Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1008530.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater
  Relationship:
      Justin_Law/Spirit_|_Death_Scythe/Franken_Stein
  Character:
      Justin_Law, Spirit_|_Death_Scythe, Franken_Stein
  Additional Tags:
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Exhibitionism, Bondage, Orgasm_Delay, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, No_Plot/Plotless, Established_Relationship,
      Threesome_-_M/M/M, First_Time_Blow_Jobs
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-18 Completed: 2015-05-04 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 8863
****** Exhibitionism ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     “‘You don’t mind a little exhibitionism, do you senpai?’” Justin
     attempts to seduce Spirit and gets significantly more than he
     expected.
***** Refusal *****
Justin has had his eye on Spirit Albarn ever since he was called back to Death
City upon the Kishin’s awakening. In the midst of the war against Arachnophobia
and Asura and the Kishin’s spreading madness, it seemed bad form to pursue
anything beyond a professional relationship, but with the Kishin defeated and
the city in celebration Justin calculates that it is best to make a move now,
before he is sent back to his post to see Death Scythe maybe never.
The older man seems receptive at first. He picks up on Justin’s hints about a
tour of the laboratory he shares with his meister almost instantly, and is more
than willing to show the younger Death Weapon around once they are inside.
Justin leaves his headphones in so Death Scythe will turn around when he’s
speaking, so he can watch the other weapon’s mouth move smooth over the sounds
he can’t hear as he speaks, but he isn’t really paying attention to the
meaning. Far more important is the shift of Death Scythe’s shoulders under his
shirt, freed of his usual black jacket, and the fall of his long hair across
the back of his neck, and the sparkle in his blue eyes when he twists back so
Justin can read his lips, and by the time they reach the other weapon’s bedroom
Justin has undressed him in his head four times over.
“This is it,” Death Scythe is saying, throwing the door open with a careless
gesture. “Not much here, really.”
“Fascinating,” Justin says, because it is, or at least the wide bed is. He
pushes past the older man to stand inside the room itself, eyeing the
decorations like he really cares about them.
Death Scythe lets his arm fall from its dismissive gesture. Justin tips his
head to see the other man’s face when he speaks. “Is -- is it?” His face is
confused and slightly nervous, like he suspects where this is going.
Justin smiles and turns entirely around. He likes it when they’re nervous.
“Yes,” he says, trying to let some of his intent free into his
voice. Something comes through, because Death Scythe takes a half-step back,
but Justin is expecting that, is already stepping between the other weapon and
the door. “Fascinating,” and he is staring at the other man’s lips, carefully,
deliberately, and then he runs his tongue across his own lower lip just so
there won’t be any confusion.
He can see the scythe swallow hard, can see the nervousness turning into
panicked fear in those blue eyes, can see him edge away until his back hits the
wall. “Um, we should really move on --”
“No,” Justin says, and then he steps in while Death Scythe is still leaning
away so the other man is pinned between proximity to Justin and the wall. The
scythe is taller by a few inches, but he is on the run now, trying to escape
rather than fight, and that means Justin has won. He curls his hands around the
back of Death Scythe’s neck, savouring the tremble as the other weapon tries to
twist away and the texture of that hair against his palms, and leans in to
brush his mouth against Death Scythe’s.
The older man’s lips are warm, soft even as he tries to turn away, tries to
voice a protest. Justin pulls back, looks up blue-into-blue, and smiles in a
way that gets an actual flinch from the other man. “I didn’t hear you.”
“No, Justin, stop, you --” he is saying. Justin leans in close to run his
tongue along the other man’s jawline, shows his teeth in not-a-smile as he
starts “Sorry, are you saying something?”
There’s no warning at all, not in Death Scythe’s shoulders or from Justin’s
periphery or in vibrations through the walls. There is just a force yanking him
backward, his hands are separated from the other weapon’s neck, and Justin is
stumbling backward. He only registers the pain in his scalp, the fingers
digging into a handful of his hair, once he has regained his balance and the
instinctive panic subsides, and then Death Scythe is gone from his vision and
he is looking up at meister Franken Stein.
There is no expression on the meister’s face at all, but the hand in Justin’s
hair is still painfully tight even when he tries to wiggle free, and there is
no gentleness at all to the hand that seizes the cord of his headphones and
yanks them free of his ears. Justin hisses against the unpleasant angle of
force, and then the music backgrounding his life is gone.
“He said no.” Stein sounds as calm as he looks. Justin can’t see his eyes
behind the glare off the meister’s glasses, but his mouth is relaxed and his
shoulders loose and nothing about this should be causing the crippling wail of
fear his instincts are offering. Justin has never been afraid of anyone before.
“Come on, Stein, he’s just a kid,” Death Scythe says from somewhere behind the
meister currently dominating all of Justin’s attention.
“Which makes him ideal for education.” Stein shows his teeth and Justin barely
chokes back the whimper that threatens to swamp his control. “Come on,” he
doesn’t offer, pulling Justin backward by his hold on blond hair. Justin
stumbles back one step, two, nearly falling, and then something hard hits the
back of his knees and his legs fold from under him just as Stein releases his
hold. The world jolts as he impacts with something, and when he can take
another breath he realizes it’s a chair, pushed up against the wall of the
room. Stein tips his chin down so the glare disappears, and Justin instantly
wishes he hadn’t. The lack of anger in his green eyes would be a relief if they
weren’t so entirely devoid of any emotion at all. Justin is suddenly very very
sure that Stein would be looking at him the same way if he were bleeding out in
front of the meister, like he’s an object rather than a living person, and
that does win a half-heard whine of fright from his throat.
