The Only Boy in the Band

Warnings: This is girl!fic. Not genderswap, but 'has-always-been-a-girl' fic. With a little bit of f/f, but mostly het sex (in case that needs a warning :P).
Author's Note: This fandom makes me want to write strange, strange things... Seriously, there are several really excellent always-a-girl fics (as well as genderswap stories) out there, which made me itch to try one myself. Hope you enjoy!

Pete sometimes wanted to form an "only-boy-in-the-band" club. He could ask Ryan to join. They could have t-shirts and group counselling sessions after scarring incidents with tampons or accidentially switched-on remote-controlled vibrators (and boy, had Andie been furious about that one - and there were few things more scary than their angry tatooed vegan drummer). But then Pete remembered that it was Ryan he was thinking about, who was probably more of a girl than many real females, including some in his own band (if anyone, Joan was the boyish one in Panic, which admittedly wasn't saying much). So Pete tried to accept the fact that no one in the world could quite understand the things he had to put up with.

Most people seemed to be under the impression that it would be awesome to be the only guy in a band with three attractive women, as if any of them would ever let Pete anywhere near her girly parts. (Well, there had been that one time where a drunk sixteen-year-old Jo had tried to practice giving head on him in the alley behind some club. But that had been rudely interrupted by the realization that Pete could end up in prison if they got caught, and by the time they'd reached Pete's place, Jo had been passed out. They never talked about it, and Pete seriously doubted Jo even remembered.) Although admittedly, a lot of the female fans would happily give Pete access to their girly bits (except for those that Andie got to first), which was a rather nice thing for any redblooded male, especially since a surprisingly big number of them were even legal.

Still, a lot of the time Pete felt a bit like the unpopular nerd in highschool, the one that the popular kids took pity on. He had more experience in dealing with PMS, menstrual cramps, boyfriend (or girlfriend, in Andie's case) drama and angry rants about misogyny in showbusiness than any straight male ever should have. Things had improved somewhat since they were able to afford two buses (Pete still secretly thought the van days should have turned him off women permanently) and a crew that included several other guys, and Pete actually got a chance to remember why he loved all of them so damn much.

Which he totally did, and not just because Fall Out was his big dream come true. Sometimes he'd be on stage, and he'd be looking over at where Andie was drumming her heart out, at Jo racing around the stage like a woman possessed, and at Patricia, singing in that voice that sometimes followed Pete into his dreams (the good kind of dream, the one where he woke up and just felt ridiculously content), and his fierce love for them rushed over him until he could hardly breathe. That was when he usually sidled up to Patricia and pressed close, ignoring the screams of the fans and just breathing her in for a moment or two before pressing a kiss to her neck and tearing himself away. Okay, maybe Pete was sometimes glad to be the only boy in the band, if it meant that he was the one who got to kiss Patricia on stage. He was relatively sure, in a mostly non-voyeuristic way, he'd be able to handle it if Jo ever decided to stop her derwish impersonation and stage-gay it with Patricia (that sort of thing was a big hit at Panic's shows, although admittedly there wasn't much "stage" about the gay between Joan and Brenda), but he'd be damned if he let another guy anywhere near her.

There had been no time in Pete Wentz' life when he wasn't desperately in love with Patricia Stump(h), his singer, guitarist, co-writer, best friend and all-around favorite person in the whole wide world. At least it felt that way. The only problem was that, on the fateful day they met (immortalized in way too many interviews, and Patricia would never forgive him for mentioning the Argyle sweater), Patricia had laid down two stipulations for her joining the band: "One, you call me Patricia. Not Pat, Patty, Trish, Trix, Tricia or any other bastardization of my given name that you can come up with. And two, you don't hit on me. We'll be in this band together for hopefully a long time, and I don't want something stupid like sex to get in the way."

And while Pete had found many flaws in this (for one, he liked the sound of 'Trish', and also, sex with Pete was never stupid), the look of determination on Patricia's deceptively sweet face made him for once hold his tongue. There was no way in hell he was letting this one get away! So Pete had settled for silly nicknames like "Lunchbox" (which had earned him a well-aimed drumstick against the head) and for proclamations of love in countless interview and blogposts, making sure never to cross the line she had drawn in the sand that first day. Luckily for him, the line didn't seem to apply to on-stage kissing and off-stage snuggling, or else Pete thought he might have gone mad (oh wait, he did - but those days, when Patricia hadn't talked to him except in notes shoved under a door, had only marginally been influenced by his suppressed desires, as his shrink had made him realize, and therefore didn't count).

