The World of Fiction - View topic - Warm It Up (The Boys Are Waiting) - Dedicated to MCR Fanfiction - Free Message Board Hosting by FreePowerBoards.com

The World Of Fiction

Title: Warm It Up (The Boys Are Waiting)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Slash-tinted drama
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't know, not responsible for mental scarring or fap-related injuries
A/N: So this is an (obviously) AU story about Gabe Saporta that I'm cowriting with MCRQueenie. (I'm the style, she's the substance. *insert Z-snap here*) Gabey baby, if you make it here and decide to start reading this, I would just love to get your opinion on it. Wink

.1.

Shuffling down the street with my head down, hands in my pockets, I clutched tightly onto the Angels & Kings matchbook in my left. I still wasn't certain Pete would give me the job. I mean, I knew we were tight, but this wasn't entirely his decision. And God knows I needed this, lest I be doomed to serve yogurt for the rest of my life. Slipping through the door under the familiar winged-and-crowned heart sign, I was hit with a wave of cigarette smoke and the acrid scent of alcohol. My eyes squinted into the hazy darkness as I waded through to the bar to wait for Pete.

The stage had be revamped since the last time I'd been in, I noticed. What had once been a modest karaoke corner now took up half the space, one gleaming pole in the middle, shining ominously in the darkness. From the way the patrons were glancing at it, something was about to go down.

Suddenly, the fluorescent lights went up, showing two shirtless brunette men in tight black jeans. The smaller was covered in body ink, small patches of olive skin peeking out from between his tatts, a lip ring catching the occasional flash of light. The other's pallid skin stretched on for miles like a blank canvas, burning eyes accented by about half a stick of eyeliner.

Not a bad view, really.

My interest piqued, I couldn't help but watch. I'd never seen a two-man dancing act. Het, yeah. Girl-on-girl, of course. But a sight like this had eluded me up until that point. Pete had obviously done something unspeakable to convince Patrick to allow this ostentatious act to perform in his club. Not that I gave a shit, I was grateful for it as I watched the pair, thrusting and writhing on their own, but their attentions obviously on each other.

"Gabe!" The small blur that was Pete suddenly came flying into my side, wrapping his tattooed little arms around me in a tight, spastic hug and nearly knocking me off my bar stool.

"Get off me, you adorable little freak," I chuckled as I shoved him off. Reluctant as I might be to admit it, the twerp was my best friend. My only one in New York. We bonded when he kicked me in the head mid-stagedive at a club show, but he'd used those fucking brown puppy eyes and horsetoothed grin of his to beg forgiveness. Instant friendship.

"You're late, Saporta." Right on cue, Patrick arrived two steps behind him, clipboard in hand. The scorn for me in those baby blues burned a hole into my skull. Of course, he hadn't been that fond of me ever since I'd brought Pete home from that NYU keger and he yurked all over their living room rug. The cherubic little blond bastard wouldn't let him back in the apartment for three days. That round of makeup sex must've been something, since Pete limped for a week afterward.

Yes, they were together. Not many people realized that, despite the fact that Pete was constantly trying to molest Patrick in public. They'd have guessed wrong on who topped, anyway. Most of the patrons thought Patrick was just a particularly dedicated accountant, following Pete around the club with his coke bottle frame glasses and his fedora and that damned clipboard while he rubbed elbows with the party people. In reality, it was Trick's club. Pete was just the public face.

"Yeah, what took you so long, Gabanti? I thought you were gonna be here half an hour ago." Pete redirected his clinging energy into latching onto Patrick and resting his head on his shoulder. Told you, molestation.

"I was, the D train broke down and I had to take a detour. Sorry about that."

"Tsk, tsk, Gabey, we've gotta move you moved into Queens. You're always late." I resisted the urge to pinch him for flapping his gums as I saw Patrick scribble something with a frown.

"I'm trying, dude, that's why I'm looking for a job in this borough. How I ended up working at a Pinkberry in Brooklyn is a fucking mystery to me."

Patrick was focused on what I was fairly sure was my resume. "You've bartended before, I see..."

"Yeah, I worked at the sports bar down the street back in Jersey, three years on the weekend shift."

