Sugar, We're Goin' Down [one-shot]
Title: Sugar, We're Goin' Down ((or, A Reputation For Fucking the Living Daylights Out Of Pudgy Men. With Blue Eyes. And Blowjob Lips. And Chicago Ass.))
Author:
therentmatrix
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: 3rd
Summary: Pete's a stripper. Patrick's not a stalker.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened, I own nothing. I think we all know that.
Author's Notes: It's Miranda's fault, for mentioning how some other pxp drabble I wrote reminded her of Roger and Mimi from RENT... And blame her for the title too. I was feeling kinda uncreative.
Patrick's been going to that strip club Joe found for a while now.
His dancer (yes, his) is beautiful- so thin and graceful and almost too flexible as he moves across the stage and the audience claps and cheers at his mostly-exposed body. For so long Patrick has watched him, but never has he dared to speak to the beautiful boy.
The night is cold and damp, and Patrick huddles against the brick wall and waits for him, hat pulled down to almost cover his eyes.
The boy appears moments later, puzzled when Patrick stops him by merely stepping in front of him and saying hi.
Hey. What d'you want, sugar?
Patrick reaches up, his hand caressing the dancer's face before drifting down over his shoulder and further, stopping on his hip.
I was thinking maybe we could... he pauses. What's your name?
Pete.
He makes a humming noise, almost like a purr, before saying yeah, I'm Patrick.
They walk together, after a few minutes of casual talk, going back to Patrick's apartment, and Pete really doesn't care that he's going to a total stranger's house because yeah, he's seen the guy around before, and yeah, he's just a bit of a slut.
You have a reputation, you know, Patrick says as they sit on his couch, too close but still not close enough. People are always saying you're really easy.
Pete sighs a bit. I suppose I am. He puts his hand on Patrick's thigh and squeezes, smirking at the soft intake of breath his action causes. You've never done this before, have you? i mean, you've never taken anyone home so you could just fuck them.
No, but i figure i did okay since you're here and all that, Patrick mutters, leaning close to Pete. Their lips are so close to touching that Pete can feel Patrick talking more than he can hear it, the vibrations in the air and the soft movement of his lips.
Okay, okay, yeah, Pete whispers shakily into the space between them, just kiss me already, and Patrick does. Pete tastes bittersweet, and when they finally part Patrick licks Pete's lips and smiles when the other boy shudders and lets his weight fall forward onto Patrick's chest.
Hey, he says, and Pete grins against his shoulder.
Hey yourself.
Patrick's hands are wandering now, sliding under Pete's shirt and just touching, feeling, memorizing every detail, from the curve of his spine to the firm muscles of his stomach, and his hipbones- Patrick could fill a notebook with writing about those hipbones, not that he has or anything- just like he's wanted since the night he first saw his dancer- his Pete.
Take it off, please, just- he mumbles, tugging on the hem of Pete's shirt. Just take off your damn clothes- please.
---
It's warm, too warm, and Pete's curled up asleep in Patrick's bed, and they're basically spooning, but neither would mind even if they were fully awake. Patrick's fingers glide lightly over Pete's hip, side, hip, thigh, up and down again and again. His eyes are half-closed, still refusing to accept the sleep that came so easily to the lithe body he's pressed against.
His mind won't calm down after the rush of emotions and thoughts (Pete still hasn't said his name, no matter how many times Patrick's said- moaned, cried, whimpered- his) and pleasure (and when he finally moved on from Pete's lips, slowly kissing along his jaw to his neck, feeling the quickening pulse as he licked and bit; Pete's small noises of pain and lust as Patrick marked him, not only on his neck, no, but when he gripped Pete's hips hard enough to bruise. Patrick likes to think of how Pete will have to use makeup to cover them up tomorrow night before he goes on the stage) and he feels like his head may as well explode, so he might get some peace.
Pete stirs a bit and moans in his sleep. Patrick smiles and kisses the back of his neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and sex and Pete. His eyes flutter shut, and when he wakes up early in the morning, Pete is gone.
---
Patrick is in a good mood, two days later, as he stands outside the club with a single yellow rose cradled against his chest, protected from the slight drizzle falling from the sky. He may be wet and cold and a bit behind on paying this month's rent, but at least he'll get to see Pete again.
The back door opens, and his dancer walks out, laughing and smiling and followed by two girls still in their stage clothes.
No, hon, I'll be alright going to my car by myself. I'm a big boy, I can handle it. He waves and laughs again before turning around, suddenly noticing Patrick. Oh, hey sugar, he says sweetly.
Pete! I brought you this- Patrick extends the hand with the flower. I uh, wanted to see you again. Maybe we could, you know, go out sometime?
Pete bites his lip and glances down at the slightly damp rose being offered to him.
Hey, you're a sweet kid and all, but I can't. I just- I really can't. He turns his head away and Patrick's smile slips a bit.
But- but we- we had sex, you stayed at my house, Patrick watches Pete hopefully, half-smile slowly fading. I- I watch you dance, so much- and I just thought that...
Pete shakes his head. I can't. He walks past Patrick and down the street without looking back.
Patrick feels his knees give out, and he falls to the ground and sits there, shaking with held-back sobs. The yellow rose lies in front of him, mocking him as the rain starts falling harder, drenching them both.
---
A block away, Pete finally looks back with tears in his eyes.
