mineminemine [fob, petexpatrick, R]
Title: mineminemine
Author/Artist:
pfor
Rating: R
Warnings: Umm. Mild Sexual Content? Not much at all.
Word count: 1688
Summary: In his brain, it wasn’t just processed as ‘mine’ it was ‘MINEMINEMINE,’ with added childish fervor and immature games of tug-a-war with whoever else may try to claim what Pete had claimed as his.
A/N: I AM SO SO SORRY I DON'T HAVE THE ACCOMPANYING ART YET. deadlines caught up on me and I'm slow and I lost my tablet pen and my life is kind of miserable and sick filled this week.
btw, this exists because
angelcakes694 is amazing and kept me from giving up.
Umm, I hope this is good enough for the prompt. It was written between sniffles, blowing my nose and chomping on cough drops xD
So, the thing was, Pete found something and it became his. In his brain, it wasn’t just processed as ‘mine’ it was ‘MINEMINEMINE,’ with added childish fervor and immature games of tug-a-war with whoever else may try to claim what Pete had claimed as his. And one of the things that Pete had, slowly but surely, been claiming as his was a certain Patrick Stump.
Also, Patrick could get upset enough when someone (Pete) was clingy enough that the endless litany of ‘MINEMINEMINE’ in Pete’s brain (like with something would normally be claimed--a laptop, a sidekick, Ryan Ross) came out as more as a constant whisper of ‘mineminemine’ in the back of his head. And a lot of other things could easily overshadow the constant whisper in the back of his mind. Like Jay-Z and record deals and overdoses and third albums starlets and certain scrawny Jersey boys and LA and fourth albums and Ashlee Simpson and a million other things that had happened in a ridiculously short amount of time.
To be completely and totally honest, Pete was easily distracted--even from his self. He would be so caught up in eventaftereventaftereventafterevent that he would forget to eat, forget to attempt to sleep and forget to call people or do this or that. So it’s quite understandable that it took Pete a long time to figure out the deep little whisper that he always heard, the burning running through his veins every now and then, the need for something to be his so concrete in his life that he had to take a breath to get anything done.
Realizing it was no epiphany--no bright and sudden understanding. It was a slow and creeping realization--spreading from his chest to the rest of his body, and there were nights that he would just tug Patrick into his lap during a show and hold him there--even though he’d squirm some. The singer was used to Pete invading his personal space, this was just yet another way to do so. Pete throwing an arm over his shoulder, or looping both of his arms around Patrick’s waist become an increasingly more common occurrence. And, well, a bunch of tiny little things like that--even going so far as making Patrick wear a certain hat.
And Pete didn’t even realize what he was doing, just about everyone else especially Patrick, realized what Pete was doing, but never the man himself. And one night when Pete was bored and tired and trying to watch a movie, he crawled over to the couch and draped himself over Patrick like they weren’t even two different people. Patrick could really only take so much--he just snapped because Pete was treating him like a child.
He jerked away angrily and quickly, “I am not a goddamn child.” Patrick hissed out, scrambling off of the couch and glaring at Pete.
And Pete narrowed his eyes and looked like he was about to start pouting--and he didn’t even talk at first, just look at Patrick as if he were trying to find something under the others skin.
“What do you mean you’re not a kid?” He asked, innocently.
Patrick scrunched his nose up in frustration at Pete’s game, “I mean you’ve been treating me like you’re my mom or something like that--and you’re not! I’m not a kid or anything and you keep on acting like I am--embarrassing me and being all clingy and attached. You’re like--the only one!” He said, huffing slightly as he turned away from Pete for a moment to collect himself.
“No one else invades my personal space like that--when I’m hanging out with Gabe he’s not like that--or when Brendon comes over, even he knows to keep his space enough to let me breathe. Everyone seems to respect my personal space and boundaries but you and you’re my best friend and you should especially!” Patrick screeched out, slightly flushed from the exclamation.
And Pete kindofsortof exploded. “You’re not theirs.”
Patrick stopped--his eyes widening behind his glasses before he blinked--once, then twice. “What?”
Pete glared a little, “You’re my best friend, you’re my lead singer, you’re my--”
“Wait, wait--hold on a second Pete--Since when have I been yours?”
“I dunno! For, like forever!” He practically yelled, throwing his arms up--frustrated that this wasn’t turning out like he planned at all.
Patrick’s eyes narrowed, “I am not your possession! I’m not something you can own!” He burst out, caught somewhere between angry--and well, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling this revelation of Pete’s feelings towards him was so new and raw.
