Fic: "Stupid Love Songs" (bandom)
I needed to write something short and sweet. Pete/Gabe domesticity with puppy play. Yes.
Gabe wakes up with Pete's hand on his cock and Pete's mouth hot against his stomach, drawing little paths of want up and down his skin.
"Get up here," Gabe mumbles, groggy and wanting something slower, warmer, more. He's not a fucking kid anymore. Lazy morning sex is one of the perks.
Pete shakes his head, dipping his head lower and pressing a kiss to the base of Gabe's dick. "Want to do something today."
"We can do lots of things today."
Pete shakes his head again, eyes lowered like he's watching his own tongue flick lazily over flushed skin. "Want to...you know."
It's very hard to think about anything he might or might not know while Pete is doing that. "What?"
Pete glances up at him, muscles tightening under his skin and lips curling back from his teeth like he's not sure if he should smile. "You know. I want to play."
There's a barely-noticeable catch before the last word, and it goes through Gabe like a bullet, hitting him in the brain and reminding him oh, duh, right. Things Pete wants.
"Come up here anyway," he says. "You don't have to blow me to get that. We can do that regardless."
This time Pete does smile, and shakes his head a little. It's playful, cute. It's taken almost a year for him to look like that when they're in bed together. Relaxed. At peace, or close enough for Gabe's preferences.
Pete kisses his dick again, the head this time, and Gabe bites back a groan. "Maybe I just want to blow you." He flicks his tongue over the head. "Doofus."
"Butthead," Gabe retorts, closing his eyes and twisting the sheets between his fingers. "Whatever, then. Blow me if you want."
"I do want."
"Then do it."
"I am."
"Fuck you, Wentz, I--"
Pete is distracting.
**
Gabe's in interviews all day. By the time he gets out of bed and into the shower, he's already running late, but he takes the extra five minutes to set things up on his way out the door. It's worth it. It's important.
It's a long day, a really long day; he loses track of who he's talking to twice, possibly promises things he can't deliver, gets jabbed in the ribs by Ryland hard enough to bruise when he starts rising to the bait instead of laughing stuff off. He falls into the car two hours later than he'd planned, a throbbing headache behind his eyes and the unhappy twist in his stomach of being too distracted to eat more than handfuls of pretzels all day.
He digs his phone out and texts Pete. on my way sorry so late. There's no response, but he doesn't expect one; there would only be a response if something had come up and Pete was calling things off. Then he'd feel like shit twice over; both in general, and for letting Pete down.
The driver lets him out at the end of Pete's driveway. He punches in the code and takes his time walking up to the house, hands in his pockets, trying to center himself in his head. It's warm out, a breeze playing with the landscaping that Pete doesn't get looked after as often as he should. Gives the place a jungle feel. Gabe's a fan.
By the time he gets to the house, he's managed to distract himself into losing some of the day's tension. He keys in the house code and steps inside, blinking against the dim light and shrugging out of his jacket. "Hello hello," he calls. "Where's my boy?"
Pete comes around the corner from the living room and bumps into Gabe's knees. He's on all fours, collar buckled loosely around his throat, wearing only that and black boxer-briefs. He rubs his cheek against Gabe's thigh and wiggles all over eagerly, making a grumbling noise in his throat that's a rough approximation of a bulldog's snorts of excitement.
"There you are." Gabe reaches down to rumple his hair, tugging at it gently. Pete's hands slide loosely over his calves, up to his knees, and Gabe shakes his head, stepping back. "No. Don't jump." He snaps his fingers when Pete whines and moves toward him again. "No. Sit."
Pete huffs and rocks back on his heels, looking up at Gabe expectantly. Gabe waits, counting to ten under his breath, then nods and strokes Pete's hair again, letting his fingers graze down along his temple to his cheek. Pete leans into the touch ecstatically, closing his eyes.
"Okay. Good boy." Gabe tosses his jacket over the stair railing and heads to the kitchen, Pete following along close at his heels. A glance in the sink finds a dish and spoon glued together with tomato sauce and pasta from a can, confirmation that Pete ate dinner before he got undressed and put his collar on. Gabe runs some water into the dish and adds a squirt of soap, then moves on to the refrigerator. He finds himself a beer and a mini frozen pizza, opening the former by smacking it against the edge of the counter while the latter warms up in the microwave. The slide of beer down his throat is a fucking miracle. He closes his eyes to savor it and leans back against the fridge, rocking his weight onto the outer edges of his feet and back again.
