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A Little Help

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Nights are busy on tour, but they have this morning off. Everyone but Patrick is sleeping. Even Pete, despite clinging to Patrick and muttering in his sleep as Patrick eases away, never opens his eyes as Patrick leaves their shared bunk.

Pete’s actually been sleeping more in the last week than any week since Patrick’s known him. Patrick’s a bit scared to take credit, like maybe doing that would jinx them. He’s just going to be thankful that Pete’s getting some rest and leave it at that.

For now, Patrick’s going to take advantage of the down time. They’re parked a short walking distance from a Walgreens. Fall Out Boy may be famous now, but Pete’s the one who draws all the attention: if Patrick leaves his hat off in favor of one of Joe’s hoodies and a pair of Andy’s sunglasses, nobody will know it’s him. He hopes. This isn’t the kind of errand he wants reporters - or, almost worse, fans - to catch him at.

Lube, condoms, and single-use safety restraints go in his shopping basket without a second thought. They haven’t actually gone through the supply Patrick already has, but he’s feeling optimistic.

He’s perusing the display of cock rings when a shiny package off to the side catches his attention. Patrick picks it up. The image on the package shows the product hanging in air, a vaguely phallic clear plastic cap attached to a couple of rings. The writing on the side cheerfully mentions it having an “elastic leash!”. A little sticker on top declares the product inside to be purple.

Patrick winces and returns it back to the shelf. The package behind it, though, is identical except that the little sticker says “red and black”.

It’s kind of wrong. If Patrick wants a cage for Pete (and he does, if he’s honest), he should get him something that means business. Possibly custom-fitted. Definitely not something from a drugstore shelf, like some teen who doesn’t want eir parents to know how sexually active they’re getting.

But Patrick does want it. More to the point, he thinks Pete does. They can pick up something nicer later, together.

Pete must be waking up. Patrick can feel him, interestedly poking at the lump of Patrick’s indecision. Then Pete launches a bundle of emotions at Patrick that feels like battle trumpets.

Patrick laughs softly under his breath all the way to the registers, the cock cage tucked into his shopping basket next to a packet of Skittles.


Pete’s expression, when Patrick shows him the cage, is complicated. “You don’t trust me not to touch myself?”

“You know that’s not true,” Patrick says, close to irritable. He can’t quite make sense of the emotions Pete is broadcasting at him. He suspects Pete can’t, either. “I just don’t see the need for you to work hard to achieve what I want you to do.”

“I can work hard,” Pete says with a stubborn set to his jaw.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I know you can. Do you want to?”

Pete doesn’t answer, just keeps twitching that muscle in his jaw.

Just looking at it makes Patrick’s teeth hurt. He sighs. “If you don’t want to wear it—”

“Whoa!” Pete yelps. His fingers tighten around the sparkly packet, shoulders hunching. “I didn’t say that.”

Patrick catches Pete’s eyes. Just like that, the cacophony of emotions smooths out into something low and jazzy. Patrick swallows.

Pete grins, shifting in his seat. He thumbs his already ridiculously low-slung pants a little further down, so that Patrick has a clear view of Pete’s hipbones, his stupid hot tattoo. “Want to see me wear it?” Pete’s voice is a tease, but through the soulbond it comes as an honest question.

“Of course I do,” Patrick groans, shaking his head. He’d elaborate, but by Pete’s expression - and his erection, quickly noticeable in these ridiculous pants - Pete gets exactly how much Patrick wants to see him in the cage.


For a long moment, they’re both silent. Then Patrick says, “Fuck,” in a thick voice that doesn’t feel like his own.

Pete preens under the attention, blushing slightly. He turns like he’s in a photoshoot, rather than hiding out in the back of their bus, door locked in case Andy or Joe get back from lunch early. "You like it?"

Patrick gives him a look. Pete's broadcasting low, smooth beats through the bond. "Don't be a brat."

Pete pouts. He also thrusts his hips out, just a little. "Aw, but you like me bratty."

Instead of answering, Patrick lightly smacks his thigh. "Is it comfortable?" He's gratified when Pete actually thinks about it, rather than dismissing the concern.

"It's fine," Pete says. "I like the colors."

