Bandom fic (PatD/CS): Gay Above the Waist (Spencer/Gabe, NC-17)
Title: Gay Above the Waist
Crossover: Bandom: Panic at the Disco/Cobra Starship
Pairing: Spencer/Gabe
Rating: NC-17 leik whoa
Summary: Drunk!fic. Crack!fic? 2400 words.
Note: For themoononastick, who decided that if I was hell bent on getting Gabe laid, it should be with Spencer. Apparently? Of all the people I've written Spencer with so far, Gabe's the one that most brings out his dominant side. And his bitchiness. Even more than Ryan.
Gay Above the Waist
Spencer fucking hates these guys and their patently retarded claims on gayness, their Gay Above the Waist bullshit. Okay, so, yeah-he ought to be happy all these binaries about sexuality are breaking down, that people can just say what they're okay with or, even better, what and who they want-without thinking about fitting some kind of mold. And it's not like he's opposed to anything that brings new hot boys into the fold for kissing and lazy groping and lots of other things Spencer would very much like to be doing right now.
Would like to be doing but isn't, because he has self-control. And balls. And other things Lecherous Above the Waist Gabe Saporta does not have.
Okay, so he's sure Saporta has balls. Grabs them enough, yes? But, oh my God, if you're going to be Gay Above the Waist, if you're going to run around kissing Pete Wentz and sticking your tongue in places only slightly north of Bill Beckett's waist (which was just…God), then you just do it. You don't set yourself up in the corner of a ridiculous and ridiculously exclusive club in an even more ridiculous casino on the strip, half-unconsciously moving to the music, hovering over Brendon for half an hour, confusing his already confused mental boundaries about where he's gay.
(Currently? well above his shoulders; specifically his mouth, not that Spencer's complaining, but it's fucking with his own rules about sex, like when it's smart or even okay to be gay and desperate for a straight dude…).
Anyway, the point is if you're Gay Above the Waist, you don't hover over Brendon for half an hour, and you don't do it while drunk and lazily gyrating but still spouting quasi-political-philosophical bullshit that reminds Spencer too fucking much of Ryan when he's sauced-except that he's like Ryan's dark twin or something: all tall and deep brown eyes and manic and loud and overtly sensual and more aggressive aggressive than passive aggressive.
Except, you know, the hands constantly on Brendon's shoulders. And the distinct lack of sticking his tongue in interesting places just north of Brendon's waist. Which would be…
Yeah.
Spencer curls his fist tighter around this most recent beer. Still cold. He presses it to his forehead, but he can still feel the heat off Saporta's body and hear his stupid voice and-
Spencer huffs (drunkenly; oh dear, so drunkenly) in Saporta's general direction:
"Oh. My. God. Either make a fucking move or fucking move the hell on."
Saporta's eyes go even darker than they already are, and for half a second Spencer's afraid he's about to be punched in the face, that he'll be explaining away a black eye for the rest of this leg of the tour. And Saporta does advance on him, all tightly coiled energy despite his level of intoxication, which makes Spencer dizzy enough he can't quickly respond, not even as Saporta decidedly doesn't punch him but, oh Jesus, really?, presses his shoulders back against the wall and uses his long, hot body to trap him, hips on hips.
Saporta's hand clutches his neck as he leans in and kisses him hard and slow and wet.
With tongue.
What?
Um.
Wow?
So Spencer just goes with it, shoves his tongue into Saporta's mouth in response, and Saporta gives this low, amused groan. Soon, it's like Saporta's trying to survive on Spencer's air, and, yeah-Spencer kind of loves and hates this Gay Above the Waist thing all at the same time. Because Gabe Saporta is the best fucking addition to the pool of hot boys to only tongue fuck he's encountered in…forever.
Or, you know, to be tongue fucked by. Right now, with Saporta pulling off his mouth and dragging him out of the corner of this stupid club and toward the hotel's elevators, Spencer's going to try to enjoy whatever action he can get.
*
So.
Spencer bites back a whimper. Mostly successfully.
So, apparently, Spencer missed a memo or one of Pete's blog entries or something-because it seems that Gabe Saporta has revised his status re: his sexuality. He is now Gay well Below the Waist. Or at least Spencer's waist.
Spencer heartily approves of this further effort to break binaries. Really, he does. So much, in fact, that he groans like he's dying when Gabe's lips slide down on his cock until his nose is buried in Spencer's pubic hair. Gabe's breathing a lot through his nose. In fact, Spencer would swear he's getting off on the smell of him, of what they're doing, which is just…
Gay, right? Absolutely gay and insanely hot.
