behindthec | full moons & minor keys (4/7)

Title: Full Moons and Minor Keys (4/7)

Author: lolab

Pairing: William Beckett/Gabe Saporta

Rating: R. ish.

Summary: I’ve always thought William could convert an asexual, a priest, even a motorcycle dyke; and being nothing so extreme myself, I sure as fuck had no hope.

Disclaimer: The keyword in fan fiction is FICTION. Don’t own Bilvy or Gabanti; I respect them very much; just can't help seeing the world through slashy subtext-tinted glasses, and once a story starts writing itself in my head, I have to get it out.

Warnings: BOYSECKZ (warning? more like incentive), plenty of creative swearing, Gabe being all dirty and Gabe-like, flagrant abuse of the '70s handkerchief code, shameless disregard for reality (i.e. girlfriends, etc.).

Notes: I personally like this chapter a lot. That’s all I really have to say. This is dedicated to the divine

yourfirsttry, for writing me dirty degrading bathroom sex at long last (it was worth the wait, darling ;); to the delicious

losingmy_sanity, for effing CHOCOLATE FROSTING PORN (*incoherence*); and to my beloved LJ wife,

conquer_minds, for oh god, laundry room smut (can these guys write setting or WHAT?!),in exchange for getting this chapter early.

Comments = happiness.

I also accept ~~hand jobs~~ cookies in place of feedback. <3

Previous Chapters:
- Chapter 1 and Chapter 1b
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3

They don't know about us

Everyone's asleep when we play...

- C.S.

The fourth time it happened, two and a half weeks later, we had an excuse: insomnia.

Two weeks till the end of tour and exhaustion was running high – so high that one Saturday night after the wildest show we’d played to date, two beers, and six rounds of iPod keep-away from Nate (for which Bill and Butcher gleefully volunteered their height)... I still couldn’t sleep.

I threw on a pair of Ryland’s jeans because they were the first thing I collided with on my way out of the bus, hoping a few lungfuls of fresh air might hit the spot. Couldn’t be bothered with a shirt, and the pants were so long I almost tripped down the steps.

He was leaning against his own bus when I saw him – unmistakably him because William was the only fucker I knew who could still be found in torn, skintight blue jeans at 3:30 in the morning. Those mile-long legs crossed at the ankles, which were still dolled up in the little pointed boots, and in the sliver of light from the full moon that had so possessively claimed him (and understandably so), my eyes caught the outline of those hipbones beneath a practically translucent wife-beater tank.

He was a cowboy hat away from looking like he’d just stepped off Brokeback Mountain.

I had to smile: it’s almost like he was waiting for me.

What threw off my sleep-deprived senses (yet somehow completed the image) was the half-dead cigarette perched in his left hand.

“What on earth are you doing?”

His head flew up at my voice. “You scared the shit out of me,” he complained, but his luminous face betrayed him.

I smiled. Walked up, shameless as his clothing. Parked myself a few inches away, copied his pose. Kept my eyes on him all the while – as if I could tear them away even if I wanted.

“You don’t smoke,” I pointed out.

He took a long drag through a smirk, evidently proving me wrong. “Couldn’t sleep. Sometimes it helps.”

I chuckled, low and soft in my throat. “My little Bilvy’s all grown up and corrupted. I remember when playing acoustic could help you sleep.”

He grinned. “Yeah, tried that. Sisky yelled that he’d hang me by my G string if I didn’t knock it off and go to bed.”

“Adam is a kind, loving boy,” I mused. “Though, scrawny as you are, that little pink thong of yours wouldn’t hold your weight.”

That earned a giggle. “My guitar string, you douche.”

“No shit, Beckett. It’s called a joke.”

“You’re such a child, Gabe.”

“Whatever, man, you’re the one with the pink thong.”

Wisps of smoke trickled out his lips in a chuckle and were swallowed into the dark. He scooted closer, leaned his head against my shoulder, and I was hard.

Fuck.

Part of me really hated this boy sometimes.

Man, I corrected myself. Just because I’d known him since he was a teenager didn’t mean he still was one. Sometimes it still shocked me. Also it made me realize I was kind of a perv.

I really needed a cigarette.

My arm snuck across his body of its own accord (I have very few appendages that can be controlled when I’m horny), and plucked what remained of it from his fingers.

“And what about you?” he challenged, head settling closer against my neck.

“Me? Oh, I don’t have any thongs,” I answered, lazy and absent as I basked in the welcome dose of nicotine. “Okay, maybe one. Leopard print.”

That precious little giggle he let escape hit me harder (pun intended?) than any amount of nicotine ever could.

“I mean...” He shifted his frame until we were pressed flush together at the side. “What are you doing out here?”

“Mm. Same. Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you wander around stealing smokes from poor, innocent boys?”

“HA!” I bellowed as loud as I felt was safe, in the interest of keeping our respective bandmates fast asleep and out of this makeshift sanctuary that had enveloped us. “Ha, ha, ha. Innocent. As if.”

