whiskey lullaby; brendon/ryan; nc-17
Whiskey Lullaby (the incest 'verse).
2000 words. NC-17.
Ryan/Brendon.
The fight starts like all their fights, with their father downing half a bottle of whiskey as the night wears on, their mother fingering her rosary and mumbling prayers again and again. Ryan's skin itches with the need to run, aching with the memory of faded bruises and healed cuts, but Brendon, because he is Brendon, starts to bristle. If Ryan's honest, Brendon starts it. Their father screams and throws the bottle, glass shattering on the kitchen floor in spray of booze and shards. Their mother hunches over, rocking and mumbling, and Ryan goes still, arms crossed tight over his chest. Brendon, though, after fourteen fucking years Brendon still can't keep his mouth shut, and he screams back, screams and begins something he can't win; something he's never won.
Their father starts hitting him, one hand on Brendon's shoulder, steadying him almost, keeping him standing upright, the other balled in a fist, punching into Brendon's stomach. Brendon's stoic through the first blow, through the second, but by the third, tears are prickling out of the corners of his eyes, and if Ryan could move, he would be clawing Ross Sr.'s eyes out. He looks at their mother. Stop him, Ryan thinks, breath coming hard and painful in his chest. Stop. Him. She doesn't. She never has. She lets out a mumbled Hail Mary, hand tight on his wrist.
Their father's fist catches Brendon's ribs and he breaks, letting out a strangled cry and Ryan shrugs her off, taking a step forward. He can't help himself.
Maybe it lasts for a moment, maybe for another hundred years, Ryan can't tell, but eventually their father lets go and Brendon crumples to the floor. He staggers away, toward the living room, where there's another dozen fucking bottles of booze lined up on the shelf. Ryan drops down next to Brendon and pulls him up, heart thudding hard and awful in his chest. "It's okay," Ryan whispers and Brendon whimpers at the sound of his voice. Ryan half carries Brendon up to their bedroom because he can barely stand up for himself. He manages to smile a little though, when Ryan wraps his free arm around his shoulders. He's coughing by the time they get all the way up the stairs.
"Are you okay?" Ryan asks, easing Brendon down on his bed. "Brendon, Bren, are you okay?" Brendon coughs and hunches over, shaking his head. "Okay, I'm fine. I'm okay." He even manages another smile, and this one claws at Ryan's heart because it's so beautiful. "Bren, you can't -- " Brendon shakes his head, because they've had this conversation a hundred times -- a thousand times, and Brendon can't stop, no matter how many times Ryan asks him to. "Brendon, please. I can't. I can't watch him hurt you like that anymore. I can't."
Brendon circles his arm around Ryan's neck, fingers splayed around the back of his skull and shakes his head. "Ryan, I just, it's fine." The kiss against his forehead isn't unexpected and Ryan lets out a shaky breathe, fear and regret and deep, cold rage clawing away at his insides.
"It's not," he exhales, "Bren, it's not." Brendon snuggles in closer, the tip of his nose running alongside Ryan's neck, and even that isn't unusual. Brendon is the more tactile of the two of them, but that doesn't mean that Ryan has ever or would ever shy away from his touch. "I wish," he whispers, and something clenches hard in Ryan's stomach. "You wish what, Bren?"
Brendon huffs out a broken chuckle. "I wish I could hit back."
Ryan moves up to sit beside him, pulls him closer so Brendon's half on his lap and this time, God, he tells himself he didn't see the kiss coming, tells himself there's was no way he could stopped it, stopped this thing for beginning, but that's a lie. He sees Brendon's head tilt and feels his body shift and, God help him, leans into the kiss and savors it.
Ryan kisses back. Ryan tips Brendon's head all light and easy and soft, because Brendon's been hurt far too much tonight, but he opens his mouth under the onslaught of Ryan's tongue, moaning a little. Fuck, Ryan is glad the door locks. The panic comes crashing in a moment later, the combined cadences of their parents' words; their father screaming that they're both mistakes and their mother condemning them for the common sins of all children. Brendon splays his fingers on Ryan's hip and sighs, shaking, pressing closer. "I need you."
