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.
Ronan is exposed and Declan can see all the evidence of his sin on his brother's thighs. The arousal it threatens to stir makes him feel lightheaded, and without thinking, he slips into the room.
It's more vivid than the dream, which feels unexpected when that felt so real. But this--this is the waking world and Ronan is laying there, aching hard. For him? God...
Declan sinks onto the bed, and just like the dream, he tries not to think of anything beyond what Ronan said to him. Was it real? Was it just a fantasy he wanted to hear? Too late. His sin has filled his brother and Ronan deserves release.
What I don't know won't hurt me. I'm saving every last drop for you.
Those sweet words twist inside his head and Declan can hear himself sigh as his and wraps around Ronan's erection, slick with precome. Is this his doing, too? Lost, Declan leans down to taste his brother's cock. Ronan is heavy and hot in his mouth, overwhelming his senses until his world narrows to just this. He strokes down Ronan's length as he focuses on the head.
Was it just a fantasy he wanted to hear? Of course it was. It was a dream, and everything inside the dream - every act Ronan performed, every word he spoke, every thought he had - was in service to Declan’s wish.
But it was real, too. At least, it’s real now. The dream has been delivered into the real world. Here he is: a feast for his brother, who has been starved for him all these years. Maybe longer than either of them ever realized.
Ronan can’t feel what Declan is doing to him. Not yet. He watches it from outside himself, as dizzy with shock as a disembodied consciousness can possibly be.
Declan doesn’t even hesitate. He must truly believe it, that Ronan doesn’t know it’s happening, because he descends like a vulture. He moves so swiftly for his prize that Ronan thinks he’s about to recreate the entire dream in the space of a few minutes, to finish again before his brother wakes to find him there.
But Ronan is already awake, fully aware of the act without receiving any of the reward. He wonders if he should be touched that Declan attempts to pleasure him first, this time. Even that, though, seems like just another path to Declan’s gratification. He hears the way his brother sighs, like he’s in ecstasy now that he can finally get a taste of his divine little brother. Ronan nearly convinces himself he’s still in the dream, caught in a loop, Inception-style, but he knows that he isn’t. This is happening to his body right now.
He remembers the dream's instructions, tries to remind himself that he should do this before Ronan fully wakes--God, no, he shouldn't be doing this at all. His sins are written across his brother's body because Ronan's dreams are real, and Ronan has made Declan's dreams manifest here. Or at least the evidence of them.
Declan slides his mouth down as far as he can take, then lets Ronan's cock slip free; his hand doesn't stop its steady stroking. He presses his mouth to his brother's hip, lets his brow rest there for a moment as he fights with the wave of self-loathing that threatens to crest the way his pleasure had earlier. Don't, don't. There is no turning a dream into nightmares here.
His lips trail over bone, he lets his teeth skate the warm skin. He should do this quickly. He should leave. But, selfishly, he stays, he draws this out. What will happen when Ronan moves again? He shouldn't want to find out. Wickedly, he wants to taste Ronan and he wants to taste himself on Ronan's skin. Declan's free hand glides over his brother's bare thigh as he considers turning him.
For a terrible moment, it looks like Declan has changed his mind. Now that their thoughts are no longer linked, Ronan has no idea what's going through his brother's head. He can only speculate about the degree of horror and shame that's at war with Declan's affection for him. When Declan's mouth abandons his cock, he has to assume the battle is over and decency has won.
Rather than slipping away from him and retreating from the room, however, his brother stays close. He kisses Ronan's skin and keeps stroking, and when Declan opts to rest a moment and then go exploring, Ronan realizes that he's dragging it out on purpose. He's delaying in the hopes of being discovered.
To what end? So that he's caught, so that there are consequences? Or is it because he's hoping his real brother will be as indulgent as the dreamt Ronan?
He won't have to wait long for the answer. The perspective shifts and Ronan realizes he can feel Declan's hands on him, one massaging pleasure into him and the other debating which part of him to molest next. It's too early for Ronan to react to either of these, but at least he's no longer a bystander.
Declan doesn't feel like he's hoping for anything. Maybe if Ronan wakes and gives him a concussion it will cure him of this. This entire endeavor is selfish; he shouldn't be here.
But, God help him, he is.
His attention drifts back to his brother's erection and he shouldn't be so attracted to it, to him. His lips trail reverently up the length before he guides Ronan back into his mouth. Not quite as practiced as he is with women; being painfully heterosexual in all of his public relationships is just another way to fade into the background. Ashley after Ashley. Never any feelings there; far to many here.
