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."
Declan isn't sure that his dream-self and his waking-self are that different in terms of what they like or want, but it occurs to him (again) that Ronan has probably never tried any of it outside of dreams.
Walk me through it. Jesus.
He moves closer so that Ronan doesn't have to reach. It makes Ronan's hand slide higher. Declan lifts his hips as he pushes his pajama bottoms down. His breath catches as he gives himself a slow stroke in an attempt to take the sudden edge off. He hadn't been expecting to take care of this at all.
"No teeth," he teases with a wry smile. "Just a little bit at a time. There's no rush."
The sight of Declan's arousal - the unfiltered truth of it - spikes Ronan's adrenaline and leaves him shaky. With excitement? With fear? It's just there, right in front of him, for him. Ronan does an excellent job, sometimes, of coming off confident and self-assured. But here, with his brother, he is undeniably the amateur. He's still a virgin at twenty years old, for fuck's sake.
"Holy fuck," he whispers under his breath as he draws closer. A thousand imagined scenarios still failed to prepare him for this. He takes Declan's cock with both hands, holding it gingerly, feeling it out between his fingers. As if to confirm this really belongs to him, Ronan glances up at his brother's face. "So should I just..."
He doesn't finish the thought, because he doesn't know how. Dropping his gaze, he considers the thickness of it, how hard the shaft feels against his fingertips. In the dream, his brother had fucked his mouth with it, and it had seemed so easy, but it's impossible to imagine taking it like that now.
A little bit at a time.
He decides to explore it with his tongue first. Bowing down, he slicks the head with a few tentative licks. He can taste the traces of his brother's earlier wet dream and decides first to clean him of it. He laps and laps until he's polished the head nicely, then closes his lips loosely around it, massaging the underside.
Declan relaxes back against Ronan's pillows, propping himself up so he won't miss anything. His heart is hammering in his chest but he manages to breathe evenly as Ronan sinks down between his thighs. Declan tries to remember how it felt the first time he did this with someone, how nervous and utterly out of his depth he'd been.
Ronan's tentative, careful handling feels good, and he's about to answer when his brother just goes for it.
"Oh, fuck," he echoes as Ronan's tongue teases over him. He realizes then that Ronan will be able to taste the evidence of their dream and he swears his cock pulses at the thought. Declan keeps his eyes open, watching his brother take his time.
Then the slick head slips past Ronan's lips and Declan can't help the quiet moan that escapes him. He pushes his fingers into Ronan's hair, not to guide him but just to hold.
"That's good," he breathes, realizing he should probably try to say something, anything, to reassure Ronan.
Ronan withdraws, giving the head a light suck before pulling off of it with a smack of his lips. It's silly, but he's always wanted to do that. It's as satisfying as he thought it would be, like plump fruit against his mouth.
He's still exploring, leisurely indulging his curiosity now that he can. When he was younger, he spent an unholy amount of time wondering what his brother's cock would feel like. And even though he's just begun, he's enjoying it more than he ever thought he would. More than any dream.
His journey moves lower. Fingers carefully directing the angle, Ronan's lips travel down the underside of the shaft, his tongue slipping out to lave a sloppy line all the way to the base. He nuzzles gently against Declan's sac, then licks his way back to the head.
The sound is beautifully obscene and Declan's fingers tighten briefly in Ronan's hair. He tries to keep his breathing even, as if making too much noise will somehow interrupt Ronan's slow exploration. He's dreamed of filling his brother's mouth more than he cares to admit, especially after some of their more contentious arguments.
He's momentarily entranced by the way Ronan's hand holds him, the play of his fingers as his mouth slides lower. He can feel Ronan's breath just before he nuzzles in and Declan lifts his hips to get closer; his breath catches as his cock slides against Ronan's cheek. By the time Ronan's mouth reaches the head again there's precome drooling from the tip.
"Fuck, Ronan." He swallows thickly and shifts his hips as his fingers tense against the back of his brother's head. Declan tries not to push him - this is happening at Ronan's pace or not at all, he tells himself. "That's it," he encourages.
