Patrick Stump Imagines

Watching From the Crowd

Euphoria. That's the only word to describe it. It's like a high, singing on the stage, the energy of the teenage crowd screaming your own lyrics back at you. Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you dance around your guitarist and bassist and the stand-in drummer you only met two hours ago. Singing back to back with your best friend, you wonder, can life get much better than this?

It seems, it can.

As you search the sea of bodies, your eyes meet with big, blue ones, glistening beneath that familiar pair of black glasses, a tuft of strawberry blonde hair peeking out from under a camouflage cap. The bright smile, the blush on those chubby cheeks, all makes your heart warm. You can't help yourself but smile.

Patrick lifts his hand, almost covered by his black denim jacket. Waving it slightly, he mouths a small "hi", lifting his hat in greeting. You can't say anything back, you're busy singing, but you don't take your eyes away from his blue ones for the whole song.

You finish the song a minute later, thick perspiration on your forehead. As you wipe in down with a tea towel, Patrick makes his way to the front of the stage. You skip over to him, and lie down, face close to his.

"Hi." You say. You know you're smiling like an idiot, that's just the effect he has on you.

"Hi." He says back, breath hot on your mouth. You reach forward and press your lips to his. They're soft, like always, and they taste so fucking good. If you didn't have an audience of 200 impatient teenagers, you'd stay there, lip locked forever. Alas, that is not the case, so you reluctantly pull back, and finish the show with a permanent grin.

By the time it's over, your band is ushered into a back room to get yourselves packed away. You fall limp on the sofa, exhaustion and tiredness taking over. It's selfish, but you let the guys packup their own instruments.

A moment later, the door opens slowly and a figure pokes their head in. "I'll leave you two to it." Your guitarist says, dragging you bandmates out toward the shitty van.

"Holy smokes." Patrick breathes out, walking over towards you. "That was so fucking good." You stand up, smiling, and make your way towards him. You press your hands against his chest, roaming the curves and crevices you've memorised a thousand times over.

"You're beautiful." You whisper. "You're so hot."

"Shut up." He whispers, catching your lips in his own, sucking and nipping gently. You can't breathe, you can't think. Your arms creep up to his neck, wrapping around as he grips your hips tighter, bodies pressing closer together. You fit together like a jigsaw puzzle - perfect - curving into eachother. You pull away, gasping for air, and meet his dazed eyes and swollen lips. He opens his mouth to speak, but you can't wait, so you kiss him again, harder and more passionately than before, kissing, and gripping, and grinding and -

"Jesus, fuck, can't you wait?" Your bassist yells. "Hurry up or we won't give you a ride back."

Patrick removes his hand from under your shirt and blushes. You giggle, grab his hand, and drag him into the shitty van that's falling apart. Climbing into his lap, you place small kisses on those gorgeous lips, then lay your head in the crook of his neck, wondering how you got so lucky.