A soft whine prompts him to open his eyes again. Pete's crouched in front of him, looking up hopefully, expectantly. Gabe smiles and takes another drink. "What, huh? You want something?"
He has to laugh at the huff and irritated look that follows. Pete's a demanding little shit no matter what headspace he's trying on. The consistency is nice, really. Gabe pushes off the fridge and moves over to the pantry, pushing aside the boxes of crackers--goldfish and graham--until he finds the bag of cheap, store-brand chocolate-chip cookies. They're dry and flavorless except for the little bumps of chocolate; broken in half and doled out for good behavior, it's not hard to let them approximate dog treats.
He palms two and turns to face Pete again, arranging his face in a stern expression and pointing at him. "Sit." Pete settles and waits, wide-eyed and eager, his tongue poking out between his lips. "Now beg. Beg." He stretches out the word the second time, holding out half a cookie. "C'mon. Beg, puppy." Pete shifts his weight sits up higher and brings his hands up to his chest, wobbling a little over his heels. Gabe nods and brings the cookie down into his reach. "Okay. Good boy--hey." Pete's teeth scraped the tips of his fingers as he snatched the treat. "You be careful, or we won't play anymore."
The microwave beeps and Gabe turns away, tucking the cookies into his pocket and wiping his wet fingers on his jeans. Pete follows him to get his pizza, then across the kitchen for a plate, back and forth and through the detour to reclaim his beer and then to the living room and the couch. It's like having a shadow, dark-haired and dark-eyed and crawling along on the floor.
Gabe flops on the couch and grabs the remote, scrolling quickly through Pete's DVR. Criminal Minds. Awesome. He's seen all of those six hundred times. Mindless comfort viewing.
Pete rests his chin on Gabe's knee while he eats, staring up at him like Gabe's the center of the universe. Gabe ignores him until the pizza and beer are both gone, then gets to his feet, carelessly dislodging Pete's head. "Stay," he says, carrying his dishes to the kitchen. He gets another beer and opens it on the same well-chipped edge of the counter, then squints out the window at the pool while he takes the first sip. When summer comes around again, he's thinking pool parties and midnight skinny-dipping. Pete probably won't be comfortable playing his game outside in any detail, but maybe lying on one of the lounge chairs while his puppy naps nearby. Something like that.
Back in the living room, Morgan's chasing down a suspect and Pete has climbed up onto the couch, curled up where Gabe had been sitting before. Gabe raises an eyebrow at him and Pete stares back with a dopey, hopeful expression on his face, his tongue peeking out of his mouth again. "You're spoiled," Gabe tells him, but he doesn't make him get down, just sits down in the space left and claims the remote again.
The episode unwinds with comforting predictability, and Gabe rests his hand on Pete's hip, rubbing absently at the soft material of the boxer-briefs. A sideways glance shows that Pete's closed his eyes, his chin resting on his hands, his fingers curled loosely under his palm to approximate paws. He looks so fucking peaceful, so content, that Gabe wants to gather him up in his arms, kiss him, tell him that stumbling and tripping and falling into this thing they have is the best thing that's ever happened to him.
But that's not what you do with a puppy. Not even one who's a very good boy most of the time.
Gabe slides his hand up Pete's back to the base of his neck, then runs it down again, palm flat to the skin on the downstroke like he's smoothing ruffled fur. Pete opens his eyes and blinks at him, sleepy and puzzled and hopeful again. "Good boy," Gabe says, reaching up to tap him on the nose. Pete licks his finger and rolls over onto his back, his knees splaying apart and the backs of his hands settling high up on his chest. Begging for a belly rub. The boxer-briefs come in handy at this stage, keeping his dick from curving up against his stomach as he gets harder. The distended fabric is easier to ostensibly ignore, though Gabe lets his wrist slide against it as he rubs, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen and his ears attuned to the little groans and gasps Pete makes, almost under his breath.
When he can tell Pete's getting close, he slides his hand down instead, curving his palm against Pete's dick through the fabric and rubbing firmly, stroking, a little squeeze on the downstroke, and then--
Pete shudders and moans aloud, his hips jerking up sharply and the fabric going wet under Gabe's hand. Gabe ignores him, stroking a few more times and watching Hotch and JJ stare meaningfully out a window, until Pete whines and turns onto his side, huffing a sharp breath as Gabe's hand falls away from him.
