A/N: Modern Day Sprace. Slash. Bask in it!
David Jacobs, resident drama queen, scowled and tried to sound intimidating as he barked at his friends. "All I know is my Les Mis CD was in my car this morning, and now it's gone. And the only person in my car between now and then was... Racetrack!"
David, Jack, Itey, and Snitch all shot questioning looks at the Italian, who tore himself away from Spot's mouth just long enough to glare at them.
Race's biceps tightened beneath the sleeves his of his muscle shirt and his thick boots ground a cigarette butt into the ground. "Look," he snapped, Spot's lips moving to his neck. "Just cause I'm queer, don't mean I'm a fag."
His two bits said, Racetrack immediately straddled his boyfriend's lap and thrust his tongue into his mouth as if the nine second separation had been intolerably excruciating.