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You Kids Get Outta Here
Author: [profile] sharon_hate
Rated: R
Disclaimer: The following events are entirely fictional.
Pete the mall cop is kind of a creep, but adorably so. At the very least, he’s kind of endearing. So why exactly won’t that ginger kid at the arcade surrender his body to him for sexy times?

“You Kids Get Outta Here”
Pete stands in front of the small locker room mirror and runs his fingers through the back of his hair. It’s getting pretty long, but it’s just so terrible he can’t even begin to think of cutting it. He even likes it enough to ignore all the other security guards calling it a mullet. Gabe always jumps to his defense, though, and unhelpfully explains that it’s a fashion mullet. It’s not a mullet, though, he thinks. And if it was one, it wasn’t very impressive.
“Christ,” mutters Pete, shaking his head at his reflection. In the background, he can see Gabe hunched over on the low bench. “I look like shit,” he informs him thickly. For added effect, he twists his neck around and tries his best to look haunted and possibly unhinged.
Gabe automatically turns to look up, having known Pete and his tendencies for years. Instantly, he begins to cackle and noises a positive affirmation at him.
Pete actually turns around to face him and jerks his head up at the plain clock on the wall. The mall doors are going to open and they have to get going. The stores may not be open yet, but there are still people – people they need to watch, for they are liabilities, as head of security constantly informs them.
Nodding, Gabe quickly shoves his feet into his shoes and then sloppily double-knots the laces. They always come untied and, with his height, bending down to retie is totally unimpressive. That’s sort of the most important part of the mall cop façade. Standing up, he lifts his leg over the bench and hops over. The button-up shirt of his uniform, the same shitty off-black uniform Pete’s wearing, is unbuttoned and the wife beater he wears underneath is hiked up a little.
He scratches at his belly and then pulls the shirt closed, buttoning it up hastily. He tucks it into his slacks, beneath his black belt and shuffles over to Pete.
“Ready to deal with those punk kids?” Gabe jokes, clapping his hands together, and starts to usher Pete towards the locker room exit. They both shuffle through the short doorway and security office, into the mall corridors; the combination fluorescent and natural lighting makes them squint, their eyes used to the half-dead light bulbs hanging over the lockers.
A group of young kids walk past them, dragging scratched up skateboards behind them and under their arms. They look like they could be 14, definitely not older than 16. It’s only 8:30 in the morning, where they should be isn’t exactly a secret.
“Remember when we were that belligerent?” Pete sighs, shoving his fists into his pockets and turning to walk in the opposite direction of the teenagers. There’s no reason for him to sound so wistful, seeing as both of them are only 23.  
His partner, significantly taller than Pete is, hunches his shoulders over and huffs a laugh. “I do,” he answers cheekily, “It seems like it was yesterday that you shoved your foot through the drywall in my kitchen and yelled through at it my 90 year-old neighbor.” It was yesterday.
Pete smiles politely at passing seniors, their jogging suits swishing as they bustle past for their morning walk. He’s a young man in a vaguely respectable uniform, so they smile back and waggle their fingers. “I’m good,” he nudges Gabe, “so good.”
“I don’t know how I can stand it,” Gabe says wryly around his grin. They saunter past the outer perimeters of the food court, past the Mongolian Barbeque subdivision and Gabe tips his hat with a flourish at the girl behind the register. She giggles and averts her eyes.
A usual day entails telling punk kids to stop screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs, escorting unruly customers away from the premises and, if they’re lucky (which they never are), apprehending a crazed shoplifter on the run. So far, Pete is alone in having been able to chase a tweaker in twelve Old Navy t-shirts through the entire second floor; it was probably the one of the coolest fiascos he’s ever had the privilege to be a part of.
Most of the day, however, is compromised of wandering the mall, with the intent of seeming alert and watchful, or just standing by problem stores.
For four days of the week, from 10 am to 2 pm, their “problem store” is the arcade on the bottom level. That’s when Gabe and Pete will buy each an Orange Julius and will take post just across from the gaming stop and watch the kid who works there bequeath smaller bills upon the youths. Pete will sigh melodramatically and begin to wax poetic about the creamy hue of his skin and how his strawberry blond hair is like a halo around his head. He hardly ever gets to finish his smoothie.
“So are you going to go talk to him?” Gabe asks tiredly, the same as does each day they’re there.
Pete scoffs and gives his typical response of, “What do I have to offer?” and gesticulates wildly, waving his Styrofoam cup around in the air. “I used to be cool once, before I sold out,” he gestures sadly to his security uniform. He seems more fretful and despondent than he usually is, but it’s not the first time Pete’s gotten himself worked up into a mood.
