apparently it is WIP amnesty night! FIC POST!
Blaze
irisgirl12000 and why_me_why_not
Brendon/Ian || ~950 words || teen
written via text message and IM, self-beta'd
fake, as in not real and never happened
*
Ian's not sure what to expect - he's heard some of Shane's stories - but a couple of joints and an evening with their guitars out, jamming along to tapes - honest to god TAPES, where the hell did Brendon find this shit? - of Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin is a pleasant surprise.
So the edges are a little hazy, and he's feeling more than a little lazy (And haha, that totally fucking rhymes, it could be a song lyric!), not wanting to move from where he's sprawled out on the couch. When Brendon offers to order pizza, Ian agrees. He's got nothing else to do; he's waiting to hear a yay or nay from The Cab dudes, but he's not stressed about it. If it happens, it happens.
Brendon rolls another joint while they wait on the pizza - it takes forfuckingever, dude, seriously. He's not thinking about the fact that he's smoking up with Brendon Urie; he's too busy watching Brendon's hands.
Ian doesn't have a thing about hands, but he can't look away. There's something about the way Brendon's fingers move as he picks through the weed, lining it up neatly on the paper and rolling it up. When he's done, he lifts it to his lips and lights it, and, yeah, Ian's heard all the stupid rumors and jokes about Brendon's mouth, but he never really *thought* about it before. It's probably just the weed. There's no other reason to explain the sudden urge to see how they'd feel against his own. It's *definitely* just the weed that makes him sit up when Brendon gestures him closer and seals their mouths together, exhaling in a long rush. And that's not disappointment he feels when Brendon falls back against the couch and giggles, "Whoa, head rush!" instead of staying right up in Ian's space.
Ian leans over to grab the joint from Brendon, stays a little closer than he probably should as he takes a hit, but Brendon's never been that adamant about personal space so he figures it’s good.
“I am totally corrupting you,” Brendon says, his eyes focused on Ian’s lips. “Shane is so gonna kick my ass.”
"Corrupting *me*? Please." Ian almost snorts with laughter.
Brendon eyes Ian speculatively, and he appears to come to a decision, but just as he moves, pushing closer into Ian's space, the doorbell rings. Ian hates the pizza delivery guy SO MUCH right now, its not even funny.
Brendon trips over Ian's feet when he tries to get up, laughing as Ian reaches out to steady him, and then trips over his own feet on his way to the door. Ian's still laughing when Brendon comes back in and drops the pizza box on the coffee table, but he stops when he looks at Brendon, sees the way Brendon is looking at him. He's not so hungry for pizza anymore. Still, Ian forces himself to take a piece of pizza, and mmm, melty cheese and pepperoni.
Brendon flops back onto the sofa and stuffs half a slice into his mouth, chewing gracelessly before washing it down with a slug of Corona and belching loudly.
Ian eats his slowly, absently, thinking. Wondering. Because this is *Brendon* he's suddenly hot for. He doesn't get it at all.
Not the guy thing. Ian's already had that freak-out. But that it's Brendon Urie. Brendon's in a successful band, and he's not hard on the eyes, but Ian's never been shallow about that sort of thing. Plus, it's *Brendon*.
He's stayed with Shane enough over the last few months to hear all of the stories - how Brendon was the dorkiest twelve-year-old ever, always bugging Regan and Shane when they stopped by to pick up his sister for school; ridiculous tales of the MVP titles from the first Panic tour Shane filmed; all of his bad habits as a roommate. Hell, he's heard *Cash* laugh at Brendon, and Cash has no room to criticize when it comes to be a failbot.
So, yeah, Ian has no idea where this came from. Maybe the weed? Probably the weed.
That thought doesn't stop him from staring at Brendon's lips. They're red with the pizza sauce that's smeared across them, and Ian can't look away when Brendon's tongue darts out to swipe some drips from the corner of his mouth.
Brendon pauses, his tongue poking out, and looks at Ian. His eyebrow rises in a What? expression that quickly transforms into Really?, and then he's dropping the slice in his hand back in the box and leaning closer, and Ian's next taste of pizza comes from the lingering flavor of garlic and spice on Brendon's lips.
He's not sure if he's the one who moves first or Brendon, but he lets himself fall into the feel of Brendon's lips, slightly chapped, moving tentatively over his. Stubble scrapes his chin dully, and whatever small noise Ian makes at that encourages Brendon: Ian can feel Brendon's lips curve in a smile against his before the slipslide of Brendon's tongue has his lips parting in response.
Pizza is a distant memory, a pale second choice. Instead, Ian focuses on Brendon. He smells like weed and sweat and soap and weirdly like Shane (that must be because he snuck his laundry in with Shane's); he tastes like beer and pizza and something intangible, indefinable; his hair is soft under Ian's fingertips, and his body is nearly vibrating with energy, even after a few beers and the shared joint to mellow him.
Ian melts back into the sofa cushions and tugs until Brendon's comfortable against him, settling in.