Gabe clicks the TV off and sets the remote aside. "Puppy," he says, his voice suddenly stern. Pete glances up at him from the corner of his eye, flushed and blissed-out and wary. "Puppy. You made a mess."
Pete ducks his head, sweat running down his cheek, and Gabe gets to his feet, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor. "Come on. Messy puppies need a bath."
Pete slinks along behind him, outwardly the picture of a sad, contrite creature, and if he hadn't told Gabe in extended, gushing ways how much he loves this, Gabe might feel pretty bad, because it's a really convincing performance. But he knows exactly how much Pete is reveling in this, so he doesn't break stride, just grabs a towel from the cabinet and sets it on the edge of the tub before starting up the water.
Pete whines and huddles against the bathroom door while Gabe waits for the water to warm up. Once, Gabe gave the puppy a cold bath. Just once. The debrief from that particular round of play involved him getting punched in the arm really hard. As if Pete wouldn't do the same if they reversed roles. Whatever.
"Come here," Gabe says when the water's ready. Pete barks and cringes against the door like Gabe's about to kill him. Gabe rolls his eyes and crosses the bathroom, grabbing the collar with one hand and wrapping his other arm around Pete's waist. "Get over here. Bad. Wussy puppy." He half-drags, half-carries Pete to the tub, then has to entirely pick him up and put him over the edge and into the water when he still won't cooperate. Still hysterically whining, too. Gabe doesn't get how this part is fun. Committment to the role, maybe. He'll commit Pete's role in a minute if he doesn't shut up.
He grabs the big plastic cup from the edge of the tub and fills it under the faucet, then shields Pete's eyes and dumps the water over his head. "Going to get you all cleaned up," he mutters, then "No," when Pete shakes his head vigorously and flings water all over him. "You asshole, this shit is Armani."
Pete glares at him, pouty and triumphant. Little piece of shit. "You're bad," Gabe tells him, bopping his nose again. "You're very bad and you're not getting any more treats tonight." Pete drops down on his belly in the water, doing a convincing job of making himself small and tucking his tail between his legs. Gabe fills the cup again and pours water down the length of Pete's back, from his shoulders to the already-soaked-through fabric of the boxer-briefs. "No treats. Just a bath and then right to bed with bad puppies."
Bathtime mostly means pouring water all over Pete and feeling him up a little, sneaking in plenty of groping under the cover of washing and then toweling him off. Gabe works the boxer-briefs off in the drying process, tossing them aside toward the hamper while Pete whines and wiggles and rubs against Gabe's thigh, making sure his jeans are as soaked as his shirt. Gabe smacks him on the ass in halfhearted retribution, flat-palmed and not hard at all, but it makes Pete yelp and duck down against the floor like Gabe is just the meanest owner in the entire world.
In the bedroom, Gabe strips down to his own underwear and pulls the comforter off the bed, wadding it up in a messy nest at the foot of the bed. He adds two of the six pillows from Pete's bed and then snaps his fingers and points. "Go to bed. Right now."
Pete slinks across the floor on his belly, giving Gabe the full-on sad eyes. Gabe ignores him, turning off the light and crawling into bed. He stretches out on his stomach, throwing his limbs out spread-eagle and enjoying the incredibly luxury of a goddamn California King all to himself. Maybe he'll talk Pete into sleeping on the floor every night, or possibly using the guest room. (Not really. There's nothing he likes better than waking up in the morning with Pete all tangled up with him, because he, Gabe Saporta, of fucking Midtown and the Cobra's disciple on Earth, is a disgustingly sappy marshmallow at heart, and don't think he doesn't hate himself for it.)
He lies there for a while, eyes shut tight against the dark, waiting. He counts to two hundred, then mentally sings through the entirety of Hot Mess. He's two songs into Night Shades when the mattress finally dips and water-cool, clammy limbs bump up against his own.
"Took you long enough," he mumbles.
"It was nice." Pete's voice is rough and quiet. Gabe turns toward him without opening his eyes, opening his arms instead, and Pete moves into the hug. "Just wanted to hang out for a while. Feel that way."
"Clean and shiny." Gabe kisses his forehead by experience and instinct. He catches some eyebrow and bites at it playfully, grumbling "nom nom nom" while Pete squirms and laughs and shoves at his chest.
"Asshole."
"Jerk-face."
"Whatever." Pete kisses him, warm and sloppy, and Gabe smiles into the kiss, because they're the freaky deviants kids' parents warn them about, and that's every kind of rock star he ever wanted to be.
