(no subject)
Title: Let's get these teen hearts beating faster.
Rating: R? heavy swearing and soft-core porn?
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
Brendon struts.
It’s not like this is news, not like it’s anything surprising. Brendon wanders in and out of people’s lives, a swagger to his step, an unmatched confidence because he knows, that asshole knows that you won’t be forgetting about him anytime soon.
And it’s always been like that.
The first time they meet formally is in Spencer’s grandma’s living room. Brent and Spencer and you are there, tapping anxious feet against the ugly, carpeted floor, wringing fingers, wondering when the hell this motherfucker’s gonna get here.
So you get ready to pack up, some three hours later. Guitar in case, drums pushed to the side, sheets upon sheets of unfinished music sprawled over the floor, and in comes Brendon, and all you can see is that strut and those hips and just…that whole, unbridled confidence.
No one should be that cocky on their way to an audition.
But really, Brendon isn’t no one, is he?
“Hey.”
And that’s all he says, no apology for being late, no explanation, no …no nothing, and you’re starting to really not like him.
“Uh, hi.” Spencer says, leaping to the gun. “Spence,” He points to himself, “Brent. Ryan.”
Brendon’s eyes are on you, giving you the once over, checking you out, judging you. So you do what you always do, you stare at your hands, your painfully large, awkward, bony hands…Brendon just grins.
“Brendon.” He says, he doesn’t rub his hand across the back of his head, doesn’t scratch at his arm or his face, doesn’t stutter, doesn’t flail, doesn’t do anything that would imply any form of insecurity. This Brendon is very different from you, and maybe you sort of hate him already.
Spencer and Brent give Brendon the low-down (you always hated that expression), and before you know it, he’s standing in the middle of the awkward sort of room, singing your lyrics. The lyrics that you wrote, lyrics that maybe kinda mean more to you and your life then you’re willing to admit, lyrics that mean absolutely nothing to him.
But what angers you the most, what boils your blood, tears at your insides and makes the saliva catch in your throat…
“Well, bitches,” Brent starts, “I think we’ve got ourselves a lead-singer!”
Fuck.
*
So you definitely don’t like Brendon, you establish some two weeks later.
You don’t like his attitude problem, his cockiness, his issues with authority. You don’t like the way he struts, the way he bitches about his mother, his girlfriend after girlfriend after girlfriend.
And you definitely don’t like the way his voice sounds, pelting out your lyrics, your voice.
Don’t like the way he wears the same jeans, the same lavender sweater every fucking practice. You don’t like the way his hair is kinda better than yours, and that his eyes possibly glisten and the way his smile melts everyone’s heart (maybe even yours).
But that’s getting off track, because the thing you could very possibly loathe the most about Mr. Brendon Urie, is the way he stares at you all the fucking time.
At practice, at parties, at school, at…at everywhere, and it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, and the only reason he even did it was to make you as uncomfortable as he possibly could.
“So,” Spencer said, throwing himself onto the bed beside you, “You and Brendon need to sort this thing out.”
You look at Spencer (the-boy-formerly-known-as-your-best-friend) through the bangs of your dark hair, you quirk an eyebrow and hope he can fucking see the look you’re giving him.
“Seriously.” He says, pulling his hand through his hair, it’s a subconscious move, one that implies insecurity or awkwardness. You’ve never seen Brendon do it, not once, and hell you hate that.
“Brendon’s a good guy, a fucking awesome singer, and you know this band needs him. It’s business, Ry.”
Business, Ry, always with the business.
“I agree, I don’t have anything against Brendon.” You respond, playing with the sleeve of your shirt.
“You’ll like him, just give him a chance.”
And that’s it, isn’t it? The magic words. It’s the thing Spencer hates about you, hell, it’s the thing you hate about yourself. So fucking untrusting, so fucking insecure.
Spencer stands up, brushes off his pants, and leaves the room.
You don’t move, you haven’t moved since Spencer came in, and you don’t say goodbye when he sends you one last, fleeting glance.
