Brendon Urie: Imagines and ficlets

The Slow Unfurling (Slow Unraveling continued)

I love writing this and I love our boy! This is the most drawn out I've done teasing/flirting/touching in pg-ways with no sex except for in thoughts/dreams in a fic, I think, and I think our reader and our boy may be getting some blue bulbs and blue balls, respectively, that they take care of when they're not together...

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B loves coming over for two main reasons: you and Tessie, so he's over the next afternoon after he comes back from Hawaii. Tessie is really big and always excited to see him so she usually knocks him over, assuming he doesn't assume the position first, or is sitting on the couch or leaning against something, licking him as he giggles on his back, giving her pets, pats, smoochies, scritches...

You get distracted by his lips, let's be honest, especially as you get lost in your thoughts as the high hits you, Bad Religion, Lita Ford, X- Ray Spex, Against Me, Manic Street Preachers in the background, punk that gets broken up by Public Enemy, TLC, PJ Harvey, who is pretty punk herself too. You love how into the music he gets, even more than you tend to, although seeing him so gleeful, joyous, even campy and animated at times makes you even happier too, matching his pleasure.

He's darker than you now, and you wonder how much of him is tanned, imagine what your skin would look like on each other's, you laying on him between his thighs, wrapped around each other, kissing him, rocking your mound against his dick and balls... Giggling as you both sing along to Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg. He purses his lips to take a drag, and you're thinking of them on yours, your skin, between your legs too after your playlist switches to Tori's Raspberry Swirl...

Being high makes him way less anxious too, relaxed. He's still surprised your parents let you smoke pot, in the house and everything, even after you told him they told you about how they used to use it too. You two munch on chips, fruit, chocolate covered almonds. He lays his head in your lap as you rub his belly and he makes whiny puppy noises, both of you bouncing to the Clash's Complete Control. You let Tessie in your room when the smoke clears through the window and switch to a calmer playlist. Suede's The Drowners, but still. The obvious homoeroticism is not lost on either of you, both of you grinning. You have a double bed so she can fit in with you, and you wind up petting his hair, neck, back as he pets a now calm her, her fitting some against his front. "You my lil pup, Bren?" He nods, ruffing, and nuzzles his nose against your thigh.

You think about bringing your plan slash resolution slash feeling the waters out up, but don't want to ruin the moment, Fiona Apple's Never is a Promise adding a lovely sadness to the sweetness. Then grooving to Bowie's Starman, B telling you sometimes he feels like a starman... He joined Ryan, Spence, and Brent in the Summer League, they changed their name to Panic! At the Disco, and he just became their singer. Letting that inner starman come out more, you tell him. "Just wonder if we'll ever get Ziggy Stardust, too?"

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Your mom and dad get you a peach-kiwi-berry and cream pie for your birthday a couple days later—you've always preferred pie to cake—and your first cell phone for your 17th birthday, so you call B on it, inviting him over for leftover pie before you go to the punk house show. He brings over some presents from Hawaii: a couple leis, matching Hawaiian shirts for you and him, seashells, an alcohol he has to tell you how to pronounce a couple times, a book about Hawaiian goddesses, as well as an old guitar of his and sheet music for Tori Amos. And some dank weed. You are such a pothead now. You played guitar in class at your old school last year, played his at his place too, "now you've got one for your own." All happy and nervous. You can tell he likes treating people, and he tells you that he loves doing this for his friends. You want to treat him back, but don't want to wait until his birthday all the way in April.

You sneak out to drink a couple times—no longer complaining of your love for fruity ones after you tease him back about the Capri Sun and other fruit juices he loves—him drinking it too. You mosh with him before you have to beg off because some guys use it as an excuse to be dickheads, too aggressive. He gets a couple pot brownies from Eric, and you sit with some friends like him, Amanda, Leah who are there too, eating them, drinking, chatting, getting into the music, or some combination thereof. Luckily there's a taco place a block away that's open late, so you two toddle over, tipsy, but not full on inebriated, him less so—"so I can be a good host." You order a huge burrito with sweet potato, pico de gallo, avocado, black bean, peppers, rice... Doing that Austin Powers Scottish "Get in my belly!" line. Telling him he should eat his veggies too, dammit. He would look even cuter if he managed to gain some weight, the little bean. You nudge some of your burrito at him too as he eats his tacos. You both need it, even if he's the only one who needs more meat on his bones.