The Dreamwidth copy of this post has
comments. Comment there or here, as you like!
Gabe wakes up with Pete's hand on his cock and Pete's mouth hot against his stomach, drawing little paths of want up and down his skin.
"Get up here," Gabe mumbles, groggy and wanting something slower, warmer, more. He's not a fucking kid anymore. Lazy morning sex is one of the perks.
Pete shakes his head, dipping his head lower and pressing a kiss to the base of Gabe's dick. "Want to do something today."
"We can do lots of things today."
Pete shakes his head again, eyes lowered like he's watching his own tongue flick lazily over flushed skin. "Want to...you know."
It's very hard to think about anything he might or might not know while Pete is doing that. "What?"
Pete glances up at him, muscles tightening under his skin and lips curling back from his teeth like he's not sure if he should smile. "You know. I want to play."
There's a barely-noticeable catch before the last word, and it goes through Gabe like a bullet, hitting him in the brain and reminding him oh, duh, right. Things Pete wants.
"Come up here anyway," he says. "You don't have to blow me to get that. We can do that regardless."
This time Pete does smile, and shakes his head a little. It's playful, cute. It's taken almost a year for him to look like that when they're in bed together. Relaxed. At peace, or close enough for Gabe's preferences.
Pete kisses his dick again, the head this time, and Gabe bites back a groan. "Maybe I just want to blow you." He flicks his tongue over the head. "Doofus."
"Butthead," Gabe retorts, closing his eyes and twisting the sheets between his fingers. "Whatever, then. Blow me if you want."
"I do want."
"Then do it."
"I am."
"Fuck you, Wentz, I--"
Pete is distracting.
**
Gabe's in interviews all day. By the time he gets out of bed and into the shower, he's already running late, but he takes the extra five minutes to set things up on his way out the door. It's worth it. It's important.
It's a long day, a really long day; he loses track of who he's talking to twice, possibly promises things he can't deliver, gets jabbed in the ribs by Ryland hard enough to bruise when he starts rising to the bait instead of laughing stuff off. He falls into the car two hours later than he'd planned, a throbbing headache behind his eyes and the unhappy twist in his stomach of being too distracted to eat more than handfuls of pretzels all day.
He digs his phone out and texts Pete. on my way sorry so late. There's no response, but he doesn't expect one; there would only be a response if something had come up and Pete was calling things off. Then he'd feel like shit twice over; both in general, and for letting Pete down.
The driver lets him out at the end of Pete's driveway. He punches in the code and takes his time walking up to the house, hands in his pockets, trying to center himself in his head. It's warm out, a breeze playing with the landscaping that Pete doesn't get looked after as often as he should. Gives the place a jungle feel. Gabe's a fan.
By the time he gets to the house, he's managed to distract himself into losing some of the day's tension. He keys in the house code and steps inside, blinking against the dim light and shrugging out of his jacket. "Hello hello," he calls. "Where's my boy?"
Pete comes around the corner from the living room and bumps into Gabe's knees. He's on all fours, collar buckled loosely around his throat, wearing only that and black boxer-briefs. He rubs his cheek against Gabe's thigh and wiggles all over eagerly, making a grumbling noise in his throat that's a rough approximation of a bulldog's snorts of excitement.
"There you are." Gabe reaches down to rumple his hair, tugging at it gently. Pete's hands slide loosely over his calves, up to his knees, and Gabe shakes his head, stepping back. "No. Don't jump." He snaps his fingers when Pete whines and moves toward him again. "No. Sit."
Pete huffs and rocks back on his heels, looking up at Gabe expectantly. Gabe waits, counting to ten under his breath, then nods and strokes Pete's hair again, letting his fingers graze down along his temple to his cheek. Pete leans into the touch ecstatically, closing his eyes.
"Okay. Good boy." Gabe tosses his jacket over the stair railing and heads to the kitchen, Pete following along close at his heels. A glance in the sink finds a dish and spoon glued together with tomato sauce and pasta from a can, confirmation that Pete ate dinner before he got undressed and put his collar on. Gabe runs some water into the dish and adds a squirt of soap, then moves on to the refrigerator. He finds himself a beer and a mini frozen pizza, opening the former by smacking it against the edge of the counter while the latter warms up in the microwave. The slide of beer down his throat is a fucking miracle. He closes his eyes to savor it and leans back against the fridge, rocking his weight onto the outer edges of his feet and back again.
