
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1063293.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hatoful_Kareshi_|_Hatoful_Boyfriend
  Relationship:
      Kawara_Ryouta/Shirogane_Le_Bel_Sakuya
  Character:
      Shirogane_Le_Bel_Sakuya, Kawara_Ryouta
  Additional Tags:
      Frottage, Hatofulkink
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-29 Words: 429
****** touch ******
by peridotdotdot
Summary
     Kink meme de-anon. A brief respite during the events of BBL.
Ryouta's loud, shaky moan reverberated through the music room, body shaking
slightly as he pressed himself further down against Sakuya's erection. The
aristocrat wasn't faring much better, his own breath coming out in short pants.
"H-harder," Ryouta gasped, head falling to rest on Sakuya's shoulder. The other
boy gave a sharp snap of his hips and Ryouta made a strangled noise that only
made Sakuya crave more.
Sakuya pressed his mouth harshly against Ryouta's, partially to shut him up,
partially because he had the sudden urge to. Ryouta groaned into the kiss. It
was sloppy and inexperienced, teeth clashing against teeth; neither boy had
ever really done anything even close to this before. It was a new experience.
"More," Ryouta panted. "More more more-"
"Quiet," Sakuya practically snarled, yanking on the other boy's tie (as if it
wasn't wrinkled enough).
"Please," Ryouta begged, and it was Sakuya who ended up groaning this time,
cock twitching.
Maybe he got off just a little on the pleading. Maybe.
"Stupid peasent," Sakuya growled, voice low. One hand shifted from the other
boy's hip to rub against his dick, and Ryouta shuddered harshly atop him at the
action.
"A-ah!"
Sakuya loved the sounds Ryouta made.
"No," Ryouta moaned, face flushing a gorgeous tinge of pink. "D-don't, I'll
..."
Sakuya hushed him up with another forceful thrust upwards, hand squeezing
Ryouta's cock slightly. Ryouta's head fell back, his body arcing beautifully
and trembling, eyes going wide. Sakuya could feel the wetness staining the
inside of the boy's pants. It was glorious.
"S-sakuya!!"
That was a good sound. It's what Sakuya had wanted to hear. He dragged the boy
atop him down by the tie for another messy kiss, continuing to press his hips
upwards, against Ryouta's ass, until finally he saw an explosion of stars and
came, panting he release into Ryouta's mouth.
The two spent a good moment catching their breath, Ryouta slouched on top of
Sakuya, their foreheads pressed together.
"Get off of me," Sakuya muttered, shoving him off. It wasn't as harsh as he
intended it to be, and Ryouta managed to regain his footing with relative ease.
They spent an awkward few minutes adjusting their uniforms, smoothing out
wrinkles and straightening shirts and ties. Ryouta snagged some tissues,
passing a few to Sakuya.
"Let's go," Ryouta said, once they were done. He did a splendid job of not
acting like they hadn't just done something like that, something Sakuya might
regret within the next few hours.
"... don't tell me what to do," Sakuya grumbled, brushing past Ryouta and
opening the door.
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 time Sam would nudge him away but he doesn't want to
right now, especially because Dean is warm and Sam feels cold.
The medicine isn't helping, and Sam doesn't realize he's said that out loud
until Dean wraps an arm around him and says, "Give it time, Sam, it will." Dean
runs his hand along Sam's belly once, then slips it under Sam's shirt. "Mom
used to do this for me when I got sick," he explains, and he rubs his hand in a
slow circle. "It helps sometimes."
Dean's hand feels big and warm against his belly, and Sam imagines he can feel
the pain begin to lessen and go away. He thinks maybe Dean's saying something,
but he can't really hear it. He nods anyway, and presses his head into the
pillow and closes his eyes.
He falls asleep like that.
 
thirteen.
Dean's good with guns. Good at shooting them, cleaning them, taking them apart.
It's that last one he's trying to teach Sam right now. He's got one almost
apart, fingers wrapped around the pieces as he disassembles it cleanly. He's
doing it slower than normal, but that's purely for Sam's benefit; Dean's well-
versed in all sorts of firearms now, can break them down piece by piece like a
machine, partly because of Dad's teaching and partly because of Dean's stubborn
streak and need to perfect it.
