FOB fic: "Bored With Myself"
Pairing: Pete/Andy, Pete/Andy/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Thanks: To horizon_greene for the quick and, as always, fantastic beta. She has no idea who these people are. Bless her.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Didn't happen.
Warnings: Kink!warning. Sex toys and light bondage. Threesome.
Summary: Andy gets bored. Pete helps him out. Andy pays it forward to Patrick, with Pete’s help. Kinky hijinks ensue.
Patrick is lacking inspiration. He may, in fact, be a little bored. Which is what he tells Pete later when Pete asks why he’s playing Prince covers to himself on his guitar back home rather than mixing any of their new stuff in the studio. Where he’s supposed to be.
Bored With Myself
A pair of shades can change it all.
“We got, like, five minutes, I think,” Pete says, making faces at himself in the mirror of the bus’s bathroom. “You ready?”
“No.” Andy’s half-serious, scratching his back against the door jamb and shifting his feet to fit them into the sun beam coming in through the slatted blinds in front of the bus. “Don’t want to play.”
Pete curls his lip at the Andy-in-the-mirror, and then turns to pull him all the way into the bathroom with him. “S’matter?”
“Bored,” Andy tells him, shrugging, rolling his shoulders. Habit. “Tired of sitting there and looking at your ass or the back of Patrick’s head.” Not just that, though. He’s tired of the lights, the yelling, the weird coppery reflection of himself in his cymbals, shaking and breaking. Headache after headache.
“Yeah?” Pete asks. “You get tired of looking at my ass?”
“It’s lost some of its charm.”
More like four minutes now, before they need to get backstage. Closer to three and a half. It’s easy for Andy to keep time; it’s his job. He’s never late. Never early, either. It’s something he’s proud of, since Pete-even though he should have the same kind of clock (metronome, whatever) in his head as Andy, instead seems to have the ability to distort time. Steal time. Lose time. Like in the X-Files.
Spray paint an X on the ground whenever something weird happens around Pete; you never know when you might want to come back and check for aliens.
“You’re lying about my ass, but I’ll let it go.”
“Thanks.”
“Have an idea, though,” Pete says, looking past Andy and blinking at the setting sun. “If you’re bored.”
One thing about Pete’s ideas, they’re never boring. So, “Yeah?”
“You still have that thing? That Joe gave you as a joke for your birthday?” Pete looks diabolical-little, but still evil-ish-in the half-light.
Andy thinks, then makes a circle with his fingers. “Thing?”
Pete nods, rocking back and forth on his feet, excited. “You want to? No one will be able to see.”
Two minutes, but who’s counting? Time, Andy thinks, is probably an illusion anyway. And Pete’s idea is completely cracked out, but genius in the way only Pete can really be, which means Andy’s at his bunk a second later, digging through one of his bags until he finds it.
They both stand and look at it, long enough for some kind of tension to build and Andy to decide that he’s definitely not bored anymore, before Pete asks, “Let me?”
“Oh,” Andy says, watching Pete take it from him, and then. “Yeah.”
He leans back against the wall, weak, interested, and lets Pete unzip his jeans.
Pete laughs; quietly, though. “Laundry day or boredom?”
“Sometimes,” Andy says, looking down with Pete, “I just don’t wear any.”
“Right,” Pete says, touching now, just fingertips--fingernails, painted blue, scratching and catching at soft skin.
He strokes Andy once, twice, from base to head and then twists and squeezes. The friction burns and Andy jumps.
“Enough?” Pete asks, looking up, squinting.
“Should be,” Andy says, not exactly an expert. “If you think so.”
They have a minute, Andy figures, before someone comes looking for them. But Pete moves more quickly now, pulling at Andy’s balls and then snapping the cockring in place.
“Fuck,” Andy whispers, fighting and losing the battle not to fidget. Shit’s uncomfortable. Kind of.
Pete has to hold Andy in place, their legs braced together, while he does up Andy’s zipper, and Pete’s just moving back, looking at what they’ve done, when Patrick stumbles up and into the bus.
“You guys are so late. We need you backstage, like five minutes ago . . .” But he trails off when he sees what Pete’s looking at, and Andy can feel himself start to blush.
“Ready?” Pete wants to know, again, as he angles Patrick back toward the door.
Andy nods and follows them out.
Maybe Superman will jump the wall.
After the show, Patrick falls asleep on the bus (where else)-or not asleep, but drifting? Dreaming? Almost there, anyway, when he hears voices.
