The Mark(er) of The Cool
Title: The Mark(er) of The Cool
Author: Marisa (leighrowena) & Tas (tasyfa)
Fandom: Green Day RPS - Billie Joe Armstrong/Mike Dirnt
Characters: Billie/Tré Cool, Billie/Tré/Mike
Prompt: 32: Branding for the 50kinkyways challenge ( Tas's kink prompt table.)
Word Count: 9,274
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves.
Author's Notes: Office supply pr0n for thelackey and and_ed, incorporating a few specified items, photos of which are linked within the body of the story itself (along with anything else we misappropriated that might need a visual aid). Props also go to Josey Vogels's My Messy Bedroom for a certain little tip. *naughty grin* Warnings for mild bondage, object insertion, and general abuse of office supplies. We hope you enjoy your PWP, ladies!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Rob Cavallo was a dead man.
'Since you guys are in town, could you come in for just a little while and pose for a picture for this charity thing we're doing, make it look like you're manning the fort? It's this fax-in campaign. It'll take half an hour, an hour tops.'
'I hate to ask, but my office manager's come down with the flu and I don't have anyone else who can come in on a Saturday. I'm begging you here, please?'
Billie Joe had pled off using Adrienne as an excuse. Mike had done the same with Brittney. Tré, well, Tré didn't have a girlfriend or wife handy and Rob had turned big, pleading eyes on him. The man could give Poutmaster Billie a run for his money, although Mike had this kicked puppy expression that did Tré and Billie both in every time. Gloomily, Tré had caved, and found himself stuck in the windowless copy room until the midnight deadline, retrieving paper from one of a dozen fax machines and piling it for someone to check through on Monday morning. Rob had known better than to ask him to actually look through the paperwork.
He hadn't stayed pissed long, though. After finding a radio and cranking it up, he'd taken a bunch of photocopies of his face, pulling various silly expressions. That only entertained him for so long, and he'd been dreadfully bored afterwards for the fifteen minutes it had taken him to discover the office supplies.
There were cupboards and cupboards of the stuff, just waiting for someone to use it. Tré had filled up several pads of paper trying one of every single kind of pen. He'd also found a whole bunch of miniature Sharpies, meant to go on a keychain. Once he'd found some key rings, he'd put one of each color on two rings and now a rainbow of markers hung from his belt loops, one on each side. They made a plastic clacking sound when he bounced.
Of course, once he'd figured out that he truly was alone and no one was going to bother him, he'd dropped his pants and hopped onto the photocopier, taking a bunch more copies of his ass with his dick placed at various angles. This had led to trying out the shredder, when he put his pants back on and took off everything else instead. There was a big warning label about wearing a tie while using the machine and it couldn't hurt to get rid of any possible problems.
While watching the shredder chew his ass, Tré had a flash of brilliance and went looking for a labelmaker. The two shredders in the room soon bore an ex-wife's name each, and he randomly labeled every other piece of machinery. It would probably cause some headaches when the color printer was discovered with a 'cuntlicker' label, or the paper cutter with an 'assfucker' label, but that wasn't his problem. Rob would re-learn that Tré could be coerced into doing things but always on his own terms.
He surveyed his current project and attached the last link of the long chain of alternating gold and silver paperclips, and clipped one end to his ear lobe as if it were a bundle of paper. The other end he carefully attached to his nipple ring and then gave his chest a shake.
Tré grinned at the resultant light tug. It felt good. Good enough that he shimmied a little harder, giggling as the chain swung wildly. He would have to think about getting a ring with a little more weight to it.
It was his own fault, Billie thought as he pulled into the Reprise parking lots.
He'd thought he had an airtight excuse. Armstrong Family Dinner-and-Movie Nights were sacrosanct, and he wasn't going to tempt fate, or Adie's deeply hidden wrath, by suggesting he skip it to do a promotional stint for Reprise. Nope. He had a date with his wife, his boys and their record tenth viewing of 'Chicken Little,' and Rob was just going to have to make do with one-third of Green Day.
But once Joey copped to a math homework assignment he'd kept from his mom, the movie showing was immediately cancelled, which also made it reasonable to send Jakob to bed early to battle the small case of the sniffles he'd come down with that week.
So all it took was one off-the-cuff mention of Rob's office manager publicity stunt while he rifled through Joey's school bag for Adie's small index finger to point definitively in the direction of the door. It was part of his responsibility to the label, she'd said, Tré probably needed some help and besides, she was concerned for the safety of the Reprise offices while in Tré's hands. "Billie, the place could be on fire! And you're no good at math, anyway."
They were good points, Billie conceded, punching in the code to open the tall glass doors of the office building, so after he'd sung Jakob just one more lullaby and pretended to look over Joey's page of fractions, he'd hopped in the car. Standing now in the dimly lit hallway he couldn't see or smell any smoke, so he figured Tré couldn't have gotten into too much trouble.
After a few steps he could hear the muffled sounds of the radio filtering down the hall from the copy room. He couldn't suppress a grin; he knew Tré loved to sing along to the latest Top 40 drivel when he thought no one was around.
"Tré?" he called as he approached the half-closed door to the copy room, but got no answer. He didn't want to give the man a heart attack; after all, Tré was supposed to be manning the fort alone, so rather than just barge right in he slowly pushed the door open.
"Tré, you in there?"
After 16 years of friendship with Tré Cool, Billie had gotten used to the fact that it was impossible to know what to expect from him at any given moment. But even that wasn't enough to prepare him for the sight that met his eyes as he fully entered the warm copy room: Tré, shirtless, shoeless and beltless, with a nearly two-foot-long chain of paper clips connecting his ear and his nipple, shaking his chest and hips and gyrating like a deranged Chiquita Banana lady on serious steroids.
Billie gaped for a moment, until an uproarious snort burst uncontrollably from his lungs and he collapsed against the doorframe, doubled over with laughter that was almost painful.
"Dude, why don't you grab two boxes of thumbtacks," he said when he could finally breathe again. "You could shake them like some fucked-up maracas. You know, complete the look."
Tré did a double-take at the sudden voice, his hand catching on the swinging chain and tugging quite a bit harder than he'd been looking for.
"Ow. Jesus Christ, Bill, warn a guy! What the fuck happened to Dinner-and-Movie Night?"
He unfastened both ends of the paperclip chain, giving it a glare for not having cooperated fully before chucking it in the general direction of one of the open supply cupboards and turning down the radio a little so they could hear each other without shouting.
"Seriously, dude, what're you doing here? Everything okay?"
Billie's giggles resurfaced as Tré freed himself from his experiment in paper fastener bondage. Billie cast his eyes about the room with amazement, taking in the absolute havoc Tré had wreaked during his unsupervised hours: pens, shredded strips of paper, uncapped highlighters, multi-colored Post-Its - dude, was that a labelmaker? - were strewn about the floor as if a Staples warehouse had exploded somewhere in the Bay and its remnants had fluttered down strategically in this one copy room. But he sobered up a bit at Tré's second question.
"What? Oh, yeah, man. 'Course it is," he answered, entering the room fully and meandering over to a particularly cluttered table, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his sagging black pants. "It was cancelled. Turns out Joey takes after his old man in the avoiding-your-homework department." He picked up a black Sharpie from the pile of used and abused supplies, noting all the pads of paper featuring scribbles of Tré's childlike handwriting, and started twirling it between his fingers thoughtfully. "Adie sent me to make sure you weren't burning the place down."
He pulled the cap off of the Sharpie and took an experimental sniff, the felt tip of the marker hovering dangerously close to his nose, and he met Tré's eyes with a mischievous smirk. "I don't think she'd have sent me over here if she'd thought I'd catch you doing the nearly naked hula with a bunch of office supplies, though…you kinky bastard," he added as an afterthought.
Tré laughed at the frontman's raised eyebrows and giggles. Billie Joe had the best giggle - even girlier than Mike's, which was saying something. "Aw, you missed all the kink, Bill. I already shredded the photocopies of my bare ass."
He eyed the uncapped marker in Billie's hand, seeing how it contrasted with his white shirt. He must've been trying to be all pretty and proper for Family Night; it was just a plain, button-down shirt, nothing special about it at all.
Tré could definitely make it better.
He moved closer casually as he talked. "So Adie said drive and you said how far, huh? Gotta say I'm not shocked that your kid takes after you in the homework department, although it does make me feel kinda sorry for your wife, stuck with you and a couple of Mini-Me's." Tré chuckled at Billie's sputtering glare and finally moved close enough to strike.
His right hand snatched the Sharpie as he spun Billie around with the left, signing his name in double time across the chest of the shirt and then jumping back, out of immediate striking range, with the brand-new weapon held aloft and a huge grin splitting his face.
"Gotcha."
Billie looked down in abject horror at his shirt, once neatly starched and pressed by his loving wife, now completely demolished by the man whose name had been scratched across his left side, one 'o' in 'Cool' serendipitously encircling his nipple.
"You cocksucker!" Billie squealed indignantly at the drummer, pulling his shirt taut to get a closer, still-shocked look at Tré's handiwork. If he were being completely honest with himself, he'd have admitted that the quick press of the felt tip pen against his chest and Tré's strong grip holding him steady had certainly not been unpleasant, even for such a short moment, and his brain had definitely been kind of stuck on the image of that silver and gold chain sparkling against the tanned skin of Tré's broad chest when he'd found him.
But now was not the time for fantasizing - it was time for revenge. In one second he armed himself with another Sharpie - red this time - and raised it in defense against the drummer, who was still grinning at Billie as if he were Bob Ross on crack and Billie his blank canvas. He stared his aggressor down, those blue eyes sparkling mischievously back, and felt a familiar spark shoot sharply down his spine - the kind he always feels when he realizes the wheels in Tré's head have started turning. He made one last ditch effort to save his clothing.
"I don't want to fight you, Tré," Billie said with mock seriousness, "and my shirt might still be salvageable, so why don't you put that marker down and we'll settle this another way?"
Tré cackled. Oh, it was on now. Salvageable? By the time he was done with it, that pretty white shirt would be ink and tatters. Really, Billie should have known better than to appeal to his rational side, because if it didn't involve one of his kids, Tré rarely paid attention to rationality.
"I know you're not suggesting that we settle this like mature adults, Armstrong. What'd you have in mind, a cock fight?" He leered at the black-haired man, the effect spoiled somewhat by his inability to stop smiling.
But that didn't stop him from darting back in for another swipe, leaving a long line going right across Billie's ribcage. And just to make things interesting, he also got in a quick grope with his other hand.
He winked once he was out of reach again. "Can't fight if you don't have a weapon."
Oh NO he didn't. Now it was personal. Billie's mind quickly changed gears. Tré was fighting dirty, and the only way to win this thing now was with a little well-played distraction.
"My cock is TWICE the weapon yours will EVER be, Cool," Billie snarled, his voice slipping naturally into his guttural onstage growl. "Dude, it's fucking Excalibur." Answering Tré's maniacal grin with a wicked one of his own, he began a one-handed unbuttoning of his ruined shirt while inching ever-so-slightly closer, knowing Tré would not be able to resist a peek at the inked skin below. "You should know, considering you can't seem to keep your hands off of it," he added with a throaty chuckle.
He waited until Tré's eyes had predictably flickered down to Billie's fingers skillfully working open the fourth button (Who's gotcha now? Billie congratulated himself prematurely) when he struck, a cat-like swipe of his Sharpie-wielding hand against the bared skin of Tré's stomach.
