Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Run
Run
Brendon had split personalities, in the day he's a sweet, loving, ordinary guy. But when the sun goes down, he's a obsessive psychopath. Ryan just happens to be the object of his obsession. What ha...
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Just to say, there's no sex in this chapter but there will be later on. If you're as sick in the head as I am I hope you'll enjoy.
~*~
Run.
Twenty-two year old George Ryan Ross III could hear his own harsh breathing, the pounding of blood in his ears. He could hear the slap of his shiny shoes on the wet concrete of yet another alleyway he was running down, another stinking dark path that would hopefully lead to freedom. There had been streetlights before, but he’d long ago passed any neighbourhood likely to have left them undamaged and now the only light was the moon and stars above.
It was maybe two o’clock, maybe four pm. Ryan had lost track of how long he’d been running.
Cool night air tugged his caramel brown locks and stung his grazed palms but Ryan barely noticed, too focused on his escape. He turned a corner sharply and stumbled, the sensible black trousers he was wearing restricting his movements. Stupid he thought Should have gotten a taxi. But it had been only a few blocks from the party he’d been at to his house, what could go wrong in such a small space of time?
Everything.
~*~
”Bye guys...” Ryan slurred, forcing a hand in a clumsy wave at his group of friends. It was early in the morning, around one am, at one of his mates’ 21st birthday. Ryan was too drunk to remember his own last name, let alone which friend.
This was supposed to have been a classy event, set up by the friend’s parents. But of course, someone had brought beer, and so had someone else, and soon enough the atmosphere had changed from calm and organised to nightclub-like.
Ryan hated nightclubs. In fact, he hated drinking too, but somehow had been entered into a drinking competition with super-drinker Jon Walker, a friend of a friend, which ended up in the men’s toilets with his head down a bowl. Instead of the sympathy he’d expected when he returned, all Ryan got was laughter. That had not helped his already foul mood, caused by Spencer’s stupid dog eating his favourite shirt, wallet, and $20 in loose change.
”RyRo!” Spencer shouted right in his ear, “You goin’ home?” To be honest, Spencer couldn’t care less; he was too busy nibbling at the neck of a petite red-headed girl he held around the waist. Mr Casanova gets another one Ryan thought bitterly.
Ryan scowled at the thought before replying, “No, m’walking. Got no money, have I?” A small frown flickered on Spencer’s face, and he looked about to say something important. But then the blonde’s eyes clouded over again.
“A’right.” Spencer bellowed over the pounding music before wandering back inside with a different girl, a taller brunette this time, attached to his arm.
Ryan wondered if his friend had even noticed. Probably not.
When Spencer was drunk, he’d do it with just about anything that stayed still, even a different species. Ryan smiled slightly as he started walking, remembering a time when he’d been woken up by the police telling him to pick his best friend up from the cells, he’d been arrested after found trying to have sex with a tree near the local play park.
And so Ryan was wandering home, reeling slightly from side to side, oblivious to the chilly night air on a journey that should have taken only 15 minutes. But as he walked, looking up at the stars with bleary, drink-filmed eyes, Ryan stumbled and tore the leg of his trousers on a nail jutting out of somebody’s gate.
“Ahh shit.” Ryan muttered, bending over to examine the tear. It was small, only a few inches long, but had torn at an angle so there were quite a few threads hanging off.
“Bloody nails.. ohh... ‘s’s such a pisstake! Shitshitsh-” He stopped cursing when he saw the boy.
Well not a boy as such. He was maybe 18 years old, with dark hair, eyes and a thin figure under the baggy black hoodie and black jeans he was wearing. He looked incredibly pale, bleached of colour by the streetlamp he was standing under. There were deep purple shadows in the hollows of his high-boned cheeks that made the boy look starved; Ryan wondered when the last time he’d eaten was.
The air seemed to get slightly thicker as the two men watched each other, one warily, the other with a blank, piercing stare that made Ryan’s skin crawl.
Ryan watched the boy watching him for a minute, then turned to carry on his walk home. When he turned to look back just seconds later he was gone, with nothing to indicate he’d ever stood in the spot. Ryan shivered.
Weird.
He wished he had a proper hoodie to wear, instead of the ridiculous badly-made suit blazer he had on at the moment. Wrapping the jacket tighter around himself, Ryan turned and saw the boy standing in the middle of the pavement in front of him.