Stein reaches out, clasps his left hand over Justin’s shoulder, and before
Justin can decide how to interpret this the meister says “Soul Force,” and all
the muscles in his body try to cramp at once. He would scream if he could; it
is not exactly painful but it is deeply unpleasant. Then it is gone, Death
Scythe is objecting in the distance, and Stein is turning away.
“Don’t worry, senpai, he’s fine.” A drawer opens next to Justin’s head, and
it’s only when he tries to turn to see that he realizes he can’t. A quick
attempt indicates that he can’t in fact move any part of his body except his
mouth and his eyes, like he’s been physically attached to the chair. “I needed
the electricity for Soul Sutures.”
“Stein.” Death Scythe’s voice is a sigh, weighted with something underneath
that Justin doesn’t recognize but that clearly carries some sort of emotional
import. “I’m not going to let you hurt him.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Stein echoes back all of the other weapon’s tone
in his own voice. “But since he wanted to seduce you…” He comes back into
Justin’s field of view. His hands are full of white rope, narrow and
surprisingly clean. Justin wouldn’t be at all startled if they were
bloodstained, given their apparent owner. Stein begins to wrap the cords around
Justin’s shoulders as efficiently as if he regularly ties people to chairs
while continuing to talk in a more normal tone. “I thought we’d give him the
next best thing.”
When Stein shifts down so Justin can see past him, Death Scythe is staring at
the meister’s back. He doesn’t look...surprised, exactly, but his mouth is
slightly open and his eyes are darker than Justin has ever seen them, even at
this distance. He glances at Justin, his tongue flicks out over his lips, and
the motion is entirely involuntary but Justin still has the odd swooping
sensation of all his blood trying to go from fear to arousal with no stop-offs
along the way. The other weapon looks back at Stein’s shoulders, and Justin
can see his gaze sliding heavy over the meister’s body and he is very sure that
he is in way over his head and equally sure that the restraints to keep him in
place are fully unnecessary, that nothing could persuade him to move at this
point.
The original attachments fade as soon as Stein steps back from the chair.
Justin pulls against the ropes, not in any real attempt to break free, but just
to see how much give they have. Not much, as it turns out -- he can flex his
fingers but not turn his wrists, and his shoulders might as well still be
attached to the chair back for all the leeway he has. He can turn his head now,
though, take stock of the surroundings if he wants.
The newfound freedom is useless at the moment, though, because Stein has gone
back to Death Scythe and the look in Death Scythe’s eyes is riveting, soft and
hot and liquid all at the same time, and it would be embarrassing to realize
how absent that is when he looks at Justin if it weren’t so enthralling.
Stein glances back, too quick for Justin to get control of his face, and smirks
before he turns back to his weapon.
“You don’t mind a little exhibitionism, do you senpai?” The end of the sentence
falls oddly flat, although it’s clearly supposed to be a question, but there is
a whole world of rough tonality under the deadpan tone that scrapes over
Justin’s ears like feelings returning to a numb limb. The meister reaches out,
slides his fingers into his weapon’s hair, and the weapon leans into the touch,
eyelashes fluttering almost to closed for a moment before he opens his eyes,
looks past Stein’s shoulder at Justin. He does that thing with his tongue
again, slides it absently over his bottom lip, and when he speaks he is still
watching the younger weapon.
“No.” Look back at Stein. “I don’t mind.”
Stein curls his fingers around Death Scythe’s head, pulls him in closer, and
Justin is sure they are about to kiss a moment before the meister twists away,
dips his head low as he tugs Death Scythe’s head back to press his mouth
against the weapon’s throat. The weapon makes a sound that would be a groan or
a laugh if his neck were less strained, tips his head further back, and Justin
can see the sound vibrate along the line of his neck under Stein’s tongue and
hums before he can stop himself, imitating the sound to better imagine the
sensation of sound-turned-feel.
Stein’s hand comes out of the weapon’s hair, comes to his collar to pull the
knot of his tie half-loose, and Death Scythe is reaching to help, pale hands
and golden twining together like this is a regular occurrence, as if the
weapon never takes off his tie without the meister there to help, and that is
all Justin is ever going to be able to consider every time he sees that
particular article of clothing now. Stein doesn’t bother taking it fully off,
just loosens it an inch or two so Death Scythe can pull open his top few
buttons, and then he trails his mouth down to collarbone and Death Scythe
brings his head down. His eyes are shut; with their task completed his hands
come around Stein’s shoulders, laying a pattern of contact across the habitual
lab coat for a moment before they trace seams up to the collar, slide
underneath to push the weight off the meister’s shoulders. Stein twists his arm
behind to free one sleeve, then the other before bringing his fingers to the
waistband of Death Scythe’s slacks, tugging at the bottom edge of the shirt
until it comes free and he can slide his hands up and under the fabric.
With the obstruction of cloth in the way Justin can’t tell exactly what the
meister is doing, but there’s the shift of muscle under Stein’s short sleeves
and a triangle of pale skin between green shirt and black pants, and then Death
Scythe twists and sucks an inhale. It sounds like he’s in pain but goes through
Justin like a shock, startling him into echoing the sound.
Stein goes still, looks back at him again, and offers that same predatory grin
from earlier. “Ah. How inconsiderate of me.” He steps back, around the other
man, until he is behind the weapon and they are both facing Justin. “Is this a
better view?”
