Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band, Rock Music RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Bruce Springsteen/Original Character(s)
Characters: Bruce Springsteen, Original Male Character(s)
Additional Tags: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, Hitchhiking, Making Out, Age Difference, Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty Talk
Summary:
“You think you’re real special, but you know what you do, coming in here with that long hair, that earring. I knew what you were the moment I laid eyes on you,” the trucker growls.
Summary: Jake is trying to honor his uncle's memory while also building his own place in the E Street Band—and sometimes that line gets very blurry.
Pairing: Bruce Springsteen/Jake Clemons; Bruce Springsteen/Patti Scialfa (background); Bruce Springsteen/Max Weinberg (background)
Rating: E
Word Count: 4,415
Tags: angst; age difference; grief/mourning; dry humping; frotting; daddy kink; biting kink; clothes on sex; mentions of possible Bruce/Clarence
Read on AO3 or under the cut!
Excerpt from Bruce’s memoir, Born to Run:
Over the next few days I found Jake to be a soulful, hardworking young sax player whom I had a deep feeling for. I was rooting for him, for us. C was in the room, big-time. He drew us closer. He'd been Jake's uncle, had mentioned Jake to me when he wasn't well, and I knew he'd have smiled over Jake's being here. This felt like it had his blessing. That would've meant nothing if Jake hadn't had "it." There could have been an army of sax players with C's looks, his playing ability and the Clemons name, but if they didn't have that deep connection to why we were in all this, we would've come up zero. Jake had E Street soul in his blood and bones. He was a big, good-looking, talented kid. That's cool. You want stars, and Jake had that kind of confidence. Before the day was over, he'd need it. I also knew that Jake was ready to put his talents, body and soul, at the service of my band and our ideas, and we, in turn...would change his life.
_______________________________________________
Prague, June 15th 2025
There’s a large warehouse-like area behind the stage where they meet for a rundown of the setlist. Jake joins the other members of the band who are milling about, waiting for Bruce while roadies are running around preparing for the night ahead.
Bruce walks in, he’s wearing a lightweight white button down shirt, open down to his sternum, the already short sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose even more of his tanned skin. The light colored khakis he’s wearing are a little looser than his normal stage jeans but it just makes him look comfortable and at ease. He’s wearing a pair of dark blue, low top canvas sneakers with no laces, the whites of the rubber scuffed and browned with age. Everything about his relaxed but fresh demeanor gives the appearance of a retiree on his way to happily enjoy a beautiful summer’s day, perhaps about to relax beachside in a lounge chair with his gray hair glinting silver in the sun.
He looks good Jake thinks. Really, really good.
Bruce grabs one of his beloved Takamine acoustics and spreads out a few pages of lyrics across a large road case. Jake and the rest of the band gather around.
Bruce puts his reading glasses on and takes a look at the lyric sheets in front of him. Strumming idly on the guitar he has strapped to him, Bruce mentions a few changeups to the setlist he might want to make this time around—he wants to open with Summertime Blues, the lyrics of which are currently the ones spread out for them all to see and, he says in a perhaps too casual way, he’ll be dedicating the River tonight to a fan who just passed away from cancer.
Bruce’s voice maintains a measured, careful tone as he continues and Jake glances around at the group lumped in front of the piano. A few of the older guys look somber. A few of the newer members give quick glances to Bruce. Bruce, glasses perched on his nose and eyes carefully trained to the pages written in front of him, does not look up to see any of their reactions to this news.
_______________________________________________
The soundcheck goes smoothly, as it usually does at this point in a tour. Every member of the band has disappeared for their own pre-show routines. Jake hesitates outside of Bruce’s dressing room.
He could have read Bruce’s mood wrong—it wouldn’t be the first time. But, Jake figures, Bruce will either let him in or tell him to go away. There’s…probably no harm in simply asking.
As always, there’s a giant stuffed panda sitting on a metal folding chair outside of Bruce’s dressing room. Sometimes the crew likes to dress it up in XXXL tourist shirts from wherever they're playing. Tonight, it only has a VIP backstage pass hanging around its neck.
“Whatcha think, huh?” Jake asks the bear quietly. “Yeah…yeah, you’re probably as good at reading his mood as I am.”
He raises a fist and knocks softly on the door. A few moments later, Bruce answers. He nods at Jake, a tired look in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word but he leaves the door open as he wanders back inside. Jake stops to pat the bear on the nose and then follows Bruce inside and shuts the door closed quietly behind them.
Bruce walks over to the sofa, sits down and closes the notebook that had been open on the coffee table in front of it.
“Working on anything good?” Jake asks.
Bruce shrugs. He’s silent long enough that Jake doesn’t think he’ll get a verbal answer until Bruce says eventually, “Never really know if it's good or not until I hear it played back at me.”
Jake sits next to Bruce on the sofa. Close enough that they could be touching, with only a few small movements. With the barest hesitation, Jake reaches out and lets his hand rest on Bruce’s thigh. Not a come on but not exactly not a come on. Bruce can do with it what he wants. Bruce reaches out and lets his fingers run gently over the hand Jake has on his thigh. Bruce is distantly staring at their hands, like he isn’t quite seeing what he’s looking at.
Jake slips his hand in between Bruce’s legs so he can run a tender touch along the seams running down Bruce’s inner thigh.
Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.
“Well…you have to change anyway,” Jake smiles.
_______________________________________________
Jake doesn’t remember when he first started to connect the dots—he’d heard rumbles for a while, hints at Bruce and Patti having some sort of agreement. Implications that they both would take lovers the other was aware of and (apparently) supportive of. He wasn’t totally surprised (this was rock ‘n’ roll, afterall) but neither seemed the type to go for groupies so he had wondered exactly what their arrangement meant for traveling two musicians.