How the Hell did he move so fast? Ryan wondered, creeped out. And why didn’t I hear him?
The boy called out in a clear, low voice, but the words were whipped away before they reached the increasingly chilled Ryan. Before he could ask, the other spoke again in a voice like dark velvet, somehow a whisper and a shout simultaneously.
“Ryan. Come here please?”
So of course Ryan backed away, a natural reaction when a creepy stranger with dead eyes asks you to step forwards.
“H-how do you know m-my name?” Ryan stuttered out, partly through cold and partly through confusion edging towards fear.
“Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.” The boy enticed, and without even realising it Ryan took a step towards the dark-clad boy, back to where he had been originally. His head was becoming fuzzy and confused, why had he wanted to go home? He wanted to stay here, listening to the boy’s lovely voice forever.
“That’s it, just a little closer. Come to Brendon.” The boy coaxed, his voice low and soft as though talking to a frightened animal. And Ryan would have taken the step into his reach had he not seen a yellow glint of streetlight in the boy’s hand.
Ryan focused on that glint, using it to shake out of the stupor he had fallen into. It was a knife. A large, sharp kitchen knife. The realisation moved slowly through Ryan’s alcohol-fuddled brain.
The boy had a knife, and wanted Ryan in his reach. Slowly, painfully, Ryan came to a conclusion. For half a second, annoyance flickered over Brendon’s face to be replaced with an eerie smile.
”C’mon sweetie, I just want to talk.” He purred.
Ryan fled.
~*~
And now Ryan stopped, utterly lost, in one of the nastiest alleyways he’d ever been in. It stank of urine and other bodily excretions he didn’t want to name, there was dirty litter covering the space intended for walking on and graffiti layered so thickly as to be unreadable on the close brick walls.
His eyes darted from one end of the alley to the other, and his ears strained to hear over the frantic thumping of his own heart for any sign of the boy. Brendon, he’d called himself.
There was nothing, no sound except a cat yowling and nothing to see in the feeble light cast by the waning moon above. There were no streetlights, well, no working ones, to light his path, and so Ryan stumbled along almost blindly, running on adrenaline.
Ryan’s brain said he was safe, that he’d lost his pursuer. But his gut said different. It was too quiet. In a neighbourhood like this, you’d expect a drunk or a tramp somewhere, but there had been no one. He felt like a mouse running from a particularly sadistic cat, a cat which liked to let the mouse feel like it had got away before pouncing and devouring it.
Finally Ryan saw headlights from passing cars up ahead and broke into a shambling run, pushing his tousled hair away from his face and leaving a smear of blood from his grazed palm. He hadn’t even noticed the abrasions happen.
So close! Ryan could taste the freedom presented to him, snatched away when out of nowhere Brendon stepped into his line of vision and forced him to stumble to a halt or slam straight into the skinnier’s chest.
“Why did you run from me, Ryan?” There was a sad inflection in Brendon’s voice, sliced through with anger. “Now I’m going to have to punish you. I don’t want to, do you understand? I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want my baby to run away from me. Ever again.” Brendon pouted, moving forwards to wipe the blood off the other’s forehead with his thumb. The knife was still in his other hand, he hadn’t even bothered to hide it.
Ryan froze at the touch, his blood running cold. Punish? What did he mean? The taller couldn’t move, paralyzed with fear as Brendon circled him, examining him as one would a horse they were thinking of buying. Stopping behind him, Ryan felt a cold hand run through his hair and shivered.
Brendon laughed quietly at the involuntary action, moving his hand down to caress the base of his captive’s throat with gentle, mocking strokes. “Are you going to come with me quietly?” he whispered into Ryan’s ear, making the hairs on the back of the taller’s neck stand on end.
A ribbon of alcohol still flowed through Ryan’s veins, forcing his voice into life. “Like Hell I am.” The older whispered, but his voice cracked, showing his bravado for the façade it was.
“Such a shame.” Brendon tutted. Placing one finger over Ryan’s mouth while sliding the knife into a holder on his hip, Brendon whispered “Shh now sweetie. Don’t scream...” before Ryan even knew what was happening the dark haired boy had slammed a fist into his temple, and the world faded to black. But not before one word floated through his mind in a voice of black silk.
“Yet.”
