
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2703758.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      逆転裁判_|_Gyakuten_Saiban_|_Ace_Attorney
  Relationship:
      Garyuu_Kirihito/Garyuu_Kyouya_|_Klavier_Gavin/Kristoph_Gavin
  Character:
      Garyuu_Kyouya_|_Klavier_Gavin, Garyuu_Kirihito_|_Kristoph_Gavin
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Sibling_Incest, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Dom/sub, Choking, Hair-pulling
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-05 Words: 2158
****** Effort ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Klavier’s been letting his hair grow long the last few years, and
     Kristoph hasn’t commented but he appreciates the compliment of
     imitation in his little brother’s aesthetic choices, as Klavier’s own
     style came closer and closer to Kristoph’s own." Kristoph is good at
     teaching, and Klavier is a good student.
Kristoph likes Klavier’s hair.
His younger brother has the same white-gold hair to match Kristoph’s own, has
made something of an art of styling himself into the appearance of disheveled
grace via an excess of effort. Kristoph likes that, likes the lengths to which
Klavier will go to appear effortless, the sense of almost-magic that goes along
with that kind of carefully cultivated beauty. And Klavier’s been letting his
hair grow long the last few years, and Kristoph hasn’t commented but he
appreciates the compliment of imitation in his little brother’s aesthetic
choices, as Klavier’s own style came closer and closer to Kristoph’s own.
And aside from the appearance of it, there is something to be said for its
utility in less publicized matters.
Kristoph twists his wrist, wraps another loop of Klavier’s hair around his
fingers so he can steady his grip and drag back harder on his brother’s head.
Klavier hisses at the hurt, arches his back sharply so his chin tips up and
back to give Kristoph as much leeway as he can manage without moving from his
current position on his hands and knees across the bed.
“This is a good look for you,” Kristoph comments without specifying whether he
means the pale strands tangled around his fingers or the sweat-damp sweep of
Klavier’s spine.
Klavier’s breathing is strained from the angle of his head, every inhale coming
with an audible whine. He still manages a shaky laugh, an attempt at his usual
blithe unconcern even though Kristoph can see the tension trembling through his
braced-out shoulders. “I’m always glad to have your approval.”
Kristoph hums appreciation of the compliment, lets his fist on Klavier’s hair
go so the strands slip loose and Klavier can let his head hang forward. When
Kristoph brushes the weight of it sideways off his brother’s neck Klavier
obligingly turns his head to draw it forward over his shoulder and leave the
pale line of his shoulder exposed for Kristoph’s appreciation.
“You have it,” Kristoph says again, his tone modulated until he sounds a king
granting a boon. Klavier’s shirt was lost en route to the bedroom, probably
somewhere near the doorway, and his skintight pants are by the desk in the
corner, but the chain with the Gavinners symbol is still curving across his
skin. Kristoph reaches out to touch the metal, to curl his fingers under the
loop so he can draw it back and pull the chain up closer to Klavier’s throat.
“When are you going to focus on prosecution?” he asks, as gently as if he isn’t
tugging tighter on to underline his words.
“I thought you liked the band,” Klavier says. He’s speaking clearly, again;
without the strain on his throat Kristoph can hear the smooth sound of vowels
on his tongue, the purring promise of resonance even when Klavier is just
speaking.
“You’re not bad,” Kristoph admits as he pulls the chain tighter, presses the
links in against the soft skin at Klavier’s throat. Klavier tips his head up
again, a futile instinct to relieve the building pressure. “You’re trying to do
two things at once,” he continues, twisting the chain so he can see it digging
into Klavier’s skin, threatening lingering bruises. “You’ll never excel at
either, that way.”
He lets the chain go. It won’t do to leave marks, at least not where anyone can
see. Klavier doesn’t answer -- this is a familiar conversation -- just takes a
breath, shifts his shoulders so the weight of the necklace pulls the chain back
into place.
Kristoph leans back, reaches without looking for the bottle he knows is lying
abandoned at the foot of the bed. “One or two, Klavier?”