Justin can’t speak, isn’t sure he is supposed to have an answer anyway, and
Stein is unbuttoning Death Scythe’s shirt from behind and the possibility of
responding goes clear out of his head. Death Scythe is smiling, blushing and
looking away, but after a moment he reaches up to pull his tie free, loops it
over his head and tosses it to land atop Stein’s discarded lab coat in front of
him. Stein’s hands free the last button and skim back up Death Scythe’s
stomach; Justin can see the muscles fluttering as the weapon sucks in breath
sharply. Too-pale fingers settle over a tanned hip while Stein brings his other
hand up to pinch Death Scythe’s nipple, just visible under the edge of his
shirt. The other man groans, almost-a-laugh, and arches his back to press his
skin into the meister’s hands.
Death Scythe isn’t looking at him -- his eyes are shut at the moment, one hand
up to tangle into Stein’s hair -- but Stein is. Every time Justin drags his
eyes sideways the meister is eyeing him with a smirk that doesn’t warm the
green in his gaze at all, amusement entirely failing to counteract the
calculation. When he catches Justin looking at him for the third time, he
raises an eyebrow, and Justin has a frenzied moment to wonder how he can be so
calm with Death Scythe pressed against him, every breath coming audible in
response to his touch.
“You didn’t come here to watch me,” he says, and Justin gapes at him for a
moment before the words gain any meaning at all in his hot-flushed thoughts.
“Not enough to look at?”
The hand on Death Scythe’s hip slides down, following the diagonal of the bone
to dip under the edge of black slacks. There is an inhale, heavy with
anticipation, and then Stein’s hand does something that Justin can’t see for
the veil of cloth and Death Scythe moans, a smile curving his lips so that all
Justin can imagine for a moment is what that mouth would look like around his
own erection. Both weapons cant their hips forward in perfect synchronization,
but Justin hits no resistance while Death Scythe apparently does, for the way
his body goes momentarily slack with pleasure.
Justin doesn’t realize he’s whining in frustration until Stein catches his eye,
raises that eyebrow again. The sound cuts off in his throat like the meister
has clapped a hand over his mouth and he flushes with what is absolutely the
last of the blood left in him above the waist.
Stein turns away and presses his lips against Death Scythe’s ear. Justin can
see his mouth moving but the angle is wrong for him to read the meaning and the
volume is far too soft for him to catch. But he can still see the weapon’s
face, can see his blue eyes come open to focus on Justin himself, can see the
blush creep over his cheekbones, can see him catch his lower lip against his
teeth, can see him nod without breaking that focus. Stein pulls back, watching
Death Scythe’s face, and Death Scythe twists to look at him, and all four hands
relocate to relatively tame positions - shoulder, neck, hip, back -- while
their lips come together. They both take a half-step together so their bodies
align, pressed together along the whole length, and Justin feels like he’s been
dunked in a cold shower of painful jealousy.
It only lasts for a moment before Stein steps back, tips his head down to watch
his hands while he unfastens the buckle of the other man’s belt. The weapon
keeps his hold on the meister’s shoulders to balance his weight while he toes
off his shoes with rather more haste than grace. Not that Justin is
complaining. He’d rather lose that shiver of loneliness in the flush of
fantastic desire, and at this point he almost wishes Stein would just shove the
unbuttoned shirt off Death Scythe’s shoulder before he goes for the pants.
It’s just as he begins to shift against the rope, fidgeting with nerves, that
the belt comes free and he sucks in a breath of anticipation as...Stein hooks
his wrist past the removed resistance, pushing past the waist of the weapon’s
boxers to brush his fingers over what Justin assumes is flushed skin but can’t
actually see. He groans in frustration, and when he glances at Stein the
meister’s expression makes it clear that he knows exactly what he is doing. He
is watching Justin’s face, mouth tight with repressed amusement, and Justin
can’t help the hiss that he makes in response.
Stein does laugh then, and that gets Death Scythe’s attention. “What--?” he
starts, eyebrows pulling together in confusion before he follows Stein’s gaze
to Justin.
“Don’t tease, Stein,” he chides the other man. “Did you want to put on a show
or not?”
“But I’m so good at teasing,” Stein begins. Justin can see his wrist flex
sharply, can see Death Scythe’s face drop in forgetful pleasure before he
regains self-control.
“Ah--! Hnn. Yes, I know.”
Stein rolls his eyes. “Fine. If you insist.” He extricates his hand, hooks his
fingers into the edge of Death Scythe’s pants and boxers alike, and pulls down
until they fall into a puddle on the floor. The weapon steps out of them and
Justin’s eyes follow the line of hip to ass to thigh, unbroken golden shading,
and his blood-deprived brain wonders how Death Scythe can get such an even tan,
he must sunbathe naked, and then he makes it around to where Stein is wrapping
his fingers around Death Scythe’s cock and he processes the gasping inhale the
weapon is taking and trivial concerns vanish entirely.
Death Scythe is just in his shirt now, hanging loose on his shoulders so
Stein’s wrist pulls it back like a curtain whenever he slides his hand up along
the line of the weapon’s back. His other hand is more than occupied, setting an
agonizingly slow pace against the other man’s erection while his thumb slides
over the head every few strokes. His fingers are shifting too, Justin realizes,
flexing and sliding at a different rhythm than the one his hand is setting, and
he’s pretty sure he’s going to leave here with a fantasy about the meister’s
hands as well as the other weapon and he can’t care right now.
Death Scythe’s head is tipped forward, his hair falling forward to obscure his
face, but Justin can just see his parted lips and can hear every stuttering
inhale he takes, breath coming broken in times with the motions of Stein’s
hand. His hands are braced hard on the meister’s shoulders; it looks like those
are the only thing keeping him upright. They might actually be, at this point.
