Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1955334.
  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:
      First_Time, Awkward_First_Times, Established_Relationship, No_Plot/
      Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Series:
      Part 4 of Confessions
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-25 Words: 3481
****** Sparks ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "'Sex isn’t supposed to be a challenge,' Harvar snaps. 'This would be
     easier with someone else, you know.'" The side-effects of Harvar's
     weapon form prove to be more of a challenge than he or Ox expected.
     Luckily Ox is more patient than Harvar.
“Ow.”
Harvar is flinching in apology even before Ox’s voice comes sharp with pain and
the other boy snatches his hand away from the weapon’s skin. He could feel it
coming, that time, the prickle of electricity just over his skin; he thought he
had it reined in to a manageable level, too, but then Ox’s fingers were colder
than he expected and everything had slipped out of his grip.
“Fuck.” He sounds angrier than Ox did, but the guilt is turning his throat
tense rather than gentle and he can’t modulate his tone for the anxiety humming
under his skin. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“You sound like it,” Ox snaps, but then he reaches out again, tentatively
touches Harvar’s shoulder. There’s no shock this time -- they established that
early, that’s a casual enough that Harvar doesn’t startle, and the contact
helps, a little.
“This is pointless.” Harvar sighs and drops onto his side from where he has
been up on his hands and knees on the bed, curls in around himself
protectively. “I’m not even hard anymore, there’s no way you’re still into
this.”
“I don’t want to give up,” Ox says. There’s a shift at the edge of the bed, Ox
dropping to sit alongside the weapon, and then the weight of the meister
leaning back so the bare skin of his shoulders bumps Harvar’s back. “Then we’ll
never try again.”
“Whatever,” Harvar growls without looking up. “Maybe it’s better this way
anyway, we can do something else.”
“But you wanted to try,” Ox says with the steady determination Harvar knows he
won’t be able to shake easily. “I’m not going to just drop it because its
harder than we expected.”
“Sex isn’t supposed to be a challenge,” Harvar snaps. “This would be easier
with someone else, you know.”
“Are you still stuck on that?” Ox says. His voice is almost ordinary, only
slightly strained, but Harvar can hear the telltale signs of frustration under
the words. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m not going to abandon you?”
“It’s not worth it,” Harvar says against the pillow, turning in farther so he
can muffle his words into the sheets. “I wanted this and then I’ve done nothing
but shock you every time you try to touch me.”
“You can’t help it,” Ox says. The hand still on Harvar’s shoulder drags
sideways, strokes down against the weapon’s arm. “You’re trying. We just have
to keep trying.”
Harvar can’t answer for the tightness in his throat, shame and embarrassment
and guilt all tangling up together into a ball of tears he can’t let escape
into sound. He wants Ox to leave him alone, and he wants the meister to curl in
against his back, and he wants to put his clothes back on and he wants Ox to
have the last of his off, and he wants to cry and he wants to come and he
wants everything all at once, and recognizing the contradictions doesn’t help
calm the tension winding tight under his skin.
He knows it’s coming, this time, he could stop it if he could make himself take
a deep breath. But some petty stubbornness makes him grit his teeth, and hold
his breath, and let the electricity crackle over his skin and into Ox’s hand.
“Fuck.” The other boy snatches his fingers away. No sooner has he stopped
touching Harvar than the weapon wants him back, wants the almost-comfort of
Ox’s hand on his shoulder. But the burn of tears feels more like anger, now,
and even if he’s lashing out at least Ox will leave and Harvar won’t cry in
front of him.
Harvar really should know Ox better, by now.
There’s a huff of irritation, the sound of the meister getting to his feet, and
Harvar twists in farther to the bed, starts to loosen his control over the heat
of tears behind his eyes. But there’s the sound of a buckle instead, metal
clicking against itself and cloth rustling, and then the bed moves again and
Ox’s hand is back on Harvar’s shoulder.
“Turn over.” It’s almost a meister-command, the resonance under Ox’s voice is
just shy of a complete order. Harvar resists that but it takes all his focus,
and in the midst of that resistance his grip on his tears goes, a sob tears up
from his throat and shudders through his shoulders before he can stop it.
“Turn over.” That is a command, Harvar is twisting before he can stop the
reflexive obedience to that voice. He tries to move as soon as his back hits
the sheets, but Ox’s hands are at his shoulders to hold him in place. “Don’t be
foolish, Harvar.”
“Go away.”
