Melissa (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} melissaphobia) wrote in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} slashatthedisco,@ 2008-05-16 07:44:00 |
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Enigmatic (1/1)
Title: Enigmatic (one-shot)
Author:Melissamelissaphobia
Rating: R for themes...
Pairing: Ryden
POV:Third
Summary:And Ryan’s pretty rational but that doesn’t mean he has to act it all the time.
Disclaimer: fake as shit. Plot and words are mine.
Author Notes:Explanation at the end...
The quote ‘I know I shouldn’t be talking her into my bed but there’s still the slightest chance that I won’t wake up dead” is a quote from A Kidnap in Color’s song “Miss Scarlet In The Ballroom With The Revolver”
Spencer has clearly told him not to about a million times at this point.
He’s done everything short of writing it in the sky or tattooing it onto his retinas. He thinks that maybe that’s the next step.
And Ryan’s pretty rational but that doesn’t mean he has to act it all the time.
“This is possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Spencer says while following him down the hall, a few steps behind. Ryan’s got long legs and is late for Western European History class. “Actually, correction, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Spencer sighs dejectedly and says “I really hope you’re kidding.”
Spencer is talking to the back of Ryan’s head while they weave through the people wandering through the corridors.
“I know I shouldn’t be talking him into my bed,” Ryan says as he rounds the corner, smirk playing on his lips. Spencer wants to slap it off him because he’s not kidding and Ryan’s taking this like a fucking joke. “But there’s still the slightest chance that I won’t wake up dead.”
And Spencer would totally follow him down the rest of the hall and into the classroom but his class is in the opposite direction. Damn integral calculus, Spence thinks as he turns on his heels and sulks down the hall.
He just cares.
****
“Spencer is right Ryan,” Jon says at lunch.
They’re all sitting at their usual table.
“I mean,” Jon says with his mouth full of potato chips. Ryan doesn’t remember Jon paying for those but he’s not about to call him out. “Have you heard the rumors?”
“Rumors,” Ryan says as he takes a fry from Spencer’s tray only for Spencer to make a bitch face back at him, “Are called rumors for a reason.”
“So you don’t believe it?” Jon asks back skeptically. He takes a fry from Spencer’s tray also.
Spencer is too pissed to care that they’re eating his food from under his nose.
“Of course I do,” Ryan says almost smugly.
Russian roulette. Courting with danger.
Jon just scowls and says “Fucking suicidal”.
Ryan shrugs and takes a sip of his soda.
They continue their lunch in relative peace.
****
“How do I look?” Ryan asks.
Black pants. Black shirt. White blazer.
Spencer shakes his head. He’s been refusing to talk about anything relating to the subject as of late.
Pete looks up from the puzzle strewn out on the floor, half done, and says “Like a dead man.”
Patrick and William both simultaneously smack his shoulders.
“What?!” Pete wails incredulously, looking between the two of them. “I’m just being honest.”
Patrick and William are both shooting daggers at him and Pete decides that he can’t win.
“Hey Ryan.” Ryan looks back at Pete in the mirror. He’s effectively tuned them out for the past minute or so. “Are you sure you don’t want to finish this puzzle?”
Ryan looks back at Spencer who is silently pleading with his eyes. Don’t fucking do this. You’re smarter than this he thinks at the top of the lungs.
Ryan shrugs at Pete and straightens out his blazer one last time.
He wants to look his best.
“ Nah. It’s okay.”
****
“I can’t believe you showed up,” Brendon says from where he’s sitting on the high stone wall. “I thought you had more sense.”
“Sense does no one good for the posthumous,” Ryan says to Brendon’s form partially concealed by the dark.
Brendon Urie is unintentional legend.
He is made up of rumors and hearsay and slander and mystery.
He is danger and adventure. He is the wild side. He is the dark side.
Brendon smiles, full lips parting to expose his pearly white teeth.
He hops down from the ledge and walks closer to Ryan.
Ryan’s breath catches because only legends could look this good.