*
“The drummer wants us to work this shit out.” Brendon says, flashing you one of those smirks that just oozes cockiness, and sorta makes you want to deck him. You quit that train of thought right there though, you’re reminding yourself of your dad.
“The drummer’s name is Spencer,” You mumble, tugging at the too long sleeves of your new shirt.
“Whatever,” He says, eyes dancing in a way that tells you he knew that, and you knew that he knew and…you should really quit that train of thought too.
Brendon grins at you, leaning across the table, head poised poetically on his hands. He looks like one of those zit cream ads in the magazines, the ones that try to convince you to buy their products under the most utterly false pretences. ‘You an ugly bitch? Zitty? Wear glasses? The school nerd? Buy our new cream for only 98 small instalments of $283, and you could look like this! Terms and conditions apply’
Brent had talked you into coming out tonight, to get your mind off all the home bullshit, away from school and the band. It really should’ve clicked that this was a fucking set-up.
Three and a half hours later, Brent was utterly smashed, making out with some big-breasted blonde in the corner, Spencer had left earlier…migraine apparently, but really, whatever.
So they’d left you here with Brendon, and sure, you could probably leave at any point in time, but what would that really accomplish? Knowing the asshole sitting in front of you, he’d more than likely follow you home.
Hence here you were, and Brendon was still staring and you really wished you could think of some witty response to that. Instead you flush, and pull your arms tight around your waist and think about what a fucking idiot you must look like to Brendon.
He sighs, and leans back in his chair, and like, wow, that’s the first reaction from him that’s been relatively human, and maybe he’s as pissed as you are that you aren’t that witty, aren’t that clever.
“I like you.” Brendon says, and you jump slightly and your eyes bulge and your arms sorta flail to the side. You fell out of your chair, and he looks down at you, an amused sort of half grin on his face, and that in itself is just so wrong.
This is one of those times Brendon should be feeling insecure, be feeling vulnerable and open, because at this second, for the first time since you met, hell, the first time in your life, you hold all the cards. You should be cocky, and you should be confident, because this boy, this arrogant, cocksure asshole likes you. But you’re not, because you’re you, and this just makes you feel awkward.
Brendon holds out a totally un-sweaty hand to you, and maybe if you look hard enough at the ground, it’ll swallow you whole.
“I like you,” He says again, laughing now in a way that you’re unfamiliar with, maybe it could be affectionate, but no one’s really laughed at you like that before, so it’s kinda hard to tell. “You’re sweet and shy and clutsy, and I like that.”
Well, at least he’s honest.
*
So you’re not exactly sure how the next few scenes played out, because one minute you’re on the floor, flushed and embarrassed, and the next your back is pressed to the bathroom stall, and you’re a totally different sort of flushed, and maybe you’re kinda embarrassed as well, because you’re really not that experienced.
Brendon’s lips (those gorgeous lips that pelt out your lyrics in a way that may sort of be growing on you) are heavy and hot on your neck, and if your porn stash is anything to go by, it’ll probably leave a mark…a big nasty red one, and for some reason that kinda turns you on.
His cock is hard. That’s good, right? Means you must be doing something right, because Brendon is so goddamn good at this; so it’d be really humiliating to be bad at it, huh? If Brent was here, he’d hit you for being so insecure about all this.
Wait. Stop. Really not the time.
Brendon’s hands are groping and frustrated, toying gracelessly with the huge buckle of your belt, and maybe it’s a good thing, because you can get your head around things and control your muscle spasms enough to grab a handful of his ass.
He gasps onto your neck, and you flush again, but by this point you’re probably too red to tell.
Apparently Brendon’s had a breakthrough though, because your belts undone, and your pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, and maybe it’s humiliating, but as soon as his cold fingers are down the front of your boxers, you’re too far gone to tell.
You’ve never felt like this before, and you can’t quite decide whether or not it’s a good thing. This isn’t like watching porn, isn’t like wanking off, or making out with the odd stranger, this is hard and confusing and you can’t think straight, and that scares the hell outta you. All you can feel is Brendon’s breath on your neck, his eyes on your face, his body pressed so. Fucking. Close. And those cold fingers wrapping themselves ever so elegantly around your cock.