"Bren," Ryan can't breathe but when he pulls back, Brendon's eyes are clear. "Bren come on, we can't." He swallows against the bile rising in his throat. "This isn't." Brendon keeps breathing, keeps looking up at Ryan with his heart in his eyes.
"Please." the word echoes in Ryan's mind, reverberating and repeating. Brendon asks for so little and he gets even less, his face is shadowed and broken by the thin light pouring in through their bedroom window and he's wincing with every breath. "You make me feel safe," Brendon murmurs, "Let me do the same. I have to. I need you, Ryan. Need." Ryan blinks, because no one but Brendon has ever needed him before. Not really. "Please, Ryan, will you let me? Please, I just." He's rutting his hips softly against Ryan's, and he's hard, Brendon is, and Ryan is too, but he doesn't realize that until their hips connect.
"Oh, God," Ryan sighs, "Brendon." Brendon kisses him again, light and tentative. "Let me do this for you." He should say no, he should push away and cross the room to fall asleep in his own bed, waiting for dark, confusing dreams that leave him desperately hard and wanting. He can't. he's not that strong. "Okay. I. Okay, Bren. What do you want me to do?" His voice is barely a whisper, barely anything, he doesn't know, but he thinks silence is necessary. He has this panic gripping his stomach that if he talks to loud, if he moves too much, he'll shatter it, he'll wake Brendon up, and he'll stop. Ryan thinks he'd die if Brendon stops.
Brendon nips at his lower lip and smiles. "Just trust me." Ryan, God, Ryan has always done that. He lets Brendon strip off his shirt and toss it aside, layering kisses on his collarbone and throat. He lets Brendon unbutton his pants and slip them off, mouthing at his cock through the tight fabric of his boxers. Ryan has never felt anything like that before in his life. He's fifteen, okay, he figured it would happen eventually, but not like this. This, he was not expecting.
Brendon lowers his boxers too, and if Ryan could think clearly, he would, objectively, think this was hilarious, Brendon who sheds his clothes like a second skin is completely clothed and Ryan is naked as a jay. Shit. Brendon licks at the crease of Ryan's thigh, breath fanning out against Ryan's skin, and shit, shit, Ryan thinks he could come just like this, that's how on edge he is. He moves to take off Brendon's shirt, fingers catching on the hem, but Brendon goes still. "No, just," Brendon sighs. "Let me keep this on." Ryan knows why, knows he'll find a patchwork of blue and purple inked across his pale skin, but he can't heal those. No, only time can make those fade. He pops open the fly of Brendon's jeans as he eases up his hips and kicks them off.
"I looked, on the web, at Bill's. I looked and. I. I know what. I mean. I never have. But, I want to be with you. I want to be with you so much, Ry." He arches up just as Ryan is arching down and they're open mouthed against each other for a long, slick moment. "Will you. Will you let me? I'll go slow. I'll. I'll try and make it good for you." Ryan wonders how Brendon can even think that he'd be able to say no. He's hard, so hard he's already leaking, just from the slipslide of their skin rasping together. "Yes," Ryan says, laying down on his back, settling his legs on either side of Brendon's body. "Please."
"We need." Brendon's humming against Ryan's stomach, kissing little patterns there. "We need lotion or something. Or. I don't want to. I won't hurt you, Ry. I won't. You're beautiful. You're so beautiful, and I can't believe you're letting me. I can't." He's shaking his head and Ryan's just shaking entirely. Are they really doing this? Is he really going to let Brendon -- "I love you, Ry." Brendon's breathless and Ryan can feel tears prickling in the back of his throat.
Brendon bows his head and opens the tube, slicking up his hand. Ryan can't help but inhale as he Brendon trails a fingers around his balls to play at his hole. He's dreamed about it, God, he's spent night dreaming about it, waking up sticky and ashamed, but he wants it so badly he can barely breathe. Brendon eases in the first finger and God, Ryan keens. It hurts less than expected but more than it should and Ryan bucks his hips up unconsciously, looking for purchase.