Klavier’s shoulders tense, the arch of his back trembles as he braces his
hands. “One.”
“Cautious as always,” Kristoph praises. He recaps the bottle, sets it back at
the end of the bed where it’s out of Klavier’s range before he comes up on his
knees so he can lean in over Klavier’s back, bracing his weight on the other’s
hip and holding him still at once. “Admirable.”
Klavier doesn’t try to answer. His fingers are curling into fists on the
sheets, his breathing coming faster in anticipation even before Kristoph
touches his fingers to his brother’s skin. Klavier lets his lungful of air go,
like he’s consciously reaching for calm, and Kristoph pushes a finger into him
without giving a warning. The pressure makes Klavier whimper -- Kristoph can
feel him tensing in response -- but then his fingers go slack on the sheets,
the strain in his neck eases, and when he takes another breath it’s easier.
“That’s it,” Kristoph praises, even though he knows Klavier doesn’t really need
the reassurance. Klavier still flushes warm at the praise, as if Kristoph has
flicked a switch to turn his blood hot, and he’s relaxing around the pressure
of Kristoph’s finger, his breathing falling into nearly its regular rhythm.
Kristoph doesn’t rush him. He is a patient man, and it’s better to get Klavier
weak and shaky with want before he starts to pursue his own pleasure. And
there’s the visual satisfaction of reading response from Klavier’s curved
spine, the angle of his hips, the tremble of his legs, so Kristoph can
anticipate his brother’s request, draw back to press in a pair of fingers as
Klavier takes a careful breath to ask for more. Kristoph leans in farther, lets
the weight of his body grant extra strength to the thrust of his fingers, and
Klavier lets his shoulders fall forward, leans down so he can pant against the
sheets instead of trying to hold himself up. Kristoph knows that reaction too,
that’s the last of Klavier’s self-control fading; that means he can angle his
fingers wider, thrust in deep, deeper, until Klavier jerks and moans against
the bed. Kristoph knows Klavier’s hard, knows he could reach around and jerk
Klavier off just like this, if he wanted, like he sometimes does. But patience
is an important skill to teach Klavier as well as everything else, so instead
Kristoph thrusts in with a third finger, speeds the rhythm of his hand without
letting his other so much as shift at Klavier’s hip. Klavier knows better than
to plead for more; he gasps into the sheets for a moment, until Kristoph can
hear his breathing getting labored from the lack of air before Klavier turns
his head sideways so he can pant for more air, digs his fingers into his
tangled hair like it will somehow give him a point of reference.
It’s not until Klavier’s shaking through his whole body, until even Kristoph’s
steadying hold isn’t enough to smooth out his shuddering, that Kristoph pulls
away. He doesn’t have to tell Klavier to stay where he is as he slides off the
bed to begin carefully stripping off his own clothes; the other doesn’t move as
Kristoph leaves him, just whimpers in what might be protest and might be
anticipation and is probably both. Kristoph barely even watches him as he
drapes his clothes carefully over the back of a chair, smooths the possibility
of wrinkles from the fabric with perfectly steady hands. He doesn’t need to be
watching to trust Klavier to stay still.
It’s a few minutes before he’s returning. Klavier is still as he was, up on his
knees and slumped low over his arms with his hair curling itself into knots
around his fingers. He doesn’t startle when Kristoph touches him, just rocks
back against the contact, moves to press his hand to the mattress and start
pushing up even before Kristoph says, “On your hands,” because Kristoph isn’t
the only one of them who understands his brother. Klavier lifts his head, gulps
a breath of air, and Kristoph reaches out to draw the other’s hair out over his
shoulders, separating curls from each other until there’s just a wave of gold
spilling over skin.
“Good,” he says, and replaces his fingers at Klavier’s hip to hold him still as
he starts to thrust into the other. Klavier chokes on a breath, tips his head
back instead of forward as Kristoph’s cock slides into him. The sound he makes
is as good as the feel of him, a throaty moan that catches on the edge of music
before Kristoph rocks the rest of the way forward and shatters it into an
ordinary human shudder.