“You ought to relax.” Ox pushes at Harvar’s knees, coaxes them down out of the
protective curl the weapon adopted initially. Harvar lets him; better that Ox
be commenting on his physical position than on the absurd tears starting to
overflow from his eyes and the choking sobs coming up his throat. “I have no
intention of leaving, you know, either as your meister or in a romantic sense.”
He makes it sound cool and clinical, but then Harvar’s legs are flat on the bed
and Ox moves to straddle his knees to keep the weapon from bolting. He’s
stripped as bare as Harvar is, now, and the press of his legs against Harvar’s
is irrationally warm, even if the weapon is a long way from thinking about sex
at the moment.
“You do me a disservice to doubt my constancy,” Ox goes on, taking on the
faintly lecturing tone he usually adopts when Harvar is neglecting his studies,
or didn’t wash his plate after dinner again.
Harvar blinks at the ceiling, swallows hard. “Sorry.” He sounds sullen in spite
of the tears audible in his voice, but Ox’s hold on his shoulders still goes
gentle, one of the meister’s hands comes down to drag over the weapon’s chest.
“Don’t worry so much,” Ox says, and before Harvar can manage any kind of a
retort the meister leans in over him to press his mouth against the weapon’s
chest.
It’s as startling as the first time, startling like Ox kissing him always is,
but this is safe, this doesn’t have the awkward self-consciousness of earlier
when Harvar was waiting for the meister to actually push inside him. Without
the embarrassment the sparks are gone too, calm and dormant like Harvar’s
weapon-form in his blood so all there is is a flush of heat, the same
disbelieving rush of adrenaline Harvar always gets from this. There’s a
corresponding rush of blood, too, and from Ox’s angle against Harvar’s body
there’s no way he misses the other boy’s cock starting to go hard against him.
Harvar’s next inhale is still a lingering sob but it comes out a damp laugh
before he throws an arm up over his face to cover his damp eyes.
“I can’t believe this,” he mutters, more to himself than anything, but Ox seems
to take it as a statement.
“It’s not that surprising,” he says, as if they’re talking about homework and
his words aren’t blowing warm over Harvar’s skin with every drag of his lips.
“Boys our age are known for our quick recovery, correct?”
“Known for getting hard at the drop of a hat, you mean,” Harvar clarifies.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“It’s somewhat gratifying,” Ox says, and drags his hand down so his palm is
pressing gently into Harvar’s length. “To know I have this effect on you so
rapidly.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Harvar snaps, but his irritation isn’t enough to offset
the feel of Ox’s fingers sliding over him and his resulting reaction.
“I’m not making fun of you,” Ox says evenly. When he gets his fingers around
Harvar’s length and strokes gently the weapon groans against the arm angled
over his face, so distracted he almost misses the way Ox is pressing in against
his leg, the breathless little catch to the other boy’s voice as he moves.
“Fuck,” Harvar says without moving his arm. “What the hell are you planning,
Ox?”
“Stop worrying,” Ox chides him again, and kisses Harvar’s ribcage so the weapon
loses his breath for a minute. “Do you ever touch yourself?”
“What?” Harvar drops his arm, pushes up onto an elbow so he can stare in
disbelief at the meister. “Do I jerk off, is that what you’re --” Then he sees
where Ox is looking and the words die on his tongue even before he turns to
follow the meister’s gaze to the bottle left within arm’s reach on the
mattress.
“Oh.” His face flares crimson, he can feel the tension of embarrassed
electricity sparkle under his skin before he manages to swallow it back, forces
admission out of his throat fast so he can get it over with. “Yeah.”
“You should,” Ox says, and even expecting that Harvar has to drop back to the
bed, replace his arm on his face for a moment so he can force his blush back
down. “Instead of me.”
“No way,” Harvar growls. “No way, absolutely not, there is no way I’m gonna --”
Ox’s mouth drags down across his stomach, over his hip, and when the meister
exhales over Harvar’s length the weapon’s words go silent. There’s a pause as
Ox hesitates and Harvar’s mind stays echoingly blank; then Harvar whimpers,
“That is not fair,” and Ox brings his mouth down to lick against Harvar’s
length.
It’s awkward, or at least Harvar assumes it’s awkward. Ox doesn’t have any
experience, after all, and if Harvar were watching he suspects it would look
somewhat stilted and clumsy. But he’s feeling, and there’s not a lot of ways
the meister can screw up licking him. Ox’s mouth is a lot hotter than his
fingers, and wet in a fascinating way, and Harvar takes a groaning breath and
tries to rock up against the contact. Ox’s hand catches his hip, holds him
down, and Harvar huffs and throws an arm out for the bottle even before the
meister repeats, “You should.”
