Gabe Saporta wants Mikey Way. And Pete Wentz is his fairy godmother. Kind of. GABEKEY one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
“Hey, Peterpan, you matey with that bassist?”
“I know a hella lot of bassists, Gabe.” Pete pauses, looking up at me from his ever-busy cell, a glint in his eye that I haven’t seen since the last time I offered him my stress-relieving services. “Gotta be specific, Arch Angel.”
I smirk at him, loving the irony of the nickname because we both know that I’m far from angelic. I’m so un-angelic that I could turn a halo into horns if I wanted to, or rather, turn a halo-worthy kid horny. Anything with a pulse, that’s my rule. But I do like a challenge to pass the time between lust-drunk and lust-starved, just a little game to play to pass my mountains of empty time now that Cobra Starship have finished our tour.
And right now I’ve got my sights set on a certain adorkable little bassist by the name of Mikey Way. Why? Because he’s cute. And innocent. Too innocent for a twenty-six-year-old. Time for that to change, for me to offer him my services of showing what life is like if you just get out there and live it.
“That Mikey kid, the one you were doing over Warped. Y’know, awkward knees and glasses?” I recount restlessly, fully aware that every second wasted worming his number out of Pete Wentz is a second that could be spent getting into the younger, sweeter bassist’s pants. “Plays in My Chem?”
He throws his overpriced cell across the table and fixes me with a deadly serious look, one with a warning that I swiftly to decide to ignore. If I ever paid any attention to warnings where the fuck would I be? Most likely in a steady job with a nice wife and house.
Exactly, my life would be shit.
“No, Gabe. No fucking way are you fucking Way.” I raise my eyebrows, trying to hide my surprise at the serious fierceness in his tone. “He’s too special for that.”
“Then why’d you dump him, Peterpan?” I shoot back, knowing that I’m not exactly playing fair but not caring at all; I always get who I want, no matter the cost.
I do feel a twinge of guilt when Pete winces, the memories of a few weeks ago still redraw in his pretty little head. I can remember the call I got after the whole Warped fiasco, he was a wreck. Needed me, so I was there. And I could barely walk afterwards, something that showed me just how upset he was because Pete’s normally the gentle sort, other than a few nips or tugs. You see, that’s just how we communicate; through fucking. It’s slightly unconventional, but it works and we’re best friends for it.
I think he owes me for helping him out after the whole Mikey thing. My ass still has nightmares over it.
“I… It’s complicated, Arch Angel.”
“Not really. You liked his ass, you had his ass, you left his ass. Thus leaving his ass mine for the taking.” My tone is dry, indignant almost, through the frustration of not getting what I want. “So, be a buddy and give me his number. I know you have it, you still text him every other day.”
“Unless you want some more photos to end up online.”
I smirk smugly at the gawp I receive.
“Fine, Saporta. Though you hurt him and I’m never sucking your dick again.”
I’m staring at the scrawled number in my hand, my mind racing at how I should play it when I dial the number of my next convert. Hell, he might even become another friend with benefits like Pete if I’m lucky. And I don’t say that about just anyone; there’s a difference between mindless fucking and caring about someone enough to want to stay friends afterwards. He does seem to be sweet though, Mikey Way I mean. He must be for Peterpan to care enough about him to falter when handing over the number.
This kid must be pretty fucking special. That or pretty special fucking.
Either way, I think I’ll end up happy.
At that thought I know that I can’t wait any longer and I punch the number hungrily into my cell, each digit going in quicker than the first in lusty anticipation. Just hearing his voice will be enough to tide me over for as long as it takes. God, his voice; it’s got to be the sexiest voice ever to fill in the dull silence of the world. I’ve watched his interviews, perhaps more times than is healthy, mainly to jack off to, but that didn’t stop me from picking up on his lower than Atlantis tone. Deep and quiet, like a starved animal is hiding away behind that porcelain skin and screaming for a way out.
Well, here is it’s key.
It rings once.
There it is, that deep voice that sends my tummy tingling. Something that hasn’t happened for a long while with any of the other kids I’ve mucked around with. If just hearing him feels like this, how the fuck will it feel to actually fuck him?
Fucking awesome. Awesome fucking.
It takes a second hit of my new favourite drug for me to realise that I’ve been sat in silence, gawping at the spot of damp on the wall opposite me. Yep, this guy is definitely going to be a friend with benefits. Perhaps I can convince him to hook up with me and Pete, me and my two bassist buddies.
“Uh, yeah.” I mentally face-palm for sounding like some stupid schoolgirl; that’s how I should be making him sound. Not the other way around. “Is this Snappy Pizza?”
