Brendon Urie: Imagines and ficlets

Welcome Distraction

Inspired by "Could you do an imagine where the reader is super busy trying to meet a deadline or something and Brendon is playfully trying to distract them? Needy b is my faveeee" somewhat combined with "...can you write a scene about brendon where he's smoking weed on a lazy day or something and it turns into something..."

--

Brendon and Dallon finished Panic!'s latest album and submitted it last week. Now Brendon's bored. You are not because you're buried in researching and writing about a group you confess you're a part of: groupies. You kind of fell into it: obsessing over guys in bands from Depeche Mode to Manic Street Preachers to Savage Garden to Placebo..., two high school boyfriends in garage bands, friends with benefits with two lovely bi boys whose relational dramas caused the break up of their band. You drifted away from musicians, until you decided you should make music (those years of piano paid off), not just be besotted by the boys who made it. You tended to lust after, more than occasionally falling into bed with, a band mate and fellow acts. Whoops. Onto your hopeless crush on a devoted, faithful Dallon when you met after a show when he was near the end of his rope, soon before he got the gig with Panic. He introduced you to someone else with a hopeless crush on him, Brendon...and this is all a story for another day.

"C'mon, y/n...I'm bored."

"And I'm busy, sweetie."

He gets a devious look on his face. "I...could help you with your research. A hands on approach."

You giggle. "Sure, Mick Jagger. Or should I say, sure, Brendon, oh Brendon!" you semi-moan, like those girls and occasional boys--and you--do when he hits certain notes, or carries on with Dallon, or shows that very talented tongue off or looks so adorable/sexy/bouncy...

"I could...give you a massage?" he pleads, laying down on the floor beside your chair, feet running over your legs, pouting.

"On a bear rug in front of a fire?"

He grins back. "With oils."

"My neck, my back, my pussy and my crack?" you chuckle. "And don't forget my belly n thighs...back to the pussy."

"Yeah," he murmurs, toes now at your crotch. You tickle his foot and he twists. "No fair, y/n."

"Uhhh...give me two hours."

"Two hours!"

"Bren, you can entertain yourself."

"But I'm bored," he whines. "I've smoked up twice today, played video games for three hours, swam n showered, fucked around on the piano..."

"Gee, I dunno, B...maybe I'll just do an hour more work if you promise to eat me out too--"

"As if I wouldn't!" he says, hand over his heart. "Pussy Eaters Alliance's honour." He giggles. "Besides, I've got the munchies."

How is he such a dork? But he's your dork. You stroke over his foot to his light giggles, going back and forth between reading and watching the manchild lolling on the carpet.

"Hmmm...maybe I can take an hour break, in a half hour, if...oh, I dunno, you get me off at least...seven times?"

He winks hammily. "Thought we just did that last night?"

"Oh, honey," you tease. "That was just six..."

"Well," he sighs dramatically, "clearly me not doing my duty--" you can't help laughing at that--"by you means we really need to spend the day at it, so I can do you right."

You slide your chair back, turn to face him, grasping his leg and tickling as the giggles bubble out of him. You slide your hands along his legs as he pants, gazing up at you, bright and heated. "Why don't you get in my lap and convince me?"