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Let's Talk About Literature	By : lambentrails Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Panic! At The Disco Views: 909 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Panic! At the Disco. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Let's Talk About Literature
- 1
Staring down the starch white of his sheets sliding along her bare skin, Celeste slips her fingertips over the creases and closes her eyes. "I've been thinking--"

"You think?" Ryan says idly staring down the red embers glinting off his cigarette into ashtray and quirks his brow just the barest amount as they match their brown eyes. Lounging back in his chair, she says nothing but he waits before: "Funny, I thought all you were good for were suck jobs."

Celeste didn't miss a beat. "How'd you know? Seemed all you wanted last night was a talk." She sits up, two perfectly pale breasts in plain view. Ryan's eyes glint in the sunlight over the balcony window. He's still wearing yesterday's sweat, wrapped up in yesterday's clothes. As he starts to snarl she amps up, "I keep thinking both are a waste of time."

She makes a beeline for the bathroom, leaves the door open, her form looks perfect bent over the sink, looking in the mirror. He's not surprised. Leave dignity at the door. "You know... I enjoyed Bukowski's--" He starts but doesn’t finish. He drags on his cigarette and purses his lips. He knows he swore not to ever kiss a cigarette. Now he's smoking her Marlboro's. Leave dignity at the door.

"You all talk or you got a cock in there?" She gestures to his pants. He shrugs. She walks over and straddles his lap and stares into his eyes, drawing him like a moth to a light. He shrugs. She whispers about how she wants him to cut her as she kisses his lips. He shrugs again and drags on his cigarette.

He tastes nicotine and lipstick.

Ryan doesn't know how it happened but he know it started at a dive bar just off the strip where he met her, planned to give her the night of her life ... didn't touch her. "Let's go." He makes a point of using the word, the plural form as he slips his shoes on and puffs on what feels like his fifth cig.

Smelling like angels should smell, Celeste's just slips on a look turquoise number that brings out her eyes and all the right curves, a dress flowy around the knees. She sneaks a glance, slipping into her shoes. "Where to?" She asks. The hallways smells like formaldehyde. Her blood stained the sheets. It matched.

"Home." Ryan says uninterested, as she clutches his hand like a true love should, like a whore shouldn't. Trusting and loyal; he wasnt dumb enough to take her to his house, only a hotel room off on Flamingo. The man at the counter is from Western Europe, unplaceable accent. It's Russian or it's Gaelic. Ryan tosses his keys at his eyes and hails a cab. He doesn’t know why he's taking her there, why he only feels it's proper to live another day if can he can press the pads of his fingers to the column of her throat again and watch her arch her back into him, eyes closed, mouth a wide o, gasping for air that he won't give her; her skin tinted so blue like if you spread her out, you could rub her into the clear Nevada sky but only if you did it slowly, delicately.

He's falling in love with her trust because it's easier than saying the truth. Cutting her's just a good at kissing her; choking her is just as good as holding her ... and just as satisfying. With less for him to risk.

They still haven’t had sex. Celeste wonders why. She thinks that the cause of his talk of literature or better yet, metaphysical wetness and spiritual bending is her adequacy. He holds her on a leash called tantric sex.

The cab ride is silent. The German driver, he hums softly to David Hasselhoff but that's the only sound. And the whir of the air conditioning. Celeste thinks how many people fry on the streets of Vegas and Ryan thinks of the sound of Celeste's whimpers. His eyes fallow a hooker, that boyish face deviant with glee as he fallows this Sheila or Becky or Charmaine as she walks the strip, her asscheeks peeking out barely from under her short-shorts, like a hand from a deck. Teasing him.

"Suppose you like to pay for your fix, than get it for free." Celeste says, fallowing his eyes. He turns.

"Gotta be better than a skank that gives it up for free." He snarls. He doesn’t know why he said that. He doesn’t mean it.

"Says the drunk who talked me out til' four in the morning last night."

"Then, why not give me a good round right here and prove your worth."

"Fuck you."

"I believe I just asked you to."

Celeste doesn’t say anything else, her breasts heaving with anger and she storms out of the car into the hot, beating sun right outside Ryan's house almost glaring his soul, resenting her generosity. It's worse than ignoring him, he thinks. Pity, the whole situation kind of made him a little hard.