Ronan's grateful for the feedback, though. Verbal and nonverbal. He notices every time something he does makes Declan push closer to him or grasp at him. He notices how Declan's cock just keeps getting harder, straining for more. And when he returns to find that bead of precome, he hums with satisfaction before pinching his lips around the head of Declan's cock and lapping it up.
He draws back to cast another glance at his brother's face. He doesn't need to look in order to tell that Declan's enjoying this, but it makes it feel better to see it. He wants this to be something Declan asks him to do for him every day.
He is so wicked. God, he hopes this won't be the end of them.
"You taste just like the dream," Ronan murmurs. It must mean the seed that's still inside him is truly Declan's, not some approximation. The thought makes him dizzy.
Dipping back down, he takes the whole of Declan's cockhead into his mouth and then some, trying to figure out how much he can stuff into it while avoiding the scrape of teeth. Not much, with the first attempt, but when he adjusts his angle, he adds another inch.
What would it be like to tend each other every day? To seek an offer that relief and release and intimacy? Declan can see it, easily, and he prays it won't ruin them if it goes beyond this. The thought disappears as Ronan mentions his taste and it reminds him that his brother still has his seed inside him and smeared between his thighs.
If Declan tries to clean him as he did in the dream, how long will they be tangled in bed together? The possibility is beyond tempting.
"So do you," he confesses. Maybe Ronan couldn't come in the dream, but Declan could still taste him. "Oh--"
Declan nearly chokes on his next breath as the slick, soft heat of Ronan's mouth closes around him and sinks down, and down. He's delirious with the memory of how it felt to fuck his mouth and the delicious newness of feeling Ronan's careful ministrations now. He keeps one hand on the back of Ronan's neck while the other strokes down his shoulder, over his arm. Declan's fingers brush tenderly over Ronan's hand when he finds it.
He keeps his eyes open, thinking that watching might help him avoid losing control and doing something that might hurt or startle Ronan.
Since he only really needs one hand to tend to Declan, when he feels those fingers brush against him, he lets go so that he can entwine them with his own. Maybe it's stupid, but as with any new experience his brother has ever guided him through, it's a comfort to hold Declan's hand through this.
As if reminded to get to work, the other hand begins to slowly stroke Declan. It's hardly any movement, because he's afraid that he'll mess up if he jostles around too much, but even a little is better than none. And once he has that pace set, he bobs his head along with it. His mouth slides down, then retreats, then pushes a little further, again and again.
It's probably not the best Declan's had. Even Ronan can tell that he's not going fast enough, that he's not applying enough friction. A plush, wet massage is about as good as he can offer while he's preoccupied with avoiding wrong moves. Overly soft is undoubtedly better than choking or biting. He offers his tongue as compensation, ceaselessly coaxing Declan with it, sloppy and slurping.
It's not the best but it's good and the enthusiasm more than makes up for Ronan's lack of experience. As soon as Ronan manages to get a little rhythm going between his hand and his mouth, Declan doesn't even care about the speed. It's Ronan's tongue that's driving him up the wall: he's pretty sure that's spit he can feel running down his cock along with precome.
Declan gets caught up and loses himself for just a few seconds. As Ronan bobs back, Declan's hips jump and his hands hold Ronan tight before he recovers himself. "Fuck," he gasps out. "Sorry, sorry."
His hand leaves Ronan's hair to stroke his cheek in apology. And then a new wickedness spills from his mouth.
Though it's unexpected, Ronan doesn't suffer too badly when Declan suddenly bucks up. An alarmed cry starts to rise out of him, but it's stifled when Declan's cock hits the back of his throat. He just manages to pull back before he chokes on it, catching his breath as soon as Declan's hold on him loosens enough for him to break free.
"Jesus," he hisses, but he seems more embarrassed than angry about it. Someone more experienced would undoubtedly have known how to handle that, which makes the offer of help a welcome one. Face red and lips glazed, he turns his eyes up to his brother again. "Yeah, do it."