He tugs a little.
Goddammit, he’s good at this too.
You explode, and this time it really is embarrassing, because you can count the seconds it’s been on one hand. You can feel the blood in your face, having performed drag races up your veins (the gun was shot at your dick), and every part of you is burning with humiliation.
God, you wish you were good at this shit.
Brendon isn’t fazed, he never is. Instead he just sorta grins at you, and maybe he’s kinda embarrassed too, maybe there’s an uneasy flush on his face too, because suddenly you realise that you hadn’t even gotten your fingers wrapped around his cock for there to be the telltale stains. He’d gotten you off, and apparently himself in the process.
And this is the part reserved for bragging rights, for you to be cocky, only once again, you can’t rise to the occasion (no pun intended). You’re still embarrassed…-too insecure- a voice calls, somewhere in the back of your head.
He hasn’t said anything yet, and before you can stop yourself, you’ve grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and have shoved your hand down the front of his pants. You clean him up because, well, you’ve done that part enough times on your own.
His breath sort of hitches, and it kinda surprises you that you, you can get that sort of reaction out of someone.
You clean yourself up, pull your pants up, and Brendon’s zipping up your fly before you even get the chance.
“Definitely prefer the downward motion.” He says, and you don’t flush, you just let loose a barely there smile.
He’s not so bad, really.
So you’re both cleaned up in a matter of minutes, hair flattened, clothes straightened, heart rates back down to the normal level.
And suddenly you wonder if this makes you a fag, but you try not to worry so much, because Brendon isn’t worried, and maybe he’s actually sorta cool.
Brendon swings an arm around your skinny shoulders, and you smell that smothered BO, the hidden sweat marks, and that makes you happier than it probably should.
“This, my friend,” Brendon starts, grin at home on his gorgeous face, “is the start of a beautiful relationship.”
And yea, it is.
Rating: R? heavy swearing and soft-core porn?
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
Brendon struts.
It’s not like this is news, not like it’s anything surprising. Brendon wanders in and out of people’s lives, a swagger to his step, an unmatched confidence because he knows, that asshole knows that you won’t be forgetting about him anytime soon.
And it’s always been like that.
The first time they meet formally is in Spencer’s grandma’s living room. Brent and Spencer and you are there, tapping anxious feet against the ugly, carpeted floor, wringing fingers, wondering when the hell this motherfucker’s gonna get here.
So you get ready to pack up, some three hours later. Guitar in case, drums pushed to the side, sheets upon sheets of unfinished music sprawled over the floor, and in comes Brendon, and all you can see is that strut and those hips and just…that whole, unbridled confidence.
No one should be that cocky on their way to an audition.
But really, Brendon isn’t no one, is he?
“Hey.”
And that’s all he says, no apology for being late, no explanation, no …no nothing, and you’re starting to really not like him.
“Uh, hi.” Spencer says, leaping to the gun. “Spence,” He points to himself, “Brent. Ryan.”
Brendon’s eyes are on you, giving you the once over, checking you out, judging you. So you do what you always do, you stare at your hands, your painfully large, awkward, bony hands…Brendon just grins.
“Brendon.” He says, he doesn’t rub his hand across the back of his head, doesn’t scratch at his arm or his face, doesn’t stutter, doesn’t flail, doesn’t do anything that would imply any form of insecurity. This Brendon is very different from you, and maybe you sort of hate him already.
Spencer and Brent give Brendon the low-down (you always hated that expression), and before you know it, he’s standing in the middle of the awkward sort of room, singing your lyrics. The lyrics that you wrote, lyrics that maybe kinda mean more to you and your life then you’re willing to admit, lyrics that mean absolutely nothing to him.
But what angers you the most, what boils your blood, tears at your insides and makes the saliva catch in your throat…
“Well, bitches,” Brent starts, “I think we’ve got ourselves a lead-singer!”