She doesn’t speak until supper. She doesn’t know why she's in his house and honestly Ryan's well aware that this city is full of whores and conmen. He sits at the table and she sits on top of it, her legs that never seem to end dangling off in black pumps. Her hair is molded perfectly into curls. They both pick at Chinese take-out.

They keep it to small talk, mostly stuff neither of them cared much for -- skittered around any topics that meant for any kind of empathy.

As she's washing the wine glasses in the sink, her legs are milky white stems leading up to the curve of her ass hiding underneath the back of her dress. He presses her against the edge of the counter, his cock hard and defiant against her back. Her hair smells like cinnamon and it's netted with nicotine; the curls are soft to the touch. "You're like poison." He says, slowly tugging up her dress, feeling the smoothness of her thigh. Ryan doesn’t freeze when she laughs but it's deadly and infectious, makes his eardrums ring and his tongue salivate.

He fucks her right there on the kitchen counter. Her legs are to the sky and he's got his hands around her ankles with her dress bunched up around her waist. She moans so loud but he wants it louder, he wants it so loud that all of Sin City will know he's fucking the most gorgeous girl.

"Tell daddy... " He huffs, blinks away the sweat that's stinging his eyes. "Tell daddy how bad you want it, uh-huh, be a good girl for daddy." He coaxes her, doesn’t demand anything because it'd better that way. More psychological, he's breathing her sweat.

"Mmm-mm... so b-bad. Fuck me, fuck, daddy, please." It comes out in jumbles, she's incoherent and thrashing; her arms spread open wide and skittering around the tile counter for something to hold on to.

"What a filthy mouth you have." He growls at her, sliding his sweaty palm up her abdomen and across her tits to her throat, grabbing it roughly and leaning down into her face. "Say it again."

"Fuck me harder, daddy..." She chokes on her words as he closes his fingers harder around her throat, her eyes bulging out for just a second as her voice faded into gasping whimpers, soundless. He's pounding her into her hard, enough that it almost burns. He's yelling at her like he's a rapist and she's his captive but it's a relationship, not a kidnapping. A masochist uses its sadist as much as they use them back.

Celeste's swearing so incoherently now, that she only shivers and pushes back hard against his grinding pelvis when she feels the cool blade of a knife on her stomach. He grabbed it from the drawer, she supposed, while she was lost in his cock. It's so drawn out now that he sounds far away saying: "That's right. You're my whore, my bitch, my fucking pet. Forever, not anyone else’s." He sounds like he's past the clouds and beyond the skyline but when that blade slices the skin over her shoulder and she feels the warm stickiness flow over, she's done.

She yells out a string of vowels that are supposed to sound like Ryan's name but it doesn’t come out that way. It only set her off with more moaning and screaming as his lips lock around the shallow cut, soft and cunning.

From then on, Ryan's drunk on her blood. The copper taste mixes with the salt of sweat as he slams into her just a few more erratic times before he pulls out and spills over her stomach. He picks her up on shaky legs as they both collapse on the couch, his lips still playing at the blood dripping from her wound, mixing it with his release; the blood and semen making a totally new entity. The cells dancing together and callused fingers flirting with sex and death on the skin of his lover.

They fall asleep and wake to the sun. They kiss under the pouring sunlight of the daybreak as they hold each other close. Breakfast is spent in quite contentment with warm showers and the smell of Celeste's homemade pancakes on the griddle. He doesn't speak, he just kisses the bruises on her neck and implies his love with smelling the freshness of her skin.

She watches him eat, sits in his lap with one of his lanky arms slipped around her waist as he holds her close to him, feeling the warmth of her body. He finishes quickly as she rests her head atop his, his fingers around a fork idly pushing the final crumbs around a pool of syrup.

Finally, the day reckons on him. The realization isn’t loud or brash but nor is it quiet; it is as it is and Ryan clears his throat, pushing his hair out of his eyes and meets their brown eyes again.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"For how long?"

"Three month tour."

A beat. He wants to explain that he wishes it were different, that there were other agendas and opposite priorities but there are people he can't let down.

It's funny, Celeste thinks, how you can have two totally different conversations at the same time, how someone can say something and mean something totally different. By saying, "Okay" Celeste is saying, "I'll wait in the desert for a call that might not come every hot and lonely night". And by saying, "Okay?" Ryan means, "I wont forget, I wont forget anything by the way your eyes found mine so fucked up and trusting this morning".

A beat.

"Okay."

And another.

"Okay..."
- 1
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Let's Talk About Literature