All Hail The King || Brendon Urie x Reader

I

Raven hair pushed back by his fingers, he moves down the stairs with silent grace, one that catches your attention without so much as a quick flash of dark eyes across a room. The room holds its breath, but Brendon pays no mind to it's suffocation.
Reaching the last step, he swiftly takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, his head dipping in acknowledgement. He places his free hand in his pocket, the action far too casual given the tailored mahogany suit adorning his back, the slight glint of light from behind his ear. The guests resume their conversations, a few hushed whispers about the man of the night reaching your ears.
"Mr. Urie has certainly outdone himself," a young woman speaks in a hushed tone.
The man before her takes a long sip of his drink. "Of course he has," he mutters, ice clinking in his glass. "God forbid his reputation to be muddled by a lousy party."
The woman hisses between her teeth, already dragging him away from the crowd. You purse your lips, swirling your white wine in your glass, briefly wishing for something stronger. You can already hear your mother.
Y/N, you should be appreciative of such an opportunity! To waste the night on liquor is no way for a lady to enjoy herself. Now straighten up. Poor posture means poor impressions.
You shake your head. Tapping your middle finger impatiently on your glass, a quick image of flipping her off pulling a small smile onto your face. It might be crude, but when it came to your mother, you couldn't manage to care.
"I'm relieved," a smooth voice says. You look up from your drink, breath hitching if only for second as Brendon stands before you. He extends his arm, and you move your hand to the crook of his elbow. How did he manage to get over here so fast?
"About?" You ask, hating the way your voice trembles at the end. He takes your wine from you and sets it on the nearest table, already guiding you through the crowd.
The corner of his lip twitches, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his features. "That you weren't enjoying yourself," he answers, echoing your thoughts of your mother. He moves closer to your ear. "There are a few guests I'd expect to be-" he searches for the right word "-unpleasant tonight."
He comes to a stop, his eyes scanning over you leisurely.  It's not perverted, it's rather composed, as if he were in a museum instead of a party. The band moves to something a little slower, the first chords of the piano carried by the strings.
"From you," he says, "I'd hope to at least see you dance." He holds out his hand, bowing slightly at the waist. "May I?"
Nodding faintly, Brendon takes your hand in his, the other resting on your hip. You let your hand rest on his shoulder tentatively. He sways the both of you slowly, the arch of your cheek brushing his with every shift of weight. You realize that glint was from the cluster of dark jewels stuck to the skin behind his ear; black at first glance, but when he moves, the light reveals deep reds fading into the darkness.
He pulls away, but without letting go of your hand, spins you once before pulling you back to him. You stumble slightly, placing your hand on his chest to steady yourself. You blush at the contact, feeling the movement of his breath.
"Relax, doll," he chuckles lowly, "it's only a dance."
You ignore the way his lips brush your ear with every word. "Do I look like the kind of girl who dances, Mr. Urie?"
He pulls his head back so he can look at you. With a sharp intake of breath — when his eyes meet yours at such a proximity as this — you realize just how close you stand, only inches apart.
"You look like a woman who deserves to, Miss L/N."
With that, he brings your hand towards his lips, placing a kiss to your knuckles. Standing upright once more, you nearly miss the twitch of his lips as he turns and folds in with the crowd, adjusting the buttons on his suit.