Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2760239.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater, Soul_Eater_Not!
  Relationship:
      Akane_Hoshi/Clay_Sizemore
  Character:
      Akane_Hoshi, Clay_Sizemore
  Additional Tags:
      Animate_Object, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot,
      Established_Relationship, Teasing, Grinding
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-25 Words: 3550
****** Objectification ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "'I thought you wanted me in weapon form?' Clay says, his voice
     shivering and husky like it only ever gets for Akane." Akane has a
     kink and a great idea and Clay gives in without much resistance.
“This is a terrible idea, Akane.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is the best idea I have ever had,
and you know how excellent my ideas generally are.”
Clay misses a step, has to stumble into a jog to catch back up. “What? No, your
ideas are terrible, this one especially so. You can’t -- this
is objectification, Akane.”
Akane laughs. “I’m not reducing you to anything, Clay. I like you just the way
you are.” He slows his stride, glances back so he can catch at Clay’s wrist
where he has it folded over his arms. It barely takes any effort to pull him
loose, even if the blond’s forehead creases in frustration at the movement. He
still lets Akane fits their fingers together, tightens his hold on the other
boy’s hand as they round the corner to their apartment. “All the ways you are.
It’s a compliment.”
“It is not,” Clay protests. His thumb slides up, trails unconscious affection
against the inside of Akane’s wrist. “You’re never going to get me to agree to
this, and you can’t unless I transform for you.”
“Have you considered the telepathy?” Akane asks.
Clay stumbles over his feet again. Akane tugs at his wrist to pull him back to
balance, glances back at the blond so he can see the dawning realization come
over his features.
“Goddamn,” Clay says, sounding as awed as he does horrified.
Akane doesn’t try to strip the sultry undertone from his laughter.
Clay moves faster once he’s recovered his footing, falling into step with Akane
so by the time they make it into the door of their apartment he’s nearly
leading, does actually get himself through the door first. Akane lets himself
be drawn over the entrance, is still grinning when Clay pushes him back against
the wall as he kicks the door shut behind them.
“You could have started with that,” he says against Akane’s hair, his breath
warm against the other boy’s skin even before he presses in close enough to
kiss at his cheek.
“True,” Akane agrees. “But it’s fun to watch you squirm.” He’s laughing when
Clay whines protest at him, still smirking when he tips his head up to distract
the weapon with a kiss. Clay whimpers against his mouth, but the tension in his
shoulders bleeds into compliance before Akane curls his fingers around the knot
of the other boy’s tie and starts to slide it loose.
He makes it as far starting to tug the fabric free entirely before Clay puts
together a complaint. The blond pulls back from Akane’s mouth, his forehead
creased into confusion but his mouth bruised-pink and open on his breathing so
it’s hard for Akane to focus on what he’s saying rather than the way his lips
move around the words.
“I thought you wanted me in weapon form?” he says, his voice shivering and
husky like it only ever gets for Akane.
“I do.” Akane slips the tie free, drops it to puddle forgotten on the ground.
“Take your shoes off.”
Clay laughs, a little breathless and a little confused, but he reaches out to
steady himself on Akane’s shoulder, to hold his balance while he lifts a foot
to push his shoe free. Akane doesn’t wait for him; he’s halfway down the
buttons of the other boy’s shirt by the time Clay is kicking his second shoe
off, tugging the white fabric free of the blond’s slacks as he gets his feet
back under him and reaches out to fumble at the button of Akane’s jacket. Akane
has the advantage of time and skill on his side; he’s pushing Clay’s shirt off
his shoulders before the weapon can manage to finish unfastening the pair of
buttons holding the meister’s jacket closed.
“This isn’t that different than usual,” Clay points out, letting his hold go so
he can shrug out of his shirt and let Akane push it to the floor. “I mean, at
least you waited until we were at home.”
Akane hums satisfaction at the flush of memories the comment evokes, closes his
fingers around the bottom edge of the blond’s undershirt so he can tug him in
closer and turn his head to kiss the warm gold of skin against the line of his
shirt collar. “There’s no need to rush,” he says against the blond’s collarbone
so Clay shivers and tips his head sideways for him. “Patience, Clay.”
There’s the thrum of laughter under the other boy’s skin, fingers curling
against the open edges of Akane’s jacket. “I can’t believe you’re trying to
lecture me on patience.”
“Trying and succeeding,” Akane corrects before he leans back so he can strip
Clay’s shirt up and off his chest. The blond lets his hold go, obediently lifts
his hands so Akane can pull the fabric off his shoulders before he’s coming
back in with a whole expanse of bare skin to draw Akane’s fingers in to him.