Pete and Andy, somewhere outside his bunk, in the bathroom? In another bunk? Murmuring to each other-consonant sounds, a word here and there and then a sentence, maybe, filtering in to Patrick.
“Shit.”
That’s Andy, sounding funny. Wired. Wound-up. In pain?
“Careful, man.” Still Andy; still tense.
“Got it,” Pete and, okay, a zipper? “Damn.” Pete again. Appreciative.
Patrick rubs his hands over his face and stares hard at the bottom of the bunk above him, hard enough to make his eyes water.
“Want me to take it off?” Pete asks, louder. “Don’t have to. Could just--”
And then a noise like Andy’s choking on something, breathing hard, coughing. “Jesus,” rough whisper, cutting through the heavy air. “Too much.”
Too much of what? Patrick wonders, imagines, his mind running wild.
“Just-” Andy says. “Yeah.” Then a kind of frantic sound-muffled fast-and Pete making actual hushing noises and murmuring too low for Patrick to hear.
Silence. The sound of tires on asphalt. Patrick’s heart beating like Andy’s kick drum.
Minutes pass and then someone walks by Patrick’s bunk, heading for the shower.
*
Two more shows and the tour ends. Patrick’s in the studio, but it’s pointless. Nothing sounds right. The words are slurred, meaningless and the music is flat-doesn’t want to wrap around the lyrics-and the beat, the shit that ties it all together just tangles it up.
Dissonant.
Patrick is lacking inspiration. He may, in fact, be a little bored. Which is what he tells Pete later when Pete asks why he’s playing Prince covers to himself on his guitar back home rather than mixing any of their new stuff in the studio. Where he’s supposed to be.
“Not feeling it,” Patrick says, mumbles, in the middle of picking “Darling Nikki”-the when I saw little Nikki grind part. Butchering it. Making random bursts of sound.
“Can I help?” Pete asks, sounding sincere, but Patrick doesn’t believe it. Pete doesn’t really do sincere. “I’m good at this game,” Pete says. “Ask Andy.”
“Ask Andy what?” Patrick wonders, putting his guitar down before he makes the connection. “Ah. Oh.”
“Ask me what?”
And there’s Andy now; maybe he was there all along and Patrick didn’t notice. Possibly.
“I don‘t . . . um. Whatever. I don‘t want to know,” Patrick says while Pete’s beckoning to Andy, pulling him down to sit with Patrick and Pete.
Pete shrugs, like it totally doesn’t matter what Patrick wants or not, and tells Andy, “Patrick’s lost his voice.” Which is a good example of the kind of insight Pete has sometimes. Insight that he rarely decides to turn on anyone but himself, thank god. “I mean, not lost like he sounds like a frog, but the other thing.”
Nodding, Andy sits and pokes at Patrick’s shoulder. “Nothing to say?”
“I guess,” Patrick says, uncomfortable between them.
Sliding an arm behind Patrick-fabric scrunching against fabric; new, scratchy, woven bracelet catching in the ends of Patrick’s hair-Pete tugs on the bandanna around Andy’s neck. “Let me see this.”
Andy flicks a glance at Patrick and shrugs, untying the bandanna and handing it to Pete.
At least, Patrick thinks, Pete never asks stupid questions like “do you trust me?” because that would totally ruin the thrill and break the rhythm and disrupt the vibe that they have going on between them when Andy takes off the bandanna and Pete ties it around Patrick’s mouth, knotting it tight to the back of his head.
Not careful; not gentle.
It pulls at his lips, the corners of his mouth, and the back of his head stings when he breathes because Pete tied strands of hair into the knot. Patrick shuts his eyes.
Nothing happens. Not for a minute. Not until Patrick feels fingers, no knuckles, hard between the knot and his head, pushing.
“Down.” Low voice, a little rough around the edges. Pete.
Patrick slides off of the couch onto his knees and then, because the pressure on his head hasn’t let up, onto his hands too. This must-the gag (black on white skin turning red) the way he’s kneeling-look criminal.
Cool.
Hands at his waist now, his zipper. Pulling everything down, pushing his shirt up, leaving skin bare for lips and teeth and he can’t say anything. He can’t say no or plead yes or do more than grunt and breathe and drool into the gag, and it all sounds so primitive and not like him.
If Patrick’s always in control of something, one goddamn thing, it’s his voice.
Not now. Not when someone (Andy? There’s hair brushing against Patrick’s side) bites deep into the flesh at the base of his spine.
Another minute, another bite. Lower, harder. Inner thigh.
“I always wondered,” Andy says, quiet. “If--”
“If it would look like that?” Pete asks, touching the bite. “Yeah. A picture in black and blue.”
