Charm Your Way Out | 1.
Title: Charm Your Way Out
Rating: NC 17 - undecided sex, alcohol and disturbing themes.
Pairing: Ryan/ Brendon, Jon/Spencer, Spencer/Brendon, other mentioned pairings.
Disclaimer: All of this happened. I have Panic! At The Disco, Fall Out Boy and everyone else mentioned shoved in my book cuboard upstairs. I'm also a compulsive liar.
Summary:
Ryan Ross is the best in the writing community,
A prodigy of intelligence and expression.
He’s revered for his exceptional skills of word,
Of incomparable plots of deceit and greed.
A perfect writer, if there was ever such a thing.
Brendon Urie;
An ADHD suffering ex-singer
With a mouth bigger than his ass.
He’s known for his never-ending exuberance,
And maybe that one time he wore a bow-tie.
A lot left wanting, apparently.
And here we go, leave comments so I'm tempted to keep posting. <3
1. It Seems Writers These Days Are Not Who You Think.
“...I heard Ryan Ross is going to be at Waterstones today, he’s doing signings. I was going to go down and get a glance, you fancy coming?”Brendon glanced over to the book on the side table, well-thumbed and worn with time - it looked more like an antique rather than a three week old manuscript. Brendon quite liked the well-read look of the book; he liked the way his fingers had danced over every single one of those pages countless time every morning, noon and night.
The book, to him, was something of a masterpiece.
“Yeah sure, I’ll be down in a minute, wait up for me.” He didn’t listen to whatever Spencer had to say next on the phone as he stumbled towards his dresser - hoping that for the love of god he hadn’t put his favourite grey skinny jeans in the wash this morning because fuck Ryan Ross. Ryan fucking Ross. He wanted to look good. Real fucking good.
He hung up his phone, uncaring to whether Spencer had finished talking or not and tossed it carelessly on the floor, one hand already reaching to open the smooth wood of his draws. The draw was reasonably empty because of the cleaning out Brendon had been doing a few days prior, (His ass had got bigger and well, maybe he went up a jean size) which made finding the grey jeans an easy task as they promptly flopped over a pair of worn blue jeans - looking pathetically shabby. God, Brendon was so fucked. Wishing his ever negative mind a slow, painful death he tugged the garment up his legs, struggling as always at the top of his thighs.
That was the last time he was shopping in the boys section. Girls actually had curves, while most boys seemed to be straight lines up and down.
Finally bringing his jeans all the way up he hopped around with a sock half on, looking on the floor for that Perfect Circle t-shirt he knew he had somewhere. Spotting a flash of white from a dark expanse, he vaulted over - almost falling - and scooped it up from under a pile of black and blue.
Okay, yeah, maybe Brendon had only done half the washing this morning.
With a pull he got on the t-shirt and finally attended to his one- sock situation, picking another white trainer sock from the top of the laundry basket and slipping his foot into it. Jittery now, he approached the full length mirror strung up on his wall and twisted his lips. Not too bad, really. Jeans were defiantly tight. Brendon ran a hand through his hair, peering closely for any imperfections. A bit of eyeliner couldn’t hurt, really...?
Ducking down to grab the pencil he leant even closer to the mirror, sticking out his tongue for no particular reason and applying it gently to the top of his eyelid, then adding some to his bottom waterline. Repeating the same with the left eye, he straightened up and capped the pencil, letting it fall back on the table. Yeah, okay. He looked okay.
Brendon didn’t liked the way he looked, but you know, this was average for him. Maybe a bit more. He twisted in the mirror and bit his lip. His ass was getting bigger. Too much food and it all went straight down.
three-two-one we came to fuck,
Everybody party till the gasman comes
Sparkle like a bowie in -
He snapped up his phone, pressing it to his ear in a quick movement.
