Innocence (In A Sense) [s/a]
Title: Innocence (In A Sense)
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: AU. This is his job, and maybe it’s not the most professional thing to do, but sometimes things have to happen in order to make things right. And if putting criminals behind bars means that Brendon has to get a little dirty, then so be it.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Warnings: Mentions of murder and cross-dressing, handcuffs and bashing of Pete Wentz's clothing line.
Author Notes: For my precious bb my_obsession_xx because I laaaaav herrrrr! ♥
The air in the room is stagnant and thick.
It smells like stale cigarettes and sweat and the only things giving the room any substance are the tarnished metal chairs on either side of an old metallic desk, smudged with ancient fingerprints. The door just beyond the opposite side of the table is grimy, rusted with age, and the wide mirror just to the right of it is blotched with smears of palms and foreheads. It stretches from the ceiling (crumbling tiles and dusty insulation) to the middle of the wall, lit up with the fading yellow florescent rods hung overhead. The walls are brick, painted gray but peeling and the floor is unforgiving concrete.
He kicks the table with the toe of his shoe and brands his own fingerprints into the table’s surface through an impatient drumming. He sighs.
With a loud protesting squeak, much like the exaggerated sound effect of heavy doors and dry hinges, the door before him opens and another man walks in. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark intentions. He strides over and before he sits down, he reaches behind him to unholster his gun, standard police issue, deadly.
Intimidating.
He grins. “Mr. Ross, is it?”
No reply.
He nods carefully, registering and his lip curls up despite it, “I’m Detective Urie.”
No reply.
“I’d give you my first name, but I like having a leg up, seeing as I know yours. Ryan,” Detective Urie says, and places his gun down on the table, barrel pointing straight at Ryan.
Detective Brendon B. Urie, all around good cop but instant badass the minute he draws his gun. Regardless of its intent. He doesn’t plan on using it, really and truly hates it when he as to, but having a loaded gun pointed at you, even if it’s not aimed at you, usually gets people to speak.
The only silence allowed in Brendon’s line of duty is the silence of the victims. There’s no time for mute criminals.
But this kid, this Ryan Ross. He doesn’t even fucking flinch when the clunk of the gun resonates through the tight air around them and Brendon, frankly, is a little impressed.
He’s guilty. Brendon can feel it. The crossed arms, the bored eyes, the way he didn’t immediately try to plead his innocence, the way the sight of the gun didn’t seem to faze him in the least. Brendon’s had a few characters like this in his day and this kid is no different, just an unimportant member of society known as scum, a murderer.
The metal scrapes along the concrete floor when Brendon goes to sit. Fingers threaded together, he rests his elbows on the table and stares over his knuckles at the hardened expression on Ryan’s face.
“Sorry we didn’t give you any water.” There’s an unapologetic grimace on his face and Ryan stares at him, unimpressed, undaunted. “You see, the tap’s been pouring nothing but shitty water lately. Supposed to have some people out within the next week to fix it. I’d give you a bottled water but.” Brendon smirks, “I don’t want to spoil you.”
Ryan remains motionless, frustratingly quiet and the buzzing of the bulbs above only amplify the silence. Brendon gives another smile, leans back in his chair to imitate Ryan’s posture and says,
“Lovely weather today, yeah?” Ryan doesn’t reply, naturally. “Perfect day to go for a jog, do a little kite flying, kill someone. The usual.”
The casual tone Brendon uses causes Ryan to chuckle in disbelief, perhaps a little amusement and he shakes his head, smiling through a clenched jaw. Brendon sees the veins in his neck tighten and the way his fingers curl around the edge of the armrests of the chair and he continues.
“I’m serious. Fuck, everyone’s out and about today in Vegas. You could kill virtually anyone you wanted and it’d be so easy to just. Step into the shoes of an innocent passerby. Don’t you think?”
Nothing from Ryan.
“I have to give it to you, though. You didn’t take the easy route. Is it unprofessional of me to say thank you for that?” Brendon’s eyebrows quirk up in genuine question, but there’s a smile tugging the corners of his lips. “I mean, I take my job seriously, but sometimes people just make it too fucking easy and then someone like you comes along and. Damn it, I love a challenge.”
There’s that word he can’t resist: challenge.
He thrives off of it, drinks it in until he’s so staggering drunk with it he can hardly see straight. Apparently Ryan revels in it, too, because when his eyes, hidden by long, thick lashes turn up and stare at Brendon, it’s with this intensity Brendon’s only seen staring back at him in the mirror, through his own eyes.
Brendon’s smirk widens.
“So, Pete Wentz, huh? Out of all the undeserving, greedy bastards in Vegas, you decide to whack that lowlife?” Brendon laughs a little at Pete’s expense - he’s dead now, it’s not like it matters - and says, “But shit, if you’re going to kill someone, you might as well make it a tourist, right? Those mother fuckers drive me insane.”
This probably isn’t the most ethical interrogation Brendon’s ever done, in fact, it’s ranking pretty much at the pinnacle of offensive, but from the minute he walked in, saw this kid’s posture, his fucking nerve, he could tell formal questioning wasn’t going to cut it.