A soft whine prompts him to open his eyes again. Pete's crouched in front of him, looking up hopefully, expectantly. Gabe smiles and takes another drink. "What, huh? You want something?"
He has to laugh at the huff and irritated look that follows. Pete's a demanding little shit no matter what headspace he's trying on. The consistency is nice, really. Gabe pushes off the fridge and moves over to the pantry, pushing aside the boxes of crackers--goldfish and graham--until he finds the bag of cheap, store-brand chocolate-chip cookies. They're dry and flavorless except for the little bumps of chocolate; broken in half and doled out for good behavior, it's not hard to let them approximate dog treats.
He palms two and turns to face Pete again, arranging his face in a stern expression and pointing at him. "Sit." Pete settles and waits, wide-eyed and eager, his tongue poking out between his lips. "Now beg. Beg." He stretches out the word the second time, holding out half a cookie. "C'mon. Beg, puppy." Pete shifts his weight sits up higher and brings his hands up to his chest, wobbling a little over his heels. Gabe nods and brings the cookie down into his reach. "Okay. Good boy--hey." Pete's teeth scraped the tips of his fingers as he snatched the treat. "You be careful, or we won't play anymore."
The microwave beeps and Gabe turns away, tucking the cookies into his pocket and wiping his wet fingers on his jeans. Pete follows him to get his pizza, then across the kitchen for a plate, back and forth and through the detour to reclaim his beer and then to the living room and the couch. It's like having a shadow, dark-haired and dark-eyed and crawling along on the floor.
Gabe flops on the couch and grabs the remote, scrolling quickly through Pete's DVR. Criminal Minds. Awesome. He's seen all of those six hundred times. Mindless comfort viewing.
Pete rests his chin on Gabe's knee while he eats, staring up at him like Gabe's the center of the universe. Gabe ignores him until the pizza and beer are both gone, then gets to his feet, carelessly dislodging Pete's head. "Stay," he says, carrying his dishes to the kitchen. He gets another beer and opens it on the same well-chipped edge of the counter, then squints out the window at the pool while he takes the first sip. When summer comes around again, he's thinking pool parties and midnight skinny-dipping. Pete probably won't be comfortable playing his game outside in any detail, but maybe lying on one of the lounge chairs while his puppy naps nearby. Something like that.
Back in the living room, Morgan's chasing down a suspect and Pete has climbed up onto the couch, curled up where Gabe had been sitting before. Gabe raises an eyebrow at him and Pete stares back with a dopey, hopeful expression on his face, his tongue peeking out of his mouth again. "You're spoiled," Gabe tells him, but he doesn't make him get down, just sits down in the space left and claims the remote again.
The episode unwinds with comforting predictability, and Gabe rests his hand on Pete's hip, rubbing absently at the soft material of the boxer-briefs. A sideways glance shows that Pete's closed his eyes, his chin resting on his hands, his fingers curled loosely under his palm to approximate paws. He looks so fucking peaceful, so content, that Gabe wants to gather him up in his arms, kiss him, tell him that stumbling and tripping and falling into this thing they have is the best thing that's ever happened to him.
But that's not what you do with a puppy. Not even one who's a very good boy most of the time.
Gabe slides his hand up Pete's back to the base of his neck, then runs it down again, palm flat to the skin on the downstroke like he's smoothing ruffled fur. Pete opens his eyes and blinks at him, sleepy and puzzled and hopeful again. "Good boy," Gabe says, reaching up to tap him on the nose. Pete licks his finger and rolls over onto his back, his knees splaying apart and the backs of his hands settling high up on his chest. Begging for a belly rub. The boxer-briefs come in handy at this stage, keeping his dick from curving up against his stomach as he gets harder. The distended fabric is easier to ostensibly ignore, though Gabe lets his wrist slide against it as he rubs, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen and his ears attuned to the little groans and gasps Pete makes, almost under his breath.
When he can tell Pete's getting close, he slides his hand down instead, curving his palm against Pete's dick through the fabric and rubbing firmly, stroking, a little squeeze on the downstroke, and then--
Pete shudders and moans aloud, his hips jerking up sharply and the fabric going wet under Gabe's hand. Gabe ignores him, stroking a few more times and watching Hotch and JJ stare meaningfully out a window, until Pete whines and turns onto his side, huffing a sharp breath as Gabe's hand falls away from him.
Gabe clicks the TV off and sets the remote aside. "Puppy," he says, his voice suddenly stern. Pete glances up at him from the corner of his eye, flushed and blissed-out and wary. "Puppy. You made a mess."
