
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2209764.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Soul_Eater
  Relationship:
      Giriko/Justin_Law
  Character:
      Justin_Law, Giriko_(Soul_Eater)
  Additional Tags:
      Blow_Jobs, Established_Relationship, Rough_Sex, Biting, Bruises, No_Plot/
      Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-30 Words: 3119
****** Actions ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Giriko’s voice is still rough, grating in his throat, but his
     fingers are shifting in what feels like a stroke over the skin just
     above Justin’s shirt collar, and the pause before he goes on says far
     more about his loss for how to proceed than anything else." Giriko is
     bad with words, but Justin is good at understanding actions.
“You’re such a fucking brat.”
Giriko doesn’t sound affectionate. Justin can hear clearly enough, even though
anything he tries to say himself comes out muffled from the way the other
weapon is shoving his head down against the mattress. He’s grinning in spite of
that, turning his face farther down against the sheets so Giriko won’t see;
sometimes it’s fun to needle Giriko into a full-blown rage, but the chainsaw’s
touch is actually more gentle than it has been in weeks, and the curious part
of Justin wants to see how far he can take this, how far obedient submission
will get him.
It’s not like he’s giving up the war, after all. It’s a strategic retreat in
the constant back-and-forth that has become normal between them, and he’s
already put up enough of a fight to make capitulation plausible. He can feel
Giriko’s fingers at his shoulder slippery and hot with smeared blood from the
bite at the chainsaw’s wrist, where Justin’s teeth imprinted temporary
frustration when the other man tried to cover his mouth to stop the flow of his
taunts.
“I know,” Justin says, doing his best to sound contrite. It doesn’t work quite
right in his throat, it sounds a little too much like a laugh in his own ears,
but Giriko isn’t paying enough attention to pick up on it, or he ignores the
emotional overlay, or the muffled effect of the barrier against Justin’s lips
is enough to drown out the amusement. The force against Justin’s shoulder
lessens, though Giriko keeps enough pressure to make it clear Justin isn’t
moving anywhere without his permission.
“Well.” Giriko’s voice is still rough, grating in his throat, but his fingers
are shifting in what feels like a stroke over the skin just above Justin’s
shirt collar, and the pause before he goes on says far more about his loss for
how to proceed than anything else. “‘Slong as you know.”
“I just wanted you to drag me in here,” Justin admits, turning his head so
Giriko can hear the amusement in his voice now. “It’s so much easier to pick a
fight than to try to seduce you.” Giriko growls, a warning and a forming
threat, and the temptation is too much. Justin’s intention to be submissive
steps aside, lets his voice have free rein while he shifts against the bed,
deliberately slides his legs apart so it almost looks accidental. “You’re so
easy to lead.”
Justin’s expecting the hiss of rage, the pressure of fingers closing on his
hip. He doesn’t turn over himself, lets the chainsaw bleed off some of his
anger in forcing the other weapon over onto his back by strength alone. Justin
can’t repress his smile, though he does manage to take the edge off the smirk
so it’s softened into just delight instead of sharp teasing.
“You made me bleed,” Giriko points out. It’s an unnecessary declaration, given
that he’s shoving Justin’s shirt up so the blond can feel the sticky catch of
the drying color against his skin, but Giriko’s fingers are pushing in hard
against Justin’s stomach, his fingernails catching until he nearly draws blood
himself, and Justin is too struck by the wash of response hot under his skin to
say anything. Giriko’s fingers settle over his chest, the chainsaw shoves down
so for a moment Justin can’t catch his breath for the pressure, and then he’s
leaning in himself, letting the pressure lessen only to drop his weight atop
the blond so Justin can’t move away. “Why the fuck do I put up with you?”
Justin takes a shallow breath, lets his mouth curve into a smile no less
sincere for the breathless gasp underneath it. “I gather it has something to do
with the way I look naked.”
“Huh.” Giriko lets some of his weight up so he’s over his knees, shoves hard
enough at Justin’s shirt that the blond has to lift his arms up over his head
or let the chainsaw tear his shirt entirely. Even with that advantage, Giriko
barely shoves it past his shoulders before he lets go, leaving Justin to
struggle out of the fabric and toss it aside so he can see the speculative look
in Giriko’s eyes, staring at his skin like he’s never seen the blond shirtless
before.
