BS: P/P (one-sided): Adult: Maybe It's Crazy
Title: Maybe It's Crazy
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters: one-sided Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1374
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Food
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "When he first noticed it, it was something he thought he could control."
Author's Notes: This is a kink bingo story. There is more to this story, about another 5k in fact, but it's not entirely finished and this part has to be posted today to meet the challenge. This is not properly beta'd. Please alert me to errors. :D
Patrick is being vegetarian. That’s not a problem, Pete likes vegetarians, hell, he was a vegetarian for a while, but it’s fucking with his worldview right now.
Not that Patrick is a vegetarian, his world view is fine with that, it’s what being vegetarian entails that’s the problem.
It’s not the not eating animals thing, again, Pete’s down with that. He can’t do it himself anymore, but he gets it. It’s the other part of it. It’s the eating of all the fucking fruits and vegetables all the time. They get vegan catering whenever they can because of Andy and Patrick will eat vegan, so that’s not a problem, but it’s a fact of being vegetarian that you get as many calories or as much protein when you’re not eating meat, so you have to eat more. In Patrick’s case, that seems to have translated to all the fucking time.
So it’s not Pete’s fault. Maybe he’s always had a healthy appreciation for Patrick’s mouth, and his fingers and...hell, who does he think he’s fooling? He’s always had a healthy appreciation for Patrick really. But it had never been a problem before, just an idle thought now and then, just something that he tried not to examine too closely.
But, now every time he’s around Patrick he’s eating another fucking carrot stick or peeling an orange or having a piece of toast. So it’s not Pete’s fault and he’d like to blame Patrick, but that would imply that there was something wrong with Patrick eating and Pete’s totally okay with Patrick eating, so he blames it on vegetarianism as a whole.
When he first noticed it, it was something he thought he could control. It was nothing to get worked up over, no big deal. So, okay, Patrick had been eating a banana as he checked his email and Pete wouldn’t even have noticed except for Patrick’s mouth, his fucking lips closing around the fruit and Pete’s thoughts had been explicit and disturbing and had focused on the shape of Patrick’s mouth, the sweet curve of his lips and the contrast between the pale fruit and his red, red mouth.
Pete had been half asleep at the time so it had taken him a moment to notice he was even having the thoughts and by the time his consciousness had snapped firmly into place it was too late, not only had Pete had the thoughts, they’d made him hard. He’d scratched sleepily at his stomach, turned around and went into the bathroom to jerk off, there was no use wasting a perfectly good hard-on.
He’d determinedly thought more about sensation, texture, taste as he’d jerked at his cock, being careful not to think of anyone or anything in specific. At least he’d had that much forethought. Though, looking back, he probably shouldn’t have done it at all.
Because now, now he can’t stop thinking about it. Well, that’s not exactly true, he thinks about all sorts of other things, new clan designs, demos, bands he wants to find the time to listen to, but there in the back of his head is the voice of, of all things, the sportscaster from Monday Night Football, and he didn’t even really watch football, but his Dad had and apparently he’d internalized the voice. But, whatever else was going on in his head, there was a resonating voice in the back, saying things like, “Yes, there goes Patrick with an apple. Pete, how many bites do you think he’ll take?” or “And Patrick picks up his fourth carrot stick, will he go for five?”
It was ridiculous, it should have been funny. Pete knows more about what Patrick eats on a daily basis than Patrick does, and it’s an uneasy, unwanted knowledge. He’d walked with Patrick to catering the other day, it was a decent place that understood that vegetarian didn’t mean he couldn’t eat food that had been cooked and Patrick had said, “Fuck, I’m starving. I haven’t had anything but cereal and a banana today,” and Pete had wanted to keep his mouth closed, had wanted to agree but he couldn’t, he’d said, “and some pretzels and an orange.”
Patrick had raised his eyebrows, looked surprised, but then he’d laughed and nodded. And it was that easy. Patrick. Fuck. Patrick. He made it all too easy, made everything about the band and Pete too easy. Made it so easy that Pete didn’t have the willpower to resist, couldn’t stop himself even when he knew he should.
That had been the first day, the day it had gone from a weird obsession with Patrick eating, and some harmless lusting after those fucking perfect lips and that pink tongue of his that would occasionally come out to lick at some juice, to something more. Something even Pete was afraid of, but he couldn’t stop.
Patrick had been sitting there, eating some sort of pasta dish with carrots and spinach and all sorts of other things that were far better for him than the cheeseburger Pete was sporting, and Pete had just grabbed Patrick’s fork right out of his hand, popped a bite into his mouth, the bite that Patrick had speared, and chewed and swallowed it. Fuck, vegetarian food was better these days than he remembered it being. He’d ducked Patrick’s swatting hand and relinquished the fork saying, “Just wanted a taste.”