Pete looked like he was going to start pouting--but as Patrick turned to go towards the door without another word, Pete said--testing, “Don’t go.” Hard and stern--like Patrick had to listen, and Patrick took a few, more slow, steps away.
“Stop, Patrick.” Pete said as calmly as he could manage--bordering on the edge of hysteria as he said the command. Patrick took a deep breath, he could hear the emotion behind the simple command--the fear, the anger, the frustration, the desperation, the desire because he had known Pete long enough to know what was what in his voice even when he was hiding everything.
So he stopped. Not because he wanted too--no, he was still furious at Pete for thinking of him like that for so long, for thinking of him as some thing. But he stopped, and he turned around and he looked at Pete.
“What?”
“Come here.” And against every bone in his body (that knew you should never give Pete what he wants, well--not when its something like this), Patrick moved, going back to where he had been standing with Pete before.
“What?” He hissed out again, barely able to tolerate Pete anymore.
Pete looked at Patrick, contemplatively--traces of triumph peeking from under his ‘collected’ mask.
Pete closed the distance between the two of them, “Mine.” He said, leaning forward and catching Patrick’s wrist.
A chill ran down Patrick’s spine--and he, reluctantly, let Pete pull him forwards so that he was pressed close to him. And Patrick was struggling to keep his anger bubbling up at the surface--with the way Pete was right there and looking at him like that.
“You’re mine.” Pete repeated, , “Patrick Stump you are fucking mine and they knew better than to even think of touching you.” he said, voice a little deeper and a little less veiled. Patrick opened his mouth to protest or to say something in retaliation (anger turned back up high) until Pete tugged his wrist, pressing them close again, and kissed him. Hard.
Patrick pulled away, sudden--jerking his wrist back out of Pete’s grip and backing off.
“Pete--Why--What was that?”
“I kissed you.”
Patrick rolled his eyes, “Motherfucking duh! What the hell is this all about?”
“You’re mine, Patrick.” Pete said, stubbornly, and Patrick was beginning to think that Pete was sounding like a broken record with saying that, “And you’re going to kiss me, this time.”
The singer scrunched his nose up in frustration, “And I’m not going to--”
“Yes, you are.” Pete said, determinedly as he grabbed Patrick‘s wrist again--like he was convinced that Patrick was going to get this and ‘play along’ and understand.
And Patrick really couldn’t shake off that conviction. He really couldn’t, and he knew that it was probably against everything that he should have learned from all this time with Pete--he shouldn’t give into his silly little games (except that he would anyway, but later on after a lot of badgering and annoyance). And Patrick just sighed softly and kissed him.
And Pete took over, like he did with so much. And Pete made it deeper, and Patrick just reciprocated--and Patrick didn’t think he had wanted this before (who was he kidding--it was Pete, Pete who he met when he was a teenager and vulnerable and young and just-a-little-almost-star struck) but it was good. Patrick was surprised when Pete backed him up against the wall next to the couch.
“Mine.” Pete hissed out against Patrick’s mouth.
Patrick didn’t even try to reply, just shifted as Pete pinned him against the wall.
“Tell me you’re mine.” He hissed out, grabbing the other’s wrists again, holding them against the wall, and staying so close they were breathing the air. And Patrick wasn’t going to say anything, because he wasn’t Pete’s because this was just something Pete had come up with. They were friends and Patrick wasn’t a possession.
“Tell me.” Pete repeated, “I want to hear it, I want you to say it for me Patrick.” He dropped one of Patrick’s wrists, moving his hand to Patrick’s belt, fingers dancing along the top of his pants, and pulling his belt out of the loops, unbuckling it and Patrick gasped a little.
“Pete--What are you--?”
The question was left hanging in the air, and Pete cut him off with another kiss, rubbing the patch of skin revealed as he unbuttoned Patrick’s pants (right below his shirts and above the elastic of his underwear--soft, smooth, slightly pink skin).
Patrick shook his head, “I’m not a--”
Pete slipped his index finger under the elastic, pulling it back a little, and letting it slap softly against his skin--he moved his head a little, pressing a kiss to the side of Patrick’s throat--biting a little and lapping his tongue out.
“Pa~trick . . .” Pete hummed softly, against the wet patch of skin on his throat, “Tell me.”
He didn’t reply, just pressed back against the wall--a little further away from Pete.
Pete bit down hard and Patrick jumped a little and made a small noise. Pete licked the spot carefully, “Tell me.” He whispered, softly--slipping more of his fingers under the elastic of his underwear.
Patrick sighed, shakily--and God he didn’t know how he ended up pressed up against a wall--Pete holding him there and biting him with his hand--but, he didn’t exactly mind. And he could always knock Pete out of his ego trip later, like always because one way or another Pete always made him give in--
“Yours.”