“I’m not sure why we’re stripping me,” he says, sounding curious more than
protesting. “It’s not like it’ll make a difference, right?”
“It’ll make a difference when you change back,” Akane says. Clay makes a faint
strangled sound and Akane hooks his fingers into the other boy’s belt, slides
sideways so he can move towards the bedroom. He knows this route well enough
that he can take it backwards, drag Clay in his wake by his hold on the other
boy’s belt while he watches the blond’s cheeks flush red as he considers the
implications of this statement.
He’s just about collected coherency back around himself by the time Akane
reaches the edge of the bed and tugs him around to invert their positions. “You
want me to change back?” He sounds perplexed, lost and too confused to catch up
as Akane slides the buckle on his belt loose and starts in on the button of his
slacks. “But I thought I was supposed to be in weapon form.”
“You will be.” The zipper slips loose, Akane trails his fingers against the top
edge of Clay’s pants so he can catch at the blond’s boxers and slacks at once.
“I’ll tell you what to do, Clay, don’t worry.”
“You always tell me what to do,” Clay whines in mock protest, but he shifts his
hips to aid in Akane’s efforts to slide his clothes off, at least until they
start to slide down his thighs. Then he seems to realize all at once how little
he’s wearing, starts to flush and wail a protest as he grabs at Akane’s wrist
to stop his motion. “Wait, stop, why are you still wearing clothes and I’m
not?”
“Because you haven’t been paying attention.” Akane tugs at Clay’s hold and the
blond lets him go; he drops to a knee in front of the weapon, slides his
clothes down to his ankles before tapping at his leg. “Step.”
“This isn’t fair at all,” Clay points out without any real fire in his voice as
he slides his feet free. “You know I like you without clothes on too.”
“Patience,” Akane croons, bringing his weight up over his knees so he’s on
level with Clay’s waist. When he shuts his eyes he can feel the tiny flutter of
adrenaline under the weapon’s skin, the shudder of anticipation even before he
parts his lips so he can touch his tongue just against the weapon’s stomach.
Clay groans, tips his hips forward involuntarily; his fingers catch at Akane’s
hair, there’s a sound awfully like “Akane” pitched high and half-panicked, and
Akane starts to smile even though Clay can’t see his expression. He braces
himself against the blond’s hips, holds them in balance with each other while
he trails a path down, across the taut strain in Clay’s stomach and over the
edge of his hip until he can tip his chin down to take the first inch of the
blond’s cock past his lips. Clay tastes familiar, salt and summer-warm glow on
Akane’s tongue, and the sound he makes is familiar too, gasping encouragement
as he tips forward enough to fall if not for Akane’s steadying hold.
Akane doesn’t intend to spend as long on his knees as his does. He only planned
to take a moment, just slick his tongue warm against Clay’s cock to get the
bitter tang of salt on the back of his tongue before he shoves him to the bed.
But he gets distracted somewhere amidst the shudder of reaction under his
fingertips and purring through Clay’s throat, ends up looking up through the
shadow of his hair to see the blond’s expression melting out of coherence while
he slides his mouth down farther, deeper, starts to fall into a rhythm without
thinking about it.
It’s Clay who pulls Akane back from the pleasant ache in his jaw and the twitch
of the other boy’s length against his tongue. He takes a breath, quick and
desperate like he’s actively trying to compose himself -- Akane doesn’t slow,
it’s far too fun to keep Clay off-balance -- before he manages, “I thought you
wanted…?”
“Mm,” Akane hums before he slides away and licks the moisture off his lower
lip. “Good point.” Clay is whimpering at the loss of contact but he moves to
the bed when Akane pushes at his shoulder, climbs over the sheets and turns
back quickly enough that Akane is only just shrugging his uniform jacket off.
“Can I --” the weapon asks, reaching to close his fingers around himself in
place of Akane’s mouth, and Akane shakes his head in quick negation as he
unclips his tie pin and starts to work on the knot.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Clay?” He drapes the tie over the back
of the desk chair, perhaps takes longer on the buttons of his shirt than he
needs to just to watch Clay’s mouth twist into a frown of want. He’s just
stripping his undershirt off when Clay shifts, rocks his weight over the sheets
and starts to say, “Akane” in the strained tone that means his patience really
is wearing thin.