As they talk and bite and lick and suck, teasing Patrick with two sets of teeth in the back of his knees, two pairs of lips brushing his shoulders, two tongues between his legs, he starts to talk to himself-in his head, sing to himself, make it all into music.
Andy crawls in front of him about the time he’s composing the chorus, and he lets Andy push him up onto just his knees, where he sways, blood rushing elsewhere. And then Andy’s face is obscured because Pete--still behind them--is resting his arms on Patrick’s shoulders, his hands in front of Patrick’s face, holding a condom, ripping it where Patrick can see.
“Catch,” Pete says, and then his hands, the condom, everything’s gone and he’s shoving Patrick forward into Andy’s arms.
“Hold on,” Andy says, to Patrick, like Pete’s driving too fast or braking too hard, and Patrick grips Andy’s biceps tight, chewing on the gag. Holding on.
It hurts, quick, or maybe it did. Patrick can’t remember, later, seconds later, when Pete’s done it. He’s in, movements shallow, fast. And then he’s pulling Patrick upright by the gag again so he’s in Pete’s lap--deep now, slower. And Andy bends down.
Pete’s moving Patrick, hands on his hips, rolling and lifting. It’s good; if Patrick had to coordinate this, someone might get hurt. As it is, he links a hand up and behind Pete’s head, pressing Pete‘s face, teeth, into his neck, and then digs his other hand into the loose hair at Andy’s neck, pushing Andy down, feeling Andy‘s throat close around him, wetness on his thighs. On his belly.
And Patrick whines. The only noise-sound? he can make. It’s inarticulate, harsh, ugly. High and broken.
*
Andy’s tapping out a complicated rhythm on Patrick’s knee when Pete gets the gag untied, careful not to take any hair with it.
Patrick’s lips are chapped and his throat hurts.
“Better?” Pete asks.
Feeling a melody click in his head, Patrick hums a couple of notes, experimenting, and nods. He doesn’t trust himself to talk yet; not with the rush of music suddenly loosed from behind the gag.
Whatever it takes to get on with the world.
Joe is too terrified of the consequences to ever admit that he gets bored.
And I wonder if Marilyn ever felt this way?
Oddly, Pete never actually gets bored.
*The title and section headers are from Meredith Brooks “Bored With Myself.”
Rating: NC-17
Thanks: To horizon_greene for the quick and, as always, fantastic beta. She has no idea who these people are. Bless her.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Didn't happen.
Warnings: Kink!warning. Sex toys and light bondage. Threesome.
Summary: Andy gets bored. Pete helps him out. Andy pays it forward to Patrick, with Pete’s help. Kinky hijinks ensue.
Patrick is lacking inspiration. He may, in fact, be a little bored. Which is what he tells Pete later when Pete asks why he’s playing Prince covers to himself on his guitar back home rather than mixing any of their new stuff in the studio. Where he’s supposed to be.
Bored With Myself
A pair of shades can change it all.
“We got, like, five minutes, I think,” Pete says, making faces at himself in the mirror of the bus’s bathroom. “You ready?”
“No.” Andy’s half-serious, scratching his back against the door jamb and shifting his feet to fit them into the sun beam coming in through the slatted blinds in front of the bus. “Don’t want to play.”
Pete curls his lip at the Andy-in-the-mirror, and then turns to pull him all the way into the bathroom with him. “S’matter?”
“Bored,” Andy tells him, shrugging, rolling his shoulders. Habit. “Tired of sitting there and looking at your ass or the back of Patrick’s head.” Not just that, though. He’s tired of the lights, the yelling, the weird coppery reflection of himself in his cymbals, shaking and breaking. Headache after headache.
“Yeah?” Pete asks. “You get tired of looking at my ass?”
“It’s lost some of its charm.”
More like four minutes now, before they need to get backstage. Closer to three and a half. It’s easy for Andy to keep time; it’s his job. He’s never late. Never early, either. It’s something he’s proud of, since Pete-even though he should have the same kind of clock (metronome, whatever) in his head as Andy, instead seems to have the ability to distort time. Steal time. Lose time. Like in the X-Files.
Spray paint an X on the ground whenever something weird happens around Pete; you never know when you might want to come back and check for aliens.
“You’re lying about my ass, but I’ll let it go.”
“Thanks.”
“Have an idea, though,” Pete says, looking past Andy and blinking at the setting sun. “If you’re bored.”
One thing about Pete’s ideas, they’re never boring. So, “Yeah?”
