peterick smut//br41n v0m1t

snowed in

4 @its-a-musi-cal , go check out her smut book and 4 @KatieAFanOfAll go check out her fic:)) IOH era (ALSO fuck off I love December and I love snow)

Hometown shows are the most comfortable for Fall Out Boy. Patrick loved laying at home, his legs on Pete's lap as he massages his feet as they watch some 80's move Patrick had saved from their old apartment. They order pizza, they curl up on the couch with a cold beer and kiss. It's so much more comfortable at Patrick's flat, way better than the cramped, stale air of the tour bus. They had one last show, which was last night, before they were off for the entire month of December. Everything about being home in Chicago for the holidays seemed like a breath of fresh air. He also loved being able to be domestic with Pete in the privacy of his own home. He totally forgot how much he missed the thick smell of Pete's CK Eternity and how wonderful it felt to fall back on his mattress, covered in sweat. He didn't really care about where they were, as long as the area smelled like Pete's cologne and his hot orgasm. 

They survive off of MSG-heavy Chinese food, oily, truck stop pizza and cold beer. None of that does anything for either of their bodies, and Patrick pities the girls Pete used to date that  had to learn what his farts smell like for the first time. After spending years on the road with him, you learn to look past the dirty socks, vomit-stained jeans from road sickness, piss bottles and all the other gross shit Pete does. He looks past it because when you're friends-with-benefits, he's not too bad. This morning instead of breakfast, they had countertop sex. Patrick can look past piss bottles and vomit for that. Then of corse, he cooks Pete bacon naked, which is very hard since oil splatters on his bare stomach. It would've ended a lot worse.

They decorate a plastic Christmas tree with their favorite albums from Patrick's large collection of CDs, anywhere from Patrick's David Bowie to Pete's Kanye West. Hemingway stays over, he's drooly, dog face sleeps on the couch with them as they watch Friends reruns. It's wonderful and Patrick finally understands what it's like to be in love. It's the first Saturday of December, and Chicago snow is pounding down hard. Pete says he's sure they'll get snowed in and Patrick really hopes they don't get snowed in because that would mean Pete would wear his fluffy, knee high boots. They sit in the mudroom of Patrick's apartment and no amount of having ass eaten will make him look past the fashion armageddon that is Pete's fashion sense. 

Currently, Pete is dressed in his yellow, bartskull pajama pants and knee high froggy socks with no shirt, per request of Patrick. Pete's good taste ends with his sexy tattoos and men. Patrick was an amazing choice for a boyfriend, if he does way so himself. Not only can he sing, but he has like...no gag reflex. Pete's only redeeming quality is his charisma and eight inch little Pete. Patrick is kidding, he is. The dick is a plus, though.

"Would you have a threesome with me and Glenn Close?" Pete asks as Fatal Attraction plays in the background.  Patrick is slummed against his bare chest, mindlessly tracing over the thorns around his neck. There's an empty pizza box on the table and Hemingway is snoozing on the rug. 

"Pete, the fuck?" Patrick laughs, taking a sip out of Pete's Red Bull. 

"Well, I don't know. If she asked you to bang her, would you take me along?" Pete asks, running his hands through Patrick's copper side burns. Petting Patrick's side burns started off as a stress relief thing, now a constant habit of the bassist. 

"She's like seventy, dude." That's not correct, but Patrick is trying to get the point across.

"She's like a millionaire, dude." Pete retorts in a comically, high pitched tone. 

"Is it getting a little cold in here?" Patrick realizes the sudden drop of temperature of the room, wind slamming against the window. Hemingway jumps awake from the sound, which makes Pete frown. "I think a storm is finally hitting." Patrick knows what that means, hello fluffy boots, good bye self respect.