Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2378633.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      ダイヤのA_|_Daiya_no_A_|_Ace_of_Diamond
  Relationship:
      Kominato_Haruichi/Kominato_Ryousuke
  Character:
      Kominato_Haruichi, Kominato_Ryousuke
  Additional Tags:
      Mutual_Masturbation, Sibling_Incest, Pining, Dom/sub_Undertones, Mildly
      Dubious_Consent, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-15 Words: 2334
****** Condescension ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Haruichi’s skin flashes instantly cold in panic, adrenaline chilling
     him more effectively than an ice bath, and he’s twisting, rolling
     over onto his stomach in an attempt at denial that’s doomed before it
     starts." Haruichi doesn't lock his door and Ryosuke takes advantage.
Haruichi thought he was alone.
He was when he started, that he’s sure of. But he pulled the door shut without
thinking to lock it, assumed the wall of the door itself would be enough to
keep out any intruders, and at some point in the last half hour his mental
landscape took over reality, his vision slid out of importance in comparison to
the fluttering color of imagination, and by the time his breathing is catching
faster in his throat he’s not thinking about his surroundings at all. He’s
thinking about dark eyelashes, the soft curl of pink hair, steady hands, and
when he parts his lips it’s around the same sound it always is, the same soft
“Aniki” too faint to be heard through the door.
“What was that?”
There is a moment when comprehension is blessedly absent. Haruichi’s hand
stills from its near-frantic stroking over himself, his eyes come open wide,
but even when he looks up into Ryosuke’s face over him he doesn’t understand
for a breath. There’s just confusion, the back of his brain insisting that he
shut the door, that he didn’t hear it open again, that Ryosuke
cannot possibly be here, looking down at Haruichi as he desperately jerks
himself off to the thought of his brother.
It’s only a moment. Then Haruichi’s skin flashes instantly cold in panic,
adrenaline chilling him more effectively than an ice bath, and he’s twisting,
rolling over onto his stomach in an attempt at denial that’s doomed before it
starts.
“No you don’t.” Ryosuke is closer, there’s weight at his shoulder, and Haruichi
is falling back onto his back, face-up so even the desperate hope of covering
himself evaporates. He can feel his breathing catching high and anxious in his
chest, apologies and lies of explanations whirling through his thoughts too
fast to form. All the heat in his stomach is curdling cold and sour, pleasure
twisting into pain as his body tries to invert the last several minutes of
fantasy into guilt.
“Aniki,” he breathes, the word stretching into an apology on its own. His hair
is in his eyes, shadowing his vision, but he can clearly make out Ryosuke’s
features as his brother leans in over him, can clearly see the perpetual smile
clinging to the other’s lips as it pulls tighter and wider.
“That was it.” Ryosuke moves, shifting so the shadow of his body falls across
Haruichi; there’s a swing of motion, just out of clear sight, and then pressure
settling in over Haruichi’s legs, above his knees, where his jeans are bunched
from where he had pushed them aside. “I knew it was something like that.”
Haruichi doesn’t know what to say. His mouth has gone dry, his thoughts are
stalled out; now, with Ryosuke’s weight pinning him down, he can’t even move to
pull his clothes back into place to cover himself. He’s still aching, heat
turning painful and shaky low in his stomach, but just at the moment he’d
rather take the pain than the lingering erection that even panic hasn’t
entirely erased, yet. So he doesn’t say anything, just stares up at the cool
amusement at Ryosuke’s lips and the smudge of eyelashes hiding any insight into
his actual reaction.
“Well?” Ryosuke asks. His fingers tighten at Haruichi’s shoulder, so slowly
Haruichi can feel the imprint of each fingertip individually against his
shoulder. He’s still caught up in that pressure, digging just over the edge of
steadying into almost-pain, when Ryosuke leans in closer, past the range of
clear vision and closer still, dipping sideways so when he breathes out it
blows warm against the other boy’s ear.
“You weren’t done, were you?” Ryosuke’s words are hot on Haruichi’s skin, so
close it takes the younger boy a moment to place the meaning in a coherent
context. And he lingers, stays so near his lips are brushing Haruichi’s
jawline, so even when an answer presents itself Haruichi lacks anything like
the mental composure to deal with the obvious impossibility of such, to reject
the concept on principle alone.
“What?” he says instead, certain he’s wrong in his understanding but too
lightheaded from adrenaline and panic and confusion to find a better answer.
“Aniki?”