“Anyway, so Wentz?” Brendon’s back on track, eyebrows raised high in interest, like he’s about to indulge in a lesson with Ryan about Murdering 101 or something. “He’s been your boss for seven years, right? Over in Chicago?”
Silence.
“You designed most of his clothing line, didn’t you? I think I still have a hoodie a girlfriend of mine bought me a few years back. Red hoodie, huge ass black bat on the front? Yeah, I fucking hate that thing, but it’s warm, so.”
The thing about interrogations is that the more on the offense a person gets, the more likely they are to slip up and make a mistake, a confession. Brendon’s siblings used to tell him he was the most annoying person they’d ever met. Good thing he was able to make a career out of it.
“So you’re doing fine over in Chicago, working for Pete, designing ugly ass clothes, living it up and then. He fires you? Dude, that fucking sucks, man. I remember this one time, when I was in high school-” Brendon begins, shifting in his seat with this air about him that suggest he’s settling in to tell a long story. Ryan chews the inside of his cheek and stares at Brendon with dull eyes as Brendon rants about his boss firing him from Smoothie Hut because his girlfriend went down on him in the break room. “-and it was fucking ridiculous. I mean, I get that it’s work or whatever, but at least I had the courtesy of taking it to the break room, y’know? I could have just continued taking orders behind the counter with my dick in my girlfriend’s mouth.”
Ryan shifts, the first sign of life he’s shown other than a roll of the eyes since Brendon entered.
“But enough about my dick,” Brendon says, waving his hand with a knowing grin. “Let’s get back to the real dick: Wentz. So he fires you. And you’re all pissed off and jobless and practically homeless so hey. It’s back to Vegas where you can get a job as a bell boy or a stripper or whatever your heart desires. But you land a position at the bar in The Palms and you get damn good tip money from all the married ladies and gay boys. Until one day, yesterday to be exact, Pete Wentz has the fucking balls to not only show up in your casino, but to come to your bar and order a drink from you, like he hadn’t kicked your ass to the curb.”
The grip Ryan has on the arms of the chair is causing his knuckles to whiten and he’s giving Brendon this glare that suggests that, if he did murder Pete, Brendon’s next.
“And Pete’s a complete dumbass, thinking he can get away with firing Ryan fucking Ross and live to tell about it. So you spike his Rum and Coke, smile when he sips from it and tells you about business, wait until his eyes start getting droopy and he tells you he has a six AM wake up call, and clock out early to slit his throat in his hotel bed.” Brendon leans back in his chair again, feet propped up on the table, lax and at ease because this little story he just made up, it sounds so on point, he’s rather proud of his imagination. The facts are all there: the casino camera’s footage of Ryan passing Pete his drink, chemical reports of drugs in his stomach and a throat sliced ear to ear.
Ryan’s guilty as fuck but he’s not talking.
“Anyway, although I don’t think the actual murder itself was very cool - seriously, you slit his throat? Why not like, wait till he’s in the bathtub and surprise him with a toaster? Now that’s some interesting shit,” Brendon nods. “You were pretty uncreative about this whole thing, but I must say, I figured since the crime was so clichéd, you’d hide in the most obvious place. But, dude: The changing room in Victoria’s Secret?” Brendon asks, amused. “I can’t say I’m disgusted - nor surprised, for that matter - but that was seriously the last place I suspected to find you.”
Ryan’s knuckles are so white they ache and Brendon’s getting so damn impatient with Ryan’s unresponsiveness. And the way his dick just twitched in his jeans at the thought of Ryan trying on lace underwear behind a thin veil of velvet curtain. It’s pretty fucked up.
“So I’ve just summarized the past twenty four hours for you,” Brendon says, dropping his feet from the table to the hard floor below and leaning onto the smudged table again. Ryan’s still not confessing, even though Brendon just laid out every single detail to the T, even though forensics points at Ryan, even though Brendon’s gun is still pointing at Ryan. “I know why you did it, I know where you did it, I know how you did it. Ryan, I know that you did this. Give it up. Confess. I’ll set you up with a good lawyer and we’ll-”
Ryan chuckles and Brendon notices that his fingers aren’t griping the chair anymore, but smoothing out the wrinkles in his jeans.
This is not fucking funny.
“So I take it that you’re not going to confess?” Brendon questions, eyebrow arched when he reaches for his gun. Ryan stares hard at him, lips pursed and eyes determined and Brendon takes up his gun. “Alright, I’ll be back.”
Brendon leaves Ryan staring at the table.
----
When Brendon closes the door behind him, he slumps against it and sighs. “He’s fucking wearing me out.”
A lab tech tears his eyes away from the glass of the two way mirror before him and says, “You’ve dealt with worse.”
“Fuck, I know. But Spencer,” Brendon groans. “I’ve tried everything. Humiliation, relation, I basically fucking told him that I want to see him in women’s underwear. What the hell is my brain?”
“For a murderer,” a CSI says, eyes fixed through the glass at the man sitting behind the table, eyes turned down, “He’s pretty fucking sexy.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jon,” Brendon laughs and pushes off the door with a reborn energy. Jon smiles and winks at Brendon in a friendly gesture. “Sexy or not, he killed someone. That is not sexy.”