“Which one do you want me to fix?” Brendon says as he wraps an arm around Ryan’s waist.
They’ve only talked in passing in corridors, in dark corners. No one talks to Brendon Urie is clear day light, well except for the clinically insane and the inordinately blessed. Ryan was neither then and neither now. But still he walked up to Brendon, brushing up so close that they almost touched, and said ‘I want you’ and the rest is history. This soon will be too.
“The sense thing,” Brendon says as he leans in to press his full lips and sleek body up against Ryan’s. “Or the posthumous thing?”
“Whichever one you want,” Ryan says and his heart is speeding for two reasons.
One, Brendon Urie is rightfuckinghere.
Two, Brendon Urie is right fucking here.
“You look so nice in the moonlight,” Brendon says and the park is empty at this hour of night and the silence is almost too creepy but the way Brendon is kissing him is making him half forget. It’s through and meticulous, invasive—it’s fucking addicting.
Ryan figures that this is the best time to figure out what rumors are made of.
****
“Tell me about Ryan Ross,” the counselor says, her glasses falling down her face—Brendon can see that she wasn’t supposed to wear glasses but he doesn’t say anything.
Greta, that’s her name. Greta.
Brendon likes Greta more than the others, and there are plenty of others.
It’s been months.
Maybe Brendon slipped up or maybe he just let himself get caught.
He can’t remember.
“Ryan was a good one,” Brendon says with a sick, reminiscent twist hidden in his voice.
There is a tape recorder on the table.
Greta’s got a notebook in her lap, yellow and quickly flooding with chicken scratch about depraved shit.
This is all just depraved shit in the end.
“He looked so beautiful in the park light,” Brendon continues, “I had fun with Ryan. He barely even fought back.”
Brendon looks up at Greta and half laughs.
She wonders what happened to him. He wonders that sometimes too.
“He was the masochist in this situation,” Brendon says reaching over the pen and taking it straight from Greta’s moving hand. “He even wanted the sex rough. I had to comply.”
He presses the tip of the pen the the clean white paper and says “You should of heard his last breath, fucking music to my ears.”
“Brendon, why did you kill him?” Greta asks steadily but she wants to cry or scream because she does this a lot and she can’t say this doesn’t get to her.
She is the criminal pathologist who is trying to find the cure for violence.
He defies all logic.
Brendon is drawing on the table with the pen that he took from Greta and he looks so young. So fragile.
Some things are completely enigmatic to all.
“Why not?” Brendon asks back as his response.
The last time, the judge said that there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him; that he’s just a kid and he deserves a chance. So they decided to expunge his file and send him to Palo Verde high school so he could be around some normal children. So he could get some normal friends.
He’s only gotten better at covering his tracks.
Greta is happy that he’s finally behind bars, for good.
“Okay Brendon,” Greta says while massaging her temples. “Tell me about Spencer Smith.”
“He wanted Ryan back,” Brendon says while drawing on the white table. “And I could see it in his eyes that he was never going to move on. Greta, I dwell. I dwell and I kill.” Brendon looks up at her with his big brown coffee eyes. “I had to nip it in the bud.” He drops his head again and smirks, porcelain white doll skin stretching into a grin. “Ryan was my favorite. He’s mine now. Spencer cant’ have him back.”
Greta looks at the clock and they have a good half hour left. She reaches for the file on the middle of the table and pulls out the list of names.
Victims. Pages and pages long.
A case study in the making.
Brendon is drawing on the table and he’s got blood on his hands and bodies to his names.
“Tell me about...”
Pete Wentz.
William Beckett.
Jon Walker.
Patrick Stump.
And someone else.
And someone else.
And someone else.
And on.
And on.
And on.
And this isn’t the last session they’ll have but Greta can wish sometimes.
****
AN: What the fuck?
I wrote this in fourty five minutes after listening to “Miss Scarlet In The Ballroom With The Revolver” by A Kidnap In Color... it’s ‘based’ off of the last verse... Law and Order was on in the background while I wrote this... I was writing chapter 16 for Drowning Lessons and this popped out...