“You still have that thing? That Joe gave you as a joke for your birthday?” Pete looks diabolical-little, but still evil-ish-in the half-light.
Andy thinks, then makes a circle with his fingers. “Thing?”
Pete nods, rocking back and forth on his feet, excited. “You want to? No one will be able to see.”
Two minutes, but who’s counting? Time, Andy thinks, is probably an illusion anyway. And Pete’s idea is completely cracked out, but genius in the way only Pete can really be, which means Andy’s at his bunk a second later, digging through one of his bags until he finds it.
They both stand and look at it, long enough for some kind of tension to build and Andy to decide that he’s definitely not bored anymore, before Pete asks, “Let me?”
“Oh,” Andy says, watching Pete take it from him, and then. “Yeah.”
He leans back against the wall, weak, interested, and lets Pete unzip his jeans.
Pete laughs; quietly, though. “Laundry day or boredom?”
“Sometimes,” Andy says, looking down with Pete, “I just don’t wear any.”
“Right,” Pete says, touching now, just fingertips--fingernails, painted blue, scratching and catching at soft skin.
He strokes Andy once, twice, from base to head and then twists and squeezes. The friction burns and Andy jumps.
“Enough?” Pete asks, looking up, squinting.
“Should be,” Andy says, not exactly an expert. “If you think so.”
They have a minute, Andy figures, before someone comes looking for them. But Pete moves more quickly now, pulling at Andy’s balls and then snapping the cockring in place.
“Fuck,” Andy whispers, fighting and losing the battle not to fidget. Shit’s uncomfortable. Kind of.
Pete has to hold Andy in place, their legs braced together, while he does up Andy’s zipper, and Pete’s just moving back, looking at what they’ve done, when Patrick stumbles up and into the bus.
“You guys are so late. We need you backstage, like five minutes ago . . .” But he trails off when he sees what Pete’s looking at, and Andy can feel himself start to blush.
“Ready?” Pete wants to know, again, as he angles Patrick back toward the door.
Andy nods and follows them out.
Maybe Superman will jump the wall.
After the show, Patrick falls asleep on the bus (where else)-or not asleep, but drifting? Dreaming? Almost there, anyway, when he hears voices.
Pete and Andy, somewhere outside his bunk, in the bathroom? In another bunk? Murmuring to each other-consonant sounds, a word here and there and then a sentence, maybe, filtering in to Patrick.
“Shit.”
That’s Andy, sounding funny. Wired. Wound-up. In pain?
“Careful, man.” Still Andy; still tense.
“Got it,” Pete and, okay, a zipper? “Damn.” Pete again. Appreciative.
Patrick rubs his hands over his face and stares hard at the bottom of the bunk above him, hard enough to make his eyes water.
“Want me to take it off?” Pete asks, louder. “Don’t have to. Could just--”
And then a noise like Andy’s choking on something, breathing hard, coughing. “Jesus,” rough whisper, cutting through the heavy air. “Too much.”
Too much of what? Patrick wonders, imagines, his mind running wild.
“Just-” Andy says. “Yeah.” Then a kind of frantic sound-muffled fast-and Pete making actual hushing noises and murmuring too low for Patrick to hear.
Silence. The sound of tires on asphalt. Patrick’s heart beating like Andy’s kick drum.
Minutes pass and then someone walks by Patrick’s bunk, heading for the shower.
*
Two more shows and the tour ends. Patrick’s in the studio, but it’s pointless. Nothing sounds right. The words are slurred, meaningless and the music is flat-doesn’t want to wrap around the lyrics-and the beat, the shit that ties it all together just tangles it up.
Dissonant.
Patrick is lacking inspiration. He may, in fact, be a little bored. Which is what he tells Pete later when Pete asks why he’s playing Prince covers to himself on his guitar back home rather than mixing any of their new stuff in the studio. Where he’s supposed to be.
“Not feeling it,” Patrick says, mumbles, in the middle of picking “Darling Nikki”-the when I saw little Nikki grind part. Butchering it. Making random bursts of sound.
“Can I help?” Pete asks, sounding sincere, but Patrick doesn’t believe it. Pete doesn’t really do sincere. “I’m good at this game,” Pete says. “Ask Andy.”
“Ask Andy what?” Patrick wonders, putting his guitar down before he makes the connection. “Ah. Oh.”
“Ask me what?”
And there’s Andy now; maybe he was there all along and Patrick didn’t notice. Possibly.
“I don‘t . . . um. Whatever. I don‘t want to know,” Patrick says while Pete’s beckoning to Andy, pulling him down to sit with Patrick and Pete.