~*~
So... this is my first upload in a while. I actually wrote this last summer on holiday, Ireland's a really great place to write psychotic fanfiction :D
Rate/Reveiw/Favorite - Betsy xx
~*~
Run.
Twenty-two year old George Ryan Ross III could hear his own harsh breathing, the pounding of blood in his ears. He could hear the slap of his shiny shoes on the wet concrete of yet another alleyway he was running down, another stinking dark path that would hopefully lead to freedom. There had been streetlights before, but he’d long ago passed any neighbourhood likely to have left them undamaged and now the only light was the moon and stars above.
It was maybe two o’clock, maybe four pm. Ryan had lost track of how long he’d been running.
Cool night air tugged his caramel brown locks and stung his grazed palms but Ryan barely noticed, too focused on his escape. He turned a corner sharply and stumbled, the sensible black trousers he was wearing restricting his movements. Stupid he thought Should have gotten a taxi. But it had been only a few blocks from the party he’d been at to his house, what could go wrong in such a small space of time?
Everything.
~*~
”Bye guys...” Ryan slurred, forcing a hand in a clumsy wave at his group of friends. It was early in the morning, around one am, at one of his mates’ 21st birthday. Ryan was too drunk to remember his own last name, let alone which friend.
This was supposed to have been a classy event, set up by the friend’s parents. But of course, someone had brought beer, and so had someone else, and soon enough the atmosphere had changed from calm and organised to nightclub-like.
Ryan hated nightclubs. In fact, he hated drinking too, but somehow had been entered into a drinking competition with super-drinker Jon Walker, a friend of a friend, which ended up in the men’s toilets with his head down a bowl. Instead of the sympathy he’d expected when he returned, all Ryan got was laughter. That had not helped his already foul mood, caused by Spencer’s stupid dog eating his favourite shirt, wallet, and $20 in loose change.
”RyRo!” Spencer shouted right in his ear, “You goin’ home?” To be honest, Spencer couldn’t care less; he was too busy nibbling at the neck of a petite red-headed girl he held around the waist. Mr Casanova gets another one Ryan thought bitterly.
Ryan scowled at the thought before replying, “No, m’walking. Got no money, have I?” A small frown flickered on Spencer’s face, and he looked about to say something important. But then the blonde’s eyes clouded over again.
“A’right.” Spencer bellowed over the pounding music before wandering back inside with a different girl, a taller brunette this time, attached to his arm.
Ryan wondered if his friend had even noticed. Probably not.
When Spencer was drunk, he’d do it with just about anything that stayed still, even a different species. Ryan smiled slightly as he started walking, remembering a time when he’d been woken up by the police telling him to pick his best friend up from the cells, he’d been arrested after found trying to have sex with a tree near the local play park.
And so Ryan was wandering home, reeling slightly from side to side, oblivious to the chilly night air on a journey that should have taken only 15 minutes. But as he walked, looking up at the stars with bleary, drink-filmed eyes, Ryan stumbled and tore the leg of his trousers on a nail jutting out of somebody’s gate.
“Ahh shit.” Ryan muttered, bending over to examine the tear. It was small, only a few inches long, but had torn at an angle so there were quite a few threads hanging off.
“Bloody nails.. ohh... ‘s’s such a pisstake! Shitshitsh-” He stopped cursing when he saw the boy.
Well not a boy as such. He was maybe 18 years old, with dark hair, eyes and a thin figure under the baggy black hoodie and black jeans he was wearing. He looked incredibly pale, bleached of colour by the streetlamp he was standing under. There were deep purple shadows in the hollows of his high-boned cheeks that made the boy look starved; Ryan wondered when the last time he’d eaten was.
The air seemed to get slightly thicker as the two men watched each other, one warily, the other with a blank, piercing stare that made Ryan’s skin crawl.
Ryan watched the boy watching him for a minute, then turned to carry on his walk home. When he turned to look back just seconds later he was gone, with nothing to indicate he’d ever stood in the spot. Ryan shivered.
Weird.
He wished he had a proper hoodie to wear, instead of the ridiculous badly-made suit blazer he had on at the moment. Wrapping the jacket tighter around himself, Ryan turned and saw the boy standing in the middle of the pavement in front of him.
How the Hell did he move so fast? Ryan wondered, creeped out. And why didn’t I hear him?