He didn’t really realize the nature of it until one day on the tour. Bruce was in a foul mood, clearly trying to keep it from getting to the others but quieter and more irritable than normal and Jake had overheard something he was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, Garry muttering to Max, “Man, can’t you do something about that?” and the murmured reply back from Max, “We don’t really…you know, do that much anymore.”
And then all Jake could think about was, well, all that the quick exchange had implied. He was new to the band, he needed to keep his mind focused but stray thoughts frequently came to him—the intensity with which Max always watched Bruce when they were performing, the causal touches between them when they were off stage—he did his best to not let his mind wander too far into those dangerous thoughts but they would still come to him fleeting and unprompted.
Jake pushed those thoughts down as far as they would go because he needed to stay focused—it was the only thing that mattered. Things had been a little rocky between Bruce and himself in the beginning. They had nothing between them except their shared grief. Nothing known to each other except the absence of someone they had both loved. Bruce had reached out a few times in the months following Clarence’s death and their conversations had danced around a thought they were both sharing and refusing to say out loud. Clarence had made it clear to Jake privately that, if he were ever to be unable to perform, he wanted Jake to stand in for him. Jake had the feeling he had said as much to Bruce as well but he couldn’t be sure and, for what felt like the longest time, neither of them broached the subject.
Finally, Bruce had asked Jake to come audition—just for Bruce. If Bruce liked what he saw, then and only then would he audition with the full band. Jake had fucked it up royally, of course, since at the beginning, he’d only had half of his heart in it. Not only was he late but he wasn’t as familiar with the material as he should have been and he’d been privileged enough to be on the receiving end of a full-blown Bruce Springsteen dressing down, the yelling of which almost no one had experienced in years.
But eventually, Jake came to understand what a serious crime he had committed. Clarence’s sax solos weren’t freeform, in the style Jake usually played in that allowed for a lot of improv. They were compositions worked out between Bruce and Clarence with their own blood, sweat and tears, every note carefully chosen.
What Bruce hadn’t said, but Jake came to realize, was that the music they had created between them were love letters to each other.
Bruce had sent him away and told him not to come back unless he was serious.
The second time, Jake hadn’t fucked it up.
After that, Jake started to grow into his place in the band and he and Bruce started to grow closer. Their grief, at first the only thing that bonded them, simply became one important part of their growing friendship, now joined with their passion for music and Jake’s growing love for working with the E Street Band.
But when things started between the two of them, it was hard for him not to wonder if he was replacing more than Clarence’s sax. Tormented by the thought, he had carefully and slowly asked once you and…you and Clarence…did you ever? I mean…not that it’s…my business but was it…like this, between you?
Bruce had looked startled and vaguely disturbed by the question.
No, Clarence and I never—no, we didn’t—I wouldn’t have…with you if we had… he had trailed off. I loved him very much. His voice sounded filled with tears. But that was all.
And that was all the information that Jake got. He wasn’t bold enough to ask the next question that haunted him (so you didn’t, but did you want to?) but he didn’t know how far he could push it. Bruce had given him as much as he was likely to give him. It’s Bruce’s way, he had learned. Bruce won’t always say something directly but he will say it sideways and you’re left wondering if you got it right.
Still, it was hard not to let the thought get to him when, every night of the tour, there came the part of the show where giant, projected images of Bruce and Clarence throughout the years filled the screens behind them, the crowd screaming and cheering at the obvious love shared between the two men, Jake doing everything he could to keep himself focused on his own performance and nothing else.
He wanted to ask Bruce—why me now and not Max? He wants to ask Max—what was it like between you two…and why isn’t it like that anymore?
But this thing between them feels far too fragile to touch.
_______________________________________________
me take care of you.”
Bruce is getting ever closer and closer, Jake can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body is tightening up, bringing him so close to release. Talking in his ear now, saying things he’d never say outside of a situation like this let go, daddy, just be good, let me get you there, Jake suddenly wonders for a moment if now would be the time to ask any of the questions he’s scared to ask—if Bruce would give him the truest answers right now, while they’re fucking.
For a moment, the thought sticks too closely to him. He thinks of the framed picture of Bruce and Clarence sitting mere feet away from them—the one that travels everywhere with Bruce. The words rise in his throat—is this how you wanted Clarence to touch you? Did you ever think about it, dream about it, yearn for it? Did you maybe want it so bad you even tried for it and he rejected you so now you’ll take me as some sort of consolation prize?
But he swallows down all of those words, just keeps up the pace and the dirty talk, keeping his large hand on Bruce’s hip, pinning him in place while Bruce squirms against the firm hold Jake has on him, so lost in the sensations he keeps trying to arch his hips up to meet Jake’s.
Jake bites down on Bruce’s neck, right beneath his jaw and Bruce is coming with a high, keening whine, his whole body going rigid beneath Jake, his hands gripping Jake’s sides painfully, a few pitiful sounding “please, pleases” escaping his mouth before Jake takes his mouth again, kissing him through the snap of tension as Bruce rides out his orgasm.
Finally, Bruce falls limp underneath him, still panting. Jake looks down at him—his hair a wreck and his face spaced out, he looks completely debauched. Jake is still moving against him, desperate for his own release. He moves his hand from where it had been pinning Bruce’s hips still and reaches up to grab a fistful of his hair, causing a low groan from Bruce.
Jake looks at how gorgeous Bruce looks beneath him, still and quiet, post orgasm and looking freshly fucked and simply happy to lay there and let Jake do whatever he wants to get off. The friction against his cock is a confusing and thrilling mix of feelings—trapped in the soft cotton underwear, the heavy feeling of the jeans over him, the dry friction almost rubbing him raw but he can’t stop, won’t stop.
Hand still gripping Bruce’s hair, Jake guides him into a bruising kiss, thinking about how he must be uncomfortable now—pants filled with come and probably overstimulated as well, but he knows Bruce would never deny him this, he won’t say a single word until Jake himself reaches his climax and, with that thought, Jake is coming, groaning into Bruce’s mouth and his hips giving a few more hard thrusts into Bruce’s body, his briefs filling with his own spend.