Author/Artist:
pfor
Rating: R
Warnings: Umm. Mild Sexual Content? Not much at all.
Word count: 1688
Summary: In his brain, it wasn’t just processed as ‘mine’ it was ‘MINEMINEMINE,’ with added childish fervor and immature games of tug-a-war with whoever else may try to claim what Pete had claimed as his.
A/N: I AM SO SO SORRY I DON'T HAVE THE ACCOMPANYING ART YET. deadlines caught up on me and I'm slow and I lost my tablet pen and my life is kind of miserable and sick filled this week.
btw, this exists because
angelcakes694 is amazing and kept me from giving up.
Umm, I hope this is good enough for the prompt. It was written between sniffles, blowing my nose and chomping on cough drops xD
So, the thing was, Pete found something and it became his. In his brain, it wasn’t just processed as ‘mine’ it was ‘MINEMINEMINE,’ with added childish fervor and immature games of tug-a-war with whoever else may try to claim what Pete had claimed as his. And one of the things that Pete had, slowly but surely, been claiming as his was a certain Patrick Stump.
Also, Patrick could get upset enough when someone (Pete) was clingy enough that the endless litany of ‘MINEMINEMINE’ in Pete’s brain (like with something would normally be claimed--a laptop, a sidekick, Ryan Ross) came out as more as a constant whisper of ‘mineminemine’ in the back of his head. And a lot of other things could easily overshadow the constant whisper in the back of his mind. Like Jay-Z and record deals and overdoses and third albums starlets and certain scrawny Jersey boys and LA and fourth albums and Ashlee Simpson and a million other things that had happened in a ridiculously short amount of time.
To be completely and totally honest, Pete was easily distracted--even from his self. He would be so caught up in eventaftereventaftereventafterevent that he would forget to eat, forget to attempt to sleep and forget to call people or do this or that. So it’s quite understandable that it took Pete a long time to figure out the deep little whisper that he always heard, the burning running through his veins every now and then, the need for something to be his so concrete in his life that he had to take a breath to get anything done.
Realizing it was no epiphany--no bright and sudden understanding. It was a slow and creeping realization--spreading from his chest to the rest of his body, and there were nights that he would just tug Patrick into his lap during a show and hold him there--even though he’d squirm some. The singer was used to Pete invading his personal space, this was just yet another way to do so. Pete throwing an arm over his shoulder, or looping both of his arms around Patrick’s waist become an increasingly more common occurrence. And, well, a bunch of tiny little things like that--even going so far as making Patrick wear a certain hat.
And Pete didn’t even realize what he was doing, just about everyone else especially Patrick, realized what Pete was doing, but never the man himself. And one night when Pete was bored and tired and trying to watch a movie, he crawled over to the couch and draped himself over Patrick like they weren’t even two different people. Patrick could really only take so much--he just snapped because Pete was treating him like a child.
He jerked away angrily and quickly, “I am not a goddamn child.” Patrick hissed out, scrambling off of the couch and glaring at Pete.
And Pete narrowed his eyes and looked like he was about to start pouting--and he didn’t even talk at first, just look at Patrick as if he were trying to find something under the others skin.
“What do you mean you’re not a kid?” He asked, innocently.
Patrick scrunched his nose up in frustration at Pete’s game, “I mean you’ve been treating me like you’re my mom or something like that--and you’re not! I’m not a kid or anything and you keep on acting like I am--embarrassing me and being all clingy and attached. You’re like--the only one!” He said, huffing slightly as he turned away from Pete for a moment to collect himself.
“No one else invades my personal space like that--when I’m hanging out with Gabe he’s not like that--or when Brendon comes over, even he knows to keep his space enough to let me breathe. Everyone seems to respect my personal space and boundaries but you and you’re my best friend and you should especially!” Patrick screeched out, slightly flushed from the exclamation.
And Pete kindofsortof exploded. “You’re not theirs.”
Patrick stopped--his eyes widening behind his glasses before he blinked--once, then twice. “What?”
Pete glared a little, “You’re my best friend, you’re my lead singer, you’re my--”
“Wait, wait--hold on a second Pete--Since when have I been yours?”
“I dunno! For, like forever!” He practically yelled, throwing his arms up--frustrated that this wasn’t turning out like he planned at all.
Patrick’s eyes narrowed, “I am not your possession! I’m not something you can own!” He burst out, caught somewhere between angry--and well, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling this revelation of Pete’s feelings towards him was so new and raw.
Pete looked like he was going to start pouting--but as Patrick turned to go towards the door without another word, Pete said--testing, “Don’t go.” Hard and stern--like Patrick had to listen, and Patrick took a few, more slow, steps away.
