"You like to cut do the chase, don't you?"
Note: No, I'm not abandoning "A Catastrophe, Destined to Be," but this ficcie had been tugging at the back for my mind for a few days, and I had to get it out! I hope you enjoy! Please review/rate- it makes me write faster ;) (It's not really a sequel to my previous story, but more of an accompanyment.)
Her blue eyes scanned the crowd as she let out a delicate yawn, a gloved hand only hovering over her red lips. A gold taffeta dress sat well on her willowy frame, a black ribbon cinching it at the waist, elbow-length gloves on her arms, her hair in an intentionally disheveled up do. Swanky piano music, laced with hardcore electric guitar, filled the room as the groups of guests seemed to part for the young socialite making her way through, whispers of gossip surrounding her, as always.
-She's had some work done, you know, look at her nose!
-Oh, dear, I think our golden girl's gained a pound or two.
-Actually, I think she's lost some. Might be dangerous, don't you think?
-My, my, doesn't she look a little tired? I think she just flew in from some wild sex party in Spain.
-I think she's absolutely beaming... she may be pregnant.
The socialite couldn't help but laugh mirthfully, picking up a flute of sparkling water on a waiter's tray. There was no doubt that this girl basked in attention: she lived for it. The media called her the 'classy Paris Hilton'; they loved this rock magazine mogul's daughter- she was different, she was mesmerizing, she was a fashion icon, she was fame and fortune personified; she was old and modern Hollywood. By age nineteen, Musetta Finch-Carraway graced the covers of at least fifty magazines and tabloids, appeared on nearly every talk show in America, launched her own perfume, and strutted down the catwalk more than once. And she was damn proud of it.
Now, there was a somewhat recognizable, handsome face across the room. She raised her glass and gave a demure smile, disappearing into the crowd once more. They continued meeting eyes for a good half an hour as the number of party-goers rose.
Now, Brendon Urie knew a flirtatious glance when he saw it. He muttered something to... well, whomever he had been chatting with and started after the unfamiliar girl, pushing through the crowd as quickly (and as calmly) as he could. He found his blue-eyed beauty in a more secluded section of the club, by the stairs.
["Oh, god," muttered Ryan Ross, guitarist and good friend of aforementioned Brendon, letting out a chuckle, regardless.
"What's wrong?" asked Ryan's girlfriend and current Panic video girl, former (secret) crush of Brendon, Saffron Verde. All he had to do was point at the retreating figure of the lead singer and Saffron sighed. "Oh. Again."]
"Come here often?" she asked over the dull roar of the other party-goers with a wink, slowly approaching him.
He discreetly eyed her up, a grin spreading across his face. "If I did, I'd remember your face," he replied, just as she turned to ascend the stairs, giving a look that said 'follow me.'
Musetta couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of offense when he did not recognize her, but decided that it was because of the low, low lighting of the club. As soon as the both reached one of the many balconies, she stood close to him, leaning against the railing. "Muse," she introduced herself, holding a gloved hand out from him to shake, not wanting to reveal her full name just yet.
"Brendon," he said in response, shaking her hand. And, until that point, he wasn't aware that a thing such as a sexy handshake could exist. He curled his fingers around the cold metal bar, not taking his eyes off the girl as she smiled shyly at him. Oh, he could tell already that she was quite the coquette, but that didn't stop him from placing the other hand on the bar of the balcony, nearly embracing her. "Needed to steady myself, hope you don't mind," he lied with a grin.
"I think we've had enough small talk, darling," Musetta purred, standing up straighter so that they were practically nose to nose. "We know what we came up here for," she had lowered her voice to a whisper, trailing fingers up his gentleman's Victorian shirt.
"You like to cut do the chase, don't you?" were the last words spoken for a while as lips crashed together frantically, hands ran down sides, breaths became harsher and hair became even more disheveled. Brendon had gently pushed her against the Roman-style pillar as a long and skinny leg hooked around him, just below his bum. He grinned and gently nipped her bottom lip, before kissing Muse once more, running a hand up her thigh, encouraged by the small moan from the back of her throat.
Fiery kissing faded into just a flicker as he trailed kisses across her collarbone, up her neck, on her chin, and finally on her lips, lacing his fingers through those on her free hand, his middle finger brushing a particular ring. Brendon felt her tense up slightly as he lifted her hand up to examine it. "I doubt that's a chastity ring," he quipped with the raise of his eyebrows.
"Call it a last hurrah, darling," Musetta said with a small smile, kissing his cheek and wiping all traces of lipstick off his face with an ungloved hand. "Although, I would like to see you again," she whispered, fluttering eyelashes at him.
Brendon let out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I don't appreciate being used, Muse-"
"It's Musetta Finch-Carraway, to be precise."
His eyes widened, though a grin never really left his face. Did he really just hook up with the socialite engaged to the son of one of the richest, and, er, most intimidating, families in America?
Musetta giggled as she unclipped her hair, shaking it out so that it hung loose around her shoulders, "Oh, come off it, Brendon, we're young! I'm scandalous! And, I've always fancied an affair... " She smiled as he continued to gape at her and placed a slip of paper (she always carried them in her purse) into his pants pocket with another coy wink. "Think about it- I've rather fancied you for a bit, as well." With a sweep of gold taffeta and black lace, she was gone.
And, yes, Brendon was still grinning.