Yeah, so while he might complain about the hardships of being the only boy in the band, Pete was actually quite content with his life these days. He had the band, the label and all his other ventures, he had three kick-ass girls in his life who he'd trust with his soul (which he had, on occasion), one of which happened to be his soulmate, even if it was completely platonic (and a part of Pete was rather proud of having such a mature, grown-up attitude). So what if his relationships with other girls usually fell apart spectacularly (and he was still surprised that his one break-up with a guy had actually been rather pleasant, probably because he and Mikey had both turned out to be too straight to do much more than hold hands and make out in dark corners), at least the resulting pain and anger were good for furiously scribbled lyrics, and Patricia sometimes even let him crash in her bunk during these times.

However, as of 7.23pm of this very evening, Pete had realized once again that Fate (or God or whatever) hated him. At 7 o'clock, the world had still been okay. Pete had dropped by the studio, where Patricia was helping Panic out with some of their new songs, had gotten some nice hugs from the girls and Ryan (plus a rather sloppy kiss from Bren, accompanied by an amused eyeroll from Joan) and then settled himself in a corner to watch Patricia wrap up the day's work. First Bren and Joan had waved goodbye and disappeared, Joan being pulled by the hand by a rather overexcited Bren (and Pete would pay good money to see how Joan turned the adrenaline into endorphines). Shortly after, Spencer had finished packing up her drumkit and approached Ryan, who'd been deep in conversation with Patricia regarding the merits of adding an ukulele. And that had been when Pete began to suspect Fate had a mean sense of humour.

Because Spencer had wrapped herself around Ryan (her curves molding into his angles in a way that Pete would have found very aesthetically pleasing if he hadn't been so busy staring in shock) and said in her most business-like tone: "C'mon, Ry, time to go home so I can fuck your brains out."

In response, Ryan just grinned (a ridiculously happy grin that should have looked strange on his usually rather reserved features but for some reason didn't) and slung an arm over Spencer's shoulder, holding her tightly and barely waving at Patricia (who, Pete noted, did not seem shocked at all, and why hadn't she said something?) and Pete. Spencer smirked like a cat that had gotten not only the cream but the strawberries, too, and Ryan looked for all the world as if he hadn't spent one of his few drunk parties rambling endlessly to Pete about change and perceptions and scraped knees and "fucking drummers" (at which point Pete really had not needed Ryan's longing look to where Spencer was talking animatedly with Bob Bryar in order to figure things out).

And how was that fair? Ryan and Spencer should have been even more impossible than Pete and Patricia (at least Patricia had been mostly through with puberty by the time they met, unlike some people who met in the fricking sandbox), and Pete wanted nothing more than to run after them, grab Ryan by the neck and make him tell him how he did it. Because that Ryan Ross should get to fuck Spencer Smith (and oh, the things Pete could imagine Spencer doing with those hips of hers), while Pete was left in a suddenly empty studio with his own best friend (feeling numb and somehow betrayed and maybe a tiny bit turned on) was wrong on so many levels.

And now Patricia was cocking her head at him, pushing back her hat and taking off her glasses as she smiled somewhat ruefully (with those lips that Pete wanted so badly to kiss properly, almost more than he wanted them wrapped around his dick) and said something that Pete completely missed because his brain was still busy throwing a tantrum. Ignoring Patricia was never a good idea, however, as he realized once again when her (pretty, pretty) eyes narrowed and one of Ryan's guitar picks hit him straight in the face.

"What?!" It came out as an irritated bark, but Pete couldn't muster enough composure to be anything but an ass. Good thing that Patricia was used to it and knew better than to take it personally (most of the time, and Pete usually knew when to stop). Now she just shrugged in exasperation and crossed the studio floor, straddling his lap and using a pointed finger to poke him in the chest.

"I said that you should have seen what I walked in on during lunch break. Not really surprising, though - it's taken them long enough, all that sexual tension had to explode at some point."