"And he's the life of the party," Pete smiled, nuzzling the shorter man's neck, obviously greasing the wheels a little for me. "The guests would love him, he knows some spins and stuff with the bottles. He's a perfect fit for the club, Tricky..."

Wriggling slightly in the taller's grasp, he wasn't about to give in so easily. "Your references are all current?"

"Oh, knock it off, Trick, you know you won't regret it if you hire him-"

"I'm just being thorough, you know how many people want this job."

"Shut up, you'd be grilling him like this if he was applying to dance, and no one's applied...for that...yet..." Pete drifted off oddly, eyes widening slowly like an idea was coming to a boil behind his greasy bangs. His gaze traveled from me to the dancers, who'd taken to sharing the pole. A grin split his face, and he grabbed Patrick roughly by the arm. "We'll be right back," he giggled deviously as he pulled away his confused boyfriend.
_________________

SMACK MY BITCH UP

Oh dear Lord. lmfao

_________________

? >> ↓ \o/
I'm Miss Bad Media Karma, Another Day Another Drama

Honey, I told you that you didn't have to read it. Wink

_________________

SMACK MY BITCH UP

.2.

The interview seemingly on hold for the time being, I turned back to the stage just in time to see the dancers kiss chastely, the larger with a hand on the smaller's cheek, before the song ended and they departed from the stage. Some applauded quietly, while most were indifferent. Motley Crue's "Live Wire" started, and a figure in a corset dress and feather boa bounded up to the pole, a cheeky smile on its painted lips. Couldn't tell at first glance if it was a boy or girl.

A perturbed Patrick wandered back my way, his irrepressibly grinning boyfriend still attached to his shoulders. "Pete has just suggested a secondary option for your employment. Follow us, please..." Curiousity heavy in my mind, I let Pete take one of my arms and drag me along behind them into the back.

At the second door on the left, Patrick knocked briskly. A light curse and loud shuffling before the taller dancer from before opened up, now clad in an Iron Maiden tee and glaring from behind his bangs. "Yeah?"

"Got something we need to run by you. Mind if Gabe here waits with Frankie?"

"Two seconds." The door slammed shut and there was more shuffling, more cursing. It reopened to the bigger one lighting himself a cigarette and the one called Frankie slithering into a grey tee. I couldn't ignore the good view I got of all that ink before the fabric covered him completely. "Lead the way, boss."

"Those things'll kill ya, Gerard." Pete shoved me past him into the room and closed the door, leaving me standing there like an asshole.

Frankie turned to size me up, sporting a grin not unlike Pete's. Actually, he was a lot like Pete. On the short side, but lean, arms laced with tatts, dirty black bangs that fell over a sickeningly adorable face. I had to admit to myself, he was hot. "So, you're Gabe, huh?" He smiled sweetly, to which I nodded quickly. "Sit down, dude, take a load off. Gee should be finished with Task Master Patrick and his pet Pete soon."

Crossing the room to the couch against the far wall, I tried my best to avoid staring at him. Frankie moved to the dressing room vanity and took to applying a thick line of red eyeshadow. Against my best attempts, my eyes went straight for the patch of skin that was revealed when his shirt rode up. The words "Destroy" and "Search" wrapped around his hips, with two gats crossed at the small of his back. I silently wondered what the "And" must look like on his stomach.

"You wanna see my swallows?"

I glanced up in shock at the reflection of his smirking face. "W-what?" My face flushed red in embarassment.

He just giggled and stood up straighter, pushing his shirt up his stomach to reveal the missing conjunction. Flanking it were two birds, wings outspread. "You like? They're only about a year old, the swallows and the guns. Gee's anniversary present last year, spent weeks designing them himself."

"That's...sweet," I mumbled, still mortified that I'd got caught ogling his body art.

"Yup, he's a doll," Frank grinned, returning to his eyeshadow. "Now, Mr. Gabe, what brings you to Angels & Kings tonight?"

"I'm applying for the bartender position, but Pete's being-"

"Wait." He cast a curious look over his shoulder at me. "You're the Gabe? Gabe Saporta, Pete's best friend that he never shuts up about?" I gave a nervous nod, to which his face split into that wide grin again and he turned to sit on the counter. "Get the fuck out! Gabe Saporta! I was half convinced you didn't exist. I'm Frank, Frank Iero. Me and Gerard are from Jersey, too!"