They look good on him. Pete looks good like this, cock contained, hips spread a little for Patrick's approval. Without thinking, Patrick reaches and twists Pete's nipple, the pierced one.

Pete hisses out curses, thigh muscles twitching as his cock tries to harden but can't

Patrick can't help coming closer, whispering in Pete's ear, "I'm going to fuck you with this on, tonight." He's looking forward to seeing whether Pete begs for the cage to come off, to come, or whether he'll whimper and take it, or whether he'll try to seduce Patrick into getting him off anyway. He's not sure which option he likes best.


For the rest of the day, Pete is the consistency of peanut butter left out in the sun. Not even chunky peanut butter.

When possible, he drapes himself over Patrick. When Patrick goes to the bathroom, he comes back to find Pete with his head in Joe’s lap. Patrick feels a momentary pang of jealousy, which makes Pete’s eyes open. “Heyyy, Trick.” He sounds stoned. He slithers down from the couch, all but oozing his way to Patrick, who’s still standing there like an idiot.

“What if I told you to stand up?” Patrick says, curious.

Pete gives him the most woebegone expression Patrick has ever seen on him, which is saying something. “I’ll try?”

Patrick sighs, sits down, and pats the seat beside him. Pete crawls to him, kneeling beside him and laying his head on Patrick’s thigh. Patrick sneaks a glance at Joe, who doesn’t seem to notice. The sad thing is, Pete used to do shit like this all the time when Patrick didn’t have the first clue about their bond.

Maybe Patrick’s a little oblivious.

“Hey.” He slides his hand behind Pete’s neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts,” Pete says, soft and dreamy. “Hurts nice.”

Patrick bends enough to kiss his forehead. “Good. If it stops being nice…?”

Pete opens one eye. “I’ll suffer in silence like a good abused sub.” He squawks when Patrick smacks him. “Hey! No actual abusing the sub!”

“Pete, shut up before I abuse you,” Joe says affably from his seat. Patrick glares at him.

Then he glares at Pete, who rolls his eyes at Patrick. “Fine, jeez, I’ll tell you. Like you can’t feel it anyway.”

“And you’ll be able to perform tonight?” Patrick presses.

Pete leers at him. “I’m always able to perform.”

The wonderful thing about the bond, though, is that Patrick only has to narrow his eyes a little at Pete and all the death threats he wants to make come through in perfect clarity without him having to put them in words. Pete subsides with a whimper. Patrick resumes petting his back. He revels in the warmth of Pete’s skin, how perfect he is on his knees like this, boneless with pleasure because of Patrick.

The bond passes that through, as well. Pete’s next whimper is half an octave higher.


Before they go on stage, Patrick corners Pete. “Are you sure it’s okay?” Patrick asks. “I could take it off you till after the show.”

Pete’s mouth is set, petulant. “I can handle this.”

After a short consideration, Patrick nods and lets it drop. Pete gives him a shaky smile, then, and Patrick gives into impulse and grabs Pete in a tight hug. “Hey,” he says, nothing to follow it up with so he just says, “hey,” again.

It’s okay. The bond is soaring violins against bass guitar and distortion, with fireworks going off in the distance. They’re good.


Doing shows with the bond open is like nothing else. Patrick can hear them in surround sound. It should fuck with his concentration, but instead it’s like being inside a harmony, like the band itself is an instrument being played by something bigger than the sum of them.

After, Pete goes floppy again, nuzzling the back of Patrick’s neck while leaning most of his weight against Patrick’s back. Patrick puts his hands over Pete’s and leads them away.

Thank God it’s a hotel night.

They go straight for the shower, and Patrick washes Pete all over, watching soapy water run off his back, watching Pete melt into his hands. He kisses Pete’s shoulder, lifts up his arm to keep kissing to his elbow, which he licks. It makes Pete jump like he’d been electrocuted.

“Patrick,” Pete says, sounding agonized. “Patrick.”

“Shh.” Patrick pulls Pete close. He’s hard, rubbing against Pete’s ass, but that’s not relevant right now. Pete’s heart is hammering under his hands. “You can take it,” he whispers in Pete’s ear. “You’re taking it so well.”

Pete draws in a ragged breath, then straightens up. “C’mon. I’ll wash your hair.”

