Ryden Smut

Um...Wrist Porn. \o/

Um... Wrist Porn. \o/ By @ cyclogenesis on LiveJournal
http://cyclogenesis.livejournal.com/114433.html

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.