Sometimes it's about the freedom to explore, the ability to move undetected, the sheer absence of fear. Other times, like tonight, it's just about the atmosphere. Nights like these, putting too much thought into the details can lead them down a bad path. Declan, especially, has a habit of overthinking, which is exactly what dreaming is supposed to cure. This is the world of wishes that can't be spoken out loud. The dream exists for no reason other than to fulfill them.
They're in Bali, apparently. The room - if it can be called that - is little more than a platform over the water, open on all sides, four wooden posts holding up a thatched roof. In the very center of it is a canopy bed draped with a mosquito net. The moon hangs low in the sky, providing the only light, reflecting in a trembling shimmer off the tranquil sea.
It's pretty nice, actually.
Ronan finds Declan at the very edge of the platform, staring off like he intends to jump. He doesn't, though, because they're not here for a swim. If they were, they'd probably be wearing something other than towels. And they're only wearing towels because Declan prefers to start a dream like he means for it to be something else, even though they both know that if he wanted someone other than Ronan, Ronan wouldn't be here.
Out of respect for the illusion, Ronan says nothing yet. He merely steps up behind his brother, allowing body heat and tension to announce his presence first. Then he rests his hands on Declan's hips.
Declan doesn't remember ever being to Bali. Thailand, maybe, or China. Definitely Japan. But he'd never been anywhere like this on Niall Lynch's heels. It's the kind of place he'd want to go on vacation, but even in a dream he can't turn off the thinking. Ronan's always better at it.
Without Ronan's ability to hold the dreams in the shape they want or need, Declan's overthinking would probably ruin it every time.
He doesn't know how long he's been standing there, looking at the moon on the water. He thinks he hears someone - Ronan - approaching down but it isn't until he feels hands on his hips and the warmth of a body behind him that makes it real. Declan slowly drops one hand, resting it over Ronan's.
If he wanted someone other than Ronan, Ronan wouldn't be here.
It's not what Ronan would have invented for himself. A little too travel magazine for his taste. But he likes the quiet, and the water, and the endless expanse of stars overhead.
Of course, none of that is why he's here. It exists, like he does, to offer relief from the tension of the waking world. His fingers slide between Declan's, locking their hands together. His other hand slips around and drifts over the hard ridges of Declan's abs. He can still remember with sharp clarity the first time he became aware of the cut of Declan's body, back when the difference in one year of age meant they were worlds apart. Declan had suddenly looked like a man, and the reaction it stirred in Ronan haunted him for years.
They're both men, now. In fact, Ronan ended up the larger of the pair. But his reaction remains unchanged. When he draws closer and presses flush against his brother, he's sure Declan can feel it stirring already.
Declan can't remember when he first noticed Ronan was bigger than him. It was probably the first time Ronan hit him without having to punch up. He feels a shiver as Ronan's fingers brush up his stomach and he swears he sees the water and the stars shiver, too. Maybe he's just thinking too much.
His relationship with God has been contentious for a long time, but he knows this is a sin. It's been his sin for a long time and he doesn't know when it became Ronan's. Is that his fault?
He makes himself breathe deeper and he feels the air catch in his throat when he can feel Ronan's arousal, which sharply stirs his own. Declan reaches back with his other hand to brush his fingers against his brother's hair.
"Ronan," he murmurs in a tone so rarely heard outside these dreams. He doesn't dare.
Ronan brings his mouth to Declan's ear and whispers, "Stop thinking."
This is a fantasy. Sin doesn't exist here. Shame is a forbidden concept. It will do neither of them any good if this slides into nightmare territory.
He bows his head in answer to the fingers combing through his hair, his lips grazing the crook of Declan's neck. As he lays a heated kiss to what he knows is the most sensitive spot along his brother's shoulder, he pushes his hips forward, making it impossible for Declan to ignore what this is doing to him. See? There's nothing wrong with it if Ronan wants it this badly.
