explicit / 9.5k
mitch marner/leon draisaitl, mitch marner/dylan strome, mitch marner/patrick marleau, mitch marner/mike babcock, mitch marner/others
alternate universe, inspired by The Sluts, dead dove: do not eat, prostitution, extremely dubious consent, drug use, violence, unsafe sex
Escort’s name: Mitch
Location: Toronto
Age: 18?
Month and year of your date: June 2001
Where did you find him? Street
Escort’s email address: try [email protected]
Pat isn't particularly surprised to see Mitch standing outside his hotel room around midnight. He looks shocked when the door swings open, as if he didn't just knock. "Hey," Pat says. He tries to open his eyes all the way, hopes there isn't a pillow crease on his cheek.
Mitch still wilts. "I woke you up," he says, and he sounds utterly miserable.
"It's alright." It seems like this late in the season, when the injuries and the wear and tear is piling up, anything can wake Pat up. "You wanna come in?"
Mitch's big, sweet eyes roll around, searching down the hallway, over Pat's body, past his body into his room. "Um. Is that... okay?"
Pat looks at him. Mitch flushes. Ah, he thinks, so that's how it is.
And then he steps out of the way so Mitch can come inside.
~
"Daddy," Mitch says, soft and spitty and needy. His face is half in a pillow, arms above his head. He's out of his sweatshirt now and even with the heat turned up, there are goosebumps crawling across his skin.
Pat hums to show Mitch he's heard him. He keeps dragging his fingers in and out of Mitch's hole, a slow syrupy motion that has Mitch shaking all over and slurring another moan into the pillow. "You need something, baby?" Pat's fingers are plenty wet. Mitch's hole is sticky and hot around his fingers. His peach-fuzzed thighs are spread wide, tensing randomly as Mitch lets himself be worked over.
"Daddy," he says again, like it's the only thing left in his head. Knowing Mitch, knowing how he gets after a few too many nights on the road, it might be.
"You want to ask for something, Mitchy?" Pat rubs his hand down the back of Mitch's thigh, chasing the tension out of the muscle. Mitch moans under the touch, tries to spread his legs even wider, and Pat smiles at the back of his head.
Mitch's hole squeezes around his fingers. His hips rock back. There's a lowgrade burn behind Pat's navel, a desire that doesn't really need to be attended to. Nothing matters as much as Mitch right now.
"Ah," he says. He curves his fingers down, shifts and curls until Mitch goes taut all over and Pat knows that he has his fingers against his prostate. "You want to come?"
That manages to knock some words loose in Mitch's head.
"Yes, Daddy, please--please make me come," he gasps, half arching to try and show off for Pat.
He reaches up and presses Mitch back down into the bed. "I've got you," he promises.
