Ryden Oneshots

A Kiss For Luck, Submerge Myself

Professer Patrick Stumph, weary after a long day of resolving students' bickering, looked down his nose at the two anger-flushed boys in front of him. "I'm very disappointed in the both of you. As seniors, this childish brawling is beneath you and, quite frankly, I expected better from you." Brendon Urie, the taller and more agressive of the two boys, sneered at his teacher. Ryan Ross, the smaller boy with the wide, brown doe eyes, shot his contemporary a death look, struggling with the urge to hit him. Stumph cleared his throat and glared pointedly at the acerbic pair. "You will both receive detention on Friday night; report to Professor Wentz or myself directly after dinner."

"Yes Professor," Ryan muttered, trying for an air of repentance. One of them had to, and Brendon had apparently decided on his usual strategy of looking as disagreeable as possible.

"Very well." Professor Stumph said after a moment's silence. "You're dismissed, but if this happens again there will be very severe consequences indeed."

Ryan couldn't get out of there fast enough. He made his way quickly towards the courtyard, face hot and more grateful than ever for the loose, concealing nature of the George School uniforms. Instead of walking into the gardens and searching for his friends, however, he turned sharply to the right and ducked into an unused classroom. There were no lights or chalkboards here, no TVs or computers or PA systems. The room was instead dark, tiny, and round, cluttered with ancient furniture that had long since been removed from use. Mostly, it was a random, chaotic collection of legless tables, stained upholstery and rotting armchairs with their springs showing. But all alone in one corner, a faded ottoman had been dragged next to a broken-armed sofa and covered with a dust sheet, creating a small oasis of calm. A zig-zagging path had been cleared between the piled furniture, the stones of the floor worn shiny and free from dust. Ryan made his way carefully among the deceased chairs and tables, dodging carefully around some of the wobblier-looking piles, and flung himself down onto the ottoman, a familiar asylum he frequently sought out to think or cry or, in that rare occaision, jack off.

Oh God. Ryan cradled his head in his hands, acutely conscious of his own arousal. That was too close - far too close... He looked up as Brendon, dishevelled and furious-looking, entered the room. Oh, fuck...

Without a word to the boy in front of him, Brendon dragged the warped wooden door shut and turned to face Ryan. The scowl on his face was impressive, Ryan thought, even by the singing major's usual standards. Okay, Ryan, you're not going to be intimidated. This is Brendon. He can not scare you.

"That," Brendon announced in his 'feel my wrath' voice, "was a very bad idea, Ross."

Ryan folded his muscular arms indignantly. "Oh, like you weren't involved."

"You were the one who accosted me," Brendon pointed out in a whiny voice, as though he were being entirely reasonable.

"You didn't seem averse to being accosted!" Ryan narrowed his eyes as Brendon slunk through the roomful of debris, shaking his curly brown hair and stopping mere feet in front of him. "I mean, you could have said not to, you know. You could have stopped it."

Brendon shrugged fluidly, the motion rippling through his body and pulling his sweater taut against the planes of his chest, and Ryan swallowed hard. "I thought you said Stumph never used that room. How was I to know he was still prowling around?" Brendon scowled. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if this got out?"

I'd have lost you for good. "Plenty. But remember, it could have been worse. He could have walked in five minutes later."

"God, don't make me imagine it..." Brendon drawled, eyeing Ryan in a way that did absolutely nothing to dispell his lingering arousal.