His hand dips down, creeping beneath the towel wrapped around Declan's waist, gliding lower and lower until his fingertips brush that burgeoning erection. They coax it along with the lightest touch, and as it grows heavier, Ronan takes it into his palm to begin stroking it in earnest. Not too vigorously, though. The dream will come to an abrupt end when Declan climaxes, and though there are some nights he prefers to rush through this, tonight isn't one of them.
Stop thinking. Almost as difficult as stop breathing, but Ronan's voice in his ear makes it easier. He has respite here. No sin. No worrying. No what if. A good dream.
Declan's fingers tighten in Ronan's hair and he slides is other arm back around his brother, pulling him closer until he can feel the evidence of Ronan's desire against him. That makes it better. Ronan wants it; Declan isn't taking anything.
The tension leaves him in heavy exhale as Ronan coaxes him to full arousal. It doesn't take much. There is some part of Declan that is always wanting. The part that isn't really allowed to exist day to day. He drops his arm in favor of getting it between them so he can pull Ronan's towel loose. His fingers curl around Ronan's cock, his pace slower than Ronan's. Sometimes he likes dragging it out. Seeing Ronan's frustration is worth it.
As if given permission to drop the facade of decency, Declan's towel slips away and vanishes into wherever it is that unimportant things disappear mid-dream. Now there's just the truth, Declan's desire pulsing in his brother's hand, where both of them can see it.
Ronan moans when the touch is reciprocated. His impatience is immediate, his hips jerking to chase the tease of Declan's fingers. This is what it's really about, of course: getting Ronan to want Declan just as much as he himself is wanted. For once.
Well, it's working. He practically drapes himself on Declan, rocking up against him in a simulated fuck that matches the laziness of his stroking. Declan may control the speed, but Ronan controls the intensity. He thrusts between Declan's hand and the cleft of his ass, impossibly hard already.
"I promise I won't come inside you," he mumbles, as if that's the problem here. But he's pretty sure that's been the cause of hesitation before. Declan's never said anything, of course. It's just, considering how often they've done this, Ronan's pretty sure his brother has woken up from a dream at least once and discovered that he'd brought back the evidence of their sin inside him.
It's so satisfying to feel Ronan start to rut against him, chasing his touch like he can't get enough. His cock throbs against Ronan's palm. The promise sends chills cascading down Declan's back; he never knows how to feel when that happens, the faint horror of what he's done and the aching desire to do it again. And he wonders (he's never asked) if Ronan has woken up with Declan still inside him, still smeared against his thighs.
God.
He doesn't need to think of that. Or the way that Ronan can't move after dreaming.
"There's a bed," he says with quietly strained amusement. His fingers tighten the next time Ronan thrusts closer.
Indeed, there is. And Declan barely gets the words out before they’re suddenly there, the act of walking to it cut for Ronan’s impatience. And then he’s on top of Declan, pinning him to the mattress, slithering against his back and fucking into his hand without missing a beat.
“Yes,” he whispers, answering the question Declan doesn’t ask. “But I take it with me on purpose.” Whether that’s the truth or the fiction of the dream - the confession Declan wants to hear - can only be investigated in the waking world, and Declan probably never will.
It should be uncomfortable, the way Ronan keeps pumping Declan’s cock while he’s crushed between the mattress and Ronan’s body, but it’s a dream, so the angle works somehow.
“Once I even tasted it.” That’s the truth, actually, and Ronan will be mortified later for his dream self’s confession of it. “I wonder if you really taste like that.”
In a breath Declan finds himself pinned to the bed with Ronan's weight over him. He laughs, but it comes out strained. "Could've walked, lazy ass--"
The words die on his lips at Ronan's whispered confession. Declan closes his eyes and he can see it, and then Ronan makes it worse with filthy detail. "Oh, fuck," he whispers; unbidden, his hips buck forward so he can seek friction against the bed and to thrust harder between Ronan's fingers. For a terrible moment all he can think about is finding Ronan still asleep, or maybe just paralyzed from dreaming. Pushing his thighs apart to find his come there, and licking the evidence away.
It's a dream. Would Ronan see the sudden, sharp fantasy, too?
