𝐄𝐌𝐎 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐈 ─ 𝐌𝐂𝐑. 𝐏!𝐀𝐓𝐃. 𝐅𝐎𝐁. 𝐓Ø𝐏.

𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. (𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟!𝐁. 𝐔𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

╔.★. .═════════════╗

For: @Xyilous
Request: this is pretty weird, and
you don't have to do it, but would
it be possible to write a werewolf
kinda thing? i don't have an
exact story line but maybe the reader
and your choice of a band member
are friends and go to a party or
something but end up staying too
late and (band member) has to leave
suddenly because of a "family issue"
but the reader follows them. you can
go from there, that's all i got. i love
your works btw!

╚═════════════. .★.╝

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Note: Thank you; I love you. Sorry for the wait, but I hope it's worth it. I'm actually kinda proud of this one? x

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Sipping from the red solo cup in your hand, you loitered in the unfamiliar living room, standing as far away as you could from the hoard of sweaty, drunk teenagers grinding against one another in the middle of the room.

The music was loud enough that you could practically feel your internal organs pound each time the bass would boost, prompting you to slink even further into the shadows.

Parties weren't generally your scene; the only reason you were even attending this one was because your best friend had begged you to. Something about needing back-up in case things went wrong with this guy that had invited her.

You knew that was a lie (the guy was one of the rare good ones), and she only said it to get you to get out of your room for once instead of being your usual antisocial self, but she was incredibly convincing when she needed to be, so you caved in and agreed to go.

But naturally, she was now nowhere to be found, and you were stuck awkwardly hovering around people you didn't know, with your only saviour being the drink in your hand.

And it wasn't even alcohol - it was ginger ale. Perks of being the only one in your friend group with a driver's licence: you were automatically the designated driver. Always.

So essentially, you were receiving zero enjoyment from being there.

Then, you turned to get another drink, and that all changed.

There, standing by the front door, clad in his customary leather jacket and ripped black skinny jeans - Brendon Urie.

You watched him as he greeted a couple of guys that stumbled passed him, his puffy lips barely twitching into a smile as his free hand tangled into the hair that was falling into his face.