He adjusts his position and bobs down carefully, not quite wanting to test his control over his gag reflex. But Ronan is hot and heavy in his mouth and Declan is ashamed of the quiet moan that escapes him. He chases the taste of Ronan's precome, tongue teasing as he slides back, then down. For a few blessed seconds, his mind goes blank.
This is the most torturous déjà vu he's ever experienced. It was a mistake to ever give Declan access to the power he must have coveted since the day Ronan was born. No one ever really knows what to do with the power to make their dreams come true, but it's instantly addictive. A corrupting influence, inherently selfish, which naturally drives the user to self-gratification.
For all the turbulence between them over the years, Ronan knows that his brother is a good person. There's no one to blame for the evil he's doing except Ronan himself.
And Ronan... Oh, he always knew he belonged in Hell. From the first stirrings of his sexual awakening, he knew. That the warmth of his brother's mouth is the greatest pleasure he's ever known really comes as no surprise. Frozen as he is in lingering paralysis, his cock becomes the only part of him that actually exists. As Declan works his way down, Ronan feels like he's being swallowed whole.
He longs to reach out, to tangle his fingers in his brother's hair. To push him away? To pull him closer? Ronan doesn't know.
It doesn't matter, anyway. He's been so aroused for so long that his body doesn't give him a chance to regain movement. Lightning strikes his nerves, a burst of heat that shoots down his body and spills out of him before he fully comprehends what's happening. His cock pulses in climax, spraying into the mouth that's firmly closed around it.
Ronan's sudden climax takes him by surprise; somehow Declan manages not to choke too badly and slides back enough that he can just--swallow. His hand strokes over Ronan's hip, holding him as he shivers through his orgasm. God, but the taste of him and the feel of his cock pulsing in his mouth--he'll remember that the rest of his life.
Only when he's sure that Ronan has nothing left to give does Declan lift his head. He bows it, resting his brow against Ronan's hip for a moment as he catches his breath.
His hands slide over Ronan's sides, touching him in a way he has no right to. It takes him too long to summon the strength to lift his head, to look at Ronan. He doesn't know what he's expecting, but he can't leave without looking at him. Ronan deserves better than that; better than him. Far better.
It's the paralysis that's saved him. If he can just keep still now, until Declan finally climbs off of him and leaves the room, they can go on like everything is ordinary. Nothing has to change between them. There don't have to be any questions, no what now or should we or - worst - are you okay.
Because Ronan isn't okay. He just shot a load down his older brother's throat. He is not okay.
And Declan isn't leaving. Not even now that he's gotten what he came for. Without opening his eyes, Ronan can feel Declan's gaze on him. He's waiting.
Ronan sighs, a weary and shuddering sound. Without looking at his brother, he asks wryly, "Was it good for you?"
Neither of them is okay, and Declan almost laughs when those words come out of Ronan's mouth. Jesus. Shit. He wets his lips and he can still taste Ronan there. Too late to run now, but Declan doesn't know what comes next. What can come next. He's done this to them.
He sits back slowly, letting his fingers drift over Ronan's leg. He wants to apologize, but somehow tat feels inadequate now. He should've stopped. He should've stayed in his own damn bed and let this die with him.
Declan almost makes a joke, anything to break the strange moment, but all of them are sex jokes and that just--that seems worse. Why didn't he leave while Ronan was still paralyzed? Because he didn't want to use him, didn't want to treat him like a doll--but that's what he's done all the same. God.
Ronan would have preferred to be treated like a doll, but here they are. His eyes slide open and finally fix on his brother. Nearly as sloppy a mess as Ronan is. Maybe that shouldn't make him feel better, but it does.
"Stop," he utters. "Stop beating yourself up. I can hear you from here. Do not make me fucking tell you it's fine."
It's not fine and Ronan will not be made a liar on top of everything else.
He won't make Ronan lie to him; he won't ask him to. At least they can be on the same page there. Declan realizes that his mouth is still a mess and he carefully wipes away the saliva and come. They've thoroughly marked each other.
Making his mind quiet down is another feat entirely, but he tries, for now. It's his fault they can't just pretend this never happened. They're both too bare, too vulnerable, to easily recover themselves.
Denying it will work about as well is ignoring it. Declan has been wanting to do this to him for so long, Ronan can't even pinpoint where the signs started. And however confusing and misplaced and hormone-driven it may have been, Ronan knows exactly when he started wanting this. It was probably always going to happen. As long as they're in each other's lives, it's going to keep happening, and it's not like they can leave each other. They're alone in the world.