On the forearm he presented to me was an anchor with the letters NJ around it. "Sweet. I'm from Springfield, where are you guys from?"

"Belleville. You know the area?"

"Far out, of course I know it. That's only a few miles away from Lodi, right?"

"Yeah!" Frank was obviously overjoyed to find someone else that had climbed out of the scum of Jersey, his little body thrumming with happiness. "So, what brought you to the city?"

"Eh, it's complicated." I rubbed at the back of my neck, not wanting to open old wounds. "What about you?"

"Looking for work," he shrugged. "No one would hire me after I got the scorpion." Frank turned his head to show off the scorpion tattoo under his right ear.

Every which way he moved, a new patch of ink could be seen. "You certainly have a lot of tattoos, don't you?"

"It's an addiction, I'd guess you'd say. I've still gotta get my chest piece colored." Up went the tee once more to reveal a bomb surrounded by roses and spiderwebs, just in time for Gerard to walk back in with his cigarette. "Hey baby, Gabe's from the Springfield area!"

His boyfriend simply took a drag and deadpanned, "That's nice, sugar. Stump and Wentz would like to see you now," he added, flopping down on the opposite end of the couch. Nodding my goodbye to Frank, I got up and headed down the hall to the office.
_________________

SMACK MY BITCH UP

.3.

Patrick's office was a lot like him: small, tidy, and so no-nonsense that your posture straightened just being in close proximity to it. "Have a seat," Trick grumbled when I walked in, seated in his big bad bossman chair and still looking over my resume. Pete was perched on the front of his desk, swinging his legs excitedly like a kid that's sat quietly through his doctor's exam and was about to get his lollipop.

"So, what's the word? Am I Angels & Kings material?" I was through with pleasantries.

"Well, yes, we are planning on employing you here," Patrick admitted begrudgingly, setting down the clipboard. "What remains to be seen is what position you'll be holding here."

"Uh, I'm not sure I follow-"

"We want you to dance for us," Pete blurted out, that fucking grin threatening to tear his face.

I, for one, was not sure how I was supposed to respond to that. I mean, yeah, I liked to dance, and I wasn't half bad at it, and I did have a bad habit of taking my shirt off at the club after some drinks, but I sure as hell had never considered doing it for a living. Nothing came out when I tried to relay this information, however.

Pete just giggled and swung his legs some more. "Don't argue, you're a beast on the dancefloor and you know it. You're just what we need to round out the dance schedule."

"Wentz, I'm not sure about this. I've only ever stripped for pleasure, not for profit-"

"Save the complaints and be grateful you're on the payroll now," Patrick deadpanned. "Be back here at noon tomorrow so Pete can give you a rundown of the club and Gerard can start helping you plan your routine. You start bartending tomorrow, and you start dancing next week."

My appreciation choked me on the way out. "Fuck, thank you so much, Patrick, I swear, you won't regret this, I'll be a model employee-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Now please, out of my office." I wasn't sure, but there might have actually been the faintest hint of smirk on his lips as Pete hopped down off the desk and lead me out.

"Ye of so very little faith, didn't I tell you I'd hook you up?" He hugged my arm happily as we waded back into the club. "And to think you were worried."

"I'm sorry, man, I won't doubt your magical twink powers of persuasion ever again," I chuckled, returning to my stool from earlier. "I know I ask you this like once a month, but why the fuck are you with that guy? He's wound tighter than a Swiss watch."

"Oh, don't mind Lunchbox, he just can't drop the professional facade when he's at work. He's really quite sweet, once you get to know him. I wouldn't have dragged him all the way from Chicago with me if I didn't love him. Not to mention the sex is just-"

"Don't go any further with that, please." The stage was empty now, mindless techno-drone pumping through the speakers into the dimly lit club. I couldn't help but wonder... "Who was that who was on stage after Gerard and Frank?"

"Ah, that was William," Pete smirked, signaling for the fro-sporting bartender. "We stole him from Cirque du Miserable."

"...Cirque du Miserable?"