That growl was definitely hitting in places that were below the belt, and the flirty little striptease wasn't helping. Tré's eyes followed the popping buttons but he stayed aware of what was happening in his peripheral vision and when Billie struck, Tré was ready.
Not quite fast enough, though, as it turned out; a red slash appeared across his stomach that looked as if it ought to be dripping blood. He reacted in the only logical way: shrieking like a B movie victim as he flapped his arms dramatically and sank to the floor, emoting the fuck out of his death scene.
At length he gave a piteous little cry and one last, weak flail before rolling onto his back, wide eyes focused on the great beyond, and succumbing to the darkness with a rattling exhalation.
Billie watched Tré take his last melodramatic breath with delighted amusement, the last vestiges of his death throes still shaking through his body. The red Sharpie stripe glistened wetly on that beautiful belly. But he still wanted to play, and Tré wasn't moving. "Are you dead, Tré?" he asked, leaning over and giving the firm shoulders a shake. He was met with no movement, and an idea popped into his shaggy head.
He scuttled back over to the table where Tré had left his path of office supply destruction and found a set of 'Sign Here' Post-Its that would do nicely.
Skipping back over to Tré, his shirt half unbuttoned and hanging off his slender frame, he bent over Tré's exposed toes, wrapping one Post-It around it like a toe tag. He then grabbed his discarded Sharpie and went to write Tré's time of death on the little arrow, but thought better of it for a moment.
Before signing Tré's 'official' death sentence he sidled up the drummer's body, straddling the fake-dead hips and holding himself up by hands on either side of Tré's red head. He leaned close and looked into his wide, blank eyes, which still stared straight up at the ceiling. How had he not needed to blink all this time?
"Dude, I'm about to toe-tag you," Billie announced, his breath puffing over Tré's face. But within a moment his lips turned upwards into an evil grin. "But I never tried mouth-to-mouth."
Tré maintained the unblinking stare as Billie moved into his close-up field of vision, very much aware of the knees on either side of his hips. He kept his mouth slack when soft, full lips touched his, waiting until Billie began to put some real effort into it, tongue slipping into Tré's mouth, and then Tré was in motion.
He flipped them over, lying sprawled on top now with his body nestled between Billie's legs, and he kissed back enthusiastically, one hand going to tangle in dark hair.
The other hand slipped down his own body to his waist, unobtrusively tugging at the small markers attached to his belt loops. He pulled a few free and awkwardly arranged them in his palm one-handed, concentration split between his Sharpie endeavor and the enticing taste of Billie's mouth.
When they broke for air at last, the frontman's lips were kiss-swollen, shining and moist, and his expression more than a little dazed. Tré didn't take the time to gloat, though; he lifted up enough for his armed hand to take several strokes across the front of Billie's shirt, the white fabric blooming in a riot of color.
And when Billie wriggled and swore, trying to get loose, Tré grabbed his sleeve near the shoulder and pulled hard.
The sound of ripping cloth filled the copy room.
Billie's lust-hooded eyes widened to the size of saucers as he felt more than heard the fabric of his shirt tear away from his body. Both he and Tré looked down at Billie's chest; the once pristine white shirt now dangled like a thick, multi-colored streamer from his shoulder.
His shirt completely ruined, Billie's mind quickly progressed past the destruction of one of his nicest pieces of clothing, and even past the snarky, 'Well it looks like I know how to wake the dead!' comment he'd prepared in his head while Tré massaged his tongue against Billie's soft palate, choosing instead to focus on his now half-hard cock. This was NOT where this night was supposed to have headed, but apparently he could add 'office supplies' to the long list of items that made Tré irresistibly horny.
In the struggle, both of Billie's hands had ended up clasping Tré's broad shoulders, and one of Tré's hands - the one still gripping tightly to four tiny Sharpies - now rested lightly on Billie's stomach. Billie used the leverage to lift himself and shrug the remains of the shirt from his body, one arm at a time and eyes never leaving the now curious blue ones of the drummer who was still pressed against him in a hundred inappropriate ways.
Freed of the shirt and again lying prostrate under Tré, Billie slid his hand down his own torso, its rough progress over his sensitized skin forcing a tiny gasp from the frontman's lips before he clasped onto Tré's Sharpie-laden hand. One by one, he removed all but one Sharpie from the drummer's lax fingers, and brought Tré's hand back up his body to his chest, wet tip of the Sharpie poised over one of the spare blank patches of skin between Billie's nipples.
He met Tré's eyes again with a look as smooth as melted chocolate, not hesitating to run his pink tongue across his lips in anticipation just one time before opening his mouth.
"Go ahead," he challenged with a cocky nod. "Mark me."
Tré watched the progress of their hands up Billie's bare chest, breath coming faster at the unmistakable change in the atmosphere. He met green eyes hazed with want, and then the man under him issued a clear invitation.
He didn't need to be asked twice. Tré scrawled his name exactly as he had before, only this time the black ink dragged over pale skin, curling lazily around one flat nipple to end with a looping 'l.' He stared at it as the curved lines dried to a matte sheen, feeling an unexpected wave of possessiveness.
As soon as he was sure it was dry, he dropped his head, tongue finding that encircled nipple and flicking it until it stood up, hard and wet, and a low moan emerged from Billie's throat.
His long, pretty, bare throat.
The corner of Tré's mouth lifted in amusement at the probably unintended blanket permission and he attacked with the mini Sharpie, sketching a heart grenade in the hollow of Billie's throat and tracing lines across both sides of his collarbone. Concentric circles around his other nipple, quickly followed by his mouth as he sucked that one rigid, too, before following the growing number of marker lines down his chest.
His giggles muffled against the singer's belly, Tré drew an arrow over top of Billie's happy trail, the head pointed straight down towards his cock. His very erect cock, the drummer couldn't help but notice, and he brought his other hand down to stroke lightly over the straining fabric, his Sharpie hand still wielding the tiny weapon.
Billie felt his entire being spark with pleasure as Tré turned his body into a child's art project. Every pull of the Sharpie across his skin tickled like the caresses of a thousand tiny tongues. A perfectly painless tattoo, he thought, the press of the marker light enough to make him squirm yet firm enough to know Tré had ownership on the brain, and the moans that issued from his throat at that idea reached fever pitch by the time Tré's hand began its slow press against his cock. He thrust up gently into that warm palm with a breathy gasp, his Adam's apple rippling the heart grenade drawing like a flag in a breeze.
He knew Tré would make him beg, tease him relentlessly until sweat made the circles and arrows on his chest smudge and bleed. But he wasn't going to plead for Tré's touch without keeping a little dignity for himself. An idea struck him that he knew would blow that wicked mind right out of Tré's head.
Summoning all of the concentration he had as Tré continued to stroke him, Billie slowly slid the Sharpie from Tré's fingers and dragged it across his own skin. The up-and-down movement of his stomach as his panting grew more furious made it difficult to say the least, and writing upside-down was hard enough when every single blood cell in your body hadn't taken up residence in your dick, but he managed, one hand locked in Tré's hair holding the drummer's head in place to watch the action unfold.
When he finished, literally shivering now with pure need, Tré's shell-shocked eyes focused just above the arrow he himself had drawn, and saw, in Billie's shaky scrawl, the word, 'PLEASE.'
The concreteness of the plea held a powerful appeal and Tré watched it ripple with the rest of the ink covering Billie's torso as he breathed heavily, the tattoos forming spots of artful color amidst the absolute mess of black he himself had made.
He flicked his gaze up to a flushed face, finding Billie's eyes closed and a nearly imperceptible smile on his lips. Think you can get me that easily, do you? Brilliant attempt, Bill, but it ain't gonna happen that fast.
Tré swept his tongue across the 'PLEASE' as he unbuttoned the frontman's pants and slipped them down to his knees. He grinned as he heard the faint whir of machinery that he'd learned to recognize as meaning that the fax machine was warming up before it spit something out. The timing was perfect.
He slid lower and with no preliminaries, swallowed Billie down, listening smugly to the loud moan. Tré sucked hard, wanting to bring his lover close to the edge, and felt around on the floor for one of the markers. He found a bigger one and mentally shrugged, working the cap off just as the fax machine emitted a beep and began to creak like old leather, cranking out paper. He pulled off Billie's cock with a wet pop.
"Gotta do my job. You understand, right, Bill?"
Without waiting for more of an answer than the frustrated whine, Tré scrawled 'THANK YOU' right under the 'PLEASE,' the big block letters curving to form a semi-circle that skirted the edge of the crisp, black hair at the base of his cock. He laughed in outright delight at the unexpected fluorescent orange accenting the black and promptly traced Billie's shaky lettering, using the highlighter like a drop shadow.
"Dude, you look awesome," he crowed, pressing a quick kiss to the wet tip of his erection, giggling when Billie swore. Tré stood, brushing off his pants, and gazed down at the mostly naked man on the floor. Awesome didn't begin to cover how he looked, spread out decadently and so eager that the drummer almost wanted to drop back to the ground and finish him off, just to listen to him come.
Almost. Tré wasn't anywhere near done playing yet.
No. No no no no no. The voice in Billie's head protested endlessly as he wriggled on the floor like a worm that had been sliced in two. A minute - no, 30 fucking SECONDS was all he'd needed, the image of Tré 's pink lips wrapped firmly around his cock still swimming in his vision. He propped himself up on his elbows, actually seeing for the first time the Day-Glo orange of his crotch. "Fuck!" he whispered to himself this time, as he realized Tré had every intention of leaving him here like some debauched Andy Warhol print. Fucker.
"A job?!" he roared, frustration and lust painting his cheeks a vivid pink. "I've got a 'job' you have to finish - right HERE!" But Tré simply stood, facing that blasted fax machine, his hips even swaying slightly to whatever victory song was undoubtedly playing in his head while he waited for some fucking piece of paper that was inevitably less important than Billie's neglected erection. "FUCK!"
Billie flopped back down on the floor, heaving one last shaky sigh and rubbing his eyes fitfully before taking stock of his situation. Revenge, he thought. Revenge would be nice, but when he pulled himself back up enough to try to shrug on his pants, one brush of the soft fabric against his cock forced a high-pitched whine from his lips that he could only barely contain. So, moving? Not really an option. He quickly dropped his hands to the floor, one hand landing on Tré's abandoned highlighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tré's bare back shake with stifled giggles, and Billie was struck with another round of pissed off inspiration.
Fun with office supplies? I'll show him fun with office supplies.
Billie snatched the highlighter up and examined its orange surface closely. Not as wide as two fingers but slightly bigger than one, and definitely long enough. He took a deep breath and exhaled it with resolve. This was one hell of a game of one-upmanship they had going here in the Reprise office copy room, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to a) win, and b) get himself off, one way or another.
Instead of pulling his pants back on, he kicked them completely off, knowing Tré would hear the sound of his belt clanging on the floor over the sound of the still-whirring fax machine, but that he'd choose to ignore it. Completely naked now on the cold, hard copy room floor, Billie pulled both of his legs tightly to his chest, and took the highlighter (capped end OUT, thank you very much) into his mouth, covering the thing with saliva and hoping to God he wasn't going to make himself sick. A moment later, he was pressing the blunt end of the highlighter into his ass, grunting softly as his body worked to adjust to the intrusion until...
"AH!" he exhaled softly when the highlighter found its target. In one smooth motion he arched off the linoleum floor and opened his mouth wide with an overly dramatic moan, just as the fax machine spit out its final page and silenced completely. Billie's eyes sparked with both indolent pleasure and mischievous determination.
