Slow Dancing in a Burning Room
Notes: THIS FIC GOES THERE. Rated M for language, explicit sexual content, and obvious controversial themes. Honestly, this is taboo and vividly sexual, and it IS Declan/Fiona, so if you think that will make you uncomfortable, don't read it. Named after the John Mayer song, simply because I think it fits the pairing. Review please?
When you live a privileged life, the ease with which you get your way can grow daunting. After all, a life where everything comes easy offers little thrill. It dulls the soul, dilutes your sense of passion. It's the kind of life that begets guys like me: soulless, arrogant, manipulative thrill-seekers. I've given up being bitter over the nauseating cliché I've become, and instead I've focused on honing that cliché to perfection.
I live for the conquest. Not just girls, but yeah, mostly girls, I guess. When you can have almost whatever you want, with almost no effort, you have to start making things interesting. You have to start seeking out the challenges. The bad girls, the too-good girls, the complicated girls, the taken girls. Forbidden girls.
I'm not naïve about how fucked up I am. I always know what I'm doing to others, and to myself, more or less. Deep down, I know that what I'm doing with her is all about the conquest. She's the ultimate forbidden girl. I never dreamed she'd actually give in, but finally I find myself living a fantasy sixteen years in the making.
"How do you justify fucking me?" I asked her.
I posed the question with the carefully-crafted indifference that has taken me years to master. My eyes were still and cold as they glanced across the bed at her, simmering with the potency of nonchalance. I idly fingered a loose purple thread from her pillow, waiting for her response as if I hardly cared. As if it weren't absolutely consuming me.
Fiona made a face, a cracked expression that was somewhere between laughter and disgust. The mangled smile on her face warmed the ends of my fingers and toes. "That's kind of a perverse question, don't you think?" she said, running a milky white hand through her still-damp hair. "Kind of in poor taste."
I rolled my eyes, yanking out the pillow-case thread in one swift motion. "Well, heaven forbid two refined creatures such as you and I resort to anything perverse," I drawled. "You'll fuck your brother, but you can't talk about it because it's in poor taste? Seems you've mastered the dazzling hypocrisy of a true society girl."
Calling Fiona a society girl was the simplest and quickest burn I could go for. It was a constant private joke between us. We were always challenging each other to prove ourselves; trying to accuse one of being more fake than the other. Our lives were so deeply encrypted in lies and pretend that it was typical for us to accuse each other of "selling out" or "giving in." We wanted to play the part of society children as well as possible, so long as at the end of the day, in our private sibling world, we knew what was real.
She pouted in a way that I had come to expect. It was easy to push her buttons, and I never really knew if it was because I was just that good, or because Fiona wanted her buttons pushed.
"You're being crude," she said with a light sigh.
"You're being evasive."
Fiona could play this game forever, shrugging me off and never giving me the answers I wanted. I watched her fiercely, focusing my gaze with all the intensity I had so meticulously mastered over the years. She wasn't like other girls, of course; she knew me too well, was immune to most of my tricks. But I couldn't tear my gaze away. I wanted to break her.
She sighed at my persistence. "Because you're the hottest guy in school, and I just can't resist," she teased. She leaned close to my face, baby blue eyes shining, wet pink lips grinning mischievously. "Is that what you want to hear, Declan?"
"No," I said seriously, willing myself not to be distracted by her flirting. It wasn't easy; I could still see beads of sweat clinging to her naked body, could still smell the salty sweet flavor evaporating off her skin. "I want to know how the good twin justifies fucking her brother. I want to know what goes through your head. I want you to explain it to me."
Fiona scoffed. The iron resolve in her eyes momentarily flickered. "Sometimes I just forget you're my brother, I guess."
The statement was absurd. I couldn't relate on any level. Never for a second, in all of my sinful indulgences, could I ever forget that Fiona was my sister. We were twins. We lived and breathed each other. In our ice cold, money-drenched nomadic upbringing, Fiona was the only one who shared my pain. Shared my flesh, shared my blood, shared my every experience. My closeness with Fiona was the most pervasive and holy truth in my existence. Maybe my only truth.
How did one simply forget? I could never forget the line I crossed with her. It had become my obsession, my curse. I dwelled incessantly on the thundering guilt. I wasn't guilty simply because I was sleeping with my sister… I was guilty because I never wanted to stop. I never wanted to let her go. Crime of all crimes, and it was the only thing in this world that meant anything at all to me.
I realized then, of course, that she was lying again. She couldn't forget that we were hell-bound deviants any more than I could. Her real motivations remained as inaccessible as ever. I knew why a guy like me would fall into this twisted trap, but what was her angle? What did she get out of it? How could she stand to be with me? How could she be so cruel as to leave me alone with the burden of reconciling our fucked up game?
I leaned forward and rested my face against her warm stomach. "You torture me with your indifference," I muttered into her skin.
She only shrugged. "Serves you right. Now you know how all those girls you toy with feel."
I groaned with exasperation, and proceeded to place my lips against her inner thigh. I could taste the sweat. I sucked on the tender flesh, indulging in kisses, listening the sound of Fiona hold her breath to resist vocalizing her enjoyment. I moved my lips to the hot, wet folds of her cunt, lapping up careful tastes, inhaling the warm scent.
"Do you have any idea," I murmured against her abdomen. I drew careful lines with my fingers around her tender lips as I spoke. "How infatuated I am with you?"
She scoffed, and I looked up. She rolled her eyes and with a careless motion, she pushed my face away. She crawled off the bed and started picking up her clothes from the floor.
"Save it for the society girls, Declan," she joked. Her jokes were steel walls that kept me out. I seethed in the agony of the moment lost, smacking my lips at her lingering taste. "Get dressed, we'll be late for dinner."
The momentary intimacy and vulnerability of sex had dissipated from the air. She was my sister again, not my lover. She walked back into the role seamlessly, and as soon as I had a moment to shake off my disappointment, so would I. I lived the lie every day, performed the society part flawlessly. We knew the rules.
I supposed I couldn't blame Fiona for not wanting to talk about it out loud. The truth was too disgusting and taboo to utter. But her silence still destroyed me. I had to know what she was thinking. I had to know if it consumed her like it consumed me, if she thought about it every day, if she sat awake at night shooting bourbon just to make that aching lust and guilt fade. What was I to her? Brother, friend, lover? A game, a sin, a comfort, a challenge?
Maybe I had been wrong about the conquest from the beginning. Maybe it had always been Fiona who was winning. I was the conquest. I was the conquered. I was dying a slow, painful death, falling deeper in love with her.