She was grinning and right there, in Pete's lap, and something must have short-circuited in his brain (he'd never had good impulse control, as several of his less-than-stellar tattoos proved), because instead of laughing along and letting things go back to normal (full of suppressed longing and bittersweet fantasies, but with the advantage of having a best friend and an awesome band), he heard himself blurt out: "So, it's okay for Panic to have sex with each other, or well, not all four together, obviously - but if they did I'd totally want to see - but if we do it it ruins the band?"

As soon as he'd said it, he wished he could do the Superman thing and turn back time, to a moment where Patricia wasn't looking at him in shock and total incomprehension (he was surprised she was still on his lap, she looked as if she hardly recognized him) and where Pete Wentz didn't just ruin the best thing in his whole fucking life (although, what else was new?). The silence between them was stretching and Pete found himself at a loss for words (a very rare occurence) but still desperate to say something, anything before everything was completely wrecked.

It was Patricia who broke the oppressive muteness that enveloped them, though, if only by saying his name (she'd always been the brave one), and Pete finally made himself look her in the eyes again. He needed to know if they could get past this, and Patricia (while frequently mad and unafraid to express her anger physically) had never lied to him. But for the first time since pretty much forever he couldn't read her expression. He could tell she was thinking, hard, but had no idea if it was about how to break it to Jo and Andie that they were over or whether Pete's dead body would fit into one of Ryan's guitar cases.

"Pete. Stop." Pete only looked at Patricia in confusion, which finally got him a glimmer of familiar annoyance. "Stop freaking out, like, right the fuck now."

Oh. Okay. Apparently, whatever else had changed, Patricia still could read him like a book. That was oddly reassuring and Pete relaxed a tiny little bit.

"That's better. Now, let's get something straight." Patricia sounded deadly serious, but Pete's Patty-sense (and he was never ever telling her he called it that) seemed to come back, because he was pretty sure she wasn't about to emasculate him, although she still seemed tense and kind of angry. Her finger was also back, poking him firmly into the chest. "You want to have sex with me."

Well, duh. Pete almost rolled his eyes but managed to stop himself just in time. "Umm. Yes? I mean, I've only been telling the whole fucking world that you're the love of my life for years. That can't be news to you."

Obviously it was, though, because Patricia's eyes widened until her eyebrows threatened to disappear under the rim of her hat. And then she blushed, and Pete almost forgot to breathe because Patricia was blushing (and not because he had hung her underwear out of the bus or accidentially mentioned something about girl-kissing to her mom) and he could see it disappear into the collar of her age-old Bowie t-shirt.

It gave Pete the courage to continue: "What did you think I was doing? You'd made it pretty clear I wasn't allowed to hit on you, so I thought declaring my love was the next best thing."

"But... but that was years ago. Before I knew you. Before I knew the band." Patricia was actually spluttering a little, and her hands were twisted in Pete's hoodie (the 504plan one he'd stolen from her years ago, incidentially, because it had smelled so nice like Patricia). "How... how could I have known we'd get so strong? Why didn't you ever try, like, for real, instead of spouting lyrics - and god, did you make me sing about myself? - and sappy quotes that I'd never even have known about if Jo wasn't forever reading those stupid fanfiction stories..."

She was looking at Pete with an almost helpless expression, and Pete could feel something inside of him unclench (and certain things his shrink had said suddenly made a whole lot more sense).

"I didn't do anything, stupid, because I knew all those things the moment I met you. I thought you did, too, that you just didn't think it was a good idea. Fuck, do you have any idea how hard - oh, shut up! - how difficult it was sometimes to not just jump you and fuck the consequences? Seriously. You know me, that was, like, monumental self-sacrifice on my part. I should get a medal."

At some point during his little speech, Patricia had started to smile. Smile wide and happy, and Pete had seen that same smile just a bit earlier on Ryan's face (but there really was no contest, it looked so much better on Patricia), and then she was scooting closer grinding down gently, and Pete could hear himself gasp. He realized he was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly it hurt, and he decided to transfer his hands to Patricia's hips (oh god, and she was licking her lips) and just feel them, feel her.