Now it was time to start the show.
Tré nearly dropped the papers at the lascivious sound coming from behind him. It took him a couple of tries to get them stuck into the automatic stapler properly with slightly unsteady hands, but he did it and then, dropping it onto the pile, he turned to look at Billie.
His mouth unhinged a little in shock at the sight of the nude frontman fucking himself with an impromptu dildo. He blinked for a minute, watching the smooth pumping of Billie's hand, clenched around the fluorescent orange highlighter.
The first thought that appeared once his brain resumed function was, I wonder what else I could use on him?
He remembered something he'd read about in some sex column before and a grin spread across his face. Tré'd wanted to try it then but had forgotten about it since. Now he had a chance.
"If that's the way you wanna play it, Billie, I can come up with something better than that for your pretty little ass," Tré told him as he crouched down beside Billie Joe and reached out, stilling his hand and pulling out the highlighter over whimpers of protest. He leaned in closer and kissed the pouting mouth, swallowing another delicious moan. "Be right back."
He bounded to his feet and dove into one of the supply cupboards, searching for what he was sure he'd seen. Yup, there it was: a huge roll of bubble wrap. The really good kind, with the teeny-tiny bubbles. He cut off a big sheet and rolled it tightly, bubble side out, getting the size and shape he wanted and discarding the extra.
Tré tossed Billie what he hoped were reassuring looks every so often as he worked, although he kind of thought that his glee at this idea probably leaked through. But, shape accomplished, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a condom, ripping open the package and slipping it over the real homemade dildo.
He grabbed the bottle of mineral oil he'd used on the shredder blades earlier, figuring that something meant to lubricate steel should work okay for other stuff too. As he glanced once more at Billie, his gaze skittered past the copier, lid still raised from his earlier adventures, and the shit-eating grin was back.
Oh, yeah.
"Billie, stand up, dude. I need you to move somewhere."
Tré leered down at Billie, clutching a squeezable bottle of something in one hand, and the most horrifying faux-dildo he'd ever seen - like a genetically altered ear of corn gone horribly wrong - in the other. The nerves that had started to build as he watched Tré concoct his instrument of pleasure now began to wash over Billie's insides like waves as he stared at the finished product, but he tamped them down at the look of absolute heat he could see lurking behind the wicked delight in Tré's blue eyes. It's not like Billie hadn't been gunning for this outcome for the last 10 minutes in the most wanton way possible, right? Plus, he'd learned in the best ways that letting Tré work through whatever hare-brained, kinky idea he had at the time usually landed Billie in a satisfied, quivering heap on the floor. Or bed. Or kitchen counter.
So with those memories floating around in his mind, he plastered the best seductive grin he could muster on his kiss-swollen lips and slithered his way up off the floor, first propping his sweaty body up on his elbows and then latching his marker-stained fingers onto the waistband of Tré's pants for support. He let them rest there when he was fully standing, watching the progress of his slightly bobbing erection framed between his forearms, before meeting Tré's eyes.
"OK," he said, voice low and thick and ready. "Where do you want me?"
Tré had seen the expression of near-horror that had flitted across Billie's face before he gamely agreed to this plan and as a reward, he leaned in and kissed that little grin, lips latching on to Billie's. A low moan leaked out at the way the frontman's mouth opened for him and the trust he showed. Admittedly, none of his experiments had gone too horribly awry - failure typically translated into laughing too hard to fuck - but if this one did, well, Tré had 10 fingers and a tongue and an erection of his own as Plan B options.
He shifted his supplies to one hand and carefully backed the frontman up until he bumped into the copy machine, never letting up on the kiss. Setting his things down on a clean piece of paper on the table beside the machine, Tré slid his hands down onto Billie's bare ass and hoisted him, giggling at the oof of surprise. He deposited his handful on the exposed glass surface, correctly interpreting the next wary look.
"It'll be so fucking blurry that not even your ass would be recognizable, dude. Relax."
At the slightly apprehensive but agreeable nod, Tré placed Billie's hands behind his own head, where they gripped onto the edge of the raised copier lid. Then he bent and picked up one leg at a time, guiding the bare limbs to a widespread position with both feet braced on the machine.
He stepped back to survey his handiwork and rubbed a hand over his mouth, half-expecting to catch drool. The glass surface was level with Tré's waist and Billie sat there, extravagantly spread open for him, cock bobbing gently with his shallow, rapid breathing and hips rocked back to display the tight pucker that was his next target.
"Jesus Christ, you're sexy."
The smug smile the compliment produced faltered only a little as Tré picked up the bubble wrap dildo and the oil, coating the condom liberally. He stepped as close as possible to the machine and, gaze locked with hazel eyes that had greened with wanting, thrust two oiled fingers inside Billie, scissoring quickly.
The dark head thunked back against the machine's lid with a loud moan and Tré pulled his fingers out, nudging Billie's left foot in just a little bit, until the heel sat directly over the large green button. He pressed on the top of that bare foot and bright light flashed up between open legs.
The light and its accompanying heat distracted the singer long enough for Tré to press the tip of the bubble wrap dildo against his slick hole, pushing it in with a hard twist as the light flashed again and again with Billie's movements, the copier whirring like it was about to take off and shadowed, grainy evidence of penetration spitting out the side.
The oily, bumpy roll of plastic made quick work of Billie's senses, even as the burst of heat from the copier light saturated his entire backside.
"Ohhhhh GOD!" he moaned, his voice coming out in uneven, vibrating tones, thanks to the frantic motions of the copier beneath him as his foot reflexively pressed the 'copy' button, toes curling and wiggling in helpless pleasure. The bubbles on the dildo roughed over every nerve ending in his ass like hundreds of electrified pebbles, and its flat end seemed to press against every millimeter of his sweet spot at the same time.
"Shit, Tré…ungghh!" he cried, trying to thrust himself down on what was turning out to be Tré's best idea yet. Billie's gasps and mewls rose up to join the whirring of the copier in a cacophony of dirty, sexy sound. The shaking, the noise, the smells - of ink, of oil, hell, maybe even of his own skin as the copier light flared hot and bright beneath him - combined with his restricted position and blended into the dirtiest, loudest, most surreal fuck Billie had ever experienced, and it certainly wasn't going to last long.
Billie's arms shook with the strain of holding up the copier cover as Tré relentlessly fucked him, and it forced his chin to his chest. He watched beads of sweat make dizzying, messy trails down his heaving torso, bleeding Tré's handiwork into illegible patterns, until his eyes focused as best they could on the dildo sliding thick and rough in and out of his ass, guided by Tré's maniacal hand. The intense heat of the copier and the eerie glow gave an oddly mechanical feel to everything Billie's overloaded senses were experiencing. He needed touch, needed to feel Tré's hands - something organic and fleshy and real.
"Tré! Shit, Tré…come…come here!" he rasped and reached out to Tré with his right arm, leaving his shaky left one to hold the cover upright. He grabbed the sweaty drummer by the scruff of his neck and pulled him as close as the machine and his wickedly thrusting arm would allow for a shoddy and desperate attempt at a kiss. The angle of his head, the motion of the machine as it sputtered out copy after copy made only a messy crush of lips possible, Billie's mouth seeking out any skin it could find, settling for the upper corner of Tré's mouth, suckling his lip and panting against his face as his orgasm raced towards him like a fucking freight train. A steam train, apparently, Billie's embattled mind thought, as the rocking machine underneath him seemingly began to sizzle, it too reaching the end of its rope.
Billie squirmed violently as the copier seized beneath him, nearly squealing into Tré's mouth. "It's hot, Tré…Tré, holy SHIT! Oh GOD, it's HOT…ah! AH! Please, Tré! Make it st-sto-AH!"
Tré seemed to understand that somewhere beneath the keening cries was a legitimate request, and he grasped Billie's cock tightly with his free hand. The pain, the pleasure, the sheer absurdity of the situation mixed together in Billie's brain the minute Tré's fingers wrapped themselves around his cock, and in two quick pumps he was done for.
His shuddering intake of breath exploded in a scream and as his entire body tensed he lost control of everything. His back arched as far as the copier cover would let him, forcing his legs from their precarious balance on the edge of the machine. They shot out like tree branches to either side, and Tré released the dildo mid-thrust to wrap his arms around Billie's waist to keep him from sliding off the machine altogether, his come-covered hands smearing on the glass.
Billie sagged like a rag doll, limbs limp, the abandoned copier cover against his shoulder blades and Tré's arms around his waist the only things keeping him upright. He puffed hot, wet breaths against Tré's shoulder, realizing slowly that they were the only sounds he could hear in the now-silent copy room.
Not noticing the silence in his concern, Tré slid Billie off the copier into his arms, setting the shaky frontman on his feet and turning him around, leaning him against the table beside the overheated machine to steady him. He ran gentle fingers over the warm, reddened skin, relieved that there wasn't any damage.
"You're okay, Bill. You've got a hot ass but you already knew that." He grinned at the hiccoughing laugh and nuzzled close, feeling the excess heat from that ass against his groin. His own neglected erection twitched violently at the contact and Tré let out a breathless moan.
He shot one arm out, sweeping the table clear of its neat piles of copy paper, the various colors flying into the air and fluttering down in a pastel rainbow as he pressed Billie down, hearing a wet gasp as his torso flattened against the table. The flushed condition of his backside made it look kind of like he'd been spanked really hard and the images that conjured up sent Tré's simmering desire into a full boil.
He slipped sticky fingers between Billie's legs, pressing two inside him to check the stretch as he unzipped and let his pants drop around his ankles. Tré took the squeaky inhalation as a green light and rubbed his free hand over his cock, coating it with oil and come, then withdrew his fingers and thrust into that tight heat, feeling an almost equal warmth against his hips as they snapped against Billie's.
"You feel so fucking good," he gasped out, pumping hard, listening to those gorgeous moans begin to spiral upwards again. He reached for the singer's cock, coaxing it back to a partial erection and jerking him off nonetheless, the flesh growing harder in his hand when he didn't let up. Billie whimpered beneath him, his fingers curling against the table in helpless fists as Tré fucked him right through another orgasm before coming with a hoarse cry, spilling into that hot, red ass.
He pressed his face into Billie's spine, tonguing the sharp contours with affectionate, sloppy kisses. He could definitely go for a nap right about now, and he didn't think Billie would object too much, either.
Fate, however, had different plans. A voice drawled from behind them in a familiar mixture of exasperation and amusement.
"While the prodigious use of the labelmaker and writing instruments might have been predicted, I don't think Rob's expecting to find his copy room covered in jizz, dude. What the fuck were you guys thinking? Anyone could've walked in! You didn't even hear me!"
Oh, shit. Mommy Mike. Just what they needed. Carefully pulling out of Billie, rampant heat still pressed against his hips, Tré had a brilliant idea. He leaned farther over the frontman, making it look like he was making sure he was okay. Which he was, but his low whisper had a different purpose.
"Bill. Wanna get Mike? I still have Sharpies on my pants."
Billie was less-than-coherent as Tré whispered in his ear, so blitzed from the two orgasms he'd had in the span of, oh, about 15 minutes that he barely even registered Mike's presence at the sound of his voice. But he wasn't too far-gone to overlook an opportunity to turn the tables, so to speak, on his best friend of more than 20 years.
Billie nodded frantically at Tré. "Follow my lead," he whispered, "and help me up, you bastard." He giggled at the resulting grin on Tré's face as the drummer hauled him up off the table by the waist.