Gabe decides to step in, though, and proclaims, “C’mon, ‘bro, you didn’t sell out!”
He wraps his drink-free arm around Pete’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “What about all the tomfoolery we cause on days off? Double the plundering, remember – to make up for it?”
Pete frowns and heaves a discontented sigh, “I guess.” Casting another sorry look at the arcade, he turns his attention back to Gabe. “I think I would have more of a chance if I shaved the ‘stache.”
Almost as quick as he was to lean and comfort him, Gabe gasps and hurriedly pushes Pete away, shocked at the omission. “Are you shitting me? Shave it? Fuck, Pete. I love that thing – we love it, remember?” He grabs at his hair, the curls running through his fingers, before continuing, “I know you’re feeling a little low, but—”
“No, dude, I am serious,” Pete admits somberly, lifting his fingers to his face. They had both started the project months ago, and had been sweetly cultivating the moustache since. For all intensive purposes, it was both sick and hilarious. “I don’t think irony translates well into physical attractiveness.”
Gabe shakes his head furiously and lifts his cup wielding hand to his chest, “If that kid can’t appreciate something so obviously amazing, then well…” he pauses rather dramatically, “then I don’t think he’s worth it.”
Taking one last long slurp out from the straw of his smoothie, Pete furrows his eyebrows and gets a grave look in his eyes. Biting on the end of the straw nervously, he mumbles to Gabe over it, “No, dude, I saw him bend over once and the blood rushed to my dick so fast I think I blacked out for a second.” Gabe gapes at him. “It is so worth it, you can’t even believe.”
The next day he shows up with a newly shaven face, Gabe trailing behind him dejectedly. He knows he looks considerably better when the girl at the Sprint kiosk doesn’t sneer at him like she usually does. She even nods a little, which surpasses both Pete and Gabe’s wildest expectations.
“See, dude?” Pete brightly grins, though he can’t resist waggling his eyebrows at Gabe brazenly. “Already I am more popular with those I would like to sex.” He doesn’t really want to sex Amy the Sprint-girl, though, he’s just saying.
Gabe rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and snorts so loudly, it sounds more like an odd hiccup. “Whatever,” he dismisses pointedly. A nefarious look flashes in his eyes, before slipping into one of over relaxation. Pete narrows his eyes suspiciously, but doesn’t interrupt when he starts up again. “I guess your plan’ll work, just as long as that kid is into guys, right?”
Pete makes a choked, outraged noise at him, both hands flying up to flatten his hat down nervously. He shoves lightly at Gabe and crosses his own arms, pouting. “Don’t even say that. Don’t jinx me.”
Cackling, Gabe looks to him through his peripheral, “Just saying. I have yet to see his I Heart Cock shirt.” They both take up their resumed stance in front of the small arcade, watching the boy loom uninterestingly over the register.
Shuffling his feet against the floor, Pete says plainly, “You’re an asshat.”
“Well,” Gabe defends, watching the famed kid move around behind the counter, “I’m just saying, you might have shaved the ‘stache for nothing. He probably has a girlfriend or something, Molly Sue or like, Elizabeth Lee.”
“Is she a character from Little House in the Prairie?” he snaps. One of the other clerks shows up, mouthing something to the blond boy. Pete frowns when the kid smiles brightly.
After a moment, he resignedly declares, “If he’s straight, he’s straight and just…” he trails off. “Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t jerk off anymore, I’m going to chafe. And it’s not fair, I need him,” Pete whines, reaching out towards the arcade and making sad grabby hands. The kid says something back, and even worse, he rests his hand the other clerk’s shoulder. Pete breaks off into exaggeratedly choked sobs.
“You’re pathetic,” Gabe shakes his head and giggles quietly. “And you’re losing it.”
“Okay,” he says determinedly. “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna talk to him,” then adds quickly, “after that other guy is gone. Then I’m gonna do it.”
“Do it, do it,” Gabe chants. It will probably be the highlight of the week and, if nothing else, provide hilarity for months to come.
Pete starts to bounce in place, hyping himself up for the grand gesture he’s about to make. As far as Gabe can tell, he’s even shaking a little; can’t tell if it’s nerves or concentrated liveliness. “Do it,” prompts Gabe some more, “do it, do it.”
“Okay!” he cries, and quickly sets off for the arcade entrance. Gabe bounces a little, too, in anticipation. Pete, though, seems to have been snagged on some invisible barrier, having stopped five feet before entering. Throwing his head back with a loud, barking laugh, Gabe jumps around a little and cheers him on. He even cups his hands around his mouth for maximum volume. The chanting continues.