“Brendon, stop checking out your ass and get downstairs, I’m about to walk past. And before you even ask, you always check out your ass. You’ve got like, forty seconds...” Eyes widening Brendon sent himself a quick one-over on the mirror and dashed from his room, going for the little stack of shoes kept by the door. He pushed his phone into his pocket - unsure if he’d hung up or not - and bent down to push his feet into black pumps. He’d really like to have worn his converse, but fucking hell the laces.
Spencer would be dead by the time he put those shoes on.
Now fully clothed, he grabbed a random jacket from the hanger above the shoes and opened the door, slipping outside and fumbling with the keys as he did the lock up. Fucking sticky lock, fuck. Oh just - He stuffed the keys in his pocket alongside the phone and was off again - sprinting through the door to the stairs and down the linoleum covered steps at the breakdown next speak. Just - Ryan Ross - okay, yeah.
Brendon kind of liked him. Kind of, a lot, yeah.
He burst through to the empty lobby. It was hardly a lobby because, well, it was an empty room about the size of Brendon’s legs and maybe he almost ran into the wall. But it was long and Brendon wished it wasn’t as he slowed his pace down to act casual around Spencer when he emerged outside. Spencer wouldn’t let it go if he saw what a rush Brendon was in to see a particular cryptic writer. He pushed open the brown swing-door to his block of apartments and emerged outside, glad for the fact that the sun wasn’t out. He thought he looked like a bit of a prick coming out and blinking like an epileptic loony because the sun was in a bitchy mood. Clouds were the best, really. Except when they were black, or just too dark - Brendon didn’t like rain. Or Snow. The cold aspect anyway.
He really liked making snowmen till he realised how cold it got him.
Spencer - thank god he was there - was leant against a lamppost on the path in front of the opening to Brendon’s dwelling. Dressed in clingy blue jeans (Brendon had bought him them, because he insisted it made Spencer’s legs ‘look great’. He still wasn’t sure of what to make of that comment.) And a white hooded jumper that stuck to prominent curves like a second skin. In short, Brendon would defiantly consider discarding Spencer’s best friend status for something a bit deeper. He’d always had a thing for blue eyes, and Spencer defiantly had blue eyes. And nice curves and really nice hair that Brendon liked to play with.
But Spencer was totally gay for Jon Walker, which was cool because Brendon wanted to keep Spencer forever. And falling out over having sex or something really wasn’t worth it. Brendon would stick with blatantly checking him out every time he saw him, and hoping Spencer wouldn’t get too freaked.
“Spence!” Brendon looped his arms over the curvy, blue-eyed boy and latched his legs around his waist. Spencer laughed and really had no choice but to hug him back before setting the excitable Brendon down. Spencer thought Brendon was such a dork, sometimes.
“Oh Jesus, you’re getting heavier.” A profound pout from Brendon “Come on, we don’t want to miss him, even though it’s been... eight minutes and I’m pretty sure he’s there for another three hundred.”With that, Brendon settled at Spencer’s side and started their path to the large bookstore a few blocks down. He could barely contain his excitement - but he did so for the sake of his own ego in future situations. Ryan Ross.
Just - oh.
Maybe Brendon had every single one of his books safely tucked away in the draw under his bedside table. Except for one, the one that lay upon his desk at the particular moment in time - an autobiography. A insight into a brilliant mind - that maybe wasn’t so perfect.
I promised myself as a child - a child is what I would call myself at twelve - that I would be perfect. It seems my illusion of accurate flawlessness precedes me, and this facade has just gone so far since that first promise. I even start to wonder when the cracks will form, when I will be found out as the earnest child I once was. I’m not perfect, not really. I’m stupid, deluded - but in the most convoluted of ways.
Already, I regret the youth of words that I wrote only moments ago. Perhaps I can change them, or perhaps I will leave them as a paper-bound memory of my own inanity at exactly three fifteen am on the twenty-first of October, two-thousand and seven. Twenty-one and rotting from the inside.