"You're such an idiot, Pete." Patricia sounded a little breathless (which Pete thought was only fair, because he was so damn hard under her, it wasn't even funny anymore), but he knew better than to interrupt before she had said all she wanted to say. "You know me, too. You know I'm not exactly Miss Sex Appeal here - and the fact that you disagree doesn't change that, the world, surprisingly enough, doesn't change just because Pete Wentz decrees it. I thought that you'd gotten over your initial curiosity about bedding your singer and that I was once again just the nice girl, the one guys are friends with but don't want to fuck. Especially guys like you. Frontman in an all-girl band, with all the groupies and scene kids and epic heartbreaks, and you are such an idiot!"

With that she shut up abruptly, and Pete could only admire the singlemindedness with which she had kept up the slow, teasing rhythm she'd set (he himself had barely enough blood left in his brain to understand what she was telling him). Most of his vocabulary had disappeared, but he knew he had to say something and thus settled for: "Well, if I'm an idiot, then so are you. And can we stop with the talking and get to the fucking now? Please?"

She was beaming again, and Pete thought that he wanted to make her look this happy for the rest of his life, but then she leaned in and he'd have to tell her that later.

"Well, since you said 'please'..." And then Patricia Stump was kissing Pete Wentz and the world could have ended (or a horde of journalists entered the room) and he wouldn't have noticed.

He had fantasized about this forever, but the reality of Patricia's hand in his hair, of the protesting noise she made when he removed her hat (which he turned into a sound of delight by also taking off her t-shirt and bra), of her smile against his neck when he gasped her name, it was all he could do not to come in his pants. A problem which was remedied when Patricia slid off his lap (completely ignoring his slightly pathetic whimpers of protest) and unbuttoned his jeans, sliding calloused fingers around his dick.

He scrambled to take off his (way too tight) pants and she laughed in delight, her eyes blazing up at him through her reddish bangs from where she was kneeling on the floor, topless and hatless, and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Then she leaned forward and pushed up his hoodie, mouthing his tattoo and murmuring something in a low, gravelly voice that sounded suspiciously like "So damn beautiful" (and Pete wanted to scoff but couldn't muster the brainpower) before closing her lips around the tip of his cock. It was his every fantasy, but he still stopped her, much to Patricia's disbelief (and if he could have cared, he'd have found the look of shock on her face incredibly amusing).

"Just... come up here and fuck me. Preferably soon."

Her face lightened and she grabbed his discarded jeans, knowing exactly where to look for the condom he always carried (and so much for teasing him about being a boy scout, Pete thought with satisfaction). The sight of Patricia unrolling the condom shouldn't have been half as sexy as it was, and Pete couldn't stop his hips from bucking into her hand as she stood and quickly shed her own jeans (he was never going to tease her about preferring the baggier type again). Then she slid back onto his lap, and Pete let his hands explore the contours of her body in a way he had never dared before (semi-accidental fondling did not count), until she kissed him, hard, and growled: "I thought there was going to be fucking."

With that she lifted herself up and back down, and Pete almost passed out from the effort of not coming. He focused on her breasts instead, but then she moved and he gripped her hips (whether to make her stop or not ever stop, he couldn't tell), and she angled her body and set a rhythm and he barely managed her name before he came. She laughed but seemed mostly pleased, and Pete pushed aside his wounded pride (he'd show her fast, just a bit later) long enough to flip them over so Patricia was draped over the chair (which he was so taking home) and mouth his way down her body until her laughter turned into moans. She tasted salty, not all that different from any other woman, except that it was different in every way that mattered, and he didn't stop until she was gasping his name and pulling him up by his hair, demanding to be kissed (and god, that was sexy, her tasting herself on his mouth).

They stayed like this, wrapped around each other (good thing they were both rather small), until Patricia started to complain about carpet burn from the rough material of the chair upholstery and that he better hadn't accidentially knelt on her hat, and Pete realized that some things weren't going to change (and that he was pretty okay with that), as he got up to gather her clothes and unsmoosh the slightly damaged hat.

There was one thing he would like to change, however: "So, now that we're, like, together, can I call you Trish?"

"Not if you don't want Fall Out to really become an all-girl band." Patricia's aim was still really good. But mostly, it was definitely a Good Thing that Pete was the only boy in the band. (And he kept on thinking that, right until photos he had taken of Patricia sleeping in the nude leaked.)


Sequel: Friendly Interference (Pete/Patrick, Ryan/Spencer, Andy/Brendon/Jon)

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