Declan squeezes his cock and then lets go to get his hands under him. He pushes away the intrusive thought of Ronan finding out what he tastes like while they're both awake. No, no. Yes.
"Ronan." He tries to sound like he's scolding but it comes out a moan instead. Declan rocks back to feel the slide of Ronan's cock between his cheeks.
Ronan doesn’t just see the fantasy. He is the fantasy. They’re in Declan’s subconscious. The further he tries to bury that desire, the more vivid it becomes. It swallows the room, the ocean, the moonlight. Bali becomes the memory of last night’s wet dream.
Now the morning light streams in around the cracks of the blackout curtains in Ronan’s bedroom, just enough to illuminate the shape of him but not the details. From where Declan stands - nude, sticky with his own semen, still hard even in the wake of his orgasm - it’s impossible to see for certain what state Ronan is in.
Unmoving. That much is clear. Either paralyzed or sleeping. But most of his body is hidden beneath a blanket. His shoulders are bare, his throat exposed, his head tossed carelessly to one side, and his headphones still pumping noisy electronica into his ears.
Every last detail is as real as life. Like any other time Declan has walked into his little brother’s room to check on him or drag him out of bed. The difference is in Declan himself, having finally given in to evil impulse.
The dream shifts and then he's standing there like he's always been standing there. Declan's heart thunders in his chest as he takes in the sight of Ronan, sprawled and--sleeping? His breathing is even, but that doesn't mean he's out. Declan knows that. He's been watching Ronan sleep for years.
He wets his lips and looks around. He grabs a pair of boxers off the floor - his? doesn't matter - and pulls them on like that might do anything to hide his arousal as he eases down onto the bed. He can hear the music thumping faintly and his gaze drifts from Ronan's face to his throat, his bare shoulders. One hand grips the blanket to draw it down, uncovering his prone brother inch by inch.
His cock is aching hard. He needs to know. Declan stops when the blanket is just covering Ronan's hips, not a shred of fabric in sight. He dives into his sin and pulls the blanket away; his eyes dart down to Ronan's beautiful cock and lower to his thighs. It's dark enough that he can't quite tell, and so he dares to slide his fingers between Ronan's thighs.
They were talking about your body. Gansey found it.
You're standing now in the door to your stark, unlived-in room and they're turning, staring. Gansey. Adam. Ronan.
Ronan looks tense as he says, "Your room was empty. I just looked in it," and you say, wearily, "I told you. I told everyone."
You did. You said it so many times. But they never really listened. They glossed over it like you were kidding around. Or forgot, maybe. Like they forgot all the other little details that they should have questioned before now. Thoughts that slid from their minds before they were ever aware of them. Until they found your body.
"I told you," you say. You want them to understand. You want them to hear you, for once.
Gansey is acting like this is a thing he can solve and Ronan is deflecting, covering his hurt, and Adam is thinking dead thing. They're asking questions: "How did you die?" and "Who killed you?" and it's too much. You can't. You can't talk about this. You're turning away, hunching inward, making yourself less.
You feel less of yourself now that your bones aren't on the line. Unmoored. You can't hold together. Chainsaw screeches and that pulls you back enough to mumble an excuse before-
Declan goes to sleep alone that night, Ashley-less in his barren apartment. At some point, though, he's not alone anymore. In a bed large enough for guests but usually occupied by a solitary body, there's a change of temperature. A warmth beside him.
Even in the midnight darkness of the room, it probably isn't difficult to guess who's there. Declan has years' worth of knowledge about Ronan's body. Enough to conjure up the size of him, the pressure of weight shifting on the mattress, the scent of hickory smoke and boxwood and the whiskey that was on his breath earlier tonight.
That breath skirts across Declan's skin along with grazing lips that can't seem to decide where to settle, traveling from the crook of his neck to his sternum to his nipple. Ronan is trying not to wake him, maybe. He peels the sheets away slowly as he descends, silent as he can be.
He'd know Ronan anywhere: the shape of him, the scent, the feel of his hands. Declan knows almost every part of his brother and would recognize him no matter what.
