I like you. (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} addictedkitten) wrote,@ 2007-05-29 00:13:00 |
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| Entry tags: | my fic |
um...wrist porn. \o/
So, this:
Yeah, I freaked out for like twenty minutes. But then I wrote a fic.
Title: Broken Glass and Rusty Nails
Author: Sara
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: When Ryan gets the tattoo, he bears it casually, sprawled out in the chair and smiling at Brendon's chatter as the needle traces over his skin.
Disclaimer: Mostly fictitious.
Thanks: callsigns for the beta, Tom Waits for the title.
At age eleven, Ryan breaks his left wrist.
It hurts - it hurts something awful - and he cries a little, especially when someone walking down the hospital hallway doesn't see him there and jostles his arm, but when the doctor doses him with morphine, for a second, just a second, the pain turns to something else. The ache in his wrist expands, swells outward, warm and delicious, centered at the break. It feels so good he bites his lip against it, overwhelmed. Then he passes out.
It's sore for a week afterward, awkward in the bulky white cast, but Ryan doesn't forget that feeling.
Sometimes right before it rains his wrist aches a little where the bone snapped clean through. He tells Spencer about it, and Spencer wrinkles his brow and goes to get Ryan some aspirin, but that's not the point, really. Ryan kind of likes the ache.
He doesn't tell Spencer that. Later, he comes to appreciate rainstorms.
When he's sixteen, Ryan learns that if he presses his left wrist to the hard curve of his hip while he's stroking himself, he'll get off faster. The doctor explained that he'd been lucky to break the radius, the wrist bone that heals the easiest. Ryan thinks he's lucky to have broken the bone right beneath his pulse, doubly sensitive there where the blood beats fastest; it feels good to force his wrist down against his hipbone, panting as he slides his hand up and down his cock, his shirt rucked up and jeans unbuttoned.
His wrist aches hotly with every press, skin sliding against skin as he thrusts his hips up, fucking his fist, letting his mind cycle through his trusty rotation of fantasies. He flits by memories of the girls he's touched (they'd never touch him like this, and the ones that would scare him), bites his lip and thinks of strangers, faceless, anonymous, male. It's not that he wants to be tied up to give up control, he can't imagine trusting anybody that much, but the thought of his wrists bound, tight leather cuffs maybe, sends him closer, makes him spread his legs and tilt his hips, grateful for his empty house (not so much his empty bed).
Hands, hands would be good, wrapped around his wrists, brutal pressure of fingertips against his pulse, a grip hard enough to stifle the steady flow of blood, hard enough to pale his fingers and redden his skin, bleed underneath to bruises, hard enough to grind bone.
Ryan comes.
He likes long sleeves because he gets cold. He likes gloves because his fingers go numb in the winter when they're touring and far from home. He likes wristwarmers under long sleeves under gloves, because when Brendon grabs his wrist in excitement to take him somewhere, Brendon doesn't see the deep bruises he's gripping, and Ryan's gotten skilled enough at hiding his wince that it goes unnoticed. He lets Brendon drag him as far as he needs to so long as Brendon doesn't let go.
Brendon's a grabby drunk, clumsy and cuddly and insistent. Usually it's easy enough to fend him off, or at least coax him to lie down until he passes out, but once again William's dropped him by the door with a grin and a quick, "I think this is yours!" before scampering off, and this time Brent and Spencer are passed out in their bunks, so Ryan's on drunk duty alone and Brendon seems to think that's an invitation. Brendon clings to him, nuzzling his neck, slipping his hand around Ryan's waist to pull him even closer, and Brendon's version of a slow dance sure feels like grinding to Ryan.
"Get off me, you idiot," Ryan hisses, because he'd been near to bed himself, already in his pajamas, even, and now instead of climbing into his bunk, he has to deal with Brendon's sloppy affections.
"I love you, Ryan, you're so pretty," Brendon murmurs, his words muffled in Ryan's neck, and damn stupid Brendon, Ryan would kick him but it would be sort of like knocking around an exceptionally stupid and innocent puppy. "Do you love me?"
"Mm-hmm," Ryan says, trying to guide Brendon backwards, but Brendon seems to take it as some kind of drunken waltz, and he twirls Ryan a little, stumbling back onto the couch and pulling Ryan down with him, the two of them falling in a tangle of limbs.
