#this is so long. sorry 😭 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

okay.

Halloween, to Alex, has always seemed like a largely nonsensical holiday. Maybe because he’d never been allowed to celebrate it much in the first place ... “Dressing up” as a kid had been largely limited to what he could make on his own out of discarded scraps of cardboard and tinfoil. He’d been a battery one year, a traffic light the next, and both times he had come home with a meager supply of candy and been made to count it out so he could learn to ration it appropriately.

okay. starting off good i see 🙃 *starts crying thinking about baby rossi having to make his own halloween costumes and counting his candy*

Alex is old enough now to buy his own candy, keeps his house stocked with sugary snacks ferreted away in the cabinets for when a sweet tooth inevitably hits. He doesn’t need to don a cheaply made costume and hunt the streets for it, wouldn’t be allowed to at his grown age anyway.

alex canonically having his own candy stash is very iconic/sweet af.

why does it sound like alex absolutely WOULD don a cheaply made costume and hunt the streets for it if society hadn't decided adults aren't allowed to have fun?

The house that had prompted the conversation, already decked out with ghosts and fake skeletons littering the yard, was left behind them. Alex’s house didn’t have any decorations yet, because it was only the end of August, and he wasn’t insane. He’d put them out closer to October, and even then they’d be sparse.

okay i LOVELOVELOVE halloween but i gotta agree with alex here. AUGUST??????????? that's a bit too early even for me.

They were always shocked to learn Thanksgiving was the holiday he preferred, namely for the labor of it. The cooking, the preparation, the order to how it all proceeded, he preferred that to the chaos of a night founded on sheer unpredictability and secrets happening in the dark. Trick or treat, and Alex was never in control of which he was going to get. At least with Thanksgiving he knew there would always be three things: turkey, football, and a fight between family members who hadn’t seen each other in a year to keep things interesting. Dependability, predictability, that’s what Alex preferred, and Halloween had little.

It made sense for Pato though, who lived for chaos in all its forms. Last minute flights booked hastily as an afterthought, cars bought because he desired the rush of a new toy, money spent on a whim, while Alex watched him swipe his card with an increasing sense of dread. He couldn’t act on impulse the way Pato did, wasn’t made for it, unless he was solidly sat behind the wheel of a racecar – then it was all impulse, drilled into him from a young age, his senses hammered into reliability.

i love how different pato and alex are as people.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. once again being reminded how young these drivers are when they start their careers 😔 please stop doing this to literal children 💔

Alex wasn’t sure if Pato’s family liked him very much, was less sure after he indirectly cut into their vacation time with him.

😭🔪💔😔

“I bet I could make you like Halloween,” he says, smirking, nearly tripping over Norbi when the dog pauses in his straight-line pace to double back and jump at Alex, twisting the leash across Pato’s legs in the process. He leans down to pet the corgi, and then Brunner because the doodle doesn’t like to share his toys, let alone Alex – the impacts of being an only child. “I doubt it,” he says, scratching behind Brunner’s ears, and then Norbi’s, stuck in a cycle because the dogs seem to be fighting for his affection. Pato scoffs, “I’m very good at making people like things.” “Making people like you, you mean.”

i know i'm supposed to be focused on pato being all suggestive about how he could CONVINCE 👀 alex to like halloween but i'm distracted by brunner being an only dog child and the dogs fighting for alex's attention 💖💖💖😭💖

“Sure. Give it a go, O’Ward,” he challenges, already sure that this is an area where Pato will fail. Alex does not like Halloween, he never will. He doubts Pato O’Ward will change that.

oh. if only you knew alex. pato will ROCK your world 😌

Alex watches the time tick by on his watch, sponsor provided, and always just on the side of too expensive for his taste. James’ house is only ten minutes down the road, max, but Alex hates being late. Even if everyone will be too drunk to notice them arriving past the stated invite time, and even though James has assured him it’s fine, he cannot help but to feel his agitation grow. Schedules are important to Alex, he lives his life by him, and late to James’ party means out later than he intended, means up late for his workout tomorrow. Like a domino effect, he can see his perfectly coordinated calendar falling with each second that passes.

the characterization? perfection. (also i love the shoutout to his tag heuer sponsorship 😅👀)

His one concession had been that he wouldn’t wear a costume, no more than the velvet black bunny ears Pato had slid on his head before he darted his way up the stairs.

bunny ears alex. BUNNY ears ALEX. bunny EARS alex. BUNNY EARS ALEX.

........................................................................................

i am so Normal™ about this

His footsteps are distinct, accompanied by the eager tapping of Norbi’s nails on the wood. They both needed a trim, he and Brunner both, Alex should add the groomers to his list of Sunday chores.

okay but the domesticity of alex taking norbi to the groomer along with brunner? 'cause of course he would. they BOTH need a trim. so why wouldn't he take pato's dog as well as his own? 💖😭

“Dude-“ he starts, complaint about the tardiness stuck in his throat when he twists around on the couch and sees Pato standing at the foot of the stairs. Any words he may have been forming leave, get lost somewhere between his mouth and the line of sight his eyes have taken. “Yes?” Pato asks, voice lilting in the teasing way that Alex is used to hearing in the bedroom – rarely in the open space of his foyer where Pato is leaning casually against the banister of the staircase.

alex literally being struck speechless. ALEX. being struck speechless. how many times do we think that's happened?

Alex stares him, at the substantial amount of exposed skin that his presence has brought. Broad shoulders, the wide expanse of his chest, all just barely covered by the black strapless bodysuit he wears.

👀👀👀👀😏👀

“Are you-,” he starts to ask before the words catch in his throat all over again. Because yes, Pato is wearing makeup. Alex doesn’t even need to ask the question, he can see the eyeliner applied around Pato’s eyes, smokey and a little messy. It’s not much, confined to his eyes and the gloss that’s shining wetly on his lips, but it’s enough to make Alex choke a little on the breath stuck in his throat. “What the fuck?” He manages to get out. Pato grins, Cheshire wide, “You like it?” Alex is not usually lost for words, not of his own volition. Normally, his lack of speech comes from choice, never from the ability being shocked out of him.

mwhahahahahahhaha. alex literally being stunned SPEECHLESS by pato in a playboy bunny suit is the greatest thing ever actually 😏😌

As if to tease him further, Pato bounces up on his tiptoes, turns to the side so Alex can just barely catch the sight of the white puff ball that’s meant to be a tail affixed to the bodysuit just above his ass. His thighs are as much on display as his chest, just as firm and solid as the rest of his body. Alex knows the feel of them beneath his hands, is used to grabbing Pato and sliding him down the bed, used to lifting one of them up to rest on his shoulder. He is not used to having to look at so much of Pato when they are not in equal amounts of undress.

hot.

“Fuck,” Alex breathes. This close he can see how messy Pato’s makeup really is, applied with an amateur’s hand, but somehow hotter for it. Alex used to hide a playboy magazine under his bed, stolen from his friend’s house and tucked between the box spring and mattress. He knows the look Pato was going for and finds that it’s exceedingly better in person – more than it had ever been on those sticky pages. Pato’s smile widens, “Maybe later. C’mon Rossi, we’re gonna be late. Remember?” The fucking tease.

alex having a playboy magazine 😭

pato is going to have SUCH a fun night 😌 alex? hmmmm. not so much. or at least. not 3/4ths of it.

The ride to James’ house is exceedingly tense. Alex grips the steering wheel so tight he’s half afraid the leather will be molded with the shape of his fingers when he finally removes them. His eyes don’t leave the road, so locked in that it’s like he’s doing 220 on an oval. The suburban roads of Carmel don’t require this level of attention, not with their 15 mph average speed limit, but Alex is afraid that if he looks away for even a moment that he will end up in someone’s mailbox. Pato’s spread thighs in his passengers seat are an open invitation, one that Alex would normally accept. He’s used to keeping one hand on the wheel, the other on Pato’s leg, but never when Pato’s exposed this much. The feel of Pato’s warm skin against his palm, no clothing to act as a barrier between them, it would send him into a tailspin.

hahahahhahahahhahahahha. oh. alex. you're so fucked 😌

It would have him parking the Silverado in someone’s driveway and fucking Pato in the truck bed, Hinchcliffe Halloween party be damned.

oh. do go on. 👀

“I’m going to kill you,” Alex grits out through clenched teeth when Pato shifts, props one foot up on the seat and exposes the muscle of his inner thigh. He’s taken off his shoes, black Nike’s that clash with his whole ensemble, because as much as he’s trying to push Alex he knows better than to dirty up the freshly detailed interior of his truck.

might legit be my favorite line so far 😭

“Is it turning you on this much?” Pato asks, sounding genuinely surprised, genuinely thrilled at the realization that his costume is doing more damage than he had originally thought it would.

pato being surprised with his own hotness is iconic actually.

“Don’t forget your ears,” Pato commands when they park, climbing down out of the truck and casting Alex one last look over his shoulder before he’s bounding up to James’ front door. The white of his bunny tail stands out starkly against the black of the bodysuit, calls attention to his ass in a way that has Alex biting back a groan. He’s not going to survive the night. Becky is going to find him fucking Pato in a closet, hand held over the man’s mouth to muffle any noise. If this is Pato playing with Alex’s self-control, Alex is sure he’s about to find the limits of it. ... God help him.