“I am having some vague memories here,” Giriko admits, trailing his fingers
back down across Justin’s chest, scraping his fingernails across the other’s
nipple as he goes so Justin hisses in the leading edge of pain and tries to
jerk away. “Still hazy, though.”
“Is your recollection going with age?” Justin asks with the sweetest concern he
can muster. “It’s so tragic, the way the mind starts to lose its edge as
senility sets in.”
Giriko growls, low and warning, and Justin laughs even before the chainsaw
grates, “Shut your damn mouth, kid, if you want to keep your tongue.” He
doesn’t bother with the button or the zipper on Justin’s jeans; they’re not
that loose, but sheer force does the job just as well, even if the drag of the
waistband over Justin’s hips scrapes his skin raw and makes him hiss with pain
at the excess of friction that tears his skin so bruised it’s nearly bloody.
He’s not entirely hard yet, which is for the best; it’s painful enough even as
it is, the way the tight fabric catches and drags at him. Justin gasps at the
pull, his hands dropping to touch instinctively to assess the damage at the
thin skin at his hipbones, but Giriko doesn’t even look up, just keeps tugging
until he’s got the jeans free of Justin’s ankles and can throw them aside.
Justin is still flinching from the pain echoing over his skin when the chainsaw
comes back, grinning the too-wide smile that never means anything good, at
least for most people’s definition of good. But Justin’s not most people, in
the end, and his eyes drop to the points of Giriko’s inhuman teeth and his
blood pulses hot with something far from pain even before the other man purrs,
“Ah, wait, it’s coming back to me now.”
His hands replace Justin’s over the other’s hips, larger and with none of the
tentative gentleness the blond showed when feeling out the damage; the pressure
of his grip makes Justin hiss, jerk instinctively to try to free himself, but
Giriko doesn’t even look up to acknowledge his movement. The motion just
succeeds in digging his hold tighter, pushing the ache lower into Justin’s
skin, and it’s generating heat, blood rising to the surface and taking color
with it but there’s another burn there, too, spreading out up into Justin’s
chest and down into his legs and surging hot into his cock before Giriko’s even
really touched him.
“There it is.” Giriko’s voice is a hum, a dragging grate over his vocal chords
that makes Justin shiver even before the chainsaw lets one of his hands go to
reach out and skim his fingers over the blond’s length. Justin shudders, jerks
up towards the contact, and Giriko laughs and takes advantage of the motion to
pull at his hip, drag him up and sideways. “That’s why I put up with you.”
“Glad you remembered,” Justin manages, throwing his hands out to soften his
fall onto his stomach. The mattress is soft under his hips, not enough
resistance for what he wants, but Giriko’s pushing his knees apart, wide and
farther until Justin’s legs protest and he gasps at the first edge of pain from
the angle. “Ah. And you know what to do from here, I see.”
“This part’s easy,” Giriko says. He leaves Justin where he is, slides off the
bed and moves across the room, but the blond doesn’t move while he listens to
the sound of the other man sliding open drawers and tumbling through the
contents. “I’ve got a pretty blond thing panting for me to fuck him, anyone
would know what to do.”
It would be pointless to deny how fast Justin is breathing, and his body has
already given away his physical interest. So he lets that point stand, smiles
dreamily at the wall and cuts his eyes sideways and back at the other man while
he shifts his weight to arch his back and tip his hips up in offering.
“You think I’m pretty?” He lets the words go high and dramatic in his throat,
breathy with surprise and pleasure that is less feigned than Giriko will think
it is. He can just see the chainsaw turning back around in his periphery, can
just catch the disbelieving laugh in the other man’s throat before his knee
presses in against the mattress and he’s too close for Justin to watch anymore.
“Of course you’re pretty,” Giriko says, the words turning taunting on his lips.
His fingers against Justin’s skin are cool and slick, the contact the only
warning Giriko offers before he slides his hand up and against the blond.
“Haven’t you seen yourself in a fucking mirror?”
