marlowemuses | Suddenly, I'm a fiend and you're all I need

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Suddenly, I'm a fiend and you're all I need

Declan didn't want to be here. He had more important things to do, more important places to be. He had so many responsibilities, and here he was driving down to Henrietta to yell at his idiot younger brother for his shitty life decisions yet again.

He'd given no warning for this visit. Ronan wouldn't answer the phone if he called anyway, and if he had any inkling that Declan would show up, he certainly wouldn't be there. At least Declan could visit Matthew after this, and he'd be here for church the next morning, so it wasn't as if the trip would be wasted even if Ronan was ... himself.

Rapping sharply at the door to Monmouth, Declan stood slightly to the side so that he wouldn't be visible to anyone peeking to see who was at the door. He'd learned his lesson about that.

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Declan has done this before plenty of times. Sometimes for his own desire, wanting to touch and taste a cock, but more often he's done this for power. Grades, influence, blackmail... sometimes the easiest way to get something done is on his knees. He's never done this out of affection. He doesn't go down on his girlfriends. That's not the kind of relationship he has with them, and they all instinctively seem to know it.

So when he takes Gansey into his mouth, bobbing his head with professional precision, it isn't a gesture of affection. It's something he knows how to do, a way to offer pleasure and create debt without giving any of his own vulnerability.

The sounds that Gansey makes are sweet and lovely, something to admire, but Declan carefully locks it away to enjoy later, in private or perhaps never.

Declan doesn't know how to do this with intimacy or vulnerability. It's only something to be given, a favor for Gansey which creates a sort of debt, a hint of blackmail that he can use later whenever he wants to end a conversation or stop Gansey from pressing. Later, he thinks, this will be something for Gansey to regret. For Declan, it's simply a task to complete.

Gansey hasn't done this enough to have any hope of it being something that impartial. And he has the luxury of being fairly unaware of the side of sexuality that is about obligation and influence. He has no resistance to the way that he takes him apart, can't even properly see the way that Declan does this to avoid the vulnerability of it.

But he's wrong that it'll be something Gansey regrets. Maybe something with leverage to it; but it would never occur to him that Declan might exploit this. Too new to this in a way that's almost naive- he gives so much of himself away, all affection and vulnerability, the soft pieces of himself he thought were better hidden than they were. Desire, want, attraction. He tries to say something, a warning as he hits the edge of what he can stand, but it comes out broken. A whimper and a moan and Declan's name all curled together as his body shakes like he might break.

It's different than touching himself. More, overwhelming, when his orgasm hits him it takes away everything else, makes everything else seem silent and still. He pulls his hand away from Declan's shoulder, trying to press fingers to his own mouth, muffle the sounds that he makes. Exposed down to heart and marrow.

Declan catches it in his mouth, but he doesn't swallow.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he rises without a glance at Gansey and goes to the bathroom, spitting the seed into the sink. It's slick and pearlescent against the porcelain, mixed with his saliva.

These gestures are automatic. He could do them in his sleep. Rinses his mouth, spits again. If his hand is shaking, he doesn't notice. Takes a toothbrush and toothpaste that don't belong to him and brushes his teeth.

He feels brittle and fragile in a way he's not accustomed to. Cold, like he could dissolve into helpless shivering at any moment. His control over himself is more tenuous by the second, and he holds onto it with all the more desperation because of that.

When he returns, he slips into his familiar role because it's what he knows. Easier to pretend that nothing has changed. Easier to not let himself be vulnerable. (He doesn't know how, anyway. He doesn't think there's anything beneath the veneer but broken glass. If he ever let anyone in, they'd only cut themselves on the wreckage of his soul.)

"There you go, Gansey boy. No longer a virgin. Feel different?" His tone is dry and flippant, as if he'd offered no favor more significant than sharing notes from a missed class.

Gansey couldn't have said what was wrong, exactly. Something about the way that he pulls away, maybe, like he doesn't want what they just did to touch him. It's not regret, not really, more like worry or concern that sparks in the hazel-green of his eyes.