.......................................polycule? 👀

i'm not sure god will be of any help here alex.

The Hinchcliffe Home for Wayward Drivers

*ugly sobbing*

Pato does not share his need to stay cool, perfectly content to find himself in the middle of the dance floor, where he was practically grinding on Becky Hinchcliffe, dressed in a matching playboy bunny get up. Alex hadn’t been aware he was agreeing to a double couples themed costume when Pato had slid the bunny ears on his head, not until he’d seen James wearing a duplicate pair.

i repeat.........................................................................polycule? 👀

He didn’t justify Conor with an answer, too busy staring at the way Pato’s ass was half hanging out of his costume, the way the top had slipped down his chest with movement and sweat. Fucking indecent.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Becky’s got a hand on Pato’s hip, Pato’s got an arm around her neck, he’s leaned close enough to her that there’s no space for anything to get between them. Their twin bunny ears are getting tangled together.

I. REPEAT. POLYCULE ?

James had offered the guest bedroom for them to crash in, but Alex was craving the comfort of his own bed, keeping himself sober so he didn’t have to fuck Pato in the room right down the hall from James and Becky. He’d already spent half a year muffling moans into the pillow when he lived with them, sleeping in that exact bed, jerking off and feeling guilty every time he came. It was one of the motivators to finding his own place, the shame of having to wash his sheets while Becky watched him load the washer from the kitchen becoming too much.

...................................i know a way to solve that problem. *sits alex down* see. there's this thing called poly-

Pato, in the brief glimpses of him that Alex catches through the throng of people surrounding him, looks sinfully good. He looks like all the parts of Halloween that his parents warned him about, something sent to tempt him away from the light. Alex finds himself wanting to be lead, doesn’t care where it lands him. He suddenly understands why his childhood experiences of Halloween had been largely confined to the one block of houses he was allowed to trick-or-treat at. He understands the strict curfew he was given, his dad trailing him as he walked to each doorway and held out his plastic shopping bag to be filled with candy. Of course they wanted him indoors and in bed before the night took a turn, and by the time he was old enough to sneak out of the house, he never once considered it. By then he was being homeschooled, little in the way of friends, or invites to parties. If this was what he was missing, Alex understands why his parents had fought so hard to hide it from him.

again. i know i'm supposed to focus on the whole 'pato is hot as fucking sin' but i'm getting stuck on the whole alex's childhood sucked part 💔😔

Pato turns, one hand held above his head as he waves it along to the music, the other trailing a line down his body, from his chest to his stomach, pausing when he catches sight of Alex staring at him. He smiles, wide, teasing. The bunny ears have gone lopsided on his head, tilting toward the left and making him look messier than he already did. Alex is thinking about later tonight, picturing how he’s going to lay Pato out beneath him and strip him slowly, if he manages to hold onto his willpower for that long. He thinks he’s going to tell him to keep the ears on, likes the image of them sliding from Pato’s head with the force Alex is going to fuck him later.

😳😳😳😳😳😳😳

Alex is sat in the backyard, lounging on the couch that has been moved from the living room to the covered patio. He’s discussing the merits of pool ownership with James, the upkeep and the cost of it all.

of. fucking. course. he. is.

James hasn’t removed his bunny ears yet, wears them like he’s trying to guilt Alex into putting his back on – of the four of them, Alex is the only one who’s ditched the ensemble. He’s been asked five times already what his costume was meant to be, James replying for him, ‘Buzzkill,’ while Alex not so subtlety flicked him off.

james. my beloved. 💖

Alex normally prefers the chill, would be perfectly content in his jacket in the October air.

#relatable

Pato’s lips against the shell of his ear, his teeth nipping at the cartilage, are unexpected. Alex chokes on his words. “Please, Rossi.” “Fuck,” Alex grunts out, knows James hears him, because the man’s eyebrow arches obviously. He grins, slyly, like he’s getting anything on Alex here. Alex would be mortified, if it were anyone but James witnessing this. They’ve seen each other naked, shared a bed on nights that James didn’t have his own bus at a track, nights when the couch wasn’t cutting it. He’s woken up with his morning wood pressed against the curve of James’ ass. Neither one of them spoke of it, but he’s witnessed Alex in far more humiliating situations than this.

.....................................................................................go on 👀 (also love pato fucking torturing rossi 😭)

Pato leans back, gives him enough space to breathe in air that isn’t heavy with the heat of him. His eyes go to the top of Alex’s head. “Your ears,” he states, frowning slightly. His lips have been wiped clear of the gloss, lips only wet with his own spit when he licks across them. The costume ears are the least of his concerns. He’s so hard in his jeans it aches, he can feel James staring at him, see other people around the party beginning to notice Pato’s half-dressed state and how he’s deposited himself in Alex’s lap. The attention only grows when Pato slides the ears off of his own head, and then hooks them over the back of Alex’s ears. Alex can feel that they’re lopsided, feel himself growing red when Pato adjusts them with fumbling hands. He maintains eye contact the whole time, lips slightly parted, tongue poking out between his teeth. They’re both flushed, Alex from the contact, Pato from the dancefloor. The red of Pato’s cheeks bleeds down his neck, to his chest, Alex follows the spreading expanse of it. When he looks back up Pato is still staring at him, eyes gone dark in the dim lighting from string lights James has strung along the roof of the patio. “They look good on you,” Pato says, genuine, not teasing in the way most people have tonight.

i love them.

“Elba helped me do it,” Pato says, like he can tell that’s what Alex’s attention is most caught on. “That’s why I took so long. The facetime call kept going out. My stupid hands were too shaky.” Alex finds that hard to believe. Pato is known for a lot of things, unsteady fingers is not one of them – so sure on the wheel when he executes a perfect save.

alex's complete belief in pato's talent as a racing driver hidden in this playboy bunny fic? truly the cherry on top 😌

“It looks dumb-“ “No it doesn’t,” Alex interjects, quick. It’s messy and chaotic, and it’s not perfect, but that’s exactly why Alex likes it. He would never have had to confidence to wear the outfit Pato was, to sport the makeup he did, to dance the way he had. He’s too pent up, too aware of his own body and his own thoughts and never able to get out of his own head. He envies Pato’s ability to act on impulse sometimes. Putting on makeup for the first time just because he’s trying to impress Alex, because he wants to try something new for the simple pleasure of it. Alex could never have been half as bold as he was tonight. He won’t let Pato begin to doubt himself now. “It’s hot, I promise. So hot, baby.”

this 'pwp' is making me very emotional cass 😭

“You ready to get out of here?” he asks, when they manage to break apart for breath. Pato nods where they’re foreheads are pressed together, looking at Alex through heavy lashes and with lips bitten red. “Please,” he begs, like he’s been waiting for Alex to suggest the idea.

forehead touching. my weak spot.

Alex gets him spread out on the bed easy enough, Pato’s danced himself into a state of borderline exhaustion. He doesn’t protest when Alex picks him up in the foyer, just wraps his legs around Alex’s waist, lets Alex press him against the wall of the entryway and kiss him senseless. Alex’s arms strain under the weight of him, he figures he’ll count it as part of his workout for the week. If his trainer asks why he’s so sore, he’ll say he was doing reps with the weights in his garage.

person a picking up person b and person b wrapping their legs around person a's waist? my other weak spot.

There’s a moment, before he lays Pato out on the bed, when he’s still carrying him up the stairs and to the bedroom, where he half thinks about how dirty their sheets are about to get. He adds laundry to his list of Sunday chores.

i would truly love to see alex's sunday chores list.

take the dogs to the groomer.

do laundry ('cause we had so much sex our sheets should be considered bio-hazard).

tend the roses.

The grip Pato’s kept on the back of his neck has gone desperate, fingernails just starting to scratch at the sensitive skin. Alex arches into the touch. “I need-“ Pato pants, in the brief moments where they break apart. He’s been thrusting up against Alex with a desperation that’s rapidly approaching frantic. He’s quickly silenced by Alex’s reply of, “I know.” Before he’s leaning back in, slipping his tongue into Pato’s mouth to keep him quiet. He uses one hand to pin Pato’s hips to the mattress, makes sure there’s no chance of him gaining the relief he’s so desperately seeking. It’s a bit like payback, revenge for the knifes edge that Pato’s kept him on all night.

oh. revenge is a dish best served hot apparently. 👀

Pato is still waiting for him when he gets back to the room, propped up on one elbow. The position accentuates the line of his body, draws attention to his exposed thighs. The top of the costume has given up on trying to stay up, has rolled down beneath his chest. Pato’s made no move to fix it. He’s looking at Alex with eyes shining in the lamplight, pupils dark and wanting. Alex figures two can play at this game, makes a show of working his way back up the bed. His hand traces the line of Pato’s leg, mouth following behind it. When he reaches Pato’s thigh he bites at it, just to feel the way Pato jumps beneath him. The feel of the bodysuit is like liquid, cheap costume silk that slides against his fingers when he follows the seam up Pato’s side, kissing along his hip, just below the exposed skin of his pectoral, making his way back up to Pato’s shoulder. Pato’s breath hitches with each ghost of warm breath along exposed skin, each touch that Alex gives him. By the time Alex gets to the line of his neck, licking along the sweat-sharp skin, Pato’s gone. Alex takes one look at him, slightly parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes, and knows he’s slipped into that space that Alex is always aiming to take him. The brown of his iris is a barely there ring, almost completely swallowed by dilated black. “You’re gonna keep these on,” he tells the man, slides the bunny ears back onto his head with careful fingers. Pato leans into the contact, the feel of Alex’s fingers tangling with his hair, and then nods. “Don’t let them come off.” “Uh-huh.” “Good boy.”

hothothothothothothothothothothothotho-

He leans down, until his lips are just barely brushing along Pato’s jaw, up to his ear. “I’m gonna rip the damn thing off of you,” he promises. Pato’s breath hitches, Alex can feel the stutter of it against his hand.