Dean narrates what he's doing with a clear, firm voice and Sam watches
intently: watches how Dean's hands grip each piece, the pop of his knuckles as
he twists the parts; watches how precise his fingers are, stocky and slick with
oil, sure with their movements; watches the way Dean's middle finger never
fully wraps around any of the parts, jutting out just a little bit from the
metal. His knuckles are scraped, cut in places and scabbing over in others, but
his hands are smooth in the way that Dad's aren't, a tattletale sign of his
inexperience still to the world of hunting.
"Sam, pay attention," comes Dean's voice, and its roughness jolts Sam out of
his thoughts.
"I am," Sam says quickly. Dean doesn't look convinced but he doesn't look
exactly pissed off, either. "I'm watching, I swear."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, you're watching, but you're not goddamn paying attention.
Keep this up and you can learn all by yourself."
Sam is almost positive that he would probably be able to learn the ins and outs
of guns faster by himself, or even with Dad taking them apart and putting them
back together again instead. With Dean, Sam has a hard time focusing. He's not
exactly sure what the problem is; one minute Dean's starting the demonstration
and in the next he's done and Sam hasn't registered a single thing that he's
said, only how he held his hands as he worked the pieces apart from each other.
"Just--show me again," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes but starts on the
pieces again, metals slotting into place.
"Okay," Dean says when the gun's back together. He holds it up in front of Sam
with strong hands, and only when Sam nods does he start the process he's cycled
through ten times now. He takes a deep breath and begins: "Alright, first
you've gotta make sure it's safe, 'cause if you blow my head off I'll fuckin'
kill you, man--"
Dean's started with the same threat every time since the first, so Sam just
nods in response and takes in Dean's ring. It's thick and silver, and there's
oil on that, too--Dean's gonna wanna clean it up later, definitely. And Dean's
hands are taking the gun apart piece by piece again, running commentary that's
only being heard by himself, and Sam nods at points that he thinks might be
appropriate. Dean's been chewing his nails again, the edge of his thumb a short
and jagged line.
"You got it this time?" Dean asks, once he has the gun's parts laying in one
neat row.
Sam bites his lip and shakes his head. "Show me again? Just one more time, I
promise--I think I've mostly got it now."
Dean narrows his eyes and for one long second Sam thinks he's going to get
called out--or slapped upside the head--but Dean just picks the pieces up and
begins to slot them together again.
 
fifteen.
Sam's woken up by a full bladder. He's wrapped up in a cocoon of warmth that he
doesn't want to get out of, but he knows he's not going to get back to sleep
without a trip to the bathroom. He squeezes his eyes together, barely
suppressing a groan at the thought of having to get up, and then he hears it:
this soft, sweet noise nearby--too high for Dean.
Sam opens his eyes slowly, images a little fuzzy before they sharpen, and Sam
breathes in quickly at the sight, a tight intake of air. Dean's in his bed but
he's not alone, a pretty blonde with him. They're naked, the girl on her back
and Dean on top of her, and Sam's not stupid. The girl makes that noise again,
sharper this time, and Dean chuckles softly, voice low when he says, "Keep it
down, you're gonna wake my brother up."
The girl smiles a little and reaches up to pull Dean's head down, kisses him
and they both make these quiet moans that has Sam swallowing thickly. Dean's
hands slide up her, one to her arm, pushing it against the headboard, the other
to her breast, cupping her, thumb brushing over the nipple in a way that has
her arching her back. Sam follows the movement and gets lost then, eyes locked
at the way Dean's fingers wrap around her wrist completely, keeping her hand in
place, his own looking huge in comparison.
Sam can feel himself growing in his underwear, blood rushing in and filling out
as Dean's rocking gets faster, more frenzied. The strokes of his thumb getting
briefer against the girl, and then everything dies down completely following
one prolonged groan. Dean's thrusting becomes slow, barely there movements, his
fingers on the girl slowing as well; the only thing still going hard and fast
is their breathing, coming out in ragged gulps. Sam clenches his eyes shut,
suddenly terrified that they'll see he's awake now that they're done, and by
the time Dean says goodbye to the girl, Sam's still hard.
It doesn't take long for Dean to go to bed after that: five minutes in the
bathroom, then another five in bed before Sam hears his breathing even out and
the snoring starts. Sam removes himself from his blankets and tries to quietly
get out of the bed, even though Dean isn't likely to wake up from Sam getting
up. There's a lock on the bathroom door and Sam feels a little too grateful as
he twists it, thinking what he'd do if Dean accidentally barged in--and that
makes his dick jerk a little.