Warm lips drift across his bare skin, the touch light enough to be a secret. Arousal stirs as Ronan's breath teases over his stomach; his breath catches as the sheets slide away in a whisper. Declan doesn't move, not yet, even as his fingers ache to touch Ronan's hair. Where is his brother going? And what will he do when he gets there?
It's no real surprise when he finds Declan already stirring to arousal. Ronan exhales a scoff, apparently disappointed to have been discovered so soon, but that doesn't stop him. His lips brush over Declan's swiftly hardening shaft, and he parts them when he reaches the head, only to close them again over the very tip. A soft little taste. A tease.
Ronan reaches between his legs, taking his own cock in hand to give it a couple of strokes for relief. He was hard before he got here, and now that he's indulging, he's unbearably turned on. His left hand, in the meantime, steadies Declan's cock at the base so that his tongue can run slick circles around the head.
"Fuck," he sighs, giving up the game entirely when Ronan's mouth teases over his cock. The slick tease over the head and the familiar feel of Ronan's hand sliding along the shaft to steady him as that mouth gets to work.
Declan lets his hands move, one pushing into Ronan's hair to hold it back: he doesn't want to miss this sight. Looking just makes his cock throb against Ronan's hand as his brother's slick lips close around the head. Declan manages to stay still, at least, keeping himself from chasing the perfect heat of Ronan's mouth.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't think he needs to. Ronan is here. He's vaguely aware that Ronan is touching himself and Declan feels his mouth water at the thought of it.
Something about the drag of Declan's fingers through his hair encourages Ronan, and he dips a bit lower to slip the whole head of his brother's cock into his mouth. He cradles it there, his tongue dutifully massaging it as Declan pulses thicker and thicker between his lips.
But this is just the beginning. A prelude. After a few moments, he draws back and lets Declan slip out of his mouth.
"Desperate much?" he purrs disdainfully.
Now that there's no pretending he's asleep, Ronan moves less carefully. He draws up until his long body is draped right alongside Declan's, his erection now squeezed against his brother's hip. His hands find Declan's face in the dark, seizing him for a kiss.
"Fuck you," he answers. Then Ronan is on him, kissing him, and Declan pushes into it. Is he desperate? Ashley's been particularly unsatisfying, all the more reason to end the relationship. There's only so long he can handle mediocre sex in a mediocre life.
But now Ronan's cock is pressed against his hip, firm and hot, and Declan reaches down to wrap his hand around it. His thumb slides over the head and he doesn't stroke yet, just kind of holds him and offers more friction than his hip as his tongue meets Ronan's. There's teeth, too: he catches Ronan's bottom lip just to feel the fullness of it between his own.
He doesn't need the light to intimately know every angle of his brother's body. After a moment of just tasting him, Declan's hand finally moves in slow, deliberate strokes.
Ronan answers the touch with a low moan that vibrates around Declan's tongue. As if by reflex, his arms loop around Declan's shoulders, locking them together.
He may have moved confidently earlier, sneaking around in the dark, but this is more familiar: his older brother tending to him while he does nothing other than jerk his hips in clumsy need. This was all they had for years, although Ronan can't distinguish now whether that happened in the waking world or in dreams, and if it was the latter, whose fantasy it was.
"I'm gonna come soon," he warns. Declan's touch is soft, but Ronan is hard as marble, and even these slow strokes coax dewy pre-come out of him. "I've been thinking about this since I saw you earlier. Asshole. I feel like I could shoot ten loads, my balls hurt so much."
"Jesus, your mouth," he sighs as Ronan jerks closer. Declan slides his palm over the slick head and strokes down. "I've always wanted to see how much you could come. Or should I see how long you can wait?"
Declan slows down, stops, and just holds Ronan's cock as he kisses him again. There's always been a thin, blurry line between dreams and reality in their household and maybe this is no different. He gives Ronan a squeeze and licks into his mouth.
He hadn't meant for Declan to actually slow down, and Ronan's cock throbs in protest to the abrupt stop. His hips push a small thrust into Declan's palm, though he doesn't insist any further. It's Declan's right to withhold, just as it's his right to take what he wants.