Quietly, he offers the truthful assurance he can give, "I liked it."
He leaves it at that for a moment, as if waiting for God to strike him down. But the room is quiet. Peaceful, even. In the wake of orgasm, his body feels unnaturally relaxed, humming with an energy that honestly isn't anything other than pleasant.
"It's fucked up, okay, but I don't think it has to be weird. It's not like we're in love or something. You know, it's not weird anytime you give me a massage after a fight or whatever. It's just something that makes me feel better. I don't see what the big deal is about taking care of each other like that."
His eyes flick back to Ronan's face, not realizing he'd drifted off in thought, when his brother confesses to liking it. It isn't quite comfort he feels, but it's better than anything else.
Declan seems to be waiting for the ground to open up, too. But it doesn't. Neither of them drop dead, nothing catches on fire. It's still just the two of them in Ronan's bed. Was this inevitable? Declan doesn't know, but it doesn't seem worth wondering now. It's just the two of them and it has been for some time.
"Me, too." He can join Ronan in that, at least. And then his brother, always launching ahead, keeps talking and something in Declan softens. They touch all the time: camaraderie, comfort after fights, sparring with each other. They've shared beds; he's been with Ronan through bad dreams. Those are things Declan doesn't want to give up because all of them are--if not pure, then good. They take care of each other. They can keep taking care of each other.
Declan wants to kiss him. Instead, he nudges Ronan's leg with his own.
"Shower and coffee?" he offers. Like any other morning.
Ronan shouldn't be thanking God for any part of this, but he does it anyway, for the way Declan seems just as eager as he is to move past the worst of what they've done and accept that they can exist like this. This can be part of what they are to each other, rather than destroying it.
"At the same time?" he jokes dryly, nudging Declan in return. Now that he's more or less regained mobility, Ronan rolls onto his side and faces his brother. He's in no hurry to leave the bed, despite the increasingly uncomfortable stickiness of the mess Declan left between his legs. He's kind of afraid that if he turns his back on Declan for one second, the delicate balance they've struck will crumble.
One more thing. Just one more thing to make them equal in this. Declan made a meal of Ronan, but Ronan only has remnants of the dream. He reaches out, running his fingers up Declan's thigh in a feather-light caress.
"It would not be the first time I had shower coffee."
A smile appears just at the corners of his mouth when Ronan is finally able to roll over. The paralysis has been a source of anxiety before, knowing how vulnerable Ronan is after he dreams.
The brush of Ronan's fingers up his thigh get his attention; the words that come out of his brother's mouth make his breath catch in his throat. Jesus. Declan's been aroused since he started this mad endeavor but he'd been planning to just let it die. Ronan's supplication brings it back full force and he has to remember how to inhale. Saying yes means they're in this together, damned together; saying no means they're damned separately.
Declan's eyes meet Ronan's.
"Yeah?" It's prompting with an undercurrent of permission. An affirmation. He won't deny Ronan anything he's already taken.
It's not as if this is some kind of burden to him. Beyond Declan's countless dreams, Ronan himself has spent hours upon hours thinking about it. Who else would he fantasize about tasting? If they're doing this, it won't be Declan alone who perpetuates the sin. It was never Declan alone who wanted it.
"But I don't know how you like it for real," Ronan confesses, because it's easier than saying he doesn't actually know how to do it at all. "You're gonna have to walk me through it."
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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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It's more vivid than the dream, which feels unexpected when that felt so real. But this--this is the waking world and Ronan is laying there, aching hard. For him? God...
Declan sinks onto the bed, and just like the dream, he tries not to think of anything beyond what Ronan said to him. Was it real? Was it just a fantasy he wanted to hear? Too late. His sin has filled his brother and Ronan deserves release.
What I don't know won't hurt me. I'm saving every last drop for you.
Those sweet words twist inside his head and Declan can hear himself sigh as his and wraps around Ronan's erection, slick with precome. Is this his doing, too? Lost, Declan leans down to taste his brother's cock. Ronan is heavy and hot in his mouth, overwhelming his senses until his world narrows to just this. He strokes down Ronan's length as he focuses on the head.
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But it was real, too. At least, it’s real now. The dream has been delivered into the real world. Here he is: a feast for his brother, who has been starved for him all these years. Maybe longer than either of them ever realized.
Ronan can’t feel what Declan is doing to him. Not yet. He watches it from outside himself, as dizzy with shock as a disembodied consciousness can possibly be.