Stein rocks his hips forward, pressing his own erection against Death Scythe’s
thigh, and the weapon half-laughs around his rushed exhale.
“Get on the bed,” Stein purrs. It’s got the same command as the tone he took
with Justin but none of the aggression. The sound vibrates through Justin’s
skin like the bass line of music, thrumming into his bones and blood.
Death Scythe obeys instantly, letting his hold on the meister’s shoulder go to
more topple backward than actively drop onto the mattress. Stein leans in over
him just as quickly, reestablishing his briefly lost contact with the weapon’s
cock and reaching out to gently push the shirt free. Death Scythe drops back to
lie flat on the bed, reaches up to dig one hand into his hair while stretching
for Stein with the other. Stein laughs, lets the weapon go, brushes his fingers
over the hand in red hair while Death Scythe whimpers and arches his hips back
up for the lost contact.
“Patience, senpai,” Stein murmurs. It’s too low for Justin to hear but clear to
read from the movements of the meister’s mouth. Death Scythe huffs in
frustration, drops back to the bed and glares up at Stein.
“Tease,” the weapon hisses. Stein laughs again, leans low to brush his lips
over red hair, then rolls away and off the bed. Death Scythe twists to half-
follow him, rolling across the bed and away from Justin so he can see the play
of muscle across the other weapon’s lower back as he turns, the pull of
shoulders under skin as he pushes up to almost-sitting.
Stein comes back to the bed. His hands are slick; when he catches Death
Scythe’s hip his fingers leave shiny patterns in their wake.
The weapon purrs, a wordless hum of pleasure, and Stein smiles down at him
before pulling his hold along his skin.
“Turn around.” Loud enough for Justin to hear, this time. “So he can watch.”
Death Scythe twists sideways, snaking across the bed the wrong way, and he
smiles when he catches Justin’s gaze. Justin knows where this is going, now,
and he doesn’t know what his face is doing but he is having a difficult time
breathing normally; controlling his facial features is a significantly lower
priority.
Stein leans in low, and this time his hair obscures his mouth, but Death Scythe
flushes, looks away from Justin, laughs. He pushes up from the bed, arms
flexing as he moves, and comes up to his knees on the mattress. It’s a
precarious balance -- Justin can see him wobble with the effort -- but Stein
brings one hand to steady the weapon’s hip and he straightens. Death Scythe’s
not looking at Justin anymore, more at a point just beyond his head, and his
lips are parted in anticipation.
It’s easier to watch Death Scythe’s face than anything else; the angle is bad
to really see what Stein is doing, and the meister is still nearly fully-
clothed behind the weapon. But Justin can see Death Scythe, can see when his
eyes go unfocused and he exhales hard, can see his tongue slide over his lower
lip when he whines back in his throat, can see his eyelids drop shut and his
arm come out to brace against the wall next to him.
“Senpai--” Stein starts to say, but Death Scythe is talking over him, “Stein,”
and that one word is hitting low registers that Justin has never heard from
another person’s mouth and there is no way he is going to survive this, he is
going to die right here from sheer excess of imagination, and then the weapon
sighs a groan and tips his hips back towards Stein’s hand, and Justin’s throat
makes a whining sound that he never intended it to.
Stein laughs. “That fast?” The hand against Death Scythe’s hip sweeps around,
brushes over the weapon’s cock. Death Scythe makes a mewling sound at the
contact and almost falls forward. He catches himself on a hand, breathing hard
and too fast, and carefully pushes himself back to his balance.
“Okay.” Stein sounds like he’s agreeing to a request Justin didn’t hear. Death
Scythe’s eyes are still shut, but he smiles at whatever Stein is doing against
his back. “You ready?”
“Yes.”
There’s the sound of a zipper, a rustle of clothing, but Justin can’t really
see anything around Death Scythe himself, and it’s hard to focus on anything
other than the pull of skin over muscle, the trembling anticipation of his
erection, and the angle of his lower lip against his teeth again.
Justin can’t see Stein clearly, but he can tell when the meister slides inside
his weapon. Death Scythe’s face goes slack; his mouth drops open, eyebrows come
up from their angle over his eyes, and he sighs like he’s never really breathed
before. Stein makes some sound as well, but it’s muffled by Death Scythe’s hair
and blends with the weapon’s almost-moan until Justin can’t tell who did what.
He is certain that he has never been this hard before in his life. Usually he
is well on his way to orgasm if he is on his own at this point, but he can’t
get anything like enough friction from the minimal movement he can get against
his restraints, and he is rapidly going from incredibly turned-on
to painfully so.
It is at this point that Stein moves his hips, and Death Scythe shifts with the
motion, like they’re a single unit, and Justin does moan then, and it sounds
like agony and arousal at once.
Stein laughs again, presses up against Death Scythe’s back so Justin can see
him over the weapon’s shoulder. His smile looks almost sincere, this time.
“Enjoying yourself?” He sounds breathy, like he’s half-drowned, but the words
are clear enough. He shifts again, thrusting up into Death Scythe, and the
weapon nearly falls forward before Stein catches his shoulder to hold him
steady. “It’s like being complete, being with him like this.” Pause as the
meister audibly takes a breath. “Like Resonance.” Then he smiles and it is the
one from before, all sharp edges and cut. “Not that you would know, I guess.”
Justin hisses like he’s been hit. Even Death Scythe reacts, eyes coming open in
shock as he half-twists to face the meister.
