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Brendon Urie had just been minding his own business, humming and slipping through the elevator doors of his apartment complex with a tacky, crème sweater and misshaped, pink hickeys chanting on the sides of his neck.
He hadn’t expected to see Brent Wilson standing outside of his apartment, hair greasy and slightly shorter this time.
Brent, he stares at him.
Brent, he looks good, his eyes dark and his hair falling with an enhanced mop-like presence. Brendon swallows. He didn’t expect to be this affected.
“Brent?” Brendon asks, voice emerging as a quiet and cloyingly dreamy whisper, too shocked to properly comprehend the situation.
They haven’t seen each other in years.
Brent only nods at him, lips moving carefully with the words, “Hey, Brendon.” He sounds unsure, nervous almost. Brendon can only adjust the neckline of his Polo sweater with numb fingers, internally repenting when the hemline slips up, past his belly button.
Brent, the grease in his hair shines with the overhead fluorescent lighting.
Brent, he has literally reaped all of the words within Brendon’s head in under two minutes.
Brent, he’s walking closer.
“Why are you here?” Brendon’s speaking quickly now, hand tightening around the door handle until slivers of copper seem to be burning through the gaps between his fingers. He chuckles nervously, full lips and white teeth tripping around all of the words he’s avoiding.
In his hands, a phone beeps. Brent turns it off, facial features glowing for a few seconds as Brendon only stares.
“I left my amp here three years ago on January 3rd, 2013 at 4:31 PM.”
His forehead is already wrinkling with confusion before Brent can elaborate.
“I don’t have your amp,” Brendon says, shifting his weight to try and hide the way his dick is bulging at the seams of his jeans.
Brent, he just looks so beautiful, black mop-like hair framing the pegboard of stubble on his cheeks.
He wishes he was lying on his suede couch, watching The Bachelor with his cheeks and teeth full of Doritos. It would be preferable to trying to hide his throbbing erection at the sudden reappearance of a past band member.
Brent frowns and Brendon can only wish he hadn’t kicked him out of the band back in ’06. He may have lied about knowing how to play the accordion, but that would never dispose of the fact that Brendon had the most intense crush on him.
“C’mon, I remember leaving it here.” He’s biting his nails now, the white crescents failing to his feet as his reddened fingertips shine with spit.
“You were never here! I haven’t seen you since 2006!” Brendon doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he figures the burn at the back of his throat is key to distracting Brent from the concentrated curve at the crotch of his pants.
Brent is silent. Brendon blinks.
Then he’s leaping forward to lose himself in the way Brendon’s mouth tastes like nothing but alcohol. Absolutely nothing.
A Gorillaz song plays from one of the apartments on the next floor up, reverberating through the walls until Brendon can feel it in his fist that’s clutching the door handle. Brent exhales loudly into his mouth.
And Brent may have lied about knowing how to play the accordion, but Brendon is wrapping those same numb fingers around his neck and licking into the pinks of Brent’s panting lips.
Then they’re inside Brendon’s apartment, Brendon sat in his lap, ass pressed closely to his crotch.
Brent fits his mouth over the sensitive, red skin that has already been sucked into Brendon’s neck.
“These kind of piss me off.” He pulls away, a string of glossy spit attaching his lips to Brendon’s collarbone before he flicks one of the hickeys.
“I think I might end up taking it out on you.” Brent’s chuckling, his smirk pressed against Brendon’s Cupid’s bow as he kisses him.
Brendon, he whimpers, lips unable to close properly as Brent forces his tongue into his mouth.
Brent pulls back. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Later when the air conditioner is rinsing the sweat off of both of their naked bodies, leaving Brendon shivering on top of Brent’s chest, practically vibrating in his arms, Brent slips a fist full of cold digits into the back of Brendon’s boxers.
Brendon cries out when the tip of Brent’s finger traces his taint, trying to mask the unsteady moans that his body is trying to summon as Brent’s finger passes through the damp ring of muscle, curling inside of him.
Then the doorbell is ringing.
When Brendon tries to properly sit up, Brent pulls him back down by his wrist, pressing another finger deeper into his hole.
“Who could that be?” Brent whispers into the shell of his ear, leaving tiny kisses down his temple with his lips puckered.
“It’s –“ He gasps as Brent’s cold fingers prod against his prostate, “There was a wasp nest in my bathroom. I was too afraid to get rid of it myself, so I called an exterminator.”
