dauntless_son | IC Inbox

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.

Ronan is in no position to invite or rebuke.

Fuck. Fuck.

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.

Ronan doesn’t stir as the blanket slides down his body, exposing unclothed skin. His cock is hard, but that’s not unusual for him in the morning. It says nothing regarding how he feels about what did or didn’t transpire in last night’s dream. Nothing about him seems capable of reacting to anything yet.

That’s proven as Declan reaches between his legs. Ronan doesn’t even twitch. The only answer Declan can find is in the evidence, and yes, it’s there. His brother is overflowing with his crime scene, Declan’s semen coating his inner thighs. And higher, if Declan follows the path. It’s fresh enough that Declan might as well have pulled out of him seconds ago, despite their occupying two entirely separate bedrooms.

Even if he knows it's a dream, it feels real enough - possible enough - that Declan worries for a moment that his wildly pounding heart or his shaking breath will give him away. Any moment Ronan will wake and express displeasure.

But he doesn't even stir. God help him.

As Declan sinks down, he pushes Ronan into a more accommodating position on his stomach. His nose brushes the curve of Ronan's ass and his fingers slide between his cheeks again to feel the slick mess of his hole. Jesus, it's like he'd just finished. He plants one hand to keep Ronan spread open and gives in to temptation with a slow, firm swipe of his tongue. He stifles a moan but his hand tightens as he sinks into his task, taking his time to lick and tease and suck. More than once he pushes his fingers back into Ronan to tease out whatever's left.

He forgets to pay attention to Ronan's state of consciousness.

Ronan’s state of consciousness is an infinity mirror, Ronan watching Ronan watching Ronan, none of them quite sure how to feel about this scenario. Usually it’s easy to dismiss Declan’s fantasies, as the Ronan he likes to dream about has very little to do with the Ronan who is his brother. Here, though, Declan has summoned the Ronan of his memories, identical to the Ronan who will wake when this is over.

...Is this what Declan really wants to do to him?

The return of sensation draws Ronan suddenly back into the body spread under his brother. Everything about his touch seems sharp and real. He can feel every muscle in Declan’s tongue working to clean him, each swipe leaving him more sensitive to the next. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he finally exhales with a shudder he hopes Declan doesn’t notice.

The next time Declan’s fingers enter him, Ronan can’t play dead any longer. His muscles clench in reflex, a low moan rising from his throat.

Declan freezes when he hears that sound and feels the very tell-tale reaction of Ronan's waking body. But he's too gone, now. He's already damned, so he doesn't stop. Hoping Ronan is still slick enough, Declan works a third finger into him, just to watch his brother take him. He lifts his head just enough to try to catch his breath.

He fucks Ronan with slow, deep thrusts of his fingers as his mouth slides over his lower back in tender, wet kisses that almost beg forgiveness. Declan tries to curl his fingers just so the next time he pushes deep; he wants Ronan to feel good. To keep feeling good.

With his free hand, Declan wipes his mouth as best he can. Then he shifts his weight, pushing himself up so that he's leaning over Ronan, fingers still buried deep. God help him, Declan needs to see him.

As tender and careful as Declan is trying to be, Ronan is a virgin. Dreams haven't taught his waking body how to take these probing fingers. He's paralyzed all over again, too afraid to move, too afraid to interrupt the rhythm and risk tightening and tearing something. His back is tense beneath the brush of Declan's mouth.

He doesn't think about forgiveness. He doesn't think about anything.

His headphones have slid down like a wide collar around his neck, obscuring most of his face. He's grateful for that, as he realizes Declan is rising up to look at him. He doesn't know how he's supposed to arrange his expression. His brother only started this because he thought he was still asleep. Should he pretend to keep sleeping? Should he look like he's enjoying this? Whatever Declan's looking for, Ronan is pretty sure he's not hoping to see frozen terror.

Something changes about the fingers inside him, a subtle shift that sends a shock up Ronan's spine. He moans again, louder this time. His body rocks back against his will, seeking out that spark again.

"It's okay," he murmurs as Ronan moves beneath him. Some part of him should be utterly mortified that he's not exactly treating Ronan like a virgin. But this is still a dream and he is safe from the full force of that.

He adjusts his hand, goes back down to just two fingers as he pushes them deep again, trying to keep the angle just right for Ronan's sake. Declan is not a virgin, and has not been for a while. This feels closer to their waking lives than any of the fantasies that've come before. Is that his doing? Don't think, don't think.

Declan balances his weight back on his knees and slides his hand over Ronan's side and hip. Slowly, deliberate but not tentative, he slides his fingers around Ronan's cock.

