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a real green dress would be cruel

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"It's for a video," Pete told Patrick earlier, and he wasn't lying. Much. Should Patrick ever be willing to be filmed dressed up like this, Pete will do anything in his power to put the film out there. Get it on MTV. Youtube.

As it is, he counts his blessings and looks at Patrick, devouring him with his eyes, while Patrick self-consciously picks at the fabric. "I look ridiculous," he tells Pete.

To Pete, he looks like a fairy tale prince, all adorned in white and silver. Fur lines his jacket collar - fake, of course, but soft and rich-looking nevertheless. His shirt is mostly white velvet with silver embroidery, the pants are made from deceptively thin material, clinging to Patrick's thighs like Pete wishes he could.

And there's the boots.

"Trust me," Pete says in a low voice. "You don't look ridiculous at all."

The boots are white faux-leather, knee high, with gleaming silver buckles on the sides. Patrick keeps shifting in them, like they're too heavy to walk in.

That's okay with Pete. As far as he's concerned, Patrick can stay right where he is for as long as he wants. "I'll get you a sword," Pete says, a little dreamy. "You can wear it on your belt."

Patrick snorts. "Yeah, maybe a long dagger thing. And then it can glow blue when there's orcs around. Maybe I should be barefoot."

"No!" Possibly Pete gets a little overexcited on that one word. "No," he says again, carefully. "You look real nice."

Patrick just shrugs and laughs it off, and Pete loves him impossibly. They're kind of in private: they're supposed to be deciding on set and outfit design for the video. He sneaks a little kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth and says, "Do you wanna...?" waggling his eyebrows.

"Smooth," Patrick says dryly, but he lets Pete lower him to the floor and crawl all over him.

The room has a fake bearskin rug and a fake fireplace with fucking tinsel snowflakes hanging overhead, like a non-denominational holiday card in the middle of May. Pete has never felt so LA in his life.

He's got Patrick under him, though, and Patrick's real. His fairy-prince outfit is getting wrinkled and a little sweaty, smelling musky and Patrick-like, and Pete brings his face close and inhales.

"Freak," Patrick says fondly.

"What can I say?" Pete squirms for a better position, rubbing his dick against Patrick's velvet-clad thigh, watching Patrick's cock rise up towards him. Damn, those pants hide nothing. "I'm a sucker for you in white fur."

He's a sucker for Patrick in anything, to be honest, and to prove that point he slithers down and nuzzles Patrick's crotch before unzipping the fly and easing his erection out of his underwear.

Patrick's hand settles on the back of Pete's neck, heavy and perfect. Pete closes his eyes, lets Patrick's smell and taste guide him through, sense and muscle memory making this perfect.

Then Patrick lets go, just as the rest of him tenses up, and Pete can sit up and watch him come. Pretty red prick spurting pearly white all over Patrick's belly, red cheeks, red mouth gasping open as Patrick tosses his head back and forth, vibrant against white fur.

"Don't move," Pete says, pleased with the rough, growly edge to his voice. He lays his head carefully against Patrick's knee, just above the boot's highest buckle. Here Patrick smells like fake leather and unfamiliar laundry detergent. After almost painful deliberation, Pete shoves Patrick's pants up and sets his teeth in Patrick's calf.

He's being careful, not biting too hard, and the fake-leather smell is tickling his nose. It's a conscious effort not to bite too hard, not to leave marks, but that's all good. Means he lasts a good minute or two more than he expected, jerking himself off with Patrick gorgeous and flustered all around him.

Patrick gives him a few moments to get his brain back in operation before saying, "We are not filming here."

Pete tries the puppy eyes, just for form's sake.

"No," Patrick says firmly. "I refuse to show in a video with teethmarks on my boots."

"I didn't bite them," Pete mutters, surly. It's like Patrick doesn't even appreciate the effort he's making, here.

"Well, not this time," Patrick says like he's stating the obvious. When Pete looks up he's smiling at him, still flushed and covered with come, his pretty velvet clothes in need of urgent fucking laundry. "I mean, I'm guessing we're keeping this outfit."

Pete lunges up to kiss Patrick, a hard triumphant kiss that goes soft and indulgent because he can't help himself. "Damn fucking straight," he says happily.


In the end, Patrick actually keeps most of the outfit for the video, although their "set" is actually a green screen with an ice castle getting photoshopped over it in post production. He wears silver Vans instead of the boots, much to Pete's pouting.

"C'mon, I can't walk in those things," Patrick says, like that is supposed to be an excuse or something. Then he beckons Pete to come over. "What about your outfit, hm?"

"What about it?" Pete says.

And that's how Pete ends up spending most of filming on his knees, shirtless, with a glittery silver collar around his neck. The collar comes with a white leash that trails down Pete's back for the actual shooting, but spends most off-screen time in Patrick's hand.

"Exhibitionist," Patrick murmurs between one shot and the next. "There are going to be pictures of this all over the internet, do you realize?"

He doesn't put the leash down, though. Pete stretches, luxuriating the in the feel of Patrick solid and warm behind him. "Who's got two thumbs and zero fucks to give?" he asks.

Patrick yanks his leash before Pete can answer himself, which is probably just as well.