Declan doesn’t even hesitate. He must truly believe it, that Ronan doesn’t know it’s happening, because he descends like a vulture. He moves so swiftly for his prize that Ronan thinks he’s about to recreate the entire dream in the space of a few minutes, to finish again before his brother wakes to find him there.
But Ronan is already awake, fully aware of the act without receiving any of the reward. He wonders if he should be touched that Declan attempts to pleasure him first, this time. Even that, though, seems like just another path to Declan’s gratification. He hears the way his brother sighs, like he’s in ecstasy now that he can finally get a taste of his divine little brother. Ronan nearly convinces himself he’s still in the dream, caught in a loop, Inception-style, but he knows that he isn’t. This is happening to his body right now.
God, how badly he wants to feel it.
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Declan slides his mouth down as far as he can take, then lets Ronan's cock slip free; his hand doesn't stop its steady stroking. He presses his mouth to his brother's hip, lets his brow rest there for a moment as he fights with the wave of self-loathing that threatens to crest the way his pleasure had earlier. Don't, don't. There is no turning a dream into nightmares here.
His lips trail over bone, he lets his teeth skate the warm skin. He should do this quickly. He should leave. But, selfishly, he stays, he draws this out. What will happen when Ronan moves again? He shouldn't want to find out. Wickedly, he wants to taste Ronan and he wants to taste himself on Ronan's skin. Declan's free hand glides over his brother's bare thigh as he considers turning him.
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Rather than slipping away from him and retreating from the room, however, his brother stays close. He kisses Ronan's skin and keeps stroking, and when Declan opts to rest a moment and then go exploring, Ronan realizes that he's dragging it out on purpose. He's delaying in the hopes of being discovered.
To what end? So that he's caught, so that there are consequences? Or is it because he's hoping his real brother will be as indulgent as the dreamt Ronan?
He won't have to wait long for the answer. The perspective shifts and Ronan realizes he can feel Declan's hands on him, one massaging pleasure into him and the other debating which part of him to molest next. It's too early for Ronan to react to either of these, but at least he's no longer a bystander.
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But, God help him, he is.
His attention drifts back to his brother's erection and he shouldn't be so attracted to it, to him. His lips trail reverently up the length before he guides Ronan back into his mouth. Not quite as practiced as he is with women; being painfully heterosexual in all of his public relationships is just another way to fade into the background. Ashley after Ashley. Never any feelings there; far to many here.
He adjusts his position and bobs down carefully, not quite wanting to test his control over his gag reflex. But Ronan is hot and heavy in his mouth and Declan is ashamed of the quiet moan that escapes him. He chases the taste of Ronan's precome, tongue teasing as he slides back, then down. For a few blessed seconds, his mind goes blank.
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For all the turbulence between them over the years, Ronan knows that his brother is a good person. There's no one to blame for the evil he's doing except Ronan himself.
And Ronan... Oh, he always knew he belonged in Hell. From the first stirrings of his sexual awakening, he knew. That the warmth of his brother's mouth is the greatest pleasure he's ever known really comes as no surprise. Frozen as he is in lingering paralysis, his cock becomes the only part of him that actually exists. As Declan works his way down, Ronan feels like he's being swallowed whole.
He longs to reach out, to tangle his fingers in his brother's hair. To push him away? To pull him closer? Ronan doesn't know.
It doesn't matter, anyway. He's been so aroused for so long that his body doesn't give him a chance to regain movement. Lightning strikes his nerves, a burst of heat that shoots down his body and spills out of him before he fully comprehends what's happening. His cock pulses in climax, spraying into the mouth that's firmly closed around it.
Declan's mouth. Declan's fucking mouth.
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Only when he's sure that Ronan has nothing left to give does Declan lift his head. He bows it, resting his brow against Ronan's hip for a moment as he catches his breath.
His hands slide over Ronan's sides, touching him in a way he has no right to. It takes him too long to summon the strength to lift his head, to look at Ronan. He doesn't know what he's expecting, but he can't leave without looking at him. Ronan deserves better than that; better than him. Far better.
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It's the paralysis that's saved him. If he can just keep still now, until Declan finally climbs off of him and leaves the room, they can go on like everything is ordinary. Nothing has to change between them. There don't have to be any questions, no what now or should we or - worst - are you okay.
Because Ronan isn't okay. He just shot a load down his older brother's throat. He is not okay.
And Declan isn't leaving. Not even now that he's gotten what he came for. Without opening his eyes, Ronan can feel Declan's gaze on him. He's waiting.
