Ronan's heart pounds faster and faster as Declan descends on him, so loud he's sure his brother can hear it. It takes effort not to recoil when he feels that first brush, a thousand doubts racing through his mind. If there's ever going to be a moment to object, it's now, while he has something of himself left to save. But the moment passes and Ronan says nothing.
And then it's happening.
His breath hitches as he Declan press up, press in. Ronan doesn't think he's trying to resist, but his body does it anyway, clenching tight to fend off the invasion. He inhales. He exhales. He wills himself to relax, and only then does he start to give.
Declan is miraculously patient. The push is slow and smooth, and now that he's letting it happen, Ronan realizes it's even softer than the fingers Declan had used to stretch him. He'd marveled earlier at the way Declan's cock felt like it belonged in his mouth, but as his body begins to swallow its slick bulb, he amends the revelation: Declan's cock feels like it belongs in him.
Ronan tucks his face into the crook of Declan's neck, seeking... something. Safety? Comfort? Protection from the very thing that Declan's doing to him? "Deeper," he orders, his voice shaking.
When he feels that early resistance, Declan almost calls it off. But he can hear Ronan breathing, and then he feels him give. As Ronan leans into him, head against his neck, Declan slides his arms beneath him, braced behind his shoulders with one hand cradling the back of Ronan's head. Whatever comfort he has to give, it's Ronan's.
The trembling command draws a sharp breath from him, and even with it, Declan moves slowly. He sinks in, inch by inch, and feels Ronan's body yield to him.
"Oh, God," he whispers, his own voice tremulous. But it isn't the shivering plea of a sinner; it's the awed gratitude after the flood has receded, after some undeserved gift has been given. Declan presses his nose into Ronan's hair and holds him tight as their bodies finally meet.
Ronan had expected pain. Agony, actually, given all the damning talk he's heard about sodomy over the years. But either the cautionary tales have been greatly exaggerated or Declan is truly that gentle. Where he'd expected strain to give way to stabbing, the punishment never comes. Instead, it only gets easier as Declan slides deeper. Ronan's body seems to unfold, welcoming his brother's passage.
God must not be watching.
When their bodies come to lie flush against one another, Ronan realizes that Declan is completely buried in him. And while it doesn't hurt, the sensation is intense to the point of shattering. Ronan's throat feels tight, the way it does when he's fighting back tears. He's never felt so vulnerable. In fact, he's pretty sure he never understood what vulnerability meant until now.
Does that mean he should beg for this to stop? Or does everyone feel like this the first time? When his brother says his name, it sounds like he means love. Is there anything in this embrace that could possibly harm him?
Ronan realizes he hasn't moved, hasn't breathed. When he finally exhales, a moan shudders out of him, a surprise even to him. The relief of it.
Declan doesn't expose himself. He doesn't let anyone in, just gives them the illusion of intimacy. He's good at it. But he feels raw now, utterly ripped open and laid bare. Whatever comes after this, Ronan will always know.
His breath catches and he lifts his head enough to see Ronan's face. He didn't realize he'd been waiting for something until it happens: Ronan moans and a rush of relief sweeps through him. Thank God. He strokes his fingers back through Ronan's hair. There's no going back now. He's done this - they've done this.
He adjusts his position and rocks his hips back just enough for a gentle thrust. Deep, slow. Testing. Then again, and again, never drawing back far. Not yet. But it feels good, every lazy slide in and then out again.
"Still okay?" he asks on a shivering breath. He's still holding back.
Ronan wishes Declan wouldn't look at him. He wants to stay hidden against his brother's throat, but instead they lock eyes. He can feel the redness of his face, the fever of shame burning him, and he doesn't want Declan to take the blame for his sickness. It isn't Declan's fault that Ronan is the way that he is. Everyone in the world is driven to possess him. Only Declan has the added curse of sharing his bloodline, and it's their father who's responsible for that.
He means to answer with a word, but the next thrust pushes a gasp out of him instead. He can feel Declan's pulse inside his body, making it impossible to ignore his presence, to think of anything else. In spite of Declan's restraint, Ronan feels like he's being rearranged every time his brother slides deep. He has no time to process the sensation before it's happening again, again, again.
He forces himself to hold Declan's gaze. If he can't pretend this isn't happening, then he has to understand everything that is. His older brother is fucking him. And the pressure that every thrust builds up in him is his own pleasure in answer to it. His older brother is fucking him, and he's enjoying it. He's enjoying it so much that it feels like his world would end if they stopped now.