I smirk to myself, getting back on track with my ingenious plan to get into Mikey Way’s pants. Which I will be doing by this time next week at the latest.
“Can I order one of your new range? That one with the creamy white sauce instead of tomato.” I pause, laying it on extra thick. “I think it’s called the… Miguel?”
“Oh, sorry, dude. You’ve got the wrong number.”
And just like that, he hangs up. Leaving me with nothing but a renewed lust to get my way into him. I want Mikey Way to be mine.
I always get what I want.
“Mikey Way speaking.”
If I had ovaries, I think they would have just exploded at the depth of his tone. The tone that’s been messing with my head since I heard it live down the phone for the first time last night. The very tone that I will have begging me to do unspeakable things to the cute little bassist before he knows what’s hit him.
But he’s already hit me. Hard. Because there’s something different about him, about the way that I want him. I want to do more than fuck him, I want to love him.
I want to do this properly. For the first time ever, I want to do it right. And for the kid that Peterpan dumped. Perhaps that’s why; I’ve heard all about Mikey Way from Pete and he seems like a genuinely good guy. The sort who deserves better than a quick fuck, blow and a note written in lipstick telling him that he wasn’t a bad lay but that it never would have lasted. Normally my little games are guys or girls who are just as bad as I am, shamelessly so, but Mikey’s different. He isn’t a slut like Pete or that Ryan Ross kid I was chasing a week or so back.
Not that slutty is bad. Not at all.
Just that Mikey Way isn’t one. I know I could make him one, if only for a night, but I don’t want to. I don’t understand why, I just… It would be wrong to ruin something so sweet.
So I hang up, running my hand through my hair and groaning in frustration.
It’s great. Just pure, unadulterated pleasure and good times with no strings attached. No emotion or feelings involved; no reason to care or worry about getting it right because I don’t care about whatever hot mess I’m screwing into oblivion.
It sucks. Like a cheap whore in a motel room. Trust me; I should know.
“You serious, Arch Angel?”
I nod, blushing for the first time in my life, and Pete just gawps back at me with a sickening smirk playing on the soft pads of his lips. Like he saw it coming.
“Let me guess? He spoke to you and you just got smitten. Right?” He lets out a breathy chuckle at the way I stare at him like he’s just sprouted a ten-foot dick. “Same here. Didn’t think it would work on someone like you though, Gabe.”
He knew? The fucker knew this whole “love” thing would happen to me and he still gave me Mikey’s number? Unbelievable. After two weeks of no partying, no fucking and practically no flirting with anyone other than Pete, my reputation’s in tatters. People have been talking, I know they have, and the rumours are that I’ve lost my touch. I haven’t though; I’ve just been driven insane.
With thoughts of Michael James Way and how I want to see who he is under all of those layers of shyness. I don’t just want to fuck him anymore, that’s elevated to a primal need, but I want to make him smile too, he never does on stage or in interviews. And make him giggle. And make him feel loved after my bonehead of a best friend dumped him. In short; my reputation is in shreds and the overrated concept of love is to blame. I hate love.
No. I love love.
Wait. How the fuck does that work?
“I don’t care how he did it, Peterpan, just tell me how to make it go away or how to get him to come to me.” I snap, ten too many sleepless nights taking it’s toll on my frustrated mentality. “Now.”
He flashes me a wicked smirk, eyes shimmering like fragmented diamonds at the thought of me practically begging him for help.
“Wow, you really do like him, huh?” Without thinking I nod, my heart screaming in agony at not being beating against Mikey’s. “Okay, I’m only doing this because Mikes deserves to be happy after the way I left him.”
I’m desperate to ask him what he means, and then subsequently punch him for doing whatever it is he did to my angel, but I keep my tongue in my cheek for once. I can’t do anything to jeopardise my chances at getting into Mikey Way’s heart. Not his pants; his heart.
Fuck, love really does change people.
“What’re you gonna do, Peterpan?”
“Well, Arch Angel, just call me your fairy fucking godmother. And you’re invited to the motherfucking ball.”
“Hey, Mikes, do you have a light you could lend Gabe?”
At the sound of Pete’s effortlessly innocent voice addressing his ex-lover, I snap my head up from my second Jack and coke of the evening to see my best friend leaning lazily against the bar next to me. Mikey Way stood by his side like a lost little puppy and eyes shining from the bright disco lights of one of Pete Wentz’s legendary parties.
