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Under Pressure

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Brendon was insecure growing up. He always was. His brothers were always super fit growing up from playing football and such, and Brendon was just... average. The only thing he liked about himself was his ass and thighs. They were... generous, to say the least, and they made him feel sexy and desirable. Ryan always made him feel desirable, though.

Ryan was his friend. His best friend, actually, until a few months back when they hooked up while high on some sort of drug—Brendon didn’t know what it was, they were at a party. So now Ryan’s official title is “Best Friend with Benefits”.

They did everything together, basically. They even lived with each other for a stretch. However, their careers slowly chipped away at the time they could spend together. Brendon was proudly a musician, and Ryan an investigative reporter that had been recently promoted.

Brendon was excited, though. He was getting off tour and could finally spend time with Ryan, whose schedule forbade him from coming to a show. It had been, like, six months since the last time he’s seen Ryan!

And then he got a call.

“Hey, B. How’ve you been?” The sound of Ryan’s voice through the phone made Brendon so excited, as pathetic as it seemed.

Brendon talked about tour and how crazy it was, and then Ryan dropped the bomb on him.

“They’re sending me to France. Y’know, ‘cause of the protests? Uh, I’m supposed to be there for four or five months. Possibly six.”

He was absolutely devastated, to say the least.

Saying his goodbyes, he hung up the phone. Ryan didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye in PERSON! Instead of overthinking it, he went on Twitter.

He scrolled through his feed as he rolled a joint, eyes mindlessly scanning the posts. Twitter was stupid, he had decided that a long, long time ago. He didn’t take it seriously, thank God, and—

wait, what did that tweet say?

Brendon knew that Twitter was stupid, yea, but he couldn’t help but read the tweet over and over again, heart sinking in his chest a bit more each time he read it.

“Brendon Urie is built like a fucking twig lol. His ass is so fucking flat, Jesus Christ.”

His ass was the only thing he was confident about!

He turned his phone off and put it in a drawer so he wouldn’t be tempted to read any more tweets, and he lit his freshly rolled joint.

He knew it was ridiculous and that Twitter was stupid, but fuck did it hurt. His mind was racing as he took a long drag, eyes fluttering shut. He hadn’t been eating a lot during tour. Yea, maybe that’s it. He’s just malnourished. Ryan was always telling him to eat more.

Literally, always.

Before Brendon left for tour Ryan ordered an almost impossible amount of food and begged Brendon to finish it so he didn’t have to bring home leftovers.

And then there was the time that Ryan claimed that Brendon was purposely under-eating. He stayed at Brendon’s house, basically forcing food on him, regardless of whether Brendon was hungry or not.

Thinking back on it, it was kind of a nice memory. Being taken care of, not having to worry.

Being so sated, too. It was comforting, being full.

He ordered pizza, telling himself that this was going to be the only time he was going to let himself emotionally eat.

When the doorbell rang, Brendon felt absolutely ravenous. Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was the time he spent thinking about eating, he couldn’t be sure. He paid with a fifty, not waiting for the delivery boy to get his change. He was fucking starving.

He grabbed a plate from the kitchen, as well as two beers, before ending up on the couch with the box of pizza on the coffee table. He turned the TV on, switching the channel until he found something uninteresting enough to mindlessly watch as he ate.

Speaking of being mindless and eating, he was already doing it. He had downed half a slice before he started to officially eat.

Huh.

He didn’t think about it too much as he was already distracted by the mind-numbing sitcom he put on.

It felt like only a few minutes had passed when Brendon reached for another slice only to be met with cardboard. It was startling, looking down to see the empty cardboard box. There’s no way he ate all of that so fast! He barely even felt full. He wasn’t even done smoking, for fuck’s sake. He reached for his beer, only to find that both cans were empty.

“Jesus…” He groaned, huffing as he went to stand up. He found it hard, having two cans of beer and an entire large pizza packed in his stomach. When he looked down, the sight of his rounded out stomach startled him so much that a hiccup jolted through him. Whatever, he was probably just bloated from the beer. He pressed a hand against his firm, taut stomach as he slowly walked into the kitchen, grimacing with each step because his stomach felt so heavy.

He opened the fridge, groaning when he had to bend down a bit to grab another beer. He was thirsty! The pizza was salty, he couldn’t help it! Besides, what else is he going to drink? Water? No, not when he’s already buzzed and still parched.

Every movement felt like agony as he made his way to the bedroom, nursing the beer as he held his belly, huffing with each step, so full that his stomach pressed against his lungs to try to make room for all the food, and now each sip of beer. It felt nice going down his throat, but he could feel his stomach expanding each time. There was something euphoric about it.

He slowly undid the button to his pants, basically moaning at the release, the hem no longer digging into his stomach. It took him a few minutes to get them off, not wanting to move too fast in fear of upsetting his stomach. He didn’t even bother looking for pajama pants, knowing that they would constrict his stomach far too much for him to be comfortable.

When he finally eased back against the mattress, he found it hard to get comfortable. He ended up laying on his side, awkwardly finishing his beer before rolling onto his back, eyelids drooping as he rubbed his stomach, wincing as he tried to get rid of the slight discomfort.

This wasn’t going to happen again.