"Yeah, it's a gay dance club in Chelsea. Run by my former proteges, no less." The bartender set down a beer and a sissy cocktail. I assumed the beer was for me.

"So that's what happened to little Brendon and Ryan, I was wondering why they'd stopped following you around like kicked puppies. They've got their own club now?"

"Dig it. The little bastards set up shop a month ago. The place is a giant sequin-y nightmare. I swear, you can take the boys out of Vegas..." Pete sipped his frilly drink with a roll of the eyes.
_________________

SMACK MY BITCH UP

........you people suck.....

.4.

"You're late again, Saporta." I arrived at the club at a quarter past noon, delayed by the subway yet again, to find Pete and Patrick seated at the empty bar. Patrick's icy stare was still intact.

"I know, I know, the subway's still cocked up. What can you do?"

"Dude, you have got to move out of Brooklyn," Pete chuckled, hopping up from his stool. "C'mon, I'll introduce you to a few of your new co-workers."

I let Pete lead me into the back, this time stopping at the first door on the left. He kicked it open to reveal the bartender from the night before playing cards with a smaller man with the same haircut and a bearded blond. "Boys, say hello to your new co-worker," Pete grinned, giving me a small shove forward.

The three grunted, but didn't look up from their cards, which caused my diminuitive friend to frown. "Hey, minions, your boss is talking to you here."

"Blow it out your ass, Wentz, being the boss's bitch doesn't make you the boss. Let us finish the hand," the blond grumbled, picking up another card before setting his hand down. "Gin."

The two fro-ed men groaned and threw down their cards. "You suck, Bryar," the smaller one replied. "Why can't you let me win just once?"

"Because he likes taking our money," the larger sighed, tossing a $20 in the middle of the table before turning our way. "So, you're Saporta?"

"Yes, he is," Pete butted in before I could answer. "Gabe, this is Ray, Joe, and Bob. You'll be working with Ray at the bar. Bob works security, and Joe is supposed to be mopping right now."

Joe groaned again and let his wooly head sink to the table. "You sound like my mother, Peter. I didn't come to New York to scrub toilets for my best friends."

"Oh, c'mon, Trohmania, you won't make it as the next Van Halan until you can afford a guitar that doesn't fall apart once a week. Now, hop to!" Pete gave him a gleeful slap on the ass on his way out the door. "By the way, have you guys seen Hurley yet today? He was supposed to come in to fix that glitch with the sound system."

"Nah, your boy's getting flaky on us," Bob mused, scratching his beard. "Knowing him, he's probably on Round Three of defiling that girl he left with last night."

Ray grimaced as he put the cards back in their pack. "How does a guy that looks like Charlie Manson as a pirate get chicks? I still can't figure that out."

"Who knows? It just further establishes my belief that you shouldn't trust chicks who fuck drummers." Pete ushered me back into the hall, giving me a covert smirk. "Not that I wish this mental image on you, but those two are fuck buddies," he mumbled. "About once a month, Bob will get drunk and try to hump anything that'll hold still long enough, which forces Ray to drag him out back and, um... put him in his place. Just a heads up."

My face contorted in disturbance until we reached the front again. Gerard and Frank were just coming in the opposite way, chipper little Frankie the perfect foil to his dark-shaded escort. "Hey, Gabe!" He giggled, bounding over to smile up at me. I made a mental note that if he ever pissed me off, I could always stuff him and turn him into a drink stand.

Gerard strutted after him, sliding his cheap sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. He apparently didn't believe in washing off his eyeliner at the end of the night, but instead slept in it and applied more in the morning. "You ready to show us what you've got?"

All shyness aside, I grinned cheekily. "If you think you can handle it."
_________________

SMACK MY BITCH UP

Oh Gabe.

_________________

? >> ↓ \o/
I'm Miss Bad Media Karma, Another Day Another Drama

.5.

I'm not a reluctant dancer. It's the Latin blood, it forces me to groove. So under the influence of Kanye West and a quick shot of liquid courage, I was in top form. Of course, the pole was a little tricky, considering I'd never used one before. And the fact that I'm nearly as tall as it.

"Stop, stop, stop," Gerard groused from his seat at the foot of the stage, hitting the pause on the boombox. "Don't bother with the pole, just work around it. The last thing Patrick wants is for one of his dancers to concuss himself, I'm sure."