+

Contrary to his promise, he doesn’t rip the costume off. It’s cheap, would give easy under his hands if he wanted to, but the force of it isn’t what Alex wants right now. Pato’s been so good to him, did all this for him, he plans to show him how appreciative he is of that. He’s careful when he slides it from Pato’s body, works it down over his hips, his thighs, and then tosses it off the side of the bed.

this fic be making me feel all the emotions 😭😏💖👀

Pato, fully naked, spread out beneath him, flushes. All confidence and easy bravado until he’s got the full attention of Alex studying every inch of him, and then it falters. Alex knows he’s prone to bouts of self-consciousness where his body is concerned, lingering remnants of childhood insecurity making itself known when he’s got nothing to hide behind. Alex strips off his shirt, throws it in the same general direction he did Pato’s bodysuit, unbuttons his jeans and kicks those off too, tries to level the playing field so Pato doesn’t start to feel so insecure. He also makes sure Pato knows how good he looks, praises him just to see the way the blush spreading across his cheeks deepens.

alex getting undressed so pato would feel less insecure? stab me.

His hand on the back of Alex’s head tenses, like he’s trying to grab for hair that’s not there, being met with rough stubble. Sometimes Alex regrets not trying to let his hair grow out, thinks he would like the pinpricks of pain he would feel if Pato was able to pull at it.

known masochist alexander michael rossi being turned on at the thought of pain? no. say it ain't so 😱

“You can’t- I’m gonna-,” Pato tries, thrusts up on instinct so his cock sinks further into Alex’s waiting mouth. “Please, I don’t want to-.” Alex pulls off, gives Pato the reprieve he’d been searching for. So maybe they’d been toying with each other for too long, maybe Pato was more gone than he might have originally thought. “Breathe, baby,” he soothes, sits back on his heels and gives Pato a second to collect his senses. He keeps one hand on his thigh, closer to his knee than to his dick. “Don’t wanna come,” Pato cries, “not yet.” “Okay, you’re okay.”

communication? during sex? *chef's kiss*

Next year Alex thinks he should add the collar and arm cuffs to the ensemble, the black bowtie would look good resting against the hollow of his throat.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

His eyeliner is smeared further, nearly gone, just faint lingering remnants of kohl at the corners of his eyes. He’ll need to make sure that gets cleaned away before they fall asleep, figures Pato won’t be thinking about it once Alex is done with him. At least that’s Alex’s goal.

alex would make sure you don't go to sleep with makeup on.

The lube in the nightstand is nearly gone, another thing to add to his list for tomorrow, but there’s enough for tonight.

okay. now i also need to see alex's shopping list.

groceries

gold fish

lube

jelly bellies

“Keep these on, remember,” he says, flicks at the bent ear of one of the bunny ears while Pato nods beneath him. He’s quick to adjust them, pull them back down on his head while Alex smiles approvingly.

favefavefavefavefavefavefav- i just really loved this part okay.

With his other hand he’s been warming the lube, making sure it’s not cold when he coats a finger in it and slides into Pato. “Ah,” Pato cries out, hand grabbing at Alex’s bicep where he’s propped above him. His grip is tight, just like the rest of him. “Easy, Pato,” Alex soothes. He waits until Pato opens his clenched shut eyes, until he breathes and some of the tension leaves his body. Because as hard as he is in his boxers, he’s got no intention of rushing Pato into anything. “Okay?” He asks. “Okay.”

alex being considerate 😌💖 you are correct for this cass.

Alex has his forehead resting against Pato’s shoulder, can feel Pato’s arms snaked around him, fingers scratching lightly at his shoulder blades. He hopes Pato leaves marks, hopes they’re still there come morning, hopes when he slides his t-shirt on that he’ll feel the sting of them. The first time he did, he’d spent half the morning apologizing, until eventually Alex admitted to liking it. It made him feel owned, wanted, needed – he’d asked Pato to dig deeper next time. In return, Pato had told him the hickey he’d left on his neck was welcome. Alex made sure he always left them where the collar of his fireproofs would hide them.

of course alex would love pato leaving marks. it combines his two favorite things: pain + knowledge someone wants him.

His fingers scratch deeper at Alex’s shoulder blades in retaliation. Alex hisses, feels the pain go through him like molten heat. “Do that again,” he commands, setting a steady rhythm fucking into Pato while he obeys. The strangled noise that escapes Pato when Alex nails his prostate is loud, enough that Alex finds himself muffling the rest of Pato’s cries with a kiss that swallows it down. Pato lets him slide his tongue into his mouth, commit the taste of him to memory. When he pulls away Pato’s lips are slick with spit, drool dripping down his cheek and trailing down onto the pillow. There are tears just barely beading at the corners of his eyes, when they spill they track a line through the lingering eyeliner. Alex wipes them away with a trembling pad of his thumb, leans down to kiss another. Pato nods against his unspoken question of ‘are you okay?’ Alex feels the motion against his lips, kisses Pato’s temple in response.

i love them. i love this. i love you for writing it.

“Good boy,” he commends, just to hear the way Pato keens at the praise. “Close,” Pato whimpers. Alex can tell, can feel it. He thrusts back into Pato and feels Pato clench around him in response, feels his fingers as they skitter desperately across his back. It’s Alex’s permission that tips him over. “Come, baby. I got you.” Alex wraps a hand around his cock, strokes him the way he knows he likes, swiping his thumb over the head and twisting on the downstroke. Pato comes with a cry, a shudder running through him. Alex holds him through the whole thing, whispers praises in his ear as he spills across his stomach. He follows along right after, feeling Pato tighten around him, and the tightening of his stomach, just barely managing to pull out before he’s coming and adding to the mess on Pato’s abdomen.

hothothothothothothothothothothothotho-

“I love you,” he says again, because it’s easy to do so, surprisingly so. The confession is not one that’s ever come to him easy, wasn’t something he ever thought would. But Pato’s still got the bunny ears just barely clinging to his head, lopsided and resting fully on the pillow, but still where Alex placed them.

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

His arm was in Pato’s lap, the man tracing Alex’s tattoo, nail following the pattern of the ink on his forearm. “What?” “Halloween. Did you like it?” Pato asks again, reaching the end of the pulse line and tracing back up the design until he reaches the pink heart resting along Alex’s vein.

being obsessed with alex's tattoos <- pato 🤝 me

He’s wearing one of Alex’s shirts, some faded thing advertising a local brewery, it’s what Alex had managed to slip him into after cleaning him off last night.

ALEX TAKING CARE OF PATO. DEVASTATING. (+plus pato wearing alex's clothes 👀💖)

Alex hates when his system is thrown off, when the structure he’s so carefully put into place slips, which is maybe why Pato’s tracing figure eights around his tattoo trying to keep him calm. It’s working, surprisingly. He’s warm, comfortable where his head is resting against Pato’s thigh. “That okay?” Pato asks. Alex thinks it through, figures most of the areas he was meant to be working on today he’d done a pretty good job of working last night. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he amends, curls closer to Pato. He’s so warm, heat roiling off of him in waves, and Alex would normally hate it. But from Pato, it’s a comfort, it’s like a blanket. Pato keeps tracing figures around his tattoo, following the line of his vein, the repetition is lulling him back into the sleep he’d just clawed his way out of. He doesn’t fight it. “You didn’t answer my question,” Pato says, when Alex is on the brink of unconsciousness, when opening his eyes takes monumental effort, so he just keeps them closed. “Mhmm?” he says. Pato huffs out a laugh, goes back to tracing a nail along the pulse line of the tattoo. “Halloween. Did I make you like it?” Alex is already slipping into sleep when the answer falls from him like water, “You could make me like anything.”

this entire section. STAAAAAAAAAB ME. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Make Me Like Anything

Summary: Alex doesn't like Halloween, Pato is determined to change his mind. AKA: playboy bunny Palex

Dedicated to @raapija, because without Mari giving me a deadline this might never have seen the light of day.

Warnings: NSFW, this was meant to be PWP, it just spiraled away from me.