Declan has the decency to look momentarily contrite after Ronan's small ordeal. He tries not to think of how it felt to slide against the back of Ronan's throat or how good he looks all flushed like that.
"Here." His voice is quiet as he guides Ronan's arm so that his brother's elbow is against his hip. "Lean your weight in, promise I can take it." It might not stop Declan altogether if he gets caught up, but at least Ronan will feel it coming. "Move your hand a little higher. And I'll uhm... try not to do that again."
He lets his fingers brush back through Ronan's hair; his other hand remains tangled with his brother's. He won't let go until Ronan wants him to.
"Try again. Nice and easy."
And he'll try to ignore how much he's aching to come.
Ronan repositions himself more or less the way Declan suggests, drawing closer and pinning down his hip. It's strange to think of Declan losing control in any situation. He's ordinarily so contained, so painfully in command of his expression. It seems impossible that Ronan could have ever unraveled him the way he's done this morning. He doesn't understand this reality that requires him to push back against the urgent thrusting of his brother's hips, to stop Declan from violently claiming his mouth.
"It's okay if you wanna move a little," Ronan tells him. "Or if it's easier for you to..." He can't bring himself to say the words facefuck me just yet, but Declan undoubtedly understands. He already has his hand on Ronan's head, like he means to direct it if necessary.
Leaving that thought in the air, he takes the head of Declan's cock into his mouth again. His tongue swirls around it - once, twice - then drags down as he sinks lower, taking his brother deeper. His hand resumes its stroking from a better angle, working Declan with a lazy twist, the mess of his saliva slicking the way.
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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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Walk me through it. Jesus.
He moves closer so that Ronan doesn't have to reach. It makes Ronan's hand slide higher. Declan lifts his hips as he pushes his pajama bottoms down. His breath catches as he gives himself a slow stroke in an attempt to take the sudden edge off. He hadn't been expecting to take care of this at all.
"No teeth," he teases with a wry smile. "Just a little bit at a time. There's no rush."
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"Holy fuck," he whispers under his breath as he draws closer. A thousand imagined scenarios still failed to prepare him for this. He takes Declan's cock with both hands, holding it gingerly, feeling it out between his fingers. As if to confirm this really belongs to him, Ronan glances up at his brother's face. "So should I just..."
He doesn't finish the thought, because he doesn't know how. Dropping his gaze, he considers the thickness of it, how hard the shaft feels against his fingertips. In the dream, his brother had fucked his mouth with it, and it had seemed so easy, but it's impossible to imagine taking it like that now.
A little bit at a time.
He decides to explore it with his tongue first. Bowing down, he slicks the head with a few tentative licks. He can taste the traces of his brother's earlier wet dream and decides first to clean him of it. He laps and laps until he's polished the head nicely, then closes his lips loosely around it, massaging the underside.
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Ronan's tentative, careful handling feels good, and he's about to answer when his brother just goes for it.
"Oh, fuck," he echoes as Ronan's tongue teases over him. He realizes then that Ronan will be able to taste the evidence of their dream and he swears his cock pulses at the thought. Declan keeps his eyes open, watching his brother take his time.
Then the slick head slips past Ronan's lips and Declan can't help the quiet moan that escapes him. He pushes his fingers into Ronan's hair, not to guide him but just to hold.
"That's good," he breathes, realizing he should probably try to say something, anything, to reassure Ronan.
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Ronan withdraws, giving the head a light suck before pulling off of it with a smack of his lips. It's silly, but he's always wanted to do that. It's as satisfying as he thought it would be, like plump fruit against his mouth.
He's still exploring, leisurely indulging his curiosity now that he can. When he was younger, he spent an unholy amount of time wondering what his brother's cock would feel like. And even though he's just begun, he's enjoying it more than he ever thought he would. More than any dream.
His journey moves lower. Fingers carefully directing the angle, Ronan's lips travel down the underside of the shaft, his tongue slipping out to lave a sloppy line all the way to the base. He nuzzles gently against Declan's sac, then licks his way back to the head.