I pinched at a flash of exposed skin just above the waistline of his jeans and he snickered, snatching his cigarette back and positioning it against his waiting lips.

...I really needed to stop thinking in innuendo.

But I didn’t stop nearly soon enough because the next thing out of my mouth was, “Well, there’s always one surefire cure for insomnia,” which made him choke, drop the cig, and do everything in his rapidly decreasing willpower to keep from looking me in the eye.

Getting a rise out of him (mmm...) was just too fucking easy.

It didn’t last long, though, because by the time I had the nerve to look at him, his eyes were fixed on me in an all but ferocious boldness. He wasn’t blushing, he wasn’t giggling, and whatever that was against my leg most certainly had not been there five seconds ago.

And that was it, because when he looked at me that way I was reduced to a common whore, all but attacking him as our mouths crashed, our free hands peeling off jeans and fumbling frantically with condom wrappers (I was half ready to marry Ryland for still adhering to his old Boy Scout motto), as I hoisted his feather-light body into my arms and felt his legs claim their place around my waist, just hovering on the brink of familiar and even sexier for that: we knew what the other liked, now – and how they liked it.

And oh god, how we liked it.

And there we were, mouths bitter with smoke and hair smelling like the musty venue we’d played that night, fucking like our lives depended on it up against the Academy tour bus at 3:30 in the morning and implicitly, maddeningly sworn to silence.

When I came, buried inside him and his release dripping from my hand, it took me an entire fucking minute to realize what I was feeling.

Completion. Maybe for the first time... ever.

And it scared the shit out of me, because for twenty-seven years it never occurred to me that I wasn’t complete, and now I’d never be able to return to such blissful ignorance.

We barely got our pants back on before he threw his arms around my neck and held onto me like I was about to board a plane full of snakes. All I could do – all I could possibly want to do in that instant, and all I needed in the world – was to hold him right back.

“I know it’s pathetic but I don’t want you to go,” he breathed out in a rush, depositing the words directly into my ear so they never even touched the air, like they never existed outside our bodies.

I pulled back enough to see his eyes and smiled. “I’m gonna be like, thirty feet away. You’ll sleep, I know you will. I...” Oh Christ, I was blushing, thank god for the dark. “I know I will.”

He nodded, studying my face like he was trying to figure out what to order at McDonald’s; somehow I didn’t feel anything good could come from something that could inspire such an analogy.

And suddenly, like we’d just fast-forwarded in a movie without realizing it, to something unfamiliar and disconnected, there it was: “You make me feel – ”

And that was it. I kept waiting, because with my heart pounding the way it was there wasn’t much else to do, but nothing came.

So, true to form, I fought my nerves with the only weapon I had: moronic humor.

“...Like a natural woman?”

He cracked up, I cracked up, and soon, despite the sticky substance lingering in my hand and the state of his hair for which I was solely responsible, it was almost easy to pretend nothing had happened and he hadn’t almost said whatever he’d almost said.

I knew I was a complete asswipe to stop him, but I couldn’t fight the fear that the end of his sentence would’ve been something like “confused” (never good), “frustrated” (never, ever good), or god forbid, “like a whore.”

“I’m sorry,” I finally sighed. “Say what – y’know, whatever you were going to – ”

“No, no, it’s – it was just – um. It’s okay, I – I don’t know.”

“Oh.” My timeless eloquence, as always.

He touched my arm, offered me one of those little kitten-smiles as obvious consolation for confusing the shit out of me. “It’s okay,” he promised.

The most I could take from that was that the rest of the sentence probably wasn’t “like a whore.” But beyond that, I was still lost.

I squeezed his hand and sent him to bed with a kiss on the inside of his palm. As I returned to the bus and crawled into my bunk, his final words (“Sleep tight, angel”) played over and over in my head, my last coherent thought before sleep conquered me.

The last thought, that is, save for one.

It’s always in that half-aware brink between consciousness and sleep that you tend to experience life’s most striking revelations.

You make me feel...

...No. Wait.

You make me feel.

Oh god.

That was... it. That was the sentence. That’s all he meant to say, that I fucking made him feel.

Oh, god.

Yeah, I win at life.

If it was possible to fall any farther, harder, or hopelessly for him... I just had.

That stupid inner voice I called Captain Obvious was whispering something in maddening repetition, just one word, over and over, like I needed reminding:

Danger.

/ch. 4

Current Mood: musical
Current Location: work
Current Music: the city is at war (FANGS UP)

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

saykendrawithme.livejournal.com

...I really needed to stop thinking in innuendo.

...i don't think you understand how much i love this. i LOVE the way you capture Gabe's inner monologue. self deprecating humour FTW!

and eeeee! ^__^ cute! "You make me feel." I LOVE IT.
do you have any idea how happy i was when i saw you updated! of course, now, i just want more. and that's your fault. :P

From:

lolab.livejournal.com

hehe i love writing gabe, he comes so easily to me (heeee, comes ;). i'm glad you enjoyed!

you can have more if you write me porn. ;)

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