Jake pulls back to look at Bruce once again and they stay like that for a moment, just panting and staring at each other. Jake can feel the arm that’s been holding him up this whole time is starting to cramp up so he sits back, kneeling around Bruce’s legs, taking one last long look at the gorgeous view in front of him before he starts to move them into a more comfortable position.
Cuddling on the sofa isn’t exactly easy, what with Jake’s size but Jake arranges Bruce’s limbs carefully, pulling his body close and moving Bruce’s legs and arms to wrap around him. Bruce buries his face into Jake’s chest and breathes deep. Jake thinks Bruce must get a little lonely on tour these days, since Patti can’t travel with the band most of the time anymore and he wonders how touchstarved Bruce is since he, apparently, hasn’t been taking much comfort from Max’s arms lately.
Jake strokes Bruce’s back, his large hand drawing a warm path up and down Bruce’s spine and Bruce’s breath evens out to the point where Jake wonders if he’s dozed off a little.
Jake thinks the words he’s never brave enough to say out loud Sometimes when you look at me, I feel like you’re looking at someone else.
A little while later, Jake leaves Bruce’s dressing room—they both need to start getting ready for the show. Before walking away from Bruce’s dressing room door, he gives the stuffed panda bear another pat on the nose, thinking about how the bear came to be there—a lasting tribute to Bruce’s longtime friend and personal assistant Terry who had died back in 2007. The bear goes everywhere on tour with them and stands guard outside Bruce’s dressing room at every show.
And Jake thinks of yet another question he’s too scared to say out loud So am I just like the stuffed bear to you or…?
_______________________________________________
Backstage right before showtime, Jake sees Bruce again. Gone is any indication of their earlier activity, the older man is now carefully put together—hair combed perfectly, shiny black boots and wrist supports on, spiffy vest and tie with the dress shirt underneath tucked into tight jeans. Jake tries not to let his eyes linger too long on the formfitting pants.
They open as planned with Summertime Blues and Jake notes that Bruce sounds a little hoarse and he’s pretty sure that’s due to his efforts from earlier so he tries his best not to smirk at him. Any vocal issues with Bruce puts the band on edge so Jake knows he doesn’t need any other distractions. Bruce powers through the rough vocals like the master he is and Jake watches him carefully. He’s not entirely sure where Bruce’s mood is at the moment. Sometimes, he can get a little strange after one of their trysts. Not dismissive exactly but…more distant.
He’ll know if they’re okay by Hungry Heart. It’s on the setlist for tonight and Jake loves it, he and Bruce do a call and response between Bruce’s vocals and Jake’s sax and it’s a great playful moment between them.
But before that, they have the near mythic Land of Hope and Dreams to pull off. It’s a powerful moment in the show, holding a sacred place in both the band’s hearts and the audience’s. This song has the last sax solo Clarence and Bruce had worked on together before he passed away, it was a song Bruce played to Clarence on his deathbed—as far as symbolic moments go, this is the ultimate one for Jake to nail.
The song starts and Jake begins thumping out the rhythm of the beat on his chest, moving his body to the music that reaches as close to spiritual as music gets, his first big moment of the night is coming up. He’s in his place on the risers behind Bruce, swaying in time with the other horn players until it’s time.
He steps to the front of the stage, standing at Bruce’s side and begins the powerful solo that was Clarence’s last gift to the world and to Bruce.
After a few lines, he and Bruce turn to face each other, Jake playing his sax at Bruce and Bruce strumming his guitar back at Jake. Jake puts his very heart and soul into the simple but elegant lines Clarence had created, every amount of emotion he can muster goes into his playing and he knows it sounds beautiful, enough to bring a grown man to tears.
He also knows that there is no escaping the pure absence of Clarence in the song. There is no such thing as a perfect imitation of another musician’s playing and Bruce would never demand that of him, allowing him to bring his own soul into the music they now play together. The growls in his sax are and always will be higher than the growls that had come out of Clarence’s sax and he knows Bruce’s sharp ear must hear that difference more than anyone else.
This was the song that Bruce was playing when Clarence passed from this world and, when he looks into Bruce’s face, he can see the ghosts behind his eyes and knows that, in that moment, Bruce isn’t seeing anyone else but him.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band, Rock Music RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patti Scialfa/Bruce Springsteen, Clarence Clemons/Patti Scialfa/Bruce Springsteen
Characters: Bruce Springsteen, Patti Scialfa, Clarence Clemons(mentioned)
Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Oral Sex, sweat kink
Summary:
Once, Patti had teased Clarence, “He always seems to submit to you.”
Clarence had laughed, “He might not know it, but I’m just doing what he obviously tells me to do. What he needs. He just doesn’t say it.”
Over the years, Patti has learned what he meant. A twitch of the shoulder, her husband spacing out. That faraway look. Sometimes, he needs that firm touch she's had plenty of time to practice.
And sometimes, they both just need a quick, filthy post-concert fuck.
looking for a lover who will come on in and cover me
Summary: Dating a man seemingly allergic to words has made Lynn very good at reading Bruce's face. And right now he looks like he's just been challenged.
After a fight and the cold shoulder from Bruce, Lynn takes matters into her own hands.
Bruce would get on stage and tell stories like he was sitting around the living room having a few brews with his oldest friends. He used every ounce of his spirit to make the show come alive for whoever was in the audience: high-school dropouts, college PhDs, blue collar, white collar, the young, and the old. It didn’t matter if only five people showed for the gig, he’d go out there and perform as if his whole life depended on being his very best that night. He gave everything he had to give because rock-and-roll music gave him his identity. It made me love him.
—Lynn Goldsmith, Rock and Roll Stories
“We were pretty inseparable, as was Lynn with her camera.”