“That’s different,” Justin protests. The resistance is all in his words; he’s
relaxing against the push of Giriko’s fingertips, letting himself fall boneless
and pliant against the sheets while the chainsaw angles his hand to work two
fingers into him. It’s a familiar stretch, the heat of the pressure more of a
comfort than pain properly, and Justin’s words don’t even catch in his throat.
“You’re talking about objective attractiveness, now.”
“‘Objective attractiveness,’” Giriko repeats back, dragging his voice high and
taunting. “Yes, I think you’re goddamn pretty. Feel better?” His fingers slide
in farther, draw back for another slow slipping thrust. “Or do you want me to
write you a poem or some shit like that?”
“No,” Justin says, as if considering. That gets him a hiss of frustration, a
harder shove of the fingers into him so his hand curls into an involuntary fist
on the sheets under him. “The compliment is enough.”
“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” Giriko growls, sliding his hand free so
fast Justin gasps at the friction and the loss both, turns his head down
against the mattress so he can muffle his breathing and listen to the sound of
Giriko unfastening his jeans and working the fabric down far enough that it’s
out of the way. “I was trying to upset you.” His hands come back to the same
raw skin at Justin’s hips, his fingers fit into the bruises like they are the
initial cause; this time it’s all heat, sweeping blistering into Justin’s blood
even before he feels Giriko’s cock run up against him.
It’s a familiar angle, enough that Giriko doesn’t take the time to shift his
weight. Justin already has his back arched and his hips canted up in offering;
all Giriko has to do is rock forward, and he does, fast enough that he’s
sliding in before Justin can catch a breath, is fitting into him before the
blond can think through letting his first desperate handhold on the sheets go.
“D’you want me to jerk you off?” Giriko asks, sounding only slightly
breathless. His fingers are tense but his movements are smooth, if pushing
right up on the edge of too-much too-fast. Justin has his mouth open in an
attempt to prevent his breathing from dragging into a moan with every inhale,
but even so the forward thrust of the other man’s hips into him is pulling a
gasping whine from him before he can catch it back, his throat is trying to
turn every vocalization into a moan without his permission.
He’s still willing to try for coherency, is forming his lips around the
affirmative when Giriko goes on. “If you wait I’ll go down on you instead.”
Another motion, sharp and so quick Justin does moan, this time, as the impact
sends a jolt of fire rushing through his blood.
It’s no question, not really. Justin knows it, and he knows that Giriko knows
it; he’s sure the only reason the chainsaw is asking at all is for the whine of
desperation it gets from Justin’s throat, the anxious rock of his hips down
against the sheets, even before he’s collected himself enough to shape the
words “I’ll wait,” from his over-tense throat. Giriko doesn’t answer
coherently; there’s a rusty crackle of a laugh, a shift of the fingers at
Justin’s hips, and when he moves again his rhythm has shifted, taken on the
too-quick pace that Justin knows Giriko prefers for his own purposes. His usual
consideration for Justin’s satisfaction is evident only in the lack of it, the
fact that usually his movements catch Justin’s blood into washing heat and now
it’s too much, each burst of sensation is coming so hard on the heels of the
last that Justin’s composure isn’t melting, it’s shattering, it’s gone before
he ever had it. Usually Justin has to ask for this, or taunt Giriko into it
when he’s burning for the psychological shiver of being put to a use rather
than treated as a partner; this time it’s just swamping him, he’s not braced
for it and he’s not ready. There’s just motion and sensation and unthought
sound tearing in his throat, his fingers catching and clinging to the sheets,
and he can hear Giriko’s rumbling laughter but he can’t piece reason into it.
There’s no self-consciousness left in his thoughts, no awkward awareness of the
way his breathing is dragging into moans in time with Giriko’s thrusts into
him. Giriko’s saying something but the words are broken apart, Justin can’t
hear them and he’s not even sure they’re coherent anyway; the convulsive
tightening of the fingers on his skin carries an implication he understands
intuitively if not consciously.