AO3 Link

Halloween, to Alex, has always seemed like a largely nonsensical holiday. Maybe because he’d never been allowed to celebrate it much in the first place – not to the extent that he found most people did, once he was old enough to move away from home and gain a new perspective. “Dressing up” as a kid had been largely limited to what he could make on his own out of discarded scraps of cardboard and tinfoil. He’d been a battery one year, a traffic light the next, and both times he had come home with a meager supply of candy and been made to count it out so he could learn to ration it appropriately.

Alex is old enough now to buy his own candy, keeps his house stocked with sugary snacks ferreted away in the cabinets for when a sweet tooth inevitably hits. He doesn’t need to don a cheaply made costume and hunt the streets for it, wouldn’t be allowed to at his grown age anyway. And most of the adult activities associated with the holiday aren’t activities he much likes engaging in. Parties, loud and dark and filled with people whose faces are hidden behind macabre masks, are not really his scene. Alex isn’t big on horror, wasn’t allowed to watch the genre for most of his life, and he hardly likes being crammed into a room full of people when their faces aren’t dripping fake blood.

The problem is, like with a lot of things in their relationship, Pato holds an exact opposite opinion.

“What do you mean you don’t like Halloween?” the man had asked, when summer was beginning to tip into fall. The leaves on the trees had just begun to curl in on themselves from the slight chill that had crept its way into Indiana.

Alex, wearing a hoodie, hands stuffed in the pocket, had walked beside Pato as they made their way through his neighborhood. Pato had taken the dogs’ leashes, Brunner and Norbi pulling eagerly, because Pato never gave them the command to stop. He was stumbling along behind them in a rush to keep up. Alex, long legs and long stride, did not face this same problem.

“I just don’t like it,” he had shrugged.

The house that had prompted the conversation, already decked out with ghosts and fake skeletons littering the yard, was left behind them. Alex’s house didn’t have any decorations yet, because it was only the end of August, and he wasn’t insane. He’d put them out closer to October, and even then they’d be sparse.

“But it’s Halloween,” Pato pressed.

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’? It should be exactly your thing, Rossi.”

“What? Because of my cheery personality and lovely disposition?”

He’d been told this before, by friends and family alike, that because the dark holiday matched his mood it should be one he loved. They were always shocked to learn Thanksgiving was the holiday he preferred, namely for the labor of it. The cooking, the preparation, the order to how it all proceeded, he preferred that to the chaos of a night founded on sheer unpredictability and secrets happening in the dark. Trick or treat, and Alex was never in control of which he was going to get. At least with Thanksgiving he knew there would always be three things: turkey, football, and a fight between family members who hadn’t seen each other in a year to keep things interesting. Dependability, predictability, that’s what Alex preferred, and Halloween had little.

It made sense for Pato though, who lived for chaos in all its forms. Last minute flights booked hastily as an afterthought, cars bought because he desired the rush of a new toy, money spent on a whim, while Alex watched him swipe his card with an increasing sense of dread. He couldn’t act on impulse the way Pato did, wasn’t made for it, unless he was solidly sat behind the wheel of a racecar – then it was all impulse, drilled into him from a young age, his senses hammered into reliability.

Even this, Pato here in a brief break between races, had been planned last minute. One second Pato was complaining on Facetime about how much he missed Alex, the next he was boarding a flight to Indiana. Alex wasn’t sure if Pato’s family liked him very much, was less sure after he indirectly cut into their vacation time with him.

Pato bumps into him, a not so subtle jab for his attention.

“I bet I could make you like Halloween,” he says, smirking, nearly tripping over Norbi when the dog pauses in his straight-line pace to double back and jump at Alex, twisting the leash across Pato’s legs in the process.

He leans down to pet the corgi, and then Brunner because the doodle doesn’t like to share his toys, let alone Alex – the impacts of being an only child.

“I doubt it,” he says, scratching behind Brunner’s ears, and then Norbi’s, stuck in a cycle because the dogs seem to be fighting for his affection.

Pato scoffs, “I’m very good at making people like things.”

“Making people like you, you mean.” Sponsors, fans, Alex – Pato draws them all in with an effortless magnetism. Not his dog though, Norbi is hardly paying him a bit of mind.

The mock affront that Pato puts on is cute, all open mouth and raised eyebrows, the scoff he lets out is comical, “No. I mean, yes. But I’m a good salesman! I sell things all the time!”

“Yeah, your Electrolit sales are through the roof.”

“Exactly-!”

“The Mission tortillas are flying off the shelves. Because you pitch them so well, of course.”

“Rossi!” Pato’s voice goes all high-pitched when he’s indignant, Alex likes getting him to this point, because he gets defensive in a way he rarely is. He smiles to himself, hides it when he ducks his head to pet Brunner, kneeling on the concrete to better reach the dog. His shirt is going to be covered in dog hair, the corgi’s more than Brunner’s, because Norbi keeps jumping up on him in an endlessly energetic ball of fluff.

“Whatever,” Pato pouts, “I mean it though. Halloween with me will be fun.”

Alex likes that Pato is already anticipating being with him for the pseudo-holiday, likes that he doesn’t ask, but instead has inserted himself into Alex’s life with all the ease of a wrecking ball. The presumption of it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it usually would, because Pato has a way of smoothing over the more brunt elements of his personality with a syrupy sweet grin and a laugh that makes it so that Alex forgets why he was rankled in the first place.

“Sure. Give it a go, O’Ward,” he challenges, already sure that this is an area where Pato will fail. Alex does not like Halloween, he never will. He doubts Pato O’Ward will change that.

-------------

They are late.

Alex watches the time tick by on his watch, sponsor provided, and always just on the side of too expensive for his taste. James’ house is only ten minutes down the road, max, but Alex hates being late. Even if everyone will be too drunk to notice them arriving past the stated invite time, and even though James has assured him it’s fine, he cannot help but to feel his agitation grow. Schedules are important to Alex, he lives his life by him, and late to James’ party means out later than he intended, means up late for his workout tomorrow. Like a domino effect, he can see his perfectly coordinated calendar falling with each second that passes.

All for a Halloween event he hardly wanted to attend. His one concession had been that he wouldn’t wear a costume, no more than the velvet black bunny ears Pato had slid on his head before he darted his way up the stairs. Alex had pulled them off immediately, had them resting in his lap where he was picking at the fabric with anxious fingers, his other hand tangled in the coarse fur of Brunner, who was snoring on the couch beside him.

The news was playing on mute on the tv, weatherman rambling about the projected first bit of snowfall heading their way. Alex watched him gesture at the projected clouds on the screen behind him, focusing on the way the guy pointed with energetic poise, trying to distract himself from the increasing tapping of his foot on the carpeted floor.

Eventually, the anxiety won out.

“Pato!” he calls, leaning back on the couch to shout up the stairs. Pato had locked himself in the master bathroom, kicked Alex out in the process, told him he would be ready in a few minutes. That had been a little over an hour ago. “What are you doing, sewing the damn costume?!”

Pato’s reply is distant, muffled by the space and the closed doors between them.

“One second!” “You’re out of seconds!”

“Almost done!”

“We’re late!”

The argument was a well-trodden one by this point. Alex could almost play it on a loop in his head. Their perception of time differed, in that Pato had none, not outside of a car anyway. To him, late to a party was on time, to Alex it was enough to have tension building in his gut. He kept waiting for a text from James, despite knowing it wouldn’t come, because the start time was a suggestion, but Alex had wanted to adhere to it anyway.

His grip on the bunny ears was tight enough that he could feel the plastic of the headband creaking in his grip, threatening to snap. For a moment he considered it, figured it might just get him out of the night altogether. It was the shuffle of noise upstairs that eased some of the building frustration within him, the opening of the bedroom door and Pato’s footsteps on the stairs that helped him release the breath he’d been holding.

His footsteps are distinct, accompanied by the eager tapping of Norbi’s nails on the wood. They both needed a trim, he and Brunner both, Alex should add the groomers to his list of Sunday chores.

“Dude-“ he starts, complaint about the tardiness stuck in his throat when he twists around on the couch and sees Pato standing at the foot of the stairs. Any words he may have been forming leave, get lost somewhere between his mouth and the line of sight his eyes have taken.

“Yes?” Pato asks, voice lilting in the teasing way that Alex is used to hearing in the bedroom – rarely in the open space of his foyer where Pato is leaning casually against the banister of the staircase.

Alex stares him, at the substantial amount of exposed skin that his presence has brought. Broad shoulders, the wide expanse of his chest, all just barely covered by the black strapless bodysuit he wears. Alex’s ‘costume’ a t-shirt and jeans accessorized by the bunny ears Pato is making him wear, suddenly feels comically pathetic – more so than it already was.

“Are you-,” he starts to ask before the words catch in his throat all over again. Because yes, Pato is wearing makeup. Alex doesn’t even need to ask the question, he can see the eyeliner applied around Pato’s eyes, smokey and a little messy. It’s not much, confined to his eyes and the gloss that’s shining wetly on his lips, but it’s enough to make Alex choke a little on the breath stuck in his throat.

“What the fuck?” He manages to get out.

Pato grins, Cheshire wide, “You like it?”