—Bruce Springsteen, in this promo video for Lynn Goldsmith’s book about the Darkness Tour
Lynn moves through the crowd, part of them and also separate from them. Her role as photographer allows her privileges that aren’t allotted to the crowd but also gives her a purpose and responsibility that means she isn’t given the same freedom to truly lose herself in the way the crowd does.
She wouldn’t want to lose herself anyway—she hasn’t made a name for herself as one of the best rock photographers in the industry by getting lost in the music. Truly losing herself isn’t even something she thinks she’s capable of but she’s fascinated when she sees it happen to other people.
And no one—no one—she has seen is better at getting a whole crowd of people to lose themselves than Bruce Springsteen. She’d watched earlier as a girl right at the front of the crowd had her whole body pressed so close to the stage, her arms reaching out as far as her height would allow, her hands grasping emptily at the air around Bruce’s boot as he walked along the edge of the stage, just the pure, desperate chance to touch any part of him.
Up on stage, the band has been joyfully running through an energetic rendition of what they refer to as The Detroit Medley. Bruce calls for Clarence and Clarence moves right next to the bandleader. Lynn gets ready—the crowd always goes wild when Bruce and Clarence play off each other.
“Can you handle it…when me and the Big Man…do this?” Bruce asks the crowd as he and Clarence raise their left hands in unison.
“And can you handle it…when me and the Big Man…do THIS?” Bruce shouts as he and Clarence raise another hand.
There’s a quiet pause from the band, just the way Bruce likes it so he can let the audience feel the anticipatory tension and then Max kicks in the drums and Bruce and Clarence begin to dance and shimmy their way across the stage. The crowd is enraptured.
Lynn hunts through the mass of people, searching for the best angle to capture, really, truly capture what he does to people. Photographs can’t contain the energy and noise of the crowd but if she gets close enough, if she works hard enough, she will create the images that convey the right feeling—the sweat on the crowd and the band, the lights and the ecstatic masses of people and Bruce right in the center of it, loving every minute of it.
The theater they’re playing maxes out at a little less than 2,000 people and the whole place is packed. Every single person in that room seems to be pressing their way as closely as possible to the stage, a swirling mass that, to an inexperienced eye would seem chaotic but Lynn has worked enough of Bruce’s concerts to understand how the mass of people move—it’s always in parallel with whatever Bruce is doing. When Bruce kneels down at the front of the stage, still singing and lost in his song, she sees the same girl from earlier grip his thigh with both hands, the look on her face pure rapture.
The band smashes from The Detroit Medley into Adam Raised a Cain, one of Bruce’s grittiest compositions yet. The sound off the new album had been an abrupt change from the previous album and the band has been playing darker and harder, the drums more forceful and guitar solos sounding crunchier.
Bruce is dancing and running and jumping and throwing himself into the crowd, posing and working and writhing around while innumerable hands reach out to touch him—as if to take just some of the energy he’s giving off—while even more eyes (including hers) watch him as he’s caressed and groped by a crowd of strangers who love him so deeply in that moment they’ve forgotten everything else in their lives.
After the final encore, Lynn slips backstage. The E Street Band’s concerts are famously long, including surprise encore after surprise encore but she’s gotten pretty good at reading him now and can almost always tell when he’s done for the night— even on the nights when he doesn’t even know when he’s done.
She’s in his dressing room, camera around her neck, when Bruce comes in, soaked and looking beat to hell. Bruce gives her a tired nod and grabs a towel off the table, wiping the sweat from his face before giving her an obligatory kiss on the cheek. It’s the briefest, most perfunctory of touches.
He quickly pulls off his sweaty stage clothes and throws on the clean, dry change of clothes that was waiting for him.
With barely a glance her way, he heads back outside.
She knows where he’s gone—to sign autographs for the faithful fans waiting for him by the theater’s exit.
Lynn goes back to their hotel room and lets herself in. Bruce had been deep in the throng of adoring fans when she’d left. On her way out, she’d stopped to exchange pleasantries with the rest of the band. They were, as usual, bumming around behind the tour bus, passing a joint around while hidden from the watchful gaze of their boss. Danny had offered her a hit and she’d declined. Now, sitting here and waiting for the eventual return of her wayward boyfriend, she wishes she’d taken it.
It’s not unusual for Bruce to be out of words and energy after a show but at this point it’s clear to her that he’s avoiding her. Bruce has been sulking since she took a job that took her away from him for part of the tour. They’d argued—sort of. An argument with Bruce is never like a real argument. He’ll argue, for a bit, but then he just goes cold and quiet.
It drives her insane.
The job she’d taken had been an amazing opportunity for her and she was furious at the idea that he expected her to keep following him around, chronicling his latest tour. After some time away, he’d started to beg and plead for her to come back on tour with him. After her other project wrapped up, she’d agreed.
Now she’s not even sure why he cares so much. He doesn’t seem to miss her, if his attitude is anything to judge by. Maybe he just missed the attention her work brings to his work.
Lynn, of course, is just as obsessive about her work as he is with his. It’s one of the things that drew them together in the first place, their shared passion for their respective arts—and it’s also something she sees that keeps pulling them apart. She looks around the room and it feels so typical of both of them. She has several bags worth of her photography equipment and he has his music equipment scattered throughout the room. All the many things they carry with them to do their jobs but, between the two of them, only one singular shared suitcase of personal items—her clothes mixed in with his and not room for much else besides that.
There’s an acoustic guitar in the corner and she knows Bruce will bring back his favorite electric guitar with him from the theater. He always has one electric and one acoustic on him at all times, just in case inspiration strikes. She sees that reflected in her own choice of travelling equipment—a little something different for an infinite variety of lightings and settings.