Justin’s entire body is starting to shake, trembling uncontrollably with
sensation and the edge of pain and the sweep of pleasure, and he’s starting to
choke on his inhales, starting to think that even missing out on a blowjob
would be okay if he ends up coming without being touched at all. But then
Giriko growls, a low rumble of tension and pleasure together, and his hands
tighten further, and the next flood of heat is the last. Justin can feel his
coherency reforming, sensation drawing back and pulling his self back in its
wake, and Giriko’s grip loosens as desperation tightens fierce in Justin’s
chest.
“Fuck,” Giriko sighs, and starts to pull away. Justin barely waits; Giriko’s
fingers are still lingering at his skin when he groans and rolls over, starts
to reach down before he catches his hand into a fist to resist the urge to
touch himself. He shuts his eyes, lifts his hand up to rest over his shoulder
and out of the range of temptation, and Giriko laughs, dark and entertained
even while Justin struggles to take a steady breath.
“Please,” he manages. His skin is burning, waves of want sweeping out over him,
he’s sure he’s flushed pink with the surge of blood warm under his skin, and he
can’t even care that he sounds utterly shattered. “Giriko, please.”
“Okay,” Giriko says, with surprisingly little protest. His hand lands back at
Justin’s hip, hard enough to pin the blond in place, and Justin whimpers and
tries to rock in towards the contact, tries to grind himself in against the
chainsaw’s arm. That gets him another hand on the other side, Giriko’s fingers
pressing him against the bed, and when the other man talks again he’s leaning
down, so close his breath is blowing warm against Justin’s length. “I
fucking love you when you’re desperate.”
Justin doesn’t have any comeback to that. Half of that is because his vision is
out-of-focus, he’s trying to wiggle free of Giriko’s hold with no thought
beyond need and instinct and there’s just not much coherency left even in the
space of his own head. But the rest is the implication under the words, the
casual ‘love you’ even phrased in such a way that it doesn’t catch on Giriko’s
tongue; Justin’s still taking a sharp startled inhale of shock at that when the
chainsaw dips his head down, and then all his thoughts really do evaporate. All
the input from his body narrows to pinpoint focus, all the world outside of
Giriko’s mouth vanishes, and he’s arching up off the bed, reaching to grab at
whatever he can reach -- the sleeve of Giriko’s shirt, a fist of the other’s
hair -- as if he might disintegrate without something to tether him down.
Giriko is laughing, or humming, generating sensation against his tongue and
lips to pull Justin’s body into harmonic resonance, involuntary and
uncontrollable tremors drawing tight in the blond’s wrists, legs, neck.
Justin’s not sure he’s breathing, at least not regularly, but Giriko’s hands
are points of reference, bracing him in place and promising to bring him back
so he can let the shaking wash through him instead of waging a doomed war
against it. The seconds pull long, stretch taut and quivering against the heat
of Giriko’s mouth and the slide of his tongue; then he comes down farther,
closes his lips around Justin entirely so he can suck pressure over him, and
Justin wails and shudders into the blind heat of pleasure as sensation washes
out over his skin and the tension in his limbs goes slack and warm and
satisfied.
Giriko pulls away as soon as Justin relaxes back to the bed, lets his grip go
gentle as the blond sighs shakily and blinks at him. The chainsaw swallows
hard; for a moment his features contort into a grimace before he sees Justin’s
expression. His mouth drops into a frown, his eyebrows come down low and
threatening.
“That tastes fucking awful,” he protests, but he’s leaning in instead of
pulling away, tucking his face down into Justin’s bare shoulder before the
blond can more than glimpse the faint color coming up to stain his cheeks.
That’s okay. Justin doesn’t have anything to say, really, but he’s fairly
certain shock is painted all over his features, possibly with a touch of
affectionate pleasure that is absolute anathema to Giriko’s usual tolerance.
He reaches up to let his finger drop gentle against Giriko’s hair. He can’t get
away with words -- he’s tried that over and over and received nothing but
hissing aggression from the chainsaw -- but actions Giriko will let stand, even
if they’re screaming affection louder than speech ever could. This is one of
the first times he’s actively made a gesture of his own; Justin’s not about to
threaten the possibility of a repeat performance by commenting on it.
He’s rather have the actions than the words anyway.
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