Ryan Ross was an intricate person, seemingly of two minds and while he tried to cover himself up and appear as the usual stone-cold, enigmatic writer who knew more words than an oxford dictionary, he showed himself as the insecure, self-hating man he really was. Brendon couldn’t help but think that Ryan Ross was a broken man with a more than ample cover as indifferent - he needed to be fixed. His wounds seemed to be long-open and festering with unexpressed emotion.
“Bren. Bren. Hello? Earth to Bren? Candy, chocolate...uh, Ryan Ross? Hello? Bren, seriously.” Brendon blinked and tipped his head back to evade Spencer’s waving hand that was coming alarmingly close to hitting him.
“Hi, Spence.” Spencer grumbled under his breath and shot Brendon a bitchy look, pointing to the quickly filling bookstore. A crowd was quickly amassing and if he wanted to get in it -which he really fucking did - he had to go about, 2 seconds prior to his arrival. But he had Spencer, and no-one fucked with Spencer.
“Come on.” Brendon linked hands with the blue-eyed boy and beamed at him as an invitation to go first. Spencer grumbled some more and dragged Brendon forward to the crowd, which had built further in the small communication. The first few people were easy to bypass as they were craning to see what the fuss was all about, but the tightly-wound crowd was more of a task.
Or, well, it would have been. Any protests about pushing were silenced by a blue-eyed glare and a slight lip rise. Brendon really, really loved Spencer’s bitch face, it did wonders.
“Watch it!”
“You fucking watch it, for fuck sake, your fucking bag it like a dagger.”Then Spencer continued on, pulling Brendon by the shocked looking woman who was gazing down at her metallic looking purse. Marrying Spencer was totally an option right now.
Eventually they arrived at the front - with a lot of angry faces and muttered words - and Brendon’s breathe caught in his throat. Ryan was sat on a leather chair, seemingly ignoring the crowd in favour for a slick phone pressed up to his ear. He spoke a few words every now and then, and a small smile managed to find its way to his face. But all Brendon could really think about was how fucking gorgeous Ryan Ross was.
Dark, medium length hair swooping down to one side of his face, curvy, pale face perfectly shaped and gold-brown eyes accented by generous amount of black eyeliner and eye shadow. A light stubble stuck to his jaw and Brendon thinks that he might be in love. Black, long-sleeved dress-shirt (Which seems to be painted on) tucked into moderately tight pin-striped trousers held up by two belts, one looking more like a decoration than anything else. Attached to these were a pair of white braces and high-top skinny boots adorned his feet.
And Brendon totally loved the light grey cap he was wearing, and wished he had enough sophistication to pull it off.
Ryan glanced up from his conversation and ran his eyes over the crowd, a slow consideration taking over his features. He said one more thing into the phone then pressed a button and slid the device into pocket. He took a breath and looked around again.
“Seriously, I would be doing something about now, but I have no idea where the table is. A guy from earlier broke the one I had before so... A table would be really nice about now.” A few nervous laughs ran through the crowd and Brendon out-right grinned. Ryan’s voice was really pretty, and he had really long-fingers that were totally distracting him at the moment as they fiddled subconsciously with the edge of a brace.
“This is really nice. Feels like story time in the library.” Ryan sighed. “So anyone want to tell me how much they hate me? The negatives are always best at the start.” Silence, Ryan’s eyebrows moved up a little, but not enough to really change his face.
“Really? Last chance...” He trailed off, looking around at the crowd who seemed content to stare at him.
“I hate the way you spell in English?” Brendon offered up, unable to contain his usually non-stop voice for a few seconds longer. Ryan’s face twitched with a smile and Brendon practically melted at the amusement.
“I’m not messing with anyone who appreciates Billy Howerdel. But yeah - having an ex in Wales did that to me.” Still not a real smile. It was disconcerting to hear words without any facial expressions to accompany the relayed emotion, but at the same time alluring in the fact it made him a mystery. And yeah, Brendon always wanted to be Sherlock Holmes.
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