Finally, finally Bruce walks into their hotel room. He looks at her but doesn’t say anything, just sets down the guitar case he was carrying and tosses his leather jacket on to a waiting chair. Underneath, all he has on the white tank and the very tight jeans she saw him change into back in his dressing room.
Sick of the silence, she finally asks, with a hard edge to her voice, “So you dragged me all the way out here just to make me watch you get felt up by a whole crowd of people?”
He shrugs, not looking her in the eye. Well, Bruce has never been good with eye contact so that might not mean anything at all. It took him weeks of dating before he really looked her fully in the eye for the first time.
“Figured your guitar could keep you company while I’m away,” she says, trying to press him further. “Or the fans.”
He says nothing.
“Every girlfriend you’ve ever had has been the other woman because you’re married to that fucking guitar,” she seethes.
She thinks she sees a flash of panic in his eyes when she says the words “other woman” and rage flares up inside her.
She looks over to where Bruce had set his guitar down and walks over to it, flicking open the case. She lets her fingers run up and down the strings on the neck—feeling the thin steel of the finer strings, the rougher texture of the thicker ones, the metal frets along the smooth, perfectly polished wooden neck. She’s watched Bruce change the strings before, watched the loving way he cleans and polishes the neck. He has a guitar tech, of course, that keeps his guitars well maintained and tuned but he still likes to go over them himself from time to time. Especially his favorite, his guitar—“the blonde” he calls her.
When she looks back up at him, his face has changed. His eyes are dark, his lips parted and he’s watching her stroke the neck of his guitar.
She sees the way Bruce is looking at her. Arguments aside, the sex between them has always been passionate as hell. But that’s only when he’s focused.
Well, he’s focused on her now.
She runs her fingers along the tuning pegs, intertwining her fingers gently enough through them that she’s not turning them, with her fingers interlaced between the tuning pegs, she runs her thumb along the headstock and hears a sharp inhale from Bruce.
She moves over to an open equipment bag he’d left abandoned by a chair. She can see inside of it a busted cable Bruce wouldn’t let anyone throw out.
I got a buddy who can fix it Bruce kept insisting when his crew had tried to toss it. He’d been dutifully carrying it around in his personal equipment bags since then, as if scared someone would throw it out behind his back.
She picks it up.
“You get these specially made, don’t you?” she says mildly, fingering the cable, unlooping bits of it to see its length. “You need them longer than they make them, so you can run around all over the stage. And into the crowd.”
She turns to face him, holding the cable. His eyes are watching her hands.
“Sit,” she says and he walks over to her, brushing past her on the way to the chair.
He sits silently in the chair, still staring at her hands holding the cable.
Despite the fact that he has a look on his face like he wants to jump her, he still hasn’t breathed a word.
He’s so difficult when he’s like this. It makes her want to push him a bit, see what will make him break.
“Sit up straight,” she says and he stops slouching, his eyes fixated on her hands as she continues to finger the cable.
She hears a sharp intake of breath from Bruce as she walks towards him but he stays silent otherwise.
Watching him watch her hands, she loops the cable around his torso and the chair a few times, just enough to pin his arms.
“Spread your legs,” she says and he wordlessly obeys. She picks up Bruce’s electric guitar, running her fingers over the sleek body, enjoying the smooth feel of the polished wood, her fingertips lingering over the worn spots in the polish. She walks over to her boyfriend, he hasn’t moved a hair since she wrapped him in the cable but there’s a look of barely contained lust in his eyes at the sight of her handling his guitar.
Lynn places the butt of the guitar on the chair, right up against his groin and starts wrapping the rest of the cable tight around and around the two of them together. A few times, her hands brush up against Bruce’s skin—he’s sticky with dried sweat.
She steps back to take a look at her work—Bruce bound to the chair and the guitar, the cable wrapping around him in dozens of loops with plenty still to spare thanks to the extra length Bruce requires for his stage show.
He’s still staring at her, now a little defiant look in his eyes.
“I just thought maybe you’d want some more alone time with your other girlfriend,” she shrugs, then moves behind him to take the loose ends of the cabling, wrapping them tightly around the chair legs and then roping them together so the cabling won’t give Bruce any slack at all.
Despite his protectiveness over this cable, he doesn’t make a single noise about how harshly she’s treating it. He’ll need more before he talks, then, she decides.
Looking over to the equipment bag, something catches her eye and she pulls it out slowly. A t-shirt, fanmade, loudly proclaiming THE BOSS IS BACK across the back of it.
She raises an eyebrow at him. He gives a gesture that looks like it was meant to be a shrug but she has him too well tied up to move that much. A deeply pleasurable sense of satisfaction runs through her at that.
Bruce always keeps the things fans give him—the little pieces of their heart they pass on to their hero. But she also knows he’s more than a bit annoyed at the nickname—it was something that had just been between the band and Bruce. It doesn’t make any sense at all! he’d snapped the last time she heard someone ask him about it. I’m not their boss! I hate bosses.
She starts bunching the shirt up and walks over to Bruce. She gives him a tender kiss on his forehead and then, one hand firmly gripping his bottom jaw, she shoves the shirt into his mouth.
The look of indignation on his face is beautiful.
“Since you don't want to talk to me anyway,” she smiles and she sees her smile has infuriated him even more. She gives him a soft slap on his cheek, the slight scruffiness on his cheek just a little abrasive on the palm of her hand. Even though the slap was soft, he startles and she can hear him start to breathe a little harder.
“You beg and beg for me to come back out here, follow you around on tour, come keep you company because you say you’re so lonely without me,” Lynn’s voice is quiet and seething. “But what did you really want, Bruce? Did you want me to get all jealous, watching that crowd touch you? Watching all those girls and guys fawn over you? Did you want to rub in my face what you thought I was missing?”
She leans in to whisper in his ear, “What is it with you and this guitar? You love her in a way I’ve never seen you love anyone or anything.”