He doesn't answer the question. Not the one that Declan asks, at least.

"Did I do something wrong?" There's a smile that curves his mouth, but it's sad and a little bit bittersweet. He's so very new to this, so he couldn't have said exactly what it was that felt off. But something felt wrong, like this hadn't actually been something that Declan wanted. Which is a thought that makes him feel like he'll come unmoored if he focuses on it for more than a moment at a time.

Skin still exposed to the air, exposed in more ways than the softness in his eyes when he looks at him, all uncertainty and care.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he offers, somehow sure that he had. He's always so clumsy with other people.

"Hurt me?" Declan repeats, brows tugging together in puzzlement at that ridiculous suggestion.

Gansey's all pouty and sensitive now. The typical clingy virgin. Nothing more than that, nothing to tug at his heart, and he brushes back a wet, weighty feeling at the back of his throat, a sentimental guilt that wants him to stop lying for just one minute, but that's nothing. Lying is an instinct now, and crucial to his survival.

"You're not that big," he says, with a little smirk to dismiss it.

Easy to pop up his collar and leave. Task done, and if he leaves now, it'll be done between them. A one-time thing. Nothing to discuss ever again.

Picking up the fallen glass, Declan pours himself another drink. He keeps his back to Gansey as he pours, then drinks.

"That is not what I meant," he says, taking it in stride. He's pretty sure that Declan meant it as an insult, something to try and push him away, but Gansey's neither that shallow or easily dissuaded.

His voice is soft and careful, caring in that way that if this was Adam it would have already triggered a fight. He would have called it pity and in worrying Gansey would have said something that made it worse. What do you need?, it's the question he doesn't ask, but the one that's tucked just behind his teeth. He takes an even breath, pushes down the ache and the burn of the hurt, something on his skin that he couldn't have entirely explained.

He pulls on his pants, so he's at least not indecent, then a shirt. So he looks more like this is somehow acceptable, even if he's sure that they aren't.

"You didn't want this, did you?" He keeps his voice mild, doesn't let his own hurt touch the way that he talks, even if it's in his chest. "I just don't-" He forces himself to pause, to think of his words before he speaks. Declan is sharp as a blade, but he's aware of how easy it would be for Declan to walk out the door.

"I didn't intend to make it seem like I expected anything you didn't want." His original question had felt more barbed than he wanted it to be. He didn't want to put this on Declan, make it seem like he was asking him to answer for some sort of transgression.

Declan rolls his eyes, even though he's aware that Gansey can't appreciate it while his back is still turned. Gansey like a kicked puppy. So loyal, so hopeful. Declan knows how to deal with clingy virgins from the banter of other wealthy, entitled rich boys, the ones who know that nothing's illegal if you're wealthy enough. The whole world is disposable for them. Declan's good at pretending to be them. He's good at pretending to be a lot of things.

His head aches. He sets his glass down and gives Gansey a look, which says something along the lines of my head aches and here you are asking stupid questions

or, do you think i sucked your cock because i just can't stand the conflict of saying no

or, i've sucked a cock before, it's not a big deal

or, i just want it to not be a big deal.

He takes the next drink straight from the neck of the bottle, guzzling a reckless amount like it's water. Then he slams the bottle down, enough to risk it breaking (it doesn't), and grabs Gansey by the back of the neck, kissing him ferociously.

Edited 2021-04-27 03:02 (UTC)

Gansey catches the look that Declan shoots him, and he's typically good at decoding the specifics of a sharp look across a crowded room. It's both a survival skill growing up the Gansey household- when everyone else was fluent in subtlety the only option was to learn to speak the language- and god knows that Adam and Ronan were easier to decode in how they spoke with their bodies than their words half the time.

