Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1920648.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater, Soul_Eater_Not!
  Relationship:
      Harvar_D._Éclair/Ox_Ford
  Character:
      Harvar_D._Éclair, Ox_Ford
  Additional Tags:
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Established_Relationship, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot
      What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Blow_Jobs
  Series:
      Part 2 of Confessions
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-14 Words: 2446
****** Doors ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "When Harvar realizes he can’t entirely remember the color of Ox’s
     eyes, he decides enough is enough." There are downsides to being in
     love with Ox Ford, and exam time is when Harvar notices most of them.
Harvar is rapidly learning to hate exam time.
It was never much of an issue before. He’s a decent enough student that he can
score an average grade without much studying and not a good enough one to make
hours of effort worth the slightly-above-average score he’ll receive. Ox, of
course, spends weeks preparing, organizing, planning, studying, locks himself
in his room and doesn’t emerge until 3 in the morning when he’s too exhausted
to go without eating any longer. Harvar doesn’t fret about his meister -- Ox is
responsible enough to be trusted with his own health, he knows his own limits
better than Harvar does -- but what before was a chance to stretch out into the
temporarily empty apartment has now become days of loose ends, wandering
aimlessly from room to room and jerking off so much it’s starting to become
painful. When Harvar realizes he can’t entirely remember the color of Ox’s
eyes, he decides enough is enough.
The door to the other boy’s bedroom is shut, and Harvar has always assumed it’s
locked. His own bedroom is only ever in use when he’s sleeping or engaged in
similarly private activities, and it’s only very recently that he’s even
considered leaving the door unlocked for either of these. But either Ox has
come to the same conclusion or Harvar’s assumption for the last few years has
been wrong, because the knob turns easily when he tries it, the door pushes
open to grant him entrance.
“I’m studying,” Ox says without turning around from his desk. He sounds
snappish, on-edge like he usually does during these marathon studying sessions,
but Harvar’s never been particularly touchy about politeness so he’s not hurt
by the rejection of the tone. He’s more caught by the tidiness of Ox’s room,
the neat stack of books on the shelf just in reach from the desk, the crisp
edges of the well-made bed, the rows of pressed shirts visible past the door to
the closet. It might be the pristine order that itches under his skin, or maybe
just the sight of his recently absent meister hunched over his desk, but Harvar
can feel the urge towards chaos prickle in his fingertips, the need to add the
spark of life to the painfully clean room pushing him forward into the space.
“Take a break,” Harvar says aloud, stepping forward past the door, reaching out
to leave his fingerprints on the sharp edges of the bedsheets.
“I can’t,” Ox says, still without turning around. His shoulders are tight,
Harvar can see tension even higher than usual winding under his skin even with
the obstruction of his shirt and vest. “I have to come in first this time.”
“It doesn’t matter that much,” Harvar says, but Ox is growling over him before
he’s finished his sentence.
“It does matter.” He sounds pissed, now, properly angry, and when he turns
around from the desk his face is pulled into a grimace of irritation. But
he did turn around, he’s looking at Harvar now, and the weapon steps forward
instantly, close enough that his knee hits Ox’s leg and the meister has to tip
his head back sharply to hold eye contact.
“Shut up,” Harvar says. “Five minutes isn’t going to make a difference.”
“It will,” Ox starts to protest, but Harvar is reaching for his shirt, wrapping
his fingers into a fist in the fabric to keep Ox from pulling away when he
leans down to kiss him. It’s harder than he intends, bruising force instead of
gentle affection, but he’s been alone for days and he’s more anxious than he
realized, and then his mouth hits Ox’s and the fire that rushes into his veins
takes any apology with it.
“You’ve been ignoring me,” he growls, and when Ox opens his mouth Harvar takes
it as invitation instead of response, slides his tongue past the meister’s lips
without waiting for the possibility of an answer to manifest. There’s a moment
of resistance, tension drawing tight in the meister’s shoulders and irritated
against his mouth; then Harvar licks against the roof of Ox’s mouth, hums in
satisfaction against the other boy’s lips, and the strain cracks into
submission.