Patrick had let him get away with it, had just said, "Next time, asshole, just ask, and get your own fucking fork," but he had let him get away with it and there was the problem.
Pete did want a taste, he wanted to taste everything that went into Patrick’s mouth, wanted to know, to experience it the same way Patrick did and he wanted to taste Patrick too. He wanted to kiss and nibble and lick every sweet, pale inch of him and then he wanted to feed Patrick grapes like some sort of Greek boyslave and even that was only the tamest of things he wanted. He wanted Patrick to feed him, wanted to eat off of his plate and sleep in his bed and pull his full button lip into Pete’s own mouth and worry at it until it was swollen and red. And then he wanted to feed him something messy and juicy and he wanted to lick the taste of him, wanted Patrick to feel the light rasp of Pete’s tongue over his already too-sensitive lips.
He was jerking off to the image of Patrick eating carrots of all things, carrots are not an erotic food, okay? But somehow the flash of Patrick's teeth as he chomped down, the movement of his jaw as he chewed, the slide of his throat as he swallowed, it was all too much. Pete was jerking off to images of his best friend eating fucking carrots and he didn't even care anymore, it wasn't unusual now. It wasn't just carrots though, he'd spent a good long time stroking his cock remembering the way Patrick ate pizza. Yes, fuck, pizza. Look he knows it's not an erotic food and he doesn't care, everything Patrick eats is erotic to him now. This time, this time it's French fries though, it's the way that Patrick absentmindedly grips them in those fucking slender fingers of his, the way that he pops them into his mouth, dragging them through ketchup first, it's the way that he's not even paying attention, but it's some how so neat and compact and utterly Patrick. Pete's hand is stroking up and down his cock, he's fisting himself roughly, imaging Patrick, imaging being the thing that Patrick's eating, imaging being Patrick's.
Pete's still picturing Patrick in his mind, his slow swallow as he takes a drink, the motion of his throat, when he comes, and it's just a small step from there to imaging Patrick swallowing, swallowing him and Pete wishes he could come again, because that's an image he could spend some quality time with.
So, Pete was fucked in the head. It didn’t come as a big surprise to him, though this particular brand of fucked was pretty unfamiliar and he didn’t really know what to do about it.
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters: one-sided Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1374
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Food
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "When he first noticed it, it was something he thought he could control."
Author's Notes: This is a kink bingo story. There is more to this story, about another 5k in fact, but it's not entirely finished and this part has to be posted today to meet the challenge. This is not properly beta'd. Please alert me to errors. :D
Patrick is being vegetarian. That’s not a problem, Pete likes vegetarians, hell, he was a vegetarian for a while, but it’s fucking with his worldview right now.
Not that Patrick is a vegetarian, his world view is fine with that, it’s what being vegetarian entails that’s the problem.
It’s not the not eating animals thing, again, Pete’s down with that. He can’t do it himself anymore, but he gets it. It’s the other part of it. It’s the eating of all the fucking fruits and vegetables all the time. They get vegan catering whenever they can because of Andy and Patrick will eat vegan, so that’s not a problem, but it’s a fact of being vegetarian that you get as many calories or as much protein when you’re not eating meat, so you have to eat more. In Patrick’s case, that seems to have translated to all the fucking time.
So it’s not Pete’s fault. Maybe he’s always had a healthy appreciation for Patrick’s mouth, and his fingers and...hell, who does he think he’s fooling? He’s always had a healthy appreciation for Patrick really. But it had never been a problem before, just an idle thought now and then, just something that he tried not to examine too closely.
But, now every time he’s around Patrick he’s eating another fucking carrot stick or peeling an orange or having a piece of toast. So it’s not Pete’s fault and he’d like to blame Patrick, but that would imply that there was something wrong with Patrick eating and Pete’s totally okay with Patrick eating, so he blames it on vegetarianism as a whole.
When he first noticed it, it was something he thought he could control. It was nothing to get worked up over, no big deal. So, okay, Patrick had been eating a banana as he checked his email and Pete wouldn’t even have noticed except for Patrick’s mouth, his fucking lips closing around the fruit and Pete’s thoughts had been explicit and disturbing and had focused on the shape of Patrick’s mouth, the sweet curve of his lips and the contrast between the pale fruit and his red, red mouth.
Pete had been half asleep at the time so it had taken him a moment to notice he was even having the thoughts and by the time his consciousness had snapped firmly into place it was too late, not only had Pete had the thoughts, they’d made him hard. He’d scratched sleepily at his stomach, turned around and went into the bathroom to jerk off, there was no use wasting a perfectly good hard-on.
