my light is electric.
WIP Amnesty Festival of Fun, day three. All this one needs is an awkward conversation and some porn at the end, so it might actually really get finished. Eventually. It took me two years to write the porn at the end of that Dean/Gordon story, so. eta: The porn which was actually kickstarted/half-written by estrellada, lest we forget, and if I was a good person, I'd give her a damn co credit already. Alas, I'm Sam Winchester. Anyway.
Originally started for sosodirty, the bandom kink challenge.
Leather Pants (And Other Disasters)
Andy, Andy/Patrick, et al. | 14A | 2112 words
Disclaimer: Ha. No.
Note(s): One day, a long time ago, either estrellada or I started thinking (sometimes having a psychic link makes attribution difficult) about how it would be awfully hilarious if Andy had a leather fetish. Later, there was an impromptu straw poll in my journal, and here we are. It should be noted that, of all the horrible/patently uncanon/probably offensive things I've written about Fall Out Boy, I actually feel bad about this one. Sorry, Andy! (And Patrick, probably, especially since he's a vegan this week.)
*
Leather jackets are not a problem. Exposure has made him immune; he would have lost it a long time ago if he didn't have enough self-control to ignore the charms of a leather jacket. Plus, growing up in the eighties sort of killed any sexiness leather jackets might have held for him (in short: bloused jade green lamb and snakeskin patchwork. Not hot). Leather jackets are not a problem, generally. Neither are belts, not due to any childhood trauma, just from the fact that they're everywhere.
Rubbing up against them accidentally sometimes is a problem, but rubbing up against anything accidentally can create problems, especially if you're accidentally rubbing in the area of someone's belt. Andy mostly just tries to stay in control of his whereabouts, and keep tabs on all his limbs. Drumming and martial arts are incredibly helpful with being aware of your body's various locations--not that he was really aware of the leather problem when he started drumming, and not that it would have even been a problem, since he wasn't vegan then either.
Andy never regrets being edge, and he never regrets being vegan, but sometimes, he regrets that leather comes from animals, and that his favourite leather comes from cows. Even more than he regrets that cheese does too.
If he knows the variables of a situation, he can control it. If he knows that Pete is going to be wearing a leather vest for a photo shoot, he can tell everybody that he doesn't want to be anywhere near it, and that Pete's hair product smells like burning oil sands anyway, and get himself stood on the other side of Patrick for the rest of the day, even after Pete has tossed the vest; if Andy had known they were allowed to be shirtless on this magazine cover, he totally would have called it. As it is, he spends three hours standing behind and to Patrick's right, in an itchy black sleeveless v-neck, and Patrick keeps smirking and rolling his eyes like he knows something. Andy has known Patrick for many years, however, and knows Patrick knows absolutely nothing.
Andy the vegan having a thing for leather would be the kind of not-actually-ironic irony Patrick could not resist. He'd be cracking stupid, out-of-context jokes about it all the time, and periodically forcing Andy into earnest conversations about how he's not laughing at Andy, he's laughing at Andy's situation, and Patrick understands because he kind of has this thing about sitting in the back seat of a car--that's not bizarre, right?--and Patrick is sometimes a vegetarian, so he totally gets how the internal conflict between ego and id must rip at Andy's heart, and that's a really powerful thing, but it's also pretty hilarious, and--they're still friends, right?
If Andy was the kind of person who shuddered at his own thoughts, he'd shudder at that one.
If Pete knew--that would be even worse, because there would be no reassurances, no sharing of personal feelings. There would only be Pete's horrible grin and the beginning of a terrible prank, and then Pete's gruesome death.
It's not like nobody knows; Andy doesn't really see the point of actively lying about shit. Matt knows, because one time, while all the other Fuck City-affiliated bands were on the road, they played Marathon Truth Or Dare for three days and when Matt told him to share his deepest secret or get Yoko Ono's face tattooed on his ass, Andy told him the truth.
"I like leather," Andy said, and let his head flop sideways along the back of the couch so he could gauge Matt's reaction.
"Like?" Matt said.
"Like like," Andy said.
Matt's eyes went wide and away from Andy's, and then he shrugged. "As long as you don't eat it, I guess you're okay."
"Fuck you," Andy said. "Your turn. Truth or drink the Soy Dream Kage microwaved before he left last week."