Billie let his features color with feigned modesty as he stood naked in front of Mike, stained with black and red Sharpie and his own come. "Uh, Mike? Could you maybe bring me my clothes?" he asked, folding his arms behind his back and tracing a mark on the tile floor with his toe. He didn't really expect Mike to fall for his timid schoolgirl act, but it would get Mike where they needed him.
Mike sighed as he gathered up the remains of Billie's clothing, taking extra special notice of Billie's deformed dress shirt.
"Jesus Christ, guys! What did you DO - run this through the shredder?" he asked in amazement, sliding the tattered garment through his fingers as he approached the debauched duo. "And, oh GOD, if so, you didn't break the thing, did you?"
Billie just smirked as he took his clothes from Mike's hands.
"Don't worry, Mikey. The shredder is safe. You, on the other hand?" With a quick wink, Billie suddenly ducked out from between his two best friends as Tré grabbed the bassist's head for a hard, distracting kiss. Mike oofed into Tré's mouth as Billie quickly sidled around to Mike's back, using his ruined shirt to bind their bandmate's arms behind him. Once the bassist was tied up tight, Billie slipped back into his pants and went to retrieve an item he'd spotted earlier that had poor Mike Dirnt's name written all over it.
Tré disengaged from Mike's lips with a loud smack and conspiratorial grin at Billie, who returned to a captive Mike's side with an air duster can in his hands and a look of pure, wicked glee on his face.
"You, Mike," he growled into the bassist's ear, "are in BIG trouble."
Tré giggled at Mike's expression of abject horror. "C'mon, we know you like to get down." That was all the warning he gave before he kicked the bassist's feet out from under him, catching him around the chest and lowering the tall body to the floor.
He managed to get Mike's T-shirt over his head and pulled down far enough so that it dangled across his elbows, just above where Billie had tied his wrists together. It provided an extra layer of security locking his arms together, one that might prove necessary if he kept trying to get free.
Mind you, watching his biceps flex helplessly was pretty fun - the man had gorgeous arms. But as Billie Joe yanked off Mike's bottoms, he began to struggle harder and Tré decided in favor of expediency: he sat on Mike.
Straddling the prone man's lower back, he looked at the mini Sharpies that remained attached to his belt loops, picking out one vivid green and one deep blue. The plastic rattled as he pulled them free and Mike yelped.
"Don't you draw on me, you fucker! I am not a kindergarten art project!"
He heard Billie snicker behind him as he pressed the green marker's tip in between protruding shoulder blades, writing 'GREEN DAY' in big, block letters that he went over a few times until they were good and thick. Grinning, Tré bent down and licked the back of Mike's neck.
"F'you were a kindergarten art project, dude, I'd glue macaroni to you. Right now I'm just gonna mark you up but good."
His mouth shifted to where the tendons stood out along the side of the bassist's neck and he nibbled and sucked, working up a massive hickey as the ominous hiss of canned air sounded in the room.
Billie crouched as he watched Tré's mouth move over Mike's neck, his dick surprisingly twitching in his just-donned pants at the soft, keening whimper that escaped Mike's protesting form while Tré marked him. Billie started his part of the torture by shooting the compressed air across Mike's bare calves, and the bassist twitched violently under the press of Tré's legs.
"Billie!" he gasped, reacting to the gentle tickling sensation of cool air against his skin before seemingly remembering his anger. "I am going to kick the motherfucking SHIT out of you, you cocksucker - what IS that?"
Billie clucked his tongue. "Oh, shut the fuck up, Mikey. You ruined our office supply fun." He fired one more blast of air against the backs of Mike's knees, following it up with a dry, smacking kiss. "And now you must pay."
He started a slow progression of bursts up the length of the bassist's legs, from calf to the back of the knee to the thigh. Mike's angry whines morphed rather subtly into pleased sighs as Billie worked, watching the dark hairs on Mike's legs fan out in circles with each blast until he reached Mike's bare ass.
"You have a hot ass, Mikey," Billie said with a lewd grin, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth skin of Tré's back in front of him, and landing a sharp smack to Mike's behind. "Let's cool it down a bit, shall we?" Mike wriggled unhappily beneath him as Billie spread his cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, and shot one, long, continuous spray of compressed air along the crack of Mike's ass - up and down, over and over, until the can turned icy cold in his hands. You're gonna get it now, Billie thought, before pressing the frigid can against the skin between Mike's thighs.
The bassist spasmed almost immediately, his hips shooting up violently and nearly throwing Tré to the floor, but the drummer clamped down even harder on the bassist's torso, snorting and moving to make a matching mark on the other side of Mike's neck. "Fuck, shit, fuck, FUCK! Bill, that's cold! Take it off!" Mike pleaded.
Billie only snickered in response. "Are you sorry you interrupted us?"
"Bill, what if someone FOUND you?"
He pressed the cold can harder against Mike's skin. "Are you SORRY?"
Mike gasped again. "Fine, yes! I'm sorry!"
Billie smiled, taking the can in his hands and positioning the long nozzle against Mike's opening, admiring the pink skin left behind by the frozen can of air. "I don't believe you," he said simply, pressing the trigger and shooting air directly into Mike's ass.
The lanky bassist shuddered from head to toe as Billie shot burst after burst of air into his ass, moving quickly from pissed off to a little nervous to straight-up turned on right in front of his friends' eyes. Billie watched Mike writhe with pride and no small amount of curiosity as to how good THAT sensation must feel.
"Jesus, Billie!" Mike breathed. "Oh god oh god ohgodohgod…" His head lolled from side-to-side helplessly, forehead pressed to the dirty floor underneath Tré's mouth and Billie's hands. "I'm sorry, OK? I'M SORRY! Just…AH…I don't know…please."
"Please what, Mikey?" Tré left off nibbling long enough to ask, smiling at the disgruntled noise that met his words. "What do you want?"
It wasn't an entirely facetious question - he did really want to know. There were, after all, any number of possibilities.
Mike groaned, voice emerging in a hoarse pant. "Just…fuck me or suck me off or…I don't know and I don't fucking care so long as you do it now, please!"
Tré moved off the bassist, slightly awed by the level of neediness they'd managed to reduce him to in about 10 minutes. He exchanged a surprised glance with Billie, noting that neither one of them were exactly ready to take care of Mike yet. His eyes flickered to the abandoned bubble wrap dildo and Billie handed it over with a grin.
He yanked off the used condom and rolled on a fresh one, coating it with the shredder oil as Billie coaxed Mike up onto his knees, his shoulders and face still pressed against the floor. When Tré was ready, he slipped an oiled finger into Mike's raised ass and motioned at Billie Joe, smirking when the frontman figured out what he meant and slid underneath the bassist, mouth fastening to Mike's erection even as Tré's fingers scissored and stretched until the frantic sounds bleeding from the kneeling form told him to get on with it, and he pressed the homemade dildo inside Mike with the same vicious twist he'd used to such stunning effect on Billie.
Mike's prone form hitched violently backwards as Tré slid the dildo completely into his ass.
"SHIT, TRÉ!" he yelled. "That's not…ah, AH…what the hell have you guys been doing in here?" But one more sharp twist of the dildo and Mike melted into a moaning pile of lanky bassist.
Billie gagged a little with the movement, but kept himself still, snorfling at Mike's amazement over Tré's new toy. The angle was slightly painful, but Billie simply held himself up, doing an impromptu set of abdominal crunches as he worked his mouth tightly over Mike's cock, moving expertly with the erratic rhythm of the bassist's overworked hips. His tongue swirled around the head, sliding through the slit every so often, until the bassist's knees began to give way and he came with a gurgled shout.
Billie fought to swallow as much as he possibly could, but the inevitable bit he couldn't handle he made quick plans for. Keeping his lips closed seamlessly, he slid out from underneath Mike as quickly as his little legs would move him so Mike could collapse without crushing him. Billie gestured to a smugly satisfied Tré to come join him up by their friend's head, which was now pressed facedown onto the floor as his whole body vibrated with the remnants of his release.
Overcome with a wave of sheer adoration for his bandmates and lovers, Billie leaned down and lifted Mike's head from the floor, kissing him with sticky red lips and a mouth still filled with his own come before releasing him and turning to Tré with the same messy exchange. He slid his tongue from Tré's mouth after a moment with a dramatic gulp and a grin and pulled a heap of spent bassist into his lap, while his cheeky drummer laid his head on Billie's shoulder with a gratified sigh.
The three of them rested there for a moment, catching their collective breath until Mike mumbled into the damp skin of Billie's belly, "God, I love you, you kinky fuckers."
Billie glanced down at his decorated chest - Tré's handiwork now completely smeared into unrecognizable blobs - before bursting into a fit of hysterical giggles.
"Dudes, we're a fucking mess," he snorted, but then took a sobering look around at the absolutely decimated copy room. "Shit, this PLACE is a mess. Rob is gonna destroy us."
Tré's eyes followed the same path and he grimaced. "Aw, fuck, don't tell me we gotta be responsible about it and clean up." Although the come-splattered copy machine definitely needed to be wiped down, as did the similarly-decorated floor under the table beside it, and then there was…he sighed, defeated. "Fine, fine."
Before doing anything else, he pulled Mike's shirt back over the bassist's head and untied his wrists, the utter ruin of Billie's shirt making Tré's smile return. He rolled Mike over and kissed him. "Wasn't that so much better than getting pissed off at us?"
Mike gave him a dirty look but he helped tidy the room - at least, as best as they could manage, since Tré didn't really know where he'd gotten everything he'd pulled out to play with. They eventually dumped it all into a mostly empty supply cupboard, figuring that at least then it wasn't sitting on the floor. Although the much-abused orange highlighter went into a stray plastic bag along with the shirt remains, the used condoms, and the couple dozen photocopies of Billie's ass being fucked that Tré deemed worth keeping. The rest they shredded while teasing Billie so much that he blushed furiously.
When it was as good as it was going to get, Tré found his belt, shoes, shirt and tie and passed his jacket off to Billie. The frontman looked an absolute dork with it zipped up to his throat but it did conceal the smudged mess of his chest.
"Sorry I couldn't remove any of the marker, Bill. It should wear off in, I don't know, four or five days." Tré giggled at the pained expression that got him, not feeling one bit of remorse.
He glanced around one last time and noticed that it was a few minutes past midnight - the contest deadline had passed and his duties were over. Tré flipped off the radio and walked over to where his bandmates stood together, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders.
"So, boys, we're free as birds now. Wanna go get drunk?" He laughed as the token protests turned into Mike calling a cab, and just as they were exiting the room, Tré dashed back inside.
He returned a moment later to two sets of identically raised eyebrows at the industrial-size roll of bubble wrap held under his arm. "What, you thought you were safe now? That's the best fucking idea I ever had!"
Tré stuffed the roll into the bag with the other stuff, intending to drop it in his car before leaving Reprise for the cozy confines of a bar, grinning as Billie and Mike teased him about him being the victim next time. He thought back to the needy arch of the frontman's body, outlined in brightness, and the bound curve of the bassist's back, cheek pressed hard to the floor, and his grin only widened.
Next victim? Oh, fuck, yeah.