Fuck.
*
So you definitely don’t like Brendon, you establish some two weeks later.
You don’t like his attitude problem, his cockiness, his issues with authority. You don’t like the way he struts, the way he bitches about his mother, his girlfriend after girlfriend after girlfriend.
And you definitely don’t like the way his voice sounds, pelting out your lyrics, your voice.
Don’t like the way he wears the same jeans, the same lavender sweater every fucking practice. You don’t like the way his hair is kinda better than yours, and that his eyes possibly glisten and the way his smile melts everyone’s heart (maybe even yours).
But that’s getting off track, because the thing you could very possibly loathe the most about Mr. Brendon Urie, is the way he stares at you all the fucking time.
At practice, at parties, at school, at…at everywhere, and it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, and the only reason he even did it was to make you as uncomfortable as he possibly could.
“So,” Spencer said, throwing himself onto the bed beside you, “You and Brendon need to sort this thing out.”
You look at Spencer (the-boy-formerly-known-as-your-best-friend) through the bangs of your dark hair, you quirk an eyebrow and hope he can fucking see the look you’re giving him.
“Seriously.” He says, pulling his hand through his hair, it’s a subconscious move, one that implies insecurity or awkwardness. You’ve never seen Brendon do it, not once, and hell you hate that.
“Brendon’s a good guy, a fucking awesome singer, and you know this band needs him. It’s business, Ry.”
Business, Ry, always with the business.
“I agree, I don’t have anything against Brendon.” You respond, playing with the sleeve of your shirt.
“You’ll like him, just give him a chance.”
And that’s it, isn’t it? The magic words. It’s the thing Spencer hates about you, hell, it’s the thing you hate about yourself. So fucking untrusting, so fucking insecure.
Spencer stands up, brushes off his pants, and leaves the room.
You don’t move, you haven’t moved since Spencer came in, and you don’t say goodbye when he sends you one last, fleeting glance.
*
“The drummer wants us to work this shit out.” Brendon says, flashing you one of those smirks that just oozes cockiness, and sorta makes you want to deck him. You quit that train of thought right there though, you’re reminding yourself of your dad.
“The drummer’s name is Spencer,” You mumble, tugging at the too long sleeves of your new shirt.
“Whatever,” He says, eyes dancing in a way that tells you he knew that, and you knew that he knew and…you should really quit that train of thought too.
Brendon grins at you, leaning across the table, head poised poetically on his hands. He looks like one of those zit cream ads in the magazines, the ones that try to convince you to buy their products under the most utterly false pretences. ‘You an ugly bitch? Zitty? Wear glasses? The school nerd? Buy our new cream for only 98 small instalments of $283, and you could look like this! Terms and conditions apply’
Brent had talked you into coming out tonight, to get your mind off all the home bullshit, away from school and the band. It really should’ve clicked that this was a fucking set-up.
Three and a half hours later, Brent was utterly smashed, making out with some big-breasted blonde in the corner, Spencer had left earlier…migraine apparently, but really, whatever.
So they’d left you here with Brendon, and sure, you could probably leave at any point in time, but what would that really accomplish? Knowing the asshole sitting in front of you, he’d more than likely follow you home.
Hence here you were, and Brendon was still staring and you really wished you could think of some witty response to that. Instead you flush, and pull your arms tight around your waist and think about what a fucking idiot you must look like to Brendon.
He sighs, and leans back in his chair, and like, wow, that’s the first reaction from him that’s been relatively human, and maybe he’s as pissed as you are that you aren’t that witty, aren’t that clever.
“I like you.” Brendon says, and you jump slightly and your eyes bulge and your arms sorta flail to the side. You fell out of your chair, and he looks down at you, an amused sort of half grin on his face, and that in itself is just so wrong.
This is one of those times Brendon should be feeling insecure, be feeling vulnerable and open, because at this second, for the first time since you met, hell, the first time in your life, you hold all the cards. You should be cocky, and you should be confident, because this boy, this arrogant, cocksure asshole likes you. But you’re not, because you’re you, and this just makes you feel awkward.