“Okay.” Harvar has the bottle open before Ox is done speaking, pours lube over
his fingers in such a rush that a good amount ends up on his chest too. It’s
cold over the flush of blood in his veins, but self-conscious flush more than
makes up for it, especially when Ox draws back for a moment so Harvar can get
his hand down between his legs.
“Fuck,” he says, but this isn’t as bad as when it was just Ox, even though it’s
impossible to forget the meister can see him when he can feel the other boy’s
weight over his legs. But he can feel Ox hard against his skin too, and that
helps, and Ox is humming in what might be appreciation and might be comfort,
and at least Harvar knows what to expect when it’s his own fingers. The angle
is familiar, the pressure uncomfortable but bearable as he eases two in
together, and he’s just starting to relax into the sensation when Ox makes
a sound in his throat. It’s probably supposed to be a moan, Harvar realizes
after the first instant of tension, but for a brief panicked moment his skin
flushes hot and there’s a tingle of palpable electricity across his skin.
He’s worried at first he’s hurt Ox, comes rocking up onto his free elbow more
panicked even than embarrassed. “Fuck, Ox, I’m sorry, are you --”
“Don’t stop,” Ox grates, and Harvar has never heard him sound like that, not
during combat and not when they’re making out and not when he interrupts the
other boy while he’s studying.
“What?” It’s a stupid question, Harvar knows, but the sound of the meister’s
voice renders him temporarily incapable of any real understanding of language.
Ox’s fingers tighten on his hip. “Do not stop, this is the most amazing fucking
thing I have ever seen.”
Harvar can’t fight the blush that washes over him. He’s got one leg angled up
out of the way, and his fingers a half-inch inside himself, and his cheeks are
still damp from tears and he is pretty sure his hair is a mess from his
accidental electricity, and Ox is staring at him like the meister doesn’t know
where to look first, like the weapon is utter perfection like Harvar knows he
isn’t.
He swallows, and drops back flat, because while he’s going to pull that
particular expression back out of memory to consider later, it’s really hard to
do anything when he knows he’s being watched with that kind of intensity. It’s
better when he shuts his eyes, better still when Ox’s hand brushes against his
length, and when he moves his hand a little farther in the meister makes a
desperate noise and grinds against him again, and that, at least, is perfectly
comprehensible.
He’s too self-conscious, at first, to really find any rhythm to the movement of
his hand. He can feel Ox’s gaze on him even if he’s not looking at the meister
directly, and there’s a panicked back part of his brain that keeps jumping to
what is coming, what they will be doing. But Ox keeps touching him, lips and
tongue and fingers in various combinations, and as Harvar relaxes more he falls
back on habit, finds the right angle for his hand and the right pressure from
his fingertips, and when Ox finally pulls away Harvar’s too hazy to realize
immediately what the meister intends.
“Harvar.” Ox leans in over him until Harvar is cast in shadow. Without his
glasses his eyes are wide and dark and soft; he looks vulnerable, young in a
way that is odd to recognize in someone the same age as Harvar himself. “Can I
try?”
Harvar’s skin prickles, as if experimentally, but the electricity can’t get a
hold under the heat surging through his veins. So he takes a breath, nods
quickly before he can overthink it, and carefully slides his fingers free while
Ox reaches for the bottle and neatly pours liquid into his palm. It takes him a
moment to get himself ready; Harvar doesn’t even attempt patience, too afraid
to lose the protection of arousal from his sparking nervousness to wait before
he wraps his slippery fingers around himself and starts to slowly stroke over
his length, doing his best to let the present moment expand around him instead
of panicking about the future.
The future is coming too fast to ignore for long, though. It’s only a minute
before Ox is huffing a breath of focus, leaning in to brace himself over Harvar
with one arm at the weapon’s shoulder and reaching down to touch the other
boy’s leg.
“Is this okay?” he asks, and Harvar’s not sure if he’s asking about the
weapon’s current state or the position or what, and he doesn’t care. He’s too
anxious and too afraid of losing the brief respite from the bleed-over of his
weapon form to so much as hesitate before he nods, angles his hips up in clear
invitation.
“Just go,” he says, and it’s not the most graceful invitation ever but it seems
to be enough. Ox flushes all across his pale cheekbones, bites his lip and tips
his chin down, and Harvar is too caught in the color staining the meister’s
face to panic when he feels Ox bump against him.
“Okay,” Ox says, and Harvar can hear the strain under even his best attempt at
calm. “Okay,” and he starts to push forward.
