him. Just as expected Patrick is all paleness, only disrupted by a dust of dark copper on his chest and crotch and the two pink pebbles of his nipples. And fuck, the kid is hung indeed; uncovered, his dick looks even better, his impressive length blood-red and curving up against his stomach. It makes Pete’s mouth water, makes him want to take every inch of Patrick’s thick cock into his mouth until he chokes on it. He wants to lick, suck, kiss, until the bunny is begging for it.
Patrick is about to get on all fours, only to be stopped by Pete.
“I meant it when I said I want to kiss you everywhere,” Pete growls as he lays down, unbothered by the slight irritation on Patrick’s face. “You’re gonna sit on my face, and while I lick you nice and open, you’ll suck my dick.”
A shadow hushes over Patrick’s narrowed eyes. “You don’t need to,” he says slowly, voice even but not even enough to hide a hint of insecurity. “I’m all prepped and ready. Condoms, and we’re good to go –“
“I want to,” Pete interrupts him, hands already on Patrick’s ass. He’s not pulling, just copping a little feel as he waits for an answer. “Unless…”
Patrick closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, all insecurities and doubts have vanished. “Unless what?” He asks snottily, back to playing the assertive brat. It’s an act Pete could get used to. “You’re not just a tease, right? You’re going to eat my ass?”
“You damn bet I will,” Pete says with a big grin that turns only bigger as he watches Patrick grab two of the condoms, rubber up both their dicks, then climb over Pete to take position. In truth Pete would prefer it the other way around, to tower over Patrick, a firm hand keeping him from thrusting up as Pete sucks his cock, eats his ass, fucks into Patrick’s mouth. He’s sure Patrick would allow it, would have to allow it because it’s not against any of the rules set up. And yet Pete can’t bring himself to ask for it, a strange shyness and the dawn of a guilty conscience keeping his tongue tied. The money he pays can only make up for so much and he’d rather continue to pretend that the callboy is at least somewhat enjoying himself.
Pete shakes his head, and forgets about any worries. Instead, he digs his hands into Patrick’s ass cheeks, spreads him open; Pete can see the white fluff and the silicon edge of the plug stretching his rim, just begging to be explored with a tongue. He can feel Patrick’s hand around his cock, a firm grip, real warm fingers that actually belong to another human being. Pete has to admit, it’s been a while.
“Want me to reciprocate the rim job?” Patrick asks, neutral voice and all professionalism.
“No, just focus on my dick,” Pete answers hungrily, hoping this is all the conversation needed because he has a damn fine ass and big, hard cock literally right before his eyes and would rather forgo further words.
There’s no answer from Patrick; instead, there’s a tongue teasing over the head of Pete’s dick, warm and wet, even through the condom. Pete takes that as his sign to stop talking, too. He leans up, tongue trailing over Patrick’s balls. He’ll come back to those, and he’ll come back to Patrick’s cock, too, but for now, he licks over Patrick’s cleft, over his rim, a sense of joy buzzing through him when he hears Patrick moan in appreciation, sees how that bunny tail twitches just a little. Pete reaches for the base, feels the soft fluff of the fake fur, sees how it stretches Patrick open, open, open as he slowly pulls it out, then pushes it back in.
With a muffled yelp, Patrick slumps forward, the grip on Pete’s dick tightening almost painfully. Pete grins to himself, keeps fucking him with the toy for just a little while longer, just enough to make Patrick moan some more and his thighs shake. Finally, Pete pulls the toy out for good, throws it aside, then grabs Patrick’s cheeks again. Patrick’s entrance is wet and pink, slick from spit and the lube he must’ve used to insert the plug, and Pete slides two fingers in with no trouble.
Patrick gasps, the dick of his client sort of forgotten in his fist, lets out another muffled yelp when Pete curls his fingers over his prostate.
“Fuck,” Pete hears him say, “fuck, you got to – do that again, fuck…”
Pete’s both proud and just a tiny bit jealous that bunny boy is getting all this action even though Pete is the birthday boy here. “What? I can’t hear you over the sound of you not sucking my dick,” he growls back, smiling to himself when he hears Patrick scoff a little. He likes the fierceness, likes that Patrick is so much more than meets the eye. Behind his cute, innocent appearance and the adorable bunny ears is a provocative little lion.