“Stein! That was--” Stein is watching the weapon’s face, eyes gone soft behind
his glasses, and he tips his hips up just as the weapon starts talking. The
sentence turns into a moan instead, and then Stein’s ridiculous fingers come
around to curl around Death Scythe’s cock again and Justin sets aside the
insult because there just isn’t enough blood in his body to handle what he’s
seeing and stay upset.
Death Scythe entirely fails to stay upright after that. He keeps tipping
forward, reaching out to balance on the bed, until finally Stein hooks his free
arm across the weapon’s chest and pulls him backward to lean against the
meister. The motion of their hips and Stein’s hand around Death Scythe are at
different rates but still in harmony, a melody over the musical theme. Death
Scythe’s hand comes up to dig into Stein’s hair, Stein’s mouth presses against
the curve of Death Scythe’s throat and shoulder, and then the meister pulls
hard and Death Scythe groans and jerks and comes.
Justin’s mouth makes another sound, a high whine of an inhale. Stein shifts his
hand to the weapon’s hip, holds him steady while he thrusts once, twice, three
times, and then his grip goes tight and he sighs against Death Scythe’s skin.
Justin doesn’t look away while Stein tips he and Death Scythe to the bed and
presses a kiss to the weapon’s shoulder before he pulls away. He’s not sure he
can remember how to blink. Or close his eyes. Or breathe. The arousal of the
situation is tipping over into proper pain now and there’s nothing he can do
about it in his current position.
Death Scythe has collapsed into a boneless puddle on the bed; Stein is a little
more active, but even then it takes what feels like an eternity for him to
refasten his pants and make his way over to where Justin is rubbing his wrists
raw on the rope.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Stein asks. It sounds conciliatory, friendly, but it
is entirely at odds with the dark amusement behind his glasses. He reaches
behind Justin to unknot the rope so for a moment his shirt is pressed against
the weapon’s face. He smells like smoke and sex and Death Scythe and Justin
shuts his eyes then and bites his lip to keep from whimpering.
The ropes come off faster than they went on, all in all, and by the time he’s
free again Justin is mostly resigned to getting home as fast as possible to
have what is going to be one of the more painful orgasms of his life. Stein
leans back, half-crouched in front of him so they are on eye level.
“Justin,” he says, no emotion, just sound, and then he reaches out and presses
the heel of his hand against Justin’s painfully understimulated erection. The
contact is so sudden and so much that Justin chokes, gasps for air, and
comes instantly, faster and harder than he ever has before in his life. His
vision goes white, his throat makes a sound he’s never heard or made before,
and when sight and sensation come back he is tipped forward, his hands braced
against Stein’s chest like he’s trying to push him away but all his weight
leaning on them too.
He swallows, inhales carefully, sits up and crosses his arms in front of his
chest. Stein is grinning at him, and when he tries to look away all he finds is
Death Scythe wearing an identical smirk from his position across the bed.
“Come on,” Stein says, and grips his elbow to drag him to his feet before all
the sensation has come back to his toes. Justin stumbles after him, because it
is that or be dragged, and they are halfway down the hallway before he thinks
to look back at Death Scythe.
Stein doesn’t speak again until they reach the front door. By then Justin can
feel his feet again, albeit painfully, so when Stein drops his arm he keeps his
own balance, even when the meister catches a handful of his hair instead to tip
his head back.
“Come to me next time,” he says conversationally, not at all like he might tear
Justin’s throat out with his teeth. “If you’re very good Death Scythe might let
you suck him off while I’m fucking him. He’s into that.”
Before Justin has time to process this beyond a blinding mental image and a
whimper, Stein has shoved him out and the door has shut behind him.
***** Acceptance *****
Justin comes to Stein, the second time.
It’s a strange experience, dropping by the meister’s classroom at the end of
the school day. It’s been years since Justin was here as a student but he’s not
much older than the current attendees, possibly younger than some. That’s an
oddity to which he long ago reconciled himself, became accustomed to nodding at
the respect afforded him by those would have have been his seniors, maybe, in
another life. But it is strange to sustain his usual collected expression given
what he is here to ask for, knowing that he is willing to get down on his knees
and beg even though it’s barely been two weeks since the last interaction he
had with Stein and Death Scythe. But he’s been reliving that night ever since,
in dreams and waking fantasies alike, can’t shake the effect it has had on his
psyche.
Justin is ready to beg, to plead for the sympathy he’s not even sure Stein is
capable of. But in the end he barely has to speak, starts with “You said I
should--” before Stein cuts him off with “Yes” and stands so fast Justin falls
silent, uncertain of whether the conversation is over or ongoing. Stein
collects the papers spread over his desk, draws them into a messy stack against
his chest, and when he turns towards the door he’s not even looking at the
other, moves with no apparent acknowledgment of the blond’s existence. Justin
watches him walk past, turns to stare after him in case he’s missing something,
and it’s just as Stein is reaching for the door that he pauses, speaks without
turning.
“Can you hear me?”
Justin blinks. “Yes.” His voice sounds strange in his ears, soft and childish
without the usual rhythm of music to morph it into something stronger and
steadier, but he shut the sound off before he came in, some intuitive
premonition urging him into the unusual action.
“Come to the lab tonight,” Stein says, still without turning around so Justin
can see neither the motion of his lips nor the expression on his face. “Spirit-
senpai and I will be ready for you.”
It’s enough to go through Justin like lightning, like he’s had a direct hit of
the meister’s Soul Force to jolt his heart into overdrive. He takes a breath,
deep and anxious with gratitude, and Stein is gone, out of the door and out of
earshot before Justin can put words to his thanks.