Jacking off to Mikey’s television interviews and feeling practically orgasmic at hearing him over the phone is one thing, seeing him the person is another. Fuck, is it another. Before I know it I’m staring at the guy, feathery hair straightened to perfection and face so full of innocence that it makes him look like he doesn’t belong alongside someone with the kind of reputation that Pete Wentz has. His eyes, the eyes that first attracted me to his photo in a copy of some rock music magazine or another, widen when they catch sight of me.
It’s the way that they widen that makes me turn on the smirk that I know gets me anywhere I want to be; the way they widen tells me that he’s intrigued by me, the tall guy with olive skin and an oil spill of hair. It might also have something to do with the near unbearable tightness of my jeans, hugging me in all of the right places to make even Pete look twice although he’s seen it all before.
“Well hello there, Baby Boy.” I purr at the ghostly guy, just trying to be the same person that everyone else loves in the hopes that Mikey Way might love him too. “What d’ya say, got a light to lend a lonely guy?”
He looks anxiously to Pete who gives him the thumbs up to match his encouraging eyes. He leans upwards, lips buried into Mikey’s hair as he whispers something that I can’t make out over the volume of the trashy music blaring over the rest of the club. Whatever he says it works, because Mikey just nods and walks towards the exit.
And I follow him like a fucking lap dog.
“Cheers, Baby Boy. I owe ya a drink.” I state confidently around my mouthful of cigarette, the one that Mikey just held his lighter up to. “On me.”
“It’s fine, uh, Gabby?”
“It’s Gabe, Baby Boy.” I pull the cigarette from my lips, walking to be right up close to his face so that he’s backed right up against the wall of club. “But you can call me whatever you want.”
He burns a bright red, like a setting sun in the middle of a hot American summer, and dares to smile meekly up at me. It might be a small, shy smile but it’s still a smile. No, it’s more than a smile. It’s a motherfucking supernova of everything that I love about the world; cuteness, coyness, adorableness. Mine-ness. Because that’s what that smile means, it means that I’ve got him to bite the bait.
Now just to reel him and throw him in the keep net. It’s not like with all of the guys before him, with Mikey I’ve got to get it right. It’s the least someone like him deserves.
I step away from him and reposition myself next to him against the wall, the two of us staring wistfully up at the starry sky. That’s meant to be romantic, right? Stargazing. They do it in all of the movies, talking about how magical the stars are and how they make everything seem so insignificant but then one of them says it doesn’t matter that they’re insignificant because they’ve got each other.
Well, if it’s good enough for the movies it’s more than good enough for me.
“The stars are nice tonight, aren’t they?” I offer, letting my nerves show for the first time tonight with the shake in my voice. “All sparkly and shiny. Like your eyes. I like shiny things, Baby Boy.”
Great. So much for having some sort of plan. Doesn’t matter though, the enchanted gaze he’s giving me tells me that I ‘m doing the exact right thing. And the smile adorning his lips makes me never want to not to do the right thing.
He’s just so perfect when he smiles.
“They remind me of Jersey.” He sighs, a dreamy look washing over his sharp features. “That’s where I grew up.”
“Me too!” My voice is full of excitement, the small fact making my heart swell in pride at having come from the same state as such a fine creature. “I’m from Uruguay originally, but I think of myself as a Jersey boy.” I flick some ash onto the floor, looking at him from the corner of my eye to see that he’s gazing contently back. God, he’s cute. “Because Jersey boys are the cutest, Baby Boy.”
He lets out a laugh, the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard, and before I can register it he’s laced our hands together. An action that makes my free hand drop my cigarette in response to the electric shock of his touch. Of course I respond by grasping tightly back, throwing him a wink when our curious eyes meet.
“Y’know, Gabby, I’m not half as innocent as people make me out to be.” He almost snarls at me, voice pure seduction and making me every part of me, especially my dick, twitch in honey-soaked pleasure. “Ask Adam Lazzara. Or Frank Iero. Or Pete.”
Suddenly there’s a weight on top of me, pushing me against the wall and arms wrap hungrily around my waist. Everything in me stops, apart from my heart which just beats fifty times faster in order to keep up with the speed that Mikey Way’s fingers are tickling up under my shirt.
“Or, Gabby, you could just find out for yourself. Pete told me you want to.”
Son of a bitch.
“Stick around; I like your style, Gabby.”
Looks like I’m getting laid tonight.
And the night after that. And the next night. By the same guy for a change.
“C’mon, Baby Boy, let’s go. I’m gonna make you mine.”
A/N: So this is my first attempt at a Gabekey (Gabe Saporta of Cobra Starship and Mikey Way), it’s a little different from what I normally write but I hope that you liked it anyway. Please let me know what you think! :)