~The End~
Thanks to everyone who made it through our little story, Pop Goes the Asshole OR How Tré Cool Learned to Love Bubble Wrap. We make no apologies for any sanity lost along the way. (Tas also hopes that she doesn't get busted for using knowledge learned as a Staples employee for pr0nification purposes!) :D
Don't forget to leave leighrowena some love, too! :-)
Author: Marisa (leighrowena) & Tas (tasyfa)
Fandom: Green Day RPS - Billie Joe Armstrong/Mike Dirnt
Characters: Billie/Tré Cool, Billie/Tré/Mike
Prompt: 32: Branding for the 50kinkyways challenge ( Tas's kink prompt table.)
Word Count: 9,274
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves.
Author's Notes: Office supply pr0n for thelackey and and_ed, incorporating a few specified items, photos of which are linked within the body of the story itself (along with anything else we misappropriated that might need a visual aid). Props also go to Josey Vogels's My Messy Bedroom for a certain little tip. *naughty grin* Warnings for mild bondage, object insertion, and general abuse of office supplies. We hope you enjoy your PWP, ladies!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Rob Cavallo was a dead man.
'Since you guys are in town, could you come in for just a little while and pose for a picture for this charity thing we're doing, make it look like you're manning the fort? It's this fax-in campaign. It'll take half an hour, an hour tops.'
'I hate to ask, but my office manager's come down with the flu and I don't have anyone else who can come in on a Saturday. I'm begging you here, please?'
Billie Joe had pled off using Adrienne as an excuse. Mike had done the same with Brittney. Tré, well, Tré didn't have a girlfriend or wife handy and Rob had turned big, pleading eyes on him. The man could give Poutmaster Billie a run for his money, although Mike had this kicked puppy expression that did Tré and Billie both in every time. Gloomily, Tré had caved, and found himself stuck in the windowless copy room until the midnight deadline, retrieving paper from one of a dozen fax machines and piling it for someone to check through on Monday morning. Rob had known better than to ask him to actually look through the paperwork.
He hadn't stayed pissed long, though. After finding a radio and cranking it up, he'd taken a bunch of photocopies of his face, pulling various silly expressions. That only entertained him for so long, and he'd been dreadfully bored afterwards for the fifteen minutes it had taken him to discover the office supplies.
There were cupboards and cupboards of the stuff, just waiting for someone to use it. Tré had filled up several pads of paper trying one of every single kind of pen. He'd also found a whole bunch of miniature Sharpies, meant to go on a keychain. Once he'd found some key rings, he'd put one of each color on two rings and now a rainbow of markers hung from his belt loops, one on each side. They made a plastic clacking sound when he bounced.
Of course, once he'd figured out that he truly was alone and no one was going to bother him, he'd dropped his pants and hopped onto the photocopier, taking a bunch more copies of his ass with his dick placed at various angles. This had led to trying out the shredder, when he put his pants back on and took off everything else instead. There was a big warning label about wearing a tie while using the machine and it couldn't hurt to get rid of any possible problems.
While watching the shredder chew his ass, Tré had a flash of brilliance and went looking for a labelmaker. The two shredders in the room soon bore an ex-wife's name each, and he randomly labeled every other piece of machinery. It would probably cause some headaches when the color printer was discovered with a 'cuntlicker' label, or the paper cutter with an 'assfucker' label, but that wasn't his problem. Rob would re-learn that Tré could be coerced into doing things but always on his own terms.
He surveyed his current project and attached the last link of the long chain of alternating gold and silver paperclips, and clipped one end to his ear lobe as if it were a bundle of paper. The other end he carefully attached to his nipple ring and then gave his chest a shake.
Tré grinned at the resultant light tug. It felt good. Good enough that he shimmied a little harder, giggling as the chain swung wildly. He would have to think about getting a ring with a little more weight to it.
It was his own fault, Billie thought as he pulled into the Reprise parking lots.
He'd thought he had an airtight excuse. Armstrong Family Dinner-and-Movie Nights were sacrosanct, and he wasn't going to tempt fate, or Adie's deeply hidden wrath, by suggesting he skip it to do a promotional stint for Reprise. Nope. He had a date with his wife, his boys and their record tenth viewing of 'Chicken Little,' and Rob was just going to have to make do with one-third of Green Day.
But once Joey copped to a math homework assignment he'd kept from his mom, the movie showing was immediately cancelled, which also made it reasonable to send Jakob to bed early to battle the small case of the sniffles he'd come down with that week.
So all it took was one off-the-cuff mention of Rob's office manager publicity stunt while he rifled through Joey's school bag for Adie's small index finger to point definitively in the direction of the door. It was part of his responsibility to the label, she'd said, Tré probably needed some help and besides, she was concerned for the safety of the Reprise offices while in Tré's hands. "Billie, the place could be on fire! And you're no good at math, anyway."
They were good points, Billie conceded, punching in the code to open the tall glass doors of the office building, so after he'd sung Jakob just one more lullaby and pretended to look over Joey's page of fractions, he'd hopped in the car. Standing now in the dimly lit hallway he couldn't see or smell any smoke, so he figured Tré couldn't have gotten into too much trouble.
After a few steps he could hear the muffled sounds of the radio filtering down the hall from the copy room. He couldn't suppress a grin; he knew Tré loved to sing along to the latest Top 40 drivel when he thought no one was around.
"Tré?" he called as he approached the half-closed door to the copy room, but got no answer. He didn't want to give the man a heart attack; after all, Tré was supposed to be manning the fort alone, so rather than just barge right in he slowly pushed the door open.
"Tré, you in there?"
After 16 years of friendship with Tré Cool, Billie had gotten used to the fact that it was impossible to know what to expect from him at any given moment. But even that wasn't enough to prepare him for the sight that met his eyes as he fully entered the warm copy room: Tré, shirtless, shoeless and beltless, with a nearly two-foot-long chain of paper clips connecting his ear and his nipple, shaking his chest and hips and gyrating like a deranged Chiquita Banana lady on serious steroids.
Billie gaped for a moment, until an uproarious snort burst uncontrollably from his lungs and he collapsed against the doorframe, doubled over with laughter that was almost painful.
"Dude, why don't you grab two boxes of thumbtacks," he said when he could finally breathe again. "You could shake them like some fucked-up maracas. You know, complete the look."
Tré did a double-take at the sudden voice, his hand catching on the swinging chain and tugging quite a bit harder than he'd been looking for.
"Ow. Jesus Christ, Bill, warn a guy! What the fuck happened to Dinner-and-Movie Night?"
He unfastened both ends of the paperclip chain, giving it a glare for not having cooperated fully before chucking it in the general direction of one of the open supply cupboards and turning down the radio a little so they could hear each other without shouting.
"Seriously, dude, what're you doing here? Everything okay?"
Billie's giggles resurfaced as Tré freed himself from his experiment in paper fastener bondage. Billie cast his eyes about the room with amazement, taking in the absolute havoc Tré had wreaked during his unsupervised hours: pens, shredded strips of paper, uncapped highlighters, multi-colored Post-Its - dude, was that a labelmaker? - were strewn about the floor as if a Staples warehouse had exploded somewhere in the Bay and its remnants had fluttered down strategically in this one copy room. But he sobered up a bit at Tré's second question.
"What? Oh, yeah, man. 'Course it is," he answered, entering the room fully and meandering over to a particularly cluttered table, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his sagging black pants. "It was cancelled. Turns out Joey takes after his old man in the avoiding-your-homework department." He picked up a black Sharpie from the pile of used and abused supplies, noting all the pads of paper featuring scribbles of Tré's childlike handwriting, and started twirling it between his fingers thoughtfully. "Adie sent me to make sure you weren't burning the place down."
He pulled the cap off of the Sharpie and took an experimental sniff, the felt tip of the marker hovering dangerously close to his nose, and he met Tré's eyes with a mischievous smirk. "I don't think she'd have sent me over here if she'd thought I'd catch you doing the nearly naked hula with a bunch of office supplies, though…you kinky bastard," he added as an afterthought.
Tré laughed at the frontman's raised eyebrows and giggles. Billie Joe had the best giggle - even girlier than Mike's, which was saying something. "Aw, you missed all the kink, Bill. I already shredded the photocopies of my bare ass."
He eyed the uncapped marker in Billie's hand, seeing how it contrasted with his white shirt. He must've been trying to be all pretty and proper for Family Night; it was just a plain, button-down shirt, nothing special about it at all.
Tré could definitely make it better.
He moved closer casually as he talked. "So Adie said drive and you said how far, huh? Gotta say I'm not shocked that your kid takes after you in the homework department, although it does make me feel kinda sorry for your wife, stuck with you and a couple of Mini-Me's." Tré chuckled at Billie's sputtering glare and finally moved close enough to strike.
His right hand snatched the Sharpie as he spun Billie around with the left, signing his name in double time across the chest of the shirt and then jumping back, out of immediate striking range, with the brand-new weapon held aloft and a huge grin splitting his face.
"Gotcha."
Billie looked down in abject horror at his shirt, once neatly starched and pressed by his loving wife, now completely demolished by the man whose name had been scratched across his left side, one 'o' in 'Cool' serendipitously encircling his nipple.
"You cocksucker!" Billie squealed indignantly at the drummer, pulling his shirt taut to get a closer, still-shocked look at Tré's handiwork. If he were being completely honest with himself, he'd have admitted that the quick press of the felt tip pen against his chest and Tré's strong grip holding him steady had certainly not been unpleasant, even for such a short moment, and his brain had definitely been kind of stuck on the image of that silver and gold chain sparkling against the tanned skin of Tré's broad chest when he'd found him.
But now was not the time for fantasizing - it was time for revenge. In one second he armed himself with another Sharpie - red this time - and raised it in defense against the drummer, who was still grinning at Billie as if he were Bob Ross on crack and Billie his blank canvas. He stared his aggressor down, those blue eyes sparkling mischievously back, and felt a familiar spark shoot sharply down his spine - the kind he always feels when he realizes the wheels in Tré's head have started turning. He made one last ditch effort to save his clothing.
"I don't want to fight you, Tré," Billie said with mock seriousness, "and my shirt might still be salvageable, so why don't you put that marker down and we'll settle this another way?"
Tré cackled. Oh, it was on now. Salvageable? By the time he was done with it, that pretty white shirt would be ink and tatters. Really, Billie should have known better than to appeal to his rational side, because if it didn't involve one of his kids, Tré rarely paid attention to rationality.
"I know you're not suggesting that we settle this like mature adults, Armstrong. What'd you have in mind, a cock fight?" He leered at the black-haired man, the effect spoiled somewhat by his inability to stop smiling.
But that didn't stop him from darting back in for another swipe, leaving a long line going right across Billie's ribcage. And just to make things interesting, he also got in a quick grope with his other hand.
He winked once he was out of reach again. "Can't fight if you don't have a weapon."
Oh NO he didn't. Now it was personal. Billie's mind quickly changed gears. Tré was fighting dirty, and the only way to win this thing now was with a little well-played distraction.
"My cock is TWICE the weapon yours will EVER be, Cool," Billie snarled, his voice slipping naturally into his guttural onstage growl. "Dude, it's fucking Excalibur." Answering Tré's maniacal grin with a wicked one of his own, he began a one-handed unbuttoning of his ruined shirt while inching ever-so-slightly closer, knowing Tré would not be able to resist a peek at the inked skin below. "You should know, considering you can't seem to keep your hands off of it," he added with a throaty chuckle.
He waited until Tré's eyes had predictably flickered down to Billie's fingers skillfully working open the fourth button (Who's gotcha now? Billie congratulated himself prematurely) when he struck, a cat-like swipe of his Sharpie-wielding hand against the bared skin of Tré's stomach.