Declan is enjoying it and Ronan is begging for more. His shoulders shake as he pushes himself up; it gives Ronan more room to breathe - whether he wants it or not - and it gives Declan more room to move. His hand slides down Ronan's side to his thigh, and the next time he rocks forward, he guides it up against his him.
It isn't long before the roll of his hips is quicker, sharper. Declan gets lost in the rhythm and drops his head, momentarily overwhelmed but the visceral need driving him on. His hands move again, one finding Ronan's to lace their fingers together, weight leaning into it to pin Ronan's hand to the bed. The other drifts between them to circle his brother's cock; he doesn't really stroke, just offers extra friction as they move together. Ronan is slick with precome and Declan is dizzy with the knowledge of his desire. Their mutual, taboo desire. And he can't help the words that fall out of his mouth:
"You feel so good." He's already breathless and he feels like he might choke on his pulse. "Jesus, Ronan, you feel good."
Edited (thumb hit touch pad oops) 2020-01-27 05:44 (UTC)
Does he? Ronan doesn’t know what that means, what sets him apart from any other person Declan has thrust himself into, why he is the one his brother chose for this.
He can feel Declan’s excitement building, though. He feels it through his whole body, quaking with every jerk of Declan’s hips. It’s not violent, but it’s increasingly reckless, like something that was hidden inside his brother is clawing its way out of him and in to Ronan. Or like there’s something inside Ronan and Declan is desperately chasing it, trying to force it out of him. It’s starting to feel like Declan wants to split right through him.
He’s feeling so much inside him that his legs have gone numb in comparison, an odd paralysis that’s turning him into little more than a vessel for Declan’s need. He leaves all of it in Declan’s control, lying beneath him and allowing his limbs to be repositioned however Declan pleases. Even the hand at his cock feels like it’s more for Declan’s benefit than his own. To ease the guilt, maybe. As long as Ronan stays hard, it means he likes it, and that means Declan can keep doing it.
Ronan realizes he’s making a sound - a gasping, whimpering sound - and he doesn’t know how long he’s been making it.
Ronan's voice echoes through his head. It doesn't sound like pain and Declan prays that it isn't.
Even in dreams, he can't last forever. Maybe especially not in one that feels nearly real. When Declan feels the sharp, delicious peak his mind goes blank. Does he push deep or pull out? Is one more damning than the other? Ronan has already swallowed him, maybe it makes no difference now. A wordless moan tears from him when he finally comes; he doesn't pull out. Instead he rides the rush of his momentum, the urgent insistence that he keep moving, keep doing something, until he has nothing left.
He stays where he is. Declan bows his head to touch his brow to Ronan's shoulder, eyes closed as relief and a different kind of tension war inside him. He lets go of Ronan's dick so he can touch his face, fingers surprisingly steady as they stroke down his cheek and his neck. Declan can't bring himself to open his eyes just yet. What if all he sees is reproach? Or something worse? He relaxes his grip on Ronan's hand, tries to shift his weight so he isn't pinning it down so completely.
All he can hear is their ragged breathing and the thud of someone's heart - his or Ronan's. Maybe both thundering away in time.
It isn’t pain. It’s excruciating pleasure. It’s the kind of heat that makes him feel like he’s committed every imaginable sin and fallen straight into Hell. Declan has thrown him into a wicked rapture and Ronan loses himself in it.
And then he bursts. Not Ronan, but Declan. He thrusts deep and Ronan feels the throbbing rush of his brother’s release filling him with seed. And Declan doesn’t stop. He keeps pumping and pumping, and Ronan feels the overflow spilling from him, and he wonders if this loop will just keep going. Will he wake now to find his brother licking him clean, only to dirty him again? And again? Has he only ever existed for this purpose?
Declan’s touch draws him back, tender hands caressing his face, reassuring and desperate for his reassurance in turn. It doesn’t surprise him when he finds that Declan can’t look at him now. He knew that’d be the price.
Ronan reaches for him, thumbs sliding along his jaw, fingers lacing at his nape. He lifts up just enough to brush a kiss to his brother’s lips. “Stay there,” Ronan tells him, with a shift of his hips to ensure Declan doesn’t try to pull out of him. “I don’t want you to go.”
But it isn't terribly long before Declan finds the courage to open his eyes. Ronan's hands and lips are gentle; Declan meets his brother's gaze.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs. Declan brushes a kiss to the bridge of Ronan's nose, then his lips. "You have me."