With one hand braced it’s easy for Kristoph to lean farther forward, to reach
out to curl his fingers around Klavier’s throat. He doesn’t press -- bruises
are telltale and hard to cover with just a necklace -- but the weight of
contact is enough for Klavier to swallow hard, his throat working under
Kristoph’s fingertips. Kristoph tips forward closer, curls in over Klavier’s
spine so he can press his lips to gold waves and pale skin as he starts to
move, to piece a rhythm to his thrusts into the heat of Klavier’s body while he
feels the trembling adrenaline in Klavier’s breathing. Klavier is going more
tense with every of Kristoph’s movements, jolting and groaning with pleasure
when his brother finds the right angle for a thrust or two, but his fingers are
clenching again, he’s starting to draw tight around Kristoph, and finally
Kristoph lets his hand go from Klavier’s throat so he can reach around his hip
instead.
“Klavier,” he says against the shiver of skin under his lips. “Make sure you
breathe.”
He can feel Klavier laugh, soundless and quick, and then he closes his fingers
around the other’s cock and the laugh veers into a whine so high and desperate
it’s a plea without needing words. Kristoph strokes once and Klavier shakes,
the vibration running down through his whole body; twice and Klavier gasps,
sucks in the air that Kristoph reminded him of and lets his fingers relax with
an almost visible force of will. Kristoph shifts his hips again, rocks back an
inch and then forward as deep as he can go, and when he pulls up over the slick
head of Klavier’s cock he can feel the tension in the other’s skin go slack all
at once, the relief of pleasure easing his shoulders well in advance of the
actual moan in his throat. Kristoph can feel the vibration of the sound strike
sparks off his blood, better encouragement to his own pleasure than even the
sticky heat of Klavier coming over his fingers.
He straightens, comes back up so his weight is balanced over his own knees
instead of Klavier’s hips; when he thrusts forward again Klavier slides forward
and nearly falls to the mattress before Kristoph lets his cock go in favor of
dragging him back by his hips. Klavier always goes boneless after he comes,
slumping across the mattress in spite of his best attempts to the contrary; it
makes it harder to fuck him, means Kristoph has to hold him steady as he
thrusts forward, but it’s worth it for the trembling pleasure visible all
through his body, for the convulsive aftershocks still tightening around
Kristoph’s length when the carefully stoked fire in his blood starts to flare
out of control. Klavier starts to slip back to the bed, collapses back down
over his arms, and when he whimpers a moan it’s enough, Kristoph knows it’s
enough as his steady rhythm stutters into a faster pace. He takes a breath that
catches in his throat, his composure starting to flicker out-of-focus, and
Klavier shoves at the sheets to push himself backward onto his brother.
Kristoph’s skin flashes sun-hot, every muscle in his body tightening for a
brief moment of involuntary shivering pleasure. His vision narrows down to
hyper-attention, draws over the sharp curve of Klavier’s shoulder as his mouth
falls open; Klavier is the one who moans for him, groaning satisfaction as
Kristoph comes into him, trembling like it’s a struggle to stay upright.
He does collapse as soon as Kristoph pulls away and lets him go, slides to fall
languid and sated over the sheets while Kristoph gets to his feet. He’s showing
no sign of moving when Kristoph has steadied his breathing and looks back; he’s
just rolled sideways so he can watch the other, his eyes clear and blue and
endless.
“You should shower,” Kristoph points out.
Klavier’s smile drags at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and flirtatious.
“Yeah.” He shows no signs of moving at all.
Kristoph doesn’t mean to smile. It’s something about the curve of Klavier’s
mouth that pulls it from him, that forms his lips into an echo of pleasure
before he comes back, leans in to kiss the soft damp of Klavier’s mouth.
Klavier hums at the contact, turns his head up in hope of more, but Kristoph
only lingers for a moment before he pulls away and turns towards the bathroom
without acknowledging Klavier’s faint whine of protest.
It’s more fun when he makes Klavier work for it.
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