Gabe hums and giggles a lot when he gives head. Or maybe he just does it when he's drunk and Spencer's yanking at his hair drunkenly and spewing the same three words over and over-in various arrangements, but they always come out a curse, a plea, and an exclamation of disbelief all at once: fuck and shit and Gabe.
Gabe only pulls off once (after a shitting fuck, oh fuck me, fuck, Gabe), to give him a cocky grin and say, "I was gonna tell you I didn't mind if you pulled my hair, but, well."
And then, when he's done talking? His mouth doesn't hurry back to Spencer's cock.
"Please," Spencer whines more helplessly than he'd like, but he still manages to tug dutifully on the hair at the nape of Gabe's neck, watching his head fall back for a moment, his spit-slick lips red and open, his eyes closing like he's so getting off on…
Holy fucking shit.
Gabe presses his nose into Spencer's hipbone and murmurs, "You fuck like this, too, Smith?"
Spencer just nods, biting back another whimper.
"God, did I fucking hope so," Gabe says before he swallows him down again.
*
Gabe tries to explain it all when they're lying listlessly on Spencer's hotel bed, still drunk and half asleep and more than a little horny, contemplating round two. Unfortunately, his talk is really, really starting to sound like Ryan's drunk rambling now, which pretty much disturbs Spencer. So he fixates on how much faster Gabe talks and how, yeah, he was deep-throating him just a minute ago. Which is not something he gets from Ryan Ross. Even if he wanted it, which he doesn't, Ryan probably thinks too fucking much, probably wouldn't-
"You have to sing tomorrow," Spencer says suddenly, sitting up, trying very hard to keep his focus on Gabe's face. Both his faces. Is the bed moving?
"Uh."
"I mean, no more blowjobs. It'll wreck your voice. You have to sing."
Gabe snorts.
Spencer tries even harder to focus. And glare. "No. More."
One of Gabe's eyebrows go up, but just as he starts to work up some lascivious look, half ridiculous and half determined, he suddenly starts giggling and rolling until he's almost pitching off the bed. And he's talking.
"What?" Spencer says. "What?"
"You don't."
"What?"
He sits up, then, and it's clear he's not as off balance as Spencer, he's just letting himself be. But he's still drunk, and by now Spencer's been on the receiving end of enough semi-sly drunk Gabe looks that he's honestly surprised he didn't realize what the fuck was going on long before Gabe was manhandling him against the wall. At any rate, he fucking knows this look now.
Plotting. Evil.
Gabe gives him a deliberately subdued grin and says, "You don't have to sing tomorrow."
Oh no, Spencer certainly does not.
"On your back," Spencer growls. "Touch me with your hands and I stop. Got that?"
Gabe stretches his hands out behind him and grasps the headboard.
Oh yes, he's totally got it.
*
Gabe finally finishes explaining his epiphany after they stop acting like they don't have any interest in curling up together here in the afterglow. Gabe likes to kiss a guy while he jerks him off, so after that, which was after a sloppy but workably demanding blowjob, they ended up like this, limbs tangled, faces pressed against necks, post-coital and sobering a bit and, apparently, getting a little bitchy, too.
"Shut the fuck up," Spencer says. "You were just a repressed homo."
"Fuck you. People fucking change their sexuality all the time. Like, actually change it, not decide it was always something they didn't know it was. And I'm not a fucking homo. Not all the time. I still do girls. I fucking love vaginas."
"Good for you."
"You don't? Seriously?"
Spencer shrugs.
"That's crazy, dude."
"Not as crazy as me thinking Brendon's the only person on the goddamn planet you don't seem to know how to seduce."
"What?"
Spencer grimaces and turns over-fucking fuck, beer brain, let's stop with the revealing dumb-assery, okay?- and mutters, "God."
That sneaky Gabe. That sneaky Gabe's now working a knee up between his legs, crawling half on top of him and using his mouth to molest Spencer's ear. Which he's laughing into a little.
"Seriously? You thought… You had no idea?"
"Shut up."
"You had no earthly fucking idea I was trying to get you to pay attention to me, not Brendon?"
"Not Brendon?" he echoes, flipping back suddenly and jostling Gabe back onto the bed. "You didn't want me paying attention to…"
Oh. He gets it a beat too late, when Gabe's eyes go wide. Spencer's already red face feels like it's burning.
Gabe says, "Oh my God."
"Shut up."
"You totally want to hit that, don't you?"
"Shut up."
"You do!"