He says it without reservation and with a tenderness he so very rarely expresses. The weight of Ronan's hands against the back of his neck is a comfort, but as he shifts his position, his attention is drawn back to his brother's cock still trapped between their bodies.
"What do you want?" he asks quietly, voice low and warm as he brushes a hand down Ronan's chest and stomach. He rubs his palm over the slick head of Ronan's erection, then strokes down the length.
Ronan shivers with that touch, a soft hiss rushing past his lips. What does he want? He wants it all. There's been no part of this he hasn't wanted so badly it feels like his body and soul are unraveling with it.
What he thinks Declan means is: Why haven't you come yet? And the answer to that is one he can't give, because speaking it will cast a judgment on Declan that he doesn't want to burden him with. The answer is that he doesn't want to be the kind of sinner who climaxes at his brother's touch, even if he is the kind of person who will let his brother take him over and over, in every way he pleases.
If Ronan gives in, all hope is lost. They'll never be able to resist this again. It will become what they do to each other, what they mean to each other.
"I..."
His hips rock slowly in pursuit of Declan's touch, and as he moves, he can feel the persistent fullness of his brother inside him. It draws a sigh out of him.
His eyebrows draw together and his hand stills. Even with every sigh and shift, every moan and tremble, Ronan will not ask for what Declan has taken. It hasn't been one-sided, has it? The little rock beneath him, Ronan moving between his hand and his cock--is he wicked for wanting to see Ronan satisfied?
He is wicked for wanting his brother at all.
"Ronan--" But he doesn't know what to say. How profane would it to tell him that he loves him? He brushes his fingers against Ronan's hair. This is so far from the detached fantasies they've played out before. This isn't Bali, it's Ronan's bed. This isn't effortless teasing and banter, this is--intimate.
I have everything I want.
What has he done? Why did he let the dream change? Why, why--
Don't overthink it.
Declan closes his eyes for a moment. The last thing he wants is for this to get dark, to invite anything truly nightmarish. So he takes a few breaths to settle his swirling anxieties as his thumb brushes along Ronan's temple.
"Don't," Ronan pleads quietly. Declan may be capable of hiding every single one of his feelings when it comes to the world outside, but between them, Ronan experiences it all. "Don't regret it now. I'm not going to be sorry I gave you what you wanted, so you shouldn't be sorry, either."
It changes nothing about the fact that this happened. No part of Declan's guilt can erase the urges that drove him to this. If Ronan is going to be the place where Declan takes these impulses, he can't also be the one to absolve him. That's asking the impossible.
He can see that Declan's going to keep beating himself up about it until he understands why his brother hasn't gotten the same satisfaction, though, so Ronan continues, "It's your wet dream. It always is. I've never come a single time, any time we've dreamt together, because I'm just a part of you right now. And usually you make a version of me who does what you want, but today you just asked for... me."
Does that make sense? It probably doesn't. No one ever really understands what it means to be one thing and at the same time everything.
"If you want me to really feel it, you'd have to make it happen out there."
Ronan's candor helps; Declan's been living around dreams his entire life, and it isn't impossible for him to grasp what his brother describes. He won't ever know what it's like from Ronan's side and it's an easy thing to forget in the midst of it all. It was easy to forget this is still a dream at all, that it's Declan's dream. A faint smile tugs his mouth.
"I don't regret asking for just you," he murmurs. It isn't the fantasy of Ronan and it isn't his power that Declan loves. It's him. Just him. Maybe that will make it worse in the end, but it's out there now.
He finally releases Ronan's erection so both hands can hold his head. Declan kisses him. Could he do this out there? No. He never reaches for what he wants when he's awake, too determined to protect what family he has left, and Ronan deserves to give himself to whoever he wants. Declan will love him all the same.
Ronan doesn't want to find out what this would do to them if they made it their reality, but given Declan's intention in bringing them here, he suspects it would be... exactly like this. He would feel exactly this fragile, this frightened, this ashamed. The truth is, even if Declan did pursue it, he doesn't think he could deliver the reaction his brother wants from him.
But he also wouldn't put a stop to it. He wouldn't pull away, or even allow Declan to sulk off in humiliation. He would still give all of himself to his brother, because he does believe that Declan loves him, and because they're all they have.
Maybe time would make him less afraid. Maybe Declan could coax him to release.
There's no sense in trying to figure it out here. Don't think, he reminds himself. He accepts Declan's kiss, allowing himself to return it with a slow and sensual caress of his lips.
Then he murmurs, "If you did..."