Alex is not usually lost for words, not of his own volition. Normally, his lack of speech comes from choice, never from the ability being shocked out of him.

“It’s good, right?”

As if to tease him further, Pato bounces up on his tiptoes, turns to the side so Alex can just barely catch the sight of the white puff ball that’s meant to be a tail affixed to the bodysuit just above his ass. His thighs are as much on display as his chest, just as firm and solid as the rest of his body. Alex knows the feel of them beneath his hands, is used to grabbing Pato and sliding him down the bed, used to lifting one of them up to rest on his shoulder. He is not used to having to look at so much of Pato when they are not in equal amounts of undress.

“You’re-,” again the words refuse to come, again he swallows.

Halloween costumes are not meant to be this, Alex doesn’t know much about the holiday, but he does know this. Masked killers and comedic plays-on-words, that’s what guys are meant to dress as. James in a hot dog costume comes to mind. Pato is not in a hot dog costume, he’s barely in a costume. He’s barely in clothes. He’s in a one piece bathing suit with a fucking bunny tail.

“You okay, Rossi?” Pato asks, with all the air of someone who knows Alex is very distinctly not okay. He comes up to the back of the couch, leans over it so he’s inches away from where Alex is twisted around to face him. A strand of his hair falls free from where he’s pushed it back, curls over his forehead. Alex wants to pull it, wants to wrap an arm around the back of Pato’s neck and pull the man down onto the couch. Hinchcliffe party be damned.

“Earth to Alex,” he sing-songs.

“Fuck,” Alex breathes. This close he can see how messy Pato’s makeup really is, applied with an amateur’s hand, but somehow hotter for it. Alex used to hide a playboy magazine under his bed, stolen from his friend’s house and tucked between the box spring and mattress. He knows the look Pato was going for and finds that it’s exceedingly better in person – more than it had ever been on those sticky pages.

Pato’s smile widens, “Maybe later. C’mon Rossi, we’re gonna be late. Remember?”

The fucking tease.

------------

The ride to James’ house is exceedingly tense. Alex grips the steering wheel so tight he’s half afraid the leather will be molded with the shape of his fingers when he finally removes them. His eyes don’t leave the road, so locked in that it’s like he’s doing 220 on an oval. The suburban roads of Carmel don’t require this level of attention, not with their 15 mph average speed limit, but Alex is afraid that if he looks away for even a moment that he will end up in someone’s mailbox.

Pato’s spread thighs in his passengers seat are an open invitation, one that Alex would normally accept. He’s used to keeping one hand on the wheel, the other on Pato’s leg, but never when Pato’s exposed this much. The feel of Pato’s warm skin against his palm, no clothing to act as a barrier between them, it would send him into a tailspin.

It would have him parking the Silverado in someone’s driveway and fucking Pato in the truck bed, Hinchcliffe Halloween party be damned.

“I’m going to kill you,” Alex grits out through clenched teeth when Pato shifts, props one foot up on the seat and exposes the muscle of his inner thigh. He’s taken off his shoes, black Nike’s that clash with his whole ensemble, because as much as he’s trying to push Alex he knows better than to dirty up the freshly detailed interior of his truck.

Pato, playing at innocence, looks up from where he’d been scrolling through his phone. The dim light of the screen illuminates his face in the dark of the cab, casts shadows across the makeup, catches on the shine of his lip gloss.

“What?” He asks, while Alex casts him a sideways glance and clenches his jaw tighter.

“You know what,” he growls, grip on the wheel going white knuckled.

“Is it turning you on this much?” Pato asks, sounding genuinely surprised, genuinely thrilled at the realization that his costume is doing more damage than he had originally thought it would.

Alex slams to a stop at a stop sign so hard that they both lurch forward with the force. He takes a second to breathe, tries to clear his head of Pato on his knees, looking at him, eyelids smeared black with eyeliner. It takes him a significant bit of time.

“Baby-“ Pato starts.

“Don’t.” Alex warns, the pet name going straight to his cock that’s already half-hard in his jeans and aching with the pressure.

He counts to ten, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, like he’s employing the tactics used to deflect an anxiety attack. He can feel Pato’s smug satisfaction, it’s rolling off of him in waves, seen in the smirk he catches when he glances back at Pato one last time before gunning it down the last stretch of street to James’ place. It’s late enough that all the trick-or-treaters have wrapped up for the night, confined by bedtimes and age, so he doesn’t have to worry about hitting anyone.

“Don’t forget your ears,” Pato commands when they park, climbing down out of the truck and casting Alex one last look over his shoulder before he’s bounding up to James’ front door. The white of his bunny tail stands out starkly against the black of the bodysuit, calls attention to his ass in a way that has Alex biting back a groan.

He’s not going to survive the night. Becky is going to find him fucking Pato in a closet, hand held over the man’s mouth to muffle any noise. If this is Pato playing with Alex’s self-control, Alex is sure he’s about to find the limits of it.

He forces himself to let go of the steering wheel, flexes his hands a few times to ease out the lingering tension. His shirt is sticking uncomfortably to the undersides of his arms with sweat, clothes feeling too tight already.

God help him.

-----------

“Your boyfriend looks good, man!” Conor yells to be heard over the speaker they’re stood beside.

James has hired a DJ, had the guy bring in professional equipment for his house party that spills from the living room out onto the back lawn. The Hinchcliffe Home for Wayward Drivers is commonly full, but never to levels that Alex can feel the heat of everyone crammed together. He’s steered clear of the crush of bodies on the makeshift dance floor that occupies where James’ couch once was, content to nurse his beer on the outskirts where pockets of AC can still be found. Pato does not share his need to stay cool, perfectly content to find himself in the middle of the dance floor, where he was practically grinding on Becky Hinchcliffe, dressed in a matching playboy bunny get up. Alex hadn’t been aware he was agreeing to a double couples themed costume when Pato had slid the bunny ears on his head, not until he’d seen James wearing a duplicate pair.

“What the hell, man?” He’d asked, feeling betrayed at not being told, still accepting the Bud Light the man offered him, before being ushered into the house.

He lost the bunny ears around the same time he lost James, now stood in his t-shirt and jeans with his arms crossed over his chest and tried not to make his staring obvious. He was failing.

Conor told him as much when he said, “You gonna get in there?” He nudged Alex with an elbow.

Alex shoved him back with a press of his arm against Conor’s side, sending him stumbling away. He didn’t justify Conor with an answer, too busy staring at the way Pato’s ass was half hanging out of his costume, the way the top had slipped down his chest with movement and sweat. Fucking indecent.

“It’s a good look for him,” Conor presses. It’s what he’s good at, especially when he’s drunk and the last smidge of a filter he possesses on a good day falls away. Alex can normally tune him out, finds it hard where Pato is concerned. He’s a lot like Brunner, he’s not good with sharing. Watching Pato grind on his best friend’s wife is sending waves of jealously through him. He has nowhere to direct it, other than at Conor in his zombie make-up, with his mixed drink spilling tendrils of smoke down his arm from the dried ice in the concoction. James had hired a bartender too, because he was anything but unprepared when it came to a party and a good time.

“Surprised he didn’t dress you up like Hefner.”

“Shut up, man,” He snipes, rolling his eyes and grinding his teeth in a way he knows is going to make his jaw ache. Becky’s got a hand on Pato’s hip, Pato’s got an arm around her neck, he’s leaned close enough to her that there’s no space for anything to get between them. Their twin bunny ears are getting tangled together.

“Touchy,” Conor says, holding his hands up in surrender, drink sloshing in the clear party cup and spilling in a sticky tendril down his arm. “You know, if you want him that bad, you could probably just go dance with him.”

The heat of all those bodies alone is enough to keep him far-removed from the dance floor, the fact that he’d have to be nearly in the center of it to reach Pato is another. He likes his corner by the speaker, half stood in the fake cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. At least from here he can keep an eye on the front door and Pato, monitor the exit and his increasingly inebriated boyfriend.

But he can’t explain his anxiety about large gatherings to Conor so instead he settles for, “Fuck off.”

Conor does not. He’s never been a very good listener.

“I’m just saying, if you want to get grinded on by your boyfriend it’s not going to happen over here.”

Alex thinks about shoving him again, settles for glaring at him with all the aggravation he can muster. His grip on the bunny ears clenched in his fist goes tighter. They were giving him a headache, or maybe the music was, or the way he couldn’t seem to clear the tension from his jaw. Pato’s plan to make him love Halloween had started off strong but was falling apart with each bad remix the DJ attempted. He’d already heard Michael Jackson’s Thriller two times in the twenty minutes he’d been standing here. Pato had danced to it both times, not the actual dance, he and Becky were too drunk for any sort of coordinated choreography.

Alex is on his second beer, hardly feels the buzz of it. James had offered the guest bedroom for them to crash in, but Alex was craving the comfort of his own bed, keeping himself sober so he didn’t have to fuck Pato in the room right down the hall from James and Becky. He’d already spent half a year muffling moans into the pillow when he lived with them, sleeping in that exact bed, jerking off and feeling guilty every time he came. It was one of the motivators to finding his own place, the shame of having to wash his sheets while Becky watched him load the washer from the kitchen becoming too much.