“Don’t act like you would kill someone to see that ass in lingerie,” Spencer interjects, pointing through the glass at Ryan who has taken to his feet, back turned, pacing, and giving Brendon a surprisingly delicious view of his backside.
Brendon groans.
“Okay, fine. I probably would,” he admits and Jon and Spencer laugh. “So long as it’s that ass that keeps me from getting lonely in prison.”
Jon and Spencer giggle for a moment more before Spencer straightens up and says, “Now what? He hasn’t confessed and we need something to hold him longer.”
“I thought we already had all the evidence we needed,” Brendon says, eyebrows furrowing. “The security tapes, the autopsy reports? I thought this was an air tight case. We just needed a confession to make the trial smoother, right?”
“There’s a few things missing from the puzzle,” Jon says, scratching his beard. “The cameras on Wentz’s floor were out of service from eleven yesterday morning until an hour before he retired to his room. And Valdés made a good point earlier: who’s to say nobody else went into his room before the cameras were running?”
“…true,” Brendon ponders and Spencer nods his head, doing the same. “But everything else is good, right? I mean, Spence, you said his stomach contents were nothing but the drink Ryan gave him, a few fries and a roofie. That’s good enough to convict on, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, Bren,” Spencer says. “Wentz’s has a lot of enemies. Everything points to Ryan, logically. But he’s got to be guilty beyond a reasonable doubt and we’re doubting a few things as of right now. We need a confession, at least.”
“Fuck,” Brendon says, head thunking against the door. He closes his eyes and counts to twenty, slow, soothing breaths filling his lungs with patience and when he should count twenty-one, he mumbles, “So, on to Plan B, I guess?” There’s a slight pause in which Jon and Spencer both shrug silently at each
other and Brendon catches their movement out of the corner of his eye. Brendon sighs another, “Fuck” and straightens his posture.
“You sound as if you’re not looking forward to this,” Jon smirks, tone lighthearted and insinuating.
Brendon throws him and Spencer a playful glare before pulling the door open to step inside.
----
Ryan’s still pacing when Brendon enters and it’s not until Brendon closes the door and stares at him, does Ryan finally turn to look at him, eyes still bored, shoulders still hunched, attitude still apathetic.
Brendon walks across the concrete floor, shoes only shuffling a little and he stops a few feet from Ryan. “Turn around, hands behind your back.” Ryan doesn’t give a protest and does as he’s told, turns in the same direction as Brendon and wraps his arms around to rest just above the swell of his ass. Brendon admires the sight, so much so that he fumbles with his handcuffs more than usual, but when he finally gets them on, it’s.
Damn.
All that cold, hard steel wrapped around Ryan’s thin wrists, slicing through tattoos and sending shivers of a chill up Ryan’s spine, leaving goosebumps in it’s wake. His long, slender fingers thread together, like he’s content with being bound, and fucking shit this is not the Plan B that Brendon has come to perfect.
Brendon, however, loves a challenge, and right now, even though Ryan’s the one in handcuffs, Brendon is not in control of this situation. So Brendon tests his limits, his own self control, and steps forward, flush up against Ryan’s back, hipbones digging into the flesh of Ryan’s ass and Ryan’s fingers brush against Brendon’s cock, hard and warm beneath his pants. What surprises Brendon is that Ryan isn’t even shocked, he just unwraps his fingers and fucking reaches for more and Brendon is really, really not in control of this situation and that’s really, really not good.
Backing away just an inch out of Ryan’s reach, Brendon catches his breath as quietly as possible and when he’s able to speak without panting, he says, “Chair,” and Ryan obeys, letting Brendon lead him back to the chair he sat mute in for twenty minutes while Brendon rambled on and on about his theory. Ryan sits, on the edge at first so that he can adjust according to his hands, and then scoots back so that his fingers curl around the bars acting as the backrest. Brendon stares.
The florescent light is still buzzing and Brendon’s heart is pounding even though it shouldn’t be. This is his job, and maybe it’s not the most professional thing to do, but sometimes things have to happen in order to make things right. And if putting criminals behind bars means that Brendon has to get a little dirty, then so be it.
Brendon moves in front of Ryan, pushes the table back until it butts up against the chair he was sitting in earlier and turns around to face Ryan, eyes shaded. He swallows.
“Look,” Brendon says and his voice is lower than he anticipated. “I could do unspeakable things to you like this, locked in here with me, handcuffed and fucking helpless. In fact, I plan on it.” Ryan stares up at him and Brendon continues. “I talked for twenty fucking minutes and you never once said a word to me. To be honest, my jaw hurts. But instead of fucking your mouth and making your jaw hurt, I’m going to suck you off.” Brendon hears the chains of Ryan’s handcuffs scrape against the metal chair and Ryan takes in this breath that he practically swallows. “I’m going to suck you off and somewhere in the midst of me swallowing you down, you’re going to confess. I’m going to make you come, you’re going to confess and when you go to prison, I’ll make sure I bring enough lube for the conjugal visits, okay?”