This is unusual....
Title: Enigmatic (one-shot)
Author:Melissa
melissaphobiaRating: R for themes...
Pairing: Ryden
POV:Third
Summary:And Ryan’s pretty rational but that doesn’t mean he has to act it all the time.
Disclaimer: fake as shit. Plot and words are mine.
Author Notes:Explanation at the end...
The quote ‘I know I shouldn’t be talking her into my bed but there’s still the slightest chance that I won’t wake up dead” is a quote from A Kidnap in Color’s song “Miss Scarlet In The Ballroom With The Revolver”
Spencer has clearly told him not to about a million times at this point.
He’s done everything short of writing it in the sky or tattooing it onto his retinas. He thinks that maybe that’s the next step.
And Ryan’s pretty rational but that doesn’t mean he has to act it all the time.
“This is possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Spencer says while following him down the hall, a few steps behind. Ryan’s got long legs and is late for Western European History class. “Actually, correction, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Spencer sighs dejectedly and says “I really hope you’re kidding.”
Spencer is talking to the back of Ryan’s head while they weave through the people wandering through the corridors.
“I know I shouldn’t be talking him into my bed,” Ryan says as he rounds the corner, smirk playing on his lips. Spencer wants to slap it off him because he’s not kidding and Ryan’s taking this like a fucking joke. “But there’s still the slightest chance that I won’t wake up dead.”
And Spencer would totally follow him down the rest of the hall and into the classroom but his class is in the opposite direction. Damn integral calculus, Spence thinks as he turns on his heels and sulks down the hall.
He just cares.
****
“Spencer is right Ryan,” Jon says at lunch.
They’re all sitting at their usual table.
“I mean,” Jon says with his mouth full of potato chips. Ryan doesn’t remember Jon paying for those but he’s not about to call him out. “Have you heard the rumors?”
“Rumors,” Ryan says as he takes a fry from Spencer’s tray only for Spencer to make a bitch face back at him, “Are called rumors for a reason.”
“So you don’t believe it?” Jon asks back skeptically. He takes a fry from Spencer’s tray also.
Spencer is too pissed to care that they’re eating his food from under his nose.
“Of course I do,” Ryan says almost smugly.
Russian roulette. Courting with danger.
Jon just scowls and says “Fucking suicidal”.
Ryan shrugs and takes a sip of his soda.
They continue their lunch in relative peace.
****
“How do I look?” Ryan asks.
Black pants. Black shirt. White blazer.
Spencer shakes his head. He’s been refusing to talk about anything relating to the subject as of late.
Pete looks up from the puzzle strewn out on the floor, half done, and says “Like a dead man.”
Patrick and William both simultaneously smack his shoulders.
“What?!” Pete wails incredulously, looking between the two of them. “I’m just being honest.”
Patrick and William are both shooting daggers at him and Pete decides that he can’t win.
“Hey Ryan.” Ryan looks back at Pete in the mirror. He’s effectively tuned them out for the past minute or so. “Are you sure you don’t want to finish this puzzle?”
Ryan looks back at Spencer who is silently pleading with his eyes. Don’t fucking do this. You’re smarter than this he thinks at the top of the lungs.
Ryan shrugs at Pete and straightens out his blazer one last time.
He wants to look his best.
“ Nah. It’s okay.”
****
“I can’t believe you showed up,” Brendon says from where he’s sitting on the high stone wall. “I thought you had more sense.”
“Sense does no one good for the posthumous,” Ryan says to Brendon’s form partially concealed by the dark.
Brendon Urie is unintentional legend.
He is made up of rumors and hearsay and slander and mystery.
He is danger and adventure. He is the wild side. He is the dark side.
Brendon smiles, full lips parting to expose his pearly white teeth.
He hops down from the ledge and walks closer to Ryan.
Ryan’s breath catches because only legends could look this good.
“Which one do you want me to fix?” Brendon says as he wraps an arm around Ryan’s waist.