"More. More, Bren, c'mon, please." He's breathless, he's shaking, they're not in their bedroom at all but on some different plane where only the two of them exist. Then there's two, pushing and stretching. Ryan arches into the touch. He's tried one himself, once or twice, but it's never been like this, never been so overwhelmingly and all encompassing good. He bites back moans and sighs, bites back a litany of Brendon's name. "More," he whispers, "Brendon, I need more."
Brendon starts to add a third, and Ryan knows it would be nice, Ryan knows how it would feel, how it would get him more stretched out than the other two had, how having three inside is probably better than two. He knows that, but still when Brendon starts to press in his third, Ryan arches his hips up, says, "Stop." Brendon goes stock still. "Take off your shirt," Ryan pants out. Brendon shifts, shaking his head. "Please," Ryan whispers, "I want to see. I need. I need to see."
Brendon shakes his head, and at first it masks it, the fact that he's shaking too, the fact that, he's shaking all over and the hands he's got anchored on Ryan's hips are squeezing so hard they'll leave marks. "Ry, come on. You don't want to see that. You don't." Ryan shakes his head, tipping his chin up so that Brendon can slide down to him, and they've already got this part down pat, how their lips and mouths and teeth fit together. "I want you inside of me, and I want us to do this, and I want you. But I need to see you, Bren. I need to see what he did to you."
Brendon exhales hard and shakes his head. "Fine." he pulls out and, fuck does Ryan feel too empty without his fingers, but he bits back a noise of protest, eyes locked on Brendon has he hesitantly strips off his shirt and tosses it aside. Ryan blinks and stares and doesn't realize he's crying until tears drip off his cheek and onto his chest. "You're crying," Brendon says, like this is some completely foreign concept, like, Brendon himself wouldn't curse and cry his eyes out if the same mess of scabs and scars and bruises were on Ryan's chest.
"You're an idiot," Ryan mutters, off hand, but Brendon grins, something that twists around his lips and hits his teeth and almost goes up to his eyes.
"Can I?" Brendon asks, settling on his knees between Ryan's legs, naked and beautiful. "Please?" Ryan nods and closes his eyes, gritting his teeth as Brendon lines up, hooking Ryan's legs over his shoulders. "I love you, big brother," Brendon murmurs, kissing his knee, pushing forward, pushing in.
2000 words. NC-17.
Ryan/Brendon.
The fight starts like all their fights, with their father downing half a bottle of whiskey as the night wears on, their mother fingering her rosary and mumbling prayers again and again. Ryan's skin itches with the need to run, aching with the memory of faded bruises and healed cuts, but Brendon, because he is Brendon, starts to bristle. If Ryan's honest, Brendon starts it. Their father screams and throws the bottle, glass shattering on the kitchen floor in spray of booze and shards. Their mother hunches over, rocking and mumbling, and Ryan goes still, arms crossed tight over his chest. Brendon, though, after fourteen fucking years Brendon still can't keep his mouth shut, and he screams back, screams and begins something he can't win; something he's never won.
Their father starts hitting him, one hand on Brendon's shoulder, steadying him almost, keeping him standing upright, the other balled in a fist, punching into Brendon's stomach. Brendon's stoic through the first blow, through the second, but by the third, tears are prickling out of the corners of his eyes, and if Ryan could move, he would be clawing Ross Sr.'s eyes out. He looks at their mother. Stop him, Ryan thinks, breath coming hard and painful in his chest. Stop. Him. She doesn't. She never has. She lets out a mumbled Hail Mary, hand tight on his wrist.
Their father's fist catches Brendon's ribs and he breaks, letting out a strangled cry and Ryan shrugs her off, taking a step forward. He can't help himself.
Maybe it lasts for a moment, maybe for another hundred years, Ryan can't tell, but eventually their father lets go and Brendon crumples to the floor. He staggers away, toward the living room, where there's another dozen fucking bottles of booze lined up on the shelf. Ryan drops down next to Brendon and pulls him up, heart thudding hard and awful in his chest. "It's okay," Ryan whispers and Brendon whimpers at the sound of his voice. Ryan half carries Brendon up to their bedroom because he can barely stand up for himself. He manages to smile a little though, when Ryan wraps his free arm around his shoulders. He's coughing by the time they get all the way up the stairs.