Something sharp sucks a quick breath from behind Ryan’s lips and he quickly bites his bottom one to compensate for his slip. Brendon smirks and drops to his knees, to Ryan’s eye level, concrete hard beneath him but grounding all the same. His fingers slither up Ryan’s thighs and he bypasses the obvious bulge between Ryan’s legs, throbbing beneath his jeans. Tediously, he works open Ryan’s belt, tips of his fingers brushing the warm heat radiating off of Ryan’s skin just centimeters below his hands and when Brendon loops a finger beneath the waistband of Ryan’s jeans to undo the button and his finger dips into hot, smoldering warmth and patch of warm skin, Brendon is tragically disappointed to find that just an inch below that is the hem of Ryan’s boxers, not the lingerie Brendon had hoped for, prayed for.
Nonetheless, Ryan squirms and Brendon can tell by the way his hips buck up a fraction of an inch that it’s not in an uncomfortable manner, but in a manner that’s asking, begging, and this is what Brendon meant when he wanted Ryan pleading for innocence.
Before Brendon pulls Ryan’s pants down his legs a little, exposing his pale thighs and lean muscles and the aching cock just waiting to be touched, he wraps his hands around the back of Ryan’s waist, pulls him closer to the edge of the chair and tucks his fingers beneath his shirt, tracing his spine with ghosting fingers. Ryan whimpers softly and Brendon traces back around to the top of Ryan’s boxers. There’s a trail of dark curls dipping into them and Brendon’s mouth is practically watering because Ryan’s dick looks absolutely tantalizing, even hidden under that thin layer of clothing.
He finally can’t take it anymore and pulls the cloth back to reveal Ryan’s cock, flushed red and twitching and it’s all Brendon can do not to garble nonsense because it. It’s. Fuck, it’s nice. Brendon’s seen plenty of dick in his day but Jesus, this kid? Tops them all, easily.
Ryan’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavily, but he still hasn’t said a word and to Brendon, that’s insulting. Brendon is determined that by the end of this blow job, he’s going to have Ryan talking so much, nothing he says is going to make sense.
He surprises himself when he leans forward and licks a hard stripe up the side of Ryan’s dick and only stops at the head to taste some of the bitterness clinging to the tip. He’s never really been one for just going at it, likes to bite at thighs, use his breath, his hands. But fuck, he just couldn’t help it this time.
And Ryan he just. He just moans, loud and filthy and so, so beautiful and Brendon feels his own dick twitch in his pants and if Ryan favors noises over words when he’s getting his cock sucked, then Brendon isn’t going to make it to Ryan’s orgasm because of his own. And that would be tragic because, again. Ryan’s dick.
It’s sloppy at first, mostly because Brendon is trying to work out a rhythm that makes Ryan’s toes curl and keeps him from choking on what he can’t fit in his mouth. His fingers wrap around the base and stroke, slicking up in the saliva pooling there and Brendon has this fabulous pace evened out when Ryan suddenly bucks up and Brendon gags, muscles of his throat constricting around Ryan and the room is filled with this cry that makes Brendon moan around the heat in his mouth, recovering. The steel chains of Ryan’s handcuffs are sliding against the metal of the chair and Brendon opens his eyes only to see the flat line of Ryan’s stomach heaving breaths and the thighs below Brendon’s hands are trembling violently.
Ryan’s close, so close and Brendon just relishes in the taste building on his tongue and he closes his eyes only to catch the brightness reflecting off the mirror and.
Fuck.
Suddenly, Brendon’s hit with this crippling wave of self awareness because Jon and Spencer are watching this and now all Brendon can think about is Jon’s mouth and Spencer’s hips and both of them staring at him, eyes blown and mouths hanging open, staring at the way his lips stretch around the thickness of Ryan’s dick and how his eyes flutter shut when the sound of Ryan gets to be too much.
Brendon presses the heel of his hand in between his legs and moans, vibrations shattering through Ryan and causing him to let go, eyes clenched shut, fingers curling harshly around the back of the chair and he whimpers, broken breaths and trembling gasps. Brendon swallows him down greedily, lapping up every drop before pulling off and pressing his face against Ryan’s quivering thigh, panting.
The florescent bulbs are still buzzing and Brendon can’t catch his breath and fuck, Jon and Spencer are probably pawing at the glass but Brendon can’t help but notice that Ryan still managed, even through some extremely awesome head, to not speak. Frankly, Brendon is stunned.
But then.
It hits him. Because Jon said there were pieces missing and Spencer said they needed a confession and, fuck, what if these things don’t exist with Ryan? What if Ryan doesn’t have the missing pieces and he can’t confess to something he never did?
What if Ryan --?
“You’re innocent,” Brendon breathes, hot breath slithering over the fluttering muscles beneath Ryan’s stomach. “aren’t you?”
Ryan is silent and Brendon tips his eyes up, stares into Ryan’s and Ryan says, “Yeah,” in this broken, tired, relieved syllable and Brendon smiles a little lazily.
“Okay,” Brendon says and closes his eyes slowly, registering, accepting, “Okay.” When he opens them, Ryan’s staring down at him like Brendon’s the answer to everything he needs. Brendon struggles to fight off a devilish grin and says, “Sorry about the handcuffs, then.”
Ryan blushes and says, “They weren’t too bad.”
Wiggling his eyebrows Brendon purrs, “Ooh, kinky.”