He doesn't own any gloves or belts or whatever other easily portable leather clothing there might be in the world; that would definitely be a problem--getting the urge to jack off with an Isotoner in the back of the van or, these days, his bunk; clenching his fingernails into the palms of his hands until he couldn't stand it anymore, thinking about the black of it, and the suppleness, and the smell; hiding and hoping and begging an uncaring, chaotic universe for just three minutes of privacy. The nearly instantaneous body warmth of the glove in his hand, the light texture against his hard dick, the simple jerk and slide of it up and down--it's not like he's really fantasized about what it would be like if he got his hands on a used leather glove.
It's not like he's ever even actually jacked off with one. The closest he's ever been is a scrap he cut from the upholstery of a couch a friend was tossing. He hoarded it under his bed like a kidnap victim for a week and then, one night, staring at the beige rectangle, limp and streaked and kind of unpleasantly smelly by now, he realized what he was doing. He was jacking off with a piece of dead animal. He put his hand over his mouth and shoved the innocent, ravaged rag to the bottom the trash can.
For a few weeks, Pete wears a leather jacket and tie ensemble that make Andy want to bust his smug fucking face. He's known Pete through far too many hair styles to want to jump him, but something about the way Pete knows he looks good for once in his life just--Andy wants to wind the tie around his fist and pin Pete to the wall and--he mostly just wants to steal the tie and pretend it's a special synthetic vegan drumstick polisher.
Andy hates his fucking fetish. He also hates euphemisms.
The one who steals Pete's tie is Patrick, of all people. Patrick doesn't like sharing clothes, which is fine, because he is a sweaty little guy, emphasis on the little, and often forgets to do his laundry while on tour, but apparently Pete's stupid tie was somehow irresistible.
Patrick wears the tie when they all meet up at AK in New York; it's knotted loosely and hanging casually down the front of his shirt and Andy keeps looking at it, can't not look at it, especially when Patrick is fiddling with it--rolling it up and tucking it between his strong fingers. Patrick loops the tie around his wrist and pretends it's a sling or something, caught up talking to Joe about Saving Private Ryan versus Call Of Duty versus music videos.
Andy makes some snide remarks about Patrick being back on the meat wagon and leaves early.
They shoot the performance footage for "Beat It" last, on the evening of the third day, and when Patrick comes out from behind the make-up mirror, he's adjusting the waist of his pants and Andy sits down behind his kit very quickly. Because Patrick is wearing leather pants. Leather pants. Andy's had to watch him walking around in a fucking brown leather vest and red sweater combination for two days, had to look at the way the warm colours made him glow, and this is pretty much the last fucking straw. Andy is very glad he gets to go home for a few weeks after this.
He stares determinedly at the camera directly across the set and doesn't react when Pete and Joe catcall at Patrick. Patrick flips them off and puts on his fingerless gloves, which are not leather, thank a chaotic and meaningless universe.
"You're gonna fucking laugh at me? Your hair is like a foot high," Patrick says to Pete, or Joe, could go either way. "Did they need to bring in a crane for that shit?"
Pete yells across the set at Alan, "Dude, yo, hey, can I lick Patrick's thigh? I think there would be, like, what's the word, artistic merit--"
"No," Patrick and Alan say at the same time. Patrick straps his guitar on and goes over to talk to Joe, purposefully ignoring Pete.
But of course now Andy's thinking about it, about the way the leather creases below Patrick's ass and hugs his thighs and calves. Thinking about it, even as Alan is calling everybody to attention and cueing the piped-in music and shouting, "Action!"
Andy plays determinedly, hitting his drums and cymbals and pedals as if he were playing unmiced to an entire arena, but he's still thinking about it, because every time he takes his eyes off his crash or his snare, Patrick is cocking his hips and beckoning at the camera and for fuck's sake, really. Andy can see what the cameras are capturing on three big monitors set up near Alan--Patrick's hidden eyes and near-sneer and the shape of his mouth when he makes the "uh uh" noises.
It's probably a good thing Patrick is wearing the flowing white tunic. And an undershirt. Andy's imagination helpfully provides him with a picture of Patrick without the tunic and gloves and guitar, leaning against a wall, head tilted back, hat pulled low over his forehead, one hand resting on the join of his thigh and his groin, like a 1970s gay porn magazine cover. The leather stretched shiny and black over his skin and the taste of it--it would taste terrible, but it would be smooth and warm on Andy's tongue and--
Andy's left eye twitches.
"Dude, are you okay?" Pete asks, popping up at the edge of the drum riser when the third take is complete.
"Yes," Andy says.
"You look kind of twitchy," Pete says, tilting his head. "Homesick?"
"Yes," Andy says. His fingers tighten around his sticks until he can almost hear his bones creaking.