He takes another swig from his drink, watches Pato tilt his head back to laugh, how it exposes the long column of his neck in the strobing lights James has hung from the ceiling – or that the DJ’s hung, fuck it if Alex knows. Purple and green lighting catching on the sweat coating Pato’s skin, the slick expanse of his chest. Alex’s mouth goes dry, his dick twitches uncomfortably in his jeans.

“Jesus, he’s really got you whipped, huh?” Conor says.

Alex tunes him out, doesn’t care how intensely he’s staring or that he’s been caught at it. Pato, in the brief glimpses of him that Alex catches through the throng of people surrounding him, looks sinfully good. He looks like all the parts of Halloween that his parents warned him about, something sent to tempt him away from the light. Alex finds himself wanting to be lead, doesn’t care where it lands him.

He suddenly understands why his childhood experiences of Halloween had been largely confined to the one block of houses he was allowed to trick-or-treat at. He understands the strict curfew he was given, his dad trailing him as he walked to each doorway and held out his plastic shopping bag to be filled with candy. Of course they wanted him indoors and in bed before the night took a turn, and by the time he was old enough to sneak out of the house, he never once considered it. By then he was being homeschooled, little in the way of friends, or invites to parties. If this was what he was missing, Alex understands why his parents had fought so hard to hide it from him.

Pato turns, one hand held above his head as he waves it along to the music, the other trailing a line down his body, from his chest to his stomach, pausing when he catches sight of Alex staring at him. He smiles, wide, teasing. The bunny ears have gone lopsided on his head, tilting toward the left and making him look messier than he already did. Alex is thinking about later tonight, picturing how he’s going to lay Pato out beneath him and strip him slowly, if he manages to hold onto his willpower for that long.

He thinks he’s going to tell him to keep the ears on, likes the image of them sliding from Pato’s head with the force Alex is going to fuck him later.

-----------

It’s nearing one by the time Pato tires himself out dancing.

Alex is sat in the backyard, lounging on the couch that has been moved from the living room to the covered patio. He’s discussing the merits of pool ownership with James, the upkeep and the cost of it all, when Pato makes an appearance. He gets the brush of a hand along his shoulder as a warning before Pato is coming around to the front of the couch and depositing himself in Alex’s lap. He’s heavier than he looks, more muscle than anything else. Alex grunts under the weight of him.

“Jesus, Pato,” he grumbles, just barely managing to pass his beer to James, who takes it without question, finishes it off as he eyes Alex over the top of the can. James hasn’t removed his bunny ears yet, wears them like he’s trying to guilt Alex into putting his back on – of the four of them, Alex is the only one who’s ditched the ensemble. He’s been asked five times already what his costume was meant to be, James replying for him, ‘Buzzkill,’ while Alex not so subtlety flicked him off.

Pato’s lips ghost along his neck where he nuzzles up against him, breath warm and smelling distinctly of alcohol. He’s sweat most of it out though. His speech is clear when he whines, “Want you to fuck me,” quiet enough that only Alex hears it.

Alex coughs, shifts in his seat, regrets it when the movement shifts Pato’s weight In his lap. Pato’s arms are slung around his neck, fingers inching their way beneath the collar of his shirt. The feel of his nails barely there, just a light brush against his chilled skin, faint scratches along the top notch of his spine. Pato runs hot, and while Alex normally prefers the chill, would be perfectly content in his jacket in the October air, the heat roiling off of him in waves is welcome.

The look James keeps shooting him is less so.

“Pato-,” he starts, tries to shift again. His hands go for Pato’s hips, plans to hoist the man off of him going out the window when Pato grinds down on him. “Pato-“

Pato’s lips against the shell of his ear, his teeth nipping at the cartilage, are unexpected. Alex chokes on his words.

“Please, Rossi.”

“Fuck,” Alex grunts out, knows James hears him, because the man’s eyebrow arches obviously. He grins, slyly, like he’s getting anything on Alex here. Alex would be mortified, if it were anyone but James witnessing this. They’ve seen each other naked, shared a bed on nights that James didn’t have his own bus at a track, nights when the couch wasn’t cutting it. He’s woken up with his morning wood pressed against the curve of James’ ass. Neither one of them spoke of it, but he’s witnessed Alex in far more humiliating situations than this. Doesn’t mean he wants James to watch as Pato teases him in his backyard in a playboy bunny costume. Some things he doesn’t want to share with the man, Pato being one of them.

“Babe-“ he tries again, muffling a moan with his teeth digging into his bottom lip when Pato grinds on him again. His jeans are too tight, Pato’s weight on top of him too much. And there’s so much skin, Pato’s whole chest basically exposed by the costume that’s slid further down, his thighs that he’s got bracketed on either side of Alex. Alex’s hands stay on his hips because the feel of the costume’s fabric is the only thing keeping him sane.

Pato leans back, gives him enough space to breathe in air that isn’t heavy with the heat of him. His eyes go to the top of Alex’s head.

“Your ears,” he states, frowning slightly. His lips have been wiped clear of the gloss, lips only wet with his own spit when he licks across them.

The costume ears are the least of his concerns. He’s so hard in his jeans it aches, he can feel James staring at him, see other people around the party beginning to notice Pato’s half-dressed state and how he’s deposited himself in Alex’s lap. The attention only grows when Pato slides the ears off of his own head, and then hooks them over the back of Alex’s ears. Alex can feel that they’re lopsided, feel himself growing red when Pato adjusts them with fumbling hands. He maintains eye contact the whole time, lips slightly parted, tongue poking out between his teeth. They’re both flushed, Alex from the contact, Pato from the dancefloor. The red of Pato’s cheeks bleeds down his neck, to his chest, Alex follows the spreading expanse of it. When he looks back up Pato is still staring at him, eyes gone dark in the dim lighting from string lights James has strung along the roof of the patio.

“They look good on you,” Pato says, genuine, not teasing in the way most people have tonight.

Alex can’t help but grumble, “They look stupid.”

“It’s Halloween, baby. Everyone looks stupid.”

‘Not you,’ Alex thinks, doesn’t voice it, because he doesn’t want to stroke Pato’s ego right now – not when he’s got a lapful of him and Pato’s already proven he doesn’t mind the attention tonight. Besides, he’s too busy studying a curl of Pato’s hair where it’s fallen across his forehead and stuck with sweat. Too busy resisting the urge to reach his hand up and brush it away, trail his thumb along the messy eyeliner that’s gone from the corner of Pato’s eye to his temple, smear it further.

“Elba helped me do it,” Pato says, like he can tell that’s what Alex’s attention is most caught on. “That’s why I took so long. The facetime call kept going out. My stupid hands were too shaky.”

Alex finds that hard to believe. Pato is known for a lot of things, unsteady fingers is not one of them – so sure on the wheel when he executes a perfect save.

“It looks dumb-“

“No it doesn’t,” Alex interjects, quick. It’s messy and chaotic, and it’s not perfect, but that’s exactly why Alex likes it. He would never have had to confidence to wear the outfit Pato was, to sport the makeup he did, to dance the way he had. He’s too pent up, too aware of his own body and his own thoughts and never able to get out of his own head. He envies Pato’s ability to act on impulse sometimes. Putting on makeup for the first time just because he’s trying to impress Alex, because he wants to try something new for the simple pleasure of it. Alex could never have been half as bold as he was tonight. He won’t let Pato begin to doubt himself now.

“It’s hot, I promise. So hot, baby.”

His hand on Pato’s hip tightens, a brief squeeze, before he’s bringing it up to rest on the back of Pato’s neck and pulling the man down to kiss him. Despite the lip gloss being gone, Alex can still taste faint traces of it, sticky sweet and mixing with the lingering remnants of tequila when he licks into Pato’s mouth.

Pato moans against him, hands resting against Alex’s chest and fisting around the fabric of his t-shirt. It’s damp with sweat, with the beer Alex had spilled on it when he’d been speaking emphatically about the proper chemical balance of a pool to James earlier – James who had made himself scarce. Alex could feel the difference in weight in the couch beside him, knew his friend wasn’t there anymore. He’d apologize to him tomorrow, for practically dry humping Pato on his couch during what was meant to be a mature Halloween party. Tonight, he didn’t care about niceties.

“You ready to get out of here?” he asks, when they manage to break apart for breath.

Pato nods where they’re foreheads are pressed together, looking at Alex through heavy lashes and with lips bitten red.

“Please,” he begs, like he’s been waiting for Alex to suggest the idea.

Alex is going to show him just how much the makeup, the costume, Pato’s easy confidence has been driving him crazy.

------------

Alex gets him spread out on the bed easy enough, Pato’s danced himself into a state of borderline exhaustion. He doesn’t protest when Alex picks him up in the foyer, just wraps his legs around Alex’s waist, lets Alex press him against the wall of the entryway and kiss him senseless. Alex’s arms strain under the weight of him, he figures he’ll count it as part of his workout for the week. If his trainer asks why he’s so sore, he’ll say he was doing reps with the weights in his garage.

