Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks. [1/?]
Title: Nails For Breakfast, Tacks For Snacks.
Author: spikemhinoda--------->jess.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Ryden. (Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie.)
Summary: "I am alone in this penthouse and she never fixes that; but she makes me forget."
Disclaimer: Don't own any members of Panic!, FOB, TAI..., or any others mentioned. All events are fictional as far as I know.
A/N: Finally I decided to type this up. I've been working on it in my classes and let me tell you, writer's block=crap. Well, this little fic-let is from mostly Ryan third-person. Also I figured Ryan hooking up with random sexy band members was nice for all the slash fans out there. A little treat. :]
Dedication(s): Kendra, my little ryden fanatic.
________________________________________________________
chapter 001:
"But Ryan," Brendon Urie pouted at the brunette boy seated infront of him, "Pete's gonna be there, Travvie, Beckett, and Gabe are gonna be there..." he listed.
Ryan Ross looked up from his book to briefly shoot an uninterested look towards Brendon.
"That doesn't mean we have to. Besides, you'll probably see what scandalous thing Pete did on TMZ tomorrow," he reminded, returning to his hard cover edition of "Cirque du Freak". Brendon groaned and set his head in Ryan's lap, his large lips pouting up at him.
"But I don't want to hear it in the news, Ry," Brendon argued, "I want to be experience the moments where Beckett becomes absolutely trashed and makes a fool of himself or when Pete declares from the Beverly rooftops that he loves Patrick Stump."
Ryan folded the bottom corner of the page back as a reminder of where he left off and set it on top of the glass coffee table infront of him. Glaring down at Brendon he said.
"One: Beckett gets trashed and makes a fool of himself every weekend. You're really not missing anything except maybe a cop or two in unmentionable places. Two: Pete is too much of a complete chicken-shit to ever admit he loves Patrick. Besides, it wouldn't be declared from a rooftop," Ryan paused, "Wait - no. I take it back. It actually would be from a rooftop."
"Ryan Lion," Brendon whined, "We never do anything anymore. C'mon." Ryan sighed and closed his eyes tightly.
"Alright, fine," he agreed, "Anything so you'll shut up."
"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" Brendon squealed in happiness, kissing Ryan's stomach (the closest skin he could reach with his lips at the moment) before hurrying off.
"Whatever," Ryan muttered with a small smile, hand gently touching his stomach where he could feel the butterflies fluttering madly.
"Stop it," he warned himself, hand moving up to ruffle through his brown tousled locks.
_______________________________________________________
Three hours and five Red Bulls later has Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross at the over-dressed, over-expensive party in Beverly Hills. Brendon was off somewhere fitting in with possibly Kanye West and flirting with young, starved-thin starlets or Pete (who could possibly fit into that category), whereas Ryan sat awkwardly against a wall, trying not to grit his teeth at how revolting these types of parties were. He hated this sort of lifestyle and could understand completely why Patrick got pissed whenever Pete dragged him with.
"You might want to watch your boy."
Speaking of Patrick, Ryan turned to see Patrick a few feet behind him.
"Who? Bren?" Ryan questioned. Patrick nodded.
"Found himself a few blonde, nameless hopefuls to snog," he explained, flicking his 7-Up tab boredly.
"He drunk?" Ryan tiredly inquired. He was twenty years old, had been at a party for a grand total of thirty minutes, and already he was exhausted. Something in that mix wasn't right.
"Lead the way."
Patrick shrugged, giving up with the pop can and setting it on a table already littered with various bottles of booze before leading Ryan through the dancing, glamorous mob of people neither of them really wanted anything to do with. Once they stopped Patrick simply pointed to a red couch, eyes casted downwards. Ryan's fist clenched at his side as he looked on:
Pete Wentz was seated on an arm rest belonging to said red couch, his too-big, too-white smile etched onto his lips as he watched amusedly as Brendon was seated, tongue-tied, with a blonde, skinny something in his lap and a Miller in his right hand.
"Well what the fuck an I supposed to do?" He asked Patrick. Patrick looked up and shrugged.
"Threaten him he's not getting a ride back?" He suggested. Ryan ignored Patrick and huffed, dragging his feet over to Pete, tapping the bassist agitatedly on the shoulder.
"Tell him I'm leaving," he stated once he had obtained Pete's attention. The amused grin fell from Pete's lips.
"Ry?" Pete questioned, concerned. Ryan shook his head before turning around and heading out of the party, pushing through the crowded yard (it had to be a fire hazard) and scantily-clad girls in their bikinis.
Sitting in his black Lexis, Ryan gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Nights like this were precisely the reason Ryan didn't attend parties with Brendon, or anyone, really. It was over-rated. He didn't become a musician to party, he became a musician to create music with his band, with Brendon.
A rapping on his window shook Ryan from his thoughts and caused him to jump. There at his window stood Pete. Not glamorous, giggly Pete, but instead worried, serious Pete.
"Open up, Ryro," he said. Ryan hesitated as he pressed the unlock button, Pete walking around and jumping into the passenger's seat. He folded his hands in his lap as Ryan pressed his head against the steering wheel. The only noise heard was the clamor of the party a few yards away.
"You want to explain?" Pete finally asked. Ryan shrugged, picking his head up and turning the key that had been abandoned in the ignition.
"Maybe," he answered, un-parking and driving off towards he and Brendon's penthouse.