Having Pete wash him feels almost as good as the other way around, but Patrick doesn’t draw it out. They have plans.

When they’re out and dry, he tells Pete, “Get on the bed. Face down.” It’s saying something that Pete just obeys right away, no jokes or complaints. Once he gets into position, the room is quiet apart from the sound of their breaths.

Patrick lies down on top of Pete, closing his eyes. His hand finds Pete’s and holds it. The beat of Pete’s heart and his breaths come in counterpoint to the quiet wave-sound that is their soulbond. “I love you,” Patrick says, for no reason: just because he does and he can.

Pete doesn’t answer with words, the bond responding only with a short burst of piano notes in major key before going back to ocean noises. Patrick kisses him between the shoulder blades and moves down.

He thought about using a plug, having Pete stay opened and wet for him all day. He’s glad he didn’t. It’s too good like this, seeing how Pete relaxes for him right away at the least prep.

Not that Patrick’s in a hurry. Not at all.

He angles his fingers not to brush Pete’s prostate. He’s not out to be cruel. Even without that stimulation Pete’s twisting under him, making tiny moans and shaking. It makes Patrick want to give him everything.

For now, he’ll just give Pete his dick.

Fucking Pete like this is odd, heady. Sliding in him carefully, listening as Pete hisses through his teeth. Patrick shudders as he moves inside, whispering how good Pete is for him, feeling Pete so open, so completely his.

When Patrick says that, Pete keens. “Yours,” he pants, voice rough. “Please, yours.”

Then Patrick can’t help himself, he’s fucking Pete hard, all thoughts of caution gone out the window. Pete makes high sounds in his throat, shaking like he’s going to fall apart under the onslaught, but Patrick’s got him. “I’ll tie you up next time,” he whispers in Pete’s ear. “Keep you in one piece. Help you be good.” When a discordant note floats into the bond, Patrick amends, “You are good. Just wanna help you.”

“I wanna be good.” Pete’s voice is broken, raw. Patrick comes trying to plot the words onto the sound the bond makes, trying to remember it for the next time he has a guitar in his hands.

He thought of making Pete wait, but now he can’t stand the idea. It’s very like Pete, to discard small successes as nothing. It’s not something Patrick wants to encourage. “Turn over.”

Pete does. There’s wetness in the corners of his eyes. Patrick kisses them as he undoes the cage’s straps. “I’ll want you to be still. Do you want to be tied up or hold yourself?” He puts a finger across Pete’s lips when he sees protest forming. “I know you can. I’m asking what you want.”

For a short moment Pete’s silent. Then he says, “Belt.”

Patrick kisses him in a way that he hopes demonstrates his satisfaction and goes for his belt, tying Pete’s hands together above his head. He puts his hands on Pete’s stomach, tracing his muscles. “I’m going to suck you off now,” and he does, Pete’s dick leaking in his mouth as Pete wails, “Patrick!” above him.

Pete starts out soft from the cage, small in Patrick’s mouth, but he doesn’t stay that way for long. Pete’s abs tense and release with a desperate urge to thrust, restrained so well that Patrick’s filled with a flush of pride. The only thing he can think to give Pete for it, right now, is more of what he’s doing. He slides two fingers inside Pete, angles and presses just so.

The noise Pete makes sounds hurt, the soulbond transmitting something so close to actual pain that Patrick wonders if he went too far. Then it recedes a tiny bit and there’s nothing in it but bliss. Then Pete’s coming in his mouth, which is kind of distracting.

For a long time they don’t move, Patrick’s head pillowed on Pete’s thigh. When finally he goes up to kiss Pete, Patrick cups his hand over Pete’s soft cock, touching it gently as his lips brush Pete’s.

Pete kisses him back for a while. Then his head falls back down on the pillow. He groans. “Ugh. Can’t. All out of sexing.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow at him. He squeezes Pete’s cock, just because he can, appreciative of the little jump it gives in his hand despite everything. Mildly he says, “Don’t tell me what to do with my things.”

The shudder that goes through Pete isn’t exactly sexual. The bond doesn’t sound like jazz; it sounds like church organs. Pete’s voice is inordinately soft when he says, “No, I won’t.”