Sam slides to the floor with his bare back to the cold wall, hand slipping
under the elastic of his underwear already, and then he grips himself. He lets
out a slow moan, follows the length of his dick with his hand once and presses
his eyes shut. He thinks of Dean and the girl, mostly thinks about how much she
seemed to like Dean's hands on her and how Dean's hand looked wrapped around
her wrist, wonders if Dean could wrap his around Sam's--if Dean could make his
wrist look as small as the girl's, if it'd feel fragile in Dean's grip.
He brushes his thumb across his nipple and wonders how the girl must've felt.
Dean's fingers are thicker, bigger than Sam's, and they're harder, rougher from
cuts and scrapes and shoveling. His feels okay, sensation kind of nice as he
rubs it, but Dean's would feel better, Sam thinks, if only because they're
Dean's. He can almost feel the press of Dean's fingers against his side, thumb
grazing over Sam's flesh, can even imagine the grip of Dean on his cock, harsh
and stroking roughly, and Sam tightens his hand around himself in response.
He comes embarrassingly fast, breathing heavy and shaking at the thought of his
brother running his hands all over him, and Sam stands up on unsteady legs to
go clean off.
 
seventeen.
It feels like there's blood everywhere on Sam: on his hand, on his shirt,
seeping into the sleeve of his jacket. His mouth feels dry and he figures he
must look as good as he feels, just guessing by the way Dean keeps glancing
between him and the windshield on the drive back. "You okay, Sam?" he asks for
the third time, and Sam genuinely feels less sure of his answer than he did
five minutes earlier.
"Yeah," Sam says, berating himself when it comes out somewhat shakily. Except
Dad says, "He's fine," at almost the exact same time, so Sam's not even sure
Dean caught it.
Dad's first to go into the motel when they get there, muttering about checking
up with contacts. Sam's painfully aware of Dean's eyes on him as he makes his
way inside, hand pressing tight against the cuts. Harpies, that's what Dad
called them, but Sam doesn't care what they were called, only that their talons
hurt like hell, slicing across his arm like it was butter. When Sam closes his
eyes he can still hear the inhuman screeches, can still see the black, beady
eyes.
"Hey," Dean murmurs, his hand fitting against the small of Sam's back. Sam
fights against a shiver. "Just sit down on the bed, okay?"
Sam watches a little mindlessly as Dean sorts through their medical supplies,
taking out gauze and antiseptic. "Can you get your coat and shirt off?" Dean
asks, and together they manage to strip Sam of his clothing, Sam trying not to
hiss when he has to move his arm through his sleeve. He takes one look at the
wound, sees the shades of red and varying stages of drying blood, and feels
bile in the back of his throat. He never has been all that great with seeing
his own blood.
"It doesn't look that bad, Sam," Dean says. "I think it hurts a lot worse than
it looks. I remember the first time I got cut up. The shock makes it hurt like
a bitch."
Dean wets gauze with the antiseptic and then presses it to the cuts, and Sam
hisses and jerks his arm away instantly, but Dean catches him by the wrist,
fingers locking around the bone. "Hey, easy now, Sammy," he murmurs, thumb
running soft strokes over Sam's pulse. Sam tries to focus on the gentle touch
there when the antiseptic seeps into his wound. Dean goes slowly, dabbing at it
with soft pressure, and then he pulls away and gets more gauze, wrapping it
around Sam's upper arm, fingers keeping it in place until he can tape it.
"Fucking harpies," Dean mutters, possibly just to inject some noise into the
room; Dean's never been able to handle silence longer than necessary. Sam
grunts his agreement, not quite feeling ready to do more than that, and Dean
chews on his lip as he checks over Sam's face.
He makes a displeased noise and says, "Managed to get your face scratched up,
too," and then he's ripping off more gauze from the roll and the sting hits
Sam's forehead. Dean catches Sam's head with his hand before Sam can turn away,
cradling Sam's face as he dabs it on. Dean's hands are rough and warm, the scar
he'd gotten across his palm a week ago pressing against Sam's cheek, and Sam
closes his eyes for a minute.
He's made peace with how good it feels when Dean puts his hands on him, how
much he likes it when Dean touches him.