"I'm always thinking about you."
What a stupid question. His cock throbs again, aching, as if in confirmation. Would he be in this state otherwise?
"You jerked off when you got home, didn't you?" That's how Declan can be so measured about this. "I saw you getting hard when I was messing with you."
I'm always thinking about you. Declan feels himself throb at the confession and he holds back a quiet groan. He squeezes Ronan like a reward, but doesn't offer much more.
"Yeah, I did." Alone, in the shower, thinking of Ronan and thinking that if anything is sending him to Hell, it's this. He loves the little push of Ronan's hip, the quiet desperation as he seeks more now that Declan has threatened to cut him off.
"Didn't you?" He wants to know. He pushes Ronan onto his back and moves down his body until his thick cock is front and center. He runs his tongue up the length, hand still cradling it as his lips close around the head, just for a second. He doesn't want to set Ronan off just yet.
Ronan melts into position, lying back against the mattress like he knows exactly how his brother wants to see him draped, and his body sinks fluidly in accordance. The reward of Declan's mouth around his cock temporarily numbs all thought. His fingers curl into the sheets and his spine arcs as he resists the need to push deeper.
"No," he gasps in answers. "You know I don't do that."
Masturbate. If he can help it. One of them still believes in God, and he does try to be good, in spite of his nature. Anyway, even if he'd indulged, he'd be in just as much peril as he is now. This is Declan's will, to be desired like this.
Masturbating is the least of his sins now and Declan no longer sees the point in refraining. His tongue laps over Ronan's cock again, tempting him to move. Declan finally offers some mercy and bobs his head lower, taking about half of Ronan's length. His senses are absolutely flooded, from the familiar weight and taste of Ronan on his tongue to the scent of his skin to the sound of his breathing above his head. Declan could lose himself here. Has lost himself here.
He slides his mouth back and lets Ronan pop free as his hand takes over again. The flat of his tongue rubs past the head, tasting his precome like he can't quite get enough. Declan looks up along Ronan's body, appreciating the lines and curves of him.
"Do you want to fuck or get fucked, Ronan?" The answer doesn't really matter. Declan just wants to hear his voice again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
AU dream~
Sometimes it's about the freedom to explore, the ability to move undetected, the sheer absence of fear. Other times, like tonight, it's just about the atmosphere. Nights like these, putting too much thought into the details can lead them down a bad path. Declan, especially, has a habit of overthinking, which is exactly what dreaming is supposed to cure. This is the world of wishes that can't be spoken out loud. The dream exists for no reason other than to fulfill them.
They're in Bali, apparently. The room - if it can be called that - is little more than a platform over the water, open on all sides, four wooden posts holding up a thatched roof. In the very center of it is a canopy bed draped with a mosquito net. The moon hangs low in the sky, providing the only light, reflecting in a trembling shimmer off the tranquil sea.
It's pretty nice, actually.
Ronan finds Declan at the very edge of the platform, staring off like he intends to jump. He doesn't, though, because they're not here for a swim. If they were, they'd probably be wearing something other than towels. And they're only wearing towels because Declan prefers to start a dream like he means for it to be something else, even though they both know that if he wanted someone other than Ronan, Ronan wouldn't be here.
Out of respect for the illusion, Ronan says nothing yet. He merely steps up behind his brother, allowing body heat and tension to announce his presence first. Then he rests his hands on Declan's hips.
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Without Ronan's ability to hold the dreams in the shape they want or need, Declan's overthinking would probably ruin it every time.
He doesn't know how long he's been standing there, looking at the moon on the water. He thinks he hears someone - Ronan - approaching down but it isn't until he feels hands on his hips and the warmth of a body behind him that makes it real. Declan slowly drops one hand, resting it over Ronan's.
If he wanted someone other than Ronan, Ronan wouldn't be here.
"Not bad, huh?"
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It's not what Ronan would have invented for himself. A little too travel magazine for his taste. But he likes the quiet, and the water, and the endless expanse of stars overhead.