Pete shrugs, like it totally doesn’t matter what Patrick wants or not, and tells Andy, “Patrick’s lost his voice.” Which is a good example of the kind of insight Pete has sometimes. Insight that he rarely decides to turn on anyone but himself, thank god. “I mean, not lost like he sounds like a frog, but the other thing.”
Nodding, Andy sits and pokes at Patrick’s shoulder. “Nothing to say?”
“I guess,” Patrick says, uncomfortable between them.
Sliding an arm behind Patrick-fabric scrunching against fabric; new, scratchy, woven bracelet catching in the ends of Patrick’s hair-Pete tugs on the bandanna around Andy’s neck. “Let me see this.”
Andy flicks a glance at Patrick and shrugs, untying the bandanna and handing it to Pete.
At least, Patrick thinks, Pete never asks stupid questions like “do you trust me?” because that would totally ruin the thrill and break the rhythm and disrupt the vibe that they have going on between them when Andy takes off the bandanna and Pete ties it around Patrick’s mouth, knotting it tight to the back of his head.
Not careful; not gentle.
It pulls at his lips, the corners of his mouth, and the back of his head stings when he breathes because Pete tied strands of hair into the knot. Patrick shuts his eyes.
Nothing happens. Not for a minute. Not until Patrick feels fingers, no knuckles, hard between the knot and his head, pushing.
“Down.” Low voice, a little rough around the edges. Pete.
Patrick slides off of the couch onto his knees and then, because the pressure on his head hasn’t let up, onto his hands too. This must-the gag (black on white skin turning red) the way he’s kneeling-look criminal.
Cool.
Hands at his waist now, his zipper. Pulling everything down, pushing his shirt up, leaving skin bare for lips and teeth and he can’t say anything. He can’t say no or plead yes or do more than grunt and breathe and drool into the gag, and it all sounds so primitive and not like him.
If Patrick’s always in control of something, one goddamn thing, it’s his voice.
Not now. Not when someone (Andy? There’s hair brushing against Patrick’s side) bites deep into the flesh at the base of his spine.
Another minute, another bite. Lower, harder. Inner thigh.
“I always wondered,” Andy says, quiet. “If--”
“If it would look like that?” Pete asks, touching the bite. “Yeah. A picture in black and blue.”
As they talk and bite and lick and suck, teasing Patrick with two sets of teeth in the back of his knees, two pairs of lips brushing his shoulders, two tongues between his legs, he starts to talk to himself-in his head, sing to himself, make it all into music.
Andy crawls in front of him about the time he’s composing the chorus, and he lets Andy push him up onto just his knees, where he sways, blood rushing elsewhere. And then Andy’s face is obscured because Pete--still behind them--is resting his arms on Patrick’s shoulders, his hands in front of Patrick’s face, holding a condom, ripping it where Patrick can see.
“Catch,” Pete says, and then his hands, the condom, everything’s gone and he’s shoving Patrick forward into Andy’s arms.
“Hold on,” Andy says, to Patrick, like Pete’s driving too fast or braking too hard, and Patrick grips Andy’s biceps tight, chewing on the gag. Holding on.
It hurts, quick, or maybe it did. Patrick can’t remember, later, seconds later, when Pete’s done it. He’s in, movements shallow, fast. And then he’s pulling Patrick upright by the gag again so he’s in Pete’s lap--deep now, slower. And Andy bends down.
Pete’s moving Patrick, hands on his hips, rolling and lifting. It’s good; if Patrick had to coordinate this, someone might get hurt. As it is, he links a hand up and behind Pete’s head, pressing Pete‘s face, teeth, into his neck, and then digs his other hand into the loose hair at Andy’s neck, pushing Andy down, feeling Andy‘s throat close around him, wetness on his thighs. On his belly.
And Patrick whines. The only noise-sound? he can make. It’s inarticulate, harsh, ugly. High and broken.
*
Andy’s tapping out a complicated rhythm on Patrick’s knee when Pete gets the gag untied, careful not to take any hair with it.
Patrick’s lips are chapped and his throat hurts.
“Better?” Pete asks.
Feeling a melody click in his head, Patrick hums a couple of notes, experimenting, and nods. He doesn’t trust himself to talk yet; not with the rush of music suddenly loosed from behind the gag.
Whatever it takes to get on with the world.
Joe is too terrified of the consequences to ever admit that he gets bored.
And I wonder if Marilyn ever felt this way?
Oddly, Pete never actually gets bored.
*The title and section headers are from Meredith Brooks “Bored With Myself.”