Should he do this? A dream, giving away the secrets to accessing his true self, when he can't be sure they're actually the same.
"If you did... want to. For real. Start slower. Do it to me in my sleep."
"In your sleep..." he echoes, watching Ronan's face as he does. He tries to keep the imagine of it at bay; Declan knows very intimately what Ronan looks like when he's sleeping, when he's dreaming. He knows what he looks like the moment the dreaming starts. As a boy he'd try to wake his brother up, try to keep him from manifesting something frightening or something Niall would have to take away or something that could hurt them, even if Ronan didn't mean for it to. Sometimes he managed; sometimes he missed.
Now he just stands watch while Ronan works, either at Ronan's behest or because they're somewhere that's not ideal.
If, Ronan says, as if it were even an option. If, as if it were entirely up to Declan.
Ronan's gaze lingers on Declan's lips before lifting to meet his eyes again. Can he trust his own words? He's a fantasy instructing Declan on how to play out a fantasy. His priority isn't virtue or safety. It's granting a wish.
He rocks his hips forward, reminding himself and Declan both that he remains buried deep. It may not be right, but it is good, the physical evidence of his brother's devotion to him. Ronan has been so lonely for so long, untouched by anyone except in violence. And all the while, Declan has been waiting for his chance to reach out.
"I know you wanna take care of me," Ronan says, guiding Declan's hand back to his cock. Just because Ronan can't really come for him here doesn't mean he has to stop fondling. "What I don't know won't hurt me."
Declan's hand curls around Ronan's erection to resume steady stroking. Ronan feels good against his hand; what would it feel like to really touch him? His little brother is giving him a road map, but could he bring himself to follow it? What lays at the end?
Right this second, it doesn't matter. Ronan rocks against him, reminding them both of how close they are, how good Ronan feels around him. It is, it's good and if this is the last time he feels it, he wants to remember. Ronan is one of the only people that's ever been this close to him, that's known him this intimately. The only person to have seen even a flicker of his fantasies and desires.
"Always."
Keeping things from Ronan, either by omission or flat out lying, has been a part of his life for a long time. What he doesn't know can hurt him. Declan kisses Ronan.
Ronan's lips part for that kiss, inviting Declan to savor him. Mouth dragging slowly against mouth, tongue caressing tongue, breathing the other's breath. Declan has claimed him, fed him, filled him. Whether or not Declan chooses to sneak into his room this morning, Ronan will wake with the taste of his brother on his tongue.
His reality is arbitrary. It's Declan's reality that Ronan worries about.
Rolling forward again, he thrusts into his brother's hand and begins to fuck it. The jerking of his hips is a small and subtle movement, but each pump has him tightening around Declan inside him, urging him back to arousal.
Ronan breaks the kiss to warn him, "You'll wake up soon." He pushes forward, taking Declan as deep as he can. "Give me a little more to bring back with me."
A shiver rolls through him when Ronan makes his plea. It takes nothing to start moving again, to meet the rock of Ronan's hips. He knows, he knows, that Ronan will almost certainly wake up with Declan's come inside him and knowing that makes everything in him ache. What would it be like to slip into Ronan's room while he's still asleep, just like this, outside of a dream?
Christ.
He thinks of the taste on his tongue and the way Ronan's cock felt filling his mouth. Things he wants to take with him when he wakes because this may be the end of all of it. Declan moves with more purpose, chasing the edge of need that went quiet while they lay together. He's already on the edge; he leans down to kiss Ronan again, muffling his own moan when he feels that sharp, familiar pleasure.
This can't possibly be the end of it all. Declan's urges won't magically disappear with the morning light. The dreams will continue with or without Ronan's assistance. And even if Ronan barely qualifies as a person, he will always be Declan's brother.
He sees the fantasies flashing through Declan's mind, equal parts memory and wish. For him, most of the details will fade within an hour, rinsed off in the shower along with the rest of his mess. It's Ronan who will live with the experience as vividly as if Declan had crept into his room and pushed inside him again and again. If Declan hopes to spare him somehow in keeping away, it's already too late.
Ronan swallows his brother's moans with a reassuring kiss. In every plunge, he can feel Declan's pleasure building as if it's his own. "Yes," Ronan gasps against his lips, in answer to the questions that Declan doesn't speak out loud. He's so close, even if it's impossible to join his brother in orgasm here. "Go as soon as you wake up. Put your mouth on me and it'll be enough. I'm so ready to come for you right now. I'm saving every drop for you. God, Declan..."
