Guilty Pleasure (oneshot)
Title: Guilty Pleasure
Author: crashqueen109
Pairing: Gabe Saporta/Alex Gaskarth.
Rating: NC17.
Warnings: Smutty smut smut.
Summary: Alex just uses Gabe for his own personal pleasure, and Gabe is oh-so-willing to go along with that little plan.
Disclaimer: I do not own!
A/N: So here I am, organizing my writing on my laptop. And I found this little gem, written last summer. It's one of the first bits of smut I ever wrote, if not the first it's probably the second. It's from when I liked Cobra Starship, so I included Gabe of course. I don't like CS anymore, but it was written as Gabe/Alex so that's how I'm keeping it. I really enjoy it. A lot. So, yeah, I hope you will too. It was supposed to be chaptered, about Gabe being Alex's personal prostitute, but I think I'm just gonna keep it like this. So, yeah! Enjoy!
My Tumblr.
He shuts the door behind him and I wonder why. There’s nobody else in this entire house but him and me, yet he shuts the door carefully, as if he doesn’t want to wake anyone.
I’m laying here on the bed, wanting to know why he takes so long. He’s shut the door, now is walking over to the closet, slowly taking off his shoes. First the left, then the right. He slides them off and pushes them with his toes to their spot on the closet floor, then lifts one foot up and pulls off the sock, repeats with the other foot. I’m watching him take his shoes off and am completely mesmerized. I’m that far gone.
Finally he turns to face me, a smile spreading across his face. My stomach clenches underneath the fabric of my bright plaid shirt. I picked this shirt especially for him. It’s made of all his favorite colors.
He walks towards the bed tantalizingly slow, knowing fully well what he’s doing to me. I mean, if nothing else, he can see the effects in my jeans. They’re tight enough to allow that.
I’m just looking him up and down, kind of dizzy but not caring as my eyes drink in the sight of his legs in those black skinnies. It’s enough to make me want to jump up and tackle him to the ground, rip those skinnies off and just…
No. That’s not what I’m here for. That’s not what he wants, and I have to give him what he wants.
He lays next to me and snuggles close, laying on his side while I just turn my head to look at him, staying on my back. He’s close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but that’s nothing new. There’s usually alcohol on his breath, but the same goes for me. I can’t even pretend it isn’t so.
When he rolls on top of me, I expect it. I know what to do. Same old routine for me, same drunken fun for him. I kiss his neck, the skin there hot with want, my lips cold in the over-conditioned air.
He revels in my kissing his neck, barely audible murmurs escaping him, sounds that make me want to… do more. I love his voice, every single aspect of it. The pitch, the slight rasp, the way his tongue forms words… the way his tongue forms my name…
And his tongue forms my name now, quietly lets escape a soft moan.
“Gabe…”
That’s when I know to move forward. I mean, I’ve done this plenty of times before. I’ve got it down to a science.
I move my lips from his neck, instead pressing them to his lips. His lips are not cold. They’re rather warm. It makes for a nice contrast.
He pushes his tongue sloppily into my mouth and I let him. He can do what he wants, as always.
My hands float up the back of his shirt, sweep around to the front, deftly undo the buttons. He holds his arms out to the sides so I can slip them out of the sleeves and drop the shirt to the floor, then move to his pants.
The button and zipper on his jeans are easily undone now that I’ve had enough practice, so I undo them and tug at the hem. He obediently lifts his hips just enough that I can slide his jeans down, and he kicks out of them, tossing them to the floor as well.
He won’t want my shirt off. He doesn’t care about my shirt. The shirt I so carefully picked out with all his favorite colors so that maybe he would notice and realize how much I care. All he cares about are my pants and boxers. So I let him roll off of me for a moment, and I pull down my jeans, then my boxers. They don’t have to come all the way off. Just enough to give him all the access he wants. The access he needs.
I blush slightly as he looks at me, his eyes growing a bit wider. This happens every time. I always find myself self-conscious. I shouldn’t. I have the biggest ego of anyone I know otherwise, but in the bedroom with Alex, I’m reduced to a self-conscious teenager having to undress for PE.
His hands trail down my chest, trace my hipbones, make their way down to my dick. I try not to whimper, because he doesn’t like that, and I don’t want to upset him. The last thing I want to do is upset him.