It’s not nearly as different as Harvar expected it would be. The angle is
different, and the pressure is a little more than what he gets from his
fingers, but it’s not an entirely foreign experience, after all. He’s able to
relax into it, is just taking a breath of relief, when Ox drops down against
his shoulder and groans “Fuck.” There’s a brief moment of realization -
- that’s Ox, not his own hand, they’re actually doing this, this is working -
- and then the heat hits Harvar. He’s afraid for a moment it’s the electricity
again, that he wasn’t able to fight it off after all, but Ox is all but lying
on top of him and he feels more like his skin is bursting into flame than that
it’s throwing off sparks, and when he shifts his hand over himself there’s
another flush, and he decides it’s pleasure and not panic. When he looks
sideways Ox is staring blankly past his shoulder, eyes wide and mouth open, and
if it weren’t for the color of pleasure high in his cheeks Harvar would be
worried he was hurt.
He asks, anyway, just to be sure. “Are you okay?” The words come out husky and
lower than he intended, but they come out, and Ox groans again, buries his face
against Harvar’s shoulder so his answer is nearly unintelligible.
“You feel --” He pushes in farther, another inch, and Harvar can feel him
shudder. “Oh my god.”
“Is it okay?” Harvar asks.
“It’s amazing,” Ox says, sounding sincere and shocked. He comes forward the
rest of the way, goes utterly still for a moment, and Harvar doesn’t even
realize his hand has stopped moving over himself for the wave of shivery
awareness that Ox is inside him, right now, that Ox can feel every shift of his
body like they’re one unit.
“I’m going to move,” the meister manages, and Harvar isn’t sure Ox is looking
at his face so he says “Okay” rather than nodding. He remembers to move his
hand again as Ox draws back, starts stroking over himself to match the friction
of the other boy inside him, and he’s just starting to find a rhythm in time
with the slow thrust of the meister’s hips when Ox shivers against his
shoulder. Harvar just has time to recognize that particular shake before Ox
takes a sharp breath and blurts, “Harvar, I don’t think I’m going to last.”
By any reasonable estimation Harvar should be irritated. It’s taken them nearly
a half hour to get to this point, he’s still a minute out himself, and after
all that Ox is barely fucking him properly before he loses it. He’s not
irritated. His skin flashes instantly hot at the idea, his usual vicarious
pleasure in Ox’s satisfaction plus the awareness that it’s him that’s undoing
the meister so instantly and so thoroughly, and he reaches up with his free
hand to grab at the back of Ox’s neck as he growls, “Fuck yes, do it.”
He can feel the tremor run through Ox’s whole body, can feel the other boy’s
thrust go jerky and desperate, can feel him pulse into satisfaction as the
meister’s mouth lands on his shoulder and Ox wails incomprehensible pleasure
against Harvar’s skin. It’s a rush to know he’s responsible for that, as it
always is, but this time it’s more, better, and when Ox moves to pull away
Harvar tightens his hold on the other boy’s neck to keep him in place.
“Wait,” and he sounds shattered, even more than he expected. “Wait, Ox, I’m
close.”
The meister goes still, as if so much as breathing will distract Harvar, and
that’s ridiculous enough Harvar would laugh if he couldn’t feel the waves of
anticipation washing through him. He turns his head sideways to kiss whatever
he can touch -- Ox’s forehead, as it turns out -- and he’s just pressing his
lips against the meister’s skin when his body flashes hot and he shudders into
his own orgasm against the other boy’s weight.
Ox does pull away after, while Harvar is still too hazy with pleasure to
protest. By the time the weapon recovers himself enough to sit up, Ox is
sitting up at the edge of the bed, leaning over his knees and gazing out at the
opposite wall as if the answer to life is written across from him.
“Hey.” Harvar reaches out to touch Ox’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Ox blinks like he’s just remembered where he is, turns to look back at the
weapon. He looks shell-shocked, still, a little confused and a little lost and
very flushed; he looks like he’s been doing exactly what he’s been doing,
actually. Harvar supposes he’s no better, judging from how shaky his limbs
feel.
Ox shakes his head as if to clear it, extends a hand to brush the back of his
hand against Harvar’s waist. “Yeah.” He pauses, looks up at the weapon. When he
smiles it’s like he’s doing it for the first time, slow and warm and bright as
the sunlight. “I’m great.”
Harvar has to look away from the affection in the meister’s eyes, but even
though he ducks his head to hide his smile he’s pretty sure Ox sees it.
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