"And you don't?" Spencer snaps.
But Gabe's too pleased with himself to take the bait. "Never fucking said I didn't," he replies, shaking his head. "I'd be all over that if I thought he was into dudes. He's…?"
It's Spencer's turn to shake his head. "He claims he's not."
"Fuck what he claims," Gabe replies, glomming onto Spencer again, rolling on top of him so he can look down at him with wide, gorgeous, mischievous, fucking determined brown eyes. And grinding into him with those narrow, wicked hips.
Gabe bites down on his neck and holds his mouth there. "Did I ever tell you how I discovered I was gay below the waist, too?"
"I thought you said it was a sudden change in taste, asshole."
"Fuck all that," he laughs. "I probably am a repressed homo. Or, hell, maybe just a nympho."
Spencer coughs but decides any comebacks to that are just way too easy. Instead, he says sarcastically, "So your soul didn't wake up gay one day?"
"No, my cock woke up one day with Bill Beckett's mouth around it. After the night before, when he had his hands on it.
"I don't think getting naked with Bill qualifies you as a homo."
"Shut the fuck up, Smith. He's as male as anybody. Got a pretty impressive dick, too. How the hell do you think I can take you all the way down, you cocky bitch?"
Spencer catches him off guard, then; or maybe Gabe just lets himself be rolled over and straddled.
But Gabe's still talking. "You should try him, Spence."
"What?"
"Brendon."
"Oh. I don't…"
"What?"
"I don't want…" Spencer flattens down on top of him and starts rucking up his shirt, pinching at skin while he licks at his neck.
But Gabe's still fucking talking. And he seems oddly serious, despite the way he's squirming and how his voice sounds loose and natural and Gabe.
"You don't wanna fuck up your friendship or your band," he says. "I get that. But it doesn't have to. Do Bill and I seem to have a fucked-up relationship?"
"Um."
"And tell me Ross and Jon Walker aren't fucking each other's brains out."
"Um."
Gabe grins, shifting underneath him to line up their hard ons. "Man, I can't even imagine what it sounds like on your bus."
"Don't remind me."
"What the hell? You and Ross don't…?"
"Fuck no."
Gabe snorts out a laugh. "Okay, chief."
"Known him for ten years. Just…ew, no."
"But Brendon's not ew, no?"
Spencer can't answer, just shakes his head. No, Brendon's never been no anything.
But before Spencer can get tucked up inside his own head, Gabe (of course) starts talking again, his voice low, soft, and slow: "I'll help, Spencer. I can be such good help." His eyes are liquid and dark as he wiggles and raises his eyebrows and keeps that same tone: "I can be a good boy, do whatever you want."
"How about this," Spencer snaps, desperate to get some semblance of control back. "I want you to shut the fuck up and let me fuck you."
Gabe grins, back arching subtly. "And after? Then, we plot how to get in the pants of your tiny lead singer?"
"God, shut up."
Gabe snorts. "You'd have to gag me, baby. Which I'm cool with, by the way."
In the end, Spencer doesn't gag him (mostly because there's nothing suitable handy), but after it's over, after he's sobering and wondering what the hell got him so worked up he managed to get off three times in one night with Gabe fucking Saporta, he lays on his back and asks the ceiling:
"We?"
Gabe replies, "What?"
"You said we would plot. Do you want…? I mean, to be…?"
Gabe gives him a lazy smile. "I told you I think he's fucking adorable. But it's up to you, Spence. I don't know what you're after."
Spencer doesn't answer, just lets himself begin to drift off to sleep with Gabe's long arms pulling him back possessively to his chest, which is a little too hot to be comfortable, but fuck comfortable just now. He's too fucking sleepy.
Before he completely loses consciousness, Spencer says, "We."
Gabe giggles and circles his arms tighter, and he suddenly seems much more awake. And possibly plotting evil.
"Awesome," Gabe says. "We'll just explain to him how the widening of sexual boundaries means he can fuck around with his very pretty but very masculine friend and not have to have an existential crisis about it. You know, except for how he'll wonder how he lived his whole life without Spencer Smith's cock."
"Jesus," Spencer groans.
"Gabriel, actually. Like the archangel, only better."
"You are ridiculous."
"You love me. You wooed me."
"Not that I meant to, you dumbshit."
"Ah, but, see-now that you've had me, you're going to be wondering how you lived your whole life without my cobra of-"
Spencer rolls over and crushes his mouth over Gabe's. Maybe he can get him to stop talking. For a little while, anyway.