That growl was definitely hitting in places that were below the belt, and the flirty little striptease wasn't helping. Tré's eyes followed the popping buttons but he stayed aware of what was happening in his peripheral vision and when Billie struck, Tré was ready.
Not quite fast enough, though, as it turned out; a red slash appeared across his stomach that looked as if it ought to be dripping blood. He reacted in the only logical way: shrieking like a B movie victim as he flapped his arms dramatically and sank to the floor, emoting the fuck out of his death scene.
At length he gave a piteous little cry and one last, weak flail before rolling onto his back, wide eyes focused on the great beyond, and succumbing to the darkness with a rattling exhalation.
Billie watched Tré take his last melodramatic breath with delighted amusement, the last vestiges of his death throes still shaking through his body. The red Sharpie stripe glistened wetly on that beautiful belly. But he still wanted to play, and Tré wasn't moving. "Are you dead, Tré?" he asked, leaning over and giving the firm shoulders a shake. He was met with no movement, and an idea popped into his shaggy head.
He scuttled back over to the table where Tré had left his path of office supply destruction and found a set of 'Sign Here' Post-Its that would do nicely.
Skipping back over to Tré, his shirt half unbuttoned and hanging off his slender frame, he bent over Tré's exposed toes, wrapping one Post-It around it like a toe tag. He then grabbed his discarded Sharpie and went to write Tré's time of death on the little arrow, but thought better of it for a moment.
Before signing Tré's 'official' death sentence he sidled up the drummer's body, straddling the fake-dead hips and holding himself up by hands on either side of Tré's red head. He leaned close and looked into his wide, blank eyes, which still stared straight up at the ceiling. How had he not needed to blink all this time?
"Dude, I'm about to toe-tag you," Billie announced, his breath puffing over Tré's face. But within a moment his lips turned upwards into an evil grin. "But I never tried mouth-to-mouth."
Tré maintained the unblinking stare as Billie moved into his close-up field of vision, very much aware of the knees on either side of his hips. He kept his mouth slack when soft, full lips touched his, waiting until Billie began to put some real effort into it, tongue slipping into Tré's mouth, and then Tré was in motion.
He flipped them over, lying sprawled on top now with his body nestled between Billie's legs, and he kissed back enthusiastically, one hand going to tangle in dark hair.
The other hand slipped down his own body to his waist, unobtrusively tugging at the small markers attached to his belt loops. He pulled a few free and awkwardly arranged them in his palm one-handed, concentration split between his Sharpie endeavor and the enticing taste of Billie's mouth.
When they broke for air at last, the frontman's lips were kiss-swollen, shining and moist, and his expression more than a little dazed. Tré didn't take the time to gloat, though; he lifted up enough for his armed hand to take several strokes across the front of Billie's shirt, the white fabric blooming in a riot of color.
And when Billie wriggled and swore, trying to get loose, Tré grabbed his sleeve near the shoulder and pulled hard.
The sound of ripping cloth filled the copy room.
Billie's lust-hooded eyes widened to the size of saucers as he felt more than heard the fabric of his shirt tear away from his body. Both he and Tré looked down at Billie's chest; the once pristine white shirt now dangled like a thick, multi-colored streamer from his shoulder.
His shirt completely ruined, Billie's mind quickly progressed past the destruction of one of his nicest pieces of clothing, and even past the snarky, 'Well it looks like I know how to wake the dead!' comment he'd prepared in his head while Tré massaged his tongue against Billie's soft palate, choosing instead to focus on his now half-hard cock. This was NOT where this night was supposed to have headed, but apparently he could add 'office supplies' to the long list of items that made Tré irresistibly horny.
In the struggle, both of Billie's hands had ended up clasping Tré's broad shoulders, and one of Tré's hands - the one still gripping tightly to four tiny Sharpies - now rested lightly on Billie's stomach. Billie used the leverage to lift himself and shrug the remains of the shirt from his body, one arm at a time and eyes never leaving the now curious blue ones of the drummer who was still pressed against him in a hundred inappropriate ways.
Freed of the shirt and again lying prostrate under Tré, Billie slid his hand down his own torso, its rough progress over his sensitized skin forcing a tiny gasp from the frontman's lips before he clasped onto Tré's Sharpie-laden hand. One by one, he removed all but one Sharpie from the drummer's lax fingers, and brought Tré's hand back up his body to his chest, wet tip of the Sharpie poised over one of the spare blank patches of skin between Billie's nipples.
He met Tré's eyes again with a look as smooth as melted chocolate, not hesitating to run his pink tongue across his lips in anticipation just one time before opening his mouth.
"Go ahead," he challenged with a cocky nod. "Mark me."
Tré watched the progress of their hands up Billie's bare chest, breath coming faster at the unmistakable change in the atmosphere. He met green eyes hazed with want, and then the man under him issued a clear invitation.
He didn't need to be asked twice. Tré scrawled his name exactly as he had before, only this time the black ink dragged over pale skin, curling lazily around one flat nipple to end with a looping 'l.' He stared at it as the curved lines dried to a matte sheen, feeling an unexpected wave of possessiveness.
As soon as he was sure it was dry, he dropped his head, tongue finding that encircled nipple and flicking it until it stood up, hard and wet, and a low moan emerged from Billie's throat.
His long, pretty, bare throat.
The corner of Tré's mouth lifted in amusement at the probably unintended blanket permission and he attacked with the mini Sharpie, sketching a heart grenade in the hollow of Billie's throat and tracing lines across both sides of his collarbone. Concentric circles around his other nipple, quickly followed by his mouth as he sucked that one rigid, too, before following the growing number of marker lines down his chest.
His giggles muffled against the singer's belly, Tré drew an arrow over top of Billie's happy trail, the head pointed straight down towards his cock. His very erect cock, the drummer couldn't help but notice, and he brought his other hand down to stroke lightly over the straining fabric, his Sharpie hand still wielding the tiny weapon.
Billie felt his entire being spark with pleasure as Tré turned his body into a child's art project. Every pull of the Sharpie across his skin tickled like the caresses of a thousand tiny tongues. A perfectly painless tattoo, he thought, the press of the marker light enough to make him squirm yet firm enough to know Tré had ownership on the brain, and the moans that issued from his throat at that idea reached fever pitch by the time Tré's hand began its slow press against his cock. He thrust up gently into that warm palm with a breathy gasp, his Adam's apple rippling the heart grenade drawing like a flag in a breeze.
He knew Tré would make him beg, tease him relentlessly until sweat made the circles and arrows on his chest smudge and bleed. But he wasn't going to plead for Tré's touch without keeping a little dignity for himself. An idea struck him that he knew would blow that wicked mind right out of Tré's head.
Summoning all of the concentration he had as Tré continued to stroke him, Billie slowly slid the Sharpie from Tré's fingers and dragged it across his own skin. The up-and-down movement of his stomach as his panting grew more furious made it difficult to say the least, and writing upside-down was hard enough when every single blood cell in your body hadn't taken up residence in your dick, but he managed, one hand locked in Tré's hair holding the drummer's head in place to watch the action unfold.
When he finished, literally shivering now with pure need, Tré's shell-shocked eyes focused just above the arrow he himself had drawn, and saw, in Billie's shaky scrawl, the word, 'PLEASE.'
The concreteness of the plea held a powerful appeal and Tré watched it ripple with the rest of the ink covering Billie's torso as he breathed heavily, the tattoos forming spots of artful color amidst the absolute mess of black he himself had made.
He flicked his gaze up to a flushed face, finding Billie's eyes closed and a nearly imperceptible smile on his lips. Think you can get me that easily, do you? Brilliant attempt, Bill, but it ain't gonna happen that fast.
Tré swept his tongue across the 'PLEASE' as he unbuttoned the frontman's pants and slipped them down to his knees. He grinned as he heard the faint whir of machinery that he'd learned to recognize as meaning that the fax machine was warming up before it spit something out. The timing was perfect.
He slid lower and with no preliminaries, swallowed Billie down, listening smugly to the loud moan. Tré sucked hard, wanting to bring his lover close to the edge, and felt around on the floor for one of the markers. He found a bigger one and mentally shrugged, working the cap off just as the fax machine emitted a beep and began to creak like old leather, cranking out paper. He pulled off Billie's cock with a wet pop.
"Gotta do my job. You understand, right, Bill?"
Without waiting for more of an answer than the frustrated whine, Tré scrawled 'THANK YOU' right under the 'PLEASE,' the big block letters curving to form a semi-circle that skirted the edge of the crisp, black hair at the base of his cock. He laughed in outright delight at the unexpected fluorescent orange accenting the black and promptly traced Billie's shaky lettering, using the highlighter like a drop shadow.
"Dude, you look awesome," he crowed, pressing a quick kiss to the wet tip of his erection, giggling when Billie swore. Tré stood, brushing off his pants, and gazed down at the mostly naked man on the floor. Awesome didn't begin to cover how he looked, spread out decadently and so eager that the drummer almost wanted to drop back to the ground and finish him off, just to listen to him come.
Almost. Tré wasn't anywhere near done playing yet.
No. No no no no no. The voice in Billie's head protested endlessly as he wriggled on the floor like a worm that had been sliced in two. A minute - no, 30 fucking SECONDS was all he'd needed, the image of Tré 's pink lips wrapped firmly around his cock still swimming in his vision. He propped himself up on his elbows, actually seeing for the first time the Day-Glo orange of his crotch. "Fuck!" he whispered to himself this time, as he realized Tré had every intention of leaving him here like some debauched Andy Warhol print. Fucker.
"A job?!" he roared, frustration and lust painting his cheeks a vivid pink. "I've got a 'job' you have to finish - right HERE!" But Tré simply stood, facing that blasted fax machine, his hips even swaying slightly to whatever victory song was undoubtedly playing in his head while he waited for some fucking piece of paper that was inevitably less important than Billie's neglected erection. "FUCK!"
Billie flopped back down on the floor, heaving one last shaky sigh and rubbing his eyes fitfully before taking stock of his situation. Revenge, he thought. Revenge would be nice, but when he pulled himself back up enough to try to shrug on his pants, one brush of the soft fabric against his cock forced a high-pitched whine from his lips that he could only barely contain. So, moving? Not really an option. He quickly dropped his hands to the floor, one hand landing on Tré's abandoned highlighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tré's bare back shake with stifled giggles, and Billie was struck with another round of pissed off inspiration.
Fun with office supplies? I'll show him fun with office supplies.
Billie snatched the highlighter up and examined its orange surface closely. Not as wide as two fingers but slightly bigger than one, and definitely long enough. He took a deep breath and exhaled it with resolve. This was one hell of a game of one-upmanship they had going here in the Reprise office copy room, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to a) win, and b) get himself off, one way or another.
Instead of pulling his pants back on, he kicked them completely off, knowing Tré would hear the sound of his belt clanging on the floor over the sound of the still-whirring fax machine, but that he'd choose to ignore it. Completely naked now on the cold, hard copy room floor, Billie pulled both of his legs tightly to his chest, and took the highlighter (capped end OUT, thank you very much) into his mouth, covering the thing with saliva and hoping to God he wasn't going to make himself sick. A moment later, he was pressing the blunt end of the highlighter into his ass, grunting softly as his body worked to adjust to the intrusion until...
"AH!" he exhaled softly when the highlighter found its target. In one smooth motion he arched off the linoleum floor and opened his mouth wide with an overly dramatic moan, just as the fax machine spit out its final page and silenced completely. Billie's eyes sparked with both indolent pleasure and mischievous determination.