“Stop, Patrick.” Pete said as calmly as he could manage--bordering on the edge of hysteria as he said the command. Patrick took a deep breath, he could hear the emotion behind the simple command--the fear, the anger, the frustration, the desperation, the desire because he had known Pete long enough to know what was what in his voice even when he was hiding everything.
So he stopped. Not because he wanted too--no, he was still furious at Pete for thinking of him like that for so long, for thinking of him as some thing. But he stopped, and he turned around and he looked at Pete.
“What?”
“Come here.” And against every bone in his body (that knew you should never give Pete what he wants, well--not when its something like this), Patrick moved, going back to where he had been standing with Pete before.
“What?” He hissed out again, barely able to tolerate Pete anymore.
Pete looked at Patrick, contemplatively--traces of triumph peeking from under his ‘collected’ mask.
Pete closed the distance between the two of them, “Mine.” He said, leaning forward and catching Patrick’s wrist.
A chill ran down Patrick’s spine--and he, reluctantly, let Pete pull him forwards so that he was pressed close to him. And Patrick was struggling to keep his anger bubbling up at the surface--with the way Pete was right there and looking at him like that.
“You’re mine.” Pete repeated, , “Patrick Stump you are fucking mine and they knew better than to even think of touching you.” he said, voice a little deeper and a little less veiled. Patrick opened his mouth to protest or to say something in retaliation (anger turned back up high) until Pete tugged his wrist, pressing them close again, and kissed him. Hard.
Patrick pulled away, sudden--jerking his wrist back out of Pete’s grip and backing off.
“Pete--Why--What was that?”
“I kissed you.”
Patrick rolled his eyes, “Motherfucking duh! What the hell is this all about?”
“You’re mine, Patrick.” Pete said, stubbornly, and Patrick was beginning to think that Pete was sounding like a broken record with saying that, “And you’re going to kiss me, this time.”
The singer scrunched his nose up in frustration, “And I’m not going to--”
“Yes, you are.” Pete said, determinedly as he grabbed Patrick‘s wrist again--like he was convinced that Patrick was going to get this and ‘play along’ and understand.
And Patrick really couldn’t shake off that conviction. He really couldn’t, and he knew that it was probably against everything that he should have learned from all this time with Pete--he shouldn’t give into his silly little games (except that he would anyway, but later on after a lot of badgering and annoyance). And Patrick just sighed softly and kissed him.
And Pete took over, like he did with so much. And Pete made it deeper, and Patrick just reciprocated--and Patrick didn’t think he had wanted this before (who was he kidding--it was Pete, Pete who he met when he was a teenager and vulnerable and young and just-a-little-almost-star struck) but it was good. Patrick was surprised when Pete backed him up against the wall next to the couch.
“Mine.” Pete hissed out against Patrick’s mouth.
Patrick didn’t even try to reply, just shifted as Pete pinned him against the wall.
“Tell me you’re mine.” He hissed out, grabbing the other’s wrists again, holding them against the wall, and staying so close they were breathing the air. And Patrick wasn’t going to say anything, because he wasn’t Pete’s because this was just something Pete had come up with. They were friends and Patrick wasn’t a possession.
“Tell me.” Pete repeated, “I want to hear it, I want you to say it for me Patrick.” He dropped one of Patrick’s wrists, moving his hand to Patrick’s belt, fingers dancing along the top of his pants, and pulling his belt out of the loops, unbuckling it and Patrick gasped a little.
“Pete--What are you--?”
The question was left hanging in the air, and Pete cut him off with another kiss, rubbing the patch of skin revealed as he unbuttoned Patrick’s pants (right below his shirts and above the elastic of his underwear--soft, smooth, slightly pink skin).
Patrick shook his head, “I’m not a--”
Pete slipped his index finger under the elastic, pulling it back a little, and letting it slap softly against his skin--he moved his head a little, pressing a kiss to the side of Patrick’s throat--biting a little and lapping his tongue out.
“Pa~trick . . .” Pete hummed softly, against the wet patch of skin on his throat, “Tell me.”
He didn’t reply, just pressed back against the wall--a little further away from Pete.
Pete bit down hard and Patrick jumped a little and made a small noise. Pete licked the spot carefully, “Tell me.” He whispered, softly--slipping more of his fingers under the elastic of his underwear.
Patrick sighed, shakily--and God he didn’t know how he ended up pressed up against a wall--Pete holding him there and biting him with his hand--but, he didn’t exactly mind. And he could always knock Pete out of his ego trip later, like always because one way or another Pete always made him give in--
“Yours.”