*Final count for appearance of the word 'fuck' or its variants: 43. Ahaha. Boys.
~
Crossover: Bandom: Panic at the Disco/Cobra Starship
Pairing: Spencer/Gabe
Rating: NC-17 leik whoa
Summary: Drunk!fic. Crack!fic? 2400 words.
Note: For themoononastick, who decided that if I was hell bent on getting Gabe laid, it should be with Spencer. Apparently? Of all the people I've written Spencer with so far, Gabe's the one that most brings out his dominant side. And his bitchiness. Even more than Ryan.
Gay Above the Waist
Spencer fucking hates these guys and their patently retarded claims on gayness, their Gay Above the Waist bullshit. Okay, so, yeah-he ought to be happy all these binaries about sexuality are breaking down, that people can just say what they're okay with or, even better, what and who they want-without thinking about fitting some kind of mold. And it's not like he's opposed to anything that brings new hot boys into the fold for kissing and lazy groping and lots of other things Spencer would very much like to be doing right now.
Would like to be doing but isn't, because he has self-control. And balls. And other things Lecherous Above the Waist Gabe Saporta does not have.
Okay, so he's sure Saporta has balls. Grabs them enough, yes? But, oh my God, if you're going to be Gay Above the Waist, if you're going to run around kissing Pete Wentz and sticking your tongue in places only slightly north of Bill Beckett's waist (which was just…God), then you just do it. You don't set yourself up in the corner of a ridiculous and ridiculously exclusive club in an even more ridiculous casino on the strip, half-unconsciously moving to the music, hovering over Brendon for half an hour, confusing his already confused mental boundaries about where he's gay.
(Currently? well above his shoulders; specifically his mouth, not that Spencer's complaining, but it's fucking with his own rules about sex, like when it's smart or even okay to be gay and desperate for a straight dude…).
Anyway, the point is if you're Gay Above the Waist, you don't hover over Brendon for half an hour, and you don't do it while drunk and lazily gyrating but still spouting quasi-political-philosophical bullshit that reminds Spencer too fucking much of Ryan when he's sauced-except that he's like Ryan's dark twin or something: all tall and deep brown eyes and manic and loud and overtly sensual and more aggressive aggressive than passive aggressive.
Except, you know, the hands constantly on Brendon's shoulders. And the distinct lack of sticking his tongue in interesting places just north of Brendon's waist. Which would be…
Yeah.
Spencer curls his fist tighter around this most recent beer. Still cold. He presses it to his forehead, but he can still feel the heat off Saporta's body and hear his stupid voice and-
Spencer huffs (drunkenly; oh dear, so drunkenly) in Saporta's general direction:
"Oh. My. God. Either make a fucking move or fucking move the hell on."
Saporta's eyes go even darker than they already are, and for half a second Spencer's afraid he's about to be punched in the face, that he'll be explaining away a black eye for the rest of this leg of the tour. And Saporta does advance on him, all tightly coiled energy despite his level of intoxication, which makes Spencer dizzy enough he can't quickly respond, not even as Saporta decidedly doesn't punch him but, oh Jesus, really?, presses his shoulders back against the wall and uses his long, hot body to trap him, hips on hips.
Saporta's hand clutches his neck as he leans in and kisses him hard and slow and wet.
With tongue.
What?
Um.
Wow?
So Spencer just goes with it, shoves his tongue into Saporta's mouth in response, and Saporta gives this low, amused groan. Soon, it's like Saporta's trying to survive on Spencer's air, and, yeah-Spencer kind of loves and hates this Gay Above the Waist thing all at the same time. Because Gabe Saporta is the best fucking addition to the pool of hot boys to only tongue fuck he's encountered in…forever.
Or, you know, to be tongue fucked by. Right now, with Saporta pulling off his mouth and dragging him out of the corner of this stupid club and toward the hotel's elevators, Spencer's going to try to enjoy whatever action he can get.
*
So.
Spencer bites back a whimper. Mostly successfully.
So, apparently, Spencer missed a memo or one of Pete's blog entries or something-because it seems that Gabe Saporta has revised his status re: his sexuality. He is now Gay well Below the Waist. Or at least Spencer's waist.
Spencer heartily approves of this further effort to break binaries. Really, he does. So much, in fact, that he groans like he's dying when Gabe's lips slide down on his cock until his nose is buried in Spencer's pubic hair. Gabe's breathing a lot through his nose. In fact, Spencer would swear he's getting off on the smell of him, of what they're doing, which is just…
Gay, right? Absolutely gay and insanely hot.