“Take a break,” Harvar orders without moving away. Ox’s hand comes up to his
shirt, hesitates for a moment like he’s thinking about pushing the weapon away,
but Harvar has already felt his determination crack, there’s no question in his
mind of what direction that hold is going to go even before the meister pulls
him in. He’s perfectly willing to go, throws out a hand to catch himself
against the meister’s leg before he drops to his knees as the easiest way to
keep his balance. For a minute they’re just kissing, Ox’s fingers working idly
against the bottom edge of Harvar’s shirt and Harvar doing his best to
reacquaint himself with the shape of the meister’s mouth; then the weapon lets
his hold on Ox’s shirt go, drags his hand down to the front of the other boy’s
pants, and Ox pulls back with a half-strangled sound of surprise.
“Five minutes,” Harvar says again, growling against the potential of Ox
refusing. “Five minutes, it won’t make a difference and you know it.”
“Harvar,” Ox starts, but it sounds like protest so Harvar leans in to kiss the
sound away while he fumbles one-handed at the front of Ox’s slacks. He can feel
the other boy’s interest in spite of his not-quite voiced protests, and the
idea of having someone with him instead of jerking off on his own is more than
enough to catch and hold his own interest. When he pulls back Ox is too
breathless to form a coherent response right away, and Harvar has an argument
ready.
“You’ve left me alone,” he hisses, sliding in closer so he can push up against
Ox’s knee. “I miss you and I want you and I’m tired of fantasizing about you
without having you.”
The meister goes still against him, shocked into paralysis for a minute, and
Harvar has a moment of almost-regret for going too far but he can’t quite
muster an apology. Then Ox grabs at the edge of his jeans, yanks him in closer,
and suddenly he’s sitting up, leaning in so when he says, “You fantasize about
me?” Harvar can taste the words on his tongue.
“Of course I do,” he admits instantly. “I’ve been jerking off to you for
fucking years, Ox, I told you that.”
“You didn’t,” Ox insists, and his fingers are dragging over Harvar’s skin just
under the edge of his jeans. “I would have remembered that.”
“You should have guessed, then,” Harvar insists. The zipper on Ox’s pants comes
down halfway, that’s good enough so Harvar can reach in to pull at the edge of
the meister’s boxers. “I told you I’ve been in love with you all this time,
what did you think I was doing?”
Harvar doesn’t realize, right away, that Ox has gone still. He’s still pulling
the other boy’s clothes out of the way, desperate for reciprocated contact,
when it sinks in that the hands at his skin have stalled out, that Ox is
staring at him with his mouth half-open like he’s forgotten to close it. That
gets Harvar to slow to a stop -- did he do something wrong? Does Ox not want
this after all?
“What?” he snaps, when waiting isn’t getting any sort of reaction.
“You never said love,” Ox says, sounding shell-shocked.
Harvar can feel the blush creep up over his skin. It starts at his shoulders, a
flush of heat that crawls up his collarbones and the line of his neck to settle
as flaming color in his cheeks.
“Oh.” He looks for more words, finds none. “Uh. My mistake,” and he’s not sure
if he means now or then. Ox is still staring at him, still looking like he’s
thinking about saying something else, and Harvar really doesn’t want to have
this conversation right now. So he pulls hard at Ox’s clothes to free the other
boy from his boxers, looks down so he doesn’t have to see that almost-apology
in the meister’s face, and brings his mouth down around Ox’s length.
Ox makes a sound like he can’t breathe, like he’s suddenly choking on the air
he could inhale until a moment ago, and Harvar pulls back for a moment though
he doesn’t look up.
“Let’s not talk about it right now,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the
other boy’s cock and pulling up in a too-hard stroke so the meister jerks and a
hand comes in to grab at Harvar’s hair. “I just want to get you off, okay?”
“Later,” Ox says, and his voice is shaking but it has all the resonance of
meister-dominance that lets Harvar know he’s not going to escape this. “We’re
talking about it later.” Harvar doesn’t look up, just jerks his head in a nod,
and comes back in before his blush has had time to fade.
He was worried self-consciousness was going to spoil the moment. But
awkwardness isn’t enough to override want, for either him or Ox, if the
resistance against his tongue is any indication. His lack of technique isn’t a
dealbreaker either; at first he comes down too far and nearly chokes himself,
and on his second stroke Ox pulls at his hair and gasps, “Teeth, Harvar, fuck.”
But then the weapon gets his mouth at a better angle, and slows down a lot, and
Ox groans in encouragement and Harvar lets his hold on Ox’s leg go so he can
get his jeans open and his hand around himself.