The boy called out in a clear, low voice, but the words were whipped away before they reached the increasingly chilled Ryan. Before he could ask, the other spoke again in a voice like dark velvet, somehow a whisper and a shout simultaneously.
“Ryan. Come here please?”
So of course Ryan backed away, a natural reaction when a creepy stranger with dead eyes asks you to step forwards.
“H-how do you know m-my name?” Ryan stuttered out, partly through cold and partly through confusion edging towards fear.
“Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.” The boy enticed, and without even realising it Ryan took a step towards the dark-clad boy, back to where he had been originally. His head was becoming fuzzy and confused, why had he wanted to go home? He wanted to stay here, listening to the boy’s lovely voice forever.
“That’s it, just a little closer. Come to Brendon.” The boy coaxed, his voice low and soft as though talking to a frightened animal. And Ryan would have taken the step into his reach had he not seen a yellow glint of streetlight in the boy’s hand.
Ryan focused on that glint, using it to shake out of the stupor he had fallen into. It was a knife. A large, sharp kitchen knife. The realisation moved slowly through Ryan’s alcohol-fuddled brain.
The boy had a knife, and wanted Ryan in his reach. Slowly, painfully, Ryan came to a conclusion. For half a second, annoyance flickered over Brendon’s face to be replaced with an eerie smile.
”C’mon sweetie, I just want to talk.” He purred.
Ryan fled.
~*~
And now Ryan stopped, utterly lost, in one of the nastiest alleyways he’d ever been in. It stank of urine and other bodily excretions he didn’t want to name, there was dirty litter covering the space intended for walking on and graffiti layered so thickly as to be unreadable on the close brick walls.
His eyes darted from one end of the alley to the other, and his ears strained to hear over the frantic thumping of his own heart for any sign of the boy. Brendon, he’d called himself.
There was nothing, no sound except a cat yowling and nothing to see in the feeble light cast by the waning moon above. There were no streetlights, well, no working ones, to light his path, and so Ryan stumbled along almost blindly, running on adrenaline.
Ryan’s brain said he was safe, that he’d lost his pursuer. But his gut said different. It was too quiet. In a neighbourhood like this, you’d expect a drunk or a tramp somewhere, but there had been no one. He felt like a mouse running from a particularly sadistic cat, a cat which liked to let the mouse feel like it had got away before pouncing and devouring it.
Finally Ryan saw headlights from passing cars up ahead and broke into a shambling run, pushing his tousled hair away from his face and leaving a smear of blood from his grazed palm. He hadn’t even noticed the abrasions happen.
So close! Ryan could taste the freedom presented to him, snatched away when out of nowhere Brendon stepped into his line of vision and forced him to stumble to a halt or slam straight into the skinnier’s chest.
“Why did you run from me, Ryan?” There was a sad inflection in Brendon’s voice, sliced through with anger. “Now I’m going to have to punish you. I don’t want to, do you understand? I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want my baby to run away from me. Ever again.” Brendon pouted, moving forwards to wipe the blood off the other’s forehead with his thumb. The knife was still in his other hand, he hadn’t even bothered to hide it.
Ryan froze at the touch, his blood running cold. Punish? What did he mean? The taller couldn’t move, paralyzed with fear as Brendon circled him, examining him as one would a horse they were thinking of buying. Stopping behind him, Ryan felt a cold hand run through his hair and shivered.
Brendon laughed quietly at the involuntary action, moving his hand down to caress the base of his captive’s throat with gentle, mocking strokes. “Are you going to come with me quietly?” he whispered into Ryan’s ear, making the hairs on the back of the taller’s neck stand on end.
A ribbon of alcohol still flowed through Ryan’s veins, forcing his voice into life. “Like Hell I am.” The older whispered, but his voice cracked, showing his bravado for the façade it was.
“Such a shame.” Brendon tutted. Placing one finger over Ryan’s mouth while sliding the knife into a holder on his hip, Brendon whispered “Shh now sweetie. Don’t scream...” before Ryan even knew what was happening the dark haired boy had slammed a fist into his temple, and the world faded to black. But not before one word floated through his mind in a voice of black silk.
“Yet.”
~*~
So... this is my first upload in a while. I actually wrote this last summer on holiday, Ireland's a really great place to write psychotic fanfiction :D
Rate/Reveiw/Favorite - Betsy xx
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