But Declan is learning a new dialect, not the same sort of anger layered over hurt that was Ronan. And he isn't careless enough to pretend they're the same creature. He can understand thinking he's asking stupid questions, or wanting it to not be a big deal. But Gansey doesn't really know how to be that careless, to not want to do the right thing for Declan.

"Declan.." He was going to say something. Some sort of reassurance, probably. But then the bottle slams down and he half expects anger, that he's pressing too close, and instead he kisses him. And that was not the turn of things Gansey was expecting. There's a gasp, the hitch of his breath, the way that his mouth tilts into the contact, touch-starved, and he thinks he could drown himself in every time he kisses him. He'd wanted a conversation to make sure that things were okay, and this isn't a conversation. But he can't bring himself to stop.

Gansey can't help the way that he presses into it, kissing him back before he even clearly thinks of the desire. Declan's fingers against the back of his neck, lips to lips and he melts. His own fingers sliding against Declan's skin, giving away how much he wants him almost carelessly. His heart skips and he leans into it, threads his other hand into his dark hair.

Something about Declan, about the way that he kisses him, makes him feel almost decadent like this. Greedy.

Declan stays close even once there's a break in the kiss. He holds Gansey close with both hands fisted into the front of Gansey's shirt.

After a moment, he decides that's unacceptable and hauls the shirt up, tossing it aside. He needs skin on skin, and he's not getting out of this easy.

"Fine," he agrees, and sheds the last of his own clothes, standing naked before Gansey. He's uncut, as a good Catholic boy should be, and his cock is long and slender, angled to the left. The hair at the base of his cock is barely-there, trimmed short and kept tidy. "Tell me what you want."

If he knows what Gansey wants, he can give it to him, become whatever Gansey wants him to be for the next hour, and then he can leave. He's good at being whatever people want and expect, because he knows it's the truest fact in the world that no one wants him as himself.

The kiss leaves him flushed, almost gasping for breath. Declan's hands in his shirt, and he's only too willing to move to make it easy when he seems to decide that Gansey putting his clothes back on was a terrible decision.

There's that agreement to a question that Gansey hadn't really asked, but that hung in the air between them. Declan strips down to his skin, and he can't help the way it catches his breath, the way that his hazel eyes look him over. He's gorgeous and he's tempted to touch- curl fingers around his cock, maybe see if he unravels the way that Gansey did if he slides flesh against his tongue. He's affected with desire, flushed with how it curls on his skin, and he feels almost embarrassingly easy for it.

There's that demand, tell me what you want, and it drags his gaze back to Declan's face, a curl of his mouth in a warm smile. The easy answers are the ones that he's not allowed to say, but he covers it with touch, the way that his fingers slide against his ribs and press against his hips. There's just enough pressure to make his pale skin red against Gansey's touch, to make him feel real in his hands. I want you to fuck me like it means something. I want to touch you and I want you to let me give you the things that you wont let yourself ask for. I want to make you feel good and learn what you like.

He wants too much, in all the ways he's not supposed to. Declan was all casual sexuality- things he knew from Adam and Ronan, his stops by Monmouth, the occasional gossip that used to float around the rowing team or other casual acquaintances. Declan is mostly too boring and without the sort of scandals that hold the fleeting attention of teenage boys, but sometimes there had been admiration for his track record.

And Gansey had been raised with better manners than to ask for what someone doesn't want to give. So he means to keep it casual, a secret to be folded away in the pocket where he keeps his best smile. The fact that he wants more is just a footnote that doesn't bear repeating; it's not like Declan is someone he's allowed to want for real.

He isn't sure that Declan wants to be wanted for real. But that doesn't make it easier not to.

Gansey was raised to a family where wanting was usually kept to surface level things. Respectable desires; expensive glass plates, cars, helicopters and exotic vacations- the sort of things that didn't inspire reckless behavior in the pursuit of them. But Richard Gansey III had died once, and it left him both with an earnest belief in magic, and a frustration with all the things that don't make him feel alive. It makes him greedy, sometimes. Makes him want in ways that aren't respectable.