He thinks of nothing else for the rest of the day. It consumes his attention,
renders him incapable of reading or studying or training, all his usual
pursuits paling in comparison to his expectations for the night. Finally he
gives up, pushes half-read books and barely-started reports aside and stares
out the window, his music turned up so loud it’s nearly painful as he waits for
the sun to set into something resembling dusk so he can leave for the walk
across the city.
The lab is dark when he gets there. There aren’t any windows in the front, or
anywhere that he can see, just the high walls and the stitched-over pattern
that looks more like actual thread the closer he looks. The door seems to
swallow the sound of his knock, but he’s not left waiting long; the entrance
opens, lets the light from inside spill out into the gathering dark, and Stein
is blinking at him, looking faintly confused like he’d forgotten about their
conversation earlier.
“Hello,” Justin says, trying to figure the best way to phrase I’m here for a
threesome. “I came to see you earlier, you told me to come back tonight.”
Stein blinks again; then “Oh yeah,” and he moves aside, turns his back and
walks down the hallway to leave Justin with the open door and his confusion.
“Come on,” he says only as he’s turning the corner, when he looks back to see
the other still in the doorway, and Justin has to scramble to come inside and
shut the door before he moves to catch up with the meister.
The lab is just as confusing as the first time, the hallways a maze of turns
and shadowy doorways that Stein doesn’t pause by long enough to let Justin peer
into. He just strides through the space as confidently as if the corners are
straight pathways, showing no sign of confusion even when they pass a doorway
Justin is sure he’s seeing for the third time.
“Professor Stein?” Justin finally offers, when they turn right for the fifth
time in two minutes. “Where are we--”
“Senpai,” Stein calls without looking back at Justin, and then he’s rounding a
corner into a room gold-lit and glowing that they haven’t yet seen. “Are you
ready?”
Justin trails in the meister’s wake, taking the turn into the bedroom that has
become familiar from his dreams if not from true experience. Death Scythe is
there already, as Stein’s shout implied, stretched out across the bed and just
looking up from a book or maybe a magazine, judging from the thin spine. His
usual jacket is absent, his tie missing as well, even the top buttons of his
shirt undone to complete the image of casual domesticity.
“Were you being mean?” Death Scythe asks, barely glancing at Justin before he
turns his attention to the meister coming in towards the foot of the bed.
“Of course not,” Stein says easily, flicking his gaze towards the blond before
he reaches out to trail his fingers through the fall of red hair. Justin stays
where he is, trying and failing to not stare at the casually affectionate
motion of the meister’s fingers. “I was perfectly nice.”
“Sure you were,” Death Scythe says, sounding skeptical and amused. His magazine
falls shut in his hands, he’s looking up to smile at the meister, and there’s a
knot forming in Justin’s chest, the tension of jealousy he can’t even pin on
one specific part of this interaction. There’s the easy desire of wanting to
reach out, to feel the soft of the other weapon’s hair under his fingertips, to
have the warmth of the redhead’s smile turned on him, but there’s no space for
him in what he’s seeing, either, just the easy synchronization of a partnership
he’s never experienced at all.
He’s not sure for a moment that either of the other two even remember he’s in
the room; then Stein glances back, flashes him a smile without a trace of
kindness in it, and says “Have a seat, Justin.”
Justin supposes he should be grateful, that this time there is neither bondage
nor the threat of violence involved. He’s still stinging with the bitter of
jealousy when he sits down -- in the same seat as last time, there’s an irony
there too sharp to sidestep -- until he is starting to see the shape of regret
in his thoughts, wondering if perhaps this was a worse idea than it seemed in
the desperate ache of earlier in the day. But he’s here, he’s not about to
leave now that he finally has what he thought he wanted, even if the actual
fact of it is far less sweet than his imagination made it out to be.
He’s almost ignored, for the first few minutes. It’s remarkable how entirely
Death Scythe focuses on the meister rather than the blond in the corner of the
room, does so with an ease so unfeigned Justin has to wonder if he isn’t the
first to be here, if he’s only the most recent in a long line of visitors. Even
Stein’s attention is absent, this time, teasing and threats alike given over so
he can turn in towards his weapon, push him back over the bed while Death
Scythe laughs, reaches up to wrap his arms around the meister’s shoulders and
pull him into a kiss. The contact is slow, thorough with the patience born of
long-standing familiarity, neither of the parties in any hurry to proceed, and
Justin’s blood starts to warm in spite of himself, his cheeks flushing self-
conscious with the impression he’s spying on private intimacy and his cock
going half-hard in spite of his best attempts to stay stoic and distant. It
would be easier to pretend he weren’t affected, to make some excuse in his own
head about not actually wanting this after all, but Death Scythe is turning his
head and Stein is leaning in against his neck, and when the weapon makes a
faint mewling sound of encouragement it’s Justin whose breath catches telltale
loud in his throat. It’s Death Scythe who blinks over at him instead of Stein,
the redhead’s gaze hazy and melted-over with warmth; then he smiles, slow and
teasing, and whatever uncertainty was keeping Justin only half hard evaporates,
he’s instantly painfully aroused, and as yet all three of them have their
clothes on.
“Hey Stein,” Death Scythe asks, only looking away from Justin’s shocked-wide
eyes after he’s spoken. “Can we let Justin join us this time?”