His boxers find their way to the floor, and I couldn’t tell you if it was because of me or him, but either way, they’re off and he’s naked and on top of me and hot, both literally and figuratively, and my heart swells the way it always does when this is happening.
Before I know it he’s inside of me. I can’t believe I’ve let myself get distracted again, distracted enough that I don’t even remember him preparing me, don’t remember anything at all, no pain, nothing. I just feel him inside of me and slightly recall the memory of this hurting once upon a time, but after enough nights like this, it’s just a slight ache.
He moves, urges me to move with him, and I do, always willing to oblige. My heart is pounding and I’m starting to sweat, as he’s already begun to do, and my stomach clenches tighter and tighter with each thrust deep inside of me. I grasp at his back, accidentally let my fingernails sink into his skin, bite at his shoulder, moan his name.
“Yes, yes, Gabey, my name, my name…” he murmurs, his face contorted in a beautiful array of pleasure and ecstasy.
So I start to say it in time with his thrusts.
“Alex… Alex… Alex…”
He likes this. Of course he likes this. It’s always the one thing that sends him over that all-too-important edge. The edge which he catapults over now, gripping my wrists in his hands and coming inside of me.
That sends me into my own climax, and I reach up, grab at his hair, pull as hard as I can, and scream his name. It feels so good. I want it to never end.
But it ends. It always ends.
He rolls away from me, breathing heavily, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I want nothing more than to touch him right now, rub my hands all over his skin, but if I do that, the night is ruined. He doesn’t want me to. He never wants me to. He never lets me.
So I lay there, spent, hurting now that I’m thinking about it, waiting for him to do what he does next.
And what he does next is pick himself up off the bed, pick his clothes up off the floor, and leave the room, leaving me to lay there shaking in the aftershock of what just happened.
I lay there and hold the pillow to my chest, smelling his sweat. It smells slightly of alcohol, of course, but I don’t mind. I’ve never minded it.
I wish that instead of the pillow I was holding him. I wish he would come back and lay here with me and let me cuddle him and spoil him and kiss him to sleep. But of course he won’t. That’s not part of the deal. I have to pretend, have to fool myself, that everything is normal, that we have a normal relationship.
I pretend myself to sleep, pretend with a few tears mixed in for good measure.
Author: crashqueen109
Pairing: Gabe Saporta/Alex Gaskarth.
Rating: NC17.
Warnings: Smutty smut smut.
Summary: Alex just uses Gabe for his own personal pleasure, and Gabe is oh-so-willing to go along with that little plan.
Disclaimer: I do not own!
A/N: So here I am, organizing my writing on my laptop. And I found this little gem, written last summer. It's one of the first bits of smut I ever wrote, if not the first it's probably the second. It's from when I liked Cobra Starship, so I included Gabe of course. I don't like CS anymore, but it was written as Gabe/Alex so that's how I'm keeping it. I really enjoy it. A lot. So, yeah, I hope you will too. It was supposed to be chaptered, about Gabe being Alex's personal prostitute, but I think I'm just gonna keep it like this. So, yeah! Enjoy!
My Tumblr.
He shuts the door behind him and I wonder why. There’s nobody else in this entire house but him and me, yet he shuts the door carefully, as if he doesn’t want to wake anyone.
I’m laying here on the bed, wanting to know why he takes so long. He’s shut the door, now is walking over to the closet, slowly taking off his shoes. First the left, then the right. He slides them off and pushes them with his toes to their spot on the closet floor, then lifts one foot up and pulls off the sock, repeats with the other foot. I’m watching him take his shoes off and am completely mesmerized. I’m that far gone.
Finally he turns to face me, a smile spreading across his face. My stomach clenches underneath the fabric of my bright plaid shirt. I picked this shirt especially for him. It’s made of all his favorite colors.
He walks towards the bed tantalizingly slow, knowing fully well what he’s doing to me. I mean, if nothing else, he can see the effects in my jeans. They’re tight enough to allow that.
I’m just looking him up and down, kind of dizzy but not caring as my eyes drink in the sight of his legs in those black skinnies. It’s enough to make me want to jump up and tackle him to the ground, rip those skinnies off and just…
No. That’s not what I’m here for. That’s not what he wants, and I have to give him what he wants.
He lays next to me and snuggles close, laying on his side while I just turn my head to look at him, staying on my back. He’s close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but that’s nothing new. There’s usually alcohol on his breath, but the same goes for me. I can’t even pretend it isn’t so.