“Now, to that,” Ryan says with smirk, “I plead the fifth.”
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: AU. This is his job, and maybe it’s not the most professional thing to do, but sometimes things have to happen in order to make things right. And if putting criminals behind bars means that Brendon has to get a little dirty, then so be it.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Warnings: Mentions of murder and cross-dressing, handcuffs and bashing of Pete Wentz's clothing line.
Author Notes: For my precious bb my_obsession_xx because I laaaaav herrrrr! ♥
The air in the room is stagnant and thick.
It smells like stale cigarettes and sweat and the only things giving the room any substance are the tarnished metal chairs on either side of an old metallic desk, smudged with ancient fingerprints. The door just beyond the opposite side of the table is grimy, rusted with age, and the wide mirror just to the right of it is blotched with smears of palms and foreheads. It stretches from the ceiling (crumbling tiles and dusty insulation) to the middle of the wall, lit up with the fading yellow florescent rods hung overhead. The walls are brick, painted gray but peeling and the floor is unforgiving concrete.
He kicks the table with the toe of his shoe and brands his own fingerprints into the table’s surface through an impatient drumming. He sighs.
With a loud protesting squeak, much like the exaggerated sound effect of heavy doors and dry hinges, the door before him opens and another man walks in. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark intentions. He strides over and before he sits down, he reaches behind him to unholster his gun, standard police issue, deadly.
Intimidating.
He grins. “Mr. Ross, is it?”
No reply.
He nods carefully, registering and his lip curls up despite it, “I’m Detective Urie.”
No reply.
“I’d give you my first name, but I like having a leg up, seeing as I know yours. Ryan,” Detective Urie says, and places his gun down on the table, barrel pointing straight at Ryan.
Detective Brendon B. Urie, all around good cop but instant badass the minute he draws his gun. Regardless of its intent. He doesn’t plan on using it, really and truly hates it when he as to, but having a loaded gun pointed at you, even if it’s not aimed at you, usually gets people to speak.
The only silence allowed in Brendon’s line of duty is the silence of the victims. There’s no time for mute criminals.
But this kid, this Ryan Ross. He doesn’t even fucking flinch when the clunk of the gun resonates through the tight air around them and Brendon, frankly, is a little impressed.
He’s guilty. Brendon can feel it. The crossed arms, the bored eyes, the way he didn’t immediately try to plead his innocence, the way the sight of the gun didn’t seem to faze him in the least. Brendon’s had a few characters like this in his day and this kid is no different, just an unimportant member of society known as scum, a murderer.
The metal scrapes along the concrete floor when Brendon goes to sit. Fingers threaded together, he rests his elbows on the table and stares over his knuckles at the hardened expression on Ryan’s face.
“Sorry we didn’t give you any water.” There’s an unapologetic grimace on his face and Ryan stares at him, unimpressed, undaunted. “You see, the tap’s been pouring nothing but shitty water lately. Supposed to have some people out within the next week to fix it. I’d give you a bottled water but.” Brendon smirks, “I don’t want to spoil you.”
Ryan remains motionless, frustratingly quiet and the buzzing of the bulbs above only amplify the silence. Brendon gives another smile, leans back in his chair to imitate Ryan’s posture and says,
“Lovely weather today, yeah?” Ryan doesn’t reply, naturally. “Perfect day to go for a jog, do a little kite flying, kill someone. The usual.”
The casual tone Brendon uses causes Ryan to chuckle in disbelief, perhaps a little amusement and he shakes his head, smiling through a clenched jaw. Brendon sees the veins in his neck tighten and the way his fingers curl around the edge of the armrests of the chair and he continues.
“I’m serious. Fuck, everyone’s out and about today in Vegas. You could kill virtually anyone you wanted and it’d be so easy to just. Step into the shoes of an innocent passerby. Don’t you think?”
Nothing from Ryan.
“I have to give it to you, though. You didn’t take the easy route. Is it unprofessional of me to say thank you for that?” Brendon’s eyebrows quirk up in genuine question, but there’s a smile tugging the corners of his lips. “I mean, I take my job seriously, but sometimes people just make it too fucking easy and then someone like you comes along and. Damn it, I love a challenge.”
There’s that word he can’t resist: challenge.
He thrives off of it, drinks it in until he’s so staggering drunk with it he can hardly see straight. Apparently Ryan revels in it, too, because when his eyes, hidden by long, thick lashes turn up and stare at Brendon, it’s with this intensity Brendon’s only seen staring back at him in the mirror, through his own eyes.
Brendon’s smirk widens.
“So, Pete Wentz, huh? Out of all the undeserving, greedy bastards in Vegas, you decide to whack that lowlife?” Brendon laughs a little at Pete’s expense - he’s dead now, it’s not like it matters - and says, “But shit, if you’re going to kill someone, you might as well make it a tourist, right? Those mother fuckers drive me insane.”
This probably isn’t the most ethical interrogation Brendon’s ever done, in fact, it’s ranking pretty much at the pinnacle of offensive, but from the minute he walked in, saw this kid’s posture, his fucking nerve, he could tell formal questioning wasn’t going to cut it.
