#smoking weed is best when you’re at home in pjs with no obligations and you can just zone out and play sdv for 10 hours

[stinkrascal]

people who smoke weed before they go into work are crazy do you have no fear

[warmbeebosoftbeebo]

The Slow Unfurling (continuation of the Slow Unraveling)

other parts here

does anyone want me to still do tags? if so:  @greatheromuffinpalace @paypoulterer1 @anyh0w @anobsessioncalled @panicsinning @queerbrendon @prettyoddfiction @iwriteficsnottragediesladies @uriellybrendon @pageoftheclouds @brendonuriesbubblyass @ier0-must-die @itriedallthenamesiwantedaretaken @xfoxtalynx @spacesams00 @satanspuppet-x @1-800-hallelujah @ryrostan @tacobelltylerr @urie-dreams 

just message me to be added or taken off the tag list. i was also thinking of pming people the link to the story instead? any preferences? 

I love writing this and I love our boy! This is the most drawn out I’ve done teasing/flirting/touching in pg-ways with no sex except for in thoughts/dreams in a fic, I think, and I think our reader and our boy may be getting some blue bulbs and blue balls, respectively, that they take care of when they’re not together...

---

B loves coming over for two main reasons: you and Tessie, so he's over the next afternoon after he comes back from Hawaii. Tessie is really big and always excited to see him so she usually knocks him over, assuming he doesn't assume the position first, or is sitting on the couch or leaning against something, licking him as he giggles on his back, giving her pets, pats, smoochies, scritches...

You get distracted by his lips, let's be honest, especially as you get lost in your thoughts as the high hits you, Bad Religion, Lita Ford, X- Ray Spex, Against Me, Manic Street Preachers in the background, punk that gets broken up by Public Enemy, TLC, PJ Harvey, who is pretty punk herself too. You love how into the music he gets, even more than you tend to, although seeing him so gleeful, joyous, even campy and animated at times makes you even happier too, matching his pleasure.

He's darker than you now, and you wonder how much of him is tanned, imagine what your skin would look like on each other's, you laying on him between his thighs, wrapped around each other, kissing him, rocking your mound against his dick and balls... Giggling as you both sing along to Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg. He purses his lips to take a drag, and you're thinking of them on yours, your skin, between your legs too after your playlist switches to Tori's Raspberry Swirl...

Being high makes him way less anxious too, relaxed. He's still surprised your parents let you smoke pot, in the house and everything, even after you told him they told you about how they used to use it too. You two munch on chips, fruit, chocolate covered almonds. He lays his head in your lap as you rub his belly and he makes whiny puppy noises, both of you bouncing to the Clash's Complete Control. You let Tessie in your room when the smoke clears through the window and switch to a calmer playlist. Suede's The Drowners, but still. The obvious homoeroticism is not lost on either of you, both of you grinning. You have a double bed so she can fit in with you, and you wind up petting his hair, neck, back as he pets a now calm her, her fitting some against his front. "You my lil pup, Bren?" He nods, ruffing, and nuzzles his nose against your thigh.

You think about bringing your plan slash resolution slash feeling the waters out up, but don't want to ruin the moment, Fiona Apple's Never is a Promise adding a lovely sadness to the sweetness. Then grooving to Bowie's Starman, B telling you sometimes he feels like a starman... He joined Ryan, Spence, and Brent in the Summer League, they changed their name to Panic! At the Disco, and he just became their singer. Letting that inner starman come out more, you tell him. “Just wonder if we'll ever get Ziggy Stardust, too?”

-

Your mom and dad get you a peach-kiwi-berry and cream pie for your birthday a couple days later—you've always preferred pie to cake—and your first cell phone for your 17th birthday, so you call B on it, inviting him over for leftover pie before you go to the punk house show. He brings over some presents from Hawaii: a couple leis, matching Hawaiian shirts for you and him, seashells, an alcohol he has to tell you how to pronounce a couple times, a book about Hawaiian goddesses, as well as an old guitar of his and sheet music for Tori Amos. And some dank weed. You are such a pothead now. You played guitar in class at your old school last year, played his at his place too, “now you've got one for your own.” All happy and nervous. You can tell he likes treating people, and he tells you that he loves doing this for his friends. You want to treat him back, but don't want to wait until his birthday all the way in April.

You sneak out to drink a couple times—no longer complaining of your love for fruity ones after you tease him back about the Capri Sun and other fruit juices he loves—him drinking it too. You mosh with him before you have to beg off because some guys use it as an excuse to be dickheads, too aggressive. He gets a couple pot brownies from Eric, and you sit with some friends like him, Amanda, Leah who are there too, eating them, drinking, chatting, getting into the music, or some combination thereof. Luckily there's a taco place a block away that's open late, so you two toddle over, tipsy, but not full on inebriated, him less so—“so I can be a good host.” You order a huge burrito with sweet potato, pico de gallo, avocado, black bean, peppers, rice... Doing that Austin Powers Scottish “Get in my belly!” line. Telling him he should eat his veggies too, dammit. He would look even cuter if he managed to gain some weight, the little bean. You nudge some of your burrito at him too as he eats his tacos. You both need it, even if he's the only one who needs more meat on his bones.