Of course, none of that is why he's here. It exists, like he does, to offer relief from the tension of the waking world. His fingers slide between Declan's, locking their hands together. His other hand slips around and drifts over the hard ridges of Declan's abs. He can still remember with sharp clarity the first time he became aware of the cut of Declan's body, back when the difference in one year of age meant they were worlds apart. Declan had suddenly looked like a man, and the reaction it stirred in Ronan haunted him for years.
They're both men, now. In fact, Ronan ended up the larger of the pair. But his reaction remains unchanged. When he draws closer and presses flush against his brother, he's sure Declan can feel it stirring already.
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His relationship with God has been contentious for a long time, but he knows this is a sin. It's been his sin for a long time and he doesn't know when it became Ronan's. Is that his fault?
He makes himself breathe deeper and he feels the air catch in his throat when he can feel Ronan's arousal, which sharply stirs his own. Declan reaches back with his other hand to brush his fingers against his brother's hair.
"Ronan," he murmurs in a tone so rarely heard outside these dreams. He doesn't dare.
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This is a fantasy. Sin doesn't exist here. Shame is a forbidden concept. It will do neither of them any good if this slides into nightmare territory.
He bows his head in answer to the fingers combing through his hair, his lips grazing the crook of Declan's neck. As he lays a heated kiss to what he knows is the most sensitive spot along his brother's shoulder, he pushes his hips forward, making it impossible for Declan to ignore what this is doing to him. See? There's nothing wrong with it if Ronan wants it this badly.
His hand dips down, creeping beneath the towel wrapped around Declan's waist, gliding lower and lower until his fingertips brush that burgeoning erection. They coax it along with the lightest touch, and as it grows heavier, Ronan takes it into his palm to begin stroking it in earnest. Not too vigorously, though. The dream will come to an abrupt end when Declan climaxes, and though there are some nights he prefers to rush through this, tonight isn't one of them.
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Declan's fingers tighten in Ronan's hair and he slides is other arm back around his brother, pulling him closer until he can feel the evidence of Ronan's desire against him. That makes it better. Ronan wants it; Declan isn't taking anything.
The tension leaves him in heavy exhale as Ronan coaxes him to full arousal. It doesn't take much. There is some part of Declan that is always wanting. The part that isn't really allowed to exist day to day. He drops his arm in favor of getting it between them so he can pull Ronan's towel loose. His fingers curl around Ronan's cock, his pace slower than Ronan's. Sometimes he likes dragging it out. Seeing Ronan's frustration is worth it.
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Ronan moans when the touch is reciprocated. His impatience is immediate, his hips jerking to chase the tease of Declan's fingers. This is what it's really about, of course: getting Ronan to want Declan just as much as he himself is wanted. For once.
Well, it's working. He practically drapes himself on Declan, rocking up against him in a simulated fuck that matches the laziness of his stroking. Declan may control the speed, but Ronan controls the intensity. He thrusts between Declan's hand and the cleft of his ass, impossibly hard already.
"I promise I won't come inside you," he mumbles, as if that's the problem here. But he's pretty sure that's been the cause of hesitation before. Declan's never said anything, of course. It's just, considering how often they've done this, Ronan's pretty sure his brother has woken up from a dream at least once and discovered that he'd brought back the evidence of their sin inside him.
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God.
He doesn't need to think of that. Or the way that Ronan can't move after dreaming.
"There's a bed," he says with quietly strained amusement. His fingers tighten the next time Ronan thrusts closer.
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“Yes,” he whispers, answering the question Declan doesn’t ask. “But I take it with me on purpose.” Whether that’s the truth or the fiction of the dream - the confession Declan wants to hear - can only be investigated in the waking world, and Declan probably never will.
It should be uncomfortable, the way Ronan keeps pumping Declan’s cock while he’s crushed between the mattress and Ronan’s body, but it’s a dream, so the angle works somehow.
“Once I even tasted it.” That’s the truth, actually, and Ronan will be mortified later for his dream self’s confession of it. “I wonder if you really taste like that.”