"Why're you on top?" Brendon asks, frowning, and Ryan huffs down at him, attempting to lift himself off. "No, no," Brendon says, tugging him back down. "No, warm, come back." It's almost easy, Ryan's so close to getting up off of him and leaving his ass there, but then Brendon's hand slides down to his wrist and grips hard, trying to keep him in place.
It's because he's caught off-guard, that's what Ryan tells himself, that's why he gasps in pain. Brendon's brow creases in confusion, but instead of letting go he just tugs Ryan closer to him, leaning up to get a look at Ryan's wrist, so bruised that it's horribly apparent even in the relative darkness of the bus.
"You're hurt," Brendon says, and he looks so upset that Ryan feels awful for even letting him see it, however accidentally. "What'd you do, Ry? Did I do this?"
"No, it's," Ryan squirms, straddling Brendon now, his other hand braced on Brendon's chest to keep his balance. "It's fine, Brendon, I'm okay," he says, but Brendon isn't listening. Brendon pulls him closer, close enough to get his mouth to Ryan's wrist, forcing Ryan down onto him as he presses his lips to the bruise, gently kissing it. Kissing it better, Ryan realizes, and feels his heart pang. Brendon's an idiot, he is, but he's one of the sweetest drunks Ryan's ever met. Brendon's grip on his wrist tightens, his tongue flicking out, wetly kissing right over Ryan's pulse, and Ryan has to fight back the moan; he's shaking, and when he tries to move Brendon just grabs his thigh with his free hand, slides his hand up to Ryan's ass and to his lower back until Ryan has to lie down on top of Brendon, his head right over the steady rapid thump of Brendon's heartbeat. He watches, trying so, so desperately not to get hard, to not let this happen here, with Brendon, but Brendon's so warm, and his mouth feels so good, kissing harder.
Ryan moans.
It seems to stir Brendon. He stops, turning to look muzzily at Ryan, hand groping clumsily up his back to settle in his hair, stroking his thumb over the back of his neck. "Is it better?" he asks, and Ryan nods.
"It's better," Ryan tells him, his voice gone hoarse, and Brendon lets his hand drop, presses a hot kiss to Ryan's forehead.
"You should be more careful," Brendon says, but the sentence is half lost to incoherency and fatigue, and he feels too good, too warm, for Ryan to really want to move, so Ryan doesn't.
When Brent and Spencer find them the next morning, Brent looks at Ryan's wrist, confused, and asks what happened. Ryan snarls at him to leave it alone.
Brendon gets him a leather wristcuff for Christmas that year. "It doesn't really go with your look," Spencer says later, frowning at it, and Ryan just shrugs.
It doesn't, not really, but Ryan tells Brendon thank you, and lets Brendon slip it onto his left wrist and lace it up as tight as it will go, and they don't say anything else about it.
The only strange thing, really, is that Ryan hasn't been caught at it before; they've all jerked off around each other enough that it wouldn't necessarily be a big deal if someone pulled the bunk curtain back at an inopportune time. Ryan just thought he had the room to himself for a few hours, Brendon gone off shopping with Greta and Chris and leaving their hotel room empty.
"Oh fuck," Brendon says, startled, and Ryan jerks his hand away from his dick, but it's impossible to hide that he's wearing the wristcuff, and Ryan can only be grateful that Brendon's not close enough to see the imprints of the cuff's laces against his hip.
"Um, could you," Ryan says, and Brendon walks in, closing the door behind him, which really wasn't what Ryan was going for but okay.
"Sorry, I - sorry." Brendon turns his back to Ryan, giving Ryan time enough to convince his cock back into his jeans. They're really too tight to support his erection without a really seriously obvious bulge, but maybe this'll be the time that Brendon has a modicum of decorum and just leaves. "The shops were closed, it's Sunday, so we, um, sorry, I didn't know you'd be busy," Brendon says, tripping over his words and really not leaving at all, which isn't surprising, but is sort of unfortunate since Ryan has his jeans uncomfortably done up but the laces of the wristcuff are tangled and he cannot get the fucking thing off. Ryan grunts at it, trying to tug the laces loose, and Brendon says, "Um, did you need help?"
On so many levels did Ryan need help, but none of them were ones he was comfortable letting Brendon assist with. "What, like with jerking off?" Ryan snaps at him.
Brendon turns around, his arms crossed, and Ryan glares up at him from where he's going at the laces with his teeth. "I was just offering - what are you doing?"
Ryan spits out a lace. "This fucking bracelet is stuck on me."