He feels alive now. "I want the way you look when you let yourself want something. Not just-- like it's for my benefit." He lets his hands slide against his skin, pressing a little too hard, not enough to leave marks, but like he might change his mind. "Is that selfish?"

He's never been a good liar anyway.

Edited (typos ugh) 2021-05-02 01:20 (UTC)

"It's foolish," Declan tells him. He tips his head a little, lets his face be guarded but not sharp. "Dangerous. For us both."

He doesn't know how to let himself want things. He's not allowed the things he wants, so he just has to be satisfied with needs and duty.

"I want power. Safety," Declan watches him, eyes still as guarded as ever, but he brushes his thumb over Gansey's lip the same way Gansey always does. He says want, and he means need. "To occasionally suck a cock."

A shrug, like that's nothing, like it's something he can live without.

"You want someone indulgent. Passionate. I can't risk indulgences."

There's something about the way that he talks about it being dangerous, about wanting power and safety. Something about the way that Declan hadn't seemed to see how Gansey could consider him someone safe. He doesn't know the shape of his secrets, but there's a sense here that Ronan might not be the only one of the Lynch brothers that carries them.

His breath catches and he shivers at the way that his thumb brushes against his lip- mouth parting against the pressure. It feels different when it's someone else's touch, when it's Declan's fingers. He can't quite resist the way he licks against his fingertips.

Dangerous feels different when you know you're going to die in a handful of months. Knowledge that Gansey tries to keep from himself, to keep from thinking about it, but it's never too deep under his skin, a different sort of anxiety.

He doesn't ask the question when Declan says he can't risk indulgences, just drags fingers against his skin, leans in a little closer. "It's not quite that simple," he says with a crooked smile. "I want you more than I want indulgences." It still feels selfish. Maybe Declan's right and it's foolish, too.

"But I wasn't going to lie." Not about this, at least. Not like this. Maybe it wasn't the whole truth, but it was close enough.

Declan wants, and he feels as though he's somehow promised Gansey a perfect, pleasurable night with his virginity, but it's more than Declan can deliver. No matter how willing Gansey is to accommodate all of Declan's sharp edges.

He pulls his hand back. "You didn't hurt me, and you didn't do anything wrong."

Moving away from Gansey, Declan fills his glass again and picks a chair a safe distance from the bed. He folds himself into it, one knee bent up and one stretched out in front of him. "But, Christ, have you ever thought about courting a guy before throwing yourself at him?"

That's as close as Declan can get to saying the problem he's having. He doesn't believe Gansey's sincere about this. He's certain that Gansey will regret it--regret him--and he can't quite bring himself to take Gansey's word to the contrary. Even when he'd tried, the more frightening problem had been the idea of being truthful about his wants. Being vulnerable to someone who was going to regret him in the morning. The thought was agonizing.

"No need to put that shirt back on, though. May as well let me enjoy the view."

Honestly, the reassurance is what keeps him together, makes it so that he can breathe through the moment. That knowledge he hadn't done anything wrong, hasn't hurt Declan when all he wanted was anything but. The almost-teasing way that he tells him not to put his shirt back on at least allows him a thin sort of smile, a tilt of his head as he watches how Declan slides into the chair, glass in hand.

It still takes Gansey a minute to come up with the words, because the answer is yes. But it gives him a moment to slide into the chair by his desk.

"It would have meant something different, if I'd been talking about courting you," he says softly. Looking over at Declan, the words honest, but this is harder to talk about. It leaves him feeling far more exposed than just not having his shirt on, flushes his face with warmth.

"And I didn't think you wanted that. But- Yes. I've thought about it," he answers, his voice as even as he can make it. The way he speaks is quiet, but Monmouth is still and empty and it carries easily in the space between them. He doesn't quite know what to say after that, so he just lets his eyes fall to his hands, teeth pressing into his bottom lip.

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Suddenly, I'm a fiend and you're all I need

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