Gabe hums and giggles a lot when he gives head. Or maybe he just does it when he's drunk and Spencer's yanking at his hair drunkenly and spewing the same three words over and over-in various arrangements, but they always come out a curse, a plea, and an exclamation of disbelief all at once: fuck and shit and Gabe.
Gabe only pulls off once (after a shitting fuck, oh fuck me, fuck, Gabe), to give him a cocky grin and say, "I was gonna tell you I didn't mind if you pulled my hair, but, well."
And then, when he's done talking? His mouth doesn't hurry back to Spencer's cock.
"Please," Spencer whines more helplessly than he'd like, but he still manages to tug dutifully on the hair at the nape of Gabe's neck, watching his head fall back for a moment, his spit-slick lips red and open, his eyes closing like he's so getting off on…
Holy fucking shit.
Gabe presses his nose into Spencer's hipbone and murmurs, "You fuck like this, too, Smith?"
Spencer just nods, biting back another whimper.
"God, did I fucking hope so," Gabe says before he swallows him down again.
*
Gabe tries to explain it all when they're lying listlessly on Spencer's hotel bed, still drunk and half asleep and more than a little horny, contemplating round two. Unfortunately, his talk is really, really starting to sound like Ryan's drunk rambling now, which pretty much disturbs Spencer. So he fixates on how much faster Gabe talks and how, yeah, he was deep-throating him just a minute ago. Which is not something he gets from Ryan Ross. Even if he wanted it, which he doesn't, Ryan probably thinks too fucking much, probably wouldn't-
"You have to sing tomorrow," Spencer says suddenly, sitting up, trying very hard to keep his focus on Gabe's face. Both his faces. Is the bed moving?
"Uh."
"I mean, no more blowjobs. It'll wreck your voice. You have to sing."
Gabe snorts.
Spencer tries even harder to focus. And glare. "No. More."
One of Gabe's eyebrows go up, but just as he starts to work up some lascivious look, half ridiculous and half determined, he suddenly starts giggling and rolling until he's almost pitching off the bed. And he's talking.
"What?" Spencer says. "What?"
"You don't."
"What?"
He sits up, then, and it's clear he's not as off balance as Spencer, he's just letting himself be. But he's still drunk, and by now Spencer's been on the receiving end of enough semi-sly drunk Gabe looks that he's honestly surprised he didn't realize what the fuck was going on long before Gabe was manhandling him against the wall. At any rate, he fucking knows this look now.
Plotting. Evil.
Gabe gives him a deliberately subdued grin and says, "You don't have to sing tomorrow."
Oh no, Spencer certainly does not.
"On your back," Spencer growls. "Touch me with your hands and I stop. Got that?"
Gabe stretches his hands out behind him and grasps the headboard.
Oh yes, he's totally got it.
*
Gabe finally finishes explaining his epiphany after they stop acting like they don't have any interest in curling up together here in the afterglow. Gabe likes to kiss a guy while he jerks him off, so after that, which was after a sloppy but workably demanding blowjob, they ended up like this, limbs tangled, faces pressed against necks, post-coital and sobering a bit and, apparently, getting a little bitchy, too.
"Shut the fuck up," Spencer says. "You were just a repressed homo."
"Fuck you. People fucking change their sexuality all the time. Like, actually change it, not decide it was always something they didn't know it was. And I'm not a fucking homo. Not all the time. I still do girls. I fucking love vaginas."
"Good for you."
"You don't? Seriously?"
Spencer shrugs.
"That's crazy, dude."
"Not as crazy as me thinking Brendon's the only person on the goddamn planet you don't seem to know how to seduce."
"What?"
Spencer grimaces and turns over-fucking fuck, beer brain, let's stop with the revealing dumb-assery, okay?- and mutters, "God."
That sneaky Gabe. That sneaky Gabe's now working a knee up between his legs, crawling half on top of him and using his mouth to molest Spencer's ear. Which he's laughing into a little.
"Seriously? You thought… You had no idea?"
"Shut up."
"You had no earthly fucking idea I was trying to get you to pay attention to me, not Brendon?"
"Not Brendon?" he echoes, flipping back suddenly and jostling Gabe back onto the bed. "You didn't want me paying attention to…"
Oh. He gets it a beat too late, when Gabe's eyes go wide. Spencer's already red face feels like it's burning.
Gabe says, "Oh my God."
"Shut up."
"You totally want to hit that, don't you?"
"Shut up."
"You do!"
"And you don't?" Spencer snaps.