His brother's pleading voice fills his head, the words wrapping around him like a vice. It'll be enough. He trembles on top of Ronan and drags him into another kiss, and another, swallowing the sound of him and committing his lips to memory. He doesn't realize that he's still whispering Ronan's name between kisses and he's not sure if he's begging, praising, promising, or praying. It doesn't matter.
Declan lets go of Ronan's cock so he can cradle his face. His thumbs sweep across the blush on Ronan's cheeks and he feels light-headed. Is this what the edge of waking feels like? He doesn't want to give this up.
Ronan mirrors the gesture, his thumbs caressing Declan's cheeks, palms cradling him close. He drinks down the love and desire his brother pours into every gasped syllable of his name, understanding himself as Declan's quest, his deity. He accepts this worshipful supplication and answers it by granting the wish Declan wants to turn into reality.
His thighs hug Declan's hips and everything inside him tightens to draw out the most pleasure he can offer his brother in these final moments. He'd begged for Declan to fill him a moment ago, and his body begs for it, too.
"You don't have to give up anything," Ronan tells him in the seconds before they break. "It's there for the taking."
It's the last thing Declan really hears. He gasps sharply and he feels like he's falling.
Waking is a slower process. Declan opens his eyes and it takes him a minute to remember where he is. His bedroom, his bed, in their little safe house. He sits up slowly and pushes his fingers through his tousled curls. What a fucking dream--
The dream.
The groggy feeling fades faster as his heart beat jumps. Declan slides out of his bed and, with some embarrassment, sheds the pajama bottoms he'd been wearing: he had a wet dream and the evidence is on his hip and the fabric. He pulls on a different pair before he leaves his room. The house is still pre-dawn dark, he didn't think to check his phone for the time.
It feels like deja vu as he follows his feet to Ronan's room. The door is cracked, easy to push open. The blackout curtains are drawn, but there's a sliver of pale light cutting across Ronan's bed.
It isn't exactly like the dream. Realistic as it had been, mundane reality has a sharpness to it that even the most detailed dream can't replicate. The truth of a dream is untethered while the truth of reality is weighted by gravity. Not entirely fixed, but captured nonetheless.
Where the dream - for all its depravity - had been tempered by Declan's own shame and misgivings about his desire, this reality is raw and uncensored. Ronan isn't wrapped like a present to be slowly revealed. He's sprawled out on the bed like he's been carelessly discarded there, every inch of him uncovered, with only the shadows to grant him some dignity.
And shadows aren't enough to conceal the thing that was promised to Declan by the dream. His skin is so white, even this dim light outlines his form against the dark. He's hard as marble, gleaming with the smear of Declan's sin like it's a polish that's been painted down his thighs - not a secret to be discovered by probing fingers, but everywhere. Undeniable.
There are no headphones to silence the sound of his brother's approach this time, either. But it doesn't matter. Never did. As Declan's subconscious made very clear to him, it's here for the taking. For at least the next few minutes, Ronan can do nothing.
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And then it's happening.
His breath hitches as he Declan press up, press in. Ronan doesn't think he's trying to resist, but his body does it anyway, clenching tight to fend off the invasion. He inhales. He exhales. He wills himself to relax, and only then does he start to give.
Declan is miraculously patient. The push is slow and smooth, and now that he's letting it happen, Ronan realizes it's even softer than the fingers Declan had used to stretch him. He'd marveled earlier at the way Declan's cock felt like it belonged in his mouth, but as his body begins to swallow its slick bulb, he amends the revelation: Declan's cock feels like it belongs in him.
Ronan tucks his face into the crook of Declan's neck, seeking... something. Safety? Comfort? Protection from the very thing that Declan's doing to him? "Deeper," he orders, his voice shaking.
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The trembling command draws a sharp breath from him, and even with it, Declan moves slowly. He sinks in, inch by inch, and feels Ronan's body yield to him.
"Oh, God," he whispers, his own voice tremulous. But it isn't the shivering plea of a sinner; it's the awed gratitude after the flood has receded, after some undeserved gift has been given. Declan presses his nose into Ronan's hair and holds him tight as their bodies finally meet.
"Ronan."
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God must not be watching.
When their bodies come to lie flush against one another, Ronan realizes that Declan is completely buried in him. And while it doesn't hurt, the sensation is intense to the point of shattering. Ronan's throat feels tight, the way it does when he's fighting back tears. He's never felt so vulnerable. In fact, he's pretty sure he never understood what vulnerability meant until now.