Stein says something, too soft and too close to the other for Justin to make
out the words, but Death Scythe laughs, his expression falling open and
delighted at whatever the meister said. Stein is shifting his weight, his mouth
is pressing down into the dip at Death Scythe’s collar, and Justin doesn’t
realize the meister’s hand has moved until the other weapon gasps a breath,
rocks up hard against the fingers that have tugged his shirt loose and slid
down under the waistband of his pants. Justin’s shifting too, letting his knees
fall wider and angling a hand in between his legs so he can rock against his
wrist, and he’s staring at the motion of Stein’s hand, the rhythmic movement of
the meister’s arm suggesting what he’s doing better than telling it. He doesn’t
realize his mouth is open, doesn’t have any idea what expression he’s making,
but he’s hard inside his jeans, going damp against the front of his boxers, and
Death Scythe is arching up off the bed like he’s trying to press himself into
the same space as the meister. Justin wants to be there, with them, wants to
cross the distance and throw himself into the heat and friction of the other
two men, but the meister’s command is holding him back, keeping him still where
he is and staring as avidly as he can while his breathing catches hot and
frantic in his throat.
“Okay,” Stein says, and Justin blinks his focus back up to the meister’s face,
realizes he hasn’t looked at the other for minutes, now. He’s pulling his hand
away, rocking back on his heels so he can pull Death Scythe’s slacks open; he
doesn’t glance at Justin at all, either as he works the zipper free or when he
pulls the clothing off the other weapon’s hips entirely. Justin wasn’t
expecting to get so much skin all at once; there’s too much to look at, the
pale line of the other’s thighs and the curve of his back as he tips himself up
off the bed, but mostly it’s his cock that’s the distraction, hard and flushed
pink and slick against the head. Justin makes a sound without thinking, a weird
broken whimper clearly audible across the room, and even then Stein doesn’t
look at him, just closes his hand at Death Scythe’s hip and turns him over on
his side so he’s facing the blond.
“Go for it,” he says. Justin doesn’t consider that the words might be meant for
him, even when Stein moves off the bed and towards the nightstand against the
other side; it’s not until the other weapon pushes up on an elbow and extends a
hand to gesture Justin in that the possibility coalesces in his mind into an
offer.
He gets to his feet in the first startled rush of appreciation, ready to surge
in over the distance that was impossible moments before. But Stein’s not
looking at him, hasn’t given his permission, and for a moment Justin stalls,
glancing at the meister instead of the expectant offer of Death Scythe’s hand.
There’s a laugh, the other weapon chuckling warm and amused, and then: “He
doesn’t call all the shots, you know. Come here, Justin” and Justin goes,
carried forward on feet more obedient to that command than to his rational
thought process.
The bed is soft under him, the sheets rumpling into warm friction under him as
he leans in, hesitates with his weight barely on the bed. But Death Scythe is
smiling, is reaching out to close his fingers on Justin’s arm and drag him in,
and Justin leans in to fall forward onto his hands and knees on the bed.
“Have you ever given someone a blow job before?” Death Scythe asks, sounding
worldly and experienced, and all Justin’s blood tries to rush to his face and
to his cock simultaneously.
“Uh,” he says coherently, looks down at the angle of the other’s shirt instead
of attempting to meet his eyes.
“Of course he hasn’t,” Stein’s voice says, and the bed shifts as he climbs onto
the other side. “Not everyone slept around in school as much as you did,
senpai.”
“I did not,” Death Scythe protests, twisting up and away. “Just because you
never spoke to anyone but me--”
“It’s easy,” Stein cuts him off, and Justin can’t look up, he’s already crimson
and he can hear the laugh in the meister’s throat. “Careful with your teeth and
go slow.” Motion again, an arm falling in around Death Scythe’s waist with
casual possessiveness that burns through Justin like fire. “You’ll know what he
likes. Senpai’s never been particularly quiet.”
“Shut up,” Death Scythe laughs, twisting back to look up at Stein, and Justin
can’t see this from close up, he’s going to implode from heat or jealousy or
both if he looks up to see the way the other weapon is looking at the meister,
to watch the soft give of his lips as Stein kisses him. So he moves instead,
ducks his head and slides down the bed until he’s eye-level with Death Scythe’s
hips, can reach out and touch the other man’s skin if he wants.
He does want. He’s trembling with it, desire vibrating through him like the
sound from his usual headphones has become his blood and heartbeat. But he’s
frozen still, can’t get himself to move forward or reach out to rest his
fingers against the other’s skin, and he knows he’s staring but he can’t get
himself to move.
Then “Justin,” from Stein, “Open your mouth,” and there’s a hand in his hair,
the touch gentle but firm enough that it breaks through Justin’s frozen panic.
He leans in under the urging of that touch, opens his mouth without thinking,
and Stein’s fingers are pushing him forward until there’s the heat of Death
Scythe’s cock against his lips and a shocking bitterness against his tongue,
and he has to reach out to brace himself against the other weapon’s hip just to
steady his motion.
“Now just move,” Stein says, letting his touch go, but Death Scythe is
breathing hard, there’s another hand fitting in against Justin’s shoulder with
more encouragement than leverage. Justin takes a breath through his nose, tries
to lean in closer, and Death Scythe hums, a faint purr of satisfaction that
goes through Justin like electricity.
“Good,” Stein says, but Justin barely hears him, doesn’t pay attention to the
shift of the movement from the other side of the bed. All his focus is given to
the pace of Death Scythe’s breathing, the catch of reaction he can hear when he
tries shifting his tongue or turning his head, and his mouth is full of the
taste of salt and bitter and his jaw hurts from holding his mouth open
uncomfortably wide but he doesn’t even think of pulling away. His head is
spinning, he’s in so far over his head he can’t see sunlight anymore, but he
doesn’t care, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave.