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The words die on his lips at Ronan's whispered confession. Declan closes his eyes and he can see it, and then Ronan makes it worse with filthy detail. "Oh, fuck," he whispers; unbidden, his hips buck forward so he can seek friction against the bed and to thrust harder between Ronan's fingers. For a terrible moment all he can think about is finding Ronan still asleep, or maybe just paralyzed from dreaming. Pushing his thighs apart to find his come there, and licking the evidence away.
It's a dream. Would Ronan see the sudden, sharp fantasy, too?
Declan squeezes his cock and then lets go to get his hands under him. He pushes away the intrusive thought of Ronan finding out what he tastes like while they're both awake. No, no. Yes.
"Ronan." He tries to sound like he's scolding but it comes out a moan instead. Declan rocks back to feel the slide of Ronan's cock between his cheeks.
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Now the morning light streams in around the cracks of the blackout curtains in Ronan’s bedroom, just enough to illuminate the shape of him but not the details. From where Declan stands - nude, sticky with his own semen, still hard even in the wake of his orgasm - it’s impossible to see for certain what state Ronan is in.
Unmoving. That much is clear. Either paralyzed or sleeping. But most of his body is hidden beneath a blanket. His shoulders are bare, his throat exposed, his head tossed carelessly to one side, and his headphones still pumping noisy electronica into his ears.
Every last detail is as real as life. Like any other time Declan has walked into his little brother’s room to check on him or drag him out of bed. The difference is in Declan himself, having finally given in to evil impulse.
Ronan is in no position to invite or rebuke.
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The dream shifts and then he's standing there like he's always been standing there. Declan's heart thunders in his chest as he takes in the sight of Ronan, sprawled and--sleeping? His breathing is even, but that doesn't mean he's out. Declan knows that. He's been watching Ronan sleep for years.
He wets his lips and looks around. He grabs a pair of boxers off the floor - his? doesn't matter - and pulls them on like that might do anything to hide his arousal as he eases down onto the bed. He can hear the music thumping faintly and his gaze drifts from Ronan's face to his throat, his bare shoulders. One hand grips the blanket to draw it down, uncovering his prone brother inch by inch.
His cock is aching hard. He needs to know. Declan stops when the blanket is just covering Ronan's hips, not a shred of fabric in sight. He dives into his sin and pulls the blanket away; his eyes dart down to Ronan's beautiful cock and lower to his thighs. It's dark enough that he can't quite tell, and so he dares to slide his fingers between Ronan's thighs.
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memory glitch dream following swear-in
They were talking about your body. Gansey found it.
You're standing now in the door to your stark, unlived-in room and they're turning, staring. Gansey. Adam. Ronan.
Ronan looks tense as he says, "Your room was empty. I just looked in it," and you say, wearily, "I told you. I told everyone."
You did. You said it so many times. But they never really listened. They glossed over it like you were kidding around. Or forgot, maybe. Like they forgot all the other little details that they should have questioned before now. Thoughts that slid from their minds before they were ever aware of them. Until they found your body.
"He's dead," Gansey says. "You're really dead, aren't you?"
"I told you," you say. You want them to understand. You want them to hear you, for once.
Gansey is acting like this is a thing he can solve and Ronan is deflecting, covering his hurt, and Adam is thinking dead thing. They're asking questions: "How did you die?" and "Who killed you?" and it's too much. You can't. You can't talk about this. You're turning away, hunching inward, making yourself less.
You feel less of yourself now that your bones aren't on the line. Unmoored. You can't hold together. Chainsaw screeches and that pulls you back enough to mumble an excuse before-
-you're gone.
it's a dream don't @ me
Even in the midnight darkness of the room, it probably isn't difficult to guess who's there. Declan has years' worth of knowledge about Ronan's body. Enough to conjure up the size of him, the pressure of weight shifting on the mattress, the scent of hickory smoke and boxwood and the whiskey that was on his breath earlier tonight.
That breath skirts across Declan's skin along with grazing lips that can't seem to decide where to settle, traveling from the crook of his neck to his sternum to his nipple. Ronan is trying not to wake him, maybe. He peels the sheets away slowly as he descends, silent as he can be.