Brendon laughs at him, actually laughs, and maybe Ryan would be able to find the humor in this situation if he didn't have an erection raging at his zipper and an inescapable fucking handcuff murdering his circulation, but as it is, he sort of wants to punch Brendon in the face. "Want me to help?"
"I want you to leave," Ryan tells him, "so I can jerk off in peace for goddamn once."
"Well, we can't always get what we want," Brendon says, looking positively chipper. He tosses his hoodie onto a chair and toes off his shoes, padding over to the bed and climbing on, holding out his hand. "Let me see."
"My dick?" Ryan asks.
Brendon glances down at his crotch. "No, I can see that just fine. I meant your wrist."
Ryan scowls at him, but lets Brendon take his hand and tug at the laces. It comes undone quickly for him, loosening enough for Brendon to slip it off, revealing darkening bruises and lace marks imprinted in his skin.
"Damn, Ross," Brendon says, eyebrows raised, and Ryan doesn't have the patience for this anymore.
"It's not like you didn't know," he says, trying to snatch his wrist back, but Brendon just tightens his grip. "That's why you got me the cuff, isn't it?"
Brendon flushes red, but he doesn't disagree. "So what, you just do this to yourself? Hurt yourself, and it gets you off?"
"Jerking myself off gets me off," Ryan huffs, sinking lower onto the bed from where he'd been propped up against the pillows. "But that helps."
Brendon looks down at his wrist, stroking his thumb contemplatively over the bruise. "Is it just this one, or the other one, too?"
"If you're going to do something about it," Ryan says, voice quiet, "then do it."
Brendon tilts his head, but if there was a line, they crossed it long ago, the first time Brendon said he loved Ryan, needy and just intoxicated enough for Ryan to ignore, forget, let it slide. Brendon places his other hand over Ryan's erection, stroking him through his jeans. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, and Ryan curls a hand in his shirt and pulls him down.
It's easier than Ryan thought it would be, natural somehow past the first few fumbling minutes of them both trying to touch each other before Ryan finally gave in and spread himself out on the bed, letting Brendon touch him. Brendon didn't seem to know where to start, but not out of a lack of knowledge, just a lack of focus, an excess of need that made his hands skip from Ryan's wrists to his neck to his sides, stroking his cock then slipping downwards to touch his thighs so lightly it made Ryan shiver. Brendon's never looked at him like this before, not that Ryan can remember (and he knows he would remember); it's too intense, Brendon's eyes on him, but Brendon stops him when he reaches to switch off the bedside light.
"I wanna look," Brendon says, "let me," and so Ryan does.
When they're naked, bared to each other, Brendon hesitates, one hand curving around Ryan's cock, the other lightly gripping Ryan's wrist. He lets Ryan's dick go, taking Ryan's wrist and pressing him down to the bed, crawling on top of him so their cocks slide against each other. Ryan parts his legs, rubbing his heel against Brendon's calf, and arches up.
Brendon looks down, eyes flitting from Ryan's kiss-swollen mouth to his ribs to where their cocks are aligned, gently thrusting. Ryan tilts his hips enough to let Brendon see the bruising there, too, over the ridge of bone where he pressed his wrist. "It's okay," Ryan tells him, "if you want to do it hard," and then, since Brendon won't say no but he won't ask, either, "You can fuck me."
Brendon's fingers tense on Ryan's wrists, and Ryan gasps, aching already from the bruising, from Brendon's hard grip. Brendon only releases him to fumble for the bottle of lotion Ryan had been using; his hands are shaking, and he looks halfway between elated and terrified as he slicks up his fingers, prodding between Ryan's cheeks. Ryan wouldn't have guessed Brendon had done this before (in fact, he wagers Brendon never has), but Brendon seems to have a reasonable idea of what he's doing. He's a bit rougher than what most people would like, probably, but it's just about right for Ryan, just enough to make him moan when Brendon slips a third finger in, opening him up.
"Yeah?" Brendon asks, pushing his fingers in and out, and Ryan nods, squirming back onto Brendon's hand, twisting his hips as Brendon pulls them out, strokes his own cock and lines up.
"Please," Ryan says, unnecessary as it is with Brendon just about to breach him, Ryan open enough to shift forward and let him inside, legs wrapped high around Brendon's waist. Brendon makes it the rest of the way himself, an effortless slide that sends Ryan's head rolling back onto the pillow, arms up and wrists bared, and only moments pass before Brendon gets the hint and takes hold of his wrists again, gripping them tightly before pulling out almost all the way and then slamming back in.