The hand at his shoulder tightens, Death Scythe choking a laugh as he suggests,
“Slower, Justin, it’s not a race.” He’s tensing under Justin’s hold, his body
going taut, and from the way Stein is murmuring something Justin can’t
understand the blond can piece together why. He doesn’t care about that either.
The jealousy is absent, or at least drowned out by the rush of his pulse in his
ears and the hot resistance of Death Scythe in his mouth. Even when the other
weapon sighs satisfaction and shifts his hips back towards the meister Justin
doesn’t pull away, just leans in closer to trail the other’s movement. It
becomes impossible to tell who is drawing what reactions out of the other
weapon; sometimes Death Scythe will shudder or whimper out of all time with
Justin’s movements, clear tells for Stein doing something that Justin isn’t
paying attention to. But then Justin shifts his tongue, or tightens his lips,
or leans in closer, and Death Scythe’s hand presses into his shoulder and the
other weapon will groan over him and it feels like a hard-won victory. Even
when the other two start moving together with the same resonant singularity
that aches loneliness into Justin’s thoughts he doesn’t pull away, just comes
in harder and moves faster like he can push away his solitude by sheer force of
will.
He’s not expecting the end when it comes. He’s lost all track of time, his
attention melting away until the ache in his jaw feels endless, the shape of
his lips formed around heat seems ordinary. He’s sliding down, falling into
pace with the rhythm that has formed itself between himself and the other two
men, when Death Scythe makes a choking noise over his head, his hand comes up
to clutch at Justin’s hair, and there’s heat spilling over the blond’s tongue,
a wave of bitter far more satisfying than it ought to be. Justin only hesitates
for a moment; then he’s swallowing, quick before he can think about it, and the
salt burns his throat but Death Scythe’s purr of satisfaction is worth all the
lingering bitter on his tongue.
He’s barely pulled away when the hand at his hair tugs upward, urges him back
up to eye-level with the other weapon. Death Scythe looks unfocused, hazy and
blissful, and for a moment Justin has the brief insane expectation of a kiss.
Then “Turn around,” so gently he doesn’t even mind being wrong. He does, even
if it means giving up watching the other weapon’s face, and an arm loops around
his waist, pulls him back flush against the half-buttoned line of Death
Scythe’s shirt. Justin can feel the heat as if his clothes aren’t between them
at all, like everything covering him has evaporated through force of will, and
then the hand around his waist dips down to the front of his jeans and he can’t
breathe at all.
“Not bad for your first time,” Death Scythe is saying, slow and pleased against
his ear, and those fingers -- Death Scythe’s fingers -- are fumbling Justin’s
pants open, pushing against the fabric. Justin can feel the warmth turning to a
burn the closer Death Scythe comes to contact, anticipation flickering tension
up under his spine, and then the hand is gone, the hold is settling at his hip
instead, and before he has time to even think a protest another, cooler hand is
sliding over his skin.
“You’re a fast learner,” Stein says, the praise almost a taunt on his lips, and
his fingers close in around Justin’s flushed cock. Justin shuts his eyes to the
burst of sensation in his blood, groans trembling and helpless, and Stein
starts to stroke over him with more speed than Justin can handle. He’s shaking
under the pressure, trembling until he’s not sure if he wants to get away or
rock in for more, but Death Scythe is holding him steady by his hip and Justin
thinks they might all three be moving together, that maybe he’s fallen into
sync with the other two on sheer accident. The idea draws him hotter, harder,
rushes heat up his spine and out into his cheeks, and the shake in his limbs
feels like pleasure, now, some enormous force he’s completely helpless to.
Someone is breathing harder behind him, Stein or Death Scythe or both, Justin’s
not sure, and he’s panting for breath himself, his fingers are closing on the
wrist of the hand jerking up over him in a last desperate attempt to hold onto
his frame of reference.
It’s not enough. He’s too late to reach for that point of contact, or he’s too
far gone already, his sense of self is already fracturing away under the
friction. He takes a breath, raw and straining for air, and then he’s moaning,
his head coming back to hit Death Scythe’s shoulder as he spills in long pulses
of heat all over Stein’s fingers and the edge of his pants. He isn’t sure if
Stein finished himself, isn’t sure when it happened; his temporal awareness is
distorted, his identity itself dissolved for a few minutes while he shudders
through the aftershocks of pleasure. By the time he can force his hands to stop
shaking the warmth at his back is gone, meister and weapon both have pulled
away, and when he pushes off the bed to sit up the other two are both watching
him from the far edge of the bed.
Death Scythe offers him a smile. It’s warm, easy, languid with pleasure and
glowing bright in his eyes. Justin watches his expression, even when Stein is
the one to speak.
“You’re heading back out to your post again soon, aren’t you?” He sounds bored,
uninterested in the answer, like the question is more rhetorical than
otherwise. “Guess we won’t see as much of you after this.” A pause, drawn long
and heavy with consideration. “We’ll both be here next time you return.”
Justin blinks. When he looks up Stein is watching him, his eyes invisible
behind the shine of his glasses, but there’s the faintest twist of a smile at
his lips, a tiny upward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
When Justin reaches for an expression, it’s the meister’s he finds at his lips.
“Yes,” he says, and he sounds cool, steady, composed, like he ought to. “I’m
sure I’ll see you both.”
It’s close enough to an offer to satisfy.
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