He’d determinedly thought more about sensation, texture, taste as he’d jerked at his cock, being careful not to think of anyone or anything in specific. At least he’d had that much forethought. Though, looking back, he probably shouldn’t have done it at all.
Because now, now he can’t stop thinking about it. Well, that’s not exactly true, he thinks about all sorts of other things, new clan designs, demos, bands he wants to find the time to listen to, but there in the back of his head is the voice of, of all things, the sportscaster from Monday Night Football, and he didn’t even really watch football, but his Dad had and apparently he’d internalized the voice. But, whatever else was going on in his head, there was a resonating voice in the back, saying things like, “Yes, there goes Patrick with an apple. Pete, how many bites do you think he’ll take?” or “And Patrick picks up his fourth carrot stick, will he go for five?”
It was ridiculous, it should have been funny. Pete knows more about what Patrick eats on a daily basis than Patrick does, and it’s an uneasy, unwanted knowledge. He’d walked with Patrick to catering the other day, it was a decent place that understood that vegetarian didn’t mean he couldn’t eat food that had been cooked and Patrick had said, “Fuck, I’m starving. I haven’t had anything but cereal and a banana today,” and Pete had wanted to keep his mouth closed, had wanted to agree but he couldn’t, he’d said, “and some pretzels and an orange.”
Patrick had raised his eyebrows, looked surprised, but then he’d laughed and nodded. And it was that easy. Patrick. Fuck. Patrick. He made it all too easy, made everything about the band and Pete too easy. Made it so easy that Pete didn’t have the willpower to resist, couldn’t stop himself even when he knew he should.
That had been the first day, the day it had gone from a weird obsession with Patrick eating, and some harmless lusting after those fucking perfect lips and that pink tongue of his that would occasionally come out to lick at some juice, to something more. Something even Pete was afraid of, but he couldn’t stop.
Patrick had been sitting there, eating some sort of pasta dish with carrots and spinach and all sorts of other things that were far better for him than the cheeseburger Pete was sporting, and Pete had just grabbed Patrick’s fork right out of his hand, popped a bite into his mouth, the bite that Patrick had speared, and chewed and swallowed it. Fuck, vegetarian food was better these days than he remembered it being. He’d ducked Patrick’s swatting hand and relinquished the fork saying, “Just wanted a taste.”
Patrick had let him get away with it, had just said, "Next time, asshole, just ask, and get your own fucking fork," but he had let him get away with it and there was the problem.
Pete did want a taste, he wanted to taste everything that went into Patrick’s mouth, wanted to know, to experience it the same way Patrick did and he wanted to taste Patrick too. He wanted to kiss and nibble and lick every sweet, pale inch of him and then he wanted to feed Patrick grapes like some sort of Greek boyslave and even that was only the tamest of things he wanted. He wanted Patrick to feed him, wanted to eat off of his plate and sleep in his bed and pull his full button lip into Pete’s own mouth and worry at it until it was swollen and red. And then he wanted to feed him something messy and juicy and he wanted to lick the taste of him, wanted Patrick to feel the light rasp of Pete’s tongue over his already too-sensitive lips.
He was jerking off to the image of Patrick eating carrots of all things, carrots are not an erotic food, okay? But somehow the flash of Patrick's teeth as he chomped down, the movement of his jaw as he chewed, the slide of his throat as he swallowed, it was all too much. Pete was jerking off to images of his best friend eating fucking carrots and he didn't even care anymore, it wasn't unusual now. It wasn't just carrots though, he'd spent a good long time stroking his cock remembering the way Patrick ate pizza. Yes, fuck, pizza. Look he knows it's not an erotic food and he doesn't care, everything Patrick eats is erotic to him now. This time, this time it's French fries though, it's the way that Patrick absentmindedly grips them in those fucking slender fingers of his, the way that he pops them into his mouth, dragging them through ketchup first, it's the way that he's not even paying attention, but it's some how so neat and compact and utterly Patrick. Pete's hand is stroking up and down his cock, he's fisting himself roughly, imaging Patrick, imaging being the thing that Patrick's eating, imaging being Patrick's.
Pete's still picturing Patrick in his mind, his slow swallow as he takes a drink, the motion of his throat, when he comes, and it's just a small step from there to imaging Patrick swallowing, swallowing him and Pete wishes he could come again, because that's an image he could spend some quality time with.
So, Pete was fucked in the head. It didn’t come as a big surprise to him, though this particular brand of fucked was pretty unfamiliar and he didn’t really know what to do about it.