You couldn't believe how much you hated that... little asshole! Brendon motherfucking Urie, Papa's Precious Son. Father Urie himself wasn't too bad, but his son could literally go chill with God himself, for all you cared.

The amount of times he had ratted you out to your parents was immeasurable; and you hated him for that. You didn't know what he had to prove, but you were over it completely. It had been going on since you moved into this sleepy town, when you were twelve and he was fourteen.

You stepped into the church, your hands crinkling the chiffon of your skirt nervously. Your mother smacked your hand gently, glaring at you.

"Don't do that, we just bought you that dress." Your mother reprimanded and you rolled your eyes. You felt ridiculous, you looked like you were nine- since you were wearing a powder white dress with your hair up in a bun. This was not your normal wear and you couldn't wait to get out of this stupid dre-

Then you saw him, kneeling at the altar and praying. His hair was gelled back perfectly, and his suit was crisp- almost as if he had just gotten it. The preacher had the Bible out, reading from it quietly to the boy. The boy would murmur back, then the preacher would speak- so on and so forth. You felt your heart start to beat a little faster, a friend?

"Ah! Just who I was looking for! Father Urie!" Your mother called, waving to the preacher after he finished reading and the boy stood up. Father Urie began walking towards you, the boy in tow. He was standing behind his father, looking beyond bored. You tried to focus on the conversation between Father Urie and your mother but your attention kept getting drawn back to the boy. He looked a little older than you, maybe seventeen? You didn't know.

"And you must be (Y/N)," Father Urie looked at you, and you tore your eyes away from the boy. You nodded, shaking his hand. He patted your hand and looked back up at your mother, "She'll fit in just fine here in the Youth Group. Brendon, why don't you show her around?" Father Urie turned to the boy standing behind him. Brendon stepped out from behind Father Urie and you made full eye contact with him.

Brendon's eyes were a deep brown, like coffee before you mixed cream and sugar into it; Eyes that were the black-flecked, deep brown of pecan shells. They held gold leaves in them- the kind of eyes you met in a coffee shop that played a game of tag with yours over a stark white coffee cup; but despite the warm colour of his eyes, they held the sharpness of gunmetal. His eyes bore into yours as he seemed to try and figure you out entirely through eye contact alone. His eyes flicked from your face, down to your feet, then back up to your eyes. You felt your cheeks flushing furiously- you hated being under this level of inspection.

"Follow me," He grunted and you practically had to jog to keep up with him. For him being only a couple inches taller than you, he carried himself as if he was a thousand feet tall. You struggled to keep up with him as he lead you to the Youth Group area of the Church. He opened up a door and walked in, leaving you to try and squeeze through the gap between the door and the door frame.

"Dunno why you're here." Brendon murmured, gesturing around the room. It was a simple room, decorated with Bible Quotes and pictures of Jesus. You felt beyond uncomfortable, and it wasn't because Christ was literally eyeing you down from every angle you turned. What did he mean by-

"You're not religious, are you?" Brendon asked, turning towards you. You tried to stutter out an answer, but he cut you off, "Oh my god, you're not." He snorted out a laugh, but soon turned dead serious. He looked you up and down again, a sneer playing across his pillowy lips. "I like that," and he stepped closer to you, his hand grabbing the pendant around your neck. It was a sterling silver pendant of a pentagram with a pair of wings hanging from the bottom point. He looked pleased with this, and his eyes danced with yours, "Awh, Mommy's little angel's a Satanist!" His tone was fake-sweet, like medicine trying to mask the bitterness with a chemical flavor. You stuttered for a second, trying to think of an excuse. You couldn't and his sneer turned into a beautiful smirk.

"Wouldn't it be a shame if Mommy's Little Angel was proven to be a Satanist? It would ruin her reputation, ruin her relationship with Mommy and Daddy. It would ruin her before she could even try and get a foothold in this town," He circled around you, his hand holding fast to your pendant, tracing it around and around your neck. A cold sweat began to break out across your brow and you wiped it away quickly, "Guess we'll just have to tell Mommy, huh?"

"Don't!" You yelled, grabbing his wrist. He turned back towards you, a cool smile on his lips.

"Why shouldn't I? You're just going to throw everything off here. You don't want to be here, so you'll just sit here in Youth Group, participating when you have to, and sitting there, stoic, when you don't have to participate. Am I right?" He asked, those freezer cold eyes boring into yours again.

You hated to admit that he was right, but you were determined not to let your secret out.

"You're wrong." Was all you said and he snorted out a laugh. He turned to you, his knuckles still white around the star pendant around your neck. He slowly got closer to you, until you could feel the fake wood of the wall pressed against your back. He stood in front of you, his free hand by your head. His hand traced up the pendant, to the chain, then up to your neck. His fingers traced the skin on your neck, then up to your jawline. The arm by your head bent, causing his face to get closer to yours, until his lips just ghosted over your own. His breath fanned hot over your face, and you were just shy of kissing him. If you stood a little more on your tiptoes, you cou-

"Prove me wrong then." And then he was gone, back upstairs. Your cheeks were flushed and your breath was heavy. But you would be damned if you would let that asshole win. Even if it killed you.

Since then, you both had been locked in a bitter rivalry, both trying to be better than the other. You were trying to keep your religious affiliation and bad habits under wraps, and he was trying to expose them every second.

Every party you went to, he was there. So instead of having harmless fun with your friends, you were on the lookout for him. He would hang around you every chance he got too. To outsiders, and those who hadn't the headache of being around you two for more than three songs,  you looked like the cutest couple, always laughing and joking with each other, but only those closest to you two could see the clenched teeth behind the laughs and the slightly white knuckles around the cups you held.

You would never, EVER, admit it- not even on your deathbed- but you had the hugest, most unexplainable crush on him. You had since he cornered you in the Youth Group on that rainy Sunday. No matter who you kissed or who you dated, those raw umber and caramel mixed eyes haunted every crevice of your mind and caused you nights of restless sleep.

He made you feel intoxicated, tipsy, buzzed from so much as giving you that familiar snarky grin, or commented on your appearance. The comments were far from sweet, but they left you blushing and digging your nails into your thigh to calm down.

It wasn't until you were staring him down at a party that the crush you shared boiled over. He had said something, a joint sitting heavy against