“Anyway, so Wentz?” Brendon’s back on track, eyebrows raised high in interest, like he’s about to indulge in a lesson with Ryan about Murdering 101 or something. “He’s been your boss for seven years, right? Over in Chicago?”
Silence.
“You designed most of his clothing line, didn’t you? I think I still have a hoodie a girlfriend of mine bought me a few years back. Red hoodie, huge ass black bat on the front? Yeah, I fucking hate that thing, but it’s warm, so.”
The thing about interrogations is that the more on the offense a person gets, the more likely they are to slip up and make a mistake, a confession. Brendon’s siblings used to tell him he was the most annoying person they’d ever met. Good thing he was able to make a career out of it.
“So you’re doing fine over in Chicago, working for Pete, designing ugly ass clothes, living it up and then. He fires you? Dude, that fucking sucks, man. I remember this one time, when I was in high school-” Brendon begins, shifting in his seat with this air about him that suggest he’s settling in to tell a long story. Ryan chews the inside of his cheek and stares at Brendon with dull eyes as Brendon rants about his boss firing him from Smoothie Hut because his girlfriend went down on him in the break room. “-and it was fucking ridiculous. I mean, I get that it’s work or whatever, but at least I had the courtesy of taking it to the break room, y’know? I could have just continued taking orders behind the counter with my dick in my girlfriend’s mouth.”
Ryan shifts, the first sign of life he’s shown other than a roll of the eyes since Brendon entered.
“But enough about my dick,” Brendon says, waving his hand with a knowing grin. “Let’s get back to the real dick: Wentz. So he fires you. And you’re all pissed off and jobless and practically homeless so hey. It’s back to Vegas where you can get a job as a bell boy or a stripper or whatever your heart desires. But you land a position at the bar in The Palms and you get damn good tip money from all the married ladies and gay boys. Until one day, yesterday to be exact, Pete Wentz has the fucking balls to not only show up in your casino, but to come to your bar and order a drink from you, like he hadn’t kicked your ass to the curb.”
The grip Ryan has on the arms of the chair is causing his knuckles to whiten and he’s giving Brendon this glare that suggests that, if he did murder Pete, Brendon’s next.
“And Pete’s a complete dumbass, thinking he can get away with firing Ryan fucking Ross and live to tell about it. So you spike his Rum and Coke, smile when he sips from it and tells you about business, wait until his eyes start getting droopy and he tells you he has a six AM wake up call, and clock out early to slit his throat in his hotel bed.” Brendon leans back in his chair again, feet propped up on the table, lax and at ease because this little story he just made up, it sounds so on point, he’s rather proud of his imagination. The facts are all there: the casino camera’s footage of Ryan passing Pete his drink, chemical reports of drugs in his stomach and a throat sliced ear to ear.
Ryan’s guilty as fuck but he’s not talking.
“Anyway, although I don’t think the actual murder itself was very cool - seriously, you slit his throat? Why not like, wait till he’s in the bathtub and surprise him with a toaster? Now that’s some interesting shit,” Brendon nods. “You were pretty uncreative about this whole thing, but I must say, I figured since the crime was so clichéd, you’d hide in the most obvious place. But, dude: The changing room in Victoria’s Secret?” Brendon asks, amused. “I can’t say I’m disgusted - nor surprised, for that matter - but that was seriously the last place I suspected to find you.”
Ryan’s knuckles are so white they ache and Brendon’s getting so damn impatient with Ryan’s unresponsiveness. And the way his dick just twitched in his jeans at the thought of Ryan trying on lace underwear behind a thin veil of velvet curtain. It’s pretty fucked up.
“So I’ve just summarized the past twenty four hours for you,” Brendon says, dropping his feet from the table to the hard floor below and leaning onto the smudged table again. Ryan’s still not confessing, even though Brendon just laid out every single detail to the T, even though forensics points at Ryan, even though Brendon’s gun is still pointing at Ryan. “I know why you did it, I know where you did it, I know how you did it. Ryan, I know that you did this. Give it up. Confess. I’ll set you up with a good lawyer and we’ll-”
Ryan chuckles and Brendon notices that his fingers aren’t griping the chair anymore, but smoothing out the wrinkles in his jeans.
This is not fucking funny.
“So I take it that you’re not going to confess?” Brendon questions, eyebrow arched when he reaches for his gun. Ryan stares hard at him, lips pursed and eyes determined and Brendon takes up his gun. “Alright, I’ll be back.”
Brendon leaves Ryan staring at the table.
----
When Brendon closes the door behind him, he slumps against it and sighs. “He’s fucking wearing me out.”
A lab tech tears his eyes away from the glass of the two way mirror before him and says, “You’ve dealt with worse.”
“Fuck, I know. But Spencer,” Brendon groans. “I’ve tried everything. Humiliation, relation, I basically fucking told him that I want to see him in women’s underwear. What the hell is my brain?”
“For a murderer,” a CSI says, eyes fixed through the glass at the man sitting behind the table, eyes turned down, “He’s pretty fucking sexy.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jon,” Brendon laughs and pushes off the door with a reborn energy. Jon smiles and winks at Brendon in a friendly gesture. “Sexy or not, he killed someone. That is not sexy.”