He's not sure what he expected when Brendon invited him to hang out, but this? This is just fine.
irisgirl12000 and why_me_why_not
Brendon/Ian || ~950 words || teen
written via text message and IM, self-beta'd
fake, as in not real and never happened
*
Ian's not sure what to expect - he's heard some of Shane's stories - but a couple of joints and an evening with their guitars out, jamming along to tapes - honest to god TAPES, where the hell did Brendon find this shit? - of Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin is a pleasant surprise.
So the edges are a little hazy, and he's feeling more than a little lazy (And haha, that totally fucking rhymes, it could be a song lyric!), not wanting to move from where he's sprawled out on the couch. When Brendon offers to order pizza, Ian agrees. He's got nothing else to do; he's waiting to hear a yay or nay from The Cab dudes, but he's not stressed about it. If it happens, it happens.
Brendon rolls another joint while they wait on the pizza - it takes forfuckingever, dude, seriously. He's not thinking about the fact that he's smoking up with Brendon Urie; he's too busy watching Brendon's hands.
Ian doesn't have a thing about hands, but he can't look away. There's something about the way Brendon's fingers move as he picks through the weed, lining it up neatly on the paper and rolling it up. When he's done, he lifts it to his lips and lights it, and, yeah, Ian's heard all the stupid rumors and jokes about Brendon's mouth, but he never really *thought* about it before. It's probably just the weed. There's no other reason to explain the sudden urge to see how they'd feel against his own. It's *definitely* just the weed that makes him sit up when Brendon gestures him closer and seals their mouths together, exhaling in a long rush. And that's not disappointment he feels when Brendon falls back against the couch and giggles, "Whoa, head rush!" instead of staying right up in Ian's space.
Ian leans over to grab the joint from Brendon, stays a little closer than he probably should as he takes a hit, but Brendon's never been that adamant about personal space so he figures it’s good.
“I am totally corrupting you,” Brendon says, his eyes focused on Ian’s lips. “Shane is so gonna kick my ass.”
"Corrupting *me*? Please." Ian almost snorts with laughter.
Brendon eyes Ian speculatively, and he appears to come to a decision, but just as he moves, pushing closer into Ian's space, the doorbell rings. Ian hates the pizza delivery guy SO MUCH right now, its not even funny.
Brendon trips over Ian's feet when he tries to get up, laughing as Ian reaches out to steady him, and then trips over his own feet on his way to the door. Ian's still laughing when Brendon comes back in and drops the pizza box on the coffee table, but he stops when he looks at Brendon, sees the way Brendon is looking at him. He's not so hungry for pizza anymore. Still, Ian forces himself to take a piece of pizza, and mmm, melty cheese and pepperoni.
Brendon flops back onto the sofa and stuffs half a slice into his mouth, chewing gracelessly before washing it down with a slug of Corona and belching loudly.
Ian eats his slowly, absently, thinking. Wondering. Because this is *Brendon* he's suddenly hot for. He doesn't get it at all.
Not the guy thing. Ian's already had that freak-out. But that it's Brendon Urie. Brendon's in a successful band, and he's not hard on the eyes, but Ian's never been shallow about that sort of thing. Plus, it's *Brendon*.
He's stayed with Shane enough over the last few months to hear all of the stories - how Brendon was the dorkiest twelve-year-old ever, always bugging Regan and Shane when they stopped by to pick up his sister for school; ridiculous tales of the MVP titles from the first Panic tour Shane filmed; all of his bad habits as a roommate. Hell, he's heard *Cash* laugh at Brendon, and Cash has no room to criticize when it comes to be a failbot.
So, yeah, Ian has no idea where this came from. Maybe the weed? Probably the weed.
That thought doesn't stop him from staring at Brendon's lips. They're red with the pizza sauce that's smeared across them, and Ian can't look away when Brendon's tongue darts out to swipe some drips from the corner of his mouth.
Brendon pauses, his tongue poking out, and looks at Ian. His eyebrow rises in a What? expression that quickly transforms into Really?, and then he's dropping the slice in his hand back in the box and leaning closer, and Ian's next taste of pizza comes from the lingering flavor of garlic and spice on Brendon's lips.
He's not sure if he's the one who moves first or Brendon, but he lets himself fall into the feel of Brendon's lips, slightly chapped, moving tentatively over his. Stubble scrapes his chin dully, and whatever small noise Ian makes at that encourages Brendon: Ian can feel Brendon's lips curve in a smile against his before the slipslide of Brendon's tongue has his lips parting in response.
Pizza is a distant memory, a pale second choice. Instead, Ian focuses on Brendon. He smells like weed and sweat and soap and weirdly like Shane (that must be because he snuck his laundry in with Shane's); he tastes like beer and pizza and something intangible, indefinable; his hair is soft under Ian's fingertips, and his body is nearly vibrating with energy, even after a few beers and the shared joint to mellow him.
Ian melts back into the sofa cushions and tugs until Brendon's comfortable against him, settling in.
He's not sure what he expected when Brendon invited him to hang out, but this? This is just fine.