And fuck, when Patrick starts sucking his cock for real, Pete instantly knows why the agency kept him. Because god damnit, Patrick’s mouth was made for this. A clever tongue lapping at Pete’s balls, deft fingers caressing them as the tongue trails over the shaft, lips wrapped around it tightly, all wet, sinful heat. He takes in every last inch of Pete’s aching length, deepthroats him like there’s no tomorrow and Pete can’t help but cry out. Shit, the callboy is better at his job than he expected.
Despite having two fingers up Patrick’s ass, all Pete can do is hold his breath and desperately hold back his orgasm. Patrick is really fucking good at this, and then he starts making these melodic little moans that sound better than anyone has any right to sound if their mouth is chock full of cock. The vibration travels through Pete’s dick, spread heat up to his groin as the promise of his orgasm dawns in his belly.
Pete is almost sad that he’s missing the view. Patrick has a gorgeous mouth, all plush pink lips that surely look even prettier when wrapped around Pete’s dick. But the sight of Patrick’s ass makes up for it, his wet hole stretched tight around Pete’s fingers, clenching down hard each time Pete rubs over his prostate. He’s started to focus on Patrick again, partially because he doesn’t want to blow his load early, partially because seeing, hearing, feeling him being so aroused turns Pete on in ways he hasn’t anticipated.
One last lap over Patrick’s slick hole, then Pete withdraws his fingers, and pushes Patrick off of him. As enjoyable as it is, Pete’s here for more than just an, admittedly remarkable, blowjob.
“On all fours,” Pete growls, watches as the callboy takes position. Somehow, he’s still wearing those damn bunny ears. Pete cups his ass, admires the soft give of the flesh, the sight of a hard cock and a wet hole all ready to be fucked by him. There’s a trail of spit and a bit of leftover lube, and Pete has spent a good amount of time fingering him open even after he took out the plug.
“You need more?” Pete still asks because he doesn’t know the callboy, doesn’t know how he likes it, and Pete wants him to like it. He has had one too many bad encounters, has been in Patrick’s position as well, and these mistakes are not to be repeated.
Patrick looks over his shoulder, narrows his eyes just slightly, like he isn’t sure what to make of Pete’s question. The callboy doesn’t know him either. “I don’t know,” Patrick answers, suddenly all playful coyness, lower lip caught between his teeth.
It’s Pete’s turn to scoff now. “Spare me the virgin act. I know you’ve had plenty experience, certainly enough to know your preferences. I won’t be mad, so don’t lie to me.”
Patrick bites his lip harder, blinks as he looks away. For a moment Pete is afraid he may have gone too far by calling him out and demanding such a personal answer.
Then, Patrick clears his throat, and the pretended coyness is gone. “Three fingers,” he says, now demanding and assertive again, “and more lube. Slick me up, stud,” Patrick coos, voice loaded with the faintest smile like he knows he’s about to tell a lie, “how else can a tiny boy like me take such a big cock like yours?”
Pete is rather sure Patrick is quite experienced with taking cock, and he as well as everyone with internet access knows he’s pretty averagely sized. Unlike the callboy, who is several inches smaller save for his dick, which is of a much more impressive size than Pete’s, making the lie sound even more like mockery. “Liked it better when you used your mouth for sucking cock,” Pete grumbles as he reaches for the lube; he doesn’t mean to insult the callboy, but he also doesn’t want his own intelligence insulted by some stupid stale whore act that none of them is taking too seriously anyway.
Whatever. Pete bites the inside of his cheeks as he pours more lube over his fingers. He’s going to fuck him hard, he’ll make Patrick come on his dick and fuck him through every second of his orgasm until he’s thoroughly satisfied. Yes, yes, that is a good thought, although Pete doesn’t know when this suddenly became about pleasing some goddamn callboy instead of himself, the birthday client. But with his hard, lubed up cock in his hand and a willing body right in front of him, Pete doesn’t care for the fine print of his psyche.
He slips two fingers back into Patrick, thumb gliding over his rim, his other hand reaching for Patrick’s cock. It’s still rubbered up, and yet to be explored with a tongue; Pete tries to recall how long the callboy will stay, wonders if they can shove in a nice blowjob before their bought time comes to an end. One step at a time. Pete’s hand trails back, over the base, his balls, comes to a rest on the small of Patrick’s back.