Ronan sighs, a weary and shuddering sound. Without looking at his brother, he asks wryly, "Was it good for you?"
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He sits back slowly, letting his fingers drift over Ronan's leg. He wants to apologize, but somehow tat feels inadequate now. He should've stopped. He should've stayed in his own damn bed and let this die with him.
Declan almost makes a joke, anything to break the strange moment, but all of them are sex jokes and that just--that seems worse. Why didn't he leave while Ronan was still paralyzed? Because he didn't want to use him, didn't want to treat him like a doll--but that's what he's done all the same. God.
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"Stop," he utters. "Stop beating yourself up. I can hear you from here. Do not make me fucking tell you it's fine."
It's not fine and Ronan will not be made a liar on top of everything else.
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He won't make Ronan lie to him; he won't ask him to. At least they can be on the same page there. Declan realizes that his mouth is still a mess and he carefully wipes away the saliva and come. They've thoroughly marked each other.
Making his mind quiet down is another feat entirely, but he tries, for now. It's his fault they can't just pretend this never happened. They're both too bare, too vulnerable, to easily recover themselves.
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Denying it will work about as well is ignoring it. Declan has been wanting to do this to him for so long, Ronan can't even pinpoint where the signs started. And however confusing and misplaced and hormone-driven it may have been, Ronan knows exactly when he started wanting this. It was probably always going to happen. As long as they're in each other's lives, it's going to keep happening, and it's not like they can leave each other. They're alone in the world.
Quietly, he offers the truthful assurance he can give, "I liked it."
He leaves it at that for a moment, as if waiting for God to strike him down. But the room is quiet. Peaceful, even. In the wake of orgasm, his body feels unnaturally relaxed, humming with an energy that honestly isn't anything other than pleasant.
"It's fucked up, okay, but I don't think it has to be weird. It's not like we're in love or something. You know, it's not weird anytime you give me a massage after a fight or whatever. It's just something that makes me feel better. I don't see what the big deal is about taking care of each other like that."
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Declan seems to be waiting for the ground to open up, too. But it doesn't. Neither of them drop dead, nothing catches on fire. It's still just the two of them in Ronan's bed. Was this inevitable? Declan doesn't know, but it doesn't seem worth wondering now. It's just the two of them and it has been for some time.
"Me, too." He can join Ronan in that, at least. And then his brother, always launching ahead, keeps talking and something in Declan softens. They touch all the time: camaraderie, comfort after fights, sparring with each other. They've shared beds; he's been with Ronan through bad dreams. Those are things Declan doesn't want to give up because all of them are--if not pure, then good. They take care of each other. They can keep taking care of each other.
Declan wants to kiss him. Instead, he nudges Ronan's leg with his own.
"Shower and coffee?" he offers. Like any other morning.
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"At the same time?" he jokes dryly, nudging Declan in return. Now that he's more or less regained mobility, Ronan rolls onto his side and faces his brother. He's in no hurry to leave the bed, despite the increasingly uncomfortable stickiness of the mess Declan left between his legs. He's kind of afraid that if he turns his back on Declan for one second, the delicate balance they've struck will crumble.
One more thing. Just one more thing to make them equal in this. Declan made a meal of Ronan, but Ronan only has remnants of the dream. He reaches out, running his fingers up Declan's thigh in a feather-light caress.
"What if I want you to feed me something else?"
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A smile appears just at the corners of his mouth when Ronan is finally able to roll over. The paralysis has been a source of anxiety before, knowing how vulnerable Ronan is after he dreams.
The brush of Ronan's fingers up his thigh get his attention; the words that come out of his brother's mouth make his breath catch in his throat. Jesus. Declan's been aroused since he started this mad endeavor but he'd been planning to just let it die. Ronan's supplication brings it back full force and he has to remember how to inhale. Saying yes means they're in this together, damned together; saying no means they're damned separately.
Declan's eyes meet Ronan's.
"Yeah?" It's prompting with an undercurrent of permission. An affirmation. He won't deny Ronan anything he's already taken.
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It's not as if this is some kind of burden to him. Beyond Declan's countless dreams, Ronan himself has spent hours upon hours thinking about it. Who else would he fantasize about tasting? If they're doing this, it won't be Declan alone who perpetuates the sin. It was never Declan alone who wanted it.
"But I don't know how you like it for real," Ronan confesses, because it's easier than saying he doesn't actually know how to do it at all. "You're gonna have to walk me through it."
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