“You weren’t finished.” Ryosuke tips his head closer, huffs a sigh so loaded
with exasperation Haruichi can hear the emotional import even around the
pounding anxiety of his heartbeat in his ears. The hand at his shoulder pushes
harder, takes all of the other boy’s weight, and then fingers close around
Haruichi’s wrist, draw his hand back in across his sweat-chilled skin. Ryosuke
doesn’t touch Haruichi directly -- his motions are far too precise for that -
- but his aim is unerring, drags the other boy’s hand across until the tips of
Haruichi’s fingers brush against his half-hard length. Ryosuke’s hand tightens
when Haruichi tries to jerk away in the first rush of panic, keeps his hand
close while he takes a slow, deep breath against his brother’s skin.
“I’d hate to interrupt you,” Ryosuke is saying. Haruichi is hearing the words
but they seem impossible, they carry meaning his brain is rejecting on impulse
before he’s even thought through the implications. But Ryosuke’s hold is
guiding his hand closer, dragging Haruichi’s still fingers up against himself
with no sign of stopping, and when Haruichi chokes an inhale, lets his fingers
uncurl so he can tentatively shape his hold around himself, Ryosuke’s hold
loosens in counterpoint.
“I distracted you.” Ryosuke’s voice is purring, undermining the ut-on apology
of his words. “Don’t worry, Haruichi, I can wait until you finish.”
Haruichi’s not yet moving. He’s got his hand curled around himself, but his
touch is still tentative, he’s unwilling to move for fear of what Ryosuke might
do if he somehow, impossibly, is misinterpreting the situation. Ryosuke’s hand
is still against his wrist, his brother’s hold still pinning him to the floor
until he’s at least unwilling and maybe incapable of pulling away, and for a
wild minute Haruichi thinks they might stay like that for minutes, hours,
trapped between Ryosuke’s teasing and his own uncertainty.
Then Ryosuke opens his mouth. Haruichi can feel the drag of his brother’s lips
on his skin, the warm wet of the other boy’s lips parting -- then there’s heat,
the damp drag of a tongue against the side of his neck, and all the uncertainty
in his blood flashes to heat before Haruichi has even processed that Ryosuke
is licking him. He’s tipping his head away, baring more of his skin in
instinctive offering, and whatever hesitation was keeping his hand relaxed is
gone, his fingers are closing tight on himself as the rush of quicksilver heat
sends him hot and hard under his fingers.
“Oh,” he says, coherency utterly failing him, and Ryosuke laughs fluttering
heat into his skin.
“Isn’t that better?” His hold goes entirely, his free hand comes up to match
the first on Haruichi’s other shoulder; Haruichi’s hand is free, now, but
there’s no thought in his head of stopping, not now that the sick panic in his
stomach has flared into desperate heat. Ryosuke’s on top of him, so close every
stroke of his hand brushes his knuckles against his brother’s shirt, and he
doesn’t have to imagine, for once, he can feel the warm rhythm of Ryosuke
breathing on his skin and the damp almost-friction of the other’s tongue
slipping over his speeding pulse. It takes a minute to regain his rhythm, to
catch the edge of the speed he had when Ryosuke startled him and to fall back
into the harmony of his too-fast breathing and the stroke of his fingers, but
it still comes back faster than it should, aided by the shivery glide of
Ryosuke’s fingers up over his neck and into his hair and the grinding weight of
the other boy’s hips digging into his legs.
“Haruichi,” Ryosuke says, the syllables so heavy and warm Haruichi feels the
heat more than he understands the sounds. “Are you close?”
“Yes,” Haruichi says, the word catching high and strained in his throat.
“Haruichi,” Ryosuke says again, like he’s tasting the word. His fingers curl
into a fist on the other’s hair, pull sensation against Haruichi’s scalp while
his teeth catch on skin. “Come for me, Haruichi.” The drag of teeth slides into
the press of lips, the angled push of a kiss into his skin, and Haruichi opens
his mouth on a whimper and jerks up into his hand. Heat washes over him,
spreading tingling into his fingertips and out into his arms, and in the first
rush of pleasure he doesn’t even think to care that he’s coming over Ryosuke’s
shirt as well as his own skin.
That realization hits a moment later, when Ryosuke is pulling away and
straightening to sit up over Haruichi’s knees. All the chill comes back,
chasing hard on the heels of languid pleasure and tensing in Haruichi’s spine
so he starts to sit up as uncontrolled embarrassment darkens his cheeks into
crimson.
“Aniki --” he starts, as if he has any better explanation now than he did to
start.