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He's momentarily entranced by the way Ronan's hand holds him, the play of his fingers as his mouth slides lower. He can feel Ronan's breath just before he nuzzles in and Declan lifts his hips to get closer; his breath catches as his cock slides against Ronan's cheek. By the time Ronan's mouth reaches the head again there's precome drooling from the tip.
"Fuck, Ronan." He swallows thickly and shifts his hips as his fingers tense against the back of his brother's head. Declan tries not to push him - this is happening at Ronan's pace or not at all, he tells himself. "That's it," he encourages.
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He draws back to cast another glance at his brother's face. He doesn't need to look in order to tell that Declan's enjoying this, but it makes it feel better to see it. He wants this to be something Declan asks him to do for him every day.
He is so wicked. God, he hopes this won't be the end of them.
"You taste just like the dream," Ronan murmurs. It must mean the seed that's still inside him is truly Declan's, not some approximation. The thought makes him dizzy.
Dipping back down, he takes the whole of Declan's cockhead into his mouth and then some, trying to figure out how much he can stuff into it while avoiding the scrape of teeth. Not much, with the first attempt, but when he adjusts his angle, he adds another inch.
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If Declan tries to clean him as he did in the dream, how long will they be tangled in bed together? The possibility is beyond tempting.
"So do you," he confesses. Maybe Ronan couldn't come in the dream, but Declan could still taste him. "Oh--"
Declan nearly chokes on his next breath as the slick, soft heat of Ronan's mouth closes around him and sinks down, and down. He's delirious with the memory of how it felt to fuck his mouth and the delicious newness of feeling Ronan's careful ministrations now. He keeps one hand on the back of Ronan's neck while the other strokes down his shoulder, over his arm. Declan's fingers brush tenderly over Ronan's hand when he finds it.
He keeps his eyes open, thinking that watching might help him avoid losing control and doing something that might hurt or startle Ronan.
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As if reminded to get to work, the other hand begins to slowly stroke Declan. It's hardly any movement, because he's afraid that he'll mess up if he jostles around too much, but even a little is better than none. And once he has that pace set, he bobs his head along with it. His mouth slides down, then retreats, then pushes a little further, again and again.
It's probably not the best Declan's had. Even Ronan can tell that he's not going fast enough, that he's not applying enough friction. A plush, wet massage is about as good as he can offer while he's preoccupied with avoiding wrong moves. Overly soft is undoubtedly better than choking or biting. He offers his tongue as compensation, ceaselessly coaxing Declan with it, sloppy and slurping.
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Declan gets caught up and loses himself for just a few seconds. As Ronan bobs back, Declan's hips jump and his hands hold Ronan tight before he recovers himself. "Fuck," he gasps out. "Sorry, sorry."
His hand leaves Ronan's hair to stroke his cheek in apology. And then a new wickedness spills from his mouth.
"Want me to help?"
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"Jesus," he hisses, but he seems more embarrassed than angry about it. Someone more experienced would undoubtedly have known how to handle that, which makes the offer of help a welcome one. Face red and lips glazed, he turns his eyes up to his brother again. "Yeah, do it."
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"Here." His voice is quiet as he guides Ronan's arm so that his brother's elbow is against his hip. "Lean your weight in, promise I can take it." It might not stop Declan altogether if he gets caught up, but at least Ronan will feel it coming. "Move your hand a little higher. And I'll uhm... try not to do that again."
He lets his fingers brush back through Ronan's hair; his other hand remains tangled with his brother's. He won't let go until Ronan wants him to.
"Try again. Nice and easy."
And he'll try to ignore how much he's aching to come.
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"It's okay if you wanna move a little," Ronan tells him. "Or if it's easier for you to..." He can't bring himself to say the words facefuck me just yet, but Declan undoubtedly understands. He already has his hand on Ronan's head, like he means to direct it if necessary.
Leaving that thought in the air, he takes the head of Declan's cock into his mouth again. His tongue swirls around it - once, twice - then drags down as he sinks lower, taking his brother deeper. His hand resumes its stroking from a better angle, working Declan with a lazy twist, the mess of his saliva slicking the way.
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