“Okay, okay,” Akane admits. The last half of his undressing is much less
elegant but consequently faster than the first; he’s kicking his foot free of
his dropped clothes and stepping in towards the bed in one motion, reaching out
for Clay’s shoulder so he can come in and straddle the other boy’s lap. Clay is
grinning before Akane is entirely over him, the lopsided curve of his mouth
that says he’s not thinking at all, is reacting on impulse without any
deliberation at all. He turns his head up for a kiss, expectant and pliant as
Akane rocks in close to bump his length against Clay’s stomach, dips his head
to brush his mouth over the blond’s mouth.
“Okay,” he says without pulling away, just as Clay’s eyes are fluttering shut
and he’s starting to sigh in satisfaction. “Now, Clay, transform.”
“What?” Clay blinks his eyes open, leans away from Akane’s mouth. “Now?”
“You heard me.”
“But.” Clay huff wordless protest, rocks up in unthought anxiety. “But I
don’t want to, I can’t feel you when--”
“Transform” Akane orders, his voice snapping sharp with command, and the
resistance of Clay’s body flickers out under him, forms itself instead into the
weight of a sword Akane catches without losing his balance over his knees.
This is stupid, Akane, Clay’s voice comes clear as soon as Akane’s fingers
touch metal. I can’t touch you like this and I--
Akane swings the weight around, a smooth arc through the air that stops the
flow of Clay’s words, and does what he’s wanted to do since he first saw the
blond’s weapon form, and slicks his tongue up along the smooth black of the
flat of the blade.
Akane! Clay wails, sounding scandalized and startled, and Akane forms his lips
into a kiss instead, shuts his eyes so he can feel the eerie human-warmth of
the metal under his lips.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says, so soft he almost doesn’t hear the
words. He doesn’t have to speak to convey his point, not with Clay in the back
of his head -- the words are just for the faint friction of his lips dragging
against the weapon, just for the shudder in the exhale he can hear in the back
of his head.
And not in human form? Clay asks. It’s a thin attempt at teasing, worn
threadbare by the tremor under his voice.
“Both,” Akane purrs, and lets himself topple sideways onto the mattress. He
know without asking that Clay’s dulled the edges that can be razor-sharp when
he wants them to be, the same way he does when Akane wants to swing him up and
angled across the meister’s shoulders. In human form Clay has the advantage of
a few inches; like this Akane has the edge, though only barely. Clay’s blade is
nearly as wide across as his palm, smooth as only metal can be and warming
quick in response to how fast Akane’s breath is coming, like Clay’s blush is
transitioning across the transformation as well.
“Is this okay?” Akane asks around his smile. He’s nearly atop Clay, now,
sprawled out over the bed and across the weapon so he can feel the whole line
of the blade pressing against him from knee to shoulder. He reaches out
sideways, fumbles over the top of the dresser while Clay is distracted with
trying to form an answer.
I still can’t feel you, and Akane can hear the pout, can almost see the
downward slant of the blond’s lips on the words.
“You can,” Akane says, swinging his arm back so he can push at the lid of the
bottle with his thumb. “Can’t you feel the way you feel against me?”
He lets Clay think about that for a minute, follow through the convoluted
telepathy offered by this form while Akane gets his fingers slick in the
absence of the other’s attention. Then he has it, can rock up on an elbow and
dig his hips down to press himself against the resistance of the weapon; he can
hear the mutter of Clay’s thoughts derail into a whimper, is laughing as he
gets his hand twisted behind him.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, like
he’s whispering it into Clay’s ear instead of directly into his mind. “Can you
tell?”
Jesus, Akane, and Clay sounds flustered and nervous and shaky, his words
trembling into Akane’s thoughts as the meister curls his fingers around the
hilt of the sword to stabilize the connection. This is weird, Akane, I can feel
your body better than I can my own.
“Good,” Akane says. “Pay attention,” and he starts to push his fingers inside
himself.
Oh my god, Clay chokes. Akane oh my god what are you doing?
“Can’t you tell?” Akane asks, though the teasing tone is somewhat undermined by
the strain in his voice as he stretches himself open. He’s rocking down without
meaning to, he can feel the body-warm metal going slick against the press of
his cock as he grinds against it. “I’m getting off to your weapon form.”
Jesus christ Akane. Akane can feel Clay’s mind reeling out into embarrassment,
the heat from self-consciousness flushing even his weapon form warmer while the
secondhand arousal from Akane’s mind catches in his breath. Can’t I turn back
yet?
Akane shakes his head, tips his forehead down so he can pant against the
geometrical inset in the sword’s hilt. “Not yet, Clay.”
Akane, I can feel exactly what you’re doing to yourself and I-- Akane’s fingers
slip in the last inch, press up against sensitive nerve endings, and he opens
his mouth to gasp for air as Clay moans in the back of his head. Nng. I’m going
to turn back I swear I will.