They’ve only talked in passing in corridors, in dark corners. No one talks to Brendon Urie is clear day light, well except for the clinically insane and the inordinately blessed. Ryan was neither then and neither now. But still he walked up to Brendon, brushing up so close that they almost touched, and said ‘I want you’ and the rest is history. This soon will be too.
“The sense thing,” Brendon says as he leans in to press his full lips and sleek body up against Ryan’s. “Or the posthumous thing?”
“Whichever one you want,” Ryan says and his heart is speeding for two reasons.
One, Brendon Urie is rightfuckinghere.
Two, Brendon Urie is right fucking here.
“You look so nice in the moonlight,” Brendon says and the park is empty at this hour of night and the silence is almost too creepy but the way Brendon is kissing him is making him half forget. It’s through and meticulous, invasive—it’s fucking addicting.
Ryan figures that this is the best time to figure out what rumors are made of.
****
“Tell me about Ryan Ross,” the counselor says, her glasses falling down her face—Brendon can see that she wasn’t supposed to wear glasses but he doesn’t say anything.
Greta, that’s her name. Greta.
Brendon likes Greta more than the others, and there are plenty of others.
It’s been months.
Maybe Brendon slipped up or maybe he just let himself get caught.
He can’t remember.
“Ryan was a good one,” Brendon says with a sick, reminiscent twist hidden in his voice.
There is a tape recorder on the table.
Greta’s got a notebook in her lap, yellow and quickly flooding with chicken scratch about depraved shit.
This is all just depraved shit in the end.
“He looked so beautiful in the park light,” Brendon continues, “I had fun with Ryan. He barely even fought back.”
Brendon looks up at Greta and half laughs.
She wonders what happened to him. He wonders that sometimes too.
“He was the masochist in this situation,” Brendon says reaching over the pen and taking it straight from Greta’s moving hand. “He even wanted the sex rough. I had to comply.”
He presses the tip of the pen the the clean white paper and says “You should of heard his last breath, fucking music to my ears.”
“Brendon, why did you kill him?” Greta asks steadily but she wants to cry or scream because she does this a lot and she can’t say this doesn’t get to her.
She is the criminal pathologist who is trying to find the cure for violence.
He defies all logic.
Brendon is drawing on the table with the pen that he took from Greta and he looks so young. So fragile.
Some things are completely enigmatic to all.
“Why not?” Brendon asks back as his response.
The last time, the judge said that there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him; that he’s just a kid and he deserves a chance. So they decided to expunge his file and send him to Palo Verde high school so he could be around some normal children. So he could get some normal friends.
He’s only gotten better at covering his tracks.
Greta is happy that he’s finally behind bars, for good.
“Okay Brendon,” Greta says while massaging her temples. “Tell me about Spencer Smith.”
“He wanted Ryan back,” Brendon says while drawing on the white table. “And I could see it in his eyes that he was never going to move on. Greta, I dwell. I dwell and I kill.” Brendon looks up at her with his big brown coffee eyes. “I had to nip it in the bud.” He drops his head again and smirks, porcelain white doll skin stretching into a grin. “Ryan was my favorite. He’s mine now. Spencer cant’ have him back.”
Greta looks at the clock and they have a good half hour left. She reaches for the file on the middle of the table and pulls out the list of names.
Victims. Pages and pages long.
A case study in the making.
Brendon is drawing on the table and he’s got blood on his hands and bodies to his names.
“Tell me about...”
Pete Wentz.
William Beckett.
Jon Walker.
Patrick Stump.
And someone else.
And someone else.
And someone else.
And on.
And on.
And on.
And this isn’t the last session they’ll have but Greta can wish sometimes.
****
AN: What the fuck?
I wrote this in fourty five minutes after listening to “Miss Scarlet In The Ballroom With The Revolver” by A Kidnap In Color... it’s ‘based’ off of the last verse... Law and Order was on in the background while I wrote this... I was writing chapter 16 for Drowning Lessons and this popped out...
This is unusual....