There’s a moment, before he lays Pato out on the bed, when he’s still carrying him up the stairs and to the bedroom, where he half thinks about how dirty their sheets are about to get. He adds laundry to his list of Sunday chores. And then he drops Pato onto the mattress.

Pato bounces, reaches for Alex, pulls him down with his fingers looped through his beltloops in the same movement he lays back on the sheets. Alex goes, easy and pliant and oh so eager. He’s been holding out all night, letting Pato tease him and toy with him, thinking about all the ways he was going to take him apart in retaliation. Pato’s got a glint in his eye, the barest hint of a smirk, that tells Alex that was his exact intent.

Pato’s been putting on a show with the sole purpose of entertaining Alex, gone to lengths to ensure Alex knew that. He says as much when he’s got his head propped up on the pillows, one hand raised to rest on the back of Alex’s neck, fingers ghosting featherlight along the stubble short hair at the base of his skull. It’s a sensitive spot for Alex, sends a shudder down his spine. Pato knows this too, it’s exactly why he’s doing it.

“Did you like my costume?” he teases.

Alex has one hand resting on the mattress, propping himself above Pato, the other tracing the exposed line of his collarbone up to the hollow of his throat, feeling Pato’s heartbeat skip a beat when he cups his palm around his neck. If this is a night of playing with one another, Alex won’t be left out. He knows Pato likes the warm weight of a hand around his throat, the threat of oxygen being lost without it ever being fulfilled.

He leans down, until his lips are just barely brushing along Pato’s jaw, up to his ear.

“I’m gonna rip the damn thing off of you,” he promises.

Pato’s breath hitches, Alex can feel the stutter of it against his hand.

He swallows the gasp Pato lets out when he leans down to kiss him. It’s not the gentle kiss they share on easy mornings, as soft and easy as the sun peeking through the blinds. It’s the crushingly violent kiss of two men who have been toying with something the whole night, walking the fine line between decency and fucking in the bathroom for the quick thrill of it.

Alex bites Pato’s bottom lip, nips at it enough that Pato keens and twist beneath him. And then licks at the chapped skin with a quick swipe of his tongue. He takes the last lingering bits of the lip gloss with him, tastes the makeup when it mixes with his and Pato’s spit.

The grip Pato’s kept on the back of his neck has gone desperate, fingernails just starting to scratch at the sensitive skin. Alex arches into the touch.

“I need-“ Pato pants, in the brief moments where they break apart. He’s been thrusting up against Alex with a desperation that’s rapidly approaching frantic.

He’s quickly silenced by Alex’s reply of, “I know.” Before he’s leaning back in, slipping his tongue into Pato’s mouth to keep him quiet. He uses one hand to pin Pato’s hips to the mattress, makes sure there’s no chance of him gaining the relief he’s so desperately seeking. It’s a bit like payback, revenge for the knifes edge that Pato’s kept him on all night.

“Rossi,” Pato begs, sounds so pretty as he’s doing it.

Alex bites at his lip again, and then commands, “Wait.”

Pato is obedient, doesn’t chase Alex when he pulls away. The bunny ears had fallen somewhere in their journey from downstairs to here, put back on Pato’s head when they left the party and slipped off from the force of Alex slamming him up against the wall. He finds them in the hall, counts it as a small blessing that Brunner and Norbi have stayed sleeping downstairs and hadn’t gotten to them yet.

Pato is still waiting for him when he gets back to the room, propped up on one elbow. The position accentuates the line of his body, draws attention to his exposed thighs. The top of the costume has given up on trying to stay up, has rolled down beneath his chest. Pato’s made no move to fix it. He’s looking at Alex with eyes shining in the lamplight, pupils dark and wanting.

Alex figures two can play at this game, makes a show of working his way back up the bed. His hand traces the line of Pato’s leg, mouth following behind it. When he reaches Pato’s thigh he bites at it, just to feel the way Pato jumps beneath him. The feel of the bodysuit is like liquid, cheap costume silk that slides against his fingers when he follows the seam up Pato’s side, kissing along his hip, just below the exposed skin of his pectoral, making his way back up to Pato’s shoulder.

Pato’s breath hitches with each ghost of warm breath along exposed skin, each touch that Alex gives him. By the time Alex gets to the line of his neck, licking along the sweat-sharp skin, Pato’s gone. Alex takes one look at him, slightly parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes, and knows he’s slipped into that space that Alex is always aiming to take him. The brown of his iris is a barely there ring, almost completely swallowed by dilated black.

“You’re gonna keep these on,” he tells the man, slides the bunny ears back onto his head with careful fingers. Pato leans into the contact, the feel of Alex’s fingers tangling with his hair, and then nods. “Don’t let them come off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good boy.”

Pato whines, Alex silences the sound with another kiss.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he promises, “Gonna take care of you.”

Contrary to his promise, he doesn’t rip the costume off. It’s cheap, would give easy under his hands if he wanted to, but the force of it isn’t what Alex wants right now. Pato’s been so good to him, did all this for him, he plans to show him how appreciative he is of that. He’s careful when he slides it from Pato’s body, works it down over his hips, his thighs, and then tosses it off the side of the bed.

Pato, fully naked, spread out beneath him, flushes. All confidence and easy bravado until he’s got the full attention of Alex studying every inch of him, and then it falters. Alex knows he’s prone to bouts of self-consciousness where his body is concerned, lingering remnants of childhood insecurity making itself known when he’s got nothing to hide behind.

Alex strips off his shirt, throws it in the same general direction he did Pato’s bodysuit, unbuttons his jeans and kicks those off too, tries to level the playing field so Pato doesn’t start to feel so insecure. He also makes sure Pato knows how good he looks, praises him just to see the way the blush spreading across his cheeks deepens.

“You know how insane you’ve been making me?” he asks, leans down to nose along Pato’s jaw, suck at the warm skin of his neck, pressing a kiss to the mole that sits just above his collarbone.

Pato shudders beneath him, “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.” Alex corrects him, both of them knowing that getting him to this point had been the whole intention of the night.

“No, I’m not.”

Alex keeps working his way down, kisses at another mole dotting the right side of his chest. Pauses only to hold Pato down where he’s started rolling his hips up again, and to speak so that his breath ghosts warm over Pato’s skin.

“I wanted to fuck you on that dancefloor,” he admits, just to hear the way Pato’s breath catches in his throat. “Wanted to rip that damn costume off you and fuck you right there. Show everyone who you belong to.”

Pato’s hand comes up where it had been fisted in the fabric of the comforter, grabs desperately at the back of Alex’s head, like he’s trying to ground himself. Alex kisses just below his sternum, works his way down the line of Pato’s abs, looks up at the man as he does so. Pato’s looking down at him, chest rising and falling with each half-panted breath he draws in through lips Alex has bitten red.

“You could have,” he says, around a groan when Alex licks at his v-line, just barely avoiding his cock that’s hard and twitching against his stomach, “Fucked me, there. I would have let you.”

“I know, but then everyone would know what you sound like moaning my name,” Alex shrugs, looks at Pato as he takes the base of his cock in his hand, “Didn’t feel like sharing that.”

“Alex,” Pato keens when Alex wraps his lips around the head of his cock, licks at the precum beading there. His hand on the back of Alex’s head tenses, like he’s trying to grab for hair that’s not there, being met with rough stubble. Sometimes Alex regrets not trying to let his hair grow out, thinks he would like the pinpricks of pain he would feel if Pato was able to pull at it.

“You can’t- I’m gonna-,” Pato tries, thrusts up on instinct so his cock sinks further into Alex’s waiting mouth. “Please, I don’t want to-.”

Alex pulls off, gives Pato the reprieve he’d been searching for. So maybe they’d been toying with each other for too long, maybe Pato was more gone than he might have originally thought.

“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, sits back on his heels and gives Pato a second to collect his senses. He keeps one hand on his thigh, closer to his knee than to his dick.

“Don’t wanna come,” Pato cries, “not yet.”

“Okay, you’re okay.”

Pato’s young enough, could probably go again if Alex got him off now, but that would require giving him enough time to recover. It’s close to three in the morning, Alex has been exhausted, powering through on the sheer need to sink his cock inside Pato and feel him around him. But at some point the exhaustion is going to win out for both of them.

“Think you can take my fingers?” he asks, which is the wrong thing to say if the way Pato groans is any inclination, cock twitching against his stomach, hard and red and leaking and looking oh so pretty. Alex didn’t think a dick could look pretty, figures it probably wouldn’t if he wasn’t so horny, but Pato’s is – just like the rest of him.

“Yes,” Pato finally pants out, arm thrown over his eyes, jaw tense, “Yeah, just, quickly, please.”

The bunny ears are sliding down his head, resting more on the pillow than they are on him, but Alex still commits the sight to memory. The black of the silk against the white of the pillowcase, the red of Pato’s cheeks when he pulls his arm away and meets Alex’s gaze. Next year Alex thinks he should add the collar and arm cuffs to the ensemble, the black bowtie would look good resting against the hollow of his throat. His eyeliner is smeared further, nearly gone, just faint lingering remnants of kohl at the corners of his eyes.