"Are you okay?" Ryan asks, easing Brendon down on his bed. "Brendon, Bren, are you okay?" Brendon coughs and hunches over, shaking his head. "Okay, I'm fine. I'm okay." He even manages another smile, and this one claws at Ryan's heart because it's so beautiful. "Bren, you can't -- " Brendon shakes his head, because they've had this conversation a hundred times -- a thousand times, and Brendon can't stop, no matter how many times Ryan asks him to. "Brendon, please. I can't. I can't watch him hurt you like that anymore. I can't."
Brendon circles his arm around Ryan's neck, fingers splayed around the back of his skull and shakes his head. "Ryan, I just, it's fine." The kiss against his forehead isn't unexpected and Ryan lets out a shaky breathe, fear and regret and deep, cold rage clawing away at his insides.
"It's not," he exhales, "Bren, it's not." Brendon snuggles in closer, the tip of his nose running alongside Ryan's neck, and even that isn't unusual. Brendon is the more tactile of the two of them, but that doesn't mean that Ryan has ever or would ever shy away from his touch. "I wish," he whispers, and something clenches hard in Ryan's stomach. "You wish what, Bren?"
Brendon huffs out a broken chuckle. "I wish I could hit back."
Ryan moves up to sit beside him, pulls him closer so Brendon's half on his lap and this time, God, he tells himself he didn't see the kiss coming, tells himself there's was no way he could stopped it, stopped this thing for beginning, but that's a lie. He sees Brendon's head tilt and feels his body shift and, God help him, leans into the kiss and savors it.
Ryan kisses back. Ryan tips Brendon's head all light and easy and soft, because Brendon's been hurt far too much tonight, but he opens his mouth under the onslaught of Ryan's tongue, moaning a little. Fuck, Ryan is glad the door locks. The panic comes crashing in a moment later, the combined cadences of their parents' words; their father screaming that they're both mistakes and their mother condemning them for the common sins of all children. Brendon splays his fingers on Ryan's hip and sighs, shaking, pressing closer. "I need you."
"Bren," Ryan can't breathe but when he pulls back, Brendon's eyes are clear. "Bren come on, we can't." He swallows against the bile rising in his throat. "This isn't." Brendon keeps breathing, keeps looking up at Ryan with his heart in his eyes.
"Please." the word echoes in Ryan's mind, reverberating and repeating. Brendon asks for so little and he gets even less, his face is shadowed and broken by the thin light pouring in through their bedroom window and he's wincing with every breath. "You make me feel safe," Brendon murmurs, "Let me do the same. I have to. I need you, Ryan. Need." Ryan blinks, because no one but Brendon has ever needed him before. Not really. "Please, Ryan, will you let me? Please, I just." He's rutting his hips softly against Ryan's, and he's hard, Brendon is, and Ryan is too, but he doesn't realize that until their hips connect.
"Oh, God," Ryan sighs, "Brendon." Brendon kisses him again, light and tentative. "Let me do this for you." He should say no, he should push away and cross the room to fall asleep in his own bed, waiting for dark, confusing dreams that leave him desperately hard and wanting. He can't. he's not that strong. "Okay. I. Okay, Bren. What do you want me to do?" His voice is barely a whisper, barely anything, he doesn't know, but he thinks silence is necessary. He has this panic gripping his stomach that if he talks to loud, if he moves too much, he'll shatter it, he'll wake Brendon up, and he'll stop. Ryan thinks he'd die if Brendon stops.
Brendon nips at his lower lip and smiles. "Just trust me." Ryan, God, Ryan has always done that. He lets Brendon strip off his shirt and toss it aside, layering kisses on his collarbone and throat. He lets Brendon unbutton his pants and slip them off, mouthing at his cock through the tight fabric of his boxers. Ryan has never felt anything like that before in his life. He's fifteen, okay, he figured it would happen eventually, but not like this. This, he was not expecting.