She runs her fingers over the body of the guitar, letting her fingers brush against his torso as she does, “Is it the curves? Is that what you like? Curves like a woman, to keep you company on a lonely night? Is that the real reason why you sleep next to your guitar, Bruce?”
She runs one hand down his chest and another down the neck of the guitar and she can hear his muffled groans.
“You weren’t kidding when you said this guitar is like a part of you, huh?” she says in a low voice and she lightly fingers the strings between his legs, just enough so he can hear where she’s touching his precious guitar. She can hear his breath coming in short pants now.
Touching his guitar seems to get him just as bothered as if she were touching Bruce himself and she wonders idly if she could get him to come simply from forcing him to watch her stroke his guitar.
With a smirk, she says to him, “Can you handle it when I…do this?”
Slipping her fingers scandalously under the strings, fingering the most intimate part of the pick guard, lightly circling the pickups—the waterproofed pickups because Bruce had put time and care and attention into his precious, precious guitar. She knows with the way she has Bruce bound, he can’t see exactly what she’s doing but that just seems to make him more excited.
Bruce is struggling against the restraints now, she can see the lean muscles in his arms straining against the cable keeping him firmly in place and she can hear muffled groans from behind the t-shirt shoved in his mouth.
With one hand gripping his throat and the other grabbing his hair, she forces him to look up at her and she says, “I can’t hear you.”
From below her, all she can hear from him is muffled groaning.
"I said I can't hear you," she grips his hair tighter and he lets out what can only be described as a pitiful whine. His pupils are blown wide while his eyes are large and pleading. He's close—very close, she can see. "Oh no, if you wanted me to fuck you, you shouldn't have fucked around on me. Get yourself off or sit and suffer."
She releases his hair and his throat and moves a step back from him.
He stares at her for a moment, a hungry look on his face but his eyebrows now furrowed in confusion.
“Well?” she asks.
Staring at her hard face, his hips start to move with more rhythm and intention.
“Are you really going to do that, fuck your other girlfriend right in front of me? You’re shameless, you know that?”
He’s grinding himself against the underside of the guitar and she watches him struggle to gain enough friction. With his upper arms pinned to his sides, his hands are kept in place over his thighs, opening and closing frantically, pressing his nails into his palms.
She can see him pushing himself to move faster and harder, the little noises behind the t-shirt sounding more and more desperate and frustrated. He starts clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turn white.
“I wonder how that crowd tonight would react to seeing you now, with your little blonde sweetheart,” she moves closer so she can murmur darkly in his ear. “You want me to bring the audience back for this? So they can watch you, too? They watched you make love to that guitar all night, I think they deserve to see exactly how dirty you fuck her in private.”
Straightening up, Lynn watches with satisfaction as Bruce pushes his hips up and up, his head thrown back, the muscles of his shoulders flexing like he wants to arch his back but the cabling is keeping him too firmly in place. His hands are gripping his thighs so tightly it looks like he might hurt himself—the skintight denim outlining the fine form of the wiry muscles in his legs now carrying deep indents from where his nails are digging into himself.
“And if it's a show,” she continues. “I mean a real show, one of your shows...well, you'll have to go into the crowd, won't you? I mean that's your thing, that's what you love, that's what you need—more than anything, isn't it? Would you want them reaching out to you while you get yourself off fucking that guitar? Want them to reach out and touch you? The hands of hundreds of strangers who worship you, who adore you, touching you and grabbing you while you get closer and closer. Is that what you want? Is that what you want more than anything? That's what you want more than anything, I see it in your eyes. I see it in your dick, you're so hard for it.”
He's desperate and whimpering, his eyes begging. The soft, high pitched whining she can hear through the gag the sweetest music he's made all night.
She grabs his hair again, forcing him to look her in the eyes as he continues to frantically grind himself against his precious guitar.
“Come on, Bruce, put on a show for your audience, they’re waiting for you,” she whispers and he groans low and long.
The groan she recognizes, even though it's muffled, and his hips still.
“All done with your mistress?” she asks, very pleased at her work as she looks down at her boyfriend run ragged, the tight cabling now seeming to be the only thing keeping him upright.
His cheeks are flushed and he looks both embarrassed and angry.
“You know, if you would just use your words,” she says quietly.
The look on his face is defiant and she has the sinking feeling that the gag isn’t what’s stopping him from saying something.
Well, then he can just sit in his own mess and silence if that’s the way he’s going to be.
He must be uncomfortable, having been tied up for a bit now in the same position, not able to stretch at all and covered in sweat and, well, everything else he had done to himself.
Good she thinks. Let him sit in the uncomfortable silence he created for once.
He's shifting around, he's starting to get restless, she can tell. She tilts his chin up with two fingers so she can look at him. Now that’s a face she unfortunately knows well. He looks furious.
“You know you look ridiculous trying to glare at me with a mouth full of t-shirt, right?” she says, running her thumb along his bottom lip, brushing up against the t-shirt that’s still protruding from his mouth. He’d been good, he hadn’t spit out the gag since she stuffed it in there. But something about the look in his eyes is telling her that he doesn’t quite…get what she’s trying to do here. Running her hand down his throat and circling his Adam's apple with her thumb, she continues, “Time for an encore, I think. Let's see how long you can really last.”
Dating a man seemingly allergic to words has made her very good at reading his face. And right now he looks like he's just been challenged.
Moving to his equipment bag again, Lynn digs around a bit, examining and then discarding several different accessories before finally landing on a capo. She likes the feel of it in her hand, it’s weighty and the feel of the cold metal contrasted with the soft padding under the bottom curve is very compelling to her.
She knows exactly what to use this for.
She walks over to him. He’d been shifting back and forth a bit in the chair the whole time she’d been searching for what to do next. He stills when he sees her approaching, eyeing the object she’s carrying with her. She places it on the arm of the chair and his eyes follow the capo instead of her.