Does that mean he should beg for this to stop? Or does everyone feel like this the first time? When his brother says his name, it sounds like he means love. Is there anything in this embrace that could possibly harm him?
Ronan realizes he hasn't moved, hasn't breathed. When he finally exhales, a moan shudders out of him, a surprise even to him. The relief of it.
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His breath catches and he lifts his head enough to see Ronan's face. He didn't realize he'd been waiting for something until it happens: Ronan moans and a rush of relief sweeps through him. Thank God. He strokes his fingers back through Ronan's hair. There's no going back now. He's done this - they've done this.
He adjusts his position and rocks his hips back just enough for a gentle thrust. Deep, slow. Testing. Then again, and again, never drawing back far. Not yet. But it feels good, every lazy slide in and then out again.
"Still okay?" he asks on a shivering breath. He's still holding back.
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He means to answer with a word, but the next thrust pushes a gasp out of him instead. He can feel Declan's pulse inside his body, making it impossible to ignore his presence, to think of anything else. In spite of Declan's restraint, Ronan feels like he's being rearranged every time his brother slides deep. He has no time to process the sensation before it's happening again, again, again.
He forces himself to hold Declan's gaze. If he can't pretend this isn't happening, then he has to understand everything that is. His older brother is fucking him. And the pressure that every thrust builds up in him is his own pleasure in answer to it. His older brother is fucking him, and he's enjoying it. He's enjoying it so much that it feels like his world would end if they stopped now.
So he begs, "Don't stop."
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It isn't long before the roll of his hips is quicker, sharper. Declan gets lost in the rhythm and drops his head, momentarily overwhelmed but the visceral need driving him on. His hands move again, one finding Ronan's to lace their fingers together, weight leaning into it to pin Ronan's hand to the bed. The other drifts between them to circle his brother's cock; he doesn't really stroke, just offers extra friction as they move together. Ronan is slick with precome and Declan is dizzy with the knowledge of his desire. Their mutual, taboo desire. And he can't help the words that fall out of his mouth:
"You feel so good." He's already breathless and he feels like he might choke on his pulse. "Jesus, Ronan, you feel good."
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He can feel Declan’s excitement building, though. He feels it through his whole body, quaking with every jerk of Declan’s hips. It’s not violent, but it’s increasingly reckless, like something that was hidden inside his brother is clawing its way out of him and in to Ronan. Or like there’s something inside Ronan and Declan is desperately chasing it, trying to force it out of him. It’s starting to feel like Declan wants to split right through him.
He’s feeling so much inside him that his legs have gone numb in comparison, an odd paralysis that’s turning him into little more than a vessel for Declan’s need. He leaves all of it in Declan’s control, lying beneath him and allowing his limbs to be repositioned however Declan pleases. Even the hand at his cock feels like it’s more for Declan’s benefit than his own. To ease the guilt, maybe. As long as Ronan stays hard, it means he likes it, and that means Declan can keep doing it.
Ronan realizes he’s making a sound - a gasping, whimpering sound - and he doesn’t know how long he’s been making it.
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Even in dreams, he can't last forever. Maybe especially not in one that feels nearly real. When Declan feels the sharp, delicious peak his mind goes blank. Does he push deep or pull out? Is one more damning than the other? Ronan has already swallowed him, maybe it makes no difference now. A wordless moan tears from him when he finally comes; he doesn't pull out. Instead he rides the rush of his momentum, the urgent insistence that he keep moving, keep doing something, until he has nothing left.
He stays where he is. Declan bows his head to touch his brow to Ronan's shoulder, eyes closed as relief and a different kind of tension war inside him. He lets go of Ronan's dick so he can touch his face, fingers surprisingly steady as they stroke down his cheek and his neck. Declan can't bring himself to open his eyes just yet. What if all he sees is reproach? Or something worse? He relaxes his grip on Ronan's hand, tries to shift his weight so he isn't pinning it down so completely.
All he can hear is their ragged breathing and the thud of someone's heart - his or Ronan's. Maybe both thundering away in time.
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And then he bursts. Not Ronan, but Declan. He thrusts deep and Ronan feels the throbbing rush of his brother’s release filling him with seed. And Declan doesn’t stop. He keeps pumping and pumping, and Ronan feels the overflow spilling from him, and he wonders if this loop will just keep going. Will he wake now to find his brother licking him clean, only to dirty him again? And again? Has he only ever existed for this purpose?