Brendon lowers his boxers too, and if Ryan could think clearly, he would, objectively, think this was hilarious, Brendon who sheds his clothes like a second skin is completely clothed and Ryan is naked as a jay. Shit. Brendon licks at the crease of Ryan's thigh, breath fanning out against Ryan's skin, and shit, shit, Ryan thinks he could come just like this, that's how on edge he is. He moves to take off Brendon's shirt, fingers catching on the hem, but Brendon goes still. "No, just," Brendon sighs. "Let me keep this on." Ryan knows why, knows he'll find a patchwork of blue and purple inked across his pale skin, but he can't heal those. No, only time can make those fade. He pops open the fly of Brendon's jeans as he eases up his hips and kicks them off.
"I looked, on the web, at Bill's. I looked and. I. I know what. I mean. I never have. But, I want to be with you. I want to be with you so much, Ry." He arches up just as Ryan is arching down and they're open mouthed against each other for a long, slick moment. "Will you. Will you let me? I'll go slow. I'll. I'll try and make it good for you." Ryan wonders how Brendon can even think that he'd be able to say no. He's hard, so hard he's already leaking, just from the slipslide of their skin rasping together. "Yes," Ryan says, laying down on his back, settling his legs on either side of Brendon's body. "Please."
"We need." Brendon's humming against Ryan's stomach, kissing little patterns there. "We need lotion or something. Or. I don't want to. I won't hurt you, Ry. I won't. You're beautiful. You're so beautiful, and I can't believe you're letting me. I can't." He's shaking his head and Ryan's just shaking entirely. Are they really doing this? Is he really going to let Brendon -- "I love you, Ry." Brendon's breathless and Ryan can feel tears prickling in the back of his throat.
Brendon bows his head and opens the tube, slicking up his hand. Ryan can't help but inhale as he Brendon trails a fingers around his balls to play at his hole. He's dreamed about it, God, he's spent night dreaming about it, waking up sticky and ashamed, but he wants it so badly he can barely breathe. Brendon eases in the first finger and God, Ryan keens. It hurts less than expected but more than it should and Ryan bucks his hips up unconsciously, looking for purchase.
"More. More, Bren, c'mon, please." He's breathless, he's shaking, they're not in their bedroom at all but on some different plane where only the two of them exist. Then there's two, pushing and stretching. Ryan arches into the touch. He's tried one himself, once or twice, but it's never been like this, never been so overwhelmingly and all encompassing good. He bites back moans and sighs, bites back a litany of Brendon's name. "More," he whispers, "Brendon, I need more."
Brendon starts to add a third, and Ryan knows it would be nice, Ryan knows how it would feel, how it would get him more stretched out than the other two had, how having three inside is probably better than two. He knows that, but still when Brendon starts to press in his third, Ryan arches his hips up, says, "Stop." Brendon goes stock still. "Take off your shirt," Ryan pants out. Brendon shifts, shaking his head. "Please," Ryan whispers, "I want to see. I need. I need to see."
Brendon shakes his head, and at first it masks it, the fact that he's shaking too, the fact that, he's shaking all over and the hands he's got anchored on Ryan's hips are squeezing so hard they'll leave marks. "Ry, come on. You don't want to see that. You don't." Ryan shakes his head, tipping his chin up so that Brendon can slide down to him, and they've already got this part down pat, how their lips and mouths and teeth fit together. "I want you inside of me, and I want us to do this, and I want you. But I need to see you, Bren. I need to see what he did to you."
Brendon exhales hard and shakes his head. "Fine." he pulls out and, fuck does Ryan feel too empty without his fingers, but he bits back a noise of protest, eyes locked on Brendon has he hesitantly strips off his shirt and tosses it aside. Ryan blinks and stares and doesn't realize he's crying until tears drip off his cheek and onto his chest. "You're crying," Brendon says, like this is some completely foreign concept, like, Brendon himself wouldn't curse and cry his eyes out if the same mess of scabs and scars and bruises were on Ryan's chest.
"You're an idiot," Ryan mutters, off hand, but Brendon grins, something that twists around his lips and hits his teeth and almost goes up to his eyes.
"Can I?" Brendon asks, settling on his knees between Ryan's legs, naked and beautiful. "Please?" Ryan nods and closes his eyes, gritting his teeth as Brendon lines up, hooking Ryan's legs over his shoulders. "I love you, big brother," Brendon murmurs, kissing his knee, pushing forward, pushing in.