"I hear that," Pete says. Which is ridiculous: Pete lives like twenty-five minutes away from the soundstage. He nods sympathetically, the set lights glinting on his metallic blue make-up and the snaps of his shirt. His black, shiny--
"Is your shirt leather?" Andy asks, his voice thin, because he really hadn't noticed, he's been pretty distracted for the last hour or so, after all. He leans away from his kit, away from Pete, away from the overwhelming horror of the situation.
Pete looks down at himself and shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. Why? Patrick's wearing fucking leather pants, you're not giving him any shit."
"No," Andy says, shaking his head, going back to staring at the camera. He is definitely not giving Patrick any shit for wearing leather pants. "Never mind."
Pete frowns hard at Andy and jostles his bass around a bit. "We can probably change the wardrobe, if you're not--"
"I'm fine, leave me alone," Andy snaps, shoving his sticks in their sleeve and stomping down from his riser. He sweeps the torn white drapes around his kit out of the way.
"What the fuck," he hears Pete yell.
"What did you do?" Patrick yells back.
"Nothing!" Pete shouts. "Why is everything always my goddamn fault?"
Andy slams the back door of the set, cutting off Joe's pealing bleats of laughter and the vague noises of Patrick bitching some more.
Andy paces the long, off-white hallway for a while, from one sickly-red EXIT sign to the other. His hands are fists at his sides, his jaw is clenching and unclenching. He keeps blinking, fury at himself eating away at his insides. He can't stop thinking about--about how sick he is, how wrong, how he doesn't even believe in being ashamed about sex, but he can't help what he wants and he can't help hating how he feels, how he wants, what he wants at the same time. The fact that apparently his stupid goddamn fetish doesn't care that it's Patrick--that this is his band, his family--only makes the whole thing worse.
He rests against the wall and presses his fingers against his eyes under his glasses.
The problem is--the problem is that Andy hadn't known about the wardrobe for the video. He'd just shown up, just assumed that everything would be safe and taken care of. He'd walked through the ridiculous surreal Michael Jackson dreamscape on the other soundstage about a million times. He'd made silly faces when it was requested of him. He'd kept his wrong, horrible, awful, unethical fetish to himself for so long, for so many years, and this is how his suffering is to be repaid--leather pants.
He startles and rises when the soundstage door thunks open. Patrick leans out and Andy does not thump his head against the cement block wall a few times, hoping to knock himself out.
*
This is a DW-origin crospost, oh noes. Feel free to comment on LJ or the original post here.
Originally started for sosodirty, the bandom kink challenge.
Leather Pants (And Other Disasters)
Andy, Andy/Patrick, et al. | 14A | 2112 words
Disclaimer: Ha. No.
Note(s): One day, a long time ago, either estrellada or I started thinking (sometimes having a psychic link makes attribution difficult) about how it would be awfully hilarious if Andy had a leather fetish. Later, there was an impromptu straw poll in my journal, and here we are. It should be noted that, of all the horrible/patently uncanon/probably offensive things I've written about Fall Out Boy, I actually feel bad about this one. Sorry, Andy! (And Patrick, probably, especially since he's a vegan this week.)
*
Leather jackets are not a problem. Exposure has made him immune; he would have lost it a long time ago if he didn't have enough self-control to ignore the charms of a leather jacket. Plus, growing up in the eighties sort of killed any sexiness leather jackets might have held for him (in short: bloused jade green lamb and snakeskin patchwork. Not hot). Leather jackets are not a problem, generally. Neither are belts, not due to any childhood trauma, just from the fact that they're everywhere.
Rubbing up against them accidentally sometimes is a problem, but rubbing up against anything accidentally can create problems, especially if you're accidentally rubbing in the area of someone's belt. Andy mostly just tries to stay in control of his whereabouts, and keep tabs on all his limbs. Drumming and martial arts are incredibly helpful with being aware of your body's various locations--not that he was really aware of the leather problem when he started drumming, and not that it would have even been a problem, since he wasn't vegan then either.
Andy never regrets being edge, and he never regrets being vegan, but sometimes, he regrets that leather comes from animals, and that his favourite leather comes from cows. Even more than he regrets that cheese does too.
If he knows the variables of a situation, he can control it. If he knows that Pete is going to be wearing a leather vest for a photo shoot, he can tell everybody that he doesn't want to be anywhere near it, and that Pete's hair product smells like burning oil sands anyway, and get himself stood on the other side of Patrick for the rest of the day, even after Pete has tossed the vest; if Andy had known they were allowed to be shirtless on this magazine cover, he totally would have called it. As it is, he spends three hours standing behind and to Patrick's right, in an itchy black sleeveless v-neck, and Patrick keeps smirking and rolling his eyes like he knows something. Andy has known Patrick for many years, however, and knows Patrick knows absolutely nothing.