Ronan sucks in a sharp breath as Declan shifts his weight, anticipating a much more sudden movement to follow. But Declan knows what he's doing. Even if he's not being as careful as he should be, he's being more caring than most would be. Gradually, methodically, his fingers massage the tension out of Ronan's body from the inside.

They're working him loose. Coaxing him open. Ronan relaxes, but not enough to shake the awareness that his brother is preparing him.

Declan's hand finds him softer, actually, than he was before. Not entirely soft, but still, not nearly as erect as he was in his sleep. It might just be nerves, though, because Declan's touch stirs a throb out of him, sends heat sinking back into his cock. Ronan doesn't know whether to rut forward or rock back to take those fingers deeper, so he does neither, allowing Declan to do the work himself.

"That's it," he whispers, full of soft praise when he feels Ronan throb against his palm. He needs more than spit and come and whatever dream-memory of lube there is. Declan lets his fingers push deep again and leaves them there as he leans over Ronan to grab lube off the nightstand. It's there because he needs it to be there.

He slides his fingers free so he can slick them generously, then pushes them back in with slow, gentle insistence. He hasn't even thought far enough ahead to consider this preparing - it's just something he needs to do. He won't hurt Ronan, not out of carelessness. It gets easier the more Ronan relaxes and Declan is diligent. He leans down and guides Ronan's cock past his lips. Heavy in his mouth, he goes down as far as he can without risking choking.

Ronan swallows down the moan that rises in answer to the soft warmth of Declan's mouth. Whatever he expected a blowjob to feel like, it wasn't this. He's surrounded, sinking into plush wet heat. It had been overwhelming to feel his brother's hands on him. This is too much, too good, too far. It's starting to feel like it isn't something that's happening to him, but something he's doing. He shivers as he fights the urge to thrust into Declan's mouth. God, his brother's mouth. Is this real?

And those fingers are still moving inside him, fucking him with greater ease than before. He works up the courage to spread himself a little wider, to rock back just enough to plead for another without being forced to use words. Every so often, Declan's fingertips brush up against something that lights up every one of his nerves. He's after that feeling, and it seems like the more Declan stuffs inside him, the more likely he'll find it.

His body feels like it's begging in every direction. And meanwhile, he's trying not to make a sound. It's bad enough that he's inviting this. How much will Declan hate him later enticing him, for enjoying it?

Declan closes his eyes and tries to take more. Ronan's bigger than anyone he's had before and the thought that he's enjoyed that before threatens a rush of shame. But he can feel Ronan pushing back on his fingers; Declan waits until he hears something more than stifled breaths escape his brother before he works a third finger in. He's slow, slower than he was earlier, and he can't help the moan that escapes him as Ronan takes it.

Does he want it? Does this mean he wants it, too?

He nearly chokes the next time Ronan's hips move. Declan lifts his head and gasps in a breath, lips wet and swollen from his effort. He dares to look at Ronan's face again, not sure what he'll find but he can't ignore him, either. He's not some forgettable person Declan's taken to bed for momentary relief. Ronan has been his whole life for so long, and despite the hardship and horror and stress, Declan doesn't regret it. He can't.

He fucks Ronan at a steady pace now, more confident now that his brother's not tense all over.

By the time Declan's mouth leaves his cock, Ronan is harder than he's ever been in his life. He can stifle every noise he likes, but his anatomy betrays him instantly, pulsing with heavy need. As soon as the warmth abandons him, Ronan wants to beg for it again.

But he's also afraid that he'll burst the moment Declan's lips encircle him. And he... can't. He can't let himself spill into his brother's mouth. Not when it's this real.

Their eyes meet by accident and Ronan immediately looks away, flushing with shame. He can only imagine what Declan's seeing right now: his little brother panting like a dog and fucking himself on Declan's fingers, desperate and filthy. A moment later, though, Ronan's gaze drifts back to him. He doesn't know what his brother is searching for in him, but he owes Declan the chance to look.

Just Ronan. Just his brother's familiar and fiercely blue eyes. Declan knows what he must look like: Ronan's only ever seen him want in dreams, and this is closer to their waking life than it's ever been. And he is raw with wanting his brother, aching and ashamed. He wants a hundred things all at once under the fear that, after this, Ronan will never let this happen again. But God, he looks beautiful like this, urgent and a little uncertain and needy.