Ryosuke’s hand catches at his shoulder again, shoves so hard he falls back and
the impact knocks the breath out of him.
“Hold still,” he orders. Haruichi doesn’t move, this time, just lies flat and
still and shocked while Ryosuke shoves his shirt up high on his chest, leaving
the sticky heat of his stomach bare. For a breath Ryosuke just looks, staring
down at the too-fast flutter of Haruichi’s breathing under his skin; then he
lets his shirt go, sits upright again, and starts to work the front of his
jeans open. The motion of his fingers inevitably draws Haruichi’s eyes to track
them, to follow the slip of button as the attachment comes free of cloth that
is definitely drawn tighter than it usually is.
“Oh.” It’s so soft Haruichi’s not sure Ryosuke will even hear the whimper of
realization, the faint exhale of shock as the full scope of the situation
settles on him. But Ryosuke is listening for a response, or just happens to
look up, and his perpetual smile draws wider into razor-edged sincerity as he
gets his zipper down and hooks his thumb under the waistband to free himself
from the pressure of his clothes.
“Here.” Ryosuke’s jeans are open, he’s pushing the fabric aside, but Haruichi
only gets a glimpse of bare skin before his brother’s hand is in his face,
shoving his bangs aside. They shift aside, clear his vision to the
unfamiliarity of direct light, and for a moment all Haruichi can see is the
sun-bright sparkle of Ryosuke’s smile.
“You have such nice eyes,” is all he says, and then he’s reaching out to brace
himself at Haruichi’s hip, holding the other boy down and still while he starts
to stroke over himself. Haruichi glances down -- he can’t not, not with the
pull of motion to drag his eyes -- but his gaze only lingers on the steady
stroke of Ryosuke’s fingers over the dark flush of his length for a moment
before he looks back up, because Ryosuke’s staring at him. His eyes are
shadowed into darkness, his lips are parted around the gasping rush of his
breathing; as Haruichi watches Ryosuke’s tongue flicks damp across his lower
lip, the hold at Haruichi’s hip draws tighter and more deliberate.
“Aniki,” Haruichi manages, the word pulling breathless and shivering in his
throat, and Ryosuke swallows hard, closes his lips tight while he takes a
sucking breath through his nose.
“Haruichi.” That sounds steady, sounds deliberate and intentional, but those
fingers are pulling hard at Haruichi’s hip, Ryosuke’s rocking forward, his hand
is jerking desperately over himself. His mouth opens like he’s going to say
something else, his eyes flicker up to focus on Haruichi’s for a moment; then
his expression slides out-of-focus, his breathing stalls for a moment, and heat
splashes over Haruichi’s bare skin as Ryosuke’s motions jerk into stillness.
Ryosuke doesn’t give him a chance to speak. He’s letting Haruichi’s hip go
before the other can think of words, pulling his jeans back into place and
refastening the clothing while Haruichi stares at the calm in his expression.
Ryosuke doesn’t even look any different than usual, except for maybe a slight
softness at the very edge of his lips that might not usually be present.
“You should lock your door, next time,” he says as he pulls his shirt back down
over the top of his pants, tips his chin up so he’s looking down at Haruichi.
“If you don’t want company.”
Haruichi is processing this, blinking through the implication and trying to
confirm the meaning, when the light on his face falls into shadow as Ryosuke
leans in closer. There’s warmth at his lips, the pressure of a kiss so sharp
with amusement it’s more bruising than soft; then Ryosuke is pulling away, just
by an inch, the dark of his eyes focused on Haruichi’s.
“My door’s always unlocked.” The weight on Haruichi’s legs lifts, Ryosuke moves
away so the light hits Haruichi’s skin without interruption. He’s on his feet
before Haruichi has thought of sitting up, reaching for the door to unfasten
the lock he must have fastened when he came in. Haruichi is just rolling over
sideways, lifting his head to stare wide-eyed at Ryosuke’s back, when the other
boy pauses with his fingers on the handle of the door.
“That’s an invitation.” The words are slow, deliberately careful with
condescension to someone who wouldn’t understand something less direct. When
Ryosuke glances back he’s smiling, the corner of his mouth turned up sharp
against the curve of his lips. “Haruichi.”
Even after Ryosuke has left, carefully easing the door shut behind him,
Haruichi can’t think of any other explanation to that other than the obvious.
The thought feels like a flame under his skin, knowledge too bright to look at
directly, yet.
Ryosuke has always been patient with him, though.
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