Ryden Smut

No Begging

No Begging by @ greenappleseas on LiveJournal
Part 1/2
http://greenappleseas.livejournal.com/3455.html

"No begging," Ryan reprimands the soulful pair of eyes peeking over the edge of the couch. Brendon stops, sloppy joe halfway to his open mouth, and closes his lips to smirk. Ryan takes another bite, chews decidedly, and glances to his right to find the remote (because seriously, this Slap Chop commercial is giving him a headache). His eyes fall on Brendon's and Ryan quirks an eyebrow.

"Nothing, nothing..." Brendon dismisses cheerfully, finally taking a huge chunk out of his sandwich and chewing gleefully. Ryan hits the 'mute' button and nods, unconvinced. The eyes are still hovering, unblinking and desirous, and Ryan sighs heavily.

"Tell your dog to knock it off. I hate begging," he complains lightly, and before he knows it, Brendon is stretched over his legs, shooing the dog away, out through the doggy flap on the door, a devilish grin spread across his lips. Ryan's eyes sweep down, noticing the taut line of Brendon's side as it stretches out from under his t-shirt; the low-riding waistband of his pajamas; the way he's already got Ryan's sock-clad foot between his knees, poised for the move Ryan knows is coming.

He finds himself pinned to the couch, dishes still clattering as they settle on the table. (And holy shit, when did Brendon find time to do that?) Brendon's hovering over him, shifting, getting comfortable on Ryan's slim lap, and that devious, sinful little smile is back. Ryan can feel his lips forming a What?, but before the air to supply it even reaches his lungs, Brendon's twining his fingers through Ryan's and forcing his arms steadily upwards. He drops his mouth to Ryan's ear and breathes, "You hate begging, huh?"

Oh. Oh. And, yeah, he really should have seen that coming. He thinks back to all the countless 'That's What She Said' jokes over the years, thinks how he's obviously the prime target for them, what with his ridiculous, frilly way of phrasing things and all. But honestly, had he had Brendon Urie on his lap, he probably would have huffed about those jokes a bit less. There certainly isn't any huffing occurring at this moment.

Brendon pulls back a few inches to watch Ryan's face, and if Ryan wasn't so preoccupied with other parts of his body, other thoughts, other anythings, he figures he would worry about appearing composed. But Brendon's got this lazy grind of his hips going, his plaid cotton pajama bottoms teasing softly against Ryan's bare stomach, and Ryan's pretty sure 'composure' just bid adieu to his vocabulary. 'Composure', and just about everything else besides garbled mush. (Which, if Ryan had gone to college, his parental brain cells tell him, he would know is not even vocabulary in the first place. Not that he's thinking about college right now. Because he's totally, totally not.)

Brendon leans back a little further, staring wantonly down at Ryan through hooded eyes, and Ryan's hands grapple with Brendon's, because, Yeah, Brendon, hips, right fucking there, and Brendon chuckles a bit at Ryan's frustration. He eases back down to Ryan's ear, lets out a barely-there, amused laugh, and darts his tongue out to wet his lips. "It's really a shame to hear that," he says lowly, stilling all movement, "because I happen to rather enjoy begging."

Ryan's possibly about two seconds away from swallowing his tongue, but Brendon has other ideas, and Ryan finds his tongue quite occupied with another as Brendon seals their mouths together, tightening his grip on Ryan's wrists. Brendon pulls back, though, teasing, and resettles himself in Ryan's lap. Ryan gazes up at him longingly, and Brendon's soft, unassuming voice shifts fluidly to something darker.

"You," he says, staring pointedly at Ryan's wrists as he lets go of them, willing Ryan to keep them crossed over his head, "are apparently in quite a stew." He begins to walk his fingers down Ryan's chest, and Ryan finds his fingers scrabbling for the edge of the end table, for anything to hold onto, because he knows if he doesn't, he's probably about six seconds away from tangling them into Brendon's hair, and then it's game over. Brendon crawls slowly down Ryan's torso, stealing a glance up to Ryan's self-captivated hands, and purrs appreciatively. "It's nice to see you following directions, for once."

Ryan's pretty sure that his night can't get any better than it's about to get. Brendon's deftly working at the tie to Ryan's pajama pants, and really, there are worse ways Ryan could spend an evening. Brendon slides the loose cotton pants from Ryan's slender hips (and, as Ryan notices, takes the time to appreciate that Ryan's picked up on a few of his little habits, namely opting for boxers or pajamas), and meets him with a sultry smile. Ryan's pretty sure he can't get any harder than he is now, but the ghost of Brendon's breath across his heated flesh promptly changes his mind.