She reaches out and runs a soft caress down his face, taking her time running from his sweaty hairline down his temple, over the bulge in his cheek from the gag, down to his chin. Then, she continues down his neck, over his collarbone until she reaches the cable that’s keeping her boyfriend tied to the chair. Slipping her fingers under the cable, her fingers trapped between the tight cable and his thin tank top, she can feel the muscles in his chest, the fine hairs along his sternum, the blood beating from his heart. It’s a tight fit, since she’d wrapped him so tightly but she shifts the cable up a little, moving the loops further up closer to his shoulders and revealing part of his torso to her.
Grabbing a fistful of his tank top, she yanks it down forcefully, causing Bruce to jolt against the restraints. She pulls it down enough to expose his pecs, forcing an indignant sound out of Bruce as she stretches and rips the material where necessary.
She runs a hand briefly over the exposed skin, wondering if he’ll insist on keeping this shirt to get it fixed as well.
Grabbing the capo again, she fits it around his right pec, slowly tightening the nut until it fits snugly around his nipple, squishing the surrounding muscle in a way she knows he finds a little painful and a little titillating.
She steps back and views her work. It’s a tight fit. A capo wasn’t exactly designed for this and it may simply pop off if he moves too much.
“If you squirm too much and it falls off,” she says, running a thumb over the area where metal meets firm muscle, “You’ll regret it.”
She moves behind the chair. He turns his head to try to follow her but she knows he can only get glimpses of her from his peripheral vision with the way his body is forced to face forward.
From behind him, she can really appreciate how immobilized he is. She unbuttons her own pants and slips her hand beneath her underwear.
It’s deathly quiet in the room as she starts to touch herself, only the small, somewhat labored huffs of breath from Bruce behind the gag.
She hums low, just a little, just to give him a taste of what she’s doing that’s keeping him waiting.
He starts shifting, just slightly, testing the tightness of the bounds, trying to turn around to see her.
She openly watches him as he starts struggling harder against the bonds. It’s like he’s lost without being able to see or hear her and it might be the hottest thing she’s ever seen.
Touching herself a little harder with one hand, she reaches the other over his shoulder to tweak his nipple, sighing in pleasure when she hears him squeak in surprise and sees him start to squirm even more. It’s a joy to feel him, his pec is warm from the constriction of the capo around it. She can feel how his hot blood has pooled around his nipple.
He’s straining to turn around again, with a sense of desperation as if he can just force himself and the chair to turn around and nosedive into her pussy.
Which, to be fair, he does love to do.
There was a time, not too long ago, they’d been driving past a burned out building. Always one for an impromptu photoshoot, she’d convinced him to pull over. She’d taken a series of photographs of him in and around the building, and he’d taken a few of her as well. She always tried to shoot him so the world would see what she saw—one of the sexiest men she’d ever met. A lot of the photographers who shot him were men and they just didn’t seem to get it. His attractiveness didn’t come from how fast he could play the guitar or how loud he could shout his songs. It came from a quieter place, more sensual, more intimate. The two of them there alone, that’s what she always tried to capture when she shot him—his strangely delicate but undeniably masculine beauty.
Then, they’d made love in that burned out building. She remembers looking up at the stars through the holes in the ceiling while he ate her out and thinking she was seeing god.
She reaches over again to play with his abused pec, his quiet whimpers just pushing her closer and closer.
She removes her hand and he whines louder and starts struggling hard against the bonds. Watching him, all tied up and helpless in front of her, keeping herself quiet is starting to become a struggle.
She closes her eyes in the moments when the wave of orgasm hits her and a low moan escapes her. She thinks she hears the chair shift with the force of his movements because he’s struggling against the bonds so hard and it makes her come even harder than she thought possible.
Taking a few moments to collect her breath so she’s in complete control when she walks back into view, she looks to the floor and sees the capo has fallen off.
She dips to pick up and hangs it in front of him as she walks back to the front of the chair. Bruce has a look on his face that is equal parts desperation and guilt.
“What did I say?” she asks quietly.
Bruce hangs his head.
She unwraps the cable from the chair leg and slowly, so slowly, she starts unbinding him.
A noise from Bruce comes up from his throat, surprise…maybe disappoint? Perhaps he thinks his punishment is that they’ll be done for the night.
For all the struggling he did before, he stays perfectly still as she takes her sweet time undoing the binds. He seems to not even want to breathe too deep, taking only the quietest, shallowest breaths as she undoes her work. She sets the guitar safely aside once it’s freed, Bruce’s eyes follow it for a moment before snapping back to her.
She thoroughly enjoys seeing what all her work did… the deep impressions of the cables cutting into his skin all over his torso and biceps, creating angry red marks from all his struggling.
Finally, all of the bonds are undone, and dropped to the floor. Bruce sits ramrod straight in the chair, exactly the position he was bound in, his hands tightly grasping his thighs.
Gently, she removes the t-shirt from his mouth. He leans forward a little, as if trying to keep it in his mouth for just a while longer.
Unbound and ungagged, he sits in front of her. Exactly in the position she had forced him to be in and still completely silent.
She lets the silence stretch on for a few moments before saying, “Stand up.”
He does.
“Toss the shirt.”
He obeys, quickly pulling off the torn and stretched tank and throwing it in the vague direction of his luggage.
She circles him now, taking the time to admire his form. His lean muscle and smooth skin, the dark chest hair leading down to the happy trail that disappears underneath the waistband of his jeans.
She reaches into his equipment bag and pulls out a loose guitar strap.
“Hands behind your back,” she says as she grips his hair and guides him to the side of the chair. Putting some pressure on the back of his head, she pushes his head down until he is bent over the arm of the chair.
Releasing his hair, she ties his hands behind his back with the guitar strap and then reaches around him, her arm skimming along his abs and reaching down to unbutton his pants before roughly pulling the jeans down to just below the curve of his ass.