I'm sorry...
Patrick.
Concrit is LOVED more than... Cookies. And candy. And cake. Which all start with the letter C.
Author:
therentmatrix Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: 3rd
Summary: Pete's a stripper. Patrick's not a stalker.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened, I own nothing. I think we all know that.
Author's Notes: It's Miranda's fault, for mentioning how some other pxp drabble I wrote reminded her of Roger and Mimi from RENT... And blame her for the title too. I was feeling kinda uncreative.
Patrick's been going to that strip club Joe found for a while now.
His dancer (yes, his) is beautiful- so thin and graceful and almost too flexible as he moves across the stage and the audience claps and cheers at his mostly-exposed body. For so long Patrick has watched him, but never has he dared to speak to the beautiful boy.
The night is cold and damp, and Patrick huddles against the brick wall and waits for him, hat pulled down to almost cover his eyes.
The boy appears moments later, puzzled when Patrick stops him by merely stepping in front of him and saying hi.
Hey. What d'you want, sugar?
Patrick reaches up, his hand caressing the dancer's face before drifting down over his shoulder and further, stopping on his hip.
I was thinking maybe we could... he pauses. What's your name?
Pete.
He makes a humming noise, almost like a purr, before saying yeah, I'm Patrick.
They walk together, after a few minutes of casual talk, going back to Patrick's apartment, and Pete really doesn't care that he's going to a total stranger's house because yeah, he's seen the guy around before, and yeah, he's just a bit of a slut.
You have a reputation, you know, Patrick says as they sit on his couch, too close but still not close enough. People are always saying you're really easy.
Pete sighs a bit. I suppose I am. He puts his hand on Patrick's thigh and squeezes, smirking at the soft intake of breath his action causes. You've never done this before, have you? i mean, you've never taken anyone home so you could just fuck them.
No, but i figure i did okay since you're here and all that, Patrick mutters, leaning close to Pete. Their lips are so close to touching that Pete can feel Patrick talking more than he can hear it, the vibrations in the air and the soft movement of his lips.
Okay, okay, yeah, Pete whispers shakily into the space between them, just kiss me already, and Patrick does. Pete tastes bittersweet, and when they finally part Patrick licks Pete's lips and smiles when the other boy shudders and lets his weight fall forward onto Patrick's chest.
Hey, he says, and Pete grins against his shoulder.
Hey yourself.
Patrick's hands are wandering now, sliding under Pete's shirt and just touching, feeling, memorizing every detail, from the curve of his spine to the firm muscles of his stomach, and his hipbones- Patrick could fill a notebook with writing about those hipbones, not that he has or anything- just like he's wanted since the night he first saw his dancer- his Pete.
Take it off, please, just- he mumbles, tugging on the hem of Pete's shirt. Just take off your damn clothes- please.
---
It's warm, too warm, and Pete's curled up asleep in Patrick's bed, and they're basically spooning, but neither would mind even if they were fully awake. Patrick's fingers glide lightly over Pete's hip, side, hip, thigh, up and down again and again. His eyes are half-closed, still refusing to accept the sleep that came so easily to the lithe body he's pressed against.
His mind won't calm down after the rush of emotions and thoughts (Pete still hasn't said his name, no matter how many times Patrick's said- moaned, cried, whimpered- his) and pleasure (and when he finally moved on from Pete's lips, slowly kissing along his jaw to his neck, feeling the quickening pulse as he licked and bit; Pete's small noises of pain and lust as Patrick marked him, not only on his neck, no, but when he gripped Pete's hips hard enough to bruise. Patrick likes to think of how Pete will have to use makeup to cover them up tomorrow night before he goes on the stage) and he feels like his head may as well explode, so he might get some peace.
Pete stirs a bit and moans in his sleep. Patrick smiles and kisses the back of his neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and sex and Pete. His eyes flutter shut, and when he wakes up early in the morning, Pete is gone.
---
Patrick is in a good mood, two days later, as he stands outside the club with a single yellow rose cradled against his chest, protected from the slight drizzle falling from the sky. He may be wet and cold and a bit behind on paying this month's rent, but at least he'll get to see Pete again.
The back door opens, and his dancer walks out, laughing and smiling and followed by two girls still in their stage clothes.
No, hon, I'll be alright going to my car by myself. I'm a big boy, I can handle it. He waves and laughs again before turning around, suddenly noticing Patrick. Oh, hey sugar, he says sweetly.
Pete! I brought you this- Patrick extends the hand with the flower. I uh, wanted to see you again. Maybe we could, you know, go out sometime?
Pete bites his lip and glances down at the slightly damp rose being offered to him.
Hey, you're a sweet kid and all, but I can't. I just- I really can't. He turns his head away and Patrick's smile slips a bit.
But- but we- we had sex, you stayed at my house, Patrick watches Pete hopefully, half-smile slowly fading. I- I watch you dance, so much- and I just thought that...
Pete shakes his head. I can't. He walks past Patrick and down the street without looking back.
Patrick feels his knees give out, and he falls to the ground and sits there, shaking with held-back sobs. The yellow rose lies in front of him, mocking him as the rain starts falling harder, drenching them both.
---
A block away, Pete finally looks back with tears in his eyes.
I'm sorry...
Patrick.
Concrit is LOVED more than... Cookies. And candy. And cake. Which all start with the letter C.