Ox is shuddering under the friction of his mouth, his breathing coming too loud
and too fast, but when Harvar starts to stroke over himself and hums in relief
the meister recollects himself enough to gasp, “Harvar, do you want…?”
Harvar tries to shake his head, but that just makes Ox jump with too-much
sensation so he pulls away for a moment without slowing the movement of his
hand over his own length.
“I just want you,” he blurts, forgetting himself enough to look up at the
meister. Ox is gazing down at him like a benevolent ruler, his hand soothing in
Harvar’s hair and his lips still parted around the whimpering reaction the
weapon was drawing from him. “I just want -- fuck,” he says, pulling his eyes
away again as another flush crashes over his cheeks. “Jesus, Ox, just let me
suck you off, okay?”
Ox’s laugh is too loud in the enclosed space, as it always is when they’re
indoors. It makes Harvar smile, draws amusement up in his throat so he has to
bite back a laugh of his own before the meister drops back against the chair
and says, “Yeah, okay.”
Harvar doesn’t wait for more permission. He comes back in, slower this time
than his first attempt, but Ox groans in the back of his throat like Harvar is
doing everything exactly right, and the weapon can feel the rush of blood to
his own cock in response even before he resumes the frantic pace of his
original motion. When he angles his legs wider he gets a better height for his
mouth, Ox’s hand in his hair goes tighter in encouragement, and when the
meister shivers and manages to choke out, “Harvar, I’m close,” it’s like
electricity rushes through Harvar’s whole body. It jerks his hand tighter on
himself and sends his blood rushing through him, and for a moment he loses
control of his mouth, loses the friction of his lips on Ox’s length as he
groans open-mouthed and comes over his fingers, shaking like he hasn’t had an
orgasm in days.
“Fuck,” Ox hisses. “Harvar,” and he sounds desperate and shattered and Harvar
closes his mouth while he’s still shivering with aftershocks, still drawing his
hand over himself for the last jolts of pleasure. He’s pretty sure the rhythm
of his mouth is off but it doesn’t seem to matter; he’s barely started moving
again when Ox arches up off the chair, body thrumming with tension in the
moment before he groans and comes into Harvar’s mouth. He tastes like metal and
salt and Harvar can feel each pulse of pleasure running through the other boy,
like Ox is grounding himself out against the weapon’s tongue, and if he hadn’t
barely beat Ox to it he’s certain the idea alone would have sent him over the
edge.
“I can’t believe you stopped,” Ox gasps as Harvar pulls back, sucking hard to
lick him clean as he goes.
“Excuse me for coming,” Harvar hisses in response. “I didn’t have much control
over it.”
“I thought I was going to lose it,” Ox says. He still sounds snappish, but when
Harvar looks up he’s smiling, looking unusually soft around the edges when he
meets the weapon’s eyes.
“Well, you didn’t,” Harvar points out. He leans back to sit on the floor so he
can pull his jeans off, wipe his sticky fingers on the denim before balling
them up and getting to his feet in just his boxers. Ox is making a face when he
looks back, but when he sees Harvar looking his expression drops into
seriousness, and Harvar knows what’s coming even before the meister speaks.
“We are going to talk about it.” His eyes are clear behind his glasses, utterly
determined as he sometimes looks.
Harvar knows better than to fight that look. “Yeah,” he says. “Later, though.
You have to study, right?”
Ox’s eyebrows go up. “Yeah. I do.” He glances back at his desk, starts to turn,
and Harvar is looking towards the door when the meister pauses. He doesn’t look
at Harvar, doesn’t make eye contact at all, but his words come deliberately
clear when he speaks.
“You should come in tonight.” Ox coughs to clear his throat. “When you’re ready
to go to bed.”
Harvar blinks at Ox for a long moment. Then he tosses his head, crosses his
arms over his chest. “No way.”
Ox looks up sharply, his face falling into lines of shock and hurt, and Harvar
keeps talking. “You come to my room. My bed’s bigger than yours.”
Ox stares at him blankly. Then the meister’s face cracks into a smile that
makes him look his age as he so rarely does, and Harvar lets himself grin in
response as his chin lowers.
“Okay,” Ox agrees, and Harvar nods, turns towards the door.
“See you tonight, then, bookworm.”
He doesn’t shut the door all the way as he leaves, and Ox doesn’t tell him to.
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