She runs her fingertips over the smooth skin of his ass, admiring the curve—she’d always loved his sinewy frame.
She moves her hand away and he makes a small, quiet sound in the back of his throat. The sound sends a thrill of pleasure running through her.
She pauses for a moment. He’s struggling a bit now, his legs shaking minutely like he’s struggling to keep the position she put him in. She draws her hand back and comes back down on his ass—hard.
Striking over and over again, the sharp, loud slaps echoing through the room. She loves the feel of her hand impacting the firm flesh of his ass, turning his cheeks warm and red—the smooth, beautifully pale tableau of his skin taking her hand and displaying her marks like an abstract painting.
She only stops when his legs are shaking hard enough that it looks like his knees might buckle under his own weight if she spanks him even one more time.
He had taken his punishment in almost complete silence, only the tiniest noises escaping with every hit. But when she leans to the side she sees his face is buried in the chair.
“Don’t hide your face from me,” she orders. He turns his head so his cheek is pressing into the seat cushion. His face is almost as red as his ass, his eyes glassy and unfocused. She bends down and gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek, he whines a little at the tenderness.
Leaving him there, bare red ass still in the air, she reaches into his bag to grab a few choice tools she’d taken note of earlier: a loose whammy bar and some mineral oil.
The mineral oil she’s seen him use to carefully clean and polish the fretboard of his beloved guitar. The whammy bar, though—
“You’ve never really been one much for the whammy bar when you play, why do you still carry it around?” she asks curiously, fingering the tool.
He turns his face to the seat of the chair again and lets out a muffled, “Dunno.”
She gives him a displeased hum. Of course of all the things she’s said tonight, she’d get the most verbal response out of him from a music question. She unscrews the cap to the mineral oil and carefully pours a small amount into her palm. Slowly and methodically, she lubes up the whammy bar while thinking about her next move.
They’ve played around like this a bit before—something Bruce seemed to really enjoy but had a hell of a time actually asking for. But she’d only ever used her fingers before. Something about the intimacy of being inside of him had always felt so absurdly romantic. Feeling the inside of his walls as he trembled and constricted and tightened as he came…it had always felt so deeply intimate.
And she’s not feeling in a very intimate mood with him at the moment. Laid across the arm of the chair in front of her, obeying her every command but still refusing to really speak to her, she feels just as distant from him as she did when he was onstage and she was taking pictures from the crowd.
She leans over and grabs his hair again—she has him face down, ass up over the arm of the chair, one hand gripping his hair tight and forcing his face into the seat of the chair as she steadily inserts the slick whammy bar into Bruce’s ass. It’s small enough, narrow enough, he doesn’t really need a lot of pressure or prep but she goes slowly anyway, carefully listening to how his breathing changes. There was a sharp inhale when he first felt something at his entrance but as she slowly worked it inside of him, he’s breathing has evened out.
She starts to work the whammy bar in and out of him. As his breath quickens, she feels very satisfied in the knowledge that her guess that the whammy bar would hit the perfect angle for him was correct. She starts working it in and out of him faster and faster. He starts to squirm beneath her and she pushes his face harder into the seat of the chair to keep him in place so she can continue fucking him.
“Please, Lynnie, please,” he pants out quietly. She can barely hear him with the way she has his face smashed into the chair.
“Please what?” she asks, amused.
“Please,” he whines.
“If you wanted me to help you, you should have listened, or spoken earlier,” she says.
“Lynnie,” he mumbles. “Lynnie, please. Please, please, Lynn.”
“Is that all you have to say now? That’s not good enough, Bruce,” she says.
She picks the pace up even further, wondering if it’s a little painful for him now, since she hasn’t stopped to relube anything.
If it’s rough for him, he seems to like it from the way he keeps whimpering and begging below her.
“You gonna come like this, Bruce?” She whispers to him. “Just you and your guitar but your guitar does the fucking this time?”
He’s panting heavily now, his whining high and frequent. After a few more forceful thrusts from her deft hand, Bruce is coming hard. At the very last minute, she pulls him upright so she can watch his sad, neglected dick spurting and twitching untouched, covering him in his own come for the second time tonight.
She lets go of his hair and he wobbles unsteadily. She grabs him by the bicep and gently guides him over to the bed where he collapses.
His face is completely spaced out, his hair an absolute mess like he’d so clearly just been fucked into oblivion, his eyes a little teary and spacy, his chest rising and falling heavily.
She pulls her camera out of her own bag sitting next to his equipment bag.
His eyes flick up to her after the first click of a picture and she sees his deep brown eyes staring right at her through the lens of her camera.
She walks around the room, taking pictures of him laying exhausted across the bed from every angle. When she’s satisfied with her work, she puts her camera down and walks to him.
“Anything you want to say?” she asks.
He shakes his head slowly, his gaze unfocused.
She climbs into bed with him anyway. Still silent, Bruce cuddles close to her and she holds him, his head on her chest and every part of him he can get close enough is touching her. He’s a mess, covered in his own come and skin sticky from the sweat of the concert with a fresh gloss of new sweat from everything they just did. Every part of him she touches feels tacky but there isn’t a moment when she considers asking him to go clean up.
Stroking his damp hair, she asks, “Are you going to tell me why you've been ignoring me?”
She can feel him shake his head against her.
“Are you going to stop?”
He nods.
“Are you okay?”
He nods again.
“Do you just want to go to sleep?”
Another nod.
“Alright,” she says quietly.
He manages to snuggle even closer somehow. She keeps stroking his hair softly, listening as his breathing evens out and he begins lightly snoring, his breath warm on her chest.
i love being a weird pervert with something wrong with me because there is no greater pleasure than encountering the rare few people that have the same perversions as me and are just as joyous and passionate about theirs as I am about mine
stormborns
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
prguitarman