Declan withdraws his fingers slowly. He doesn't want to leave Ronan empty, though, and he catches one of Ronan's hands to guide it down to take his place. His own slick fingers slide over Ronan's, watching as he coaxes his brother to fully participate in this debauchery by replacing Declan's fingers with his own. Satisfied, Declan moves higher and cradles Ronan's head. It's obscene to see the wet head of his cock brush Ronan's lips, almost like asking.

Ronan would like to believe he'll never let it happen again. He's too close to the flame, he knows, and he's going to get burned. No, if anything, he'll want more after this. That's how sin works. It's why they should have never played this dangerous game to begin with.

His own clumsy fingers don't feel half as good as his brother's. Which is no surprise, really. Declan is an expert in these matters. Still, Ronan continues just as taught, toying with himself because the other option is to have nothing inside him. An unbearable idea, at this point.

His eyes grow wider as Declan moves toward him, his heart skipping several beats. He didn't think he'd be getting his turn. But as the tip of Declan's cock traces his mouth, Ronan parts his lips to tentatively accept it.

How impossibly smooth that head is. In dreams, Ronan never noticed. He slicks it with a roll of his tongue, then drags his lips over the wet bulb just to enjoy the texture. It's so satisfying, made to be mouthed. His gaze darts up to catch a glimpse of Declan's expression, to figure out whether he likes being explored so slowly or whether he's impatient to be swallowed.

Declan is nothing but pleased. Maybe too much so. He strokes his fingers into Ronan's hair and he can feel his heart hammering in his chest as Ronan's lips and tongue tease over just the head.

"Jesus, Ronan." But he whispers it like a prayer, like a plea. Declan realizes very quickly that he would happily spend hours like this, finding out what Ronan's mouth can do other than curse and bite and sneer. The next pass of Ronan's tongue makes Declan's hips jump. There's an apology on the lips but he doesn't quite breathe it to life. There is nothing to be sorry for: this is Ronan's doing. This is all for him and because of him. Declan tries to hold his gaze as he moves more deliberately to push past the slick tease of Ronan's lips to feel the perfect heat of his mouth, gauging his brother's reaction as he does.

And in the back of his mind he's aware that Ronan has three fingers stuffed inside him, plaintively trying to find the pleasure Declan had been giving him.

Ronan drops his mouth open wider to accommodate, accepting Declan onto his tongue like it's the damned Eucharist in the most unholy of masses. His name sounds like a prayer when Declan speaks it, but it's Ronan who feels like he's in the middle of worship. His lips form a moist ring that slides further down Declan's shaft. It'll take practice before he can take as many inches as Declan took from him, he realizes quickly.

But that would mean practicing. He feels feverish when he considers it, imagining himself on his knees in front of Declan every day, working diligently to perfect this. A moan vibrates up his throat, involuntary, working its way into the lapping of his tongue.

His fingers still haven't managed to do what Declan could do to him, but he doesn't give up on the task. They glide in sync with the bobbing of his head, his mind drifting to the most forbidden thing he could want. Waking up from a dream with his brother's seed inside him isn't the same as feeling it pumped into him.

Everything else has been different from their fantasy world. Would that feel different, too?

Declan pins down Ronan's other hand and leans over him to adjust the angle of his head. The thought of having this for his own makes something hot coil up in him. What would it be like to wake next to Ronan, to take him as soon as he's conscious but not able to move? To remind him he has a brother who has loved him his entire life, who would do anything for him. Declan's lips part but his moan is stifled, strained as Ronan's voice vibrates around him.

He tells himself they're past redemption now. Ronan is straining to meet him, is fucking himself until--what? Until Declan takes him? Until he tells him to stop? God. He moves his hips in a steady rhythm now, gentle as he fucks Ronan's mouth and careful not to push too deep. His fingers tighten in Ronan's hair.

"I dream of you all the time," he whispers, feverish and heavy with need. It's not fair. Ronan's dreams manifest with so little effort and Declan--Declan has never dared dream too much for himself.

Ronan will be dreaming of this for the rest of his life. He can feel every second of it searing itself into his memory, a red-hot brand of shame. He is damned. He's a demon, like his father. If Declan loves him now, it won't be for much longer.

He can't stop.

It feels like drowning, the way Declan drags him down and fucks his mouth. He has to gasp around Declan's cock for breath, every thrust like a wave rolling over him, slow yet all-consuming. His heart thunders in his ears as he forces himself still, all of his focus on making himself pliant to his brother's maneuvering. Even his fingers slip out of him. The most Ronan allows himself is the swipe of his palm along his own cock, smearing the pre-come that's seeped all the way to its base.

VOICE	TEXT	ACTION
Declan You know what to do. <

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