Brendon shivers on top of Brent, his wrist still caught between two of Brent’s fingers.
“Oh my god,” He’s laughing. “You’re such a little baby.”
His fingers press deeper into Brendon’s body. He purposely grinds them down against Brendon’s prostate, and he can only cross his legs at the ankles to avoid getting too loud.
“My little baby,” Brent whispers into his hair, uneven, raggedly bit nails digging into Brendon’s wrist.
The doorbell rings again.
Brendon moves from Brent’s lap, and this time Brent doesn’t stop his attempt. Before he even realizes the fact that his hips are only clad in a single layer of semen-soaked cotton flannel, he’s rushing to pull the door open. Behind him, Brent’s naked figure is outlined by the pink lemonade view of the sunset seeping through the blinds.
He ducks out the exterminator’s viewpoint, who appears annoyed, frown lines creasing the skin of his face. He itches his balding head, looking Brendon up and down.
“You said you had a wasp infestation?”
“Well, yeah, essentially…” He trails off, pulling at the spandex waistband of his boxers, hoping that his cock isn’t tenting the crotch too vehemently.
He looks to the nametag on the exterminator’s chest, eyes glossing over at the single three letters.
“I’m going to need you to pay me upfront before I can get rid of the bees for you.”
“Wasps. They’re-they’re wasps.” He turns to face Brent behind him, before asking, “Brent do you have your wallet?”
A shallow, “Nope” comes from the couch and Brendon turns back around to face Bob D, who he realizes has been staring at his ass.
“How will I pay you?” Brendon asks, adjusting his boxers so that they aren’t sticking to the patch of semen on his crotch, “I don’t have any money.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure out a way,” Bob articulates with a wink, his big extermination gear drawing Brendon’s attention with its impressive size.
“I…Okay.” A nervous smile fits itself on his lips, and he moves aside for Bob, shutting the door behind himself. From the couch, Brent pulls a blanket over himself to hide his upright cock.
A wasp buzzes above his head, and Bob crushes it with his gloved fist as though he’s made of stone.
He’s the epitome of cool.
“Holy shit,” Brent whispers from the couch.
That’s just the beginning. Bob, he says all the right things at exactly the right times. It doesn’t help distract Brendon from the discomfort beneath his boxers.
“That’s what my son says. You know, you remind me a lot of him,” Bob laughs with the same lips and teeth that he’s using to chew bubblegum. The same lips and teeth that Brendon wants trailing down his chest, arranging themselves past his belly.
“What’s his name?” Brendon finds himself enquiring, leaning against the cold refrigerator as he directs Bob towards the wasp nest.
It’s cold against his shoulder, and Brendon can see Brent’s eyes moving behind his closed eyelids from where he’s lying on the couch.
“Gabriel,” Bob replies, and he looks so excited at even the mention of one of his kids. Brendon doesn’t want to think of it as flattering, but he does.
The wax drips down the side of a candle. Bob takes some sort of insecticidal dust from his fanny pack.
“That’s a nice name. It’s in the bathroom,” Brendon says quietly, staring at the ceiling.
He feels Bob’s finger on his chin, directing his head so that his eyes are level with his own.
He’s set the insecticide down on the counter.
“Let’s talk about your method of payment.”
His face twists in various ways before he realizes that Bob is unbuckling his belt. He literally chokes.
He turns to make eye contact with Brent, whose eyes are wide open at this point, upwardly curved lips the embodiment of go for it.
Then the kitchen tiles are turning his knees red and swollen. Bob’s cock is garish and pink before his face, the tip slightly damp and shining bright with the reflection of the incandescent lights against Brendon’s spit.
And what does he do? He presses his nose into Bob’s pubes.
“It’s just that the home life is so stressful nowadays. Amy never puts out anymore; I haven’t properly gotten The Succ™ in such a long time and –“ He stops talking when Brendon takes him farther into his mouth, tongue slowly swirling around his length.
Brendon pulls off, gasping, “You’re so thick. Fuck, I want you inside of me, daddy.”
From the couch, even Brent is surprised. Bob pulls him upwards until he’s standing weakly, pinned to the kitchen island countertop by Bob D’s strong arms. Bob brackets his hips with his own. Brent is wide awake.