Declan’s touch draws him back, tender hands caressing his face, reassuring and desperate for his reassurance in turn. It doesn’t surprise him when he finds that Declan can’t look at him now. He knew that’d be the price.
Ronan reaches for him, thumbs sliding along his jaw, fingers lacing at his nape. He lifts up just enough to brush a kiss to his brother’s lips. “Stay there,” Ronan tells him, with a shift of his hips to ensure Declan doesn’t try to pull out of him. “I don’t want you to go.”
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"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs. Declan brushes a kiss to the bridge of Ronan's nose, then his lips. "You have me."
He says it without reservation and with a tenderness he so very rarely expresses. The weight of Ronan's hands against the back of his neck is a comfort, but as he shifts his position, his attention is drawn back to his brother's cock still trapped between their bodies.
"What do you want?" he asks quietly, voice low and warm as he brushes a hand down Ronan's chest and stomach. He rubs his palm over the slick head of Ronan's erection, then strokes down the length.
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What he thinks Declan means is: Why haven't you come yet? And the answer to that is one he can't give, because speaking it will cast a judgment on Declan that he doesn't want to burden him with. The answer is that he doesn't want to be the kind of sinner who climaxes at his brother's touch, even if he is the kind of person who will let his brother take him over and over, in every way he pleases.
If Ronan gives in, all hope is lost. They'll never be able to resist this again. It will become what they do to each other, what they mean to each other.
"I..."
His hips rock slowly in pursuit of Declan's touch, and as he moves, he can feel the persistent fullness of his brother inside him. It draws a sigh out of him.
"I have everything I want."
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He is wicked for wanting his brother at all.
"Ronan--" But he doesn't know what to say. How profane would it to tell him that he loves him? He brushes his fingers against Ronan's hair. This is so far from the detached fantasies they've played out before. This isn't Bali, it's Ronan's bed. This isn't effortless teasing and banter, this is--intimate.
I have everything I want.
What has he done? Why did he let the dream change? Why, why--
Don't overthink it.
Declan closes his eyes for a moment. The last thing he wants is for this to get dark, to invite anything truly nightmarish. So he takes a few breaths to settle his swirling anxieties as his thumb brushes along Ronan's temple.
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It changes nothing about the fact that this happened. No part of Declan's guilt can erase the urges that drove him to this. If Ronan is going to be the place where Declan takes these impulses, he can't also be the one to absolve him. That's asking the impossible.
He can see that Declan's going to keep beating himself up about it until he understands why his brother hasn't gotten the same satisfaction, though, so Ronan continues, "It's your wet dream. It always is. I've never come a single time, any time we've dreamt together, because I'm just a part of you right now. And usually you make a version of me who does what you want, but today you just asked for... me."
Does that make sense? It probably doesn't. No one ever really understands what it means to be one thing and at the same time everything.
"If you want me to really feel it, you'd have to make it happen out there."
Out of the question, no doubt.
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"I don't regret asking for just you," he murmurs. It isn't the fantasy of Ronan and it isn't his power that Declan loves. It's him. Just him. Maybe that will make it worse in the end, but it's out there now.
He finally releases Ronan's erection so both hands can hold his head. Declan kisses him. Could he do this out there? No. He never reaches for what he wants when he's awake, too determined to protect what family he has left, and Ronan deserves to give himself to whoever he wants. Declan will love him all the same.
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But he also wouldn't put a stop to it. He wouldn't pull away, or even allow Declan to sulk off in humiliation. He would still give all of himself to his brother, because he does believe that Declan loves him, and because they're all they have.
Maybe time would make him less afraid. Maybe Declan could coax him to release.
There's no sense in trying to figure it out here. Don't think, he reminds himself. He accepts Declan's kiss, allowing himself to return it with a slow and sensual caress of his lips.
Then he murmurs, "If you did..."
Should he do this? A dream, giving away the secrets to accessing his true self, when he can't be sure they're actually the same.
"If you did... want to. For real. Start slower. Do it to me in my sleep."
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Now he just stands watch while Ronan works, either at Ronan's behest or because they're somewhere that's not ideal.
If, Ronan says, as if it were even an option. If, as if it were entirely up to Declan.
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He rocks his hips forward, reminding himself and Declan both that he remains buried deep. It may not be right, but it is good, the physical evidence of his brother's devotion to him. Ronan has been so lonely for so long, untouched by anyone except in violence. And all the while, Declan has been waiting for his chance to reach out.
"I know you wanna take care of me," Ronan says, guiding Declan's hand back to his cock. Just because Ronan can't really come for him here doesn't mean he has to stop fondling. "What I don't know won't hurt me."