You spill some on the Hawaiian shirt and he immediately reaches over, wiping if of your breast.  “Uh... sorry...” he pulls his hand away but you smile, tell him it's ok. Then giggling, you pat his breast too, saying that's how ok it is. Then smooch him on the cheek, before plowing that burrito down, only breaking to grin and look at him. You make it back a couple songs into the next group, but the last one's the best, you and B dancing at the edge of the crowd. You want to kiss him so bad, thanking him over and over, so you do: a peck on the lips. “You're the best, B.” You nuzzle noses with him, hugging him close, swaying, feeling so warm and happy and buzzed, aware your crotch is lightly on his thigh, but you don't pull away. Kind of in love too. You pull him to a loveseat for more cuddles, touching his hands, arms, hair, face, smooching over his forehead, cheeks, nose too—“cutest face ever, B”—back, thigh, petting, massaging, asking a couple times if it's ok, saying he can do it back. He does, more cautious than you are, probably more worried than he often is because you're still tipsy. Fuck, you want to... fuck him every which way into next week,

Walking to the bus stop, you keep touching him, holding hands, brushing shoulders, thighs, hips. You're glad your parents are open-minded, because “Wanna sleepover, B?” They thought he was gay before you told them he was bi, but they'd still be cool with him staying over, even in your bed.

Since you were sixteen, they told you you could have boys over, as long as you were careful, that your mom could take you to the sexual health clinic, that you could have fun in ways that you didn't have to worry about getting pregnant. That they didn't want to tell you you should do things, but they didn't want you hiding things. The few people who knew how they were were surprised you didn't take more advantage, with boys, sex, booze, drugs... You've not done drugs other than pot and booze, not even cigarettes, and there's only been two other boys, one good, one... not, and mostly clothed fooling around. Seems like kids with strict or completely checked out parents were the ones who chased those things, or fell into it.

They knew about those two other boys but not much detail, hell they already knew about you masturbating since you were a baby, and you've told them about crushing on B too, being all touchy with him, leaving out how turned on he got you, the dreams and fantasies... They told you about oral and manual stuff just in general terms, and you made out, grinded with Jax, came with him, wished you two were less shy so you felt free to continue with him, but B told you about outercourse, rubbing on each other, all these different ways, and in more detail...

You just wear shorts and a sportsbra to bed, and he wears shorts of yours and a tshirt. You want to say you'd be down for sleeping naked, but don't want to weird him out, or make him worry about you being too drunk/high to know what you're saying. You're just buzzed now; you know what you'd be saying, and are clearheaded enough to want it, like you'd want to say and do it completely sober too. You do ask him for cuddles and hair pets though, and he grins, nodding, so you gladly oblige on each other, humming and singing songs to each other to get the other to guess what it is.

You, cackling, wake him up with a slap on the ass after 10 because he's on his belly, sheet around his legs. “Couldn't help it, B. Dat ass.” He blushes, and you grin. “I could smooch it better?” He cocks his eyebrow, flushing, but smiling, a soft “you want to?”, so you kiss his lower back first, then the soft skin where your shirt is riding up on him. Then his clothed butt. It's so silly it doesn't seem like a wtf moment or like it's giving anything away.

He strips off, except for his boxer briefs, and grabs his clothes, saying he should've been home already, for family time. “At least I brought you breakfast,” you say, holding out the last of the pie. You feed it to him as you wait for the bus with him. As you see it approach, you kiss him closemouthed on the lips again, hold his hand, thank him for a lovely birthday. “Must be the best birthday ever, Bren, thanks to you.” He gets up and you hug him close. “Best boy ever, B,” you whisper in his ear, hands circling from his back to his ass. “That ok?”  

“More than ok...”

Damn, you love all of him, including his booty. “Lovely all over. Butt, too” makes him blush even more than he already is, even grinnier than you.

“Th-thanks. Y-oh, God—you're great too. I mean, the best birthday girl. Uh...” Neither of you have time to finish, because the bus stops, and you tell him not to miss it so he doesn't get in more trouble.

-

When you're back in class the next day you talk each other's ears off about visiting his family, how everything and everyone in Hawaii is beautiful in their own ways, you wishing you got to see it too, saying you've only been to Scotland and England, also because of family, with their oceansides and hilly farms and castles. He's got a lot of Scot in him too. Chatting until Ms Eliot glares at you two for at least a second time, clearing her throat loudly.

You keep touching him even more than before, matching your birthday celebrations: his hair, imagining flowers in it, his almost brown now skin, thinking he'd get Hawaiian flowers if he got any tattoos like he sometimes talked about. Picturing him naked even, swimming, or covered in flowers, or only in a grass skirt, or the cloth skirts both sexes wore. Or kissing that couple he got a crush on in a matter of hours... Clearly, that beauty rubbed off on him too, making him even more gorgeous. Hand on his thigh, hip, even. When he smiles, remembering the lushness and from your touches, you melt. He promises you pictures soon, saying he first panicked because he thought he lost the camera (it was in his mom's things), then forgot to get them developed, then they couldn't do it over the weekend. He wanted to show them to you and tell you about it at the same time because he can't really do it justice, but couldn't hold off anymore.

You grab onto his hand, nudge your shoulder into him as you're walking in the halls. You sit next to him during lunch, thighs and arms touching, pressing. After, you play with his hair and he just melts into it as you sit in the grass after. He touches back, your back, arm, nuzzles into your hugs and lap. Let's out little moans as you play with the nape of his neck, scalp... You find the small of his back, and he likes there too, even able to feel those Venus dimples he has too, fingertips daring over that strip of bare skin, wanting to go lower... so you do, hand resting on his ass, thumb stroking, sometimes patting to a beat. Watching his blissed out face, lush lips. It's turning you on, quite a lot, thinking about some of the things you could get up to, but you don't stop.

People have assumed that you're either a) boyfriend-girlfriend or b) a gay and his fag hag for a while now, even a couple brother-sister assumptions, but this may be upping it a level.