Now it was time to start the show.
Tré nearly dropped the papers at the lascivious sound coming from behind him. It took him a couple of tries to get them stuck into the automatic stapler properly with slightly unsteady hands, but he did it and then, dropping it onto the pile, he turned to look at Billie.
His mouth unhinged a little in shock at the sight of the nude frontman fucking himself with an impromptu dildo. He blinked for a minute, watching the smooth pumping of Billie's hand, clenched around the fluorescent orange highlighter.
The first thought that appeared once his brain resumed function was, I wonder what else I could use on him?
He remembered something he'd read about in some sex column before and a grin spread across his face. Tré'd wanted to try it then but had forgotten about it since. Now he had a chance.
"If that's the way you wanna play it, Billie, I can come up with something better than that for your pretty little ass," Tré told him as he crouched down beside Billie Joe and reached out, stilling his hand and pulling out the highlighter over whimpers of protest. He leaned in closer and kissed the pouting mouth, swallowing another delicious moan. "Be right back."
He bounded to his feet and dove into one of the supply cupboards, searching for what he was sure he'd seen. Yup, there it was: a huge roll of bubble wrap. The really good kind, with the teeny-tiny bubbles. He cut off a big sheet and rolled it tightly, bubble side out, getting the size and shape he wanted and discarding the extra.
Tré tossed Billie what he hoped were reassuring looks every so often as he worked, although he kind of thought that his glee at this idea probably leaked through. But, shape accomplished, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a condom, ripping open the package and slipping it over the real homemade dildo.
He grabbed the bottle of mineral oil he'd used on the shredder blades earlier, figuring that something meant to lubricate steel should work okay for other stuff too. As he glanced once more at Billie, his gaze skittered past the copier, lid still raised from his earlier adventures, and the shit-eating grin was back.
Oh, yeah.
"Billie, stand up, dude. I need you to move somewhere."
Tré leered down at Billie, clutching a squeezable bottle of something in one hand, and the most horrifying faux-dildo he'd ever seen - like a genetically altered ear of corn gone horribly wrong - in the other. The nerves that had started to build as he watched Tré concoct his instrument of pleasure now began to wash over Billie's insides like waves as he stared at the finished product, but he tamped them down at the look of absolute heat he could see lurking behind the wicked delight in Tré's blue eyes. It's not like Billie hadn't been gunning for this outcome for the last 10 minutes in the most wanton way possible, right? Plus, he'd learned in the best ways that letting Tré work through whatever hare-brained, kinky idea he had at the time usually landed Billie in a satisfied, quivering heap on the floor. Or bed. Or kitchen counter.
So with those memories floating around in his mind, he plastered the best seductive grin he could muster on his kiss-swollen lips and slithered his way up off the floor, first propping his sweaty body up on his elbows and then latching his marker-stained fingers onto the waistband of Tré's pants for support. He let them rest there when he was fully standing, watching the progress of his slightly bobbing erection framed between his forearms, before meeting Tré's eyes.
"OK," he said, voice low and thick and ready. "Where do you want me?"
Tré had seen the expression of near-horror that had flitted across Billie's face before he gamely agreed to this plan and as a reward, he leaned in and kissed that little grin, lips latching on to Billie's. A low moan leaked out at the way the frontman's mouth opened for him and the trust he showed. Admittedly, none of his experiments had gone too horribly awry - failure typically translated into laughing too hard to fuck - but if this one did, well, Tré had 10 fingers and a tongue and an erection of his own as Plan B options.
He shifted his supplies to one hand and carefully backed the frontman up until he bumped into the copy machine, never letting up on the kiss. Setting his things down on a clean piece of paper on the table beside the machine, Tré slid his hands down onto Billie's bare ass and hoisted him, giggling at the oof of surprise. He deposited his handful on the exposed glass surface, correctly interpreting the next wary look.
"It'll be so fucking blurry that not even your ass would be recognizable, dude. Relax."
At the slightly apprehensive but agreeable nod, Tré placed Billie's hands behind his own head, where they gripped onto the edge of the raised copier lid. Then he bent and picked up one leg at a time, guiding the bare limbs to a widespread position with both feet braced on the machine.
He stepped back to survey his handiwork and rubbed a hand over his mouth, half-expecting to catch drool. The glass surface was level with Tré's waist and Billie sat there, extravagantly spread open for him, cock bobbing gently with his shallow, rapid breathing and hips rocked back to display the tight pucker that was his next target.
"Jesus Christ, you're sexy."
The smug smile the compliment produced faltered only a little as Tré picked up the bubble wrap dildo and the oil, coating the condom liberally. He stepped as close as possible to the machine and, gaze locked with hazel eyes that had greened with wanting, thrust two oiled fingers inside Billie, scissoring quickly.
The dark head thunked back against the machine's lid with a loud moan and Tré pulled his fingers out, nudging Billie's left foot in just a little bit, until the heel sat directly over the large green button. He pressed on the top of that bare foot and bright light flashed up between open legs.
The light and its accompanying heat distracted the singer long enough for Tré to press the tip of the bubble wrap dildo against his slick hole, pushing it in with a hard twist as the light flashed again and again with Billie's movements, the copier whirring like it was about to take off and shadowed, grainy evidence of penetration spitting out the side.
The oily, bumpy roll of plastic made quick work of Billie's senses, even as the burst of heat from the copier light saturated his entire backside.
"Ohhhhh GOD!" he moaned, his voice coming out in uneven, vibrating tones, thanks to the frantic motions of the copier beneath him as his foot reflexively pressed the 'copy' button, toes curling and wiggling in helpless pleasure. The bubbles on the dildo roughed over every nerve ending in his ass like hundreds of electrified pebbles, and its flat end seemed to press against every millimeter of his sweet spot at the same time.
"Shit, Tré…ungghh!" he cried, trying to thrust himself down on what was turning out to be Tré's best idea yet. Billie's gasps and mewls rose up to join the whirring of the copier in a cacophony of dirty, sexy sound. The shaking, the noise, the smells - of ink, of oil, hell, maybe even of his own skin as the copier light flared hot and bright beneath him - combined with his restricted position and blended into the dirtiest, loudest, most surreal fuck Billie had ever experienced, and it certainly wasn't going to last long.
Billie's arms shook with the strain of holding up the copier cover as Tré relentlessly fucked him, and it forced his chin to his chest. He watched beads of sweat make dizzying, messy trails down his heaving torso, bleeding Tré's handiwork into illegible patterns, until his eyes focused as best they could on the dildo sliding thick and rough in and out of his ass, guided by Tré's maniacal hand. The intense heat of the copier and the eerie glow gave an oddly mechanical feel to everything Billie's overloaded senses were experiencing. He needed touch, needed to feel Tré's hands - something organic and fleshy and real.
"Tré! Shit, Tré…come…come here!" he rasped and reached out to Tré with his right arm, leaving his shaky left one to hold the cover upright. He grabbed the sweaty drummer by the scruff of his neck and pulled him as close as the machine and his wickedly thrusting arm would allow for a shoddy and desperate attempt at a kiss. The angle of his head, the motion of the machine as it sputtered out copy after copy made only a messy crush of lips possible, Billie's mouth seeking out any skin it could find, settling for the upper corner of Tré's mouth, suckling his lip and panting against his face as his orgasm raced towards him like a fucking freight train. A steam train, apparently, Billie's embattled mind thought, as the rocking machine underneath him seemingly began to sizzle, it too reaching the end of its rope.
Billie squirmed violently as the copier seized beneath him, nearly squealing into Tré's mouth. "It's hot, Tré…Tré, holy SHIT! Oh GOD, it's HOT…ah! AH! Please, Tré! Make it st-sto-AH!"
Tré seemed to understand that somewhere beneath the keening cries was a legitimate request, and he grasped Billie's cock tightly with his free hand. The pain, the pleasure, the sheer absurdity of the situation mixed together in Billie's brain the minute Tré's fingers wrapped themselves around his cock, and in two quick pumps he was done for.
His shuddering intake of breath exploded in a scream and as his entire body tensed he lost control of everything. His back arched as far as the copier cover would let him, forcing his legs from their precarious balance on the edge of the machine. They shot out like tree branches to either side, and Tré released the dildo mid-thrust to wrap his arms around Billie's waist to keep him from sliding off the machine altogether, his come-covered hands smearing on the glass.
Billie sagged like a rag doll, limbs limp, the abandoned copier cover against his shoulder blades and Tré's arms around his waist the only things keeping him upright. He puffed hot, wet breaths against Tré's shoulder, realizing slowly that they were the only sounds he could hear in the now-silent copy room.
Not noticing the silence in his concern, Tré slid Billie off the copier into his arms, setting the shaky frontman on his feet and turning him around, leaning him against the table beside the overheated machine to steady him. He ran gentle fingers over the warm, reddened skin, relieved that there wasn't any damage.
"You're okay, Bill. You've got a hot ass but you already knew that." He grinned at the hiccoughing laugh and nuzzled close, feeling the excess heat from that ass against his groin. His own neglected erection twitched violently at the contact and Tré let out a breathless moan.
He shot one arm out, sweeping the table clear of its neat piles of copy paper, the various colors flying into the air and fluttering down in a pastel rainbow as he pressed Billie down, hearing a wet gasp as his torso flattened against the table. The flushed condition of his backside made it look kind of like he'd been spanked really hard and the images that conjured up sent Tré's simmering desire into a full boil.
He slipped sticky fingers between Billie's legs, pressing two inside him to check the stretch as he unzipped and let his pants drop around his ankles. Tré took the squeaky inhalation as a green light and rubbed his free hand over his cock, coating it with oil and come, then withdrew his fingers and thrust into that tight heat, feeling an almost equal warmth against his hips as they snapped against Billie's.
"You feel so fucking good," he gasped out, pumping hard, listening to those gorgeous moans begin to spiral upwards again. He reached for the singer's cock, coaxing it back to a partial erection and jerking him off nonetheless, the flesh growing harder in his hand when he didn't let up. Billie whimpered beneath him, his fingers curling against the table in helpless fists as Tré fucked him right through another orgasm before coming with a hoarse cry, spilling into that hot, red ass.
He pressed his face into Billie's spine, tonguing the sharp contours with affectionate, sloppy kisses. He could definitely go for a nap right about now, and he didn't think Billie would object too much, either.
Fate, however, had different plans. A voice drawled from behind them in a familiar mixture of exasperation and amusement.
"While the prodigious use of the labelmaker and writing instruments might have been predicted, I don't think Rob's expecting to find his copy room covered in jizz, dude. What the fuck were you guys thinking? Anyone could've walked in! You didn't even hear me!"
Oh, shit. Mommy Mike. Just what they needed. Carefully pulling out of Billie, rampant heat still pressed against his hips, Tré had a brilliant idea. He leaned farther over the frontman, making it look like he was making sure he was okay. Which he was, but his low whisper had a different purpose.
"Bill. Wanna get Mike? I still have Sharpies on my pants."
Billie was less-than-coherent as Tré whispered in his ear, so blitzed from the two orgasms he'd had in the span of, oh, about 15 minutes that he barely even registered Mike's presence at the sound of his voice. But he wasn't too far-gone to overlook an opportunity to turn the tables, so to speak, on his best friend of more than 20 years.
Billie nodded frantically at Tré. "Follow my lead," he whispered, "and help me up, you bastard." He giggled at the resulting grin on Tré's face as the drummer hauled him up off the table by the waist.