Pete ducks his head, sweat running down his cheek, and Gabe gets to his feet, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor. "Come on. Messy puppies need a bath."
Pete slinks along behind him, outwardly the picture of a sad, contrite creature, and if he hadn't told Gabe in extended, gushing ways how much he loves this, Gabe might feel pretty bad, because it's a really convincing performance. But he knows exactly how much Pete is reveling in this, so he doesn't break stride, just grabs a towel from the cabinet and sets it on the edge of the tub before starting up the water.
Pete whines and huddles against the bathroom door while Gabe waits for the water to warm up. Once, Gabe gave the puppy a cold bath. Just once. The debrief from that particular round of play involved him getting punched in the arm really hard. As if Pete wouldn't do the same if they reversed roles. Whatever.
"Come here," Gabe says when the water's ready. Pete barks and cringes against the door like Gabe's about to kill him. Gabe rolls his eyes and crosses the bathroom, grabbing the collar with one hand and wrapping his other arm around Pete's waist. "Get over here. Bad. Wussy puppy." He half-drags, half-carries Pete to the tub, then has to entirely pick him up and put him over the edge and into the water when he still won't cooperate. Still hysterically whining, too. Gabe doesn't get how this part is fun. Committment to the role, maybe. He'll commit Pete's role in a minute if he doesn't shut up.
He grabs the big plastic cup from the edge of the tub and fills it under the faucet, then shields Pete's eyes and dumps the water over his head. "Going to get you all cleaned up," he mutters, then "No," when Pete shakes his head vigorously and flings water all over him. "You asshole, this shit is Armani."
Pete glares at him, pouty and triumphant. Little piece of shit. "You're bad," Gabe tells him, bopping his nose again. "You're very bad and you're not getting any more treats tonight." Pete drops down on his belly in the water, doing a convincing job of making himself small and tucking his tail between his legs. Gabe fills the cup again and pours water down the length of Pete's back, from his shoulders to the already-soaked-through fabric of the boxer-briefs. "No treats. Just a bath and then right to bed with bad puppies."
Bathtime mostly means pouring water all over Pete and feeling him up a little, sneaking in plenty of groping under the cover of washing and then toweling him off. Gabe works the boxer-briefs off in the drying process, tossing them aside toward the hamper while Pete whines and wiggles and rubs against Gabe's thigh, making sure his jeans are as soaked as his shirt. Gabe smacks him on the ass in halfhearted retribution, flat-palmed and not hard at all, but it makes Pete yelp and duck down against the floor like Gabe is just the meanest owner in the entire world.
In the bedroom, Gabe strips down to his own underwear and pulls the comforter off the bed, wadding it up in a messy nest at the foot of the bed. He adds two of the six pillows from Pete's bed and then snaps his fingers and points. "Go to bed. Right now."
Pete slinks across the floor on his belly, giving Gabe the full-on sad eyes. Gabe ignores him, turning off the light and crawling into bed. He stretches out on his stomach, throwing his limbs out spread-eagle and enjoying the incredibly luxury of a goddamn California King all to himself. Maybe he'll talk Pete into sleeping on the floor every night, or possibly using the guest room. (Not really. There's nothing he likes better than waking up in the morning with Pete all tangled up with him, because he, Gabe Saporta, of fucking Midtown and the Cobra's disciple on Earth, is a disgustingly sappy marshmallow at heart, and don't think he doesn't hate himself for it.)
He lies there for a while, eyes shut tight against the dark, waiting. He counts to two hundred, then mentally sings through the entirety of Hot Mess. He's two songs into Night Shades when the mattress finally dips and water-cool, clammy limbs bump up against his own.
"Took you long enough," he mumbles.
"It was nice." Pete's voice is rough and quiet. Gabe turns toward him without opening his eyes, opening his arms instead, and Pete moves into the hug. "Just wanted to hang out for a while. Feel that way."
"Clean and shiny." Gabe kisses his forehead by experience and instinct. He catches some eyebrow and bites at it playfully, grumbling "nom nom nom" while Pete squirms and laughs and shoves at his chest.
"Asshole."
"Jerk-face."
"Whatever." Pete kisses him, warm and sloppy, and Gabe smiles into the kiss, because they're the freaky deviants kids' parents warn them about, and that's every kind of rock star he ever wanted to be.
The Dreamwidth copy of this post has
comments. Comment there or here, as you like!