“Um, excuse me?” a voice questions. Pete turns away from glaring dangerously at Gabe, to come face to face with the kid he’s been, in so many words, stalking for the past months. The kid, creamy skin, haloed hair and red mouth, is pretty much exactly what he’d thought he’d be and Pete forgets to breathe sort of.
“Hey,” Pete catches himself, tries to shake the dazed look from his eyes. He closes the distance between them, walking straight up to the counter. If he wanted, he could even reach out and touch him. He doesn’t, of course; one step at a time. “Hey, there.”
“Is there a problem, uh, officer?” He fumbles over the word, obviously not sure whether it’s appropriate or not. It isn’t really, but it makes Pete think of all sorts of crazy, sexy scenarios, so he allows it. 
Pete blinks, “No, no. Just—uh, checking in to see if you have any riff-raff?” It sounds like a question, but really isn’t.
Now that he’s within 5 yards of him, he can make out the nametag cinching the fabric of his t-shirt. ‘Patrick’ it reads. Patrick, he’ll breathe deeply, late at night with his hand down his pants. Down his own pants, definitely, if any of the previous conversation is at all telling.
Patrick raises an eyebrow jauntily at him and laughs softly to himself. He ducks his head, and tugs at the bill of his hat, so it covers his eyes. Which are blue, Pete sighs to himself. Or grey, he can’t decide.
“No riff-raff here,” Patrick proclaims, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. When he nervously bites at his lower lip and looks up at him through his sandy eyelashes, Pete sighs shallowly and actually begins to stare. Desperate is his desire to leap over the counter and bite it for him. Gabe starts to yell in the background, ‘Pete, have you gone stupid!’ It doesn’t seem to be phrased as a question, but that’s probably from the shouting. “Is that your partner?” he asks, pointing to Gabe who hops around, waving his arms enthusiastically.
“Yeah,” Pete breathes, still enamored by his mouth, though he manages to look back at Gabe with a mild expression.
Patrick’s glasses glint under the harsh, blinking lights of the arcade. “So is there anything else you need?” He purses his lips a little, waiting for Pete’s response and he nearly dies. If at some point in the past few months, he thought he’d ever stop lurking the arcade he was wrong, very much so.
He might even start following him home. Pete thinks that might sound sort of creepy, though, so he decides to keep that thought to himself, even if it was kind of a joke. A part of him starts to wonder if Patrick sleeps in just his boxers or, and a tiny thrill rushes through him, briefs. He doesn’t feel at all scary filing that thought away under masturbatory fodder.
“No,” Pete answers, “nothing else.”
Smiling at him oddly, Patrick nods along. He places his hand on the counter in front of him, and Pete notices his long fingers and shortly cut nails. “Okay. Well, I’m always here if you need anything then.”
It’s a small miracle that Gabe wasn’t close enough to hear that. If you need anything, quickly transforms into, anything you need. The notion alone makes his head light.
Pete manages to nod along and leave fairly quickly and problem free. He doesn’t trip over his feet or anything, like he had been imagining in the back of his mind. The minute he gets far enough away, it really starts to hit him. He spoke to Patrick, with words even. And, more surprisingly, they vaguely made sense. Truly, it is a glorious day, he thinks.
Gabe waits for him at their usual spot, dancing excitedly in place. He motions for Pete to hurry up, instead of his slow paced meandering, so he can regale him with their sexy exchange.
Struggling to contain his enthusiasm, Pete scurries along, shoes squeaking on the floor, and grabs tightly at Gabe’s forearm. He’s an adult, but he has to admit, he did let out a tiny squeal of glee.
“So were you close enough to smell him?” Gabe asks, grin wide and completely lecherous. He’s totally squeezing Pete’s arm back.
“What?” questions Pete, head still spinning from such close interaction. He caught most of it, though, and sort of. Not really. He smelled clean.
“For later, when you’re humping your mattress,” he explains. Pete frowns at him, offended. He doesn’t hump his mattress. “You want the full sensory experience, right?”
“You’re such a creep,” Pete says exasperatedly, burying his hands in his pockets and wiggling his fingers in the accumulated change at the bottom. Beside him, Gabe bites his lip and grins.
“You’re totally gonna remember that sensory-thing for later, though.”
Inspiration taken from these pictures and title taken from this.
My flist can attest to my crazy AU spamming. I just don’t know sometimes. My brain malfunctions and thinks up weird shit.
Comments would be fantastic! Tell me how I can be better.

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J. Gomez

May 2009


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