He’ll need to make sure that gets cleaned away before they fall asleep, figures Pato won’t be thinking about it once Alex is done with him. At least that’s Alex’s goal.

Careful, he leans over Pato. The lube in the nightstand is nearly gone, another thing to add to his list for tomorrow, but there’s enough for tonight. Pato watches him as he grabs it, looks at the line of his arm, follows up until he’s looking at Alex again. Alex leans down long enough to give him a quick kiss, just to taste him, just because he can.

“Keep these on, remember,” he says, flicks at the bent ear of one of the bunny ears while Pato nods beneath him. He’s quick to adjust them, pull them back down on his head while Alex smiles approvingly.

With his other hand he’s been warming the lube, making sure it’s not cold when he coats a finger in it and slides into Pato.

“Ah,” Pato cries out, hand grabbing at Alex’s bicep where he’s propped above him. His grip is tight, just like the rest of him.

“Easy, Pato,” Alex soothes. He waits until Pato opens his clenched shut eyes, until he breathes and some of the tension leaves his body. Because as hard as he is in his boxers, he’s got no intention of rushing Pato into anything.

“Okay?” He asks.

“Okay.”

It’s been a minute since they’ve done this. Pato having only just flown in for Halloween, coming in late last night, so there hadn’t been much time for anything other than a messy hand job in the shower. Pato coming with his head thrown back against Alex’s chest, while Alex categorized the image away into his growing mental folder of expressions he liked on Pato. He’d already added a few more tonight.

Alex pulls his finger out, slides it back in, repeats the motion until Pato’s grip on his arm loosens.

“Second, add a second,” Pato urges, thrusts down like he’s trying to encourage Alex.

Alex complies, slides a second finger in beside his first, works his way up to a third. Eventually the tension in Pato’s expression fades. It’s replaced with the open-mouthed pleasure of someone who’s single thought is on getting off. He’s practically riding Alex’s fingers, moans spilling from him as he arches his back off the mattress. The ears slip back down his head, he doesn’t even seem to notice.

Alex lets him enjoy himself for a minute, content to watch the way he slips further and further into his own pleasure. He manages to slide his boxers off with his free hand, push them below his ass so they end up wrapped around his knees. His own cock his just as hard and leaking as Pato’s when it springs free and rests against his stomach. He’d been so caught up in Pato’s pleasure that he’d been ignoring his own, until the cool air touched his dick and he realized he needed this just as bad.

“Baby,” he chokes out, hand wrapping around the base of his cock, fighting the urge to stroke.

Pato’s eyes blink open slowly at the endearment, find Alex looking at him with pure want and need and barely held-back lust. He whines at the sight of Alex’s dick.

“Can I-?”

“Yes.”

Alex slides his fingers free, lines his dick up with Pato’s hole. Distantly he remembers he was meant to be teasing the man, getting back at him for fucking with him the whole night, but the thought quickly leaves his mind when he slides inside Pato. Any logical thought of the night is quickly replaced by the feeling of Pato’s fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders, trying to drag him down and closer. The pinprick feel of his fingernails digging into Alex’s skin, it’s what he’s been searching for the whole night, grounding and all consuming.

He falls forward and Pato catches him.

“Fuck,” he pants out, once he’s fully inside Pato, enveloped by the warm, tight, heat of him. “Jesus. Fuck.”

“You can move,” Pato says, “Please, move.”

Alex has his forehead resting against Pato’s shoulder, can feel Pato’s arms snaked around him, fingers scratching lightly at his shoulder blades. He hopes Pato leaves marks, hopes they’re still there come morning, hopes when he slides his t-shirt on that he’ll feel the sting of them. The first time he did, he’d spent half the morning apologizing, until eventually Alex admitted to liking it. It made him feel owned, wanted, needed – he’d asked Pato to dig deeper next time. In return, Pato had told him the hickey he’d left on his neck was welcome. Alex made sure he always left them where the collar of his fireproofs would hide them.

Now, Pato presses his nails deeper into Alex’s back, goads him into thrusting forward, hips stuttering. They both moan.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he pants, slides back out until he’s just barely in Pato before thrusting back in.

Pato chokes on whatever reply he’d been crafting. His head falls back on the pillow, bunny ears shifting with the movement, long column of his neck being exposed. Alex takes the moment to suck at the skin at the base of his neck, where his shoulder blade meets his carotid, bites at it so Pato cries out.

His fingers scratch deeper at Alex’s shoulder blades in retaliation. Alex hisses, feels the pain go through him like molten heat.

“Do that again,” he commands, setting a steady rhythm fucking into Pato while he obeys.

The strangled noise that escapes Pato when Alex nails his prostate is loud, enough that Alex finds himself muffling the rest of Pato’s cries with a kiss that swallows it down. Pato lets him slide his tongue into his mouth, commit the taste of him to memory. When he pulls away Pato’s lips are slick with spit, drool dripping down his cheek and trailing down onto the pillow. There are tears just barely beading at the corners of his eyes, when they spill they track a line through the lingering eyeliner.

Alex wipes them away with a trembling pad of his thumb, leans down to kiss another.

Pato nods against his unspoken question of ‘are you okay?’ Alex feels the motion against his lips, kisses Pato’s temple in response.

“Good boy,” he commends, just to hear the way Pato keens at the praise.

“Close,” Pato whimpers. Alex can tell, can feel it. He thrusts back into Pato and feels Pato clench around him in response, feels his fingers as they skitter desperately across his back.

It’s Alex’s permission that tips him over.

“Come, baby. I got you.” Alex wraps a hand around his cock, strokes him the way he knows he likes, swiping his thumb over the head and twisting on the downstroke.

Pato comes with a cry, a shudder running through him. Alex holds him through the whole thing, whispers praises in his ear as he spills across his stomach. He follows along right after, feeling Pato tighten around him, and the tightening of his stomach, just barely managing to pull out before he’s coming and adding to the mess on Pato’s abdomen.

Pato watches him through heavy lidded eyes, lips quirking into an obvious smile, sated and happy and continuing to be a tease when he swipes up the mess of their come with his finger and sucks it into his mouth. The noise that escapes Alex is indecent, a choked off moan that might have been an attempt at Pato’s name.

“Fuck, I love you,” Alex pants when he collapses down on the bed beside Pato, chest heaving, breath still returning to his body. He can already feel all the places he’s going to be sore tomorrow. Maybe he’ll cancel training.

If Pato hears him, he doesn’t respond, nothing more than the twitch of his lips. He’s already closed his eyes, drifted off into that space he goes into after they fuck, all blissed out and heady with it. Alex reaches up to brush a curl of his hair back from his forehead, sweat soaked, and damp to the touch.

“I love you,” he says again, because it’s easy to do so, surprisingly so. The confession is not one that’s ever come to him easy, wasn’t something he ever thought would. But Pato’s still got the bunny ears just barely clinging to his head, lopsided and resting fully on the pillow, but still where Alex placed them.

-------------

“Do you like Halloween now?” Pato asks the next morning, well – afternoon.

Alex had slept through his alarms, woken to Pato propped up in the bed next to him. His arm was in Pato’s lap, the man tracing Alex’s tattoo, nail following the pattern of the ink on his forearm.

“What?”

“Halloween. Did you like it?” Pato asks again, reaching the end of the pulse line and tracing back up the design until he reaches the pink heart resting along Alex’s vein.

He’s wearing one of Alex’s shirts, some faded thing advertising a local brewery, it’s what Alex had managed to slip him into after cleaning him off last night. Alex can smell his own detergent, his cologne, but beneath it there’s the familiar scent of Pato, mixing with the stench of sex from sheets they still need to clean.

He blinks, wipes at the sleep that’s crusting at the corners of his eyes, tries to get a sense of what time it is. The sunlight through the blinds betray the truth, it’s not the early morning light Alex is used to waking to, but the midday sun that brings a warm heat to the room.

“I missed training,” he grumbles, less of a question, more of a statement. His breath tastes of stale beer, like the sweat he’d licked from Pato last night.

Pato nods.

“Fuck.”

“I texted James, he said to just let you sleep.”

Alex hates when his system is thrown off, when the structure he’s so carefully put into place slips, which is maybe why Pato’s tracing figure eights around his tattoo trying to keep him calm. It’s working, surprisingly. He’s warm, comfortable where his head is resting against Pato’s thigh.

“That okay?” Pato asks.

Alex thinks it through, figures most of the areas he was meant to be working on today he’d done a pretty good job of working last night.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he amends, curls closer to Pato. He’s so warm, heat roiling off of him in waves, and Alex would normally hate it. But from Pato, it’s a comfort, it’s like a blanket.

Pato keeps tracing figures around his tattoo, following the line of his vein, the repetition is lulling him back into the sleep he’d just clawed his way out of. He doesn’t fight it.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Pato says, when Alex is on the brink of unconsciousness, when opening his eyes takes monumental effort, so he just keeps them closed.

“Mhmm?” he says.

Pato huffs out a laugh, goes back to tracing a nail along the pulse line of the tattoo.

“Halloween. Did I make you like it?”

Alex is already slipping into sleep when the answer falls from him like water, “You could make me like anything.”