A third finger enters Patrick, who gasps at the sensation, reddened lips parted, big blue eyes fixed on Pete. Patrick is going for more moans, undoubtedly sensing that his client prefers sweet sounds over sweet words or ridiculous porn dialog.
“Enough?” Pete inquires. He has three digits buried inside Patrick, and used a generous amount of lube, so he trusts the lascivious wink and nod from the callboy.
“Fuck me,” Patrick whispers nonetheless, voice dark with passion, the obscenities somehow twisted into sounding like pure poetry when spoken by his talented tongue. “C’mon, I’m so ready for you…”
Pete puts his hands on Patrick’s cheeks, tan fingers splayed over pale flesh, spreading him open for Pete to watch as he slowly pushes in. Fuck, and the noise Patrick makes – fake or not, Pete doesn’t care, it sounds too fucking delicious either way. Like he’s singing, a dirty symphony just for Pete, a private little concert only for the intimate audience of one.
Once he’s bottomed out, Pete grabs Patrick’s hips, watches the curve of his shoulders rise and fall as the callboy breathes shallowly against the pillow. After a few moments, the tension vanishes from Patrick’s body, and Pete starts moving, slowly. Patrick moans, pushes back against his cock, no doubt expecting the usual jackrabbit sex, being pounded into the mattress without finesse.
Instead, Pete leans forward, slings an arm around Patrick’s chest, and pulls him up. He gets a surprised noise as Patrick turns his head to him, curiosity and the faintest hint of a smile on his face. His eyeliner is smudged, no doubt staining Pete’s expensive sheets, the bunny ears still perched on top of his slightly ruffled golden hair. Pete can’t help but grin back, before pressing their lips together for a deep kiss.
Patrick arches his back, hand reaching up to twist into Pete’s hair. Bold move for a callboy, either Patrick is very stupid, or he somehow knows Pete’s into it without words. Maybe he can just read people’s kinks, maybe that is – or becomes – part of the job.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Patrick’s mouth isn’t only amazing at sucking dick, he’s also a fairly good kisser. When they break apart Patrick is panting, all blushed cheeks and black-rimmed blue eyes, little whines ghosting over Pete’s heated face. After Pete’s sharp words the callboy stopped talking, but damnit if the silence isn’t even more enticing because it’s filled with rapid breath, the sound of two bodies colliding, and the delirious throaty groan when Pete angles his thrusts just right, finally hits Patrick’s prostate.
Pete reaches around for Patrick’s cock, still in the condom. “Off?” He asks, and Patrick groans a “fuck, yes, off – now,” in response. The condom is thrown aside (probably further staining Pete’s really expensive sheets) and then Pete’s fingers meet the raw heat of the callboy’s aching cock, crown slick with precum already. Patrick turns his head, tugs at Pete’s hair as they kiss again. Patrick moans into Pete’s mouth, fucks harder into Pete’s hand, taking more control over the pace. Pete lets him, too turned on by the devious kisses and musical moans, too entranced by Patrick’s ass pressing against his groin, and too aroused by the well-timed thrust, how Patrick tightens around him, the way he lets Pete feel their shared arousal with every sense possible.
“Can I – fuck, tell me that I can come,” Patrick asks, raw voice and raw desire, his dick leaking over Pete’s hand. “And now , please, I – you wouldn’t dare to just tease the poor little escort, would you?”
In the dawn of his orgasm, Patrick has to be a fucking pro to keep up the bitchy act. Or maybe he has really forgotten the callboy mannerisms, and he’s just a naturally stubborn, bossy asshole. Both is fine with Pete.
“You’ll come now,” Pete groans in response as he starts to jerk Patrick off even faster, his other hand tightening its grip on the soft flesh of Patrick’s hip.
Patrick actually laughs, he has the fucking audacity for a smug small giggle against Pete’s neck, and it’s both infuriating and insanely hot in its defiance and the way it makes Patrick tighten even further around Pete’s cock at each throaty chuckle. Pete catches his lower lip between his teeth, gives a warning little bite that Patrick pays no attention to. Another well-timed flicker of Pete’s wrist, another thrust of his hips, and the laugh stops, replaced by a short-breathed staccato of moans, each a precious note, until the final throaty whine as Patrick comes, writhing under Pete’s touch, spilling all over his hand, clenching down on his cock tight, tight, tighter until Pete just loses it, comes with Patrick as he fucks them both through the aftershock, each wave of shared pleasure almost too much to take.