When he rolls on top of me, I expect it. I know what to do. Same old routine for me, same drunken fun for him. I kiss his neck, the skin there hot with want, my lips cold in the over-conditioned air.
He revels in my kissing his neck, barely audible murmurs escaping him, sounds that make me want to… do more. I love his voice, every single aspect of it. The pitch, the slight rasp, the way his tongue forms words… the way his tongue forms my name…
And his tongue forms my name now, quietly lets escape a soft moan.
“Gabe…”
That’s when I know to move forward. I mean, I’ve done this plenty of times before. I’ve got it down to a science.
I move my lips from his neck, instead pressing them to his lips. His lips are not cold. They’re rather warm. It makes for a nice contrast.
He pushes his tongue sloppily into my mouth and I let him. He can do what he wants, as always.
My hands float up the back of his shirt, sweep around to the front, deftly undo the buttons. He holds his arms out to the sides so I can slip them out of the sleeves and drop the shirt to the floor, then move to his pants.
The button and zipper on his jeans are easily undone now that I’ve had enough practice, so I undo them and tug at the hem. He obediently lifts his hips just enough that I can slide his jeans down, and he kicks out of them, tossing them to the floor as well.
He won’t want my shirt off. He doesn’t care about my shirt. The shirt I so carefully picked out with all his favorite colors so that maybe he would notice and realize how much I care. All he cares about are my pants and boxers. So I let him roll off of me for a moment, and I pull down my jeans, then my boxers. They don’t have to come all the way off. Just enough to give him all the access he wants. The access he needs.
I blush slightly as he looks at me, his eyes growing a bit wider. This happens every time. I always find myself self-conscious. I shouldn’t. I have the biggest ego of anyone I know otherwise, but in the bedroom with Alex, I’m reduced to a self-conscious teenager having to undress for PE.
His hands trail down my chest, trace my hipbones, make their way down to my dick. I try not to whimper, because he doesn’t like that, and I don’t want to upset him. The last thing I want to do is upset him.
His boxers find their way to the floor, and I couldn’t tell you if it was because of me or him, but either way, they’re off and he’s naked and on top of me and hot, both literally and figuratively, and my heart swells the way it always does when this is happening.
Before I know it he’s inside of me. I can’t believe I’ve let myself get distracted again, distracted enough that I don’t even remember him preparing me, don’t remember anything at all, no pain, nothing. I just feel him inside of me and slightly recall the memory of this hurting once upon a time, but after enough nights like this, it’s just a slight ache.
He moves, urges me to move with him, and I do, always willing to oblige. My heart is pounding and I’m starting to sweat, as he’s already begun to do, and my stomach clenches tighter and tighter with each thrust deep inside of me. I grasp at his back, accidentally let my fingernails sink into his skin, bite at his shoulder, moan his name.
“Yes, yes, Gabey, my name, my name…” he murmurs, his face contorted in a beautiful array of pleasure and ecstasy.
So I start to say it in time with his thrusts.
“Alex… Alex… Alex…”
He likes this. Of course he likes this. It’s always the one thing that sends him over that all-too-important edge. The edge which he catapults over now, gripping my wrists in his hands and coming inside of me.
That sends me into my own climax, and I reach up, grab at his hair, pull as hard as I can, and scream his name. It feels so good. I want it to never end.
But it ends. It always ends.
He rolls away from me, breathing heavily, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I want nothing more than to touch him right now, rub my hands all over his skin, but if I do that, the night is ruined. He doesn’t want me to. He never wants me to. He never lets me.
So I lay there, spent, hurting now that I’m thinking about it, waiting for him to do what he does next.
And what he does next is pick himself up off the bed, pick his clothes up off the floor, and leave the room, leaving me to lay there shaking in the aftershock of what just happened.
I lay there and hold the pillow to my chest, smelling his sweat. It smells slightly of alcohol, of course, but I don’t mind. I’ve never minded it.
I wish that instead of the pillow I was holding him. I wish he would come back and lay here with me and let me cuddle him and spoil him and kiss him to sleep. But of course he won’t. That’s not part of the deal. I have to pretend, have to fool myself, that everything is normal, that we have a normal relationship.
I pretend myself to sleep, pretend with a few tears mixed in for good measure.