Brendon's mouth is red and flushed, millimeters away, panting, sending chills through Ryan's every nerve, and Ryan tips his head back to the couch's armrest, letting his eyes flutter shut, and preparing himself for the best blowjob of his life so far, he's sure of it, and –

"Beg."

Ryan's eyes fly open. So sure he's misheard, he pulls his head up from the couch and gazes down his abdomen. With a furrowed brow, he meets Brendon's dark, dangerous eyes, and the word tumbles out of those perfect, made-for-it lips again:

"Beg."

Of course, Ryan's dignity is usually on parade in a paper hat now, chanting, Not worth it! Not worth it!, but this? This is so fucking worth it. Still, that one shred of ego remains, insistent as ever, and Ryan finds the first word choked in his throat.

"Please," he whispers hoarsely. Brendon's tongue darts out, just barely, but the contact's enough to have Ryan clearing his throat hastily, trying again. "Brendon, ah! Shit, Bren, please," he urges, hands squeezing at the edge of the end table. He falls silent again, and Brendon pulls his mouth back with a pop. Ryan groans in frustration and looks down once more.

Ryan figures that if Brendon weren't so inherently Brendon, he'd give up in the first ten minutes of every day. But there's something about the younger man, something that twists every inch of Ryan's stomach, something that commands, Love me, listen to me, I love you. And right now, Ryan's listening, and the message coming from Brendon's blown eyes is loud and clear: No begging, no mouth.

And yeah, Ryan's almost really done with this game, almost ready to call it quits, almost ready to just shove out from under Brendon and finish it off himself. But then again, he can feel Brendon's hands kneading his hips gently, the soft puff of Brendon's shallow breathing, and he sees the undeniable want in Brendon's eyes, and before he knows it, Ryan's dropping his head back to the armrest.

"Shit, Brendon, I swear," he starts, but apparently it earns him a teasing swipe of Brendon's tongue, and yeah, it's really all downhill from there. Brendon's chuckling ever so slightly, and Ryan swallows a last bit of pride. "Ngh, want- want your..." he starts again, and feels Brendon's mouth sink around him, warm and velvet, and he doesn't need, doesn't have the capacity, to think any further. "Shit, shit, Bren, I- I need... God," he groans, arching his back. "Fuck, more, just... Please, I- Brendon," he gasps, feeling an appreciative squeeze on his hips. He pauses, catching his breath, and he almost feels the smirk as Brendon freezes. "Goddamnit, pretty please?" he half cries, half laughs, and bucks his hips up. He lets out a long, low moan, and he swears Brendon almost chokes, but the singer swallows him down again like nothing, and Ryan can feel the liquid heat coursing up his veins, shooting to his stomach, coiling, heavy and familiar.

He knows he won't be much longer, and he tips his head down once more, catching Brendon's eye and lifting one of his hands, questioning. Brendon doesn't protest, doesn't flash him the ever-elusive warning glare, and Ryan takes this as his cue to slide his fingers into Brendon's hair. "B-Bren," he gasps, choking a bit on his own words. "Shit, I- fuck, ah, please, please, so close, need you – " He feels Brendon's palms on his sides, the final swirl of his tongue, and Ryan's hips jolt as he comes undone, head falling back to the couch as he cries out.

Ryan's aware of Brendon crawling up his torso, placing kisses on the flushed bare skin of his chest. When their lips finally meet, Ryan's hands smooth down to the sinuous curve of Brendon's lower back, and he pulls him closer. Brendon slowly pulls away from the kiss, smiling darkly down at Ryan, his tongue skating along his full lower lip. Ryan watches, amused, and he can feel Brendon's erection digging into his hip; he's not ignorant, but two can play at this game, he muses... With a wide smirk, he gently pushes Brendon off of him and to the other stretch of couch, scooting to settle over him.

"Now that you've got that out of your system..." Ryan begins softly, seductively, pulling at Brendon's pajama bottoms. He leans to close his mouth on Brendon's neck, who moans freely, ever the vocal one. Ryan nips hard, and pulls back with a glint in his eye.

"I don’t want to hear another. Sound. From you.”