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Warm lips drift across his bare skin, the touch light enough to be a secret. Arousal stirs as Ronan's breath teases over his stomach; his breath catches as the sheets slide away in a whisper. Declan doesn't move, not yet, even as his fingers ache to touch Ronan's hair. Where is his brother going? And what will he do when he gets there?
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Ronan reaches between his legs, taking his own cock in hand to give it a couple of strokes for relief. He was hard before he got here, and now that he's indulging, he's unbearably turned on. His left hand, in the meantime, steadies Declan's cock at the base so that his tongue can run slick circles around the head.
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Declan lets his hands move, one pushing into Ronan's hair to hold it back: he doesn't want to miss this sight. Looking just makes his cock throb against Ronan's hand as his brother's slick lips close around the head. Declan manages to stay still, at least, keeping himself from chasing the perfect heat of Ronan's mouth.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't think he needs to. Ronan is here. He's vaguely aware that Ronan is touching himself and Declan feels his mouth water at the thought of it.
"Ronan."
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But this is just the beginning. A prelude. After a few moments, he draws back and lets Declan slip out of his mouth.
"Desperate much?" he purrs disdainfully.
Now that there's no pretending he's asleep, Ronan moves less carefully. He draws up until his long body is draped right alongside Declan's, his erection now squeezed against his brother's hip. His hands find Declan's face in the dark, seizing him for a kiss.
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But now Ronan's cock is pressed against his hip, firm and hot, and Declan reaches down to wrap his hand around it. His thumb slides over the head and he doesn't stroke yet, just kind of holds him and offers more friction than his hip as his tongue meets Ronan's. There's teeth, too: he catches Ronan's bottom lip just to feel the fullness of it between his own.
He doesn't need the light to intimately know every angle of his brother's body. After a moment of just tasting him, Declan's hand finally moves in slow, deliberate strokes.
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He may have moved confidently earlier, sneaking around in the dark, but this is more familiar: his older brother tending to him while he does nothing other than jerk his hips in clumsy need. This was all they had for years, although Ronan can't distinguish now whether that happened in the waking world or in dreams, and if it was the latter, whose fantasy it was.
"I'm gonna come soon," he warns. Declan's touch is soft, but Ronan is hard as marble, and even these slow strokes coax dewy pre-come out of him. "I've been thinking about this since I saw you earlier. Asshole. I feel like I could shoot ten loads, my balls hurt so much."
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Declan slows down, stops, and just holds Ronan's cock as he kisses him again. There's always been a thin, blurry line between dreams and reality in their household and maybe this is no different. He gives Ronan a squeeze and licks into his mouth.
"You been thinking about me?"
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"I'm always thinking about you."
What a stupid question. His cock throbs again, aching, as if in confirmation. Would he be in this state otherwise?
"You jerked off when you got home, didn't you?" That's how Declan can be so measured about this. "I saw you getting hard when I was messing with you."
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"Yeah, I did." Alone, in the shower, thinking of Ronan and thinking that if anything is sending him to Hell, it's this. He loves the little push of Ronan's hip, the quiet desperation as he seeks more now that Declan has threatened to cut him off.
"Didn't you?" He wants to know. He pushes Ronan onto his back and moves down his body until his thick cock is front and center. He runs his tongue up the length, hand still cradling it as his lips close around the head, just for a second. He doesn't want to set Ronan off just yet.
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"No," he gasps in answers. "You know I don't do that."
Masturbate. If he can help it. One of them still believes in God, and he does try to be good, in spite of his nature. Anyway, even if he'd indulged, he'd be in just as much peril as he is now. This is Declan's will, to be desired like this.
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He slides his mouth back and lets Ronan pop free as his hand takes over again. The flat of his tongue rubs past the head, tasting his precome like he can't quite get enough. Declan looks up along Ronan's body, appreciating the lines and curves of him.
"Do you want to fuck or get fucked, Ronan?" The answer doesn't really matter. Declan just wants to hear his voice again.
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