“Not yet,” Akane repeats, and he shuts his eyes and starts to thrust in
earnest. He can hear the ragged edge of Clay’s breathing in the back of his
head, the warm not-enough friction rubbing against his cock, and every time he
pushes his fingers in he gets a little more depth, a slightly better angle.
It’s pushing him warmer, flushing his skin hotter, and he would swear Clay is
glowing under him, matching every rush of heat until he can’t tell the
difference between skin and smooth metal anymore. Clay’s whimpering on every
motion, responding to the slip of Akane’s fingers as if it’s the blond’s body
shuddering in reaction to the meister’s movements, and it starts to bleed
together, the burn of attention in Akane’s blood and the gasp of Clay’s
breathing in his head and the slick friction of fingers drawing intrusive
pleasure out into his body.
“Okay,” he finally says, “change back” but he doesn’t finish the sentence
before Clay is materializing on the sheets underneath him, grabbing at his
shoulder and wrist and pushing him sideways so he loses his balance and his
rhythm both.
“Finally” he blurts as Akane slides his fingers free and reaches out to close
his slippery palm around the other boy’s cock instead. “Oh god, fuck, Akane. I
thought you were gonna keep going until you came on me,”
“Don’t tempt me,” Akane manages, and Clay laughs, comes up onto his knees as
Akane rolls over onto his stomach without needing to coordinate, relying
instead on the holdover synchronization from the shared mental space of weapon
form. Akane tips his hips up, Clay fits his knees between the meister’s, and
they don’t even have to pause to line up together; they just fit, Clay sliding
forward like he was made to be here and Akane’s body thrumming in instant
response while he groans against the sheets.
“God, Akane.” Clay’s rocking into a rhythm, falling into time with Akane’s
breathing so quickly it has to be instinct guiding him more than deliberation.
When he leans forward his mouth lands on shoulder, his finger catch and tangle
with the meister’s. “Does it feel like that every time?”
“Better,” Akane admits. He has to make a fist of the sheets with his free hand
to keep from giving into temptation. “Clay, touch me, please.”
“You’re not going to last,” Clay points out.
“Neither are you.” That makes the blond laugh, the amusement shattering into
too-fast breathing, and he shifts his weight and Akane is bracing himself for
contact even before fingers brush against his cock as Clay feels his way into a
steady grip.
“I bet I beat you,” Akane says against the sheets, and Clay groans and strokes
up over him. Akane’s whole body shudders, his vision veers towards white, and
for a moment he thinks he’s lost before coherency fades back in around him and
he takes one more focused inhale.
“Only because you have a weird weapon kink,” Clay says, his voice dropping low
and resonant with amusement, and Akane can’t muster the strength to lie through
a denial before the blond pulls over him again. This time he knows he’s going,
he can feel inevitability in the stutter of his breathing and the tension
catching hot at his spine, and Clay thrusts as far into him as he can go and
Akane’s existence comes apart into heat and light and radiant pleasure.
Clay’s still moving when Akane comes back together, keeping up the smooth
rhythm he knows the meister likes, but the fingers entangled with the other
boy’s are tensing, Akane can hear the effort the even pace is costing him.
“Clay,” he says, carefully, and then he rocks his weight back a half-inch and
Clay is groaning, thrusting forward as hard as he can once and twice and his
rhythm is gone, his motions are stuttering and he’s wailing Akane’s name, and
Akane doesn’t need the weapon-connection to feel the rush of tension flooding
out of the blond’s body as he comes.
Neither of them move for a few minutes, except for Clay to fit himself in
against Akane’s back and gently pin the other boy to the bed. Akane’s glasses
as pushed askew by the angle of his face against the mattress and he can’t be
bothered to care; everything is warm and languid and perfect, as it always is
with Clay this close to him. The blond in question has his face against Akane’s
shoulder, his breath blowing warm against the meister’s skin, and Akane is
fairly certain that left to his own devices he will fall asleep in a matter of
minutes.
“I told you,” he says aloud, just as Clay’s inhales are starting to stretch and
slow.
“Mm?” A tiny jolt as the weapon comes back to full consciousness. “What?”
“I told you so.” Akane glances sideways, flashes a grin at the blond. “It was a
good idea.”
He can see the recognition slowly dawn across the blond’s face, is laughing
well before Clay offers incoherent protest and shoves at his shoulder. Then
Clay starts laughing too, his whole face lighting up with sincerity until he’s
shining like the sun, and Akane lets the warmth of that expression wash over
his skin.
It was a good idea. Akane’s ideas always are.
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