“Don’t act like you would kill someone to see that ass in lingerie,” Spencer interjects, pointing through the glass at Ryan who has taken to his feet, back turned, pacing, and giving Brendon a surprisingly delicious view of his backside.
Brendon groans.
“Okay, fine. I probably would,” he admits and Jon and Spencer laugh. “So long as it’s that ass that keeps me from getting lonely in prison.”
Jon and Spencer giggle for a moment more before Spencer straightens up and says, “Now what? He hasn’t confessed and we need something to hold him longer.”
“I thought we already had all the evidence we needed,” Brendon says, eyebrows furrowing. “The security tapes, the autopsy reports? I thought this was an air tight case. We just needed a confession to make the trial smoother, right?”
“There’s a few things missing from the puzzle,” Jon says, scratching his beard. “The cameras on Wentz’s floor were out of service from eleven yesterday morning until an hour before he retired to his room. And Valdés made a good point earlier: who’s to say nobody else went into his room before the cameras were running?”
“…true,” Brendon ponders and Spencer nods his head, doing the same. “But everything else is good, right? I mean, Spence, you said his stomach contents were nothing but the drink Ryan gave him, a few fries and a roofie. That’s good enough to convict on, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, Bren,” Spencer says. “Wentz’s has a lot of enemies. Everything points to Ryan, logically. But he’s got to be guilty beyond a reasonable doubt and we’re doubting a few things as of right now. We need a confession, at least.”
“Fuck,” Brendon says, head thunking against the door. He closes his eyes and counts to twenty, slow, soothing breaths filling his lungs with patience and when he should count twenty-one, he mumbles, “So, on to Plan B, I guess?” There’s a slight pause in which Jon and Spencer both shrug silently at each
other and Brendon catches their movement out of the corner of his eye. Brendon sighs another, “Fuck” and straightens his posture.
“You sound as if you’re not looking forward to this,” Jon smirks, tone lighthearted and insinuating.
Brendon throws him and Spencer a playful glare before pulling the door open to step inside.
----
Ryan’s still pacing when Brendon enters and it’s not until Brendon closes the door and stares at him, does Ryan finally turn to look at him, eyes still bored, shoulders still hunched, attitude still apathetic.
Brendon walks across the concrete floor, shoes only shuffling a little and he stops a few feet from Ryan. “Turn around, hands behind your back.” Ryan doesn’t give a protest and does as he’s told, turns in the same direction as Brendon and wraps his arms around to rest just above the swell of his ass. Brendon admires the sight, so much so that he fumbles with his handcuffs more than usual, but when he finally gets them on, it’s.
Damn.
All that cold, hard steel wrapped around Ryan’s thin wrists, slicing through tattoos and sending shivers of a chill up Ryan’s spine, leaving goosebumps in it’s wake. His long, slender fingers thread together, like he’s content with being bound, and fucking shit this is not the Plan B that Brendon has come to perfect.
Brendon, however, loves a challenge, and right now, even though Ryan’s the one in handcuffs, Brendon is not in control of this situation. So Brendon tests his limits, his own self control, and steps forward, flush up against Ryan’s back, hipbones digging into the flesh of Ryan’s ass and Ryan’s fingers brush against Brendon’s cock, hard and warm beneath his pants. What surprises Brendon is that Ryan isn’t even shocked, he just unwraps his fingers and fucking reaches for more and Brendon is really, really not in control of this situation and that’s really, really not good.
Backing away just an inch out of Ryan’s reach, Brendon catches his breath as quietly as possible and when he’s able to speak without panting, he says, “Chair,” and Ryan obeys, letting Brendon lead him back to the chair he sat mute in for twenty minutes while Brendon rambled on and on about his theory. Ryan sits, on the edge at first so that he can adjust according to his hands, and then scoots back so that his fingers curl around the bars acting as the backrest. Brendon stares.
The florescent light is still buzzing and Brendon’s heart is pounding even though it shouldn’t be. This is his job, and maybe it’s not the most professional thing to do, but sometimes things have to happen in order to make things right. And if putting criminals behind bars means that Brendon has to get a little dirty, then so be it.
Brendon moves in front of Ryan, pushes the table back until it butts up against the chair he was sitting in earlier and turns around to face Ryan, eyes shaded. He swallows.
“Look,” Brendon says and his voice is lower than he anticipated. “I could do unspeakable things to you like this, locked in here with me, handcuffed and fucking helpless. In fact, I plan on it.” Ryan stares up at him and Brendon continues. “I talked for twenty fucking minutes and you never once said a word to me. To be honest, my jaw hurts. But instead of fucking your mouth and making your jaw hurt, I’m going to suck you off.” Brendon hears the chains of Ryan’s handcuffs scrape against the metal chair and Ryan takes in this breath that he practically swallows. “I’m going to suck you off and somewhere in the midst of me swallowing you down, you’re going to confess. I’m going to make you come, you’re going to confess and when you go to prison, I’ll make sure I bring enough lube for the conjugal visits, okay?”
