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Come and Get It

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The first time Patrick wraps his hands, tight, too tight, around Pete's throat, and shoves him to his knees, Pete freezes, locks up, brain completely stuttering to a halt and he has to rush out of the room, regardless of how pissed off he was at Patrick.

He had felt something he never wanted to explain, felt this desire to drop and submit, to do whatever it is that Patrick demanded. Pete just didn't do that, he was the one who pushed Patrick into agreement, who nagged and pressured the singer into whatever it was Pete wanted.

He didn't want Patrick knowing that Pete actually wanted Patrick to take control. He wasn't ready to give it up just yet.


But it gets worse, it gets to the point he actually does drop to his knees, on stage, whining low in his throat as he pushes his forehead against Patrick's legs, so grateful for the noise to cover his moment of weakness, and Patrick's ability to just roll with it without questioning.

Pete wishes Patrick would, so he could tell Patrick, tell him how Andy threw a drumstick at him and he nearly broke an ankle jumping to grab it, that every nerve stood at attention when he gave it to Andy hours later and he got a pat on the head that was supposed to be teasing but it just made him hum with pleasure inside.

There's something wrong with him, and he wants to voice it so badly, but Patrick's the only one he wants-to own him.


Dragging fingers through his hair and growling at nothing as he stomps around his hotel room, he wraps his own hands around his throat now, nails digging into the nape of his neck and palms pressing against his pulse, and Pete feels his mind settle, just for a moment. He can't resist anymore, he needs something more, needs to go piss Patrick off soon, do something to get out of this sensation of nothing, of being not him.

Finding Patrick is easy, he's playing around on his laptop and his voice, singing songs that aren't his, is like a siren's call, a "Pete please come bother me" that rings through the whole hotel building from the bus, parking lot a mess of bands. Slinking past roadies and techs who look a little too not-busy (he's not interested, he can't be, the only bruises he wants on him need to be from-), stopping that train of thought, he sees layers and a hat and can't resist climbing on the couch to snuggle right into the singer's lap, personal space one of the quickest buttons to push. "Patrick, lets go outside! There's a six flags open, I need fair food. I'm fading away here!"

Whining, strike number 2.

What he doesn't expect is Patrick to just blink at him, a hand sliding to grab at his shoulder and push him off, before standing. "Fine. Go take a shower, let me finish this song and we can go. I don't want to be stuffed in shitty rides with your smelly ass hanging all over me for hours."

Pete's confused, but he nods and rushes right back to his room, laughter following. "If they even let our short asses on any rides!"


Four hours later, Pete regrets opening his mouth. A sugar-high Patrick is a flirty, happy Patrick, and his skin is just getting tighter. He knows his attraction to his singer is just the surface of his problems right now, but he wants to take the cotton candy from him and feed Patrick, wants to lick away the blue syrup thats stained his mouth from their icee.

Pete also wants Patrick to shove him against a wall and take, but he can't ask for that, he can't imagine Patrick agreeing.

Noticing Patrick staring, he raises a brow, lips pursing. "What?"

"What are you thinking about that has you so stressed out?" Patrick murmurs as they stand in line for the bumper cars, reaching out to rub at the line that's starting between his furrowed brows.

"How much I want you to fuck me." He blurts out, and Patrick's hand pauses on his face, pushing in harder before fingers rest, casual like this is normal for them, against Pete's neck, thumb pushing into his jaw.

"You mean that, don't you."

Pete can't lift his eyes to see Patrick's face, can't imagine the disgust there, and he's waiting for a punch, kick, something, so he bites his lip, doesn't answer.

Patrick shakes him a little, and Pete rolls his shoulders up at the sigh that follows. "Look at me, Pete. Answer me."

He can't say no, he can't, the desire to obey rattling his nerves, so he looks up through his fringe, nods at Patrick. "More than just that, but...that's...a start." Pulling his gaze away from a flushed, startled face takes a lot, but he does, whining when Patrick's other hand curls around a wrist, grip just shy of too tight.

Following Patrick around the corner, into the nook between two game booths, he doesn't even have time to ask what Patrick's doing before weight has got him pinned against paneling, a sweet tongue in his mouth muffling his gasp. He wants to grab at Patrick, pull him even closer, but he just rocks his hips up, grinding them together and spreading his legs even further when Patrick pushes back.

"I won't fuck you right now, but I'm sure you want to get off, and I'll reward you once we get back to the hotel. But you need to do something for me. Ride a rollercoaster with me."

Pete's nails dig into the sides of Patrick's shirt at that, eyes opening to stare. Patrick knows Pete doesn't do rollercoasters, his anxiety overrides his daredevil and he panics every time.

Patrick knows, and is asking him to, and he can feel himself nodding just as Patrick's fingers dig into his ass, as the other hand shoves into his jeans, a miracle in itself, and get him off, moans more breath than noise as he tries to keep quiet by kissing.

"Blow me, I'll let you pick which one."

He knows he probably looks a little brain-dead now, and he feels like he's fallen into Wonderland, through the rabbit hole, because Patrick just doesn't say things like that to him. "Okay. Okay." Pete can't stop repeating it, even as he gets pushed to his knees, as Patrick helps him open his mouth wider, tilt his head so he can take more. They're both too quick, and maybe Pete underestimated Patrick, because he had no clue that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the only one who wanted. Patrick might just want to own Pete just as much as Pete want's to be Patrick's.

He smiles at the thought, even as Patrick comes and he nearly chokes on it.


Pete rides on that rollercoaster, and Patrick's dick a few times that night, and also grins every time he catches a reflection of himself for a week afterwards, dark bruises all over and the intentation of fingers so easy to spot out against his throat, even with his dark skin.

Sometimes, Pete lays on Patrick's feet like he wants to instead of next to him, and sometimes he might rest chin on knees. But Patrick pets him and feeds him and owns him, reminds him who's in charge, and he can't be happier.

He feels like himself.

He feels like Patrick's.