Brendon holds out a totally un-sweaty hand to you, and maybe if you look hard enough at the ground, it’ll swallow you whole.
“I like you,” He says again, laughing now in a way that you’re unfamiliar with, maybe it could be affectionate, but no one’s really laughed at you like that before, so it’s kinda hard to tell. “You’re sweet and shy and clutsy, and I like that.”
Well, at least he’s honest.
*
So you’re not exactly sure how the next few scenes played out, because one minute you’re on the floor, flushed and embarrassed, and the next your back is pressed to the bathroom stall, and you’re a totally different sort of flushed, and maybe you’re kinda embarrassed as well, because you’re really not that experienced.
Brendon’s lips (those gorgeous lips that pelt out your lyrics in a way that may sort of be growing on you) are heavy and hot on your neck, and if your porn stash is anything to go by, it’ll probably leave a mark…a big nasty red one, and for some reason that kinda turns you on.
His cock is hard. That’s good, right? Means you must be doing something right, because Brendon is so goddamn good at this; so it’d be really humiliating to be bad at it, huh? If Brent was here, he’d hit you for being so insecure about all this.
Wait. Stop. Really not the time.
Brendon’s hands are groping and frustrated, toying gracelessly with the huge buckle of your belt, and maybe it’s a good thing, because you can get your head around things and control your muscle spasms enough to grab a handful of his ass.
He gasps onto your neck, and you flush again, but by this point you’re probably too red to tell.
Apparently Brendon’s had a breakthrough though, because your belts undone, and your pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, and maybe it’s humiliating, but as soon as his cold fingers are down the front of your boxers, you’re too far gone to tell.
You’ve never felt like this before, and you can’t quite decide whether or not it’s a good thing. This isn’t like watching porn, isn’t like wanking off, or making out with the odd stranger, this is hard and confusing and you can’t think straight, and that scares the hell outta you. All you can feel is Brendon’s breath on your neck, his eyes on your face, his body pressed so. Fucking. Close. And those cold fingers wrapping themselves ever so elegantly around your cock.
He tugs a little.
Goddammit, he’s good at this too.
You explode, and this time it really is embarrassing, because you can count the seconds it’s been on one hand. You can feel the blood in your face, having performed drag races up your veins (the gun was shot at your dick), and every part of you is burning with humiliation.
God, you wish you were good at this shit.
Brendon isn’t fazed, he never is. Instead he just sorta grins at you, and maybe he’s kinda embarrassed too, maybe there’s an uneasy flush on his face too, because suddenly you realise that you hadn’t even gotten your fingers wrapped around his cock for there to be the telltale stains. He’d gotten you off, and apparently himself in the process.
And this is the part reserved for bragging rights, for you to be cocky, only once again, you can’t rise to the occasion (no pun intended). You’re still embarrassed…-too insecure- a voice calls, somewhere in the back of your head.
He hasn’t said anything yet, and before you can stop yourself, you’ve grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and have shoved your hand down the front of his pants. You clean him up because, well, you’ve done that part enough times on your own.
His breath sort of hitches, and it kinda surprises you that you, you can get that sort of reaction out of someone.
You clean yourself up, pull your pants up, and Brendon’s zipping up your fly before you even get the chance.
“Definitely prefer the downward motion.” He says, and you don’t flush, you just let loose a barely there smile.
He’s not so bad, really.
So you’re both cleaned up in a matter of minutes, hair flattened, clothes straightened, heart rates back down to the normal level.
And suddenly you wonder if this makes you a fag, but you try not to worry so much, because Brendon isn’t worried, and maybe he’s actually sorta cool.
Brendon swings an arm around your skinny shoulders, and you smell that smothered BO, the hidden sweat marks, and that makes you happier than it probably should.
“This, my friend,” Brendon starts, grin at home on his gorgeous face, “is the start of a beautiful relationship.”
And yea, it is.