Something sharp sucks a quick breath from behind Ryan’s lips and he quickly bites his bottom one to compensate for his slip. Brendon smirks and drops to his knees, to Ryan’s eye level, concrete hard beneath him but grounding all the same. His fingers slither up Ryan’s thighs and he bypasses the obvious bulge between Ryan’s legs, throbbing beneath his jeans. Tediously, he works open Ryan’s belt, tips of his fingers brushing the warm heat radiating off of Ryan’s skin just centimeters below his hands and when Brendon loops a finger beneath the waistband of Ryan’s jeans to undo the button and his finger dips into hot, smoldering warmth and patch of warm skin, Brendon is tragically disappointed to find that just an inch below that is the hem of Ryan’s boxers, not the lingerie Brendon had hoped for, prayed for.
Nonetheless, Ryan squirms and Brendon can tell by the way his hips buck up a fraction of an inch that it’s not in an uncomfortable manner, but in a manner that’s asking, begging, and this is what Brendon meant when he wanted Ryan pleading for innocence.
Before Brendon pulls Ryan’s pants down his legs a little, exposing his pale thighs and lean muscles and the aching cock just waiting to be touched, he wraps his hands around the back of Ryan’s waist, pulls him closer to the edge of the chair and tucks his fingers beneath his shirt, tracing his spine with ghosting fingers. Ryan whimpers softly and Brendon traces back around to the top of Ryan’s boxers. There’s a trail of dark curls dipping into them and Brendon’s mouth is practically watering because Ryan’s dick looks absolutely tantalizing, even hidden under that thin layer of clothing.
He finally can’t take it anymore and pulls the cloth back to reveal Ryan’s cock, flushed red and twitching and it’s all Brendon can do not to garble nonsense because it. It’s. Fuck, it’s nice. Brendon’s seen plenty of dick in his day but Jesus, this kid? Tops them all, easily.
Ryan’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavily, but he still hasn’t said a word and to Brendon, that’s insulting. Brendon is determined that by the end of this blow job, he’s going to have Ryan talking so much, nothing he says is going to make sense.
He surprises himself when he leans forward and licks a hard stripe up the side of Ryan’s dick and only stops at the head to taste some of the bitterness clinging to the tip. He’s never really been one for just going at it, likes to bite at thighs, use his breath, his hands. But fuck, he just couldn’t help it this time.
And Ryan he just. He just moans, loud and filthy and so, so beautiful and Brendon feels his own dick twitch in his pants and if Ryan favors noises over words when he’s getting his cock sucked, then Brendon isn’t going to make it to Ryan’s orgasm because of his own. And that would be tragic because, again. Ryan’s dick.
It’s sloppy at first, mostly because Brendon is trying to work out a rhythm that makes Ryan’s toes curl and keeps him from choking on what he can’t fit in his mouth. His fingers wrap around the base and stroke, slicking up in the saliva pooling there and Brendon has this fabulous pace evened out when Ryan suddenly bucks up and Brendon gags, muscles of his throat constricting around Ryan and the room is filled with this cry that makes Brendon moan around the heat in his mouth, recovering. The steel chains of Ryan’s handcuffs are sliding against the metal of the chair and Brendon opens his eyes only to see the flat line of Ryan’s stomach heaving breaths and the thighs below Brendon’s hands are trembling violently.
Ryan’s close, so close and Brendon just relishes in the taste building on his tongue and he closes his eyes only to catch the brightness reflecting off the mirror and.
Fuck.
Suddenly, Brendon’s hit with this crippling wave of self awareness because Jon and Spencer are watching this and now all Brendon can think about is Jon’s mouth and Spencer’s hips and both of them staring at him, eyes blown and mouths hanging open, staring at the way his lips stretch around the thickness of Ryan’s dick and how his eyes flutter shut when the sound of Ryan gets to be too much.
Brendon presses the heel of his hand in between his legs and moans, vibrations shattering through Ryan and causing him to let go, eyes clenched shut, fingers curling harshly around the back of the chair and he whimpers, broken breaths and trembling gasps. Brendon swallows him down greedily, lapping up every drop before pulling off and pressing his face against Ryan’s quivering thigh, panting.
The florescent bulbs are still buzzing and Brendon can’t catch his breath and fuck, Jon and Spencer are probably pawing at the glass but Brendon can’t help but notice that Ryan still managed, even through some extremely awesome head, to not speak. Frankly, Brendon is stunned.
But then.
It hits him. Because Jon said there were pieces missing and Spencer said they needed a confession and, fuck, what if these things don’t exist with Ryan? What if Ryan doesn’t have the missing pieces and he can’t confess to something he never did?
What if Ryan --?
“You’re innocent,” Brendon breathes, hot breath slithering over the fluttering muscles beneath Ryan’s stomach. “aren’t you?”
Ryan is silent and Brendon tips his eyes up, stares into Ryan’s and Ryan says, “Yeah,” in this broken, tired, relieved syllable and Brendon smiles a little lazily.
“Okay,” Brendon says and closes his eyes slowly, registering, accepting, “Okay.” When he opens them, Ryan’s staring down at him like Brendon’s the answer to everything he needs. Brendon struggles to fight off a devilish grin and says, “Sorry about the handcuffs, then.”
Ryan blushes and says, “They weren’t too bad.”
Wiggling his eyebrows Brendon purrs, “Ooh, kinky.”
“Now, to that,” Ryan says with smirk, “I plead the fifth.”