Billie let his features color with feigned modesty as he stood naked in front of Mike, stained with black and red Sharpie and his own come. "Uh, Mike? Could you maybe bring me my clothes?" he asked, folding his arms behind his back and tracing a mark on the tile floor with his toe. He didn't really expect Mike to fall for his timid schoolgirl act, but it would get Mike where they needed him.
Mike sighed as he gathered up the remains of Billie's clothing, taking extra special notice of Billie's deformed dress shirt.
"Jesus Christ, guys! What did you DO - run this through the shredder?" he asked in amazement, sliding the tattered garment through his fingers as he approached the debauched duo. "And, oh GOD, if so, you didn't break the thing, did you?"
Billie just smirked as he took his clothes from Mike's hands.
"Don't worry, Mikey. The shredder is safe. You, on the other hand?" With a quick wink, Billie suddenly ducked out from between his two best friends as Tré grabbed the bassist's head for a hard, distracting kiss. Mike oofed into Tré's mouth as Billie quickly sidled around to Mike's back, using his ruined shirt to bind their bandmate's arms behind him. Once the bassist was tied up tight, Billie slipped back into his pants and went to retrieve an item he'd spotted earlier that had poor Mike Dirnt's name written all over it.
Tré disengaged from Mike's lips with a loud smack and conspiratorial grin at Billie, who returned to a captive Mike's side with an air duster can in his hands and a look of pure, wicked glee on his face.
"You, Mike," he growled into the bassist's ear, "are in BIG trouble."
Tré giggled at Mike's expression of abject horror. "C'mon, we know you like to get down." That was all the warning he gave before he kicked the bassist's feet out from under him, catching him around the chest and lowering the tall body to the floor.
He managed to get Mike's T-shirt over his head and pulled down far enough so that it dangled across his elbows, just above where Billie had tied his wrists together. It provided an extra layer of security locking his arms together, one that might prove necessary if he kept trying to get free.
Mind you, watching his biceps flex helplessly was pretty fun - the man had gorgeous arms. But as Billie Joe yanked off Mike's bottoms, he began to struggle harder and Tré decided in favor of expediency: he sat on Mike.
Straddling the prone man's lower back, he looked at the mini Sharpies that remained attached to his belt loops, picking out one vivid green and one deep blue. The plastic rattled as he pulled them free and Mike yelped.
"Don't you draw on me, you fucker! I am not a kindergarten art project!"
He heard Billie snicker behind him as he pressed the green marker's tip in between protruding shoulder blades, writing 'GREEN DAY' in big, block letters that he went over a few times until they were good and thick. Grinning, Tré bent down and licked the back of Mike's neck.
"F'you were a kindergarten art project, dude, I'd glue macaroni to you. Right now I'm just gonna mark you up but good."
His mouth shifted to where the tendons stood out along the side of the bassist's neck and he nibbled and sucked, working up a massive hickey as the ominous hiss of canned air sounded in the room.
Billie crouched as he watched Tré's mouth move over Mike's neck, his dick surprisingly twitching in his just-donned pants at the soft, keening whimper that escaped Mike's protesting form while Tré marked him. Billie started his part of the torture by shooting the compressed air across Mike's bare calves, and the bassist twitched violently under the press of Tré's legs.
"Billie!" he gasped, reacting to the gentle tickling sensation of cool air against his skin before seemingly remembering his anger. "I am going to kick the motherfucking SHIT out of you, you cocksucker - what IS that?"
Billie clucked his tongue. "Oh, shut the fuck up, Mikey. You ruined our office supply fun." He fired one more blast of air against the backs of Mike's knees, following it up with a dry, smacking kiss. "And now you must pay."
He started a slow progression of bursts up the length of the bassist's legs, from calf to the back of the knee to the thigh. Mike's angry whines morphed rather subtly into pleased sighs as Billie worked, watching the dark hairs on Mike's legs fan out in circles with each blast until he reached Mike's bare ass.
"You have a hot ass, Mikey," Billie said with a lewd grin, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth skin of Tré's back in front of him, and landing a sharp smack to Mike's behind. "Let's cool it down a bit, shall we?" Mike wriggled unhappily beneath him as Billie spread his cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, and shot one, long, continuous spray of compressed air along the crack of Mike's ass - up and down, over and over, until the can turned icy cold in his hands. You're gonna get it now, Billie thought, before pressing the frigid can against the skin between Mike's thighs.
The bassist spasmed almost immediately, his hips shooting up violently and nearly throwing Tré to the floor, but the drummer clamped down even harder on the bassist's torso, snorting and moving to make a matching mark on the other side of Mike's neck. "Fuck, shit, fuck, FUCK! Bill, that's cold! Take it off!" Mike pleaded.
Billie only snickered in response. "Are you sorry you interrupted us?"
"Bill, what if someone FOUND you?"
He pressed the cold can harder against Mike's skin. "Are you SORRY?"
Mike gasped again. "Fine, yes! I'm sorry!"
Billie smiled, taking the can in his hands and positioning the long nozzle against Mike's opening, admiring the pink skin left behind by the frozen can of air. "I don't believe you," he said simply, pressing the trigger and shooting air directly into Mike's ass.
The lanky bassist shuddered from head to toe as Billie shot burst after burst of air into his ass, moving quickly from pissed off to a little nervous to straight-up turned on right in front of his friends' eyes. Billie watched Mike writhe with pride and no small amount of curiosity as to how good THAT sensation must feel.
"Jesus, Billie!" Mike breathed. "Oh god oh god ohgodohgod…" His head lolled from side-to-side helplessly, forehead pressed to the dirty floor underneath Tré's mouth and Billie's hands. "I'm sorry, OK? I'M SORRY! Just…AH…I don't know…please."
"Please what, Mikey?" Tré left off nibbling long enough to ask, smiling at the disgruntled noise that met his words. "What do you want?"
It wasn't an entirely facetious question - he did really want to know. There were, after all, any number of possibilities.
Mike groaned, voice emerging in a hoarse pant. "Just…fuck me or suck me off or…I don't know and I don't fucking care so long as you do it now, please!"
Tré moved off the bassist, slightly awed by the level of neediness they'd managed to reduce him to in about 10 minutes. He exchanged a surprised glance with Billie, noting that neither one of them were exactly ready to take care of Mike yet. His eyes flickered to the abandoned bubble wrap dildo and Billie handed it over with a grin.
He yanked off the used condom and rolled on a fresh one, coating it with the shredder oil as Billie coaxed Mike up onto his knees, his shoulders and face still pressed against the floor. When Tré was ready, he slipped an oiled finger into Mike's raised ass and motioned at Billie Joe, smirking when the frontman figured out what he meant and slid underneath the bassist, mouth fastening to Mike's erection even as Tré's fingers scissored and stretched until the frantic sounds bleeding from the kneeling form told him to get on with it, and he pressed the homemade dildo inside Mike with the same vicious twist he'd used to such stunning effect on Billie.
Mike's prone form hitched violently backwards as Tré slid the dildo completely into his ass.
"SHIT, TRÉ!" he yelled. "That's not…ah, AH…what the hell have you guys been doing in here?" But one more sharp twist of the dildo and Mike melted into a moaning pile of lanky bassist.
Billie gagged a little with the movement, but kept himself still, snorfling at Mike's amazement over Tré's new toy. The angle was slightly painful, but Billie simply held himself up, doing an impromptu set of abdominal crunches as he worked his mouth tightly over Mike's cock, moving expertly with the erratic rhythm of the bassist's overworked hips. His tongue swirled around the head, sliding through the slit every so often, until the bassist's knees began to give way and he came with a gurgled shout.
Billie fought to swallow as much as he possibly could, but the inevitable bit he couldn't handle he made quick plans for. Keeping his lips closed seamlessly, he slid out from underneath Mike as quickly as his little legs would move him so Mike could collapse without crushing him. Billie gestured to a smugly satisfied Tré to come join him up by their friend's head, which was now pressed facedown onto the floor as his whole body vibrated with the remnants of his release.
Overcome with a wave of sheer adoration for his bandmates and lovers, Billie leaned down and lifted Mike's head from the floor, kissing him with sticky red lips and a mouth still filled with his own come before releasing him and turning to Tré with the same messy exchange. He slid his tongue from Tré's mouth after a moment with a dramatic gulp and a grin and pulled a heap of spent bassist into his lap, while his cheeky drummer laid his head on Billie's shoulder with a gratified sigh.
The three of them rested there for a moment, catching their collective breath until Mike mumbled into the damp skin of Billie's belly, "God, I love you, you kinky fuckers."
Billie glanced down at his decorated chest - Tré's handiwork now completely smeared into unrecognizable blobs - before bursting into a fit of hysterical giggles.
"Dudes, we're a fucking mess," he snorted, but then took a sobering look around at the absolutely decimated copy room. "Shit, this PLACE is a mess. Rob is gonna destroy us."
Tré's eyes followed the same path and he grimaced. "Aw, fuck, don't tell me we gotta be responsible about it and clean up." Although the come-splattered copy machine definitely needed to be wiped down, as did the similarly-decorated floor under the table beside it, and then there was…he sighed, defeated. "Fine, fine."
Before doing anything else, he pulled Mike's shirt back over the bassist's head and untied his wrists, the utter ruin of Billie's shirt making Tré's smile return. He rolled Mike over and kissed him. "Wasn't that so much better than getting pissed off at us?"
Mike gave him a dirty look but he helped tidy the room - at least, as best as they could manage, since Tré didn't really know where he'd gotten everything he'd pulled out to play with. They eventually dumped it all into a mostly empty supply cupboard, figuring that at least then it wasn't sitting on the floor. Although the much-abused orange highlighter went into a stray plastic bag along with the shirt remains, the used condoms, and the couple dozen photocopies of Billie's ass being fucked that Tré deemed worth keeping. The rest they shredded while teasing Billie so much that he blushed furiously.
When it was as good as it was going to get, Tré found his belt, shoes, shirt and tie and passed his jacket off to Billie. The frontman looked an absolute dork with it zipped up to his throat but it did conceal the smudged mess of his chest.
"Sorry I couldn't remove any of the marker, Bill. It should wear off in, I don't know, four or five days." Tré giggled at the pained expression that got him, not feeling one bit of remorse.
He glanced around one last time and noticed that it was a few minutes past midnight - the contest deadline had passed and his duties were over. Tré flipped off the radio and walked over to where his bandmates stood together, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders.
"So, boys, we're free as birds now. Wanna go get drunk?" He laughed as the token protests turned into Mike calling a cab, and just as they were exiting the room, Tré dashed back inside.
He returned a moment later to two sets of identically raised eyebrows at the industrial-size roll of bubble wrap held under his arm. "What, you thought you were safe now? That's the best fucking idea I ever had!"
Tré stuffed the roll into the bag with the other stuff, intending to drop it in his car before leaving Reprise for the cozy confines of a bar, grinning as Billie and Mike teased him about him being the victim next time. He thought back to the needy arch of the frontman's body, outlined in brightness, and the bound curve of the bassist's back, cheek pressed hard to the floor, and his grin only widened.
Next victim? Oh, fuck, yeah.
~The End~
Thanks to everyone who made it through our little story, Pop Goes the Asshole OR How Tré Cool Learned to Love Bubble Wrap. We make no apologies for any sanity lost along the way. (Tas also hopes that she doesn't get busted for using knowledge learned as a Staples employee for pr0nification purposes!) :D
Don't forget to leave leighrowena some love, too! :-)