For a moment, hard breathing and the faint sound of the party outside is all that is heard. “Pull out,” Patrick whispers eventually, no doubt worried about condoms on softening cocks. Pete does as he’s told, pries the condom off his dick, throws it next to the remaining condoms and lube on the nightstand – hey, he pays the stripper to deal with these, doesn’t he?
Said stripper groans as he stretches his limbs, then he gets out of bed, collects the used condom and his belongings from the floor, walks over to the bathroom. Pete watches his hips swing, notices that he’s still in his socks, and still wearing the damn bunny ears perched on his head. The water runs for a while, a quiet mumble mixing with the distant sound of people enjoying themselves somewhere away from Pete, drinking, laughing, dancing. Usually Pete would be green with envy, but the sex with Patrick was good enough to dull that out; all he wishes for now is to curl up with him, and fall asleep pressed against the warmth of another body.
Fuck, getting old is really sad and boring. This new dumb longing for domesticity is worrying.
Before Pete’s brain can get caught in another downwards spiral of troublesome thoughts, Patrick comes back into the bedroom, all cleaned up and put together again. He places the (now cleaned) plug with to his other supplies and puts his neatly folded bunny suit next to it. When he reaches for the bunny ears, Pete shakes his head. “Leave them on,” he says with a yawn, “they look cute.”
Patrick looks slightly annoyed, but does as he is told. He heads back to the bathroom, emerges with a wet washcloth in his hand. Pete lets the callboy clean him, the slight irony of the situation bringing a grin to his face that earns him an eye-roll from Patrick. Riling Patrick up is fun, Pete could get used to it.
Which is probably not a good thought. There shouldn’t be anything to get used to with a one-time fling with a stripper for his birthday.
Patrick lies down next to him on his stomach, head turned to Pete. His makeup is still smudged, hair a mess under the bunny ears, the smile too presumptuous for the stripper bunny act. He swings his legs, his little feet still in the white socks held up by the black garters, drums a silent beat into the mattress with his fingers. He’s so goddamn infuriating and so fucking cute, it makes Pete’s stomach flip.
“Round two?” Patrick sing-songs, flutters his lashes.
Pete opens his mouth; he wants to tell Patrick about his sobriety, about how he hasn’t gotten laid in ages, about being twenty-nine and worn out and too tired after the party life of his past years, about not being able to get it up a second time because he feels old, tired, drained, his meds a constant bother with his potency even on a good day anyway, about how, for once in a long time, he just feels comfortable and sated and the closest to happy he’s felt in ages.
Pete doesn’t tell Patrick any of that.
“Tomorrow,” is all he grumbles instead, reaching out for Patrick to place a tentative hand on the small of his back. Pete’s a cuddler, always has been, and the thought of Patrick’s soft, small body in his arms is too enticing. He’s not going to force it, but intends to make clear what he wants.
Patrick raises his brows, slightly shakes his head, enough to make the ears flop a little. “You surprise me,” he says amused, and Pete isn’t quite sure if that’s a good thing or not. It ceases to matter when Patrick laughs his smug throaty laugh again as he rolls over and places his head on Pete’s naked chest. Pete slings an arm around him, feels the warmth of naked skin, the tickle of Patrick’s hair, the draught of his now relaxed breath.
There’s so much Pete wants to say, so much he wants to ask. “Why the fuck are you just wearing socks,” is all he can bring himself to say.
“Had a pair of shoes provided by the agency, but…” Patrick shrugs his shoulders as he looks up to Pete, all smudged kohl and pure provocation. “Couldn’t walk in the stripper heels, and decided I’d rather risk a rebuke than breaking my neck.”
Against his will, Pete laughs, ugly and dark; Patrick seems neither bothered by the sound of it nor the way it makes his head bounce on Pete’s chest.
“You’re pretty shitty at your job,” Pete chuckles, half-lying and only semi-serious.
“Your dick says otherwise,” Patrick retorts lazily, clearly not taking Pete’s harsh words to heart. They fall silent, Pete’s arms curled around his bunny boy, watching him trail the tattoo on his groin with careful fingers.
Somewhere else, people are still celebrating, toasting to the absent birthday boy, but in the few delirious moments before he falls asleep, Pete thinks of himself as a happy man already.