Andy the vegan having a thing for leather would be the kind of not-actually-ironic irony Patrick could not resist. He'd be cracking stupid, out-of-context jokes about it all the time, and periodically forcing Andy into earnest conversations about how he's not laughing at Andy, he's laughing at Andy's situation, and Patrick understands because he kind of has this thing about sitting in the back seat of a car--that's not bizarre, right?--and Patrick is sometimes a vegetarian, so he totally gets how the internal conflict between ego and id must rip at Andy's heart, and that's a really powerful thing, but it's also pretty hilarious, and--they're still friends, right?
If Andy was the kind of person who shuddered at his own thoughts, he'd shudder at that one.
If Pete knew--that would be even worse, because there would be no reassurances, no sharing of personal feelings. There would only be Pete's horrible grin and the beginning of a terrible prank, and then Pete's gruesome death.
It's not like nobody knows; Andy doesn't really see the point of actively lying about shit. Matt knows, because one time, while all the other Fuck City-affiliated bands were on the road, they played Marathon Truth Or Dare for three days and when Matt told him to share his deepest secret or get Yoko Ono's face tattooed on his ass, Andy told him the truth.
"I like leather," Andy said, and let his head flop sideways along the back of the couch so he could gauge Matt's reaction.
"Like?" Matt said.
"Like like," Andy said.
Matt's eyes went wide and away from Andy's, and then he shrugged. "As long as you don't eat it, I guess you're okay."
"Fuck you," Andy said. "Your turn. Truth or drink the Soy Dream Kage microwaved before he left last week."
He doesn't own any gloves or belts or whatever other easily portable leather clothing there might be in the world; that would definitely be a problem--getting the urge to jack off with an Isotoner in the back of the van or, these days, his bunk; clenching his fingernails into the palms of his hands until he couldn't stand it anymore, thinking about the black of it, and the suppleness, and the smell; hiding and hoping and begging an uncaring, chaotic universe for just three minutes of privacy. The nearly instantaneous body warmth of the glove in his hand, the light texture against his hard dick, the simple jerk and slide of it up and down--it's not like he's really fantasized about what it would be like if he got his hands on a used leather glove.
It's not like he's ever even actually jacked off with one. The closest he's ever been is a scrap he cut from the upholstery of a couch a friend was tossing. He hoarded it under his bed like a kidnap victim for a week and then, one night, staring at the beige rectangle, limp and streaked and kind of unpleasantly smelly by now, he realized what he was doing. He was jacking off with a piece of dead animal. He put his hand over his mouth and shoved the innocent, ravaged rag to the bottom the trash can.
For a few weeks, Pete wears a leather jacket and tie ensemble that make Andy want to bust his smug fucking face. He's known Pete through far too many hair styles to want to jump him, but something about the way Pete knows he looks good for once in his life just--Andy wants to wind the tie around his fist and pin Pete to the wall and--he mostly just wants to steal the tie and pretend it's a special synthetic vegan drumstick polisher.
Andy hates his fucking fetish. He also hates euphemisms.
The one who steals Pete's tie is Patrick, of all people. Patrick doesn't like sharing clothes, which is fine, because he is a sweaty little guy, emphasis on the little, and often forgets to do his laundry while on tour, but apparently Pete's stupid tie was somehow irresistible.
Patrick wears the tie when they all meet up at AK in New York; it's knotted loosely and hanging casually down the front of his shirt and Andy keeps looking at it, can't not look at it, especially when Patrick is fiddling with it--rolling it up and tucking it between his strong fingers. Patrick loops the tie around his wrist and pretends it's a sling or something, caught up talking to Joe about Saving Private Ryan versus Call Of Duty versus music videos.
Andy makes some snide remarks about Patrick being back on the meat wagon and leaves early.
They shoot the performance footage for "Beat It" last, on the evening of the third day, and when Patrick comes out from behind the make-up mirror, he's adjusting the waist of his pants and Andy sits down behind his kit very quickly. Because Patrick is wearing leather pants. Leather pants. Andy's had to watch him walking around in a fucking brown leather vest and red sweater combination for two days, had to look at the way the warm colours made him glow, and this is pretty much the last fucking straw. Andy is very glad he gets to go home for a few weeks after this.
