Brendon Urie: Imagines and ficlets

When a massage is not just a massage remix

I revised and added to my first fic :)

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You and Brendon are going to the same college, him for cosmetology, you for massage therapy and you quickly become best friends. You had never dyed your hair before, and loved having your hair done different ways–especially by him–so made an excellent test subject. Not only is he pretty camp, with quite an interest in gay culture, but he's boyfriends with a boy named Ryan at another college a few hours away, and they take turns visiting the other on weekends. You develop a big crush on him anyway, and resign yourself to having a crush that can go nowhere. Yet you realize that you two are having awkward moments that may be sexual, but don't want to misread it. It comes to a head when he hurts himself playing soccer (the only sport he's good at besides skateboarding), so you offer to give him a massage.

He takes off his shirt, leaving him in shorts and socks, laying down on your bed, and you try to tell yourself this isn't awkward, and you certainly are not turned on by him, the thought of your hands running over his skin. You start on his shoulders, saying it'll help relax him before you need to work on his injured right thigh. He nods, resting his head in his arms, looking up at you with a shy smile, and you fight the urge to kiss those gorgeous plump lips. To get better access, you straddle the back of his knees, gently kneading and stroking at first. His breathing relaxes, and he puts his face in his arms, closing his eyes.

It hits you you're not being as professional as you should, touching him not just to assess potential injury and treat it, but wanting to make him feel good, making you feel guilty, but not enough to stop. Which is why you think you may be imagining things as you notice his breath hitch as you reach the small of his back, figuring he must just be getting more comfortable as you notice his hips shift against the bed. You skip over his butt, but want to run your hands over it–seriously, he's got a juicy booty for a guy, you think, making yourself chuckle–and go to his left thigh briefly before turning to the right, both hands working it. He gasps in pain as you find the injury, and you lighten up, just massaging gently until he relaxes.

"Feels a lot better, but–"

"What, B?"

"Y-you can keep going, if you wanted."

You do, briefly going to his calves, then working back up, stroking him mostly now, forgetting to skip over his ass as his breathing gets deep, and a couple moans escape, which ok, is so making that low, thrumming arousal you're trying to keep aside worse.

"I-I–should tell you something," he rushes out. "I should've said before, but didn't want to mess anything up."

Your heart starts going fast, and you let yourself hope, hands finding the small of his back again.

"Jesus, y/n, I–I'm not as gay as everyone thinks I am, you know. And I've spent most of this massage maybe–well not maybe–definitely turned on. I shouldn't have–Sorry, I can go. I know we're friends, I don't want to fuck anything up; I know you were just helping–"

Your hands scramble to keep him in place as he shifts to get up. "Bren, I wasn't just helping. Wanted you to feel good." The words were out before you could stop them, making his eyes widen, and his teeth bite down on his lip. "I was hoping it wasn't obvious; I've had a crush on you for a couple months."

"Really?" he said.

You nod. "I've spent this massage turned on, too." You're unable to look him in the eye as you say it, still feeling guilty.

"C'mere, y/n." You get off his back to lay on your side beside him, and his hand reaches out to stroke your cheek.

"I wanna kiss you, B, so bad."