“Hells yeah!” Brent’s whispering to himself, but it’s drowned out as Bob begins to drag his sensitive cock across Brendon’s clothed one and whisper compellingly into his ear.
“D’you want both of us to fuck you?”
“I thought you said that he reminded you of your son,” Brendon giggles.
“Well, my son does know how to please his father.”
Brendon isn’t able to query what Bob’s said before he’s being pressed into the couch cushions, Bob kissing him roughly. The suede is soft against his spine, and Bob manifests into a living juxtaposition as his stubble coarsely graces Brendon’s cheek.
He kisses back shyly, unable to redefine his desires when Bob has set a pace entirely unlike his own. He reaches down to cup Bob’s crotch.
Above him, Brent kneels towards Bob, pulling him from Brendon with clammy hands and forcing his own moist lips to his. He takes the time to slip out of his boxers, only just now realizing that Bob has already gotten undressed. Bob feels the area between Brendon’s cheeks, deciding not to prep him.
“You still want me to kill the bees right?” Bob asks.
“They’re wasp –“ He cuts himself off with a sharp groan as Bob’s cock slips into his body.
It looks like they’re doing this bareback. He hopes Amy is clean.
He digs his fingertips into the flesh of Bob’s love handles as a form of leverage to press himself back on his cock, whimpering brokenly. Brent grins above his head, greasy hair shielding the look in his eyes from Brendon.
“Not so fast, baby.” Bob clutches both of his wrists and forces them into the couch above his head.
“But daddy…” Brendon’s whining, the corners of his lips cold and damp with glossy slobber as Bob holds his hips down, prodding his prostate languidly.
Brent leans across the armrest to nudge his cock against Brendon’s lips. He easily slips his lips open, taking Brent into his mouth as Bob thrusts more consistently. His gloved fingers slip in the film of shiny sweat covering Brendon’s hipbones, rubber driving deeper into the thin layer of skin with each time he bottoms out.
His lips shrink-wrapped in a sheen of spit, Brendon hollows his cheeks as Brent presses himself deeper into his throat.
He doesn’t think back to the revelation tenting at the front of his boxers that caused all of this to progress as Bob catches his attention with a thrust that jars his body forward, ass clenching around his heavy thickness. Brent, he gazes down at him, his lips still lopsided and flushed, but his eyelids slightly heavier this time.
Bob, he’s staring straight down at Brendon, too. All eyes are on him, watching Bob fuck him into the couch cushions, cock deep in his ass. And in some fucked up way, he’s enjoying it.
Bob removes his hands from his hips.
“Let me give you the Bob Duncan Experience,” Bob says before he begins pissing in Brendon’s ass.
His jaw is wide as he gags around Brent’s swollen erection at the newly discovered warmth inside of his ass.
He mumbles around the cock on his tongue, “You ruined my fucking couch, fuck.” He can feel some of the middle-aged exterminators piss roll down the sides of his ass cheeks, turning the couch beneath his body a shade darker.
“I just wanted to give you the Bob Duncan Experience.” And at that, the charitable exterminator places his hands back on Brendon’s hips, piss lapsing out of Brendon around his wet cock with each new thrust.
Brent bucks his hips into the circle that Brendon’s full lips form a few more times, and Brendon figures he must be too poor to afford a proper haircut, his hair knotted and obscure at his neck.
Then he’s pulling out and Brendon can feel his come dripping past his nose and into his hairline, warmth tickling his scalp failing to completely digress him from Bob claiming Brendon’s body as his own. With each time he pounds into Brendon’s sensitive body, he also remarks about one of his children.
Brent finds this somewhat odd, his forehead twisting up in evident confusion.
“PJ, he’s not the brightest, but he’s my favorite. He’s – oh shit you’re tight,” He’s saying obtrusively, and Brendon’s body somehow finds a way to get off on his voice alone. Before he knows it, his muscles are tightening around Bob, almost as though his body is trying to fray the pleasure out in other directions. Bob drives into his prostate head-on until the air conditioning itself on his cock is enough to make him come a second time that night, semen spurting in a translucent pool on his belly.
Although he’s already come, Bob makes an attempt to grip at his cock.
“Bob!” Brendon giggles, gripping Bob’s hand with his much smaller one, too sensitive to be touched.
“That’s ‘big daddy’ for you, Brendon.”
A nearby wasp buzzes in the air.