peterick smut//br41n v0m1t

becuase the making of FUTCT was a mess

oooh an angsty one, there's still smut tho (also scoobysnacks means the lil flecks of weed that fall out of a non-filtered blunt and i mention that so)

"Are you happy now?" Patrick shouts, throwing a notebook of Pete's stupid poetry at the ground. Everyone's left the studio and it's way past a time Patrick is comfortable working all because Pete needed to change everything. Well, everything was a stretch, but he changed a lot. A lot of stuff that Patrick worked really hard on, but no, because Pete cannot understand that sometimes not everything is about him.

"Yes, yes I am." Pete says calmly, slouching in an office chair. His arms are crossed and he has a blank expression on his face. The thing that pisses Patrick off is the fact that he doesn't fucking care.

"Well, I'm so fucking happy you're happy." Patrick huffs, taking a long sip of his RedBull, wishing it was vodka. "I'm so fucking happy you kept me in the studio until" The singer glances at his watch, "Two fucking am, Pete. I'm so happy you're no longer pouting like a fucking child over a lyric and a guitar riff."  Pete takes a deep breath and avoids Patrick's eyes. One glance at an angry Patrick's eyes can kill a very, very guilty Pete. Pete does want to die in that moment, but he stands by the fact that as the lyracist of the band, he should have one hundred percent control over the lyrics. 

"'Rick, I-"

"Do not, do not, Rick me, Peter. I swear to god." Patrick is full on screaming now. Yesterday, they had gotten in a fist fight and ended up sleeping in different hotel rooms, which wasn't fun for either of them. They had to stay in the studio from nine am to (currently) two am for the changes to be added for the albums release date, which was so tiring for everyone. 

"Look Ricky, I'm really sorry. But we needed to add that last song-" Pete tries to say, but he's cut off by a steaming Patrick.

"NO WE DIDN'T! YOU WANTED TO ADD THAT LAST SONG, YOU PEICE OF SHIT." Pete's okay with annoying people to get what he wanted, but he never wanted to make Patrick this mad. Sometimes, he forgets that Patrick needs his beauty sleep and takes pride in his producing skills. There's a pool of guilt in Pete's stomach, and he's looking at his shoes like a dog that shit in the house. 

"I did wanna add that. I'm sorry." He sighs, slouching even more into the office chair. 

"Are you sorry? Are you, Peter?" Patrick crosses his arms, the sheer anger in his glance could kill.

Pete does not answer. He wants to respond but he knows that it's just going to fuel the forest fire that is Patrick's anger.

"Pete, all you are is an egocentric, time wasting, asshole." Patrick says in a low, angry tone. "Someone like you can suck my dick." That's when something clicks in Pete's brain (and his penis), the PornHub opening playing in the back of his head. Pete doesn't really have a brain, he has the left over scooby-snacks from Joe's last blunt sitting around in his large skull. So, Pete's lizard brain tell him to slowly slide to his knees. The office chair slides across the room and the bassist crawls on all fours towards Patrick. 

"Pete, what the fuck?" Patrick says, looking down at Pete, who presses a kiss to the zipper of his jeans. The bassist's breath his hot and wet and oh my god, Patrick wants him dead.

"I'm..I think sucking your dick." There's a soft tone in his voice, and he looks up at the blonde with a non-existent innocence. "I wanna suck your dick." Pete grabs the blonde's hips and ass in his large hands, nuzzling the crotch of Patrick's American Eagle jeans. "Please."  Patrick makes a sound. It's a deep groan from his chest, Pete's breath still warm and urgent up on his trapped dick.