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Right this second, it doesn't matter. Ronan rocks against him, reminding them both of how close they are, how good Ronan feels around him. It is, it's good and if this is the last time he feels it, he wants to remember. Ronan is one of the only people that's ever been this close to him, that's known him this intimately. The only person to have seen even a flicker of his fantasies and desires.
"Always."
Keeping things from Ronan, either by omission or flat out lying, has been a part of his life for a long time. What he doesn't know can hurt him. Declan kisses Ronan.
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His reality is arbitrary. It's Declan's reality that Ronan worries about.
Rolling forward again, he thrusts into his brother's hand and begins to fuck it. The jerking of his hips is a small and subtle movement, but each pump has him tightening around Declan inside him, urging him back to arousal.
Ronan breaks the kiss to warn him, "You'll wake up soon." He pushes forward, taking Declan as deep as he can. "Give me a little more to bring back with me."
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Christ.
He thinks of the taste on his tongue and the way Ronan's cock felt filling his mouth. Things he wants to take with him when he wakes because this may be the end of all of it. Declan moves with more purpose, chasing the edge of need that went quiet while they lay together. He's already on the edge; he leans down to kiss Ronan again, muffling his own moan when he feels that sharp, familiar pleasure.
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He sees the fantasies flashing through Declan's mind, equal parts memory and wish. For him, most of the details will fade within an hour, rinsed off in the shower along with the rest of his mess. It's Ronan who will live with the experience as vividly as if Declan had crept into his room and pushed inside him again and again. If Declan hopes to spare him somehow in keeping away, it's already too late.
Ronan swallows his brother's moans with a reassuring kiss. In every plunge, he can feel Declan's pleasure building as if it's his own. "Yes," Ronan gasps against his lips, in answer to the questions that Declan doesn't speak out loud. He's so close, even if it's impossible to join his brother in orgasm here. "Go as soon as you wake up. Put your mouth on me and it'll be enough. I'm so ready to come for you right now. I'm saving every drop for you. God, Declan..."
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His brother's pleading voice fills his head, the words wrapping around him like a vice. It'll be enough. He trembles on top of Ronan and drags him into another kiss, and another, swallowing the sound of him and committing his lips to memory. He doesn't realize that he's still whispering Ronan's name between kisses and he's not sure if he's begging, praising, promising, or praying. It doesn't matter.
Declan lets go of Ronan's cock so he can cradle his face. His thumbs sweep across the blush on Ronan's cheeks and he feels light-headed. Is this what the edge of waking feels like? He doesn't want to give this up.
I'm saving every drop for you.
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His thighs hug Declan's hips and everything inside him tightens to draw out the most pleasure he can offer his brother in these final moments. He'd begged for Declan to fill him a moment ago, and his body begs for it, too.
"You don't have to give up anything," Ronan tells him in the seconds before they break. "It's there for the taking."
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Waking is a slower process. Declan opens his eyes and it takes him a minute to remember where he is. His bedroom, his bed, in their little safe house. He sits up slowly and pushes his fingers through his tousled curls. What a fucking dream--
The dream.
The groggy feeling fades faster as his heart beat jumps. Declan slides out of his bed and, with some embarrassment, sheds the pajama bottoms he'd been wearing: he had a wet dream and the evidence is on his hip and the fabric. He pulls on a different pair before he leaves his room. The house is still pre-dawn dark, he didn't think to check his phone for the time.
It feels like deja vu as he follows his feet to Ronan's room. The door is cracked, easy to push open. The blackout curtains are drawn, but there's a sliver of pale light cutting across Ronan's bed.
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Where the dream - for all its depravity - had been tempered by Declan's own shame and misgivings about his desire, this reality is raw and uncensored. Ronan isn't wrapped like a present to be slowly revealed. He's sprawled out on the bed like he's been carelessly discarded there, every inch of him uncovered, with only the shadows to grant him some dignity.
And shadows aren't enough to conceal the thing that was promised to Declan by the dream. His skin is so white, even this dim light outlines his form against the dark. He's hard as marble, gleaming with the smear of Declan's sin like it's a polish that's been painted down his thighs - not a secret to be discovered by probing fingers, but everywhere. Undeniable.
There are no headphones to silence the sound of his brother's approach this time, either. But it doesn't matter. Never did. As Declan's subconscious made very clear to him, it's here for the taking. For at least the next few minutes, Ronan can do nothing.
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