But Gabe's too pleased with himself to take the bait. "Never fucking said I didn't," he replies, shaking his head. "I'd be all over that if I thought he was into dudes. He's…?"
It's Spencer's turn to shake his head. "He claims he's not."
"Fuck what he claims," Gabe replies, glomming onto Spencer again, rolling on top of him so he can look down at him with wide, gorgeous, mischievous, fucking determined brown eyes. And grinding into him with those narrow, wicked hips.
Gabe bites down on his neck and holds his mouth there. "Did I ever tell you how I discovered I was gay below the waist, too?"
"I thought you said it was a sudden change in taste, asshole."
"Fuck all that," he laughs. "I probably am a repressed homo. Or, hell, maybe just a nympho."
Spencer coughs but decides any comebacks to that are just way too easy. Instead, he says sarcastically, "So your soul didn't wake up gay one day?"
"No, my cock woke up one day with Bill Beckett's mouth around it. After the night before, when he had his hands on it.
"I don't think getting naked with Bill qualifies you as a homo."
"Shut the fuck up, Smith. He's as male as anybody. Got a pretty impressive dick, too. How the hell do you think I can take you all the way down, you cocky bitch?"
Spencer catches him off guard, then; or maybe Gabe just lets himself be rolled over and straddled.
But Gabe's still talking. "You should try him, Spence."
"What?"
"Brendon."
"Oh. I don't…"
"What?"
"I don't want…" Spencer flattens down on top of him and starts rucking up his shirt, pinching at skin while he licks at his neck.
But Gabe's still fucking talking. And he seems oddly serious, despite the way he's squirming and how his voice sounds loose and natural and Gabe.
"You don't wanna fuck up your friendship or your band," he says. "I get that. But it doesn't have to. Do Bill and I seem to have a fucked-up relationship?"
"Um."
"And tell me Ross and Jon Walker aren't fucking each other's brains out."
"Um."
Gabe grins, shifting underneath him to line up their hard ons. "Man, I can't even imagine what it sounds like on your bus."
"Don't remind me."
"What the hell? You and Ross don't…?"
"Fuck no."
Gabe snorts out a laugh. "Okay, chief."
"Known him for ten years. Just…ew, no."
"But Brendon's not ew, no?"
Spencer can't answer, just shakes his head. No, Brendon's never been no anything.
But before Spencer can get tucked up inside his own head, Gabe (of course) starts talking again, his voice low, soft, and slow: "I'll help, Spencer. I can be such good help." His eyes are liquid and dark as he wiggles and raises his eyebrows and keeps that same tone: "I can be a good boy, do whatever you want."
"How about this," Spencer snaps, desperate to get some semblance of control back. "I want you to shut the fuck up and let me fuck you."
Gabe grins, back arching subtly. "And after? Then, we plot how to get in the pants of your tiny lead singer?"
"God, shut up."
Gabe snorts. "You'd have to gag me, baby. Which I'm cool with, by the way."
In the end, Spencer doesn't gag him (mostly because there's nothing suitable handy), but after it's over, after he's sobering and wondering what the hell got him so worked up he managed to get off three times in one night with Gabe fucking Saporta, he lays on his back and asks the ceiling:
"We?"
Gabe replies, "What?"
"You said we would plot. Do you want…? I mean, to be…?"
Gabe gives him a lazy smile. "I told you I think he's fucking adorable. But it's up to you, Spence. I don't know what you're after."
Spencer doesn't answer, just lets himself begin to drift off to sleep with Gabe's long arms pulling him back possessively to his chest, which is a little too hot to be comfortable, but fuck comfortable just now. He's too fucking sleepy.
Before he completely loses consciousness, Spencer says, "We."
Gabe giggles and circles his arms tighter, and he suddenly seems much more awake. And possibly plotting evil.
"Awesome," Gabe says. "We'll just explain to him how the widening of sexual boundaries means he can fuck around with his very pretty but very masculine friend and not have to have an existential crisis about it. You know, except for how he'll wonder how he lived his whole life without Spencer Smith's cock."
"Jesus," Spencer groans.
"Gabriel, actually. Like the archangel, only better."
"You are ridiculous."
"You love me. You wooed me."
"Not that I meant to, you dumbshit."
"Ah, but, see-now that you've had me, you're going to be wondering how you lived your whole life without my cobra of-"
Spencer rolls over and crushes his mouth over Gabe's. Maybe he can get him to stop talking. For a little while, anyway.
*Final count for appearance of the word 'fuck' or its variants: 43. Ahaha. Boys.
~