Frankie, meanwhile, grinned up at me like a preschooler watching The Nutcracker for the first time. "That was incredible, Gabe, you're an amazing dancer."

"Thanks, I try," I panted, reaching for my discarded tee. Damn, I was out of practice.

"Did I tell you or did I not that the boy could shake it?" Pete smirked into his energy drink from his perch atop the bar. "This son of a bitch has been known to set off club sprinkler systems."

"What can I say? My moves are white hot, baby." I smugly popped and locked a little for emphasis.

"So this is the new dancer you've been going on and on about, Wentzy." An unmercifully thin man came strutting through the door like he owned the place, Chanel sunglasses balanced upon overstyled waves. His bony limbs brought to mind a plastic skeleton on a string, a messenger bag hung from a sharp-angled shoulder. Now this, was a pretty boy.

Pete's eyes worriedly trained down to the guy's jeans. "Bilvy, I'm only asking you one more time: do you purposely starve yourself just so you can fit into girls' size zero pants?"

The guy sighed in resignation, dropping his bag. "Peter, I am not manorexic, give up the ghost. You're just jealous you can't be ballerina thin." A genteel smile gracing his bodacious bone structure, he offered me his hand. "William Beckett. You're Gabe, yes?"

I chuckled and shook. "Pete apparently spends way too much time talking about me."

"I do no such thing," Wentz mused, turning away for a sip.

"Then how come everyone knows my name before I introduce myself?"

"Oh, he talks about you nonstop, don't worry about that," William chuckled, giving me a wink. "So I'm too late for the full demonstration, then?"

"Yeah, you missed a great show," little Frankie grinned. "He's just as awesome as Pete said."

"He needs to stay off the pole, though," Gerard repeated, his attention focused on a pencil doodle he'd started on a cocktail napkin. "He's too tall for it."

William gave him a quizzical look before hopping on stage, walking straight up into my personal bubble. He didn't seem to notice my discomfort as he used a hand to compare our heights. His scent was a weird mix of salty and sweet, like kettle corn. "He's really not that much taller than me," he shot down at Gerard.

"Yes, but you dance in drag. A six-foot tall shirtless man just looks drunk and awkward on a pole."

"Like your friend Travis that night we gave him absinthe?" William giggled at Pete, finally hopping down.

Pete snorted into his can. "That was an amazing night, I don't see why Travie doesn't visit more often."

"I don't know, but I miss the big lug," I grinned.

"You know Travie?" William inquired, joining Pete on the bar.

"Of course, he's only the best house party host in the city. Why Pete didn't just hire him is what I don't understand."

Pete pouted at me. "Because I want to get you out of Brooklyn, dumbass. Besides, Trav makes more in a week as a CPA than this place does in a month."

"Dude, what have I told you about discussing our profit with people?" Patrick came slumping in from the back, frowning at his partner from the doorway. "It's no one's business but yours and mine."

"Oh, Tricky, you are just much too serious for your own good," Pete cooed, sliding down from the counter and skipping off into the back with a smirk, his serious beau following.

William made an indignant sound and finished off his friend's drink. "Someone's having their weekly on-the-job hummer."

I stared at him in shock. "For serious?"

"Word is bond, man," Gerard added, coming my way with the first smile I'd ever seen on his face. "Pete always sucks him off before the place opens on Thursdays. Go and listen at the door if you don't believe us. 'Oh, Petey, oh baby, oh just like that, slut.' It's like listening to the audio for amateur gay porn."

Right on cue, Ray and Bob came out from the back, looks of disgust on their faces. "Forgot it was that time of the week again," Ray shuddered, hopping the bar. "What are we drinking?"

"Beer," Gerard, Bob and Frankie chirped in chorus.

Six beers uncapped and passed around, William raised his with a grin. "To Saporta's first day. May the distinct lack of either angels or kings here not bother you, and may you find your place amongst the devils and queens."
_________________

SMACK MY BITCH UP

REVENGED // Listed Site

Listed @ REVENGED, the MCR Directory

Page generation time: 0.6729s (PHP: 100% - SQL: 0%) - SQL queries: 22 - - Debug on