It feels good, it hurts; Ryan's always liked that it hurt, just a little, and he gasps and twists and moans under Brendon as Brendon gives it to him, holding him down and fucking him like this isn't the first time, like they've been doing this all along, that's how right it feels, deliriously new but deliciously familiar. Ryan grits out, "Fuck," and Brendon leans down to kiss him, stopping Ryan's breath, taking everything away but the cruel, perfectly rough grip of his hands, the dirty thrust of his hips, the hard press of his lips against Ryan's, fucking his tongue into Ryan's mouth like he's fucking his cock into Ryan's ass. Ryan spreads and pushes back and revels in the tingling ache at his wrists as they lose feeling, taking as much as he can, taking everything Brendon's giving him and biting Brendon's lower lip when he doesn't have the words to beg for more.
Brendon jerks away, licking his abused lower lip, and Ryan just stretches up into him, knowing his face has gone slack with pleasure, letting Brendon see so he's knows it's okay, knows he doesn't have to stop. Brendon doesn't stop, he doesn't stop fucking Ryan and he doesn't look away from him, staring into Ryan's eyes, sweating and frantic as he pounds Ryan's ass, pins him to the bed. Ryan thinks of intoxicated I love yous and hopes Brendon takes this as an answer to every one of them.
He's so close, all it'll take is one brush of Brendon's stomach against Ryan's cock, he knows it, and he arches his hips up, needy, until Brendon lowers just enough for a sweet drag of friction. Ryan comes staring into Brendon's eyes, his ass beginning to ache and all circulation gone in his fingers, and he's never felt better than when Brendon shudders and stills, his fingers digging into Ryan's pulse points as he finishes, moaning Ryan's name.
Brendon releases his wrists, but he doesn't seem to have energy for much else than that, slipping out of Ryan's body so Ryan can lower his legs and then lying down on top of him. Ryan rubs his knuckles against the back of Brendon's neck, resisting the urge to examine the aching wrists he can already feel bruising. He nudges Brendon off after a minute, needing air, but Brendon doesn't go far, just rolls onto his side and scoots back into Ryan's space, leaning down to nuzzle his shoulder.
"Was that okay?" Brendon asks, and his hesitance is near to charming Ryan when he adds, "Because I really wanna do it again."
Ryan laughs, and Brendon breaks out into a grin, snagging one of Ryan's wrists and kissing it. "Five minutes," Ryan says.
Brendon asks, "Two?"
They try restraints, metal handcuffs, thick leather wristcuffs, rope, but nothing's quite as satisfying as the grip Brendon can get when he holds Ryan down, the push and press of his fingertips to Ryan's pulse points, the cage of Brendon's fingers as he squeezes Ryan's wrists until Ryan cries out in pain and need. Gloves and long sleeves become everyday wear even when it's warmer, and Brendon learns that all he has to do to gain Ryan's attention is just brush his hand lightly over Ryan's wrist, his touch stilling Ryan even through layers of fabric.
Ryan learns to bear it when Brendon wants to touch him there in public, pushing his fingertips into Ryan's sleeves and stroking him fondly as he laughs with Spencer, and Jon teases them about their weird way of holding hands, but Brendon just grins. When Brendon gets the tattoo, Ryan finds that he likes touching that, too, fitting his fingers over the keys, tracing his nails over each line of ink until Brendon raises an eyebrow and asks if he wants one himself. Ryan shrugs, but he thinks about it, and when he's listening to his favorite Tom Waits album, he decides fairly easily what he wants.
Brendon fucks him before, knowing Ryan needs it to take the edge off, but he keeps his hands off Ryan's wrists like he has for the last few days, so they're pale and perfect and ready for ink. Brendon sits next to him in the car on the way to the tattoo parlor, lightly stroking each wrist, still laughing a little at Ryan's insistence that he borrow a pair of Brendon's pants, knowing he'd need the loose fit in case he enjoyed getting the tattoo a little too much.
When it happens, Ryan bears it casually, sprawled out in the chair and smiling at Brendon's chatter as the needle traces over his skin. It hurts, delicious and deep and stinging from the outside in with every letter. When he bites his lip from the pain, Brendon grins at him. The tattoo artist says, "Man, you're stoic, this must hurt like a bitch," but Ryan just shrugs one-shouldered and says it's not so bad.
The tattoos ache, sting, and itch for a week; every night, Brendon cleans them and kisses them better.