He stares determinedly at the camera directly across the set and doesn't react when Pete and Joe catcall at Patrick. Patrick flips them off and puts on his fingerless gloves, which are not leather, thank a chaotic and meaningless universe.
"You're gonna fucking laugh at me? Your hair is like a foot high," Patrick says to Pete, or Joe, could go either way. "Did they need to bring in a crane for that shit?"
Pete yells across the set at Alan, "Dude, yo, hey, can I lick Patrick's thigh? I think there would be, like, what's the word, artistic merit--"
"No," Patrick and Alan say at the same time. Patrick straps his guitar on and goes over to talk to Joe, purposefully ignoring Pete.
But of course now Andy's thinking about it, about the way the leather creases below Patrick's ass and hugs his thighs and calves. Thinking about it, even as Alan is calling everybody to attention and cueing the piped-in music and shouting, "Action!"
Andy plays determinedly, hitting his drums and cymbals and pedals as if he were playing unmiced to an entire arena, but he's still thinking about it, because every time he takes his eyes off his crash or his snare, Patrick is cocking his hips and beckoning at the camera and for fuck's sake, really. Andy can see what the cameras are capturing on three big monitors set up near Alan--Patrick's hidden eyes and near-sneer and the shape of his mouth when he makes the "uh uh" noises.
It's probably a good thing Patrick is wearing the flowing white tunic. And an undershirt. Andy's imagination helpfully provides him with a picture of Patrick without the tunic and gloves and guitar, leaning against a wall, head tilted back, hat pulled low over his forehead, one hand resting on the join of his thigh and his groin, like a 1970s gay porn magazine cover. The leather stretched shiny and black over his skin and the taste of it--it would taste terrible, but it would be smooth and warm on Andy's tongue and--
Andy's left eye twitches.
"Dude, are you okay?" Pete asks, popping up at the edge of the drum riser when the third take is complete.
"Yes," Andy says.
"You look kind of twitchy," Pete says, tilting his head. "Homesick?"
"Yes," Andy says. His fingers tighten around his sticks until he can almost hear his bones creaking.
"I hear that," Pete says. Which is ridiculous: Pete lives like twenty-five minutes away from the soundstage. He nods sympathetically, the set lights glinting on his metallic blue make-up and the snaps of his shirt. His black, shiny--
"Is your shirt leather?" Andy asks, his voice thin, because he really hadn't noticed, he's been pretty distracted for the last hour or so, after all. He leans away from his kit, away from Pete, away from the overwhelming horror of the situation.
Pete looks down at himself and shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. Why? Patrick's wearing fucking leather pants, you're not giving him any shit."
"No," Andy says, shaking his head, going back to staring at the camera. He is definitely not giving Patrick any shit for wearing leather pants. "Never mind."
Pete frowns hard at Andy and jostles his bass around a bit. "We can probably change the wardrobe, if you're not--"
"I'm fine, leave me alone," Andy snaps, shoving his sticks in their sleeve and stomping down from his riser. He sweeps the torn white drapes around his kit out of the way.
"What the fuck," he hears Pete yell.
"What did you do?" Patrick yells back.
"Nothing!" Pete shouts. "Why is everything always my goddamn fault?"
Andy slams the back door of the set, cutting off Joe's pealing bleats of laughter and the vague noises of Patrick bitching some more.
Andy paces the long, off-white hallway for a while, from one sickly-red EXIT sign to the other. His hands are fists at his sides, his jaw is clenching and unclenching. He keeps blinking, fury at himself eating away at his insides. He can't stop thinking about--about how sick he is, how wrong, how he doesn't even believe in being ashamed about sex, but he can't help what he wants and he can't help hating how he feels, how he wants, what he wants at the same time. The fact that apparently his stupid goddamn fetish doesn't care that it's Patrick--that this is his band, his family--only makes the whole thing worse.
He rests against the wall and presses his fingers against his eyes under his glasses.
The problem is--the problem is that Andy hadn't known about the wardrobe for the video. He'd just shown up, just assumed that everything would be safe and taken care of. He'd walked through the ridiculous surreal Michael Jackson dreamscape on the other soundstage about a million times. He'd made silly faces when it was requested of him. He'd kept his wrong, horrible, awful, unethical fetish to himself for so long, for so many years, and this is how his suffering is to be repaid--leather pants.
He startles and rises when the soundstage door thunks open. Patrick leans out and Andy does not thump his head against the cement block wall a few times, hoping to knock himself out.
*
This is a DW-origin crospost, oh noes. Feel free to comment on LJ or the original post here.