Sam watches his brother and the careful consideration on his face, his lips
pressed together tightly, and Sam swallows, not quite used to looking at Dean
so close. He counts the seconds between the gauze's swipes at his scratches and
he makes it all the way to fifteen before he realizes that Dean's stopped
dabbing, expression shifted slightly, and then Dean presses his thumb to Sam's
cheek and clears his throat, pulling away. He says, "All done," and then he
gets up, leaving Sam completely numb.
 
twenty-three.
Sam's back hits the wall with a hard thump he barely registers on account of
Dean crowding in against him, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a
jigsaw. There's a faint trace of beer on Dean's breath, his lips shiny and wet,
and Sam is relieved when Dean covers Sam's mouth with his own. Sam groans,
knocking his head back against the wall and Dean follows his mouth, hand
squeezing bruises into Sam's side, the other spread out against the wall beside
Sam's head.
Dean pulls away for a second and grins, and Sam ends up reflecting it back a
little breathlessly, feeling slightly insane as he takes in the wicked curve of
Dean's mouth. Then Dean's back, biting at Sam's lips and then swiping over them
with his tongue, and Sam stops trying to think period.
Five minutes ago Sam was high on the adrenaline of a far-too-close call and
beer when he kissed Dean, almost accidentally, and somehow it's lead to them
here. Sam has his shirt off and Dean's only still got his undershirt, and Sam's
going crazy. He's had this fantasy a hundred times over, jerked off to it just
as many times, and now that this is happening--the fact that Dean's hands are
on him right now--he's finding it impossible to think straight.
At some point--Sam's not sure when, his head spinning with the pure taste of
Dean in his mouth--Dean had worked his hand in between them, and now deft
fingers are sliding Sam's zipper down. Then Dean's cupping Sam through his
underwear, fingertips pressing up behind Sam's balls and Dean's backing away a
little, saying, "Fuckin' hell, Sam."
Sam's body is trembling under Dean's touch and Sam just nods jerkily, mouth
slack. "Shit, yeah."
Dean runs his hand down the length of Sam, a firm pressure that has Sam
completely hard in the matter of seconds, dick pressing tight against his
underwear. It doesn't take Dean long after that to push them down and out of
the way, and Sam almost stumbles over when Dean finally gets his hand on him, a
tight, warm fist around Sam's cock that feels too good to be real. Sam can't
help but remember the thousand times Dean's hands have been on guns and the way
he stripped them piece by piece, the way he's currently doing the same to Sam.
Dean's hands are a familiar thing to him but not like this, not wrapped around
his dick and palm pressing against the head, and Sam gets a little thrill out
of knowing that by tomorrow he won't be able to say that anymore.
"Oh, god, Dean--" Sam starts and then cuts himself off with a groan, because
Dean chooses that moment to start jerking him off, quick pulls of his hand that
have Sam pressing hard against the wall and pushing out his hips. Dean's pace
is long and frenzied, hand twisting as he takes the upstroke, grip as steady
and sure as it is when he's got a weapon in his hand instead of Sam's dick.
It's everything Sam imagined. Better.
Dean grips Sam's bicep, hand pushing against the muscle, and Sam registers the
full size of Dean's hand as he pins Sam's arm against the wall. He takes a
shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut, a low moan escaping. Right now,
Dean is the best thing Sam's ever felt, and it's unfathomable, Sam thinks, the
way Dean's working him up like he knows him so well, like he's figured out Sam
completely. Sam figures that maybe he has, maybe he does know everything about
Sam, maybe Sam is just that transparent around him.
Sam's shirt is sticky against his back, glued to his skin, and he's on the
edge, balls drawn tight. Dean kisses him then, this ravenous, full-mouthed kiss
that's almost a bite and then Sam's coming, spilling out into his brother's
hand. Sam's knees feel like they'll give out any minute but he somehow manages
to keep standing, and Dean jerks him through the aftershocks, mouths pressed
together as Sam comes down.
Afterwards, Sam manages to tug Dean's fly down with unsteady fingers and curls
a hand around him, stroking quickly and then Dean lurches against him, sucks in
a breath. Sam's heard Dean make a litany of noises over the years but never
this one, a low, keening groan as Dean tucks his face into the crook of Sam's
neck.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean says, eyes pressed together tight as Sam jacks him. "Your
goddamn hands."
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