"Not here."
Author: spikemhinoda--------->jess.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Ryden. (Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie.)
Summary: "I am alone in this penthouse and she never fixes that; but she makes me forget."
Disclaimer: Don't own any members of Panic!, FOB, TAI..., or any others mentioned. All events are fictional as far as I know.
A/N: Finally I decided to type this up. I've been working on it in my classes and let me tell you, writer's block=crap. Well, this little fic-let is from mostly Ryan third-person. Also I figured Ryan hooking up with random sexy band members was nice for all the slash fans out there. A little treat. :]
Dedication(s): Kendra, my little ryden fanatic.
________________________________________________________
chapter 001:
"But Ryan," Brendon Urie pouted at the brunette boy seated infront of him, "Pete's gonna be there, Travvie, Beckett, and Gabe are gonna be there..." he listed.
Ryan Ross looked up from his book to briefly shoot an uninterested look towards Brendon.
"That doesn't mean we have to. Besides, you'll probably see what scandalous thing Pete did on TMZ tomorrow," he reminded, returning to his hard cover edition of "Cirque du Freak". Brendon groaned and set his head in Ryan's lap, his large lips pouting up at him.
"But I don't want to hear it in the news, Ry," Brendon argued, "I want to be experience the moments where Beckett becomes absolutely trashed and makes a fool of himself or when Pete declares from the Beverly rooftops that he loves Patrick Stump."
Ryan folded the bottom corner of the page back as a reminder of where he left off and set it on top of the glass coffee table infront of him. Glaring down at Brendon he said.
"One: Beckett gets trashed and makes a fool of himself every weekend. You're really not missing anything except maybe a cop or two in unmentionable places. Two: Pete is too much of a complete chicken-shit to ever admit he loves Patrick. Besides, it wouldn't be declared from a rooftop," Ryan paused, "Wait - no. I take it back. It actually would be from a rooftop."
"Ryan Lion," Brendon whined, "We never do anything anymore. C'mon." Ryan sighed and closed his eyes tightly.
"Alright, fine," he agreed, "Anything so you'll shut up."
"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" Brendon squealed in happiness, kissing Ryan's stomach (the closest skin he could reach with his lips at the moment) before hurrying off.
"Whatever," Ryan muttered with a small smile, hand gently touching his stomach where he could feel the butterflies fluttering madly.
"Stop it," he warned himself, hand moving up to ruffle through his brown tousled locks.
_______________________________________________________
Three hours and five Red Bulls later has Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross at the over-dressed, over-expensive party in Beverly Hills. Brendon was off somewhere fitting in with possibly Kanye West and flirting with young, starved-thin starlets or Pete (who could possibly fit into that category), whereas Ryan sat awkwardly against a wall, trying not to grit his teeth at how revolting these types of parties were. He hated this sort of lifestyle and could understand completely why Patrick got pissed whenever Pete dragged him with.
"You might want to watch your boy."
Speaking of Patrick, Ryan turned to see Patrick a few feet behind him.
"Who? Bren?" Ryan questioned. Patrick nodded.
"Found himself a few blonde, nameless hopefuls to snog," he explained, flicking his 7-Up tab boredly.
"He drunk?" Ryan tiredly inquired. He was twenty years old, had been at a party for a grand total of thirty minutes, and already he was exhausted. Something in that mix wasn't right.
"Lead the way."
Patrick shrugged, giving up with the pop can and setting it on a table already littered with various bottles of booze before leading Ryan through the dancing, glamorous mob of people neither of them really wanted anything to do with. Once they stopped Patrick simply pointed to a red couch, eyes casted downwards. Ryan's fist clenched at his side as he looked on:
Pete Wentz was seated on an arm rest belonging to said red couch, his too-big, too-white smile etched onto his lips as he watched amusedly as Brendon was seated, tongue-tied, with a blonde, skinny something in his lap and a Miller in his right hand.
"Well what the fuck an I supposed to do?" He asked Patrick. Patrick looked up and shrugged.
"Threaten him he's not getting a ride back?" He suggested. Ryan ignored Patrick and huffed, dragging his feet over to Pete, tapping the bassist agitatedly on the shoulder.
"Tell him I'm leaving," he stated once he had obtained Pete's attention. The amused grin fell from Pete's lips.
"Ry?" Pete questioned, concerned. Ryan shook his head before turning around and heading out of the party, pushing through the crowded yard (it had to be a fire hazard) and scantily-clad girls in their bikinis.
Sitting in his black Lexis, Ryan gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Nights like this were precisely the reason Ryan didn't attend parties with Brendon, or anyone, really. It was over-rated. He didn't become a musician to party, he became a musician to create music with his band, with Brendon.
A rapping on his window shook Ryan from his thoughts and caused him to jump. There at his window stood Pete. Not glamorous, giggly Pete, but instead worried, serious Pete.
"Open up, Ryro," he said. Ryan hesitated as he pressed the unlock button, Pete walking around and jumping into the passenger's seat. He folded his hands in his lap as Ryan pressed his head against the steering wheel. The only noise heard was the clamor of the party a few yards away.
"You want to explain?" Pete finally asked. Ryan shrugged, picking his head up and turning the key that had been abandoned in the ignition.
"Maybe," he answered, un-parking and driving off towards he and Brendon's penthouse.
"Not here."